by Rod Little
Originally from Taiwan, his parents had moved to Toronto when he was just three years old. He moved to Los Angeles at eighteen for his undergraduate studies, and then three years ago moved to Pittsburgh to continue studying robotics at Carnegie Mellon University. He had nearly completed his graduate degree, when this tragedy happened.
Coming back to school after a weekend trip to see Mom and Dad, he took the usual red-eye out of Toronto. A short flight, only an hour and four minutes in the air, he had taken this exact same flight two dozen times in the past three years. Sooner or later, fate is gonna get ya, he thought.
“A plane crashes every day,” he used to remind everyone. He knew how unsafe it was up there, never mind the crap about how it was supposedly the safest form of travel. “Safer than riding a bike,” people use to say. Those people are morons, he thought.
“Safest form, my ass,” he now muttered, looking over the smoldering wreckage. He could make out pieces of the engines, the tail, a window or two... but not much more. Unfortunately, he could also discern body parts among the mess. He called out, and hoped someone would answer. Only the crackle of the fire replied.
“I don't remember my bike ever killing a hundred people!” He screamed in frustration at the dead bodies. None of the dead argued back.
After a failed attempt to find any survivors, he wanted to get far away from the revolting amalgam of twisted metal and bloody corpses. The sight of some of the victims made him stop and close his eyes, sick and dizzy. For an hour he hunkered down in the snow and held his knees to his chest before moving on.
His phone had been busted in the crash. He cradled it longingly, ran his fingers over its cracked screen, then tossed it into the blood-stained snowbank.
“Not likely to have a signal up here anyway,” he said aloud to himself. “No worries.” He might have searched the bodies for another phone, but the thought of it repulsed him, and he doubted he'd find one still intact, anyway.
He wandered down the mountainside for over a week, surviving on two power bars mashed in his shirt pocket. Melted snow was his only source of water. Sleeping outside under the trees with only leaves for cover, it was cold and uncomfortable, but he was alive.
Eventually the snow gave way to dirt and rocks. It was warmer down at the lower altitudes. This also meant fruit trees. He was starving, hungry enough to consider eating worms and caterpillars. He had even eaten a few smashed acorns. They tasted bitter, but he ate them anyway and relished them.
Now the sight of ripe pears on a tree brought tears to his eyes. He shimmied up the tree trunk and picked one immediately. As his teeth bit into its green skin, he thought he might pass out. Clenching it in both hands like a precious gem, he ate it to the core, unconcerned with anything else around him.
A handsome boy, he always boasted an active social life. This was uncommon among grad students in robotics and computer science. He was the exception. His straight black hair and witty charm led him to enjoy almost every hot girl at his school in California, and in Pittsburgh he had been plowing his way through CMU when he fell in love. That didn't stop him from screwing around, it just slowed him down. The romance ended a week before this trip, and he thought seeing his family would help to clear his mind. It had cleared more than his mind, it cleared his whole damn schedule.
You never know when your next take-off is your last take-off, he remembered hearing someone say at the airport. So be good to your loved ones. He laughed now at the irony, but not cruelly. It was that lady's last flight.
Oblivious to the changes in the world, he still expected a rescue. He had taken the flare gun from the plane. It had two flares left. He was saving them until he got closer to civilization. He would shoot one off tonight. He hoped a town or ski lodge would be near enough to see it.
Bohai found a ranger station, but it was unmanned. The only help he found there was a large hunting knife. He took it. Up until now, he had been using a long sharp stick as a weapon. Now he used it as a walking stick, but sharpened one end of it with the knife.
A stream ran strong through the next pass, and he followed it for at least a mile. At a shallow point, less than two feet deep, he waded in and scanned for fish. He doubted he had the skill to spear one, but maybe he could net one in his shirt. So far he only spotted minnows and tadpoles gliding under the surface.
After several attempts, he managed to snatch a small minnow in his hand. He took a deep breath and popped it in his mouth; then swallowed it whole. For an instant, he thought he might throw up. But he concentrated, took deep breaths and kept it down. He focused on math problems to calm his mind. That wasn't so bad. But he would not eat another. That would have to be enough protein for today. He could survive on his bag of pears.
At that moment he looked up from his fishing spot in the middle of the stream, and was face to face with a large mountain lion, a cougar. It drank from the stream, then lifted its head, looked straight at Bohai. The boy did not move.
He wasn't afraid of this cat. Bohai always had a good rapport with animals, and he swore he could actually understand them, communicate with him. It was hard to prove this to others, but he knew it to be true.
The cat stared at Bohai with pity, as if to say I'm sorry. But it wasn't like: I'm sorry for your plane crash; but more like: I'm sorry for your human race. You're in trouble, my friend.
The lion lapped up one more drink of water, then turned away. It bounded off into the tall grass and disappeared quietly like a leaf in the wind.
In that moment, Bohai felt truly isolated and lonely. He waded back to shore and continued along the stream, his walking stick in hand, the backpack slung over his shoulder. It contained his only remaining possessions: an extra change of clothes, the pears, knife and flare gun.
As evening neared, his legs ached. Tired, both mentally and physically, every part of his body hurt, but he feared that if he stopped he would never make it to a rescue point. He tripped and fell into the stream with a loud splash. His hands scuffed on the rocks, and his wrist began to throb. He scrambled to get up, then sat back down in the water. Wet and tired, he refused to get back up. Resting there on the rocks, he let the slow, cold current wash over his legs.
Then something else splashed. A dark shape entered the water and swam rapidly toward him. It looked like a giant lizard or small crocodile, but he knew it couldn't be – not in this part of the country.
The lizard emerged from its underwater swim and climbed up onto a rock, its head and shoulders agleam with dripping water. It snarled at him and bared a set of unnaturally long fangs. Bohai could not sense anything from this animal, he could not communicate even with empathy. This was no ordinary creature.
For the first time in his life, Bohai was afraid of an animal.
This is no animal, he thought. It's a demon. An alien. A freak of nature.
The boy scrambled backward toward shore, his arms and legs beating through the water, and the lizard dove smoothly back into the stream without a splash. It headed straight for him. The head rose again to hiss at him, anticipating its meal to come. The rage coming from this creature was palpable.
Bohai stood up and held his sharp stick in front of him. He was trained in bo staff fighting, but had never before taken on anything so big. As the lizard reached him and lashed out, Bohai swung the stick around, used the momentum and sent the creature rolling to one side. The stick cracked – it wasn't strong enough. He dropped it and hunted frantically in his backpack for the knife. All he could feel were pears. He grabbed one and threw it hard at the lizard's head. That made it hesitate for only a split-second before it lunged again. Bohai braced himself for the pain of a bite.
Suddenly something jumped over Bohai, knocking him to the ground, and raced to meet the lizard head-on. It was the cougar. It made contact and sank its teeth into the lizard's neck. Another cougar leaped from the grass and jumped on the reptile's body, ripping open its stomach with sharp feline claws.
The lizard was subdued in seconds, and d
ead within minutes. The two giant cats pulled meat from bone, and feasted on its carcass. A smaller cougar, or maybe it was a bobcat, joined the meal, and they all quietly devoured their prey. One of them turned and looked to Bohai as if to ask if he wanted any.
“I'm good, thanks,” he declined. The cat went back to gnawing the fresh meat.
Bohai sat there in the last minutes of daylight, hoping to dry his jeans, but the sun was gone all too soon. He was scared now. Not of the cats, but of the rage in the lizard – a monster that doesn't belong in North America. Something wasn't right here.
Night wrapped itself around him, and he sat there alone – alone in human terms, anyway. The cats still remained with him. He thought he saw a spider clinging to the side of a tree, but it was at least two feet long. That wasn't possible. A trick of the darkness, he thought. Whatever it was, it crawled back into the woods.
Eventually he stood and fired the flare gun. The cats looked up at the spectacle, as it painted the sky orange and red. They looked at him again with pity and confusion, then went back to eating.
The cracked walking stick was useless. He picked out another one and took a few minutes to sharpen the end, then continued back on the path downstream.
There was a momentary soundless discussion among the three big cats, then the largest one followed the boy. After a few hundred yards, it was walking right next to him.
“Thanks, buddy,” he said. “I need the company.”
After midnight, he collapsed on the ground. He could walk no more. Every muscle ached. He just lay there on the rocky ground next to the stream, head resting on his backpack, and fell asleep.
The cougar lay next to him and kept watch.
And then a small eight-legged creature reached out to him in a dream, and told him a strange tale of the world ending.
Chapter 16
In the morning, Jason and Shane took the jeep out to siphon gas from derelict cars. They also needed to look for a new vehicle – one that wouldn't be recognized by Dexter's men, and one that would provide shelter from rain and from any creatures they might meet along the way. The roofless jeep was no longer practical, despite its four-wheel drive.
It was an odd oversight, but no one had yet gotten rid of the big dead spider. Sam decided it was a good project for Mark. The two of them took it out back and buried it where no one could see.
Before noon the jeep came back followed by a dark blue van. It had tinted windows, fully blacked-out, looking very much like a serial killer's vehicle of choice. In any case, it offered better protection than the jeep, and had plenty of room in back for supply runs. It also contained a working heater, a vital component for winter looming just two months away.
The boys had found it easily, not far away, but hadn't found much else. They had filled a few cans with gas, stole an extra car battery and some flashlights from the glove compartments of abandoned cars. An old '74 Vega had a case of candy-bars in the back seat, melted. Food was food, melted or not; so they took the box.
“We need to think about a supply run to St. Marks today,” Shane said. “It's almost forty miles, but it's a paved road. Takes less than an hour to get there.”
“How's Lucy?” Jason asked.
“Awake, and begging for a drink. Something stronger than water,” Sam said. “And yes, we hid the beer and wine.”
“Good.” Shane patted his shoulder. “We don't need any liabilities inside our fences. Keep an eye on her.”
Mark bounded onto the grass and inspected the van. He climbed inside and said, “Sweet.” Kids could sum up small parts of the world with the greatest sincerity in the fewest words. His shoe was untied again.
Lily sat near the garden and petted Snowball, who batted the top bloom of a purple violet back and forth as if it were the most fascinating plaything on Earth. Content, the little girl hummed and wove a bracelet of long grass. It was as if her whole life had been filled with bad times, so she knew how to make the best of it. Perhaps this experience was no big deal to her. Most days her mom was either gone or drunk. The child seemed incredibly unfazed by their current situation.
“We should go now, if we want to get back before dark,” said Sam. “We've got about seven hours of daylight left.”
Shane squinted and made the calculations. “An hour to get there, an hour back. That gives us a few hours to loot the town for what we need.”
Jason drove the van, Shane rode shotgun, and Sam rode in the back with Ken. Camila and Tina stayed behind with Lucy and her kids. Camila was a strong woman; Sam trusted her to be able to handle what comes their way. She waved from the watchtower as the guys drove off.
The trip was bumpy, but easy. They sped down the road at over 70 mph for the better part of the route. Nothing blocked their way except for a single dead car that forced them to swerve into the grass. They nearly hit a tree, scraping a few shards of bark on the door handles, then retook the road and moved on.
Jason parked just inside the town of St. Marks in a parking lot behind the diner. They would go on foot the rest of the way. The hope was that the van would look like any other abandoned vehicle and be ignored by anyone coming this way, especially the Grinners.
They stepped onto the main road of St. Marks and identified the grocery store further up. The vacancy of the small town magnified the sound of their shoes scuffing the road. This was not a serene setting. It was deserted, but not at peace. Not even birds landed in this place; it was a true ghost town.
St. Marks was only marginally bigger than Fayetteville. It sported a population of barely two thousand, mainly serving hunters traveling through and an occasional mountain tour. This would work to their advantage, as the town might have a kick-ass sporting goods store filled with guns.
Jason and Shane headed out to look for weapons while Sam took Ken grocery shopping. The first place they hit was the ALL GROCER-EE, according to the broken sign.
The store stank of rotting vegetables and produce. Spoiled meat had attracted flies in the back, and the boys could only imagine what rodents lurked there. They steered clear, and focused on boxed cereals, vacuum-packed products and canned goods. In a small toiletries section, they picked up rubbing alcohol, cotton, bleach, soap and shampoo. Then Sam remembered the perfume, and he scooped up the last four bottles of it left on the shelf. Clearly not a big seller out here in the sticks.
Jason and Shane hit the jackpot in the Fish & Sporting Goods store. They gathered twenty-two rifles, two handguns, three longbows and about two hundred arrows. Shane also took a sturdy crossbow and slung it over his shoulder. They filled several bags with bullets and ammo. Jason also took three fishing rods and some lures, nets, and gear. Fish might be their best source of food in the future, after the cans run out.
They looked around for something bigger, a military grade weapon, but there was nothing here.
“We need to find a military base,” Shane suggested. “Also, grab some maps. Maybe they show police stations and military depots.”
Of course, St. Marks didn't have a police station. Towns this small relied on the State Police. However, they were betting most of the homes had guns in them, stuffed behind the couch, hidden in the cellar, or even mounted on the wall. Up here in the mountains, everyone owned a gun.
“We need a Caterpillar tractor, or an army tank,” Jason said. “Drive right through Dexter's front door. Right down his throat.”
“We need a lot of things. I don't think tanks are sold at the Quickie-Mart here. Come on, let's start loading the van.”
Outside, a lizard crept through the streets, licking and smelling the sidewalk. It had picked up their scent. Shane watched it for a second, then pulled back hard on his bowstring. He sent an arrow into its head. It squealed and thrashed about for several seconds, then collapsed and stopped moving.
Jason walked back and retrieved the van. He drove it around to the ALL-GROCER-EE and helped the others load the groceries and toiletries into the back. Shane carried several loads of weapons to the sidewalk, an
d waited for his turn to be picked up. He killed another small lizard as he waited. When the van finally picked him up, there was barely room for everything they had taken. He squeezed as much as he could in the back, then put a few items up front. The lot wouldn't fit, so they would need to return the next day for the rest.
More lizards started converging at the other end of the street, about half a mile down, still quite far away. Sam spied a giant spider on the roof of a barber shop across the street. It simply waited there, not moving. Watching for dangers, perhaps. At this distance it posed no immediate threat.
“We should go soon,” Sam said. The congregation of lizards at the edge of town was making him nervous. Today the creatures looked more coordinated, less chaotic. Like an army planning an attack, he thought, although guessing it was just his imagination. A group of them broke off and headed toward the humans, straight down the middle of the street.
“Where's Ken?” Shane asked. “Time to go.”
Ken had decided to try the local pharmacy for more drugs, antibiotics and such. It was a dozen buildings further down the street.
Shane whistled. “Ken! Let's go!”
There was no reply, and they couldn't see or hear anything from the pharmacy.
“What the hell!” Shane was irritated. “I'll go get him.”
But at that moment, Ken came flying out of the pharmacy with a lizard right on his heels. It had been inside the store. Now Ken ran, and another lizard came out from under the porch and snapped at his leg. It managed to get a bite on Ken's foot, but lost its grip. Ken stumbled, his arms thrust out and caught himself as he spilled onto the ground. The aspirin and medicine bottles in his arms went flying in all directions and rolled down the street. A lizard swallowed two bottles of ciproxin in one gulp.