This is the End 3: The Post-Apocalyptic Box Set (8 Book Collection)
Page 108
Lenore ran up the stairs and out of the house, into the mist, crying.
Then she stopped and looked back. The mist eddied, allowing her to see the house clearly for a moment. It was dark and ominous, the power that had been born of a child’s fear infecting the happy place like a malignant tumor.
Lenore squared her shoulders…and went back in. Jason was still down there. Dead, perhaps, but still down there.
She went in, and went down into the basement. Back into Hell.
Cowles was not there. Jason was, though, his mouth bubbling blood as he tried wretchedly to breath. His life was ebbing, his wounds clearly fatal.
"Go," whispered Jason when he saw her. She shook her head.
The sheriff’s eyes closed. She wept.
"So touching," said Cowles, and she spun to see the rapist standing at the foot of the stairs behind her. He flicked an imaginary tear from his eye. "True love conquers all," he said. Then he glanced at Jason’s still form. "Or maybe not."
He touched his crotch, massaging it, and Lenore felt like vomiting. But she didn’t. She held herself back from the precipice of panic into which she wanted to throw herself.
She reached down. Took Jason’s gun from his slack fingers. And she faced her fear.
She tried to raise the gun with trembling hands. The rapist laughed, and as he did his skin went slightly transparent. She caught a glimpse of something reptilian and vile and knew that to be raped by this creature would be far worse than anything she had ever imagined possible. She would be violated not by a human who had lost his humanity, but by a demon that had never had such experience at all.
Then the laugh ended, and Cowles was a man again.
Lenore felt like the gun weighed a thousand pounds. She couldn’t hold it up. She lowered the barrel, and Cowles laughed that hideous, mutated laugh of his. "You can’t do it," he chuckled. "Too afraid. Besides, even if you could," and here he gestured at the gun Lenore held, "no bullets."
Lenore closed her eyes, trembling, waiting for the end to come. She felt Cowles grasp her hand.
But wait! It wasn’t Cowles, it was Jason! She looked down and saw the sheriff put something in her hand. It was the bullet. The golden bullet that he had shown her and Albert earlier: the one that was the remains of the bullets that had killed the sheriff’s family.
She loaded it quickly. She had taken some gun training after her first encounter with Cowles, and though she had never completed the course, she still remembered how to load and chamber the bullet.
She looked back at Cowles. The man was no longer smiling. Something was different.
Lenore aimed the gun at her fear. And she smiled.
"No," whispered Cowles.
"You don’t scare me," she said with disgust. And pulled the trigger.
Light speared out of Cowles as the bullet hit him. He bled, but it was not blood that seeped from the wound. Rather, he oozed light. He fell to the ground, and as he fell Lenore once again glimpsed the creature beneath Cowles; the demon of her fear.
This time, she knew, Cowles would not miraculously resurrect. He was gone.
She threw the gun away and leaned down to Jason. She put his head in her lap and brushed the blood away from his lips. "Don’t leave me," she said.
Jason’s eyes opened. Just a crack, but even as they dimmed Lenore could see that something about the sheriff was different. Something had changed.
He was happy.
"Gotta go," said Jason.
He closed his eyes.
Lenore wept.
And Jason died.
***
TWENTY SEVEN
***
Jason opened his eyes.
He was in the basement still. But Lenore was gone. So was the blood that had been all over the basement just a moment ago. Cowles had disappeared. All was as it had been before any of this nightmare had begun.
But though Lenore and Cowles were gone, Jason was not alone.
Elizabeth and Aaron stood before him.
Jason’s mouth clenched. "You’re not real," he said.
"This time," responded Elizabeth, "we are."
And Jason knew it was true; could tell just by looking at them.
He held his family in his arms.
Dying had been worth it.
He broke down crying, huge sobs that came from deep within him, from a well of feeling that he had covered over on the day that he had buried his wife and son.
"What is it, my love?" asked his wife tenderly. Then, with an impish grin, she asked, "Are you still worried that I’m having that affair with the gardener?"
Jason laughed through his tears, then said, "My fear. It wasn’t losing you. It was dying…and not finding you there waiting for me."
Elizabeth kissed his cheek and held his hand to her heart. "Some things, even fear cannot steal," she said.
Jason smiled and looked down at his son. The boy was still holding the pad and black crayon that he had held on his last day of life. Comprehension dawned in Jason. "The notes…" he said.
Aaaron smiled that beautiful grin of his. "I drawed you letters, Daddy. Drawed everyone letters. Did you like them?"
Jason smiled and hugged his son. "We helped you as much as we could," said Elizabeth. "Sent you the messages, led you to the truth."
"And it worked!" shouted Aaron gleefully.
"Yes, sweetie," said Elizabeth to their boy. "It did." She turned back to Jason. "You saved Lenore. And in so doing, you saved yourself."
She stepped away from Jason then, drawing Aaron with her. Jason reached for them and said, "No, don’t go."
"We have to, Jason," said his wife. "But we’ll be waiting. Have no fear of that."
She smiled, then disappeared. At the same time, Jason cried out as one of the wraiths appeared before him. Then he composed himself as the wraith changed, morphing into someone familiar.
Lenore, he thought, and smiled. He was resting in her lap.
"Don’t go," she was murmuring. "Please don’t go. Don’t go, Sheriff."
He tried to say something, but it only came out as a whisper. Still, it was enough for hope and shock to bloom in Lenore’s eyes.
"What?" she said.
"It’s Jason," he repeated. "Not Sheriff. Just Jason."
Lenore gasped. "You were dead," she said. "You stopped breathing."
"It wasn't time for me to go after all," he whispered. "Don't be afraid of that."
And Lenore laughed and smiled and hugged him.
Jason caught sight of a clock on the corner of the basement.
It was tick-tick-ticking slowly, steadily. The minute and hour hands were visible.
Time had been refound.
He hugged Lenore.
And neither of them was afraid to hold the other.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michaelbrent Collings is a full-time screenwriter and novelist. He has written numerous bestselling horror, thriller, sci-fi, and fantasy novels, including The Colony Saga, Strangers, Darkbound, Apparition, The Haunted, Hooked: A True Faerie Tale, and the bestselling YA series The Billy Saga.
Follow him through Twitter @mbcollings or on Facebook at facebook.com/MichaelbrentCollings.
OTHER NOVELS
BY MICHAELBRENT COLLINGS
THE COLONY SAGA:
THE COLONY: GENESIS (The Colony, Vol. 1)
THE COLONY: RENEGADES (The Colony, Vol. 2)
THE COLONY: DESCENT (The Colony, Vol. 3)
THE COLONY: VELOCITY (The Colony, Vol. 4)
THE COLONY: SHIFT (The Colony, Vol. 5)
THE COLONY OMNIBUS
CRIME SEEN
STRANGERS
DARKBOUND
BLOOD RELATIONS:
> A GOOD MORMON GIRL MYSTERY
THE HAUNTED
APPARITION
THE LOON
MR. GRAY (aka THE MERIDIANS)
RUN
RISING FEARS
YOUNG ADULT AND
MIDDLE GRADE FICTION:
THE BILLY SAGA
BILLY: MESSENGER OF POWERS (BOOK 1)
BILLY: SEEKER OF POWERS (BOOK 2)
BILLY: DESTROYER OF POWERS (BOOK 3)
HOOKED: A TRUE FAERIE TALE
KILLING TIME
Voodoo Plague
Book 1
By
Dirk Patton
Text copyright © 2013 by Dirk Patton
Copyright © 2013 by Dirk Patton
All Rights Reserved
Also By Dirk Patton
Crucifixion: Voodoo Plague Book 2
Rolling Thunder: Voodoo Plague Book 3
Table of Contents
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2............................................................. 11
3............................................................. 15
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5............................................................. 27
6............................................................. 29
7............................................................. 34
8............................................................. 41
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40........................................................... 214
Author’s Note................................................ 217
1
The Boeing 737-800 banked slightly as it aligned for touchdown at Atlanta’s Hartsfield Jackson International Airport, slight turbulence causing a few bumps as we descended the last hundred feet to the tarmac. The elderly woman beside me let out a slow sigh, like an inner tube deflating, as the landing gear thumped onto the runway. My back and ass were sore from the four hour flight from Phoenix to Atlanta with almost another hour in my seat before takeoff. I was in first class and had been the second person to board the plane. Part of me thought I should feel sorry for all the people jammed into coach, but I’ve logged enough hours in the air that I only feel relief that I now have enough miles under my belt that the airline always upgrades me.
As usual for Atlanta, we taxied so long that it felt as if the pilot was trying to drive the plane back to Arizona, but we finally made it to the gate. There was the normal scramble to stand up and be ready to go as soon as the captain turned off the fasten seat belt sign and I quickly made my way down the jet way and started the long, weaving trek through the terminal.
Even though I was absorbed in reading all the emails that were popping up on my phone, it didn’t take long to notice the increased security in the airport. Uniformed police were everywhere. Standing and watching the crowds, walking in pairs, working dogs along the crowded concourses. I was really surprised when I boarded the airport subway train to see a uniformed officer in each car. I fly in and out of Atlanta on business at least three times a month and I’ve never seen a cop in any of the train cars, let alone all of them. They looked alert and intense, not bored like a cop who gets assigned a security detail just because the politicians want things to look good for the public. I was glad to get off the train and exit to fresh air through baggage claim.
The curb was jammed with police vehicles of every stripe. Marked cars, vans and SUVs took up much of the curb space, but there were also a good amount of unmarked vehicles that were too new and shiny to belong to any agency that was not federal. Uniformed officers were very visible as well as a good contingent of unsmiling men wearing suits and small ear pieces. The usual crush of cabs and courtesy vans was continually being waved on, not allowed to stop. It seemed that every traveler was being scrutinized by no less than a dozen pairs of eyes. Glad to make my way to the rental car center without any problems, I checked a car out with minimal effort and got on the road to my hotel in Alpharetta.
Alpharetta is a suburb north of Atlanta, about 45 miles from the airport. My company’s corporate offices are located there and it was my home away from home. Driving north on I-75 from the airport there was again a very large and noticeable police presence. Georgia State Police cruisers were sitting on the shoulder every three or four miles. Many of the overpasses as I drove through downtown Atlanta had a Georgia State Trooper parked on them, standing at the railing watching the freeway traffic. Some were using binoculars to get a better look at vehicles or drivers that caught their attention. All looked like they were on high alert.
I thumbed on the rental SUV’s radio and set it to scan for stations hoping to find some news about what had triggered such a massive police presence. I’ve travelled a lot over the past decade or so and this was comparable police activity to immediately after the attacks on the World Trade Centers on 9/11.
No news on the FM dial, I fiddled with the unfamiliar settings until I got the AM band and repeated the scan. Lots of talk, in fact all talk except for a faint music station that was playing mariachi music, but the topics were about football, politics, or finance; anything except local news. I shut the radio off and dialed my wife’s cell phone back in Arizona, intending to ask her to look on the internet for any news reports, but I kept getting a ‘call failed’ error from the phone. I finally gave up trying. I’d call her from the phone in my hotel room when I checked in.
The sun was low on the horizon when I parked at the hotel. It was a nothing special Hilton Garden Inn with the best features being that there was a Starbucks a couple of
doors down and it was walking distance to my company headquarters. Checking in I asked the desk clerk if he had heard any news that would explain all the police, but he hadn’t and didn’t seem at all interested. Handing my room key across he informed me about the breakfast that was served in the lobby each morning and jangled my nerves a bit with the news that the hotel’s phones and internet were down.
In my room I dumped my bags on the floor and tried calling my wife again from my cell. Same ‘call failed’ message. I picked up the room phone and was momentarily excited to hear a dial tone, but when I pressed 9 for an outside line I was only greeted with silence. I tried texting, but the message never sent, and I tried to access the internet with my iPhone browser, but the connection timed out.
Experiencing some mounting anxiety, I clicked on the TV and sat on the edge of the couch cushion, lighting a cigarette as I waited for the TV to finish starting up. When it did I quickly scanned through channels looking for any news. There was the standard assortment of pre-primetime shows for the first 10 channels until I landed on CNN. Someone was interviewing a soccer player about something I cared nothing about. I kept clicking and found MSNBC, equally devoid of any real news, then Headline News reporting on a market bombing in Iraq that had happened yesterday. Nothing. I tried my cell and the room phones again with no better results.
I spent ten minutes surfing channels looking for any information, then finally turned the TV off, grabbed my room key and car keys and headed downstairs. My corporate office was only a couple of blocks away and I knew that we paid a lot of money for redundant and hardened data circuits that also carried our Voice Over IP telephone traffic. I was sure I would be able to make an outgoing call from the office.