Red Asphalt: Raptor Apocalypse Book 2

Home > Other > Red Asphalt: Raptor Apocalypse Book 2 > Page 1
Red Asphalt: Raptor Apocalypse Book 2 Page 1

by Steve R. Yeager




  Red Asphalt

  Raptor Apocalypse 2

  Steve R. Yeager

  Copyright © 2013 Steve R. Yeager

  Cover Copyright © 2013 Steve R. Yeager

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  SECOND EDITION

  BY STEVE R. YEAGER

  The Raptor Apocalypse Series

  Raptor Apocalypse (2012)

  Red Asphalt (2013)

  Righteous Apostate (2015)

  Novellas

  Mechantula (2015)

  Short Story Collections

  Short Tales: Volume One (2013)

  To my wife for all her help and support…

  Oh shit, we did what?

  — Project Genesis —

  -1-

  GIVE ME FUEL

  FUELED BY FEAR, A.J. “Jesse” Prieo stomped down hard on the accelerator of his Ford F-250 SuperCrew, hoping he wasn't too late. As the truck roared down the street, six grill-guard mounted headlights blasted his once peaceful neighborhood with brilliant blue-white light. Faces flickered past. Blank faces, astonished faces, wild-eyed faces. A man ran into the street waving his arms. Jesse tapped the brakes and spun the steering wheel hard to the left.

  Tires chattering, the truck leaned sideways, clipped the concrete curb, and began bouncing wildly. Jesse stood on the brake pedal and fought to bring the nearly two tons of bucking steel back under his control. The truck rocketed across a short expanse of sidewalk and came to a chattering halt on the driveway in front of his two-story Texas home.

  Shaking uncontrollably, he stared straight ahead, watching as tendrils of dusty smoke trapped in the beams of the headlights floated skyward. He slowly uncurled his fingers from the steering wheel. Twin coach lights on either side of the garage door burned with an insistent brightness, as if they alone could hold back the night. Given what he'd witnessed on his reckless who the hell cares drive home, the lights wouldn't be on much longer.

  Just minutes ago, he had tried to contact his wife, Cheryl, using his cellphone. He needed to hear her voice and know she was all right, needed to know his daughter, Hannah, was all right, needed to know they hadn't left yet, but all he had been able to get from the phone was a flashing NO SERVICE message and, in frustration, had chucked the useless thing out the side window.

  Banging the gearshift into park, he left the truck idling in the driveway. With a police-issue Mossberg shotgun clenched tightly in his sweat-slicked hands, he hopped down from the cab and slammed the door closed. The man who had tried to stop him earlier now stood before him, clearly in a state of panic. It was his neighbor, Travis.

  “What? What do we do?” Travis asked, his voice frantic.

  Jesse glanced at the truck. Travis ran for the cab and started clawing at the door handle.

  “Stop!” Jesse raised his shotgun and pressed the muzzle against Travis's ear.

  “Please, we got to go, man,” Travis said, pivoting away from the gun placed against his head. “Didn't you hear?”

  “Yeah, I heard,” Jesse replied, forcing calm and authority into his voice. “Now back the hell away from my truck.”

  “But there's no time, man. No time!”

  “Not my problem. Back away or I will shoot your ass, so help me God.”

  Travis ignored him and tried the door again. Jesse spun the shotgun and slammed the butt end into Travis's ribs, driving him onto his knees.

  “Now, get off my damn property.”

  Travis came up on one knee, the other leg forward. He held a hand out, pleading.

  “I don't have time for this shit,” Jesse said. “Now get.” He raised the gun and took the slack out of the trigger.

  “Okay, okay, man. I don't have a ride. Can you give me one? Please?”

  “No. Last warning.”

  Travis pushed himself to standing. His head abruptly swiveled as if he'd spotted something else, something more important. He took off running after whatever it was. Jesse followed him with the muzzle of the shotgun.

  Taking a step backward, Jesse checked his truck. It was covered in raptor blood. The tires were spattered red, and the wheel wells were packed full of chunky gore. Seeing this and knowing how many raptors he'd run down, he started chuckling to himself. It was almost comical, like something from a bad horror movie. Only, this was real.

  He bent to one knee and checked underneath the truck. It also was a mess, but nothing seemed broken. Satisfied with the truck's condition and realizing he was wasting precious time, he scanned the neighborhood. He reached inside the truck and shut off the ignition. Clenching his hands on the shotgun, he pocketed the keys and ran for the front door.

  It was locked.

  He fumbled for the right key and jammed it into the mechanism. Before opening the door, he paused to collect himself. He couldn't let his wife see him like this, couldn't let Hannah think that her father was not in complete control. It took three sharp intakes of breath and three long exhales before he got the trembling under control.

  “Cheryl! Hannah!” he shouted as he entered the house.

  No one answered.

  An icy terror chilled him. Were they already—? Oh, no. No-no-no. He shut the door and yelled upstairs.

  Again, no one answered.

  Then he heard a noise. Following the sound, he raced through the living room and into the kitchen. He stopped himself, cold, and let out a held breath.

  Cheryl was packing items into cardboard boxes and grocery bags. Something she should have done hours ago. Huffing through his nose, he gave her a why the hell didn't you answer me look. Judging by the blank stare received in response, he guessed she already had one foot in crazy and one in sane. He instantly dialed back his anger.

  Hannah was sitting in a chair at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of cereal. “Daddy,” she said excitedly. She dropped her spoon into the bowl and pushed herself away from the table.

  “Not yet, pumpkin. Stay there.”

  She did.

  With a brief nod of acknowledgment to his wife, he ran for the stairs. The treads rattled and the railing wobbled as he climbed. Once he reached the top landing, he lowered his shoulder and slammed into the master bedroom door like a linebacker. The door exploded into shards. Inside the bedroom, he came to a full stop. Pieces of the flimsy door clattered to the floor around him. Panting, he paused for a second to let his racing mind catch up.

  Rushing into the master bedroom closet, he frantically dug through piled clothing for a large black duffle bag filled with survival supplies, his 'Go' bag. He ran back, tossed it onto the bed, and threw the shotgun down next to it. His hands clenched and unclenched. Would this be enough? What else would he need? Think damn it! He rushed back into the closet to his gun safe and frowned at the nearly empty contents. All that remained was a single banged-up green ammo can with yellow lettering on the side. He'd used up his considerable stockpile over the past few weeks, often supplementing the department's supplies with his own.

  “Please let it be full,” he muttered.

  Damn. It was only half-full. He unzipped the duffel bag and poured in the few remaining boxes of ammunition. No, this can't be happening, he thought. Please, this can't be. Not like this. He scanned the room, taking in everything, knowing it would be the las
t time he laid eyes on this room. Twin indentations—his and hers—marked either side of the king-sized bed. Books on survival lay scattered on the nightstand. Embroidered needlework that proclaimed the virtues of home and family hung on the textured walls. Half a dozen family pictures in black frames rested on top of a chest of drawers. Pictures of Disneyland, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, wedding, family, and friends. His gaze settled on one picture in particular, Hannah in a yellow-print dress.

  “I'm sorry,” he said to the photograph.

  Grunting, he hefted the straps of the duffel bag over his shoulder and widened his stance to adjust to the weight. Was he ready? Could he do this? Holding his breath for a beat, he took one final look around the room and rushed for the stairs. As he entered the kitchen, a can of tomatoes fell off the countertop and rolled across the floor at him. He picked it up and held it out for Cheryl. She stared at the can, blank-faced. Her lips moved. She was making sounds but not words.

  “We'll be okay,” he said.

  Hannah stood on tiptoe in front of a large picture window, peering out at the backyard. Jesse looked past her through the clear glass and sagged against the white tile countertop. He hadn't eaten properly in days. His stomach had spent most of that time cramped. He was feeling even worse today. It was as if someone had coiled their fingers around his guts and were twisting and squeezing them maliciously. He knew he had to eat something soon, but there were more important things to worry about.

  The duffel bag suddenly seemed too heavy to carry. He wanted to let it drop to the floor and follow it there, but knew he couldn't. He turned toward his daughter. She was leaving streaks on the picture window as she ran her fingertips across the glass.

  “Get away from the window, Hannah,” he said. She frowned out the window, and then spun on her toes and ran to stand alongside him. He willed himself to stop shivering long enough to give her a one-armed hug. “It's going to be okay. We need to get away for a few days until things settle. You can do this for me, right?”

  “I'm not afraid,” she said. “They don't scare me!” She puffed out her chest and showed herself to be the brave little soldier she was.

  If she only knew about the horrors of what he'd seen.

  “Yes, pumpkin. I know.”

  “Daddy?”

  “What?”

  “I heard a bang. Did you shoot one of them? Did you shoot a raptor?”

  “No, I didn't fire my gun. It was just the door. A useless door. I was frustrated and shouldn't have done that. You have nothing to worry about. You know I won't let anything happen to you, don't you? I promise.”

  She nodded. He ruffled her hair. Much as he hated the thought of letting her go, he released her and went to comfort his wife. She was mumbling incoherently, lost in a looping glitch, trying to decide between a can of beans and a can of corn, looking at one then the other. He took the canned beans from her and set it inside the box. She nodded absently.

  “Come on,” he said. “We gotta go.”

  “John's on his way, right?”

  Jesse checked his watch. His father should have arrived by now. “Yeah,” he said with as much conviction as he could muster. “He'll be here.”

  “Do we…?” she asked. “Do we really have to leave? Why couldn't they stop them? Why couldn't you stop them?” She fell against him, burying her face in his long-sleeved station shirt, nuzzling alongside his badge, clearly terrified. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed, holding her as long as he thought wise. Then he gently pressed her to arm's length and surveyed her eyes. He saw fragments of her strength returning.

  “Sorry,” he said. “The fences fell. Then the barricades. What was left of the Guard was there, and the state cops, but Dad said they were all a bunch of worthless shits that couldn't stop shit for shit.” Language. He caught himself and reached out to Hannah. “Sorry, bad language.”

  “That's three dollars,” she said proudly.

  He smiled back and considered where he would find those three dollars for the swear jar. Cheryl shoved him away and returned to her work. She placed a box of cereal onto the pile of food she had already packed. The box didn't fit. She did it again, trying to force it to fit. Jesse took the cereal box from her and flung it through the archway leading to the dining room.

  “Forget it,” he said. “We'll be fine. Don't worry.” He knew then that it was time to go. He could no longer count on his father coming to save him. Not this time. He would have to get his family to safety on his own. Huddling with them, left arm on Hannah, right on Cheryl, he said: “Whatever you do, stay with me. Right next to me. Don't get separated. Don't scream. You can do this for me, right?”

  Cheryl and Hannah both nodded. Backing away, he hugged Hannah with a one-hand squeeze, smiled at his wife, and readjusted the straps of the heavy duffel bag to keep his gun arm free.

  “We can do this,” he said.

  Breaking the huddle, Hannah ran to the kitchen table and grabbed her teddy bear. She hugged the stuffed animal tightly in her arms. “I'm ready,” she proclaimed loudly.

  Jesse grabbed his shotgun and let the heavy duffel bag fall against his side. With Cheryl carrying boxes and Hannah following behind with a rolling suitcase, he led his family through the kitchen, out into the living room, and onto the tile foyer by the front door.

  He knew this was it. There was no turning back. He looked at the door, looked at his family, started a prayer. “Heavenly Father we—” Not being a church going man, he didn't know what to say next. He stared numbly at the closed door. The brass doorknob was stained and discolored. He saw many memories in it. As he reached out to touch it, he stopped. His hands began to shake uncontrollably again. He glanced at Hannah and Cheryl. He was sorry, so sorry. He wanted to apologize to them both for not being a better father, a better husband, a better man.

  He swore to try harder.

  -2-

  CABIN FEVER

  SEBASTIAN CYRUS RAN. His labored breathing left puffy gray clouds trailing behind him in the predawn air. The trees and tangled brush rushing past registered only as a blur of greens and browns. Without breaking stride, he cleared a moss-covered stump and came to a hard landing on the other side, flattening the soft loam of the forest floor, letting it take the full impact of his leap. He ran until cresting a small rise where the land leveled out.

  He stopped to catch his breath.

  A group of cabins dotted the hillside below, and he could taste the wood smoke from early morning fires lingering in the air. The top of the hill was marked by a towering granite rock formation surrounded by evergreen trees. The locals called the place Eagle's Point. Sebastian glanced up, remembering the complex path used yesterday to scale the granite face. He fixed the route firmly in his mind and prepared for the climb.

  Jagged cracks ran in angled stripes across the surface of the rock. Nearby trees seemed to be leaning against the massive stone for support. He peeled back the fabric from his gloves to expose his fingers and began his climb. The first handhold was a foot above his head. He lunged for it and landed against the stone with his toes bent upward then curled his toes into the cracks. As he lay against the rock face, cold seeped through his thick wool jacket. His fingertips clawed upward, seeking the next handhold above him. Once finding it, he adjusted his feet and pushed himself higher.

  Halfway up his left foot slipped. He went skidding down the granite. His knee banged against the stone, and he bit his lip to keep from crying out. He looked down, and for the briefest of moments, pictured himself falling and being impaled on one of the smaller trees below. His toes sought by feel for tiny gaps in the granite. Finding one, he twisted his ankle to set his foot in place. Everything held, so he released his grip and reached higher for the next handhold. As he neared the top, the slope went from vertical to horizontal, and he was able to scramble the rest of the way on his hands and knees. Stopping at the peak, he rose to his feet and extended his arms out like airplane wings.

  “Made it,” he said triumphantly.
/>
  He stopped to adjust his dark-colored knit hat, pulling it down to cover the exposed flesh of his neck. His fingers came away with a few long strands of hair. He'd been losing his hair rapidly over the past few months, so much so, he had taken to habitually wearing the knit cap. Being seventeen and going bald, sucked.

  The ambient light around him was growing in intensity as if an invisible hand had begun to crank up a dimmer switch. Still, the ridgeline across from him remained cloaked in shadow. He waited. In another few minutes, the tip of the morning sun had climbed high enough to jut itself above the ridge and split into a thousand golden beams. He closed his eyes and stood in a sunbeam, letting it bring warmth to his cold-numbed cheeks.

  Feeling a stirring in his loins, he reached down to his crotch and began to rub. If only it weren't so cold, he thought.

  As the sun continued to rise, the purple shadows filling the valley receded. He raised his hands, opening them fully in acceptance of the offering.

  “I am magnificence. I am the glory,” he whispered. He turned his gaze south toward the receding slope. The outlines of the city—his city—appeared as a giant scab rising from the desert floor. It would all be his one day. He just didn't know how yet. He meditated on this until the alarm on his watch started beeping. He would need to leave soon. Sighing, he clapped his gloved hands together and rubbed them as if that would help make them warmer. It didn't. He again considered touching himself—down there—but it was just too damn cold. Instead, he said his goodbyes to the sun and made his way down off the rock.

  He headed down the steep slope through the woods toward the cabin and his family, trampling anything that got in his way, living or dead. He kicked at rotting tree stumps, enjoying the way they exploded into splinters. He kicked at loose rocks, watching in amusement as they gathered speed and crashed into the scattered trees below. All the while he was reminded of the squirrel he had crushed with a stone barely two days ago, how the useless thing had twitched and jerked while trying to crawl away to safety. It was fun, almost as much fun as what he'd done to the neighbor's cat.

 

‹ Prev