CATACLYSMOS Book 1 Part 5: The Long Dark Night: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller

by Michael Lister

  —I can’t—

  —Don’t hesitate, he says. Just drive. Please. For me.

  She nods.

  —Keep an eye out while I’m inside. Watch behind you. To the sides. Around the house. If I run out, don’t shoot me. If it’s not me, shoot.

  They both nod.

  —There are plenty of provisions in my bags. Weapons. Gas masks. There’s plenty of gas in the cans. Drive as far as you can on the truck, then switch to the ATV. Try to make it to Wewa. Nearly anyone left there—if there’s anyone left—will help you.

  —Just come back, Meleah says. Fast. Don’t make us wait long.

  —You got it.

  He lifts the 9mm from the seat between his legs and clips it to his waistband. He then removes the short shotgun from the bag and gets out.

  Meleah slides over behind the wheel and he leans in and hugs her.

  —I love you, he says.

  —Love you, she says. See you in just a few minutes.

  He reaches over to Nancy.

  She reluctantly extends her hand.

  He takes it and squeezes it.

  —Thank you for everything. You’re a resilient young woman. Don’t let the monsters win. Process their poison out of your system so you don’t become like them.

  —How do I do that?

  —Meleah can tell you. Good conversation for y’all to have while I’m gone.

  He stands upright again.

  —Lock your doors and wish me luck.

  —Praying for you, Meleah says.

  He locks and closes the door and turns and walks toward the house.

  As he nears the house, he smells it.

  Death.

  The unmistakable stench of decay hits him when he’s still several feet from the house, and he turns around and walks back to the truck.

  —What is it? Meleah asks as she opens the door.

  —Just need to find another place, he says.

  She nods and slides over.

  He climbs back in, placing the shotgun facedown on the floorboard between them, turns the truck around, navigates around the wreck at the intersection, and continues south on Highway 73.

  He passes a few other houses on either side of the road before reaching a trailer up on the right with a wooden hand-painted sign out front that reads: Pat’s Hair Fashions.

  —How about there? he asks, pointing to a tin shed on the far edge of the property.

  Enclosed on all sides but the front, the shed looks more like a garage or even a small house than a shed.

  —I like how open it is, Meleah says, but it won’t provide much warmth.

  —We could back the truck into it, he says. Get blankets from some of the houses around here. Two sleep in the back while one sits in the cab on watch. If anybody comes up, whoever’s on post wakes us and drives off.

  —Look back there, Nancy says.

  Behind the Pat’s Hair Fashions trailer there’s another trailer—two more on opposite sides of the field beyond it.

  —That’s a lot of places to have to check, she says.

  —True, he says. We’re getting close to—

  A knock at the window causes them all to jump.

  Coming up with his 9mm he sees an elderly woman with dirty gray hair and a waxen, heavily wrinkled face.

  She holds her hands up.

  —Don’t shoot. I’m here to help.

  They all begin to search the area around them as he rolls down the window.

  —You need to get out of here or at least get your truck off the road as fast as you can, she says. Turn around and go back wherever you came from, or you can hide it behind my place. But just for tonight.

  He doesn’t say anything, just continues to look around.

  —It’s just me, she says. I’m alone as a body can be. I’m willin’ to help y’all but I ain’t getting kilt over it. What’s it gonna be? Turn around and head back. Follow me to my place. Stay here and get kilt.

  —Where do you live? Michael asks. Where is your place?

  —Back corner of the field, she says, pointing to the trailer in the back right. Ain’t got much food. Nothin’ worth stealin’. But you can get some rest and sleep tonight if you like.

  He thinks about it.

  —Well, I’m heading back there now. Either follow me or have a good if short life. If you do come back, follow the drive ’til the very back, then cut across the field so your tracks can’t be seen from up here.

  She then walks to the back of the truck and disappears from view for a moment. In another moment, she comes out pedaling a once burgundy, now mostly rusty old trike, a Schwinn Meridian, with baskets in front and back full of plastic grocery bags.

  She pedals far faster than seems possible, scooting down the drive leading to the trailer on the left.

  —An old woman on a fuckin’ tricycle was able to sneak up on us? Nancy says.

  —Embarrassing, Michael says.

  —What do y’all think? Meleah says. Should we stay with her tonight?

  —Could be a trap, Nancy says. They send her out to lure unsuspecting idiots in for dinner—or worse.

  —We could do what we were going to do before. Y’all can stay in the truck, weapons up, while I go in and check out the place. Could search the other trailers too and the woods.

  —I think we could stay, Meleah says. Not sure how much farther we can go. We really need to stop and eat and rest. Everything we do is a risk. This one seems better than most. I don’t think she was lying and I take her warning to get off the road seriously.

  11

  —Y’all been through enough to earn your paranoia? the old lady asks.

  They’ve just finished their search of the other trailers on the property and are inside her small trailer with her.

  —And then some, Michael says.

  —Sorry to hear that, she says. I truly am.

  The narrow living room of the single-wide mobile home is dim and musty, its cheap furniture and those sitting on it seen in the wave of candlelight.

  —I’m Michael, by the way, he says. This is Meleah and that’s Nancy.

  —Nice to make your acquaintance, she says. I’m Vera. My son’s name is Vern.

  Her son, a large, soft, fleshy boy who is actually her grandson, is asleep on the couch.

  —And I’ll warn you before he wakes up, she says. Vern ain’t right in the head.

  —Whatta you mean? Nancy asks.

  —He’s a good, sweet boy, but he’s dim. Brain doesn’t work quite right. He’s fifteen and acts five.

  —We have weapons, Nancy says. We’re strangers. The world is a dark, bad place. Why would you invite us into your home?

  —If I told you, you’d think I was a few sandwiches short of a picnic.

  —You’ve got us intrigued now, Meleah says.

  Vera smiles.

  She’s not as old as he first thought. If it’s-not-the-age-but-the-milage was true before the end of the world, it’s doubly true now.

  —God speaks to me. I knew y’all were all right before I ever tapped on your window. Call me crazy if you like, but ask yourself how me and my boy have survived this long?

  They nod, but don’t say anything.

  Vera looks directly at Michael, their eyes locking.

  —You’re a kind, gentle man. Very loving. So’s your daughter. And she has great wisdom—far beyond her years. And this poor thing . . .

  She looks at Nancy.

  —. . . is wounded, but has much goodness in her. Y’all would no more intentionally harm me and my boy as each other.

  He hadn’t told her Meleah was his daughter. They hadn’t told her anything but their names.

  —Whatta you think? she says.

  —That there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy, he says.

  —What’s that—

  —We don’t think you’re crazy, Meleah says.

  —She does, Vera says, nodding toward Nancy.

  —Actually, I
do, but I like crazies. They’re my tribe.

  —Mama? Vern says waking, drowsy and disoriented. Mama. Mama, who are these people?

  —Just some of Mama’s friends.

  —I thought we didn’t have many friends now and no new ones.

  —That’s right, she says. You’re right. But these are some of Mama’s old friends. They just came for a short visit.

  —I’m hungry, he says.

  —Me too, she says. And so are our guests. Let’s eat.

  Michael begins digging into the duffel at his feet, but she stops him.

  —Y’all are our guests tonight, she says. You’ll share in our portion. Come on. Everyone to the table.

  They make their way over to the dining table, Meleah and Nancy sharing at seat.

  Vera begins to open cans of vegetables and place them on the table.

  —Open a few more of these while I get some plates.

  Michael takes the can opener and proceeds to open a can of ravioli and another of clam chowder, both of which remind him of Dawn.

  —We’re using plates, Mama? Vern says.

  —It’s a special night, Vera says.

  She places mismatched plastic plates before them and hands out forks. She then sticks spoons in the cans.

  —Meleah, will you light some more of those candles? It’ll be dark soon. I’ll pour us some water.

  —Can I have juice, Mama?

  —We’re out of juice. Be a good boy and drink water for Mama, okay?

  —Okay, Mama. I will.

  She places paper cups on the table in front of them and carefully pours water from a gallon jug into them.

  —Help yourselves, she says when she finishes. When everyone has fixed their plates I’ll say grace.

  Vern reaches for a can across the table from him and knocks another one over.

  —Let Mama do yours, okay?

  —Okay.

  When the plates are full, she bows her head and everyone follows her lead.

  —For what we’re about to receive, make us truly thankful. And bless our special guests.

  Everyone begins to eat.

  —This is really good, Michael says. It’s so kind of you to share with us.

  —Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, she says. For thereby some have entertained angels unawares.

  He smiles.

  —Hebrews, he says, then nodding toward Meleah and Nancy adds, And I have no doubt those two are angels. And so are you and your son for us tonight. Thank you.

  —Is Hebrews as close as you can get? she asks.

  —Afraid so, he says. I’m actually surprised I remembered that.

  —Chapter thirteen verse two.

  —Never would’ve gotten that, he says.

  They eat in silence for a while, the only sound that of fork tines coming into contact with plastic plates and occasionally teeth.

  —The Kinard Library carried some of your books, Vera says. Read a lot of them.

  —Really? Thank you.

  —He’s always been big in Kinard, Meleah says.

  Nancy laughs.

  —Obscure most everywhere else, he adds, but huge in Kinard.

  —Liked the ones with the prison chaplain detective the best, Vera says.

  —Thank you, he says. Those were my firsts and favorites too.

  —Got a pretty good imagination, don’t you? You ever imagine anything like this?

  —No ma’am, I didn’t. Nothing remotely like this.

  12

  First watch.

  Everyone asleep except Michael.

  Hiss of a gas heater. Flicker of candlelight. Dim, drowsy night.

  Outside a cold wind blows, whistling through the pines, rattling the trailer, clanging a loose piece of tin, quieting the howls, shrieks, and screeches coming from the woods.

  He’s in an uncomfortable upright chair by a window in the living room. Meleah and Nancy are asleep on the pullout sofa bed across from him.

  Somehow Meleah is sleeping hard. Beside her, Nancy’s fitful attempt at sleep is accompanied by unintelligible mumblings full of both anger and sadness.

  From down the narrow hallway, Vera eases into the room.

  —How’s it going? she asks.

  He nods and shrugs.

  She sits in a chair across from him.

  —Pretty quiet, actually, he says. Are they always like this here?

  —The Angries? The bitterer the cold, the better it is. Wind helps.

  —Angries? he says.

  —Angries. Crazies. Ragers. Nighters. A thing is what it is. Doesn’t matter what you call it, now does it?

  —And what are those things? he asks.

  —Sick. Infected. Rabid. Killers. They’re humans with most of the human part turned off.

  —They ever come up to the trailer?

  —Sometimes. Bang around a bit. Haven’t broken in yet.

  —You gonna leave before they do?

  —And go where? How? On my bike with Vern in the basket? How long you think we’d last out there?

  He doesn’t respond, just sits with the hopeless reality of her situation.

  —What about you? she says. Where will you go back to?

  —Not going back, he says. Headed to Wewa.

  —You can’t. Even if you could, there is no Wewa anymore. Wewa is underwater. Dead Lakes is literal now. That’s all it is. One big, watery ghost-town grave yard.

  The Dead Lakes, a nearly seven-thousand-acre lake of tannic waters filled with bases of dead bald cypress trees, is—or was when last he saw it—an eerily beautiful body of water. Some two-hundred years ago, the Apalachicola River drifted over and formed a sand bank that created a natural dam for the Chipola River, which then flooded the swamp and killed the millions of bald cypress trees that give it its name.

  —But it doesn’t matter ’cause you can’t get there anyway, she says.

  —Because of the flooding? he asks.

  —Well, yeah, I guess, but I meant the Rebelz and the Angries.

  —I don’t follow.

  —You can’t even get to the flooded area because you can’t get through Kinard.

  —Why’s that?

  —The Rebelz. Before all this went down it was a group of boys—young men, whatever—who . . . you know what boys around here are like. They were sort of a redneck hunting club, but more, like best buds that did everything together. Now the ones who’re left are like a gang. They run Kinard. Can’t get through.

  —I’ve got to.

  —It’s just two different forms of suicide, she says. By day and the Rebelz get you. By night and the Angries get you. You’ve got to take these girls and go back.

  —I can’t. I’ve got to get to Wewa.

  —There is no Wewa, she says, frustration at the ragged edges of her voice.

  —How many of these Rebelz are there?

  —Too many. Don’t be a damn fool.

  —I’ve got to get there somehow. Have to figure out a way.

  —If you won’t listen to a crazy old lady from Kinard, will you listen to someone from Wewa?

  —I’m listening to you, but yes, I’d really like to talk to someone from there. Why?

  —There’s a gal up the road who came out of there.

  —Who?

  13

  —There ain’t nothin’ left, Chaplain. It’s all underwater. All of it. The whole town. You can dive down and see the streets and buildings. It’s the freakiest thing I’ve ever seen.

  Erica is a short, squat, fireplug of a coonass country girl, tough as a lighter knot, hardworking as a borrowed mule.

  She can hunt and fish and handle herself as well as anyone he’s ever known.

  She has short black hair, a dark complexion, and dark features.

  She was a captain at Gulf Correctional when he was a chaplain there, and they had been good friends ever since. All this time and she still calls him Chaplain.

  She has a small fortress not far from where Vera lives. He has come alone. They are in he
r yard, behind her tall, wooden privacy fence in the early morning.

  —Nothing’s left? he says, his warm breath showing in the cold air. No one?

  —I ain’t sayin’ there ain’t no spots not underwater. Ain’t sayin’ there ain’t a few poor souls left there neither—though how they could be surviving I couldn’t say. But the town itself and nearly all, if not all, the people are gone. I’m sorry. I hope your people survived and then got out, but, I’m gonna tell you the truth, Chaplain—not many did. I’s at the prison when the first wave came. Walked out right then. Never looked back. Came and got my boat, went and got my girl, headed for the hills. We’re gonna go farther eventually, but not sure where to go and we’re making it okay for now, so . . .

  The girl Erica went and got is Lindsay, a tall, thin, aloof blonde with an angular face, pale skin, and light blue eyes.

  Lindsay had just walked out and handed them each a cup of coffee.

  —Have you been back? he asks.

  —Went back a time or two, just looking, she says, her breath even more visible after sipping the coffee. Didn’t see much. Didn’t make it too far neither though. I’s mostly curious about the town. Heard about those places where the entire city is underwater. Wanted to see for myself.

  He nods and thinks about it.

  The yard is mostly sandy dirt with a few small trees and shrubs and a gazebo. It fronts a doublewide mobile home and is surrounded by a wooden slat fence some eight feet tall.

  —You’re goin’ no matter what I say, ain’t ya? Erica says.

  He nods.

  —Got to, he says. If there’s even the remotest possibility that anybody survived.

  She nods.

  —I get it. It was me, I’d do the same. First thing I did was go get her.

  She nods toward Lindsay.

  Lindsay lifts her coffee mug in a cheers gesture, but the expression on her implacable face doesn’t change.

  —How are things here? he asks, looking around at their setup.

  —Good, she says. Really good. No one bothers us. Location is great and the fence really helps.

  —The people in the woods—the altered or infected or whatever they are—they don’t give you any trouble?

  She shakes her head.

  —Don’t seem to be as many here, she says. They don’t climb, so the fence keeps ’em out. Keep thinkin’ they’ll starve or get better or move on to somewhere else. I don’t know.