Collapse (Book 1): Perfect Storm

by Riley Flynn

  The first of the chasers hit Alex’s car, catching it on a rear corner. Both vehicles were sent flying into the clearing. After that, three Jeeps rushed through the dust cloud and had nowhere to go. The first hit a rock, the second hit the first, and the third served to crush the first two up against the stone face.

  The fourth and last car had tried to brake but caught against a loose rock, travelling too fast. It flipped, turning over in the air, and twirled in a loop across the clearing. It hit against Timmy’s door, smashing the entire car into the tree line and trapping it.

  Alex was the first to open his eyes. After the roars of the engines and the rush of the chase, the air was almost still. Almost, but not quite. Every particle creased up against the next, remembering the chaos and the fury of seconds ago. The world remembered the devastation and didn’t let go.

  Everything was sideways. The car had flipped, Alex realized. He looked to his right, downwards. Timmy was out cold. Behind, Joan was struggling, muttering to herself. The dog was gone. It wasn’t quiet. A long, shimmering ring was occupying the ears. The only sound. It just felt quiet.

  Unbuckling his belt, Alex opened his door and climbed out of the car. The clearing was about half the size of a football field. Long grass. River down one side, though with big rocks along the bank. Streaks of paint and white scrapes decorated each rock, an instant mural of the accident.

  The other cars were in no better condition. People–gang members, Alex reminded himself–dangled out of crumpled cars and lay strewn across the ground. But they weren’t all dead. Some were staggering to their feet. Some were even laughing.

  Trying to straighten his mind, trying to keep the world stable, Alex ran back to the car. The others would have to wait. The best way to help them would be to keep them safe. That meant getting help out of the trunk.

  Timmy had been right. Tying everything in place was important. As he reached in through the smashed rear window, Alex knew exactly where the guns were. As quickly as he could, he strapped a pistol to his hip and fetched the AR. A knife, too. Elsewhere, the laughter was getting louder once again.

  Alex staggered back into the clearing, loading the rifle. The click as the magazine latched into place snapped him back to his senses, stopped the world spinning. A familiar noise, a central pillar around which to orientate himself.

  “Hey, buddy,” a voice called out, unseen. “What you doing with that? Can’t you see you’re in our world now?”

  It was the same sickening singsong threat Saul had carried, the same terrifying timbre in the voice. But the speaker was invisible, the sound arriving from some unseen source.

  The rifle whipped up to the shoulder and Alex looked down the barrel, scanning the trees. The crashed cars. There was nothing. Only those who were dead already and those who were trying to be alive. He watched a man stagger to his feet, coughing, spluttering, blood pouring down his face.

  The bloodied man stood upright, his head swaying. Across his bare chest, the word Jesus was tattooed in cursive. Jesus opened his eyes and wiped away the blood. He ran straight at Alex, grimacing. Alex raised the rifle again.

  “Stop,” he shouted. “Stop right there!”

  Running faster and faster, almost all the way across the clearing, Jesus ignored the instruction.

  “Stop, now!”

  Ignored again. Alex felt his finger on the trigger. Tilting his head, staring down the barrel of the gun, he saw the flecks of blood flying from the man’s skin, the wide-eyed grin refusing to move. There was not an ounce of humor in the smile.

  “Please, stop,” Alex tried for the last time.

  The thudding footsteps refused to halt. A breeze crept across the clearing. The grass swayed. Alex pulled the trigger, feeling the gun kick him hard in the shoulder. One round. It caught the man in the chest, right above the heart. Dead, instantly.

  But the momentum kept him moving, falling forwards and backwards at the same time, landing right at Alex’s feet. The alcohol could be smelled from five feet away, the real high proof stuff. Paint thinner, not the top shelf selection. Check the pulse. Nothing. But the man was not alone.

  All around the clearing, men were beginning to crawl into sight. Looking along the barrel of the rifle, Alex could see them swaying, staggering, smiling, and cackling. Must be twelve of them, easy. But they were moving, circling. Hard to track.

  “I don’t know who you are, but we just want to get out of here,” Alex told the clearing.

  No one said anything. Instead, they began to form into a wide circle, enfolding around his position as he stepped closer and closer to the center of the clearing.

  The first thing to notice was that none of them were carrying guns. The second thing to notice was that none of them cared. They inched closer and closer, closing the circle.

  Apart from one man. Up above, Alex noticed he had climbed up on to the top of one of the wrecked cars. Watching over the crowd, the dozen men and the man in the middle. Not like the others, this one was taller, rounder, heavier without being overweight.

  A heavy bag of a man, built to take a punch. Bald, too, with black pants and a black jacket. Where the others wore only white shirts, he kept his covered. A single tattooed cross between his eyes was the only sign of marked skin. Alex had seen that same sign somewhere before, had seen the man himself back in Rockton.

  While Alex watched the large man on top of the car, the first of the gang ran at him. He ran from the three, and Alex switched direction. A quick swivel, raising the rifle at the same time. No pause. Squeeze the trigger. Snap. The man fell flat. Eleven left.

  Another ran, fell in the same way. Snap. The casing hit the floor before he did, lying nestled among the grass. Ten left. Nine left, as another ran right at Alex from the side, hoping to catch him off guard. The man caught a bullet in the forehead, the fine red mist like sea spray spreading out from a shattered skull.

  Nine men left, lurching around Alex. Why weren’t they afraid? That was all Alex could think. He had a gun. He had just gunned down four men. Their friends. But they were still shuffling in the same dazed way, still laughing and pushing one another like teenagers. Something was wrong here.

  Was it the booze? If the gang had been drunk since the outbreak, their synapses were probably ruined. Rotted out. Unable to transmit even the simplest thought. Fear. Fear was a disease all its own, able to infect individuals and crowds and bring them crashing to their knees. But these men knew nothing of it. They seemed immune. They laughed.

  This time, two men ran together. Alex shot the first, but wasn’t quick enough to hit the second. The man arrived on his side, swung a fist and caught Alex clean in the temple. He staggered back, only just holding on to the gun. A huge cheer erupted from the other men. This was sport, Alex realized. That’s why they weren’t afraid. They didn’t think this was real.

  The man who had hit Alex was jumping up and down on the spot, showboating, eliciting applause from the crowd. Then, he had his fists up, boxer style, and stepped in toward the duel. He was too close. No way to swing the rifle round, no way to keep a bead on him. Not while dodging punches at the same time.

  Alex tried to keep the gun raised but he was only blocking. A blow to the shoulder, one to the ribs. The man was picking him apart. No space to find a shot. No room. Another crack to the ribs. Don’t shoot him, he thought. Try something else.

  Shaping up to shoot, Alex welcomed the punch. Here’s my face, he suggested, why not take a crack? The man obliged, swinging hard for the cheek. As the fist flew through the air, Alex stepped sideways and brought the rifle butt firmly up into the jaw. The man staggered, not expecting the counter. There was space. Alex shot him. Eight left.

  This time, Alex didn’t wait for them to move first. As soon as the bullet caught the dead man in the chest, the rifle was swinging around again. A person in the crosshairs. Pull the trigger, quick. Dead. Seven left. And another. Snap. Six left.

  Altogether, they realized that the sport was ruined. This wasn’t gladiat
orial combat. Even in their drink-addled minds, the situation became clear. Alex had just wiped out half their number and they were next. They attacked at once.

  The trigger squeezed twice. Both shots flew up into empty air. Alex felt a hand try to grab his shoulder from behind and he leapt forward, into the path of another. Ducking under one fist, he fired the rifle again. It caught someone in the shoulder, then a fist landed in the small of his back. They laughed, but not like before.

  Alex kicked out, swinging a foot into a crowd of legs. As one fell, he smashed the rifle butt down on the stricken man’s nose. He was out. Might as well be five, now. Kneeing the man in the jaw for good measure, he turned back to the crowd.

  A punch knocked him backwards, a hand snatched the rifle away. Alex staggered and found himself pressed up against a rock. There were all five of them, arranged in a line. Breathing heavily. A drunken chase and a car crash, then watching their friends die in front of them. A difficult day for most people.

  “Listen, I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just want to get out. We want to get out. Please.”

  As Alex pleaded with the five encroaching men, one of them looked behind, turning his head up to the man who had been standing on top of one of the cars. No one there. He’d vanished. Between them, the gang members turned back to the one thing they knew for certain. This man had to be hurt.

  The rock face pressed up against Alex’s back. He was bleeding from his forehead; he could taste the trickle of blood which dribbled down into his mouth. The pain in his back was terrible, like the fist had reached through and smashed a kidney inside. The rifle was missing. There were five of them.

  A man screamed. The others turned. A dog, biting down on his calf, tearing. Alex didn’t look. No time. They were too close. Reaching to his hip, he pulled out the knife. Swung it at neck height. Caught one of them. Blood everywhere as the man sunk to his knees. The shower of blood sprinkled down on the rest of them. Alex danced forward. Four now.

  No one knew where to look. Finn was sneaking between legs, sinking his teeth into anything that looked like enemy flesh. That meant the men had two enemies to watch. The knife was swirling, cutting down and diagonal. It caught against arms, against shoulders, against spines. Not quite enough to take people out of the fight but enough to make them take notice.

  Finn dragged a man to the ground. Alex swung a foot, kicking him hard in the temple. Out cold. Three left, but they were scattered. One was now up against the rock where Alex had been trapped. Leave him there a moment. The other two were searching around, looking desperately. They wanted guidance. Their leader, that man from the top of the car, they couldn’t see him. Not anymore.

  Punching, Alex knocked the first to the ground, a blow to the neck and a jab to the chin. Lights out. The other ran, making straight for the trees. Let him go. Finn had the final gang member cornered up against the rock. Alex had a knife. Alex had questions.

  “Who the hell are you people?” he snarled to the man, reaching down to drag Finn back.

  Shivering, the man could barely speak. He wore the usual outfit. The black pants and the white vest, the same selection of prison tattoos, spread across the skin. A uniform.

  “I-I-I-I… I just did what I was told. Roque told us to block the road.”

  “Who’s Roque?”

  Alex already knew the answer.

  “I don’t know, man,” he whined, dragging out the syllables. “He just tell us what to do.”

  “And who tells Roque what to do?”

  “How the hell should I know? We were just sitting around, and then, you know, I don’t know, man. You just do what people tell you, yeah?”

  Lifting the knife, Alex wanted answers. He leaned into the cornered man, pressing the knife point up against his belly.

  “Tell me what happened. Everything. Everything you know.”

  The man whimpered. Then his eyes widened, looking over Alex’s shoulder.

  “Roque, wait!” The desperation in his voice was clear. “I wasn’t going to tell him noth-”

  A shot rang out. Blood splattered against the rock. The man fell to the ground. None of them left, now. Apart from one. Alex turned around.

  40

  The sun sat low, breaking a red haze across the tree-lined horizon. In the middle of the clearing, a man stood holding a woman, his arm wrapped around her shoulders and neck. Roque, Alex thought, that’s what the man shouted. That’s what Saul had said. The heavy man who’d been standing on the hood of a car. Now he had Joan by the throat, a flick knife pressing into her flesh.

  Joan had dropped her glasses. The light caught the hint of a tear pooling in her eye. Finn growled, sitting on his haunches, ears pricked. Alex ran a firm hand along the dog’s head, telling him to stay still. The animal obeyed; he knew the stakes. The stench of blood and fear hung in the air.

  “Drop the knife,” Roque shouted. “Throw it to the ground.”

  Alex obeyed. What option did he have? This wasn’t just Joan being held prisoner. It was the child inside her. Whoever this man was, whoever had sent him, he ruled the moment.

  “Let her go,” was all Alex could muster. “Let her go and we’ll leave peacefully.”

  Roque listened for a second, sniffed, and spat on the floor.

  “No peace anymore. No time to leave. She stays with me.”

  There were a few essential truths: Roque, if that was his name, had Joan. He had a knife. He had the height on Alex and he had the weight. He had a stance and an aura, no stranger to altercation. Alex, in every second, could feel the adrenaline thinning in his veins. He wasn’t built for this.

  For days and weeks now, he’d been endlessly propelled forward, crashing through the end of everything he knew with an interminable momentum. Only to find himself standing still, in a field, wishing he was anyone else. Just like being back in Virginia, he thought.

  One of the crashed cars burned. The acrid smell of burning paint drifted across the clearing, stealing a ride on the breeze that blew between the trees. The grass swayed. A bird sang, alone. This was a single moment, an instant: everything in all recorded history had arrived to this one second. The pinprick pressing down under the weight of all the world.

  The image of the empty warehouses. The sight of the lines at the ATM. The way the neon lights from Al’s diner blinded pedestrians and kept them hungry. The panic in the President’s voice as he lamented from aboard his private plane. The glacial eyes of the girl who’d caught them in the store. The sound of glass shattering as the stolen bikes rode off into the sunset. Joan stamping on his foot. Finn licking his face. Every memory whistled past the graveyard of Alex’s mind, making itself felt.

  There are decades where nothing happens and there are weeks where decades happen. The words floated up through the ether, arriving from some teenage sketchbook or motivational poster. Somewhere in the past. Back when everything was normal. When everything was boring. Alex had felt the decades of nothing, had seen them sidling by his whole life. A life lived in the last three weeks, all of it leading him here. The bird sang, still, alone.

  “You’re Roque?” Alex sent the question out into the world for lack of a better option.

  “You may have heard that.” Roque smiled. “But I couldn’t comment.”

  “What do we do? Where do we go from here?”

  “My friend, you really know nothing? There’s nowhere to go from here. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. We’re all just waiting to die, in different ways.”

  Joan squirmed, struggled, pushed against her captor’s arms. But Roque held firm. From ten feet away, Alex could see the man’s arms were like girders: thick and inflexible. This was the closest he’d been to a gang member without having to fight for his life.

  This close, the tattoos looked different. Less religious. More intricate. Under his neck, Roque had painted a dragon, drawn in the Chinese style and wrapped twice around his throat. The monster’s jaws opened wide just beneath the man’s chin, about to swallow his head whole. Every time
he spoke, the dragon’s scales rippled.

  “We’re not going anywhere, you and me. Her,” Roque nodded his head to Joan, “she might come for a ride. But we got nowhere to go. Nothing to see. We’re at the end of the line for you.”

  “Just tell me why. Tell me who you are. Who were those people in Rockton?”

  The big man laughed.

  “Why would I tell you anything? You think this is a film? A story? Be quiet.”

  The end of the line. Roque’s words. Alex agreed. This was it. This was life now. Not sneaking his cell phone under his office desk, waiting to stamp a signature on pieces of paper he’d never see again. Not retiring each day to an empty apartment and listening to the distant sounds of Detroit trying to stitch itself back together. Not lamenting every single piece of Chinese technology he’d ever bought and relying on it at the same time. Everything that mattered was in this clearing. They had to get to Virginia to make it all count.

  The dog barked, Finn straining against his instruction. He’d picked up the paradigm pretty quickly, Alex thought. One moment he’d been locked in a room, topped up with enough food to get him so far, the next he was snapping at the tendons of gang members after a car chase along the freeway. Still just a puppy. A quick learner.

  “Joan, listen to me. It’s going to be fine. I’m going to get us out of this.”

  She tried to nod. The arm around her neck was too tight. Where was Timmy? Still out cold. With two of them, they could do something. Anything. People have plans. And people get punched in the face. A few weeks ago, a stray punch from a discontented vet in a disused warehouse was all Alex had to worry about. Freddy was probably dead now.

  The pistol sat on his hip. But it was holstered. Not just a reach away, but held in place by a button. By the time he’d unclipped everything and trained the barrel on to Roque, the blade would be dripping wet. Even then, he’d have to make the shot without hitting Joan.