Pulse of the Goddess: American Blackout Book One

by Fred Tribuzzo

  “You get the shooter? Dwight, you there?”

  Another long moan.

  “If it’s clear … moan twice.”

  Dwight did.

  “I’m coming down. Getting tired of these brats anyway.”

  The steps creaked and twice the man added his own sound effects, saying, “Shit” louder than the creaky steps.

  She first saw his hand. It was large, too big for his arm. He, too, was naked and his profile made her shudder. His face had been mutilated. She saw bits of skin hanging from his jaw. And part of his scalp hung to one side. Fear froze Cricket that night for the first time. Here was something she hadn’t seen. She had the gun on him as he turned and brought his up. She broke the spell with a shout and gunfire. He screamed and fired into the ceiling. She kept shooting until the man had fallen backward against the front door.

  The moaner moaned continuously. She holstered the automatic and drew the .38 from a holster at the back of her jeans, stunned that the man she had just shot was still alive and attempting to lift the heavy .357 off the floor. Barrel pointed down, it shook in his hand.

  Again she fired several shots in a row. He was finished, but something about his face in the candlelight and shadow repulsed her like no other savage that night.

  Fixated on the man, she walked into the room and forgot the moaner long enough that the first bullet grazed her shoulder, and she turned and nailed the moaner on the floor, his back against the couch. Scared, her shoulder burning, she quickly turned back to the ghoul at the front door, who remained dead.

  She approached the moaner, who was bleeding from the mouth. She was bleeding too. The moaner wore a dress and heels, and several necklaces and plenty of rings, signs of a successful night, until now. She stood over him until he looked up, and shot him in the forehead.

  Before climbing the steps, she reloaded the automatic and again shot the man at the door, who was buried in shadows. She was frightened to turn her back on the dead man. This was the ghoul who keeps coming back from the grave until you cut off his head. Cricket even thought of finding a knife and slicing it off. Don’t go totally primitive here! Check upstairs. The monster mentioned brats.

  She touched her right shoulder. It bled freely.

  At the top of the stairs she entered the first bedroom and a woman lay dead on the floor, facedown, with multiple stab wounds. She saw feet poking out from the bathroom. A candle in the bathroom was casting most of its light on the victim, who lay on the tile floor with his face ripped off. A bloody visage, biology class for the denizens of hell.

  She quickly left the room and heard whimpering from another room.

  “Hey, kids, my name’s Cricket. Uh, listen, I got the bad guys … and now I need to get you out of here.”

  “Where’s our mom and dad?”

  “What’s your names?”

  “Mom and dad, tell us, please.”

  “How can I talk with you when I don’t know your names?”

  “Lily,” one said. “I’m the oldest, twelve. Lee Ann, my sister, will be ten soon. She’s hurt pretty bad.”

  Cricket walked into the bedroom. Both naked, and the oldest held the younger one in her arms.

  “Your parents have been killed,” Cricket said, and both girls hugged each other, shaking. The smallest one’s teeth were chattering on this warm July night. “I need to get you out of here.”

  “We can’t leave,” the youngest spoke, and the tiny voice broke Cricket’s heart. “Our parents always looked after us when we were sick.”

  “We can’t leave them,” Lily added. “It wouldn’t be fair if we left.”

  Cricket lowered herself to the floor and felt the shallow gash and winced. This will have to wait.

  The oldest said, “You’re hurt. We could take care of you. We have food and water and bandages.”

  Both girls were going into shock.

  Cricket got up and found their blankets and covered them and hugged them both.

  “I’ll make a deal. If we leave now, I’ll get the police to return in the morning and they’ll check on your parents. Girls, there’s nothing we can do tonight. And there’s some bad people out there. Let’s get dressed.”

  The girls looked at each other and the oldest nodded her assent. Both rose on shaky legs and dressed. The blood down the young ones legs made Cricket want to kill through the night. But she was exhausted.

  “I don’t think I can walk very well,” Lee Ann said.

  “I’ll carry you,” Cricket said.

  Before they headed downstairs, Cricket told them they had to keep their eyes down.

  “I’ll guide you and hold on to your hands.”

  “We can’t say goodbye to our parents?” Lee Ann asked.

  “No. They’re at peace. They want to be remembered how you always saw them, every day of the week.” Both girls cried softly and dug their nails into Cricket’s arm.

  At the bottom of the steps Cricket couldn’t get past the man against the door, so she pushed him to one side. As he slid onto the floor a candle on the dining room table cast enough light, and she saw that he wore the face of the girls’ father. She wanted to scream and cut him into a thousand pieces, but instead held the girls close and instructed them to look down.

  After going down the porch and through the backyard, Cricket said, “Do you know anyone nearby, where you can stay and be safe? A relative, a friend of the family?”

  “We want to stay with you,” the eldest one spoke.

  Cricket felt blessed to have found the two beautiful girls. They made it to the Holadays’ in twenty minutes, their path free of moonlighting savages. Tony and Mrs. Holaday were guarding the house and rushed the trio inside.

  Diesel made the girls cry out with pleasure. He was the epitome of a world untouched by the horror show carried out in the home of these two children.

  “Where’s my son?” Mrs. Holaday asked, ready to crumble at the slightest bad news.

  “And Sister Marie?” Tony rushed before Cricket could say anything.

  With the girls on either side, Cricket said, “Fritz took the plane to Cleveland and he’s bringing back the cavalry. We think the Brazilian has Sister at her compound. Fritz said it’ll be their first stop in the morning.”

  “That son of a—” Tony stopped himself in front of the girls; both happened to be looking at him, waiting for him to finish his sentence. Sister would have been proud of his self-control and that he didn’t have to apologize.

  “Where’s Grace and your husband?” Cricket looked about, eyeing the upstairs.

  Judy Holaday was twisting a holiday dish towel she carried. Her eyes filled with tears, yet none escaped. “Let’s get the girls taken care of.” She had more to say, and Cricket braced herself with a Hail Mary. That beautiful call to heaven, where Mary always accepts the charges.

  While petting Diesel, Lee Ann said:

  “Mrs. Holaday, Cricket is hurt.”

  “Tony will take care of Cricket, and I’m going to get you two cleaned up and in bed and to a doctor in the morning.”

  “That’s good,” Lily said. “The men hurt us.”

  Tony quickly turned his back to the girls. His face contorted into a mask of vengeance. Cricket asked him to clean and dress her wound and he immediately went to work.

  Later, with the girls safely tucked into bed, Mrs. Holaday told Cricket that in the early evening there had been yelling and screaming a few doors down, and Tony had run to help. Diesel followed. “I was inside with Grace, and George was out back. Suddenly three men in ski masks were in my living room … like they had come out of thin air. They forced Grace and me onto the floor, gun to my head. I couldn’t see what they were doing, and they told me not to call out or make a noise or they’d ‘strangle the little bitch.’ They actually said that. I was still on the floor, going out of my mind, for an eternity, when Tony came rushing in with Diesel. Grace was gone and so was my husband.” She started to cry and Tony filled in.

  “I ran like crazy around
the neighborhood looking for them. Then I checked at Saint Andrew’s, which was swamped with crazy people. No sight of them. I couldn’t get inside the church or the rectory. Goons at every door.”

  Fritz’s mom rubbed her arms, trying to keep warm without the love of her life at her side. It didn’t work.

  The Brazilian had clobbered them all. Cricket felt helpless, useless. Every door was shut, and no shotgun, Glock, or the Mustang’s six guns could blow it open to rescue Judy’s dear husband and Grace, my lovely young Grace, lost among savages.

  48

  Cleaning Out the Vermin

  Her first night a married woman, and Cricket woke up alone the next morning and punched the pillow several times. The makeshift bandage that Tony had made for her was wet with blood and so were the sheets.

  Fully dressed, she jumped out of bed and flew to Grace’s room. The bed was still made and she started to cry. The sun streaming in and the birds singing felt like a taunt with her husband gone, and the others kidnapped.

  Diesel and Tony busted in before her frustration hit the afterburner stage.

  “Cricket, I have a doctor. Lee Ann’s still bleeding. You also need to get checked. Five minutes.”

  Diesel laid his head on the bed. A sad look. He knew the day wouldn’t be filled with humans cooking food and taking turns playing with him.

  “Where’s the doctor?”

  “At a small Lutheran church the animals haven’t noticed. I’ll be downstairs.”

  Cricket washed her face and brushed her teeth. She was ripe-smelling, but a bath would have to wait. The girls were already downstairs with Mrs. Holaday.

  On the street Cricket led, holding Lily’s hand. Tony carried Lee Ann, and Judy and Diesel hung back scouting for trouble. When gunfire erupted from a nearby house ahead, Cricket crossed the street and tried to determine the safest backyard to cut through to Lincoln Street, where the doctor had his practice. Near the end of the street, motorcycles and antique road cars were on lawns or parked in the middle of the street, doors left open. Some had collided. A few houses away came the roar of a 12-gauge shotgun, and a body crashed through a side window onto the lawn. Another late-night partier was attempting to make his escape from the next home and was shot several times in the back. Residents swarmed out of the house and ran to the next.

  Cricket and company hustled through the first backyard, the girls clinging to the grown-ups in fear.

  “Cleaning out the vermin,” Tony said. “Savages sleep late. But we got to watch out for the anarchists—highly motivated and up at the crack of dawn.”

  “Please, less editorializing,” Mrs. Holaday replied. Cricket agreed with a fast nod, and Tony smacked his forehead.

  Before disappearing into the backyard, Cricket spotted more bands of armed citizens taking back their homes, taking full advantage of sleeping, hungover thieves and murders.

  “What’s an anarchist?” Lee Ann asked Tony.

  “I’ll talk about all that after the doctor gets you fixed up.”

  “That’s good. My insides hurt.”

  Lily squeezed Cricket’s hand as gunfire erupted up and down the street. Diesel kept his snout lifted, examining hundreds of smells, distinguishing many as dangerous to the health of himself and, more important, his tribe.

  On the next street a family of four were on their front porch, all armed.

  “Is it safe to go through your backyard to Lincoln, the church on the corner?” Cricket asked.

  The father nodded to his teens and they hurried down the steps. Boy and girl, both tall, lean, and clear-eyed, with drawn revolvers, led. Their mom cautioned:

  “Avoid Mrs. Brown’s house.”

  Cricket found time for a smile. She was being led by Indian scouts. Her dad would have really loved these kids. Guns held smartly with both hands, the fearless pair led them through an open gate. Cricket noticed the backyard recently mowed, blooming flower beds, and the birdbath full of clean water. Feeders hung stuffed with multicolored seeds.

  Lincoln was quiet. A few patrols of adults and even children took notice of the travelers. All the erupting gunfire, shouts, and screams came from the street the teens lived on.

  The front of the brick church was ivy-covered, and Cricket’s guides led them through the front doors, passing armed young people to reach the basement steps. At the bottom of the steps they found emergency room action: a dozen white covered beds, mostly occupied, and doctors and nurses running between patients, transferring IV bottles, carrying handfuls of sealed syringes.

  Lee Ann was brought to an empty bed, and Tony carefully lowered her onto the clean sheets.

  “Thank you, Mr. Tony,” Lee Ann said. “You’re really strong to carry me so far.”

  “Strong and mean, young lady,” Tony said.

  “You’re not mean.” She reached for him and he snatched her into a gentle bear hug.

  Cricket was asked to sit down, and her wound was cleaned and dressed, and she was given a shot of penicillin. She said her goodbyes to the children.

  “Mrs. Holaday will stay with you.”

  Cricket turned to Judy, who was tired and sick with worry for her son and husband, but found the courage to put her arm around Lily and a hand on Lee Ann’s shoulder.

  “Judy, one of us will come back later today with your husband and son.”

  “Sister Marie?” she asked.

  “Damn straight,” Tony added. They started for the door when Lily rushed over.

  “When will you come back?” She hugged Cricket and started to cry.

  “Lily, take care of your sister. I’ll be back soon.”

  “Everything’s crazy. I miss my parents so much.” She squeezed Cricket tightly and then suddenly let go, looking up, she sniffled, “Okay. I’m better. I am twelve, after all.”

  Mrs. Holaday brought Lily to her sister’s side, where a doctor was greeting Lee Ann with a smile and a gentle handshake.

  At the entrance, the teenage girl asked, “Where do you need to go next?”

  Cricket said, “Get back to your parents. We’ll be fine. Thanks for the help.”

  On the street Cricket turned to Tony, who was waving goodbye to the teenagers.

  “I’m going to Saint Andrew’s,” Cricket announced. “Sister is there. I know it. You don’t have to come.”

  “Hey, my tuba lesson’s been cancelled. Looks like you got me the rest of the day.”

  The street in front of the church had been taken over by nearly a hundred souls, who cooked food, danced in circles wearing primitive costumes, and modeled their underwear like teens in a J.C. Penney catalog, but without the good looks and support of makeup artists.

  A few had taken to formal attire with modifications—a tux with a variety of kitchen utensils instead of the traditional tails, and a tight evening gown on a tall, skinny girl that continued over the girls’ head and neck in mummy fashion with slits for the eyes, mouth, and nose. Tony pointed and laughed at an enormous kid who sported antler racks for a headdress and chest armor made from a fur coat. Myriad disconnected melodies were being performed on recorders and guitars. As in the other neighborhoods, families roamed their properties with weapons drawn, but the presence outside the church was large and unwieldly and couldn’t be simply swept up by a few neighborhood watch groups telling the kids to get off the lawn and go find something better to do.

  “The Brazilian planned this well,” Cricket said to Tony.

  “Nothing looks planned to me.”

  “Disneyland without electricity.”

  They stood on the front lawn of a home across from the church. The door opened, and an ancient-looking man with a walker shuffled onto the porch.

  “Get off my lawn or I’ll call the cops.”

  “We are the cops,” Tony said.

  “Then arrest all these hoodlums.”

  “Too many,” Tony said.

  “What the hell do I pay my taxes for? And where the hell has Meals on Wheels been? My wife and I are going through the pantry pretty q
uick. We’ll be out of mac and cheese before Thanksgiving!”

  “Sir, I’ll let the chief of police and the fire department know your status,” Cricket said.

  “Oh, bullshit,” the man yelled and backed up and slammed the door.

  “Time to go mingle,” Cricket said.

  “Most are funny bunnies, but there could be a few wack-wacks buried in the bunch.”

  “Funny bunnies,” Cricket said, checking the magazine of her 9-millimeter.

  “Most of the protests on campus were funny bunnies, kids complaining of micro-aggressions, global warming, and all the sins of our time. Nothing violent. But Ron and I always worried about some hidden anarchist, a budding sociopath. Your basic wack-wack—armed and dangerous.”

  “There’s a small army of wack-wacks guarding the entrance to the rectory. But let’s start with the funny bunnies. I haven’t had breakfast.”

  Tony said, “Yeah, I’m tempted to show them a string of macro-aggressions.”

  From young children to a few Peter Pans of the boomer generation, they cooked and made musical instruments from the detritus of a collapsed society—the backs of plastic lawn chairs had their individual slats removed and replaced with guitar strings. A few baby bassinets held—and not too successfully—exotic animals from ferrets to boa constrictors.

  “I guess nobody plans on having children soon.” Cricket recoiled from an eight-foot python squirming through the bedding and saw far more obvious signs of human darkness—expensive necklaces and rings and earrings taken from the dead. A necklace of ears would be a dead giveaway for a new level of a savagery.

  Tony said, “I’ve never seen a group of funny bunnies so buried in the moment—”

  “Re-creating the world,” Cricket observed. It was apparent they had been given the job of turning the old into the new—to be creative, different from the adults, from their parents, turning their backs on the world of profit and greed and conformity. One couple was putting the finishing touches on a garden hose with bird feathers attached at every foot.