Apocalyptic Beginnings Box Set

by M. D. Massey

  Babs shook her head and dried her tears. If life had taught her anything, it was that you had to keep moving if you wanted to survive. She’d taught her children that, and she had always lived by that herself. She pulled out her cellphone as she maneuvered the RV around stalled cars and onto the other side of the street. Swerving back into her own lane to get around multiple cars, she dialed her daughter's phone number. No one answered.

  She wouldn’t give up. She tried over and over until the phone no longer rang and all she heard was silence. The cell towers must have gone down. Since Babs was a young girl in the 60s, the world had changed so much. Everyone had become reliant on things like cellphones and the Internet. It was all so vulnerable to collapse that they might as well have never existed.

  She took the first on-ramp onto the freeway and found a mass of bumper-to-bumper traffic. She squeezed around traffic to bump over the shallow median to drive on the other side of the road. There was less traffic headed into the city than out, so she had an easier time driving on the opposite side of the road. Everywhere she looked zombies banged on the glass of the windows inside cars. A mother ate her own baby who was strapped in a car seat. The living scrambled and screamed for their lives, but it was no use. The zombies were so fast.

  She slowed as she approached a young man, ambling down the side of the road. He looked healthy and alive from behind. As she slowed down while passing him, she saw his neck was bitten clear through in the front, a gaping hole where his larynx and throat should be. His head turned, owl like, and he looked at her with those dead white eyes. He immediately threw himself at her car, growling and scraping at her door. She slammed on the gas and continued up the road north.

  She had to get north to Wyoming where her daughter was. She had to know if she was alive. Her son was living in New York, working as a resident in a hospital in Manhattan — she didn’t even want to imagine what had happened to him — but her daughter lived in a rural community. Maybe she and her family had made it. That hope was all that kept her going. If she was immune to the disease, her daughter and grandbabies might be too.

  She kept driving at seventy miles an hour on the wrong side of the freeway. The heat of the Arizona spring day blared overhead and then cooled into the night. She looked down at her gas gauge and noticed it was almost empty. She would have to stop soon. But if she did, she knew she would run into those things.

  Out on the open desert road, the stars came out above in the clear night sky. It was all so beautiful. So much the same as it had been the night before, when everything was normal, and her life still had meaning. When Henry was alive and she had just spoken with her daughter on the telephone.

  She passed a sign that said gas, food and lodging, next right. After a mile, she saw the lights of a gas station in the distance. She pulled off the road into the station, the electricity still on here.

  She stopped near the diesel pump, grabbed her gun, and slowly stepped out of the RV. Moving slowly on light feet, she checked all around her in every direction. There was no one to be seen, living or dead. Babs pushed the gas nozzle into her RV and slipped her card into the reader. By the grace of God, the gas started to pump. She breathed a sigh of relief as the gallons kicked by on the screen. She stood by the nozzle, watching out for danger with her gun held in her shaking hand by her side.

  As the nozzle clicked off from a full tank, a young woman walked out from behind the gas station, in a beautiful sundress with white and red flowers against a yellow background. Her face was so lovely that it took Barbara a moment to realize the young woman was not human. She was one of them.

  Before Babs could react, the woman lunged at her, running faster than a normal person should. She lifted her gun and shot, hitting the creature in the shoulder. It was only put off by half a second. Barbara grabbed the nozzle out of the RV and sprinted to the door, and grabbed the handle.

  The girl jumped on her back, and Barbara felt teeth snapping at her neck. The creature was much stronger than she was and full of vigor. Barbara spun and slammed against the RV, knocking the creature loose. They both fell to the ground, but the thing jumped again, ready to attack.

  Barbara lifted her Glock, using both hands to steady the weight, and pulled the trigger. It hit the dead woman, grazing her temple. A flood of dark clotted blood flowed from the wound. Barbara screamed as she pulled the trigger again. This time the bullet sliced through the young woman's skull, right at the center of her forehead.

  The creature was in mid-lunge and landed face first on Barbara's chest. She shrieked and jumped back, blood streaking down her chest, across her burgundy velour tracksuit. Crying and horrified, Barbara put the cap back on the tank and closed it before climbing into the RV. She closed the door and locked it behind her, immediately stripping out of her clothes. She threw them out the side window and washed up in the bathroom, removing the blood from her skin with the hottest water she could get.

  12

  Carlos turned the corner, gripping the wheel of the Peaceful Brook van as he barreled down the road. Every few miles he witnessed another horrifying vision of an undead monster feasting on the body of the previously living. He tried to force the sight from his eyes. These visions were the worst he’d ever had. Even after months of heavy medication and therapy three times a day, his delusions had come to this.

  It seemed that nowhere he looked was free of the carnage. Blood streaked the road, cars were stalled on the concrete, the undead ghouls inside trapped in their seatbelts. He wanted to cry. He wanted help. He didn't know if he was still lying back in his bed at the institution or if this dream of driving down the road was real.

  The gas tank was showing as empty as his stomach, so he decided to find a town.

  The road sign said fifteen miles to the tiny town of Fern Hill, Washington. Peaceful Brook was in a secluded area, keeping the inmates away from the delicate sensibilities of the sane public.

  When Carlos had first been admitted by his parents he'd resented them for interfering. He’d believed he was better. The delusions had gone away since he’d started school, and he was getting good grades. He’d become successful in every important social metric for a person his age. But the act of giving away a vehicle, that was just too much for his upper middle-class parents.

  But now, more than ever, he feared for his mind. It had never been this bad. The visions that had haunted him since high school had come into full focus all around. When he drove into Fern Hill, at first, he believed that the visions had disappeared. A family walked down the street. A mother in a sweatsuit pushed a stroller and a little boy walked beside her.

  He let out a long breath and a smile spread over his lips as he passed them. Then he looked more closely at their faces. They had been chewed off, and blood spilled from the wounds. He groaned and looked away. He was still hallucinating.

  Carlos slapped himself across the face with one hand and held the steering well with the other. He wanted to wake up from this nightmare. Even after slapping himself across the face three times, he remained in this horrible dream world where the undead had taken over and the living no longer existed.

  He pulled past the fire station where the fire truck was stalled in the middle-of-the-road. A fireman in his full uniform hung out the open window of the truck, his gray face angry and his clawed hands groping at the fireman who was being devoured by a pack of zombie dogs on the ground. It was all too gruesome to bear.

  The zombies roaming the streets followed him through town. When he passed the gas station, he knew he couldn't get out. These things were delusions, but that didn't mean they didn't terrify him. He couldn’t help but wonder if it was all real. If he got out of the van, they’d catch him and make him one of them.

  He passed through town without stopping. Maybe things would be better in the city. Maybe by the time he got there, he would wake up, or the hallucinations would stop. He had no medication on this journey, no food or supplies. No help from anyone. He was on his own. He doubted he would make
it to Vancouver on an almost empty tank. What would he do then?

  If he could just get the delusions to stop, he’d call his parents and get them to come pick him up. Until then, he’d just continue down the highway, past the stalled cars and roving bands of zombies.

  Making a split decision, he pulled off the highway and onto a back road that led into the forest. Maybe if he could get away from populated areas, where his mind would conjure up zombies, the delusions would stop altogether. As he climbed in elevation, the forest grew thick and the bright blue sky shone overhead.

  Carlos rolled down the window and the warm spring air wafted over his skin. It ruffled through the thin yellow institutional smocks he’d worn every day for the last three months. The wristband with his name on it fluttered on his wrist and he ripped it off.

  Deep in the forest, with flocks of birds flying overhead and the mountains in the distance, Carlos felt part of his soul coming alive for the first time in months. It had been hours since his last dose of medication and his mind was starting to wake up. It felt good, no matter what reality he was in.

  The van sputtered at the top of the hill and Carlos realized he had no more gas. He glided off the road and climbed out into the warm spring air. As he started to walk, he listened to the birds sing in the treetops overhead. It was a beautiful day, and he felt lighter than he had in as long as he could remember. He no longer cared if he was dreaming. He was free of the institution, free of his parents, free of the expectations of society.

  In this moment, he was his own man. He could imagine a world that wouldn't call him crazy for giving away a vehicle. Where he was safe to show kindness and generosity. He drew a deep breath into his lungs. The dark green boughs of Douglas fir, moss, and ferns filled his nose with the fresh fragrance of the forest. A crow swooped overhead, cawing aggressively at him. It stopped on the road to pick up a piece of scattered junk food, probably dropped from someone's car.

  The flash of black wings activated something in Carlos's mind. Black washed over his vision, and he stumbled into the forest, falling to his knees. He sat on the ground in the damp, cool underbrush. The vision washed over him, throbbing between light and dark, black and white peppered with red, like blood splattered on a wall.

  He pushed his palms to his eyes and groaned. The impressions came fast and hard, the sound loud and close to his ears. His head throbbed with biting pain, and he screamed in the darkness. The green toxic haze blew over the land, sweeping through suburban homes, downtown discotheques, through the White House and Wall Street. The haze was in the air and water.

  Sinking like a stone underwater, everything going black. He blinked, when his vision cleared, white walls and blinding lights surrounded him. Stainless steel tables. Glass beakers. A laboratory. Toxic green splattered on the walls.

  His eyes snapped open and he scrambled to his feet. What had he seen? An underground lab? He couldn’t make anything of it. It was just another aspect of his insanity. Carlos groped through the forest, the edges of his vision still dark. His heart thumped so hard he thought he might have a heart attack.

  Gripping his chest, he tried to breathe. Fast movement caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. Carlos jumped, his body flooded with adrenaline. A deer skipped past in the woods, startled by his presence. He relaxed, realizing what it was.

  Then the deer turned its head to him. Its eyes white and blank, its coat ragged and torn. It walked toward him, groaning unnaturally. It wasn’t just a deer. Carlos bent at the knees and picked up a stick from the underbrush. The branch was full of dried pine needles and covered in bark. The doe charged, baring her flat teeth. This insanity wouldn’t end.

  Carlos smashed the deer across the face. The vibration ran up his arms into his chest. The hit threw the creature off for a brief instant, but she came back at him, viciously chomping her flat herbivore teeth. Black blood seeped from the wounds Carlos had inflicted but the thing wouldn't stop. He smashed it again and again. The doe was strong, stronger than he'd expected, and she continued to bite at him.

  She lunged onto her back legs, kicking him with her hooves. A strike sent him reeling onto the ground, falling flat on his back. She charged, and he rolled to the side, grabbing a large stone on the ground as he did. When the creature bit at him, he swung the stone into the side of her head with a sickening crack. The creature moaned, its knees buckling as it fell heavily on top of Carlos. He screamed and pushed the dead thing off him, scrambling to his feet. Black clotted blood streaked the chest of his smocks. He climbed out of the institutional yellow shirt and threw it at the creature.

  He hurried back to the van and searched the vehicle for anything that could help him in his nightmare world. He found a discarded sweatshirt in a compartment in the backseat. In the cargo area he found a tire iron tucked in with the spare tire. In the glove compartment, he found a half-eaten candy bar and a bottle of water that he quickly downed. When he was done, he gripped the tire iron and continued down the hellish road to nowhere.

  13

  For hours, crowds of a dozen or more zombies moaned and pounded against the van, stalled in the streets of downtown Portland. Sasha and her new hipster friend Paul hunkered down in the backseat, lying motionless as the undead harassed them. She lost count of time.

  As the sun began to set, the horde finally dissipated, wandering off for easier pickings. After another hour or two, the streets cleared, and street lights blinked on. Sasha peered out the window closest to her, checking for her opportunity to escape.

  "I've got to get out of here," she muttered.

  "Those things are still out there. We need to stay put.”

  "How long do you intend on sitting in here?"

  "Till the streets are clear.” Paul remained hunkered down on the floor of the van, his arms folded over his chest.

  "I don't know if you noticed, but the entire city is overrun by zombies. I don't think the roads are going to be clear any time soon."

  "I don't want to risk it. It's still too dangerous out there."

  "It's now or never, Paul. I'm not gonna sit here for the rest of my life. Look,” she said, glancing outside again, “there's nobody around right now. We can slip out of the van, sprint to the sidewalk, and sneak through the alley. I know a quick way back to my hideout. I’ve got supplies there. Then we can get out of town."

  "How about no," he said.

  "You want to come with me or not?" she asked, peering out the window to check the street for the thousandth time. "The coast is clear. I'm going."

  He hesitated, breathing fast to psyche himself up. Sasha made a move to leave.

  "Okay, okay," he said. "I'll come with you.”

  He took several deep breaths, trying to psych himself up. Sasha stared at him blankly. This kid certainly had the hippy fashion look down, but he had the street sense of a twelve-year-old hick. She grabbed a tire iron from the back and gripped the door handle.

  "Let's go," she said.

  She slid into the dark street, her heart pounding like it did when she was about to lift a bike from some over-privileged yuppie.

  She motioned for Paul to follow, and he clumsily scrambled out of van. She shot him a look and pushed her index finger to her lips. Then she pointed across the street where she intended to run and motioned for him to stay put until she made it to the new location. She scanned the streets, searching for movement. All was still and silent, so she made a run for it. She sprinted across the street and stood with her back against the cool brick wall of the bank. Checking her environment, she found the coast was clear and then motioned for Paul to follow. He ran with an agonizingly slow and clumsy gait across the street to join her, falling breathless against the wall.

  "Follow me," she whispered.

  Moving around him, she hugged the wall until she came to a dark alley. Sasha scampered down the alley to the ladder. Shoving the tire iron in the back of her belt, she started to climb. Paul followed her to the roof, remaining almost silent as his ascended the rungs
. From there, she looked down at the city, searching for movement under the streetlights. A gang of zombies ambled down the street overtaking the van just moments later. Sasha nudged Paul and pointed at the van. He shrugged and she smirked in the darkness.

  "Let's go," she said moving quietly over the rooftop.

  They came to the ledge and climbed down another ladder into the alley across the street. It was another mile back to her hideout in a derelict parking lot. They slinked through the shadows, moving down the alleys. The zombies seemed to stick to the main roads, gathering in packs like rabid dogs, hunting for prey.

  Sasha and Paul came out of an alley and skirted down a wall along a side street. They passed a parked car, and a German Shepherd barked furiously at them from inside. The animal was still alive, trapped in the vehicle. Its owner was never to return. Sasha's heart sank for it, but what could she do? Paul stopped.

  "We can't just leave it," he said.

  "How are we supposed to get it out?" she hissed.

  "We can break the glass."

  "If we break the glass, every zombie within a mile is going to hear it, and be on top of us. Besides, that dog will rip your face off."

  "But it will starve to death in there," he said.

  "I don't know if you noticed, but we’re in the middle of a zombie apocalypse," Sasha informed him.

  "But doesn't mean we have to be heartless."

  He grabbed the tire iron out of her hand and smashed the window before she could object. The dog whined, jumping away from the breaking glass. It smelled the fresh air and lunged, scraping over the broken glass as it fell from the vehicle on his belly. Sasha grabbed her tire iron back from the idiot and shot him an angry look.

  "It's your funeral, asshole," she said.