Tales of the Apocalypse: A Dystopian Anthology

by Publishings, BBB

  Tales of the Apocalypse

  A Dystopian Anthology

  Jaya Moon

  Alexis Taylor

  Beth Hendrix

  Aster North

  Joely Sue Burkhart

  There is always hope, even in the darkest of times.

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

  Copyright © 2020 by BBB Publishings. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact BBB Publishings.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition May 2020

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  The Rage

  Chapter One

  About the Author

  Apocalyptic Holidays

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Alexis Taylor

  Other Books by The Author

  Beth Hendrix

  Other Books by The Author

  The Day Death Died

  Shay

  Shay

  Soren

  Chris

  Shay

  Soren

  Shay

  Shay

  Chris

  Soren

  Shay

  Shay

  Chris

  Soren

  Shay

  About the Author

  Other books by Aster North

  On Death’s Wings

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  About the Author

  A Note from BBB

  The Rage

  By

  Jaya Moon

  Chapter One

  The whites of the mangy sheepdog’s eyes are red. Bloody. Damp trails run down the sides of his muzzle. It makes him look like he’s crying, and maybe he would if a dog could shed tears, ’cause he’s got… It.

  I begin to take a step back slowly, at the same time reaching toward my shoulder-slung pack. I’ve gotten sloppy, should have my gun within easy reach, but it’s been days since I’ve seen anyone or anything that was a threat to me.

  I could move with the silence of a breath and as slow as the creep of sand across a desert without a breeze, and it wouldn’t make any difference. The skin of the dog’s muzzle lifts, exposing his inflamed gums and yellow teeth. I know the madness of the rage that comes before death, seen bloody murder in the eyes of people who had forgotten who I was and wanted me dead.

  He snarls.

  I freeze.

  “Hey boy.” I say the words quietly, gently.

  He snarls again, this time extending his head forward as the hackles on his back rise and his eyes narrow.

  “It’s okay, boy. It’s all going to be okay.”

  It’s not okay. It’ll never be okay again.

  His shoulders relax a little, his lips more a quiver than a snarl. Perhaps somewhere in his mind there is a memory of the world we lived in before it all went to shit. But memories are just that, and this new world has no place for caring or compassion.

  I try to be fast as I grab at the open side pocket of my pack where I holster my semi-automatic pistol. In the time it takes my hand to connect with the cold metal grip, the dog charges the short distance between us and leaps. There’s no time to point my gun before his body slams into mine. We fall from his momentum, and the gun flies from my hand as his jaws clamp down on my left arm. I scream above his snarling as he tears at my flesh; I kick uselessly with my legs and beat at his head with one fist. All the while with my right hand I grasp at the ground.

  Where is it? Where is it? There!

  I don’t think. Just lift the gun and fire, hoping to get his head and miss myself. The shot makes my ears ring. The dog yelps and lets go of my arm. That gives me enough time to push him off me and shuffle back crablike, raising dust as I do, before I scramble to my feet.

  Now I’ve got the gun pointed right where I need it to be.

  He looks up at me whimpering, like he’s remembering who he was—a good boy, a pet with a loving family. Like he wishes I would put him on a leash and lead him home.

  I pull the trigger.

  My ears ring again from the sound of the shot.

  For a long time I stand and watch his blood pool on the ground, until I feel something warm running down my hands and dripping from my fingertips. Only then do I notice my arm.

  Fuck. “FUUUUCCCCKKKKKKKKK.”

  * * *

  It’s been two hours since I first slumped against this tree and took up watching the farmhouse and the picture-book two-story red barn with white trim. Normally I’d wait until the sun goes down before I make my move, but I’m not sure how much longer I’ll stay conscious.

  My body is ablaze with fever. Even my eyes seem hot, and there’s a growing pain in my head, like someone is slowly driving a spike through my forehead into the center of my brain. If only it was the dog bite making me feel this way. If it was, I could find a town that hopefully hasn’t been ransacked, get some antibiotics, and be on my way. But my mauled arm is the least of my problems. The bandage I made from an old t-shirt after washing my wound in a stream is as effective as a Band-Aid on a bullet hole. I know in my heart what I’m experiencing is the effects of the virus now pumping through my veins.

  To stop myself from thinking about what that means, I stand and steady myself against the tree with my hand as the world spins, then force myself forward with stumbling steps, moving as fast as I can. The house might be a nicer option—a bed with sheets and blankets, perhaps a tin or two of food someone else hasn’t found, and a little comfort of the mind as I immerse myself in aspects of a life I once had—but there’s always the risk someone’s holed up in there. Despite my impending fate, I still have the will to live until there’s no fight left in me—I still have things I need to do—so I head for the barn.

  When I get to the door, I wrench it open and collapse against the wall after I close the door behind me. It’s late afternoon and shafts of light pierce through the holed roof. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut several times in an attempt to clear my swirling vision while my whole body begins to uncontrollably shake. There is a ladder that leads to a loft, and I can see there’s still straw up there. A safe place to hide. To, hopefully, recover enough to keep going before the rage comes and I forget who I am.

  Navigating the ladder with slow, heavy steps and holding onto the rungs so tightly my knuckles become white, I make it to the loft and fall onto the straw. Once it might have smelled of summer fields. Now it only stinks of too much time. With the last moments of strength I possess, I make myself a nest as my head pounds and my body burns.

  My mouth is so dry. I have water in my pack, but I don’t know where my pack is and I have no strength left to find it.

  I’ve heard sometimes the rage takes over within days. I’ve known some who lasted months. I need it to be the latter.

  I’m not giving up. I’ll find you, Nate.

  * * *

  �
��Sim, look at this.”

  The male voice startles me awake.

  It’s now night. For a moment I’m thankful we’re close to a full moon because at least I can see a little in the darkness, but then I realize if I can see, whoever the voice belongs to can also. My body is still on fire and my mouth dry. The back of my throat tickles and I know I’m going to start coughing if I don’t drink. I reach around, looking for my pack.

  “What is it?”

  That’s a different male’s voice. Two men. I’ll have little chance against them if they find me, especially if they’re infected and they’ve got to the point of the rage.

  I need my pack. Not only for the water, but so I can arm myself with my gun. That’ll give me a fighting chance.

  “Not much in it,” says the first male. “But…look.”

  “Sweet. Any ammo?”

  As the second man speaks, I know what they’ve found. My pack. My gun.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid!

  “Whatcha found?”

  This is a new, deep voice. Three men. I might start crying in fear over my predicament if I hadn’t stopped crying a long time ago. Now the only chance I have is if they don’t find me. If I bury myself deeper in this straw….

  As I wiggle, dust rises and the cough I’ve been trying to suppress bursts from my mouth. I hear the scramble of feet, a clatter of something made from metal. Then there’s a standoff of silence.

  Perhaps they’re as wary of strangers as I am. Perhaps they’ll go away.

  “We’ve got your stuff,” one of them eventually calls out. “We’ve got your gun.”

  I stay quiet as my head throbs with each fast, thundering beat of my heart.

  “We know you’re up there. So let’s get this over with,” calls another in a stern, no-nonsense tone. When I don’t answer he adds, “NOW.”

  There’s only one other thing that might save me from this. “I wouldn’t come up here if I were you. I’ve got it.” I leave that to sink in for a moment before I continue, “Are you going to risk coming near me when I’m infected?”

  One of them laughs.

  God help me, they’re infected too. There’s no way they’d find my diagnosis funny unless they had nothing to fear from it… Unless they think they’re calling my bluff.

  “I’m serious,” I call out.

  My senses are heightened in the near-darkness, and I hear the steps of one of them moving toward the ladder and the thunk of a set of feet that begin to climb up to the loft.

  I’ve seen what the rage does to people. Since I left the place that was a sanctuary to me and my family for three years, I’ve witnessed men and what they do to women. I’ve watched helplessly, hidden, as though I was trying to demonstrate my solidarity, provide solace to them as I witnessed their fate. But every time, I ended up shutting my eyes against it and clamping my hands to my ears, abandoning them. Even then, their pleas and screams got through the tiny spaces between my fingers. Some nights it’s their begging cries that keep me awake.

  I wonder if I’ll finally cry when it happens to me.

  As the footsteps get closer, I try to maneuver myself so I can at least attempt to kick the head of whoever appears at the top of the ladder, maybe make him fall off. Perhaps that will infuriate the other two enough they’ll shoot me before they have time to think about doing anything else.

  I’m sorry, Nate. I’m so sorry.

  It isn’t as easy as I thought it would be. I can hardly move—from fear, from the virus…who knows what is near-paralyzing me—so I’m not ready when the man’s head appears. I’m still trying to pull my legs free of all the straw I’m buried in.

  He holds up a hand and small bright sparks break the darkness with a shick schik shick sound as his thumb flicks the lighter to make a flame. Is he going to burn me alive up here?

  I struggle against the straw again, but I’m going nowhere fast.

  When the flame finally takes, it pools him in light. He looks a bit older than me and his expression isn’t crazed like someone with the rage. It’s gentle, actually. As his lips pull into a line, the light catches his eyes, making them look warm, and they’re not blood-red, which is a common symptom if you have it. In fact, he looks quite normal. Even his hair, blonde and hitched up in a topknot, makes him look normal…like someone I might have hung out with before everything changed.

  “I’m serious. I’m sick,” I say, now thinking perhaps he and his friends don’t have it and they’ve made a mistake getting close to me. “So I’d stay away.” I’d never wish this virus on anyone.

  “I’m Jonah.” He smiles. No teeth, just an upturn of the corners of his mouth. “Are you okay?”

  Now I think he’s plain stupid. Maybe he’s trying to lull me into a false sense of security so I’ll come down, and then he and his mates can have their way with me.

  “I told you! I’ve got it. So no, I’m not fucking okay.”

  He extends the lighter so its flame is closer to me. It goes out for a second, but he lights it again fast.

  “You haven’t got it.”

  “What are you? A doctor?” I say it bitterly. If I wasn’t feeling so sick perhaps I could decipher the game he’s playing, but I feel like I’m going to pass out and just want him to get over and done with whatever he has planned. “I have it. I got bit by a dog with the rage.” I hold up my arm. “If you don’t have it, I suggest you get the fuck away from me.”

  “That rash on your face…”

  Normally I’d be mortified by a guy pointing out my weird acne. It’s a smattering of bumps across my cheeks and the bridge of my nose. It almost looks like a butterfly with its wings unfurled.

  The lighter goes out. When he relights it, he’s moved the flame so it’s now right in front of his own face.

  “What…?” I can’t believe what I’m seeing. There’s no mistaking the bumpy pattern of outstretched butterfly wings.

  “You don’t have it. Neither do I. At some stage you came in contact with someone who had the virus, but your immune system fought it off. You might have felt a little unwell for a day or two, but that was probably it, apart from the rash. That’ll stay. It’s a marker that shows you’re now immune.”

  I try to let his words sink in. I’ve had it and not become ill and eventually been gripped by the rage?

  “And no, I’m not a doctor, but you look real sick, and your arm’s a mess. How many days since that dog bit you?” The lighter goes out.

  Is what he’s saying true? I’m immune? I know I should feel grateful, happy…something…but I don’t feel anything except that I’m on the verge of losing consciousness.

  “How many days?” the guy asks again.

  I don’t know. One? Two? Could be a million. I stopped counting things a long time ago. The days since the virus was first detected. The days since my community’s first case. How many days since my parents contracted it? How long between that and when they died? How many days since…

  “Nate…”

  “That’s your name?”

  I sense him rather than see or hear him climb into the loft and crawl close to me.

  “Is that your name?”

  No, that’s not my name. That’s…

  “Don’t be falling asleep. Stay with me, Nate.”

  Nate, why didn’t you stay with me?

  * * *

  My eyelids flicker until eventually I can keep them open. Pinholes of light illuminate where I lie. It takes me a minute, two, until I remember where I am.

  There’s a tightness around my arm. I lift it slowly and see there’s a clean, bright white bandage around where the dog bit me. That’s when I remember the guy with the lighter.

  My instinct is to sit up quickly, survey my surroundings, and find out where he and the other two are, but when I try, the world spins like I’m on a carnival ride. So I move my head to the right first. A few feet away, curled on his side, is the guy I spoke to—Jonah, was that his name? He’s taken his hair out from his topknot, and a veil of shoulder
-length strands hang across his face, hiding his features. From the faint rise and fall of his chest, I can tell he’s asleep.

  I turn my head in the other direction slowly so I don’t make a sound. There’s a male I haven’t seen before. His blue t-shirt is ripped in places, revealing hints of hard pectorals and defined abs. His biceps, even when relaxed, promise strength I wouldn’t have a chance against.

  My eyes move to his face. His hair is black and raggedly short, like it’s been hacked off with a blunt blade. There’s a scar that starts at his left eye, runs down his cheek and across his lips, ending at the right side of his chin, but there is no mistaking the other mark he has: a butterfly rash.

  What Jonah said comes back to me, and without thinking I whisper, “Immune?”

  The guy’s eyes flash open and he stares at me with wide green orbs in such an intense way I want to run from him. But I know I’m incapable of moving, so I close my eyes, hoping maybe he’ll let me pretend I’m still asleep—that would give me time to think about what to do.

  “Jonah. She’s awake.”

  I hear a deep hum from the other side of me, and Jonah mumbles, “What?”

  “I said, she’s awake.”

  There’s rustling beside me, and I move my head only enough to make out Jonah’s shadow from beyond my closed eyelids. He’s close to me now.