Red Rain
Dane Hatchell
This story is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 Dane Hatchell
Cover Copyright © P.A. Douglas
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this story may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
From Severed Press:
From Severed Press:
From Severed PRESS
Other titles by author:
Resurrection X: Zombie Evolution
A Gentleman’s Privilege: Zombies in the Old South
A Werewolf in our Midst
Apocalypse³
Club Dead: Zombie Isle
Dead Coup d'État
Dreaming of an Undead Christmas
It Came from Black Swamp
Lord of the Flies: A Zombie Story
Love Prevails: A Zombie Nightmare
Pheromone and Rotten
Red Rain
Soul Mates
The Garden of Fear
The Last Savior
The Turning of Dick Condon
Time and Tide: A Fractured Fairy Tale
Two Big Foot Tales
Two Demented Fish Tales
Zombies of Iwo Jima
Zombie God of the Jungle
Zombie’s Honor
Red Rain
The Daily News headline had read: ‘Earth to Pass through Cloud of Cosmic Dust.’ The article didn’t say what the dust was made of or how it had found its way in Earth’s orbit. Not even a ‘Spectacular Meteor Shower!’ was predicted. The headline appeared to be just an over blown non-story designed to sell more newspapers.
Mark Roberts now lived his life alone. His gambling problem had come between his wife and ten years of marriage. It was close to noon that day when the rain began. He wasn’t going to let a little rain ruin his lunch plans. The cafe was only six blocks away. He put on some old sneakers, grabbed his umbrella, and left his apartment.
The sky was an unusual color. Cars crept with headlights shining the way. Wipers squawked across the windshield. The sidewalks were vacant of the normal crowd. Some respectfully jogged past others for the shelter of an awning.
Mark’s first warning life was about to change forever was the color of the rain dripping from his umbrella. At first, he thought he had walked under a newly painted building, having no other explanation as to why the rain drops were turning red. But as he continued his stroll the rain puddles took on a reddish hue.
A woman’s scream turned him around dead in his tracks.
Two smartly dressed women well into old age wrestled in the street, scratching and clawing at each other in savage abandon. Before he could react, more cries erupted from all around. People up and down the street turned on each other in physical combat. Mass chaos raged as rain continued to color the landscape.
“No you won’t. I’ll get you first!” A man yelled just a few feet away.
Mark turned just in time and saw a greasy teenager running at him full blast. He ducked to the side, missing the outstretched arms.
The boy bounced off his hip and hit the sidewalk on his hands and knees. He slid to a stop with a faraway look in his eyes. He gazed up at Mark and snarled. “No! No you won’t!”
The teen crawled like a wounded beast straight for him. Mark slammed his right foot square to his temple. He rolled over on his back with a blank stare toward the sky. The rain continued to pour.
Madness, turmoil, and hatred charged the air. Mark ran down the block and tried to enter the cafe. The door was locked. The surprised patrons stared back in disbelief. He pounded his fist against the glass and jerked on the handle. The door wouldn’t budge.
A sharp pain to his back returned him into the fight. A man in a business suit had jabbed him with the tip of an umbrella. Mark yanked the umbrella from his attacker’s hand, which jerked him off balance and crashed him to the ground. Without thinking, Mark smashed the heel of his shoe into the man’s nose until the left side of his face caved in.
Up ahead, two more men engaged in a life and death skirmish. Mark recognized the one getting the worst of things as his neighbor, Mr. Crandle.
“Hey! Hey! Get off of him. Now!” Mark cried, grabbed the aggressor from behind, and looped his arm across his neck with a half nelson hold.
Crandle rose to his feet with his pocketknife drawn and plunged it in the man’s stomach, bringing it up to his sternum. The man’s screams added to the chorus.
Mark threw the man aside. Crandle reached out and grabbed Mark by the throat.
“Damn it, Crandle! Has everyone gone fucking crazy?” Mark yelled, taking a step back, then swept his right forearm against the wrist and broke Crandle’s grip. Mark followed with a front kick to the mid-section, and sent Crandle to one knee gasping for breath. A foot to the head put him out cold.
The rain continued to fall now free of the alien dust. Those affected by evil influence were too far gone to realize.
The red rains stained every human that became its victim. And instead of continuing the mindless fray, the spirit of hatred turned to that of cooperation. The affected began to gather outside businesses trying to find ways to enter.
Two men grabbed a waste barrel and smashed it into a dress shop window, charging through loose glass toward terrified shoppers. Mark felt an inner urge to assist, but his brain still had the power to overrule this new compulsion. Things were happening too fast around him. He just needed to put as much distance as he could between himself and this place, and make a mad dash to anywhere.
A motorcycle on its side with the motor still running offered his quickest escape. He stood it upright straining his lower back in the process and climbed on for the ride for his life.
The roads were clogged with vehicles. He had to take any open path available and even had to backtrack a block or two just to keep moving. The stained maniacs continued the ruthless attack on those not marked as them.
Motorists were being pulled out of broken windows. Dead bodies strewn about created obstacles as Mark fought to make them all a blur. The cycle sped faster and faster.
Once on open highway the wind stung his face and eyes, but his mind was too numb to care. It had stopped raining and the clouds parted in the distance allowing afternoon sun. He past few cars and wondered how many were aware of the madness they headed toward. One thing for certain, he wasn’t going to stop and warn them.
It looked as if his skin and his hands had been air brushed a deep red. Little bumps formed on the surface. The reflection in the rearview mirror showed his face didn’t escape the marking. If all of this was a result of the space dust, he couldn’t imagine what was in it. Was this one of the plagues that would end the Earth as told in the Bible?
He left civilization behind, taking every off road that would lead far away. Mark needed to be alone to collect his thoughts and had the urge to curl up in a ball and sleep forever.
Two hours passed before an old gas station came into view. The fuel gauge pointed to E. There were two pumps in front and a single garage on one side. No one else was fueling up, but there was an old pickup truck behind the building. Mark pulled up to a pump and killed the engine. He sat for a moment before rubbing his face with a tissue from his pocket. Oil and grime rubbed off but not the red.
His dismount reminded him of the pulled muscle in his back. He walked in a small circle to loosen his stiff limbs and to return the feeling to his rear end.
The gas pump looked ancient, not even equipped with a slot for a credit card. He removed the nozzle and lifted the handle and was r
elieved to see it come to life. It was eerily silent all around. Not even a bird chirped. The world now seemed to be a foreign place.
The nozzle went limp in his hand when the tank reached full. He replaced the cap and cradled the nozzle. Mark pulled out his wallet and counted eight dollars in cash, a few dollars short for his purchase. If the owner didn’t take plastic, things were going to get stickier.
He approached the old wood front door and reached for the knob. A withered old man stared back at him through the door’s glass window.
A loud blast erupted and the door exploded with a flash. Splinters and dust blinded him momentarily. Something hot sliced through his left side.
Mark stumbled back and cursed, feeling torn wet flesh on his side. He lowered his shoulder and ran at the door throwing his body into it. Another blast went off as it broke open and slammed into the old man. The revolver he held went flying out of his hand and down an aisle. The old man was on his back and Mark was on top.
Marks fingers sunk deep into the old man’s leathery neck, cutting off any hope for a breath of air. The old man’s eyes bulged and bits of tobacco and spittle flew out his mouth. Mark felt hate, intense hate, and an uncontrollable intent to destroy. He removed one hand from the man’s throat while firmly maintaining his death grip with the other. He grabbed the left eyelid of the old man and ripped it off. Blood streamed down as the old man gurgled. Mark stuck his finger into the eye and popped it like a grape. He wanted the old man to suffer, to feel prolonged pain. He wanted to dig his finger so deep he would reach brain and dig pieces out bit by bit.
The old man’s struggle weakened, and his thrashing slowed to a twitch. As the life passed out so did the violent madness that gripped Mark.
He looked at the gore on his finger, but it didn’t concern him, and neither did the red color of his skin anymore. He wiped his hands on his thighs and straightened out his clothing. The corpse on the floor was no longer of any interest.
An annoying high pitched sound filled the air. A message from the Emergency Alert System was about to play from a radio behind the cash register.
“This is an Emergency Action Notification requested by the White House. All broadcast stations will follow activation procedures in the EAS Operating Handbook for a national level emergency. The President of the United States or his representative will shortly deliver a message over the Emergency Alert System.”
The message continued to repeat itself. Mark scanned through the stations but found all had defaulted to the EAS alert. His mind started to cloud again, and his left shoulder itched severely. There were noises hiding, lurking behind his consciousness. Shadows, whispers, and voices he could sense but not understand.
After a couple of minutes his confusion lifted and gave way to the urge to flee. First, he needed a few supplies. He went to the cooler and pulled out a can of soda, opened it, and took a deep swig before coming up for air. The cool drink felt good to his throat, but by the time it reached his stomach, it felt like a lead weight. He let out an odorous burp, and though still thirsty, tossed the can to the floor. He grabbed a bottle of water and drank it down. This time there was no discomfort.
Mark grabbed two packs of lunch meat, some chips, more water, and put them in a bag. The revolver lay on the floor right where he was about to step. He picked it up and shoved it between his belt and pants. Now that he had a weapon, he needed to make sure he had enough ammo. Going back behind the counter, he located a half full box of bullets and put them in his pocket. He didn’t take any money from the register, and he didn’t give the dead man on the floor a second thought as he stepped over him to leave.
The road was his only companion for the next few hours, riding farther and farther away from civilization. He tried not to dwell on the day’s events. It did nothing but bring uncertainty and agitation. He instead focused on the hum of the motor, blanking out all but the freedom of the open road.
After several more hours weariness had finally set in. He fast approached an old farmhouse a good distance off the road. It seemed like his best chance for rest.
He took the dirt driveway dented with potholes down the quarter mile trek to the small rustic old house. Sections of fencing were missing, suggesting that in its best day livestock once needed to be contained. Mark rode slowly to within a few feet of the front porch, his eyes roamed for signs of life. With none in sight, he parked his cycle and headed for the house.
Each footstep echoed hollow on the porch announcing his arrival. A lone wooden rocker set next to an ancient ashtray on a metal pedestal. The ashtray overflowed with cigarette butts, and the dark gray stains of ashes peppered the boards underneath. Mark banged loudly against the screened door. This time he positioned his body to the side to avoid being shot at again. The screened door wasn’t latched and bounced inward off the main door back and forth with each knock. He yelled, “Hello!” trying to make himself as obvious as he could, but got no response.
He made a quick tour around the outside of the house, and after peering through a back window, believed the house to be empty. The workshop in the back held an old tractor, some gas powered tools, and several garden implements. The water well was behind the workshop next to a small vegetable garden that was at season’s end. The garden’s contents had rotted. The small, odd looking building standing alone was the outhouse.
Mark walked back to the house with a two foot axe that he’d found in the workshop. He retrieved his supplies from the cycle and used the axe to pry open the main door, preserving as much of the door casing as possible.
The door opened to a small living room/kitchen combination. There was one couch and an old wooden table with some opened mail and recent copies of Popular Mechanics and a few other magazines. A weathered bookshelf housed many tattered Old Western paperbacks from the likes of Louis Lamour. The kitchen had no refrigerator, and he realized the house had no electricity either. A Coleman stove was there for cooking and a wood stove for heat in winter. Shelves of canned soup and vegetables looked like the main dietary staples of choice for the home’s occupant. The only other room contained a single bed, which lay unmade, revealing dingy, white sheets.
Mark began to question if he were as removed from civilization as he thought. The owner had to visit a local town for mail and supplies. Still, the house was off the main grid. He wondered what or who the man was hiding from.
Mark’s shoulder started the same unusual itch again. He was bothered more by the itch than the flesh wound on his side, and then realized that his shoulder itched in the same location as his medical implant.
Mark had an experimental anti-depressant pellet implanted by a V.A. doctor to help control his gambling urges. It had been in place for a few months and actually seemed to help curb his compulsions. But his body fought against the implant and the drugs fought the specter in his head.
He felt hot and wondered if he had fever. Right then, fatigue certainly was his master. Mark took his bag of supplies and sat on the dusty old couch, opened some water, and drank it down. He was hungry but not in the usual way. He opened a pack of pressed ham and pulled out half its contents and took a bite. The taste was pleasing, but the salt in the processed meat made him even thirstier. As he chewed, the meat seemed to expand in his mouth. His throat started to close and prevented him from swallowing. He grimaced a bit and eventually thought he might gag. He spit the meat out on a magazine and washed his mouth out with water. He tried to eat a few chips, but his body rejected that too.
Mark finished his water and pulled his shoes off. There was no more fight left in him. He hoped he would wake before the owner came back, but he knew he had to rest. He lied on the couch and got comfortable. His eyes closed and fell asleep.
* * *
When Mark awoke it took a few minutes to sort out his situation. The red rain and the events that followed seem like a surreal dream. He pulled himself up and stretched. His mouth felt dry as cotton.
His watch informed it was nearly noon. To his surprise, his
watch calendar was three days later than when he went to sleep. Mark rubbed his eyes and looked at the functions on the watch, everything seemed in order. He supposed the date could have been reset during his escape from the city, but his body told him that he had been asleep a very long time.
With no clue of what had transpired over the last few days, he turned on an old battery radio he had found when he arrived and searched for a station.
“The following is an Emergency Alert System bulletin. This is not a test. The head of the U.S. Department of Homeland Security’s Federal Emergency Management Agency under the authorization of the President of the United States has issued a shelter in place warning for all U.S. citizens. The red rains that fell on May 19th carried an alien parasite, and the infected victims are visually identified by the red color of their skin. The parasites were short lived without a human host. Birds, fish, and all other animals have not been infected by the parasites, and water exposed to the rain has no contamination issues and is safe to drink. Avoid contact with any infected human. Reports of violence from the infected have been issued from all areas of the country. Additionally, a new disease with Swine flu like symptoms has been reported in rain affected and unaffected areas. Cover your nose and mouth with a tissue when you cough or sneeze. Throw the tissue in the trash after—”
Mark turned off the radio. He’d learned everything he needed to know, and it all made perfect sense after what he’d experienced. The alien parasites were intelligent. They were taking over his body and his mind. The chemical in the medical implant was somehow interfering and allowing him to retain his human will. So now it was not a matter of if but when the parasites would totally take control.
Mark opened a bottle of water and contemplated his next move. The farmhouse was a safe place to stay. It didn’t look like whoever owned the house would be coming back. But deep inside he knew he had to move on.
Red Rain Page 1
