by Rain, Briana
Fortunately, that was all she needed to hear. She followed me downstairs into the twins’ room, either believing in the severity of our stupid codeword, I mean what family had a code word, or playing along with my hysteria until more information came to light.
r both. Quite possibly both.
“Guys. Guys, come on, wake up…” I tried to be gentle, but I guess witnessing a coworker die puts an edge to any word you say.
And it wasn't just Jamie that had me losing it. On the way to the car, and on the way home, I saw things. I heard things.
The twins, Lucky and Vi, grumbled and rubbed their eyes, but followed obediently when I said, you guessed it,
“Piccolo.”
I herded my small family into the basement, where… well, I wasn’t exactly sure about what was going to happen, or what I was going to do just yet, but it was going to be something. Doing something— anything would be good. This was good.
The basement was a cold, concrete one, separated into two segments by a wall and a flimsy door. The first side had all of the memories, extra furniture, and overall stuff. Anything salvaged from our first home and what we managed to hoard from then to now. The second side was what piccolo was. Piccolo was the word for when something was wrong. It was the code word for survival. Our survival. That something had gotten in the way of it or was going to get in the way of it. The second side of our basement was how we survived piccolo, whatever it may be.
Mom, ever since she was pregnant with the twins, has been a bit (well, maybe two bits) paranoid about things. Over a decade ago, on Thanksgiving Day, something caught on fire. The turkey was left to sit in the oven or a gas burner was knocked on by a hip. No one knew. I was young, but not young enough to not remember the awful smell grow as I played outside in the leaves with my dog. No one was prepared. How could you be?
Ever since then, my mom had to be prepared. She had to, for everything. She looked at all the bad things, and what could be done to avoid them. A working smoke alarm, for instance, or a fire extinguisher.
She kept at it over time, paranoid about losing anyone, or anything else, and it built up over time. Some people collect stamps, coins, or African tribal masks, but my mother collected supplies.
It always irritated me, the way she did it. I’d admit, I made fun of her for it. Called her crazy. Gotten into fights with her about it. But she was so pretentious about it! For so long, she was never not talking about it!
But then she got smarter. Stopped talking to people about her supplies, skills, and plans. Instead of being proud that she had a gun, she became proud that she was a decent shot. That was when we started getting along. She was my best friend now.
We put the twins on an air mattress against the wall, but as tired as they were, they did not lay down or go back to sleep.
“Mom…”
I glanced back at the twins and decided to separate the horrors of what just happened from them. They were young. They didn't need to hear about this, at least not yet. I wanted to keep them as innocent as I could, for as long as I could.
We went to the other side of the basement, and I told her about Jamie, not sugar coating any details. There was no use in not trying to scare her, because… well, this was terrifying stuff. I told her everything. I told how I heard Marshall screaming in pain as that crazy did… whatever he did to him. After my former manager’s scream, the— the thing in there released a shriek of some sort that was so loud, and so absolutely inhuman, that I peed my pants. Just a little though. I told her that, as I booked it to my car, I heard others respond to his call with similar shrieks of their own. Like some sort of crazy, murderous gang of psychopaths that were hopped up on every single drug in existence all at once. I really started crying, and couldn't stop my voice from shaking when I told my mom that I looked back once I had my hand on the car door, and saw that guy barreling towards me. He didn't turn to use the doors, or slow down at all for that matter, just smashed through the glass wall.
Mom sat with me on the floor now, holding me like I was the twins’ age. Snot was pouring out of my nose in waves now, but Mom told me to keep talking. She needed to know everything.
So, I told her that before I sped away into the midnight-on-a-Friday-night traffic, which was characteristically nonexistent, the guy had incredible speed and strength, and managed to jump onto my car by the time I started my engine from where he landed after going through the glass. He yelled in gibberish, and punched a bloody hole through my back window. I cried when I told her that I was so scared. That I thought I screamed as I slammed on the gas pedal in reverse.
A packet of pocket tissues, the ones I stocked my locker with, because the outside design was cute, were thrown at us as the flimsy door that separated us from the twins opened and closed as quickly as possible. I could imagine the twins on the other side, Lucky operating the door while Vi threw the tissues. Those two did everything together.
I ripped the packet open and used them wisely.
“I tried to call the cops when I was driving… and 911 didn't answer. Mom. I called like twenty times… and it rung and rung and no one answered. No one answered mother.” I was done holding it together. The time to freak out was upon us.
Crack.
That stupid crack was still echoing in my ears. Like it was freaking embedded into my brain.
I could pretend that everything was cool beans until I had to retell it. I could've been The Strong Badass Woman Who Saves The Day™, but instead, my head was buzzing. Everything was weird. My face was hot. I wanted a nap. Well, that wasn't any different. I always wanted a nap, but this was different. I felt like my bones were even asking for one too.
My mom was saying something, but she might as well have been speaking Portuguese. I couldn't understand a word.
She took me by the shoulders and led me upstairs, along with Vi and Lucky.
Why are we going upstairs? Upstairs wasn’t safe. Nothing was safe anymore.
“O, take a shower, okay? Things may be shutting down soon.” She sounded like she was gently telling a toddler that that bunny by the side of the road wasn’t sleeping.
I was grateful that she was telling me what to do, and seemed to have a plan.
I shed my uniform, both angrily and joyously throwing that stupid hat in the bathroom garbage.
There was ringing and buzzing and echoing and a—
crack crack crack.
The sound echoed throughout my cranium and I flinched away, as if I could escape what was in my own mind.
I closed my eyes and was greeted by those horrible red eyes. Normal eyes weren’t red like that. Normal people… normal people also tended to avoid going on murderous rampages at your local Clucket Bucket, too.
The water pounded on my back—
crack crack crack
—and on the bright side, I was finally getting rid of the gross and sticky.
After I was squeaky clean, as squeaky and clean as you can get by mostly standing still in a shower, I stepped out of the bathroom and into my room. My bones, and every other aching part of my body, wanted a nap. Just a small snooze. A nice nap.
And I was already in my room, wrapped up in my robe, which was very soft.
So, against my better judgement, and despite my hands still shaking and the cracks that plagued my mind, I laid down, and fell asleep.
Chapter 4: Shatter
I didn't sleep for a very long time, but it was a very long nap, judging by the hints of light peeking out from behind my blackout curtains.
Something woke me up. A scream, or, maybe more of a yelp.
I noticed that my phone was plugged into its charger, undoubtedly put there by Mom. It had a full battery, but the screen was lit up, and it was no longer charging. On a hunch, I tried to turn on my lamp, and found that the power was out.
That explained the yelp.
I tried calling the police again, only to find that my phone wouldn't even dial. I tried to text my mother, but that wouldn't go through either
.
Mom appeared in the doorway, looking almost as tired and groggy as I felt.
And she had her gun in her hand.
Oh god.
I felt sick. This was really happening. Really. Happening.
Okay. What was happening? The world was freaking ending.
What did I need to do? That was… a good question. A very good question.
“You better get dressed. We have work to do.” Mom said gravely, her determination outweighing her fear. Her hair was a bit wet, and not brushed through, and her clothes were dusty, probably from getting things out of the basement.
She left me to my things and went to finish hers.
Getting dressed would be a good start. I mean, I can't expect to survive the Apocalypse in a bathrobe, right? So I dressed in layers. A tank top, my favorite tee shirt, and a flannel on top. Then I threw on some jeans. They were stretchy, like the kind you would wear on a hike, but not to the movies. I knew that there wasn’t going to be that much extra room, or time, for extra clothing if we need to get out of dodge. Just the clothes on my back.
Still, with hope on the mind, I rolled up an extra shirt and some underwear in another pair of hiking jeans.
Styles for The End of The World, by Ophelia Astor. A bestseller.
Ha.
Geez o Pete…
What was happening? The world was freaking ending, that's what.
What did I need to do? We needed to figure out a plan. We needed to survive. And we needed to do it now, at the start of things. Before everything fell apart and resources were taken.
Okay. Okay, I could do this. Let's do this.
Ten minutes later, after we’d covered the windows with heavy blankets and made sure everything was as locked as possible, Mom and I hit the road. We had to make sure that the twins were downstairs in the basement and knew not to come up. Just in case, the blankets taped and nailed to the window frames ensured that no one would see movement inside the house, and that the twins were somewhat sheltered to whatever could happen out there, should they need to evacuate the basement for any reason.
Just in case… Just a precaution…
The trip was delayed only because the garage opener was electric and, without electricity, it refused to open. That problem took us idiots a minute or two to figure out.
But after all of that, we were on the road, and headed to the nearest drugstore. Our plan was to find a way in, collect garbage bags full of supplies, pile them by the back door, and one of us load them in while the other kept watch.
The last thing we needed was for someone to steal our car when we weren’t looking. But, seeing as it was still very early in this whole thing, we might’ve been the only ones around here that had resorted to looting.
“So, we get in through the double doors by breaking the glass. Then grab anything that might be useful, because we probably won't be able to come back.” I confirmed, half wanting to make sure that I didn't screw this up and half wanting to fill the silence.
Mom nodded, her eyes scanning everything in her view and beyond, hoping to spot any danger before it spotted her. It was dark. Next level dark, with the street lights, stop lights, and other headlights absent from the streets. The dark was weird, even with the sun en route. It was early in the morning, barely five, so no wonder no other cars are on the road. No one in their right mind would be up and out and about at this hour, which explained us being here. Alone.
A thought briefly crossed my mind, but I quickly dismissed it.
What if that guy was just strung out on something? What if someone just ran into a telephone pole and knocked the power out? What if something was just going on with the Internet company or something?
While these were are all valid thoughts, it seemed rather suspicious to both of us, that all these things would happen at the same time. Add in emergency services not bothering to pick up the phone, and you got a recipe for— wait for it— The Apocalypse.
You didn’t wait for someone to tell you something was wrong. When you knew, you knew. When you got shot in the arm, you didn’t wait for someone to tell you that it was bad. You already knew.
So we weren’t waiting for any announcement. We weren’t waiting for some emergency broadcast. Mom wasn’t waiting for her own confirmation of “piccolo”, because, when your daughter gets attacked, forced to fend off death with nothing but a mop and a can of aerosol cleaner, that was enough.
Crack
“Don't take anyone's prescriptions off of the rack. Someone might need those to live.”
Man, my mom was so smart. I wouldn't have even thought of that. I would've just shoved everything into a bag without a second thought. You go, Mom.
She was ready, her hands at ten and two, with two holding a handgun that I didn't know the name of. After years of mild paranoia, preparing, waiting, and watching, this was her time.
“Mom, what's the name of that gun you're holding?” I almost expected, and hoped for, her to joke around and say an actual name that she’d given it, like Phillip, or something, but she didn't.
Without glancing at me, she said, “A 9mm.”
“Cool… is the safety on?” I wanted to fill the silence desperately. We live, and have always lived, in the suburbs. There’s always been some kind of noise in the background to fill the silence.
“No.”
And, apparently, that was the end of the conversation.
Okay then.
I, myself, had this really wicked knife, whose name I couldn’t remember. It was really long, and really sharp. Mom offered me a handgun, but the noise it made always scared me. So a blade it was. Plus, I had, like, zero aim. Plus, in the movies and stuff, noise always attracted these things.
Phillip. I could always name my knife that, right?
“What do these things look like again?” She asked.
We had the store in our sights. It was just past this stoplight, which wasn't working, but Mom still stopped anyways, just in case another car was coming from one of the other streets.
“Um… they’re crazy strong— and fast… and they have these nasty red eyes… and… and you'll know when you see them. You'll just know. You can't mistake them for a rational human being.”
She pulled into the parking lot, nodding half-heartedly at my explanation, her focus on scanning the area around us. The task was probably not as easy as it sounded, given the darkness and the shadows playing tricks on us. I know that I stopped scanning for dangers not even halfway through the ride, with every silhouette threatening to jump out at the car.
Breaking into the store was easy peasy, lemon squeezy. We just hurled some rocks through the glass doors, and that was that. No alarm went off because there was no power.
Though, the broken glass was a concern; the loudness of it put the both of us on edge, afraid of who, or what, it would attract. We stood there for, like, a whole sixty seconds. I counted.
Then we determined it was clear.
And because there was no power, and it was basically night, we could not see. And because we were both idiots, we did not bring flashlights, and therefore, had no chance of seeing.
“Sugar sticks.” I swore under my breath and pulled out my phone, which, thanks to Mom, was not dead. I had slipped it into my pocket just before we left out of habit. With the not dead phone, I was able to lead us to the aisle with flashlights. Those were pretty nifty, using batteries and all that. Being able to use electronics was actually really comforting. Definitely no EMP then, Mom had said.
Coolio.
Mom went straight for the mess of medications in the back while I went crazy with the supplies and food. Absolutely bonkers. I put everything I could find in my garbage bags. Duct tape, gatorade, chips, paper, water, and even some alcohol, purely for disinfectant reasons, of course. I just greedily grabbed everything nonperishable.
Holding a flashlight in your mouth wasn't nearly as gross as I thought it would be. You just clamp your teeth around it and try to keep your tongue away from i
t. Touching a cheap, plastic flashlight with your tongue was exceptionally gross.
At least I got it straight out of the package, so the amount of people who had touched it was extremely limited.
I heard the shuffling of footsteps and dragging behind me. I figured Mom wanted help carrying a bag, and didn't want to leave it alone. I put the last water from the fridge, which was missing its hum, into one of my several bags and turned around to share my findings. I was proud of my newfound looting skills, and wanted to tell her, my best friend, about it.
But my best friend was not standing behind me. Who was standing behind me had nothing familiar about them.
Except for their eyes.
She was an elder. An old lady with pure white hair falling out and missing dentures. Her slobbery gums were repeatedly smacking together, as if she knew something was missing from her mouth, but couldn't quite place it. She wore a thin, pale-pink, lace nightgown that was tattered and torn. The dragging sound was coming from a small, dead animal attached to a thin leash looped multiple times around her bony wrist. I probably had about half a foot in height on her, but holy macaroni this was terrifying. And disturbing. More so than the bodybuilder on steroids, because I knew for a fact that this eighty-year-old woman didn't get high on something and then kill her little, sweater-wearing Chihuahua.
The flashlight fell out of my mouth and onto the floor, a bit slower than normally. The impact shattered the bulb, and set off Toothless.
A half-yelp and half-shriek noise came out of my mouth in the pitch black. I heard her roar a horrific battle cry before she charged at me. I did the first thing that came to mind, which was to fling the refrigerator door that I was standing behind outward, hoping to deflect her attack, like a paddle in a pinball machine. When I felt the whole 90 pounds of her bounce off of the door, I did the second thing that came to mind, which was to book it.
I couldn't fight her off in the dark and I didn't want to risk touching her because who knew what this was and how it spread.
When I saw the flashlight beam that, hopefully, belonged to my mother, I did the third thing that came to mind, which was to yank the knife out of its holder-thing on my waist and prepare to fight. I could hear her boney legs catching up to me and her saliva drenched gums smacking away. She was probably drooling at the thought of capturing me, the prey. If she could think at all.