Jason marched along the shoulder of the road, thinking all these random thoughts when he noticed lights of a vehicle coming up behind him. It was the first car he’d seen in perhaps two hours. He turned to stick his thumb out. Almost too late he realized the vehicle was close, traveling much faster than it should have been and headed straight at him. The headlights, which had to be on high beam, were blinding. He jumped out of the way just as an old boat of a Cadillac (probably seventies vintage) blew past him almost striking him. The driver laid on the horn but did not slow down. The car’s right front tire hit the soft shoulder and when the driver pulled it back he overcompensated and the car began to fishtail wildly before Jason realized it was going to crash. And crash it did, going off the road with a sickening impact and rolling over several times before ending up in the dusty ditch on its roof.
Jason was in motion almost before the car came to a complete halt. He heard the sizzle of liquid on something hot. Christ, it’s gasoline on the exhaust system, Jason thought as he reached the vehicle. From the right front window crawled a man with blood on his face.
“Let me help you,” Jason said grabbing the man beneath the shoulders and dragging him out of harm’s way. He could see that the man’s left leg hung limply and his foot was twisted unnaturally. “Is there anyone else in the car?”
“Tonya!” the man gasped. That’s when the vehicle ignited with a concussive explosion. A column of orange flame burst from the shattered rear window.
Jason dropped the man and sprinted to the opposite side of the car. The cab was crushed and he could see that the woman who’d occupied the seat there was dead. Her head had become caught between the bottom of the window and the compacted roof. A scrim of blood ran down between her glazed and staring eyes and her motionless tongue hung from her mouth.
The smell of gasoline was powerful in the air and Jason suddenly knew that the car was about to blow. He sprinted back to the injured man and dragged him across the tarmac to the ditch at the opposite side of the road just as the burning vehicle erupted with a deafening explosion, blowing him over with a searing wall of heat.
Jason hunkered down in the ditch, his body protectively shielding the injured man. The man gave an anguished cry.
“I’m sorry,” Jason said. “There was nothing I could do.”
The man was sobbing softly. “Something back there,” he said. He was looking back in the direction he’d come, his eyes filled with a species of terror Jason had gotten quite used to seeing in battle.
Jason frowned. “What?”
“Something back there!” the man repeated.
“What’s back there?”
“I don’t know. Crazy shit. People going nuts.”
“What do you mean by that?” Jason asked.
“Happened all at once,” the man continued, his words coming between sobs and breathless gasps. “Me and Tonya . . . oh, poor Tonya.” He began to sob again.
“Come on, man,” Jason said. “Tell me what happened.”
“We stopped at this all night diner for coffee and pie, see. A town called Burbank. Ain’t no Burbank, California though, I’ll tell you that.”
Jason remembered passing through Burbank about two or three hours back.
“I heard all this commotion outside and was just about to go see what was happening when this guy comes into the diner with a gun and starts shooting the place up. Me and Tonya ducks down in the booth but I can see the guy just wants to murder people. There’s blood in both his eyes and he’s killing everyone he sees, all random like. Boom, boom, boom. I thought me and Tonya was goners cause the dude was between us and the door. So the guy at the counter yells, ‘Leroy! What the fuck you think you’re doin?’ Christ, he knows the guy. We’ll the guy doing the shooting—Leroy—he turns the gun on the counter guy. Well, the counter guy goes down behind the counter and comes back up with a sawed off shotgun and blows a hole clean through Leroy. Leroy falls over against some chairs, but Christ he gets back up and . . . and . . .”
“And what?” Jason said.
“He grabs the guy behind the counter, drags him across and begins ripping him apart. I mean ripping him, man, with his bare hands, arms and legs. Rips his fucking head clean off. I ain’t never seen nothin like it. Then he starts going after other people and killing em with his bare hands. I ain’t shitting you, man. How can a guy with a hole the size of a Campbell’s Soup can blowed in him do that? That’s when me and Tonya runs for the door. But outside everyone’s going nuts, and out on the highway cars are crashing together and people are staggering around all bloody and screaming and fighting. Man, I don’t know what’s happening. The world’s gone to shit. Poor Tonya. Jesus, I didn’t mean to . . . I was so scared. I just wanted to get away. I was driving too fast trying to get as far away from that ugly scene as possible when Tonya gets this look in her eyes, I mean all red and bloody and mean, like the people at the diner, and she comes across the seat and tries to bite me, man. She was wailing and thrashing. I was trying to slap her away screaming what the hell’s gotten into you, woman? That’s when I saw you in my headlights, man. Almost too late. Jesus, poor Tonya.” The man collapsed in sobs.
Jason looked back the way the man pointed. Down the distant highway he saw the headlights of several vehicles moving their way. Consumed with a terrible and prophetic certainty that something in the world had gone suddenly and horribly awry, he tried to think straight, but could not make sense of any of this.
“After me and Tonya left Burbank, before she went all apeshit on me,” the man said. “I tried calling 911 but I got a recording telling me all the circuits was busy. Something’s going on, man. I’m telling ya, something bad’s happening.”
“Wait a minute,” Jason said. “Do you have a cell phone?”
“Yeah, grabbed it when I crawled out of the car.”
It was then that Jason saw the cell phone lying on the ground beside the injured man. He grabbed it up. In the distance he heard the thwop thwop thwopping sound of what could only be military helicopters. “What’s your name?”
“What?”
“Name, man. What do you call yourself?”
“Oh, yeah, it’s Tim. Tim Dudley. Live up in Arkansas. Me and Tonya was down at the Gulf of Mexico. Tonya likes the ocean. I don’t like it much, but I take her down couple times a year. She likes the warm ocean water. Such a good girl. Oh, God, poor Tonya.”
“Listen, Tim, I’m going to try and get someone on the phone.”
By now the burning automobile was a noisy inferno, the light from its fire exaggerating their shadows, casting them across the dark desert floor, as though they were actors in some macabre stage play. Jason tried not to think about Tonya. He picked the phone up and pushed the on button. The green digital readout began to glow. He dialed 911 and put the phone to his ear. The ‘all circuits are busy’ recording kicked in almost immediately. He pushed the off button then turned it on again, this time dialing the number of the processing center at Fort Hood. He got a recording, all circuits are busy. He dialed O for operator and got the same message. Jason stared at the phone for a long moment before turning it off and putting it in his pocket. “Listen, Tim, cars are coming our way. We should try and get help.”
“No, man,” Tim said. “Don’t trust em. After what I saw back there, after what happened to Tonya, I don’t think we should trust anyone.”
“Then what would you suggest?”
“I think we should stay low until we’re . . . you know . . . sure.”
Jason stared at Tim for a long moment in thought. “I don’t know, Tim.”
“I told you what happened,” Tim said. “I ain’t lying. Those people were killing each other.”
“You need medical attention.”
“Man, you ain’t hearing me. I’m telling you the whole world’s gone loony!”
Jason glanced down the highway. “Do you know how far the nearest town is?”
“Maybe ten miles. A place called Kardell. Piss ant little place wit
h a gas station and a couple of flea bag motels.”
Jason fixed his eyes along the highway toward the direction of Kardell. “All right. But we’ll need to get off the road. No way can I carry you. You’ll have to lean on me.” Jason stood. He heard the choppers again, louder this time, perhaps ten miles out, which meant five minutes, and the vehicle lights were perhaps a mile or so out and still moving steadily toward them.
“Man, I ain’t feeling so good,” Tim groaned and Jason saw that he had rolled over and was hugging his midriff.
“Come on, Tim,” Jason said. “If we’re going to get off this road we need to do it now.”
As Jason reached out to help him, Tim did a quick roll over and jumped to his feet. Despite Tim’s obviously broken foot he seemed suddenly animated and did not appear to be experiencing any pain or physical impairment. While Jason was trying to process this new development Tim launched himself at him. His right arm swung around in an arc. The movement was so quick that Jason did not have time to react. Tim’s closed fist struck Jason on the side of his head with such force Jason saw stars and went down. Tim fell on top of him, digging and scratching, acting like a rabid animal. Low grunting sounds were coming from his throat. Runners of saliva dripped from his mouth. “Wait a minute, Tim,” Jason said, trying to reason with the man. “What the hell are you doing?”
Jason was a relatively big guy, six-two, one hundred and ninety pounds, and up until now had not used any force against Tim, fearful of further injuring the man, thinking perhaps that he might be experiencing trauma from the accident or the loss of his wife. But suddenly Jason’s survival instinct took over. Tim was no longer Tim. He knew he had to fight or he was going to die.
Jason hooked his right leg around Tim’s body in an old wrestling technique designed to roll an opponent over and gain the upper advantage. He heaved, and with all his strength made his move. It was like trying to crawl out from under a rock. Tim was immovable, his strength extraordinary, holding Jason solidly to the earth. Jason noticed that Tim’s eyes had turned blood-red and seemed to be swelling from their sockets. Jason had seen injuries like these in the war and understood that Tim must have experienced some sort of brain trauma from the crash that was causing him to act the way he was. But in the back of his mind Jason could not forget what Tim had told him about Tonya, and about what had happened back in Burbank. Could something be infecting Tim with craziness?
Tim drew his head back and opened his mouth so wide Jason heard sinew tearing. There was something very wrong here. Tim was growling and gurgling way back in his throat and his red eyes looked like the eyes of something possessed. Jason was strong and in top physical condition from years of training and combat. Even so, he was no match for a man who was at least six inches shorter than him and sorely out of shape. Jason realized that he was no longer dealing with a man, but some sort of monster.
Tim’s head began to descend and Jason knew he was going for his throat. Jason snaked his arm down his leg and felt the sheath there. Tim’s mouth stretched open to impossible proportions, sinew ripping and snapping as his head descended. Jason yanked his knife from the sheath, brought it up and held it below Tim’s descending neck. Tim did not seem to notice the knife, and that’s when Jason realized without a doubt that there was no longer a man inside the body of Tim Dudley. The blade slid into Tim’s throat disappearing all the way to the hilt. Tim’s body went suddenly limp. That’s when Jason made his move. He ripped the knife from Tim’s neck and squirmed from beneath his now dead weight, scratching his way to his feet.
Jason stepped back watching Tim. For a long moment Tim lay twitching on the ground. Jason thought it was over until Tim’s body began to reanimate, the trunk rising up mechanically, the head swiveling like a periscope. Then the eye lids popped open to reveal bulging vivid red eyes that fixed their hellish gaze on Jason.
Tim rose slowly to his feet and began moving toward Jason in a strange mechanical, machine-like gait as blood poured from the wound on his neck. Behind Jason, the Cadillac burned ferociously. He backed toward it, the heat singeing the hair on the back of his head. Tim stalked closer but hesitated, as if he was frightened of the fire. His red eyes bulged hugely, as if they might explode from their sockets any second. Then Jason noticed that Tim’s head seemed to be swelling as well, rapidly, distorting.
Tim’s head exploded like a ripe melon, filling the air around Jason with millions of small spore-like things that floated like tiny winged insects. Before he knew what was happening, Jason had inhaled a mouthful of them. He fell to his knees gagging. Tim’s headless body collapsed like a sack and thumped to the ground, convulsed a few times and went still. Jason struggled to his feet still gagging and puking the vile spores from his lungs.
Whether Tim was actually dead or not, Jason did not know. And he didn’t intend to wait around long enough to find out. The approaching vehicles were now less than a quarter mile out and closing fast.
Jason staggered into the ditch and made his way across a section of scrubland until he was perhaps a hundred yards from the road. He found a dip in the terrain and collapsed behind it, lying prone, watching the road from his vantage, gagging and puking more muck from his lungs and stomach.
The three vehicles—all army Humvees stopped beside the burning Cadillac. Four men exited each vehicle. All wore hazmat suits and carried M-16s.
Jason watched as they carefully inspected the area around the burning vehicle, paying particular attention to the headless body beside it. One of the soldiers nudged it carefully with the barrel of his weapon.
What if he’s not dead? This little voice inside Jason said. Worse yet, what if he was infected with something? His head exploded but instead of brain matter, dry spores came out and floated away. Christ, what if it’s only a matter of time before I get what he had?
Pushing the thought aside Jason watched as an officer barked an order and a soldier moved toward one of the Humvees. The soldier pulled something from the back of the vehicle and worked his arms through straps as he shifted a tank onto his back. Jason knew what it was. He’d had plenty of experience with them in the war. In the next instant a thirty foot column of fire erupted from the nozzle aimed at the remains of the Cadillac, and at the corpses of Tim Dudley and his wife Tonya. A cold shiver ran through Jason. He knew what they were doing; just making sure. They wanted nothing substantial left of the remains. Nothing that can come back to life. Nothing that can infect others, this cold voice told Jason with certainty. But those spores floated away. Will the wind move them along to houses and towns along the way? How long will they live without a host? Will they infect others?
While the remainder of men stood guard, weapons at ready, two of the soldiers began scanning the desert with night vision goggles. Did they suspect someone else was out here? As they made their approach had they seen the shadows of two men against the flaming vehicles instead of one? Had he left a foot trail? In his haste, Jason had not had time to erase his tracks.
If they did suspect someone it seemed they were not eager to go searching, for they all got back in their vehicles and continued slowly but steadily along the highway toward the town of Kardell, Texas.
Several miles away, heading in the same general direction flew a squadron of military helicopters, their telltale strobe lights flashing eerily in the night sky.
When the caravan’s taillights were just a red glow on the horizon, Jason left his vantage and followed suit, staying clear of the road but never losing sight of the electric poles that marked its way, each a ghostly cruciform rising up against the coming dawn, portending an uncertain future.
CHAPTER 4
Merton, California, July 1st.
Two days before the Arrival
For a solid week the Santa Anna winds had been blowing relentlessly, turning Southern California into a dry and dusty tinder box. The town of Merton, a small wine producing village on the west bank of the San Joaquin River, yielded to the heat as to a conquering army. The few souls who dared ven
ture out into the streets scurried like victims of sniper fire.
Dr. Franz Shutzenberger sat in his wheelchair on the back terrace of the Nature Rest Nursing Home. Shutzenberger was a very old man. His hair was white and thick and unkempt. His spine was arthritic, bent in a forward curve like that of a bow, causing him to lean forward unnaturally.
The old man was a reluctant resident at the Nature Rest Nursing Home. He had never liked infirmity. It reminded him of the holocaust, of those terrible dark days in the camps before he and a small brave band of friends had escaped the Nazis. Those days still lived in his mind, dark and terrible, like a cancer at the center of his psyche.
Dr. Shutzenberger would have preferred to stay in his home and die there, but the state of California had become too meddlesome in his affairs following his stroke and had decreed that he was not capable of caring for himself. “Bunk!” he had retorted to the state’s assessment of his condition and their subsequent intentions. They had responded to his terse comment by taking him against his will. Just like the Nazis had done all those years ago.
And he was bitter.
It was now late in the afternoon. The air conditioners on the back of the nursing home labored unnaturally hard. The old man did not sweat in the heat. On the contrary, despite the three-digit mercury reading, a light cotton blanket had been drawn over his thin, emaciated legs. The blood circulation had been gone for some years now and they always felt cold. His head was inclined slightly to the right, his chin resting on his breastbone, a symptom of the stroke. He might have been sleeping. He might have been dead.
Song of Ariel: A Blue Light Thriller (Book 2) (Blue Light Series) Page 6
