Final Days

by Jasper T. Scott

  Andrew killed the engine, and they exited the vehicle. Wizard slammed his door with a resounding bang, and Andrew scowled. “Quiet!” he hissed.

  “Sorry.” The kid came crunching noisily through a bed of dry pine needles as he walked around the front of the truck.

  Andrew stared pointedly at the kid’s feet. “No wonder they caught you last time. You’re as loud as an elephant.”

  “Dude, we’re a mile away from where I hiked in the last time. That puts us like three miles from the warehouse. There’s no one out here to hear us.”

  “You keep thinking like that and we’ll be dead. This is my op, remember?”

  “Yes sir, Sergeant Miller, sir,” Wizard quipped in a whiny voice.

  Andrew smirked. “I was a corporal, but thanks for the promotion.”

  They entered the forest on the right side of the road and began hiking in, with Wizard pointing the way. The rising sun pooled crimson in the sky, and tendrils of mist snaked along the forest floor. That bitter edge to the air was intensifying. At first Andrew thought it might be the forest, but then his head began to feel light, and he started feeling sick to his stomach.

  “There’s something wrong with the air.”

  Andrew glanced at Wizard to see him holding the collar of his hoodie over his mouth and nose.

  “It’s all in your head,” Andrew said.

  “No, man, I feel like I want to faint and throw up.”

  “Hard to throw up when you’re unconscious,” Andrew pointed out.

  “You know what I mean!”

  “Quiet. It’s probably just that hundred-year-old Twinkie you ate,” Andrew said.

  “It was a Ding Dong.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I think this is an acid fog. That shit’s toxic. It killed a bunch of people in Africa.”

  “Good thing we’re not in Africa, then. How much farther?”

  “Half a mile to the lookout, maybe? We should go back. We’ll find some respirators or something.”

  “You know where to find respirators?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then we push on,” Andrew growled. “And keep your yap shut. Half a mile is close enough for our voices to carry.”

  Before long, they came to a clearing at the edge of a cliff overlooking the coast. They both pulled out their guns and crept up to the cliff’s edge, flattening themselves in the long yellow grass. It was still wet with dew. The fog was thick as cotton below, rolling in from the ocean like a tsunami.

  Wizard pointed to a faint rectangular silhouette, hazy with the fog, just barely visible along the coast. “There,” he whispered. “That’s the warehouse.”

  Judging by the outlines of the structures that Andrew saw, the ‘warehouse’ was actually a massive complex ringed with chain-link fences and barbed wire. As if that wasn’t enough, Andrew could see drones buzzing around above it all. He followed the hovering machines with his eyes and saw them flying out over the ocean. That was when he noticed the outline of a container ship out toward the horizon. There were maybe a dozen people standing around on the deck. Andrew glanced back at Wizard to see that the kid had produced a pair of binoculars from his hoodie.

  “Give me those,” Andrew snapped, and ripped them away before the kid could object.

  “Hey!”

  “Quiet,” Andrew added as he peered through the eyepieces at the container ship. The people on the deck were all carrying rifles and wearing masks. Maybe the air was toxic after all. He grimaced and turned his attention to the warehouse. There wasn’t anyone left guarding the fence. “We need to get down there and see if they left anything behind that might tell us where they’re going.”

  “Yeah—” Wizard coughed into his jacket and then spoke in a hoarse whisper: “It looks abandoned. We should go back to the truck and drive closer.”

  Andrew glanced around, then stood up and peered over the cliff. Too steep to climb down. “Where were you the last time?”

  The kid pointed to another clearing along the cliff, about twenty yards below their current position. It didn’t look any easier to climb down from there.

  “All right, let’s go. We’ll see how close we can get.” Andrew’s own voice was hoarse now, and he could feel his throat burning. The kid was right. This was an acid fog.

  They ran through the forest on the way back, trading stealth for speed. The burning in Andrew’s throat and the dizzy, sick feeling spurred him on, but he had to stop frequently to give Wizard a chance to keep up.

  “I can’t do this, man!” the kid gasped raggedly while leaning against a giant redwood. “I’m going to faint. Just give me five.”

  “You want to die out here?”

  Wizard’s face scrunched up pitifully. “No, but...”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Bob Sponge.”

  “I’m being serious.”

  “Roland Martin.”

  “Great. Now I know what to put on your tombstone.”

  “What?”

  “You’re staying here, right? Good luck with that.” Andrew turned and jogged away. A few seconds later, he heard feet pounding the ground behind him, kicking pine needles.

  “You’re a jerk,” Roland gasped.

  “And you’re dead without me.”

  A few minutes later, Andrew spied the road and one of the taillights of his truck, peeking out between a pair of giant redwoods. He aimed for that.

  Just as they were about to trade the forest floor for asphalt, Andrew heard something—a whisper at first, but growing steadily in pitch and volume. He swept an arm out in front of Roland to stop him, and cocked an ear to the sound.

  “What is it?” the kid asked.

  Andrew placed a finger to his lips and peered up the road toward the noise. He caught a glimpse of a silver car and pulled Roland behind a tree. Andrew peered around the side of it. The car slowed as it approached his truck, then pulled off and stopped. Shit, Andrew thought. That spot had looked like a better hiding place at dawn than it did now in the light of day.

  A second later, a white van came screaming down the road toward the car and skidded to a stop beside it. The passenger side door flew open, and a man in camo fatigues and a spray-painter’s mask jumped out, aiming a Glock around his door at the driver’s side of the silver car.

  “Get out of the vehicle!” the man yelled, his voice muffled by the mask.

  Twenty-Three

  Kendra

  3 Days Left…

  Kendra’s eyes blinked open, and she instantly regretting her sleeping arrangements. Her back ached, her temples throbbing as she lifted the driver’s seat into an upright position. She’d passed the motel the trucks had stopped at a few hours ago, and had circled over to a nestled spot leading to an acreage down the street.

  Outside was foggy, dense like pea soup. She checked the time. It was after nine in the morning, and she jumped in astonishment, hitting her head on the car’s ceiling.

  “Stupid, stupid Kendra,” she chided herself. She’d been so exhausted she’d slept right through the GPS movement notifications. It chimed again, and she activated the app.

  The truck was twenty miles away, right beside the coastline. That’s where they were; they had to be. She popped her glove box open, discovering a bottle of caffeine pills, and with practiced efficiency she tossed two in her mouth and swigged from her water. She hoped it helped with the headache, and since the truck wasn’t moving, she drove to the motel, finding one vehicle still there. She watched for a few minutes, witnessing no movement inside, and she pulled her gun, testing the handle to the room the younger man had been sleeping in.

  It was unlocked, and the room appeared empty. It didn’t look like he was planning on returning. She gave herself two minutes to use the bathroom, and tried to clean herself up. Her eyes were red and puffy, and she brushed her hair with her hands, pulling it into a fresh ponytail.

  Satisfied, Kendra returned to the car, and saw the truck still hadn’t left. That was a good sign
. She reached for her cell phone, trying to think who she could call for backup. There was no one. The police hadn’t cared about any of the cases, and the FBI had closed up shop, leaving her high and dry. This was a solo mission.

  At first she thought the mist outside was fog, but at this point she wasn’t so sure. It had a different quality to it, a sour taste in the middle of her throat. It had to be a version of the toxic fog she kept hearing about. If it had spread to California already, things were progressing faster than expected. She slammed her vents shut, and killed the fan blowing air from outside.

  As she headed for the coast, moving west, the fog grew thicker, making visibility on the winding side roads nearly nonexistent. She tried to brake lightly, but came to a sharp corner, not seeing the yellow arrow sign until it was too late. She let out a scream as the car skidded off the road and into a metal guard rail, stopping her from falling over a ten-foot drop.

  A strand of hair fell in Kendra’s eyes, and her chest heaved as adrenaline coursed through her veins. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

  She managed to back away from the edge enough to open her door with a clunk, and she climbed out, seeing her front driver’s side tire was punctured. The car tilted toward the ground on that side.

  Just what she needed, and only three miles or so from catching up to the Silverado and Andrew Miller. Kendra went through the motions of changing the tire. She jacked up the frame, loosened the lug nuts, and when it came to tugging the tire off, it didn’t want to budge. Something was bent from the impact, and it took all her strength, a tire iron, and a few curse words to have it budge an inch before sliding all the way off. Kendra fell as inertia took over, and the tire flopped to the ground with a thud. She cussed, dusted herself off, and placed the full-sized spare onto the car, replacing the nuts and lowering the jack all the way down.

  The whole event took about twenty minutes, and she hoped she hadn’t missed her opportunity. She drove slower, the fog thick and heavy. She needed to find a respirator in case the fumes were too toxic, but for now, she wanted to find the Silverado, and hopefully the faces to go with the missing names in her file.

  The last few miles went by gradually, the car constantly pulling to the left. As she came around a corner, the elevations lowered, and she maneuvered down the declining road. The fog lifted here a bit, and she could finally see the ocean in the distance. The blinking light of the hidden GPS on the Silverado was close, a mile from the coast. She slowed, something catching her eye out in the water. Her stomach sank as she grabbed for her binoculars.

  It was a bulk carrier, usually used for transporting goods. Shipping containers from China were constantly arriving in the coast’s ports, but this one was leaving with only a few passengers on top. The men and women were armed, and drones hovered over the water, catching up to the vessel. She traced their trajectory, and found the massive warehouse as the fog lifted and broke apart momentarily.

  She was too late. They’d moved them onto a boat. She needed to sneak into that warehouse and find out where they’d been taken.

  The car was on its last legs, the tire rubbing against the bent wheel well. She could see the black truck parked along the side of the road ahead. It was time to stop messing around. Kendra had to find out what this Miller character knew.

  As she veered off the road, steering her damaged car to a halt, a white van raced toward her. It slid to a stop a few yards away and the driver jumped out, using his door for a shield as he pointed a gun at Kendra.

  “Get out of the vehicle!” he shouted, motioning with his pistol. Kendra nudged her door open and jammed her hands above her head. The fog was rolling down the side of the cliff, inching towards them, and she noticed the glint of a gun from behind the white van before seeing Andrew Miller’s head. His eyes went wide as he recognized her, and Kendra tried to stay calm as she decided what to do next.

  “Good. Now slowly take your gun, and set it on the ground.” The man spoke more softly now, confident of his actions. His voice was slightly muffled from the respirator over his face.

  She bent at the knees, placing the Glock on the street.

  “Good. Kick it over.”

  Kendra made eye contact with Miller and nodded. It was now or never. She kicked the gun two meters to the right of the armed man, and hoped Miller knew what he was doing.

  * * *

  Andrew

  Andrew couldn’t believe it. Somehow that FBI agent had followed him all the way from San Diego. Had she followed him to David Wilkes’ home, too?

  “Good. Now slowly take your gun, and set it on the ground,” the man from the van said through his respirator. There was a deadly calm to his voice that Andrew didn’t like. This guy was going to kill her, no matter what.

  The FBI agent bent down and placed her pistol on the blacktop.

  “Good. Kick it over,” the guy in the respirator said.

  The FBI agent caught Andrew’s eye as she straightened. She’d seen him hiding behind the tree. The expression on her face was equal parts fear and resignation, but there was a spark of understanding, too. She was putting her life in Andrew’s hands.

  Andrew grimaced and took aim in a two-handed grip at the man’s back. There had to be another guy in the driver’s seat, and that meant he’d have to be fast. He didn’t have just one target to take out, but two.

  The FBI agent kicked her gun, and it skittered two meters toward the guy from the van.

  Andrew took a breath and held it. Time seemed to slow, and the world grew deadly quiet. His finger flexed on the trigger. The sound reached his ears, but dimly. He ran out of cover even as the man in the respirator cried out and fell. His gun went flying, but he began crawling to reach it. Andrew pulled the trigger again, and the man’s struggles ceased.

  The van’s wheels squealed as they slipped on the road. Andrew shot out the back tire with a bang, and the van lurched to one side before bouncing away at a reduced speed. He ran to catch it, grabbing the door frame and letting the van drag him. A bullet zipped past his ear. He pulled himself up and popped off a shot. Blood spattered the windshield and side window, and the driver slumped over the wheel. The van veered sharply off the road. Andrew jumped and rolled just before it slammed into a tree.

  Andrew lay there for a second, dazed and bruised, ears ringing from multiple gunshots. He did a quick mental inventory. No serious pain yet, but that didn’t mean much. Shock could suppress the pain. He eased off the asphalt in time to see Roland creeping out from behind the tree where he’d left him. The FBI agent was running over with her gun in hand.

  “Hey!” she said.

  Andrew felt around for his pistol, and then spotted it gleaming on the blacktop about twelve feet to his right. Too far to reach it. He was at her mercy now.

  She stopped beside him and holstered her weapon before dropping to her haunches to look him over. “Are you okay?”

  He nodded uncertainly. “I think so.”

  “Nice shooting,” she said. “And timing. Thanks for that. I owe you. Can you stand?”

  “Yeah.”

  The woman held out a hand, and Andrew took it to haul himself up. He half expected to yank her off her feet, but she was stronger than she looked. Once he was on his feet, he limped over to his gun and picked it up.

  “Damn, man,” Roland said, staring at the scene—his eyes grazed the dead guy and the crashed van. “We need to bug out before more of them come.”

  “We need to get to that warehouse,” Andrew countered.

  “My car is damaged,” the agent said.

  “We’ll take my truck,” Andrew said as he limped over to the guy in the spray-painter’s mask. He pulled the mask off and held it out to Roland. “Put it on.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded quickly. “Good idea.”

  Andrew headed for the van. He tried a light jog, and was relieved to find that the pains in his legs were only bruises, not sprains or breaks.

  “Where are you going?” the agent asked.

  He re
turned with the driver’s mask dangling from one hand. “It’s a bit bloody, but it should keep the toxins out of your lungs,” he said, nodding to the fog still drifting through the trees.

  The FBI agent wrinkled her nose at the mask and shook her head.

  Andrew shrugged and put it on himself. “Suit yourself,” he said in a muffled voice. “Let’s go.”

  Twenty-Four

  Roland

  3 Days Left…

  “Shouldn’t we be a little more cautious?” Roland asked. Andrew wasn’t messing around. He was driving the truck straight towards the warehouse, and Roland had to duck to keep his head from slamming into the vehicle’s ceiling as they bounced around the rough road.

  “You saw the boat leave just like I did. The drones were following them too,” Andrew said.

  “That doesn’t mean all of them are gone,” the woman added.

  “Who the hell are you, anyway? You guys know each other?” Roland asked. They’d worked in unison, as if they’d been partners in crime for years.

  “She’s FBI,” Andrew said sharply through his blood-speckled respirator. The entire look was so post-apocalyptic-movie, Roland slunk away, trying to gain distance from the man.

  The woman glanced over and forced a smile. “Special Agent Kendra Baker,” she said with a nod.

  “I guess titles don’t really hold any meaning these days,” Roland told her.

  Her brows furrowed in confusion. “Why do you say that?” she asked.

  “Because the world is ruined. Have you looked around? People killing each other in the streets, toxic fog, acid rain… the third largest hurricane ever hit the Caribbean last night, and that’s only the beginning. We’re doomed, lady. Doomed.” He pulled his cap off and ran a hand through his thick hair.

  “We might survive,” Kendra said firmly.

  “Doubt it. This is it. The big one. Once the quakes start, the tsunamis will roll in, the volcanoes will activate, and half the world will be covered in six inches of ash. Man, it’s going to be a nightmare. That’s why we need to find out what Hound’s doing!” Roland’s excitement was ramping up, and his voice cracked as he shouted.