Apocalyptic Beginnings Box Set

by M. D. Massey

  Guess that’s one way to get rid of those pesky bloodsuckers. If there was one thing Dean hated, it was mosquitoes. Dean busied himself with the boat, not worried about the teen; after all, the water was shallow by the dock, maybe three to four feet at most. While the teen thrashed in the water in a bout of tomfoolery, Dean secured the boat to the dock. From what he could see, a gang of people scuttled down the dock toward him, probably the teen’s friends. Time to get outta Dodge. Looks like they’re up to no good.

  Dean grabbed his cooler. He turned to step onto the dock and hesitated. They staggered to his end of the dock, moaning and groaning. Something’s not right here. Dean finally found his flashlight and aimed it at the dock. There must have been two dozen of them gawping at him. They growled and jerked about with blood-smeared faces like the girl in the Rite Aid parking lot while the teen thrashed in the water like a fish refusing to be tonight’s dinner.

  That was it—it looked like they’d all gone rabid or batshit crazy! That’s when Dean quickly restarted the motor and raced to the middle of Lake Berryessa.

  And Dean camped out on the Twinkle Me Mary for the next two days . . .

  5

  Scarlett sulked the morning away and busied herself with chores, attempting to block out last night’s freakish nightmares, visions of shadowy figures, death, and fear. Feeling the need to talk, she found the phone where she’d left it: shattered on the hearth. She had almost convinced herself the shattered phone had been one of her bizarre dreams.

  Does it work? She played with the phone until the fragmented screen finally lit. Yes! But the contact icon didn’t respond, and the numeric keypad wasn’t functional. She tapped on the voicemail messages. No sound. She couldn’t even text. Think I killed it. She tapped the screen repeatedly. On a whim, she tried the text messages. Yesterday, she couldn’t bear to hear from Kevin. Now, I’d talk to anyone.

  First message: “R U OK?”

  Right, I’m just a sparkling firefly you, you piece of— Scarlett stopped herself and held her breath as she reread the series of texts from Kevin. A sense of fear, dread, and panic pricked her pounding heart. She couldn’t make sense of whatever it was that had Kevin behaving so strangely, almost irrational.

  12:33 p.m. Be there soon. Pack a suitcase and all the food!

  2:06 p.m. Don’t go anywhere without me!

  6:45 p.m. It’s taking longer than I thought. The roads are blocked.

  8:37 p.m. Don’t leave the house!!!

  10:02 p.m. Things don’t look so good here.

  10:05 p.m. Please forgive me.

  10:05 p.m. Levi’s Stadium

  10:06 p.m. always loved u

  10:06 p.m. so softly

  Is he trying to say he’s sorry? Scarlett stared at his messages in disbelief. The cracked screen dimmed. Then, as if the cell phone made one final attempt for its life, it flickered and went black. It was the scariest black she had ever seen. Something very wrong must have happened for Kevin to send such cryptic, almost desperate, texts.

  Uh, is this some sort of a sick joke? She almost hoped. Maybe one of his Facebook friends was messing with her. After Kevin had dumped her, she’d heard a few stories about how his friends thought she wasn’t good enough for him. Some of the things they said were downright cruel. How could people be so mean? Didn’t they understand how heartbroken she was? At that point, she had refrained from social media including email, cell phone, Facebook, and Twitter.

  But what if something really was wrong? What if Kevin was in trouble and needed her help? A déjà vu sensation almost convinced her she had somehow become a victim of the eerie, inexplicable television series, Lost. Wow, I’ve got the heebie-jeebies! In a moment of panic, Scarlett hastily tugged-open the living room blinds, needing the reassurance of knowing the world was still out there.

  Across the street from her condo, the huge apartment complex usually buzzed with traffic and pedestrians. From her view, the streets were completely empty except for debris—a lot of debris. It looked like the morning after a hellacious block party with trash littering the sidewalks, lawns, and streets. Strangely, no traffic. She stared out the window a bit puzzled. She was relieved when a group of people meandered around the corner, hanging out. She closed the blinds, satisfied.

  Tired of her isolation, she decided to visit her neighbor, Miss Purlie. She could use Miss Purlie’s phone to call the cable company and maybe even call her sister. She hurried out the front door. Once again, the courtyard gate was open. In last night’s haste, she must have left it open. Scarlett ran to the next row of condos.

  Purlie or “Miss Purlie” (as the woman insisted) was a dear, Southern, black woman who had emigrated from Louisiana to California during The Second Great Migration way back in the 1940s. Yes, she was “purty old” as Miss Purlie often griped. Scarlett loved listening to her stories about the good old days. The things she had endured—such a grueling lifestyle. And I think I have it bad when I can’t watch TV or use my cell phone. Despite all the modern technology, Miss Purlie preferred doing things the old-fashioned way. She didn’t believe in computers and cell phones and Twitter and YouTube and all those “modern-day distractions of the devil” as labeled by the Southern woman. She actually had a landline phone. Absolutely astonishing.

  Scarlett found herself rapping on the front door a bit too anxiously.

  “I’ll shoot first and ask questions later,” Miss Purlie hollered from inside.

  “It’s me, Scarlett!”

  Miss Purlie tore open the front door. “Lordy, Lordy, child, what the devil you doin’ out there? Get on in. Quick—’fore one of ’ems a hearin’ ya.”

  Scarlett felt rather silly for panicking. Unfortunately, the expression on Miss Purlie’s face did nothing to alleviate her growing apprehension; the woman’s eyes were as round and wide as bottle caps.

  “Miss Purlie, is everything all right?”

  The Southern lady seemed to be in a daze. A whopping sneeze snapped Purlie out of it.

  Instead of saying, “Bless you,” Scarlett exclaimed, “Uh, why do you have a gun?” Scarlett edged toward the kitchen, avoiding the shotgun barrel wavering in the woman’s hands. “Miss Purlie?”

  Purlie was back. “Child, now why you didn’t go with all them others?” She rested the shotgun on the sofa.

  I think she’s losing it. “What do you mean ‘all them others’?”

  “The evacuation and soldiers . . . all them military trucks with them god-awful sirens. Reckon ’twas the most guns I ever did see.” Purlie swayed from foot to foot, mumbling and trembling.

  “You need to sit down.” Scarlett led her to the antique rocking chair overlooking the courtyard. “Are you feeling all right?”

  Purlie sat in the rocker as if on autopilot. The silence deafening the room practically sent Scarlett screaming out the front door. She was relieved when the familiar creak of the rocker replaced the silence along with her glossy-white Maryjane shoes scuffing against the hardwood floor.

  “Actually, I need to use your phone for a minute if you don’t mind?”

  Miss Purlie didn’t say anything. She seemed lost in thought, her eyes vacant. Her odd behavior certainly wasn’t relieving Scarlett’s building anxiety. At that point, Scarlett’s frayed nerves unraveled a bit further as she attempted to convince both of them everything was fine. “Just fine and dandy,” as Miss Purlie would have chanted on an ordinary day. Today definitely isn’t ordinary, not in the least.

  “I’ll get you a glass of cold water, and you’ll feel better.” The living room’s domed ceiling light dimmed and flickered off. “Don’t worry, I’ll change the bulb. By the way, how’s your grandson these days?” Still no response. “How’s your dear Lionel?” Scarlett asked again while flipping the kitchen light switch several times. “Did you forget to pay your electricity bill again?” Scarlett returned with a glass of water.

  The light returned to her watery, bloodshot eyes. Purlie finally reached for the glass. “Why, Lionel shoulda been here by now
. He’s a-comin' to take me away from this madness. Said, he’d be here soon. Said, don’t answer the door or those soldiers might take me away,” she rambled.

  Concerned, Scarlett knelt beside the rocker and asked slowly, “When was that? Miss Purlie, is Lionel visiting you today?” I should probably call 9-1-1. What if she had a stroke?

  “Lionel rang me up Wens-dee morning, said ‘no Bible Study today, Granny.’ Said, ‘pack yo bags, Granny, I’m fixin’ to take you someplace safe.’ Only he done never showed up.” Her wrinkled upper lip pursed and quivered. She went into a sneezing fit.

  Scarlett handed her a box of tissues and noticed the vintage suitcase by the sofa. Actually, it was more like a trunk, a steamer trunk, made of leather. Scarlett couldn’t help but wonder how much it would go for on eBay. Knowing Purlie, she’d never part with the relic.

  “It’s too late. It’s too late!” Miss Purlie ranted. “Only the dead don’t die . . .”

  Scarlett didn’t know how to respond. And the tension mounted.

  Purlie let out a long eerie moan. “Floyd, I’m a-comin’! Gimme a minute. Cain’t you see we got company right now?”

  Uh, Floyd had been dead for some time. Scarlett ran for the phone. Time to call 9-1-1. The landline phone was dead. She jiggled the receiver repeatedly and still no dial tone. Her frantic fingers traced the telephone’s cord until she found it plugged securely into the wall’s phone jack; nothing was wrong with the phone. Had she forgotten to pay the phone bill, too?

  Miss Purlie continued rambling in a dazed-like state, shouting to Floyd as if he were in the next room. Scarlett swore she heard the rattling sound of a door handle opening, coming from the bedroom. With abrupt force, Purlie sprang out of the rocker, letting it crash into the living room wall, leaving an indention in the paint. Purlie snatched the shotgun and bustled to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her without saying a single word.

  Scarlett was unable to take her eyes off the empty rocker banging against the wall. She could not handle it a moment longer. She ran outside babbling, “What’s going on around here?”

  She hated abandoning Purlie like that, yet what else could she do for her? Scarlett decided to go door to door until she found someone to call 9-1-1. Three doors down, the blast of a shotgun stopped her dead in her tracks. “Dear God, Miss Purlie!” Don’t tell me. No—she didn’t?

  Scarlett ran back to Purlie’s home. She stood outside the door, afraid to go inside, afraid of what she might find. With a pounding heart, she finally brushed aside her fear and opened the front door.

  “Miss Purlie?” she asked in a thin, whispery voice.

  Scarlett didn’t find her in the living room or the kitchen or the bathroom. She poked her head into the bedroom. “Are you in here?”

  There, on the blood-splattered bed, face down in a pool of blood was Miss Purlie—or what was left of her. She had managed to blow off a chunk of her head. Scarlett only recognized the Southern lady by her blue floral, Sunday dress and glossy-white Maryjane shoes. She rushed to the bathroom and hugged the toilet. After several agonizing minutes of relinquishing her breakfast, she sat on the closed toilet lid, shuddering in denial. And then, Scarlett ran home.

  6

  After Miss Purlie’s shocking suicide, all Scarlett managed to do was sit on the sofa and blank-out at the pale-pink living room walls in a near state of shock. The whisperings in the back of her mind demanded her to pull herself together. She had to face the fact that dear Miss Purlie was indeed dead, and she wasn’t resolving anything by flipping out or ignoring it.

  She forced herself off the sofa. It was time to go to the police station. Besides, half the day was gone, and she still needed to call the cable company and SMUD, for the power was out at her place as well. When things start going wrong, they really go wrong. She was certainly ready for her luck to change.

  Scarlett splashed her face with cold water. “You look absolutely terrible,” the mirror blared rudely, so she applied a light coat of makeup, enough to make her not look like a corpse. She winced, wrong choice of words. On impulse, she added a thick layer of ruby-red lipstick. What if she ran into Kevin? He hated it when she didn’t wear lipstick.

  She promised herself that once she reported Miss Purlie’s death, it would be easier to focus on her new life. School was starting soon. There would be plenty of conferences, classes, and other work-related activities to keep her occupied. After the police station (they can tell me why the power’s out), she decided to hit Best Buy. It was a great excuse to buy the latest iPhone. That’s it. I have a plan. “I’ll feel much better after a chat with Cyndi.” She sighed.

  Her dedicated sister had always been her rock and always knew the right things to say when Scarlett was feeling down. Cyndi, nine years older, had practically raised her after their parents had perished in a car accident. Aunt Marge had taken care of the two sisters until Cyndi had secured her first job upon graduating from college; then, Cyndi had supported Scarlett through college. She should drive to Pinole tomorrow and take her sister to lunch before classes started the following week.

  With renewed conviction, Scarlett scrambled to the garage and absentmindedly tapped the garage door button. Nothing happened. “Duh, power’s out.” She had no idea how to open the garage door. Of course, there was a way to manually open the door in the event of a power outage; Kevin had opened the door before, but she hadn’t paid any attention.

  She ran back into the dark garage with a flashlight to examine the garage door contraption. “How the . . . what’s this?” She tugged on the cord. “Ta-dah.” Light flooded into the garage as she rolled up the door. She did it, and she didn’t even have to call Kevin for help. Here I go again. Forget him, besides I don’t have a phone; therefore, I can’t call him—you dingbat.

  Determined to get back to the real world, to fight back the dark cloud of depression shrouding her head like a dreary fog, she sped off in her red Kia Forte Koup, a car a teacher’s salary could afford. Turning out of the complex, she instantly felt a renewed zest for life, an empowerment of sorts—the confidence and courage to live her life without a man.

  “No traffic. Not a single car,” she muttered. Uneasiness crept in until she turned on Washington Boulevard, the main thoroughfare. That’s more like it. Scarlett never thought she’d be so happy to see traffic. The intersection was gridlocked in a massive traffic jam. The traffic signal flashed red, reminding the power was out. She automatically took her foot off the gas, in no hurry to become part of the gridlock. When she finally did catch up to the traffic jam, she occupied herself with positive thoughts: her new students and fellow teachers, the first week’s lessons, and . . . did she dare say it? A life without Kevin. Stop thinking about him!

  She sipped the water bottle and noticed the traffic hadn’t moved. Usually, cars, or rather their impatient owners, inched forward every few seconds or so. And, even stranger, a glance in the review mirror revealed no vehicles had pulled up behind her. She loathed those annoying tailgaters who bullied her to inch forward as close to the bumper in front of her allowed, leaving only inches between bumpers.

  No longer absorbed with her selfish thoughts, she examined the intersection. Several vehicles faced the wrong direction, and many of the doors were open. “Now what?” That’s when she noticed the cars were driverless. She didn’t see a single person. Everyone must be checking out the accident. Hmm, it must have just happened. No sirens yet.

  She thought about backing up and trying a different route. Curiosity won. She stepped out of the car, hesitated, and then walked toward the intersection, not so much to see the accident but to see where everyone was. Besides the smell of smoke, a putrid odor lingered in the hot August afternoon air, strong enough to make her gag. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Jeez Louise!” She pulled her blouse over her nose and walked between the driverless vehicles.

  Scarlett walked by a Toyota Camry with its doors, hood, and trunk wide-open. She stepped over a purse and started to retrieve it when she no
ticed several suitcases on the pavement ahead. All kinds of items were scattered about the street, including a laptop, several cell phones, toys, and plastic bags of groceries. It was like the drivers decided to have some sort of impromptu yard sale in the middle of the street. This is really strange.

  She spotted two people a few cars ahead, huddled down with their backs toward her. She was so excited she burst out, “So what’s going on? Did anyone call 9-1-1?” They were busy administering CPR to a person sprawled out on the street. Scarlett ran to them. “Anyone call 9-1-1?” she panted again.

  It took several seconds before they acknowledged her. The man twisted his head around at an awkward angle and glared at her. Blood dripped from his face! And the front of his striped blue and green shirt was soaked with it too. He must have been in the accident. What should I do? She hurried to him, stepping over the discarded items in the street. The man drunkenly stumbled toward her as if he desperately needed her help. He lurched to a stopped, raised his arms in the air, and howled to the sky.

  Scarlett froze. Not because of his hair-raising howling, and not because of the bloody mess on his clothes, and not because she realized he only had one arm. His other arm looked like it had been ripped off at the elbow by something sharp and jagged. She froze because the left side of his face was—gone. Flaps of flesh waggled, revealing the skeletal bones of his jaw and teeth between the torn gaps of his flesh.