Pebbles clattered. Branches snapped. He looked up and saw the man was less than five yards away. Seeing him up close, Cesar finally understood how much trouble he was in. The man was sick. His face was shredded to the bone. Mottled clumps of something sticky covered his scalp. His eyes, what was left of them, were an opaque gray, the color of monsoon storm clouds, filled with thick cataracts.
Setting off with a limp, Cesar headed for a narrow trail leading to the rim. As he ran, the attached hand leaped higher, fingers encircling his knee, squeezing the twin tendons on the back of his leg, making it all but useless.
“Help me!” he cried, frantically searching for the other border crossers. He was halfway up the slope when he finally succumbed to the pain, unable to go any farther.
A furtive glance over his shoulder revealed his pursuer, not far behind, still struggling with the incline.
Cesar dug into his pocket and withdrew his knife. He flipped the blade open. Taking care not to cut himself, he slid it between the hand and his leg and twisted. The knife sank into the desiccated flesh. There was no blood. The grip increased and a sudden bolt of pain lanced down to his foot. He bit back a cry and kept digging.
Finally, with a dry crack, the thumb broke away. The hand tumbled away from his leg and slid down the embankment, disappearing over a ledge.
Cesar wiped the knife blade in the sand, checked his leg, and finding no open wounds, continued his mad dash towards safety.
Eleven
Colorado Springs
Peter Woo flipped open the lid of his laptop and drummed his fingers on the palm rest, barely able to contain his excitement. He glanced at his mobile phone lying on the couch beside his thigh, and then turned his attention back to the laptop as his screen flashed.
At seventeen, Peter felt he had a pretty good idea how the world worked; God had a plan, and if you followed it, you were golden. If you ignored it, you were on the express train to Hell. Peter was following the plan to the letter, as delivered by Pastor Chuck at Central Baptist Community Church, and he felt little sympathy for anyone who wasn’t doing the same.
After what seemed like an eternity, the laptop finally booted. He swiped his fingertip on the scanner, logging himself in. A few seconds later, he was on Facebook, skipping through his news feed.
Peter was intimately familiar with the idea of Rapture—how, when mankind faced its final battle, Jesus would return to the earth and carry the true believers to Heaven to sit by his side.
That was why he was so excited. His wall told the entire story. The rapture was here...
.
.
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Johnny Gaston
I just saw a non-believer taken down in the street! Stay strong, everyone!
8 minutes ago - Like this
Emily Felt
He is arrived! Praying!
7 minutes ago
Jessica Fox likes this
Johnny Gaston
There’s someone at the door… brb
6 minutes ago - Like this
Emily Felt
Who was it Johnny?
6 minutes ago - Like this
Emily Felt
Johnny? Are you there? Who was it?
4 minutes ago - Like this
Chris Neelon
Emily - where are you?
3 minutes ago - Like this
Emily Felt
Johnny? Call me, k? Praying for you.
1 minute ago
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.
.
Peter had to admit, as happy as he was about the rapture, he was scared for his family, for his girlfriend. For himself. Pastor Chuck hadn’t said anything about people eating each other. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen the pastor on Facebook all day. That was odd. The Pastor was a regular on Facebook, always there to offer a guiding hand.
Peter shrugged. He’s probably busy helping people rapture. He recalled his recent phone call with Molly, his girlfriend of eight months. She had called twenty minutes earlier, crying, saying she had heard gunshots outside her house. Things seemed worse on her end of town, the rapture in full swing. Peter wished he was there with her so they could experience it together. And he would be if it weren’t for his mother. He turned his eyes to the ceiling. She lay just a few feet above, suffering from the end stages of terminal ovarian cancer. He and his father had brought her home from the hospital the week before. Her last round of chemotherapy was a complete disaster, draining her strength and turning her into a ghost of the woman who once ruled the house with an iron fist. The end was close, he knew. He couldn’t help but smile at the timing. Soon he would see his mom in Heaven; she would be strong and healthy like he remembered.
Peter thought it was strange that his dad hadn’t called yet. He picked up his cell phone and checked the time. Two twenty. He said he’d be home by now. He shrugged it off. His father would get home when he did.
He typed in a quick Facebook post, encouraging his friends to ‘hold tight in the name of Jesus. The end is near!’
As he pressed enter, his phone chirped. It was Molly. He picked it up. “Hey.”
“Pete.” She was crying and gasping, almost hyperventilating.
“What is it? Are you okay?”
She blubbered something he couldn’t understand. Something about eating… He slid off the couch and went to the window. When he peered out, he saw nothing but empty street.
“Slow down, Molly,” he said, motioning with his hand even though she couldn’t see it.
She blew her nose loudly in his ear. “They ate them,” she spit out. “The police—all of them.”
Peter was confused. “What do you mean they ate them? What did the police eat?”
“No, Pete!” she shrieked. “The people outside! They ate the police that were shooting at them.” Peter closed his eyes and tilted his head toward the ceiling. She was panicking again.
“I don’t understand what you’re saying, Molly. Try to slow down and start from the beginning.”
She did, and when she was finished, Peter realized he couldn’t wait any longer for his father to get home. If he really loved Molly, he had to go to her right now, to be with her for the end. He checked the street again. Still nothing. His family home was situated in the center of a cul-de-sac, and the closest main road was a half-mile away. Everything looked normal.
He went back to the couch and pulled his computer back into his lap. After entering the address of the local news station in his browser, he clicked on their live traffic cameras. The page finally loaded, displaying a blue screen—a dead video feed.
“Hold on, Molly.” He picked up the remote, turned on the television, and switched it to the same news channel.
A young blonde woman at the anchor desk had her hand up to her ear, her head tilted as she listened to a personal earphone. She was frowning. As he watched, her frown deepened, the corners of her mouth turning her pretty face ugly. She straightened up, rearranged the papers on her desk, and locked her eyes on the camera.
“According to national sources, the president has declared martial law in all fifty states. A twenty-four-hour curfew has been imposed. The Army and National Guard have been mobilized and have orders to shoot anyone violating this curfew.” The anchor shook uncontrollably as she spoke, looking as if she were about to start crying.
“Ladies and gentlemen, my… our advice remains the same. Stay in your homes with your doors and windows locked. There is some form of contagion spreading throughout the country. It causes extreme confusion and violence in those affected, and they are no longer safe to be around. I repeat. Stay indoors. Lock your doors and windows. Do not answer the door for anyone.”
“Molly?”
“Are you coming?” She was crying again.
“Yes.” Peter swallowed. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
The anchor woman stood, unclipped her microphone and tossed it on the desk, and then walked off-camera. Peter snapped his laptop shut and stuffed it in his c
ourier bag. There was one last thing to do before he left. He dashed up the carpeted stairs two at a time and raced down the hall to his parents’ room. The door was closed, but he heard the muted sounds of their television on the other side. He rapped on the door with the back of his hand.
“Mom?”
There was no response. Peter hesitated, then knocked again, louder this time. “Mom? Can I come in?”
There was still no answer. That presented a dilemma. She often dozed during the day, when the pain wasn’t too bad. But once, several weeks before, he had entered her room to find her half-naked, hugging the toilet in the master bathroom. He blushed at the memory. The sense of embarrassment at seeing his mother’s naked body had almost made him turn and run. But instead, he had bent down and helped her up. But he couldn’t forget the sight.
He turned the door knob and pushed in with his shoulder, while trying to keep his eyes glued to the floor. Glancing up carefully, he saw that the bed was empty, the sheets twisted into a ball. No. Not again. His spirits sank. Peter pushed the door the rest of the way open and stepped into the room. He wrinkled his nose. What’s that smell? It was like something rotting, like an old styrofoam meat tray in the kitchen trash he had forgotten to take out.
He went to the bathroom door. It was closed, but he could see light underneath. “Mom! Are you okay?”
That’s a stupid question, he realized as soon as it crossed his lips. Of course she’s not okay.
“Mom?” He knocked.
Crash!
The door rattled in its frame. A chunk of hollow core laminate fell to Peter’s feet. A crack as long as his arm appeared in the top panel. Peter stepped back, wringing his hands. The smell was stronger now. There was another impact, followed by a mad scrabbling on the other side, as if a dog were trapped inside, trying to dig its way through. Peter took a tentative step forward and placed his ear a few inches from the door.
“I’m opening the door now, Mom.” He put his hand on the knob. A guttural moan emanated from the bathroom, deep and long like an old tornado siren. He twisted the knob slowly, trying to guess when the latch would cross the strike plate. Just when he thought it was almost there, the door was wrenched from his hand. His finger caught on the head of a screw in the knob, ripping a deep furrow along the length. Blood poured from his hand.
Peter gasped at the sight before him.
His mother stood hunched and naked in the doorway. The shriveled remains of her breasts swayed like rotten pears; the bones of her hips flared out in bold relief, rigid wings stretching her gray, mottled skin like a bizarre tent made of human flesh. Clotted blood coated her thighs. Something writhed between her legs, something small yet very alive, something that had clawed its way from inside her body.
Peter squeaked in fear. She rushed at him, a feral hunger on her face, focused on her next meal. Just like the people on television, he thought absently. He turned and ran for his life.
Twelve
Megan burst from her trailer at full speed. Her eyes were wild as she searched for someone, anyone, who could help her with Sam. The nearest trailer was twenty feet away, diagonal from hers. She sprinted across the baked dirt and tugged on the cheap aluminum door. Locked. The adjacent trailer was the same.
She stood in the hot sun and racked her brain, trying to remember who was working today, and who was off. Katy’s on, she recalled. She said so at dinner last night. A lithesome, African-American woman from Miami, Katy was Megan’s closest friend in the brothel. For reasons Megan still didn’t understand, they had become quick friends when she first arrived, often watching television together between shifts, doing each other’s hair, and even taking shopping trips into Las Vegas.
Megan set off at a dead sprint for the brothel, a five-thousand-square-foot, 1960s-era, ranch-style house . It lay just behind the next trailer.
“Help!” she screamed, as she burst through the rear door. “I need help!” There was no answer. Her pulse boomed in her ears, blotting everything else out. Wait… She heard the television in the ready room, three doors down. Megan raced down the hall, skidding to a stop on the scuffed laminate floor just outside the room where the girls on duty waited to be called for their lineup. Katy and another girl, Melissa, were perched on the edge of a dusty leather sofa. Their eyes were glued to the television.
Megan couldn’t help but look. The screen was divided into four quadrants. The top left displayed an empty news anchor desk while the other three showed remote camera views of various city streets. Wandering aimlessly, figures lurched across the screen. Signs of destruction abounded. Cars sat with their doors open, dead bodies littered the streets, fires blazed in the distance.
Katy tore her gaze from the television. “Megan!” she exclaimed.
Megan gulped like a fish, trying to catch her breath. “I need help! Sam’s in trouble! In my trailer!”
“Have you seen this?” Melissa asked, gesturing at the screen.
Megan nodded. “Yeah, but that’s not important right now. Something’s wrong with Sam!”
Katy unfolded herself from the couch and crossed the room while keeping one eye on the television the entire way. Megan felt like she was about to scream. What the hell is going on here?
“I’m sorry, Megs,” Katy said, finally tearing her attention from the screen. “What’s wrong with her?”
Leaving Melissa behind, Megan grabbed Katy’s hand and yanked her down the hall and out the back door.
She filled Katy in as they ran to her trailer. “We were talking, and she just collapsed. I - I couldn’t find a pulse…I tried…” The trailer door was wide open, swinging in a soft breeze.
As soon as they stepped inside, Megan was assaulted by a fetid tsunami of human shit and rancid body odors. It triggered her gag reflex, almost making her throw up.
“Ew! What is that smell?” Katy asked, holding her nose.
Megan gagged again and put her hand over her mouth. “I don’t know.” Sam was gone.
“She was right there,” Megan insisted, pointing at the floor. “I swear!”
Katy poked her head into the small bathroom. “She’s not in here either.”
A horrible image flashed through Megan’s mind: Sam struggling to her feet, leaving the trailer, wandering into the desert, and dying under the blistering sun. She felt sick. She should have stayed with her.
Someone outside screamed. It went on and on, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.
“What was that?” Megan whispered. Katy shrugged, wide-eyed. They abandoned the stench to race outside and back to the brothel.
Megan tore the back door of the brothel open and pushed inside with Katy in tow. She called out, “Melissa? Are you okay?” Then she listened.
A wave of relief coursed through her as she recognized Sam’s form at the far end of the hall, outside the television room. She must have gone around to the front…
Megan’s relief was shattered a moment later as her eyes finally adjusted to the gloomy interior. Sam, who only minutes before had been lying on her trailer floor with no pulse, was hunched over Melissa, tearing chunks of flesh from her face and wolfing them down like a starving mutt. Melissa fought for her life, pummeling Sam, trying to dislodge her. Blood coated the hallway, enormous abstract splashes on both walls and a pool fanning out on the laminate floor. The house smelled of copper and feces.
Sam growled and tore a chunk from Melissa’s neck. A high-pressure stream of arterial blood spurted forth, coating Sam’s face, seeming to drive her into an even greater frenzy. Melissa stopped struggling and went limp. Katy screamed, and Sam’s head snapped in their direction. Shit!
Pressing down on Melissa’s corpse for leverage, Sam struggled to her feet. She moaned, and a thick chunk of Melissa’s neck escaped her mouth and tumbled to the floor with a juicy plop. Her tongue skittered over her lips licking hungrily at the torrent of gore cascading from her open maw.
She started walking toward Megan and Katy. Quickly gaining speed, Sam cha
rged down the shotgun-style hall with her bare feet slapping wildly. Megan was frozen in place. She felt like she was watching an instant replay on television. Sam’s eyes bored into her with an inhuman determination. She had to move. Right now.
Fingers wrapped around her wrist. It was Katy, tugging her back through the door. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something that shook her to her very core: Melissa rolling over, climbing to her feet. She spun on her heels and followed in a blind panic.
“Close the door!” Katy yelled once they were outside. Megan turned around and yanked the door shut. They raced back across the graveled area that passed for her front yard. Inside her trailer, Megan slammed the door closed behind them and set the deadbolt with a clunk.
“Oh, my God. Oh, my God. This isn’t happening!” Katy sobbed, pacing around the trailer.
Megan went to the window and pulled the curtain back. “Oh, shit!” She dropped the curtain. “Here she comes!”
Katy stood in the middle of the room hugging herself and quaking. The window in the center of the door shattered, sending shards of glass spraying across the room. A pair of arms plunged through the window, waving around, seeking purchase. Sam roared in frustration.
Megan looked at Katy. “We have to go.” Katy didn’t argue. Grabbing her purse, Megan turned it upside down and dumped it on the bed. “Keys…” Her cell phone, a lipstick, and a pack of cigarettes left over from a long weekend in Vegas tumbled out. And then she spotted her keys.
She snatched them from the bed, but her hands were shaking so badly she almost dropped them.
“How?” Katy asked.
Megan pointed toward the other end of the trailer. “The bathroom window. My car’s right outside.”
“What if they…?”
The door shook and bulged with a brutal impact. The lock wouldn’t hold much longer.
Megan shook her head emphatically and gestured at the front door. “We don’t have a choice.”
“Okay.”
Elements of the Undead: Fire (Book One) Page 5
