by David Lovato
“Hello? Hello, is there anyone in there?” I shouted, banging on the door. No one responded, and the door was locked. After more attempts, it was no use. No one was there, and if there was someone, they were dead. I walked out to my car, and got in next to Mary.
“We should have left last night,” I whispered to Mary as she took her final breaths. “This is all my fault.” Mary looked at me, tears streaming down her cheeks, and smiled a little. I was confused how she was able to smile even through the pain and the situation.
“It’s not your fault,” she said. “Don’t beat yourself up about it.” She winced.
“But it is,” I said. My eyes began to tear up as I looked at Mary’s strawberry blonde hair, some of it matted down from sweat, and blood, and vomit.
“I love you, and that will never change,” she said. I leaned in and kissed her for a few seconds. I let out a loud sob when her lips stopped moving, when her body fell back against the car door. I slumped over and let out several cries, and felt the tears come down. My eyes burned from it all, and I wanted to die. I wanted to meet my wife in a better place.
I decided to drive to the church. There was nowhere else I felt safe.
V: The Church, and My Finale
I pulled up to the church in silence, and stopped in front of the steps. The cool breeze greeted my face when I stepped out of the car with my bag. In the back seat was a black box which contained my typewriter. I took them both up the steps to the front doors and into the church.
The windows were covered, the candles were lit, and something was hanging from the rafters directly in front of the altar. It was the body of Reverend Danthers, and I gasped. More tears rained down my face.
I set everything up in the first pew, to the left of the altar. This is my last big project. Here is my final adventure, this one being the only non-fiction tale I have to tell. I filled these papers with what happened, and it hurts to relive the most recent events, but it’s more of a giant weight off my shoulders. It took some doing to settle down from the sight of Danthers’s body hanging from the very rafters May Farmington had hung from, over two hundred years ago. But when I did, I cut his body down. I gave him and my wife each a proper burial in the church cemetery. I found a shovel in a shed, and I spent hours burying them. The creatures were not very plentiful, but when I was spotted, I was able to easily kill them, with either my gun or the shovel.
While I figure it would be of some interest to you, Beloved Reader, what became of me, I will spare you the details. That’s not important. Not to mention that as I’m writing this, I am still alive. I can’t live like this though, so just know that since you are reading this, I am gone. I’ll just leave it there. I think you’ve suffered enough in your experiences. Beloved Reader, I thank you again for reading this. Please be careful out there, and let your loved ones know that you love them as often as you can.
Life is more fragile than the thinnest glass. It can end as quickly as it begins, especially in these times.
Farewell,
Steven Fletcher
June 2013
****
The writer stacked all of his pages in the order in which they belonged, and set them on the podium at the altar. That seemed as fitting a spot as any. After that he went outside to his car and drove down the street. It felt like hours to get to the hill and the police barricade. The same cop was sitting in his car. When he saw the writer, he got out and yelled at him to go back. The writer got out of his car and looked at the cop with sullen eyes. Tears began to form in the corners and flow down his cheeks. He didn’t even hear the officer’s gruff voice.
The writer’s head bowed, and he said a small prayer. When he looked up, the officer looked at him, baffled. He took a step forward, and the officer cocked his gun, the barrel pointed directly at his face. He barely made a sound when the loud gunshot rattled off the mountains. The bullet hit the writer right between the eyes, and his hair rustled upward as he collapsed to the hot concrete, dead. Blood dripped down the pavement, and ran toward the pretty little town of Belford.
Sanctuary
It dawned on Garrett that something was very, very wrong.
He sat in his car in his driveway, jaw agape, watching the scene play out in his rearview mirror. His neighbor from across the street lay dead on the front lawn, the man’s wife above him. She had torn open the man’s stomach, then reached inside and began pulling things out and tossing them into the air. Blood rained upon the lawn, the man’s entrails came down like streamers at a party. Garrett was trying his hardest not to throw up.
The woman noticed Garrett in his car. She started to walk toward him, blood staining her face, hands, and bath robe. Garrett realized she was coming for him, put the car into reverse, and stomped on the pedal.
The car hit the woman and she rolled over the top, down the windshield, and onto the ground. Garrett stopped the car just short of his neighbor’s shredded remains.
The woman twitched. Garrett shifted gears then hit the gas again. He ran over her crumpled body, this time both sets of wheels went over her. Garrett stopped again in his own driveway. The woman did not move.
He thought of his wife, Marice. She had stayed home as Garrett went grocery shopping. Listening to the radio Garrett had heard reports of people acting strange, even violent, for no apparent reason. He had no idea what it was talking about until he had reached his own driveway and seen his neighbor rush out of his house, trip, and be jumped upon and torn apart by his wife.
Garrett prayed Marice was okay. He got out of the car, not worried about the groceries. He walked up his steps and to his door.
Marice had never been violent. She literally would never harm a fly. So this thought that maybe she had suffered a similar fate, had become a victim of whatever it was that was going on apparently all over the country, was far back in Garrett’s mind.
But it was there.
Garrett heard nothing from inside the house. He opened the door. It was unlocked, as usual. He looked inside and saw nothing but darkness. By now, Marice was normally upstairs, bathing and getting into her pajamas, ready to spend the night with Garrett watching TV or playing a game or just sitting and talking. Just like they’d always done.
“Marice?” Garrett said. He heard nothing. Or perhaps he heard the floor upstairs creak. He wasn’t sure.
The stairs were forward, through the entryway, and to the left. Garrett cautiously stepped forward.
“Marice, are you home? Are you all right?”
As he passed the stairs, Marice jumped, or more like she just fell onto him. She let out a strange groan, and plunged her face downward.
“Marice, what the hell are you doing?” Garret said. Then he saw her eyes.
The thought from the back of his mind moved forward. Far forward.
Garrett fought back the tears. He tried one more time to call her back from wherever it was Marice, the real Marice, the kind and beautiful and harmless Marice, had gone. Her gnashing teeth told Garrett that this was not possible.
Garrett shoved her off of him. As soon as he got to his feet Marice was heading toward him. Garrett looked around for something with which to defend himself. He found nothing. He lifted his hands, and looked at them.
Marice leapt upon him. He caught her throat in his hands. What had always been a silky, warm neck was now cold and hard. Garrett squeezed.
Even as he restricted the air from her lungs, as he crushed the life out of her, she showed no sign of relent. Her eyes told Garrett they wanted nothing but his death. Up until they began to shut, her hand lowered, and the gurgling noises she was making subsided, there was nothing to her but death.
Garrett wasn’t sure how long things stayed that way: Marice on top of him, his hands wrapped around her throat to the point where his fingers were near interlacing, still squeezing, her not moving at all. But it was far too long. He cried out in pain. He forced himself to let go, to shove her off of him, still not wanting to believe this, tears falling from his eye
s.
He sat on his living room couch for a moment, trying as best as he could to collect himself. The door was wide open, and after a few minutes, he realized he was looking out through it. In the distance, over the tops of the hills and houses, he could see a church.
There was nothing left here, and there was no time to lose.
Garrett went outside, got into his car, and drove. He didn’t care about the speed limit. He ran over another crazy person on his way. Outside of the church was a small group of people, including an older woman. He slowed as he passed them.
“Everybody get inside the church!” he said. “Barricade the doors and windows! We have to create a safe place.” The people looked at each other. “Quickly! I’m going to get us some weapons. I’ll be back soon. And spread the word!” He sped off, unsure of whether they would actually do it.
Garrett stopped the car in the fire lane outside of Wal-Mart. There were people around, but not many. For that he thanked God.
There were people inside Wal-Mart, and it was difficult to tell who was and wasn’t crazy. Garrett shut them all out, he avoided everyone. He ignored the cries for help from the people attempting to claw their way out from under hoards of crazies. And it hurt.
He headed for the gun section. There was no one there. Garrett grabbed a tire iron as he passed an endcap and pulled a duffel bag from the back wall. He smashed the glass of the gun case. Garrett started stuffing the bag full of guns and ammunition. He’d been to the firing range a few times, usually with friends, and though everyone said he knew his way around a gun, he’d never owned one. He filled the bag, ran back to the wall and grabbed another one, brought it back, and began filling it. Then he heard a voice from behind him.
“What the fuck! Looting! At a time like this!”
Garrett glanced back at the man standing behind him.
“There are survivors gathering in a nearby church,” he said. “I’m getting these to defend them with. We’re setting up a safe zone while we still can.”
“I’ll fucking bet you are,” the man said.
“Look around you. Something isn’t right. I don’t think now is the time to argue about stealing.” Garrett continued to fill the bag, and decided to leave some space for food.
“You look around. I don’t see any white guys looting.”
Garrett turned to the man with a nine millimeter pistol in his hand. He opened a box of ammunition and loaded it. The man’s eyes grew wide. Garrett offered the man the gun. He looked from the gun to Garrett, realized he was not being threatened, and then took it.
“You just did,” Garrett said. “You’re welcome to join us. Come to the church. I’m going to get food.”
Garrett left the man standing there, not sure what would happen. He passed a crazy person, prepared a handgun, and shot it. It fell to the ground. He went to the food section and started filling his bag. Behind him a bloodied survivor ran past, screaming. A few seconds later two crazies hobbled by in their slow pursuit. Garrett continued filling his bag.
“What do you think you’re doing?” a man with a mustache asked. He was wearing a blue apron. It had big white letters on it: How can I help you?
“I’m gathering supplies for a safe zone,” Garrett said.
“Not from my store.”
“This isn’t anyone’s store. Nothing belongs to anyone. Not anymore.”
“You’d like to think so, wouldn’t you? You criminal types always do. The first sign of trouble, and it’s the end of the world, which means nothing to you except for free reign.”
Garrett clenched his fist. He was trying to focus on the task at hand.
“I don’t think this is going to just blow over,” he said.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d love to feel like you have a right to break the law! To feel like you deserve to steal the things you were too lazy to work for, huh?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Garrett said. He zipped up his duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder.
“If you don’t put that shit back, I’ll go get a gun, and I’ll shoot your nigg—”
Garret turned, grabbed the man by the throat, and lifted him off of the ground. He looked straight into the man’s terrified eyes.
“I said shut the fuck up.”
He dropped the man, who collapsed to the ground, coughing. Garrett started to walk away.
“Come back here, you thief!”
Garrett shut it out. It didn’t matter anymore. The man grew frantic.
“Hey! Hey, someone! This man just assaulted me! Hey!”
His whining grew distant. Garrett made his way out of the Wal-Mart and got back into his car.
The group that had been outside the church was now working frantically, both inside and out, to barricade the doors and windows. They saw that Garrett had returned, and they flocked to him. He handed out some of the guns he’d brought.
“Let’s keep watch for each other while we reinforce the doors. Did anyone try to spread the word?”
“Someone left in a car with a megaphone,” someone said.
“Perfect,” Garrett said. The older woman he’d seen earlier approached him.
“God thanks you for what you’ve done for these people,” she said.
“Did He tell you that?”
“This is the End of Days. We are the Chosen, the rest are demons. We are here to defend ourselves from them. We are being tested. You’ve created for us a sanctuary, and God thanks you.”
“Whatever you say.” Garrett went inside and started to reinforce the back doors. He didn’t believe a word of it; sanctuary wasn’t a church and it wasn’t a gun. His sanctuary had been Marice, and she was gone forever, but at least he could provide respite for people who still had a chance.
A few days later, after things had gotten stranger both inside and outside of the church, Garrett heard tires screech. He rushed to the window at the top of the church, opened it, and saw a car approaching. Garrett began waving his arms.
“Go around back! Go around to the back!”
The car turned and headed for the back of the church. Garrett rushed out of the room, down the stairs, and headed toward the back door.
Death’s Robe
Elliot heard the sound of trains pulling in and out of the station. He sat quietly with a notebook open to the third page, which was halfway full of doodles of varying size and shading. Some were quite simple, like a little man waving out at the viewer, in this case Elliot. Some were much more complex and seemed to jump right off the page, reaching with whatever appendage the drawing was given. In one case, there was a mangy-looking old man. He looked like he was missing patches of skin, and his clothes were loose and torn. He reached forward, attempting to grab the nearest object with a hand that had missing and mangled fingers.
Elliot worked on another drawing as he sat waiting for his train. It was a piece he had put a combined two hours into, but every pencil scratch, every smudge meant something. This wasn’t just something for his entertainment. It was for the person who’d stolen his heart, and nothing would stop him from finishing this masterpiece. Beth’s birthday would be a few days away, and he wanted to surprise her with it.
It was an abandoned city. There were no cars or people. The sky was colorful. It was not a rainbow, but more like a child had been painting with multiple colors and had mixed them all together. The buildings were dark and decrepit. It was a dark but beautifully stark image he’d seen many times before, and he just had to put it down on paper. The world needed to see what Elliot had seen.
The train station Elliot was waiting in was a small and very old one in the heart of Pennsylvania, in Centre County. He sat on a wooden bench that was once shining with a fresh coat of red paint, but was now faded and cracked and falling off to be blown away by the howling wind.
Elliot continued scraping his pencil over the paper’s surface. The sky of the drawing had been done at his home, it was an exact replica of the sky in his dream. He had sprayed it with a fixative sp
ray to prevent the detail from smearing, so he could continue to work on the drawing with peace of mind.
The wind began to calm down as a train pulled up in front of Elliot. He checked his ticket and looked at the time. Hanging to the right of him was a wide, round clock. It had a metal exterior, the paint falling off of it as well, and the glass plating held a yellow tint. Beneath the numbers were bold, in fancy italics. The old clock chimed at the quarter after mark as the train’s wheels squealed with the weight of the cars riding on them. The train finally came to a complete stop, and passengers began exiting down to the platform.
This was not his train, and he was slightly relieved, as he still had his art supplies spread out all over. He smiled as he retrieved the pencil from his lap. His train would not arrive for another hour. The sound of children’s laughter and adults conversing did not disturb Elliot from his work, it actually helped him. He had always been good at focusing. His hand flowed confidently across his paper.
Soon, as the wind died down to a warm flutter, Elliot began to sweat. It rolled down his face, but Elliot wiped it off with the back of his hand to avoid the drops falling onto his drawing. He pulled a duller pencil from a small tattered bag. He loved the sound rounder-tipped pencils made against paper. He used the dull pencil to pave the dark streets of the unpopulated city. The pencil was also used to fill in the white spaces of buildings, and as he moved on to those, another train pulled in to the station.
Elliot looked up from his work, saw the old clock to his right, and chuckled at how fast time had gone by. He gathered all his drawing supplies in an old worn rectangular suitcase. It had been used in the early part of the 20th century by his grandfather and was covered with various stickers from visits to many places around the globe. Elliot hadn’t been to many of those places; he mostly liked how the suitcase looked.