Tallos - Episode One (Season One)

by Brian D. Anderson

  Tallos

  Season One

  Episode One

  By: Brian D. Anderson

  Tallos – Season One - Episode One

  Copyright © Brian D. Anderson 2015

  Published by Longfire Press

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher and/or author.

  He was hurting badly now. But desperate as he was to keep moving, James Tallos knew that he had to stop for a moment. Slumping his aching body against the nearest lamp post, he slid slowly down, gasping for air and frantically trying to slow his heart rate.

  The burning and cramping in his leg muscles was intense – the result of nearly an hour of non-stop running. The rivers of sweat and grime seeping into a multitude of tiny cuts scattered all over his arms and hands felt like he was being stung by a hundred different wasps at the same time. There was no doubt whatsoever that he’d need to treat these wounds soon. Nowadays, even a minor injury could get you killed. Any infection at all could slow you down, and slow runners don’t last very long. Especially with the wranglers roaming about. Wranglers counted on weakness. They counted on hunger. But most of all they counted on desperation – and there was sure as hell plenty of that to go around.

  He could hear the hoots and shouts of his pursuers just beyond his line of sight. They were close. Too damn close. Normally, they didn't have the balls to come this near to downtown. Not after their last attempt. The skulls of their friends still decorated the tops of the traffic lights, and up until now these had proved to be a more than effective warning. Even the wranglers knew fear. They weren’t brave enough to come here anymore. Not in daylight anyway.

  Reaching into his belt, he removed the .45 caliber Smith and Wesson revolver tucked inside, at the same time cursing himself for his carelessness. He had stupidly left his holster on the boardwalk a few days ago next to a half-eaten loaf of bread. Before he knew it, seagulls had swooped in and pushed the holster into the bay. Carrying the bulky weapon stuffed in his belt slowed him down. And today that had almost got him killed.

  He shuddered at the thought of what the wranglers would do to him - especially him - if he was ever caught. He’d seen what they'd done to other prisoners. He'd heard their agonized cries as their flesh was slowly being peeled away, and been sickened by the taunts and harsh laughter that each plea for mercy elicited. It wasn’t just a matter of survival for the wranglers. They enjoyed it. They loved the torture and the screams. The blood and the pain. It was like a drug to them. They were fucking cannibals.

  The sound of their voices calling for him to come back sent a wave of hatred and anger through his heart. “Fuck you!” he shouted. “Come on! I’ll kill every last one of you motherfuckers.”

  His defiant words were met by gales of mocking laughter and vile insults.

  He drew in a long, cleansing breath to calm his nerves. It was a bad idea to piss them off. If they were desperate enough, they just might come. Travelers were a rarity these days, so they were being forced to hunt further and further away from the makeshift village they had built near Fish River. Not that deer and other game was scarce. Hell, they even had their own herd of cattle. But that was just bait. They never ate them…at least, not as far as he could tell. He’d counted the herd many times and the population never changed. No. Wranglers only ate one thing.

  Several tense minutes passed, but then the taunting voices gradually faded away. There was nothing now but the sound of the breeze whistling through open doors and broken windows, together with the occasional call of a bird.

  With a heavy grunt, Jim pushed himself upright and tucked the .45 back into his belt. A deep frown formed as he gazed down the main avenue. This was Fairview, Alabama - once upon a time the most beautiful town in the entire state. Whenever talking to friends about the place, he would always describe it in the same way: 'Imagine if Mayberry had a kid with San Francisco.'

  This was about as accurate an assessment as anyone could have made. The streets were always clean, the buildings well maintained, and an eye-pleasing variety of flowers surrounded the series of dogwood trees that lined the sidewalks. They were always in bloom too - even in the winter. At Christmas the city would decorate downtown with literally millions of twinkle lights. Back then, he had loved to window shop after the stores were closed. The lights in the trees seemed to overcome the streetlamps, giving everything a magical quality.

  Fairview had built a reputation over the years for being the artistic and shopping capital of the Southeast. Everywhere you looked you'd see some kind of quaint boutique or gallery. The local book store had been there for decades. Even when the big chains were driving most mom and pop stores out of business, and then later when digital readers became all the rave, Fairview's book store still continued to thrive. Each week would see a different well known writer guesting there, enthusiastically signing books and answering questions. These visits, together with the store's knowledgeable, friendly staff and gourmet coffee bar in the back, were undoubtedly the reasons why it had avoided sharing the fate of so many other brick and mortar stores of the day.

  But this once picturesque setting had long since faded. In its place were now only the burned out remains of what had once been called by its residents a paradise on Earth. Everything of any use had been pillaged long ago, just after the government had disintegrated and people realized that the only way to survive was to fend for themselves.

  Even after things began to fall apart, folks more or less managed to keep their reason about them. Sure there was some hysteria, but that died down…for a time. A whole world had ground to a halt for no apparent reason. Shipments of food ceased; once solid financial institutions were suddenly collapsing; communications – from cell phones to televisions – were going straight to black. In fact, no essential public service had escaped some form of disruption.

  It was only a few days after the problems began that a military truck showed up in front of Jim’s house, informing him that he was being called up. This had really worried him. It was one thing for civilian communications to go down, but if the army was being forced to go from door to door….

  He wanted to stay at home, but people needed to see that things were still holding together. And a military presence would certainly accomplish that. So, reluctantly, he packed his gear.

  The look of concern on Laura’s face that fateful morning forced its way into Jim's mind. The MP waiting to escort him was shifting impatiently from side to side in the living room. His twelve month old daughter, Meagan, was asleep in his wife’s arms. He had made them promise to stay inside the house until he returned.

  “Only a few days,” he'd said. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

  That was the last time he had seen either of them.

  The memory was a daily torment. His reason told him that he was not to blame, but his heart refused to allow any sense of personal forgiveness. He had waited for them as long as he could, in the desperate hope they would return, but soon the trucks came, offering to take people to Atlanta. In less than three days the town was all but abandoned. Only a handful of stubborn residents remained. And as his food and supplies ran out, and the cannibals began to come around, he was forced to leave his house or die. More often than not, he wishe
d he’d had the courage to accept a slow death. To sit and waste away. But he didn’t. He tried to tell himself that it was hope which kept him alive. Hope that one day he would be reunited with his family. But it had been two years and the reality was harsh. They were almost certainly dead.

  He kicked an empty soup can into the street and watched as it bounced and rolled to the opposite curb. Just as it came to a halt, his heart froze and his muscles stiffened. Sitting on the corner about fifty yards ahead was a little girl in a blue and white checkered dress. Her blond curls were tied back with a blue silk ribbon, and her black shoes with silver buckles were pushed together as she hugged her knees to her chest. She stared at him with pleading blue eyes.

  Jim pulled out his gun and pointed it. His hands trembled and his heart was pounding. “What the hell do you want?” he demanded. “I thought you were all gone. Get the fuck out of here!”

  The girl said nothing, and gave no indication that she was afraid.

  The scraping of shoes on cement to his right had him spinning around and stumbling back. A man, tall, slender, with dark well groomed hair, tanned skin and deep set brown eyes stepped from an abandoned clothing store. He was wearing a red jogging suit and sneakers.

  “Fuck me!” shouted Jim. He pulled back the hammer and did his best to keep his hand from shaking. His eyes darted back briefly to the little girl. She was now on her feet, her gaze fixed unblinkingly on him.

  The man took a step forward. Jim squeezed the trigger. The bullet tore into the man’s shoulder, sending him back several paces. Jim fired again, this time hitting him in the center of his chest. Blood was pouring from the wounds and spilling onto the sidewalk. But he did not go down, nor did his calm expression change.

  Jim's lips tightened. The head. You need to get him in the head. Though the first two shots had not put him down, it had slowed his progress long enough for Jim to take careful aim. This time he got him just above the right eye. Blood, brains and bone spewed out of the back of his skull. Terror seized Jim’s heart for a second when, even after taking such a devastating hit, he saw that the man was still somehow standing upright. But then his knees collapsed and he fell face down onto the sidewalk.

  Rapidly, he turned his attention to the girl. She was now clutching a long butcher’s knife and running headlong toward him. Again Jim pulled the trigger, but the only sound that came was a sharp click on an empty chamber. With a sinking heart he realized that all six bullets were gone. He had used the other three while getting away from the wranglers, and there was no time to reload.

  The girl’s tiny legs were propelling her with an entirely unnatural speed. She was on him in an instant, and Jim was only just able to step back in time to avoid the swinging blade carving into his intestines. In one continuous movement, he then kicked hard at her chest. Her light frame was sent flying back, landing hard on the street. Not that this bought him much time. With barely a moment’s pause, she was up and charging at him again. Jim turned and ran with all the speed he could muster.

  The top of the hill was less than five hundred yards away. If he could only make it up there, someone would possibly be around to help. If he could make it. He could hear the swift click-clicking of the girl's shoes on concrete drawing ever closer. He braced himself for the sting of steel cutting through his flesh. He had seen what the sweet looking little girl could do. The bloody mess she left behind after cutting a victim to ribbons.

  The sharp crack of a shot rang out, echoing between the buildings. Almost instantly, the clicking behind him ceased. Not that this tempted Jim to pause, or even to glance fleetingly back. That was always their trap. Make you feel safe. Make you feel like you’ve gotten away.

  He raced past the last downtown building and could see the top of the hill. Almost there. Almost home. On either side of him were houses and trees; the former dwellings of retirees and well-to-do citizens. Empty chairs and porch swings still waited for their owners to come home and relax the cool afternoons away.

  By now, Jim’s legs were on fire from the exertion, but fear still kept him pressing relentlessly forward. Then, twenty yards from the top of the hill, he saw a shadow step from behind a massive oak. It was another man… the 'normal guy'. He looked identical to the first man, but was wearing a pair of jeans and a white button down, and unlike the first, he had a gun in his right hand.

  Jim planted his left leg and veered right. He could see the normal guy’s arm raising. There was a magnolia tree ahead a few feet off the sidewalk. If I can only make it there, he thought. Or was it prayed? Not that it made much difference. He knew in his heart that it would only offer a temporary relief. Aside from the tree, there was absolutely nothing else nearby to shelter behind. Within moments he would be forced to run again, and when he did, this time it would definitely be over. The normal guy was more than useful with a gun.

  Another shot from behind sounded just as he was making a low dive for cover. He landed hard, his upper body slamming into a large protruding root. Pain shot through his chest, and for an agonizingly long moment he was unable to move. Only the power of self-preservation forced his muscles back into action before they were ready to do so. Gritting his teeth, he struggled to his feet, all the time doing his best to keep the tree between him and the normal guy. Once upright, he sucked in a deep breath and peered cautiously around the trunk.

  The body of his attacker was sprawled out in the middle of the street. Hardly able to believe his good fortune, Jim stepped out and slowly began approaching it. He had only reached the edge of the avenue when he saw that half of the man's head had been blown completely away. He looked back in the direction of town. Someone out of sight back there had saved him. But much as his curiosity over who this might be was rising, he sure as hell wasn't going to hang around to discover the answer.

  On reaching the top of the hill he looked down the other side and could see that five men were setting up with rifles behind a cinder block wall near the pier. While descending toward them, he was forced to slow his pace a fair bit so as to keep his footing steady.

  “That you, Jim?” called a thin balding man. The 30-06 he was holding looked ridiculous against his tiny frame.

  Jim waved and nodded, still too out of breath to speak. After reaching the protection of the wall he pressed his back against it and slid to the ground, gulping in air. More than a minute passed before he spoke. “You really should get a smaller gun, Bill. You can hardly lift that one.”

  Bill did not look amused. “Who was you shootin’ at?” His thick southern twang did little to disguise his fear.

  “They’re back,” Jim told him. “The Shadow People are back.”

  His words created shock on the faces of all five men. Bill Hurley, who always reminded Jim of Barney Fife, turned ghostly pale. “You sure about that?”

  Jim nodded. “I’m sure. You need to get everyone back on the platform.” For a moment they stood there dumbfounded. “Now!” shouted Jim.

  At last the men snapped to attention and began running east down the boardwalk. Jim stood and looked back up the hill. No one had followed him. Still leaning against the wall, he took a moment longer to gather his wits and catch his breath.

  In the past, the Fairview Pier had been one of his favorite spots. It was damn near a half-mile long - a great place to sit and watch the sunset, or simply to walk along while thinking things over when life got stressful. He and Laura used to come here together at least once every week. Sometimes they would sit on the benches and chat for hours about all kinds of unimportant things. Other times they might settle for just quietly watching some of the other townsfolk fishing or going about their business.

  These days, the pier served a much different purpose. Now it was a defensive perimeter. A last stand against enemies. And a hundred yards from the end of it was what he and the others now called home.

  He leaned down and rubbed his aching thighs. Frightened voices carried clearly over the water as news of the Shadow People's return spread. Better get home,
he told himself.

  On reaching the end of the pier, he spotted Henry Mills sitting lazily against the railing. He frowned at Jim. “Off causing trouble again?” he scolded.

  Jim and Henry had never seen eye to eye…on anything. In Henry’s mind, every time Jim left, he brought trouble back with him. And Henry had no problem telling him so. Of course, Jim always pointed out in response that, even if he did bring trouble, he also brought much needed food and supplies. This was usually enough to shut the man up, albeit temporarily.

  “I’m not in the mood for your shit today,” he warned. “The Shadow People are back.” Henry opened his mouth, but Jim pointed a finger at his face. “And if you say another word, I’ll knock your ass right off this pier.”

  Henry glared, but said nothing.

  Jim climbed down the ladder at the end and into a waiting rowboat.

  Home for everyone in his group was an immense wooden deck built on salvaged pontoons and surrounded by forty-three sailboats. It had taken the better part of three months for the fifty-two people living there to complete the construction. Jim looked in the water. He could see the glint of the razor wire he had laid down six months ago. It now surrounded the entire complex, aside from one narrow channel left open to get larger boats in and out should there ever be a need – and he'd made sure only a very few people knew where that was. The small, flat-bottomed boats like those they used to go to and from the pier could travel above the wire, but no one would be able to approach by swimming.

  After reaching the platform, he tied off and made his way to the north end where his thirty-five foot craft was secured. Jim didn’t know a damn thing about sailing, but thankfully, he didn’t need to. Half of the residents living here had already owned a yacht before everything went to hell. Those who didn’t were able to find one that had been abandoned easily enough.

  He'd considered telling the others about what had just happened, but figured they’d find out soon enough. And when they did, no one would leave him alone for days. With this prospect in mind, he went directly below after stepping on board. The small kitchen was in desperate need of cleaning. Empty bottles and cans were strewn about, and boxes of ammo were shoved carelessly into every corner. Moving through all the mess, he made straight for the cabinet beneath the sink and grabbed what he wanted most of all right now - the bottle of Jack he’d been saving.