Apocalyptic Beginnings Box Set

by M. D. Massey

  “It was the maple-syrup-lovin' Canadians.” He heard several people talk about Canadians as if the threat was real, but he couldn't quite take them seriously. Normally he wouldn't dare insert himself, but he had to know. “Excuse me, why would the Canadians cause this plague?” The woman who spoke of it responded calmly and easily, “They want our stuff, of course.”

  He determined it was best to avoid laughing. Soon the woman and her entourage had moved far ahead.

  He heard a host of other theories, just in the few minutes since he'd passed that sign. “It was the Republicans. They always wanted us city people to die.” “It was the Liberals. They was foolin' around with science and unleashed this Ebola-thing on us by accident.” “It was the Snowballers.” “It was the Communists.” “It was the anarchists. They want government to go away.” And so on and so on. The crowd consumed each theory, readily adding more and more.

  Several people toted large, hand-printed signs, with variations of the “Repent! The end is here!” motif. One said, “This is the tribulation!” He knew that had something to do with religion, but he was surprised to see the people carrying such signs appeared completely normal. Almost serene. There were no crazed-eye preachers anywhere in sight.

  Holding onto Grandma, he realized they were both now floating along with the crowd, and everyone was equally clueless about why they were there. It made him feel small and helpless.

  People power-walked by them, barely giving them a glance. He wondered, would he notice an old woman and a young boy if he was walking in this mess by himself? How many people in this procession were going to be dead soon? That made his stomach wobble.

  Don't panic, Liam.

  “Panic is the real killer in many emergencies,” his dad's voice said with reassuring calmness from a memory.

  He kept those words in mind as he steadied his breathing.

  He craned his neck to look around the crowd, which over the last several minutes, had started to thin out. Everyone moved along the sidewalks on both sides of the street, as well as on the grass-covered median. He guessed they'd been walking along for an hour, which would put them about halfway there. Grandma was puttering along, but she was slowing down, stopping to rest more than he liked.

  He knew she needed her rest, but an odd feeling had been growing in the pit of his stomach—a sense it wouldn't be wise to fall too far behind the main crowd. He was disturbed to see fewer people behind him than ahead. It wasn't empty, but things were thinning out.

  “Grandma, I know you're tired, but we have to keep moving.”

  “I know, Liam. I'm so tired, though. I must sit down.” She remained standing—there was no place to sit other than the curb of the street, and Grandma would have trouble getting down and back up.

  Gunshots cracked from somewhere behind. Not close, but not as far as he'd like either.

  He gave her a drink of water and a grain bar, hoping to give her a quick boost. He knew enough about the 104-year-old set to know there was no word for “boost” in their lexicon.

  Liam didn't want to scare her, but he wasn't going to lollygag, either. Once she had taken a drink and pulled down a few bites, he practically pushed her.

  “OK, we have to push on.”

  Grandma didn't fight him but didn't pick up the pace as he'd hoped. Even a fury of gunshots and some nearby screaming didn't get her moving.

  I refuse to panic!

  He looked over his shoulder, afraid of what he'd see.

  * * *

  5

  While dragging her along, a middle-aged woman in a business suit, sans the jacket, came ambling along. She seemed distracted until she spotted Grandma.

  Without prompting, she took Grandma's other arm, and together she and Liam were able to support her much better as they walked along. He gave her his thanks, but Grandma remained silent. That could only mean she was super worn out.

  “I think she's bushed. Thank you so much for helping her.”

  “Anytime,” was the woman’s only response. She was looking ahead and into the traffic jam as if searching for someone. He assumed she had lost a friend.

  After fifteen minutes or so the woman abruptly stopped and told him to wait against a bridge abutment just as they went underneath it.

  This gave him a chance to look behind again; he was horrified to see almost no one. There were a few stragglers, mostly elderly walking without helpers. Some people had just stopped to sit or lie down, perhaps giving up. And, far down the street, he thought he could see a few of the really sick. Still, there had to be a whole city of people south of him. He couldn't imagine where they'd all gone.

  He felt like the lone gazelle dropping behind the herd. Ahead of him, he could see the last of the main group walking away. They were very close now to the park that surrounds the Arch. Maybe a quarter of a mile. Gunfire was coming from that direction, though a few shots were echoing down side streets almost all the time now.

  He didn't see the mystery lady. Not ahead. Not behind. Not even in the nearby cars, which were sprawled everywhere on the street and in every available parking area in sight.

  Oh, crap! We're in for it now.

  He looked at Grandma and considered his options once more. She appeared to be totally out of hit points. Could he force her to go faster? Should he try?

  A deep, dark voice advised him to sit her down under this bridge and then just walk away.

  Another voice argued she was his responsibility no matter how difficult things became.

  Where did his obligation to save her outweigh his obligation to save himself? Wasn't his life—at fifteen years old—more valuable to save than hers?

  Why would that thought even cross my mind?

  “Grandma, I'm not going to leave you here. We have to keep moving. Can you walk a little farther?”

  “Oh, Liam. I think I'm a goner. My head is spinning, and it's very hard to see.” She hunched over even more than normal, holding herself up with a combination of her cane and the concrete bridge pylon. “I don't think I can go another step without falling over.”

  “Well, then, I'll carry you!”

  Bent over and gasping for air, she cocked her head so she could look up at her tall grandson and give him a look he knew very well. It said, “Liam, you are one crazy boy, but I love you anyway. And no, we aren't doing that.”

  He debated pulling a stunt he saw in a movie—just grabbing the small woman, tossing her over his shoulder, and carrying her, no matter what her protests were. He knew he could lift her and carry her but couldn't assure himself that he wouldn't break her ribs.

  As he argued with himself, the mystery woman returned, running around cars inside the traffic jam, as if she were trying to find a suitable path through the obstacles. She was pushing something.

  A half minute later, she was close enough for him to see the huge wheelchair in front of her, and she brought it right up onto the sidewalk where Grandma was swaying.

  “Did someone order a ride?”

  He stood incredulous while the woman moved behind Grandma and helped her fall backward, gently, into the chair. The seat itself was immense, apparently designed for a client of considerable girth, and Grandma's pixie size made her look like a child sitting there.

  But she was sitting.

  “Where did you find this?”

  “I've been looking for this since I first saw you. It was on one of those lifts that stick out the back of a trailer hitch. I work with nurses, and travel to hospitals, so this type of thing jumps out when I see it. You have to hurry. She looks like she needs some medical care.”

  The woman looked over her shoulder at the few people wandering about on the route they just traveled. Some were lying down, but some of those on the ground were being set upon by others who weren't … normal.

  “Anyone healthy behind us must have gone to other streets. Nothing but sick back there,” she said.

  “Will you come with us? We can make good time if we both push her.”

 
“No. You'll be fine. I'm going that way,” she said, pointing west.

  “Hurry,” she repeated.

  Without a further comment, she dove back into the traffic jam.

  “Thank you!” he shouted as she was nearly across the street.

  She lifted her hand but kept moving.

  “Can you believe our luck?”

  He tossed Grandma’s cane across the arms of the chair, then began pushing her, nearly running when the sidewalk wasn't too bumpy, and never once looked back.

  A blood-freezing scream told him every detail about the sharks in pursuit.

  8

  Victoria

  The Gateway Arch grounds were chaos, thousands of people crammed into the greenspace under the 630-foot monument. The Gateway to the West was now the Gateway to the East for these people—a passage to safety over in Illinois. But there were so many people, and they didn't look like they were moving.

  “Grandma, are you ready to dive into all this? That's where we need to go.” He was glad to be off the streets, crowd or not.

  “I'll go where you push me, Liam. I'm too tired to arm wrestle you over it.”

  They caught up with the many other new arrivals queuing up, and soon entered the perimeter of the park. A row of armed citizens and police officers watched from the outside rim of the greenspace, each holding their weapons toward the ground, at the low ready position. A handful of officers and civilians on horseback also wandered around. Where they found horses downtown was another of the mysteries of the day.

  He remembered reading somewhere that the Arch’s park is “a patch of greenery next to the concrete jungle of the urban center of St. Louis, about a mile long and a quarter of a mile across.” Outside the park, dead bodies littered the streets. Any schoolchild could piece together what happened. People like Angie attacked the police and were put down like rabid dogs. Seeing that many corpses—and their blood—in the light of day was unsettling, but he gripped the wheelchair handles with determination and pushed through.

  The police presence reassured him, but not because they had guns—lots of people he'd seen today had weapons, including him. These men and women represented authority, a hope that society was holding it together despite all the chaos. He gave the nearest officer a wave and got a nod in return. He felt as if he had returned to humanity with that little acknowledgment.

  His faith didn't last long. Once inside the outer ring of armed order the interior of the park was anarchy. People huddled in small groups all along the path and well out into the grass on each side. Kids played in the reflecting ponds, something forbidden under normal conditions. He remembered being yanked out of one and scolded during one of his visits as a child.

  They rolled up to a little parking lot filled with police cars and trucks, as well as several civilian vehicles. A large box truck sat almost directly in the path ahead. The back door was open, and a man stood back there, yelling at the crowd, “Guns! Ammo! On loan! We need you armed!”

  It was perhaps the most unusual thing he had seen today, and that was saying a lot. The thought of police allowing this man to toss guns out the back of his truck—it just wasn't done. Ever. And yet—

  “Grandma, let's check this out.” She didn't reply, so he took that as an affirmative.

  It carried the logo of a local sporting goods store. Lots of police and civilians congregated near the back, and the man worked with a partner to take down some information from each person and then hand them a rifle or shotgun. No money changed hands. There were stacks of ammo and a cornucopia of firearms in the cargo area. If he were in a cartoon, his eyes would be swirling with longing and desire. He moved the chair, so he could drift into the line.

  It can't hurt to try.

  In a few minutes, it was his turn with the man holding the guns.

  “Can I get a rifle? I want to protect my Grandma.” It was completely true, but boy, did he want a big gun.

  The man wore a black button-down shirt from his store and he took a few seconds to size him up. Liam knew at that moment what he was going to say. His own eyes flashed behind the man, spotting a large—no, huge—tan rifle sitting on its end, up against the wall of the truck. He doubted he could even lift the thing ...

  “Look, kid, I appreciate your situation, but we need men on this line. Police. Ex-military. You and your grandma don't belong anywhere near guns. You need to be inside the park staying safe.”

  And there it was. He was “just a kid.”

  His emotions welled up inside as the man moved to another customer. An older woman got a gun after giving her name and address. No other questions asked. So much for needing men, he thought.

  He wanted to stay and argue but knew it was useless. He tried to move out of the line while avoiding the concerned looks of the men and women still there. Soon he was lost in the crowd, moving ever deeper into the park. Anonymity brought relief.

  He tried to keep the wheelchair on the straight and narrow of the path but couldn't help looking from side to side at the many strange people who had washed up in this tidal basin of humanity. A large black family sat to one side; it looked like multiple generations made it here together. Old ladies. Several middle-aged men and women. A playground's worth of children. Many appeared very scared. He couldn't understand the fear here amongst all the armed police. To his left, among the hundreds of people, he spotted a young boy much like himself—only he was with his mother and father. Liam felt a little jealous because that youngster had found his family. He tried to be happy for him, but his heart wasn't really in it.

  He rolled Grandma past an old cathedral, though it was clear the place was full and not taking in new tenants. Hundreds of people gathered around the front doors, hoping to get in. He kept moving toward the Arch itself.

  Dozens of other vignettes emerged from the crowd. Wounded men. Coughing and hacking women—danger! Small children walking rudderless. The aged. The feeble. The mentally challenged. And pets of every stripe. No one wanted to leave without their pets. Dogs were the most visible, but small pet carriers were prolific as well—probably holding back the cats. There were even some big birds on people's shoulders. He couldn't identify many, though he did recognize a Macaw when he saw one.

  “I wonder where all these pets go to the bathroom?”

  Grandma might have heard the question, but if she did, she kept the answer to herself.

  It wasn't far before the path revealed the larger scene beyond the park and well beyond the Arch. The Mississippi River, 2,000 feet across, was a disgusting brown that churned wildly as it flowed under the downtown bridges at high speed. Small boats flitted about in all directions like water bugs, their purpose unclear. Several aircraft buzzed above. Most were military, though some helicopters were probably reporting traffic—an easy job when no cars moved throughout the city.

  The spectacle distracted him for a full minute until a weak voice pulled him back.

  “I need to get in the shade, Liam.”

  He obliged and hastened back from the crest of the sunny hill toward one of the many tree-lined and shady paths through the park. All the benches were full, but some space remained on the concrete; most people chose to sit under trees in the grass off the walkway. He scanned the trees to find one best suited to Grandma's needs. Some had large groups of scary-looking men under them as if entire biker gangs agreed to meet there. Some had distinct family groups. One had a score of priests and nuns below it. He searched for one with enough free space, so Grandma could get the shade she needed without asking people to move. He knew it was a tall order given the size of the crowd, but he was patient.

  He settled on an ash tree that shaded a couple of young families, one with a baby stroller, as well as a woman sprawled in the grass near the path. She appeared to be sleeping, which was just fine. She wouldn't give them any trouble.

  “Here you go. Shade as promised!”

  Grandma didn't say anything.

  She has to be exhausted.

  As he situate
d her under the tree, he couldn't help but notice the sleeping woman was closer to his age than he first thought. She wore an elegant black dress, completely out of place in the sweltering heat and humidity of this park-turned-refugee-camp. The knee-length skirt had hiked high up her thigh as she lay on the grass, revealing more than his grandma would consider appropriate for a fifteen-year-old boy to see, for sure. Embarrassed and feeling like a voyeur, he tried to focus on pushing the chair into position, but with the distraction, he drove the wheelchair off the pavement. He felt it drop off the small edge and immediately knew what he'd done wrong.

  So did the girl.

  * * *

  2

  “What. The. HELL?”

  The girl sat up while waving her pinched hand wildly. She looked like she'd been sleeping for days. Her long, brown hair was a ratty mess, managed only by the grace of a black headband. Her face, as pretty as it might be, was covered on one side with misplaced locks of hair, dirt, and grass. Her makeup had been smeared, giving her the appearance of sunken cheeks. The green eyes were striking—he had to look away, a decision reinforced by her yelling.

  “That was my hand! Who the he—” She broke off, noticing a little old lady in a wheelchair.

  “Oh, sorry, ma'am. I meant no disrespect. This wasn't how I expected to wake up.” Looking around, she continued, “Though seeing all these people now, I don't know what I was expecting.”

  Grandma waved tiredly in her direction. “Please, child, Liam just lost control of my chair—it was an accident. We've been on the road all morning, and we're just looking for some shade.”

  “I'm very sorry for running you over.” He pretended to attend to Grandma as he apologized.

  As the young woman stood up, he could see she was about his height, maybe a little less than his five-foot, eight inches, and she had an athletic look about her. Her calves had real definition—not that he was looking at them. Her profile reminded him of any number of girls on his high school track team. Something about how they carried themselves gave it away. It was an intangible quality, but he had seen it many times in runners. Was she short or long distance? He'd have to—