The Woman on the Beast: A Season for Horror (The End Times Series Book 2)

by Macie Holloway

  The Sterling Heights paramedics were on the scene in no time to scoop up the women lying in the middle of the street like a steaming pile of gossiping soccer mom dog shit.

  Atticus smiled as he heard the blaring sirens fade away into the distance.

  Please don’t die on me, Sarah Beth. I need to see how ‘nigger’ sounds rolling over your new tongue. Guess it’ll have to be ‘wigger’ now.

  He’d be devastated if she died.

  All that work for nothing.

  No fun in that.

  But watching from afar as Sarah Beth Peterson lived the rest of her life with no tongue was priceless.

  Oh cheer up, Sarah Beth. If the little mermaid can do it, so can you. One day you’ll thank me for this. O.K., maybe YOU won’t thank me, but I know for a fact your husband will.

  He drove by her house every day on his bike eagerly awaiting her return. He cared about Sarah Beth, and he wanted to check on her.

  She finally returned after five days.

  Atticus watched from afar as she limped out of the car pathetically.

  Losing her tongue made her even sadder than losing her phone.

  Oh come on! I cut off your tongue, not your legs. Buck up, Little Mermaid!

  Her eyes were cold and dead as if she’d just lost a child, or her cell phone.

  Her evil-ass little demon spawn were setting off bottle rockets in the yard.

  Are they celebrating?

  Her husband forced a somber face for her sake, but Atticus could tell by his eyes he was elated beyond words.

  Atticus didn’t know, but their marriage had been on rocks for years and was finally on the brink of divorce.

  Now he gently put his arm around her and kissed her on the check in a genuine fashion.

  Oh, he was one happy son-of-a-bitch. A woman with no tongue? He had a real catch now, and nobody was taking his quiet peaceful woman.

  No bitching.

  No whining.

  No hormonal outbursts.

  No mindless chatter.

  No shallow gossip.

  Though his expression was one of false sympathy, his countenance radiated light.

  It seemed a drastic measure, but Atticus Fletcher really had saved Sarah Beth’s marriage.

  Hmmm…. Severed tongues save families.

  GINGER TWINS

  Atticus was in no rush to take over the world. He was a careful and methodical planner. He read the entire Skeleton Key manual just to make sure he didn’t miss any perks.

  Being naturally lazy, he had to find a way to achieve world domination without ever leaving his Kudzu cave.

  He couldn’t treat it like a job or it wouldn’t be fun, so he had to take his time. More than anything he just wanted to stir the world up a bit, like a dog in a hen house.

  He now had binders full of research he’d been compiling.

  Now, he only needed a few supplies to protect himself, and that would take money. Using his new ability to spy on anyone in the world’s computer, he quickly figured out that Betty Mae McAllister’s bank account at Sterling Heights had never been closed. While many banks had a system that automatically closed bank accounts that went a year without activity, the Sterling Heights Peoples’ Bank did not.

  With the push of a button he pigeon-holed small and unnoticeable amounts from every rich man’s bank account in the world and transferred it with no trail to Betty Mae McAllister’s bank account. He changed the name on the account to Justin Carson and made himself 18 in case he had to ever go in, but since he’d used their computers to order an ATM card, a visit wouldn’t be necessary. Taking out a large amount would have been suspicious and so he took out the maximum amount as often as possible and hid it the basement. He could use PayPal to order directly from his account to buy all the supplies he needed.

  He knew scrambling intelligence between governments and terrorists could lead to the releasing of stockpiles of biological and chemical warfare agents, and so it was imperative that he plan methodically and quickly. Getting an itchy trigger figure could have quickly resulted in his own death as much as it could anyone else’s.

  But he had a genius plan to protect himself.

  All he had to do was follow the same protocol physicians used to protect the President of the United States – the king of covering his own ass as far as Atticus was concerned.

  He leisurely plugged in his key and pulled up his control panel.

  Using his key word search engine he easily located and targeted the computers of the President’s team of doctors. In those computers were detailed records of his entire medical history, including the vaccinations he had received and more.

  If he was able to receive the same vaccinations provided to the President, no amount of biological or chemical warfare would as much as make him sneeze.

  The President’s list of vaccinations was astonishing. Apparently he’d received vaccinations for small pox, hepatitis A, B & C, Ebola, Bubonic Plague, Anthrax, Tularemia, Botulinum Toxin, Rinderpest, Nipah Virus, Chimera Virus, Ricin, Q Fever, Cholera, Rift Valley Fever, Aids …

  Aids? Well I’ll be damned. Could have shared THAT one with the world, Mr. President. Probably too expensive.

  There were at least twenty more and he made a long list in his notebook.

  Next stop, CDC.

  The CDC shipped vaccinations all over the world to scientists, laboratories, politicians, rich people, etc. While a large packet full of vaccinations sent to Betty May McAllister in Sterling Heights would have been suspicious, fortunately Atticus had the ability to access and change information with the touch of a button and still remain completely invisible.

  He hacked the CDC’s computers and sent the scientists an email from the director for his 30 needed vaccinations to be shipped to Viral Solutions Inc., 4325 State Street, Sterling Heights, Mississippi.

  The scientists would package them up and ship them off thinking they were sending them to a new research facility. When the FedEx driver showed up with the package, he’d be the only one to notice that instead of a research company, it was a Kudzu jungle with a teenager living in it. At most he’d roll his eyes, but chances were he wouldn’t give a shit.

  He would be a working man with a grueling schedule of stops to make. He would be hungry and tired. He probably had children to feed. He probably had a bit in his mouth and a whip on his back.

  The little people in charge of doing all the legwork didn’t have time to snoop into the affairs of others. 500 more packages had better be to Amarillo by 7 p.m. or his head would be on the chopping block, and his wife was probably busy making Ribyes.

  Besides, it’s not like the package will be labeled Aids Vaccine.

  For all the FedEx guy knew, his aunt worked there and sent him Christmas cookies from her office.

  Atticus turned out to be right as usual.

  The FedEx truck practically skid into the driveway.

  “I knew it. They’re cracking the whip on this poor bastard hard, just like I expected.”

  But there was nothing “expected” about the man who jumped out of the truck like he was on fire.

  Atticus looked like he’d seen a ghost. It had been seven years ago, but the man looked exactly the same.

  It was the red-headed man with the red beard from the gas station who wanted to take him to a baseball game when he was five.

  Chances were he wouldn’t remember Atticus, since he’d changed a lot since the age of five.

  But that one he got wrong.

  The man stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of Atticus.

  “Do I know you from somewhere, boy?”

  He couldn’t put his finger on it, but the man was intuitive, and he had a gut feeling.

  “I’m the little red-headed boy from the gas station. You were gonna take me to a baseball game.”

  The man’s eyes immediately misted over with suppressed emotion.

  “I looked everywhere for you, kid. I asked the gas station attendant if he knew your mom, but he sai
d she never gave anyone the right name. I wanted to write down the tag but didn’t have a pen on me, and she sped away so fast. But let me tell ya, I never forgot about you. All these years I wondered if you were O.K. and many a night I lost sleep.”

  There was a moment of silence as they stared at one another in disbelief.

  Now that Atticus was older, they bore a striking resemblance.

  The sun broke through the Kudzu and illuminated their bright red heads like flames of fire.

  Finally the man broke the silence.

  “I’m so glad to finally see you are o.k., kid. That day has been burned in my brain for seven years.”

  “I made it out alive, but barely.”

  They laughed.

  The man handed him the package as if he hadn’t noticed the phony name.

  “Viral Solutions Inc?” he teased.

  “My aunt works for the CDC. She has an idea of how many biological weapons are being stockpiled in other countries and she’s worried about me, so she sends me secret packages. I have four of each vaccination and no friends. You’re welcome to the extra.”

  The man let out a boisterous Irish chuckle.

  “Good to know, kid. I may have to take you up on that one. Fat as I am, I may need two. You’re pretty damn slick for a teenager, you know.”

  “Thanks. Runs in the family, DADDY,” he joked.

  “You know what? I’ve only got one more delivery and my wife makes a mean country fried steak. You wanna go with me?”

  Why not?

  It couldn’t hurt to be friends with the FedEx guy, considering his next project was ordering gas masks and respirators.

  “Yeah, sure. Not like I got a plane to catch.”

  A HOME-COOKED MEAL

  It was a day full of surprises.

  After dropping off the truck, the man pulled into the driveway of none other than Pamela O’Reilly.

  “Aww, dammit Pam!”

  He wearily got out of the car and tossed the bike out of the driveway.

  “You think she did that on purpose?”

  “Oh yeah. Absolutely.”

  He followed the jolly Irishman into the side door.

  “Don’t ever knock on the front door or we’ll think you’re the IRS.”

  He was so full of jokes.

  Even the ones that weren’t funny still made Atticus smile.

  As the two red-headed men barreled through the kitchen door the aroma of seasoned country fried steak hit his hungry stomach like a ton of bricks.

  As usual, Pam had it ready as soon as her husband sat down.

  As she turned around to bring the plate to the table, she finally noticed they had a visitor.

  “Hey, I know you! Justin!”

  “That’s me.”

  “You been fooling around with my wife, boy?” the Irishman joked. “I know for a fact she’s always had a weakness for red hair.”

  “Well what woman doesn’t?” she teased.

  “All the rest of them,” Atticus added.

  They all laughed again in unison.

  Suddenly, Atticus felt an unfamiliar feeling rising in his chest.

  Is this how it feels to be happy?

  He’d never experienced happiness, and he’d never had a home-cooked meal.

  She sat the Irishman’s plate down in front of Atticus instead.

  “Oh, so I guess its ladies first, huh?”

  More laughter followed.

  The Irishman kept the jokes coming.

  “Is he always like this, Pam?”

  “All day long. It never stops,” she said as she quickly piled up another plate to the ceiling.

  The steam from the plate filled Atticus’s nostrils as it rose up from the plate in a cloud of country fried glory. His first instinct was to bury his face in it like a dog.

  But he waited for everyone else.

  Although Destiny never taught him courtesy, it was common sense.

  “Dear Lord, thank you so much for these wonderful men and this wonderful food you put on our plates. We are so blessed. Thank you.”

  The Irishman started digging in, but Atticus looked around confused.

  “Your fork and knife are by your plate, son.”

  “Oh.”

  He turned red.

  He’d never even had a table. He didn’t know women laid out silverware for their men.

  The plate was full of country fried steak sopped in gravy, homemade mashed potatoes, corn soufflé and a buttered dinner roll.

  He took his first bite.

  Whoa.

  He’d never tasted anything like it. It was fresh and hot, seasoned and full of flavor.

  “This is food crack.”

  She blushed.

  “Oh stop!”

  “I told you she could cook. Now quit lookin’ at my woman and eat. She’s MINE!”

  “I told you, Justin. He never stops.”

  From the moment he took his first bite everything went by in a blur as he shoveled it into face like he’d never eaten a day in his life – anything except Ramen noodles, anyway.

  Within’ seconds the plate was shining like Mr. Clean’s bald head.

  Aw man. It’s over.

  But it wasn’t over.

  He had barely blinked before Pamela piled his plate full of food all over again.

  If there was a heaven, this would be it.

  “Seriously?”

  “Oh honey. There’s plenty. Eat until you’re so full we have to roll you home.”

  Wow. These were his real parents. Destiny had probably stolen him from the nursery to get food stamps.

  There was something bothering him, though.

  “Pam, I hope I’m not being rude, but I was just wondering why you have all that baby stuff out there.”

  “We had a baby one time, but the umbilical chord got stuck around his neck and killed him. He was a little boy with bright red hair just like you.”

  Now it all made sense why the Irishman was so emotional that day at the gas station. Atticus always thought he was just being nice, but now he knew that man needed a son as bad as he needed a father.

  Growing up with Destiny, he’d never realized that there really were a few people left in the world with honest intentions.

  “I’m sorry, Pam.”

  “Oh, honey. He didn’t suffer. When a mother has an epidural, the baby doesn’t feel pain either. And besides, he’s more alive than we are. I can feel it. We’re the ones who are dead.”

  He really did have a family. It had just been a long time coming.

  Maybe that’s where the strange happy feeling came from.

  It was the first time anyone had ever loved him.

  They didn’t even have to tell him. He could feel it.

  “Thank you, Pam and …”

  “John.”

  Pam patted him on the shoulder.

  “So, we’ll see you back this time tomorrow, Justin? Fried fish and tater tots.”

  “If you insist.”

  “We do,” they said in unison.

  Atticus walked out that side door on a cloud that night.

  When he got home, he didn’t even care about the Skeleton Key anymore.

  He found it impossible to be evil anymore and he wasn’t sure why.

  He just didn’t care.

  He did make it to fish-and-tots night, and also for hamburgers and French fries the following night.

  John finally took him to that baseball game the next weekend.

  Pam was finally able to ride her back without hyperventilating.

  Some nights they played cards or watched movies.

  He started accidentally falling asleep on the couch.

  But that wouldn’t do.

  The very next time he came to dinner, they informed him of a big surprise.

  Pam took him by the hand and practically dragged him down the hall.

  The Irishman lightly shoved him through a doorway.

  “Aw, you guys. I’m perfectly happy on the couch. I don
’t have to sleep in your guest room.”

  “It’s not the guest room,” Pam informed him as she wrapped her arm around his shoulders.

  “This is your room, Justin.”

  “My room?”

  “Do you like it?”

  He was speechless. There was a real bed with a little table. The night lamp was made out of a baseball and there were framed posters everywhere of famous baseball players. Mickey Mantle, Joe DiMaggio, Honus Wagner …

  All for him.

  They had taken time AND money to decorate a room just for him.

  He could barely comprehend two perfect strangers wanted him more than his own mother ever did.

  “Now we’ve gone to all this hard work; it would be very ungrateful of you to not enjoy it.”

  And so he did.

  Time began to go much faster as he hung out and laughed with his new family.

  Before he knew it he’d been living there six months, and they never asked even one suspicious question.

  They didn’t ask where he was from, what his last name was, or why he was thirteen and didn’t go to school.

  They just loved him, and that was more than enough.

  MISAKI ITO

  Misaki staggered twenty miles down the dusty road.

  She rolled her eyes back into her head with every three steps and rolled her neck around in random circular motions in both directions.

  She appeared to be insane, blind and demon possessed. That was the point.

  Her hair appeared to have never seen a brush. Her oversized T-shirt was covered in real dog shit.

  The world’s most desperate rapist was sure to flee if he dared come within’ smelling distance.

  The jutting rocks sliced her bare feet.

  A trail of random bloody foot prints marked her path down the dusty roads of rural Mogadishu.

  Pick-up trucks full of armed warlords whizzed past her face within inches. They purposely left her in a cloud of blinding dust and rock shrapnel.

  She heard their laughter echo in the distance, and she laughed along with them.

  Why would you waste your ammo on me? I’m not dangerous.

  She gripped a clear plastic fork in her right hand, occasionally waving it in the air for no reason.