And I’ll be right here waiting for him when he does, Andrew thought.
Twelve
Roland
5 Days Left…
The motel was so stuffy, Roland thought he was going to suffocate. He ran to the windows, sliding them open with a thrust. The frames were dirty, rusted from misuse, but they finally sprang wide, letting in fresh air.
He’d arrived at the vacant property and had let himself in, taking the first unit he found a key for. The closed sign had been on the door, but that was nothing a rock and perseverance hadn’t been able to fix. For two days he’d hidden in the room, somehow expecting the man and woman in the van to track him down and shoot him in his sleep.
The room wasn’t air-conditioned, and it was sweltering inside. Even the breeze finding the inside of his suite now brought a humid, wet feel with it.
Two days of hiding. It was enough. He couldn’t find the warehouse and learn what Lewis Hound was doing if he was too scared to leave this pit behind.
Roland grabbed his laptop and anything resembling his property, and lifted the mattress off the wooden frame. He shoved his gear under it, letting the stained mattress fall with a thud. His pack had three water bottles and some nuts, along with binoculars and his cell phone.
He exited the room, pocketing the key and moving to his truck. He’d traded his car for it with an old man who was heading inland. The truck was worthless, and the old guy had been tickled pink at the bargain he was getting. Roland hoped the gun-wielding duo had chosen to follow his car inland, instead of following him to Capetown. It was a do or die world, and he wasn’t going to feel guilty if the new owner of the car was a casualty of war.
The truck’s engine roared to life, sputtering a bit, but it kept running. Roland leaned forward, trying to see the tops of the immense redwoods all around him. They were at least a thousand years old. Would the trees survive the coming apocalypse? Would nature thrive once again?
“Worry about yourself, not the damned trees,” Roland told himself, and pulled the lever beside the steering wheel, thrusting the beat-up truck forward.
The roads were empty here; no one for miles, it seemed. Roland had watched enough zombie movies, and read enough post-apocalyptic books, to feel uneasy at the solitude. He kept nervously scanning the sides of the roads, half expecting a horde of the undead to emerge and rip him limb from limb.
The fuel gauge was low on the truck, and he cursed himself for not being more prepared. He needed gas, and a jerry can for back up. Old wooden signs stuck out of the ditches, claiming food and lodging ahead. That would mean a gas station.
The truck began lurching, and Roland tapped the dial, hoping the fuel gauge would hop up a tenth of an inch. It did quite the opposite. The truck stalled out in the middle of the road, and Roland cursed his luck.
Rain began falling, a ‘kick you when you’re down’ from the universe. “Rollie, you think you’re so smart, but step out into the real world, and you’re just another dummy trying to survive.” It wasn’t quite the pep talk he needed.
He pulled up the map on his phone, and saw he was two miles from the nearest gas station. Two miles. He could do that. He hopped out, wishing he had a raincoat, and slung his pack over his shoulder, walking towards the right side of the road.
His mood was sour already, and he glanced at his shoes, which were soaked in mere minutes. His long brown hair clung to his face, and he wiped it away. It felt like an hour later when he grabbed his phone, ducking over to keep it from getting wet, and saw that he was only halfway. It had also only been fourteen minutes.
The rest of the trip was a mixture of panic and frustration. His gaze darted to both sides of the redwood-lined road, and he peered behind him every few seconds, fearing the arrival of a white unmarked van. By the time he saw the unlit gas station sign, he was miserable, wishing he’d stayed home.
“Please be functioning,” he told the gas pumps, and saw they were still powered up. There was a shabby house behind the station, telling him the owners lived there. Roland noticed that there were no cars parked near it, and the only truck in the lot was rusted and missing two of its four wheels.
The convenience store attached to the gas station was closed, chains wrapped around the door handles. Roland ducked around the other side, searching for another entrance, and found the back door locked, but not chained. He pulled a loose chunk of concrete from the pad and hefted it at the wooden door, breaking the handle clean off. From there he was able to use his fingers to turn the latch, and the rear door swung wide.
Maybe he was getting the hang of this after all. Hacker turned gas station thief. Wouldn’t his grandmother be so proud? He shook his head, sending water spraying all around the cluttered office, and emerged into the dark store.
No one had pillaged it yet, which was a good sign. Roland set his pack on the counter and began his search for supplies. He found two bright red gas cans and stacked them near the back door, going in for more.
He filled a canvas bag with water, some energy drinks, and chocolate bars, before realizing there might be more useful things like a flashlight and batteries, which he took as well.
His clothes were soaked through, and Roland flung them off, tossing the shirt and sweater in a damp heap near the front doors, choosing cheesy replacements from a clothing rack. His t-shirt was plain, but the black sweater had a picture of a redwood on it, and said: I’ve been to the redwoods and all I got was this lousy splinter. It was terrible, but he donned it with a smile. He was almost dry. A hat was next, and he slipped the green cap over his head.
Behind the counter was a coat hook, and Roland found a yellow slicker that was at least three sizes too big for his small frame. He put it on anyway.
“Time to skedaddle,” he told himself, and moved for the rear exit when the sound of an engine carried to his ears.
Roland’s stomach rose into his throat when he saw the doors of the big truck swing open to reveal two armed men. They weren’t the same ones from his house, but they seemed a lot more nefarious. He pressed his body against the near wall, and watched as one of them stuck his face to the front door, scanning inside.
Roland ducked low, seeing a rifle in the man’s grip. Were they looking for him? He was a dead man. So close, but so far away. Perhaps they’d spotted his truck down the road, and knew he’d come here. What was he going to do?
The rifle rang out, striking the glass doors and shattering one of them. He could hear the man laughing, and he peered around a shelf full of jerky to see the second man, this one as wide as a semi truck, using his leather sleeve to clear shards of glass from the metal frame.
“You done good, brother. Let’s take this shit and keep moving. I always hated the McKenzies. Kind of wish they were still here, though. That daughter of theirs is a real piece of work.” The man’s voice was high-pitched, a contradiction to his immense girth.
Roland had his pack in his hand, and reached inside, feeling the metal grip of his pistol. It didn’t seem like these guys were here for him, but he knew their type. He could only guess what they’d do to a witness out here, and it wasn’t going to be good.
“Remember that time Old Man McKenzie waved that gun in my face?” the man with the rifle asked.
“What a tool. Let’s clear this out and check the house. Maybe he’s in there, waiting for the end of the world,” the fat guy said.
Roland wondered what his chances were of escaping with his life. He glanced at the empty gas cans, aware he couldn’t leave without filling them. He couldn’t go wandering around, searching for the next station. Out here in the middle of nowhere, it could be hours before he found one.
The big truck sat outside idling, and Roland had an idea. He waited until the two men were behind the counter, tearing open the register, and he made for the rear door. He decided to leave the gas cans, taking his backpack as well as the canvas full of supplies, and made his way in the rain around the building.
He stopped, heart pounding in his ches
t. The pistol was firm in his grip, and he dropped the gun as he adjusted the bags in his hands. It fell into a puddle, and he crouched behind a barrel, hoping the big brothers hadn’t heard anything.
When neither of them emerged through the front of the building, he grabbed the pistol, shoved it into his new rain jacket’s pocket and made for the truck. He was a big yellow target, and he tried not to think about this as he crossed the gravel parking lot.
The shot rang out, kicking up dirt a yard from his feet and he skidded to a halt. “What do we have here, Danny?” The man with the rifle was younger than Roland had thought, maybe only twenty. His big brother sauntered out, a bag of jerky in his meaty grip.
“If it ain’t a yellow bird. What do we do with yellow birds?” Danny asked.
“We hunt them, ain’t that right, Danny?” The rifle aimed toward him, and Roland tried to think of a solution. He dropped the canvas bag to the ground and set his pack gently on the cement, raising his arms in the air.
“I just need gas. I’m not here for trouble,” he said as confidently as he could. It still came out with a waver in pitch.
“Seems to me, you was going to steal our truck, don’t it, Colin?” Danny asked his brother.
The rifle rang out, this time coming closer to Roland’s feet. This was it. He was never going to find out what was going on at Capetown. He’d never see the warehouse with his own two eyes. He’d never even live to see the Earth die.
The big one stepped forward, eying the bag of supplies, then Roland. “What you got on you, son?” he asked, even though Roland was sure he was older than the guy.
“Nothing,” he told them blankly. The man’s weight crunched the gravel as he approached.
Roland’s hand twitched.
A gun appeared in Danny’s fat palm, and he began to lift it up. His eyes were a killer’s, close-set and black. Roland was sure these two had killed already, maybe done worse than kill. He needed to get out of here. He needed to find Capetown.
Roland’s hand jammed into his jacket pocket, pulling the pistol out. He fired two quick shots, both missing the wide target. He ran behind the truck, and ducked so he could crawl underneath. He aimed at the big man’s legs, and found a thigh with a bullet.
Colin was firing the rifle now, and gravel shot out, hitting Roland in the eyes. He blinked the dust away and rolled out from under the truck. Danny was cursing on the ground, and the rifle-wielding brother was running toward Roland.
Roland ran in zig-zags, trying to make himself a hard target. He heard another shot and Colin stopped, attempting to reload. Thunder boomed around them, lightning striking an immense redwood, sending an earth-shattering crash throughout the entire area. Colin stared in the direction of the sound, and Roland took his chance. He ran at the man and fired three quick shots. He stumbled, falling to the ground, and watched as Colin fell to his knees. Blood pooled from his chest, staining his white t-shirt.
Danny was yelling, shooting his own handgun toward Roland from his seated position. Roland grabbed his supplies as he ran by, hopping into the truck’s driver’s side. The side mirror exploded as Danny shot it, and Roland raced off, leaving the brothers in the parking lot, both bleeding in the rain. In the rear-view mirror, he saw Colin fall face-first into a pool of water, his brother struggling to crawl over to him.
It was an hour later that Roland finally slowed the vehicle. He’d raced down the empty streets at seventy miles an hour, skidding through sharp corners, expecting them to give chase. They didn’t, and finally the rational part of his mind told him they were dead. At least one of them was, the other injured from his gunshot wound to the thigh. He wouldn’t be driving any time soon.
Roland’s nerves were fried, and he pulled onto the side of the road, finally letting himself check the map. He’d missed his turn-off, not seeing any signs for Capetown.
He had to double back. Every instinct was telling him to keep driving, farther away from the body he’d left behind, but he fought it. With a grunt, he turned the truck around and finally found the turn-off to Capetown. The entire place was deserted. He passed a single house with a porch light on, shining like a beacon on the dark stormy day.
He kept moving, dead set on the coast. Finally, he could see the water once again. There were a couple houses with For Sale signs on them, but sadly, they would never sell. There was no one left in this part of the world, or at least it felt that way.
Once on the coastal road, he flicked the lights off, but the daylights stayed on. Roland thought about busting the headlights, but continued searching for the warehouse.
Rain was pouring rapidly, the wipers moving so fast it was hard to see anything beyond the windshield. Then he spotted the building a mile or so down the coast. This had to be it. He parked, grabbing his binoculars. The warehouse had a fence all the way around it, a tall one with barbed wire at the top. He scanned the horizon, making out an industrial dock, even in the deluge. From here he couldn’t see any cars or boats, but this had to be the place.
Roland was beat, emotionally and physically drained after the crazy day, and he decided to find a hiding spot for his truck. The rain began to let up, and he found a side road leading to the beach. The truck drove over the rocky pathway with ease, and Roland tucked it in a copse of trees, finding minor shelter from the weather and from prying eyes.
With shaking hands, he popped a pill bottle open, took two, then added a third, and popped them into his mouth, wishing they made him feel better instantly. He sat in silence, searching for signs of humanity, but not seeing any for the next hour. By the time the rain stopped, he knew it was time to scout closer.
Roland chugged an energy drink, then grabbed two water bottles and his gun, pills, and food, filling his backpack. He shoved the bright yellow jacket into the bag, just in case. If he wore it, he’d be the world’s worst spy, but it would keep him dry if the sky wanted to unleash hell upon him again.
The ground was wet, and his pants were soaked to the knees within minutes, but he moved quickly and quietly, with a grace he hadn’t realized he was capable. When he was about half a mile from the fence, he nestled into the forest bed, lying down facing the warehouse. He pulled the binoculars out, and watched.
And waited.
Thirteen
Kendra
5 Days Left…
“I don’t give a rat’s ass who you are, there’s no time for idiocy,” the captain said. He was new, brought in from a different precinct after this station’s captain had up and fled for the hills. Kendra suspected they were going to see a lot of that.
“I want any information you have on this Mr. Tesla,” she said, dropping the paper with the plate numbers on it.
He glanced at it and shook his head. “I’ve been told to keep the peace around here, not waste my resources to help a lone-wolf FBI agent going rogue.” He crumpled the paper up and tossed it toward his garbage can, hitting the edge and missing. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have pressing matters.”
Before she let him push her out of the office, she flashed a picture. “This is Officer Lisa Tremble. She’s one of the missing people. For God’s sake, do you care about anyone but yourself?” Kendra shouted. She was growing weary of everyone around her constantly butting heads. Weren’t they supposed to be on the same side?
He glanced at it and shrugged. “I’m new. I haven’t met her.”
“She’s been gone for a week. Her husband’s been here three times, and no one will talk to him. Is that how you treat your own?” Kendra lowered her voice, realizing she’d drawn attention to herself. The officers outside the captain’s temporary workstation were watching them.
A uniformed woman stuck her head in the office. “Captain, the Five is clogged to the gills. We have no idea what can be done. Someone ran into an electrical box on the north end, killing two sets of lights, making it worse. What do we do?” she asked.
“Jesus. I should have retired when I had the chance. Take someone with you, and do some old-school traffi
c directing, would you?” he asked.
“Excuse me, did you know Lisa Tremble?” Kendra asked the officer, and the captain dropped his pen to his desktop.
“Fine. Tell this special agent what you can, and maybe she’ll stop sniffing around here like a hungry cat.” He ran his hands through his thinning gray hair.
“She’s a good cop. We came up in the academy together. Then last week, she just disappeared,” the woman told her.
“Why haven’t you helped her husband?” Kendra asked.
“Because we don’t have the resources. The world is going to hell, don’t you see that? I don’t even know why I’m here,” she said quietly, leading Kendra from the captain’s office.
“There’s a Walmart on fire in La Mesa,” someone shouted from behind them.
“Send the fire department,” another voice returned.
It was madness out there. The phones were ringing off the hook; the cacophony of noise was sending Kendra into a near panic attack. She had to leave as quickly as possible.
“Do you have any paperwork on—” Kendra started, but she stopped when she saw the president’s face appear on a big screen hung on the far wall. Everyone moved for it, leaving the phones to ring.
“Everyone shut up!” The captain was there, front and center, turning up the volume.
“It brings me tremendous sadness to relay this message to the great people of the United States of America. With the coming catastrophes being predicted, FEMA has declared that the entire West Coast must be evacuated within seventy-two hours,” the president said, his face older and more weathered than ever.
Everyone inside the police station spoke at once, and the captain silenced them with a firm glare. He turned the volume up a couple more notches.
“We’re setting up temporary shelters in Texas and Louisiana. Visit the website below for each site’s location. The following states must be cleared out in the next three days: California, Arizona, Nevada, Oregon, Washington, and Idaho. This includes everybody, with the exception of government mandated personnel.”
Final Days Page 10
