Stormbreak (The Serenity Strain Book 1)

by Chris Pourteau

  “Holy crap, it is just like The Walking Dead.”

  “Language,” said Mark automatically. Then, with a smile, he placed his hand on Megan’s shoulder. “You know what? Never mind. Given that we’re living through an actual apocalypse, curse all you want.”

  Megan laughed. “No shit? Thanks, Dad.”

  “Don’t push it,” he warned.

  Lauryn walked to the back corner of the convenience store, as far away from the moonlight and stars shining in the front window as possible. Most of the shelves—the ones that hadn’t been facing the weather when it blew through—were still stocked. Chips, candy bars, bread, crackers, motor oil, Crazy Glue.

  “I’m gonna see if they’ve got any batteries for the flashlight,” Mark announced.

  “Good idea. Hey Megan, help me with this.” Lauryn motioned the teen around to the other side of a movable shelf stocked with chips and bean dip. “Okay, hold your end in place and I’ll swing mine around.”

  Megan planted her feet and leaned against her end of the shelf. Lauryn put her shoulder against the other end and pushed. The thing had been in place for a while and wouldn’t move.

  “Need help?” called Mark from across the store.

  Grunting, Lauryn mumbled, “I’ve got it.” I think.

  “Don’t hurt your back, Mom. Old Lady Wilshire at school hurt her back—”

  “Thanks. I’m good,” said Lauryn. She adjusted her push point another six inches lower and heaved. The shelving unit screeched on the floor. She felt a body to her right and turned her head.

  “Here, let me help,” said Mark. He added his shoulder and, with a little spine-cringing scrape of wood on tile, they finally moved the shelf ninety degrees off from its original position.

  “Okay, this one now.”

  They moved a second shelf from the adjacent aisle and joined it with the first. Together, the two shelves plus the store’s back and side walls made a square, ten-by-ten enclosure. Lauryn stood back and regarded their handiwork. It wouldn’t stand up very well to an actual assault, but it was better than sleeping in an open aisle. They could crouch behind the shelves for cover or stand up straight and see over them.

  “We need arrow loops,” said Mark.

  “What?”

  “Arrow loops. Like they had in castles. You know: where stone formed openings with up-down and right-left slots? They looked like crosses, but they were really for archers to shoot from.”

  “How do you know so much about castles, Dad?”

  “I read.”

  “No shit?”

  “I said, don’t push it.”

  Megan smirked.

  “It’s a good idea,” said Lauryn. She cleared a space about a foot wide at shoulder height in each shelf. The sundries framing their improvised arrow loops wouldn’t stop a bullet, but at least they’d provide a little cover from searching eyes.

  “What do we call it?” asked Megan.

  Mark didn’t understand. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, like, Fort Conroe or something. I dunno. You’re the one that reads!”

  Mark thought for a moment, then glanced Lauryn’s way. “How about Fort Catherine?”

  His wife sighed and gave a sad smile. “I think she’d like that.”

  “I mean, she always was an immovable, stubborn old—”

  “Dad!”

  Lauryn laughed, maybe lighter and longer than she’d laughed since before the storms. Maybe since before Mark had moved out. Maybe since long before that. “No, he’s right,” she told Megan. “Your grandmother could be stubborn as a mule.”

  “It runs in the female line,” Mark assured his daughter.

  “Whatever,” she groaned and did the eye-roll thing.

  Lauryn grabbed the stool from behind the cash register and set it next to Fort Catherine’s wall that faced the front window of the store. “I’ll take first watch, guys,” she said, sitting down. “Why don’t y’all get some sleep?”

  Mark hesitated, then said, “Why don’t you let me take it? You’ve been through a lot today, and I’m nowhere near tired.” Funny. After all he’d been through, after all he’d done wrong in their marriage, Mark almost felt worse about lying to Lauryn right at that moment than at any time before.

  She looked at a cheap watch she’d commandeered from behind the checkout counter. “Okay, then. It’s a little after 10. How about you wake me around 2 a.m.?”

  Mark nodded as she handed him the pistol. “Sounds good.”

  “When’s my turn?” asked Megan.

  Lauryn said, “Why don’t I wake you up around 4 a.m.? You can help me keep watch.”

  “Yeah, we won’t be here past dawn,” said Mark as Lauryn abandoned the stool to him and laid a blanket on the floor. “I want to find the police at first light.”

  “You don’t trust me to stay awake on my own, do you?” Before either of her parents could protest, Megan shrugged. “Okay. Whatever.” She grabbed one of the blankets, made a bed, and set her backpack up for a pillow. “G’nite then.”

  “Nite,” said Mark and Lauryn at the same time. They exchanged an amused look as parents they hadn’t shared in a very long time.

  Lauryn stretched out on the blanket and turned on her side so she was facing Mark’s guard post. “Wake me at two.”

  “I will,” he assured her.

  After a few minutes, the store calmed down to the distant sounds of night chirping through the front window and Megan’s light, open-mouthed snoring.

  She gets that from me, Mark realized. Funny how I never noticed that before.

  He kept his eyes on the front window, but pretty soon boredom drew his mind back to his earlier lie. About not being tired. And how he’d hidden his real reason for wanting to take guard duty. Truth was, he feared sleep. He feared the dream. And he knew in this reality—the version where they traveled instead of staying, the version where Lauryn and Megan weren’t … where they weren’t harmed—the final consequence of his choice was almost at hand.

  As he watched over the store’s entryway, he made the connection with this place, or some vague representation of it, in the dream. He remembered the fort, though in the dream it had been a real fort like in the American Revolution with a tattered flag flying, not a makeshift square of shelves and walls. The freshman psych student in him wondered if the dream flag was the one across the street at that bank. And the arrow loops. In the dream, they’d been huge squares from which cannons pointed, ready to fend off an Indian attack or maybe Hessians and Redcoats. In this reality, they were blocky openings made by cereal boxes and cans of Spam through which he peered, ready with his .40-caliber.

  This was it. Whatever doubt he’d had about the veracity of dreams dissipated under his calm acceptance that his dream was a prophecy. And it was coming absolutely, irrevocably true.

  Mark wasn’t afraid. He felt happy, in fact. Lauryn and Megan had escaped the horrific, alternate fate that would’ve claimed them had they remained in his apartment. He was sure of that now too. And he was fine with what was coming. He didn’t know what would happen to them after, but at least he’d helped them avoid the alternative that, to him, would’ve been much worse.

  It was shortly after midnight when he heard the voices coming up the street. Kiss and bottles. The shadowy images from the dream kept repeating in his mind. Kiss and bottles. He still didn’t know what it meant. But he knew they were coming.

  Mark shook himself awake and tightened his grip on the pistol.

  Chapter 19. Sunday, night.

  “I don’t know why we have to do this,” said Smack, scanning the darkness. The streets were empty, but his eyes darted nervously back and forth anyway. “That’s what all those ghosts are for. We’re fucking generals, I thought.”

  Juggs lumbered along beside him. “They’re still too weak. Weak-willed, weak-brained. And the Maestro said it should be done before morning.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, Smack! Because people need to eat and we h
ave a bunch of mouths to feed! Jesus, you’re such a whiner! I’m gonna start calling you General Pussy if you don’t shut up.”

  Smack opened his mouth, then closed it again.

  They’d passed the Salvation Army a few blocks back. It’d been locked up tighter than a drum. Rather than spend time trying to break in, they sought another, easier source for supplies.

  Rattling from across the street caught their attention. Someone was going through a garbage can. Juggs put her arm on Smack’s and they stopped to listen.

  Rattle-rattle, thump.

  Juggs looked up at the moon. “It’s early yet. Not quite midnight. I think we might have time for some fun.”

  Smack smiled. “Aye-aye, Captain.”

  “That’s the navy, idiot. Come on.”

  They crossed the street and leaned against the brick wall of the State Farm Insurance office. Like so many others downtown, the building’s windows were shattered, and standing water made it smell like a sewer inside.

  I wonder if they had flood insurance, Juggs thought sarcastically. She gestured to Smack to take a look around the corner.

  He popped his head around and saw a shadow digging through a garbage can about fifty feet away. A thin, gibbering shadow. He couldn’t make out what the bony man was saying, but whatever he was talking about, it required a lot of self-commentary.

  Smack moved back around the corner and hoisted one finger in the air.

  “Is that you growing a spine,” whispered Juggs, “or are you telling me there’s one guy down there.”

  “Both.”

  She lifted an amused lip at him, then motioned for him to get to his feet. Together, they strode into the gap between the buildings as the wraith down the alleyway babbled on about being hungry and only finding rat scraps so far.

  “We’re looking for food too,” said Juggs, careless of her voice’s volume.

  The thin man jerked his entire body up so hard, he knocked an aluminum trash can over to crash against the concrete. The sound banged around the alley walls.

  “Who’re you?” he demanded. “What’a you want?”

  Juggs smiled. “Oh, honey, we just want to say howdy.” She and Smack continued their advance, two gunslingers from the Old West sauntering into can’t-miss range.

  “No you don’t,” said the wraith, backing away. “Look, just leave me alone. You want that can? You’re welcome to it! I’ll find me something somewhere else.”

  Smack withdrew a Taser from his belt. Juggs took out a billy club.

  The skinny man glanced behind him to find a large trash bin blocking the other end of the alley. He might be able to squeeze past it. Might.

  Smack moved first, sprinting at the man while his head was turned. Before he could make a dash for the bin, Smack fired the Taser into him. The electricity coursed through the target’s nervous system and he fell screaming to the rough concrete. Smack kept pressing the Taser’s trigger as Juggs sidled up next to him.

  “That’s enough! You’ll ruin all the fun!”

  The popping sound ceased. Juggs walked around the man where he lay, moaning and twitching on the ground.

  “Get those electrodes out of him,” she said. Reluctantly, Smack followed orders. “Now then, we need to wake him up, get him aware. Otherwise, no fun for us.”

  She reached over and slapped lightly at the thin man’s grizzled face. His wispy blond and graying hair was matted with grime and the days-old grit that everyone suffered with now that they were denied the luxury of good hygiene.

  “Now, honey, tell us your name, won’t you? I always like to know their names. It’s a thing with me.”

  The man tried to move his mouth but only managed a groan. His right hand made a spastic, flicking motion.

  “He sure talked enough before,” said Smack.

  “Give him a minute.” She whacked the thin man’s face a few more times. Then, smiling, she reached down and grabbed his balls and squeezed them through his trousers. The thin man howled. “Better now? Awake, are we?”

  He tried to nod, but his head lolled lazily on his shoulders.

  “Good, good. Name?”

  “Hehnwy,” he said, his mouth learning to speak again. “Hehnwy Cwane.”

  “Henry, how nice.” She looked up at Smack. “Smack, I’m going to remove Henry’s trousers. I want you to take this billy club and—”

  “Pwefer Cackler,” the wraith said.

  Juggs looked down at him. “You prefer what? Did you say Cackler? Or is that the Taser juice still talking?”

  “Yesh. Cackler.” His eyes stared back at her with the certain knowledge of what was coming. “Can I ashk you something? I mean, you know, before …”

  Juggs cocked her head. The man wasn’t crying. Wasn’t begging. The look he gave her was a knowing acceptance of the shit sandwich fate had packed in life’s lunch bag on this particularly shitty day of a shitty life. His lack of abject terror intrigued her.

  “It’s may,” she said.

  His eyebrows arched. “I don’t undershtand.”

  “It’s may,” she said again, a little less patiently. “I used to teach seventh graders before I went nuts. I’d appreciate a little respect for the language. You askin’ for permission to ask a question, it’s may. Otherwise, you’re askin’ me if you have the ability to ask the question. See the difference?”

  “Yesh. Yes, ma’am,” he nodded, his voice at last reaching a semblance of normalcy.

  “And yes, you may.”

  “If you’re looking for food, I can help you find it.”

  Smack made a sound with his mouth. Juggs just laughed.

  “I’ve seen where you look, honey.” She grabbed his belt buckle and started undoing it.

  “No, I know! But that’s cuz I was by myself. I didn’t want to chance anything else. I ain’t got no weapons, you know? It’s dangerous out here! I mean, who knows what people are out here? I’m not talkin’ ’bout y’all now, don’t get me wrong, I’m just sayin’—”

  “All right, all right! Jesus, you caw-caw-caw like a crow.”

  “There’s a convenience store just up the street here. I can take you right to it.”

  Smack laughed now. “If it’s just up the street, dickbrain, we can find it ourselves. Undo his pants, Juggs. We need to get on with our mission.”

  Juggs tugged on the belt.

  “But I’m two more hands! I can help you carry more! Push a third cart full of food, ay? More is better, right?”

  Juggs stopped.

  Smack let out a breath. “Oh, come on!”

  Juggs gave him the stink eye. To the thin man, she said, “You from around here, honey?”

  Cackler’s eyes darted back and forth in hers, searching for the right answer. “Yes. Yes, ma’am! I know this place like the back of my hand.”

  She grunted an acknowledgment.

  “I say we roast him,” said Smack, reaching for the Taser.

  “Keep it in your pants, Smack. The Maestro can use him. At least for now.” Turning to Cackler, she said, “You’re gonna join our merry band. I think you know what the other choice involves.”

  “Oh, sure thing! I’ve been looking for a new partner. Or partners. I mean, it’s dangerous out here! Don’t want to be going it alone. Don’t want to be on my own. I’m glad to earn my keep, help however I can! Whatever you need me to do, you just say the word, and I’ll—”

  “Stop with the cawing!” she barked, standing up. “How’s that for starters?”

  “Whatever you say, ma’am.”

  To Smack, she said, “Help him up.”

  Grudgingly, Smack reached out.

  “Other hand, idiot.”

  Smack looked at her. Then she saw the light bulb go on. He took the leather glove off his left hand. He reached out with his left arm, lined with burnt skin and crusted veins. When Cackler took it, he began to scream.

  * * *

  The voices were getting closer. Mark’s hand fidgeted on the .40-caliber. He tried to remember his
gun etiquette. He flipped the safety off but kept his finger off the trigger. Never touch the trigger until you’re ready to fire, Lauryn had taught him. Good trigger discipline.

  Wanting the light to keep him company, he’d lit a small candle inside Fort Catherine after the others went to sleep. He blew it out now.

  There’s a whole town to loot, he thought to himself. Maybe they’ll pass us by.

  Raised voices. He could make out a few words. It sounded like they were chasing a scavenging dog away. He heard three voices. Two men and a woman.

  “—no need to Taser the damned animal,” the woman was saying.

  “No reason not to,” said a man.

  Crunching glass under foot.

  “This is the place! I used to come here for cigarettes all the time. Beer prices were pretty good too on Saturdays. When I was kid, they didn’t even card—”

  “Caw-caw-caw!”

  “Uh. Sorry.”

  “Looks open enough,” said the first man.

  Crap, thought Mark. “Lauryn,” he whispered. She didn’t stir.

  “You first, crow,” said the woman. “Find a flashlight or three behind the register.”

  Peering through the arrow loop of cereal boxes and canned meat, Mark watched a skinny man, outlined in the moonlight, step lightly through the broken window. More glass crunching underfoot. He passed from silver light to shadow as he made his way behind the register.

  “Lauryn.”

  He heard her moan half a question.

  “Shhhh.”

  “I don’t see no … oh, here we go,” said Skinny Man. The arrow loops limited his vision, but Mark dared not stand up to see over the boxes.

  The woman was burly with large, ponderous breasts. She blotted out the light as she lumbered through the window. The second man followed on her heels.

  Crunch-crunch, crunch. Crunch.

  They were making no attempt to be quiet.

  Why should they? thought Mark.

  Skinny Man came back into the light. “Here.” He handed flashlights to the others.

  Careful not to scrape it on the floor, Mark stepped off the stool and kneeled beside Lauryn. He leaned down near her ear and placed his hand over her mouth. She jerked instantly awake, hands coming up to defend herself.