You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout
Till you have drenched our steeples, drowned the cocks!
You sulphurous and thought-executing fires.
Listening to King Lear makes him think of the sad old man’s children whose thanklessness was sharper than a serpent’s tooth.
His thoughts quickly turn to his own kids who were opposite in nearly every way from the crazy old king’s kids and were among the best people he had ever known, the best friends he had ever had. His broken heart aches for them, longs to know they are okay. But how can they be? How can anybody be?
And no man in heaven, nor in earth, neither under the earth, was able to open the book, neither to look thereon.
And I wept much, because no man was found worthy to open and to read the book, neither to look thereon.
Specters appear in the dark. Images he’d worked hard to suppress.
Death. Dismemberment. Decay.
Unimaginable horrors. Unforgettable nightmares.
In his previous life he had been a novelist, and he remembers writing about a character who suffered from PTSD.
I am that character now. I have become what I had before only barely imagined.
Snap. Light on. Moving. Scanning the area. Blurry vision. Unfocused eyes, unable to adjust. Sweeping all directions with the bright beam. Moving.
Random overturned vending machine in the road.
Snap. Light off. Moving. Changing sides of the road. Making a hard target.
Running.
Fear.
Focus.
And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword.
And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.
Unable to take another second, another syllable of King James or King Lear, he presses a small button on the device in his bag and Rumi, his favorite poet, turns his thoughts to Dawn.
When I am with you, we stay up all night.
When you’re not here, I can’t go to sleep.
Praise God for those two insomnias!
And the difference between them.
As he races through the darkness alone, completely, utterly alone, he thinks about all the nights they had spent in the sweetest, most intimate insomnias, and how he’d give anything to be with her again. She is his home and he hers—and they had been even before they met, long before either of them knew it.
The minute I heard my first love story,
I started looking for you, not knowing
how blind that was.
Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere.
They’re in each other all along.
Though the line from Hafiz isn’t played, he hears it nonetheless. It echoes through the empty chambers of his heart.
Ever since happiness heard your name, it has been running through the streets trying to find you.
She is his happiness and he is running through the street to find her.
Stop. Snap. Light. Something in the road. Move.
Abandoned ambulance. Broken windshield. Rotting body partially hanging on hood.
Scanning the area.
Moving.
Snap. Light off. Walking now. Unable or unwilling to run? Comes to the same in the end. Everything does.
Utterly exhausted.
He is a youthful mid-forties man who had played basketball and worked out throughout his entire adult life. He had even foolishly thought of himself as fit. He had not been. He still isn’t—even with the fifteen or twenty pounds he has lost so far, even with the nightly running he has been doing. He is no match for this world and he knows it.
Find a place and rest.
No. Must keep going. Lost too much time already. Getting close now. Have to keep moving.
Can’t.
Have to.
Are any of them even there? Any of them still alive?
Have to find out for sure.
When he’s gone as far as he possibly can, he begins to search for a place to rest. Eventually, he finds an SUV in a ditch.
Carefully checking every inch of the vehicle and the area surrounding it, he drops his duffels and removes his backpack. Shoving them beneath the vehicle, he slides in behind them. Backpack beneath his head, duffel on either side, their straps looped around his arms, he withdraws one of his weapons and sets it on his chest, safety on, finger still on the trigger guard.
Then sleep.
Then dreams.
Finding his family dead. And not just dead. Decaying. The young man he killed in Atlanta telling him that’s what he gets for killing him. Encouraging him to kill himself.
He wakes to a beast eating his face.
5
The dog from yesterday, the black-spotted cur, is there with him beneath the vehicle, licking his face, barking at him to wake up.
—Hey neighbor.
—Augustus?
Augustus is there too, down on all fours beside the SUV, peering in after him.
—It’s me. Don’t shoot.
—What’re you doin’ here? he asks.
—Looking for you.
—For what?
—If you wouldn’t mind, Jackson and I would like to join you on your journey.
—Jackson?
—Our new dog.
—Our?
—Uh huh.
—Think you could call Jackson so I can climb out?
He does.
Michael tucks his gun into his jeans, gathers his bags, and eases out.
As soon as he’s out and his eyes adjust, he surveys the gray morning and the area surrounding them.
They’re next to a farm. Fences down. Empty pastures. Dead Bahia grass brittle in the breeze.
—You wanna go with me? Michael asks.
—We do.
—Why? You’re the one who said I was going in the wrong direction.
—You are. But sometimes the wrong direction is the right one. I don’t have long. Figure it’ll be a little longer if I’m with you. Have no desire to strike out on my own—even if it’s in a better direction. Jackson needs a good home and I think we can give it to him. And who knows, if you do have some family left alive, maybe I can help you find them.
Michael doesn’t say anything.
—I won’t slow you down much, Augustus adds. And I’ll make up for it by keeping watch and offering two old helping hands when needed.
—I’m sorry about CJ, Michael says.
Augustus nods.
The dog, who has been moving about the two men, circles a time or two and flops down on the ashen ground next to their feet.
—Why Jackson?
—Found him in Jackson County and it makes him a namesake of both CJ and Andrew Jackson, Florida’s first military governor.
—Whatta you think is in the woods? Augustus asks. You ever heard such horrible sounds?
Michael shrugs, but maintains the same pace, sensing Augustus wanting to slow down even more.
—I’ve heard things, Augustus says. Rumors.
—Been a lot of those from the very beginning. Mostly misinformation.
—But those noises, those . . . They’re real. They’re not a rumor.
Michael nods.
—You think they’re human or . . . something else?
Michael shrugs.
—You walked down from Atlanta, right? Were they everywhere you went? All the woods you’ve passed at night?
—Pretty much, Michael says, nodding.
—And?
—And what?
—What do you think they are?
—If the world were a different place, I’d really enjoying speculating about them, exploring what they might be, but with the way things are . . . with what I ha
ve to do . . . there is only . . . what has to be done. And right now that’s walking as fast as we can. I’d really like to get to Marianna before nightfall.
—We can speculate and walk at the same time, can’t we? Surely two urbane, sophisticated gents such as ourselves can do that. Make the time go by better.
Without warning, Michael lunges at the old man, knocking him to the ground and holding him there, soot and ash rising around them.
As Jackson runs back, Michael grabs him too.
Holding a finger over his lips to shh the old man, Michael points toward the road.
As the old man turns his head to see, the younger man pets the dog and holds his muzzle closed.
Out on the road a group of armed marauders passes by in a jacked-up redneck pickup truck complete with sexy girl silhouette mud flaps, Bondo and primer spots, and the yellow-and-black Gadsden flag bumper sticker, coiled, striking rattlesnake above the words DON’T TREAD ON ME.
Dirty. Desperate. Hungry. Hunting. Three men in the cab, four more on the back beneath the large confederate flag whipping in the wind. All white. All armed. All in combinations of camouflage and athletic attire.
The high-riding truck is black and chrome, its once shiny grill blackened with blood.
The truck is moving very slowly, but has obviously also been modified to run silently. Before the end, it would’ve had a glass pack or chambered or turbo muffler system to get the biggest, loudest, most beast-like roar to blast as it burned down the highway, but now sneak thieves need to be stealthy to stalk their unsuspecting prey.
This is the farthest south he’s seen such a group and it surprises him, but it shouldn’t. Nothing should.
If they hear us we’re dead.
They don’t have to hear you. They could see you.
The burned-out forest they’re lying in offers very little in the way of cover, the blackened bodies of young pines narrow and bare, ashen understory thin and scraggly.
He’s no match for the group of men, and the old man and the dog would only be liabilities in any engagement.
—Don’t move a muscle, he whispers to Augustus. And help me keep the dog quiet.
If they can’t keep the dog still and silent, he’ll have to kill him, something he truly doesn’t want to do.
From his prone position, Augustus pulls the dog to him, hugging him the way you would a frightened child.
Remaining as flat as possible, Michael reaches into the duffel and withdraws a rifle for the marauders and a knife for the dog.
Seeming to sense the seriousness of the situation, the dog stays silent and even appears to return Augustus’s embrace.
The truck is moving so slow it seems as though it will never pass.
Then it slows even further.
Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.
Then it stops.
To his surprise the vehicle is louder idling than it was while moving.
Though the truck is stationary, the flag continues to flap in the breeze, gray dust and debris rising off of it with every snap.
The old man holding the dog, the dog appearing to be holding the man right back, is as sad and pathetic as anything he’s seen lately—save the creature in the dog collar who ran out of the back of the FedEx truck.
He thinks of Dawn, of how much he misses her, of how long it has been since he has held her. His need for her is entire and he trembles with the force of it.
No one gets out of the truck. And eventually it continues on, slowly down 73 toward 231.
6
The back of Augustus’s head is bleeding.
The old man reaches up to it with the bent fingers of his misshapen hand. It’s tender to the touch.
—Let me see it, Michael says.
—It’s okay. I’m fine. Ready to move. Don’t make a fuss. I ain’t no soft little schoolgirl.
Michael grabs the man’s head a little forcefully and turns the wound toward him. It’s worse than he thought.
—Sit.
He helps the old man back down to the ground.
—I’m okay, Augustus says. No need for any of this.
Easing his duffels to the ground, Michael withdraws a small Mora axe and a Bushcraft survival knife and moves to the nearest pine tree.
Hacking away the charred bark, he notches out a small V-shaped incision into the deeper layer of the wood and waits.
As the pine resin begins to seep into the notch, he slides the tip of his knife blade into it. Once the point of the knife is covered with sap, he steps back over to Augustus and smears the thick, sticky substance all over his wound.
—What’s that gonna do? Augustus asks.
—Stem the blood flow, keep bacteria out, seal the wound.
—How d’ you know that?
—Remembered a few things from research for an environmental thriller I wrote a while back, but not much. Read up on shit like that when all this started to go down. But I probably would’ve intuited this one. Raised rural. Come from a family of North Florida turpentiners. Grew up hearing all about the miraculous wonders of pine resin.
Augustus nods.
—But I can’t do much more than that, so try not have any more injuries and no severe ones.
—Didn’t try to have that one, he says. Could say I was just an innocent bystander who got bowled over.
7
Midday.
Brightest concentration of grayness directly overhead.
Moving. Slowly. Too slowly.
—The knife was for the dog, wasn’t it? Augustus asks. You were going to slit its throat.
—Only if I had to.
—What about me?
—What about you?
—Would you have put me down too? the old man asks, his voice neutral, his tone expressing only mild interest.
—Not gonna do anything to anyone I don’t have to. Not gonna let anything stop me from finding my family.
The old man nods and considers it.
—If you want to take the dog and go a different direction, I’ll give you food and water.
The old man seems to consider it, but doesn’t say anything.
They walk in silence for a while, zigzagging in and out and around the trees on the fringe of the forest, staying out of sight of the road.
—What was Marianna like when you came through it? Michael asks.
—Didn’t go through it. Came from Cottondale. Only saw a little of the destruction from a distance. But even from afar it was . . . I’ve never seen anything like it. Seems unreal. It’s . . . it’s total devastation. It’s not like here either. Not hot and dry and ashy, but wet and cold. Like I said, I didn’t see much. Heard some things, but CJ was the only living soul I saw.
They are walking along the edge of the woods, easing toward Marianna, Jackson trailing behind them, tethered to Augustus by a leash tied to a belt loop on his pants.
Both the old man and the dog are panting.
They have been walking for hours.
It’s a slower pace than Michael would like. More risky too. Neither the old man nor the dog know how to be inconspicuous or quiet exactly.
It was a mistake to let them come with him.
—Hey neighbor, Augustus says. Mind if we stop and rest a minute? Have a little water.
—Movin’ too slow as it is. Hate to stop.
The dog is straining against the leash, pulling at a pace the old man can’t match. Several times he stumbles and almost falls as the animal lurches forward. It’d be better for him if Michael would take the leash, but he wants to keep his hand on the weapon and be ready to use it if the need arises.
—Okay. No problem. I’s just a little worried about the pup. I’m fine. I keep trying to get him to pick up the pace, but . . .
Michael tries to figure out the best place to pause for water.
—Were you like this before? Augustus asks.
—Whatta you mean? Michael asks as he removes a bottle of water from the duffel dangling beneath his right arm
and hands it to him.
—This . . . wary. Guarded. Hardened. Driven.
Michael smiles.
—Actually, people remarked on my gentleness and kindness.
The old man tries to drink while walking, but can’t quite negotiate the necessary steps.
Michael stops and calls Jackson back.
Augustus takes a big gulp from the bottle.
—That’s why I asked, he says, wiping his mouth. It’s still there. I can see some of it—underneath the . . . other.
Digging a small plastic bowl out of the duffel, Michael pours in a little water, which Jackson quickly laps up with his long tongue.
—Some of it comes from what I’ve experienced the past couple of months—and the way the world is now—but mostly it’s the mission.
He thinks about roles and responsibilities.
He had been a kind and gentle soul, known for his belief in and commitment to love. But capable of confrontation, even force if called for.
This dichotomy was most pronounced in his role as protector of his children and wife.
A man of peace, who attempted to live his conviction of loving his enemies and blessing his cursers, he played a very different role in his responsibility as a father and husband.
He recalls something he used to tell his children when they were young, small, and vulnerable. Anybody truly ever hurts you, he had told them, I will hack them into little pieces.
This always elicited the same response, evoked the same reaction—DAD!
They didn’t like hearing it, but neither did they doubt it.
—Finding your family? Augustus says.
—Doing all I can for them. It’s what I’ve always done as a husband, a dad. I won’t resort to brutishness and I won’t be aggressive or become like the inhumans, but to get to them, to protect them, to do my duty as a dad and a husband, I’ll do what I have to.
Michael bends to give the animal a bit more water.
—The world’s an abyss now, Augustus says. One that looks back at you when you look into it. Be careful not to become monstrous while dealing with the monsters of the new world.
—The world itself is a monster, Michael says.
—Which is why it’s so easy to become one now. More than it ever was before.
The world had always been monstrous for some people. He realizes now he had judged those people and their response to their world too harshly.
CATACLYSMOS Book 1 Part 1: This is the Way the World Ends: A Post-Apocolyptic Serial Thriller Page 3
