Dark Ages: 2020 (Dark Ages Series Book 1)

by JD Dutra

  He walked across the desert landscape of his home, once manicured and beautiful, it was now overgrown and abandoned. He stepped across the threshold of his front door and was met with total silence. He held his breath, taking careful steps down the hallway. He noticed several large dusty shoe prints on his wooden floor, they were large, men’s feet. He scanned the living room, found no one alive or dead, just his home tossed like it had been robbed. He went to the kitchen and felt the sink, it was bone dry. He walked to his son’s room, it was empty of anyone and so was his daughter’s.

  Daniel could feel his heart pounding on his throat as he slowly walked towards his bedroom. The door was broken after it had been kicked open, the boot print still on it. Daniel flipped the blade of his knife down, it would be easier to carve whoever did this to him.

  The overwhelming feeling of pure desperation filled his mind as he tried to understand what had happened exactly.

  Did they get sick with this flu and went to the hospital… Then someone broke in? Or were they maybe kidnapped by somebody? How will I know for sure?

  He looked in the closet and there was nothing. When he looked in the mirror, he saw a message written in lipstick, the hasty lines clearly written with a trembling hand.

  ‘Raymond broke in! Help!’

  Chapter 31

  Maryvale Village, Phoenix, Arizona

  Sunday, October 25th, 2020

  12: 17 P.M.

  “I am still alive…”

  The sick man whispered in a hoarse voice, from the darkness of a broken down ‘cash only’ motel room. Sunlight cut through the thickness of the worn out curtains, illuminating the dust particles that slowly danced in the air. The old room had a permanent stench of cigarette smoke and today’s guest added to the air a sweet perfume of decay.

  He got off his bed, his clothes were wet with perspiration and sticking to his thin body, the hand he ran over his forehead felt damp and cold. Although his vision was blurry, he could see that the stump where his finger once was, had turned black and shriveled. It oozed a milky yellow fluid when he tried to move it. The sickening sight woke him up completely and he went to the restroom to run cold water on it from the sink. It was then that he realized that he had lost feeling in half of his left hand.

  He looked in the mirror, his eyes were caked in a dried yellow secretion that had seeped from his eyes during the night, crystallizing some of his eyelashes shut, it was getting worse each day and night. He rubbed cold water on his face, and even though it looked cleaner, he still looked terminally ill.

  It had been two days since he had begun the first part of his mission, at the Arizona County Fair. He had gone out every day since and did his best to meet and interact with as many people as possible.

  The day after the fair, he went to a sauna, where the patrons were too politically correct to ask him to leave because of his smell. He stayed in the steam room for several hours, where people came and went nude. When two men started to caress one another, and a third appeared interested in joining in, Nazeer got up and left in disgust.

  Even as I sacrifice myself, I have my limits.

  After seeing muscular bodies for hours, he decided to go visit Phoenix’s largest fitness gym. He looked ill and was asked to leave, but when he pulled out his roll of dollars and expressed his desire in getting a membership, the salesman changed his tune immediately and signed him up on the spot. He tried dozens of different pieces of gym equipment, leaving sweat and fluids behind on each of them. Nazeer then went swimming for what seemed like hours, urinating in the pool when privacy allowed.

  When hunger came, he went from one crowded restaurant to another as often as his stomach permitted, where he ate marvelous foods and desserts that made his sickened body float with pleasure, and twice he vomited in different restrooms, to make room for more food and to leave a pool of corruption behind for whoever was unlucky enough to clean it all up.

  By the second day, panic tightened its grip on people all over the city he was in and all over the country. The terror he was fermenting in Phoenix was growing faster than he ever thought possible.

  Use me and my brothers as your instrument my god, help us avenge our people, he said to himself in his native tongue, knowing he had little time to do as much damage as he could.

  He visited large retail stores full of people trying to stock up on whatever food and supplies they could. He had seen YouTube videos of an American holiday tradition called ‘Black Friday’ but this was something even more disturbing and chaotic, even for a man such as himself who had participated in manifestations against governments in three different countries in the Middle East. While at the stores he did all he could to insert himself in the middle of the crowds of people, where the chaos could hide him rubbing and coughing on them. He played a game of reaching and grabbing products out of people’s shopping carts and redistribute them to others, only to stir up trouble. When fights broke out, he would stand aside and shove people onto one another, laughing and watching it all like an imp who relished in mayhem.

  He spent that entire day going from store to store, doing the same thing over and over again and only went back to his hotel in the evening, to eat a bag filled with processed food and watch the news.

  This is what it must feel like to be an American.

  That was yesterday and this morning however, the face in the mirror confirmed the feeling in his body, he knew his end was near. He was losing feeling in his hands and other parts of his body, his urine was so dark and milky red; the burning sensation was now gone and that scared him even more than when the pain started. As death danced before his eyes, waiting for him to join it, he had but two wishes. The first was to fulfill a dream of his father, and the other was to avenge his death.

  Nazeer got dressed slowly, his muscles felt weak and his movements were lethargic. He put on another polo shirt and a new pair of khaki shorts, made by a famous brand only the richest people in his home country could ever afford to buy. He stuffed his things in his pockets, grabbed a pamphlet of a business that caught his eye in the tourist guide section of the cheap motel while he was checking in. That place was his next destination.

  I see your hand is in this, Father, may your soul and that of our ancestors be with me as I visit this sacred place.

  He got out of his room and locked the door behind him. The rundown motel looked abandoned, with only three cars in the parking lot and some of the doors to the rooms were open. Nazeer went to the front desk, it seemed abandoned.

  “Hello? Anybody? I’m a guest… I need help!” He yelled in between coughs, dabbing a numb finger on a call bell. He smiled, remembering seeing these bells in American and European movies. When no one came he grabbed it and stuck it in his pocket.

  He went around the front desk of the motel and began shuffling the paperwork on the check-in counter, looking for the list of guests. Once he found it, he saw the driver of the 1995 Astro van in the parking lot had checked in two days ago, he was in room 130. He began to open the drawers of the desk, and found the master key, a card with a magnetic strip that could open any room in the entire motel. He made his way to the room and once he got there, he began to knock.

  “Housekeeping,” he said in between coughs. He waited a few seconds and tried again. No one answered.

  Nazeer slid the card into the door and felt the lock disengage.

  “Housekeeping,” he said with a womanly voice, the tone making himself laugh painfully while the door to the room opened. The smell in the air told him it was safe to enter. Once his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room, he saw a white man around his own age, wearing jeans and a TV wrestling superstar’s shirt, lying in bed. His fingers, curled into claws from rigor mortis were digging into the bed, his eyes were still opened and a fly walked calmly over his face, stopping every few steps to slurp on his fluids. Nazeer came closer but his body shuddered, the smell of decomposing human flesh was one he would never get used to.

  He looked around for a car key
and found it next to a matchbox from a nightclub nearby. He put the car keys in his pocket, grabbed the matches and picked up a fold of the bedding the deceased man laid on. He lit a match, watched the flame burn for just a moment and carefully touched it to the bedding. Within a few seconds the inexpensive fabric began to catch fire and drip molten blotches of fiery plastic onto the carpet, every drop made the fire spread onto the carpet’s dirty fibers. Thick black smoke began to fill the room and Nazeer walked out, he turned to see the entire bed almost engulfed in flames, the clothes of the dead man were now on fire and the heat made the man’s corpse move in unnatural ways.

  He went outside into the sun and walked towards the old van. He stopped and noticed that the sound of the flames consuming everything was all that could be heard. No voices, no sounds of cars driving nearby, no airplanes flying low above and streaking the sky white like before. He marveled at the thick black clouds of smoke that poured rapidly out of the van owner’s room. The flames burned furiously, and even in the hot midday sun of Phoenix, he could still feel the blazing heat. He knew that soon the entire motel would be swallowed by a fiery inferno, it was time to leave.

  Before he got into the van he pulled out a small GPS from his pocket. It was the first thing he was told to buy once he got dropped off at the bus station in Phoenix. He punched in the address that was listed on the pamphlet, opened the car and got inside, turning the engine to life. He pulled out of the parking lot onto the edge of the street, looking both ways, but no one was coming or going. He followed the directions of the device in his hand, turning and driving through wherever he was told to go. During his drive he saw very few people walking here and there, some with backpacks as if they were going to try their luck in the desert, others were in small groups looting by foot or by car. Police car and ambulance sirens wailed in the distance, but it seemed there was little the emergency services could do. There was no sign of a fire engine being called to the motel.

  “Who will they choose to help?” Wondered Nazeer and his laugh turned into a deep cough that raked the back of his throat. Once again he tasted blood and mucus in his mouth. He lowered the review mirror and stuck his tongue out, it was stained a deep crimson with shades of white and yellow. The walls of his mouth were pus white and infected, his gums swollen, and the pain he felt in his mouth was nothing compared to the pain in his joints. He breathed deeply, angry for having to meet such an end.

  They started this, but by my God’s will, I will finish it.

  Chapter 32

  Queen Creek, Arizona

  Sunday, October 25th, 2020

  12: 53 P.M.

  Nazeer’s drive took him outside downtown and into the country, and a familiar sight managed to bring a smile to his cracked lips.

  “Whoa…” He said in amazement, as rows after rows of olive trees appeared in the distance, hundreds, thousands of them. He pulled off the road and into the pathway that lead to the reception area.

  “Welcome to King Creek Olive Mill,” he said with an attempt at an American accent as he read the welcome sign aloud. He rolled down the windows of the van, wanting to inhale the familiar scent of the olive trees. Once he got to the empty parking lot, he parked his van and got out, his pain momentarily forgotten by the excitement and curiosity of so many different types of equipment and structures around the property.

  The walk from the parking lot to the reception area was pleasant, the warm wind blew through the branches of the bright green olive trees, making him smile once more. Images of his childhood filled his mind, him and his cousins chasing each other with sticks through his family’s olive farm.

  He gripped the handle of the double French doors which were the main entrance, but they were locked and bolted. He leaned into the glass to look inside, the elegant reception area was deserted. He thought about busting one of the glasses and reaching in to open the door, but decided to walk around the building instead.

  There was no sound of machines or people, just the wind and his steps on the concrete tiles in between the grass path as he made his way around. When he turned the corner, he saw an old man sweeping the back porch.

  “Howdy!” The old man said. He looked like a farmer, with a white beard that was well trimmed, he wore a flannel shirt and overalls. His thin white hair under his straw hat was a wisp in the wind, but his eyes were as fierce as his grip on the broom was steady.

  “I am here for the …” Nazeer lowered his eyes at the pamphlet in his hand. “1:00 P.M., Olive Oil 101 Class and Tour,” Nazeer said with a friendly tone.

  “Oh, we aren’t open, Son. Lots of people called in sick, some even seem to have fallen off the face of the earth. I don’t know what’s going on out there, but you’re the first customer I’ve seen since the day before yesterday. Even my boss isn’t returning my calls.”

  “You don’t watch the news?”

  “I don’t care for what goes on outside of this farm. I’ve been looking after this place for more than 50 years.”

  “I see,” Nazeer said with a slow nod. “I grew up in my family’s olive oil farm in Bashiqa, northern Iraq. I worked there with my father, my cousins… My grandparents worked there, the farm was in my family for generations. We did it all by hand and stone like my ancestors did, but we all dreamed of building a place like this someday. Do families come here to enjoy themselves?”

  There was a brief silence between them, the old man’s tired eyes wandered about the property, then he said, “They used to. Let me ask you something, Son, if you grew up in an olive farm, you’ll know this. What’s the best olive oil, the green or the golden?”

  Nazeer smiled, remembering the wise words of his father before answering, “The quality is not in the color my friend, the olives harvested earlier in the season tend to be greener, and the ones harvested later tend to be more golden. Also, different olives also exhibit different colors.”

  “Very good!” Said the old man. “What did your family use to make olive oil there in the Middle East?”

  “Simple tools, not much different than what has been used for thousands of years. We hand-picked the olives and used a carved stone basin with grinding stones in the middle for mashing, then another stone vat where we’d place sheepskin mats filled with the crushed olive paste. We’d place a heavy wooden disk on the top of the column of sheepskin mats and lay a weighted lever on it to press it down. There were these heavy stones and ropes that we would add to the end of the lever to increase pressure. The best tasting olive oil I ever had flowed from it. People from all over the Mosul district would come to buy from us.”

  A knowing smile crossed the old man’s lips. He pinched the front of his straw hat and nodded.

  “My name is Herman, it’s nice to meet you. Let me properly welcome you to the King Creek Olive Mill.”

  “I am Nazeer. I thank you.”

  “Do you really want a tour?” Asked Herman. He eyed the sick man in front of him, and thought that perhaps this was some kind of dying wish of his.

  “I’ve dreamed of it since I was a child, Sir Herman.”

  “Just call me Herman… Alright, follow me,” the old man said, he smiled and began to walk towards one of the barns in the back. “How long has your family been in the olive business?”

  “My father has a registry that records the title of our farm being passed down every generation, it has been kept with us since the year 1606.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “No, it is true,” said Nazeer, his prideful smile surprised even himself.

  “That is some kind of Guinness world record I am sure!”

  “What is a Guinness?”

  “Nevermind,” said the old man as he opened the large door of the barn. He was old but had such vigor, he was obviously immune to the disease. His alertness in old age reminded Nazeer of his own father.

  “See this big yellow machine right here?” Said the old man, pointing to an enormous piece of equipment that looked like some kind of truck.

  “Yes,
what does it do?”

  “This is an automated harvester. We drive this thing around over row upon row of trees. The trees get surrounded right in between this opening, right here. Inside of it there are hundreds of metal sticks that shake the entire tree from top to bottom, the olives just fall from it into the holding compartment.”

  “That is great, how much can this harvest?”

  “Versus a man with a hand rake?”

  “Yes.”

  “This machine can do in an hour, what would take one man all day.”

  Nazeer laughed.

  “That’s amazing. My cousins would love it, they would have more time for soccer.”

  The old man joined Nazeer and began to chuckle. Herman opened the door and helped Nazeer up. The odor that came from Nazeer’s body made the old man breath through his mouth, but he didn’t complain.

  Nazeer sat on to the driver’s seat and ran his hands over the controls, noticing every monitor and computer screen as he imagined himself driving it. His body was in extreme pain, but his heart was filled with a joy he hadn’t felt in many years. After a few moments, he got down and walked around the equipment, marveling at every detail of it.

  “This is… Just wonderful,” said Nazeer, his voice full of admiration.

  “This machine here just harvests, wait until you see everything else.”

  They walked towards another building, making small talk about different types of olives. Nazeer had never met anyone outside his immediate family who was so into the subject of olives as Herman was.

  “This is incredible,” Nazeer said as he stared at an enormous machine that wrapped around the entire room inside the building. It had different large parts, each of them looking complicated and powerful. He had never seen anything like it.

  “Here, put these on,” said the old man, handing Nazeer some ear muffs. Nazeer was familiar with them from being in different war engagements over the years. It was the battery powered kind that muffled the sound above a certain frequency, but it still had a microphone so that people could still talk to one another in the middle of a lot of noise and be heard.