Kismet Read Online Free Page B

eyes fall on a half-collapsed building that reminds me of a small warehouse. I leave the road and drive over the bumpy ground toward it.
    It takes me about an hour to move various pieces of large junk to make a cozy little nook for my four-wheeler to reside while I’m off in La-La Land. Sweat drips off me and runs down the back of my shirt. Once I think it will be safe, I take my black backpack and fill it with provisions I anticipate I will need. I check that my two GLOCKs are loaded and stuff them in the holsters on each of my ankles under my pants. Next I take my small daggers and sheathe them in the leather halter that is attached to my left forearm. I glance at my recurve bow before deciding against it. In this situation, in this area, I’m pretty sure rapid fire is going to be needed more than finesse, even though I might regret not taking it. A couple of years ago, I had been in Tulsa, Oklahoma and ran into this group of really nice homesteaders who taught me how to hunt ducks with a bow and arrow. Which, believe me, can be done but is very difficult. I had been hiding from them, watching them, when I had gotten a vision. I managed to rescue one of the children from getting bitten by a snake, saving her from what I knew would have been her death, to the everlasting gratitude of her parents.
    I stayed with those homesteaders for several weeks. They had shunned everyone when the virus hit, choosing instead to secure themselves their own way. They included me in their lives, teaching me how to farm and different ways to snare animals. Being with them gave me a sense of peace I never had. I came from a very dysfunctional life and hadn’t a clue how love actually worked, but each night, I saw the adoration between these people and their commitment to survive together.
    I grab a protein bar and munch on it as I make my way over lots and lots of debris. The horizon is dotted with burned-out skyscraper shells. All that real estate had to go somewhere when the earth shook itself mad, and lucky me, was now traversing over it. Come nighttime I bet this decimated city looks a lot like the world of Resident Evil , and I’m hoping I don’t run into any zombies.
    At that moment, the ground shakes violently under my feet, catching me off guard and sending me sprawling. I miss a chunk of rusty spikes protruding from a twisted hunk of concrete by inches. When the shaking stops, I get to my feet, trying to ignore the knocking in my knees. My heart hammers like a nest of angry wasps. Goddammit ! I hate fucking earthquakes! Especially when I have the vision screeching through my head!
    After that, the journey is slow going. It would have been anyway since I am trying to find a location based on a vision. There just aren’t any maps of Los Angeles lying around. I half believe that I need to be downtown, so I’m heading toward the fallen skyscrapers, and before long I am sweating heavily in my dark, body-hugging clothes. The sun never takes into account those of us walking.
    Needless to say, I get lost plenty. Luckily my dream is acting as a type of GPS sensor. If I walk too far in the wrong direction, I get this cold sensation down my spine, and I know I’m not going where I need to be. When I hit the places I need to go, there is a sense of calm, of right. It’s hard to explain to someone who’s never felt this before, but I equate it to the sense of accomplishment one gets when a destination is found by memory alone. Only my destinations are more frequent.
    Several times I hide from people, spying from afar to feel out what kind of inhabitants I’m dealing with here. I’ve learned over the years that being invisible is the best way for me to accomplish my goals. I see what must be gang members dragging people through the streets, wicked-looking weapons dangling like gaudy jewelry from their belts and hands. They carry themselves like twisted royalty high on their power with the stench of anarchy wafting from them. These people,