Dark Vanishings 2: Post-Apocalyptic Horror

by Dan Padavona

  “How long have you been in the sun?” Beth asked. The back of Melody’s neck looked hot pink.

  Melody shrugged her shoulders. “All morning, I guess. What’s it to you, anyway?”

  “We should get some shade over you. Let you cool off a bit. Why don’t you ride with us?”

  Melody looked at Mitch. “No way.”

  “We’re not going to hurt you.”

  “Oh, sure. I get into your truck on blind faith, and we drive off like a happy family. Just like that? I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t want to give yourself sun stroke,” Mitch said. “If anything happens to you out here, you’ll be in a world of hurt.”

  “I don’t need anyone to take care of me.”

  It was Beth who managed to convince Melody to get into the truck. When she attempted to place a hand on Melody’s shoulder, the girl flinched. Beth moved slowly, and once her hand was in place, the tension drained out of the teenager. “Listen to me. There are bound to be other people on this road, and not all of them are going to be friendly. If you get into the wrong vehicle, there won’t be anyone to rescue you when you get into trouble. Do you want to take the chance that the next truck coming down the road will be someone who wants to hurt you?

  “You don’t have to trust us. Just think it through. Do you really think the next vehicle is going to be a station wagon with a family of four headed for vacation? You know you can’t survive for long in this heat. Eventually you are going to accept a ride. Will it be with us or the next truck?”

  Melody nodded, lowering her head in resigned agreement. Beth led her to the truck, where the teenager plopped herself into the backseat and fell asleep within the first twenty minutes of travel. She was lost in sleep when the engine sputtered an hour later in eastern Tennessee. They had run out of gas.

  Now the light took on a warmer, softer glow. As Melody watched them in the middle of the county road, Mitch sighed and turned to leave.

  “Keep following this road,” he said, calling back to her. “You’ll run up against I-40 in about seven or eight miles. We’ll be on the lookout for another ride. If all goes well, we’ll hit I-95 tonight or tomorrow and head south. Good luck.”

  As he began walking, Beth moved in fits and starts. She kept looking back at Melody, then rushing to catch up to him. “Mitch, we can’t leave her alone in the middle of Tennessee. What’s going to happen to her when the sun sets?”

  “Don’t look at her. Just keep walking. I know what I’m doing.”

  Beth vented a pained groan. Melody looked smaller and smaller, her dark form altered to a distant silhouette with the light at her back. Beth jogged until she was beside Mitch. Together they walked briskly along the fissured blacktop, I-40 appearing as a silver line as it weaved in and out of forest along a distant ridge top. They continued forward for a minute which seemed like an excruciating hour before they heard the slapping of Melody’s sneakers on the road, racing behind them.

  “Okay,” Melody said, out of breath. “Wait up a minute. I’ll come with you.”

  Beth gripped Mitch’s arm and smiled up at him, keeping her face hidden from Melody. He grinned back at Beth.

  The unlikely trio walked together in the late day sunshine, Beth and Mitch leading the way, and Melody following a few steps behind. The winking flash of sunlight on metal caught his attention from I-40. A compact car, appearing from this distance as a child’s toy, followed the winding interstate. Yes, other people were alive in the world.

  Mitch quickened his pace.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Fat Man's Porterhouse

  A single, unbroken yellow line divided the meandering cord of abandoned asphalt. The northeastern Georgia countryside was alive with nature sounds: chittering birds, buzzing insects, and a ghostly wind that set the weed-choked meadow into rhythm. Perpendicular to the road, a long gravel driveway cut through the meadow toward a squat bungalow fronted by an overgrown lawn. In a lost world, the country home was the epitome of isolation. Yet life existed within its walls.

  Carl Timmons peered through a crack in the Venetian blinds, watching the late Friday afternoon sun wilt the grass. Shiny beads of perspiration sparkled against his beard. Removing his Atlanta Braves baseball cap, he wiped the sweat from his brow and placed his cap on the corner coat rack. An orange windbreaker hung off the rack, emblazoned on the left breast with the First Georgia Electric logo.

  Something big and black whipped past the glass, and Carl ducked away from the window. He exhaled.

  Just a crow.

  Timmons returned to the window, eyes shifting left and right between the dusty blinds. Set off at the right corner of his country bungalow was a big Coleman generator.

  “I better fire up the air conditioner before I melt,” he said to no one in particular.

  Timmons had always preferred the country life, away from the hustle of the cities. Only two houses were visible from his yard—Greg Michaels’ ranch up the hill, and Derrick and Jennifer Ryerson’s farm to the south. The bungalow, which Timmons had purchased seven years ago when he moved from Utah to take a management position with First Georgia Electric, passed the piss test. Timmons’ first priority when choosing a home was that it be secluded enough that he could drop trow in the backyard and take a leak without worrying about his neighbors seeing him. The real estate agent, a flirty thirty-something brunette, had raised her eyebrows while Timmons explained the criteria.

  Now the insect sounds seemed louder, amplified. Though the solitude of the country was typical, it felt somehow different to him, knowing the seclusion was permanent.

  His Dodge Durango rested in the driveway, the sun blaring across the windshield in fiery white. The old Sunoco station was a four mile drive eastward, a stone’s throw from I-95. Since figuring out how to syphon gasoline from the station’s piping, keeping the generator powered had become easy. But it was a pain in the ass to drive to and from the gas station every two days, as the Coleman burned through that much fuel even if he waited until afternoon before turning on the window air conditioner.

  It’s high time I poked around the substation.

  Timmons had thought often of the substation over the last week. The substation, situated amid meadow and swampland near a dirt road a few miles south of the Sunoco station, was protected by a ten-foot tall locked fence with cruel strands of barbed wire strung across the top. But as the head engineer of First Georgia Electric’s northern division, Timmons possessed the gate key. The unmanned grid had failed Monday morning, four days ago. Getting the grid up and running was possible, but unlikely. Although he could guess what needed fixing, the job required at least three people to do it right. Even if he found two people to help him, he would have to train them first, and good luck finding anyone with most of the world having vanished.

  If I had myself a crew, I could get the power back on inside of 24 hours.

  He wasn’t alone in the world, at least not completely. On clear nights, while he sat on the front porch, sipping a beer and listening to cricket songs swelling out of the fields, he heard the occasional whir of a vehicle moving southbound on I-95. Always south, never north. Timmons wrinkled his brow. Was society reorganizing to the south? He reckoned some sort of organization was underway and that maybe it was time for him to move on, too. He liked being here, but he knew his place was south, where his instinct told him people were congregating. He could be a great asset to them. With a few mechanically-inclined hands, he could get a small town’s electrical grid running again, and soon peoples’ lives would begin to normalize. First power, then communications, and ultimately a computer network. Right now though, he just wanted the air conditioner to run.

  He felt the keys through the denim pocket of his blue jeans. The oven’s digital clock read 3:57. By 5 o’clock, he could have the gas can filled and be at the substation, seeing if maybe the fix was easier than he anticipated, simple enough for him to accomplish on his own. By 6 o’clock, he would have a nice steak cooking on the outdoor
grill and a cold Coors or Sam Adams to pass the time with. Or he could throw everything aside, hop in the Durango, and barrel south down the interstate where the few vehicles remaining seemed to be headed.

  Instead he did nothing, hiding behind the blinds, glancing suspiciously through the slats. Something was out there in the vast nothingness, something that didn’t fit in with the humming cicadas and the shrill swell of insect songs. When the wind carried from the west, he heard a far off rumble, like thunder rolling through the valley. It had stormed earlier this morning, and based on the unwavering humidity, Timmons figured it would storm again before long. But the noise wasn’t thunder; it sounded mechanical.

  Who’s out there?

  The wind howled eastward, clashing with a prevailing ocean breeze. Where the two air masses collided, turret-like battlements of cumulus clouds grew stark white against the deep blue of the Georgia sky. Squinting up at the clouds, he silently predicted a drenching rain overnight.

  The wind swallowed the distant motor, and Timmons had just given up on the idea of a nearby vehicle when a red spoiler crept over the ridge near the Michaels ranch, rising over the asphalt like the bloody tail fin of a shark. He swallowed and instinctively moved away from the window. The car advanced.

  Motor gunning, the car shot over the ridge crest with several inches of clear air between the performance tires and blacktop. The sports car—a vampire-red Camaro with glossy black machined face rims that spun like industrial fans—accelerated down the hill. The Camaro squealed to a halt, black tire tracks painted across the road in its wake.

  Timmons scratched his bearded chin, a panic gnawing at the back of his mind, urging him to flee while he had the chance. But what was there to be afraid of? This was the only vehicle he had seen since last weekend. The driver was probably just a kid taking advantage of the open roads and lack of speed enforcement to do some drag racing through the country.

  So why is he just sitting there like he is watching me?

  Even from a half-mile away, Timmons heard the big engine idling. Tinted windows concealed the driver. His imagination running wild, Timmons imagined the Camaro as a driver-less ghost car, a Christine-like apparition borne of the mind of Stephen King or Poe.

  The engine gunned, the sleek machine lurching forward another several feet.

  Come on, buddy. Just drive by. I don’t want any trouble.

  Timmons shook his head. From the Camaro’s distance, it wasn’t possible for the driver to see him in the shadowed interior behind the blinds. Hell, there wasn’t any way for the driver to know the bungalow was occupied. Yet as the car crept closer, crawling down the hill like a lion stalking the savanna, he felt his flesh tingle. He sensed the car was coming for him.

  Now the Camaro was a hundred yards away. Sunlight glared off the exterior and left a white imprint across his vision. He stood transfixed, frozen in place, watching the car roll closer and closer. When the Camaro was close enough for Timmons to read the dealer plate below the grille, he took another step back from the window and looked toward the kitchen down the darkened hallway. His hunting rifle was locked in the cellar, down the stairs from the kitchen. He hadn’t cleaned the rifle since deer season, but the weapon was reliable and—

  Before he finished his thought, the Camaro’s tires issued a banshee’s scream. The sports car raced toward Timmons’ home and skidded to a halt, swinging perpendicular to the north-south road with the red and black jaws of the grille facing the bungalow. At first Timmons thought the Camaro was aimed at his driveway, but then he realized the grille was dead set on the front yard, angled toward the front window behind which he stood.

  The engine gunned once, twice, and a third time, the motor’s growl rattling the windows. The floor trembled as though a work crew was jackhammering the road. He licked his lips, finding no spit in his dry mouth. He started to think—this is crazy. There’s no way in hell this guy intends to drive a new sports car through the front of the house. No. It was just some jackass kid having a little fun, trying to intimidate him. But how could the driver know Timmons’ house was occupied?

  Engine revving like a growling, rabid dog, the Camaro blocked the road, the grille creeping ever closer. Tires spun and screamed, spraying a black blanket of gravel into the meadow. The driver released the brakes.

  Timmons’ heart caught in his throat as the car sprang forward. It crashed over the shoulder, leaped a drainage ditch and bounced insanely over the hummocked lawn. The Camaro roared with the fury of a hundred hurricanes, its driver still hidden behind the black veil of window tinting. The car raced toward the bungalow, coming for Timmons. As he lunged away from the window with full moons of panic for eyes, he heard gravel and dirt peppering the house’s exterior.

  If this maniac smashes into the porch, will he have enough lift to reach the window? Time momentarily petrified, Timmons imagined the grille crashing through the window, the tires shredding the rug as the Camaro spun through the living room. What would he see when the door opened? A lunatic with a bloodthirsty grin? A demon sent from hell?

  While he ran on his knees from the window with hands pressed to ears to block out the thunderous roar, he braced for the shattering of glass and for the walls to implode. It took several seconds before his mind processed that the car hadn’t blasted through the wall. Slowly removing his hands from his ears, he heard a car door open and bang closed, the idling engine muted through the walls.

  As he glanced down the gloomy hallway, hazy light poured through a dusty windowpane, concealing his view of the backyard. The swish of footfalls through his overgrown lawn told him someone was stalking toward the front door. Hollow thuds revealed the driver ascending the porch steps.

  The top porch step squealed, and then silence followed from beyond the front door. Timmons crawled into the darkened hall. If he could make it to the back door, maybe he could slip away without the driver noticing. Maybe there is nothing to be afraid of. Maybe it is just some guy screwing around, driving recklessly, and now he needs me to help him get his car back onto the road.

  As though to dispel his optimism, a gunshot exploded through the front door. Timmons covered his head and dropped to his stomach. Sunlight beamed through the hole, dust motes flittering through the glow. The unseen driver cackled from the porch, and then another gunshot shattered the front door window. Pieces of glass cut through the denim of his jeans and bit into his calves. When he tried to crawl faster, something sharp pierced his back. Wincing, he reached behind and tore a long sliver of window glass from the small of his back. Pinpricks of blood covered the tops of his hands. Glass smashed, and as he looked back toward the living room, a hand reached through the broken window and unlocked the door.

  Fighting the agony of countless cuts across his flesh, Timmons pushed himself to his feet and ran down the hall. The cocking of a gun brought him to a halt.

  “Where ya think you’re going?”

  Timmons stopped in the hallway and raised his arms in the air, his eyes fixed on the back door. “Hey, man. Take anything you want. I don’t want any trouble.”

  “There ain’t gonna be any trouble, hoss. I guaran-damn-tee that.”

  He didn’t dare turn around, thinking the maniac would shoot him if he did. Wishing he had made a run for the hunting rifle while the Camaro was still creeping down the hill, he stood still and waited for the intruder’s orders.

  “Look, I’ve got a lot of food in the refrigerator. The generator kept everything fresh, so—”

  “Shut your pie hole, jackass. Now, how about you drop to your knees and lock your fingers behind your head, just like they do on those cops shows.”

  As Timmons descended to his knees, he spared a glance at the intruder and was shocked to see it was a kid. Wearing a cowboy hat that still had the price tag hanging off the side, the beady-eyed kid smirked as he held the gun on Timmons.

  “You know you forgot to pull the price tag off your hat?” Timmons didn’t know how the ridiculous question managed to leak out of his mou
th, but he was relieved when it seemed to lighten the kid’s mood a bit.

  “Well, I’ll be,” the kid said, chuckling. He pulled the tag off and flicked it into the living room. “I just picked up this new hat to go with my new car, and I’ll be damned if I didn’t forget to take off the tag. So I thank you for saving ole Ricky a little embarrassment. By the way, you like my new car, hoss?”

  Fully on his knees now with his fingers locked behind his head, Timmons trembled, wondering how he might get out of this mess. “Sure, kid. It’s a Camaro, right?”

  “Hell yes, it’s a Camaro, you backwoods dip shit. She rides like the wind. Even better than my old car, which I had to part ways with this morning. Trouble was, when I lost my old car, my favorite cowboy hat was inside, and so was a picture of my girl. Ain’t that a bitch?”

  Timmons carefully walked his knees down the hall an inch or so, hoping Ricky hadn’t noticed. The back door stood several steps away, but if he made a run for it, Ricky would shoot him long before he escaped. Yet the turnoff into the kitchen was only half as far. If he moved quickly and put a wall between himself and the kid—

  “Tell me about the refrigerator. You got some steak or burgers in there? Ricky could go for a big juicy burger for dinner.”

  “Sure do. I got one steak marinating in the fridge, two more in the freezer, and two pounds of ground bison. It’s all yours if you want it.”

  “Bison? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Buffalo—”

  “Ricky knows what a bison is. But Ricky don’t eat no bison or buffaloes. He don’t eat that sushi either. Ain’t nobody gonna make Ricky eat a raw fish. Did you know that some fish swim around and around and eat their own poops? It’s true. I learned it on the TV. Now, why the hell would someone eat a raw, poop-eatin’ fish?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I do. Because people are stupid. But lucky for me, there are a lot less stupid people around these days.”