After Everything Else (Book 1): Creeper Rise

by Brett D. Houser

  Monday he skipped school. He had walked around, watching the few people left wake up. He had thought then they would finally leave, but with a cry of “Wake and bake!” the party had started again. On a smaller scale, with only a few of the truly dedicated, but still going. As these few had gotten in touch with friends, people began to accumulate over the course of the day. By evening, the party was going full force yet again.

  Tuesday morning he had gotten up and gone to school as normal, then found things to do after school. People always asked him if he wanted to hang out. He usually did. This time, though, he had different reasons for not wanting to go home. When he came home that evening, there was a fresh keg and a guy had set up turntables and speakers in the living room. A full-blown rave had broken out in his house. After walking around in disbelief and with a strange feeling of scared satisfaction, he found a relatively quiet place to sleep: his mother’s bedroom.

  He moved his game console to her room. She had a 50” plasma television. She had a bar in her room with a mini-fridge, a microwave, and a sink. He went to the store and bought foods he could prepare in there: Ramen noodles, mac-n-cheese, lunchmeat, bread, cereal. He called the school and pretended to be his father, telling them the family was going on vacation and Chase would be out of school for a while. The school secretary didn’t even question it. He was a straight-A student and the quarterback on the football team, after all. Outside the bedroom door, party noises came and went. The house was being destroyed. He ventured out occasionally. He wasn’t worried about what his parents would do to him. They would yell a little, make some threats, and then go back to barely acknowledging his presence. Then they’d hire someone to clean up. His mother might even use this as yet another excuse to redecorate, something she did often. He was almost looking forward to their reaction, and was glad the condition of house was getting worse and worse. But by Friday, the people tearing up his home started to offend him.

  Their party and drug behavior didn’t offend him, but their presence did. It was wrong. They were being impolite by overstaying their welcome, or not even being aware that what they were doing could possibly be hurting someone. He thought it was strange that they couldn’t sense that. He began to get angry. Worse yet, maybe they did sense they were being impolite, but it meant nothing to them. His presence as someone who might have an issue with them tearing up his house (even though he didn’t) was being ignored. There was nothing he hated worse than being ignored. He considered making a big scene and running everyone off, but decided to wait until Sunday. So on Friday afternoon, he had grabbed enough food to last the weekend and locked himself in his mother’s bedroom. He slept, watched movies, played Call of Duty, ate, and slept again. The party had raged on outside the walls of his sanctum until he had awakened this morning, Sunday morning, to complete silence.

  Chase rose from the bed and slipped on his sweatpants. Shirtless, he unlocked the bedroom door and walked out onto the landing. Down the hallways to the left and right, he saw plates, bowls, cans, bottles, and fast food wrappers scattered everywhere. He walked to the entryway and looked down into the foyer. On one of the twin staircases, a keg (empty, he imagined) was hung from the balustrade halfway down the stairs with the pool rope. The floats were scattered on the marble tiled floor beneath.

  He walked through the house, noting all the damage. His mother was due back the next day. She may even have called already. He went back to his mother’s room and grabbed his cell phone. When he tried to turn it on, it gave him a low battery beep and turned itself off again. He hadn’t charged it. In his room, someone had thrown up in his bed and his sheets and blankets were in a pile on the floor. He found his charger and plugged it in. Nothing happened. Then he noticed that the red numbers on his alarm clock weren’t lit. He flipped the light switch, and nothing happened. The power was out.

  Chase’s first thought was to go to his car parked in the garage and plug the charger in there. On his way to the garage, he catalogued the damage. The carpets were ruined. He counted four holes in the walls on his way down, ranging from baseball-sized to one which appeared to be the result of someone having been body-slammed into the wall.

  When he reached the garage, the door wouldn’t open. It wasn’t locked. He could turn the knob, but when he pushed against it, it seemed to be against something. Whatever it was, it had a little give to it. He pushed as hard as he could, but it wouldn’t move. After hitting the door with his shoulder a few times it opened a crack, but it was so dark inside the garage that he couldn’t see anything in there.

  He started toward the door out onto the courtyard to open the big garage door from the outside, but then realized he that wouldn’t work. Of course the garage door opener was electric. He pictured the garage door, and realized there was no external handle. He couldn’t believe there was no external handle, no means for opening the door. He knew how to open the door when the power was out, but that required him to be inside the garage.

  He couldn’t even call a repairman or the power company to come fix the power problem. A tiny flame of panic ignited in Chase’s chest. He couldn’t remember ever not being able to call someone to come help him. His friends, his mother, contractors of one kind or another. There was a list in the kitchen of people to call in case of an emergency. The family doctor was on there, of course, and also the pool guy, the cleaning people, the general contractor who had built the house, the plumber…everyone who might be able to help him if he only had a phone. He could picture the list posted on the bulletin board right next to the phone. The land line! He felt stupidly relieved.

  The kitchen was a disaster. The sink was heaped with an indescribable amount of garbage, dishes, empty cans and bottles, and other party detritus. He picked up the phone, but there was no dial tone. The panic returned, and that’s when the pounding started in the garage.

  Chapter 3 – Marilyn

  Marilyn waited at the arranged meeting place for three hours before she began to worry. She was hot, tired, and ready for a shower and a soft bed, but spiritually she felt clean and refreshed.

  When her father had dropped her off for one of what her family half-jokingly called her “nature sabbaticals,” he had told her to be sure to be at the meeting place early. He no longer complained about her excursions into the Peck Ranch Conservation Area, but she knew he worried. It was for his sake that she always tried to be waiting for him when he arrived. If he arrived first, she knew that he sat there imagining all the bad things that could happen to a teenage girl camping alone.

  This trip had been a good one, her longest yet. She had stayed out for two weeks. Her family and friends thought she was a bit strange, but she didn’t let that bother her. When she was ten, she had started camping alone for just a night or two out on the back field of the family farm. It had started as just a fun thing to do, a time for some privacy away from her three younger brothers. She stayed in the tent she had rigged from an old tarp on a rope strung between two trees with a big supply of books and some of her favorite toys. The first summer she only stayed out there on weekends, but the second summer she spent most evenings out there. She still helped her mother around the house and her dad with the chores, but after her evening shower, she would retire to her tent. Other girls would invite her for sleepovers and sometimes she would go, but often she would politely decline in order to spend the time alone quietly reading or just thinking.

  When she was fourteen, her youth pastor had taught them to meditate, and she started using the tent as her personal spiritual retreat. She found she could start meditating, and when she would become aware of her surroundings again, an hour or two had passed and she felt clean and light and happy for days afterward. She began to understand what people meant when they said they felt at peace with God.

  Unfortunately, as she got older, her little brothers had gotten older as well. The farm was no longer big enough to get away from them. Her father, who had been an Eagle Scout, dug a lot of old camping gear and other equipment from the
attic, and had shown her how to use the water purifying tablets, the compass, and how to set snares. He had shown her how to fish and how to clean and prepare fish on father-daughter camping trips. He had taken her hunting.

  She had loved the time with her father. Her mother had looked on apprehensively, but at age fifteen when she asked to go primitive camping in a wilderness area alone, it had been her mother who had supported her more than her father. Her mother wanted her to “get it out of her system,” and kept waiting for the time when she would discover boys. But she had no interest in all the silly games she saw her classmates playing. Besides, the boys didn’t talk to her. She was still taller than most of them, and she had a reputation for being strange, or at the very least, a loner. And it was true, she supposed. She wanted to camp, and she wanted to camp alone. She knew her father felt shut out somehow, and she tried to explain to him that wasn’t it. She wanted to be assured of being completely alone so she could meditate. Her mother and father went to church, but she knew they didn’t understand her and her feelings about her relationship with God. She wasn’t sure she understood it completely either.

  She waited at the turn-around at the end of the old logging track for her father, and she grew more worried with each passing minute. The arranged meeting time had been nearly two hours ago. She listened intently for the sound of an approaching motor, but there was nothing. She realized she hadn’t heard anything like a motor in the entire time she had been waiting. She was in a secluded area, but even so she had often heard distant motors on other occasions. The two-lane blacktop was only a couple of miles distant, and sound carried in the silence of the forest. There was no wind today. She stepped into the clearing and searched the sky. No planes. Not even any contrails. Ordinarily on these trips, she loved being completely away from all evidence that there were other people in the world, but after two weeks she was ready to return to the world, her family, and her normal life. With a good part of the serenity she had so recently gained slipping away, she gathered her gear and began walking, hoping her dad would appear in a cloud of dust in his old pick-up, smiling and apologizing for being late.

  At just after two, Marilyn stopped and rested in the shade of a giant oak. She had made the black top, but there had been no cars. She had been checking her cell for a signal, but there had been none. She rarely had a signal out here anyway, and traffic on the blacktop was always sparse. She took a moment and said a prayer for her father and her family just in case, then assessed her situation. For all she knew, she might be walking all the way home. That was ninety miles. She should be out of the wilderness area and close to the nearest town, Van Buren, by nightfall. She thought. She had never done any serious long-distance hiking with a pack the size of the one she had on. She really hoped to get a signal at some point on her walk so she could call somebody to come get her. If not, she could surely find some people to help her at a house along the way.

  Her tent, food supplies, equipment, and water weighed about forty pounds. When she went on her excursions, though, she usually only carried it in about a mile and then back out. She had never considered carrying this much all day long. She started going through her pack. She could stash some stuff and come back for it later. She considered doing this with the whole pack and just walking, but something held her back. She might be camping another night. Besides, a lot of this stuff was her father’s from when he was a boy. If it came up missing, she would feel bad.

  The first thing she got rid of was some books she had brought to read. She also had some empty propane canisters for her cook stove. The stove was bulky, but she held onto it. It represented three nights of babysitting money. She had some extra pans. She stashed those, but kept her father’s Boy Scout mess kit. She had trash that she hadn’t wanted to leave in the woods. After a process of considering and either selecting or rejecting each item, she thought she managed to get rid of fifteen pounds and quite a bit of bulk. This had taken longer than she had thought it would. She wouldn’t make Van Buren by dark, but she would pass some houses, and worst case she camped yet another night. She had enough food and supplies for one more night. That should be plenty.

  At seven o’clock, she came to the first house. It was a mobile home, and not well kept. There was a car in the driveway next to the house, but it had not been moved for several weeks, maybe even longer. The grass grew up all around it and the back two tires were flat. When she knocked, no one answered. There were kids’ toys and a plastic swimming pool in the fenced back yard when she looked around the side of the house but no people.

  Soon she would either have to find a way home or she would have to set up camp. The next house she came to was nicer, a brick home with a two car garage. Through the windows in the garage door she could see both bays were full, but again no one answered the door. The little lighted doorbell wasn’t lit, so she tried knocking, thinking that maybe the bell wasn’t working. No answer. She walked around to the privacy-fenced backyard.

  Opening the gate she saw a doghouse, a dry water bowl and an empty food bowl, but no dog. She was low on water and saw a hose coiled under an outside spigot. Before entering she whistled twice, calling, “C’mere, c’mon, puppy.” When there was no response, she filled her canteens. She filled the empty water bowl too, but as she did, the water flow slowed to a trickle, then stopped. She twisted the handle a few times, but nothing happened. Shrugging, she turned and stood. It took her a second to notice the motionless golden retriever standing at the open gate. The dog stood completely still, the only movement his sides as he stood there panting, his ribs standing out beneath his tangled coat. Marilyn froze.

  “H-hey, boy. Good boy.” Marilyn extended her hand, palm down, fingers curled. She slowly lowered herself to a half crouch, ready to turn and run if necessary.

  The dog dropped its head and took a few tentative steps forward. “C’mon, boy, that’s right.” The dog slowly dropped to its stomach, then rolled onto its back. The tail started thumping the ground.

  Relieved, Marilyn walked forward, still extending her hand. The dog first sniffed and then licked her hand, and she began petting what turned out to be a girl, not a boy. Marilyn led the dog to the water dish where she slurped greedily until the water was gone. Marilyn stood watching the dog. In her mind, she called the dog Honey. Honey looked very at home in this backyard. When Honey finished drinking, she went to the back door, sniffed, and let out a short whine. She then went to the empty food bowl. She picked it up and carried it to a small metal storage building.

  Marilyn opened the door of the storage building and found a large bag of Purina Dog Chow. Before she had even finished filling the bowl, Honey buried her face and started wolfing the kibble. While watching the dog, Marilyn decided to go ahead and try the back door. Maybe there was something wrong. Both cars home and a dog that hadn’t been fed or tended to in some time could mean a big problem.

  Marilyn turned the doorknob and found it unlocked. She opened the door and stuck her head inside. “Hello? Anyone home?” She was nervous. Some people that lived this far out tended to be pretty protective of their property. She looked behind her at Honey. The dog was acting strangely. She was crouched very low and acted as though she would turn tail and run at any time. Marilyn was confused, but she was sure of one thing. Something was wrong.

  She stepped all the way into a very clean kitchen, although something must have gone over in the trash can because an unpleasant odor lingered in the air. “Hello?” she called again, “Do you need help?” A series of thumps and footsteps began, approaching through the darkening house. She stepped even further into the kitchen, peering down a hallway toward the sounds. A woman was lurching down the hall, leaning against the wall. Marilyn started forward to help her, and then something held her back. She couldn’t see the woman’s face clearly, but she could see that her mouth was wide open, her tongue was hanging out, and it was black.

  Marilyn was torn between a desire to help this woman and fear. The woman stepped fully into the kit
chen. Horrified, Marilyn saw that she was wearing a robe which was gaping open. The woman’s body was covered with what looked like bruises. She appeared to be between forty and sixty, but it was hard to tell. Her face was slack, her hair unkempt. She stepped toward Marilyn and Marilyn stepped back toward the open door. Outside, Honey began whining non-stop.

  “M-ma’am, you look like you do need help.” Marilyn’s voice was breathy, a little higher pitched than normal. The woman’s response was to lean forward into a quicker lurch, rapidly covering the short distance between them. Marilyn turned and sprinted out the door. From the middle of the back yard, she looked back. The woman stood in the doorway, hands seeming to feel the air outside the door. She made grabbing motions at Marilyn, but didn’t come out further.

  Marilyn could see the woman very clearly now, and she was horrified. The woman’s skin color was all wrong. She was pale, almost greenish, except for the dark purplish patches. Her eyes were milky white, and it wasn’t just her tongue that was black. Her gums had blackened and receded from her teeth. Marilyn was suddenly glad that she had run away. As much as she wanted to help this woman, she didn’t want to catch whatever she had.

  “You just stay there, ma’am. Go back in and lay down. I’ll send help as soon as I can find some. I promise.”

  Marilyn turned to walk toward the open gate. As Marilyn crossed the yard the woman strained forward, tracking Marilyn, but not stepping out into the last of the sunlight. When Marilyn last saw her, the woman was still standing there, waving her hands in the cooling evening air.

  Chapter 4 – Sonya

  The feeling of sheer helplessness threatened to overwhelm her. She sat in the Montero on the side of the road. The windows were down, but the heat of the day and the sun beating down on the windshield raised the temperature inside the vehicle to an uncomfortable level. Ahead a short distance was a tree, so she took a chance and tried the Montero’s ignition. She was surprised when it caught and the engine sputtered to life. Hurriedly, she put it in gear and pulled forward into the shade, turning the key to the off position as soon as she put it into park. She looked ahead to where the empty road disappeared over a slight rise. It was at least a mile, maybe two, but as far as she was concerned it might as well have been twenty. She looked down at the fuel gauge again and turned the key to the accessorial position, but the needle didn’t even twitch. She was out of gas.