Primal Shift: Volume 1 (A Post Apocalyptic Thriller)

by Griffin Hayes

  Dana started inching away with almost painful reluctance. “Damn you, lady.” Then she broke into a run, both hands clutching the SIG. Samurai Guy was closing fast. He was a good 15 feet ahead of the pack, and if she didn’t do something quick she might not make it. She drew to a stop, planted her feet, steadied her breathing, and then squeezed off two quick shots. The first struck him in the shoulder, spinning him around, the second entered through his neck, and the sickening sound of his skull hitting the pavement made her wince.

  She stood for a second, staring. Then that voice from inside.

  Move your ass, Girl!

  She listened. The Nissan was wedged between a Buick and a Smart Car. She threw it into reverse and hit the gas. Tires screeched as she rocked back and forth to give herself the room she needed to escape. The front of the Cube scraped the Buick’s rear bumper as it tore free and no sooner was it out than she came face to face with the mob. She punched the accelerator as far as it would go, causing the car to nearly fishtail out of control. One of the men raised the metal pole in his hands, preparing to smash her windshield, when the Cube plowed right into him. His eyes grew wide before the rest of him disappeared beneath the car. Two tiny bumps gave only the slightest hint that her tires had just crushed him into the ground.

  Dana was crying as she drove away. Crying for leaving the woman all alone. Crying for the two men she had been forced to kill. But most of all, she was crying for what her beloved city had become.

  Carole Cartright

  Salt Lake City International Airport, UT

  The crackly message on the ham radio continued to repeat over and over again.

  “Destruction is worldwide. Safety and a fresh start await you. Forty-one degrees, 14 minutes, 42 seconds north ... 111 degrees, 93 minutes, 0 seconds west.”

  “I don’t understand,” Nikki said, raising her voice in frustration.

  “Maybe they’re the coordinates to a FEMA camp,” Alice said.

  Carole stood. “This soon? We haven’t seen a single sign of any government agency even attempting to lend a hand, and you’re saying FEMA’s already got a camp up and running?”

  “Don’t yell at Alice, Mom,” Aiden said, raising his own voice. “This isn’t her fault. Maybe they haven’t been able to.” He looked down thoughtfully. “Maybe whatever happened to the people around the airport also took out the police and ambulance workers.”

  Alice was still fiddling with the knob, trying to clean up the signal. “Thank you, Aiden. Your mother is frustrated. We’re all frustrated. But I can tell you all one thing about this message: It’s being broadcast on a loop, so I can’t very well call in and ask who’s sending it.”

  Carole rubbed her eyes with the tips of her finger. “I’m sorry, Alice, I didn’t mean to shoot the messenger; I’m only trying to avoid a major letdown.”

  “No need to explain yourself to me. If it wasn’t for you, who knows what would have happened to us yesterday? I’m deeply thankful.” Alice turned to Nikki, who was wringing her hands. “There’s a map book in the desk drawer up front. I think one of the guards must have been planning a trip. Nikki, can you run and grab it for me?”

  Nikki nodded and sprinted from the room. Carole watched her go, conscious of how different this new Nikki was from the daughter she’d watched transform over the last few years from a little princess to an angry young woman. Amazing how in a flash all that angst had evaporated like a shallow pool of water in the desert.

  A minute later, Nikki returned with the book. Alice took it from her and flipped through it while Aiden held the light.

  The message on the ham radio continued to play. “Safety and a fresh start await you. Forty-one degrees, 14 minutes, 42 seconds north ... 111 degrees, 93 minutes, 0 seconds west ... Destruction is worldwide ... ”

  “I don’t get it,” Aiden said, his face scrunched up like a confused schoolboy.

  Alice’s finger traced along a map of the United States. Horizontal and vertical lines divided the map into tiny boxes. “Latitude and longitude,” Alice said, tapping her finger on a point roughly in the middle of the map. “Degrees, minutes, and seconds are how they divide every square inch of the earth into a series of points. Goes back more than two thousand years to a Greek named Hipparchus.”

  Nikki was regarding Alice with awe. “How do you know all this?”

  “I was a geography nerd in school,” she said, grinning.

  “So where is it?” Carole asked impatiently. “Is it close?”

  Alice traced a line with her finger. “Very.” Alice said, holding a spot with the tip of her finger.

  Aiden leaned in for a closer look. “Where’s Youwinta?”

  Carole hit him playfully. “Uintah is north of Salt Lake City.” And as she said the words, hope began to surge through her tired body.

  Even Alice was smiling. “Most of that area is farm land that runs along the Green River. Won’t take us long to get there by car.”

  Tension creased Carole’s brow. “Might not take long, but who knows how long we’re gonna be there? We should swing by the house and get some of our things.”

  “But I live on the other side of town,” Alice said.

  “I don’t know if we’ll have time to do both. If things inside the airport are anything to go by, there’s no telling what conditions are like on the outside. I think we’ll be lucky to make a single stop.”

  The smile on Alice’s face wasn’t nearly as bright as it had been a minute ago.

  “I know we’ll be able to find things at our place you can use.”

  Alice was shaking her head. “I don’t care about my things. It’s hard to wrap your head around the idea that home is only a few miles away and I may never get to see it again.”

  “Of course you will,” Carole’s hand found Alice’s back and rubbed it in a slow circle. “I know it’ll only be a question of time before everything goes back to the way it was. Trust me.”

  After gathering the few useful items they could get their hands on – a half-empty bottle of Gatorade and a bag of cold cuts they found in the fridge – they made their way to the front. There was food at home, Carole knew, and plenty of bottled water she kept on hand for when she brought the kids to their sports meets; soccer for Aiden and cheerleading for Nikki. The Cartright family van was out in the airport parking lot somewhere. Jim hadn’t wanted to pay the steep parking fees, but the slim prospect of fitting into a cab with all of their luggage had been enough to convince him otherwise. In spite of Nikki’s continued searching, there didn’t appear to be any weapons they could use to defend themselves against aggressors. Although the need might be greater than she previously imagined because for all she knew, Hawaiian Shirt and Mechanic’s Overalls had spent the night licking their wounds and looking for a chance at revenge.

  Slowly, they peeled small pieces of their barricade away in order to peer through the front window and see if anyone was outside. The slit at the bottom of the window had been plugged with an old security guard sweater they found dangling over a chair. Nikki removed it so they could listen.

  “I don’t hear anything,” Aiden said, his ear pressed close to the opening. “What about you?”

  She leaned in, listened, and then shook her head. “Maybe everyone’s asleep.”

  “You do have a point,” Carole conceded, only half believing it.

  In the map drawer they also found a brochure with the airport layout. They were smack between Concourses A and B, which led out to Terminal 1 and beyond that the parking lot. The plan was to load into the golf cart and floor it down the corridor, through security to the airport’s drop-off area.

  “Cart still out front?” Carole asked.

  “Yeah, Mom, I can see the edge of it.”

  The door handle felt cold against Carole’s hand as her fingers closed around it. “Count of three, ready?” She watched each of them in turn. “One ... two ... THREE!”

  The door swung open, and all four of them rushed out. And as soon as they did, al
l four of them skidded to a stop. The man standing there was wearing what had once been a white pilot’s shirt, black-and-gold stripped epaulets on either shoulder, except now that shirt was smeared in a bloody stain that ran all the way up to his face and the hole where his left ear used to be. The way the rest of his face was torn up with scratch marks gave the rather strong impression that someone had bitten it off during an altercation. But it wasn’t only his presence they hadn’t detected at first, nor the man’s gore-encrusted appearance that terrified them. It was the suitcase strap he was using as a leash for the woman standing slightly behind him.

  The bloodied pilot bared his teeth and jerked the strap. The woman he held captive came stumbling forward.

  There wasn’t enough time to jump onto the golf cart and flee, because he was right in their faces now. Carole was the first person he lunged for, and he grabbed a scoop full of her hair in his hand, snapping her head to the ground as he had done with the leash a minute before. Nikki screamed and jumped on the man’s back, pounding against the top of his head with her fists. Aiden rushed forward to force him to release his grip on Carole’s hair.

  There was movement from the shadows. The fight was kicking up a violent ruckus, and shapes in the distance were beginning to close in. Leaning against the golf cart, Alice was clutching at her heart as though she were watching a scene from a nightmare playing out before her.

  Nikki shrieked as the woman on the leash dragged her nails down her back. Incredibly, instead of helping them, she was protecting the pilot. Finally, Carole reached up and shoved her hand between his legs, her fist clenching into a vice the minute her fingers found the soft mound there. The pilot squealed and released his grip on her hair.

  From the floor, Carole caught a glimpse of the shadows moving closer, aroused by the sound of battle. The desperate sounds of their fight were beginning to draw a crowd. The plan had gone horribly wrong, and they needed to leave right away.

  The woman with the leash yanked Nikki clean off of the pilot’s back and onto the floor where she landed with a thud, the wind knocked clear out of her lungs.

  Carole rose to her feet and swung her foot between the pilot’s legs, hitting the hands he already had cupped around his balls. His eyes rolled up with excruciating pain about a second before he fell backward on top of Nikki.

  From out of the gloom, Mechanic’s Overalls appeared, grinning from ear to ear as though he’d just been seen an old friend.

  “Carole, come on!” Alice shouted desperately. She and Aiden were in the golf cart and had it turned around. All Carole needed to do was jump in. Five yards. A few measly steps, and she’d be free. But Carole knew there wasn’t enough time to get Nikki to her feet before the mob descended on them. And leaving her alone just wasn’t an option. She was only a child. She would never survive what they were about to do to her. Carole turned to wave them away and the words “Get out of here” nearly made it past her lips before something hard struck the back of her head and everything went dark.

  Larry Nowak

  Holland Tunnel, Manhattan, N.Y.

  Larry found a flashlight and some duct tape sitting on the dash of a plumber’s van and used both of them to fix the light to the front of his bike. Duct tape had been the real star of the show. That magical little invention with the power to mend nearly every situation.

  His shoulder and spine throbbed where the cop had smacked him with the baton. As he pedaled, Larry was starting to wonder if this plan of his to ride underground was such a great idea. Soon enough, he was rolling down a gentle slope, the words overhead in giant white letters confirming with a sense of dread what he already knew was coming: Holland Tunnel.

  The darkness closed around him as soon as he entered, and suddenly, the cool air was filled with carbon monoxide. Most of the cars seemed to be idling, their engines idling with no one inside. Larry brought his tie to his nose. He was finding it difficult to breathe. Felt like he was padding along the streets of London, where unleaded fuel made soot come out your nose whenever you blew it.

  If he hadn’t been sure before, he knew now without a doubt the idea had been a bad one.

  But taking the bike had been a stroke of genius. Larry was able to weave between cars that had either crashed into the wall or into one another. Among other things, people had forgotten how to brake. The few headlights that weren’t buried in walls or the bumper of the car in front of them cast a strange glow about the tunnel, shining off the tiled walls.

  With the light from his flashlight dancing a merry jig ahead of him, Larry felt like he was making good progress. He hadn’t seen anyone so far, but nor had he looked inside many of the trashed cars along the way, afraid of the cavernous eyes he might find staring back at him. He was maybe a few hundred meters in when he saw the fat guy with the reflective vest standing on the roof of a Dodge Charger. Upon seeing his light, the man quickly disappeared behind a tangle of cars.

  There was something about the way people were acting after the change that reminded Larry of rats.

  The bike drew to a swift stop. Larry planted his foot on the ground and felt for the gun in his pocket. It was one thing to ride and one thing to shoot and a third thing altogether to ride and shoot at the same time. Maybe the man up ahead was lost, the way the people he’d seen wandering through the streets were lost.

  Or maybe he was lost like the man you saw eating that poodle in the alleyway.

  Larry swallowed hard, not entirely sure what to do. The prospect of turning around and heading north toward the Lincoln Tunnel or beyond to the Washington Bridge would tack hours onto a trip that was already going to take days. He wasn’t going to bike the whole way, but even after finding a car in Jersey, who knew what condition the roads would be in?

  Speed was the key, Larry decided. If he tried to build enough momentum, even the fat man in the reflector lights would have trouble stopping him.

  He bit down on the pain in his leg and began pedaling. On his left he saw where a crack in the wall was letting in water from the Hudson. It was collecting on the tunnel floor and already his tires were slowing as they sloshed through it.

  Larry stood, working the pedals as he battled through this new resistance.

  The car door swung open without warning and struck the bike’s front tire, sending Larry slamming onto the bed of a pickup truck stacked with cordwood. The impact should have broken his neck, except, somehow, inexplicably, the wood had been soft. Blood from his bottom lip filled his mouth. He could feel it already growing twice as large, along with a knot thumping at the top of his skull. Scrambling for purchase, Larry realized why this wood was so squishy. It wasn’t wood at all. The truck was filled with dead bodies and someone – Reflector Vest? – had stacked them up, for reasons Larry didn’t quite understand. Perhaps they were city workers on rescue and salvage operations. If so, that didn’t explain why they had they just knocked him off his bike.

  A booming sound filled the air as the big man with the reflector vest jumped from the Charger to the hood of the pickup. A thin Hispanic guy with heavy bags under his eyes was approaching from the rear, and suddenly Larry understood. This wasn’t just a trap. This underground cesspool had become their lair, and anyone who entered it was at their mercy.

  Reflector Vest was on top of the cab now, making ready to step down onto the flatbed where Larry was still dazed and who knew what would happen next? Feeling his chest constrict with fear, Larry fumbled for the Glock in his right pocket. His fingers found the handle and pulled it out. Seeing the gun didn’t seem to faze Reflector Vest one bit, and he stepped down onto the pile of bodies. Larry squeezed off three quick rounds, aiming for the man’s chest.

  The large man let out a whimper as blood trailed down his florescent vest. Arms wrapped around his chest, he fell, face forward onto Larry, knocking the Glock from his hands and sending it skittering into the knee-high water below.

  A rough set of hands grabbed him from behind and began yanking him off the pickup. The skinny Hispanic guy
with the gaunt face was trying to pull him out from under Reflector Vest. The .38 was in his other pocket, and Larry reached in to grab it.

  His hand continued to stab furiously, without finding the pistol.

  Larry’s insides froze with the cold certainty he was about to die. He wasn’t a fighter; he didn’t know the first thing about hand-to-hand combat. It was far easier to pull the trigger on a gun and waste someone from a distance than it was to meet a man toe-to-toe. Larry knew he was in big trouble.

  The skinny man yanked him onto the hood of a car partially wedged under the rear of the pickup. Larry landed with a thud, all the wind knocked from his lungs. Fists began raining down on his chest and face, and Larry tried his best to ward them off. A direct hit on his forehead sent starbursts blooming before his eyes.

  Something sharp was digging into his back, and he reached behind him. Was it someone else trying to stab him?

  The fingers of his right hand wrapped around the object, his other striking back at the skinny man intent on killing him. His fingers found the metal edge of a windshield wiper that had been twisted during the accident. Now the man stopped punching and wrapped his hands around Larry’s neck. The pressure was tremendous, and he knew only a few more seconds of consciousness separated him from death. Larry swung his right arm with every last ounce of his failing strength and drove the edge of the metal wiper casing into the skinny man’s eye. It didn’t seem to go in very far, but at once he loosened his grip, reeling back, his sickly hands clutching at the object jutting from his face. He was screaming, too, but not a single legible word came out. No curses or threats of retribution. Just a primal scream as the man ran away, bashing into the sides of crashed cars as he stumbled into the darkness.

  Larry sat up and brought his hand to his tender face. One blow had struck him on the cheek, and the pain of it bit pretty hard. The fading headlights gave just enough light for him to find his bike, half submerged under the rising water. The front tire was bent slightly, but it was still rideable. He briefly considered searching for the guns he’d lost, but decided to forget them. One was somewhere in the truckload of dead bodies, and the other was underwater. Getting out of this tunnel before the skinny Spic came back with reinforcements was his first order of business. Larry mounted the bike, wincing as new pains slowly throbbed in parts of his body he hadn’t known existed. He was making slow progress at first. Up ahead, he could see a glimmer of sunlight spilling in from the Jersey side exit. Just a few more minutes, and he’d out of harm’s way.