End Days Super Boxset

by Hayden, Roger

  He walked past several homes that appeared to be vacated. A moving vehicle was not to be seen anywhere; another street, another body. It soon became routine as the noxious smell of death, both potent and unsettling, filled the air.

  How on earth could bodies simply have been left in open view? It confounded John and made him worry for his own safety as well. He was witnessing the impossible.

  The nearest grocery store was closed with a sign that said, “Closed until further notice” on one glass panel and a hand-drawn note on the other that said, “We have nothing left. Store is empty.” The store itself was protected with a long, rolling gate, which was locked in the middle. He wandered to a gas station across the street. It was closed as well. John figured that most people had either gone into the city or the assigned quarantine facilities. Worthington Pines, however, was on the far outskirts of the city, and the neighborhoods he ventured into didn’t bring him much hope.

  As he came to Greg’s street, Antelope Drive, he saw more of the same: empty houses and lack of activity. A plane flew overhead, and John looked into the sky, wondering how anyone could just fly over such suffering and death. He wanted to shoot a flare into the sky or assemble the trashcans on the curb of the street into an SOS message—anything that would get the attention of the plane so that it would land on the street and take him away. But the plane continued to fly across the blue sky, leaving a smoke trail in its wake.

  After hours of traveling on foot, he had become bolder in his techniques. He began going up to houses and looking in the windows, sometimes even knocking on doors. He was growing desperate; as desperate as the community that had sent him venturing out into the great unknown. He was less afraid, but he also realized that frightened people hiding in their homes did irrational things, like shoot men who walked on their property.

  Reality was not lost on him, but he trudged on with determination down the asphalt pavement of the neighborhood of nice-looking homes and barren lawns, now mostly patches of grass and dirt. Some lawns were nicer than others, but the arid climate and lack of water made them impossible to maintain. Lawn care was no longer a priority as well.

  He approached a cul-de-sac at the end of the road, and it appeared that the homes there had already been pillaged. There were open doors and smashed windows in every house on the circle except for one. The home on the farthest corner had plywood panels boarding up the windows. The sight of the house piqued his curiosity, and he approached the yard with caution. Something about the place seemed different; it was the only house on the cul-de-sac that hadn’t been broken into. There was a sign near the front door that said “Beware of Dog” and another one that said “Owner is Armed and Dangerous.”

  This person means business, he thought.

  Instead of directly approaching the front door and knocking, he decided to take a step back and investigate. There were obviously people inside the home, or so he believed. He trailed back to the house across the street, went inside through the open door, and looked around.

  There was no food in the house other than some stale crackers and a bag of flour in the pantry. He took them anyway and watched the boarded-up house from inside. An hour passed, and there was no movement on the street. No one walked out, and the one window in the front without plywood boarded over it had a thick black curtain concealing any activity going on inside. John knew—come nightfall—that he would have to go closer and investigate.

  He sat in the empty house until sundown, looking through a photo scrapbook sitting on the living room table. The pictures showed an old married couple who looked to be in their sixties on vacation in Hawaii. They wore tropical clothes, their skin red from the sun, and were smiling and laughing in every photo. John wondered where they were now, or if they were even still alive. He closed the scrapbook, set it back on the table, and left the house, carefully approaching the neighboring driveway.

  He walked carefully and quietly while looking to see if anyone was watching through the window in the front. At any moment, he was prepared for someone to open the front door and charge after him. His body burned with anxiety the moment his shoes stepped onto the driveway. There was a big white van parked next to a blue two-door Volvo. His instincts led him to the garage door. He pressed his head against the glossy brown paint listened.

  There was barely audible sound coming from behind the door. He could hear a man’s voice followed by a woman’s and felt a jolt of excitement and anticipation. Then he heard laughter. There were indeed people in there, and they sounded friendly enough, but John wasn’t going to take any chances.

  Why were they in the garage? he wondered.

  He listened, trying to make out their conversation, but it was too difficult to decipher. Then he heard what sounded like someone getting up and leaving the room. Panic seized him, and John quickly walked back to the driveway and past the front of the house, unsure of what to do. Maybe he could talk to the people, reason with them, and ask for assistance. He wasn’t ready for that step yet, and he ran back to the house of the old couple, where stale crackers awaited him.

  He had a good vantage point of the mysterious home from the living room and repeatedly looked out. It was nighttime, and John thought about the unexpectedly long time he had been away from Worthington Pines. They were probably getting worried about him and losing hope. Part of him felt good making them worried, as he had never felt so important to so many people before. But he took his role seriously, and for that reason he’d gather all he could from the house across the way before heading back to the community. In the meantime, he would squat.

  He searched the rooms of the house, finding nothing of use. There were women’s clothes and men’s shirts in the closet, and knick-knacks and souvenirs from around the country rested neatly on shelves. The owners must have liked to travel. Perhaps they were on vacation. If that was the case, they were extremely fortunate to have avoided what was happening at home.

  John tore through one of their closets of junk and came across an item of incredible use: an old pair of binoculars. He immediately went back to the living room, pulled a stool up to the front window, and sat down. He held the binoculars up and watched the house, seeing nothing but darkness. The street lights weren’t working, and there wasn’t a single light on in any of the homes, outside or inside. Just as he was about to call it a night, he saw something move in the window of Greg’s house.

  The figure of a woman opened the curtains and looked out. John ducked to the side, fearing that she had seen him, but when he looked again through the binoculars, he could see that she was still standing there, just looking out.

  “Of course she can’t see you,” John said to himself. She eventually moved away from the window, leaving the curtain open.

  He slept on the couch in the living room and felt rested in the morning. His dreams had been startling, and he was still shaken. The dreams were filled with images of death and disease, obviously related to the things he had seen. In the one he recalled most vividly, however, he got away. A helicopter came down and rescued him, and he escaped Carson City after being chased by hordes of infected Ebola patients. When he awoke, however, he was still in the house of the old couple, and he had a long walk back to Worthington Pines. It was time to investigate one last time.

  He approached the boarded house again, moving quickly but with stealth up the driveway. The window curtain was still open, and it was early enough in the morning that John hoped no one in the house was awake. He crept along the garage and looked out to the side. To his right was a cement walkway leading to the front door. Next to the front door was a boarded-up window, and the exposed window was next to it. He carefully moved along, close to the house in slow and steady steps until he reached the window into the mystery home.

  John cupped his hands and peered inside. It looked like any normal living room. There was a couch, bookshelf, coffee table, and lamp. A kerosene lamp on the hardwood floor caught his eye. The people inside seemed to be waiting the disease out, j
ust like the people of his community were doing. He squinted to see any other items of use when suddenly a man walked into the room and looked right at him. Their eyes met, and John could feel his heart stop and his legs lock. He had been exposed. The man stood frozen for a moment then vanished down the hall.

  “Shit!” John said out loud. He backed away from the window just as he saw the man reenter the room brandishing a rifle. John ran alongside the house as fast as his legs could possibly take him and ventured out into the road and back down the street without looking back.

  ***

  The gates of Worthington Pines were closed, as they had been some time now. Beyond the steel bars that separated the struggling community from the outside world were homes that had become more like prison cells than anything else. The people had joined together to both defy the government quarantine mandate and survive the Ebola outbreak.

  For many, it seemed the responsible thing to do. The president of the Home Owner’s Association, Ed Tillman, floated the idea to the other residents after the travel ban had been put into place. Not everyone was on board, and a few families packed up their cars and left, dutifully reporting to the nearest quarantine station.

  Those who stayed were determined to get through the crisis without aid or assistance from the government, and as long as they kept strangers from getting inside, there would be no chance of infection. They agreed to never leave the community unless authorized, and if they did leave without approval, they would not be allowed back in. This was all put into writing—a contract produced by Ed Tillman, who was also a certified notary—and the residents signed it.

  The community united to make sure there was enough food and supplies for everyone, and all of their resources were pulled together and properly distributed by the Home Owner’s Association, which acted as a sort of elected body in place of an actual government. The transition wasn’t hard, given that the HOA already operated with authority, and had long before Ebola was on anyone’s mind.

  After the first month of cutting themselves off from the world, the plan seemed manageable. Not going to work was a hard adjustment for the adults to make, but most of the kids were delighted not to have to go to school. It was like summer vacation for them. But then the power went out, the water stopped running, and food and supplies were being stolen in the late hours of the night by unknown thieves.

  As a result, the HOA President locked everything up, and residents volunteered as armed guards working in shifts. By the second month, suspicions grew within the community about who was responsible for the pilfering. And of course, there were suspicions about certain families who had not donated their “fair share” to be distributed throughout the community.

  Even after security measures were put in place, they didn’t have much left of anything. Certainly not enough food for the long haul. The lack of power and running water proved detrimental, and certain rifts were forming throughout the community, caused by sheer desperation.

  Theories abounded about the reasons for the loss of power and utilities. Many believed that the government had pulled the switch to force residents from their homes and into official quarantine zones. Others simply believed it to be signs of the end times. John observed as his community began to tear apart at the seams after only two short weeks. During a particularly impassioned town meeting, he presented the idea of venturing beyond the gates for supplies.

  “Who is going to do something like that? With that disease out there, you can count me out!” a pudgy retired man shouted in the dark, crowded room.

  “I’ll do it,” John said. “I’m light on my feet.”

  “But you’re only one person,” a curly-haired, middle-aged woman said. “How are you going to carry enough supplies back with you for the entire community?”

  “I didn’t say that I would be doing that. I’ll see what it’s like out there and where we can go to get supplies. I’ll be your scout.”

  The residents nodded and agreed, and they soon began to admire the quiet, single man who lived among them, a man they knew little about. He gave them hope, and for a moment, they forgot about all their suspicions and animosity toward each other. There was still a chance that they could make it, and John was showing them the way.

  ***

  When he returned late in the afternoon, John hoped that his lengthy absence hadn’t allowed the community to resort to their old ways. He hoped that he wasn’t going to find them all dead after turning on one another. He had a new plan. It was cynical, but there was no denying the reality of the way things were. He would encourage them to turn all their rage, doubt, and fear on an outsider, and in the process take the supplies they needed. John presumed that he had stumbled upon the house of a prepper, and if he knew preppers, he knew they had more than what they needed.

  The loss of water was especially difficult for the community as the residents struggled to maintain good hygiene practices. It only multiplied their fears of germs, infection, and disease. Who among them wasn’t staying clean? Who among them could be a potential carrier? After being gone for two whole days, John felt he was arriving at just the right time. The entrance gate was closed and locked with a chain and padlock. The giant “No Solicitors” sign over the gate made John chuckle. Some things never changed.

  He called out to Hector, one of the volunteer guards who was sitting in a folding chair under the shade of a large tree inside the gate. Hector fumbled with his rifle and jumped out of his chair. He squinted between the iron bars and saw John standing there.

  “Well, holy shit. Look who’s back! John Elliot in the flesh!”

  “Pleasure to see you too, Hector.”

  The man went to the gate, holding a large key ring in his hand. He was wearing shorts and flip-flops, and his shirt was unbuttoned and open, revealing a tan chest. He looked as if he was ready to go to the beach, or was at least pretending he was there. He unlocked the gate and pulled one side open, letting John enter.

  “What’d you bring us back?” Hector asked.

  “News of the outside world,” he said, removing his surgical mask. He took some steps forward, and Hector stopped him while backing away.

  “Hold on there. You know the rules. Doc’s gonna have to check you out before you go walking around in here. As you know, there’s a lot of scared folks around here.”

  John stopped and sighed. “Yeah, I get it. They haven’t all killed each other yet, have they?”

  Hector laughed. “Oh, don’t worry, they’re close.” He turned to face the winding road that led into the blocks of homes packed closely together on each street, so close that one yard seamlessly spread into the other. “You wait here and I’ll go get the doc,” he said, running off with his flip-flops slapping against the road.

  Dr. Winsted, or “Doc,” was the resident MD of the community, and his presence and expertise provided the people much comfort amid their Ebola fears. He knew the signs and symptoms of the disease fairly well, even given its mutation, and was on call for most of the day to check anyone who expressed so much as complaints of a headache.

  Dr. Winsted, a quiet man with thick gray hair and light stubble on his wrinkled face, eventually met John at the gate, wearing a medical garment, face mask, and hood. He didn’t appear to be taking any chances.

  “Everyone is so excited that you’re back,” he said to John while shining a light in his eyes. “You’re quite the celebrity here. They’ve called a big meeting and everything.”

  “Well…” John said, holding his arms up as Dr. Winsted lifted his shirt and examined his chest and torso. “I’m honored.”

  “So far so good,” the doc said. “How long have you been gone?”

  “About two days,” John said.

  “So what’s it like out there. How bad?”

  “Not good,” John answered. “I’ll fill them in soon enough, but I’d rather not think about it at the moment.”

  Dr. Winsted stopped his examination and looked John in the face. “I understand. I don’t see
any discoloration, sores, or any other signs, so you should be good to go. Just monitor yourself closely. You don’t want to wake up sick and have to tell this bunch the news.”

  John laughed. “They’d probably burn me at the stake.”

  “Not too far from reality,” Dr. Winsted said.

  They walked together down the street to the HOA office, where a large meeting had been called in anticipation of John’s arrival.

  ***

  After a quick change into different clothes—a T-shirt and jeans—John walked to the main office ready to tell the residents about his journey. He could feel the tension in the air. Several homes had their blinds drawn and doors locked. He took it as a sign of the growing distrust occurring throughout the community. No one was outside, and he figured that everyone had probably packed into the meeting hall, some fifty people in all, eagerly awaiting the news. The main office was a gray single-story stucco building with a large flagpole sticking out of the mulch, and an American flag waving in the air.

  He entered through the front door, and he could already hear the chatter of the packed meeting room. He didn’t understand why they couldn’t have just met outside instead of cramming into some stuffy, darkened room, but the HOA President liked to stick to tradition.

  John walked over the red carpeting and past the office desks, going straight to the meeting room in the back. The door was closed to a crack, and he pushed it open as several faces turned to him with expectation and worry. Some were lucky enough to find chairs around the rectangular table in the middle of the room. Others were standing. At the head of the table, naturally, was Ed Tillman, HOA President.

  “There he is!” Ed announced.

  The men and women, worn and tired-looking, tried to look enthusiastic and began to clap. Color began to come back to their now hopeful faces, due to his mere presence.