ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Brian Fatah Steele, a member of the indie author co-op Dark Red Press, describes the majority of his work as "Epic Horror with lots of Explosions." Along with multiple books, his articles and stories have appeared in various e-magazines and online journals. Steele lives in Ohio with a few cats that are probably plotting his doom. Surviving on a diet primarily of coffee and cigarettes, he occasionally dabbles in Visual Arts and Music Production. He still hopes to one day become a Super Villain.
WHITE SANDS
by
C.L. Stegall
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
First off, I would like to thank (and praise) my Dark Red Press cohorts, Jack, Brian and John. They have made the last nine months of my life the literary adventure I have always dreamed it would be. Bringing us all together was a team effort and every day continues to make me happier than I’ve ever been (in the writing world). You guys fucking rock!
Second, I would like to thank my lovely, irrepressible Wife, Mona, for putting up with my long days and nights behind the keyboard banging out stories, editing and working with the DRP guys. You put up with a lot more of my crap than anyone else would, I’m certain. I love you more and more every day.
Last, but definitely not least in this instance, I want to thank Robert Verde who did a truly amazing job editing White Sands for me while I was busy editing everything else for this collection. I can’t thank you enough for you harsh but fair criticisms and fan-freaking-tastic editing skills. You are the man!
With all of that in mind, and all of the other editors involved in each of the tales, I thank you all and any existing errors in this manuscript I take on myself. Peace!
CHAPTER 1
The two attackers came out of nowhere. I put the first one down with a slug from my best friend, Wilma. The bullet plowed into his chest, the life chuffing out of him when he hit the ground.
The second son of a bitch had moved around behind me when I shot his companion. Before I could move back and cover him he swung a length of pipe at my head and connected. He clocked me pretty good. I saw a billion pinpoints of light explode behind my eyes, even as I twisted and pulled the trigger on Betty. I saw the back of his head spew out into the New Mexico sky just as my own noggin slammed into the pavement.
I was pissed beyond belief. If I could have cursed, I would have. Instead I mumbled some nonsense bullshit, the azure sky collapsing into blackness just like my Donald Duck night lamp had when the world was dying.
* * * * *
“Sweetie, this medicine is for your own good. It’ll help, I promise.” My father’s words drifted to me from the distant past. Looking back, I have no idea if that shot helped me, or if I was just one of the lucky ones. There certainly weren’t many of us. I had watched my mom die only days before. Now, I could tell my Dad was sick, too. The whole world was sick. I didn’t understand it all then, but time has a way of eliminating the clutter.
“You can’t die,” I stated. He smiled at my innocence, although, even at six years old, I was a precocious little girl. I remember that he loved that about me.
“You have to be strong for me, Rock.” He had called me Rock for as long as I could remember. He told me it was because when I was a baby, I never cried. My mom thought something was wrong with me, but the doctors had given me a clean bill of health. Dad claimed it was my way of dealing with the world, watching and learning, always strong. Like a rock. His little Rock.
I accepted the medicine, knowing it was what he thought was best. And, who was I to argue with my father? He put the needle away and brushed my hair from my face.
“You will go on. You will survive and make me proud. You hear me? You will do whatever it takes. Are we clear?” His military bearing reinforced the sharpness of his tone, but it didn’t frighten me. It only steeled my resolve to obey him. I nodded agreement.
I would have done anything to make him happy. I would have saved him if I could. But the world was dying and so was he. I wrapped my two little hands around his rough, calloused paw. I would do whatever it took. I told him so. I remember that smile he gave me. It was the gift of a father’s love, undying and unconditional.
The one thing I remember most about my dad was that he never lied to me. He never coddled me. No matter what, he told me the truth. I didn’t understand it then, but as I grew older, I came to appreciate the courage it must have taken him to be so honest. The letter, for instance, must have been a nightmare to write. Nevertheless, he did it. He shared it all and hoped that someday I would understand. Now, I think I do finally understand. Then, it was just a lot of big words about the fall of mankind. Even after his death, my dad was a fucking hero. I didn’t care how anyone else saw it.
When it finally happened and he died, I’m not sure how long I stood there, staring at his lifeless body. I was probably in shock, but I was trying to cement all of the memories of him in my mind and heart. Then, it was time to move. I had made up my mind. I went to the kitchen, gathered a jar of peanut butter and the remaining half a loaf of bread in my arms and went to my room. I packed my camouflage backpack with the food, two bottles of water and my Dad’s Swiss army knife. My mom hated how much I loved that backpack. She said it was not suitable for a little girl as pretty as me. My Dad had given it to me for my fifth birthday and I carried it everywhere.
After I had slipped on the backpack, I paused by my bed. I felt the loss of my parents. I felt it like a stone on my heart. Still, I didn’t cry. I wish I knew why. There was a great silence in the world. So much was happening. So many were gone. I was about to venture out into the newly quiet world when I heard the front door slam open.
Someone cursed in the living room. It was a man’s voice. I ducked down on the far side of my bed as I heard the footsteps coming down the hardwood hallway. The door to my room opened with a squeak. I could hear breathing, heavy and ragged, as if he had been running for some time. My Dad used to sound like that whenever he had just come in from his morning jog. For a long moment, I thought the person would just turn and leave, but then he spoke.
“Jennifer?” he sounded frightened, but I recognized his voice, now. “Rock? You here?”
I stood and looked into the eyes of my Dad’s younger brother, Derrick. He was only seventeen. He was alive. I ran around the bed, and into his solid hug.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah.” There wasn’t much else to say. “You okay, Uncle D?” He laughed out loud and tears rolled from his eyes. I wasn’t sure why he was crying while smiling but I accepted that it was fine. He just nodded and hugged me again, so tight I grunted. He released me and looked over my shoulder at the pack.
“You going somewhere?” he asked. I shrugged, and he shook his head at me in amazement, taking my hand. “Okay. Time to bounce, kiddo.”
* * * * *
I came to with the desert sun burning my face. I attempted to sit up but, instead, rolled over and puked onto the pavement. There was a pounding in my head as if some asshole was in there with a miniature jackhammer, furious to get out. I wiped my eyes, looked around. The two attackers lay dead in the street. They had come out of nowhere, it had seemed. I must be losing my edge. How the hell did they get so close? I was better than that.
I moved with deliberate speed, standing and snugging my .45s, Wilma and Betty, back into their custom holsters. It was dangerous to be caught out in the open; I needed to get to cover in case these two were part of a larger group. I inspected the bodies, retrieving anything I could use. There wasn’t much. The one who had bonked me on the head had a gun — an old Beretta — which I stuffed into my small backpack. I wondered why he had not just shot me, but then decided he probably preferred his rapes to be interactive.
I continued northeast through the town that used to be called Las Cruces. No one was left here to call it anything other than the Town. The blow to the head had jumbled my thoughts, everything seemed out of order, but I remembered. I remembered a lot more than I expected. I remembered th
at I’d been heading north when the ruffians attacked. Now, though, my memories had returned in full and I knew where I had to go. I walked along Main Street, past Apodaca Park. The park had once held a decent golf course. Now the desert had reclaimed it and there was little greenery in sight but for a few sparse trees that dotted the landscape.
I made my way across to Spitz, meandering through what had been local residential areas, scanning houses for garages that still had cars parked inside out of the weather. After breaking more than a few windows, checking for keys and inspecting gauges, I found a car with an almost full tank. I had to climb on top of the old Ford to jerk on the door opener cord to release the garage door. Once I could raise the door I pushed the car out into the street. I’d never actually found a car with a working battery, but Derrick had shown me how cars with a manual tranny could be bump-started pretty easily. No sense walking all the way to White Sands, even though I was not big a fan of automobiles. I much preferred motorcycles when I could find them.
I revved the engine, which sounded remarkable given its age, and set off toward State Highway 70 and Alamogordo.
CHAPTER 2
Alamogordo sits at the edge of the Tularosa Basin, at the foot of the Sacramento Mountains. Before the world died, it had mostly been a military town. With Holloman Air Force Base and the White Sands Missile Range not far away, in the middle of the basin, Alamogordo thrived in its own small way.
I cruised along White Sands Boulevard. One of the results of the rapid spread of the pandemic was that most people had not been on the road when they died. Most had passed away at home, only a minority lived long enough to die in a hospital.
Road travel these days, should one find a working, gassed-up vehicle, was a breeze. I turned onto 16th Street and eased along the road to my uncle’s house, scanning everything around me, trying to spot anything that seemed out of the ordinary. It had been quite a while since I was last here. I remembered that this was where we had placed the stash. It was also where I knew I would find what little refuge I had left in this desolate fucking world.
* * * * *
“We’re going to have to be prepared for the coming days, Rock,” Derrick had stated. He had taken me to his house and then down into the secured basement that had been built as a fallout shelter. My father and uncle Derrick were always concerned that living next to a missile range and Air Force base made the locale a possible strategic target and had built accordingly. The shelter was large enough to house a family of five and was encased in eighteen inches of concrete; walls, floor and ceiling. It had its own air filtration system and several large oxygen tanks sat in one corner. If the air outside was too toxic, the room could be sealed completely.
When I saw the shelter for the first time, I thought it was a large, mostly empty space that felt cold and cramped. Derrick saw it as a lot more than that. He moved to the shelving on the far side of the room and inspected its contents. After several minutes of perusing the cans and jars already present, he pulled out a small notepad and pen from his pocket. As he was jotting things down he would look up to the shelves periodically, then over at me. I stood in silence waiting and watching.
“We need to start gathering supplies, kiddo,” he said, calling me the pet name he had given me the first time he saw me in my mother’s arms. Or, so he claimed.
“Let’s go,” I said. I smiled uncertainly at his laughter, not understanding why he found my suggestion funny.
“Right. Let’s go.”
* * * * *
I parked the car a two blocks from the house, and waited for several minutes to see if anything stirred. One can never be too careful, even in a dead world.
I stood from the Ford, stretched and checked that Wilma and Betty were securely in place. The house was nondescript. It was impossible to tell, from the outside, what the inside held. My combat boots clunked on the street as I walked over to the front drive. I stepped on the walk leading up to the front door and hesitated, a deep darkness weighing me down for a moment or two. The planted row of cedar trees that lined the garage drive were struggling for life, but birds chirped high in the tall trees behind the house. I listened to the sounds, felt the breeze upon my skin, wishing I could hear Derrick’s laughter once again. Pushing aside my useless melancholy, I made my way inside.
The two-story edifice took up most of the lot. Inside the front door were two fine tripwires spaced a foot apart. I bypassed them easily as I had set them, but I checked to make sure they were still functional. I moved through the house, going to the kitchen in the back, and then I paused, something just wasn’t right.
I scanned the room. Everything should have been covered in a thin film of dust, settled airborne particles. I figured it had been close to two years since I’d been here, but I wasn’t quite certain. That’s the problem with head injuries: they really fuck with your time sense.
The kitchen was too clean. The floor could use a sweeping, but otherwise, everything was in order: cutlery and glassware put away, no dishes in the sink, and a tablecloth on the small kitchen table. It was almost as if... I froze at the sound of someone moving. Someone else was in the house. That was impossible, I thought. The tripwires were still in place.
When I spun to face the hallway leading into the living room a young man came into sight. Reflexes took over and he raised his hands in alarm as my two .45s were pointed in his direction.
“Whoa! Wait a second,” he exclaimed. His dark blue eyes were wide with fear and it didn’t look like he was acting. His hands, held high above his head, were trembling.
“Who the fuck are you?” I asked, my aim as steady as my nickname.
“Kel,” he said, “Kel Reed. I live here.”
“No. I live here,” I stated.
“I know,” he replied, the emphasis on the last word. There was something strangely familiar about this guy, but I couldn’t place him.
“Explain,” I ordered. He began to lower his hands. In response, I shook my head and gestured with the pistols and he resumed his former position.
“I thought you were dead.” There was a plaintive note in his voice that piqued my curiosity even more.
“That’s not a very good explanation. I’m not dead, but you’re getting mighty close.”
“Rock,” he said. It took me by surprise. How did he know my name? “You don’t remember me? We’ve met a few times. Over in Arizona? You were with Derrick. Your uncle.”
I thought about it. Yes, maybe he was familiar, but my memory was still fucked up. I didn’t trust him. Rule number one: never trust anybody. Ever. This guy didn’t look like much. He was thin, but not starving. He wasn’t carrying a weapon that I could see. Of course, that meant very little. I thought for a second. There was nothing in the house with my real name. That might be a good test.
“What’s my real name?” I asked. His eyes narrowed at the question.
“Hell, I don’t know. You never told me. It never came up. I only know you by Rock. I do know your last name is Watson, though. Derrick did say that much. Where is he, anyway?”
“Who?”
“Derrick. Your uncle.” Kel looked at me as if I were crazy. I wasn’t too pleased with his expression.
“I’m asking the questions. Where are you from?”
“Arizona. We covered this already. What’s wrong with you?”
“I got hit on the head. Random scavengers. Assholes fucked up my memory.”
“Oh, wow. I’m sorry. I’ve run into a few of those, too.”
“Then why are you still alive?” I asked, the irritation at the situation leaking into my tone. Kel couldn’t have been more than a few years older than me and he sure didn’t look like the warrior type. Then again, these days looks could be deceiving.
“I can take care of myself,” he replied, his tone offended.
The suppressor on the .45 muffled the noise of the shot as the bullet ripped into the molding just beside Kel’s ear. He was down on the floor, hands over his head before the slight blu
e breath of smoke cleared from the end of my pistol. I laughed out loud. “Right,” I said, placing the weapons back into their holsters.
“What the hell was that for?” Kel asked, staring up at me with wide, frightened eyes. If I’d seen one ounce of calculation in those eyes, I would have shot him. Instead, I moved over to the kitchen table, pulled out a chair and sat down.
“Just double-checking. Get up. Have a seat. Let’s chat.”
“You’re a bit of a loon, aren’t you?” he asked, moving carefully around the table to take the opposite chair.
“No. Just careful,” I said. “What’s your story, Kel?”
“My mom died during childbirth. My father, like most folks, died during the pandemic. I was nine. Pretty much been on my own ever since. After I met you and Derrick, I headed east from Phoenix, until I found your place. More or less by accident, really.”
“How so?” I asked. This place was unique in that it had a very viable and productive garden out back. Uncle D had seen to it that we would never die of hunger. “You can’t see the garden from the streets. And I doubt that we gave you our address.”
“Wow. You really don’t remember me, huh?” He appeared genuinely stunned, and somewhat miffed, by this as I nodded in the affirmative. “When I met you and Derrick the first time you were about fourteen. You guys had been exploring the Tucson area. It was tense at first because, well, let’s face it, you never know what kind of freaks you’re going to meet these days. It turned out all right, though. We hung out for a couple of days, but then Derrick was eager to get back here. All I knew was it was in the White Sands area. No details.”
“You said we met a few times?”
“Yep. We met up again a couple of years later, near Clifton. Southern end of the Apache National Forest. Derrick was a pretty good hunter. He’d bagged a nice good sized doe.” He looked at me with a smirk. “You were really coming into your own, then.”
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