5 Years After

by Richard Correll

  Heading over a hill, the last thing he saw was the man with buckshot on his face run into one of the war machines, hands clawing at the air as one of the eight-wheeled tires ran over and crushed his skull. Briefly, the gutters filling up with Kentucky rain turned a reddish color.

  The lights were a welcome sign for the Deacon as he began to slow himself for the sentry. As a courtesy, he flipped on the interiors to ease the sentry’s mind and he unzipped the backpack that was his ticket of passage. The window eased down and allowed in droplets of rain as the downpour picked up.

  “Evenin’, Preacher,” Ned smiled, displaying two missing bicuspids. His face sported unkempt stubble and bloodshot eyes. There was little in the way of authority. Not that he cared, anyway. “As soon as the rain began, we knew we’d see ya.”

  “Yes, I was wondering if this might help you boys stay warm tonight,” He pulled from his bag two bottles of Kentucky Bourbon and passed them into grateful hands.

  “Why that’s very kind.” Ned smiled again and accepted the offering. “You be safe now.”

  “I have some people following me,” the Deacon warned Ned. “It looks like it’s some of Beauregard’s troops.”

  “What the hell are they doin’ up here?” Ned looked back and could barely make out a shadow in the dark. “We’ll just turn them around, don’t you worry.”

  “Have a good night, Ned.” The Deacon began to roll up the window and drive away.

  “You too,” Ned walked back toward his troops waving one of the bottles. As soon he had placed them in the guard shack, he walked back onto the road with another militia member and waited for the West Virginians’ arrival.

  The first of the vehicles loomed slowly out of the darkness. The command cupola was sealed. The vehicle slowed as Ned stepped into the road and raised his hand for the APC to stop. Ned couldn’t wait to hear their story on how they got lost. It would be a great one to tell the morning shift. From his experience, Ned could see they were eight-wheeled Strykers. The first had a Protector M151 remote weapons station with an M2 heavy machine-gun perched on top. The second had a mini-turret where a thirty-millimeter cannon moved about as if sniffing the air.

  In the rear view mirror, the Deacon watched the first of the eight-wheeled war machines slow down and obey Ned’s request. Where was the commander? Ned wondered. It was his last thought before a tongue of fire spoke from the remote controlled machine-gun and Ned’s body pitched backward as if thrown down by an invisible hand. The man beside him was cut down by a burst from the second Stryker’s 30 mm cannon. The thud-thud-thud of the gun’s report was a millisecond before the sentry’s body disappeared and fell apart like a jigsaw puzzle. The cannon then swiveled over to the guard shed and let loose an extended burst of carnage, killing the last two guards who stood in helpless shock. The APCs paused, turrets swiveling for more targets. Satisfied, they began to pick up speed and head in the Deacon’s direction.

  The Deacon stomped on the accelerator and heard the little engine whine. As an afterthought, he began to slow down, realizing the only way the APC was going to catch him was if he had an accident. He concentrated on the road in front of him, swerving very carefully to avoid trash, debris and the occasional figure standing stoically in the rain with head slightly bowed. They would only react when they saw him passing by. Their response without a sense of smell was at times odd. They would watch the car pass with the same expression someone had of meeting a person they thought they had seen before.

  The Deacon had no idea how close the APCs were. The darkness was enveloping, swallowing up buildings and the landscape as if they had never existed. It would be light soon. He hoped to have lost them by then. A pair of headlights appeared a few blocks away followed by a second. They were on full, the light they cast was like brilliant, dancing moonbeams, synchronized fully in their routine as they bounced off abandoned cars, rolled over debris and hostiles.

  It might have been a rough ride but they seemed to be closing in. The Deacon could barely steal his eyes away from the road before him with all the remains of civilization strewn about. The quick glances in the rear view confirmed his earlier suspicions. They were closing in.

  He decided it was time to lose them. He signaled and turned left on to Hess Lane. Really, he thought to himself. Did you just signal? Habits were so hard to break. Two minivans lay twisted together blocking most of the road. They were further tangled up with fallen telephone poles that seemed to have crashed to the ground one after another like a gigantic game of dominoes. Hands appeared on the windows of one of the vans followed by a blur of a face as the Deacon turned right into a park and drove completely around the wreckage. After driving a bit on soft ground muddied by the rain he thought it safer to return to the paved road or he might become mired. As he drove over a sidewalk, a body draped itself across his hood, clawing at the smooth glass. The Deacon quickly turned the wipers off to prevent their damage. The boy could not have been any more than sixteen. His fattened cheeks were pulled back as his teeth tried to dig into the glass. They bent against the hard surface and began to snap off in his mouth.

  The front teeth then trickled down the windshield in streams with the rain. The Deacon braked abruptly and the body flew off and rolled along the pavement. As the Deacon drove around him the boy tried to stand up but tripped over his low riding jeans.

  “Gotta pull up your pants, son,” the Deacon said to the wind shield wipers as they resumed their rhythm.

  The emerging sun on the horizon began to cast weird shadows through the clouds. The street had been strewn with toys that seemed almost grotesque. A child’s doll lay in the middle of the road with the shadows changing the baby’s face to sinister. Crushed toy forts and plastic houses were mute reminders of previous lives, like pottery in an archeological site. Briefly, the Deacon wondered how we would be seen by future generations who dug up our ruins.

  If there were any, he remarked to himself as he turned right on Delor and began to follow it down through empty houses and streets cluttered with the aftermath of lives that had been scattered to the wind. A glance in the rear view mirror displayed no movement in the early light. The APCs were nowhere to be seen.

  *

  “Jackrabbit Five to Jackrabbit Four, Over.”

  “This is Four, Over.”

  “Do you see him?”

  “Negative. He has to be around here somewhere.”

  “Release your sparrow drone.”

  “Affirmative…”

  A small toy-like helicopter slowly rose into the air and did a slow 360 of the neighborhood before rising to a higher altitude and moving off soundlessly to the north. The idling engines of the APCs were the only sound in the lifeless landscape. Slow, shifting figures began to move in their direction. Their curiosity peaked by the unusual intrusion from their slumber in this now silent world.

  “Sparrow released.”

  *

  The light of the morning was now pulling back the darkness. A drizzle still fell spattering his windshield. The clouds hung low in the air. Swollen with rain, could they go no higher? The Deacon wondered, applying his extremely limited knowledge of meteorology. He turned right without signaling this time on to Parkway Drive. The first destination would be coming into view very soon.The first thing he saw overlooking the neighborhood with its detached houses and mature trees was the steeple. It had always stood proudly over this small skyline. Over the years, it had begun weathering. Nature’s slow, progressive reclamation effort had commenced in this abandoned part of the world. The white paint that had always looked so brilliant in the Sunday morning sun now was cracking and peeling. Eventually, the whole structure would disappear, leaving only the memories, but then again, they too would pass, the Deacon thought sadly as he carefully pulled into the parking lot.

  His eyes surveyed the area. A few figures slowly staggered about in the misty rain. There was nothing that could cause any real concern as long as he was quick. He reached over to his backpack that was still unzi
pped. It had only seemed like minutes ago he had passed the bottles of bourbon to Ned before watching his life so sadly end.

  “Poor Ned,” The Deacon silently reflected for a moment on the man. He would pray more respectfully later. Ned deserved that. All men deserved to have their souls prayed for, he believed. If we took more time to do that we might find it harder to kill.

  The Deacon zipped up the back pack, pulled it over his shoulder as he opened the door and stepped into the morning mist. The parking lot was more than half-full as he skirted about the cars and walked toward the front door of the church. Of course, there are cars here. An accusation rose from within. They were waiting for you to tell them what to do.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered as he studied the broken windows. That must have been how those things got into the church. The door would have held. He tried not to think about how that must have been as he checked the charge on the nail gun. It was full. The harsh reality was, once you’re thinking about something it is hard to disengage.

  It was like slamming a door on someone. You can still see their shadow standing there when you look under the door. They are there. The memory was there. It just was.

  ….and it wouldn’t go away.

  “I am …” He couldn’t finish the thought as he turned to his left and rounded the building.

  Arriving at the back of the church, he didn’t see the man at first. He was large and elderly with blue work overalls and a white t-shirt on. The man was kneeling at the rear of the church in front of a garden. Staring blankly at a wall, or was it the garden? The Deacon wondered. He suddenly recognized the man and knew it was the garden.

  “Hello Jeremy.” The Deacon spoke to it.

  The thing turned its head to the right. The Deacon was behind it so it had to stand to face him. It performed this act like a drunken man. It stood slowly and deliberately making sure of every movement. The mouth parted on the balding head and something between a growl and a hiss arose from the voice box.

  “I wanted to tell you how sincerely I appreciated you being around.” The Deacon spoke to the thing as it took one slow step toward him and then another. “You made me so proud of my church with the miracles you worked in our gardens.”

  The head cocked to one side and then another as the slow stagger picked up pace. The big hands reached out in front of him. On his right, the thumb had been completely bitten away. His large arms displayed deep bite wounds on his wrist and forearms.

  “When something needed fixing you were always the man for the job.” The Deacon watched the thing sadly as he continued to speak. “You never complained about anything. It is always a pleasure to know a man like you. “

  The thing that Jeremy had become was only about eight feet away by now. The eyes went wide and the mouth opened to emit a hungry, rasping scream. The Deacon raised his right arm and fired three nails just above the eyebrows. The Deacon stepped out of the way as the large man fell forward on to his stomach.

  “You’re at peace now. I owe you that,” he whispered.

  Hands clawed at his back while teeth bit into his shoulder and tried to work through the heavy coat and layers of clothing, hissing in frustration at being so close yet so far. The Deacon stepped forward instinctively from the teeth and hands trying to get a secure grip. He pulled the nail gun to where it almost rested on his cheek and fired behind himself. The grip released and he fired twice more at another larger, shorter figure stumbling backwards.

  Mrs. Porter. A squat black woman who loved her grandchildren and good gossip lay in the tall grass with a roofing nail embedded in her eye. She wore loose-fitting clothes and a long sweater that still clung to her after all these years.

  “I wish I could give you a better final resting place, Mrs. Porter.” The Deacon felt his throat grow tight. “But this will have to do.” The Deacon peered across the rear lawn of the church that backed out to Poplar Level Road. Forms were starting to make their way in his direction. Time was running short. He turned to walk back to his car and begin the look for Annabelle. Rounding the corner of the church, he spotted his electric car and began to make a jog for it.

  THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD. The car began to come apart as pieces exploded from the chassis. The interior upholstery began to smoke and then burst into flames. The windshield and passenger windows starred and then exploded inward. The tires were deflated and the chassis had massive holes the size of a baby’s fist speckled from front to back. The Deacon saw the Stryker with the 30 mm cannon firing in his direction. It was almost surreal, a muzzle flash and a hyper-second later cars began to come apart around him. He dove behind a truck and lay flat. The commander was standing high up in his command hatch. He could have sworn the man had a grim smile on his face: we found you.

  The firing stopped suddenly and he heard an engine switch gears. They’re coming closer, he thought. Looking behind him he could see the commotion was beginning to attract attention as figures in the distance began to slowly move toward the parking lot. If he ran he was sure to be cut down. If he stayed, he would be overwhelmed. He was sure the APC knew this and had set it up this way.

  The eight-wheeled machine began to make its way into the parking lot just forty yards away. The Deacon tried to move under cars and trucks, using them as cover to keep some distance. He popped his head up to see the commander pulling out his weapon and checking the safety.

  The explosion seemed to come from underneath the back of the vehicle as it was lifted into the air. The back end of the Stryker disintegrated in a ball of fire while the wheels pitched high off the ground. One bounced off the roof of the church before rolling down the incline to the ground. The vehicle completely flipped over on its back. Broken and burning, it was a few seconds later when hatches began to pop open revealing stunned, injured crewmen who wriggled out into the open air.

  A gigantic wasp-like vehicle flew overhead. In his shock, the Deacon needed a minute to recognize it as an attack helicopter from the Kentucky National Guard. The pilot looked like he had the head of a praying mantis in his bulbous helmet. He flew in low and waved to the Deacon before turning on to Poplar Level Road in search of the second Stryker.

  The Deacon took his cue and began to head toward Poplar Level himself. A stinging in his shoulder made him grow cold. Had Mrs. Porter managed to bite him? Maybe it was a shrapnel wound. Either way, Poplar Level was his destination. A hospital was nearby. He kept his pace brisk, but there was no need to run. The important thing to do was to conserve energy. He was hot enough in all the extra layers of clothes. He might need to run later. He approached the church with a longing for time to linger, The Deacon had to be satisfied with a long look and a few cherished memories.

  The dead in the parking lot paid him no mind. They had better prey afoot. A crewman with a broken leg kept trying to stand and run only to fall back down to the asphalt in the parking lot. A slow circle was forming around him. He was screaming something at the top of his lungs that the Deacon could not make out. The man began to cry out “Noooooo,” in a long, mournful voice as the circle grew smaller and smaller. Dead hands began to reach in to a large pile and pull out bleeding chunks of meat, clothing and limbs. The Deacon waited and hoped for the screams to stop. They kept going for what seemed like an eternity “Noooooooooooo.”

  A second crewman lay unmoving on the asphalt near the wreckage of the APC. Slowly, hungry eyes and claw-like hands found him. As the Deacon turned away he hoped the man was dead or in a coma. The syncopated screams that rose and fell from the man told him otherwise. The Deacon heard a snapping sound like a tree branch being torn off as his arm below the wrist was twisted away from his body. The screams began to transform into loud sobs and eventual silence as the man was harvested by hungry mouths and claws. Several times the screams rose again, but now they were delirious, calling out to old friends and family.

  My God, the Deacon’s pace continued down the road. Please end this.

  He crossed the road with few problems. A man in an orderly’s un
iform followed him with such intensity that he had to turn and fire two nails into the thing’s forehead before continuing. The body fell instantly. Perhaps it was grateful to be at rest, the head lay on the wet pavement with droplets of blood trickling from the wounds like tears of infinite sadness.

  The Deacon continued up the road. Suddenly, he was distracted by the attack helicopter being joined by a second aerial predator. They moved in the air like hornets, hovering briefly then moving on, their eyes clearly hunting the now lone surviving prey.

  *

  “Jack Rabbit Four, come in. This is Jack Rabbit Five.”

  The APC banged into another vehicle as it scurried up the road. The commander had thought of using the SAM missiles he had stowed in the back but he knew how that would end. He would have to stop his vehicle to get an even half-decent shot. While he was firing at one attack helicopter the second would certainly not miss a stationary target like him. Right now, discretion was not only the better part of valor. It was the only way to survive.

  “We need someplace underground.” The commander reached for a SAM missile and the tube launcher. “Don’t slow down. I just want to buy us some time.”

  “Yes sir.”

  He popped the hatch and blinked his eyes in the light. The two birds were jockeying around buildings and power lines searching for the perfect shot. He popped the missile in and struggled with the tube before bringing it up to his shoulder. When he looked back up only one was visible. At 7 o’clock, four hundred yards behind the scurrying APC. He carefully sighted the missile and squeezed the fire button.A tongue of flame roared out of the back of the pipe and scorched the olive drab paint job on top of the APC. Fuck, this thing is insane, he thought, trying to remember how to keep the laser dot sighted on the target. He hadn’t done this since his National Guard days. The plume of the missile streaked toward the helicopter as it started to turn right and fly higher, burning flares started popping out of the body of the machine.