The Molting: The Complete Four Book Series, page 8
Quitting drinking was nothing compared to quitting smoking. Now that was hard. He’d run across others who smoked, but he’d chosen not to partake. It was getting easier, but he still craved a smoke now and then—mostly after encountering familiar triggers, habits he formed while he was in the military.
There was nothing like a cigarette after returning from a mission, and since it was best to still have the mentality of a soldier to deal with the world, Jonah often wanted a reward. There were other ways to fill that need, especially when he was conscious of why it was happening, but the biggest reason to quit something was probably that it was no longer being manufactured. He was only guessing, but he had to go with his gut, how he suspected the world was now.
He’d decided to keep pressing east, toward the mountains and forests, but he was still in Germany. He’d been traveling a long time, and he used maps to navigate. He moved during the day, when he could find Molters and kill them, and slept at night when Molters were out hunting him.
Even with all that had happened, he was struck by how gorgeous the country was, especially during the day. A snow-covered peak was one of the most breathtaking sights he’d ever seen, and they were everywhere along his travels, especially during the winter. All he’d have to do was look left or right as he walked or drove. All of what was happening now was so contrary to these views; he was sometimes still amazed that such horrible things could take place in such a beautiful country.
Food wasn’t really a problem. He would take what he needed when he came across it, and he could still hunt during the winter. Molters were more interested in places where humans congregated—cities and towns especially—than in places where wildlife did. It was only himself he needed to feed, and he didn’t eat much. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t enjoy a full meal one day, maybe with dessert too. Maybe he’d eat until he felt like his stomach would split open.
Jonah would kill in the morning and then cook and eat during the day. He’d stashed MREs all over the country and had them marked on his maps in case he was starving. He had MREs with him, but he hadn’t eaten any this week. He hadn’t needed to, not with all his successful hunts.
Still, he often envisioned the hot meals as he drove and how tasty they would be when he eventually indulged his hunger. It was something to look forward to. He ate about one MRE per week and would then save up the snacks and desserts and have them all at once, every month or so. The thought of all that food in the back of his truck made his mouth water.
Though having enough food wasn’t a problem, being hungry still was because of his activity level. He was constantly on foot. But he’d grown accustomed to falling asleep that way. Some nights were harder than others. Every now and then it was difficult to fall asleep. An empty pit in his stomach sometimes kept him awake no matter how much he reminded himself of the meal that awaited him the next day. Only the longer he forced himself to live that way, the easier it got. Unfortunately, doing that meant his body was almost constantly in survival mode, and he fatigued easily. Jonah knew to plan his exertions accordingly, usually shortly after eating.
He’d always keep the map to show him where the MREs were, but even if he lost it, he’d still be able to remember where to find most of the stash locations. The MREs would be a contingency, a safety net, and with vehicles abound, he felt confident he’d be able to get back to those locations before he starved to death—if it came to that.
Finding water wasn’t too difficult either. Fresh water melted during the day and trickled off cliffsides. He carried canteens and filled them whenever possible. He heated fresh snow over a fire when he camped, and he camped when he got tired. When he needed rest, he would either sleep in his truck, or, depending on the safety of the area and the shelter available, he would stay indoors or pitch a tent.
Pitching a tent turned out to be the safest way to sleep. Most houses and buildings were abandoned, but because cities and towns attracted Molters, they were Jonah’s least reliable option. Modern-day humans had become used to secure shelter, and Jonah was no different, so finding a place to sleep with a roof over his head was sometimes worth the risk.
Relying on the inquisitiveness of Molters kept him safe. They were just animals, but they were smart enough to be alert. Alertness meant hesitation toward the unfamiliar, and because he surrounded his camp with noise traps, he could get the drop on them if he had to. Molters didn’t usually hunt in groups through the woods. They tended to group themselves when hunting near a town where humans gathered. He mostly made the traps with thick brush and one large opening to escape through, and he hung the brush with holiday bells.
Bells that once reminded him of family and merriment now reminded him of deterring predators that wanted to feed on his hot blood. He’d gotten used to their clinking as he slept, as one would grow used to a ticking clock, but when they were snagged by a Molter or anything else (one time a deer), their noise became a continuous crash and Jonah’s eyes would pop open in an instant.
Luckily, so far he’d only had to kill a few Molters as he camped in the woods. If that had to be done, he just kept moving. Forests were dependably scarce of Molters, not just because there weren’t many people around, but also because Molters didn’t care much for the cold. They preferred warmer climates. They were still around during the winter, lurking in the shadows on a constant hunt, but there weren’t nearly as many of them as there were when it was warm.
Jonah was thankful for that, because there’d been so many when he’d first encountered them that if their population had continued to increase the way it had been, he was sure human beings would now be extinct.
Molters were often naked, their pale, corrugated flesh their armor, with no hint of human sex. Sometimes they still wore the clothing of the human that had molted and were in all manners of dress that normal folks wore. Once, Jonah encountered a Molter wearing a grandmother’s nightgown. It was one of the most frightening things he’d ever seen. He wondered if their simple predatory minds were capable of putting on clothing.
Judging from their nests, they used one another for warmth when they slept during the day, but since mostly he’d encountered them on the hunt at night and some were dressed, he thought that maybe they could put on human clothes. Or maybe he was just afraid that they could. The thought of them like that, digging through a closet to find the right outfit, was ridiculous and made Jonah laugh.
The Behemoths were still being born, but most likely they were only populating to get ready for spring and summer. That’s what Jonah thought, anyway, so he didn’t mind the cold one bit. It meant he was still relatively safe from them. The cold weakened them, and both Molters and Behemoths could often be found in a suspended stasis, similar to hibernation, but that was only at extremely low temperatures and often away from where their typical hunting territories tended to be, closer to the mountains.
Jonah wondered why. It was like they were in hiding—a contingency for their species. That’s what it seemed like, anyway. He’d only seen it twice, once with a nest of Molters, the other time a groggy Behemoth. They were much easier to kill that way. Each kill felt like a reward, not only for himself, but for humanity.
The missions Jonah sent himself on were something he needed, a path to follow that gave him purpose. Now they filled the hole inside of him that he’d tried to stuff with drugs and alcohol and cigarettes for so long. Since he didn’t have those things anymore, or want them, and when he was on the hunt or gained any opportunity to wipe those creatures off the face of the earth, Jonah never hesitated. He thought of it as his job, something that had to be done, and he needed to do it. They had hurt him, and now he wanted to hurt them back.
Jonah wasn’t sure where he was going exactly; he just knew he wanted to get somewhere where there wasn’t anyone around. He was being selfish, but he didn’t care. A man with his knowledge and training should try to gather stragglers and get them to a safe area by traveling by day and setting up a protective perimeter at night; get them to another military base or somewhere that was fortified.
Only he didn’t. He just wanted to get deep into the mountains and forget about his past life. Build a cabin, maybe. Hunt. Eat. Sleep. It would be enough for him, he thought. He hoped. Regardless of what would happen, he was on his way.
There were lots of vehicles to choose from in every abandoned town, and Jonah had his pick. He’d chosen a large one, a four-by-four with an extended cab like the bearded man had, the one he’d crossed paths with on the road before his friends had died, who’d first told him about the Behemoths. This brand of truck was well known for its reliability, and so lengthy it took him about five seconds to trudge past it through the snow.
Essentials were stored in the cab, which included spare boots and laces, plenty of foot powder, dry socks, T-shirts, and underwear; he made sure they were always within reach. Attention to hygiene was paramount. Although he didn’t always have access to dry conditions—sunlight was essential to drying wet socks—his warm cab did the job.
Most of his arsenal was in the storage box located in the bed. Other than the weapons he used daily, he also kept the high-caliber ones in there, like the grenade launcher and the spare ammo too. He’d grabbed attachments like scopes and flashlights, even though he knew he’d hardly use them. For close-quarters skirmishes he preferred iron sights whenever possible. Everything he’d collected weighted down the bed of the large truck considerably as he drove, but the truck was so powerful and stable that it could handle all of that extra weight.
A gun rack inside the cab held a shotgun with a flashlight mounted on it. It was one of the rare instances when he added an attachment—other than a silencer—to a gun. He used the shotgun to clear out Molter nests whenever they were near where he’d sleep. He also had a bolt-action rifle with a scope—another exception—that he used to snipe Molters from afar. The mountains would swallow up the echo of the shot. Each kill gave him a warmth of pleasure in his gut, like drinking a shot of premium whiskey.
There I go again.
When it came to handling Behemoths, some were larger than others, but that didn’t really matter when it came to explosives. Jonah thought of the first Behemoth he’d encountered, the one he’d killed at the base a few years ago. It was the largest he’d seen so far. Maybe it was because it was the oldest one alive at the time.
Jonah also stored the explosives in the storage box, ones powerful enough to hobble any Behemoth. Only, that meant that he’d need to sneak up on them or bait them into a trap, and that wasn’t always easy. If it blew near them, they were dead, or they would surely die from their wounds. Jonah never stuck around to make sure. Even if they didn’t die right away, there wasn’t much they could do with pieces of them blown off and bleeding from ragged holes caused by the blast.
After a while Jonah had trouble even remembering who he was. Where there used to be a friend, son, husband, and someone who enjoyed life, now there was only a survivor—a killer. His old self had died, who he used to be, and another man had been born in his place. He saw everything differently, acted differently, thought differently. His view of the world was uncontrollable, as if it passed through alien eyes now, compared to how he saw it before. He felt some connection to who he used to be, but it was deep within him and nearly gone.
There were memories, mostly guilty ones, but that was all, and if he needed to, if society somehow resumed the way it had been, he could fake it. He would have to mimic the person he’d once been. But what disturbed him the most was how miserable he thought he’d feel if human order was restored and how he might be for the rest of his life. It was an emptiness that was hollowed out in him, from all that he’d been through and done, and that might never be filled again. Killing Molters helped, but it was only temporary.
Gotta keep moving.
He’d made the decision to die multiple times, but this time felt different, real, as if he was actually going to follow through with it. He wasn’t going to do it himself. No, he couldn’t do that—well, not in the way that such things were traditionally done—but he could set up explosives and then put a bullet in his brain before they blew.
There would be no trace of him after the blast, as if he were tricking the universe so that it might not ever have known he existed. And after many years, everyone he’d ever known would be dead too, and that—absence of knowledge of his existence—would actually come to fruition.
Staying motivated was a cornerstone of the military. Jonah—along with all his other compatriots and most who had come before him—had been taught it. Getting low and losing hope and everything going to shit was common, especially during a war, but a soldier keeps fighting no matter what. You didn’t have to be in the military to know that. There were many civilians who followed through with this same strategy every day with their jobs, whatever problems they had, or even raising their kids. Except it was always expected of a soldier. Soldiers had no excuse because they’d been educated to navigate the obstacles and depths of hardship and with a purpose.
Jonah was wallowing. He knew he was. Sometimes he couldn’t help it, but more and more his self-pity was making him sick and ashamed. What would his parents think? If they were even still alive. He didn’t know if they were, but he also couldn’t be sure they were dead. That was what he needed to remember. He didn’t know what was going on in the rest of the world. He’d only heard rumors that sometime in the past few years the Molters had reached the United States, or so other survivors had said. Reached. That was a relative term. Whatever was going on in the rest of the world was all speculation until he had laid eyes on it for himself.
The one thing he did know was that he needed to make some changes—permanent ones. He needed to drive on, keep moving forward. So he made the decision to do just that, right then and there, and he forced himself to change his attitude as he drove.
“Be a man. Be a soldier.”
Until he realized what had been gnawing at him like a procrastinated task. He was afraid. Not for himself—obviously—but of losing someone again. Being alone was safe. The idea that he often toyed with and even had desired had now become his reality, and that was bullshit.
From now on he would ignore all those nagging feelings of hopelessness, common to everyday life but especially during a war, because that’s what this was. Humans were fighting for their very existence. They were who deserved to survive, not those creatures. His depression was hobbling him the way explosives hobbled a Behemoth, and he was tired of being disgusted with himself and allowing his own brain to bring him down to the depths of despair again and again and again.
Unfortunately, since he’d made that resolute decision, he was running low on gas. Fuel wasn’t a problem—not yet. There were plenty of vehicles with full tanks, fuel hoarded by the paranoid, and military bases with fueling stations that Jonah knew how to access. He guessed they would still be dependable for a few more years.
Except he’d missed a refueling opportunity on purpose when he’d allowed his mind to get sick again, when he’d decided he was going to die. Now the idea of those thoughts made him sick. It was getting dark, though. He had no choice but to think of a plan in the morning, so he pulled over to get some sleep.
Jonah opened his eyes. He was freezing. There was no cold quite like a Bavarian winter. He’d been dreaming about Sharon. She was still alive in the dream. Still alive. He wished—wished all of his friends still were. The depth of their loss hit him every day. Because of him they were dead.
No Molters had come during the night. He kept the doors locked anyway. If they were out hunting and found him, Jonah would simply drive off. He unzipped his sleeping bag and got dressed. Then he started the truck and turned the heat all the way up.
Outside the truck the gusty wind rocked Jonah on his feet and howled all around him. The cold snow stung his flesh like a thousand pinpricks, and the wind eagerly licked those same spots, making him even colder. He’d grown used to it—not just in the last few months, but when he was stationed here. Once you go through something, you can do it again. Your brain remembers, and so he remembered how to deal with the cold. The trick was to ignore it, to understand that—if you were prepared—it was only temporary. After that time, however long it was, you could then get warm again. Especially in a hot cab waiting to be climbed into.
The shovel easily scooped snow away from the large tires—not that Jonah needed to do this. The powerful truck was perfectly capable of pulling out of the snow that had accumulated overnight. He did it for two reasons: one, the hard work would keep him warm until the cab heated up enough, and two, it allowed him to think back.
Working that way allowed him to escape his new world. Whether that was for the hours when he slept, or for the moments he was doing anything other than thinking about what his present dangerous circumstances were, he needed the escapism, and he never missed the opportunity. There were all kinds of ways: reading, remembering favorite songs, recalling the past, and getting work done. Working was best.
He readjusted his stance by lowering himself to a comfortable height; then he spread his feet more, watched his boots disappear under the snow’s depth, and dug deeper with the shovel, scraping, shoveling the snow quickly, faster, starting to breathe heavier now, getting warmer, remembering . . .
Sharon had been staring at Jonah most of the night. They hadn’t met yet, and he was high, and he remembered wanting to be alone—ironic considering he was at a party—because he’d wanted to numb the pain from everything that had happened during the war and from his frustration at getting kicked out of a military he loved. Unfortunately, he’d mixed drugs and alcohol, and alcohol sometimes made him remember all too well, remember stuff he couldn’t get out of his head.
More accurately, Jonah wasn’t looking to meet anyone. Sharon must have been able to tell that he was under the influence, even though they were strangers, because she’d looked concerned. She also seemed patient. Deeper than that, she looked at him the way only a few women in his life had ever looked at him. It was an understanding, a connection, the kind that expressed the bond that had already formed between them even though they hadn’t even spoken to each other yet.
