by M. D. Massey
Remorse for leaving LuLu behind set in. Had she killed LuLu—by accident? Scarlett scolded herself for being so judgmental, blaming LuLu for her jaded outlook on life. It really wasn’t surprising. Before humans had become so civilized, women in many cultures had done whatever they had deemed necessary in order to survive. Apparently, that was how life had been for LuLu before the Super Summer flu. She had lived in perpetual survival mode, always taking care of LuLu first. It sounded selfish, and it didn’t make it right, but it was human nature, no matter how uncivilized it seemed.
Scarlett shook her head out of frustration. She should have told LuLu she’d been jilted, instead of brandishing her gaudy engagement ring around like it was a status symbol. Maybe then, the two of them would’ve been friends. But, Scarlett couldn’t let go of that ring. It was the only thing she had left from the non-creeper world.
And even more devastating was the realization Scarlett was alone once again. Her never-ending commitment to find her sister had kept her focused, motivating her to persevere in the creeper-infested world. But, finding Cyndi was impossible. Failure tormented her soul as the agony of hopelessness slipped through her tired fingers grasping the wheel.
A thick, ground fog drifted in from the countryside and began swallowing the road. She crept along at five miles per hour. She lost the road and found the shoulder, nearly crashing into a sign on the side of the road. She backed up to read the sign: CECIL’S FRESH PRODUCE hand-painted on warped plywood. The low fuel warning light flashed.
Should I drive until I’m out of gas? Or pull over and wait until dawn? She stood a much better chance of finding gasoline or a vehicle in the daylight. She turned on the fog lights to find a place to pull over and rest until sunrise. She drove behind the produce building. Actually, it was more of a shack. She turned off the exterior and interior lights. The eerie fog entombed her with her thoughts. Her back stiffened. Petrified. Can creepers see in the fog? Something from deep inside shouted, “No.” But, they could smell her human scent.
She needed sleep, wanting to be ready at first light. She fumbled through her supplies until she found the mini alarm clock. One hour of sleep was all she’d risk—that was if she wasn’t too wound up to fall asleep. She reclined the driver’s seat, snuggled under a blanket, and thought of a time long ago when she was a little girl, and there were swing sets and butterflies and snickerdoodles and Power Rangers. And life was perfect . . .
Scarlett ran to the porch of an old country house under a threatening dark sky. She made it inside the old house as the rain started. Lightning flashed. Thunder boomed. The walls shook. The windows popped. The house flew in the sky like a tumbleweed caught in a cosmic storm. And then she was in—Texas.
An irritating beeping startled her. Scarlett couldn’t remember where she was, what day it was, and for a second, she couldn’t even remember who she was. Wow, what an intense power-nap. She yawned, remnants of the Wizard-of-Oz-like dream already dissipating. How she wished she only needed to click her heels three times and chant, “There’s no place like home . . .”
The morning sky flashed a lovely crimson “good morning” as the clouds played peek-a-boo with the sun. She rolled down the window to listen for sounds. The early morning wake-up call of a rooster cried off in the distance, but other than that, there were no sounds of civilization. The fog had receded back into the countryside, leaving the morning air crisp and fresh, so much fresher than the festering foul odors of the city.
Parked behind the roadside produce stand, she decided to check it out for food. With weapon in hand, she sneaked to the front of the stand, hoping to find something to eat. But there was nothing left in the bins that had once contained loads and loads of fresh produce, according to the various handwritten signs. How long had it been since she’d eaten a fresh tomato or an apple? Then she noticed the deep-red chili ristras and strands of garlic bulbs dangling on the back wall. On impulse, she grabbed an armful of the red chilies and garlic bulbs, tossing them into the back of the car.
Scarlett continued down the country road and searched for signs of people and vehicles. She passed acres of farms and dozens of country farmhouses, the kind of old houses that always looked in dire need of a fresh coat of paint. And she wondered, how many of those homes were inhabited by the undead?
Finally, she approached an intersection with a run-down country gas station and mini-mart. Her dreary eyes squinted in an attempt to read the road signs of Lucky Lane and Ridge Road. Surprisingly, several vehicles were parked in the gravel lot. The vehicles were definitely out of place for this run-down rural area. A Cadillac Escalade, driver’s door still open, was parked with its nose butted against a tree as if someone had jumped out of the moving vehicle at an extremely slow speed. On the other side of the mini-mart, was a silvery-blue Honda sports car, windows bashed-in, with what appeared to be dried blood trailing down the driver’s door. And next to the Honda was a white Lexis convertible, top shredded (as if torn apart), with dark stains smeared on the caved-in convertible top. Is that blood?
Unfortunately, her imagination envisioned the possible events that had occurred once the creepers had stormed the people in the car. Then she saw the pile of bones, and she quickly turned away from the unspeakable sight. These people had stopped just like she had, perhaps for gas, food or the restroom, maybe just to ask for flipping directions. She shuddered.
The open car doors and shattered windows were an all too familiar scene as she recalled the early days of the disaster back in Roseville. Scarlett drove to the back of the mini-mart, turned off the engine, and remained in the car to watch for signs of life: human or not. After a few minutes, she grabbed the tire iron and crept her way to the back door of the mini-mart. The door was unlocked.
She whispered, “Anybody here?” She dared a little louder, “Hello, anybody here?” Surely, if a creeper lurked inside, she would have heard it shuffling about. All was quiet.
The front screen door to the mini-mart blew open in the early morning breeze and then slammed shut, startling her. The grocery shelves were tossed on their sides, and what remained of the product was scattered about on the floor. Upon closer inspection, the products were actually empty containers. Scarlett looked around the store nervously. She needed food and water, but the store had already been raided. Even the stock room was empty. She made a run for the restrooms: no water. The faucets were bone dry.
Great, now what? She peered out the front screen door and latched the metal hook-lock to stop its perpetual slamming. That’s when she spotted it, one of those old-fashioned soda pop machines, the kind that required coins. But she didn’t have any money. She didn’t even have a purse. Purse!
She dashed to the parking lot. The crunching gravel conformed under her feet. She snagged a mildewy Anne Klein purse, which had been there for months by the look of it. She hastily dumped the contents onto the gravel in search of coinage. No wallet. “Damn!”
Nearing hysterics, she wondered if people still left change in their cars, or if it had become an outdated habit since the takeover of debit cards and—creepers. Well, she certainly didn’t want to check out the bloody caved-in convertible. The Escalade looked like her best bet, mainly because there were no signs of blood.
Scarlett cautiously peered inside the tinted windows, tire iron in hand, arm slightly raised, ready. The Escalade was safe, and she scooted behind the driver’s wheel. The key was still in the ignition in the on position. She realized whoever had bailed out of the SUV had probably left the engine running, never to return as a human. She turned the ignition off and on again; the clicking sound didn’t surprise her.
Sure enough, in the cup holder, a handful of change waited to be found. Jackpot! She greedily counted the quarters like an old miser. I can get two sodas. She calmed herself, afraid she was on the verge of going loony. “You need to get a grip.” So what if it’s the end of the world. “I still need to keep my wits.” Uh, did I just say that out loud? I really am going loony.
Scar
lett headed back to the front entrance of the mini-mart and noticed the front-end of what looked like an RV on the other side of the mini-mart, hidden behind a broken down fence. Another stroke of good luck, she thought. The RV might have food. But her parched throat begged for attention first. She practically drooled over the vintage soda machine, hoping it worked, and wasn’t just for show.
Despite the chilly January morning, the quarters were already sweaty from clutching them so tightly. “Huh?” The odd selection of sodas the old boxy-style vending machine offered had her puzzled. The top part of the sign had been hand-painted over with the words GRANDMA’S FAVORITE SODAS. Cute, she thought and wondered if it had originally been a Coke or Pepsi machine.
She scanned the soda labels: Fresca, Tab, RC Cola, and Fanta. Wow, do they even make these sodas anymore? Had she entered the Twilight Zone? Ah, Dr. Pepper. She clumsily fed the quarters into the coin slot. Clanging jangled the silence for each quarter she fed. Except for the fourth quarter, which had gotten stuck somewhere on the way down. She ignored it and pressed the square tab for a Dr. Pepper. Nothing happened. Does it need electricity? She impatiently shoved another quarter in the machine. Nothing happened, and she repeatedly pressed the square tab harder and harder, lusting over the Dr. Pepper.
“Holy Mother of . . .” she caught herself, her voice much too loud, and she smiled, thinking she sounded a bit like Dean. She jiggled the machine, ignoring the PLEASE DON’T HIT ME. PLEASE SEE THE CLERK sign taped to the side. Yeah, right.
Out of frustration, she kicked the side of the machine. To her delight out tumbled three Dr. Peppers. “Thank you, Mr. Soda Machine.” And she curtsied to the machine. She took several long gulps, pausing only for air. A belch involuntarily squelched-out breaking the silence. Old habits prevailed, and she looked around embarrassed, hoping no one had heard her burp. “Really? Get a grip,” she scolded. She sat on the store’s front porch, enjoying the soda and keeping an overly-anxious watch. She felt punchy, needing food and more sleep. A scene from an old Star Trek episode panicked her overworking imagination: What if a pack of creepers suddenly materialized in front of her? “Beam me up, Scotty,” she whispered in jest. But, the place was deserted. No creepers, no people. Only her . . .
Scarlett had to drag open the dilapidated gate to get to the RV. Upon closer inspection, the RV was an old junker and probably hadn’t been driven in years if the dried-out leaves on the windshield and hood were any indicator. A metallic-silver sunscreen covered the front window, and the doors were locked. Surely, the RV must have some food? It was worth a try.
The passenger’s side window was down about an inch. Easy enough, she thought. And she pried it open with the tire iron until the glass shattered to the ground like ice crackling over the surface of a winter’s frozen puddle.
A horrific stench flooded out just as a swarm of tiny hands reached the back of the front seat, clawing the air. Gurgling cries gave her the shivers. Three little creatures pounced on the front seat! Snarling. She screamed. Their decomposed faces jerked with her every movement, salivating . . .
Unprepared, a creeper jumped out of the window, latching onto her shoulder with fingernails that had mutated into claws. It let out a high-pitched shriek before lunging for her neck. Instinctively, Scarlett grabbed it by its arm. She hurled it against the RV, its claws shredding her jacket—not her. The RV’s door sprang open! Another one? It crouched. Ready to pounce. She slammed the RV door on it. The gushing-pop sound of stomping on a plastic pudding cup followed. Due to its size, it was sandwiched between the door and the doorframe. The first one came to. But she was ready, and she smashed in its skull with the tire iron.
A third miniature creature gurgled about madly, trying to body-slam the door open. Scarlett stared in sickening disgust as it slithered over the glass shard-lined window frame, scraping off what remained of its molten-flesh like some gruesome potato peeler. The entire time its black iridescent eyes didn’t leave her neck. Without hesitation, she smashed in its skull.
“Dear God!” She puked and stumbled around until her knees gave, collapsing to the gravel. “They were only babies,” she cried. The horror of the entire situation had gotten the best of her, and she ran to the Escalade (only because it was closer than the Subaru). She scrambled into the backseat and then slammed the door. She curled up, arms hugging her knees, shaking uncontrollably. All the while the ghastly toddler-creepers haunted her. She envisioned their mother or father returning to the RV to find their children had become infected, and instead of putting the babies out of their misery, they had locked them inside for—forever. It seemed so uncompassionate if not ruthless. Inhumane. Yet, what would she have done?
It made her think about her sister and nephews. Could Cyndi do such a despicable thing? Smash in her babies’ heads until they were mush . . . The guilt continued plaguing her. She should have at least tried to go to Pinole, despite Luther’s warnings.
Scarlett huddled in the Escalade’s backseat and peered out of the dark tinted windows, waiting for a pack of creepers to find her. With all her screams and the creepers’ shrieks, surely, they were scrambling about eager for the new food source. They always did, remembering something Justin had said, “It’s a simple Z-equation: Noise = people = food.”
Her body went rigid, overwhelmed with fear. She must have sat in the backseat for over an hour, waiting, barely breathing. To her astonishment, the area remained creeper-free. It was a typical, brisk, January morning in the country, and she was lost and cold and hungry. Realizing she wasn’t about to get mauled by a mob of monsters like the people in the crushed convertible, her breathing steadied. Her pulse returned to normal.
She relaxed in the backseat, stretching out her cramped legs, and noticed something on the floor. It was a child’s backpack, according to the Batman logo. She snatched it and hastily reviewed the contents. Her stomach growled knowingly when she spotted the candy wrapper, a Snickers Bar, king size to boot. “Fantastic!” She took a big bite, the chocolate so sweet it made her teeth hurt.
Scarlett didn’t find anything else of use except for the backpack itself. It was small and light enough to keep on her at all times. The sugar-rush surged through her body, replacing her hunger pangs with vitality. She decided to check out the rest of the vehicle for useful items. That’s when she noticed a clipboard on the front dashboard. A printout of MapQuest directions caught her attention, and she curiously flipped through the pages, wondering where the people in the Escalade had been going. The top of the MapQuest printout had the words BUG OUT handwritten in red marker.
An overpowering sensation swept through her entire body with goosebumps and all. These intense sensations and vivid imageries usually indicated something really dreadful or something really great. Although, it didn’t always seem to work; it hadn’t warned her about the creepers in the RV. Or had it? Being in a constant state of fear, sometimes it was hard to differentiate between an actual warning and her current state of fear. This new sense was something she needed to trust and take advantage of.
Bug out? She thought for a moment. As she recalled, a bug out was a sort of hideout for those fanatical survivalist-types in Idaho. She had watched a television show on survivalists a while back. These people stored weapons and food for a “shit hits the fan” catastrophe. She remembered thinking it was a rather absurd, pessimistic, and expensive hobby.
One of Kevin’s friends had been a prepper. A weekend warrior, the guy had bragged. They had invited the guy and his girlfriend (Butch and Samma) over for a barbecue. Kevin and Butch had argued tirelessly over the best types of weapons and foods to store. She had assumed it was a testosterone thing. She remembered thinking Butch was an obsessive nut. It looks like Butch was the sane one after all. She’d been the frivolous, delusional one with her obsessive designer shoe collection. She hoped he and his family were safe and sound in their secret bug out, wherever it was.
A thought emerged: Go to the bug out. “Why not? What do I have to lose?” But, what if these
people had made it there? Hmm, probably not. The directions had been there since last August. An intense tingling sensation caused her to drop the clipboard. She thought her conscious wanted to teleport to the cosmos. An out of body experience or too much sugar? Secretly, she heeded the urgent warning to move on.
Scarlett carefully studied the directions; as far as she could tell, the bug out location was about twenty to twenty-two miles away. Jeez, I can walk there. It was still morning. She’d get there before dark unless she ran into trouble along the way. It was the only plan she had, and Paxton would certainly never find her there. And that’s what made the final decision.
Unfortunately, someone had already siphoned the gas from the vehicles. Someone desperate like her had already been there. The Subaru would only take her a couple of more miles before the gas tank gave out. Then she risked having to get out of the car with no refuge. She decided it might be better to walk there. That way the sound of the car wouldn’t alert any creepers along the way. And, if by some bizarre twist of fate Paxton had managed to track her this far, he’d never find her at the bug out. Not if she had the only set of directions. She thought about it for a few minutes.
“I’m going for it!” She snatched the Batman backpack and quickly loaded it with items from the Subaru: the flashlight, clock, the other two Dr. Peppers, and a camouflage poncho raincoat still in its package. On impulse, she included the strand of garlic bulbs. Stuffing the directions inside her jacket pocket, she draped a multicolored, crocheted blanket around her like a cape and grabbed her handy-dandy tire iron, deciding to forego the crowbar, because it was a bit too heavy for her.
Scarlett was pleased with herself after finally making the decision. She began the journey, walking the next twelve miles down Ridge Road. She walked about ten feet along the edge of the country road, hoping not to be spotted by any two-legged creatures. Which meant walking through ditches and around the edges of orchards, but the ditches and trees provided a bit of cover. Still, she held the tire iron with a firm grip and hiked toward the mysterious bug out.
