None of this surprised Jackson. He had predicted this, from the moment he saw the woman’s dress in the car in the ditch and recognized what form the catastrophe had taken. But the mental tally clicked up a notch with each new wreck he passed.
At least 99%. Maybe higher. Now the question—was this regional? National? Worldwide?
The only way to tell was to keep driving.
He walked back to his truck, returned to Main Street, then worked his way back and forth through the side roads, periodically stopping and blowing his horn to see if anyone would respond.
No one did.
When he reached the point where Main Street intersected with Highway 1, he automatically turned north. Santa Isobel was almost exactly halfway between San Francisco and Los Angeles, and there was no particular reason to go one way or the other.
Maybe he was going that way because Susan lived in San Francisco.
But that thought didn’t bear close examining, and he pushed it away.
—
THERE WERE THREE major accidents on Highway 1 north of Santa Isobel, the second of which made him reconsider briefly his decision to head north. An eighteen-wheeler had gone out of control on a curve, presumably when its driver vanished. Instead of doing the convenient thing—which would have been to jump the guard rail and tumble its way down a precipitous hill onto the rocky beach below—the truck had jackknifed, taking out two other cars with it, and come to rest blocking both lanes. Both of the cars were totaled, one of them jammed halfway beneath the truck’s undercarriage, which made restarting them and driving them out of the way impossible. Getting past the wreckage took Jackson nearly two hours. He cleared a narrow passage by putting the less-damaged of the two cars in neutral, rocking it back and forth and twisting on the steering wheel until he could maneuver it around the back end of the truck, and shoving it through a gap in the guard rail and over the edge of the hill.
He watched as the car thumped and crashed its way down the steep slope. Its front end hit a large rock outcropping halfway down, and it started to flip, tumbling into a twisted ruin and landing on its top about a hundred yards away. But as soon as it came to rest, Jackson lost interest in it. The space around the back end of the semi looked to be just big enough to let his truck through.
It was, barely. He lost a bit of paint from the passenger side as it scraped the up-slope guard rail, but he was clear of the obstacle and heading north again by the time the sun hit its zenith.
The other thing that slowed Jackson down was his determination to scour any towns he came across for other survivors. There were several villages, smaller than Santa Isobel, along that stretch of Highway 1. Each time he passed one, he went up and down every side street, blowing his horn and watching for movement. There was none, only empty streets and wrecked cars, and once a house that was gutted with fire. The blackened beams still spouted flame, the column of acrid smoke rising high into the clear sky.
What had been cooking that morning when the house’s owner vanished?
He stopped for gasoline in the little village of Las Arenitas just after four, using his credit card to fill the tank. Why not? Even if he’d never get the bill, it was easier than siphoning it. He’d be doing that soon enough. The electricity wouldn’t be on forever, and then it’d require more ingenuity to keep going.
He went into the AM/PM MiniMart after filling the tank. The door swished open smoothly as he approached. The interior smelled like french fries and tobacco. He grabbed a couple of plastic bags from behind the counter and filled them with packages of corn chips and beef jerky, dried fruit, and granola bars. He took two six-packs of Miller Lite from the cooler, and almost as an afterthought, a large bottle of water.
The sign above the cash register said, All shoplifters will be prosecuted to the FULLEST EXTENT OF THE LAW.
Jackson regarded it for a moment. “Lots of luck with that.”
As he stepped out through the sliding glass door, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Whoever it was, or whatever it was, ducked out of sight as soon as he turned in that direction.
Jackson froze.
His hands were full of groceries, so he couldn’t draw his gun. He watched the corner of the building for only a few seconds.
If he didn’t move away, it could go around the back of the store and come up behind him.
He risked a glance over his shoulder. Nothing.
He weighed his options. There were three possibilities—he’d seen something harmless, or something dangerous, or it had been a mere trick of the eye. Setting the food down would risk losing it if there was something dangerous behind the building and he was attacked. At the moment, getting back to the truck with the food was the most important thing.
He backed up, keeping his scrutiny on the building the whole time, moving his gaze smoothly between the right and left sides. The truck seemed farther away than he remembered. Twenty steps, thirty, forty. Then his butt brushed the front passenger side headlight, and he set the bags in his left hand down on the pavement and pulled open the passenger side door, still keeping his eye locked on the front of the MiniMart.
When all the food was stowed, and the door closed behind him, he made a quick dash around the front end to the driver’s side, pulled open the door, and jumped in.
Scared of his own shadow.
Even his mental voice was harsh and disdainful.
Man up, soldier.
But as he drove away, he couldn’t help a look down the left side of the MiniMart. And he saw, only for a second but unmistakable, a shadowed figure slip around the back side of the building.
At least that allowed him to rule out a trick of the eye. That was good. It was far too early in this game for him to lose his mind.
Survive.
That meant keeping himself sane. Whatever happened here, it was clear that this was not a world where crazy or stupid people would last long.
And he planned on surviving until….
What?
He knew what he was waiting for. It had a name, but he was not yet ready to say it aloud. Names had power, and speaking this one was risky.
Invoked, this name foretold a sacrifice. Invoked at the wrong time and the sacrifice might well be Jackson himself. The being the name belonged to was no respecter of the careless.
He blew his horn once, twice, and looked in the rearview mirror, but whatever lurked behind the AM/PM didn’t show itself.
He drove on.
—
JACKSON STOPPED WHEN the sun had dropped nearly to the western horizon, and the hillsides of this new unpeopled world were coated with molten gold. There was a little roadside motel, the Beachcomber Inn, south of the village of Adelaide Bay, and he pulled into the parking lot in front of the glass-fronted door that said Office. He got out and stood for a moment, right hand resting on his gun, scanning the area. His nostrils quivered as he sniffed the air.
Safe. For the time being.
He pushed open the door, and without hesitating walked around the back of the reception desk. There was a rack of keys low on the wall behind a chair draped with a white dress shirt, a dark pair of slacks, and a pair of boxers festooned with brightly-colored chili peppers. The empty hooks must be rooms that had been tenanted, at least until the Event that morning. He selected the available key with the lowest number—Room 4—reasoning that it would be the closest to the office and wouldn’t require him to move his truck.
Another brief pause on the way out to check the air. Nothing. The hollow clunk as the key turned sounded loud in the silence, and the door swung open with a dry creak. Room 4 showed no sign of recent habitation. There was no luggage, and no piles of clothes.
Thank God for that. The empty clothes still creeped him out, even though he knew he’d better get used to it. He’d be seeing a lot more of them in the next days and weeks.
The electricity was still going, so he put one of the sixes of Miller into the mini-fridge and flipped on the television. Unsurprisingly, t
here was nothing but gray snow and white noise as he flipped through the channels.
No one there to run the cable channels. Radio would undoubtedly be the same, at least until the survivors started trying to use it to communicate with each other.
He frowned. Survivors? How did he know it was plural? Maybe he was the only one.
Maybe he was completely alone.
There was something appealing about that idea. Sergeant Jackson Royce, the only living human being in an empty world that had been depopulated for some reason that still wasn’t obvious. But his mind rebelled at the thought. That was not what had been promised. There must be others.
What would be the point, if he was the only one left? Who would be there for him to command in the rebuilding of the world?
So he went down into himself, into the Place Where the Answers Are. And this time it didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for—the knowledge that there were others, and that he would find them.
Soon. Before the real end came.
When he returned from that deep place, he rose, shut off the television, popped a beer, and munched on some beef jerky.
There had to be more than this empty planet, spinning forever in space, with only him to see what was to come.
He wrote for a time in the thick notebook he’d brought along with him. Then he pulled his shirt off, tossed it to the side, and lay down on the bed with his hands cupped behind his head.
Tomorrow. He’d find them tomorrow. And then he could start forming some plans for how to proceed.
—
JACKSON AWOKE JUST after two in the morning with his senses suddenly on high alert.
The first thing he recognized was that the fridge was no longer humming. That meant the power was out. He reached across and switched on the bedside lamp to double-check.
Nothing. But at least he’d anticipated this. That was the key. Keep ahead of it, be ready for what happens.
The silence, which had felt immense the previous morning, now was overpowering. Everything outside was amplified—the rumble of the sea a quarter-mile away, the low hiss of the wind. And then nearer at hand, a furtive snuffling sound, followed by the quiet crunch of a footstep on gravel.
There was a moment’s silence, then the snuffling started again, closer this time. It was followed by a deep, guttural growl that rose and fell, ending on a high whine.
The back of his neck prickled. He shot a glance at the door. He’d thrown the bolt after coming inside, out of a long habit of caution. He reached silently to the end table, lifted his gun, and padded barefoot to the door, listening.
It was coming closer. The footsteps were soft, and intermittent. The gleam of a nearly-full moon shone against the curtains with a white, ethereal glow.
If he pulled back the curtains, he’d see it.
But then it would see him. Why it was so important to remain unseen by an animal when he was safely in a locked motel room, he couldn’t have said.
Was it a wolf? No wolves in western California that he’d ever heard of. It sounded too loud and large for a coyote.
Mountain lion, perhaps? He’d heard them before, once while out on a training mission up in the Sierras when he was a new recruit. The sound had been unearthly, like a woman’s scream.
But a mountain lion, here in a little village on the coast? Not likely.
Another footstep, and a long, keening wail that ended in a rough snarl. And then, suddenly, the light was cut off by a shadow crossing the curtain.
A shadow of a bipedal figure that was at least six feet tall.
Jackson jumped back, and before he could prevent it, he gave a loud gasp. The shadow stopped instantly, and a broad head swiveled one way, then the other. Jackson caught a glimpse of its face in profile, and saw the silhouette of a powerful muzzle and thick, pointed ears. Then it moved to the door. There was a soft, hissing intake of breath, and the door handle rattled, once, twice.
Opposable thumbs. And intelligent enough to understand how doors work.
The shadow crossed in front of the window again, stopped. A long-fingered hand came up, pressed against the glass.
Jackson didn’t move. If it came through the window, he’d have one chance to shoot it. A thing that size wouldn’t give him the opportunity for a second shot. His arm was locked, the muzzle of the Glock pointed at the center of the thing’s chest, ready for the sound of glass shattering.
A trickle of sweat ran down his side.
Then with one swift move, the shadow slipped to one side and was gone. The white light of the moon once again shone against the curtains, and there was no sound but the murmuring of the sea in the distance.
Jackson didn’t relax for almost ten minutes. The fundamental rule was never, ever drop your guard. It would be waiting for him to do exactly that.
This was ridiculous. The thing—whatever it was—was not able to see him, know what he was doing. If it was going to attack, it would have come right through the window at him before. It had decided not to, for some reason.
Finally he let his right arm drop until his gun was pointed at the floor. After a minute more, he returned to the bed, setting the Glock on the end table, next to the bed where it always resided while he slept.
What was that thing? He didn’t have enough information to answer the question, so he put it out of his mind. The important thing was that it was gone for the time being. He lay back on the bed again, closed his eyes.
Jackson had learned in the military the art of falling asleep quickly when you have the opportunity. He commanded his heart rate to slow, the adrenaline to subside. The last thing he felt was the sweat cooling and drying on his chest. Within minutes, he had dropped into a deep, dreamless sleep.
He awoke some hours later to full morning, the sea breeze whistling through the trees, birds singing. He stood, picked up his gun, and walked to the door. He unlocked the deadbolt, slowly opened the door, and looked out.
The sidewalk was empty, the parking lot occupied only by the same cars that had been there the previous evening. He inhaled. It was faint, but still discernible—a rank, animal odor, dark and heavy. And in the soft soil of the foundation planting, right under his window, was a large, four-toed footprint.
With claws.
7
AND THE PEOPLE moaned with fear, and they said unto the Sibyl:
How shall we survive, Great Grandmother, with the world so turned against us, so that we know not what is good and what is evil?
And the Sibyl said:
Powers awaken. Leaf and limb, grass and stone, water and wind and sea. They have been here longer than you have, coeval with the plants and animals and elements from whence they came. There are ones that are evil, ones that are good, and many that care nothing for the ways of humans, and look at us as the ephemeral beings we are, here and gone in a season. They persist, they slip and twist through the eaves of the forest and in the rushing of the river, here today, here tomorrow, here a thousand years from now.
Ask them for a gift, and you may receive one, but ask with care, for they are capricious and quick to change, flickering like a flame in the dark that can turn from a light that makes night into day into a fire that destroys everything in its path.
—
IT WAS ALMOST nine in the morning when Lissa awoke. She was alone in bed, which wasn’t unusual. Julia was a restless sleeper and often got up at five a.m. to go for a walk or read a book or surf the web. Lissa, on the other hand, could easily sleep till noon given the opportunity, but with her light meal of the previous evening, she was pushed out of bed by a growling stomach.
Maybe Julia would already have put the coffee on. That’d be nice.
She got up, yawned, stretched like a contented cat. She slipped her legs into her light cotton pajama pants, pulled a t-shirt on, and walked barefoot down the hall, through the living room, and out into the warm, sunlit kitchen.
Julia’s bathrobe lay crumpled on the floor, next to a broken glass and a puddle of ora
nge juice. Lissa stared at it uncomprehendingly, wondering what it could mean, for two minutes. It was like looking at an optical illusion, like the one with the tuning fork that has three prongs at the tip and only two at the base. You know there is something wrong with what you are looking at, but your brain can’t resolve it, can’t make sense of what it is seeing.
“Julia?” Lissa called, without taking her eyes off the bathrobe.
There was no answer.
Explanations came to mind. Julia had been known to break things in her rages, and had once flung a cooking pot across the kitchen, leaving a dent in the plaster wall that Lissa repaired and painted over the following day. Could she have gotten angry at something, and smashed the glass on the floor?
If so, why shuck her bathrobe in the middle of the kitchen?
She walked out onto the back porch. Was Julia nude sunbathing in the yard? Hardly likely, given the proximity of the neighbors, but she was erratic enough that there wasn’t much that was outside the realm of possibility.
But the back yard, of course, was empty. Lissa called one person after another, working her way up from friends to relatives to coworkers to government offices to 911.
After the ringing had gone on for some time and no 911 operator answered, she set the phone down in the cradle gently, her hand moving slowly, like someone in a dream.
There had to be a logical explanation for this.
She was giddy, lightheaded, like all of this was some kind of strange joke. Julia was messing with her. It had to be that. How that could explain the missing 911 operators, she wasn’t sure, but it had to be something of the sort. At the same time, the deep, pervasive rationalism of her training as a physicist was clamoring for attention, shouting, Put together the facts. This is huge. This is beyond huge.
The Fifth Day Page 6
