by Tim Meyer
He looked down. “My blood?”
A tear spilled down her rosy cheek.
Mouth pieced it all together. It was coming back to him. An earthquake. He vaguely remembered the earth shaking and something hitting him. A piece of the canopy? He couldn't remember. Yes, he could. Something metal and solid, something with a lot of weight, had smashed him in the face and that's the last thing he remembered before waking up numb.
“What happened?” he asked Dana.
Becky entered his view. She wiped his forehead with her fingers, drawing back thick syrupy smears of red.
“Your head is cut,” she said.
“Bad?”
“Bad enough.” She pointed beyond where his vision could go. “Looks like a piece of the canopy came loose in the earthquake. Must have knocked you right out.”
“Damn.” The feeling in his arms and legs returned gradually. Except for the throbbing pain in his right ankle, nothing hurt. He'd be sore in the morning and the cut on his forehead would need special attention, but otherwise he counted his blessings.
He tried to stand, pushing himself up on his knees, but something inhibited his movement. Pressure on his ankle. A scalding pain grabbed hold, ebbing up his leg, stabbing his thigh with force.
“The hell?” he asked, trying to peek over his shoulder. His neck was rigid from the blow to his head. To top it all off, he had been concussed.
“There's another problem,” Becky said in an oh-I-forgot-to-tell-you tone. She glanced around, looking for something specific. Her eyebrows flared when she found it. After jogging over to where a small cubicle containing a register and other useful supplies used to sit—now a heap of bowed metal and fragmented junk—Becky bent down, picked up the small shiny object, and sprinted back to where Mouth lay helplessly.
“Fuck's that?” he asked.
“A mirror,” Becky said. “Sort of.” She took the broken mirror, mindful of its sharp corrugated edges, and placed it in front of Mouth so he could see without straining.
“Fuuuuuck me.”
Pinned to the parking lot, a mound of—what used to be—the gas station's canopy lay on his ankle, squished beneath the wreckage. The structure had collapsed, and luckily Mouth wasn't completely under it when it fell.
He stared at his ankle. Broken. Snapped like a thin twig.
“Can't lift it I suppose?” Mouth asked.
Becky stared at the daunting task, knowing their strength wouldn't be enough. “We can try.”
The two girls hustled over to the wreckage and tried lifting the beam, but to no avail. The long metal structural rod didn't budge, didn't wiggle an inch. It was simply too heavy for the girls, easily outweighing them by several hundred pounds.
“No dice,” Becky said.
“Fuck a duck.” Mouth planted his head on the concrete, sucking in deep breaths. Panic rose in his chest, kicking his heart around like a soccer ball. He tried to steady his breathing, hoping to prevent a full-blown panic attack, but he could feel the adrenaline rush taking over his body; face down on the ground, he felt like he was falling.
“And that's not the least of our worries,” Becky said, in a voice that nearly sent Mouth into a frenzy.
“The sun is coming,” Dana said, pointing to the tangerine smudge spreading above the horizon.
-4-
They looked at Johanna and Jaime like five-star meals as they backed them against the tunnel wall, forming a half-circle around them, leaving no room for escape. Some of The Dirty giggled with delight while others groaned brutishly, savoring the moment before their nasty assault. They pushed each other around, fighting for firsts, forcing themselves to the front of the line. There was no order, no predetermined arrangement, no dibs, no desire for civility. Whoever wanted it more.
Mole watched from a safe distance, refusing to partake in the devilish activities.
“You're sick,” Hugh said, trying to shake himself free from the two savages locking his arms behind his back. “You're a goddamn psycho and if you let them do this I'll fucking kill you! Those are innocent women! You hear me? Innocent!”
Mole refused to look Hugh in the eye. “No one survives innocently. I'm sure you've done things you're not proud of. Lie. Cheat. Steal. Kill. These things are immoral, yes—but necessary for survival.”
“Raping women? That's necessary?” Hugh had worked himself into a fury. Kicking and thrashing around, the two men struggled to contain him, despite their physical advantage.
“To repopulate Mother Earth and secure the survival of mankind? Absolutely.” Pacing back and forth, Mole continued to watch the horror unfold.
Hugh sensed the bastard enjoyed watching, living vicariously through his followers' filthy actions.
“You cannot do this!” Hugh struggled to move his arms against his captors' combined strength.
“One day, humanity will look back and thank me for the sacrifices we've made here today. Your women should consider themselves lucky.”
“Lucky?” The word enraged Hugh further, instigating thrashing that got him nowhere.
“Yes, lucky. They will be mothers of the children who will piece this world back together. And I'll be their fathers. Teach them the tools they'll need to carry the human race back to existence, rebuild society—not the way it was—but better. Teach them the ways of a brighter future.”
Whether a momentary lapse in effort or the amount of perspiration slicking his arms caused the two men to lose their grasp, Hugh didn't know, but he slipped free and immediately took full advantage of their blunder. The two men reached for him, attempting to haul him back, but the moment he sensed freedom his legs were propelling him toward the rabid throng of savages. He sprinted like death itself followed, slamming into the small gap between two cheering Dirty. He wedged his way through the crowd and made it without anyone stopping him. He rushed forward, placing himself between Johanna and Jaime and the encroaching savages. He waved his arms frantically, begging them to reconsider.
“Stop!” Hugh shouted over their lewd outbursts. “Stop, for the love of God! What is wrong with you people?”
In reply, a member of The Dirty stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Hugh's waist, suplexing him to the ground. Within seconds the crowd hovered over him, kicking and stomping, bending and breaking him. They rolled him over, face up. A large man with no shirt raised a sledgehammer over his head as high as he could stretch, and brought it down on Hugh's forehead. The momentum of the first blow wasn't enough to kill him, but the sound of his skull splitting went off like a firecracker. He struggled to stay conscious, although (if he had been in the right frame of mind to think about it) crawling toward that bright light would have been better.
Before the shirtless man brought the sledgehammer down on his head again, he heard Johanna scream as the bastards ripped the shirt off her back.
From a locked car not too far away, Brian watched the unspeakable acts occur. They had secured him inside a blue Toyota on Mole's command, parking two other cars against the doors so he couldn't open them. As Hugh's head became nothing more than crimson soup, he turned away, unable to watch another second. He found Mole staring back at him, proud of his own accomplishment. His grin told Brian more; mostly how he needed to get the hell out of the tunnel before he matched Hugh's current status. He hadn't seen Dustin in some time, but Brian assumed they put the poor bastard out of his misery.
Brian wondered why they kept him around. What did they need him for? Surely there was no great use for him. If repopulating the earth was priority number one, Mole had plenty of male donors, ready and willing to help the cause. Why wasn't he with the others? Did Mole know something about him? Did he know about his unique ability?
Soren.
He must have told him something. That he had visions. Premonitions. Soren could have told Mole a thousand different things to save his own skin, but for some reason Brian thought Soren had unearthed his talent.
Talent, Brian thought. Hardly the word for it. Curse was more accurate. His visions
had brought him nothing but misery and mystery. Nothing good had come from his visions.
He couldn't take Mole's eyes any longer. He turned away, the thoughts of what Mole had in store for him causing imaginary spiders to borrow his spine.
Bad little boy, a voice rasped in his head.
A dark figure stood at the opposite end of the tunnel. Crouching. Waiting. The figure didn't resemble any of The Dirty. Another traveler perhaps? Or one of The Dirty's outcasts, a former member banished for their refusal to participate in family functions? Brian didn't know. The figure didn't act like one of them. It crept along the wall, hugging close, using the shadows as an ally. Stalking The Dirty like a jungle cat seeking a fresh kill from the branches above, the shadow crept, utilizing caution, clearly not wanting to draw attention to himself. Suddenly, he stopped. Had he spotted Brian? He didn't think so. He had been still and quiet, careful.
The shadow stopped and waited. For what, Brian was eager to find out.
“Will she survive?” Soren asked.
“Yes,” Shondra said, refusing to take her eyes off the wound. Susan could walk fine, but David and Shondra walked on opposite sides of her in case the dizziness returned. “The bleeding has stopped.”
Soren glanced over his shoulder, toward the horizon. The sun would ascend soon and as much as he didn't want to wait out the day, the train station would have to wait.
Unless you leave them...
He considered the option as he toyed with the vials in his pocket, running the glass between his fingers. Thanks to Joe's stash, he had plenty to get himself to Alaska. Traveling by day meant he'd arrive faster, but it meant having no companions, and in his experience, companions meant pawns, and pawns helped him out of sticky situations. Day travel was dangerous; if seen by the wrong eyes, it could cause serious complications he wanted no part of. The potential interrogators would demand explanations and answers to questions they wouldn't understand, even if Soren laid things out simply.
Leaving them behind and traveling alone was not an option. He'd wait out the day; they could use the convenience store as shelter, and set off the second the sun dropped behind the western horizon.
He needed to figure out how to dispose of Shondra.
The woman had become a pest. A nagging pest, good for nothing unless headaches were your thing, and Soren experienced enough headaches for one lifetime. He mused with ways to destroy her, everything from bashing her head in with a pipe wrench to pushing her out into the daylight. She had to go; there were no if, ands, or buts about it. The only thing worrying him was resistance from the others. Shondra could eat a bullet for all Susan and Kyle cared, but what about Mouth and David? Mouth would throw a tantrum, but he got over leaving Brian behind quickly, and figured he'd do the same if something happened to Shondra, especially if he believed it was an accident. Mouth seemed to care more about the girls than anyone else, and as long as they were okay, Mouth could deal. The girls were partly the reason Soren hadn't dispatched Mouth; the three of them had a bond, and Soren, although hardly sentimental about that stuff, thought it shouldn't be broken, not yet, not unless it was for something he could capitalize on, use to his advantage. And David? He couldn't tell how much he cared for the others, but figured he operated with his own safety in mind. He'd go along with anything he told him, as long as his own skin was safe.
Shondra. She was the one who could really fuck this thing up.
As they saw the gas station in the distance, Soren plotted.
-5-
“Never thought I'd say it,” Mouth said, as David and the others pitched in, lifting the steel beam high enough for him to slide his foot out, “but, I'm glad to see you.”
“Wish I could say the same,” Soren said, the only one besides Susan who refrained from lending a hand in rescuing Mouth. Instead of worrying about the stability of Mouth's ankle, he surveyed the damage to the minivan. The canopy had collapsed on the roof, rendering the van unusable. A metal rod, smaller than the one that had nearly crushed Mouth, had pierced the windshield and sent webbed cracks throughout its entirety. It would have been better if the glass shattered. “Looks like we're walking to the train station.”
“Is it far?” Dana asked.
Soren referred to the map. “No. Not at all.”
David helped Mouth over to the convenience store.
“We better get inside,” Mouth warned. “Sunfall is coming.”
Soren twitched at the word, as if a bee buzzed too close to his ear. Sunfall.
Everyone headed toward the door, except Soren, who stood and faced the rising sun, memories of The Dish and what had happened there floating in the back of his thoughts.
“This train of yours better work,” Shondra said, jabbing his chest with her finger as she passed.
Memories of the past ended and thoughts about how he should dispatch her rushed to the forefront.
He followed her inside.
They had settled into the previously unoccupied Old Moon Motel when the earthquake hit, causing everything around them to shimmy and shake. Sam had been in Room 6 with Brenda, Bob, and Matty, checking on Lilah, who lay on the bed, hopefully dreaming of unicorns and rainbows and not half-eaten hearts and buckets of blood. Bob was rambling on about how the fever should break soon when the ground rumbled beneath them and thunder rolled from below. Matty knew what it was instantly; a seismic shift of tectonic plates, which was odd, because the eastern side of the country had no such plates to compliment the size of the quake. If it had happened in California or Mexico, he might have been able to buy it, but the earthquake certainly didn't make sense here.
Nevertheless, he warned the others, rolled himself into a ball, tucking his head between his knees, and waited it out. When it was over, he unrolled himself and found everyone fine. Lilah woke, grabbing the ruffled sheets as if falling down a mountainside. A lamp took a dive off the nightstand, a bulky television set from the late 80s wriggled its way to the edge of the dresser, and a painting depicting the English countryside jumped off the wall; other than those minor things, their surroundings remained unchanged.
Tina and Jarvis, both of whom took to separate rooms and planned on retiring for the day, rushed into Room 6, making sure everyone was okay.
“What the hell was that?” Tina asked, once everyone had caught their breath.
“An earthquake. Although its existence is perplexing to say the least.”
“What do you mean, Matty?” Bob asked.
“A seismic shift of that nature doesn't make sense on the east coast. It's not uncommon to have a small earthquake, but not that aggressive.”
“I don't understand, little man,” Jarvis said. “What are you trying to say? Like, the world is ending? Because newsflash: I think it already has.”
“I don't know what it means. It could make sense that whatever is happening to the sun could cause other environmental changes, although...” He ran over to a backpack he had lifted from the sporting goods store. Removing a notebook and flipping through it, he said, “I've been doing experiments. Little stuff. Small sample sizes and whatnot. Nothing major.”
“And?”
“Back in July, shortly after The Big Burn, I could put my hand into the sunlight for an average of sixty seconds before I felt a tingling sensation. The temperature averaged the upper 90s.”
Sam and Brenda exchanged glances. Neither of them looked happy to hear that their son risked his flesh for the sake of an experiment.
But it was Jarvis who voiced their concerns. “Pretty risky, little man.”
Matty continued, putting one finger in the air, still concentrating on the notebook and the recorded data within its pages. “As of a week ago, the average time was down to forty-three seconds, the temperature averaging in the 60s. That's an average of seventeen seconds in almost six months. It's getting cooler, but our tolerance is diminishing.”
Jarvis squinted, the information giving him a slight headache. “So, what you're saying is, the sun is getting stronger?”
Matty put down his notebook. “I don't know. Evidence would suggest that, or the environment is weakening, a rapid digression of the ozone layer. There are countless possibilities, none of which can be proven. I plan to collect as much data—”
“Matty,” Sam interrupted. “I don't think it's a good idea risking yourself for a science experiment. You've seen first hand what happens out there.”
Brenda placed a hand across her ex-husband's chest as if she expected him to rush forward and shake the common sense into their son. “Now, now. Let's not discourage him. There might be valuable information we can use—”
“Brenda.” He grabbed handfuls of hair from the sides of his head. “It's dangerous. This is our son we're talking about here.”
Everyone in the room shifted uncomfortably. Here we go again, the looks on their faces suggested, as the mood shifted from person to person.
“Sam, I'm not saying it's not dangerous. Matty should be supervised.” She gave Matty the tilted-head glance that wasn't scolding, but not all that encouraging either. “Right, honey?”
Matty nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, ma'am.”
“I'll see to it we experiment safely from here on out.”
Sam wanted to ask Matty why he didn't come to him with these experiments before, but feared the answers, “Because you didn't have time for me” or “You never listen to what I have to say anyway, so what's the point?” There were other appropriate responses, all of which would cast Sam in bad light, and he didn't need anymore negative publicity thrown his way. Instead of opening his mouth, he smiled at his ex-wife, handing her the win begrudgingly.
“It's late,” Bob said, interrupting the silence. “Sun's due up any moment. I suggest we sleep as much as we can.”
No one disagreed.
-6-
Soren didn't sleep much. He watched Shondra most of the day. She didn't sleep much either. When she took her two-hour nap, he watched, wanting to go for the knife in his pocket, run the blade across her throat and call it a day. That was too obvious. He needed a subtle touch. Something the group wouldn't immediately notice.