Charon’s Blight
Day One
Book 1 of the Rotting Souls Series
Timothy Ray
Also by Timothy Ray
The New Age Saga:
The Acquisition of Swords
Pure of Heart
Phoenix Rising
Prophecy
Coalescence
Rotting Souls:
Charon’s Blight: Day One
Charon’s Blight: Day Two
Charon’s Debt
Charon’s Blight: Day One
A Ray Publishing Book/ May 2017
Published by
Ray Publishing
Tucson, AZ
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2017 by Timothy Ray
For my wife
The First person that believed
My most avid supporter and fan
I love you
They say time is the fire in which we burn.
Right now, Captain, my time is running out.
We leave so many things unfinished in our lives.
Dr. Soran
Star Trek: Generations
Chapter 1
TEOTWAWKI
Tucson, AZ
10:05 a.m.
September 8th, 2021
“Thunder, thunder, thunder—.”
His finger slid to his belt automatically and silenced the ringtone before it could finish. He grimaced as the theme song for the Thundercats continued through his mind unabated. It was nostalgic at first, but hearing the same tune every time someone sent a text message—it got annoying after a while.
He generally switched his notification tones every couple of weeks, or whenever he started getting bored with the chosen theme; nothing really survived intense repetition. His wife had loved the Hunger Games whistle he had been using the week before, but he got hit more than once for assigning the Imperial March the time before that. While it was fun to let technology give him these personal touches to his phone, he would probably end up going back to the single note generics before too much longer. On nights when his wife got a bug up her ass, having He-Man yell “I have the power!” twenty times an hour drove him insane.
His hand rested on the phone case clipped to his belt and he marveled at the fact that a century before, his ancestors would have had a Colt holstered there instead. People had this incessant need to stay in touch that was steadily growing out of hand. He had to admit, he felt naked without it, and he briefly wondered if there was a support group out there for that kind of addiction. They seemed to have one for everything else these days.
His phone started to go off again and his finger quickly silenced it. Whoever it was would just have to wait until he got to the back room. It was probably his wife. She knew to be patient when it came to his responses; he could not check his phone while on the sales floor. If he got caught, he’d be written up for sure.
He had walked into a flood of bitching from the overnight manager and it had spread to the morning assistant as well. The last thing he needed to do was give them a reason to take their misplaced aggression out on him. There was a zero-tolerance policy regarding use of cell phones in sight of customers; something that was easily avoided by showing a modicum of self-control and restraint. His lunch was in forty-five minutes and she could talk all she wanted to then.
He had very little else to do on his unpaid lunch hour.
The previous night’s crew had made a mess of things and he didn’t understand how that translated into being his fault. He wasn’t in charge of the department, or of anyone for that matter. He was about as low on the totem pole you could get at Wal-Mart without cleaning toilets all day. So why was he getting all the grief? It was just another example of why he hated this job. When you did everything you were told, when you left clear instructions for those that followed after, how did it turn into something you did wrong?
He sighed.
He was one of the veteran workers and was being held responsible for the rookies they had hired. He could have argued, held his ground, but to what end? He’d had a long night and his strength felt sapped from the moment he rolled out of bed that morning. His wife had spent most of the early morning hours bitching about work and his wired mind had refused to shut down. He couldn’t blame her—entirely. He was doing a turnaround, and he just wasn’t one of those people that could just go home, fall into bed, and be out before his head hit the pillow. He needed time to wind down before turning in. Even then, it’d be more drifting than sleeping.
Stretching his back, he twisted from side to side as he worked the stiff muscles in his back and arms. They were resistant, refusing to loosen up. He gave his neck a good twist and heard a loud pop at the base of his skull. It felt good, but he knew that would only be brief as pressure was already starting to rebuild there.
The irony was, the moment he got off work his body would wake up and all that energy he wished he had while working, would spring into being as if purposely held in reserve. He’d have too much of a headache to do anything with it, and would end up in his recliner trying to watch the movie while the kids argued over game systems and who ate who’s food. The headache would start to evolve into a migraine; he’d eat a pitiful attempt at a meal, maybe read a little, then try to turn in. His wife would come home shortly after and wake him up to talk about her night; the cycle repeating all over again.
God I’m getting old.
His phone went off again.
Anger began to rise at the insistence of the person texting him. His wife and kids knew better than to bother him at work. He usually texted them on his breaks and they generally held most of their needs until then. They needed this paycheck too much to jeopardize it with idle chat. If it was a request for a gallon of milk, and not an emergency, he was going to be royally pissed off.
Yes, he was forgetful, but he hated the constant reminders his wife was prone to giving. It made him feel like a child, or worse—senile. Besides, she knew the best time to send a text like that was close to punch out time, not midway through his morning.
He looked to the left as he passed the meat counter, yellow discount labels catching his eye. The steaks were marked down fifty percent as their due dates approached; he’d have to snag a couple and hide it in the cooler before someone else came along and snatched them up. He reached for a good-size package and his phone went off, yet again.
Attention was being drawn his way, as customers gave him looks with raised eyebrows. Like they didn’t have phones themselves and it was such an affront for him to own one as well. He growled and rushed to the double doors that led to the back room. He felt the gush of wind as they closed and couldn’t help but grimace at the amount of freight waiting for him; eagerly taunting him with their presence. The docks were packed with pallets of overstock, items that the overnight crew claimed wouldn’t go out, but experience told him half of it still would. It was going to be a long morning.
He took a moment to pull his green shirt down in the back where he felt exposed skin. The belt had been cinched tight, but the rush to get to the back had freed his work shirt and he hastily started poking it back in. His tan slacks didn’t have much in the way of ventilation, a trickle of sweat tingled as it slowly slid down his inner thigh.
His fingers ran absent-mindedly through his short brown hair, then settled on his goatee as he tried to remember why he had come back there. The sight of the mess beyond had stunned his mind into submission and despair.
The ringtone started playing again, snapping him back to reality like a shot in the gut.
“All right!” he growled with a
nnoyance, releasing the catch holding his phone in place and sliding it free. He hit the power button and looked at the messages littering his unlock screen.
His heart stopped.
Ben: It’s a wipe
Ben: are you getting this?
Ben: dammit Todd check your fucking phone
Ben: IT’S A WIPE
It was a trigger. Even though he had trained for this moment; he didn’t move; frozen by indecision. He had never thought this moment would come. He needed to go, seconds mattered, but his muscles would not respond to his commands. His mind was warring with itself.
It had to be a drill. It’s not possible.
The phrase harkened back to his World of Warcraft days. He had spent eight long years playing that online game and intense was not an appropriate description of how much of time it swallowed up of his life. He joked with people now and then, claiming he was a recovering WoW addict and they laughed like they understood; but they didn’t. That urge to go back was always there, like something pulling at the back of his brain; refusing to let go. The moment he gave in, the moment he double-clicked on that icon, he would be gone. He had worked hard at moving on with his life and that was not a game you could do with moderation. Once you were back in, your entire life revolved around it to the detriment of everything else.
He had been a hard-core raider; a member of a group that spent almost every night trying to kill virtual bosses for gear upgrades and achievements, and most importantly—bragging rights. Game progression had been a driving force in his life for a long time, and as former guild master of Déjà vu, he was usually the one that led their raids. “That’s a wipe” was a term he used to signal that the fight was lost, that everyone was going to just stand there and die. When you had three hours to work on something, you didn’t waste time on attempts that just weren’t going to work. It was best to just let your toon die and start over.
To hear that code phrase outside of the game sent a shiver of horror up his spine. It now held a very real and terrifying meaning for him. It was a signal from one of his group members that indicated that an apocalyptic event had begun.
TEOTWAWKI. “The end of the world as we know it” in Prepper speak.
His heart was thundering in his chest so hard that he was sure that his body was moving in tune with it. His breathing was coming in short gasps; the increased oxygen flooding his already numb brain. It felt like someone had injected him with a syringe of terror and he nearly lost his bladder.
Forgotten were the steaks and the scolding he’d received that morning. Gone were the angry words that had been forming in response to the persistent texts. His whole existence had winked out the moment he read those three simple words—it’s a wipe.
Fear crept up on him and his hands were tingling. The gooseflesh had risen on his arms and there was a cold chill snaking down his spine. It had to be a drill. There had been nothing out of the ordinary on the radio earlier that morning and he had check the news on the CenturyLink homepage before leaving. If the world had been ending, there would have been something other than Bieber’s prison stint leading the news, right?
He let out a pent-up breath and cast his eyes to the side, trying to recall if there had been anything he had missed. Had Korea or Iran launched Nukes? No way they were that stupid, he thought, shaking his head. He was unable to focus his mind, the panic settling in driving him towards chaos. The numbness spreading across his mind was paralyzing him from the neck down.
Indecision flooded his processes.
If he acted on this and it turned out to be a drill—he’d most certainly lose his job. He had been sick recently and racked up enough call-ins that another miss would mean immediate dismissal. That would make coming up with rent the following month impossible, and his family would end up on the street.
This just can’t be happening.
His phone went off again.
Ben: This is not a drill. It’s a wipe. Auth: 4HorseMenAE. You need to get moving RIGHT NOW.
“Fuck me,” he groaned, as his fingers typed K and hit send.
It caught the attention of the man that was stepping out of the meat cooler. Jeff had paused and appeared to be awaiting an explanation, but Todd was at a loss for words. Jeff was taller than he was, over six-feet, thin, wearing a white coat and nodding his head in a “What’s up?” fashion; trying to coax something out of him.
He opened his mouth to respond, but when nothing came, slowly shut it again. What would he even say? He didn’t know himself what was going on, there had been no details following the authentication code, and he could offer nothing more than “we need to get the fuck out of here”. He didn’t know the guy well enough for there to be anything taken on faith. Jeff wouldn’t put his own job at risk just because he was told the sky was falling. He would need evidence—maybe a fucking meteor itself.
He also couldn’t afford to make a scene, it would just hinder his chances to get out quickly; that was not something he could allow. He had a wife and four kids and they were depending on him to move quickly, to be ready when they got there. He had to be free to leave the moment the van pulled into the parking lot. He had to get moving and on the road before anyone really noticed that they were gone.
As cold as that was; his family came first.
There had been numerous arguments over the years about what to do when this moment came. He had told his wife repeatedly that they couldn’t save everyone; that playing hero would get them all killed. Did that mean that he shouldn’t try? What kind of person did that make him?
It was too early to be facing those kinds of moral questions. He didn’t have a clue what was going on, whether anyone was actually in any danger. Why start something over nothing? That’s how he rationalized it as he waved off Jeff’s questioning look and shook his head. He turned quickly and strode back through the double doors.
“Dude? You sure everything’s all right?” the tall man asked, holding one of the doors open to holler at him as he walked away.
He twisted to look at his co-worker. “It’s the end of the world as we know it,” he sang with a grim smile.
Jeff laughed. “Yeah, okay,” the man chuckled, then ducked out of sight.
See? His mind insisted. He was making the right choice. Thoughts racing, he marched towards the break room and the office beyond. His phone was gripped tightly in his right hand, but he was mentally unable to look at it. It had told him what he needed to know, and now it was time to act. The authentication code made this real and now he had to trust in his preparation and training to get them through this.
For better or worse, he was now fully committed.
He nearly walked into a customer that had stepped in his way. She had a sales ad in her hands and was looking at the bacon section. Screw the ad, better stock up on that bacon while you can, he nearly blurted out. He swallowed to keep from actually saying it, biting his lower lip hard enough to sting.
She hadn’t excused herself and was actually giving him the dirty look, like he was in the wrong. It was just too much and he quickened his pace, nearly jogging down the back aisle. His legs were aching to sprint, but he fought it. Once he began to run, he might not stop; the panic was that close to taking over.
“Do you ad match the Safeway brand?” that customer asked, but he ignored her as he ducked around the corner and into the break room.
He poked his head into the office and told the flustered assistant manager that there was a family emergency and that he had to go. He had his phone up and was waving it as he talked, no longer caring if they knew he’d been using it.
Tyler swiveled in his chair, face flushed, preparing a heated response, but Todd didn’t wait to hear it. If thing really were going to hell, then nothing mattered anymore, especially his future at Wal-Mart.
He briskly walked across the break room, sure that Tyler was going to get off his lazy ass and chase him down. He threw the door open violently, knocking a stack of empty milk crates askew that had been stacked
up behind it. He didn’t notice nor care. He ripped his badge off his neck and looked at the time clock.
“Fuck it,” he muttered and threw his badge in the nearby trash can. He didn’t get paid again for tend days and something in his gut told him the world didn’t have that long.
As if to illustrate the point, his phone went off again.
Monica: OMW. Sam too
He and his wife were poly, and she was telling him that she and his other wife Samantha were both on the move; that would give him very little time until Monica got there to pick him up. She must have gotten the kids from school and the gear ready in record time, now he was the one lagging. He looked at the clock on his phone and noted when she texted him. He had fifteen minutes to get everything they needed before he had to be out front and ready for pick up.
His free hand went to his box cutter; it was nowhere near an effective weapon. For a moment, he regretted working at the neighborhood market rather than a super center; regardless of how much quieter it was. At least the super center had a sporting goods section. This place was nothing more than a glorified grocery store. He had a couple of sharpies and a few pieces of candy for his sugar level. He didn’t have anything of any real worth, his mind trying to think of what he could get that would make a difference on the road ahead.
They did sell kitchen utensils—
He ran for the front doors and grabbed a shopping cart. Rushing back into the store, he cut a glance to the right to see how long the lines were at the registers, and gave an audible sigh of relief. For the moment, the aisle was empty. It was a school day and this was a slow period for them. The early birds had come and gone, the senior citizens hadn’t yet begun their afternoon arrival. He wanted to be out of there before the first Van Tran bus arrived, or he’d have to leave without buying anything for the road.
Time was a rabid St. Bernard and it chased him down the aisles, nipping at his heels, trying to sink its teeth into his ass. He had to stay ahead of it; his life depended on it.
The Rotting Souls Series (Book 1): Charon's Blight [Day One] Page 1
