by Bible, Jake
Elsbeth nodded and waited until Granny G fell back asleep.
Elsbeth didn’t exactly stay and she didn’t exactly leave. She waited until the night came and then she slipped inside Granny G’s house, crawled into bed, and held the old woman in her arms.
It wasn’t that night, it wasn’t that week, but eventually Granny G just didn’t wake up. Elsbeth was there. She gripped the hand, feeling the life leave it. There were tears, many tears.
When the dawn light broke through the window, lighting on Granny G’s still serene face, Elsbeth kissed her brow and slipped silently out of the house, out of the Stronghold, out of a life she had been blessed to ever have.
She got to be a Stanford and there could have been no greater wish, no greater life.
No greater family.
The End
Author’s Note
Don’t cry! This isn’t the end!
Well, yeah, it is, but only of this part of the story. You can find out more of what happens to the folks in the Stronghold (and what the Stronghold actually is) in my Dead Team Alpha series. And you can find out how the world survives all this in my Apex Trilogy which begins with Dead Mech.
Like I promised in the introduction to Z-Burbia, if this relaunch takes off then maybe I’ll be able to get to some of the other stories Granny G promised would be read. The sisters journals, Charlie’s life, Greta’s life, and the many, many other stories from the Stronghold and all across the post-apocalyptic landscape.
We’ll see...
Cheers,
Jake Bible
June 2021
Asheville, NC
About The Author
A Bram Stoker Award nominated-novelist, short story writer, independent screenwriter, podcaster, and inventor of the Drabble Novel, Jake is the author of over sixty-five published novels including the bestselling Z-Burbia zombie apocalypse series, the bestselling Salvage Merc One military scifi series, the bestselling Roak: Galactic Bounty Hunter space crime series, the fan favorite hit Team Grendel/Mega thriller series, and his original post-apocalyptic mech/zombie mash-up, the Apex Trilogy. His other novels include the YA zombie novel, Little Dead Man, the Bram Stoker Award nominated YA horror novel, Intentional Haunting, the middle grade scifi/horror series, ScareScapes, and the historical fiction/space opera mash-up series, Reign of Four, for Permuted Press, as well as Stone Cold Bastards and the Black Box Inc. series for Bell Bridge Books.
Born and raised in the Pacific Northwest, Jake currently lives in Asheville, NC with his wife, two cats, an old dog, and occasionally his college-aged kids. He enjoys the eclectic, outdoorsy attitude of the area and the good ol’ Southern hospitality. But, he really, really wishes the tourists would go away.
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Kaiju Winter: An End Of The World Thriller
One
“Jesus, this suit is roasting,” Dr. Coral Hartness snaps as she suffers yet another drop of sweat falling into her eye. “Couldn’t Bartolli have sprung for the cooled versions?”
“He did,” Dr. Robert Tomlinson replies as the two volcanologists make their awkward way across the ash covered earth a few miles from the epicenter of the Yellowstone caldera. “But the bastard kept those suits for himself. Like the ass is ever going to come out here in the field.”
Ash falls about the two scientists, adding to the six inches that already coats the dry and cracked earth underneath. There to recalibrate the eastern sensors in Zone Two of the supervolcano, Dr. Hartness and Dr. Tomlinson are ready to get the final task finished and head back to the “comfort” of Bozeman, Montana a few miles away.
Not that Bozeman is either comfortable or safe since the entire population has been evacuated in response to the imminent eruption of the Yellowstone supervolcano. Neither of them is happy they have to fetch their own towels and bed sheets at the abandoned motel they are staying in. Especially since they have to wrap the towels and linens in plastic to walk the breezeway from the office to their rooms in order to keep the ash from soiling everything.
“You two know the radio is on, right?” Dr. Cheryl Probst of the United States Geological Survey says in their ears.
“Yeah, but we know you are the only one back in Virginia listening,” Dr. Hartness responds. “Bartolli hasn’t once done radio duty.”
“Would you want him to?” Dr. Probst laughs. “Half the reason you go into the field is to get away from that ass.”
“Says the woman that gets to sleep in a bed without having to wear a respirator,” Dr. Tomlinson grumbles. “Want to trade places? You are welcome to come out into the field in my place. I don’t mind.”
“Just fix the sensors and get back to the motel,” Dr. Probst says. “You can have a few drinks and sleep the night away knowing you only have two more days of repairs.”
“Cram that bright side up your ass, Cheryl,” Dr. Hartness laughs. “You can also cram anything else up there you want. Be my guest.”
“There it is,” Dr. Tomlinson says as he points to the top of a black box that sticks up from the ash. “Last one, then I’m taking Dr. Probst’s advice and heading back to get drunk.”
“I didn’t say get drunk. I said have some drinks,” Dr. Probst replies.
The scientists kneel down by the box and get to work, each systematically going over the machine to double check each other’s work so they can make sure they don’t have to come back out and repair the sensor any time soon.
“That should do it,” Dr. Tomlinson says. “Is it working?”
“Hold on,” Dr. Probst says.
The two doctors wait not so patiently as their colleague back in Reston, Virginia goes over the signal and readings being sent to the USGS headquarters. Dr. Tomlinson looks up at the dreary winter sky, ignoring the small flakes of ash that begin to coat the plastic face mask he wears. It’s almost impossible to tell what are actual clouds and what are the never ending ash clouds that puff up from various points close to the Yellowstone caldera. The man shakes his head and then looks down, watching the grey flakes softly land on the unseen ground.
“Anything?” Dr. Hartness asks.
“Yeah,” Dr. Probst replies. “But it isn’t making sense. Is there a vehicle close by?”
“A vehicle?” Dr. Hartness asks. “What kind of question is that?”
“I’m getting readings, but they are uniform...almost rhythmic,” Dr. Probst replies. “That’s why I wanted to know if a vehicle was close by. Maybe some redneck that didn’t evacuate and is out in his bubba truck with the stereo on.”
Dr. Hartness turns awkwardly in her environment suit, the thick plastic crinkling and bending as she looks at Dr. Tomlinson. The man looks back at her and shrugs his shoulders, which looks more like a twitch in his identically bulky and awkward suit.
“We don’t see anything,” Dr. Hartness says. “It would have to be some stereo system for the sensor to pick it up.”
“Do you feel anything?” Dr. Probst asks. “Because whatever it is should be right about...huh. Never mind. It stopped.”
“Does that mean we can go now?” Dr. Tomlinson asks.
“I just mentioned a weird anomaly the sensor is picking up and you think you can go?” Dr. Probst laughs mockingly. “Nice try, Bob.”
“I hate you, Cheryl,” Dr. Tomlinson replies. “We’ll take it apart and start over.”
“Joy,” Dr. Hartness sighs.
Dr. Tomlinson kneels next to the box again and pulls his tools back out from his bag. He gets the sensor open, and then stops, one hand resting on the ground.
“Hey...I do feel something,” Dr. Tomlinson says. “It’s getting stronger. Coral, check this out. This doesn�
�t feel-”
Dr. Tomlinson is yanked down flat and a large cloud of ash explodes up around him. He’s jammed hard against the ground, his arm lost from sight and the rest of him shaking as he starts screaming bloody murder.
“Bob!” Dr. Hartness yells as she rushes forward. “Bob! What is it?”
“Jesus Christ!” Dr. Tomlinson screams. “It has my arm! IT HAS MY ARM!”
Then the man is suddenly free and rolling across the ground, his right arm torn from his body. Blood sprays everywhere, turning the grey ash black. Instead of continuing forward, Dr. Hartness stumbles back, turns, and throws up. The vomit fills her suit which makes her vomit again, but even harder as her colleague lies on the ground screeching.
“Coral! Bob!” Dr. Probst shouts over the radio. “What’s going on? What happened?”
Dr. Hartness rips the hood off her suit and wriggles out of the whole thing as fast as possible, her chest coated in her own sickness. She keeps her eyes averted from the man crying for help just feet from her, afraid she’ll never stop vomiting. Unfortunately, what she sees instead doesn’t comfort her any.
“What the hell...?” she rasps as ash begins to coat her throat.
The ground before her cracks and splits, and then something comes shooting out; something long and bright blue. It wraps around Dr. Hartness’ body and yanks her down into the newly formed hole, folding her in half in order to make her fit. Blood spurts up from the hole like a small geyser. Geysers are common around the Yellowstone area, just not ones made of human blood.
“Bob!” Dr. Probst yells. “Tell me what is happening!”
But Dr. Tomlinson is too busy screaming to give her an answer. Then he’s too busy being yanked into the hole after Dr. Hartness by the same long, bright blue thing. His screams are cut off and all that can be heard is the buzzing of the radio earpiece in Dr. Hartness’ suit that is slowly being covered over in ash as it lies empty on the ground.
“Bob! Coral! Someone talk to me!” Dr. Probst yells from the earpiece. “Hello? Hello? Tell me you’re okay! Let me hear your voices! Please!”
THE SOUND OF HANK WILLIAMS’ “Lonesome Whistle” plays quietly as the late model sedan makes its way down the ash coated Montana highway. Special Agent Tobias Linder watches out the windshield as tiny flakes of ash float down from the sky, adding to the three plus inches that have accumulated just in the past 48 hours alone. He’s lost count of what the actual total is now.
His attention drifts from Highway 37 to his dashboard and the small device that continually flashes red numbers at him. He sighs as the number climbs from 36% to 38% in seconds. Another two miles and the number hits 40%, telling him he can just make it to his destination before he has to change the air filters. Otherwise, the car’s engine will be choked with ash and turned into a useless hunk of metal.
His phone chimes for the seventeenth time that morning, but he ignores it, knowing exactly what the voicemail will say. As much as he’d like to do his duty, as ordered by the Office of the President of the United States, Linder has a wholly different agenda than helping with the evacuation of the Southwest United States. There’s business waiting for him in Champion, Montana, a small town just a few miles ahead on the edge of Lake Koocanusa.
Or so he hopes.
It’s taken him well over a decade, and hundreds of dead end clues, to track down this place, and supervolcano or no supervolcano, Linder has zero intention of letting his one chance slip away. He’s been so close in the past, but come up short every time. This time, he knows in his gut he’s right, that the person he’s been hunting is only a couple miles ahead. And it all came down to one monitored phone call.
The last refrains of Hank Williams fade away, but Linder ignores the lack of music as he comes around a bend and finds himself facing two sheriff’s patrol cars parked across the road. He comes to a stop and rolls his window down as a puzzled looking deputy walks up to the side of his car, a light blue medical mask across his mouth and nose.
“Sorry, sir, but the highway is closed,” the deputy says, pulling the mask down. “Champion is being evacuated today and this stretch of road is one way only.”
“I understand, Deputy...?”
“Mikellson,” the man replies. Tall, square shouldered, and young, Deputy Eric Mikellson leans forward, his eyes studying the interior of the car. “You have business in Champion, Special Agent...?”
Linder grins and pulls his badge from his pocket, flipping it open for Mikellson to see.
“Special Agent Linder,” Linder says. “How’d you know I was FBI?”
“Good guess,” Mikellson shrugs. “You look federal and your car sure looks federal.” He nods at the air filter gauge stuck to the dashboard. “I just watched the webinar on those things and know they’re only handing them out to agencies assisting with evacuations.” He nods his head towards the patrol cars. “Guess they forgot to ship us ours.”
“The ash shut down your engines yet?” Linder asks.
“Not yet,” Mikellson replies, “but just a matter of time.”
“That’s the saying of the day, isn’t it?” Linder laughs, looking towards the patrol cars. “Think I can get through? I have some business to take care of in Champion.”
“I doubt that,” Mikellson laughs. “Only business in Champion is fishing, hunting, and camping.” He peers up into the early winter sky and the constant fall of ash. “And ain’t none of that happening around here anymore.”
“Right, right,” Linder nods, grabbing a manila folder from the passenger’s seat. He opens it and pulls out a photo of a young boy. “You ever seen this boy before?”
Mikellson reaches for the photo and Linder reluctantly lets it go. The deputy studies the picture for a few seconds, and then shakes his head.
“Can’t say that I have, Special Agent,” Mikellson says.
“Linder,” Linder smiles, “you can call me Linder.”
“Well, Linder, he doesn’t ring a bell,” Mikellson says, “but we get so many kids up here in the summer it’s hard to keep track of them all. Come winter, my mind usually wipes the slate clean and makes room for the new faces that show up in the late spring.”
“Of course, totally understand,” Linder nods, tapping the photo. “But this is an old picture taken when he was six. The boy would be about seventeen now. I’ve been looking for him since he was born and I got a lead that pointed me this way. He’d probably be a lot taller and might even have facial hair. And he’s staying with an older woman, I believe. Red hair, green eyes, looks like a mature model for L.L. Bean. Or she used to, at least.”
Mikellson hands the picture back to Linder and shakes his head. “Sorry, Linder. Wish I could help you, but I can’t. Haven’t seen this boy, and to be honest, there’s a lot of fine looking older women up around here. Just the way the land breeds ‘em.”
Mikellson gives a short laugh and smacks his hand on the car door.
“Sorry you wasted your time coming all this way,” Mikellson says. “I’m sure you’re needed down with the major evacs to the south.”
Linder watches the deputy for a long, hard second then smiles wide. “Oh, I don’t think I wasted my time,” he says, then points at the patrol cars. “You mind if I move through and have a chat with your sheriff? Since I’m already here. I promise not to waste any of his time.”
“Her,” Mikellson says. “Sheriff Stieglitz is a woman.”
“Really?” Linder asks. “Didn’t know Montana was so enlightened.”
“We are in Lincoln County,” Mikellson says. “You fit the job and it’s yours. That’s how we do things around here. And it’s the 21st century.”
“Then may I proceed to Sheriff Stieglitz? I won’t be a bother to her at all,” Linder says. “Scouts honor.”
Mikellson watches Linder for a couple of seconds then nods. He backs away from the car and pulls his mask up over his nose and mouth.
“Go ahead,” Mikellson says, then he turns and waves at the other deputy standing by the ca
rs.
The man cocks his head, shrugs his shoulders and gets into one of the patrol cars. The engine sputters as its starts up, but it catches and the deputy reverses enough to make space for Linder’s sedan.
“I appreciate it,” Linder says as he puts the car into drive. “I’ll only be a few minutes, then on my way and out of your hair. I know you have more important things to think about than some stupid fed coming around right when you’re all trying to get your friends and neighbors to safety.”
“We sure ain’t bored these days, that’s for sure,” Mikellson says as he waves Linder along. “Drive safe and watch that filter gauge. The ash is getting heavier and heavier by the day.”
“Thank you, Deputy Mikellson.” Linder nods as he rolls up his window and slowly moves the car past the two patrol cars.
The second deputy waits a minute, and then puts the patrol car back in place, so both sides of Highway 37 are blocked again.
“Who was that?” Deputy Shane Weaver asks as he pulls his soft bulk from his car and adjusts his face mask. “Stephie said no one gets through.”
“FBI,” Mikellson says. “Looking for someone.”
“In this shit?” Weaver asks, spreading his arms as the ash continues to fall. “Who is he looking for?”
“Someone that doesn’t want to be found,” Mikellson says.
SHERIFF STEPHIE STIEGLITZ stands on the curb outside Sheena’s Diner, her brow smeared with soot and sweat as she watches a family board one of the school buses being used to evacuate the townsfolk of Champion. The family’s father helps the youngest up the steps, while the mother holds the older one’s hand, waiting their turn. The girl looks over her shoulder and her eyes crinkle, the smile hidden behind her medical mask.
Stephie lowers her own mask so the girl can see her reassuring smile. Champion is a very small town, and Stephie knows every single person being loaded onto the dirty yellow school bus. This little girl, Brita Hoverson, just turned seven last Monday, the day the Yellowstone supervolcano started to spew ash actively into the atmosphere.
