The Last Alive - Book One

Chapter Six - Future Foundations

Chapter Six - Future Foundations

A new day had dawned over Port Town. A gathering storm washed the car park, loading yard and the cold steel of the factory roof from the endless grey. Bullets poured and revealed the tiniest of holes in the shelter in which the survivors had gathered, drops cascaded to the floor and danced down the walls. The drumming sound was deafening and caused the people to stir in the hall, buried beneath duvets, blankets and other bodies in hope of keeping warm.

Sean awoke, lifting his weary head and peering through the minute cracks in the boards to the outside world, he witnessed the looming tempest and the smeared streaks of water down the window pane obstructing his view. He returned to his wife and child who were sleeping soundly, soothed by the sound of the falling rain. With a single kiss to their heads he left the room and entered the blank white corridor and then through a small control room where there was little else but a desk and a computer with an assortment of random items; pens, cups, folders and stacks of papers.

He returned to the hall, his hands balled tightly into fists as he briskly wiped away the hard dry sleep that gathered below his eyes. To the left of the control room was a steep staircase that led to a laboratory and adjoining offices, just under these stairs was a maintenance workshop, full to the brim with hand tools, power tools, nuts, bolts and a wide array of items used for repair. Just ahead was the machine that he had worked on for a number of years, the main body of the contraption stood upon four mighty, solid legs and was cylindrical in shape. Beside it was an ancient industrial sewing machine with an attached track and barrow that was operated by hand to stitch and seal twenty five kilo paper sacks. Shafts and pipes extended upward to a raised platform home to more machine parts.

Another platform stood beside the door to the warehouse, on the other side there was a giant, automatic roller door that granted access for the fork lift trucks to deposit the finished products.

While passing through the hall Sean noticed that there was little activity, it was still the early hours of the morning and the majority of the survivors were sleeping peacefully. The odd head rose as he strolled through. When entering the warehouse he saw Mickey stood at the other end, his faced pressed firmly against the glass embedded in the door, showing concern for Ray who battled the elements outside while still atop the silo.

"Is everything okay?" Sean bellowed above the sound of the storm, he flung his arms around his body as he was greeted by a chilling breeze.

"No, not really," Mickey turned to greet Sean and then ushered him into a small cabin that stood next to the exit; he slumped into the comfy office chair and slammed his feet onto the desk reclining comfortably. "Ray's been up there again all night, just watching the road."

Sean gazed through the barred window of the cabin and struggled to see the man-made structure above, "He seems to be doing a good job of keeping everyone safe."

"Listen, Ray doesn't give a shit about anyone but himself," Mickey paused for a minute, struggling to speak as he battled away a tear, "Except for his son."

"Stuart?" Sean gave Mickey a moment to compose himself.

"Yeah, Stuart left, what was it two days ago?" Mickey sunk his head deep into his hands and buried his face. He had grown close to Stuart over the past few weeks and they got along like a house on fire, to the point where he would consider him a close friend.

Sean knew him, but not so well. They were the same age, attended the same secondary school and even shared one or two classes. They were not the best of friends and had barely spoken to each other during this time.

Outside under the man-made shelter, Ray stood observing the road. Visibility was poor and his binoculars were clouded with rain as the storm pounded his sanctuary. It was made from some broken planks of wooden pallets, lifted and erected at the top and covered with an old tarpaulin that was secured with some frayed rope. The construction posed little opposition to the blowing gale and rain gathered on the tarp, causing it to sag and rest upon his smooth bald head only to be batted away with a swift palm. His mental state had begun to deteriorate and he blamed himself for sending his son into the wilds. They had always shared a rocky relationship but he loved him none the less, like any father loves a son. He would not leave his post, petrified of journeying outside of the safety of the factory. Ray had been at work when the world went to shit; he had not experienced the hardships of the road and truly feared the horrors out there. Despite the uncertainty of his missing son, he could not leave. Not for him. Not for anyone.