Catalyst

by JK Franks

  Why are they after me? he wondered. I look like a bum. I have nothing they couldn’t find elsewhere easily. He heard footsteps and laughing below. Slowly the answer bubbled to the surface. Because they can.

  He lay there sideways on the ledge, a crossbar bearing down on his shin and a ragged edge of the plywood floor abrading his neck with each breath he took. Through the cracks and pegboard lining of the lower floor, he saw flashlights sweeping back and forth.

  “The bastard has to be here. Mac would have seen him if he escaped around the front.”

  “No shit, genius. Now just tell me where,” another voice responded.

  The sounds of feet on the metal stairs rang out through the space. They would surely find him; he felt sure he had only minutes. Why am I this scared? He hadn’t even seen any weapons.

  Fifteen feet away. He could no longer feel anything; his feet were going numb.

  Ten feet . . . five. He heard the footsteps pause.

  Loudly, one of them said, “Over there!” Steve was about to jump up and make a break when he realized the footsteps were heading away. He cowered lower.

  “Well, fuck.”

  “Just that chickenshit Ford driver,” the other said laughing.

  “Yeah . . . has that dude won anything in years? Come on, its hot as hell up here.”

  The sounds and the lights receded, and silence returned. Cautiously, Steve pulled himself from the coffin-like space and sat on the edge of the wood floor. His breathing wouldn’t slow. He was sure he was having a panic attack. He was not going to leave anytime soon—he waited in the hot space for hours. No sounds had been heard for a long time when he finally eased over to the steps. His foot brushed against something near the stairs, and he reached for it. He could just make out the cardboard silhouette of a NASCAR driver in a blue-and-white racing suit. He had one just like it in a corner of his showroom—part of a promotional press kit Ford Racing had sent out. Funny thing was, he had actually met this driver at the dealer convention just a few days ago. I wonder if he survived the race? You may have just saved my life buddy . . . thanks!

  12

  The night spent in the dark dealership was one of the most difficult of Steve’s journey. Odd, he thought, with all the other places he had slept the past week, that this one scared him the most. His body ached, and he still found himself jumping at nearly every sound. He was sure the boys were long gone but figured he would run into more just like them. Dawn was breaking—he wanted to be well underway getting out of this town before people started moving about. Would he have to avoid people and towns altogether? Surely not everyone was this bad, this desperate. How were his wife and son dealing with it?

  His wife . . . thinking about her as her son’s only caregiver during all this sent chills through him. Barbara Hyde-Porter was young and beautiful and no doubt with him mainly for his money. It was an awkward basis for a marriage, but both accepted the falseness and the benefits—so it mostly worked. So much of his world had been an illusion. He knew that now. The appearance of success and happiness instead of the real thing. How had it taken the end of the world to show him what an empty shell of a man he really was?

  Steve drank a bottle of water with some of the protein powder mixed in and downed a dry granola bar. Time to go. Slipping out the back door, he darted for the sparse cover of trees and shrubs behind the building. He was intending on heading under the interstate about a mile to the east but changed his mind once he saw what was there: thousands of people, many gathered around smoldering campfires. Everyone who had been on the road when the CME killed their car must have walked to the closest exit. Here, forty miles south of Atlanta, the road had been even more crowded than those he had flown over in the airship. From his hiding spot a quarter mile away, he could see more than enough. People were up; most looked to be exhausted. Many wandered around aimlessly. One large man was literally dragging a young woman over to a blue tarp spread over several cars. Sounds of fighting were evident as was the smell of decay and human excrement.

  The misery of the mass was evident everywhere. Countless Americans were now on an exodus from one point of misery to another. A flash of a dark wing drew his eye to a far corner of the macabre tableau. A crow and several vultures perched atop a massive mound of . . . of—dead bodies. Oh, God.

  Ok, he would not be going through that. He backtracked a few hundred yards, then picked his way across the abandoned vehicles on the road and headed south. This would take him through the older section of the town. The original downtown. Once he got his bearing, he would go east again. He found himself having to walk more in the street as manicured lawns with wrought iron fences lined each house. Being this exposed was unwise, but he had to weigh risk with rewards. More established middle-classed neighborhoods like this felt safer, but that, too, was probably an illusion.

  As the morning sky brightened, he began to recognize more of the area. His friend had brought him down these streets several times. A small, upscale shopping center was ahead with a really nice restaurant, a gastropub. He thought again about happier times here. His friend had been a gregarious man, so full of life. Somehow, he knew or felt deep down his friend was gone—just another life gone. How much of America is disappearing right now?

  Turning the corner, his heart sank as the shattered glass and garbage strewn from the front of the gastropub came into view. Looters had already descended into this area as well. He paused, realizing those looters were probably people from the surrounding neighborhoods. Wealthy, privileged, and unprepared . . . just like him. The term “looter” was not a class distinction anymore, the “haves” had joined the “have-nots.” While he had only wanted to get home, his descent back to Earth had been a harsh wake-up call. He and his friends had wealth, but no longer had value.

  Dejectedly, he wandered past the shops, doubting he’d find anything still intact anywhere in this world. The sounds of someone yelling, possibly a fight from behind, made him pick up his pace and move again into the shadows. He crossed cul-de-sacs and gated drives with caution, scouting ahead. A thought occurred to him. On another trip to this area, he had stopped to buy cheese and bread from a small cottage down a side street. He stopped and listened, but the angry sounds had faded. Several blocks ahead and he turned left and found the shop tucked beside a florist shop in what was a mostly residential area. The front window had the name in small thin print, as if advertising or anything overt would have been too common for the establishment. The shop was intact, but the solid door was locked tight.

  Steve circled the building. The store had a solid steel back door that was also locked and a dark keypad beside it. No windows that he could see, and no way to go up to the roof to look for access. He could just break the glass and go in that way, but he hesitated. Yes, he was now a looter as well, but breaking glass would likely bring others. More than food, he wanted to stay hidden. Looking through the window he saw bottles of expensive olive oil, copper pots and pans, and hanging in the back were several long tubes. Something registered with him, the charcuterie. The shop always had a selection of gourmet dried meats to go with the cheese and bread. Those would probably last a long time and be easy to carry—he had to get inside. That had to be what he was seeing.

  On a hunch, he tried the florist shop. The doors were also locked, but the rear door looked more like a normal residential door. He took a paver stone from a nearby walk, and as quietly as possible, broke one of the glass panes. Reaching through to unlock, he was inside in a few seconds. The cloying smell of flowers and greenery was present, also a strong odor of decay. The source of the latter was obvious as he saw the leg jutting out from behind a counter. The man had been dead for many days, probably since the CME. His withered hands were reaching toward a pronounced bulge on his chest. Another pacemaker, Steve thought. Damn. Guess the electronics on those things were vulnerable to the blast as well.

  He searched around the small counter and cash register but didn’t find what he was looking for. As a businessman
, he knew it was not unheard of to leave a spare key with a neighbor just in case of an emergency. It was a longshot, he knew, but figured these two lone shop owners were probably friends, certainly acquaintances. Having scoured all the normal spots, he reluctantly went to the corpse. The smell was overwhelming, the body having swollen and ruptured judging by the dark stains on the floor and clothes.

  His hands shook. He really did not want to do this. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he thought as he pulled one pocket out and dipped a finger into the gooey mess saturating the trousers. Just do it, Steve. . . . Nothing. Not a key, no phone, not even a coin on the man’s body. He looked at the vile mess on his hands and hurried to find a bathroom or some water to get rid of the fetid ichor. The bathroom was little more than a closet with a sink and a toilet. The dark space was suffocatingly hot already. While the taps were dry, lifting the lid on the toilet, Steve saw it still had a reservoir full of water. It was a waste to use it for washing, but he had plenty to drink for the moment. Dipping his hands in, he began to scrub. Looking down, he noticed the crack of light on the floor.

  Drying his hands on some paper towels, he knelt down to examine it closer. The wall here was different. He began to tap each of the walls in the bathroom. The familiar hollow thud of drywall board echoed on every wall but the one that faced the gourmet shop next door. This one felt more solid . . . it was plywood. A sheet of plywood painted to match the rest of the space. He could now see the seams in the corners where the board had been cut to fit. Originally, the two shops must have been one building. This room probably was a rear hall or a closet they closed off and turned into a restroom.

  Steve went through his bag, finding the multitool and a screwdriver and went to work removing the sheet of wood. Thankfully, it was less substantial than it looked. The wood swung out of the way after prying a single corner loose. Behind the false wall was a door with a simple deadbolt. Sliding the lock clear, he walked into the back room of the other shop, grinning broadly as he took in the bounty of food.

  13

  The morning was clear, achingly beautiful. The kind of morning the boy would have lived for just a week ago. He rose from his hiding spot where he had slept. He knew he had to decide if today was a travel day or a scavenge for food day. He ate yesterday, so today he needed to be on the move. He still had no idea where to go or even which direction to take. As had become his new routine, he began walking toward the big road in the distance.

  He had no idea what had happened to everything. He had been staying with his grandmother for the summer. A woman he barely knew. When his phone died, and the lights went out, he had found her. She was laying on her bed, not moving. At twelve years old, he knew what death was, had just never seen it that close. People died every day, and he knew she was not in good shape. She had an oxygen tank and something that refilled it. He guessed maybe that had stopped working, too. He had tried calling his mom and then 911, but none of Nana’s phones worked, so he’d begun walking. He knew he could find a policeman or fireman. They were usually everywhere.

  That had been days ago. He hadn’t found anyone anywhere who was willing to help. Several times he had gone back to his Nana’s house but just couldn’t go back in, not with her dead body inside. Then he got hungry and went to find food. He got lost in the strange town and hadn’t been able to find his grandmother’s house again after that. That was also the day that people started getting crazy. Not zombie apocalypse crazy, just a mean kind of crazy.

  The road was hot; cars were stopped everywhere. Lots of people were walking in both directions. Sometimes he followed a group for a while, but no one said much or paid him any attention. He thought it was weird that no one wondered what a small boy was doing all alone on the road. He had asked one kind-looking woman if this road went to Jacksonville. That was where his home was. She nodded and said, “Eventually,” so he had stayed on it. He ran out of water during the hottest part of the day, but he kept walking until well after dark. His feet were just shuffling along the pavement. Several times he thought he had been sleeping while he did it. With no lights on anywhere, judging distances was impossible. Finally, he gave up and found an unlocked car to crawl into and sleep.

  The following morning, he awoke to rain pelting the roof of the old car. His mouth was dry and his head hurt. His stomach growled so loudly it scared him. He had never been a big eater—always too busy, his mom had said. He watched as the rain etched rivers down the window. Each drop connecting with other drops until they flowed into the chasm at the bottom. Mom and her new boyfriend were doing something called a “European river cruise” this summer. He had no idea what it was, but they were a long way off. That was the reason he had been with Nana. He wondered if his mom would even be home once he got there? He began to cry, his meager tears crawling down his face toward his parched dry mouth.

  The noise erupted from his stomach again. It sounded bad and this time was accompanied by a pain. He knew he had to go to the bathroom, and so he quickly fled the car for the ditch.

  It was a long time before he was able to somewhat clean himself with wet grass and climb back up to the highway. Now his head and his stomach were hurting, but he was no longer sure about his hunger. He glanced at the car where he had slept, then walked past it. He was already wet, may as well get moving toward home. How far is “eventually?” he wondered.

  There were fewer people on the road today, probably because of the rain. He eventually figured out if he held his mouth open while he walked he could get a little water. Then he started raking his hands along stalled cars, then sucking the water off his fingers. It wasn’t much, but it helped. He walked and rested until he realized he was doing way more resting than walking. If I just had a bike, he thought. Not that he felt like riding. Hunger, thirst and a pounding headache were constant now. Finally, the rain began to taper off.

  He forced himself to start moving again, then realized he was walking back the way he had come. Turning around, he started south once again. As the day got hotter he thought he heard the sound of a big truck several times. He didn’t see anything, and soon it was silent again. How odd that something as ordinary as a car engine would be so unusual now. What had happened to everything? The silence slowly built until it seemed very loud, a snowy white noise that he began to focus on. It was the sound of air, his heartbeat. Ultimately, he decided it was the sound a life makes when it leaves the body. His feet kept walking.

  An hour later he topped a small rise in the road and swore that he could smell food cooking. Not just food but hamburgers—hamburgers being cooked on a grill. My favorite! I have to find it. . . . Surely whoever’s cooking them will give me one.

  He passed another of the big green signs with the arrow and spotted smoke and an old bus at the top of the exit. There were a lot of people gathered around, but hunger drove his fear aside. He had never been this hungry or thirsty. He tried to run up the short distance, but his feet just continued shuffling.

  A young man in a military uniform sat at a small plastic table writing something. Looking up, he smiled and stood up like he had been doing this many times. “Everyone just come on up, I am with the government and we are here to help. If you just came in on the bus, then you have heard this already: America was attacked.” A collective gasp went up from the crowd, and everyone started talking and yelling questions. The soldier smiled and put up his hands in a calming gesture. “Look, all of that in time. For now, let’s just get you registered and ready for transport to one of our aid camps. There is water in the barrels over by the tent. Please help yourself while we get your info.”

  The boy kept looking for the burgers. He still smelled them, but couldn’t see anyone cooking. The smoke seemed to have cleared as well. He found a plastic cup and joined the line waiting to get water. An old man eyed him from nearby. “I ain’t going to no goddamn FEMA camp. That’s where they take people to die.” The man scared him, so he got the cup of water and headed in the opposite direction. He went looking for the food. The soldier
was speaking loudly again.

  “Sorry, folks, I can’t answer your questions, mainly because I don’t know myself. We are working with the State Patrol and Department of Transportation to get people rescued off the roads. Eventually, they will get you back home. We don’t have much food here, but we can offer a little. There will be more food at the aid camp. The bus heading there will be along shortly.”

  “We smelled cooking,” someone shouted, followed by, “Yeah,” “Me, too,” and “Come on, man.”

  The soldier shook his head and sat down. He passed a form to the next person in line. The boy got another cup of water. It was warm and tasted like metal, but he didn’t care anymore. He needed it and wanted food. He joined the line in front of the soldier. He now noticed there were a lot of soldiers, many in a different color uniform, most carried guns, too. Why would they need guns? Weren’t they here to help people?

  The man in front of him in line spoke to the soldier. “Look, son, my wife needs help. She is diabetic and lost a leg. She couldn’t walk with me, and she needs her medicine. Can you send somebody back to her?” The soldier nodded and said, “Absolutely, sir.” He nodded over to one of the men in the gray colored uniform who came and led the man away.

  It was the boy’s turn. He stepped up. The white plastic table shook as the man continued to write something. “Name?” the man said in an oddly pleasant voice.

  “Johnathan, although my friends usually call me JD.”

  “Oh. Sorry, kid,” the soldier said looking up. “Where are your parents?”

  “Umm . . . don’t know. Europe, I think. I haven’t heard from them . . . from her I mean. My dad is gone.”