Spore Series (Book 1): Spore

by Soward, Kenny

  “Already...been.” The man struggled to talk, though his bloodshot eyes remained fixed on Randy’s mask. “Everyone’s dead. No masks.”

  Randy didn’t doubt him. Iroquois Memorial was more of a glorified urgent care facility than a big city hospital, and they wouldn’t be prepared for something like BD.

  “The girl can keep hers,” the man continued, waving the crowbar. “Just give me yours.”

  “All right,” Randy said. He stopped walking backward so his sister could catch up. She was ten yards away, then five. She raised the stone high, eyes flashing to her brother as she closed in. “You can have my mask, dude. Just be cool—”

  Jenny’s boots scuffed on the concrete sidewalk, and the man turned. His sister brought the stone down in a big, overhead swing that would have knocked out a bull. The man saw it coming and jerked away, swinging his crowbar low. The iron weapon struck Jenny in the ribs just as the stone glanced hard across the man’s temple and flew from Jenny’s hands.

  His sister stumbled back, clutching her stomach with a pained expression. Randy leapt forward with a cry, jerking the crowbar out of the man’s hand and turning it on him. He struck wildly at the man, once, then again. The man backed up, raising his arms to protect himself beneath Randy’s merciless barrage. His third blow struck the man’s forearm, and Randy felt the hard bone crunch beneath the crowbar’s weight.

  His scream was cut off by a lung-wrenching cough. The man fell on his back, feet up and kicking as if that would protect him from Randy’s wrath. Randy drew back the weapon to strike again.

  “Randy! Stop! Randy, I’m okay!”

  He halted, mid swing, and looked over his shoulder at Jenny. She rubbed the plastic over her stomach, but otherwise seemed fine.

  “Did your suit get ripped?” he asked her, pointedly.

  “Not at all.” She shook her head. “Seriously, I’ve taken harder hits from us wrestling. Just don’t kill the guy.”

  “I wasn’t going to...” Randy’s words drifted off as he realized he very well might have if his sister hadn’t stopped him.

  Randy looked down at the man writhing on the ground. He held his arm to his chest, eyes glaring up at Randy.

  Randy pointed the crowbar at him. “You try something like that again, and I won’t stop.”

  Then he left the man lying on the ground and strode back to the library doors.

  Jenny walked beside her brother, sparing a glance back. “Should we try to help him?”

  “Nope,” Randy said. “We don’t help people who try to kill us.”

  “Hey, Mrs. Brody,” Randy said, coming up to the window. “Sorry about that.”

  The librarian still had her hand covering her mouth. Her eyes lingered on the man lying in the grass.

  “Mrs. Brody!” Randy forced his words through the mask and glass, and the woman tore her eyes from the yard and focused on him.

  “Sorry, Randy.”

  “It’s okay,” Randy said, taking some edge out of his tone. “I’m just thinking of a way to get you out of there, but you might be in the safest place in town.”

  “Every place is like this?” Mrs. Brody gestured outside at the fungus.

  “Pretty much,” Randy said, apologetically. “We should probably start with air filtration masks for you. I’m just not sure how to get them inside to you without letting in the fungus.”

  “Maybe we can use the book drop,” Mrs. Brody said, moving to the side and gesturing at the big bin that swung out from the front of the building.

  Randy could pull it open and drop the supplies inside without having to use the front door. If they set up some plastic on the other side, they could bleach any incoming goods before moving them in to the library proper. It would be tricky, though it would cut down on any of the fungus spores getting inside.

  “Not a bad idea,” Randy said, and he explained how they could make the book drop safe. “It would be great if you found some clear plastic bags or tarp like what we have.” Randy held up his arm to show her the thicker plastic he was wearing. “If not, we can probably find you some.”

  “I’ll check.” The librarian’s expression was grateful. “Thank you kids so much for doing this.”

  “No problem,” Randy said.

  “In the meantime, we’ll go collect some things from around town,” Jenny said. “For you and Sheriff Stans.”

  “Be careful out there!” Mrs. Brody gave a tentative wave.

  Randy exchanged a smile with his sister. Despite the tense exchange with the man in the Dickie’s shirt, and their hopeless situation, it felt good to be doing something productive.

  “Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us,” Randy said.

  He still held the crowbar tight in his grip in case the Dickie’s man tried to give them any more trouble. Yet, when they turned around, he was gone.

  Chapter 22

  Moe Tsosie, Flagstaff, Arizona

  Gunshots startled Moe from a troubled sleep full of ominous clouds and screaming people. Another burst of fire rattled off before he realized it wasn’t part of a dream.

  He sat up, swung his feet off the bed, and opened his eyes, immediately wincing away from a swath of sunlight that shined through his truck windows. Was it morning already? It seemed like he’d just given the children to the officer and returned to his rig to wait out the traffic. Two hours had turned into five until Moe gave up and laid down for a short nap.

  No one had beat on his window to tell him to move his truck, and Gator hadn’t called on the CB. That meant he still sat in the parking lot of traffic.

  Moe raised up and leaned forward between the seats, putting his hand up like a visor. The lengthy lines of traffic remained, though the crowd up front by the officers had grown to two hundred people. Someone hollered something over a bullhorn, and another gunshot fired off.

  “Are they shooting into the sky?” Moe wondered, peering ahead.

  He sat back, put on his tennis shoes, and listened to his rumbling stomach. Moe leaned to the side and opened his mini-fridge, taking out the only bottled water that remained. He’d thrown the rest of his dry food storage out at the A&B Truck Wash back in Barstow. He popped the top and had a long drink.

  “That’ll have to do for now,” he mumbled as he climbed forward into the driver’s seat of his rig. He looked at the clock, and it read 2:54 p.m.

  He’d slept the entire day away!

  Moe checked his CB radio and realized he’d turned it almost all the way down. That explained why the chatter hadn’t awoken him.

  Turning the volume up, Moe picked the CB off the dashboard and put it to his lips. “Gator, this is Wildcat. You got your ears on?”

  “Hey, Wildcat,” Gator replied with a trucker’s twang. “I’ve been calling you all morning. I wondered how the drop off went with those kids.”

  “They’re fine.” A half-grin worked its way onto Moe’s lips. “I gave them over to a caring mama bear who took them to town. They should be okay.”

  “Great news, Wildcat. I’ll bet you’re wondering what’s going on.”

  “That’s right,” Moe replied. “I slept the day away.”

  “I guess the fireworks woke you up.”

  Moe nodded. “I heard the shots.”

  “Well, the natives are getting restless,” Gator said. “They want through, and I can’t say I blame them. I’m getting antsy myself.”

  “Any reason you suspect the bears are keeping us here?”

  “None that I can think of. Except they don’t want us running into the mess out east.”

  “So, that wasn’t just a news nightmare?”

  “Nope. The entire east coast and most of the Midwest dropped off the radar. I’d assume Ft. Collins, Denver, and Albuquerque are next to go.”

  “Could be,” Moe agreed. “But it’s not like I’m heading that way.”

  “I hear what you’re saying, Wildcat, but we don’t have a say in the matter.”

  Moe glanced in his side mirror and caught a gro
up of three dozen men approaching between the vehicles. They each carried a rifle or handgun, jostling each other as they glared toward the front of the traffic line. Moe edged back in his seat as they passed. One man glanced up at Moe. His set jaw and intense eyes made Moe’s stomach clench. He’d seen that look on many soldiers’ faces just before an inevitable confrontation.

  “Just for your information,” Moe said. “There are approximately thirty armed men making their way up front. You should spot them in a few seconds.”

  “More fireworks?” Gator asked in a voice filled with tension.

  “Affirmative.”

  “Reckon we should get out and try to mediate?” Gator asked.

  “I can’t see the sense in that,” Moe replied as the last man passed him. “They seem serious, and I hadn’t planned on becoming Swiss cheese today.”

  “Watch and wait mode, then.” Gator paused as the armed men walked past his truck. Then he came back, “I see what you mean, Wildcat. Looks like the start of something bad.”

  The men reached the crowd of two-hundred people at the front of the line. Bystanders backed away at the sight of the men and their guns, giving them plenty of room as they dispersed into the throng.

  Moments passed as the crowd grew agitated. The bullhorn noise increased.

  Louder gunshots spat from the front of the line, and a chill spread from Moe’s gut to the rest of his body. His hand shook where it rested on the wheel.

  “Reckon that’s from one of the military folks?” Gator asked.

  “I’m former military,” Moe said, staring at the crowd. “Those were just warning shots. The .50 caliber rounds will be next.”

  “Oh, no,” Gator said.

  “Oh, no is right,” Moe replied as his chest tightened. “Stand by, Gator. Things are about to get ugly.”

  Moe didn’t want to be right. He hoped beyond all hope he was wrong. He watched the events unfold as if he were sitting on his couch back home, viewing live news coverage of a war on television.

  The crowd grew more agitated. Someone yelled through the bullhorn. Several police sirens chirped in warning. Moe gripped the wheel as a single shot rang out, and then another. Three rifle bursts sounded, and the crowd pressed forward toward the line of cruisers and the Humvee.

  As if it had been waiting to bite, the .50 caliber gun ripped off a long line of rounds, and the crowd flew into motion. Some scattered to the sides of the road while mobs rushed the line. The second .50 caliber weapon blasted from the other side of the expressway, cross-firing into the mob of people. Rounds penetrated to the back of the crowd and chewed people to bits.

  Moe closed his eyes with the images of spraying blood and flying body parts imprinted on the backs of his eyelids.

  “You see what I’m seeing, Wildcat?”

  “Yeah,” Moe whispered with his mouth to the CB.

  And then the .50 caliber weapon fire stopped. Moe lifted his head from the wheel and saw people had overrun the Humvees. The victors stood on top, jumping up and down and shaking their fists in the air. Several vehicles pushed forward through the scattering crowd, running them over in a sudden surge of rolling steel.

  A van crashed between two police cruisers and pushed its way through. Two more vehicles followed, and soon, a steady stream of traffic flowed between them, heading east.

  “I’m going through,” Gator said, and Moe watched as Gator’s truck ticked forward a few feet. “Wish me luck.”

  “Wait, Gator. There are people up there.”

  “People or not. I’m not sticking around to see where this goes.”

  The .50 caliber gun fired again, and Moe peered at the armored Humvee on his side of the expressway. The person manning the weapon had turned it toward the ramp and was firing on police and military positioned there.

  “That’s not good,” Moe said to himself as police on the ramp returned small arms fire. Their rounds wouldn’t dent the Humvee, and the person could sit up there and fire with abandon until they ran out of ammunition.

  The flow of traffic continued around the armored vehicle, though people passing through came in direct line of fire between the police and the .50 caliber weapon.

  Vehicles plowed into the cruisers on the left, opening a second way through. Cars and trucks surged around the Humvee on that side, keen to avoid getting caught in the crossfire.

  “I’ll knock that Hummer out of the way,” Gator announced.

  Moe watched as the big rig pulled forward, cars surging around it as Gator headed straight for the Humvee.

  “Negative, Gator,” Moe called into the CB. “Stay where you are.”

  Gator didn’t reply, and his rig picked up speed.

  The traffic in front of Moe inched forward. He situated his feet on his pedals, pushed the brake and clutch, and started his truck. The rig roared to life and settled into a quiet purr.

  Having enormous trucks, Moe and Gator would be perfect targets. Still, Moe eased his rig forward. He didn’t have to run the gauntlet, only be closer to the front when the combatants ran out of ammo.

  “Hold back, Gator,” Moe called into his CB. If anything, Gator’s truck picked up speed.

  “Negative, Wildcat,” Gator said, his voice firm with determination. “The nuts have ousted their jailers and taken control of the asylum. We need to break through.”

  Gator aimed his rig toward the back end of the Humvee. The military vehicle was heavy, though the tractor truck should have no problem moving it aside. The person sitting in the turret spotted Gator coming, and they turned the weapon on him, pressing down on the trigger and firing into Gator’s face. The big rig shuddered as the massive rounds tore through the cab, and the truck drifted to the left as it picked up speed.

  Gator’s truck nipped the back of the Humvee and jolted it aside before rolling down the expressway. Judging by how it angled out of control, Gator was hurt.

  “Gator, you there? Gator?”

  When the man didn’t respond, Moe’s jaw clenched, and he sped his truck to up thirty miles per hour. By then, traffic had thinned, and some drivers passed him. Moe gained speed, shooting for the gap on the left. His truck vibrated as bodies rolled beneath his wheels, and he tried not to imagine some of them still being alive.

  The person behind the .50 caliber gun looked like a normal man wearing a button up shirt, though the deteriorating situation had turned him into a violent killer. He swung the machine gun in Moe’s direction.

  Moe threw up his hands to show he wouldn’t ram the man, but the man only grinned and pressed the trigger. Moe closed his eyes and waited to die, but no rounds shattered his front window or chewed up the grill of his truck.

  Raising his eyelids a fraction, Moe saw the man glare at his empty weapon before he reached below for more ammunition. The man had been so intent on firing, he hadn’t realized he’d run out.

  Police fire rained down on the Humvee, and the man ducked as he drew a string of bullets out of an ammunition box and tried to load the weapon.

  Moe aimed his truck toward the back end of the Humvee and shifted into fourth gear. He slammed his foot on the gas as the rig engine roared. The truck slammed into the Humvee hard and rattled the man in the turret. Moe glanced into his right-side mirror as police bullets ripped through the man’s body and left him hanging lifeless on the Humvee’s roof.

  With a satisfied grunt, Moe pulled into the center of the road and joined the traffic flow. He glanced out his side mirror as he passed Gator’s truck where it had gone off the road and crashed into the low brush. The truck driver lay back in his seat covered in blood, and Moe closed his eyes and whispered a Navajo prayer for the dead.

  Chapter 23

  Moe Tsosie, Jack Rabbit Road, Arizona

  Five hours later, Moe took the exit ramp for Jack Rabbit Road and pulled to a stop in a squeal of brakes at the bottom of the hill. The area looked deserted, and that suited Moe just fine. It beat waiting at another police-enforced roadblock like he had at Holbrook, forcing Moe to turn around
and head west on I-40 back to Exit 269. Expressway traffic remained manic in both directions as travelers searched for ways home or wallowed in the furious tides of a broken humanity.

  He’d seen a dozen fights and more car wrecks than he could count. Hundreds of people squatted in makeshift shelters on the side of the expressway next to their broken-down vehicles. In the meantime, cell phone service had failed. No, fate would not deliver him home to Chinle that evening, so he might as well have a beer and relax at one of the oldest hangouts on the route.

  He took a left and passed beneath I-40 to run smack into Old US-66. A tourist trading post lay far down the road on his left, but Moe sought a different establishment. He pulled his rig straight across US-66 and rattled onto a dirt road that guided him past a smattering of broken-down homes and overgrown brush.

  The road ended in the cracked blacktop parking lot of a place called Coyote’s. Old gas pumps rested in the middle of the lot, covered by a dilapidated awning and half-hung gas sign. The equipment hadn’t worked in years, and the tanks had long ago run dry.

  All Moe wanted was company and a quiet place to spend a few hours. He parked his rig next to the only other truck in the lot, an old blue Mack R Series. Moe turned off his rig and climbed out, his back and legs aching from hours of hard driving and an uncomfortable night of sleep on his mattress base.

  Coyote’s was a single-story tavern of the worst sort. Its dilapidated exterior begged for a fresh paint job and siding replacement, though it used to be a deep gray color.

  The Coyote’s sign glowed with dirty light, and Moe noticed a collection of dead bugs lying on the bottom. With a fond sigh, Moe pulled open the front door and entered.

  The air inside was the same temperature as outside except for the additional aroma of Marlboros and stale beer. Its interior decor resembled something plucked out of a 1970s movie, complete with wood-paneled walls, old neon beer signs, and a deer head hanging above the pool room entrance.