by M. D. Massey
The grotesque man staggered closer, tripping over the suitcase between them. Scarlett knew she needed to call the paramedics, yet all she wanted to do was scream. When he reached out his trembling hand for help, she automatically responded and extended her hand to him. Unexpectedly, he lunged at her, headfirst. Pure primordial instinct kicked in, and Scarlett jumped sideways, avoiding the impact.
“Glrrrrrr,” the man growled. She carefully avoided eye contact with the hideously disfigured man and frantically searched for protection. The open door of an SUV beckoned. In a flash, she scrambled inside, slamming the door. Uh, now what? He stumbled eagerly toward her while she struggled with her conscience. The man was in desperate need of medical attention. Why am I so petrified?
Something slapped the window. She flinched and turned, face to face with the deranged man. He pounded on the partially open window with his bloody stump of an arm, smearing reddish-brown streaks across the glass. A jolt of panic spiraled up her spine. The slow, steady pounding continued all the while he groaned and growled. Scarlett looked for the SUV’s key. But it was pointless. It was sandwiched between other vehicles.
The pounding increased in frequency. “What?” Another person pounded on the window in the same slow, rhythmic motion. It was a woman, who wasn’t in much better shape than the man.
Scarlett tapped her chest in a feeble attempt to calm her racing heart. She scooted to the driver’s side. Just her luck, the window was down, completely. Strangely, they didn’t seem to notice it. No, they were too obsessed with smashing the window. If she found the key, she could close the windows and wait for the police.
The pounding rhythm quickened. “Oh, shit!” Where’d he come from? Three of them pounded on the window. The window was bound to break at any second. What would she do then? She kept convincing herself they just needed help; after all, they were just people. Hurt people, but people nonetheless.
A crackling sound warned her a second before the tempered glass window shattered into a thousand crystal-like shards. The shards glittered into the SUV, tinkling onto the white, leather upholstery, and spilling onto the floorboard in all its glittery glory.
Scarlett tried opening the driver’s side door. “Are you flippin’ kidding me?” The door was jammed from the truck it had previously crashed into. She scrambled into the backseat just as three pairs of bloodstained hands (minus one) clawed at her. A hand grabbed a handful of her hair, yanking her head back with incredible strength. Running on pure adrenaline, Scarlett reclaimed her hair by yanking back harder. After kicking the door open about a foot, she squeezed through just as one of the men leaped from the front seat to the backseat with surprisingly (awkward) agility for someone so injured. With only inches from the maniacal man’s grasp, she slammed the door. She cringed at the unmistakable sickening sound of bones crunching. She worried it had been the man with only one hand. If so—he was handless because of her.
Scarlett ran like a frazzled quarterback stuck with the football who was about to get tackled by a psychotic three hundred-pound linebacker. She didn’t stop running until reaching her car, pausing only long enough to see that the crazed people were still in the SUV as if trapped.
“That was absolutely insane!” she screeched. She backed the car out and raced in the opposite direction. Scarlett could no longer doubt the dreadful suspicion haunting her the past few days. Something horrible was happening in Roseville.
She turned onto Junction Boulevard. The entire block of the police station was completely barricaded with miniature stations. She frantically searched for someone. Anyone. Not a single person was in sight. Guard posts? Wait, are those machine guns? Each of the guard posts had mounted guns pointing toward the street, pointing toward her. The street was stained the color of crimson. Are those piles of—of—of bones? She gasped.
Slamming the car into reverse, she turned down the first unblocked street and then drove aimlessly around until she happened upon an upscale neighborhood. Everything appeared normal. In dire need of a friendly, normal face, Scarlett imagined knocking on the front door of one of the lovely homes, irrationally thinking they might invite her in for tea and crumpets. She turned onto another normal-looking street. Great, I’m so lost. “Kevin was right. I should’ve bought a GPS.”
She drove around the subdivision and racked her brain of the possibilities. Something horrible had happened. But what? Were these people hapless victims of a chemical spill? Is that what this is all about? She rationalized a variety of scenarios until her brain hurt. The next residential street looked like a scene from a hokey sci-fi flick. An airplane had crashed nose-down into what had once been a pristine, picture-perfect park: Rose Park. She didn’t know what kind of plane it was—had been. It looked like the remains of a big passenger plane, like a 747, only half of it, with piles of smoldering rubble and wreckage strewn about.
Scarlett stepped out of the car almost hypnotized by the destruction. It was overwhelming witnessing a disaster of such magnitude up-close-and-personal, nothing like the indifference of watching a disaster broadcasted on television. So, this is it, ground zero. Had the airplane been transporting dangerous chemicals? Or a deadly contagion?
The park’s swings swayed gracefully in the afternoon breeze while the lovely rose bushes rustled in the wind; it was such a paradox for only a few yards away—total destruction. A whimpering from behind one of the yellow rose bushes brought her back to reality. It almost sounded like a child. Then she saw it. It nervously poked its nose around a rose bush. What a gorgeous Golden Retriever.
“Poor thing, you must be scared,” she crooned to the skittish dog. She knelt to pet it, but the dog kept its distance from her.
The breeze kicked up. She caught a whiff of a peculiar rank-ish odor; the sickening, putrid smell turned her stomach inside out. The Golden Retriever whimpered; its ears flattened, and it scampered back behind the rose bushes.
Where were the first responders? Scarlett hesitated then walked toward the crash site. What! Dead bodies everywhere! One glimpse told her their bodies were completely charred, and even worse, the bodies were torn apart. She quickly averted her eyes. Her stomach convulsed. Oh shit, if this is ground zero . . . then she was most likely contaminated. A terrorist attack? Had the entire town been evacuated? She remembered the sirens and helicopters a few days ago. She scanned the area cautiously, afraid to go any closer. Wait a minute. If this had been a terrorist attack, Homeland Security would be swarming all over this place. That’s when something inside urged her to leave. Now!
The retriever growled. A large group of disheveled people gathered around her car. She waved and approached them cautiously . . . until she saw the blood on their faces and clothes. They looked like the crazed people she had just escaped from. That’s what this is all about. They must be the plane crash survivors—probably in shock. Their skin was so severely burned it seemed impossible for them to walk or even be alive, for that matter. So, where were the emergency crews, the triage stations, the police? This whole place should be in lockdown or in quarantine or something.
The hairs on the back of her neck quivered. A voice from deep inside screamed, Leave! Scarlett stiffened. Slowly, methodically, she scanned the entire area like an animal that knew it was being hunted. Their low gurgling-guttural growls made her heart skip. And they staggered and stumbled toward her like a ghastly flashmob of walking corpses.
“Oh, shit!”
This time, Scarlett didn’t have her car to seek refuge in. She couldn’t think; instead, her legs took off in a dead run. The fight or flight instinct took over. She ran down the park’s sidewalk, hurdling over pile after pile of crash debris until she reached the closest house adjacent to the park. She banged on the front door. “Help! Somebody, please, help!” No one answered the door.
She sprinted to the next house afraid to glance back at the crazed flashmob. But she did. And they were closer, and there were more of them. They were definitely following her. Chasing her? She turned back around only to cra
sh into a green tricycle, leaving a sharp pain in her right shin. She ignored the pain. She ran. No one answered at the next house or the next. Every time she stopped to scream for help and bang on the front door—they were closer, much closer.
Scarlett stopped to catch her breath. She observed how they walked in a sort of hypnotic-like state as if in shock. Maybe I can outsmart them? She ran over to the next house in plain sight, making sure they saw her. Then she ran to the side of the house and ducked behind a juniper bush. She frantically scanned the area for an exit route, out of their field of vision. Her only option was to jump the fences and double back through the backyards to get back to her car.
She jumped the fences with the help of lawn furniture, and after running through five beautifully landscaped yards, she decided to chance it for a view of the street. She inched her way ever so slowly, pressing her body against the side of a house, holding her breath. She stopped. Scuffling sounds came from the street. She had to look. If she had calculated right, her car should be right there, and she’d make a run for it.
Timidly, she nosed her head around the side of the house and was relieved to see her car. To Scarlett’s dismay, there must have been a dozen of them loitering about her car. They peered into the car’s windows, pounding on the glass, waiting for it to give in. Perhaps she had outsmarted the crazies who had been chasing her, but more awaited her. Where had they come from?
Frantic barking followed by growling sparked her curiosity. She peeked around the edge of the house again. The congregation of deranged plane crash survivors encircled the Golden Retriever. The dog’s growls turned into a mournful howl. They closed in on the helpless dog. The howling morphed into high-pitched yelps. I can’t bear this. What are they doing to the poor dog? She didn’t wait to find out.
Scarlett snuck into the backyard, making sure they didn’t spot her. She knocked softly on the patio’s back door. No one answered of course. There didn’t seem to be a single person left in the entire city of Roseville, which got her thinking about the senseless movie Left Behind. Actually, she hadn’t watched the movie, but she certainly wished she had. Maybe then she’d understand what was going on as a dizzy flash of paranoia consumed all rational thought. Was she the only sane person left in Roseville? Or was she the crazy one?
She hastily fiddled with the door. Damn! It’s locked. She peered through the kitchen window but resisted the urge to break in, knowing the sound of broken glass would alert them. They seemed almost primal, like a pack of predatory animals the way they had cornered the dog. If they found her, would they do the same thing to her? Corner her. And then what? Had they killed the Golden Retriever? She shuddered at the thought.
Scarlett quickly searched the backyard for a place to hide. Until it was safe—until they were gone. The professionally landscaped yard looked like a full-color, double-page spread right out of Better Homes and Gardens with a redwood deck trimmed-swimming pool and spa. Ornate Greek-style urns surrounded the deck like ancient sentry posts forgotten by time while their brittle occupants of sun-dried vines whispered in the evening breeze. A huge built-in barbecue (like one of those expensive Fire Magic Grills they sell at California Backyard) and an elegant wrought iron set of patio furniture sat proudly on the redwood deck. Jeez, who lives like this?
In the far corner of the backyard, a storage shed sat nestled amongst two overgrown mimosa trees. Naturally, a fancy shed to go with the fancy backyard. She tapped on the door. “Please don’t be locked,” she whispered, trying the doorknob. It opened.
Once inside, Scarlett realized it wasn’t a storage shed but a man cave. Wow, Kevin would love this. It was an awesome setup with a flat screen TV mounted on the wall, a DVD player, a gaming system, a mini-fridge, a microwave, and a recliner. It was even equipped with a mini-bathroom. It had everything a person could possibly want except a phone and electricity.
Guess I’m stuck here till morning. It was almost dark, and there was absolutely no flipping way she’d attempt her way home in the dark without a car with those, those . . . creepy people stalking the streets. Creepy. It was the first word that came to mind when she thought of those poor, injured people. Creepers. She locked the door. It wasn’t a very secure lock or door, for that matter. Still, if the deranged plane crash victims didn’t know she was inside, she’d be safe. Right?
“Oh, shit! My purse . . . keys?” She had left them in the car. “Idiot,” she whispered in disgust. Scarlett carefully, quietly, timidly, searched the shed for anything that might be useful. She checked out a tall, metal cabinet full of sporting equipment. Nothing here. She closed the door and opened it again, snatching the metal, reddish-orange baseball bat. It could do a lot of damage if needed. Surely, it wouldn’t get to that. Maybe I’m still hallucinating from those painkillers. Or am I dreaming this? In any case, she practiced swinging the Easton bat to get a feel for it. It would just have to do.
She found a flashlight, complete with working batteries. Every few minutes she stole quick glances from the small window for movement in the backyard. Rummaging through another cabinet, she scrounged a can of Spanish peanuts, a can of Pringles, and several bottles of Vitamin Water. “Ta-dah, dinner.”
Scarlett quietly settled into the recliner; her body practically melted into the leather as she and her muscles collapsed from sheer exhaustion and stress. She sat facing the door with the bat beside her. Ready. What would she do if they pounded down the door? A guttural sound nearly sent her flying out of the recliner and through the roof. Are they in the backyard? Something brushed against the shed. Just the tree, she reassured. She couldn’t handle much more of this irrational terrorizing feeling.
Dreading sunset, Scarlett drank a bottle of Vitamin Water for the electrolytes and munched on the peanuts to distract her jumpy nerves. Evening settled in. She didn’t turn on the flashlight since the window was only covered with a sheer curtain. Her eyes gradually grew accustomed to the darkness. Scarlett vowed to stay awake all night.
Scarlett woke up in alarm. It took a moment to realize where she was. When she did, her heart pounded defiantly against her chest, jumping to her throat. She gasped, choking back the bursts of air escaping her lungs. This was not the time to have a panic attack and certainly not the time to hyperventilate.
She took a moment to calm herself and focused on breathing, slowly, calmly. A sound? Just the tree, right? Panic threatened to take over again. She shoved it back. She stared so hard at the doorknob it would have turned if she had telekinetic abilities. A voice inside her head demanded, “Go now!” She wanted to trust her intuition. But, opening the door wasn’t going to be easy as unreasonable dread surged through her veins, chilling her blood to ice.
She finally glanced out the small window. It was almost dawn, and the new morning seemed to urge her departure. Clutching the bat, she cautiously opened the door wide enough to get a better view of the backyard. She didn’t see any of them (creepers, she thought). Still, it took all her courage to take the first step outside. She crept past the redwood deck, and to her horror realized she had just walked past two of them. They’d been hidden from her view, sitting on the patio with their backs against the wall and their heads slumped over. Passersby might have thought they were suffering from a mere hangover if it weren’t for their tattered, bloodstained clothing. And the putrid odor.
She forced her legs on and snuck along the side of the house to the front yard. There’s my car! The strangest thing, the plane crash survivors—creepers—were everywhere, scattered around her car. Only, they weren't staggering around. No. They were crumpled on the road in the oddest positions, apparently asleep. It looked as if they’d been zapped by a Cosmic-Taser gun and had flopped instantaneously to the ground in whatever contorted state they’d been in at the moment of being zapped.
Could she do it? Could she sneak to the car without waking them? Hurry! Her inner voice begged. Scarlett stepped over their mangled bodies and held her breath at the foul stench wafting in the air, like the smell of a decaying
animal left under the house to rot. The smell of death. She counted the steps. Only three steps away. Countless writhing-sleeping bodies surrounded the car, twisting and squirming on the pavement. Their barely audible moaning abruptly transformed into a satanic chorus of yowling howls and growls. They’re waking up! And she was standing in the middle of them.
One more step and she’d reach the door. A series of thoughts flashed through her head: What if the door was locked? What if she’d left it running? It could be out of gas. She wanted to run back to the shed. No. They will find me this time. The words came to her from out of the blue. She swallowed hard and reached for the door handle. Last step . . . something grabbed her foot! Scarlett gasped at the gnarly hand clutching her lavender, kitten-heel pump, scraping her ankle with his knobby-bloodstained fingers. With half-closed eyes, he lethargically put her lavender pump in his mouth like a sleepy toddler seeking the comfort of a pacifier. She leaned to the car, missing the handle by an inch. She didn’t yank her foot back, afraid of waking him while she balanced herself on one foot, deciding the best move. If she fell, she’d land on at least four or five of the mutilated bodies writhing on the pavement below her.
Do something before he really wakes up! She tried releasing her foot from the pump, but her sweaty sockless foot stuck to the fake-leather sole with the tenacity of Gorilla Glue. He let out a bloodcurdling moan and sprang from the ground only to collapse on his back, claiming her shoe in the process. Scarlett could not stifle her scream.
The creepers had difficulty getting to their feet like they were in a drunken stupor. Scarlett watched in disgust as they twisted about the pavement trying to stand on their floundering legs like a herd of newborn fawns from Hades. And even though her foot was free of her hapless shoe, she still couldn’t move, paralyzed by fear. The horror of the whole scene had her lips quivering uncontrollably. All she could do was gape at the creeper gnawing at her lavender shoe.