Apocalyptic Beginnings Box Set

by M. D. Massey

  His stomach rumbled, reminding him it was time for his predawn breakfast. He grabbed his jacket, eager to reach his secret lookout post. He shook his head in disappointment at Justin’s near insolence when he had flatly forbidden the kid to leave the hotel (without him) for those risky scavenger hunts. It wasn’t safe out there. Alone. Hell, it was plain idiotic. And, what yanked his chain even harder was that despite everything Dean had done to keep everyone safe, they made him out as the bad guy when enforcing his plain and simple rules.

  Dean inventoried the supplies in his pack, and his thoughts drifted to the Stockton Boys. There was something about Nate and Paxton that had him worried. There wasn’t much he could do to control the two’s wild antics and their frequent rampages through the town. On several occasions, Dean had found gruesome evidence of the Stockton Boys’ massacres: hundreds of dead-heads slaughtered in the streets, their pulverized innards melded into the bloodied asphalt.

  However, Dean had remained extremely firm regarding one particular rule: to wash off that dad-blast-it gunk (the remains of what was once human) off their trucks before returning to the hotel. The stench was unbearable. Luckily for the sake of everyone, Paxton and Nate had obliged. Perhaps he shouldn’t concern himself so much over those two; after all, they did haul out the trash and bring in the fuel. Still, if those two happened not to make it back to the hotel one day, he’d be a happier man.

  A soft rapping at the door brought Dean back from his troublesome thoughts. “Yep?” Dean shouted. No answer. Must be Ella. He scurried to the door. Sure could go for a stiff cup of Joe right about now.

  Dean opened the door to his suite. Ella stood there holding a sheet of paper for him to read. This was her way of communicating. The poor thing hadn’t spoken a word since that day he had rescued LuLu and her. He read the handwritten note: POWER’S OUT IN THE KITCHEN.

  “Hell’s bells,” he exclaimed and hurried down the stairs. Damn, that’s the second time this week. And, he had a pretty good notion of the culprit or culprits. Must be the Stockton Boys messin’ with me, trying to stir up some shit. Or, were they trying to figure how the whole generator system worked? He had purposely never explained the generator setup to Paxton and Nate. He had even added an unnecessary contraption of wires and hardware to make it look more complicated than it was. No, he needed them to need him. An eerie feeling told him it was the best life insurance policy he had ever invested in.

  Dean sat in the dining room and devoured a quick bowl of Grape-Nuts cereal, one of his favorites (probably because it had been his granddaddy’s favorite). It had taken a while to MacGyver the generators into working again; evidently, they’d been tampered with.

  Ella busied herself in the kitchen, no doubt whipping up something wonderful for lunch as usual. Dean pulled out the tattered notepad from his front shirt pocket to review his never-ending “to do” list. He debated over skipping his usual morning post at the Nut Tree overpass down the road. He supposed he could miss one day. He stood in the doorway, his lungs rejoicing the sweet-smelling rain-cleansed air. The rain had finally stopped. The first storm of the season had been quite a doozy. And from the looks of it, Mother Nature wasn’t done yet. She had more housecleaning to do as another storm front of dark-blue clouds moved in. He had decided to forego his daily trip when Ella tapped the back of his shoulder. She handed him his cooler.

  “Ella, you’re such a sweetheart.” Guess that settles it—might as well go take a look-see. Besides, he had things to mull over. First and foremost was, what did the Stockton Boys have to gain by sabotaging their power source?

  On his way to the Nut Tree overpass, Dean noticed an inordinate number of dead-heads scampering about. Of course, he had left about six hours later than usual. Still, he found it alarming. In the wee hours of the morning, right about dawn or thereabouts, while the dead-heads (I’ve got to start calling them zombies.) apparently slept, he could count on little activity in the streets. Occasionally, he’d encounter an early-riser. In their early morning groggy-state, the zombies merely leered and gurgled while struggling to find their feet, half-heartedly lunging at the passing Fiat like a house cat might yearn for a bird through the window, knowing its prey was beyond reach.

  “Those dad-blast-it things are downright spunky today.” Dean swerved, missing a mob that jumped out from behind a GMC van. “Christ on a Pony!” Never seen ’em move that quick. For some reason, he got this odd feeling they were systematically searching for something or someone, a notion he found troublesome. The scene reminded him of a posse for lack of a better word, like in those old Western movies his granddaddy had loved so much.

  Turning onto Nut Tree Road, his stomach flip-flopped at the possibility of zombies becoming quicker and more aggressive. And, even more chilling, was the notion they might be in the process of evolving. Did the rain stimulate them somehow? Better ask Justin, the Zombie Expert, about the evolution of zombies. He chuckled. He parked the car in a zombie-free zone, for there were none in his field of vision.

  Dean made it to his secret lookout post on the edge of the desolate city of Vacaville. There was no one to rescue him if he got into trouble, breaking one of his own rules: Always have a partner to watch your back. He stepped up onto the big rig’s side-railing, thinking he’d better draw up the plans to reinforce the hotel’s front entrance fencing. If the rain stimulated dead-heads, they were in for a hellacious winter.

  Dean eased into the passenger seat, relieved he made it to his post without having to deal with zombie bloodshed, one sure-fire way to ruin his appetite. His mouth watered just thinking about the lunch Ella had packed. “What do we have today?” He took a whiff of the sandwich. Spam and Miracle Whip. Gotta love it.

  A screeching scream scorched his ears. His coveted sandwich went flying into the air, luckily landing in his lap. “Holy Mother of God!” Did LuLu follow me? His eyes skimmed the overpass, expecting to find LuLu outside the door—in a heap of trouble. But, the scream hadn’t come from outside.

  “I, I’ve got a gun . . .” a shrilly voice from behind warned. “I’ll shoot you! Believe me, I will not—hesitate,” her voice faltered.

  Dean had a feeling she was bluffing. “Whoa, lady—h-hold on a minute. Don’t mean you any trouble. Say, how in blazes did you wind up in here?” Dean cautiously twisted around in the seat. A beautiful woman draped in a blanket and apparently nothing else stood behind him in the cab’s sleeper. He couldn’t help but stare in complete wonderment. She stood there shivering, her knuckles turning white from clutching the blanket so tightly.

  “Not to worry, I’m harmless—a perfect gentleman.” Dean slowly turned back around in the seat. “Best, you get dressed ’fore you catch pneumonia.” He avoided mentioning the flu, the Super Summer flu. “Hope you don’t mind if I stay put. That scream of yours most likely alerted every creeper in the county,” he said emphatically, rubbing his ears.

  “Fine, but don’t turn around until I say it’s okay,” she warned.

  Dean heard her tossing things around in the sleeper, most likely looking for something to wear. As he recalled, there wasn’t much in the sleeper. Some worn work clothes, tools, kitchen supplies, and the bottle of Crown Royal he had stashed. It was all he could do to keep from stealing a glance in the rearview mirror, but he didn’t want to risk losing her trust or for that matter, risk a bullet hole in his brain if she hadn’t been bluffing.

  After a very long couple of minutes, she spoke. “All right, you can turn around,” she mumbled quickly as if unsure.

  Dean turned around to find her brandishing a butcher knife, which she must have found in the cab’s kitchenette. Lord, please don’t let this woman be a complete whack-job. Got enough on my plate as it is.

  He raised his hands in defense. “Honestly, I don’t wish you any harm. Here—take this.” He slowly handed her his 9mm. I’d much rather be shot than slashed.

  She reached for the butt of the gun and let out a gorgeous smile with dimples and all. “Hi, I’m Scarlett, Scarlett
from Roseville.”

  Dean responded by shaking her hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Scarlett from Roseville. I’m Dean from Winters.” He couldn’t help but smile back at her charming smile. To his surprise, she gave him a huge hug followed by agonizing sobs; her entire body quavered while he held her steadily in his arms. He wanted to say something, anything, to comfort the despondent woman but decided it best to keep his trap shut. Hell, probably wind up sayin’ something to make her feel worse. He never was good at that sort of thing. Funny thing, as he recalled, it had been the same way when he had first found Ella and LuLu.

  After the woman’s sobbing spell, they sat down in the cab’s front seats. He waited for her to speak first. She was in her mid to late twenties and wore a pair of men’s overalls that she must have found in the sleeper. Her long, black hair, accented by a strikingly attractive widow’s peak, had been knotted in a bun, revealing her stunning facial features, which he tried not to notice. That humdinger of a storm must have separated her from her people. Her friends were most likely nearby. Dean handed her a bottle of water from his pack. She gulped it down faster than all get-out.

  “Oh, thank you, thank you—so sorry,” she offered.

  He unscrewed the lid to his thermos, offering it to her, disappointed he’d be missing out on the soup; it was one of his favorites. “This’ll take the chill off. Nothing like a can of piping-hot Progresso Beef and Barley soup.”

  Her eyes lit up as she took the thermos. “You’re too kind.” She sipped at the hot soup.

  He watched as she closed those breathtaking, aquamarine eyes of hers and sat back in the chair. She was finally at ease, from the looks of it.

  “This is wonderful. I really don’t know what to say.” She sighed.

  “For starters, what in tarnation are you doing here?” he asked again, anxious for news and selfishly hoped she was with a big group of survivors, maybe even a military escort. It would be the answer to his prayers.

  “Well—” She faltered and looked out the window as if talking were too much to bear. The tears welled up in the corners of her eyes. She cleared her throat, stalling.

  He didn’t push her; instead, he took a bite of his Spam sandwich and waited for her to explain.

  “I got stranded in the rainstorm yesterday evening. Had to ditch the car—had three flat tires. Do you know what it’s like driving on three flat tires?” She turned and looked at him as if expecting an answer.

  “I can only imagine,” he said.

  “It’s impossible. And loud. Jeez Louise, creepers were everywhere,” she gasped. “I had to make a run for it. Good thing I’ve been working out.”

  She started laughing, nearing hysterics from what he could tell. “So, you out-ran a mob of dead-heads?” Dean figured that was what she had meant.

  “It was the biggest flippin’ pack I’ve ever seen.”

  “Think carefully. Where did this happen, exactly? Where did you leave the car?” He figured it would be the best place to start a search party. He needed to find the people she was traveling with before they left without her.

  “Jeez,” she paused, “the last road sign I remember said Dixon, I think? It was pouring, and I was, well, a bit crazy.”

  He stared at her, flabbergasted. “You mean to say you ran all the way from Dixon to Vacaville?”

  “So, this is Vacaville?” She seemed stunned.

  He nodded. “After you left your car . . .” he prompted, bringing her back to her story.

  Her eyes held a vacant look. “Car, oh, yes. Creepers everywhere. I think the rain confused them at first. But it must have recharged them—” her voice drifted when she looked out the window.

  He followed her gaze to a small mob of five dead-heads shambling from the intersection to the overpass. “Not to worry, they can’t see us from there,” he reassured. They scooted down in their seats and waited for the mob to meander past the big rig. To Dean’s astonishment, the mob stopped below the cab. They peered up as if the damn things knew the two of them were in the truck.

  “Oh please, oh please, oh please—” The woman started to panic.

  He held his fingers to his lips. “Shhhh.” Dean squeezed her hand lightly.

  Two trucks raced down Orange Drive, horns blaring. Must be Paxton and Nate. How many other idiots drove around purposely antagonizing as many dead-heads as possible? He watched in relief as the dead-heads made a spasmodic beeline for the intersection no doubt following the sounds of the revving engines. He frowned inwardly, knowing he’d have to drive over that god-awful stench of slippery, congealed innards.

  “What is that?” the woman asked.

  “That will be Nate and Paxton on one of their—shall we say—Pest Control Runs. Perfect timing, I might add.”

  They sat up in their seats and watched the mob scuttle toward the commotion. They were definitely moving quicker than usual, albeit, still with that awkward gait.

  “You notice anything peculiar?” Dean thought out loud.

  Her light-blue eyes grew wider. “They’re faster.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” Dean contemplated.

  “How’s that even possible?” She gulped.

  “Something tells me those things are getting smarter as well,” he almost whispered. The woman nodded in agreement. “Well, if they are evolving, all the more reason to get you back to your people. Do you know where they might be? Do you have a way to contact them? By the way, where you folks headin’? Are you traveling with the military?” Dean no longer resisted the barrage of questions he’d been dying to ask. Help at last. He had found a place for Ella and LuLu. He could go back to Winters and fish his life away.

  Her lovely complexion turned ashen, and she suddenly seemed cold and distant, blankly staring out the window while he anxiously awaited her response. Dean waited impatiently. Finally, the woman turned to look at him and gave him a brief, tense smile, no dimples this time.

  “Actually,” she paused, “there is no one else.” The words came out in a hoarse whisper.

  Dean let out an uneasy laugh. “Well, that’s plain to see, but I’m talkin’ ’bout the people you were traveling with before you got separated.”

  “Like I said, I’m Scarlett from Roseville. I’m looking for help—apparently like you are.” Her words were terse and lifeless.

  “You mean to say you survived this entire time—on your own?” Impossible. He shook his head in disbelief. But the lost, faraway look in her eyes confirmed her statement.

  He slapped his knee. “Well, Twinkle Me Mary.” It was his turn to blather.

  She laughed. “Twinkle me . . . what?”

  “That’s a sayin’ I came up with to get one over on Justin,” he said, recalling how he’d already gotten Justin to say it a few times.

  “Who’s Justin?”

  “A college kid. One of the people stayin’ at the hotel. Anyhow, he has this thing of making up peculiar words and phrases. So, I started saying ‘Twinkle Me Mary.’ It’s actually the name of my boat.” Dean realized how ridiculous it sounded after explaining it. “Better than saying ‘what the fuck’ all the time?” he said in his defense.

  “I know what you mean. These days I find myself swearing all the time. I was—am a school teacher. I hadn’t sworn in years.” She looked down at her hands.

  That’s when he noticed the diamond ring on her wedding finger. Had she lost her husband? Compassion surged through him, remembering what it was like to lose the love of his life. “I’m afraid, my dear, the FUBAR acronym is an everyday occurrence around here,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “So, tell me more about Justin.”

  “He’s a laugh a minute. Can’t wait for you to meet him.”

  “How many people are there?”

  “Let’s see, besides Justin, we’ve got LuLu and Ella. You’ll love Ella. She’s the sweetest thing.” He hesitated, and in a more serious tone added, “Then there are the Stockton Boys, Nate and Paxton. Might want to avoid them as much as possible. I c
ertainly do.”

  A moment of silence followed. Dean fretted over the responsibility of taking in another woman. That meant another mouth to feed and another person he’d have to protect not only from the dead-heads but from the Stockton Boys. It could be a problem; she was an absolute knockout. So far, Nate and Paxton had been content on relieving their sexual desires with LuLu. Of course, he had to welcome her with open arms. How much longer would she last on her own? Hell, it was nothing damn short of a miracle she survived this long.

  “We’re holed-up at the Sweet Suites hotel just a hop, skip, and a jump away.” Dean pointed out the window to the tall sign barely visible from their seats. “On behalf of our humble group, I welcome you to join us,” Dean invited with a broad grin.

  She abruptly turned her head, pretending to look out the window.

  Dean sensed her hesitation. “I see. Tell you what. Why don’t you sleep on it? Advice from a famous philosopher, my dear ole granddaddy: ‘Sleep on it—the answer will be plain as day in the morning,’ ” Dean said, trying to sound encouraging.

  “I’ll think about it,” Scarlett finally responded, not bothering to hide her furrowed brows. “I’m not sure. I don’t mean to insult you. Truly, I don’t. I didn’t get much sleep last night and I’m a bit strung-out. I’m really not sure . . .” her voice drifted.

  “No worries, I’ll see if I can rustle-up some clothing for you, something that isn’t ten sizes too big.” He caught her smile and smiled back. “And, I’ll get Ella to fix you a nice dinner. You go on and get some shut-eye. I’ll set the food and clothes right outside the door on the railing here.” He pointed to the truck’s side-step railing. “Say, what size are you, anyhow?”

  “Uh, size six-ish should be fine,” she answered a tad unsure.

  “That settles it. I’m a man on a mission. Now, get some sleep—Scarlett from Roseville.”

  “Don’t forget this.” She handed the 9mm to him.