“I am,” Rabbit says with a stony nod.
“Shit. Me too, I guess. End of the world, right? Might as well make it count,” Tackleson says. They all look to Reynolds.
“I’m not doing anything unless we all do it together,” Reynolds says after a pause. He fixes his eyes on Celery.
Celery looks around at all the carnage. His gaze stays with Ghost, and in his head he replays the horror they all witnessed. He’s made up his mind. “Shit. Alright. AWOL.”
#
They quickly bury the bodies of their fallen marine brothers in shallow cratered graves along the side of the meteor pelted road, but there’s no time for solemn words or prayers. They need to move. Reynolds speeds off with the remainder of his team, peering through the humvee’s cracked windshield and struggling to see the dirt road in front of him. When the midday sun hits it from high up, it almost blends in with the surrounding desert. But it doesn’t matter. They need to get off the road and hide somewhere. As if the meteors weren’t bad enough, there’s also the very real threat of roadside bombs and insurgent attacks to worry about. Reynolds keeps a breakneck pace heading north with the gas pedal floored.
Bucky fruitlessly fiddles with the radio in shotgun. Tackleson, sitting behind Bucky, stares wide-eyed out the window at the blasted lands. Celery shakes nervously behind Reynolds. Florida sits bitch, complaining about his arm and growing dizzy with pain from Ghost’s bite.
Vice groans with agony. “It burns. Ahhhh, man it burns!”
Bucky turns from the useless radio and eyes Vice’s bandage. “Let’s see what it looks like under there.”
Vice squeals. “I ca... I can’t,”
Rabbit nods at Celery. “You do it.”
Celery shakes as he peels back the bandages that Reynolds put over Florida’s wound. A stringy yellow mucus comes up with it. He wipes the pus away to reveal a deep, amber-black bite mark with ripped, dead skin surrounding it. It’s like his arm already turned gangrenous.
“Ah shit,” Vice whimpers, seeing it for himself. His breathing quickens almost instantly, and his brow moistens with a cold sweat above his gas mask. “That’s bad, isn’t it?”
“We’re at the end. My dearest friend, the end,” Tackleson sings a popular haunting and trippy 60s hippie song as he stares off into the distance.
“Fuck off Tack,” Bucky says. Tackleson doesn’t listen.
Dust sprinkles the humvee, like they’ve pulled behind someone who’s kicking up dirt from the road in front of them. But Reynolds doesn’t let up on the gas, and moments later the dust becomes a rain of pebbles and debris. Then rocks. The road is useless. There is no road, none that Reynolds can see. He just drives, doing his best to keep the wheel steady.
“Of our special plans, the end,” Tackleson continues.
“Vice... Vice!” Celery nudges him but there’s no response. His head is tipped back, and his eyes are rolled into his head.
“Of all that ever stands, the end...”
Bucky shoves Tacklberry’s head back viciously. “Fuckin’ shut up asshole!”
Tackleson ignores it completely and keeps singing. “It pains to see you free. You’ll never be with me...”
“Fuckin’ douche bag,” Rabbit utters under his breath.
“Florida?” Celery pokes at him. “Guys. Something’s wrong. He was just shaking like crazy for a minute and now nothing.”
Vice groans and a stony stare rolls forward as he lifts his head, revealing bloodshot, bile colored eyes.
“The end of smiles and soft eyes...”
The humvee lurches down and back up, jostling everyone from their seats.
“Shit!” Reynolds yells. “I hit a fucking crater!” The dust settles for just a moment, and he sees an RPG vapor trail zipping toward them from a distance.
“The end of days, we try to die...”
Reynolds yanks the wheel hard to the left and floors the gas pedal. Florida’s head ends up squarely in Tackleson’s lap, but Tackleson still stares off with his face pressed against the window.
“We’re at the end... RPG!” Tackleson yells when his gaze fixes on the white stream of smoke darting right for them.
Vice rips a massive chunk of thigh, dick, and pelvis from Tackleson’s groin. A deafening blast drowns out Tackleson’s screams as the RPG detonates in front of the hummer. They flip into the air, and white-hot light fills the vehicle.
#
A camcorder video screen fades in from black to reveal Reynolds in his US military fatigues sitting on a rickety wood chair. Piss, shit, blood and vomit stain his desert camouflage. Rope binds his hands behind him, and a burlap sack covers his face. Behind him stand two men in ski masks wearing filthy white linens. One holds a saber and the other a banana-clipped machine gun. Behind them is a haphazardly draped banner showing the ominous symbol of their violent jihadist organization; one the free world is all too familiar with. The man holding the saber speaks Dari Persian to the camera as it sits on a tripod. He makes wild and threatening gestures. The gunman holds the barrel of his weapon to the back of Reynolds’ head.
“Allah has made himself known. He has fired his missiles down from the heavens upon the Great Satan in the places where he occupies our holy lands. The United States military has bent the knee and bowed before Islam. Allah has delivered them to us, diseased and ill. They choke upon the poisonous words they have spoken against us for so long. The desert has risen up and taken the air from them. Allah rewards the martyrs who have given their lives to the cause of Jihad. But my brothers, we are victorious! Look and see. Look how Allah has snatched the very breath from their lungs.”
The terrorist with the gun pulls the covering off Reynolds’ head. He’s bruised and battered, bloodied and beaten. His gas mask is gone. He labors in his breathing, wheezing and coughing repeatedly. Every gasp of air between heaves seems to sap what little strength he has left in him. No more energy to vomit, no more energy to plead for help, no more energy to fight. He struggles to keep his head upright, and his eyes roll back into his skull. On the brink of death, he stares up at the earthen ceiling. He thinks of Jennie, the farm back home, his family. He closes his eyes. His breathing slows, and then finally stops.
The two terrorists begin to cheer and chant praises to Allah upon his passing. But moments later he begins to violently twitch and convulse in death. A frothy white foam oozes from Reynolds’ mouth as the seizures cease. The terrorists stop their praises and look strangely upon the ungodly sight. Reynolds lifts his head up. His eyes burst wide open; they’re wily, yellow and bloodshot. He stares off and looks all around the room until his eyes meet the terrorist holding the saber. The jihadist steps back in fear, whispering prayers of desperation with panic beneath his breath.
The one holding the gun asks what’s happening with a quivering, shaky voice. But before the other can answer, Reynolds shoots up from the chair and gnashes his teeth at the terrorist’s neck. With one massive chomp he rips out the terrorist’s throat, and then continues to ravage him. The terrorist’s shocked, yelp-like scream quickly turns to a bloody, bubbling gurgle as they both hit the floor. The other begins to fire his machine gun at Reynolds, knocking him off his dead comrade. But Reynolds continues to eat, unharmed by the hail of bullets.
Frantic, the jihadist runs past the camera, leaving the dank commode in which they intended their execution and victory celebration.
“Allah has lifted the dead from their slumber. Allah has set the dead against us!” His screams fade in the distance.
Reynolds continues to gnaw at the flesh of the dead terrorist. Blood smears across his face and chest, bathing evil with evil.
TO BE CONTINUED
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Vincent Todarello recently returned from the first manned space mission to the moons of Saturn, where he covertly provided aid and leadership to a fragmented but determined rebel force which later dislodged the entrenched, tyrannical Zang Jankfu regime in a bloody coup.
Next, he plans to descend deep
into the Marianas Trench and return to Sea Lab Alpha-437 to continue his study of bioluminescence and bioelectricity in giant squid populations. He left this vitally important work largely unfinished, despite major breakthroughs and new discoveries, to pen The Lazarus Impact for his devoted audience.
Actually, he is working on transforming his mysterious noir style screenplay into a novel. Mr. Todarello's other published titles include The Return of the Fifth Stone (epic fantasy), The Diaper Man (horror) and Mindscape (a short collection of poetry and lyrics). Mr. Todarello does his own graphic design, illustration, and cover art. His work can be seen at www.vintodphoto.com.
When not working, writing, or shooting photos, Mr. Todarello is usually eating steak in and around Manhattan with his lovely wife. He's eaten so much steak that he has created a thorough review website (www.johnnyprimesteaks.com) which ranks steakhouses on a rigorous 100-point scoring system according to 10 categories.
The Lazarus Impact Page 25