SHATTER: Epoch’s End Book 2: (A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller Series) (Epoch's End)

by Mike Kraus

  Heart heavy, he stood and ambled back to the others, both of them wearing expressions of trepidation as they watched him approach.

  “They’re still in there.” He wiped dripping moisture from his mouth and chin, swallowing back an uneasy nauseousness that was rising in his stomach, “but they didn’t make it.”

  Sam hugged herself, and Jerry swayed on his feet, staring at the wrecked vehicle, Tom leaning in so the man could throw his arm over his shoulder and continue down the road. With the pall of death looming fresh in their minds, Tom focused on staying positive. It was hard while in a crouched posture, but he forced himself to pat Sam on her shoulder with his free hand and shoot her a smile. She responded with a miserable stare, though a faint smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she, too, tried to focus on the positives over the negatives.

  They were passing through an intersection when Jerry suddenly shifted his weight and drew Tom to a stop, standing for a long moment as he panted for breath, swallowing and looking around.

  “You need a break?” Tom shifted Jerry's weight with concern.

  “No... No break.” He gasped and winced between his words. “W... we need to go left here. House is...is right down the street.”

  Tom turned toward the street in question, and the trio shambled along with slightly more energy in their lurching steps, though as they entered the neighborhood, they slowed once again at the sight of the houses, somehow in worse shape than the ones closer to the waterfronts. Almost every roof had been skimmed off, bare two-by-fours stuck up from frames, insulation hung over the edges in wet tufts and parts of the brick and siding walls had collapsed, some smashed by heavy limbs or toppled by saturated foundations.

  Nearly every window in every house lay shattered, only one or two here and there still intact and, like out on the main thoroughfare, the streets were nearly empty of cars and trucks. Those remaining had their windshields broken with dents and scraped paint on almost every surface while some had been pushed out of driveways into the middle of the road by the storm surges. The remnants of larger trees dotted the landscape, their once-proud forms reduced to splintered stumps and scattered branches and bodies.

  “This way,” Jerry was somber as they hobbled toward an intersection, nodding toward the right-hand street, Tom gladly obliging as he angled them in the right direction. A few homes on the block had escaped damage, but one had been hit especially hard, a ranch-style home off to the right, cracked open like an egg. A massive tree had fallen and split the frame longways, the sides bulging outward in a displacement of brick and wood.

  Without warning, Jerry jerked away from Tom’s grip, crying out in anguish, tripping, and stumbling toward the home. He got his feet beneath him and sprint-limped full-on while clutching his wounded arm to his side. Tom shot a glance at his daughter before sprinting after Jerry, his legs heavier than lead, his foot throbbing and his lower back feeling like stretched taffy as he tried to catch up.

  “Jerry, wait!” he called, catching his elbow at the bottom of the driveway as gently as he could, drawing him to a halt as Sam ran up beside them, gasping clouds of mist. Jerry jerked out of Tom’s grip, hysterical as he touched his hand to his head and then pointed up the driveway at a maroon Toyota SUV, eyes wide, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

  “What is it, Jerry?"

  “T-that’s my mom’s car.” His voice ticked up to a frantic pitch, his expression a mix of dread and terror. “Her only car. She didn’t evacuate… so where is she?!”

  Tom put his hand on Jerry’s shoulder and stared at the vehicle. Judging by the debris that had settled on the roof, it didn’t appear to have been driven in a while.

  “I’ll check it out,” Tom said firmly, giving a knowing nod in his daughter's direction. “You stay here. Sam, watch him.”

  “Got it,” Samantha replied as she took Jerry’s elbow with one hand and wrapped her arm around his waist. The young man’s expression hovered between curiosity and terror, cooperating only because he didn’t want to face what was inside.

  Tom walked up the driveway, tapering off to a light shower, though the sky still loomed gray and angry above, wind tousling his hair as he surveyed the damage. Approaching slowly, watching each step for any dangers, he approached the front door, moving up the pathway to the porch as he looked for a way in. The home was an older model ranch-style with a long profile and flat-shaped roof. Because it didn’t have a second floor, the tree hadn’t been slowed, making the impact to the first floor that much more catastrophic.

  The massive oak had fallen from right to left across the entire length of the house, leaving the place in shambles, the front entryway having collapsed longways, bulging into a sideways U-shape. The door remained on two hinges, though the wood was twisted and splintered and over the garage and bedrooms, the oak’s crushing weight had squeezed out pieces of the roof framing. Curtains lay draped over two-by-fours and drywall slabs and insulation hung wet and droopy from the eaves, like the insides of squished doughnut, bits of it scattered on the ground amidst the bricks that had broken free and landed in the shrubs and flowerbeds.

  Tom stepped off the path and moved left into the yard, searching for a safer entry point than the perilous-looking front entrance. The living room seemed to have suffered the least amount of damage, where a tree branch had punched through the window, but otherwise the area around it looked relatively intact. He bent and picked up a loose brick from the flowerbed and approached the glass-jagged frame, carefully smashing out the larger shards and running the brick along the edges, clearing the rest. He took off his jacket and placed it across the windowsill, pulling himself up and lying with his stomach on the framework, face buried in the dripping leaves and offshoots. He slid inside, reached out, and grabbed a branch to avoid touching the floor and raking his fingers through broken glass.

  Using the branch for leverage, Tom wiggled his body inch-by-inch into the room. Shimmying forward, arms straining to keep himself upright, he cocked one knee and dragged his foot inside to place it on the floor, then he pulled the other leg through and stood in what remained of a living room. The massive tree trunk rested a few feet off the ground and the only way past it was to crawl. Grabbing his jacket off the sill, he placed it on the floor and ducked into the wet, dripping leaves once more.

  Even on his hands and knees, there wasn’t much room, so he laid down and wiggled beneath the trunk. A mossy smell mingled with the rich bark scent, and several fat drops of rain fell cold on his neck as the tree creaked and groaned above him, sending his pulse racing at the thought of it collapsing on him and snapping his spine.

  Tom quickened his pace, inching forward on his elbows, using his knees to help propel himself through as he kept his shoulders hunched and face turned away to avoid the still-settling debris. Finally, he crept free of the hulking presence and stood in a middle of the living room, beneath what had been a vaulted ceiling. Taking out his flashlight, Tom flicked it around at the ramshackle surroundings. The old-style, flower-print wallpaper hung in swaths, shredded by branches and collapsed framework. The tree had fallen just left of the fireplace, but the force of its impact had crumbled the mantle and surrounding bricks, sending old picture frames flying to the floor where they rested on the filthy hardwood in a soup of rain, mud, and sand.

  Tom’s shoes crunched through the glass and debris as he stooped and picked up one of the pictures, turning it over to let the busted shards fall to the floor, then flipping it back. A man and woman in their forties stood on the side of a forest trail in some remote woodsy setting, a stone bridge looming in the background, a famous archway in what Tom thought might be Kentucky. A teenage Jerry stood atop the bridge, wearing a superman shirt with his hands raised into the air.

  Tom smiled and returned the picture to the cracked mantle, then he bent and retrieved more. They mostly featured Jerry over the years, the older couple prominent in them as well, the family resemblance uncanny. The young man had inherited his mother’s eyes
and hair, but his smile matched his father’s. There were pictures of him with what Tom assumed to be cousins, all taken at amusement parks or vacations and he returned the last photo and turned a circle in the room.

  Debris covered a wood-framed couch to his right, its dirt-encrusted cloth cushions depicting a home style scene with wagon wheels and fall foliage. To his left stood the open dining room, a table with a floral tablecloth leaning at an awkward angle due to the partially caved-in floor. End tables had tumbled over, old lampshades resting in the puddles and a curio cabinet had fallen onto the table, its precious glassware spilled out and shattered, shards mixed with the dirty water and sand on the floor.

  "Hello?" Tom called out timidly, "Is anyone here?" Nothing made a sound but for the wind outside and the dripping of water on the rugs and hardwood, so he continued on, preparing to venture farther into the house. After retrieving his jacket from the floor and shaking off the debris, he slung it over his shoulder and circled the couch, half-limping as his spine loosened, entering a hallway that ran parallel to the fallen tree. The top right corner of the passage was ruptured, branches and wood having broken through to soften the drywall and send pieces of it to the floor. Ducking as he proceeded, Tom shined his flashlight at the floor to avoid stepping on anything sharp. He started to shout louder, about to use Jerry's mother's name, but shook his head when he realized he’d never gotten it.

  “Hello? My name is Tom. I’m looking for Jerry’s mother! Hello?!” No one responded, so he moved deeper.

  The tree had demolished the rooms on the right side of the hallway, making them impossible to open. Doors lay crushed, their frames splintered, the trunk’s bulk blocking any chance of entry. The rooms on the left had avoided the worst of the damage, though the ceilings had partially collapsed, leaving gaps for rain to drip down the walls. He found a ruined sewing room with soggy floors and drooping plaster, an old-style sewing machine resting in the center with a rack of wet clothes leaning against it, felt, fleece, and flannel materials lying piled in bins full of water.

  He backed into the hall again and moved forward, calling out, “Hello? My name is Tom McKnight. I’m looking for Jerry’s mother. Is anyone here?”

  Again, no reply.

  He swallowed as the prospects of finding her alive grew dimmer, though he gripped the handle of the next door down and pushed it in, watching the frame to make sure it wasn't about to collapse in on him. The flashlight beam danced across a massive table that occupied most of the space where, on its surface, a set of miniature train tracks made a loop. A small town hugged the train line, complete with a general store, farmsteads, a municipal building, and a passenger station while in the far corner stood a hillside, its face dotted with cabins and homes. Rain dribbled through the sewing room’s partially collapsed ceiling, drenching the tiny town in a deluge, flooding the tracks and dripping down the hill like a river. If the temperature continued to grow colder, it would soon become a wintry scene with everything covered in frost and ice.

  Farther along the hall, he found an empty bathroom and guest bedroom before reaching the end of the passage, Tom’s stomach giving a twist as his eyes tried to penetrate the gloom. His flashlight beam fell on three suitcases scattered in the hall, one of them shut with clothes sticking out. The door lay open, but when he guided his light inside, all he saw was the bulk of the tree's body and more branches and leaves.

  Must be the master bedroom. Tom bent forward and brushed away offshoots and dangling leafage as he passed through the doorway, guiding his light around, poking into the darkest spots. The room had taken some of the worst damage of the entire house, and it was difficult to make out anything.

  “Hello? Jerry’s mother? Hello?”

  Falling to his hands and knees, Tom moved deeper into the room, peering directly beneath the massive trunk where it breached the floor. His beam abruptly caught a pale, wet arm in the darkness where it lay trapped beneath the tree’s bulk and Tom jerked back, slamming so hard against the wall that he knocked the wind from his lungs. Gasping, eyes wide, he stared at the shaking foliage he’d just disturbed, hoping what he had seen was some kind of optical illusion, his mind playing tricks on him in the darkened, cold house.

  After catching his breath, he fell forward again, crawling back to the same spot, reluctantly guiding his light to where he had seen the arm, forcing himself to look. It was, indeed, a human arm, moist with deep bruising around the elbow where the blood had pooled, sticking up and outward, as if the full body lay beneath the tree trunk. The hand was opened wide, a silver band on the ring finger and the nails were painted pink. Bile rising in his throat, Tom swallowed again and whipped the flashlight beam from the arm down the length of the trunk.

  He regretted it instantly. Ten feet along the tree’s girth, near the wall to his right, his light fell on a leg sticking out of the rubble. It was horribly twisted, positioned like the person had taken a direct hit from behind and was pushed through the drywall, ending up roughly on their belly. The leg wore a pair of jeans and men’s size eleven sneaker, the number printed large on the rubber sole, bloodstains still on the wall and pooled around the body, only partially washed away by the incoming rain and seawater.

  Tom’s gut churned, and he turned away, reeling backwards, crawling and then staggering to his feet, scrambling along the hallway, diving into a bathroom where he crouched over the toilet and heaved his stomach contents into the bowl. Why he'd felt the urge to get to the bathroom before voiding the contents of his stomach, he didn't know, but he knelt gasping and panting, eyes shut as the acrid stench of what he’d produced threatened to trigger another flood. Falling backwards against the tub, he caught his breath, spitting water, blood racing in his temples. The sight of Jerry’s mother and the unknown dead man stuck to the backs of his eyelids, and he shook his head to try and cast off the thoughts.

  After a moment he gazed up at the half-collapsed ceiling and dripping walls and he shifted, gathering himself, wiping the saliva from his chin. With his wits gathered, Tom rose to his feet and walked back to the bedroom, crouching inside, looking for Jerry’s mother without shining the light directly on her. Tom caught a glimpse of the pale arm and delicate hands and he closed his eyes, remembering the smiling woman in the living room photos.

  “You have to do this,” he growled to himself. “You have to.”

  He slowly reached up and put his fingers on the wedding band, giving a gentle tug, but it didn’t immediately come off. He tried again, squeezing the ring a little harder and he brushed her cold, clammy skin, an involuntary grimace stretching his face. Water dripped down the discolored flesh to flow over his hand as he shook and jerked the wedding band, but it seemed stuck in a deep groove on her finger, partially due to bloat and partially because it had probably been years since she had last taken it off.

  Twisting and tugging, the ring suddenly slipped free and Tom grasped it in his fist as he backed up, saying a silent prayer for the two deceased. Then he retreated from the tangle of leaves and branches and stood in the bedroom entryway, bracing himself for what was to come next.

  Chapter 7

  USS South Carolina, North Atlantic

  “Dive to three thousand,” Captain Arkin says, watching the screens on the control panel wall.

  Deck Officer Stanski echoes the captain’s command. “Pilot, make your depth three thousand, twenty degree down bubble, two-thirds.”

  Arkin watches the gauges as they descend through the murky depths, twisting down toward the anomaly in a corkscrew fashion. Water and a thin trail of bubbles zip past the high-definition cameras mounted on the bow’s photonic masts, their external lights penetrating a few hundred yards into the encroaching darkness, enough to capture detailed images. External lights and cameras are not normal equipment on a military submarine, and the thick wads of hastily-laid wires are a testament to the unusual nature of their situation.

  “What’s our approach?”

  “Coming in from the south, Captain,” Stanski says.


  “What’s it like out there?”

  The Chief Engineer, Melissa Trent, replies. “We’re picking up mild turbulence as we approach the anomaly. Hull integrity remains stable. All systems green.”

  Arkin frowns, thinking of what happened to the research ships when the anomaly burst open earlier that week. While he’s confident his Virginia Class submarine can motor through without batting an eye, he doesn’t want to take any chances.

  “Let’s flatten out and take her in easy.”

  “Aye, sir,” Stanski says. “Pilot, bear due north, zero bubble, one-quarter.”

  The line of bubbles and flying debris slows considerably as the boat plows through the waters at a more deliberate, even pace, the hull vibrations shifting ever so slightly.

  Arkin stares hard at the screen as if his mind could extend from the cameras and see far ahead to the anomaly.

  “Can we clean up the visuals?” he asks.

  “Aye, sir,” Stanski replies. The deck officer plays with some controls on the panel in front of him, and the image clears and lightens. Still, all they see is a deep darkness beneath them, an impenetrable, unsettling nothingness.

  “What’s our depth?”

  “Three-thousand eighty feet, sir.”

  “And they say this anomaly is at five-thousand feet?”

  “Correct.”

  “That’s pushing our maximum depth.”

  While the Navy publicly claimed Arkin's sub could reach eight hundred feet, test missions had attained nearly six thousand. Testing their limits in an area where dozens of vessels have succumbed to one of the strangest underwater events would never be first on his priority list, but orders are orders.