Grants Pass

by Cherie Priest

  Not that he planned to tell them what the preacher had thought of her plans.

  “You knew this and didn’t tell anyone? Why didn’t you put it in that rag of yours instead of calling us all here?” Bill demanded. “I knew we couldn’t trust you reporters. You’re in cahoots with those government people, the ones who started these super germs in the first place. I bet you’re still hiding stuff from us!”

  Matt indeed hid more information than he offered. The region’s Congressman had confessed a great deal over the phone shortly before his death. Terrorists had finally mounted a major offensive, but not with airplanes or nuclear bombs, as everyone had feared. They’d managed to get their hands on some of those “super germs” from the well-guarded stores of several world powers. The old politician had been delirious with fever, but Matt thought he had told the truth. His raving quietened toward the end of the interview, winding down until he gasped, “You’re not recording this, are you?” Then he had hung up. Matt had been trying to confirm some of the details for a major story when everything fell apart. Not that he planned to tell these yokels that. It’d only play into Bill’s hands at this point. And he certainly wouldn’t tell them Kayley said her online note was as much a mental exercise as a practical solution.

  Instead, he said: “I didn’t put it in the News because people don’t need to go off willy nilly. We need to band together. Do you want old Mr. Ferguson there trying to make the trip by himself? Or what about Sally here, with her three kids? People out there are scared, and fear turns men into animals. I’ve seen it time and time again.”

  “Well, you just got an answer for everything don’t you? So where is this magical place?”

  “You’re not going to like this part,” Matt warned. “It’s a town called Grants Pass in Oregon.” The protest rose once more, louder than before. Leave Paris to become a Yankee? It took several minutes to die down enough for him to continue. “Look, people. I told you that you wouldn’t like it. But just hear me out. It’s a nice place, and not all that different from Paris.”

  He told them what little he found out before the Web imploded. Grants Pass nestled in the mountains of southern Oregon about an hour north of the California border at the intersection of I-5 and U.S. Highway 199. The town sat on the Rogue River; Paris lay between the Sulphur and Red rivers. They both had about the same population. He told them about the giant redwoods and the so-called House of Mystery at The Oregon Vortex, where people supposedly changed height.

  “No one said we had to stay there. It might not be more than a staging area. But we can’t stay here, and we can’t roam aimlessly around the United States just hoping to come across some other people,” Matt said.

  “We need a target, and this is as good as any. Better, really. Before it went down, people were searching the Internet for anything they could find about the end of the world or the apocalypse. This page was near the top of every search.

  “‘When the end of the world comes, meet me in Grants Pass, Oregon,’ Kayley wrote. If this isn’t the end of the world, what is?”

  Bill walked out first, glaring murder at Matt as he shoved his way past the reporter. Seven or eight more looked at each other, shrugged and filed out at erratic intervals. The rest exchanged glances, but remained and planned. They would leave in a month.

  Matt laughed. A month! Another month proved pestilence still walked the land. By the end of July, he was sure everyone else was dead until he wandered downtown and saw flickering lamplight — electricity had died weeks before — in a second-floor window of City Hall and witnessed his first meeting of the new City Council.

  A week after that, he wished everyone else had died after Bill tried to blow his head off with a shotgun. Matt lost count of the number of close calls in the last two months as Bill tried to shoot him and run him over. The last incident, about two weeks ago, was certainly more memorable. Bill decided to take a more biblical approach and stone him to death. Fortunately, few rocks hit their target. Even in this new world where Matt could say with some confidence he was the best journalist alive, no one would pick Bill to pitch for the Texas Rangers. Since then, Matt hadn’t seen hide nor hair of his would-be assassin. He hoped Bill had given up and gone back to Clarksville for good. If not, maybe he should head to Oregon by himself.

  The rain slackened as Matt walked up the street to the newspaper offices, before dying altogether as he turned the key in its lock. The long walk from City Hall to the paper gave him much needed exercise, plus the building offered plenty of room and hiding places should Bill ever try to force his way in. More importantly, the lights still worked.

  It had taken him several days to find the generator. He knew the paper had one to keep computers running in case of an outage, but he never thought to ask where. Once located, a length of hose, gas can and a wagon pilfered from the local Wal-Mart let him keep the generator running with fuel siphoned from cars in town. Matt figured there was probably a way to get it out of the ground storage tanks at nearby gas stations, but he could not puzzle out how.

  The generator couldn’t power the building’s air conditioning system but proved sufficient to run a few lights and his Macintosh.

  Exhaustion threatened to pull him under, but Matt had a job to do. He needed to get the day’s story filed before he went to sleep. He did not want to get stuck in a backlog where he had to spend all day writing just to catch up.

  An hour and a half later by the clock on the wall, Matt saved his story with the hundred or so others he had accumulated in the last three months. He turned out the light and made his way to a pallet on the floor of the editor’s office. Sleep claimed its due, pulling him under almost before his head hit the pillow. The night passed peacefully.

  The morning brought a gun to his face.

  Matt blinked once and scrambled back, hitting his head on the editor’s desk. The shotgun barrel followed, tracking every movement of his head in perfect synchronization.

  “Time to wake up, news boy,” Bill said.

  Matt looked about wildly. The side doors locked automatically and he chained the double doors in front every morning.

  “How?” he said.

  “You shouldn’t put chains on the outside if you really want to keep somebody out,” Bill said with a chuckle. “A hacksaw doesn’t make much noise, you know.”

  He straddled Matt and dropped the shotgun slightly as he leaned over. “This is all your fault. If it weren’t for you and the government, my Betty would still be alive. Our kids would still be alive. Do you have any idea what it’s like to bury your wife and children in the back yard, news boy?”

  Matt didn’t bother trying to answer. His foot shot upward, straight into Bill’s crotch.

  Big Bill fell hard with a strangled croak. The shotgun clattered to the floor as he clutched himself. Matt scrambled to his feet, grabbed the gun and smashed the butt into Bill’s head, who fell limp as a boned fish.

  Matt dashed out the front door. One foot kicked the cut chain and sent it slithering into the grass. The city’s new fire truck sat in the parking lot, a red behemoth blocking his path. Matt barely paused as he skidded into a turn and ran around. The shotgun fell from hands and clattered to the ground. He let it go, not daring to stop or even slow to retrieve it. Panic held him in its grip and refused to let go. He barreled down Lamar Avenue and headed west.

  His flight carried him nearly to downtown before his body decided to call a halt. Matt sank to his hands and knees, gulping air in great gasps. His heart galloped in his chest, and black spots danced in and out of his vision. Matt thought he might either have a heart attack or vomit. After a few moments, he decided on the latter. He remained staring at the remains of last night’s dinner until loud growls and wild howls reached his ears.

  Turning, Matt saw the fire truck racing up the street, careening off parked cars and utility poles. Its engine growled in protest at the pace Bill forced it to while its sirens howled with murderous intent. Too bad he didn’t have a camera; this w
ould make a spectacular photograph.

  “What is your deal, dude?” Matt yelled.

  He climbed to his feet and started an unsteady trot west. Maybe he could lose Bill among the buildings that remained downtown — if he could reach downtown. He crossed the road and dashed through yards and onto a side street. Lamar Avenue was a major thoroughfare, but many of the residential lanes were much smaller. Given Bill’s difficulty just keeping the fire truck on the road, these smaller streets with cars lining the curbs might well prove impassable.

  Following a path of turns, dead ends and backtracks, Matt soon lost sight of his pursuer. Bill never fell out of earshot, however. The engine and sirens rose and fell. Metal screeched in protest a few blocks over, followed shortly by a loud boom as he ran into something he could not simply push out of the way. Once or twice, Matt even caught a whiff of the fire truck’s diesel engine.

  His shambling flight eventually brought him to First Street. Turning north, he started toward City Hall, taking advantage of buildings, piles of rubble, trees and any other hiding place he could find. He stopped in a doorway across the street. The storms had carved erratic paths through downtown, flattening some buildings while leaving structures like Culbertson Fountain on the Plaza and the Peristyle in Bywaters Park intact. City Hall stood alone, exposed.

  Matt paused, uncertain, until Bill made his mind up for him.

  The fire truck raced past in a red blur. Matt jumped, and ran from his hiding place. Tires screeched behind him as he wrenched open a door and ran up the stairs.

  Matt crouched, half-crawling his way to a corner office. Reaching the window, he pulled himself up to peer over the ledge. He saw no sign of Bill or his fire truck, but he could hear the siren warbling somewhere behind City Hall.

  The noise grew louder. Matt stood and leaned out the window, straining for some sight of his attacker. The fire truck barreled through an intersection and leapt up the square, smashing into the marble fountain. Matt stared for several minutes at the mangled rescue vehicle. Surely no one could have survived the impact.

  The driver’s door opened, indicating Bill indeed lived, if not in perfect health. He limped across the street with blood streaming down his face. He paused at the corner, looking around. Matt pulled back. The motion caught Bill’s attention. He grinned and pointed up at the reporter before resuming his limping march. The swish of the front doors announced his entrance into City Hall.

  Matt’s head swung side to side. What was he going to do? He could hear Bill’s stuttering gait coming up the stairs. He took off his shoes and ran silently across the hall into the City Council chambers.

  As expected, he found the council in session. Apparently not everyone agreed with the mayor’s approach to the duck problem. Matt ran to the horseshoe-shaped bench and crouched behind it. Gary squawked in surprise.

  “Mr. Godwin, what do you think you are doing? You know better than to just barge in here!” Matt tried to shush the mayor, to no effect. “Get out of there! If you don’t get up right now, I’ll…”

  Bill kicked open the doors. “You in here, news boy?” he shouted. “I hear clucking, so this must be where all the chickens are!”

  Gary stood as he turned from Matt to the new intruder. His eyes bulged and a vein started throbbing in his forehead at sight of the shotgun cradled in Bill’s arm.

  “Firearms are not allowed in here! Signs are clearly posted at the entrance!”

  “Shut up,” Bill replied.

  He swung the shotgun around and pulled the trigger. A mannequin’s head disintegrated. The second blast caught Gary in the gut, knocking him back against the wall and out of sight.

  Matt took advantage of the commotion to scramble from behind the table and rush along a wall toward the door. The shotgun roared to life and punched a hole through a dummy’s chest. The next shot blew the arm off another, which caught between Matt’s legs. As he struggled for balance, Bill caught up and swung the shotgun in a wide arc. The impact buckled Matt’s knee and dropped him to the floor. He managed to push himself onto his elbows before Bill planted a boot on his groin. The big man slowly rocked forward, grinding all his weight down on the ball of his foot. Pain exploded through his abdomen.

  When Matt could focus on anything again, he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun for the second time that day. Bill’s finger tightened on the trigger. Damp warmth spread across Matt’s jeans.

  Click!

  “Aww, crap!” Bill yelled. “You reporters are just like cockroaches, aren’t you? You just won’t die!” He grinned savagely. “Well, my mamma always said the best way to kill a roach is to crush it.”

  Bill turned the shotgun in his hands and held it like a club over his head.

  “It’s all your fault,” he growled.

  Matt closed his eyes.

  “OUT OF ORDER!”

  The voice sounded familiar, but surely Bill’s massive chest never issued such a high-pitched sound. Matt’s eyes popped open.

  The mayor stood behind Bill, one arm clutched around his stomach. The other rose over his head, gavel clutched in his fist. The hammer fell with a muffled crack. Bill’s eyes rolled back in his head and he fell to one side, knocking over several chairs. Gary went down with him, still swinging. He kept hammering, grunting with every wet smack, until the head snapped off the gavel. Gary pitched forward over Bill’s motionless body. He lay there, breathing shallowly.

  “Firearms not allowed,” he muttered. “Killed Frank…ruined my gavel…not on the agenda…” He trailed off into incoherence.

  Matt sat still, staring at the pair until the mayor stopped breathing. As the sunlight started to wane, he finally grabbed a chair and pulled himself upright, standing still for several moments before limping out.

  A double murder at City Hall, and he witnessed the whole thing! This was going to make a great story. He just needed to get one of the paper’s digital cameras and come back. Maybe if he shut off everything else, the generator could power the press. He’d get another if necessary. Matt paused. Newspaper policy forbade photos of dead bodies on the front page. He turned back, surveyed the scene once more and nodded to himself. Screw the policy.

  “I’m editor now,” he said, rubbing his hands together. He planned to make the final edition of The Paris News the best this town had ever seen!

  After that, who knew? Maybe Grants Pass needed an editor.

  Biography

  Jeff Parish

  Jeff Parish, author of “Final Edition,” is a 30-something native Texan. He and his wife, Melinda, have a girl and two boys. He has been writing since middle school, where he concentrated mostly on (bad) fantasy tales and (even worse) poetry. His writing skills developed over time, much to his delight and the relief of everyone he forced to read his work, and he gravitated to prose over poetry. He even decided to make a living as a writer, starting work at a small newspaper in Greenville, Texas, nearly a decade ago. Since then, he’s worked at several papers of varying sizes, including the Dallas Morning News, Galveston County Daily News and, yes, three years at The Paris News. His last newspaper job was as managing editor of two weeklies in Rockwall County. His newspaper career was suffocated in its sleep in February 2006 after he realized journalism might be a noble profession, but slowly starving his family to death was not. He is now an English teacher at a high school in Paris. He’s had stories appear in Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine, Bits of the Dead, Triangulation: End of Time, Courting Morpheus, Abominations, Flashing Swords, Speculative Realm and The Edge of Propinquity, among others.

  Afterword

  Write what you know — that’s what they tell writers. When I found the guidelines for Grants Pass, my mind immediately turned to Paris, Texas. It’s easy to focus on the big cities in a post-apocalyptic setting, and it’s quite dramatic with all kinds of opportunities for a good story. But I wanted to explore a smaller town. Small-town folks are among the best on earth, but they’re also a bit rabid about local politics and local happenings. You c
an’t dig them out of the town with a backhoe. Shock tends to push people to the extremes of their natural inclinations, right to the edge of madness or even beyond. I thought about some of the people I’d worked with in my career — the obsessive journalist, the local politician, the guy whose family has lived in the same house for generations — and “Final Edition” was born.

  The Discomfort of Words

  Carole Johnstone

  Another storm was brewing.

  Louise sat upon a stool close to the vast picture window that looked down into New Town, watching the clouds chase the fleeing sun over the thin strip of blue that was the Atlantic; watching their obtrusive return cast the resort into grey twilight shadow, whipping up sand devils and bending low the spines of palm trees.

  There were no signs of life. This should have been the beginning of the Fiesta de Carmen. The promenades and cobbled streets should have been swollen to capacity and filled with lambent light and dance and song. The bars and restaurants of the Avenida de las Playas should have spilled their illumination onto road and pavement; their neon welcomes stretching from new town to old in wavering lines of pink and green and gold. Fishing boats strung with fairy lights, their bows painted gold and silver, should have shone in stark relief against the darkening ocean as they called for good summer catches.

  Instead there was nothing.

  She considered that such dearth of life might have lost some of its capacity to shock, to frighten. But she could remember those who had crept into new nights of drum fires, barricades and shouted noise — rendering it only more insidious. And the encroaching dark more absolute.

  In the beginning, she had locked herself away in her own little two-bed villa on the Calle Lapa, doing her best to ignore the sirens and the wailing screams. But she had been too close to the main resort. And when everything started to get worse — a lot worse — that cool whisper at her back had started up again; the same intangible fear that had found her leaving London for her holiday home on the island months earlier than usual. Run away.