The Indiana Apocalypse Series

by E A Lake

  The walls were bare cement block, though I shouldn’t say completely bare. In a few spots, a dusty fading coat of white paint still remained. The floor was worn cement with ruts and water stains. It had seen much better days.

  It surprised me that the windows in the front were as clean as they were. Everything else was dirty and covered in a layer of grit. The glass in front, though, didn’t even show off a single streak. I wondered if Art was the person in charge of keeping the windows spotless or if that duty fell on one of the many visitors I’d had already barely an hour into my day.

  A strange device sat on a sturdy white oak table in the far corner of the office. If I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn it was a microwave. Given that there was no electricity in the world I’d awoken to, I figured it was an unlikely piece of equipment.

  “Say Art,” I said, pointing at the corner. “Is that a microwave?” He nodded. “In the apocalypse?”

  He smiled and went over to the corner. “We use it for storage now.” He popped the handle and retrieved a bluish-black box from inside and brought it over to me.

  The small paper package had a little weight to it. When I spun the box towards me, I nodded.

  “Forty-caliber Smith and Wesson,” I said quietly. “Which just happens to be what I shoot.”

  Art grinned and wandered back to the corner to close the microwave. “Since you take such good care of the people of this area, they decided to scrounge around and find ammo that would fit your gun. We keep it in the old microwave because Tom Hanneman claims it’s fire proof.”

  “How much we got?” I asked, unsure of if I wanted to know.

  Art scratched his chin and glanced at the ceiling. Apparently, the question was tougher than I had thought.

  “About 40 boxes,” he answered, sounding only half sure. “We had almost 50 at one point. Well, then trouble showed up last summer and you had to deal with it.”

  Just the subject I didn’t want to talk about. “So, we have about 800 rounds.” Instead of changing the topic, I just redirected it. “That should last a lifetime and more. My grandkids will be able to target shoot for years with that much stock.”

  Art looked at me with confusion. “It’s only gotten worse over the past few years, Sheriff. I know you don’t remember much, but I sure do. Things have been a little hairy lately. That’s why we’re all thrilled to have you back.”

  He pondered another thought but seemed to suppress it.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Speaking of memories,” he replied sheepishly. “I thought Morgan was supposed to go everywhere with you until you got yours back.”

  I sat back and the chair let out a loud squeak. “I wanted to go it alone this morning. See if anything looked or sounded familiar. She’ll be coming down shortly after lunchtime.”

  Art eased closer, looking hopeful. “So, does anything seem familiar yet?” His tone said more than I could understand.

  He may as well have said, ‘Get better now, Quinn. Quick, before the next trouble shows up.’ The problem was that everything still looked and sounded foreign to me.

  CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR

  A sweet, middle-aged woman and her teenaged daughter brought Art and me lunch around midday. The sandwiches were some kind of spiced beef she said, and were served on actual bread. Either she had the secret recipe for making yeast or had a stash of the stuff from the old world.

  We washed down our triangularly cut bread and meat with tepid cow’s milk. Nearly a month of living with the women gave me a taste for milk that way. Art claimed others still griped for refrigeration, but he and I agreed the world was getting along just fine without such a luxury.

  We received a hand-scrawled note from the sheriff down in Farmersburg as we finished the brownies Mrs. Haller had brought earlier in the day. Art took it from the runner and chased the youth away after giving him the last half of a brownie.

  “Sheriff Cotter says hello and glad you’re back,” Art said, tossing the note aside. “He’ll be as happy as can be now, in case trouble shows up down his way.”

  “Can’t he take care of it?” I asked, not sure if the other lawman wanted reinforcements or a hired killer.

  “God, no,” Art spit, nearly falling off his chair. “He hates killing people. I hate killing folks even more than him. There ain’t a decent person for 20 miles around with a stomach for that kind of stuff.”

  “Except me,” I murmured. What a talent I possessed. So handy to be the only one with a taste for blood in the county.

  “It just never bothered you,” Art replied, trying to cheer me up. Good luck with that, old man. “You see it for what it is. It’s like you’re a natural. When other people tuck their tail between their legs, you step in.”

  “I’m so lucky,” I sarcastically retorted. “How many have I killed in the last four years?”

  He thought for a moment. “Can’t really say. But we can go to the cemetery and figure it out.”

  Oh goodie; a field trip. To tally dead bodies no less.

  We casually walked for maybe 10 minutes before we arrived at the graveyard. To say it it was something out of an old Western movie pretty much summed it up. The hand-carved wooden grave markers added the final touch.

  The amount of markers in the cemetery were staggering. Far too many for me to easily count. There appeared to be 10 to 12 rows with 10 to 12 wooden planks each.

  “So this is everyone who has died since the apocalypse began seven-plus years ago,” I said with confidence. All of those graves couldn’t possibly be all my doing.

  “Hell no,” Art mused. “Townsfolk are buried on the west side of town in the non-denominational cemetery. These here are people we found dead somewhere near or they came to town and died.”

  Okay, that made sense. Maybe I wasn’t quite the mass murderer I had feared.

  “And then the ones you had to take care of,” Art added casually.

  Shit; that left an important question hanging between the deputy and me.

  “There must be 80 graves here,” I said, shooting a little on the low side if for no other reason than to preserve my last bit of sanity.

  “One hundred and thirteen,” Art answered proudly. I noticed he’d been counting while we’d talked. He might be old and a little odd, but he had all of his facilities.

  “So,” I continued, trying to sound causal about things. “How many of each…about.”

  “Well, let me think about that.” Art removed his ball cap and rubbed his head. “At last count, there were 39.” His pause gave me hope.

  “That’s not so bad,” I replied, feeling a little better about myself. That left 74 poor souls that had just perished because of the times.

  “Thirty-nine that have either showed up and died shortly after,” Art said, twisting his dry lips as he spoke. “And 74 that needed a lesson in manners or decency.”

  CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE

  When we returned, Morgan was in the doorway, waiting for me with a smile. I wondered if she was happy to see me or if the facial expression was something more mischievous. It was so hard to tell with her.

  “Where you been?” she asked in a flirtatious manner, squinting at me in the afternoon sun. “You weren’t off having fun without me, were you?”

  I strolled past her into the office and waited for my eyes to adjust to the light. “Just out counting dead bodies,” I lamented. “Do you have any idea how many people have died at my—”

  “I don’t care,” she interrupted, shaking her head at me, more serious than before. “According to what I found out this morning, you’re the only reason this town even exists anymore. The same can be said for Farmersburg, and Blackhawk, and Keller, and Youngstown. When people need help, they turn to you. At least, that’s what a very interesting woman with a little girl in tow said this morning.”

  She glared at me as though I was in trouble for some reason. Maybe I was, but it had to be for something I didn’t recall.

  “And?” I asked, rolling a f
inger to speed up the process.

  “Does the name Chloe Willobea ring a bell?” Morgan asked sharply.

  “No,” I snapped. “Should it?”

  “The crazy dog lady?” Art asked, stepping between us to toss his hat on his smaller desk. “So, you met Chloe, aye Morgan?” Why was he grinning like he – no they – knew something I didn’t?

  Morgan nodded slowly, crossing her arms over her chest. “Yes. And I met Avellyn as well.”

  Okay, another name I didn’t recognize.

  “Oh,” Art crowed. “I bet she’ll be happy to see you again, Sheriff. She’s probably bursting at the seams.”

  My head rotated between the two; a second on Morgan, then over to Art. Then back to Morgan, then Art. One grinned; the other didn’t seem quite as happy.

  “Okay,” I said, raising my hands in surrender. “I’ll bite; who’s Avellyn and why would she be happy to see me?”

  “You shit,” Morgan ranted, slamming a fist into my chest. “She’s your daughter.”

  After Morgan stormed away, not wanting to listen to any more of my I-can’t-remember-anything bullshit — her words not mine – I stared tightly at my deputy. For his part, he was as unconcerned about what had just transpired as a total stranger would be.

  “A daughter?” I asked, taking a step closer. Art nodded, still unconcerned. “Something like that probably should have been mentioned before now, Art. Something that might cause Morgan to explode needs to be openly discussed before she finds out on her own. I’m thinking of my physical health here. Are you listening?”

  He nodded more, shrugging away any fear.

  “Does that mean that this Chloe person and I…?” I let the question hang, hoping he was smarter enough to figure it out.

  He let out a snort and nearly fell backwards in his chair. “Avellyn ain’t from your doing, Quinn. Chloe was the wife of Sheriff two, Buck Stewart.”

  Oh thank God.

  “Now, you and Chloe been a little sweet on each other,” he continued, deflating my pride. “I can’t say you two ever been frisky with one another though.” He winked at me. “Not that you ever told me at a least.”

  “So why did Morgan say the girl was my daughter?” That was the question after all.

  “Because you treat Avellyn well,” Art answered matter-of-factly. “You’ve always looked in on her and Chloe and you’ve had a number of meals together. Took the girl fishing right before you left, you did. She’s called you Daddy just about ever since she learned to talk.”

  I thumbed my brow, trying to find a solution to the current problem. There was no reason to have Morgan all pissed at me for something I hadn’t done.

  “Okay,” I said, taking hold of Art’s arm. “We need to go tell Morgan the whole story.”

  He jumped to his feet and trotted beside me as I pushed the door open. “I don’t really want to get in the middle of your spat with the missus, Quinn. But I guess if I can help clear some of this up—”

  “Exactly,” I said, steering us to the left. “I’ll start it off and you jump in when you see her turning red…or reaching for something to throw at me.”

  Art chuckled as we made another left in the direction of my house. It was only a short distance, so with any luck, we’d have this all cleared top in a minute or two—

  “Quinn Reynolds!” a voice boomed from behind.

  When I turned, a large hulk of a fellow stood in the middle of the road. His fists were balled tight by his side and looked to be the size of footballs. In addition to the obvious, he didn’t look happy to see me.

  “You and I need to talk, Quinn Reynolds!” he shouted, shaking a large fist in my direction.

  I wasn’t getting a break. It seemed trouble was waiting at every corner.

  CHAPTER NINETY-SIX

  I nervously glanced at Art. “You know him?” I whispered.

  “Can’t say I do,” he replied quietly. “But he don’t look none too happy to see you.”

  No shit, Art.

  The giant took three steps at me and I reached for my gun. A sick feeling came over me; I had forgotten my weapon on my desk. Thanks, Morgan.

  I held both hands out. “Listen, I don’t know who you are, but let’s just talk about this.”

  The man softened and extended a humungous paw my direction. “My name is Brutus. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “Go figure that’s his name,” Art murmured.

  I stared at the hand for a moment, trying to decide if the beast was friend or foe. After studying his face for several moments, I slowly extended mine.

  “Nice to meet you,” I replied, reaching to exchange the greeting.

  The second our hands met and he began to crush mine, I knew I’d made a big mistake. Huge.

  The ease with which he pulled me forward and lifted me above his head was shocking. Granted, my guest was about six and a half feet tall and probably weighed somewhere in the range of 300 pounds. But come on, he jerked me up like I was a rag doll.

  “Gun, Art!” I shouted as Brutus tossed me into the side of an old building, breaking either some boards or my back. “Need a gun here!”

  Brutus was on me again, tugging me off the ground by one arm and throwing me a good 10 feet in the opposite direction. When I hit the ground, all of the air whooshed from my lungs, rendering me voiceless.

  As I flew through the clean clear air a third time, I began to wonder what I’d done to this man. Surely, he couldn’t be one of Shaklin’s henchmen. Killing me wouldn’t solve anything if the missing property vanished because of my death.

  “You hurt me!” he shouted, hoisting me from the ground. “You hurt me bad!” And then pounded the gravel toward me again.

  He stepped on my back and pulled one of my arms skyward. I let out a high-pitched scream as the pain seared through my arm. The pain of having my shoulder jerked out of its socket was unbearable. If he was going to kill me, I hoped he’d do it before dismembering my body.

  And then I was flying through the air again, coming to an abrupt stop against the same building I’d first struck. If I lived through the beating, I was sure an outline of my body would be permanently embedded in the wooden structure. That was only if I lived.

  A fifth or maybe sixth time, he raised me over his head. I was certain my death blow was near. I swear I could hear the angels calling my name…not that I recognized it at that point.

  A gunshot roared from behind us. Brutus spun, his beefy paws still cradling me above his massive frame.

  Maybe 20 feet away stood a woman with a handgun raised above her head. On her right stood Sara; on her left was Morgan. Between Morgan and the gun-toting lady stood a little girl. Her face was dirty and she wore a look of pure terror. She looked to be maybe seven or eight and had long hair the same color as Morgan’s.

  “Alvin Cooper,” Morgan called out sternly. “You stop that and put the sheriff down, right now!”

  Alvin? What the hell?

  I don’t think he understood Morgan very well. Or perhaps he took her a little too literally, because he dropped me from above his head, letting me crash chest first on the hard, dry ground.

  “Miss Sara,” he cried, stepping over me…well, almost over me. I did catch a boot toe in the ribs as he hustled towards the woman. “I’ve been so worried about you.”

  Huh, go figure. He was just worried about Sara. He wasn’t trying to damn near kill me, like he’d been about to. No, he was simply making a polite inquiry into someone he cared about, in his own special way.

  CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN

  The little girl rushed me as I sat up, almost knocking me over with a hug.

  “Daddy!” she shrieked. “Are you okay, Daddy?”

  “Daddy’s fine,” Morgan answered, standing over us and blocking the sun’s rays from blinding me. Now, if I could only get rid of the triple vision Brutus — Alvin — had given me.

  The child kissed my cheek and beamed from ear to ear. “I’m glad you’re back. I missed you.”

 
I tried to push her away, but man did she have a good grip for a youngster. “I need a little room here. Can you back off just a little?”

  “Avellyn,” a new voice said calmly. “Give Sheriff Reynolds a little room, please. He’s had a tough morning.”

  I nodded at her as the girl stood and took one small step back. I noticed her scabbed-over knees at the bottom hem of her dirty tan shorts.

  “Thank you,” I replied, glancing up at the woman who looked to be about Belinda’s age. “Thank you…lady.”

  She knelt beside me and stroked my left cheek. “Chloe,” she whispered. “Your friend here told me you don’t remember, but I’m Chloe.”

  She may have kept talking, but I was distracted. Her lips were moving, which meant she probably was saying something. However, the little girl was back, yakking about some turtle she’d found and wanted to keep. Adding to my distraction was Morgan kneeling beside me, poking and prodding at various body parts.

  But none of those were the issue or why I’d lost my focus. Neither was the fact that my body felt broken in every possible place. No, it was the smell; the overpowering odor of wet dog, like a million wet dogs invading my head.

  I glanced back at Chloe. “You’re the dog lady, right?”

  She smiled meekly and nodded.

  When Morgan deemed me whole, both she and Chloe helped me to my feet. The girl, Avellyn, gave my midsection a tight squeeze and I winced in pain. Perhaps I wasn’t so whole.

  I turned slowly, trying to keep my balance, when I saw Art running towards us with something in his hand.

  “Here’s your gun, Sheriff,” he gasped, nearly out of breath. “Just like you asked for.”

  I sighed. “A little late, Deputy.” I’d tried to hold back on the sarcasm long enough. Still, Art seemed to take no offense. “Never let me leave the office without it again, okay?”