Earth's Survivors Box Set [Books 1-7]

by Wendell G. Sweet

  ~

  The smell of hot metal filled the air. Billy looked to the car down the road, partway onto the cement pad first: The trunk had popped open and all manner of stuff that had been inside now lay scattered across the ground. Hot oil and antifreeze dripped from under the hood and onto the concrete. The front roof line was smashed flat to the top of the drivers seats. The backseat area seemed untouched.

  He slipped around the end of the trailer and looked at the other car. A newer Ford: He could see the badge on the rear deck. The front end of the car was wrapped around the oak in the backyard just as he had thought and steam was rising up into the air. The Ford first, he decided. The car across the road would have to wait.

  The Ford had hit the tree and climbed it a few feet before it came to a complete stop. Billy had to stand on tip toe to peer into it. The driver had no head left, that had been the huge stain on the windshield. There was no passenger. Looking out from the inside it was not just red but gray and black too: Bone, hair and brain matter. His stomach did a quick flip and he began to close his eyes as he turned away.

  As he turned, his eyes caught on the floorboard and a blue duffel bag that was jammed into the space with the drivers legs. There was no way that the door was going to open, but the glass was gone from the window. He balanced over the edge of the door trying to stay as far away as he could from the dead man as he did, leaned in and tried to snag the duffel bag. His fingers brushed the two plastic handles, but he could not get a grip on them.

  Billy levered himself further over the window sill and nearly came down into the dead man's lap as he lost his balance and his feet left the ground. His hand shot down quickly, bounced off the dead man's thigh and hit the seat, stopping him just a few inches above the man's lap and a small splattering of bone and blood that was there. His hand slipped, but he pressed down harder and held himself.

  He could feel the slick blood and splinters of bone under his hand, but he pushed the knowledge out of his mind, took a deep breath, braced himself and then reached down with his free hand and snatched the handles pulling the heavy bag free.

  He pulled back, but the bag was so heavy that he had to hold on tight and push off the seat with his other hand. For one alarming second it seemed he would fall forward into the dead man's lap. After a second of indecision his body dropped back down to the ground, the bag in his hand. He thought about the trunk as he started to turn away, reached back in, shut off the dead ignition, pulled the keys free and hurried around to the trunk.

  The trunk held nothing but a black suitcase. He debated briefly, then reached in and took it. He went back, put the keys back into the ignition, and turned it back to the On position. What else! What else! His mind asked.

  His heart felt like it was beating a mile a minute, skipping beats, and his breath was tearing in and out of his lungs so quickly that it was painful. He could think of nothing he had forgotten. He told himself there was nothing else and then immediately he thought of the glove compartment. He ran back around the passenger's side of the car, dropped the bags and pushed the button on the glove box. A small paper bag and a dull, black pistol rested inside.

  He took a deep breath, thought for a moment and then took both, slammed the glove box shut, picked up the bags and ran for the trailer. He booted the door open, threw the bags inside, slammed the door and then started for the other car down the road. He stopped mid stride, bent double and nearly threw up. He caught himself, forced himself to take several slow breaths and stood experimentally. It seemed as though his stomach had decided the remains of the beer could stay for now and so he trotted off down the road to the other car.

  This was an older Toyota, not one of the small ones though, one of the ones that seemed almost as big as an American car. He stopped thirty feet away. Two large plastic garbage bags had fallen from the popped trunk. They were both crisscrossed with gray duct tape, bound tightly. Two black duffel bags were jumbled in a heap nearby, along with what looked like a cheap foam ice chest. The ice chest had ruptured and splintered when it hit the ground spilling beer, soda, and packages of lunch meat and cheese out onto the ground. Mixed in, and what had really caught his attention, were small brick sized packages, also bound with duct tape.

  His heart was still racing hard. There was no one anywhere yet. No sirens. The nearest neighbors were Suncrest Trailer Park, nearly a mile back down the road... No car lights... Nothing.

  He tried to carry both bales, but they were too heavy. He had to make two trips. The duct taped bricks, which could only mean one thing to his way of thinking, both duffel bags and two six packs of the beer that hadn't ruptured went next. He had debated about the beer but decided he could not leave it. He came back one more time, looked at a few more cans of beer and the packages of bologna and cheese and decided what the hell. He quickly picked them up and took them too. It would be something to put into the 'fridge except the moldy loaf of bread he told himself.

  He walked back down the road once more. He reached the car where it lay flipped onto its roof and had just started around the hood when he heard a soft pop. He stopped as the hood area suddenly burst into flames. The sharp smell of gasoline hit his nose and he jumped backwards just that fast. The car didn't blow, but he stayed clear watching it as it began to burn, allowing his thoughts and breathing to began to slow down. It had seemed like a log jamb of thoughts all trying to be expressed at the same time. He thought back as he watched the flames begin to build from under the hood.

  Not long ago a car had plowed into that same Oak in his back yard where the other car was now. It was just the way that Oak lined up with the road. That driver had not hit as hard. He had jumped from the car and run for the woods that began in back of the trailer at a dead run. Billy had come out to look over the wreck a little closer. The jimmied ignition told him the story. The car had been stolen. He had heard sirens in the distance and said to hell with it, reached into the car and grabbed a cheap 22. pistol from the front seat, and an unopened and miraculously unbroken bottle of whiskey from the floorboards. He had barely stashed them before the cops had shown up.

  He had stood on the sidelines and watched as the cops had popped the trunk to expose a large collection of electronic gear. Flat screen televisions, game consoles, DVD players, a shotgun and several more bottles of whiskey too. He had kicked himself over that one and vowed not to let something like that happen again should providence ever grace him with a second chance: Here was that second chance.

  He had no phone, but the way the flames were leaping into the air he was sure someone farther down the road would be calling the fire department soon. The heat was already intense.

  He squatted down, shaded his eyes against the glare of the flames, and tried to see into the back seat. No one, or if there was anyone else in the car he couldn't see them, but he did see a large suitcase resting on the roof of the car just inside the shattered rear door glass. He debated for a split second and then ran forward and grabbed for the bag, pulling it from inside the wreck. It was heavy and hot to the touch. The imitation brown leather sticky on one corner and melting. Whatever was in it, he told himself, would not have lasted much longer. He was headed back up the road from the wreck when he spotted a grocery bag spilled into the ditch. It was mainly intact so he picked that up too and ran for the trailer.

  Behind him he could hear the sirens now. They were on their way and that meant there would probably be neighbors on the way too... Any minute, he told himself. He got the trailer door opened, jumped inside and closed it. He set the grocery bag on the counter. His heart was beginning to slam in his chest once more. He picked up the suitcases and duffel bags and hurried them back to the bedroom. He came back, threw the grocery bag and the packages of lunch meat and cheese into the refrigerator, debated briefly about the loaf of moldy bread, but decided to leave it. He looked back into the fridge. It looked crowded. Beer, lunch meat, cheese, bread. It was the most he could ever recall seeing in there at one time before.

  He
stepped back letting the door swing shut and looked around the kitchen-living room area: Nothing looked out of place. He could not imagine that the cops would want to come in here for any reason, but if they did they wouldn't find anything.

  He looked down at his hands, grimaced at the blood and specks of bone. A smear of drying blood decorated one shirtsleeve. He looked down at the front of the shirt and saw it was streaked with blood and gore. He turned and ran to the bathroom stripping off the shirt as he went: As he looked down at his jeans he noticed they were gore spattered to. He peeled them off just as quickly, kicking his boots aside. He left the bathroom and went to the bedroom where he dug a wrinkled pair of jeans from the basket there, a clean shirt from the dresser, and quickly re-dressed. He sat back on the bed, pulled the jeans up and shoved his left foot into one of his sneakers lying next to the bed where he had left them the night before. He stood, jammed his right foot into the other sneaker, danced around unbalanced for a moment as he tugged the zipper home, buttoned the top and threw himself back down onto the tangle of sheets to work the sneakers on the rest of the way and lace them.

  His heart had become a racing engine once again, all high speed and flat out, and he tried to calm down as he smoothed the sheets out flat and then walked down the short hall, opened the door and stepped down the rickety steps and into the bare dirt front yard.

  He could not see the fire engines or police cars, whichever it was that were coming. Both eventually, he told himself, but the sirens were loud and a half dozen people were walking down the road towards his place and the car that was burning. They were still a quarter of a mile away. He forced his breathing to slow down for the second time, and sat down on the top step waiting. The smoke from the fire was thick and black, spiraling up into the air. The smells of cooking meat and burning plastic hung in the air, competing with each other, causing his stomach to flip once more. The smoke seemed to catch in the trees, unable to rise further: Pools of it snaked along the ground, drifting slowly.

  The lights came into view within a few seconds. They were far down the road, but closing fast. Within a few seconds a city police car skidded to a shuddering stop on the dirt road, followed by two sheriff cars. Two fire engines came next, coasting to a stop behind the sheriff cars, then swung around them angling down toward the burning car. Billy Jingo rose from the steps and began walking down the road to meet them.

  Cops

  All the cops were calling on their radios at once it seemed to Billy. He broke into a run and the city cop looked his way.

  “There's another one in my back yard with a dead guy too,” he yelled.

  The cop looked amazed for a moment and then went back to talking on his radio once more. He finished, threw the radio handset back into his car, and glancing once more at the burning car, he turned and followed Billy into his back yard.

  "Jesus," the young cop said. "That happened when he hit the tree? No way!"

  "The other car was shooting at them," Billy said. He immediately wished he had kept his mouth shut.

  "You saw that?" the cop asked.

  Providence again, Billy thought. "Well, no, I didn't. I heard shots... I didn't see 'em," he lied.

  "So there's people in that other car?" the cop asked.

  "I think so," Billy answered. He took a few moments to formulate a lie. He didn't need a complicated lie. Something simple. Something close to the truth so he could remember it, but something that wouldn't make him an eye witness. "When I got out, I seen the car laying on its top. I didn't know about the other one. I had to get dressed. Once I got out of the house and headed down the road the car made this little popping sound and flames shot out of the engine compartment: When I turned away I saw the other one in the back yard. I knew something had crashed, because a few months back another car crashed into that same tree, and this sounded the same to me," Billy said.

  The cop nodded. "You go near either car?" he asked.

  "The one out back. I leaned through the window to see if the guy was okay... Had to catch my hand on the seat... It was gross... I realized the guy was dead and got away from the car as quick as I could... Waited for you guys," Billy said.

  The cop nodded, pulled a small notebook from his shirt pocket and wrote in it. He asked Billy for his name and the address and wrote that down too.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid, Billy thought. He hadn't wanted to link himself to anything, but he had been afraid that they would find the hand print on the seat. An area of the seat that had been covered with blood and splatter and was now noticeably cleaner in the shape of a hand. What else could he do?

  "You okay?" the cop asked.

  "Not really," Billy admitted.

  "Go sit down... I'll have somebody talk to you." He looked intently at Billy for a moment. "How much you had to drink, Billy?"

  "Uh... About a six pack... It's my night off," Billy explained.

  "Easy, Billy... I'm not here to bust your balls. They'll want to know... Impairs your judgment. It will determine whether they will take what you say or look for other witnesses, you see?" the cop asked.

  "Yeah," Billy agreed. "I do see."

  "So?" The cop asked.

  "Oh... Right. I had about a twelve pack," Billy said. He shrugged.

  "Night off," the young cop said.

  "Night off," Billy agreed.

  "All right, Billy. Go have a seat and when the detectives get here I'll send them over," he told him.

  Billy went and sat down on his front steps and waited for the rest of the cops to show up. He watched the lead fire truck drown the burning car in foam, and in just a few seconds the fire was out, the car sat smoking: Steam rising into the air. The smell of burned meat thick and heavy.

  The cops were brief:

  "I understand you had quite a lot to drink during the evening," a big, blonde haired cop said to him.

  "Well, yes," Billy admitted. "But it's my day off," he added.

  "Easy, son. Nobody's blaming you. You're home. Day off. No reason why you shouldn't have a few drinks. It's not like you knew a car was going to crash into your back yard." He smiled to put Billy more at ease, and although Billy knew that was why he smiled he felt more at ease anyway.

  "You look familiar to me," The shorter dark haired cop said.

  "Did a little county time a few years back," Billy admitted.

  He looked at him.

  "Possession with intent," Billy added. "Eighteen months."

  "Out in a year with the good time though, right?" the blonde haired cop said.

  "Still fucking around with pot, Billy?" The dark haired one asked.

  "No... Not no more," Billy told him.

  "So we could check the house and find nothing," the shorter, dark haired detective said.

  "Sure... Sure.... Go ahead," Billy said. "There's nothing there at all."

  "But we aren't going to do that," The blonde said. "Your past is your past, Billy. I said I ain't here to give you a hard time and I meant that." He turned and looked over at the Toyota which had been lifted into the air. The roof had been cut away and two bodies had been taken out as they talked. They had set the car back down and were now winching it over onto its wheels so they could pull it up onto the flatbed wrecker that waited. He glanced back to the backyard. They were still working to pry the car in the back yard away from the tree. The body was long gone. They were using metal saws to cut the car away. Once enough had been cut away to move the car, it would go on a flat bed too. The cop's eyes came back to Billy.

  "You think of anything else that might help us?" he asked.

  "The gunshots," Billy said and shrugged.

  The detective nodded. "We have an eyewitness to that. Says she was walking down the road when she saw the two cars coming, jumped in the woods. She saw the passenger lean out the window and fire at the car ahead... The dude in the car in your back yard, Billy. That's how he got dead."

  To Billy it felt as though his eyes had bugged out of his head, but he struggled to maintain his composure.
She? Who was she? He had seen no one at all, but whoever she was, she had described exactly what he himself had seen, so she must have been there. What else did she see?

  "You okay?" the blonde asked.

  "Tired... Sickened too, to be honest," Billy said.

  "Yeah... Pauls-that's the name of the officer that spoke to you, Jay Pauls-said you leaned into the car to check the guy... Found a hand print there.... I assume it's yours. I guess if I had found that I wouldn't be feeling too good either." He sighed. "We'll be out of here in a few minutes," he added. “But if you think of something.”

  He closed his own little notebook that he had pulled from his pocket and looked at the other cop. He shook his head.

  "I guess we have nothing else, Billy. Like I said, if you think of anything else," he reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. He handed the card to Billy. "Give me a call, okay?"

  Billy nodded, looked over the card and then shoved it into his pocket.

  They all stood and watched as the Toyota flipped back over onto its wheels: Metal screeching, the car lurching from side to side on its ruined suspension as it slammed down. The men began hooking up the cables to winch the car up onto the flat bed truck. A few seconds later a second flat bed truck drove around the first and then backed down Billy's driveway to the back yard. A steady Beep, Beep, Beep sounding as it backed up. They watched in silence as two men hooked up the remains of the Ford and then winched it backwards and up onto the flat bed.

  A second later the two cops walked away without another word. Billy sat back down on his wooden steps and watched them get into their car and drive away. The trucks followed, and a few seconds later the silence descended once more on Lott road. Billy sat and watched the dust settle back down to the dirt lane.