Spore Series (Book 1): Spore

by Soward, Kenny

“You get me every time, Patsy,” Moe said with a wistful grin, and he cranked up the sound so the cabin rocked with her sweet melodies.

  Cruising along, Moe pinned his eyes ahead, glancing periodically into his side mirrors to check for cars around him. He allowed his gaze to linger far ahead as Patsy’s voice soothed his soul.

  Something drifted onto the road several miles ahead. Moe sat up and squinted ahead of him. It appeared to be a black fog oozing up on the road from the fields, squeezing tight as he approached. A glance into his side mirror showed the fog closing in behind as well, with finger-like tendrils drifting across the road.

  “What in the world is going on?”

  Still looking in his mirror, Moe’s eyes flew wide open when a car shot out of the cloud and banked hard to the left, toppling end-over-end along the highway. More vehicles burst from the cloud and crashed into the tumbling wreckage or shot off the road to slam their noses in the dirt.

  Moe took his foot off the gas and held it over the brake. His first instinct was to stop and help the people in the wrecks, but something about the fog made the hairs on his arms stand up. The fog looked toxic and deadly, closing in on all sides. Was it some new insecticide they’d dumped on the fields?

  He switched his foot back to the gas and pressed down, and the diesel engine responded with a roar. Moe rolled his windows up and slammed his vents closed as the smoky tendrils engulfed him.

  Turning in his seat, Moe reached for the respirator mask he’d thrown onto his bed. He wore it whenever he ventured into a warehouse full of produce to watch them load it onto his truck. After hearing what kinds of pesticides and antifungals they sprayed to protect product for cross country travel, Moe purchased the mask and wore it even though the warehouse workers laughed at him.

  He slipped the mask over his head, losing sight of the road for two seconds. Moe looked up and winced as his fender bumped the car in front of him. He pumped his brakes as the vehicle bounced ahead with a honk.

  “Sorry,” Moe mumbled, happy he hadn’t knocked the car off the road.

  By then, the mysterious tendrils were all around him, making it hard to see the road.

  Moe glanced at his speedometer, and the stop arm hovered at fifty-five miles per hour. It wasn’t a high rate of speed, though probably too fast for such low visibility. As if on cue, the car he’d bumped suddenly stopped, its tail end flying into the air as it smashed into the vehicle in front of it.

  Jerking his wheel to the left, Moe whipped his truck in a sharp but smooth maneuver around the wreck. He felt the weight of his trailer assume control, bending his tractor dangerously back and forth before he righted it.

  The haze broke, and Moe shifted gears and slammed the gas pedal to outrun the growing chaos. He flew past two SUVs swerving in the slow lane. One crossed the yellow line as Moe flew past, and he clipped the truck, sending it into a harmless spin off the road.

  Moe cursed and wove through more wreckage. One pickup truck had slid sideways and got T-boned by another car, and the pickup’s driver waved his arms as he tried to escape from the burning wreckage. Moe slammed his palm on his steering wheel and shook his head, slowing his truck as he pulled it to the shoulder and stopped.

  He popped open his door and hopped down. Distant crashes greeted his ears as he stepped away from the truck and looked far ahead. The wind drove the tendrils in gusts, and shadows of wrecks lay scattered everywhere.

  Moe turned and sprinted back along the road to where the car burned a hundred yards away. A van drove by, trailing black dust as it plowed along, weaving as the driver gripped the wheel and focused on the road. Moe noted her rolled up windows, confirming his assumption that the cloud must be poisonous. He’d been smart to put on his mask, though he questioned his decision to save the person in the burning wreckage.

  “This is stupid, Moe,” he said to himself as he hustled. “Someone will hit you, and it won’t be pretty.”

  Still, Moe couldn’t allow someone to burn alive—not if he could help it. He only hoped he made it to them in time.

  As he approached the burning car, a sports car zipped out of the cloud, heading fast toward him. The windows hung wide open, and the driver gripped his neck in respiratory distress. Moe watched the car angle toward his side of the road, and he dropped into a cautionary stance, ready to dive in any direction.

  The car swung to the far side of the road and broke back in Moe’s direction with a deafening squeal of tires. Moe’s insides turned to liquid as the headlamps bore down on him, and he tensed himself to spring. At the last second, the sports car veered into the burning car in a fiery explosion, showering Moe in light and heat and pieces of glass.

  He threw his arms over his head to protect himself and waited for the air to clear. Once safe, Moe took two steps toward the burning wreckage with his arm up to shield his eyes. The heat burned the hair off his arms. He couldn’t get within ten feet of the wreckage much less save the people inside.

  With a sad shake of his head, Moe turned and sprinted back to his truck, saying a silent prayer for those who burned alive. He gasped as he ran, the inside of his mask fogging up as his panting shot hot breath against his visor.

  The sound of helicopter rotors reached his ears, and Moe looked up to spot the KGET helicopter dip down into a clear spot in the fog. They must have caught the chaotic scene and come to investigate. Moe waved a warning to the chopper as he ran.

  “Get out of here,” he shouted. “Go get help. Call the—”

  The aircraft wobbled, drifting to one side in an almost haphazard manner.

  “Oh no,” Moe whispered as he reached his truck, watching the chopper show more signs of distress.

  The craft bent backwards and drifted away from Moe, then the nose tipped forward and kept on tipping. The aircraft lost altitude and flew drunkenly toward the ground. Toward his truck!

  “No, no, no!” Moe cried. He backpedaled away, his hands held out in despair.

  The helicopter crashed through his trailer with a thunderous crunch and came out the other side in a ball of flames. Rotors smacked the ground and zipped in all directions, and Moe dropped to the ground and covered his head.

  Once the debris settled, Moe rose to his knees. The helicopter wreckage lay strewn across the roadway along with almonds glowing and sizzling like embers. His truck remained intact, though the trailer burned. Moe jumped up and ran over and held his hands out to test the heat. It wasn’t blistering like the two cars. Most of the helicopter fuel lay spilled on the roadway.

  Moe rushed to the tractor hitch and disconnected the air and power lines. He ducked beneath the front of the trailer to grab the kingpin release. With a quick jerk, he pulled the clamps open with a clank.

  Moe backed out from beneath the trailer and grabbed the lever to lower the trailer’s support legs. He cranked it as fast as he could while the flames crept closer. Once the support legs touched the concrete, Moe sprinted back to his cab.

  He climbed in and hit the switch to release the air suspension. The CD player moved to the next track, and I Fall to Pieces blared from the speakers as his truck disconnected from the trailer. He grabbed his seat belt and started to buckle it, but let it snap back. If the flames reached the gas tanks, he’d have to bail quick.

  A quick check in his side mirror showed the flames getting closer, and Moe couldn’t wait any longer. He put the truck in gear and tore off, lurching as the fifth wheel hit the connecting pin and bent it outward.

  Moe drove hard, passing a dozen or more wrecks before he broke free of the cloud. Despite the sun shining down, the horizon on either side boiled with more ominous clouds.

  Moe stomped on the gas. The truck picked up speed and barreled ahead. The expressway remained clear for the moment, but what lay around the next bend remained to be seen.

  Moe clutched the steering wheel as Patsy Cline finished her mournful tune to the rhythm of Moe’s pounding heart.

  I fall to pieces.

  Each time someone speaks your name. />
  I fall to pieces.

  Time only adds to the flame.

  Chapter 8

  Moe Tsosie, Barstow, California

  Four hours later, Moe approached Barstow, California on I-15. He noticed patches of black and crimson growing on the backs of his hands and across his dashboard and seat. The growth hadn’t caught his attention at first because of his focus on the road and the radio reports filtering in from across the United States.

  Toxic clouds had killed hundreds of thousands of people in many major US cities, bringing the country to a standstill. News agencies scrambled to provide accurate information, though every report they rolled out became obsolete fifteen minutes later. Some experts pointed to a major escalation in bioterrorism, while others called it a result of chemical sprays released into the air on farms across the nation.

  If Moe hadn’t experienced the toxic clouds personally, he wouldn’t have believed the reports. He’d put his money on the chemical spray theories, because he knew the lengths farmers and resellers went to keep their crops protected.

  Moe would theorize later, because he wanted to get the disgusting growths off his skin. He swore the spots had only been soft dust before, though they clung to his skin even when he tried to brush them off.

  Traffic had grown heavy over the last hours, people fleeing eastward with vehicles packed full of personal possessions, children and dogs tossed into the backseat along with piles of clothes and food.

  Taking the next exit, Moe turned left and headed for the A&B Truck Wash and Mini-Mart on Main Street. He often washed his truck there between runs, and it had a powerful sprayer and a full range of interior cleaning supplies, even anti-bacterial wipes.

  Moe guided his truck into the lot and pulled into the last stall on the end. Once parked, Moe exited his vehicle and took several steps back. Streaks of black and crimson growth stretched back from the grill to the wind deflector, covering the white metal like crimson fire. He approached the truck and looked closer, noticing fuzzy nodules on the ends of the short stalks.

  “This looks like a fungus, man,” Moe said to himself. Then he reached out to run his finger across the surface.

  “You need any help, mister?”

  Moe jerked his hand away and spun around to find an attendant approaching. The man was a skinny twenty-something, wearing coveralls and a Farmall hat.

  “Hey, stay back!” Moe threw his hands up in warning. “Don’t come any closer!”

  The man stopped. “Are you okay, mister?”

  “I’m fine, but I might be contaminated.”

  The man pointed past Moe with a dumbfounded expression. “What’s that stuff on your truck?”

  Moe half turned to look at the growth on his truck, then he peered down at his arms. “I think it’s some kind of mold.”

  “Like what they’re saying on the news?” The man looked scared.

  “It could be.” Moe shrugged and gestured to his truck. “I just want to wash it off my rig, and I’ll use some disinfectant wipes on myself if that’s okay. I’m not doing anything wrong.”

  “Can I catch it?. The attendant backed away, keeping a wary eye on Moe and his splotchy skin.

  “To be honest, I don’t know,” Moe rubbed his skin vigorously and watched the fungus fall away. “Look, I can wipe it off. I think it’s okay as long as you don’t breathe it in.”

  “Okay, man. Do what you need to do.” When the attendant had reached a certain distance, he turned and jogged back to the Mini-Mart, throwing doubtful glances over his shoulder.

  Seeing the attendant’s reaction, Moe’s simmering panic spiked. He threw open his cab door, grabbed a tube of Clorox wipes from his sleeping area, and yanked two out. He worked on his left arm first, running the wipe over his skin and expecting the splotches to fall away easily. They didn’t. Moe scrubbed harder, and the mold peeled back, leaving red marks on his skin.

  Encouraged, Moe worked on his right arm and neck. When he got to his hair, he found the stuff caked in it and his clothing. The image of moldy bread popped into his head and sent another wave of panic through him like a shock wave.

  Moe removed his wallet and keys from his pocket, tossed them aside, and pulled off his mask and T-shirt. He placed his mask aside, considering it one of his most prized possessions. Removing his boots and pants, Moe checked his skin and made sure none of the mold had filtered in through his clothes.

  Standing nude in the center of the A&B Truck Wash and Mini-Mart, Moe kicked his clothes aside and scrubbed every inch of his body. He burned through two full tubes of Clorox wipes before dumping the remaining slosh of antibacterial cleaner over his head. He ran a brush through his hair to get most of the mold out and stood there dripping.

  “You need more?”

  Moe looked up to see the skinny attendant standing there with a tube of generic disinfectant wipes in his hand and a crew of A&B workers lingering behind him. Two young female attendants gaped at him while an older gentleman with a beard grown to his chest watched Moe with a fascinated expression.

  Feeling like part of a zoo attraction, Moe glanced down at himself. At forty-seven years of age, Moe wasn’t an Adonis, but he wasn’t in terrible shape either. He had a squat form with powerful arms and legs, though his belly hung down from too many days sitting behind the wheel of a truck.

  Beyond shame, Moe held out his hands. “Yeah, I’ll take them.”

  The attendant tossed the tube of wipes to him, and Moe yanked two free. “Hey, you have any clothes I could buy? I take an extra large shirt, and my waist size is thirty-eight.”

  One young woman raised her finger in correction. “Make that a forty-inch waist.”

  Moe nodded as he wiped under his arm pits. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

  “Be right back,” the skinny attendant said, and he turned and jogged back into the Mini-Mart, followed by the rest of the crew. They walked with stiff postures, whispering between themselves as they gestured. Moe figured they were deciding between staying at work or rushing home to safety.

  Moe took a five-dollar bill out of his wallet and put it in the slot to start the car wash pump. The sprayer hose jerked with tension where it rested in its cradle. Moe peered at a selection knob to allow him to choose the type of spray. He set it to a water mist, pulled the wand from its holder with one hand, and sprayed himself down. He wiped his free hand over his skin, reveling in the cool mist. Leaning over, Moe sprayed the back of his head and rinsed out the disinfectant until it felt clean.

  By the time he’d finished, the attendant stood there with a pile of clothes in his arms.

  “I threw in some socks and underwear, too. Oh, and a towel.”

  “Thank you so much,” Moe bent to get his wallet. “Let me pay you for them.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” The attendant spoke in a soft, careful tone. “It’s on the house.”

  The man placed the clothes on a dry spot and tossed Moe a towel. Moe dried off and got dressed, finding the forty-inch jeans more accommodating to his size than he cared to admit. He pulled on the fresh socks and hiker’s shoes the attendant provided before drawing a black T-shirt over his head.

  Moe’s panic melted away as the soft cotton fabric settled on his shoulders.

  “Thanks,” Moe nodded at the skinny man and turned to face his mold-covered truck with his hands on his hips.

  “It’s thick on there.” The attendant stated the obvious, taking a step closer to Moe.

  “And spreading,” Moe said, though the black and crimson color had faded to a dry gray. It must be the arid landscape and the sun beating down on the hood of his truck. Everyone knew dry air and sunlight was the best way to kill mold. “I’ll spray it off.”

  Moe closed his truck door and put his air filtration mask on. Then he put five more dollars into the spray pump machine, and retrieved the sprayer. He turned the knob to a medium hard spray and prepared to do battle. He squeezed the handle, and the nozzle shot a V-shaped cone at the door of his truck. Moe worked
it back and forth, trying to peel the mold off the white paint.

  To his surprise, the mold resisted. Its crimson streaks glinted a deeper shade where it soaked up the moisture.

  “I’m only helping this thing grow.” Moe shook his head and watched as a handful of weak tendrils drifted up from the surface of his truck. Moe didn’t know a lot about fungi except they produced spores as part of their reproductive cycle. Perhaps he’d caught it during a downside of its cycle. Or maybe plain water didn’t cause the same reaction as the farm antifungals.

  “Maybe some soap will loosen it up,” the attendant suggested, and he stood next to the control knob with a questioning look back at Moe. Moe nodded, and the man turned it to the soap setting. “Try it now.”

  Moe circled his truck, spraying a gentle arc of soapy water across the surface. Once he’d completed two full circles, he nodded to the attendant. “Turn it on the hardest setting.”

  “Careful,” the man chuckled as he turned the knob to a setting highlighted in red. “This one will peel the paint off if you get too close.”

  “That sounds perfect,” Moe stated. He stepped back, squeezed the handle, and the V-shaped cone burst from the nozzle with a definite kick. Moe angled the spray at the door of his truck and scraped at the mold. With a little skillful angling, it worked!

  The loosened mold fell away or clung to his truck in long strings before Moe gave it a second blast. He moved around the rig for an hour, spending thirty dollars as he peeled the disgusting infection away.

  Moe shuddered, thinking the mold had rested on his skin for several hours. If he’d waited any longer, it might have clung to him the same way it did his truck. What would it have done if it entered his bloodstream?

  “Now for the inside.”

  The attendant handed Moe more of the disinfectant wipes, and Moe laboriously cleaned every inch of his truck’s interior. He opened all the doors and pulled out his mattress, bedding, and spare clothes, tossing them into a pile next to the truck.

  The spread wasn’t nearly so bad inside, though he had to dig down into every crevice, and he still couldn’t be sure he got it all. An hour and two more tubes of Clorox wipes later, Moe stood back and admired his work. Disinfectant scent lingered in the air, and his truck appeared spotless inside and out.