CATACLYSMOS Book 1 Part 4: Perish Twice: A Post-Apocolyptic Serial Thriller Read online

  The thud and thump of blunt force trauma.

  The crack and snap of bones.

  The sounds make him sick to his stomach and he swallows hard to keep down the Lefters breakfast he had eaten earlier in the day.

  The clang and clatter of guns hitting the asphalt.

  Then the metallic scrape and skid and crunch of truck knocking over then running over the motorcycles.

  Two of the motorcycles tumble over to the side, but one goes directly beneath the front of the truck, hitting the axle, doing damage to the radiator, scraping along the pavement until it eventually gets wedged and stops the truck.

  Throwing the truck into Reverse and punching the gas, he backs up off the bike, cuts his wheels, shoves it back in Drive, and guns the engine again.

  Bouncing over bikes and bikers, the truck bucks and sputters but doesn’t stop.

  —What was that? Meleah asks.

  —Best not to know, he says. Y’all stay down just a little longer.

  Smoke rising from beneath the hood and out of the air vents makes it difficult to see, and the truck is making a variety of clicks and clunks that lets him know its time rolling down the road is limited.

  —Roll down the window, would you? he says.

  —Did you get the motherfuckers? Nobody asks as she reaches over and turns the small handle that brings down the glass a little at a time.

  A round hits the tailgate.

  —Evidently not all of them, he says.

  With no mirrors, he has to twist and turn in the seat to see where the shots are coming from.

  On the ground, seeming unable to get up, the Brother he had just clipped lies on his side firing at them.

  —Stay down, Michael says.

  Just a little farther and they’ll be out of range. But will the truck make it that far?

  Shot to shit. Smoking. Spitting and spurting. The truck is making its protestations both heard and felt, both loud and clear.

  He watches in wonderment as the two most important gauges bounce in different directions—the gas gauge toward E, the temperature gauge toward H.

  Will it overheat or run out of gas first? Does it matter?

  And then the puff of air and rat tat tat of rubber flapping on the road lets him know one of the tires has blown out.

  Running on rim.

  Not stopping.

  —Was that a— Nobody begins.

  —Blowout, yeah, he says.

  —What’re we gonna do? Meleah says.

  —I’m gonna ride that rim until it falls off, he says. Or the truck overheats or runs out of gas. We’ll get as far away from those fuckers as we can. Then we’ve got some decisions to make.

  2

  When he thinks the truck has gone about as far as it’s going to go, he turns down a dirt road. Then after unloading everything—including the girls—he drives it into the woods.

  If someone is looking for it they’ll be able to find it without much effort at all, but they’ll have to be looking.

  —You think they’re still coming after us? Meleah asks.

  —I don’t think the four bikers are able, but doesn’t mean they won’t send others once they’re able to open the gate. Given the way they were nearly worshipping the Deacon, I’d say they’ll want to avenge his death.

  —I put you in even more in danger, Nobody says. I didn’t even think about that.

  —I’m not sure you did, Michael says. Probably would’ve come after us either way.

  —We understand why you did what you did, Meleah says.

  Meleah is a counselor specializing in issues relating to teenage girls. He knows it won’t be long before she will be helping Nobody work through her trauma.

  —We need to move, Michael says. But we’ve got to figure out which way and what to do. Let’s find a place to hide.

  With his backpack and two duffels back in place, he leads them down the dirt road to the highway, then along the fringes of the forest lining 73 until he sees the small wooden house across the street.

  —Do you remember this place? he asks Meleah.

  She looks at it more closely, then shakes her head.

  —One time when we were taking you to see your Grandbob in Atlanta, our car broke down near here. One of the radiator hoses had a hole in it. A very nice elderly Asian couple lived here and helped us repair it.

  —I don’t remember.

  —You were pretty young.

  He steps up and knocks on the door.

  When he gets no response, he tells the girls to keep an eye on the road while he goes inside.

  The door is unlocked. The small, simple house is empty.

  He can’t imagine the elderly couple had still been alive when the end came, but if they were, he hopes they got out and are somewhere safe.

  There is no safe place. They’d be better off below than above ground these days.

  —Come on in, he says to the girls. It’s empty.

  They join him inside the small, musty-smelling structure.

  —First, let’s check our supplies and see if there’s anything useful here. I’m gonna change and go through my bags. Y’all search the kitchen for canned goods, bottled water, anything that’s still good. Check the closets for winter gear too. The temperature is dropping fast out there.

  Ten minutes later they are sitting around the small, round wooden kitchen table, eating from open cans and packing everything else.

  —What decisions do we have to make? Meleah asks.

  He’s at a loss as to what to do next. He’s always been painfully aware that he doesn’t know what he’s doing, but never as much as at this moment. How can he keep them alive and survive himself while trying to find the others? He’s never had a plan beyond finding his family and the friends he can—if they’re still around to be found. Now that he’s actually found Meleah, what does he do to ensure her safety while searching for the others? What was the use in rescuing her if he can’t keep her alive?

  —What to do, he says. We’ve got to figure out the best, safest thing to do with you two.

  —What about you? she says. What’re you—

  —After I get you somewhere safe, I’m going to continue to Wewa to see if anyone else—

  —Me too, she says. That’s what I want to do. I want to go with you. I want to be with you. And I want to check on everybody too. Taylor. Micah. Mema.

  —From all accounts it’s only gonna get worse from here. A lot worse. Which is hard to imagine. It’s been fairly horrific so far.

  —I don’t care, Meleah says. I’d rather be in a horrible place with you looking for them than in a safe place—though I’m not sure there is such a thing anymore.

  —I’m staying with you too, Nobody says. ’Fraid you’re stuck with my crazy ass.

  —There’s a small community of good people on 73 this side of Marianna, or I could take you to Lynn’s, which is probably the best thing to do—except it’s pretty bad between here and there. And very dangerous.

  —And that would put you even later getting home, Meleah says. You’d be taking unnecessary risks both ways—there and back.

  —But—

  —It’s settled, she says. We’re going with you. Unless you think we’ll be too big of a burden. Does us being with you mean you won’t make it? Will us tagging along make you that much more vulnerable?

  Of course it does. It will slow him down, increase his vulnerability, and greatly increase the odds that his mission will fail. But not only can he not tell her that, he really doesn’t ever want her out of his sight again. And he certainly can’t tell her that.

  —Nobody’s already proven how valuable she is, he says. And I know how strong and capable you are.

  —Can we please call you something besides Nobody? Meleah says.

  —I really do prefer it, she says. Much better than my slave name.

  —Okay, Michael says, standing. Let’s get everything ready and head out. I want each of you to search these drawers for the sharpest knives you can
find. Keep one on you at all times. Drink plenty of water. Go to the bathroom. We leave in five.

  3

  Ragged edge of woods.

  Temperature falling fast.

  Slow progress.

  Tired. Thirsty. Hungry. Cold.

  The farther south they go, the colder it gets. It’s as if the temperature plummets with every single shivering step they take.

  They are bundled up in everything he had and every warm garment they could find at the house, but it’s immensely inadequate.

  North Florida has seen some cold temperatures over the years, but nothing like this. This is far colder than even the hard freezes that wipe out entire citrus industries.

  Michael constantly scans the area around them, turning often to see if they’re being followed by any of the Brothers. Or anybody else.

  —Be dark soon, he says. Need to find shelter for the night.

  —Like what? Meleah asks. Empty house?

  —The right one, yeah. But just a structure of some kind. Even the right vehicle. Something to block the wind and keep in some heat.

  —Wish we could find another vehicle so we wouldn’t have to walk, Nobody says.

  —So many places where the road’s not passable, he says. Probably wouldn’t be able to use it for long anyway.

  —Even ten feet is fine with me, she says.

  He laughs and starts to say something, when he is struck in the back of the head.

  Believing he has been shot, he reaches up to feel for blood as he spins around to see who did it.

  —Get down, he yells to the girls as he does.

  No one is there. Not visible anyway.

  The sniper?

  Did he really follow me this far?

  He drops down to the ground beside the girls.

  How am I still functioning? Was I just grazed?

  His hand feels wet, but when he looks at it, no blood is present.

  He realizes why when he’s struck again. And again. And again.

  —It’s hail, he says. Thought someone was shooting at us. Come on. Let’s find cover.

  They scramble to their feet and begin to run.

  Out of the woods now. On the road.

  Running.

  Pellets.

  Painful.

  Pelting.

  The barrage of hail increases until they’re in a full-blown bombardment of ice bullets.

  Thunder.

  Lightning.

  A hard, cold rain falling alongside the increasingly large hailstones.

  He’s only ever seen one other hailstorm. Like this one, it came up fast and pounded everything hard, but that one, which had actually cracked the windshield of his truck, was nothing compared to this one.

  It’s odd to have hail during cold weather like this, but everything about the weather patterns of the wounded planet are odd right now.

  The hard, frozen pellets pounding them now are actually leaving marks on their skin, and in a few cases splitting their flesh open, blood running out from the small cuts.

  —Look, Meleah says.

  Up ahead on the left side of the road is a tin mechanical-looking building on the edge of a pasture.

  He had always found the building odd as he had passed by it over the years. There is nothing else on the property, and though it’s located in a pasture, the structure looks like a garage or a small hangar instead of a barn.

  —Perfect. Head there.

  Picking up their pace, they race toward what looks to be the nearest port in this storm.

  When they reach it, they can see that both the large garage door and the standard pedestrian door are bolted and locked.

  —Stand back, he says.

  Withdrawing the 9mm from his bag, he stands to the side and fires pointblank at the padlock.

  The round pierces the lock’s casing, but the small hole does nothing toward opening it.

  He tries again. Another hole. Same results.

  —Hey, Nobody yells.

  —Yeah?

  —I put the bolt cutters in your bag, remember?

  He shakes his head and rolls his eyes at himself.

  —Forgot. So stupid. Thanks for reminding me.

  He removes the bolt cutters, quickly snaps the lock shackle, twists off and discards the lock, and they’re inside.

  4

  The hiss and crackle of a small fire.

  Howling wind outside heard beneath slightly raised garage door.

  Rain pinging on a tin roof.

  Michael and Meleah warming by the fire. Nobody not far away sleeping in a sleeping bag beneath a pile of clothes and rags.

  —I still can’t believe you found me, Meleah says.

  —It was inevitable. Wouldn’t have stopped until I did.

  —That’s what you’re going to do for all the others now?

  He nods.

  —Got nothing else to do, he says.

  The building is mostly empty, and though they are speaking softly and facing the partially open door, their voices still echo around them a bit.

  Perhaps part of much bigger plans that never developed, the hangar-like structure seems as though it has never been used for much of anything beyond storage. There are quite a few tools and room for vehicle repair, but it appears as if none have ever been done here. There’s some random farm equipment—a few troughs, corral panels, electric fence wire, the mower attachment for a small tractor—and not much else. A few empty storage containers and plastic crates and car parts. The biggest find is in the back corner opposite where they sit now—a Yamaha ATV, a full tank of gas in its belly, key in the ignition. Not that it amounts to much for them. No way it could hold all three of them and their gear.

  —Have you written any since this all began? she asks.

  —Not a single word.

  —Think you will?

  —It’s hard to imagine, he says. But harder to imagine I won’t.

  —Sorry about your books, she says.

  The fire before them consists of pages from a couple of his books and what little dry wood they could find, pallets mostly, inside the mostly empty storage hangar.

  —Brought a couple along for that reason.

  —Let me guess. Nicholas Sparks and—

  —Actually, they’re pages from out-of-date computer manuals.

  —Out of date as fuck, she says. Out of time. Out of power. No net. No grid. No nothing.

  —Hard to believe something so ubiquitous and central to nearly everything we did before is as useless as every other random piece of metal and plastic.

  —Crazies always said this day was coming, she says. Remember Y2K?

  —Yeah, but like the Deacon they were wrong. It didn’t come for the reasons they said it would, doesn’t mean what they say it means.

  —Maybe not.

  —Maybe?

  She smiles.

  Her big brown eyes light up and her sweet, mischievous smile sparkles even in the wavy wan orange glow of the small fire.

  —The Deacon was very persuasive.

  —Shit. I don’t have time to detox you and Nobody too. And I was hoping you’d help with her.

  —Already on it, she says.

  —I’ve seen. Thank you.

  The garage door is open slightly to let the smoke out, but the draft is poor and much of it stays in. It’s cold enough that they don’t mind.

  —What did happen to the world? she asks. Any ideas?

  —A few, but that’s all they are, he says.

  Nobody stirs, says something unintelligible, and rolls over on her side.

  —What are they? Meleah asks, lowering her voice even more.

  —I think the bizarre weather is a clue. Something global, something environmental happened. More likely several somethings. Maybe it was all the damage we’ve done. Chemicals. Pollution. Overpopulation. Pesticides finally poisoned us beyond the point of no return. We finally wiped out too many of the bees. Who knows? Somebody could have finally pushed the wrong button and unleashed chemi
cal, biological, or nuclear weapons. Maybe meteors hit somewhere. Maybe some of all that—and more.

  She nods and thinks about it.

  —We’ve had a lot of loaded guns pointed at our heads for a long time now, haven’t we? she says.

  —The other clue is all the death and infection and mutation accounts for whatever’s in the woods, whatever was trying to get Gracie back at Lynn’s.

  —What was that?

  He tells her.

  —Climate change can’t account for that, she says.

  —Don’t think it can. So there’s something else going on. A contagion. An infectious disease that kills some and changes others, maybe. I don’t know. Whatever’s going on, we’re in the early days of it. Probably know more soon. And then wish we didn’t.

  She frowns and nods, her eyes wandering away as she contemplates the things as a dad he wishes she didn’t have to, that she’d never have to.

  —The chaos and collapse has enabled many to give in to their uber-selfish and even sociopathic tendencies that were barely restrained before, he says.

  She’s a psychologist. She’s studied human nature. She’s intimately acquainted with the mental illnesses, personality disorders, and capacities for depravity human beings are prone to.

  —She mentioned being infected, Meleah says. I just can’t bring myself to call her Nobody. Do you think she really is? Is she contagious?

  —I have no idea—about anything really—but unless whatever it is has a much longer incubation period in some than others, I don’t think she is. She’s not showing any signs. We’ll watch her closely, take care of her the best we can—psychologically and physically. I could be wrong, of course, and if I am and I’m exposing you . . .

  —Even if we are—and it’s we—I wouldn’t change anything. Helping who we can is what we do. It was before the lights went out and it still is now.

  He nods, thinking how extraordinary his daughter is and how extraordinarily proud of her he is.

  —You’re a masterpiece, he says. I’m so glad the world still has you.

  She smiles and hugs him.

  —Get some sleep, she says. You need some bad. I’ve been getting plenty for a while now. I’ll take the first watch.

  —You sure?