Beyond Armageddon: Book 01 - Disintegration

by Anthony DeCosmo

  Demeanor notwithstanding, she saw something in him she had not seen in a long, long time: confidence and strength.

  He slung the assault rifle over his shoulder, held a hand to Sheila, and then lifted her easily as if she were a paper doll.

  The two walked across the street to the bank parking lot. Trevor guided her to a camouflage-painted Humvee. After helping her inside, he whistled to his dogs. They galloped across the intersection to the car.

  One of the black and gray canines approached him directly while the other three jumped in the rear cargo bed.

  "Nothing? Good. Hop in, Tyr."

  The hound did as commanded. Trevor sat behind the wheel, started the car, and drove them away.

  ---

  They traveled northwest on Route 415 passing office buildings nestled on tree-lined lots, a bowling alley, and scattered houses. Ten minutes after leaving the bank parking lot, they arrived at Harveys Lake.

  Mid-sized, wooded mountains surrounded the large lake on all sides, creating the impression of a massive, odd-shaped bowl. A small road ran the rim of that bowl between the homes on the mountainsides and the boathouses on the water.

  Trevor swung the Humvee onto that perimeter road. The summer and permanent homes around the lake—most grand, others bland; several very old others very new—sat quiet.

  Sheila gazed at the houses hoping people might stand on their porch and wave.

  "Are there people living out here?"

  "I searched most of the houses already. I’ve only found hostiles."

  "Hostiles?"

  "That’s what I call anything that wasn’t on this Earth before all this. Most of the houses around here are just empty now."

  Sheila asked, "But, where did all the people go?"

  "Some were killed in town, I suppose. Some died at home. Others followed the advice of the idiots on the radio back in July sending everyone to rescue stations at schoolhouses and government buildings. Bad idea. Those stations got overrun."

  Trevor seemed uninterested in conversation. His eyes focused to either side of the road, as if on guard for ambush. She searched for something to say.

  "So…a…do you live with anyone? I mean, other than your dogs?"

  Trevor corrected, "K9s. And no, I don’t live with anyone else."

  Silence again and this time it stuck for several minutes until he finally said, "We're here."

  ‘Here’ referred to a large home—a mansion—on the safe side of a tall black iron fence. He pushed a button on a garage-door control and the front gate slid open.

  Sheila surveyed the estate from the passenger’s seat of the truck.

  The driveway traversed a gentle upward slope as it approached the house. A two-story garage with apartments above occupied a fair chunk of the grounds. Sheila could not guess the purpose of the round slab of concrete with the big white "H" in the center. Whatever its use, it dominated a wide-open clearing to the side of the mansion.

  The grounds stretched off into a wooded area behind the main home. She saw more buildings and possibly a barn, back there.

  As the Humvee pulled toward the main house, Sheila experienced an anxious twitch as she realized Trevor commanded many more dogs. They moved around the lawn and buildings with purpose. This was not an oversized kennel or a guy who collected dogs the way old ladies fill their homes with cats. Order and discipline governed the animals.

  She watched two groups of three dogs—Dobermans and Rottweilers—march along the inside of the fence. Others sat straight and still at what must be guard positions; two at the main gate, two on the front porch, more by the garage.

  Another dog hustled to the end of the driveway and sat rigidly awaiting the arrival of its superior. Its Master.

  When the Humvee halted, the four-legged riders in the cargo bay jumped out as did Trevor, leaving Sheila alone in the car. She grabbed the door handle but hesitated.

  A legion of dogs roamed the grounds. All fierce, strong, sturdy, and mean; no toy breeds in sight.

  Trevor faced the waiting dog, a Doberman Pinscher. The animal moved its head slightly and its eyes focused on Trevor. If it made noise, that noise did not reach Sheila's ears. Regardless, it communicated—on some level—with the Master.

  Trevor nodded and then craned his neck, searching the skies.

  Sheila finally got out but stayed against the car door.

  "A devilbat tried to land in the compound after I left this morning. They scared if off but those things tend to come back."

  "A devilbat?"

  "I’ve tried to catalog everything…everything new. A devilbat is sort of like a bat but really big. I think there’s one or two over in Shavertown. I’ll have to check it out."

  "That's, um, great, I guess. Good little dog—I mean, K9."

  She stepped away from the car as hesitantly as if she were a baseball runner taking a lead from first. Her step turned into a wobble. Trevor grabbed her arm and steadied her stance.

  "We had better get you inside. This might be too much for you right now."

  ---

  Sheila spent most of that first evening in a hot bath filled with water from the estate's deep well. She washed away the grime, the stench, and even a few bugs but—most of all—she washed away the memories of that hellish summer, sending them down the drain with a layer of filth vigorously scrubbed from her skin.

  Trevor outfitted her in new clothes. While not stylish by Sheila’s standards, the rugged pants and shirts did not stink: a big improvement in of itself.

  He provided bandages, ointments, and antiseptic solutions to treat her cuts and scrapes as well as simpler things, such as toothpaste and floss, skin moisturizers and deodorant.

  For the first time since June, she felt human. Despite the K9s wandering the halls, Sheila believed she found her paradise after serving a summer of penance in Hades.

  At dinner, her stomach moaned when Trevor broiled steaks—pulled from a huge freezer--and paired them with garden-fresh vegetables, preserved fruits, and a rich red Sryah.

  As they dined that first night, he told her about the farming family he found a few miles away: "A middle aged man and woman with a teenager and an eight year old. They’ve got pigs, cows, a couple of sheep, and a cornfield. We struck a deal. I left a dozen K9s to guard their home and two Border Collies who’ll keep the livestock in line. I’ve got medical supplies they can use and I send them gasoline for their equipment. In return I get meat, vegetables, milk and maybe wool."

  Sheila listened as he explained his plans for a solar power grid. She nodded when he assured that heating, come winter, would not be an issue because of the hybrid furnace capable of burning almost anything, including wood and coal.

  By the third day, she wondered if Trevor thought of anything other than food, fuel, or guns. She also wondered if he realized she was a woman. For providing this oasis from the world-gone-mad, she was his for the taking. Gladly. She wanted him to want her. She would willingly play the role of Eve.

  Yet he showed no interest. Instead, he wasted time teaching her the basics of firing a gun. He had lots of those in a basement armory. She never saw anything similar, except in movies.

  Nonetheless, guns did not interest her. They were loud, dangerous, and even the sight of them frightened her. She refused to carry one.

  Trevor started her on a vitamin regiment and administered a series of basic vaccinations and boosters. He handled the needles so well she asked if he had been a doctor. He handled guns so expertly she asked if he had been in the military.

  To her questions he answered, "I picked it up."

  She did not believe him, but she did not care. Those were concerns for him, not her.

  ---

  Trevor used the library on the second floor—the one adjacent to the master bedroom—as a 'Command Center.' A desk large enough to qualify as a table dominated the center of the room. On it rested unfurled maps and a variety of reference books pulled from the surrounding shelves.

  Two large glass
doors opened to a balcony overlooking the front grounds and the shimmering lake waters beyond, but pulled drapes and curtains hid that view or, rather, concealed the light of the room from outside eyes. Hiding—survival—remained his top priority.

  Late on the fourth night after Sheila's arrival, Trevor stood in his Command Center hovering over a collection of information spread across the desktop while Tyr and Odin—their eyes barely open—rested in opposite corners of the room.

  Different color marks adorned various spots on a map of the "Back Mountain" area. Those marks identified places where he had found hostiles, places where he had found nothing, and places he had yet to search. Those latter marks greatly outnumbered the others.

  A long, wide yawn interrupted his thoughts. He knew he should be sleeping; it had been a busy day of gardening, fixing a malfunctioning generator, and changing a leaky tire on a Humvee. He forced himself awake because he wanted to decide on his next search zone before retiring.

  Like most of the doors in the mansion, the one to the Command Center stood slightly ajar: as efficient and obedient as the K9s were, they lacked opposable thumbs.

  Sheila pushed the door open and paraded in.

  He glanced at her, then to his map, then to her again.

  She wore a short white robe. With her legs shaved smooth, hair neatly brushed, and her fingernails painted, Sheila strutted forth with an air of confidence.

  He leaned against the desk and studied her approach.

  "Hi," she started because she damn well knew he would not begin the conversation. "I’ve been thinking," she stopped a breath in front of him. "I’ve been thinking that I never thanked you for saving my life. That was wrong of me."

  Sheila let the robe fall away. She was, of course, naked...and gorgeous with the right things in the right places.

  She put her hands on his chest. He smelled the strong scent of perfume as she eased her lips to his.

  Trevor grabbed her wrists.

  "Sheila…"

  "It’s okay. I want to. I so want to."

  "I can’t."

  Her seductive face twisted.

  "What?"

  "I can’t," he said.

  She spat, "What do you mean, you can’t?"

  "I’m engaged to be married," he said and then added a lie: "I think she's still out there."

  "There’s no one out there, Trevor. No one."

  She smoothed away her anger and pressed against his body. Parts of him ached to take her invitation.

  "It’s just you and me. I want to be with you. I need to be with you."

  "I," he stumbled. For the first time he did not sound in control but he regained that control rather fast. "I can’t."

  He felt her tremble but not with anger; the anger disappeared leaving behind fear. Had she ever faced rejection before?

  "Please," she said in a desperate gasp.

  He could not believe he heard that from her lips. It probably killed her to say it. Yet it made no difference.

  "Sheila, you’re safe here. That’s all I can offer. My heart…" he did not finish the sentence. He might have said ‘it belongs to someone else’ but Ashley had died, a truth he admitted to himself but to speak it aloud felt wrong.

  Whatever part of his heart remained after Ashley had vanished had been beaten down by his new reality; not merely the world outside that iron fence, but the world he built inside it.

  Sheila’s lips quivered. Her eyes watered.

  Embarrassed, she stooped and grabbed the robe.

  "Sheila, I’m sorry," some left over impulse from his old self caused him to reach for her.

  At first, she flinched but no pride remained; she accepted his comfort even in the midst of rejection; humiliation.

  He held her to his chest but felt awkward doing it—as if he knew what motions to follow but did not truly feel the compassion he mimicked. Quite the opposite, in fact: he grew angry with her for making him go through the charade.

  After a long minute, she wandered off.

  Trevor returned to the marks on his map.

  ---

  On the eastern mountainside of the valley sat the small neighborhood of Georgetown, home of the annual "Giants Despair" hill climb: the oldest automotive hill climb in the country. Every July stock cars and modified street rods flocked to the twisty road on the high end of the neighborhood to challenge the steep curves.

  Otherwise, Georgetown existed as an average middle class suburb a mile and half from downtown Wilkes-Barre.

  Fortunately, for those average middle class suburbanites, the worst of the early apocalyptic onslaught spared Georgetown. The monsters that had foraged through those steep streets came in smaller numbers.

  True, those residents who survived the initial waves did so with the ringing of neighbors’ screams in their ears. Yet still, there had been no row house fires and no gigantic spider-things casting webs over entire blocks, in effect the carnage and death remained more personal.

  Like watertight hatches on a flooding submarine, the residents of Georgetown barricaded themselves behind locked doors and boarded windows, turning the neighborhood into islands of survivors keeping to themselves in fear of losing what little they had.

  Around early August, the peanut butter and bottled water and cans of Chunky soup ran dry. Then pirates sailed forth from those islands. Empty bellies turned the suburbanites into their own breed of monster.

  During the latter half of summer, sharp cracks of nighttime gunfire signified either a successful or a very unsuccessful robbery. With time, the violence waned as the islands of survivors withered and died.

  One man weathered it all. Before the world changed, he drove a Frito Lay truck. He made it a habit—long before Armageddon—to borrow and stockpile snacks destined for convenience stores and super markets. Those stocks not only helped him survive the summer, but also kept his potbelly intact.

  Yet, the Doritos ran out.

  So when he heard the preacher’s voice on the street, the potbellied man decided to take a chance.

  He pulled aside the curtains and peeked from his island. Outside his window walked a man in black holding what might be a book, most likely a bible. The man in black marched downhill, leading a rag tag group dressed in dirty clothes hanging on scrawny frames and stumbling forward with vacant stares as if sleep walking.

  "Come out sinners and repent!" the man of the cloth beckoned in a fiery tone. "I have what you need to survive! The Day of Judgment has come and you shall be saved but only by accepting His tender mercies."

  The potbellied man who had survived on snack foods glanced at the wall above his nineteen-inch color television, the one that had not broadcast any game shows, pay-per-view porn, or wrestling in a long time. There, nailed to the dirty peeling brown wallpaper, glinted a dusty old crucifix reflecting a beam of sunlight slipping in through the parted curtains.

  Could this be a sign?

  The Frito Lay driver opened his front door—cautiously—as the clergyman’s group moved past. That clergyman had a thin body but broad shoulders. The skin on his face drew tight around his jawbone but his eyes were afire with life. Old, perhaps, but not elderly.

  "Father...?" the snack food man called tentatively.

  The procession halted. Its leader smiled at the shut-in who desired to hear the good word.

  "My son! Come, join us!"

  Snack food man descended the concrete steps of his home for the first time in many, many weeks. As he moved he begged, "Father, do you have any food?"

  "Yes, my son, plenty of food; especially food for the soul! Join us and partake!"

  The potbellied shut-in reached the sidewalk and exclaimed to the preacher, "Oh thank you, Jesus!"

  The man in black opened his good book. Except it was not a good book, more of a container.

  Things squirmed inside.

  "Jesus?" the Father corrected sternly. "No, my son…"

  The preacher took one of those things in his fingers and reached toward the snack food man
.

  "Thank the living God and all his blessings. Come, join The Order and be one with Voggoth. He so desperately wants to be one with you."

  7. Paradigm Shift

  par-a-digm, n. model; pattern.

  --Webster’s Dictionary

  Trevor Stone slid the metal cabinet in front of the gray door. With the cabinet in place, the small utility room underneath the basement stairs appeared to serve no purpose other than a holding place for the propane-fueled hot water heater.

  He kept the key that opened that hidden door on the end of a necklace, which hung out of sight beneath his t-shirt.

  Satisfied everything needing hiding had been hid, Trevor exited the glorified closet for the main room of the basement. That room offered a stocked bar, a pool table, a plasma screen TV, leather furniture, and "Penn State Nittany Lion" pennants.

  One thing overshadowed everything else: a big heavy door set in one wall and controlled via an electronic access pad.

  A bout of lightheadedness came over him, the price of visiting the third gift. He steadied his mind by listing the projects he wanted to tackle: a solar power grid, more security cameras around the estate, add stabilizer to every stockpile of gasoline he could find in the county before the petroleum degenerated and—just as the lightheadedness faded it returned, not caused by the third gift this time but by the volume of projects awaiting his attention.

  So much to do and he had wasted nearly a week spending too much time comforting Sheila. Some days she did nothing other than cry. Other days she stared out the front window watching for approaching horrors until deteriorating into hysterical paranoia.

  Trevor wondered if he picked the wrong day last week to extend his patrol route. More worthy survivors must be out there, somewhere, and today he intended to find them.

  As the calendar inched toward the end of September, it also inched toward winter. He needed to move aggressively to find survivors before the weather turned. The right people with strong backs could help finish those projects before the snows came.