CATACLYSMOS Book 1 Part 5: The Long Dark Night: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller Read online

  Both the dome and cargo lights come on, providing a momentary respite from the relentless dark.

  Though weak and dim, the small lights blind him at first, but as his eyes adjust he can see that the tall man is removing a rifle from the gun rack across the back window.

  Then the door closes.

  Dark again.

  No sight, only sound.

  The tall man making his way back toward the house.

  Do something.

  He pulls against his restraints, tugging at them with all his remaining might.

  Like what?

  Whatever you have to.

  He tries forcing his hand through the cuff. It won’t give.

  It occurs to him that if he dislocates his thumb he might be able to break enough bones to get his hand through the cuff.

  Then what? What’re you gonna do with one free broken hand?

  Figure that out when I get to it.

  You’re being foolish as fuck.

  Gotta do something.

  Sure. So why not futilely break your hand, right?

  4

  Rage.

  Brilliant. Blinding. Red. Rage.

  She actually sees the color red.

  Suddenly the fat fuck before her becomes the Deacon and every other man and boy who has ever forced himself on her, who has ever felt her up, groped her, fingered her, molested her, raped her, or in any way used her for their selfish fuckin’ pleasure.

  She pulls so hard on the cuff that, though her hand doesn’t slip through it, the eyebolt splinters the wood and breaks free from the board, slinging out and hitting her in the back.

  Her hands are still cuffed together but are free from the back wall of the wardrobe.

  The ape is so lost in his violation and molestation of her, he doesn’t realize what is going on.

  Bringing her hands up her sides and over her head, she wraps the chain around the fat disgusting fuck’s neck and begins to pull in opposite directions as hard as she possibly can.

  Inhumanly hard.

  Snatching his short, fat finger out of her, he brings his hands up to grab at the chain choking him, but can’t get his stubby sausages under it.

  The flesh of his fat neck bulges out over both sides of the chain and in-between the circle of each link.

  She pulls even harder, the force she’s using that of several men bigger and stronger than her.

  The ape coughs and chokes and gasps for air he can’t get.

  Realizing the pointlessness of trying for the chain, the fat fuck begins to twist and jerk, attempting to wriggle out, but this too is utterly ineffective.

  He then begins to hit her.

  Flinging his fat arms and big fists back at her.

  Hard, heavy blows.

  He lands shots on her shoulders, chest, jaw, forehead.

  Each hit hurts like hell, but she doesn’t let go, doesn’t let up, doesn’t stop choking the life out of this rabid animal that should’ve been put down years ago, should’ve been aborted by his wretched mother or an intelligent universe but was not. She’s having to do what they could not or did not. But how much damage has he done between then and now?

  He tries to speak but only gurgling sounds escape his repulsive mouth.

  As he weakens, his punches become more looping and less effective, fewer of them landing.

  This might just work. We may just survive this yet.

  She’s actually feeling somewhat hopeful.

  Until the door bursts open.

  5

  Futility.

  The cuffs are so tight, his hands so much bigger and wider than his wrists, he can’t possibly pull free—no matter how many bones he’s willing to break.

  Helpless.

  There’s nothing he can do but lie here in the dark. Cold. Naked. Afraid.

  Two dangerous and deranged men with demented appetites have his daughter and all he can do is shiver in the dark as he strains to hear what’s happening.

  And he can’t even really do that.

  No matter how much he tries to hear what’s happening in the house, all he can hear are the cries and screams, shrieks and screeches coming from the forest.

  Or are they?

  They sound closer than that.

  A lot closer.

  Screeches. Squeals. Squawks. All swirl around him in the absolute black that is the sightless night.

  Beyond night blind.

  Darker than dark. Blacker than black.

  Memory from childhood. Touring the Florida Caverns. Underground limestone caves near Marianna. Deep beneath the huge rock formations. No natural light. No lost light. Tour guide turns off the lights. Nothing but blackness. The darkest dark he’s ever seen before the end, before the way the world is now. Now it’s darker somehow.

  It’s so dark, so completely devoid of visibility, he begins to see things.

  The terrifying sounds in his ears cause him to see creatures that aren’t there, that only exist within his noise-inspired imagination.

  Whatever’s out there is human. Altered. Changed. Transformed. But human. Not creature. Not monster. Not anything like the imaginings of books and movies before the end began.

  And then WHAM!

  Something strikes the side of the truck.

  Hard blow. Rocking the truck on its springs.

  And then an inhuman sound somewhere between a shrill caw and a shrieking roar.

  What the hell was that?

  One of the inhumans? Are these different than the others he’s encountered? Altered by the events at the end in ways the others weren’t? Maybe the closer you get to the Gulf, the more fully transformation has occurred.

  If that’s what it is . . . Are they really that close? What else can it be?

  He’s never heard anything like it before. Anywhere. Ever.

  Have they really come out of the woods?

  It’s not that far out.

  No, but farther out than he’s ever seen or even heard of.

  He remains perfectly still.

  Still no shot.

  Surely the tall man is in the house by now, but he had expected to hear a shot and hasn’t.

  What’s he waiting on? Did he make a different deal with the ape man? Or did he just not hear the shot for all the noise out here?

  Is he just going to kill the fat man, or the girls too?

  He pictures the tall man dropping the lifeless bodies of Meleah and Nancy in the back with him, him having to ride to the tall man’s place with his dead daughter next to him.

  Suddenly he can’t breathe. He can’t move.

  Frozen in the fear that horrific thought produces, he’s unable to function.

  His chest and arms ache like he’s having a heart attack.

  Am I dying?

  Maybe it’s best if you all do. Now instead of later. Not have to endure any of the unimaginable horror awaiting each of you.

  Maybe it is.

  6

  The fat man is almost unconscious when the door slings open and the tall man is standing there, his rifle pointed at them.

  With his last gasp of breath and his last bit of strength, the ape-like creature reaches out for the tall man pointing the gun in his direction.

  His dirty, swollen, hairy forearm is right there in front of Meleah’s face. She’d bite it if she wasn’t gagged. She strains to spit the gag out of her mouth, working her tongue hard against the filthy rag.

  —He-el-p me, he manages to get out in a breathy, barely audible plea.

  —How the hell’d you let that little pixie runt get the jump on you?

  The tall man sounds more amused than anything else, and makes no move to help the dying ape.

  —You’re about a worthless fat sack of shit, ain’t ya? A little girl like that takin’ you out—and her anorexic ass still chained up. Goddamn but this is the most entertaining thing I’ve seen in a by god while. Promise you that.

  He starts to step into the room for a better view—but a noise in the yard causes him
to jerk his head around and aim his rifle out into the darkness.

  —The fuck?

  He strains to see out into the black.

  —No way you got free of those—

  Something from the dark grabs the barrel of the rifle and snatches him out into the darkness.

  The tall man screams. Fires a round. Then screams some more.

  The shrieks and shrills and screeches grow louder, reaching a fevered pitch in what sounds like a feeding frenzy.

  Teeth tearing flesh. Bones cracking and snapping and popping. Wet thumps and slurps and chews.

  Back inside, the fat fuck goes limp, the weight of him pulling Nancy forward. She starts to unwrap the chain from around his neck.

  Meleah finally manages to get part of the gag out of her mouth—enough to utter muffled words.

  —Wait, she says, realizing he might not be dead yet.

  —What?

  —Don’t let go of him yet. And look in his pockets for a key.

  With what appears to be all her might, she pulls up on the cuffs, attempting to draw the man and his pockets closer, but it’s no use. His dead weight doesn’t budge.

  —Hurry, Meleah says. We’ve got to get Dad before those things do.

  —We can’t go out there, Nancy says.

  The hell we can’t.

  With the chain still around the fat man’s fat neck, she searches the pockets she can reach, her small, swollen hands in obvious pain as she does.

  —They’re not here.

  —Can you reach the other side? Meleah asks.

  So far she has only reached inside the front pocket closest to her.

  —I don’t think I can, but there’s a pocket knife in this one. Maybe we can . . .

  —Hold on to the knife, but try the other pockets. Hurry.

  The horrific noises from the dark yard persist.

  Will they come in here? Do they already have Dad? Are they really eating the tall man? Is that really what we’re hearing?

  —No key, Nancy says. I’ve gone through all the pockets but one. It’s in the back and I’ve never known anyone to keep keys in their back pocket.

  —Are you okay? Meleah asks.

  —Whatta you—

  Before she can finish, the large man’s arms shoot up and grab her by the neck.

  Meleah jumps.

  Nancy tries to pull on the chain looped around the Neanderthal’s neck, but it’s no good. He has her now. His grip is stronger and he’s not letting go.

  Even in his weakened state, his huge hands are easily collapsing her neck, crushing her windpipe.

  She looks as though she’s about to pass out.

  They were so close to being free of the two reptilian men, and then this.

  It’s mere moments before he kills her and then he’ll be on to me.

  But then something else happens.

  Nancy lets go of the chain, releasing her only leverage on the fat man, as if she’s giving in completely, surrendering to the inevitability of her demise.

  Then just as suddenly as the man had grabbed her, Nancy is stabbing him with his own knife. Stabbing and hacking and slicing and cutting.

  In a few big heartbeats blood is spurting out of large, open wounds, seeping out of smaller ones.

  Yellow fat and blood and water gushes out of a long incision in his side.

  Releasing his grip on her throat, he reaches to hold his cuts and try to push back in what is coming out of him as he rolls, attempting to get away from her.

  He’s nearly clear of her, but just before he makes it beyond her reach, she jabs the blade into the side of his neck. Once. Twice. Three quick stabs.

  Arterial spray goes everywhere, splattering the floor and ceiling and everything in between that comes in direct line with the wound.

  He reaches for it and crawls a few feet away before collapsing to the floor.

  He never utters another word. Just rolls around a bit then bleeds out.

  —Hey, Meleah says. Look at me. Nancy?

  She’s obviously in shock or in some sort of dissociative state.

  —Hey. Are you okay? Nancy. Look at me.

  She finally looks in Meleah’s direction, her distant eyes unfocused and glazed over.

  —He deserves far worse, she says finally.

  Meleah nods.

  —Can you use the knife to unbolt your leg irons?

  7

  A shot.

  Screams.

  Then . . . what?

  He hears what sounds like a man being torn apart. Literally.

  Am I next?

  What’s happening? Are the girls okay?

  Was it the fat or tall man? The fact that a shot was fired makes him think it was the tall, man, but it’s very likely the fat man has a gun too.

  Why are the things out of the woods?

  Are they? Think about it. This place is pretty far back from the road. There are woods all around and it’s dark as fuck.

  Do they know I’m in here? Just keep still. Don’t move. Don’t breathe.

  That would sort of defeat the purpose, now wouldn’t it?

  You know what I mean. Stay calm and keep quiet.

  He feels anything but calm, but he’s not moving or making a sound.

  Short, shallow breaths. No problem. But his heart is pounding so hard it’s making noise and moving his chest.

  Calm down. Distract yourself.

  If they know he’s here and he’s about to be attacked and eaten, it’ll be over soon, but if they don’t and something has happened to one or both of the men, it’s going to be a very long, cold night.

  Already is.

  He’s freezing.

  He thinks about the long nights in his life.

  The recent long nights with his wife. He’s had many ecstatic and excruciating nights with Dawn.

  Most nights they stay up late together and many nights they’ve stayed up and or out most of the night.

  The Rumi line comes to mind again.

  When I am with you, we stay up all night.

  When you’re not here, I can’t go to sleep.

  Praise God for those two insomnias!

  And the difference between them.

  When they first started seeing each other, she lived in a rented trailer on the river. Often, after her fifteen-year-old son went to bed, he’d slip in through the back door that led into her room. They’d make love and then stay entangled as they whispered to each other through most of the night.

  After they were married and with each other all night every night, they’d often talk into the early hours, their mouths growing dry, their eyes drowsy as the first light broke above the North Florida slash pines along the eastern horizon.

  He thinks about how often they’ve stayed out late at their bar—Tuck’s—or out with friends in Panama City into the wee hours.

  How many times have they raided the kitchen in the middle of the night for snacks or to cook something together, or jumped in the car and driven to Waffle House for country ham and hash browns?

  There are no Waffle Houses anymore. Not much food. And none to cook. There may not even be a Dawn anymore—or a Michael any moment now.

  Though the vast majority of their nights together have been ecstatic, there have been a few that were nothing less than excruciating.

  Nights in the hospital—before and after Dawn’s back surgeries. Nights at home and in the hospital, him caring for her, her fighting infection so severe her doctor hung the lab report of it on his office wall.

  Sleepless nights when she was in too much pain to sleep, when he was exhausted and frayed, but had to do for her everything she couldn’t do for herself—which at the time was everything.

  Then there were the fight nights. Nights when sleep was sacrificed on the altar of arguments, misunderstandings, hurt, and anger. They were a small fraction of their sleeplessnesses, but they were difficult and painful—and he’d give anything to be back in the middle of one right now.

  As this night drags on
, he thinks of the many lonely nights before Dawn—those spent in loss and longing.

  He had always been a nocturnal creature, had spent the vast majority of his late nights alone, his kids asleep down the hall, most of the rest of the world gone to the underworld of dreams and nightmares.

  How many books had he read through those nights? How many movies had he watched? How many prayers had he said? How many books had he written?

  He thinks of the times when inspiration kept him up, kept him chasing down the story, his fingers dancing across the keys of the many keyboards he’d worn out over the years.

  How many words had he written before the end? Two million? Three? More?

  He’s had some long nights in his life—both before and since the end—but this one is shaping up to be the longest of them all.

  He’s never spent a night like this, never been as completely night blind before, never been this close to Meleah without being able to check on her.

  In the absolute black of the moonless, starless, lightless night, his eyes are unable to adjust—there is nothing for them to adjust to—and the darkness is as disorienting as anything he’s ever experienced.

  Plane crashes over the ocean.

  He feels like a night pilot over a black sea when the darkness of sky above and sea below become one to the point that the horizon vanishes, and like outer space there is no up or down, no way to navigate, no way to know that you’re flying your plane into the wrong bit of blackness, the one that rips your aircraft apart and makes your grave a watery one.

  He thinks of other long nights—like the ones of his novels.

  Double Exposure and Blood Moon.

  Two of his novels largely take place over the course of a single night. A long night. The longest of nights—not unlike the one he’s experiencing at this moment.

  Blood Moon, in his John Jordan series, is the most recent. The love of John’s life, Anna, has been kidnapped. He tries to recall how it begins.

  Waiting.

  Alone in the dark.

  Thinking.

  Praying.

  Preparing.

  Waiting.

  I was waiting for a call––the single most important phone call of my life.

  Earlier in the night I had arrived home to find Anna gone.