Season of Rot

by Eric S. Brown

  The meltdown was visible for miles around as the night lit up like an exploding star, and a mushroom cloud blossomed toward the heavens.

  3

  New York

  The freeway had become a war zone. Amy lay against her steering wheel, wondering how she had survived.

  Even at this late hour, the freeway was crammed with traffic. When the light had appeared, a light more blinding than the sun itself, everyone’s engine had died and stalled. Cars slammed into trucks, into each other. Vehicles hit the concrete sides of the freeway while some overturned on the median. Flames blazed in every direction, and explosions ripped through the night.

  Some people bolted from their cars, ran from the freeway as if their lives depended on it, while others tried to help those trapped inside the wrecks.

  Amy watched as the driver of an eighteen-wheeler jumped out of his cab and opened up on the crowd with some sort of rifle; another traveler shot him in the forehead, and he crumpled to the asphalt.

  Amy sat in her seat, sobbing, too frightened to move. Irrationally, she wondered what her boss would say when she showed up late at the hospital. Her only injury was a scrape on her hand, sustained when she had rear-ended the silver Dodge Shadow in front of her and had reached out to brace herself.

  She tried to turn on the car radio, but nothing happened. She tried again and again until the knob broke off in her hand. Finally her head sank to the steering wheel, and she started to mutter a prayer as people screamed into the night across the freeway.

  4

  Washington D.C.

  President Clark sat at his desk, shuffling through the reports from NASA and other organizations about the energy wave that had struck the earth. Below them rested even more reports, these from the military and countless government and law enforcement agencies regarding the chaotic aftermath. Things did not look good for the human race.

  Of course, things were even worse than what he was hearing. Ninety percent of all communications throughout the world had been lost, and even inside the city proper, news had been reduced to word of mouth. All forms of technology that required more than simple kinetic or combustion energy were essentially useless. The wave had seen to that. Even the backup systems and batteries were down, though already some were coming back online thanks to the available scientists and technicians.

  The effects of the energy wave on technology appeared to be dissipating at an exponential rate, but it would still take weeks, perhaps months, for the world’s more advanced systems to be fully restored. Fortunately, a few of the heavily-shielded military bunkers—like the one beneath the White House—had survived most of the wave’s impact, otherwise the president’s knowledge of the outside world would have gone from limited to nonexistent.

  General McMahan kept insisting that President Clark flee the city and head for a more secure bunker in another state, and in fact the general was hard at work preparing a makeshift convoy from the civilian and military vehicles that filled the bunker, as well as the White House’s garages and parking areas. Even though nuclear attacks by the former Soviet Union or any other nation were highly unlikely, judging from the state in which the wave had left the US’s own arsenal, he claimed the city was not safe.

  The droves of frightened people who wandered to the gates of the White House, pleading for assistance and looking for hope, disturbed McMahan and put him on edge, but he was even more concerned about those who had been driven mad by the wave, by some kind of electro-biological aftereffect on the human mind. Clark had asked the scientists about the madness, but their answers were vague; they assured him it would only worsen, and that few, if any, would be immune to the wave’s lingering radiation.

  So far, Clark had refused McMahan’s requests to leave. He hoped his presence would comfort those citizens who had retained their sanity, give them hope that steps were being taken to resolve this catastrophe. The weight of the country and the world lay heavily upon his shoulders, and he could only hope his best efforts would be enough to ensure the preservation of humanity.

  He set the stacks of papers on his desk and buried his head in his arms. With his eyes closed, he said a silent prayer to God to have mercy on them all.

  5

  Jeremy awoke as the first rays of the morning sun crept over the mountains and sparkled through the glass doors of his bedroom. He stirred inside the open walk-in closet and rubbed his neck. It hurt like hell from the way he had slept against the closet wall.

  Looking down at the rifle in his lap, he felt like a fool. His nerves had gotten the better of him last night, and he wondered what the heck he’d been thinking. He bet the power was already back on—but what had been that strange light in the sky? Had he dreamt the whole thing? His memories seemed unbelievable and more than a bit crazy.

  As he walked into the bedroom, he placed the rifle on the bed and glanced at the digital alarm clock atop his dresser. Its display was blank and unlit. So much for the power being back on. So much for a hot shower.

  Jeremy changed into a tattered Rush T-shirt and a pair of fresh underwear and jeans. In the kitchen, he snacked on a muffin from the pantry as he tried the phone again. No luck there either.

  As he ate, he vaguely remembered something happening to his car during the strange light, and he decided to inspect the damage.

  The drive in front of the car was filled with shards from the exploded headlights, and when he tried to start the engine, nothing happened, not even a sputter.

  He punched the dashboard and sat there for a moment, wondering what he should do. Luke Thompson lived just up the road from him, his nearest neighbor and friend. The old man was inflicted with terrible health problems, mostly from his age, but his smoking and constant drinking didn’t help. He might need a hand. Besides, if his truck survived the light, he and Jeremy could head into town and find out what was going on. At the very worst, Jeremy was sure he would walk away with a smile and a free beer.

  Luke lived only half a mile or so up the road, so Jeremy took his time, enjoying the green fields by the roadside. Summer was truly here, and even the weeds were vibrant and beautiful. He had moved down here a few years back and didn’t miss the big city in the least.

  As he started up the small hill of Luke’s drive, he didn’t see the old man sitting on the porch of the tiny shack that passed for a house. It seemed Luke was always there, whittling and waiting for passers-by whom he could harass in his own good-natured way.

  Jeremy picked up the pace, nearly broke into a run. As he reached the house, he yelled, “Luke! You in there? Luke?”

  The front door was open like always, but the outer screen door was shut. Three weathered, cracked concrete steps led up to the door. Jeremy bolted up them. He swung the screen open and peeped inside.

  The living room was a mess. Some things never changed. He grinned at the microwave dinner wrappers, empty beer bottles, and crumpled cigarette packs that intermingled with the piles of dirty clothes covering the couch and floor.

  Jeremy stepped inside, seeing instantly that the old man’s power was off like his own. “Luke? You here?”

  He picked up an open pack of smokes from beside an overflowing ashtray on the TV stand and helped himself to one. He hadn’t smoked since high school, but he figured now was as good a time as any to start again. Lighting up, he took a deep drag and coughed like a kid. He ground out the cigarette in the ashtray and headed toward the bedroom.

  He prayed the old man hadn’t passed away during the night. He and Luke weren’t exactly close—Luke was too old-fashioned to let his feelings show with anyone—but Jeremy got on well with him. No one else could make you smile the way Luke could. Jeremy couldn’t have asked for a better neighbor.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Jeremy glimpsed someone or something outside, moving around the house. Not long after, the back door creaked open and slammed shut.

  “Luke?” Jeremy picked up the ashtray from the TV stand and weighed it in his hand. Not his weapon of choice, but better th
an nothing; he imagined it would hurt like hell to have it smashed into your nose.

  He went to call out again, but suddenly Luke came tearing at him from the rear of the house. The old man didn’t make a sound, but his eyes were wide open, his face split into a snarl. He hurtled forward in a desperate rage, and Jeremy barely dodged him, dropping the ashtray in the process.

  Luke crashed into the TV stand and went down onto his hands and knees. His muscles tensed, as if he were going to lunge to his feet and attack again, so Jeremy kicked him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him and throwing him onto his back. Jeremy dropped on the old man, pinned his withered arms over his head. “Luke, please, it’s me! Jeremy!”

  Luke raised his head and snapped his teeth like a mad dog, incredibly strong somehow. Jeremy, forced to let go, rolled away from the old man, but not quickly enough—fingernails raked a long gash in his arm beneath the sleeve of his Rush T-shirt. Jeremy gritted his teeth, and then Luke was on him again.

  Before he even realized what he was doing, Jeremy snatched up the ashtray from the floor and brought it down on Luke’s skull, crunching bone. Luke went limp and fell over.

  Feeling sick, his whole body shaking with adrenaline and disgust, Jeremy dropped the ashtray; blood and gray hair had stuck to the glass. There was no doubt that the old man was dead. His scalp was caved-in and bleeding.

  Tears welled up in Jeremy’s eyes as he unconsciously rubbed the wound on his arm. He fell onto the couch and sat there, staring at the dead television set in a daze.

  6

  Hours later, Jeremy placed an empty beer bottle on the TV table. The beer had been warm but good. You could always count on old Luke to stock his fridge with the essentials.

  Thinking of Luke caused Jeremy to lean over and vomit on the floor in front of the couch. It was the same place Luke’s body had lain not long ago, before Jeremy dragged him into the bedroom and covered him with a bed sheet. The image of blood soaking through the thin white cloth made Jeremy retch again.

  He rocked back and forth on the couch, replaying everything in his mind. Luke hadn’t been himself. He had been more like an animal. Jeremy wondered if any part of the old Luke had been left inside. He doubted it, and he tried to convince himself that he’d done what he needed in order to survive. It had been kill or be killed, simple as that. But still, it didn’t feel that way.

  He cursed himself for being so weak.

  Whatever had happened the night before was worse than a simple power outage; he realized that now. The light hadn’t been just a dream. Something was terribly fucked up with the world—and he should have been doing something about it. The day was half gone and he still hadn’t tried Luke’s truck. By now he could have been in town, hunting for help and maybe finding out what had happened last night. Yet he sat there, stealing a dead friend’s beer. Because what if the folks in town were like Luke? What would he do?

  He had no idea, but he did know he couldn’t stay here, and there seemed no point in going home. There was nothing there for him.

  After a brief search, he found the keys to the truck hanging in the kitchen, but before he started towards town he needed to do one more thing.

  Holding a dishcloth from a kitchen drawer, he walked to the bedroom and looked at the corpse snuggled inside the sheet. Inwardly, he said a final goodbye to the old man as he built up the courage to step around him and open the connecting door to the storage room. Half a dozen rifles hung on a rack on the far wall of the room, and a glass case below them contained Luke’s collection of handguns. Not all of them were real—some were just replicas—but they had been Luke’s only real passion in life, aside from sitting on his porch, drinking and smoking.

  Jeremy wrapped his hand in the dishcloth and smashed open the locked case. He inspected each gun carefully until he found one that was both real and loaded. It was an old-style .38, which he tucked into the back of his pants before lowering a .30-06 from the rifle rack. Although he didn’t know where Luke kept the ammunition for the handguns, Jeremy knew where he stored the ammo for the rifles and he stopped to load the weapon and dump the leftovers into his pocket.

  Outside, he slid into the cab of the ancient, beat-up vehicle and turned the ignition. The engine rolled over on the first try and roared to life.

  Jeremy glanced at Luke’s house one last time, then left a cloud of dust in his wake as he sped off into the distance.

  7

  Amy pinched her arm so hard she bled. Wake up! she thought. Oh please, God—wake up! The last few hours were a blur of death and running, but apparently this wasn’t a dream because it persisted.

  She sat in the back of a van with her legs curled up beneath her. Across from her sat a boy of no more than twelve; Jake or Jack or something like that—she couldn’t remember.

  In the driver’s seat, a man named Dan drove, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. His black hair was streaked with gray, though otherwise he appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties.

  The van jolted as it hit something in the street. Amy hoped it was a pothole, nothing else.

  Sitting next to Dan, the woman, Katherine, held a 12-gauge shotgun in her lap, watching Amy and the boy intently. No one spoke.

  There had been another man with them earlier who had gone crazy. Without hesitation, Katherine had splattered his head all over the wall, and she’d made Dan stop so she could kick the body outside. Amy could still smell the blood, and she had no doubt whatsoever that Katherine would kill all of them in an instant if she had to.

  All day, they had driven south through the city in search of a safe place to get help, in search of others who didn’t have what Dan called the “sickness.” The van was both a blessing and a curse. It gave them the means to outrun any problems they encountered, but it also drew problems to them: the sound of the engine attracted the crazies. Already Katherine and Dan had been forced to fight them off half a dozen times. The noise also attracted the unwanted attention of other survivors, the kind willing to kill for the working vehicle. Thank God they had met up with that type only once and had been able to flee without a real fight.

  Amy didn’t really know where Dan was taking them. She hoped he knew. But after all she had suffered and seen, she wondered if there was such a thing as a safe place anymore.

  Her stomach growled. There was food in abandoned establishments and stores throughout the city; the trouble lay in stopping to get it. They had learned that fact quickly and the hard way. The diseased were good at hiding and they seemed to be everywhere.

  Amy fished around in her jacket pockets and retrieved half of a candy bar she’d looted the one time they had stopped earlier that day. The boy watched her hungrily but said nothing. She broke off a large chunk and offered it to him. He snatched it from her and sat back, chewing it and smacking his lips. Katherine watched but showed no signs of caring. She must be hungry too, Amy thought, but she doesn’t show it like we do.

  “We’ll be there soon,” Dan muttered, more to himself than to his passengers. “We’ll get help. You’ll see. Everything will be fine.”

  Amy hoped he was right. She knew that Dan was on the verge of a breakdown and wasn’t at all lucid, but nonetheless she hoped.

  8

  President Clark stood on the White House lawn. He could hear the howls of the poor souls outside the massive walls encircling the yard. General Wiggins’s soldiers lined the barrier, shooting any of the things that were smart enough to devise a way over.

  Early last night, people had begun to flock to the walls, seeking entrance and refuge. They were all long dead or changed by now, no longer human at all by his definition. They were monsters, soulless automatons who wanted nothing more than to rip his throat open with their bare hands. He could no longer force himself to feel pity for these creatures, but he did mourn for the people they once were. They had been his people after all, his nation, and they had trusted him. This is where he had led them.

  He had refused Wiggins’s pleas to leave the night
before, hoping that his permanent post would give people hope and help calm the rioting and looting. At least in D.C. He’d been wrong—he saw that now. The city was dead, his presence pointless.

  He wondered if he had waited too long to take Wiggins’s advice. The White House walls were surrounded by the creatures, six or seven rows deep, pushing and clawing to get inside. Hundreds had been crushed in the stampede, too many to count. It was as if all of Washington was out there.

  Some of Wiggins’s men were working around the clock to convert the vehicles inside the interior parking area into an armored motorcade, a convoy capable of piercing the ranks outside the wall.

  Def-con installation IV was where Wiggins intended to head. Originally built to provide shelter from a nuclear holocaust, it was the closest functioning base, set deep in the mountains of North Carolina. Perhaps there they could find the answers to this mess and end the nightmare. With luck, they could build a new start for the world.

  Clark jumped as a firm hand grasped his shoulder from behind.

  “Everything is ready, sir,” said General Wiggins. “We’re just waiting for you.”

  Clark nodded absently. “What the hell are we going to do, General?”

  “Survive, Mr. President. My job is to get you out of here to Def-Con IV, and I’m going to do it.”

  Wiggins led Clark to where the convoy had assembled just inside the southern gate. Five cars and two trucks comprised the fleet, civilian but covered in makeshift armor. Three of the cars no longer had roofs. They had been cut off to accommodate large .50 caliber emplacements, the kind normally mounted on the rear of army jeeps equipped for field duty. Bulky wedges of steel, shaped like battering rams, were welded onto the grilles of both trucks. The whole convoy looked like something out of that Mel Gibson flick about desert dwellers fighting for gas after the collapse of society. Clark didn’t know whether to break into tears or roll on the grass laughing.