Book Read Free

CATACLYSMOS Book 1 Part 1: This is the Way the World Ends: A Post-Apocolyptic Serial Thriller

Page 5

by Michael Lister


  Michael turns to Augustus.

  —You and Jackson could go with him, he says. The air is a little better and the—

  —Always tryin’ to get rid of me, the old man says. Now you’re pawnin’ me off on a man who doesn’t wear pants.

  —Hell, I’ll put on some pants if it means that much to you. Let’s go. Road trip. It’ll be fun. You, me, and the mutt.

  —I helped with the truck, Augustus says to Michael. May be of some more help still. Jackson and I are sticking with you.

  —Then it’s settled. Need to keep moving. Been here too long already.

  12

  Destruction. Devastation. Ruination.

  The main drag of Marianna is decimated.

  Buildings flattened. Trees and vehicles and light poles in the road. Many structures missing completely.

  The sheer scale of the catastrophic leveling of the little town is astonishing.

  It’s too far inland, of course, but it appears that the motherfucker of all hurricanes had hammer-punched the life out of the little town, pounding it without pity long after it was already dead and gone.

  Huge chunks of highway missing.

  The city’s enormous water tower toppled and tuberous, its massive steel structure spread across the highway like bleached dinosaur bones, its tank now oblong.

  Entire buildings lifted and dropped across the street intact. Other structures flung apart, their splintered wood looking like piles of matchsticks.

  What trees are left are filled with debris—awnings, rooftops, billboards, even entire vehicles. A stand of oak trees holds a semi tractor-trailer some fifty feet in the air.

  Damp.

  Cold.

  Dreary.

  Unlike the area he has just traveled through, there is no ash here. Everything is damp and wet and soggy, and the temperature has dropped twenty degrees.

  Gas stations gone.

  Their tanks tossed to and fro, their sides gashed open.

  Overturned oil trucks.

  The surface of the water on the roads and sidewalks and the foundations of former buildings is slick with gas and oil, swirls of periwinkle, magenta, violet, goldenrod that remind him of the inside of an oyster shell.

  Michael finds an overturned newspaper box and sets one of his duffels on it. Unzipping it, he withdraws a tightly folded coat for himself and a poncho for Augustus.

  —Much obliged, the old man says, shivering as he shimmies into the warmer garment.

  —All the surfaces are going to be slick, Michael says. Be careful.

  Before zipping up the bag, he withdraws a weapon, a Smith .45 automatic. After double-checking the safety, he shoulders the duffel and they continue.

  They walk slowly down Highway 90, weaving, twisting, turning, negotiating around everything as if in a hoarder’s attic.

  Every sound arises from wind and water.

  The breeze in their ears. Brisk. Cold. Whining.

  The drip and splash and run of water.

  All of which makes it seem even colder than it is.

  Somewhere in the dim distance the chord on a flagpole clangs desultorily.

  Clang. Clang. Clang.

  Up ahead is the Waffle House where he had met his daughter Meleah for breakfast on that last morning, when he was headed to Atlanta and she was in town for training at the high school. Just a quick cup of coffee and some toast for her, a Diet Coke and hash browns and bacon for him. Nothing special. But the conversation—their conversations were always special. Even when they weren’t about anything particularly special. As usual they spoke about what they were reading and the latest show they were binging on, but just as usual their conversation included how they were really doing—what they were dealing with, what life was attempting to teach them.

  His final words to her, hers to him, were the same as they were to all his loved ones, his family and friends. The phrase he had said more than any other over his decades on this planet, the one he had purposed to be the final one he’d ever say to them, though he now hopes more than anything those were not his final words to her.

  So proud of you. Love you so much.

  Love you, Dad.

  He can’t quite make out the Waffle House, but it looks altered and oddly shaped somehow.

  A little closer and he sees why.

  As they near the Rahal Chevrolet dealership, he can see that not a single vehicle is left on the lot, and several are piled on the flattened Waffle House across the street. Down the way, Chipola Ford looks much the same.

  —Almost dark, Augustus says. Need to find shelter soon.

  —I think we can make it to Lynn’s.

  —No way to know if it’s even there. Doesn’t look like much of anything is left around here.

  —Come on. Let’s cut through here.

  They head down Milton Avenue, a side street between an Assembly of God church with only a sign and one wall left standing and a McDonald’s with only a single giant golden arch and a drive thru order board remaining.

  Milton leads down a quarter mile or so then turns to the right and becomes Kelson—the street Lynn’s house is on about a mile down the way.

  Trees, power lines, and light poles are down. Doors and shudders and shingles, boards and vinyl siding litter the street, but many of the houses are still mostly intact, and the debris is nothing compared to that out on Highway 90.

  They can move much more quickly now. And do. At least at first. Then . . .

  The last of the gray light leaves the world and the two men and the mutt are left in utter darkness.

  Jackson begins to whimper.

  —Whatta we do now? Augustus says.

  Pausing for a moment, Michael withdraws another weapon and two flashlights, handing one of the lights and the other weapon to Augustus.

  —Should’ve given you a gun sooner, Michael says. Sorry.

  Then the noises begin.

  Not as feral, tortured, guttural, or as concentrated here as in the woods, but every bit as disturbing.

  Jackson cowers and begins to crawl on his belly—first in one direction then another.

  —We’re exposed out here, Augustus says.

  —On three, click on our lights, take a quick look around, click them off, move to the opposite side of the road, and continue for another ten feet or so.

  —We should do it standing back to back so we can see both ways, Augustus says. Make sure nobody’s coming up behind us.

  —Good thinking.

  They move this way for a while, occasionally walking into or tripping over something, and make slow but certain progress down Kelson.

  They are in the midst of this process in the pitch blackness when something darts in front of them in the street.

  They sense the movement, of course, and hear something, but it is mostly that they feel the wind wake it causes.

  Both men snap on their lights immediately, but nothing is there.

  Jackson whimpers and whines and wets the already damp pavement beneath him.

  —The hell was that? Augustus asks.

  —Let’s leave our lights on, Michael says. You walk straight, keeping an eye on what’s in front of us and to our right. I’ll back up behind you and watch behind and to the left. If anything rushes us just yell the direction.

  —Okay.

  They do this for a while and it seems to be working, and though they can still hear the nightmarish noises all around them, they don’t see anything and nothing rushes them.

  As they near the entrance to Chipola College at the intersection that is less than an eighth of a mile from Lynn’s house, Augustus slows.

  —What is it? Michael asks.

  —See for yourself. Spin around. I’ll take the back.

  Michael comes around to the front to see a beige and yellow doublewide mobile home on its side blocking the entire street.

  —Let’s go around it. We’re almost there.

  —Following you.

  They ease around the left side of the trailer
toward Chipola College, walking where the sign used to be and now stands a partially collapsed batting cage.

  Michael strains to see the campus, but nothing is visible. Just more blackness.

  Movement inside the trailer.

  Rattling. Large heavy object falling. Something shattering.

  Back on Kelson. Moving faster now.

  —Keep your eye on the trailer, Michael says.

  —I’m watching everything. Just go.

  Three houses. A drainage ditch with a guardrail along a wooded area, and then they’re there.

  Lynn’s house.

  Obliterated.

  Reddish-orange bricks in rubble.

  It looks like it’s part of a war-torn village in Europe during World War II.

  —Is that it? Augustus asks.

  —Yeah.

  —Sorry.

  Michael begins moving toward the ruins.

  —What’re you doin’? Augustus asks. We’ve got to find shelter.

  —I’ve got to take a closer look, got to be sure there’s—

  —I know he was your friend, but . . . there’s nothing left to look at. We’re too exposed out here like this. What happened to the guy who cared more about the mission than—

  —This is the mission. Just give me a minute. Please.

  Movement in the wooded area to the right.

  Both men spin in that direction, guns up, the weak beams of their small flashlights only catching the rustling of a few tree branches.

  —We need to find an abandoned house or even a vehicle, Augustus says. Anything to get out of the night.

  —Okay. You’re right. Let’s go.

  They turn to walk back down the driveway toward Kelson, when they hear it.

  —Help me. Somebody please help me.

  13

  —Please. Help me.

  The cries for help are barely audible, just a decibel or two above a whisper.

  A young female. Ragged. Hoarse. Harsh. Desperate.

  Jackson begins to bark.

  —Quiet boy, Augustus says.

  —Please. Somebody.

  The voice sounds like it could be that of Gracie—Lynn’s youngest daughter and Michael’s son Micah’s girlfriend. Bouncing around a bit, carried by the wind, lost in the whine of the other noises, it seems to be coming from the wooded lot.

  Michael starts that way, shrugging off his duffels as he does.

  —Wait, Augustus says. It could be a trap. It could be . . . anything. We just don’t know.

  —It sounds like Lynn’s daughter. I’ve got to—

  —Okay, but let’s at least—

  —Somebody. Please.

  Michael tucks the .45 in his waistband and withdraws the short shotgun from one of the duffels.

  Jackson pulls on the lead in Augustus’s hand, lunging toward the woods.

  —He’s ready, Michael says. You could let him go and we could follow him. Or you can come in behind me or from a different spot. Up to you, but I’m going now.

  Without waiting for a response, Michael takes off, the beam of his flashlight bounding along the ground like a Follow the Bouncing Ball Song.

  Before he reaches the woods, Jackson runs past him. Barking. Yelping.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he sees that Augustus, moving slowly and stiffly, isn’t far behind.

  Unable to enter the woods where Jackson does, Michael finds a small opening close by and presses in, wet leaves smacking him on the face as he does.

  Blacker than black. Darker than dark.

  The wet woods are a shade of night he’s never seen.

  He scans the area with the beam of his flashlight, holding it on the barrel of the shotgun so they move together.

  Pines. Poplars. Oaks. Kudzu. The woods, which surround a drainage conduit large enough to walk in that passes beneath the road, run all the way to the Chipola River.

  He can see nothing but the beam, nothing but the slightly less blackness inside the small circle of impotent illumination.

  He strains to hear Jackson and attempts to follow the sound as best he can.

  The ground is damp and his boots slide, unable to secure any traction, and he slips often but manages to stay on his feet.

  Soon the slick surface is slanting down, falling off fast.

  Feet out from underneath him. Falling. Hitting the ground hard. Holding onto gun and light. Sliding. Tumbling.

  Thwack.

  He hits the base of a pine tree hard and comes to an abrupt stop.

  Can’t . . . breathe. Air . . . won’t . . . enter.

  Eventually he gets a big gulp of air.

  As soon as he can, he yells up to Augustus.

  —STEEP INCLINE. STOP. STAY UP—

  —I’m good, Augustus says. Saw you tumble and put on the brakes. You okay?

  Jackson lets out a yelp and begins to cry.

  The disembodied girl’s voice screams.

  Both come from the backside of the lot.

  Michael scurries to his feet and heads in that direction. Twenty feet above him, Augustus heads the same way.

  More screams.

  Jackson starts barking again, but then yelps in pain.

  Running.

  Blind.

  Buffeted by branches and undergrowth and trees—standing and fallen—and kudzu. Everywhere kudzu.

  Stumbling. Tripping.

  Limbs. Twigs. Branches. Snapping. Crunching. Popping.

  Now that they’re being noisy, Michael pulls out the .45, thumbs the safety off and the hammer back, and fires a round into the air.

  This act causes him to collide with an oak tree, scraping his cheek and dazing him slightly.

  He doesn’t stop. Tries not to even slow.

  Gaining ground.

  Jackson’s barking. Gracie’s screams. Closer. Much closer.

  As he makes his way toward the noises, his flashlight plays across the forest floor.

  Tracks. Footprints.

  Then feet.

  Bare feet. Light moving up. Following tattered trousers, torn shirt.

  Seen in quick flashes.

  Contorted face. Blood streaked. Teeth snarling. Guttural growling sounds. Eyes that seem to glow but be dead somehow.

  Split-second assessment.

  Threat.

  React.

  He squeezes the trigger.

  Blast.

  The loud explosion momentarily silences all the other noises around him.

  The man is gone.

  He shines the light at the ground, then all around him.

  Nobody. No blood. Nothing. Had he imagined it? Is he seeing things?

  Continuing.

  —You okay? Augustus yells.

  —Yeah. See anything?

  —Look.

  He shines his light up. About ten feet in front of him, Gracie hanging from a zip line, kicking at a man trying to grab her feet as Jackson nips at him.

  Augustus’s bouncing beam of light lets Michael know he’s making his way down the embankment.

  Gracie dangles from a zip line attached to a treehouse some twenty-five yards back and twenty feet up in a large oak tree.

  The man after her reminds him of the one he has just encountered. Something about the way he moves and looks and sounds. If he weren’t dressed differently, if it weren’t impossible, he’d believe it’s the same man.

  He aims low to avoid hitting Gracie and to the left to avoid hitting Jackson, but Augustus fires first.

  Like before, nothing is there. Nothing is hit.

  —Scan the area and cover us, Michael says. I’m gonna help her down.

  He rushes over to Gracie.

  —Michael? she says in shock. What are you— Is Micah with you?

  He helps her down.

  —No. Have you seen him since . . . since the end?

  —No.

  She is small and thin—even thinner than before—and weighs next to nothing. Her blond hair is damp and matted. Her face streaked with sweat and tears and fear.

>   —What about Meleah? Michael asks. I was hoping she might come find you guys when all this started. She was at the high school for training.

  —I know. I saw her there. We were supposed to have lunch, but the woman doing the training was killed in a car accident on the way to it. The training was canceled. Meleah left early.

  —You sure?

  —Positive.

  Augustus comes up.

  —How the hell did I miss? he says.

  —Fuckers are fast, Gracie says. They’re . . .

  —Gracie, Augustus, Michael says. Augustus, Gracie.

  —Nice to meet you, ma’am.

  —Come on, Michael says. We’ve got to go. Where’s your dad?

  —He went scavenging this afternoon. He should’ve been back before dark. Something’s wrong. I was going to look for him. So stupid, but I didn’t know what else to do. Dog saved my life.

  —Good boy, Jackson, he said, patting the dark near where he thinks the animal is.

  —I think he’s hurt.

  —We’ll look after him, but we’ve got to find a safe place to—

  —In the treehouse, she says. It’s safe. Come on. We can look for Dad at first light.

  —Who were those men? Michael asks.

  —Just some of the many bad ones running loose across the land these days. Come on.

  —How many are there? How persistent are they?

  She leads them over to the large oak that holds the treehouse.

  The two men scan the area around them with their lights, their weapons out and up. Ready.

  Jackson, moving slowly, follows along behind them emitting a low whine.

  —My dad started this for me when I was little. Finished it after the . . . after what happened.

  The large tree has no low branches and there is no ladder.

  —How do you—

  Before he can finish, Gracie does something in the darkness he can’t see and a rope ladder falls down from the treehouse.

  —You able to climb that? he asks Augustus.

  —You damn skippy, he says. Even if I couldn’t, I’d figure out a way. Sure as shit ain’t stayin’ down here.

  —You two go up, then I’ll carry Jackson. Then I’ve got to go get my bags.

  —We’ve got a lift we can put Jackson on, Gracie says. I’ll lower it when I get up there. It’s a counterweighted pulley system Dad designed. I can pull him up no problem.

 

‹ Prev