Dark Vanishings: Post-Apocalyptic Horror Book 1

by Dan Padavona

  The gas pumps weren’t working, the power having failed twenty-four hours earlier. As the Jeep crested a rise on the highway over the North Carolina border, he was too lost in thought to notice the gas gauge needle stuck on empty. The engine sputtered, caught, then sputtered again, as Viper pulled the vehicle to the shoulder.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  He slammed the door shut and began walking down the hill. The Monday morning sun burned like a blowtorch. Waves of heat boiled off of the asphalt. In the valley below the highway, a miniaturized community appeared as a board game map. The community would have appeared normal—white suburban homes lining perfect rectangles of streets, churches, fast-food chain restaurants, and billboards—except that the cars, which appeared as children’s toys from this high up, sat frozen.

  Two miles ahead, shimmering behind the radiating heat like a mirage, sat a wrecked compact car on the highway shoulder. He knew there would be many more such vehicles, and they would be of no use to him. As he had discovered over the last two days, all of the vehicles had empty gas tanks, as though the drivers had fallen asleep and crashed with their engines running. He wondered how far it was to the next exit and if there was a nearby town where he could find a fueled vehicle.

  Wiping sweat from his forehead, he plodded along the shoulder, striding along the vacant highway toward a horizon of nothingness. It was with great surprise several minutes later that he turned his head, hearing the faraway growl of a pickup coming from below the highway’s summit. His muscles tensed, listening to the drone draw nearer. A white Ford pickup crested the hill like a mackerel leaping out of water. The motor gunned, and Viper saw at least two feet of clear air beneath the tires and the highway. The truck landed, bouncing like a ball.

  “Not a goddamn soul between here and Missouri, and I run into the Duke of Dipshits.”

  A horn honked excitedly seven or eight times, then the pickup swerved toward Viper, slowing at the last possible moment. Tires screeched. The pickup pulled up beside him. The driver, a kid in his late teens or early twenties, leaned over the passenger seat toward the unrolled window.

  “Looks like someone ran out of gas,” he said, smacking on a wad of gum the size of a racquetball. The boy wore a white cowboy hat, the grin on his face barely meeting his beady eyes. “Well, hop in, unless you want to get cooked like a roast pig.”

  Viper stood watching the boy for a second, listening to the gum smack. Then he pulled the door open and climbed into the passenger seat.

  “Well, all right,” the boy said. “It’s time to motorvate.” The boy, who wore a brand new pair of Air Jordans, jammed his foot down on the accelerator and threw the Ford into drive. Tires squealed again, and Viper’s head jerked back against the seat. “Hold on, big guy. We’ve got a million miles of open road and not a single cop with a radar gun. Let’s see what this bitch can do.”

  The pickup hit 70 mph.

  Then 80 mph.

  Then 90.

  A blur of hazy green whipped past the passenger side. The kid whooped and hooted.

  “The name’s Ricky Morris. Most everyone calls me Ricky, but some of my crew call me Three. You know, like Dale Earnhardt?”

  “Yeah, I think I know who Dale Earnhardt was, Ricky,” Viper yelled over the roar of wind. “But you ain’t Dale Earnhardt, and this ain’t Daytona. So maybe you should slow the hell down before you kill the both of us.” Ricky grinned over at Viper, showing plenty of teeth. “No. I’m serious, kid. If you don’t take that foot of yours off the accelerator, I‘m going to get medieval on your ass.”

  Ricky kept grinning, but that grin became one of astonishment. “Okay, okay, Kojak. I’ll slow her down. But only because you and me are friends, and friends gotta make sacrifices for one another.”

  The pickup whipped along I-77 at 75 mph. Every now and then, the truck swerved into the passing lane to avoid a vehicle straddling the right lane and shoulder.

  “You believe these people?” Ricky leaned toward Viper and yelled through the passenger window. “Learn to park a car, shit head.”

  Viper glared at the boy encroaching on his space, and Ricky leaned back into his own seat. “That’s better. Where you from, kid? And don’t tell me you’re from Nascar country.”

  “Shit, no,” Ricky said, laughing. “I’m from Baltimore.”

  “Baltimore?”

  “Shit, yes.”

  “I didn’t know they made ‘em like you in Baltimore.”

  “We got more than crab cakes and Cal Ripken, Jr, Hoss.”

  “Hell, I’m willing to bet there ain’t anyone in Baltimore who says hoss.”

  “Probably there ain’t. Just like there ain’t nobody in America’s Comeback City that can drive like Three, ” Ricky said, pointing his thumb at himself. He gunned the engine, pushing the speedometer back above 80. Viper stared icicles into him, and Ricky pulled back on the speed. “Okay, okay. Don’t get your panties in a knot. Have some faith in Ricky. I’ll get you where you want to go, and with the right set of wheels, I’ll get you there in style.”

  “The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Style don’t figure in. Just keep your eyes on the road and drive.”

  Ricky shook his head, laughing into the wind. “You sure don’t beat around the bush, do you? Okay, I’ll drive. It’s what I do best, as if you hadn’t already noticed. So now that you know my name, maybe you can tell me who I get to share the road with.” Viper stared forward as the truck motored past a green traffic sign for Winston-Salem. “Oh, come on now. It’s gonna be a long trip if you ain’t gonna talk.”

  “You can call me Viper.”

  Ricky laughed, looked over at his passenger, and laughed again. “Viper? Like the snake? Shit, are you some kind of superhero?”

  “Eyes on the road. Pie hole closed.”

  “A superhero with superpowers. Damn. I bet you shoot venom out of your ass when you get all mad. Ain’t that right?”

  “Ricky, since you know all about the number three, I’m giving you three seconds to shut your mouth before I rip off that steering wheel and shove it sideways up your ass. You feeling me now, hoss?”

  Ricky grimaced. “I don’t think I like the way you’re talking to me, Mr. Viper. Maybe I should pull over and let you walk the rest of the way. That cue ball head of yours looks like it could use a little more sunshine.”

  “Kid, I could take this truck from you any damn time I pleased. You and me ain’t friends. The sooner you come to realize that, the longer your lifespan is going to be. This ain’t even your truck, now is it?”

  “It is, too, my truck. I found it, and these days that’s as good as a contract. Shit, this disappearing act that the world has pulled is the best damn thing that ever happened to Ricky.” Ricky turned his head toward Viper as he talked. The pickup weaved in and out of the two lanes. “The whole country is mine for the taking. Ricky wants a new Camaro? Ricky gets a new Camaro. Ricky wants to live in a mansion in Hollywood Hills? Ricky gets a mansion in Hollywood Hills. No boss telling me, ‘Do this, do that.’ I’m the boss now, you dig?”

  “You’re the boss? Is that right?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “So what happens when someone bigger than Ricky comes along and wants to take Ricky’s mansion and Ricky’s Camaro? What then?”

  “Ricky puts two slugs in their forehead. That’s what he does.”

  Viper shook his head.

  “Shit, kid. You ain’t no gangster. You ain’t even a stock car racin’ country boy. I can smell the suburbia on you, like perfume on a pig’s ass. You’re just some kid who hid behind Mommy and Daddy when the neighborhood bully came struttin’ down the sidewalk. You probably slacked your way through high school and got C minus grades at a community college. Then, when the shit hit the fan on Saturday, you drove Daddy’s sports car, scared out of your mind, until the gas ran out. And now you’re just a punk kid in a broken down Ford who thinks he is gonna rule the world.”

  “It sure as hell looks
like I’ve been doing better than you. At least I got a set of wheels. You don’t see me thumbing it for a ride, do you? If I hadn’t picked you up back there, you—”

  “—would have been better off. Now are you gonna keep your eyes on the road, or am I gonna have to take the wheel from ya?”

  “Fine. I’ll just shut my mouth and drive.”

  Shortly after noon, having put the empty skyscrapers of Charlotte in the rear view mirror, Viper directed Ricky to switch onto I-26 and head southeast toward Charleston. But as they passed from Calhoun into Orangeburg County, a hissing noise beneath the hood forced Ricky to the shoulder. White smoke and steam billowed out from under the hood like fog on the moors.

  Ricky beat his fists against the steering wheel, cursing at the pickup until his voice turned hoarse.

  “Hey, John McEnroe, you about finished?”

  Ricky glared at Viper. “I don’t see you doin’ anything to get us out of this mess.”

  “Punching the steering wheel won’t fix a burst hose, Ricky. You can sit here crying about it while it’s a hundred degrees outside, or you can put on your big boy pants and walk to the next town. What’s it gonna be?”

  Ricky slapped the steering wheel again. Sulking, he climbed out of the pickup and slammed the door. “No good piece of shit.” He threw the cowboy hat into a field bordering the interstate.

  “Maybe if you hadn’t driven 90 mph for the last two hours, she’d still be runnin’. There ain’t no Triple-A left to bail you out anymore. Either you make smart choices or you risk gettin’ yourself into a world of hurt out here. Now let’s find ourselves some new wheels before the sun turns us both into bacon.”

  Thirty minutes down I-26, they took an exit ramp for a town called Chardray. Winding through a grove of red maples and river birch, the road was cloaked in shade, the air as oppressive as the inside of an oven. As Viper walked along the shoulder, Ricky strutted down the center of the ramp. His mood improved, as he talked about the possibility of obtaining a new Camaro from Chardray—maybe a black Z28 with a V8.

  “Kid, I’ll be surprised if Chardray has a Micky D’s. How many farmers do you know who drive Camaros?”

  “Naw. This is the place. I can feel it. Ricky is gonna get a fine set of wheels in this here town. We’ll be ridin’ in style all the way to the coast, and you’re gonna get a chance to see how a real man drives when he has a proper ride.”

  “How about if you get out of the middle of the road before someone comes around that blind curve and turns your ass to asphalt.”

  “Hoss, there ain’t been a single driver on the road since West Virginia. I could take a nap right here, right now, and sleep like a baby.” Ricky ran several paces ahead and dropped onto his back in the middle of the road, his arms and legs splayed. “Hey Viper, you ever make snow angels back when you were a kid? You know, back before they created electricity?”

  “What did I tell you about making smart choices? You get yourself hurt out here, ain’t no doctor up the road to put you back together.”

  “You worry too much,” Ricky said, closing his eyes and pretending to snore.

  “See ya, kid,” Viper said, disappearing around the bend. By the time Viper reached the bottom of the ramp, he had gotten used to the quiet. The wind rustling the trees, the twittering of birds, the chittering of katydids which oddly reminded him of passing trains. The sounds of nature hearkened him back to quiet afternoons in Kansas meadows.

  From behind came the slap-slap-slap of sneakers on pavement. Ricky caught up to him, panting as though he had just finished a 5K. “You were gonna leave me, weren’t you?”

  “Hell, yes, I was gonna leave ya. It’s no skin off my back if a car drives over your stupid ass.”

  They turned left onto a road sparsely lined with southern homes set back within hemlocks and pine. Spanish moss clung to the branches like wizards’ beards. Except for a rundown Citgo station and a barbecue pit three quarters of a mile ahead, there appeared to be no commerce in Chardray.

  “What kind of shit hole is this place?” Ricky scowled. He picked up a stone and hurled it through the window of a white, one-story home. A rusted out Dodge pickup rested on bricks in the driveway, withering away like dinosaur bones.

  “Now why did you have to go and do that for?”

  “No sweat, Hoss. It don’t matter what the hell you do anymore.” Ricky cupped his hands around his mouth and screamed to the sky. “You hear me, bitches? This is Ricky’s world, now. Ricky does what Ricky wants to do.” He grinned at Viper, and slapped a yellow Slow, Children sign.

  Viper shook his head, his eyes shifting from darkened window to darkened window.

  Ricky, whistling the Andy Griffith Show theme song, said, “Hey, Viper. You ever seen ‘Deliverance’?”

  But Viper didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on a shadow beneath a hemlock that didn’t fit into the shaded scene. Ricky hadn’t noticed. He busied himself hurling rocks at street signs, laughing like a hyena every time the clang of metal rang through the southern township.

  A man stepped cautiously from behind the hemlock. That was when Viper met Hank Jenner.

  “And when I woke up, there wasn’t anybody left in town,” Hank said.

  “How in the hell could you tell the difference?” Ricky asked, slapping Viper on the arm, as if to clue him in on the joke.

  Hank lifted a cap that had CAT emblazoned on the front, wiping the sweaty, brown curls off his forehead. In his late 50s, Hank looked like someone who fit right into the Chardray lifestyle—plaid work shirt, blue jeans, and work boots.

  “I was worried about old Mrs. Bennett, you know? Kept knocking and knocking at her door, but she wasn’t answering. I thought about calling the sheriff, but it’d take Craig twenty or thirty minutes to get out this way. Mrs. Bennett doesn’t lock her front door, even though I tell her she should. So I just went in.”

  “I bet you wanted to show her Little Hank.”

  Ignoring Ricky, Hank continued. “But she wasn’t in there. And I’ll be damned if I saw another person from that moment on. At least not until you came along. Do you know what is happening? Was there some kind of germ outbreak or terrorist attack?”

  “A terrorist attack on Chardray.” Ricky bent over, laughing. “Gotta admit that we wouldn’t see that coming.”

  “No attacks,” Viper said. “No outbreaks, either. I was in Missouri when everyone just disappeared. The kid here was up Baltimore way. Whatever happened, it happened everywhere.”

  Hank scratched his head. “That doesn’t make any sense. How could everyone just disappear? Where did they all go?”

  “If I knew, I’d tell ya. It’s one big mess out there, Hank. No electricity, no people, no borders, no nothing.”

  Hank brushed a pestering fly away from his face. “So what are you going to do?”

  “Hell if I know. Ever since I came out of the Midwest, I’ve been angling toward the coast. Thought I might find a little place somewhere on the ocean and just wait this thing out. I know that’s not much of a plan. First thing I need is a new set of wheels.”

  “You mean we need a new set of wheels,” Ricky said. “After I get a bite to eat, of course. Opie can stay here with his sheep and cows.”

  “Why don’t you mind your elders, kid,” Viper said, and then turned back to Hank. “We’d be pleased to have your company, Hank.”

  Hank looked up and down the township road. A hurt welled up from behind his eyes, like a man who had just put down his best dog. “No. I reckon I should stay. Make sure the town is looked after properly. It doesn’t seem right to leave.”

  “Well, if you change your mind, you’re welcome to ride with us.”

  Hank walked with them to the barbecue pit, a little brick building with an American flag in the window. A cut-out wooden pig stood holding a plate of steaming ribs at the entrance, like a cartoon cannibal. The pockmarked sign beside the pig read, Welcome to Peter Pig’s — Best BBQ in South Carolina.

  Inside, the walls still held th
e scent of pork, burgers, and sweet potato fries, as though fragrant ghosts drifted among the empty tables. It was enough to make Viper’s mouth water. But at the counter, he smelled meat rotting from the freezer. Flies swarmed in and out of a garbage can in the corner. Maggots wriggled over the remains of a chicken leg, picking the bones clean. Pinching his nose shut, Viper circled around the counter and disappeared out back.

  Hank and Ricky heard Viper at the back of the kitchen, rummaging through plastic bins. When Viper didn’t return after a few minutes, Ricky said, “I ain’t waiting around for him. There’s got to be plenty of food in these houses. Tell him, if he ever travels down to Miami, he can find me on the beach.”

  As Ricky turned to leave, Viper appeared with two loaves of bread in wrapped plastic. “It’s not exactly rack of lamb, but it will do.” He tossed one of the loaves to Hank.

  “Hey,” Ricky said. “Aren’t you gonna give me one? I’m your partner. Not him.”

  “Sounded to me like you were fixin’ to leave. Go on back and get your own.”

  Ricky glanced warily at the back of the kitchen. The light permeating the front windows only made it halfway across the grill and shelving. Beyond the light lay the murk of shadow and buzzing flies.

  “Heck, no. I’m not going back there. You go get it for me.”

  “Either you get your own food or you starve. Makes no difference to me what you do.”

  “I thought we was a team.”

  “You thought wrong.” Viper turned toward the door, with Hank hurrying after him.

  “All right. All right. Just hold on a second. I’ll get my own bread, dammit.”