“I hear it was quite the show. Put ’em all in the hospital.”
Colin positioned himself so he was directly in Andy’s line of sight. Andy finally met the punk’s eyes. They were eyes not unlike anybody else’s eyes, fully human, and yet there was some “otherness” about them that sent a cold chill down Andy’s spine.
“You some kind of special cowboy or something? Maybe military? Special forces before everything hit the fan? Is that it? Now you got some chip on your shoulder?”
The door of the diner opened and closed behind Andy. Colin’s eyes shifted and looked past Andy.
Andy turned his head a little.
“Missy, please, go back inside.”
A hand fell on Andy’s left shoulder, bigger and heavier than Missy’s. Andy turned and found the older man from inside the diner standing beside him. In the muted light sifting through the clouds, his skin looked even more leathery and worn, like an old, well-used saddle. His shoulders were thick, though, and his muscles hardened from years of laboring. He put something in Andy’s hand and spoke in a low, raspy voice. “Take my truck and get the girl outta here.”
Andy looked past the man at Missy, standing just outside the door. In this setting, dark clouds above, barren landscape around, and the brood of bloodthirsty vipers behind, she looked frail and lost. She needed protecting. She needed a protector.
“Do it, son.” He lifted his eyes to meet Andy’s. They were such a light shade of gray they appeared almost translucent. “I’ll take care of things here.” He winked and smiled, revealing two rows of browning teeth.
Andy hesitated. Colin sneered.
The old man leaned in so only Andy could hear what he said next. “The girl . . . this is about her. All of it. She’s something special. Get her outta here. Don’t look back and don’t come back. No matter what. I got this.”
Andy opened his hand and found a set of keys. The old man nodded toward a black Toyota Tundra parked along the side of the diner. “Go now.”
Andy hesitated, glanced at Colin and the others. During the brief interaction with the old man, the others had inched closer. They looked hungry, ready to strike.
The old man drilled Andy with a hard stare. “Now, son.”
The old man stepped in front of Andy and straightened his spine. Andy backed away, then grabbed Missy’s hand and headed for the truck.
“Where you goin’, cowboy?” Colin hollered. “We ain’t done here.”
But Andy and Missy were already near the Toyota. “Can you get in by yourself?” Andy asked.
“Sure can,” Missy said.
Andy left her and jumped in behind the wheel, brought the engine to life. A second later, Missy climbed into the passenger seat. In front of the diner, Colin stood statue still, glaring at Andy, that smirk still plastered on his face as if he knew something Andy didn’t, as if he knew that just over the horizon, out of sight, waited a hundred pickups and a hundred more bloodthirsty vipers ready to strike, destroy, and devour.
Colin took a step toward the truck, but the old man put his hand on the younger man’s chest and stopped him. Andy hit the gas, the rear tires spun in the dusty soil, then finally found traction. The truck lurched forward. As he left the parking lot, he saw the group close in on the old man.
The Toyota hit the road at twenty miles an hour, leaving a plume of dust behind it. As the speedometer needle climbed and the dust settled, Andy checked the rearview mirror. Nausea gripped his stomach tightly. The group of punks had descended on the old man. There were so many of them, and they were in no mood to show mercy.
Andy groaned. He wanted to turn the truck around, get back there, and let his rage loose. But the old man’s words bounced around in his head: The girl . . . this is about her. All of it. She’s something special.
“What is it?” Missy turned her face toward Andy. “What’s happening?”
Get her outta here. Don’t look back and don’t come back.
Andy took his foot off the accelerator and allowed the truck to slow.
“What’s going on?”
No matter what. I got this.
It was probably too late now anyway. He’d waited too long.
Before he could answer Missy, two pairs of headlights glowed through the dust like demon eyes.
“Hold on.” Andy stomped on the gas pedal.
Chapter 5
Two trucks had broken away from the pack back at the diner and were now in frenzied pursuit. The Toyota had a good engine under the hood—the old man had taken care of it—and it had enough power to keep distance between Andy and Missy and their pursuers. The road lay straight and flat and cut through wasteland for another mile or so. Ahead, Andy could see a leafless tree line. He depressed the accelerator almost to the floor. The speedometer climbed steadily. Fifty, fifty-five, sixty, sixty-five.
Behind them, the pickups held the distance but were unable to close it.
“Are they following us?” Missy’s eyes were wide, and the color had drained from her face. She gripped the door handle with her right hand and braced herself against the dashboard with her left hand.
“They are,” Andy said. “It’ll be okay.”
“Can you outrun them?”
“I think so.”
“Think so isn’t very comforting.”
“It’s the best I got right now.”
A minute later, the truck hit the tree line, and the road curved hard to the left. Andy had to brake hard, locking up the wheels, which caused the bed to fishtail right to left and back again. Missy shrieked and pressed herself against the seat.
Regaining control of the truck, Andy jammed the accelerator to the floor. The rear tires squealed and spun, and the back end fishtailed again. Finally, the tires found traction and the truck lunged forward.
By now, though, the two pickups had closed the gap between them and the Tundra. Before Andy could regain speed, one pickup was on their rear bumper. The collision was sudden and violent, nearly jolting Andy and Missy out of their seats. The truck lurched, the tires skipped and skidded across the blacktop, then found their grip and once again thrust the Tundra onward.
“Are we okay?” Missy’s voice was tight and shuddered with fear.
“For now.”
“Again. Not comforting.”
“Just hold on,” Andy said.
The Toyota accelerated again, both pickups on its tail. The road wound around barren trees and through a forest of decomposing leaves and fallen giants. Impossible to gain any kind of real speed. Andy worked the gas and brake as best he could, content now to keep the pursuers off his bumper again.
But they were close. Uncomfortably close. Just twenty or so feet back. Any lapse in his ability to keep speed through the turns and they’d be on him again.
In the rearview mirror, he could see the driver of the pickup directly behind them. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands and leaned forward, baring his teeth. His eyes burned with a hunger for violence.
“How close are they?” Missy asked.
“Close enough.”
A tight turn to the right approached, and Andy once again braked hard. As before, the truck’s tail end swerved wide, but this time the rear tire caught the lip of the macadam. The wheel spun in the dry dirt along the shoulder, and the truck slowed. It was all the time the pickup behind him needed. The collision came at the driver’s side rear panel, along the side of the bed. It pushed the Tundra off the road and spun it counter-clockwise.
Andy saw the tree approaching quickly. The impact slammed his head against the side window, and the lights went out.
.......
Missy heard it; she sensed it, even smelled the sudden release of fear pheromones from Andy. But she never saw the approaching impact.
She certainly felt it, though.
The truck jolted violently and spun, inducing a sense of vertigo and nausea that almost made her vomit. She slammed against the door, her head glancing off the window, then was jerked to the left. The sound
of crunching metal and skidding tires and the odor of burning rubber and gasoline assaulted her senses.
When the truck finally stopped spinning, it rocked on its suspension, then came to rest. Her head ached where it had hit the window; her shoulder burned. Every attempt to collect her thoughts came up short. Words and images swam in a murky wash of haze. Instinctively, she reached first for her white stick and then for the door handle. She had to get out of there. The other pickups. The punks. Colin’s friends.
She rested her hand on the handle and listened. In the distance, but too far off, metal creaked.
“Andy?”
No answer. His breathing was labored. He was alive and still in the truck’s cab. She reached across the seat and found him, shoved his mass with her hand. “Andy.” Nothing. Was he dead? Unconscious? Please, God . . . not dead.
Now footsteps outside the truck, leaves crunching, men talking. Angry voices. Slurred words.
“Get the freak. I’ll get the girl.”
Missy yanked on the handle, and the door swung open, taking her with it. She stumbled out of the cab and tripped on a branch, landing hard in the leaves. The musty odor of dry leaves burned in her nostrils. Her heart banged hard behind her ribs. Fear gripped her chest and neck and made it difficult to breathe. Quickly, she righted herself, white stick extended in front of her, and took two steps. Went down again. There were too many fallen branches to navigate. She’d never make it out of the maze.
Footsteps approached her, heavy, quick. She swung the stick around in a wide arc and grunted like an animal injured and cornered. A hand caught the stick, ripped it from her hand, and snapped it. The sound resonated through her ears. The stick was her guide, an extension of her arm, her companion for miles and months. The hand then gripped her arm and yanked her up.
“Come here.” His voice was gruff and stern, laced with hate.
She tried to struggle, to break free from his grip, but her arm was jerked behind her back and bent upward. Pain stabbed her shoulder. His free arm then wrapped around her waist and pulled her against him. She tried to wrench free.
“Knock it off.” His breath smelled of tobacco. His body odor overpowered her, and once again nausea writhed in her stomach like a snake.
The man put his mouth to her ear. He drew in a noisy breath. “We’re gonna teach you and your friend a little lesson.”
On the other side of the truck, she heard the door open, then something big and loose landed in the leaves. Andy had fallen out of the truck.
“Let’s go,” another man said.
Missy’s captor tightened his hold on her waist, so tight it nearly squeezed the air from her lungs. He lifted her off the ground. “Now we’re gonna have some fun. You want that?”
.......
Darkness like he’d never seen outside his dreams enveloped him. Thick, palpable darkness—the kind that infiltrates every pore and orifice, fills it to overflowing and oozes like hot tar. He was floating in it, suspended by the viscous substance, unable to move. Hands grabbed at him, clawed, groped. It was sickening and vulgar. He tried to scream, but when he opened his mouth, the black ooze filled his oral cavity and muffled any call for help.
Alone. No one to help, no one to rescue. He must endure this molestation, this torture, by himself.
From somewhere in the darkness, somewhere far off, a faint whisper swept past him, like the rhythmic susurrations of an autumn wind through leafy trees. Back when the trees still had leaves. Back when the earth was fresh and renewed every spring. Back when rain fell and grass was green. Back before evil had slithered out from under its rock and made earth its home. But as the sound grew louder, the whispering grew closer. There was purpose to it. There was a chant. A name. His name.
Andrew. Andrew. Andrew.
Over and over the voices whispered, chanted until they became a sea of voices joined in a dark, sinister chorus. An-drew. An-drew.
A hand found his neck—bony fingers, long, thin, strong. They wrapped around the full circumference of his neck and pulled downward, the fingertips digging into his throat, compressing his trachea, closing his airway.
.......
The man carried Missy a short distance and dropped her onto the ground. She dug her heels into the dirt and pushed off until her back found the trunk of a tree. She wrapped her arms around her waist and pulled her knees toward her chest. “What do you want with us?”
“Just to have some fun, pretty thing.” He closed in and knelt beside her. His hand touched her face, her cheek, and slid down her neck to her collarbone.
Missy recoiled and lifted a hand to push his away, but he grabbed her wrist and yanked it aside. His hand continued its downward slide to her sternum. Missy wrestled and fell to the side, successfully pulling away from the man’s probing hand. But his hand found her hair and jerked her upright again.
“You’re gonna take what I give you, and you’re gonna like it.”
“No!” Missy pulled and writhed. She kicked her feet and tried to roll over. The man was too strong, though. She was no match for his size.
His body odor was stronger now, his sweat laced with acid. His breath reeked of that stale tobacco.
His hands found her shirt and tore the fabric as if it were tissue paper.
Fear raced along her nerves, tightened her muscles. Anger too. Anger like she’d never felt.
Then she smelled it. Something hot, not burning but just hot.
She continued to fight until the man’s hand found her face with a closed fist. The blow knocked her sideways, but he wouldn’t let her fall.
And then it happened. Intense heat bubbled up from her stomach, into her throat, filled her mouth. Her stomach, chest, and neck muscles all tightened. Such extreme tension she thought they’d tear from their moorings.
A moment later, the world exploded in a flash of light.
.......
Andy fought the feeling of suffocation, of drowning in the oily darkness. He fought it until the hand suddenly lost its grip and fell away.
A spot of light appeared in the far distance and drew near—growing, illuminating everything around him until it was so bright it blinded him.
“Andy.” A voice. Distant and muffled.
He was on his butt, his back against something hard. His head throbbed.
“Andy.” A woman. Her voice weak, strained. Pity-filled.
As his vision cleared, the naked forest around him came into focus. Dark silhouettes of leafless trees plastered against a gray sky.
“Andy.” Missy.
He opened his mouth. “Yeah.” The fog that had clouded his mind and blurred his vision cleared enough that he could put a few thoughts together. The pursuers. Colin’s guys. They’d run him off the road. Missy was there too. “Missy.”
“I’m here. I’m okay.” Her voice quaked. She hesitated. “We’re both okay.”
Andy turned his head and found Missy by his side, her hand on his forehead. Tears wet her cheeks. The left side of her face was red and swollen, the flesh around her eye puffy and dark. Her shirt was torn and littered with broken leaves. She struggled to hold it together with one hand.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. I am.”
Behind them, the three trucks idled. The bed of the Tundra was wrapped partly around the thick trunk of a tree. The other two pickups were empty. Andy looked past Missy and scanned the area. Where were the—
There. On the other side of the Chevy in a small clearing.
Andy pushed up and balanced himself on rubbery legs. He found his Stetson and gave it its rightful place atop his head. He then staggered over to the clearing and stood over the two bodies of their pursuers. Both were covered in deep red burns, their flesh blistered and singed.
“Oh, Missy.” He turned his face toward the blind girl who had followed him into the clearing. Tears poured from her eyes. “What did you do?”
Chapter 6
The man sat at the booth in the diner and sipped his coffee. He faced the do
or, always faced the door. He needed to see who was coming and going. His life depended on it. He sat the mug on the table and studied the back of his hand. The flesh was thin and as wrinkled as crumpled cellophane. Large veins wormed their way between and over thin, birdlike bones. But he was much older than he looked—much older, in fact, than anyone would believe.
He’d seen it all. Literally. Wars. Revolutions. Assassinations. Coups. Kingdoms rise and fall. Presidents come and go. Babies born. Men dying. Weddings, funerals. Tears and laughter. Nothing had escaped him. His life, his existence had been quite fulfilling. And over the years, he’d learned to watch, to observe, to note the ebbs and flows of time, the changing seasons of nature and men. He’d seen men reach the highest, grandest, most lofty positions, and he’d witnessed the birth of destruction, the near end of civilization, the hell on earth that could be unleashed at the beckoning of one man.
But never had he witnessed a time like this. The earth had groaned under the weight of the times. The event that ushered in the final act had slowed the onward march of the world’s human population to a painful crawl. But it was necessary, at least from his point of view. It was the only way forward.
The man sipped his coffee again and scanned the diner. The waitress, a middle-aged graying brunette, wiped down the counter. Another patron sat a few booths away, his back to the man. He, too, faced the door. Most folks did nowadays. One couldn’t be too careful. Even though it had been ten years since The Taking (what most people called The Event), law enforcement hadn’t gotten back up to full speed. Most of the country outside the major metropolitan areas had become the new Wild West. Men protected themselves and their loved ones. Few looked out for others. Commodities were too precious. Folks had become self-focused, withdrawing inside themselves like turtles pulling back into their shells for protection and privacy.
But this was as it should be. If folks thought The Taking was bad, they had no idea how bad the world would become.
He wasn’t here for mankind. They’d have to fend for themselves. No, he was here for one person in particular. One person whose existence had been carefully planned. One person who was here at the perfect time for a specific purpose.
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