Dark Vanishings: Post-Apocalyptic Horror Book 1

by Dan Padavona

  The guest room. The girls are sleeping in there.

  “Wake up, Bo. We need to go. We need to go now.”

  Bo wouldn’t wake.

  Grady ran for the stairs, not wanting to look over his shoulder, not wanting to see what approached the west window. The wind screamed with the cry of an angry god who desired to scour the earth and leave nothing standing. The farmhouse shook. Fissures snaked across the walls and ceiling. White clouds of plaster crumbled down on him. He screamed, and his voice was lost in the unholy roar that enveloped the house. He looked back for Bo, but the living room was a pit of darkness.

  The stairs buckled, and the staircase fell out from under him. He desperately clutched for the rail as the wall warped. He clung to the rail, while his legs dangled in the wind ripping through the house. The stairs were gone. The floor was gone. He looked down, thinking he would see the basement. Instead, there was only interminable darkness, as though he hung over the gates of hell. His fingers started to slip on the rail. The muscles of his hands cried for release. He couldn’t hold on. His hands lost their grip on the rail, and he screamed, falling through endless black.

  Thunder shook the house. Grady’s eyes opened to the living room as he remembered it. His shirt, soaked with sweat, lay pasted against his skin. His breaths came short and fast. His heart was trying to hammer its way out through his chest.

  He forced himself to look out the west window. Lightning illuminated the countryside, revealing miles of rain-soaked meadow.

  No monster. No devil came out of the night.

  Bo was curled next to him, his muzzle resting warmly on Grady’s lap. He patted the dog’s back, and Bo came awake, a sleepy grin on his face.

  “Good boy. Go back to sleep.”

  Grady laughed to himself. That was some nightmare you had.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he experienced a nightmare, let alone one so vivid. Dreams were natural, and nightmares were just the dark side of dreams. It was comforting to hear himself say so.

  But it was a long time before Grady could sleep again.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Stranger In The Night

  Ricky’s Camaro swept around a curve like a slick, black eel skimming wave tops. He was on I-95 near Richmond, Virginia, Wednesday afternoon with the windows rolled down and a Sammy Hagar CD cranked loud. Sammy couldn’t drive 55, but Ricky could drive 155 if he wanted to. He jammed down on the accelerator, the Camaro took off, and his head was thrown back. The engine revved like no other engine Ricky ever heard before.

  He obtained the Camaro, a Z/28 with over 500 horsepower and a V8 engine, from a Myrtle Beach dealership. Ricky had wandered northward in a rusty, sputtering pickup after turning Chardray into the world’s largest barbecue pit.

  He had been forced to hot wire the car because he couldn’t locate the keys. During the time he had spent trashing the showroom, screaming about the pain he planned to inflict on Viper and Hank once he hunted their asses down, he never thought to break open the locked cabinet in the back office that held all of the keys.

  From the moment he set foot inside the Camaro, Ricky couldn’t get the grin off his face.

  “Come get some!” He stuck his head out of the window, hooting and hollering at the stopped vehicles clogging the shoulder.

  Along the highway, he kept his new baby gassed by siphoning fuel from unlocked vehicles parked at rest areas. Once, as he sucked the end of the siphon hose, the fuel came too quickly, and some of it made it past his lips. He spit the gas out, dropped the hose, and ran into the travel plaza where he found a drinking fountain. He spent ten minutes gargling and spitting, gargling and spitting. The gasoline had a bitter, metallic aftertaste that was near impossible to purge. For the rest of the afternoon, every time he belched, he tasted the gasoline again.

  But nothing—not his anger at Viper and Hank or the gasoline burps—could ruin his day.

  Nothing did, until he ran out of fuel.

  The Camaro sputtered down the exit ramp into center Richmond with Ricky beating his fists on the steering wheel.

  “Stupid car. There’s gotta be a hole in the freaking tank. No way I should be out of gas already.”

  A nagging voice in the back of his mind reminded him he hadn’t kept tabs on the fuel gauge lately. The voice, which could have been his mother’s or the voice of any of a myriad of teachers that tortured him over the years, made Ricky angrier. He drummed a song of rage on the dashboard. When his song was finished, he elbowed the door.

  The Camaro coasted through the stop sign at the bottom of the ramp. Up the road, a parking lot full of abandoned vehicles reflected the setting sun. Thinking there was bound to be a king’s bounty of fuel to siphon in the parking lot, he made a hard left in the intersection while the engine ran on fumes.

  Just a little farther. Come on, baby.

  The engine died. The car rolled on momentum alone, and his precious momentum was quickly fading.

  “Go, you bitch. Can’t you see the damn cars? You need fuel. Roll! Roll!”

  The Camaro didn’t see the damn cars. Or maybe the car didn’t care because it was sick of Randy beating on it. The Camaro gave up the ghost in the middle of the intersection, fifty yards from the parking lot.

  “You piece of shit!”

  He pounded the steering wheel for good measure, then he stomped into the roadway and slammed the door.

  This is one of those times when you need to think about smart choices, kid, he recalled Viper saying along the highway in South Carolina.

  “To hell with you, Viper, you cue ball headed asshole. To hell with this car. To hell with everyone.”

  The mandarin sun perched upon a mishmash of big box retailers’ roofs. In the next hour, the sun would disappear into the horizon somewhere behind the buildings, and Richmond would become shadows and contours. He didn’t like the idea of having the lights turned out on him in the middle of this forgotten city.

  Seated at the far end of the parking lot was a Wal-Mart, complete with the classic star between the Wal and the Mart. When he was eleven, he had mistakenly thought the name of the store was Wal Star Mart, and his older brother, Jay, had never relented teasing him over the mistake.

  What kind of d-bag would think that the store was called Wal Star Mart?

  Only one kind. The Ricky kind.

  He was easy for Jay to pick on then because Ricky was small and weak. Jay couldn’t push around the new Ricky.

  In the end, Jay did the great disappearing act like everyone else. And, hey, Jay never owned a bitchin’ Camaro like Ricky.

  A lot of good that Camaro is doing for you now, huh?

  Why don’t you steal a d-bag gas can from Wal Star Mart and pour gas into your d-bag car’s gas hole?

  Ricky kicked a tire. Blinding pain rocketed up his foot, and he started hopping up and down in the intersection on one leg. The Camaro didn’t seem to be hurt at all.

  “Piece of shit car.”

  He thought of punching the hood but figured he’d lose that fight, too. Then he felt bad. It wasn’t the car’s fault. Hell, the Camaro was the best car he had ever driven, and he wanted nothing more than to be behind its wheel again, racing down the highway at 100 mph with no particular place to go, feeling that power coursing through his veins.

  “Sorry, baby. I’ll be better from now on. Ricky promises. Ricky loves his girl.”

  He removed the siphon hose from the back trunk and wrapped it around his shoulder.

  He limped through the intersection past a sleepy McDonald’s. His big toe throbbed with hot pain. He cut over a small grassy knoll. The knoll descended into a Kentucky Fried Chicken parking lot, where he hopped a guard rail and entered a shadowy alleyway that ran between a dive called Mike’s Pub and a roller rink building. The brick walls held the day’s heat, which radiated out at him like warmth off of wood ashes. He started to worry about his baby, his girl, sitting abandoned in the intersection with the sunset reflecting in her windshield. Gray gloom grew progressive
ly blacker within the alleyway. Ricky hurried through the passage, half-running, half-limping.

  When he reached the sidewalk, Ricky felt winded. His throat burned from thirst and fatigue. The sun drifted lower, and now a thin strip of daffodil-yellow sunlight brushed the building tops. The day accelerated toward its termination.

  Below a second knoll, the strip mall parking lot lay before him like a frozen chessboard of metal pawns. As the sun ducked behind Wal-Mart, he hustled down the embankment. He tumbled over in the grass once, then regained his footing. In the lot, as he weaved between vehicles, he wondered how many vehicles were unlocked. Probably not many. Most people locked their cars in busy parking lots so people like Ricky couldn’t come along to take them for a test drive. He pulled door handles as he walked and found the majority of the vehicles locked. The law of averages guaranteed a few cars would be unlocked. But which ones?

  I don’t have time to waste. I’ll break a window if I have to.

  The store’s automatic doors stood ajar, like the cyclops eye of an alien face. It appeared someone had forced the doors open.

  Looks like I’m not the only fish still swimming in this pond.

  He squeezed through the gap. When he was halfway through, he imagined what would happen if the doors came to life and crushed his ribs in a vise of glass and metal. Cold sweat dotted his brow. He slipped through and ran past a coin-operated kiddie car ride and a corral of shopping carts.

  The inside of the store didn’t look like any Wal-Mart (or Wal Star Mart) that he had ever seen before. Wal-Marts were brightly-lit, wall-to-wall white. This store looked like the inside of a tomb. No greeter waited at the entrance. If a greeter had been waiting within the shadows, Ricky would have screamed.

  The scent of popcorn hadn’t completely faded. A scattering of paper fliers announcing last week’s specials covered the floor.

  A line of checkout counters began in front of him and ran off into oblivion. Aisles appeared as black palisades jutting up into perpetual night. There was no chance he could read the signs above the aisles. He thought he should find a flashlight, but he had no idea where the flashlights were shelved.

  Ricky stepped forward and froze. His footstep created a pinging echo that made it sound as if someone was following him. He didn’t like this Wal-Mart. Not one bit.

  As he advanced into darkness, his eyes slowly adjusted. He turned right. He saw end caps of DVD movies, hand lotion, and energy drinks. He grabbed what he thought might be a Gatorade and twisted the cap off. The orange-flavored drink was warm, but to his parched throat, it tasted wonderful. He finished the drink in several gulps, threw the plastic bottle aside, and grabbed two more.

  I should have grabbed one of those dorky hand baskets at the entrance.

  He slipped deeper down the store’s main thoroughfare, dodging the occasional shopping cart. The lawn and garden aisle was rendered in gray shadows—garden hoses, sprinklers, bags of fertilizer. When he turned left, he crossed a row of bicycles that stood silent like paralyzed horses. Next came the toy aisle, and past that…utter blackness.

  The light spilling through the front windows cut off beyond the next row, and even with his night vision kicking in, he might as well have been walking through a coal mine without a lantern. He tripped over something—a box of water filters? In the dark, he wasn’t certain. Ricky stepped back and kicked the box like a football. It struck another aisle, and several items fell off the shelves. He snickered.

  “Clean up in aisle four.”

  Unable to see past his hand, he felt along each new row. At each end cap, he grabbed the first item he encountered and held it close to his face. When he identified one item as a screwdriver set, he knew he had reached the hardware section. He turned down the aisle, which could have been a dungeon passageway below Mordor. Walking up and down the aisle, he touched each item on the shelf. He passed over the same aisle three times before he found a cylindrical metal flashlight. He ripped open the plastic and ran back toward the front of the store. Even the entranceway was barely discernible now. A strange orange glow seeped through the front doors, like atomic radiation. In the first checkout lane, he located a 4-pack of C batteries. He loaded the batteries into the flashlight and smiled, as a bright beam of illumination spotlighted an end cap of goldfish crackers.

  “Now we’re cooking with fire.”

  With the light to guide him, he quickly located a plastic gas can in the back of the store. On the way out, he filled a shopping bag with candy bars and energy drinks.

  When he exited the store, he felt a weight lifted from his shoulders. The sun was down. His heart drummed fast. He didn’t like Wal-Mart in the dark. Next time he needed supplies, he decided he’d go at high noon.

  The flashlight beam swept from car-to-car. After finding a dozen locked doors, he came upon an unlocked Kia. Pulling up on the gas release, he unscrewed the cap. Placing one end of the siphon hose in his mouth, he cringed, tasting the gasoline on his lips. This time, when he sucked out the fuel, he was quick to remove the tube. He filled the gas can until fuel spilled over the top.

  He lugged the gas across the parking lot, thinking there must be a better way to stay fueled than this. Halfway through the lot, when his right arm started to scream from the weight, he switched the can to his left hand. The smell of fuel was strong as it sloshed around inside the container.

  Once I have a few gallons in the Camaro, I’ll circle back to the lot and fill the tank.

  He dragged himself up the knoll and back through the alleyway. Somewhere off in the distance, a lone car motor hummed through the city, Doppler shifting toward the highway. When he returned through the Kentucky Fried Chicken lot, he saw the Camaro in the intersection. The windshield was a white glare of moonlight. His breaths made wheezing sounds, his arms exhausted. Switching arms yielded only momentary relief, and even the plastic shopping bag of food and drinks felt heavy.

  When he reached the road, he stopped on the shoulder. Something was wrong. He sensed someone watching him. Suddenly he wished he had grabbed a gun and some ammunition during his shopping spree. He turned in a circle, watching the shadows deepen between the buildings as twilight faded to obsidian. He listened. Richmond was eerily silent.

  Finally, he was convinced no one was following him.

  Ricky no longer wanted to be in Richmond at night. He rushed into the intersection, as the gas sloshed around inside the can like high tide on the Atlantic. He opened the car door and bent for the gas release.

  He gasped.

  A man was seated in the passenger seat. Ricky dropped the gas can and food bag. His heart beat like a rabbit’s.

  “What the fuck are you doing in my car, man?” The words Ricky spoke were brazen, but his voice quavered with chilled panic.

  “It seems that you have run out of fuel. What a shame.”

  The man was cloaked in shadow. His voice sounded refined, like someone who spent evenings at university cocktail parties, discussing Federal Reserve Bank policy and which wines matched best with filet mignon.

  “Get in the car, Ricky.”

  Ricky tried to answer, but what came out was a parched whisper.

  “How do you know my name?”

  “I know everything there is to know about you. Do as I say, and get in the car.”

  Ricky thought about running. To hell with the Camaro. He could find another Camaro in some other city. But he had the feeling that escaping the man in the passenger seat was impossible, no matter how far he ran.

  “Get in the car, Ricky.”

  “Okay.”

  Ricky slid into the driver seat.

  “And close the door.” Ricky didn’t like the idea of being trapped inside the car with the strange man who somehow knew his name. “Don’t test my patience. Close the door.”

  Ricky closed the door, and a tomb-like silence pervaded the interior. He stared straight into the moon glow, not wanting to look at the man.

  “What do you want from me? You want the car? Just take it
. It’s yours.”

  “Ricky, I don’t want the car. Relax. If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead.” A long moment of silence. “You don’t trust me, do you? I don’t blame you. You haven’t gotten to know me, yet. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Victor Lupan.”

  Lupan extended his hand across the passenger seat. Ricky watched the hand out of the corner of his eye, but he continued to look straight out the windshield. His own hands were white-knuckle-locked on the steering wheel.

  “Shake my hand, Ricky. It’s the polite thing to do when you meet someone.”

  Just then, a black shape crawled past the Camaro’s grille.

  “There’s something out there.” A low growl came from near the left front tire. “Shit.”

  “Shake my hand. There’s nothing to be afraid of as long as I am in the car with you.”

  A louder growl.

  Trembling, Ricky reached his hand toward Victor Lupan’s, and Lupan gripped it. It felt to Ricky as though he shook hands with an icicle.

  “Okay, hoss. We’re friends. So can I go now?”

  “You’re free to leave anytime you wish. But first, I believe you’ll want to hear what I have to say.”

  The growling stopped, but Ricky sensed the animal watching him, waiting. If Ricky opened the door and made a run for it, the animal would tear him to pieces. His scrotum shriveled up as though he ran nude through a January blizzard.

  “Look at me, Ricky.” Ricky shook his head. His lips mouthed no, his throat producing no sound. “Do it.”

  Slowly, Ricky turned his head. The man in the shadow bent forward into the moonlight.

  Ricky sank as far backward as the seat back allowed. He didn’t believe he was looking upon The Boogeyman, but then again, he wasn’t sure that he wasn’t. Brown-haired with a hint of gray, Lupan had a handsome, ageless face that would not have been out of place on the cover of GQ or in a Bela Lugosi movie. He wore a trendy unshaven look—stubble; no full beard or mustache.

  “While you were walking through the alley, a man followed you, and you did not see him. The man had a knife, Ricky. Did you not see him?”