Primitive

by J. F. Gonzalez

  Primitive

  J. F. Gonzalez

  First Digital Edition

  July 2009

  Published by:

  Delirium Books

  P.O. Box 338

  North Webster, IN 46555

  sales@deliriumbooks.com

  www.deliriumbooks.com

  Primitive copyright 2009 by J. F. Gonzalez

  Cover Artwork copyright 2009 by Mike Bohatch

  All Rights Reserved.

  Copy Editors: David Marty and Steve Souza

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  To Cathy and Hannah

  My Tribe for life.

  Acknowledgements

  Novels are not written alone and I'd like to take this opportunity to thank a few people who were instrumental in the development and writing of Primitive.

  Shane Ryan Staley, Larry Roberts, Don Koish, Don D'Auria, and Steve Calcutt for aiding and abetting.

  Tod Clark, Bob Strauss, Jamie LaChance, and Kelli Dunlap for making sure I looked presentable.

  Weston Ochse for secrets you don't want to know about.

  Brian and Cassi Keene, Wrath James White, Bob Ford, David Nordhaus, Gord Rollo, Gene O'Neill, Jamie LaChance, Kelli Dunlap, Bob Ford, Tod Clark, Bob Strauss, Gary Zimmerman, and Michael Laimo for their friendship and online comraderie.

  To Stuart David Schiff for lending his name to a character in this novel on behalf of a charity auction he won. The proceeds were donated to Protect.org (www.protect.org), a charity I support myself. Thanks also to Matt Schwartz for hosting the auction in the first place!

  Ken Atkins, Jeremiah Brown, Mark Robinson, and Bob "Isn't That Neat?!" Fegley for technical insight, support, and all the laughter they provided during the research of this novel.

  Cathy and Hannah Gonzalez get their own paragraph because they deserve it.

  Finally, to all my faithful readers and MySpace friends: I wouldn't be able to do this if it weren't for you. I hope to keep telling stories like this for a long time.

  One

  For some reason I slept in on the morning the world ended.

  Tracy had risen at her usual time of six-thirty, made the kids' breakfast, got them dressed, then packed them up for the drive to Eric's day care center in Pasadena. Eric was nine and had a mild form of autism. The facility in question was one that specialized in kids with disabilities; most of it mental like extreme forms of ADD and hyperactivity, or mild forms of retardation and autism. Tracy returned just as I was pouring my first cup of coffee and browsing through the morning paper. Emily, our daughter, was sitting with me at the kitchen table eating a bowl of cereal.

  I heard police and fire engine sirens. I didn't think much about it because we lived in Los Angeles County, in the foothills of Pasadena, to be exact. It was just something you got used to.

  Tracy went right to work in her office that morning (she was a freelance graphic artist and corporate web designer) and had only gotten fifteen minutes of work done when the phone rang.

  I'll remember that phone call for the rest of my life.

  Tracy picked it up on the extension in her office. I heard her voice rise with fear. "What? What are you saying?"

  I was sitting at the kitchen table with Emily, who was eating a bowl of Frosted Flakes. We looked up at the sound of her voice.

  "You've got to be kidding!" Now her voice was panicked and grief-stricken.

  Fearing the worst, I made my way downstairs to her office. "What's the matter?" Emily asked.

  "Stay there, sweetie," I told her calmly.

  From Tracy's office: "Nooooo!"

  I reached the office just as Tracy slumped over her desk. She was sobbing uncontrollably, still clutching the phone in one hand. Something bad had happened, and for some reason I knew it had to do with Eric.

  I snatched the phone out of Tracy's hand and placed it to my ear. "This is David, Tracy's husband. What's wrong?"

  I recognized the woman's voice on the other end of the line. It was Jessica Rendell, the director of the daycare Eric attended. Her voice was grave. "I'm sorry Mr. Spires, but there's been an accident at the school. Eric's been—"

  "They killed Eric!" Tracy wailed.

  "What happened to him?" I felt my body grow cold.

  "—there's chaos here. We're in lockdown, and I'm locked in my office. We're trying to get the police, but—"

  "What's going on?" I said. I think I actually shouted that question.

  "He's dead, he's dead, and some other kid killed my baby!" Tracy brayed. She was losing all control of herself.

  In the chaos that ensued that morning I remember several things. They're still imprinted in my memory bank as fleeting images: Emily standing at the doorway to Tracy's office with wide, frightened eyes; Tracy losing control of her emotions; me feeling dead and wooden at the thought of Eric dead; my life crumbling around me and feeling powerless to do anything about it.

  "I'm afraid I don't understand," I said. I could feel myself trembling.

  "Eric attacked another boy in his class this morning," Jessica said, her voice still sounding shocked. "I don't know the details except Eric attacked him and managed to kill him. The teacher that pulled Eric off was attacked, too. In fact, he attacked several teachers, even bit some of them. He had to be wrestled to the ground and then another kid attacked the day care provider that was trying to help us hold Eric down and...he fell and Eric...I think his neck broke." Jessica was starting to cry. "I think he's dead."

  At the sound of those words I went numb.

  Jessica continued, still crying. "And then there's all the police activity outside and we can't get any—"

  "What police activity?" I asked. I realize now that I was starting to go into a mild shock. I couldn't process what was happening fast enough.

  "I don't know!" Jessica said. "But there's police and fire engines all over the place, and I think there's a fire on Colorado Boulevard. I can see smoke over there."

  Tracy could only cry at her desk. Emily was crying too, huddled in the doorway.

  My mind was still trying to process what I'd learned. "You're saying my son...Eric...attacked another kid?"

  There was a loud crash in the background on the other end of the line and I heard Jessica yell, "Oh my God!"

  "What's going on?" I shouted.

  There were sounds of a struggle and then screaming. It sounded like Jessica. There were other voices too. Savage, animal-like sounds.

  They sounded like children when they play animals.

  Remember when you were a kid and you'd get together with other kids in the neighborhood and pretend to be animals? One kid would be the lion, another a wolf, maybe another was some kind of bird? And you'd run around the backyard in the role of whatever totem animal you had chosen to emulate? The sounds you made always had to imitate whatever animal you were pretending to be. What I heard in the background sounded like a bunch of kids pretending to be lions or eagles or something, only there was no underlying hint of play in their voices. It was almost like these kids were deadly serious at their play-acting.

  Amid these sounds were others; that of adults doing the same thing.

  And in the background, Jessica screamed over and over.

  What the hell was going on?

  "Jessica!" I shouted.

  Behind me, Tracy wailed. "Eric!"

  Jessica's scream was abruptly cut off, but the animal-like sounds continued.

  I turned to Emily, who was cowering by the doorway. "Go to your room and close the door, honey."

  For a minute Emily could only stand there crying. She looked torn betwee
n wanting to be with her mommy and doing what her daddy just told her to do. When I nodded at her, trying my best to maintain my composure in the situation, she retreated. I heard her shuffling footsteps pad down the hall along with the beginning sounds of her crying.

  When she was gone I turned my attention back to the receiver. "Jessica!"

  All I could hear was the wild sounds of those children, or what I thought were children.

  I pressed the disconnect button, switched to the second line we had, and dialed 911.

  And got a busy signal.

  "Jesus," I muttered. I disconnected, tried again. A third time.

  Tracy suddenly got up from her chair. "I've got to go over there," she fumbled for her purse and I immediately put the phone down.

  "You're not going anywhere," I said.

  Tracy reacted as if she hadn't heard me. She was still crying. "I've got to go get him. I've got to go over there." Her purse slung over her shoulder, she tried to squeeze past me. I grabbed her and shoved her back in her office.

  "No! We're staying here!"

  "We have to go get Eric!" She shrieked at me. She made to brush past me again. She had that determined look in her eyes and it was starting to influence the rest of her behavior, too. I knew I didn't have that much time before it would take drastic measures to reverse the situation, like a knockout blow.

  I grabbed her shoulders. "I've already talked to Jessica," I said. "They're taking Eric to the hospital. The police want us to stay here."

  "You're lying!"

  Two blocks south of us, sirens rose in the distance. "Hear that? That's probably them going to the school to pick up Eric." I was making stuff up as I went along, a holdover from my pulp-writing roots, I guess. "When I talked to them they said they would send somebody to the house to pick us up. They'll take us to him."

  For some reason that seemed to resonate with her. Once again, she collapsed emotionally. She settled herself back down in her office chair, her purse sliding off her shoulder, and started bawling again.

  I knelt in front of her. I felt like an idiot because I had no idea what to do. I was confused and scared. Everything was coming at me so fast that I didn't know how to react. I've never had shit unravel on me at such lightning speed. I tried to ride it out the best I could. "I'm going to see how Emily is. You sit here and wait until I come get you. If the phone rings, I'll answer it. I'll take care of everything, okay?"

  Tracy nodded and I could tell she understood me completely. She was finally allowing me to take over.

  I got up and went down the hall to Emily's room.

  Emily was sitting on her bed amid mountains of stuffed animals. Her knees were drawn up to her chin and she was crying. I sat down on the bed. "Honey, Daddy has something very important to do right now and I need you to help me."

  Emily nodded. Tears streamed down her face.

  "I need you to stay in your room. If you hear anything in the hall or in your mommy's office, don't come out. Mommy's real upset now and I have to help her."

  "I want to help her, too!" Emily said.

  "I know honey," I rubbed her knee. "And you'll be helping her by staying in your room and out of her way. You'll be a great help in doing that, okay?"

  Emily nodded again. She started sobbing. "What's wrong with Eric, Daddy?" A sensitive, intelligent child, Emily was very aware of Eric's handicap.

  "I don't know honey, but that's what I need to help Mommy with. Now just stay in your room until I come get you, okay?"

  "Are we going to go get him?"

  "Yes, we are." What else was I going to tell her?

  Emily nodded and I patted her knee again, knowing even at that early stage being reassuring wasn't going to be much help. Then I went back into Tracy's office.

  Tracy was hunched over, her face buried in her hands. She was still crying. "I'm going to go call the officer I just spoke to," I said, the lie springing forth effortlessly. "I'll be back in a minute."

  If Tracy heard me she gave no indication. I closed the door to her office and went into the living room.

  We lived in a rather hilly section of the San Gabriel Mountains. Our neighborhood was nice, with homes ranging from condo units to Craftsman and Spanish-style homes that were in the six-figure range. The home we were in was owned by a producer I knew who lived on the East Coast. He was renting the place to us and we'd been living there for four years, paying rent that was comparable to that of a three-bedroom apartment. In short, it was a steal, and the extra money I was socking away was going into a savings account that we had earmarked for a down payment on our own house someday. I owned one-quarter interest in a cabin in the Sierras with my parents and sister, and if I wasn't with Tracy and earning my living in the script mines of Hollywood, that's where I'd probably be living. The street we lived on was quiet, the houses tucked into little enclaves and alcoves in the hills. It was like living in the country when you were only less than a mile from the city. In short, my neighborhood was very quiet and peaceful.

  I could hear the sirens from the living room as I turned the TV on with the remote.

  The living room was dark, the windows open enough to allow the breeze to blow through the screen. The first channel I went to was the local news and what I saw stunned me even though I'd mentally prepared myself for it.

  There was a wide shot from a helicopter hovering over what looked like South-Central Los Angeles. For a moment I thought I was watching a re-run of the 1992 LA riots. I was living in the heart of Pasadena at the time, in a little one-bedroom apartment off Colorado Boulevard, and I remember being glued to the TV as those three days of civil unrest unfolded. What I was watching now seemed to be an eerie repeat of those events.

  There were bands of people chasing after speeding motorists. There were several bodies lying on sidewalks and on the street. There was somebody hunched over one of the bodies, and the camera cut away to focus on another spate of activity below: a half dozen people converged on a convenience store and stormed inside. The newscaster's voice was about as calm and professional as could be when reporting on a situation like this. "...what we are seeing here just defies all logic, all common sense. The people that just entered that convenience store are probably going to find the owner, who we already know has shot at several of the rioters with what appears to be a handgun and—"

  Another riot? I thought. What triggered it this time? I couldn't think of any recent strains in race relations, although I knew from being a life-long resident of Los Angeles that it was always a very real issue. I flipped to the next channel and saw another view taken from atop a building somewhere in downtown Los Angeles. Smoke from several fires was rising and the newscaster this time was female. "...has called a tactical alert on the suggestion of FEMA and the—"

  FEMA? Why was FEMA involved in a tactical alert in Los Angeles?

  I flipped to CNN. The scene was similar, but as I watched the story unfold I saw that the live feed was coming out of Philadelphia. A fire was burning out of control in the heart of the city. The camera feed changed to Washington, D.C. Mobs of people were milling in front of the White House, some attacking each other. The newscaster's voice was grim. "...sharpshooters have killed a dozen people who tried to storm the White House grounds and we're just getting word now that some of those sharpshooters have abandoned their posts and were gunned down by their fellow officers. We're not entirely clear what the reason is, but we can only assume that those officers fired in self-defense."

  What the hell was going on?

  I continued flipping through the channels: FOX, CNN 1 and 2, MSNBC. All were reporting on the same thing. All the network stations had pre-empted their regularly scheduled programming and were plugged into various news outlets. Local stations had abandoned their daily fare of morning talk shows. Like those dark three days in 1992, I was spellbound by what was happening.

  If you're reading this you know what was happening. You saw it yourself. You likely first became aware of the chaos via the news, saw li
ve feeds of people attacking each other brutally with their hands, their fists. You saw them ravage each other with their teeth, saw them fighting to the death. You saw the victors walking away from battered corpses as if nothing had happened. You might have even seen them pause at the body to inspect it with a curious sense of detachment.

  You might have even seen acts of cannibalism.

  You probably also heard the commentators scramble for an explanation as to what was happening and fail miserably. You were probably witness to the horror of when it was discovered that local governments were disintegrating, that members of Congress were joining the ranks of the mad and behaving in animal-like fashion. You probably sat spellbound in front of your TV the first few hours as chaos began to unravel outside your home, in your city, and you watched it unfold in a sense of numb, fascinated horror. You tried to make sense of it. You tried to process what the news commentators were trying to grasp themselves: that people were losing their minds and blindly attacking each other, that the police were shooting them, that some officers were attacking each other and turning on civilians. You also realized, as the days went on, that the police and the National Guardsmen that had been called in at various cities were not turning on each other or the civilians they were trying to subdue and/or protect with their firearms but, rather, with their bare hands. They were abandoning their weapons. In fact, I would bet that if you saw something happen like this live, you would have seen a once normal police officer using his weapon to protect himself and then suddenly drop it and lunge at somebody like a wild animal, as if he or she had completely forgotten what the weapon even was.