Dark Vanishings 2: Post-Apocalyptic Horror

by Dan Padavona

  Timmons edged his right knee forward another inch, praying the kid hadn’t noticed. Ricky seemed lost in his tangential thoughts, blathering on about a new subject every second. Squinting his eyes closed, Timmons brought his left knee forward. Now the kitchen was a step and a lunge away to his left. If he kept the kid occupied, he might make it. Mind racing, he pictured the kitchen layout. A utensil drawer around the corner held knives. But what good was a steak knife against a gun? His best chance was to reach the cellar door on the other side of the kitchen before Ricky rounded the corner. If he wedged the door shut behind him, Timmons thought he would have enough time to race down the stairs and load the rifle.

  Inching forward again, Timmons said, “Don’t worry, kid. I don’t have any sushi, and you don’t have to eat a bison burger if you don’t like bison. That steak is a Porterhouse and a darn juicy one. We can grill her up outside, have a few beers, and talk our way through this. How’s that sound?”

  “Or I can shoot you in the back and grill the steak myself. That way, there’s more for Ricky.”

  Timmons winced. “Come on, kid. There’s no reason to kill me. Hell, you don’t even know me.”

  Ricky laughed. “I know you’re a fat bastard named Carl Timmons.”

  Timmons wondered how the kid knew his name, which wasn’t listed on the mailbox or in the phone book.

  “Do I know you from somewhere?”

  “Hell, no. I wouldn’t be caught dead with a nobody like yourself. All I know is that you live at 1-2-3 Jackass Road in the middle of Wheredafuck, Georgia, and I’m supposed to put a bullet in you.”

  Shaking his head, Timmons tried to think why anyone would want him dead. He barely knew anyone besides his neighbors and his crew at First Georgia Electric, and as far he knew, all of them had vanished with the rest of the world.

  “Slow down, Ricky. Can I call you Ricky? That is your name, right?”

  “No, genius. I just call myself Ricky because my name is Bob, and Bob is a boring name. Of course my name is Ricky. What kind of question is that?”

  “A dumb question. Sorry. Look, there’s no reason to kill me, Ricky. I don’t know who put you up to this, or why anyone would want me dead, but this whole thing seems like a big misunderstanding of some sort.”

  “Ain’t no misunderstanding. I know your name, I know where you live, and I know you are an engineer.” Ricky stopped and scratched his chin. “What’s that mean anyhow? You drive choo-choo trains or something?”

  Timmons started to turn his head toward Ricky, wondering if the kid looked as stupid as he sounded. But then he thought better of it. If Ricky saw the slightest bit of disdain on Timmons’ face, the kid might pull the trigger before he had a chance to talk his way out of this situation.

  “No. I don’t drive a train. I’m an electrical engineer, Ricky. Just a simple electrical engineer.”

  Ricky laughed and nodded his head in understanding. “I’m just playing with you, hoss. I know what an electrical engineer is.”

  “I’m sure you do, Ricky. I can tell you’re a smart kid. But doesn’t it sound a little strange to you that someone wants you to kill me?”

  Silence followed, and then Ricky took one step forward. Timmons sensed the cold steel of the revolver aimed at the back of his head.

  “I don’t ask the boss questions. But I know he wants you dead, considers you a threat. Now if it was up to me, I wouldn’t waste a bullet on a fat ass hick like you. But orders are orders, and—”

  “A threat? For Christ’s sake, kid. Why would anyone think I am a threat?”

  The floorboards squealed as Ricky took another step forward. Timmons squinted his eyes, seeing the kitchen entrance so close, yet so far away. If I am going to make a move, I better do it soon. And then he thought about his earlier notion of driving south, where he believed survivors were reorganizing, and turning on the electrical grid. It dawned on him, as though a cold, dead hand touched the back of his neck, that Ricky’s boss didn’t want the survivors to organize or gain access to grid power. Who was this boss? Whoever he was, Timmons believed the man was evil. That the man knew who he was and where he lived caused Timmons to shudder. Who possessed that much power and knowledge?

  “Kid, please. Just let me go. I promise I won’t get the grid running again. I won’t even try to find other survivors. Just say the word, and I’ll disappear. Tell your boss that I’m dead, and I swear neither of you will ever hear of me again.”

  The steel barrel touched the back of his neck, and he flinched. The kid couldn’t be bargained with. Ricky meant to kill him.

  “Blah, blah, blah. Can you hear how pathetic you sound? Ricky’s embarrassed to be in the same zip code with you—”

  Timmons swung his body around, slamming the revolver with his arms and stunning the kid.

  “Shit!” Ricky bent down for the fallen gun as Timmons lunged for the kitchen entryway. Stumbling forward, Timmons’ hand touched the corner. Time seemed to slow as though he were stuck in quicksand, the floorboards morphed into earthen mire and pulling him down. He saw the green LED of the microwave clock, the wooden corner of the island, upon which rested his keys. His shoes slipped across the floor, and for a terrifying instant, he was sure he would fall in the hallway.

  As he dove for the kitchen, the gunshot ripped the interior silence asunder. Something exploded into the small of his back, the sensation a combination of wasp stings and being gored by a charging bull. The air left his lungs, and as he tried to raise his arms to break his fall, he realized his limbs no longer functioned. The linoleum kitchen floor rushed up to meet him, flying at his face. His head smashed against the floor, and his vision went black.

  Wafting through the kitchen was the sweet smell of gunpowder as Ricky rummaged inside the refrigerator for Timmons’ Porterhouse steak. He tossed the ground bison out the back door to the insects and Georgia wildlife. Grabbing two cold Coors and a pack of matches for the grill, he stepped over Timmons’ dead body, the fat man’s eyes unblinkingly staring at the base of the center island as his lifeblood trickled down his back and pooled out from his chest.

  In the backyard, the westering sun painted ever lengthening shadows while Ricky lit the grill and threw the steak onto the grates. The amber tones of late day would soon give way to the brooding darkness of night, but Ricky felt confident and content. No enemy dared challenge him, not with Victor Lupan on his side. This was Ricky’s world, his for the taking. And with Lupan to back him up, nothing could stand in his way.

  The meat began to sizzle, the intoxicating smoky flavor drifting ethereally across Carl Timmons’ backyard. The beers tasted cold and refreshing, the late day light golden and perfect.

  Placing his feet on the picnic table, Ricky leaned back in a deck chair, soaking in the sunshine and reveling in the scent of the cooking Porterhouse. Birds sang to the coming sunset from a nearby copse of trees as the wind softly hummed. He liked it here. He instantly understood why Timmons had chosen this rural location. In the cities, neighbors’ borders were only a few steps away, constantly encroaching on one another. Here, one could rule over his land like a medieval king. But there was plenty of time to find the perfect place to settle down, and Ricky preferred his life moving at high speed.

  Before the sun reached the horizon, he finished his meal. As he closed his eyes, listening to the faraway belching of two bullfrogs calling across a small pond, he remembered the morning’s near disaster at Grogan’s Wonder World. Not only had the teenage boy and girl murdered his crew mates and made Ricky look like a fool, they had also stolen his first Camaro. Worse yet, Amy’s picture had been in the backseat. Ricky closed his eyes and ground his teeth. He wouldn’t rest until Hank, Viper, and the two teenagers were dead. As for Hank’s pretty daughter, Amy, she was out there somewhere. He could feel her presence in the evening air, somewhere in Georgia, not far from him.

  How is it that I can sense her? Something about me changed the night I met Victor Lupan.

  He might have shuddered at that t
hought, but instead it filled him with a confident power.

  If I were Hank’s pretty little daughter, where would I go? Back to Chardray of course, back to find her dear old dad.

  When Ricky opened his eyes, the last burning embers of sunshine dropped below the western horizon. Deep twilight blue swelled out from the east as though the ocean and sky had become one. Across the yard, Timmons’ tool shed door lay askew in its runners, warped and rusted by the elements. A galvanized ash bucket sparkled inside the shed.

  Ricky smiled. Sauntering over to the shed, he found a shovel next to the ash bucket. Back at the grill, he shoveled out two heaping scoops of orange coals and ash and dropped them into the bucket. Careful to grab the hot bucket by its handle, he carried the smoking coals through Timmons’ back door and into the kitchen.

  Inside the kitchen, darkness oozed across the floor like an obsidian ground fog. The gloom slowly swallowed Timmons, who lay insentient near the center island. The bearded man had begun to stink when Ricky dumped the ash bucket over Timmons’ rotund gut. Stray coals rolled off the man’s body and crackled in the pool of blood. Then Ricky rushed through the downstairs, fetching flammable items. A week-old newspaper. A bottle of cleaning solution with an affixed warning sticker which read Keep Away From Heat. Leftover kindling from outside.

  He wadded up pieces of newspaper and placed them on Timmons’ smoldering body. In the low light, Ricky saw the paper begin to brown and curl upward. Stacking the sticks in tepee-form, he watched with delight as the paper ignited into red flame and caught the kindling. He remained patient, though Ricky hated being patient, watching the sticks smolder and turn red-hot. When the fire was established with the kindling aflame, Ricky glanced at the bottle of cleaning solution. Squinting against the darkness, he brought the back of the bottle up to his face and read out loud.

  “Warning. Highly Flame-able. Flammable. Yeah. That’s the ticket.”

  He imagined what would happen if he dumped the contents into the fire. Would the flames burst upward and catch him?

  Snickering to himself, he said, “Well, you only live once.” He backed up two steps, eyed the back door, and thought better of his plan. Wanting a clean getaway, Ricky pushed the back door wide open, letting in the fresh smells from the meadow. He shook the bottle and tossed a small amount of cleaning solution into the fire. Fire exploded upward like a demon rising, then settled back toward Timmons’ body, crackling wickedly. A brown spot on the ceiling marked where the flame had reached, making Ricky laugh louder. As the flames burned with need across Timmons, Ricky stepped back into the open frame of the door.

  As soon as he tossed the open bottle toward the funeral pyre that was the dead fat man, Ricky darted around the side of the house and fled into the twilight. A loud implosion rattled the back windows as though someone had set off a box of firecrackers. Something splattered against the glass…it could have just been a stick, but it sure looked like a finger. A guttural roar emanated through the walls as flames fully engulfed the kitchen. Ricky ran and ran, his breath sharp in his chest as he thought of Chardray burning.

  When he crossed into the front yard, he realized he had left the Camaro running the whole time. How long had it been? An hour? Two hours? He plunged into the driver seat and threw the sports car into reverse, not daring to look at the fuel gauge. The fire had spread into the living room, an eerie yet exhilarating orange light burgeoning up from the floor and lighting the front windows. Before the back tires dropped into the drainage ditch, he slammed the brakes and yanked left on the steering wheel. The Camaro wheeled through the front yard into the gravel driveway, stones pinging against the undercarriage as the back bumper narrowly evaded Timmons’ Durango.

  The twilight air was thick with the scent of burning timbers as Ricky turned the Camaro northward and accelerated up the incline. Madness bled out of his black eyes as he drove into the night, searching the Georgia countryside for Hank’s daughter.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Goodbyes

  The Irish setter sprawled in front of the doorway, head resting on his paws and red tongue lolling as he looked up at the girls through sad eyes.

  “Now, you let these nice girls get on their way, Bo,” said Grady, keeping his eyes lowered to hide his own sorrow.

  The downstairs of the old farmhouse was redolent of bacon and toast, Grady having insisted the girls eat breakfast before they departed. After fleeing Atlanta, Amy and Keeshana had biked through the Georgia countryside and met Grady Sanders, an aging man living alone with his dog in a farmhouse.

  Keeshana hugged Grady close, while the older man’s facial expression cycled through embarrassment and sadness. Next came Amy, her blonde hair pulled back in a bun and held in a red bandanna kerchief which had belonged to Grady’s wife, Laura. Amy wrapped her arms around Grady’s shoulders and rested her head on his chest as he sheepishly patted her on the shoulders.

  “You sure you don’t mind me taking the kerchief?”

  “I insist, Miss Amy. What good is that rag gonna do for me? If Laura were here, she wouldn’t have let you out of the house without a year’s worth of supplies for the road.” Grady glanced up at the ceiling and smiled, shaking his head. “Why, I can hear her now. Grady, you old fool. How you gonna let these girls go off on their own with just eggs in their bellies and a few scraps of food to travel on?”

  Turning his attention back to the girls, he said, “You know you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.” And in that moment, Keeshana felt a hollow pit in her stomach and an ache working through her heart. Even Bo whined, sluggishly wagging his tail in resignation. In truth, Keeshana wanted to stay. If she could outrun her pride, she would gladly move into the house next door and live out her youth and middle years as Grady Sanders’ loving neighbor. But like most young people, she didn’t feel comfortable sitting still, always wondering what lay beyond the next ridge and around the bend in the road. That adventuresome spirit was plain as day on the girls’ faces as their eyes moved to the doorway.

  Grady nodded in silent acquiescence. When Grady snapped his fingers, Bo jumped to his feet and padded to Grady’s side. Now the open doorway beckoned, the morning sun beaming golden across the wooden slats of the long porch.

  “Thank you again for all that you have done for us,” Amy said.

  “We’ll see you again. I promise,” Keeshana said, leaning forward to kiss Grady on the cheek.

  “Well, you had better, Miss Keeshana,” he said with a single tear perched at the corner of his eye. “It’s not nice to break promises to the elderly.”

  That broke the ice and left all three of them laughing. Looking from one face to the next, Bo wagged his tail excitedly and panted. Each girl bent to hug and pet the big dog, who licked both of their faces while Grady protested. Then they were on their way, descending the porch steps one fatalistic step at a time, away from the loving warmth of the farmhouse and into the great unknown.

  Keeshana never looked toward the farmhouse as she backed the minivan down the driveway. If she had, there would have been no holding back her tears. As it was, a lump burned at the back of her throat, and she could see Grady’s and Bo’s indistinct forms out of the corners of her glossed-over eyes. Pressing the accelerator, she put the Sanders home behind them, driving through flaxen rays of dappled light that beamed like liquid gold through roadside willows, oaks, and elms.

  The Chevrolet minivan, which had belonged to one of Grady’s neighbors, climbed out of a wide valley bowl, smoothly hugging the county route curves. They were somewhere southwest of Athens, not far from route 78.

  Rummaging through the glove compartment, Amy unfolded a road map. Pouring through open windows, the wind rippled and snapped the map like stage thunder, but Amy didn’t seem to mind. To Keeshana, Amy looked happier than she had ever seen her since Keeshana discovered the distraught girl in central Atlanta. Amy appeared to be enjoying the picture-perfect Saturday morning in the Georgia countryside, probably thinking about seeing her father again.


  Amy sensed her father, Hank Jenner, who lived in the tiny village of Chardray, South Carolina, was still alive.

  I hope she doesn’t get her hopes too high, Keeshana thought. The chances of Hank Jenner being alive and well in Chardray were slim and none.

  “If we jog a little north, we can pick up 78 and take it all the way to Washington. There, we’ll want to get on 378 and follow it into South Carolina.”

  Keeshana rested her elbow on the windowsill, smiling as the fresh country air whipped her hair. “And 378 will take us to Chardray?”

  “No. We’ll have to work our way toward interstates 20 and 26. I’ve never taken the back routes of Atlanta to go back home, but I’m sure we’ll figure it out.”

  The county route, hemmed in by dense-leaved trees and golden waves of forsythia, opened to fields of cotton, corn, and wheat, all growing unabated in a world without harvesting farmers. After some backtracking, they found signs for the major interstates, and Amy got her bearings.

  Less than an hour from Chardray, Keeshana suggested they look for a shopping plaza or a grocery store to gather supplies before continuing onward. Amy agreed, though Keeshana saw worry creasing her brow.

  “Don’t worry. I promised I’d get you to Chardray, and I will.”

  Amy stared out the window, watching a tiny village with a tall church steeple whip past in a blur of washed out colors. “Hey, Kee?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Did you mean what you said to Grady, that we’ll see him again?”

  Keeshana bit her lower lip as she followed an abandoned strip of highway into South Carolina. “He was a really nice guy, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes. I kinda miss him. And Bo.”

  “Me, too. The truth is, I’m not sure I could find that old farmhouse again, not unless we went all the way back to Atlanta and followed the same trail.”

  Amy’s face turned pallid. “I don’t ever want to go back to Atlanta. It’s not safe there.”