by J. P. Castle
“I agree. Regardless of the past, me ‘n you need to stick together. I need you to know something though, I’m sorry about everything that happened. I should’ve told you what really . . .”
Before Bastian finished, Ledger cut him off, “Save it. I don’t even want to talk about that. You were my best friend ‘n you should’ve said no.”
“Whatever, you’ve always been stubborn. Let’s go to Thurman’s farm on our way back to Lake Dillon. I want to record whatever they’re up to over there. We need proof before we can expose them,” said Bastian, studying the camcorder’s buttons.
“Are you trying to get us killed? Even if we do get proof, who are we gonna tell? Who’d believe us anyway? Seriously. We shouldn’t enter the lion’s den and start making a documentary,” said Ledger.
“If you can’t hang, start your way back to camp. I’ll go by myself. But no way I’m not gonna film this. They kidnapped my brother, Brock. Shot Carter. Killed Seng. Killed your parents. Tried to kill me ‘n you. You saw Henry and his parents. You’re right no one will believe a few teens claiming the military murdered a bunch of people in cold blood . . . and oh, by the way, they’re about to kill 70 percent of the population, too. We need to get proof.”
“Fine then, fine. Get us killed like you did, Mary Beth,” said Ledger.
Bastian tossed the camcorder to Timmy and lunged toward Ledger, twisting his fists around the collar of Ledger’s jacket. “You need to shut up now, you have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, releasing Ledger.
“I know all I need to about that, and for once, my dad was right. I should’ve listened to him,” said Ledger, straightening his jacket.
“Mary Beth’s dead?” said Mazel. “We assumed she moved.”
“No, she’s dead. And Mr. Motocross here killed her. Rich boy’s mommy ‘n daddy covered it up. Told everyone she moved,” said Ledger.
Bastian charged Ledger, flinging him into the loose boards holding the treehouse together. “You really need to shut up now,” said Bastian. “You’re wrong. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Ledger broke away from Bastian’s grip and pointed his finger in his face. “Yeah, I do.”
Bastian shook his head and climbed down the ladder.
Mazel, shocked by the accusation, didn’t press the issue. Time didn’t exist for a backyard brawl.
The four made their way through the thicket between Henry’s house and Old Man Thurman's. They jogged along the wooded edge, careful to stay off the road.
“Keep a watch for drones,” said Bastian.
“Yeah,” said Timmy, “we spotted those yesterday. They’re everywhere.”
“I’m about to freeze to death,” trembled Mazel’s voice. She bounced up ‘n down to fight the cold and rubbed the sides of her arms to generate heat. Warm breath left clouds of white vapor on exhale.
“Listen,” said Ledger, “I hear a truck. Hide.”
Each person scurried, taking cover behind the nearest tree, peeking around the edge of the bark for a better view.
A military truck rumbled by belching black smoke out the tailpipes. Bunches of white garbage bags were stacked to the top of the dump bed. The trash bounced when the noisy truck hit a sizable pothole.
“That’s not waste. Those bags are . . . the shape of bodies. Some might be longer or thicker, but they all have the same shape—human,” said Bastian.
“Oh my gosh. I never would’ve believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,” said Mazel. “That could’ve been any one of us, still might be.”
“Our parents could be in that truck!” said Timmy with desperation in his voice. He placed his hands on top of his head and squatted down beneath a large pine tree.
“Our friends, too,” said Mazel.
“Is this the end of the world? Are we fooling ourselves to think we have a chance to get away from these guys?” said Timmy.
“We can’t help anyone right now,” said Ledger. “We’re dead if we even try. These guys don’t mess around. We found that out fast, back at school when Mr. Seng was simply trying to ask a question. I’ve got a bullet graze on my jacket to prove it. This is way bigger than us.”
“Come on, we have to move,” said Bastian.
AT THE EDGE of Thurman’s farm, they ducked behind some bushes and surveyed the area. Henry was right, thought Bastian. Graves. Big ones.
Soldiers guided dump trucks backward, to the massive holes. Drivers raised the dump beds, and bodies slid into their final cold place of rest. Another set of soldiers slogged around the edges, pouring a liquid onto the masses. Moments later, flares were tossed in, and the holes burst into flames. A black cloud began to rise from the pit; soldiers covered their noses to avoid the stench of melting flesh.
Bastian and the others crept into the old musty barn, and climbed up into the loft. He removed the camcorder from Henry’s backpack. “It’s all true. Those are mass graves. We have to record this,” he said, aiming the camcorder as steady as he could. His hands tremored from the frigid weather.
“Why would they burn the bodies?” said Mazel.
“Maybe to slow the spread of the virus. It could be same as Ebola, still contagious after death,” said Timmy.
“Could be, but it’s also a permanent way to hide evidence from an autopsy, or a blood test—if they lied about this whole thing. Can’t test ashes as far as I know.”
Everyone eyeballed Ledger.
“What, I stream a lot of crime shows,” said Ledger. “I’m not sure about Bastian, but when we were hiding in the closet at school, I’m pretty sure they said something about killing off 70 percent of the population. They never said whether it was just our town, the nation, or the world. Who knows? But we need to get out of here before we end up in that hole. It’s stupid of us to even be here.”
“I heard them say it, too,” said Bastian. “Didn’t have time to think about it until now. If the virus is real, then why are none of us sick? We all talked to Henry in person yesterday. I touched plenty of stuff in his house, so did Ledger. The vaccine may be the source of the sickness ‘n they’re killing people on purpose, but why? I have to go inside Thurman’s house. Here, take this and keep recording.”
“Are you nuts,” said Timmy in full distress mode. He laid hold of Bastian’s arm.
Bastian yanked his arm back. “I need to see for myself if Thurman’s in there.”
“He’s dead, dude. They wouldn’t trust him or anybody else to be cool and keep their mouth shut about using their farm as a dead body dump,” said Ledger.
“No, I get that, but I’m still going in. Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
Before the discussion could continue, Bastian climbed down out of the hayloft and bolted across the yard. With the barn blocking the soldier’s view, Bastian leaped onto the squeaky back porch boards.
Of course, the back door has a deadbolt on it. Why would anything be simple right now?
The kitchen window creaked when Bastian slid it open. Inside, a putrid odor filled the air. It bored its way deep into his nostrils. Old Man Thurman sat in his favorite recliner—one dried bullet hole in the center of his forehead, another in his chest. You’d never have allowed the military or anyone else to burn the bodies of your friends in your backyard. So sorry this happened to you, Thurman.
Thurman, a decorated war veteran, could rival any man half his age. Bastian had witnessed this himself in town one afternoon, not so long ago. Thurman warned a smart-mouthed man, in the middle of town, to stop thumping on his dog. The smart-mouthed man puffed up his chest on Thurman, who laughed, laid the man out on the sidewalk with one punch, and took his dog away.
On the other hand, Thurman would also give a person the shirt off of his own back if they needed it, and always volunteered his time down at the church. He was an honorable man. And Bastian knew, in this case, he would’ve waged the grandest fight any seventy-year-old man could’ve.
Steps, footsteps on the front porch. Bastian put his fist in
the center of his forehead. The smell in the room overwhelmed his senses. Think, think, think. Bastian tiptoed down the hallway. Where to hide? Under the bed—NOT an option. Thurman must’ve been a packrat. He entered the closet, which didn’t offer much more room. If they open this door, I’m done for.
Bastian stayed still in the darkness, listening.
“Pluck the old coot out of the chair and let’s go,” said the Sergeant. “You all should’ve done this last night, but I guess the graves weren’t ready yet. Move it. We’ve got a lot of miles to cover today. This small city’s about to be a ghost town.”
“I’m sure it’ll fill right back up with shore dwellers. It’s them or us, as General Given said . . . them or us.”
The men peeled Thurman out of the chair. Thurman’s boots chafed across the wooden slats on his front porch as they lugged him along. His body thudded when it landed on the bed of the truck.
After the soldiers drove away, Bastian exited the closet with great haste. A full gun cabinet stood in the corner of Thurman’s bedroom, and plenty of warm camos hung in the closet. Bastian slung a rifle over his shoulder, then snatched up three pistols. Thurman, you had excellent taste in guns.
Bastian placed the pistols into an old canvas bag, laying at the foot of the bed. He secured all the ammo he could carry and ditched his jean jacket for the insulated camo.
Another military truck departed the drive, on route back to town, to collect more dead. Before the next truck passed, Bastian hightailed it toward the barn. “Psst, come on, follow me,” he said, “hurry before they come back.”
Everyone darted toward Thurman’s house. Bastian directed them to the winter gear, which offered much-needed relief against the bitter bite of the cold.
“When the soldier’s carted off Thurman’s body, we expected you to be next,” said Timmy, pulling the warm hat down on his head.
“Me too, I hid in the closet here . . . where I found this stuff. I have guns, a little ammo, ‘n binoculars, too, in this bag. Here are a couple smaller bags. Take more guns ‘n ammo, all we can carry.”
“Let’s get out of here,” said Ledger. “Dillon Lake’s not far away. You’re sure that’s where the Science Club’s at, right?”
“Yeah, unless the military’s hauled them off, too,” said Bastian.
“Great, that means we have to cross Wellington Subdivision to get to the pass. I’m afraid to guess what horror awaits us there, but going around will take too long,” said Ledger.
“Yeah,” said Bastian, “but if we make it through Wellington, it shouldn’t take more than a couple hours to reach the others.”
WELLINGTON SUBDIVISION
GlOOM IDLED OVER Wellington subdivision today. The sun kept itself hidden behind stratus clouds, forming a thick blanket over the dreary sky. The heavy overcast would soon usher in rain or snow.
Bastian and companions sidled along the backside of a two-story house on Primrose Street. Ugh . . . what a nightmare, thought Bastian. We can do this. We have no choice but to do this.
The scene in the subdivision removed any doubt about the devastation occurring in town. Fliers tumbled across empty streets, usually filled with traffic or children at play. Sobs echoed through the neighborhood while soldiers threw dead family members haphazardly into dump trucks. Initially, they stacked the deceased with care similar to matchsticks in a box, but that process took way too long. Now, guards tossed bodies into a random pile. Headfirst or feet first—didn’t matter. They’d burn all the same down in the pits.
Some vaccinated this morning stood in their yards and held tissues over their mouths, as if that would help. All hoped desperately for a better outcome than they witnessed now. Many wondered if their corpse would be the next one thrown onto the cold metal bed.
Other citizens entered med vans for transport to the gymnasium hospital after symptoms started to menace. This made corpse disposal less burdensome, removing the need to search each room within homes.
“My baby! Stop, you fools! My baby . . .”
A woman, distraught by the death of her teenage daughter, jogged after the truck with her hands in the air. A few strides later, her legs gave way; she melted into the pavement. Her ruby red face showed signs from the vaccine given to her less than two hours ago. The soldiers kept on without regard for her welfare, they’d be back for her soon enough. Give the shots, collect the dead, burn the bodies, the mission remained clear.
“Bring out your dead or turn on your front porch light. We’ll assist you,” said the Private over a loudspeaker in the truck. It couldn’t get any colder or less personal. The Private kept the announcement fresh on the siren. “If you don’t have a porch light, hang a piece of white linen on the mailbox.”
“Five here, five dead over here,” said the Private at the next house.
“They’re not even using body bags anymore,” said Mazel. She covered her mouth in disbelief.
A military hummer advanced down the street at a high rate of speed. The driver slammed on the brakes behind the dump truck, leaving rubber on the pavement when he stopped.
“PRIVATE, why aren’t these people in body bags?” said the Sergeant, storming over.
“Sir, we ran out of bags, sir. Underestimated the efficiency of the virus, sir. More bags are on the way.”
The Sergeant snatched the Private by the front of his uniform and hurled him into the truck. “Finish these last two houses and get this load out of here. Don’t come back without the bags. Terror doesn’t even begin to describe what these people are experiencing. They don’t need a visual of their neighbor’s tongues hanging out of their mouths while they’re sick themselves.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” said the Private.
“Two more houses and the soldiers will be right on top of us,” said Timmy.
“We are knee-deep in the middle of germville,” said Ledger.
“I’m not so sure it’s contagious, but I agree we don’t need to be here,” said Bastian.
“O my gosh, do you hear that screaming, I can’t do this, I can’t,” said Mazel, sealing her hands over her ears.
“How could I not hear it,” said Timmy. “And everybody here has a white hospital band on, except us. If the soldiers notice, they’ll know we didn’t get the shot.” He turned around to get a reaction from Bastian and Ledger, but Ledger disappeared.
“Where’s Ledger?” said Mazel.
The three froze motionless against the side of the house, hidden behind the shrubbery.
“Not sure,” said Bastian. “Maybe, he went his loner way. We’re not gonna wait for him. We can’t. Let’s go.”
“No, stop,” said Ledger, coming up from behind. He held four white wrist bands in the air. “We need to put these on in case we get caught up in this mess.”
“Where did you get those? You didn’t—” said Bastian.
“Inside this house, and trust me when I say, no one in there needs ‘em. If you come across a soldier or anyone else, sit on a porch ‘n pretend you own it, stagger a bit, but whatever you do, don’t run. We don’t need anyone asking us questions right now.”
“We thought you left,” said Mazel.
“Where’d you get that tape?” said Timmy.
“Doesn’t everybody have tape in the kitchen drawer? Now hurry up. Put these on and let’s go,” said Ledger.
“Quiet. The convoys on the porch, don’t move,” said Bastian.
The Private entered the residence. “Hey, four of these in here don’t have name tags,” he said.
“Probably removed them, don’t worry about it. Get their names off the mailbox or census form,” said the Sergeant.
The four tiptoed to the backside of the residence and taped on the white bands. They waited for the convoy to round the next block, then darted across the street in the opposite direction. The foul odor in the air left no doubt death surrounded them on all sides.
“Guys,” said Mazel—her index finger led the way to a nearby kennel—“dead dogs, the dogs are . . . dead. It�
��s killing animals, TOO?”
“No,” said Ledger, “bullet holes. The owner must’ve shot them, so they wouldn’t starve to death if . . . whoever lives in there died. That’s all I can figure.”
“Come on,” said Bastian.
“Listen,” said Timmy, with his ear snug against the next house.
Ledger pressed his ear to join. “They’re . . . puking violently in there,” he said.
“DRONE,” said Bastian, “HIDE.”
A drone straight above their heads, hovered in position while they briskly walked across the next street. The drone followed close, rotor blades buzzing.
“What do we do? I’m freaked, my nerves can’t take this,” said Mazel.
“Don’t raise your head up. It’ll get pictures of our faces,” said Ledger. “Ignore it, and don’t run.”
“Hurry, over here,” said Timmy, with his eyes focused on an open garage door. All four hustled inside. Mazel tripped over a shovel, making a clatter.
“This is nuts,” said Timmy.
The shovel falling woke the owner of the home, Old Claus, from a catnap. “Hey, why are you kids in here?” he said, glaring at them from the side entrance of his residence. “Stupid garage door. Must’ve malfunctioned. Figures, zombie apocalypse arrives, and BOOM, the garage door breaks.”
“We’re hiding from a drone,” said Mazel, pointing up to the sky.
“Get in here with me ‘n Blue,” said the old man. “Wait, get out, you all are banded. So far, every person I’ve seen with one of those bands on dies in short order.”
“No, no, no. Listen. Wait. We stole these, we’re not sick. We’re not vaccinated or whatever they’re doing. Please. I can prove it. They’re taped on. You may even recognize these names,” said Bastian.
“Where’s your band, old man?” said Ledger.
“My band, haha, no one banding Old Claus here, noop not today . . . or tomorrow, either.”