A warm wind pressed at Cesar’s back; sand tickled his back where his shirt had ridden up.
Someone coughed. “Senõr,” a woman hissed. “They’re gone.”
Cesar opened his eyes and stole a glance over his shoulder, bracing himself for the shot that was sure would come. They were gone. “What…?”
She shook her head as if to say she had no idea. “Look!” She frowned and pointed in the opposite direction. Cesar’s eyes followed her outstretched hand. Ten or twenty meters away, on the far side of a narrow arroyo, a lone figure stumbled through the desert.
Cesar struggled to his feet, his knees popping in protest. He scanned his surroundings to be sure the gunmen were truly gone. When he saw no traces of them, he relaxed and turned his attention to the newcomer, whom he now saw was a man.
Something bothered him about the way the man moved. He looked stiff; his steps were forced, as if he wasn’t in control of his own muscles. Maybe he’s delirious? Out of water?
Cesar cringed as the man plowed into a monstrous cholla cactus at full speed, inch-long needles plunging into his body, impaling him a thousand times over. The stranger began a silent struggle with his thorny adversary, twisting and jerking, trying to pull himself loose. Finally, he pulled free and resumed his solitary march, ropy cholla segments trailing in his wake.
“Madre de dios,” Cesar said. “Did you see that?” He waved at the man. “Hola! Senõr!”
Like a fast-moving school of fish, the stranger shifted course, vectoring toward the sound of Cesar’s voice.
“Watch out!” Cesar yelled as the man approached the edge of the arroyo. He cursed. Is he blind? Without a word, the man stepped over the brink and tumbled out of sight.
“We need to help him,” Cesar said, taking off at a run. The others followed.
The soil at the edge was loose and crumbly, shot through with deep furrows from recent rains. There was no sign of the stranger.
“Where did he go?” one of the women asked. “I don’t see him…”
“Down there!” a man to Cesar’s right shouted, pointing at a sharp bend where the creek jogged south. “I think he went that way.”
Cesar squinted. “Wait. What’s that?” There was a something wedged in the rocks at the base of the far wall. “We need to get down there,” Cesar announced. “He might be hurt.” He looked at the others, hoping someone would accompany him. When no one volunteered, he set off by himself.
The first thing he noticed was the smell. Like meat left in the sun, it permeated the air at the bottom of the wash. He picked his way through a nest of sun-bleached saguaro skeletons and grasped for the object. The smell was worse here. Tucking his nose into his shoulder, he wrapped his fingers around the end and tugged. The object popped loose. It took a second for his mind to comprehend what he held in his hands: A human arm, brown and desiccated, skin worn away in patches, yellow-white bone showing through. With a shocked yelp, Cesar dropped the arm and took a step back.
There was a commotion above. A thin stream of dirt trickled onto his shoulder. He glanced up. All faces were focused south, fixated on something he couldn’t see.
“Get out!” one of the men yelled. “He’s coming back!”
Out of the corner of his eye, Cesar saw the arm convulse. Before he could react, the hand latched onto his ankle with a viselike grip and started to squeeze. Cesar screamed and kicked out, trying to dislodge the arm, but it wouldn’t release its grip.
“Hurry,” came the call from above. The wind picked up, pushing up from the south. Cesar gagged at the stench. It was the same smell of putrefied rot attached to his leg, only worse. And it was coming toward him.
He heard the man before he saw him. Grunting and wheezing, what he assumed was the former owner of the arm rounded the bend and lumbered towards Cesar. His remaining arm was outstretched in a sick parody of pleading.
The pressure on Cesar’s ankle eased for a second as the hand scuttled up his leg like an enormous spider. When it reached his calf, it clamped down again, digging bony fingertips into the soft flesh and muscle, triggering a spike of pain that shot through his body. His vision dimmed and he staggered against the wall of the arroyo, barely catching himself on a protruding root. The pain was unlike anything he had ever experienced. He beat at the hand, but that only made it worse. Filthy, broken fingernails dug into the denim of his jeans, scrabbling for bare skin.
Pebbles clattered. Branches snapped. He looked up and saw the man was less than five yards away. Seeing him up close, Cesar finally understood how much trouble he was in. The man was sick. His face was shredded to the bone. Mottled clumps of something sticky covered his scalp. His eyes, what was left of them, were an opaque gray, the color of monsoon storm clouds, filled with thick cataracts.
Setting off with a limp, Cesar headed for a narrow trail leading to the rim. As he ran, the attached hand leaped higher, fingers encircling his knee, squeezing the twin tendons on the back of his leg, making it all but useless.
“Help me!” he cried, frantically searching for the other border crossers. He was halfway up the slope when he finally succumbed to the pain, unable to go any farther.
A furtive glance over his shoulder revealed his pursuer, not far behind, still struggling with the incline.
Cesar dug into his pocket and withdrew his knife. He flipped the blade open. Taking care not to cut himself, he slid it between the hand and his leg and twisted. The knife sank into the desiccated flesh. There was no blood. The grip increased and a sudden bolt of pain lanced down to his foot. He bit back a cry and kept digging.
Finally, with a dry crack, the thumb broke away. The hand tumbled away from his leg and slid down the embankment, disappearing over a ledge.
Cesar wiped the knife blade in the sand, checked his leg, and finding no open wounds, continued his mad dash towards safety.
Eleven
Colorado Springs
Peter Woo flipped open the lid of his laptop and drummed his fingers on the palm rest, barely able to contain his excitement. He glanced at his mobile phone lying on the couch beside his thigh, and then turned his attention back to the laptop as his screen flashed.
At seventeen, Peter felt he had a pretty good idea how the world worked; God had a plan, and if you followed it, you were golden. If you ignored it, you were on the express train to Hell. Peter was following the plan to the letter, as delivered by Pastor Chuck at Central Baptist Community Church, and he felt little sympathy for anyone who wasn’t doing the same.
After what seemed like an eternity, the laptop finally booted. He swiped his fingertip on the scanner, logging himself in. A few seconds later, he was on Facebook, skipping through his news feed.
Peter was intimately familiar with the idea of Rapture—how, when mankind faced its final battle, Jesus would return to the earth and carry the true believers to Heaven to sit by his side.
That was why he was so excited. His wall told the entire story. The rapture was here...
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.
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Johnny Gaston
I just saw a non-believer taken down in the street! Stay strong, everyone!
8 minutes ago - Like this
Emily Felt
He is arrived! Praying!
7 minutes ago
Jessica Fox likes this
Johnny Gaston
There’s someone at the door… brb
6 minutes ago - Like this
Emily Felt
Who was it Johnny?
6 minutes ago - Like this
Emily Felt
Johnny? Are you there? Who was it?
4 minutes ago - Like this
Chris Neelon
Emily - where are you?
3 minutes ago - Like this
Emily Felt
Johnny? Call me, k? Praying for you.
1 minute ago
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Peter had to admit, as happy as he was about the rapture, he was scared for his family, for hi
s girlfriend. For himself. Pastor Chuck hadn’t said anything about people eating each other. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen the pastor on Facebook all day. That was odd. The Pastor was a regular on Facebook, always there to offer a guiding hand.
Peter shrugged. He’s probably busy helping people rapture. He recalled his recent phone call with Molly, his girlfriend of eight months. She had called twenty minutes earlier, crying, saying she had heard gunshots outside her house. Things seemed worse on her end of town, the rapture in full swing. Peter wished he was there with her so they could experience it together. And he would be if it weren’t for his mother. He turned his eyes to the ceiling. She lay just a few feet above, suffering from the end stages of terminal ovarian cancer. He and his father had brought her home from the hospital the week before. Her last round of chemotherapy was a complete disaster, draining her strength and turning her into a ghost of the woman who once ruled the house with an iron fist. The end was close, he knew. He couldn’t help but smile at the timing. Soon he would see his mom in Heaven; she would be strong and healthy like he remembered.
Peter thought it was strange that his dad hadn’t called yet. He picked up his cell phone and checked the time. Two twenty. He said he’d be home by now. He shrugged it off. His father would get home when he did.
He typed in a quick Facebook post, encouraging his friends to ‘hold tight in the name of Jesus. The end is near!’
As he pressed enter, his phone chirped. It was Molly. He picked it up. “Hey.”
“Pete.” She was crying and gasping, almost hyperventilating.
“What is it? Are you okay?”
She blubbered something he couldn’t understand. Something about eating… He slid off the couch and went to the window. When he peered out, he saw nothing but empty street.
“Slow down, Molly,” he said, motioning with his hand even though she couldn’t see it.
She blew her nose loudly in his ear. “They ate them,” she spit out. “The police—all of them.”
Peter was confused. “What do you mean they ate them? What did the police eat?”
“No, Pete!” she shrieked. “The people outside! They ate the police that were shooting at them.” Peter closed his eyes and tilted his head toward the ceiling. She was panicking again.
“I don’t understand what you’re saying, Molly. Try to slow down and start from the beginning.”
She did, and when she was finished, Peter realized he couldn’t wait any longer for his father to get home. If he really loved Molly, he had to go to her right now, to be with her for the end. He checked the street again. Still nothing. His family home was situated in the center of a cul-de-sac, and the closest main road was a half-mile away. Everything looked normal.
He went back to the couch and pulled his computer back into his lap. After entering the address of the local news station in his browser, he clicked on their live traffic cameras. The page finally loaded, displaying a blue screen—a dead video feed.
“Hold on, Molly.” He picked up the remote, turned on the television, and switched it to the same news channel.
A young blonde woman at the anchor desk had her hand up to her ear, her head tilted as she listened to a personal earphone. She was frowning. As he watched, her frown deepened, the corners of her mouth turning her pretty face ugly. She straightened up, rearranged the papers on her desk, and locked her eyes on the camera.
“According to national sources, the president has declared martial law in all fifty states. A twenty-four-hour curfew has been imposed. The Army and National Guard have been mobilized and have orders to shoot anyone violating this curfew.” The anchor shook uncontrollably as she spoke, looking as if she were about to start crying.
“Ladies and gentlemen, my… our advice remains the same. Stay in your homes with your doors and windows locked. There is some form of contagion spreading throughout the country. It causes extreme confusion and violence in those affected, and they are no longer safe to be around. I repeat. Stay indoors. Lock your doors and windows. Do not answer the door for anyone.”
“Molly?”
“Are you coming?” She was crying again.
“Yes.” Peter swallowed. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
The anchor woman stood, unclipped her microphone and tossed it on the desk, and then walked off-camera. Peter snapped his laptop shut and stuffed it in his courier bag. There was one last thing to do before he left. He dashed up the carpeted stairs two at a time and raced down the hall to his parents’ room. The door was closed, but he heard the muted sounds of their television on the other side. He rapped on the door with the back of his hand.
“Mom?”
There was no response. Peter hesitated, then knocked again, louder this time. “Mom? Can I come in?”
There was still no answer. That presented a dilemma. She often dozed during the day, when the pain wasn’t too bad. But once, several weeks before, he had entered her room to find her half-naked, hugging the toilet in the master bathroom. He blushed at the memory. The sense of embarrassment at seeing his mother’s naked body had almost made him turn and run. But instead, he had bent down and helped her up. But he couldn’t forget the sight.
He turned the door knob and pushed in with his shoulder, while trying to keep his eyes glued to the floor. Glancing up carefully, he saw that the bed was empty, the sheets twisted into a ball. No. Not again. His spirits sank. Peter pushed the door the rest of the way open and stepped into the room. He wrinkled his nose. What’s that smell? It was like something rotting, like an old styrofoam meat tray in the kitchen trash he had forgotten to take out.
He went to the bathroom door. It was closed, but he could see light underneath. “Mom! Are you okay?”
That’s a stupid question, he realized as soon as it crossed his lips. Of course she’s not okay.
“Mom?” He knocked.
Crash!
The door rattled in its frame. A chunk of hollow core laminate fell to Peter’s feet. A crack as long as his arm appeared in the top panel. Peter stepped back, wringing his hands. The smell was stronger now. There was another impact, followed by a mad scrabbling on the other side, as if a dog were trapped inside, trying to dig its way through. Peter took a tentative step forward and placed his ear a few inches from the door.
“I’m opening the door now, Mom.” He put his hand on the knob. A guttural moan emanated from the bathroom, deep and long like an old tornado siren. He twisted the knob slowly, trying to guess when the latch would cross the strike plate. Just when he thought it was almost there, the door was wrenched from his hand. His finger caught on the head of a screw in the knob, ripping a deep furrow along the length. Blood poured from his hand.
Peter gasped at the sight before him.
His mother stood hunched and naked in the doorway. The shriveled remains of her breasts swayed like rotten pears; the bones of her hips flared out in bold relief, rigid wings stretching her gray, mottled skin like a bizarre tent made of human flesh. Clotted blood coated her thighs. Something writhed between her legs, something small yet very alive, something that had clawed its way from inside her body.
Peter squeaked in fear. She rushed at him, a feral hunger on her face, focused on her next meal. Just like the people on television, he thought absently. He turned and ran for his life.
Twelve
Fire: The Collapse Page 11
