And then it was forgotten almost as soon as it was mentioned. The President was gearing up for a tough re-election campaign. The Saudis were threatening to flood the market and push oil below $15 a barrel again. There was a mass shooting at Disney World. We all had bigger things to worry about than some random crackpot with excellent penmanship. Hell, even the fall of Bangkok was quickly pushed aside by more urgent news. Sure, millions of people had died, but it happened on the other side of the world and it happened to people who weren’t Americans. Bangkok might as well be on Mars for all it mattered to folks from Tulsa.
Even I let it slip to the back of my mind, and it meant more to me than most. In the months following my interview with Paul McQueen I couldn’t sleep through the night without waking in a sheen of cold sweat, my twisted sheets stuck to my skin and the image of Paul’s sunken, haunted eyes burned into my mind like the afterglow from a bright light. I imagined I could smell the acrid smoke of his disgusting Indian cigarettes as I woke, their odor masking the stench of decaying flesh. The nightmares followed me all the way back home where I took a room in a Brooklyn apartment owned by Jim Bryson, an old high school buddy who’d made it big in apps.
This shit scared me. I became convinced that Paul hadn’t been crazy. The story he told me was entirely true, I was sure of it. The western world was certain that the culprits were Islamic jihadists – a comfortable narrative that fit our preconceptions and helped justify our disastrous ground campaign in Syria – but I knew better.
Paul had described the terrorists as western with shaved heads, and one of the few things anyone had been able to learn about the Sons of the Father was that – before they suddenly vanished from the face of the earth a decade ago – they’d been a small, ultra-radical offshoot of the Baptists, more extreme in their beliefs than the crazy bastards at the Westboro Church. The Sons also held a strange belief that it was immodest for body hair to be exposed. They shaved every last strand down to the skin.
For months I tried to get people interested in the story. I ran a failed Kickstarter campaign to raise money for a documentary on Bangkok and the threat of the Sons. I self published a book that moved fewer than a hundred free copies. I spent endless hours on conspiracy forums, trying to get someone – anyone – to pay attention to the idea that the warning might be legit, but even the tinfoil hat brigade couldn’t be distracted from the latest GMO scandal long enough to give me more than a dismissive ‘cool story, bro.’ It was frustrating, to say the least.
And then... then I met a woman, a cute barista who worked at my local coffee place. She had dimples in her cheeks. She stole good coffee beans from work for me. She warmed her feet by squeezing them between my thighs as we sat curled up on the couch watching Daredevil on Netflix. I don’t want to say I fell head over heels – there have been too many women over the years to kid myself that this one might be the one – but it was nice. It was comfortable and safe, and that’s exactly what I needed.
Suddenly it seemed a little pointless to obsess about my theory. It seemed crazy to sit at my laptop until 3AM, raving on forums while Kate was waiting for me to keep her warm in bed. I managed to convince myself that I’d just gone a little crazy. Meeting Paul just days before he took his own life had sent me off the deep end, and Kate was helping pull me back to dry land.
Gradually, day by day, week by week, I spent less time trying to convince people that the world was going to end and more time enjoying the world I had now. Kate made me forget it all. She made me forget my plan to leave the city for a shack out in the woods. She made me set aside my plan to learn how to shoot, trap game, filter water and dress a wound with my eyes closed. She made me forget everything but those cute little dimples that appeared whenever she smiled.
Looking back, this was a pretty fucking huge mistake.
Dimples aren’t worth shit at the end of the world.
΅
:::2:::
April 7th, 2019
IT'S THE RAIN that wakes me. Thick, heavy drops, bouncing like ball bearings against the window above the bed. It sounds like it’s gusting outside, pushing the rain in sheets so it falls unevenly on the glass... tap, tap, tap, tap, taptaptaptap, tap, tap, tap, tap, like a sudden flurry of applause.
I crack open one eye and crane my neck to the old fashioned alarm clock on the bedside table, a black cast iron beast with a scrap of sponge squeezed beneath the bell to muffle the alarm. It’s just after eleven in the morning. I roll on my back and stretch, grinning to myself as I remember it’s Saturday. Nothing to do today but watch TV in my underwear until Kate gets home from work. Maybe I’ll cook. Nah. Maybe I’ll just order pizza. It feels like a pizza day.
Taptaptaptaptaptap.
I feel something wet and cold splash against my cheek, and I look up at the window to find it’s cracked open a few inches. With each gust a little spray finds its way through the gap to my bed. It’s kinda nice. Brooklyn has been unseasonably warm these past few days, and we don’t have any AC in this old place. It’s nice to be woken by a cool shower and that strangely pleasant smell of city rain. Musty and damp, but oddly refreshing.
I reach out to hunt for the remote buried somewhere in the sheets on Kate’s side of the bed. I know it’s in here somewhere. Kate always watches dumb cartoons late into the night, and she usually falls asleep clutching the remote like a security blanket. I fish around blindly for a minute before finding it hidden beneath her pillow, then point it in the direction of the TV and mash at random buttons until the screen flickers to life.
“— new information at this time, but we’ll stay on the air and keep you updated as long as we can. We’re hearing... We’re... Hold on, please, I have my producer in my ear...”
I squint at the TV, confused. The little orange network logo in the corner of the screen tells me I’m tuned to Nickelodeon, but there’s a news anchor on screen, some middle aged silver haired guy. I want to say Anderson Cooper, but I’m not sure. Skinny dude, looks like a prematurely gray college senior.
“... OK... Uh huh...” He presses his ear as he speaks, listening to someone through an earpiece. He looks flustered, his face shiny and flushed. “OK, I’m being told that the President is preparing to address the nation. We’ll take you live to the White House just as soon as—” The image switches to the presidential seal without warning, cutting the anchor off mid-sentence.
I sit bolt upright, suddenly fully awake. What the fuck is going on? The seal stays on screen for ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty. I start to wonder if there’s been some sort of technical problem, or maybe my signal has frozen. I quickly flip through the channels to see what else is showing, but each channel shows the exact same seal, as if every frequency has been hijacked.
Tap, tap, TAP, taptaptaptap.
The seal finally vanishes, replaced by a color pattern, and a few seconds later the image flickers to what looks like the Oval Office. The ornately carved Resolute desk fills much of the screen, but there’s nobody in the seat behind it.
A few moments of silence, and then an irritated voice calls out off camera. “No makeup, Karl. Look, just... oh, for the love of God, just give it to me.”
An urgent voice whispers, “We’re live, ma’am.”
The room falls silent for a moment, then comes the rustling sound of a mic being attached to clothing, and a few seconds later the President appears on screen and lowers herself behind the desk. She looks awful, like she’s aged ten years overnight. Behind the desk she looks much smaller than the larger than life ballbuster we elected three years ago. She looks... well, she looks like a little old lady. It’s hard to imagine that this is a woman about to embark on a year long high energy re-election campaign. She looks like she should have been buried yesterday.
“My fellow Americans,” she begins, her voice hoarse and rasping, “it pains me deeply to break this news, but I must report that our great nation is under attack. A little more than five hours ago law enforcement in New York City and here in Washington D.C. began t
o report acts of unexplained large scale rioting and civil disobedience. Local authorities were quickly overwhelmed, and following the advice of the Pentagon, the Secretary of Defense and my Joint Chiefs of Staff I dispatched units of the National Guard to assist in operations to secure these cities. The current status of these units is unknown.”
She looks as if her attention is distracted by someone off-camera. I hear the sound of a door creak open, and quiet but insistent voices in the background. The President scowls and shakes her head. She turns back to the camera.
“We don’t yet know if these events are related to last year’s attack on Bangkok. I cannot currently give you the exact details of the situation, or of any ongoing operations undertaken by our military and civilian forces, but you can rest assured that the brave men and women of our armed forces, police force and fire department are working tirelessly to bring this situation under control and restore peace.”
She keeps her eyes trained on the camera, but raises a warning hand to someone off screen.
“As of this moment I am declaring a national state of emergency. All air, rail and sea transport has been grounded until further notice. Our national borders have been closed, and stock market trading has been suspended. I urge citizens to follow any and all directions given by the authorities, and I implore you all to keep— what? No! I’m not finished!”
These last words are angry and directed off-camera. Moments later the view is blocked by a posse of black-suited Secret Service agents who hustle the President to her feet, loudly protesting, and whisk her quickly from the room. I can barely make out anything in the confusion, but I think I hear one of the agents say something like “They’ve breached the perimeter.” There’s an edge of panic in his voice.
Taptaptaptaptaptap, tap, tap, tap.
In the confusion someone must have knocked the camera. The image wheels away from the desk, blurring until it suddenly comes to rest pointing at a desk leg and the plush blue carpet. For a few seconds the camera struggles to find focus, alternating between the desk and a random point on the floor while sounds of movement come from off-screen. The final words I hear are “Eagle moving” before the image suddenly cuts back to the anchor, who looks like he wasn’t expecting the camera to be on him. He’s staring off-screen at a monitor, and it takes a few seconds for him to realize he’s live. He hurriedly drops something he’s holding to the ground, but from the curl of smoke hanging in the air it’s clear he was smoking in the newsroom.
“Umm... We’ll... Yeah, OK, we’ll try to get the White House back as soon as possible. In the meantime I’d like to repeat our earlier message. If your area is affected, please remain in your home. Do not attempt to leave. If you are at your place of work, do not attempt to return home. Do not attempt to...” He looks off screen. “Jack, I’m not fucking telling people to...” He sighs, exasperated. “OK, OK. Do not attempt to reach loved ones. Lock all doors and windows, and move to the most secure room in your building. Gather any food you have and fill as many containers as you can find with water, and prepare as best you can for possible power outages.
“If your area is not currently affected you should tune your set to local broadcasts for details of evacuation plans. Jack, do we have the frequency? The... umm, the emergency... OK, I’m being told that the emergency alert system will soon be broadcasting local information across all radio frequencies, including digital bands. We understand that authorities are currently establishing safe zones on the outskirts of several cities with sufficient food, power and fresh water to support all those who wish to —”
The signal suddenly drops out, leaving the room cast in the blue glow of the menu screen, and eerily silent but for the rain drumming against the window.
Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.
My mind is running a mile a minute. I have no way of knowing for sure, but I can only assume that my worst nightmare has come true. The deadline given by the Sons of the Father was a little more than a week ago. That day came and went like any other, and it was so far from my mind that I barely registered my relief when the sun set without incident. Now it seems like I was right all along. The shit just hit the fan a little later than scheduled.
Taptaptaptap.
I pull myself to my feet, almost in a trance. None of this seems real. Did the President say New York? Jesus. Am I safe? Is Kate safe? Is this really – I almost laugh out loud at the insane thought – is this really a fucking zombie outbreak?
I suddenly feel like I’m suffocating. I’ve never had a panic attack, but this sure feels like one. I feel like the walls are closing in, and the air feels like it’s been drained of its oxygen. I stagger over to the window and yank it fully open, stick my head out and inhale a lungful of fresh, cool air.
Tap, tap, taptaptap.
The street outside my window is empty of traffic, but that’s not out of the ordinary since this is a dead end road. It’s usually pretty quiet out there. Something is niggling at me, though, tickling at the back of my mind. There’s something obvious that I really should have already noticed, but my mind doesn’t seem to want to connect the dots. What are you missing, Tom? Think!
I stare out at the street and try to imagine what’s going on in the city. I wonder where Kate might be. Her coffee shop is just a few streets over. Surely she’d try to come back here when she heard the—
My mind suddenly clears, and I realize what my subconscious is yelling at me to notice.
Tap, tap, taptaptaptap, tap, tap.
The sound of raindrops, still bouncing off the window like ball bearings.
Only it’s not rain. The rain has stopped.
Tap, tap... tap.
That’s the sound of gunfire.
And it’s close.
΅
:::3:::
“BRYSON! JIM, ARE you home?”
My voice echoes through the halls, but it’s not met with an answer. I didn’t really expect one. Bryson usually spends his Friday nights with an interchangeable cast of the many women of Manhattan who are more than happy to push their soft toys to the floor for a good looking guy with a wallet bursting at the seams. Right now he’s probably sleeping off a champagne hangover in some NYU student dorm.
I stalk down the hallway aimlessly, still struggling to get my head around the enormity of what’s going on. I lean back against the wall and take a deep breath, trying to focus and center myself, then I slap my forehead in disbelief that I haven’t thought to check my damned phone yet.
I run back to my room, dive on the bed and fish my iPhone from beneath the duvet. 17% battery. Three bars.
Jesus, a dozen missed calls, and almost as many texts. I had the damned thing set to silent.
“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck please be OK, Kate. Please God, let her be OK.”
I tap the screen and bring up the log. Most of the calls are from Kate, along with a couple from unknown numbers. I tap on the texts and my blood runs cold as I read them.
Heading to work babe. Korean BBQ tonight?
****
Cn u call me? Hearing weird stuff from customers.
****
Babe, pick up.
****
DUCKING PICK UP!
****
Jesus, turn on the news! Have you seen what’s happening on the bridge? I’m coming home. Stay there!
****
PLEASE let me know you’re safe. In the antique place. People trying to get in. Scared.
****
Hefl us were flicking stuck
****
Tom I need to turn off my phone they can. Hear me. Don’t call just get out I love you so much.
****
The phone slips from my fingers onto the bed, and I feel the crushing weight of guilt squeeze at my chest. I was sleeping soundly while Kate was going through all of this, terrified. The first text was sent three hours ago, at 8AM when she was arriving at work. I scroll to the final message, and my heart leaps into my throat when I see it was sent twenty minutes ago, just minutes
before I woke up.
OK, what the fuck do you do now, Tom? Think! Take a breath and just fucking THINK!
“OK,” I say out loud, trying to calm myself with my own voice. “She’s three blocks from here. Let’s say five minutes on foot. Move slowly. Look around the corners. Keep to cover. OK, weapon. Weapon, weapon, weapon.”
As I tug on my clothes I scan the room for something suitable, thinking back to what Paul McQueen had said when he described the Bangkok attack. He said people tried to fight as if they were up against slow, lumbering movie monsters. They thought they could be taken out with a quick blow to the head, but the things moved too fast for the survivors to properly defend themselves.
At least I have the benefit of a minute or two to catch my breath and think. Those poor bastards in Bangkok had only seconds to react, and they were limited to whatever they had to hand. Plastic water guns and buckets, mostly. I’m sure I can find something a little more suitable.
My eyes settle on the aluminum baseball bat poking out from beneath my bed. I’d give my right arm for a gun and a full box of ammo, but beggars can’t be choosers. I tug it out and swing it a few times, accustoming myself to the weight and balance.
I know it’s not an ideal weapon. It feels much too light to take down an adult, but it might just do the job until I can get my hands on a gun. I figure I’ll do my best to stay away from anything moving, and if I’m forced into a confrontation I’ll go in at a dead sprint and just swing away at anyone coming at me. I won’t go for a head shot, but I’ll just try to get them the fuck out of my way and tear ass out of there.
I’m about to walk out of the room when an image flashes into my mind, of Brad Pitt in that zombie movie. He taped magazines to his arms as makeshift gauntlets, protecting them against bites. I don’t have any tape in the house – I shake my head in disgust at my lack of even the most basic preparation – but I might be able to give myself similar protection. I drop to my knees and reach blindly under the bed, probing with my fingers until I find what I’m searching for.
Last Man Standing Box Set [Books 1-3] Page 3