2013: The Aftermath

by Shane McKenzie

  “If there are enough of us left,” Brittany muttered.

  “I’m serious, we can’t go on like this, waiting to die or starve. Let’s all meet at the mall and make it our own enclave. Then we can call our parents and have them join us.”

  “Wow!” Brittany breathed. “That’s a great idea, a giant enclave instead of a bunch of little sheltered forts, gated communities, and apartment buildings. Why didn’t someone think of that before?”

  “Look, we’ll wait till dark and sneak into the mall through the loading dock. Remember that door with the broken lock? Anyway, once inside, we’ll knock out most of the lights and it will be safe. Once we get everyone in, we’ll just barricade the whole place up. There’s plenty to eat and do, and we might even get the cinema working again and actually watch something besides those forever spooling infomercials.”

  Hope, a feeling almost dead, suddenly re-emerged from the deep place it had been hidden. This was going to work! Brittany knew it. At last, hope, an end to despair and that awful loneliness. Brittany hung up and spent the next hour on the phone, most of the time calling numbers with no answer, but occasionally hitting a live friend or acquaintance.

  She made dinner, canned soup, for her dad and tried to pretend everything was normal. Luckily, her dad rarely noticed her moods anymore. Life had become too serious to pay attention to anyone normal. She fought off the jittery feeling in her belly, the weakness in her knees. This was a great plan, a hope for the future! There was nothing to be afraid of; her friends would protect themselves and they’d start life over in her favorite place in the world. Dad wouldn’t even be mad once she called him from the mall.

  Darkness fell early as usual as autumn slowly moved toward winter. Her dad kissed her cheek. “Lock up, baby, and I’ll be home in a few hours.”

  As soon as he left to go on the foraging raid with the other remaining men, Brittany dressed for the mall. It was the first time she’d had real clothes on in weeks and it felt so good. She took half an hour with her hair and make-up.

  At the door, she had one last look at herself in the mirror and noted, with relief, that she still had a healthy tan. She went outside, shimmied up the dead tree next to the wall, and jumped over it.

  She felt funny, free for the first time in what seemed forever, and yet she was so scared. Her stomach fluttered and clenched as she tried to tiptoe the mile and a half to the mall. She avoided all the streetlights and hugged the shadows. After what seemed like hours, even though she knew it was less than one, she saw the mall loom up. The ghosts were shimmering under the huge parking lot floodlights and she gasped. This was the first time she’d really been around them since…since Mom. She wondered if they were contagious, if they really killed the healthy-skinned. She wondered how they could live huddled together, watching each other die hideously and knowing that they were next. A part of her half wanted to go up to them and offer comfort, but she turned and ran silently to the loading dock and into the silent mall.

  The fountain was quiet and filled with algae covered water. Brittany sat beside it and waited for Nikki and the gang. She felt such relief that she and her friends had found a solution to the loneliness, and as everyone knows, there is strength in numbers. Yet here she was, alone. Noises echoed down the empty halls. She knew it had to be just random sounds. She tried to feel brave, got up and walked to the store across the way. The fashions were old, last season, but she realized with a semi-hysterical laugh that fashion would always be last season. Maybe this was a dumb idea after all. She looked at another storefront and went in to try on a pair of shoes. Some of the lights were on, and Brittany wished that Nikki would hurry and show up so they could dim them more, just to be on the safe side.

  She heard a loud noise and ducked down. Could it be ghosts? She stayed hunched behind a rack and panicked. What if the place was full of ghosts? What if it were her friends?

  No matter, she had to get out, either find Nikki or run home. She tiptoed out in her new sandals and looked down the long corridor to the right. Nothing.

  The sounds were coming from the left. She prepared to run as she looked over her shoulder and heaved a shaky sigh of relief. A group of figures were coming toward her in the low light, and the leader was wearing Nikki’s favorite hat. Nikki never went to the mall without it; it was her signature. Brittany had always been jealous that Nikki thought of the hat first.

  She waved and Nikki waved back. See, everything was going to be fine, she thought, berating herself for any doubts she’d had. But all the same, a tickle of fear ran up her back as she noticed that the group coming toward her was getting larger as more people joined in from the stores. Chilled, in the hot building, she started to back away.

  The overheard lights snapped off completely. Brittany stood in the total dark, a wave of relief covering her with a comforting weakness. Her heart struggled to return to a normal rhythm. The crowd couldn’t be ghosts after all, not in the dark. They hated the dark.

  Just as suddenly as they’d gone off, all the lights flashed on, momentarily blinding her.

  As her eyes adjusted, she wished they hadn’t. She stared at the ghost standing directly in front of her, the ghost wearing Nikki’s hat and, of course, Nikki’s skin. The other ghosts were similarly attired. They all appeared to be holding large, sharp knives.

  Brittany stood frozen. A hopeless giggle bubbled up her throat and she came to the inane and random realization that she was obviously a night off, when the Nikki-garbed ghost whispered, “Trick or Treat,” and closed in on her.

  About the author:

  Diane Arrelle, the pen name of South Jersey writer Dina Leacock, has been writing for more than 20 years and has sold more than 150 short stories and 2 books. When not writing, she is the director of a municipal senior citizen center. She is married with two sons in college and a husband and cat at home.

  Stranger Times

  by Paul Starkey

  Stranger walked along the beach, with only darkness and the heavy crash of waves upon the shore for company. A fine drizzle seemed to follow his each step, and he was unsure if it was rain or spray thrown up by the waves. It didn’t matter, it didn’t slow him.

  Frost made the sand hard beneath his feet, making his progress easier, though the chill seemed to somehow permeate his boots, working its way into his bones. It was definitely getting colder, no matter what the professor said.

  Daybreak came just as he reached the first sign of inhabitation, darkness exchanged for a gray dusk that would last until sundown.

  In the darkness he hadn’t been able to see more than a couple of yards, but now dawn trebled that distance. The sand was white; the contrast sharp with the dark, angry sea. The Pacific churned and struggled, as if it could somehow break free of its bonds. It was a doomed endeavor; the sea was a prisoner eternal.

  Stranger sympathized.

  He had the ocean half a dozen yards to his left, on his right the beach rose up towards a low concrete wall. Beyond the wall there was nothingness. Stranger had the urge to explore, but fought it down. He had his compass, but it was best not to rely on it unless he absolutely had to those days. He remembered a training stint in Antarctica, how you could become lost just a handful of steps from camp.

  He shivered involuntarily. He didn’t want to know just how cold Antarctica was these days.

  The urge kept niggling at him, tempting him with the lure of supplies: food, weapons, maybe even fuel. He knew the truth—there’d be nothing there but bones and dust, and a million lost souls condemned to wander until they dropped.

  Even the torch he carried wouldn’t be much help. It would cut through another few yards of gloom, but ironically, was more use in the day; during the dark the beam was quickly swallowed by the void.

  No, ignore temptation; stick to the beach, with the wall on one side and the waves on the other funneling you onwards, no chance of going the wrong way. Prisoner of the path, because going on was all that was left.

  When the sign appeare
d out of the haze he at first thought it was a person, and even though he was well trained enough not to panic, his left hand drifted closer to the hilt of his knife, just as his right moved almost imperceptibly towards the Smith and Wesson .45 holstered at his hip.

  Clearly not a person though, unless the world was even more screwed up than they all thought, so that humans had begun to evolve into creatures with spindly, wide-placed legs atop rectangular bodies.

  The sign was as tall as he was, its legs metal cylinders stabbed deep into the sand. He saw rust rising up from the ground. The earth was slowly devouring them; nature would reclaim everything eventually.

  Beneath the scarf wrapped around his nose and mouth, Stranger smiled grimly. I used to be a lot more optimistic, he thought.

  The sign was filthy, and he could only make out the odd letter, and a single word.

  Beer.

  His smile widened. Despite the temperature, despite the fact that his body craved warmth, still part of him couldn’t help but salivate at the notion of a cold beer.

  The dirt and frost that obscured the sign brushed away easily under his gloved hand, and though the image below the grime was faded, still the writing was clear.

  Hobbie’s Surf Shack

  Beer-Burgers-Wax

  100 Yards This Way Dude!

  An arrow pointed dead ahead. To the left of the writing was a drawing of a bronzed young man in Hawaiian shorts. He had sun bleached hair, and his right arm was wrapped around a surfboard that was jabbed into the sand beside him. On the other side of the surfer was stood a slender, young woman in a string bikini. Her right hand was resting lovingly against the young man’s bicep, whilst in her left she held a beer bottle, drops of condensation evident on the glass.

  Both of them shared the same expression, a vague, glazed look in the eyes that suggested either the artist was crap at doing faces, or that Hobbie’s Surf Shack had sold more than beer, burgers, and wax.

  Stranger looked in the direction the arrow was pointing, but could see nothing. Hefting the small rucksack on his back he started walking again. The sign had said a hundred yards but he’d covered only half that distance when a weak searchlight beam swung his way out of the gloom.

  “Stop there please.”

  The shout was barely above a whisper, so loud were the waves. Stranger did as he was asked, planting his feet apart, letting his hands hang freely by his sides. He strained but couldn’t see much beyond the beam of light. Already he was considering things. Fifty yards in daylight was good these days, so as weak as the beam looked, it must have been pretty powerful. He wondered if they had them on every approach. In darkness the range would be better though. The rules of combat had turned on their head from the way he was trained. These days only a fool would ever launch an attack at night.

  After a minute with no further sound, Stranger decided to take the initiative. Pulling down the scarf he shouted a reply. “I don’t mean any trouble. I’d happily trade for some food and a comfortable place to lay my head for a night, but I appreciate if you don’t take in visitors. So long as you can tell me a safe way around you I’ll carry on my way.”

  No response was forthcoming, and Stranger was weighing potential reasons. Maybe his words hadn’t carried, or maybe they were deciding what to do with him. His feet itched, and he fought the urge to take a few steps back out of the feeble spotlight.

  “Hang on…just hang on, mister. Just a minute, please.”

  He almost chuckled. The owner of the voice sounded young, but that could be illusion. At any rate, Stranger noted the curious mixture of trepidation and amazement that he’d heard many times before. Without fail, people were always happy to see another living soul, but with that came wariness. Would they be friend or foe?

  He waited another five minutes in silence, knowing he had no option, stepping from one foot to the other to keep his circulation going, flexing his fingers for the same reason. In case he had to run, in case he had to fight.

  “Hi there!”

  Another voice: older, more self assured, but carrying the same echoes of hope and fear.

  “How you doing?” Stranger replied.

  “Fine, just wish the sun wasn’t so damn hot.”

  Stranger laughed, and not just out of politeness. “I know the feeling. So, are you in charge here?”

  “After a fashion,” said the ghostly voice. “Ben here says you wanted to trade?”

  “That’s right, though I don’t rightly have a lot to offer. Be nice just to be warm, even if only for a few hours.”

  “I think we can manage that. But we got strict rules here. Sure you understand.”

  “I understand.”

  “You walk towards the light. When you get closer we’ll open the gate for you. Once inside you surrender any weapons, and you allow yourself to be checked out before we let you in proper. You’ll get your guns and suchlike back when you leave, but while you’re here you have to trust us. Okay?”

  “Understood.” Stranger expected no less. These people had a community; they had things and people to protect. He was a lone traveler, an unknown quantity, and whilst there was still charity in the world, these days it came with a price. Sometimes you had to trust in people who might kill you and eat you.

  “Come on in then, but just so you know, there are rifles pointed at you. Sorry, but you know how it is.”

  “I do.”

  There were no more instructions. Stranger walked on, feeling vulnerable in the spotlight. The ground grew no warmer, but the world did get a little lighter as he approached the source, and after another twenty five yards he could start to see where he was heading. A vague wall in the distance, and either side of the searchlight were smaller lights, lanterns maybe. He saw shadows, some flitting between the lights, others not moving.

  Those would be the snipers.

  Closer still and he saw the composition of the walls. Rusted hulks of automobiles, some more recognizable than others, wedged in tight, nose to tail, with another row of cars on top of them, making the wall seven or eight feet high.

  Not high enough, thought the tactician in him.

  He frowned as he drew closer. There was no gap in the wall, no obvious gate, so how was he supposed to…?

  He laughed when the passenger door of a Chevy Impala swung open with a squeal. That was clever, though maybe not clever enough. He wondered if all the other cars had their doors welded shut. There was a lot of glass there, so even if someone had to smash his way in and squirm through, a big enough force could get through the wall as easily as over it.

  Awkwardly, he clambered into the Impala, marveling at the hint of new car smell that still clung to the inside; despite the car looking like it’d been abandoned for decades. It wasn’t easy but he made it through to the other side where the matching door was open.

  “Take it slow now,” came the voice of the man nominally in charge.

  Stranger obliged. When he was through, he stood slowly and kept his hands half raised, not so much in surrender as away from his weapons. The walls of the small room were coated in grimy tiles that looked to have once been white. It took a few seconds to register that there were showerheads attached to the walls, drooping like dead flowers. Oil lamps burned in two corners, casting the room in shadow. There was one doorway, the only exit besides the way he’d come, and after a moment, the only exit at all as the Impala’s doors slammed shut.

  Suddenly the doorway was filled by a figure, a youngish man with a scraggily, blonde beard and long hair, wearing a greatcoat several sizes too big for him. He looked like a kid playing dress up. Only this child held an M-16 at his hip, the barrel pointed at Stranger’s guts. Stranger lifted his hands a little higher.

  The kid’s eyes were clear at least, with a calmness that belied his years. People grew up quick those days. He shuffled to one side, his aim never wavering, and then a second man walked through the door. He was older, his dark skin lined and cracked, and there was some gray in the dreadlocks cut close to his s
calp. He wore scuffed cargo pants and a denim jacket, and Stranger suddenly appreciated how much warmer it was in there.

  The older man’s hands were in his pockets, and he was smiling, the expression going beyond his lips, creasing the corners of eyes that looked like they’d seen a lot of misery, yet hadn’t lost hope.

  Instinctively, Stranger knew this was the man in charge.

  “I’m Father Daniel,” the man said.

  “I’m known as Stranger.”

  Father Daniel allowed himself a wry smile, but made no comment about the name. “Be nice to see the man I’m talking to.”

  Stranger nodded. He unwound the scarf and pulled down his hood. Without being asked he shrugged his rucksack from his shoulder, then removed his jacket and let both fall to the floor. He wondered what the two of them made of him; a man close to fifty who carried the muscles of someone younger beneath his dark sweater, close-cropped hair that was a bright, Nordic blonde, and a craggy face coated in stubble that was all gray; a faint scar that curved like a crescent moon around his right eye, another that neatly bisected his chin.