More Bedtime Stories for the Apocalypse

by Joel Arnold

  MORE BEDTIME STORIES FOR THE APOCALYPSE

  by

  Joel Arnold

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

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  PUBLISHED BY:

  Studio City on Smashwords

  More Bedtime Stories for the Apocalypse

  Copyright (c) 2012 by Joel Arnold

  Bonus story “Rerun” Copyright (c) 2012 by Daniel Pyle

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  Cover design by Melissa Arnold

  * * * * *

  For “Uncle Dan” Cleland; a fearless storyteller who was always quick with a stump to sit on, a cold beer, a thumbs up, and a laugh. Oh, my God, that laugh…

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  Table of Contents

  Last Seat on the Rapture Express – Intro

  The Mule

  Rotten Fruit

  The Calendar in the Break Room

  Last Seat on the Rapture Express – 2

  The Greening of Bushton

  The Coffin Bell

  The Soft Caress of Falling Bombs

  Last Seat on the Rapture Express – 3

  Occupied (alternate ending)

  Black Bags

  The Opportunity

  Last Seat on the Rapture Express – Coda

  Rerun – a bonus story by Daniel Pyle

  Author’s Note

  About the Authors

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  The Last Seat on the Rapture Express - Intro

  Congratulations, pardner! You’ve scored the last seat on the Rapture Express. Hop on board and squeeze on in. We’ve stopped a lot of places, picked up a lot of deserving people who’ve prayed and prayed for this day to come. Well, that day has come, pardner, and we on the Rapture Express welcome you!

  Take a seat. Have a blanket; this one ain’t too moldy. So buckle up and hang on tight. We’ve got a long way to go. The Rapture Express races across the land, its cars full of the chosen. And you, pard’ are one of the bona-fide chosen.

  What’s that? Do I think you belong? Do I think you belong? Well…See that fella over there?

  Now there’s a scrapper. He fought through a crowd of over two-hundred with just a machete and a baseball bat. Used to play on one of them triple-A teams – the Mudhens or something like that? Anyway, he fought through the whole mess of ‘em, men, women, children, batting a thousand, beating a swath right to yours truly. He even took a few bullets along the way, but kept right on fighting his way to glory. A real scrapper.

  Just like you. Oh yeah, you belong.

  Now over there’s an interesting fella – the one with the beard and ear buds? Don’t know what he’s listening to, but here on the Rapture Express, that little i-Whatever never needs recharging. Not now, not ever. He’ll soon figure out that his little device has every song he could possibly want. That’s one thing about the Rapture Express; it knows what you want before you do.

  Anyway, that fella was out hitchhiking when we found him. Had a cardboard sign that said ‘Heaven or Bust!’ So we stopped and asked him if he wanted a ride. He fell to his knees, tears pouring from his eyes, thanks and praises spouting from his lips. He even asked me if I was Jesus.

  “Nope,” I told him. “I’m just the conductor. Hop on board!”

  And you? Yeah, you belong.

  Those roped-off stairs? You noticed ‘em, huh? Not everyone can see ‘em. They go up to the club car. Reserved for those that can pay. Sure, money can’t buy you love, but it can certainly buy you a first class ticket on the Rapture Express! Wider seats, better food, and access to the club car. But lest you think that unfair, not to worry – where we’re going, everything comes out in the wash.

  Look here, pard’ – no need to be nervous. Sure, the ride might get a bit bumpy. You might see a few things you ain’t never thought you’d see, especially on a bona-fide train headed straight to the glory of all that is. Sometimes you might even wonder if you’re on the right train; if we’re going to where we say we’re going.

  You’ll just have to trust me. Trust us. You belong.

  See that young woman over there? The one holding that hot pink day pack on her lap, rocking back n’ forth? Now there’s an interesting case. Maybe I’ll tell you about her later, when I come around again collecting tickets.

  Anyhoo, if you see a few bodies pass by the windows, don’t pay ‘em no mind. Those on the roof didn’t have quite what it takes to get on board, so they’re hitching a ride up top. But up there it’s a tad slippery, a tad slick, you might say. And even if it wasn’t, at the speeds we get up to, you’d need to grab hold of something pretty darn fast, and you better have a powerful grip. Although I hear tell that some of them are going to a few, shall we say, extremes to stay on top. They can be a creative bunch when faced with eternity, whether that eternity be heaven, hell, or a big ol’ gaping hole of nothing.

  So just sit on back and relax. Want something to read? Something to take your mind off of all the excitement for a while? We’re all out of the Good Book. But here; I found this under one of the seats. Don’t mind the stains. It belonged to some fella who snuck on board without a ticket. We had to send him up onto the roof. I don’t know how he’s faring. Maybe he’s still up there, maybe he’s not.

  But you’re here, and that’s what matters.

  Anyhoo, here you go. Looks like a book of bedtime stories. Just the thing to put your mind at ease. So sit back and relax. Enjoy the ride. And if you need anything along the way, just holler.

  Holler real loud.

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  The Mule

  What the fuck happened?

  He heard the shhhhhh of the Rio Grande in the distance. Hot desert wind blew dust over his prone body and rattled the burrow weed and creosote bushes dotting the landscape.

  My pack. He sat up frantically. There, by his feet. He grabbed it. Unzipped it. The coffee cans were still there, thank God. He pulled one out, opened it and stuck his finger in the dark grounds. When he felt the tightly wrapped brick of cocaine within, he sighed with relief.

  But again…

  What the fuck happened?

  He’d never felt so swollen before. Had something bit him? Something poisonous? A snake? A spider? Scorpion? His tongue found a hole where one of his front teeth should’ve been.

  Shit!

  His skin itched like hell, and he pulled out the collar of his shirt and looked down at his chest. When he saw all of the pinprick-sized dots on his light brow
n skin, he remembered the blinding light. He remembered the eye on the stalk and the head it was attached to. He remembered the way the eye looked at him. And the mouth. Oh God, the mouth…

  Pete made the trip twice before. Worth it? Hard to argue with a closet of old shoeboxes full of cash. Twenties, fifties, hundreds, rubber-banded in stacks of twenty-five or fifty, and after each successful trip, Pete’s uncle Allejandro invited him inside the closet, opened a box at random and tossed him one, two packs, flipped through a third and tossed that one to him, too. “An extra for my favorite nephew,” he’d say. “You ever want work, you know what to do.”

  The cash was great. But the work…

  He didn’t want to become dependent on the quick fix of cash he received at the end of each trip. He didn’t think of himself as a drug mule. No. He wasn’t one of them. He worked full-time in El Paso detailing cars. He paid his bills. Rent and utilities he shared with two roommates. Food, gas. He had the self-control to save up for a used car with the money he made legally. But sometimes, that little extra bumper of money in the bank made things a hell of a lot easier. Still, he didn’t want to get greedy. He was putting his life on the line with each trip, and he knew if he kept at it, eventually he’d get caught. Or worse.

  But every once in a while…

  He wanted to start taking classes at El Paso Community College. He could spend another year detailing cars and saving up, or…he could call up Uncle Allejandro over in Juarez, chitchat a bit and ask if he had any work for him.

  “Why of course,” Allejandro would say. “For you, Pedro, always.”

  Then it was only a matter of crossing the border into Juarez and taking a taxi to his uncle’s hacienda. The guard outside the gate knew Pete and always greeted him with a warm smile and a pat on the back (automatic rifle strapped over his shoulder) and let him in.

  Simple.

  At least the trip to his uncle’s was simple. The trip back to El Paso…not so simple.

  There’d been a tunnel at one time, but that had been compromised before Pete had ever set foot in it, and now Allejandro smuggled coke across the border the old-fashioned way; hiring mules to sneak it over the border to waiting trucks.

  Since this was his third trip, Pete was more prepared than he’d ever been. He had a pair of night-vision goggles; not only helpful for spotting border patrol agents, but also for spotting snakes and other creatures. He didn’t really mind snakes so much – he had a pet boa at home. But he didn’t want to get bit by anything poisonous while making his way to the Rio Grande. That would make for a bad night. And the goal was to have as many good nights as possible.

  Poisonous snakebites…bad.

  No poisonous snakebites (or border patrol agents)…good.

  The two-kilo bricks of cocaine were wrapped tightly in plastic and placed in coffee cans. The extra space in the cans was filled back up with coffee grounds. Pete carried two cans in his pack, along with a gallon of drinking water and some protein bars. His uncle had pointed out on a map where the Rio Grande ran shallow, and one of his uncle’s men drove Pete over back roads in the Chihuahuan Desert and pulled off onto a barely visible trail. Even the driver had to check and double-check that he was on the right path. He finally stopped and nodded at Pete. “Buena suerte.”

  Pete nodded. “Gracias.”

  The sky was cloudless, the stars painfully bright. There was no moon. He lowered his night vision gear over his eyes and saw the green silhouette of a coyote loping through the darkness.

  He walked carefully over the baked, cracked ground. Didn’t need a broken or twisted ankle, either. It wasn’t like he could drag himself to his destination. He had his smart phone, complete with compass and g.p.s. apps, and if he had to call his uncle, so be it. Even out here, he could get a signal on his phone.

  He scanned the horizon. Now, even the coyote had disappeared. He was alone. Abso-fucking-lutely alone. He walked, stopping every once in a while to look around, get his bearings, and listen. Sometimes he had to backtrack to find the narrow trail. He stopped and took a drink of water from the plastic jug. His pack grew heavy, but at least this time he’d thought to wrap an old t-shirt around the strap so that it wouldn’t bite into his shoulder.

  Despite his caution, he made good time. He figured he already trekked about two miles from his drop-off point – about halfway to the Big River.

  He checked his smart phone. Two forty-three a.m. He should easily make the river crossing before dawn. Then it was another half-mile to meet his contact. After that, it was only a matter of catching a ride back to his apartment in El Paso, get some sleep, a shower, some food, and head back to his uncle’s for the cash.

  Simple.

  Except…

  His foot caught on a clump of dry, hard earth. He tripped and fell, twisting his ankle and landing hard on his forearms and knees. When he caught his breath and sat up, blood trickled from his elbows.

  Shit.

  He raised his goggles off his eyes. Okay. He slung his pack off his back and unzipped it, pawing through the contents. There. A first-aid kit. See? Prepared.

  Wincing, he pried it open and found alcohol wipes, gauze, and tape. He cleaned off his elbows as best as he could with his handkerchief dipped in his drinking water, and then used a couple alcohol wipes on each elbow. His ankle throbbed.

  One thing at a time. He taped patches of gauze over the scraped and bleeding skin of his elbows and straightened each arm to make sure the gauze stayed secure.

  Now how about that ankle? He took a deep breath and slowly stood, keeping his weight off it as best as he could.

  Damn, it hurt, but…

  But…He took a few steps and realized it wasn’t as bad as he feared. Just had to walk it off a bit and he’d be as good as new.

  He walked in small circles, and soon the pain turned to mere annoyance. He could live with that.

  Let’s get a move-on.

  He checked his compass and oriented himself. He reached down for his…

  Pack?

  Where the hell was his pack?

  Although his eyes had gotten used to the starlight, he turned on his phone’s flashlight app and shined it over salsola and creosote bush, and hard, dry earth.

  He’d set his pack down to get out the first-aid kit and…

  He’d taken the first-aid kit out, and…

  He’d used the first-aid kit.

  And…

  Put it back in the pack and zipped it up, and…

  Then he’d gotten up to test his ankle. Walked in a few small – very small – circles.

  Where was the damn pack?

  He made a brief grid of the area with the narrow phone light, crossing the beam back and forth, back and forth. Where the hell was it?

  Losing it was not an option, because, well – it contained a shit-load of coke, not to mention his drinking water.

  Where the fuck is my pack?

  Okay, calm down. Take a deep breath. It’s probably right in front of me.

  He slowly combed the ground with the light once again. You’ll find it. Take your time.

  He heard the crack of a bush. He froze. Held his breath. Carefully lowered his night-vision goggles over his eyes and turned his head in the direction of the noise.

  There was a flash of light, blinding, painful. Pete ripped the goggles from his face. Something hit the back of his head, hard.

  His face slammed into the dirt, and he got a mouthful of earth. Blood flowed from his nose. He scrambled to get up, but someone grabbed him and flipped him onto his back. His eyes were out of focus from the blinding flash, and he waved his arms in front of him defensively. He spit out a tooth at whoever it pinned him to the ground. Man, that fucker was strong.

  “Get off me!” Pete shouted.

  His vision sharpened. Stars appeared and something was silhouetted against them. A head. A face. Something protruded from the middle and wavered inches from Pete’s own face.

  It blinked. An eye. A single eye hovering in front of hi
m, attached to a foot-long fleshy stalk. The stalk retreated back into the head, and where a mouth should’ve been, something else protruded. A tube-like thing. The end of it opened. It reminded Pete of a lamprey. A tongue slid out and caressed Pete’s face.

  Pete recoiled, but the tongue kept up with him.

  The tongue (was it a tongue?) was warm. It tingled, and numbed whatever it touched.

  It touched Pete’s lips.

  It rubbed back and forth over the line where his lips came together.

  Pete pressed them tight, but they grew numb, too...

  What the fuck happened?

  Pete shivered, despite the rising desert heat. He checked his phone. No power. The thing was fried. What time was it? The sun wasn’t high enough to be noon. Ten, maybe? Nine?

  He felt his skin, pressed his hands all over his body. He tried to ignore the tiny pinpricks, but it was hard. They were everywhere, and each time he pressed a spot on his flesh it tingled, as if it had fallen asleep.

  He didn’t want to know what that meant. Not now. Now he had to concentrate on getting home. Should he make the crossing during the day? Hike back to his uncle’s? It would be a long hike, and he only knew the general direction.

  He rummaged through his pack for his map, and spread it out on the dry earth. The wind made it hard to hold still, the edges curling up into the middle, so he put a chunk of dirt on each corner and held the middle with the heel of his palm.

  There – the Rio Grande. He was close to it, but where? Something wasn’t quite right. He glanced at the sun again.