Mass Extinction Event (Book 1): Days 1-8

by Amy Cross

  He pauses for a moment. "You're right. I'm going over to take a look."

  "No," I say, grabbing his arm, "you're not."

  Smiling, he turns to me. "I thought you just told me I shouldn't be scared?"

  "That's not the same as saying you should go over there!" I reply, suddenly realizing that I might have accidentally filled his mind with bad ideas. Henry's pretty unstable right now, and the last thing I need is for him to try to prove himself by marching headfirst into a dangerous situation. "We should go and get Bob."

  "In a minute," Henry says. "First, we need to understand what we've got here. We're not kids, Elizabeth. We don't have to go running to fetch an adult every time we see something moving."

  "No," I say, trying to grab the rifle. "We're not going over there."

  "Then you stay here," he replies firmly, pulling away from me. "Two minutes ago, you were telling me to ignore Bob. You were telling me I'm wrong to let him tell me how to behave. And now, when I want to do something for myself, you insist we go running back to him so he can tell us what we should do. Make your fucking mind up, Elizabeth. You can't be against him when you're confident but then run to him when you're scared."

  I open my mouth to argue with him, but suddenly I realize that he might, at least in part, be right. I'm filled with this belief that we should go and get Bob, and that somehow Bob's gonna tell us what to do. In reality, the only thing Bob would probably do would be to grab a rifle and go over to the car. Still, I hate the idea that Henry thinks he can somehow keep us safe simply because he's got a rifle. It's pretty clear that whatever's happening right now, it's not something we understand.

  "We'll check to see what's happening," Henry says, trying - and failing - to sound confident, "and then we'll go back to the building and consult with Bob. I'm not saying we should go over there and drag this guy from the car, but at least we should find out what we're dealing with before we go back. We can't just go back to Bob and tell him some vague story about a man in a car."

  "It might be dangerous," I point out, feeling disappointed by my reaction. Just a few minutes ago, I was chastising Henry for believing Bob's paranoid ramblings, and now I'm the one who's scared. I guess maybe Henry was right when he said that it was easy for me to pontificate about the 'right' thing to do. Suddenly, I have to back up my words with actions, and my heart is racing so fast, I feel as if it's going to explode at any moment. "We have to be careful," I say after a moment.

  "If there's any sign of danger," Henry whispers, "we turn and run. You got that? No risks. We turn and run at the first hint that anything's wrong, and..." He pauses for a moment. "If one of us gets left behind, the other one just keeps running."

  "I'm not sure about that," I say.

  "Stay close to me," he replies.

  "Sure," I say, keeping my eye on the car up ahead. It's still hard to make out what's happening inside, since most of the car - like everything else around here - is covered in the same fine blanket of white dust that fell after the power went out. The figure inside is definitely moving, but we're too far away to even tell if it's male or female.

  "How many people do you see?" Henry asks as we get to within fifty meters of the car.

  "Just one," I reply.

  Up ahead, the occupant of the car starts banging harder than ever on the windshield, and waving to catch our attention.

  "Think about it," I say to Henry as we edge closer. "Something about this whole situation just doesn't make sense. If this person's been in the car since all of this started, why's he only just started to call for help? We've been outside before, right? If he was banging, we'd have heard him. Why would he wait so long to make a noise?"

  "Maybe he was unconscious for a while," Henry replies. "Maybe he was scared. Maybe he only just got here. I don't know, but if you want to go back, I understand. Maybe this kind of thing isn't for you." As if to prove his point, he raises the rifle a little higher.

  "I'm not going anywhere," I tell him, even though I desperately want to turn and run. I remember my father telling me once that bravery isn't about the absence of fear, it's about being scared but doing something anyway. If that's the case, then I must be the bravest person in history, since I'm absolutely terrified right now. Still, I can't leave my brother to deal with this alone, because otherwise I'd not only be a hypocrite, but I'd also be pushing him further and further into Bob's embrace.

  "It's a guy," Henry says after a moment.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yeah. Can't you see? But..." He stops walking and pauses, as if he's hesitant about getting too close. "Something's not right," he continues after a moment.

  "What do you mean?" I ask.

  "You should wear your glasses more often," he says. "Can't you tell? The way he's moving, it's kind of weird. Jerky. Stiff. There's definitely something wrong with him. Anyway, why doesn't he just get out of the car?"

  "Maybe we should go back," I say. My heart's beating so fast right now, I feel like I might faint. Looking up at the windows of the surrounding buildings, I realize I've bought right into the fear and paranoia that I dismissed a couple of minutes ago. I've gone from calling Henry crazy for thinking there might be snipers, to feeling as if someone might start shooting at us while we're talking. It's so weird to realize how quickly my mind can be changed by new developments. This whole thing seems like an unnecessary risk, but at the same time I feel as if we have to find out what's happening. We've lived in fear and ignorance for almost five days now.

  "I'm going closer," Henry says eventually, although I can sense the tension in his voice.

  "But if -"

  "He's in the car," he replies firmly. "He clearly can't get out. Besides, I've got this." He taps the rifle, before suddenly kneeling down and getting a different view of the car. "There's no-one hiding. You can see if you look underneath. This isn't a trap."

  "At the first sign of trouble -" I start to say.

  "I know," he says. "Don't worry. I've got two cartridges loaded and ready to go."

  As we move closer to the car, I find myself wondering if Henry could really use the rifle. I mean, it's one thing to carry it about and feel like a big man, but it's something else entirely to actually use the damn thing and kill someone. Could Henry actually pull the trigger? After a moment, I realize that the answer is pretty clear. Of course he could. Whatever's changed in him since he became Bob's eager little discipline, it's instilled a sense of calm in his core that gives me absolute confidence in his sense of determination. Basically, I feel safe with him. It's crazy, but even the fact that he has a gun is, in a way, reassuring. I hate guns, but right now I'm so glad that Henry's got a rifle in his hands.

  "What the fuck is up with this guy?" Henry whispers as we get a few meters from the car. "Why can't he just open the door?"

  Now that we're closer, I can see what Henry means. The man is staring straight at us, although it's hard to make out his features since there's so much dust everywhere. It's clear, though, that the man's movements are strange, as if he's jerking around slightly as he continues to bang on the window. It also looks like there's something wrong with his hands, as if they're not quite the right shape.

  "I'm gonna get a better look," Henry says, stepping over to the car.

  "Be careful," I hiss.

  "He can't get out," Henry replies, as the man continues to bang on the glass. Reaching out, Henry slowly starts to wipe the dust away from the window, and that's when we both see the man's face. "Holy shit," Henry says, taking a step back. "Holy fucking shit, Elizabeth, what the hell is wrong with this poor fucker?"

  Shocked and barely able to even think, I stare at the man and see that his skin seems to be kind of rotten and putrid, as if he's been dead for a few days. His eyes are yellowy-brown and as he places a hand on the glass, it's clear that his body has started to decay. At the same time, he's definitely moving, and his eyes are fixed firmly on us. I swear, it looks as if he died a few days ago and now his body's jerking around of its own acc
ord.

  "Is that a zombie?" Henry asks, holding the rifle up as if he's ready to pull the trigger at any moment.

  "Don't be stupid," I reply.

  "I'm not. It's a genuine question."

  "Zombies aren't real."

  "Then what the fuck's wrong with him?"

  "We need to get out of here," I say, tugging on his sleeve. "Henry, we need to get out of here right now. Whatever's going on, I don't like it." Glancing over my shoulder, I'm suddenly filled with the feeling that more of these people could turn up at any moment.

  "He can't get out," Henry replies. "Look, he's trapped. That's the whole thing. He's trapped in there. The door's locked, or he doesn't know how to open it or something."

  "I still don't want to be here," I say, still tugging at Henry. "Come on, let's just get out of here. Let's just -"

  "I can see you!" the man suddenly calls out from inside the car. His voice sounds harsh and damaged, and there's something bizarre about the way he tilts his head back slightly to get a better view of us. "You need to help me out." He holds up his arms, to show that his hands are missing. "They rotted," he continues. "When I tried to open the door, they just sloshed right off my wrists"

  "Did he just -" Henry starts to say.

  "I can see you!" the man says again. "I can see you all! You're right there." He stares at us, his eyes wide. "It worked," he says after a moment. "I can see you! It's dark out here in the sun, but I can see you!"

  Chapter Four

  Oklahoma

  As I expected, there's a plentiful supply of gasoline in the barn, far more than we could ever take with us. My father has a couple of tractors as well as some other harvesting equipment, so he always kept a couple of big barrels full of fuel, along with a load of smaller containers. We could fill the truck's tank ten times over, and although I figure we should take at least one of the barrels with us, there's no way we can lumber ourselves with every drop. That's okay, though, because I know what I'm gonna do with the spare gas. I'm gonna burn the house down, with Lydia and my mother still inside. It's the only way.

  With Joe passed out behind the barn, the whole job is left to me, which is pretty typical. I roll one of the barrels over to the truck and manhandle it into the back, and then I use the smaller containers to fill the tank until it's full. Once that's done, I fetch the other barrel and roll it to the front of the house, and then I find myself standing on the grass and facing the enormity of what I'm about to do. This is our house; we've lived here our whole lives, and my family's lived here for hundreds of years. All those men who worked this land, and now I'm the one who's gonna destroy everything. I feel like such a traitor, but I know that there's no other option. It's not as if we can risk moving the bodies.

  "This isn't how I wanted it to be," says a familiar voice in my mind, as I step through the front door and start covering the entrance with gasoline. Glancing over at the garden, I imagine my mother standing there and watching as I set about my grisly task.

  "What's wrong?" she asks after a moment. "Why aren't you talking to me? Are you mad at me for dying?"

  "I just don't wanna seem crazy," I reply, pouring gasoline over the bottom of the stairs.

  "It's a little late for that, honey," she says, "and besides, I won't tell a soul."

  "I've gotta do this," I say, heading back outside and walking to the kitchen door, where I pour gasoline all over the steps. "You understand that, right?"

  "Of course," I imagine her replying. "It's just that when I imagined my funeral, I always thought it'd be a traditional affair with lots of people coming to stand around my grave. Flowers, that sort of thing. Of course, I hoped I might have grandchildren by then, but that was never gonna happen, was it?" She sighs. "Then again, Thomas, you know what I was like. I quite enjoy a little spectacle, so why not go out in style? It's a shame about the farm, though. This building has been in your father's family for so many generations. It's a shame to see all of that come to an end."

  "I've got no choice," I reply, stepping briefly into the kitchen and pouring some gasoline close to the table. I take care not to look directly at my mother's dead body.

  "How awful," I imagine her saying. "Have you seen my skin? I look so terrible. Thomas, I hope you won't have nightmares about this."

  "I'll try," I say, making my way quickly out of the kitchen and back through to the hallway.

  "Have you noticed the flies?" I imagine my mother asking.

  "Yep," I say, as I spot a few fat flies buzzing their way down from upstairs. I'm pretty sure they've been getting to work on Lydia's body, which is probably a pretty disgusting sight by now. At least one benefit of burning the house is that I won't have to go up there and see the mess for myself. Things have got so bad, I even find myself thinking that maybe I can hear the occasional noise coming from up there, even though I know for a fact that Lydia's been dead for a couple of days now.

  "Do you feel sick?" my mother's voice asks after a moment.

  "I'm fine," I say, pouring gasoline over the table in the hallway.

  "You don't have a cough, do you?"

  "No," I say firmly. "I don't know how or why, Mom, but I'm pretty sure I haven't got whatever you've got. Joe too. Somehow we seem to have got away without picking it up. I guess we were just lucky."

  "Still," she continues, "don't take that for granted. You need to follow some basic safety precautions. Did you take the antiseptic wipes from the bathroom cabinet?"

  Stepping outside, I turn to look back into the house. The whole place stinks of gasoline now, and it'll only take a single match to start the fire. It's tempting to get going immediately, but I feel as if Joe needs to see this, so I reckon I'll wake him up and make him come and watch. Besides, this isn't just a fire to destroy the house; it's also a fire to mark the passing of our mother and to end her body on its way.

  "Thomas?" she asks. "Did you hear what I asked you? Did you take the antiseptic wipes from the bathroom cabinet?"

  "No."

  "Well, you must. They could save your life. Get back in there and fetch them."

  "No way."

  "Thomas!"

  "I'm not going back in there," I say. "No chance. And you can't nag me anymore. You're dead, remember?"

  She sighs. "You shouldn't have thrown that alcohol away. You could have used it to clean wounds."

  "I don't plan on getting any wounds."

  "You know what I mean."

  "I had to get rid of it," I say. "Joe would've drunk it otherwise."

  "You need to look after your brother," she continues. "He's in pain. He's a troubled boy."

  "He's a dick."

  "He's your brother." She pauses for a moment. "Never forget that, Thomas. No matter how much you hate him right now, he's still your brother, and he's all you've got in the world right now. He's so troubled. I've never been able to work out what's wrong with him, but he's always had that anguished looks in his eyes, even right back when he was a baby. He's not a bad boy, but he's wayward. I'd give anything to still be here, to look after the pair of you, but I'm afraid it's out of my control. The only thing left is for you and your brother to stick together. You need him, and he needs you."

  "Not if I go to California and find Martha."

  "The three of you need each other," she says. "Brothers and sisters should stick together. God only knows what she must be going through right now. That poor girl. She was always so self-sufficient, but she must be terrified."

  "I wish she was here," I say. "I wish she was right here, and Joe was far away. Martha's way more sensible than Joe. He's a fucking idiot."

  "Language, Thomas," my mother's voice says. "I don't want you becoming foul-mouthed. We get enough of that from your brother." She pauses. "I'm serious. If you go around swearing and cursing, it'll reflect badly on me. I want you to promise, right now, that you won't do that sort of thing. As a mark of respect for your father and me. Let this be the last thing you ever promise either of us."

  "Okay," I say relucta
ntly. "But I can't promise it won't ever happen in the heat of the moment, when Joe's really getting at me. Deal?" I wait for her to reply, and then I realize that she's not there anymore. Not that she was there to begin with. It's all just part of my imagination. "I'm going fucking nuts," I say out loud. "Sorry, Mom."

  Making my way back over to the barn, I double-check that Joe's still passed out on the grass before I head over to the truck and make final preparations for the journey. I figure we'll need to get out of here soon after we've started the fire, so I want everything to be planned out perfectly. With Joe showing himself to be so completely useless, I feel like I want to prove that I'm the opposite: I can organize things and get things ready, and I can make sure that everything's in order. Pausing for a moment, I try to imagine what would happen to Joe if I just took off right now. There's little doubt that he'd end up dead, and in a kind of cold-hearted way, I can't help wondering if that might be the best thing for everyone. I mean, I'd effectively have twice as long to last on my supplies, and I wouldn't have to worry about Joe arguing with me and trying to get us to do dumb things.

  Sighing, I realize I couldn't actually leave him behind. Not yet, anyway. I feel like I have to give him one more chance to prove that he can be useful. I guess, when all things are said and done, he's still my brother, and there's something to be said for that.

  Suddenly, realizing I can hear a noise nearby, I turn and look toward the forest. At first, I don't see anything; still, there's a kind of rustling sound, and it definitely seems as if something is moving nearby.

  "I can see you!" says a voice suddenly. It's a rasping, grating voice, and I turn around, trying to work out where it comes from. After imagining the voices of my dead parents, it's tempting to think that I've opened the gates of madness and now I can't stop hearing voices, but there's something different this time. This voice is real.

  "Hello?" I call out, hurrying around the truck. My heart's racing as I try to work out where the voice is coming from, and finally I spot him. Over in the tall grass, crawling slowly toward me, it's the cop from the other day. The dead cop. His face is all rotten and busted, turned gray-green like my mother's but with pieces missing. He looks like something straight out of a horror film, and his yellow eyes are fixed right on me as he slowly makes his way closer and closer.