40
Barett went north on Powers Boulevard, passing various stores and restaurants that had all been destroyed, looted or were just inaccessible. It wasn’t long before he found a decrepit Walmart in a similar, but worse, condition to the King Soopers. This store, like the other, had been turned into a fortress of sorts, but its residents weren't as welcoming. There was a big roadblock that stretched across the Walmart parking lot all the way to the other side of the road. Barett saw multiple armed soldiers that seemed vaguely similar to the people that had mugged him.
They wore dark grey plate carriers with rifle magazines tucked snugly into their pouches. Under their armour, they shirts of various shades of grey, some long-sleeved, most short-sleeved. A couple of them wore helmets, ear protection, or gas masks. Most of them held rifles or had them hanging on slings, but a few only had pistols and one was positioned by a heavy machine gun. Barett was one hundred percent sure that he could not take on a force that was well-armed that outnumbered him ten-to-one, so with absolutely no hesitation, he did a complete one-eighty and headed in the opposite direction. Barett went back south and decided to spend the night in an old, empty trailer. He closed the door and went to the back of the trailer. He slept on a box that wasn’t covered in fallout, even though it wasn’t comfortable.
He woke up multiple times during the night and didn’t sleep well at all, but after a long night he was awakened when the door was flung open. Standing in the entrance was a short, burly man in a dark tan shirt. Standing behind him was another guy, who was taller and carrying a handgun. Next to him was a skinny woman wearing a red tee shirt and black backpack. The man in the tan shirt grabbed Barett by his shirt collar and looked at him for a few moments.
“I think this is him,” the man in the tan shirt said to the man behind him. Then he smacked Barett across the face, punched him in the gut, and threw him on the ground. Barett was still recovering from when he was attacked earlier, so he went unconscious the moment he hit the ground.
He woke up in a makeshift cell made of sheet metal and rusty I beams. The room was about five feet wide and nine feet tall. There was a crappy brown carpet and a wooden stool for furniture and two three inch tall holes for lighting, about five feet off the ground. He looked out one of the holes and saw that he was in a camp of relatively undamaged mobile homes, most of them had warm coloured spray paint on them. Barett yelled out the window demanding to know why he was kidnapped and who kidnapped him. A few people walked by and gave him dirty looks, but it was a while before someone answered him. He was a short man with a red hoodie.
“We are the Quail Hill Aristocracy, the only true survivors of the apocalypse, and we have “kidnapped” you because you are an Eastern SCUM!” This was said with such sarcasm and irritation, Barett was taken a bit off guard.
“I’m not from the east, I’m from Falcon!” Barett insisted.
“Yeah right,” The man walked swiftly away after this statement. Barett slumped down in his cell. He was never going to get out of there if everyone was like that. When noon came, he was fed a small amount of food as well as a cup of water, which wasn’t nearly enough.
Later that day, a small party of soldiers, much better armed than the Quail Hill ones, arrive in the camp.
“Show us the prisoner so that we may know who we are paying ransom for,” said a tall man with very nice-looking tan clothes, who must have been their leader.
“He is right over here,” said the man with the red hoodie, who had talked to Barett earlier. He showed the other man over to the cell that Barett was being held in. The man that appeared to be the leader looked Barett over.
“I am insulted,” Said the man, “not only that you would attempt to kidnap one of my people, but that you think I am stupid enough to believe that this boy is my son?”
“No, we didn’t mean to be insulting, but this is your son is it not?” asked red hoodie.
“He's not. I don’t know what makes you think that he is. If I were you, I would free him immediately.” He turned around and swiftly made his way out of the camp. The man in the red hoodie looked irritated, and assuming that Barett was of no use to the Quail Hill Aristocracy anymore, he opened the door to the cell.
“Alright, get out of here,” he told Barett.
They wore dark grey plate carriers with rifle magazines tucked snugly into their pouches. Under their armour, they shirts of various shades of grey, some long-sleeved, most short-sleeved. A couple of them wore helmets, ear protection, or gas masks. Most of them held rifles or had them hanging on slings, but a few only had pistols and one was positioned by a heavy machine gun. Barett was one hundred percent sure that he could not take on a force that was well-armed that outnumbered him ten-to-one, so with absolutely no hesitation, he did a complete one-eighty and headed in the opposite direction. Barett went back south and decided to spend the night in an old, empty trailer. He closed the door and went to the back of the trailer. He slept on a box that wasn’t covered in fallout, even though it wasn’t comfortable.
He woke up multiple times during the night and didn’t sleep well at all, but after a long night he was awakened when the door was flung open. Standing in the entrance was a short, burly man in a dark tan shirt. Standing behind him was another guy, who was taller and carrying a handgun. Next to him was a skinny woman wearing a red tee shirt and black backpack. The man in the tan shirt grabbed Barett by his shirt collar and looked at him for a few moments.
“I think this is him,” the man in the tan shirt said to the man behind him. Then he smacked Barett across the face, punched him in the gut, and threw him on the ground. Barett was still recovering from when he was attacked earlier, so he went unconscious the moment he hit the ground.
He woke up in a makeshift cell made of sheet metal and rusty I beams. The room was about five feet wide and nine feet tall. There was a crappy brown carpet and a wooden stool for furniture and two three inch tall holes for lighting, about five feet off the ground. He looked out one of the holes and saw that he was in a camp of relatively undamaged mobile homes, most of them had warm coloured spray paint on them. Barett yelled out the window demanding to know why he was kidnapped and who kidnapped him. A few people walked by and gave him dirty looks, but it was a while before someone answered him. He was a short man with a red hoodie.
“We are the Quail Hill Aristocracy, the only true survivors of the apocalypse, and we have “kidnapped” you because you are an Eastern SCUM!” This was said with such sarcasm and irritation, Barett was taken a bit off guard.
“I’m not from the east, I’m from Falcon!” Barett insisted.
“Yeah right,” The man walked swiftly away after this statement. Barett slumped down in his cell. He was never going to get out of there if everyone was like that. When noon came, he was fed a small amount of food as well as a cup of water, which wasn’t nearly enough.
Later that day, a small party of soldiers, much better armed than the Quail Hill ones, arrive in the camp.
“Show us the prisoner so that we may know who we are paying ransom for,” said a tall man with very nice-looking tan clothes, who must have been their leader.
“He is right over here,” said the man with the red hoodie, who had talked to Barett earlier. He showed the other man over to the cell that Barett was being held in. The man that appeared to be the leader looked Barett over.
“I am insulted,” Said the man, “not only that you would attempt to kidnap one of my people, but that you think I am stupid enough to believe that this boy is my son?”
“No, we didn’t mean to be insulting, but this is your son is it not?” asked red hoodie.
“He's not. I don’t know what makes you think that he is. If I were you, I would free him immediately.” He turned around and swiftly made his way out of the camp. The man in the red hoodie looked irritated, and assuming that Barett was of no use to the Quail Hill Aristocracy anymore, he opened the door to the cell.
“Alright, get out of here,” he told Barett.
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