by J. M. Snyder
Come Whatever Storms
By J.M. Snyder
Published by JMS Books LLC
Visit jms-books.com for more information.
Copyright 2014 J.M. Snyder
ISBN 9781611525526
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
All rights reserved.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
For the King. The rest is still unwritten.
Come Whatever Storms
By J.M. Snyder
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 1
The battered shopping cart muttered with a squeaky rattle as John Courtland pushed it down the center line of Interstate 95. Beneath his hands, the cracked plastic wrapper around the handle that once read Welcome to Martin’s! now scratched against his palms. Faded advertisements flashed up at him blindly from the flap in the basket’s upper seat. Sunlight winked off the parts of the cart’s steel grid which hadn’t yet begun to rust.
Inside the basket, an old battered baseball bat stood against the back of the seat, handle up as if waiting to be held and swung. A ball-peen hammer clattered against the seat as the cart bumped along the asphalt road, and a pair of long-handled wire cutters resting in the basket’s belly joined in the chorus. If Court had to listen to the cacophony for much longer, he was pretty sure it’d drive him crazy.
Too late for that, kid, his mind whispered. After the summer you’ve had, if you ain’t crazy yet, there’s something seriously wrong with you.
True that. It was late September now, the summer tucked into the past, where Court would leave it if he could. But the sun beating down on him still held a summery heat, warming the top of his head and making his scalp itch. Already a fine sheen of sweat coated his back, making his T-shirt stick to his skin, though it couldn’t be much later than ten in the morning. Virginia heat was the worst, Court thought, wiping a forearm against his brow. With a slight twinge of annoyance in his voice, he asked, “Hot enough for you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Beside Court, Adam Allison trudged along with one hand held up over his wire-frame glasses to shield his eyes from the sun. The man was in his late thirties, same as Court, and still built like a college linebacker. It wasn’t diet or exercise—it was genetics, plain and simple. The guy had never tossed a pigskin in his life. In his previous life, rather, the one before this past summer. When he shrugged, his shoulders moved like boulders beneath his T-shirt. “I mean, really. What if I said no?”
“I’d say you’re crazy,” Court replied. If he could call it, that meant he wasn’t crazy himself, right?
Wrong—takes one to know one, a voice inside his head replied. It sounded suspiciously like his mother.
The shopping cart continued to jitter over the asphalt, noisy as he pushed it along the empty stretch of highway. Court forces his mother out of his mind. “How hot do you want it to be?”
Adam sighed and mopped away the sweat beading on his cheeks. “I don’t have much say in the matter, do I?”
Suddenly Court raised his face up to the sky and shouted, “Hey! You! Dial it back a little, will you? We’re roasting here!”
Adam elbowed him in the ribs. “Hush,” he warned, as if afraid someone up there might decide to answer.
“I’m just saying,” Court started, but the shopping cart struck a small stone and jerked hard to the left. He struggled to keep it from overturning or getting away from him. “Fuck.”
“See what I mean?” Adam asked.
“Why do I always have to get the one with the bad wheel?” Court muttered. “Piece of shit…”
Adam grunted, but Court couldn’t tell if he agreed or what. Before Court could ask, a hot hand touched his arm, just below where the sleeve of his T-shirt brushed his elbow. “Hold up. I see something.”
Court looked up ahead, where the interstate curved away around a blind corner—one of those narrow switchback roads for which the mountains in this part of the state were famous. He squinted and thought he saw a flash of light up ahead—could’ve been anything, really—but he knew what it was. Sunlight off a chrome fender. Bingo.
“I see it. What do you think we’ve got?”
As usual, Adam answered Court’s question with one of his own. “Ronnie said two cars, didn’t he?”
“I know what Ronnie said,” Court started, but he bit back the rest of the words before they could tumble free. I was the one he said it to, remember?
Earlier that morning, Court woke to find tent mate Ronnie Densch sitting Indian-style on his sleeping bag. Ronnie was fully dressed despite the early hour, and snacked on a granola or energy bar as he watched Court. The thought that Ronnie had nothing better to do—or rather, wanted nothing better to do—than watch Court wake in the morning made his heart ache. When Court asked how long he’d been up, Ronnie just shrugged. To the question of what was he eating, Ronnie handed the last few bites of the bar to his friend, who chewed slowly, as if savoring the taste Ronnie’s lips and teeth and tongue had left behind.
Then Ronnie had mentioned the cars, two of them, out here on Interstate 95, and he suggested Court take Adam to have a look. Of course Court agreed—Ronnie could’ve told him to go alone, and as much as he would’ve hated to do so, he wouldn’t have been able to refuse. This was Ronnie. They met in elementary school all those years ago and remained close friends throughout their teen years. Roomed together in college, married a few months apart, and lived next door to each other well into their thirties. Would’ve grown old together and died together, too, Court had been sure, until the summertime came, bringing with it disease and sickness and death. Now they camped together, and Court would follow Ronnie to the end of the world if it came to that.
Some mornings, he was afraid it would.
As the two men came around the bend in the road, the accident slowly slid into view. Two vehicles stretched across the interstate, blocking both lanes of traffic with a tangled heap of twisted metal. Shattered glass twinkled everywhere. The vehicle closest to them was an older station wagon whose chrome fender flashed its Morse code message in the morning sun. The fender hung off the back of the station wagon like a wry grin. Dark patches underneath it hinted at a sprung oil leak, but the viscous liquid had long since turned to tar.
The wagon’s rear tire Court could see was shredded, a retread that had blown, most likely the cause of the accident. He could almost imagine it, playing out in slow motion inside the movie theater of his
mind—the tire wobbles and shakes, protesting the station wagon’s speed. The driver, unable or unwilling to stop, floors the gas pedal, hoping to make it around the curve and away from the sickness he’s trying to outrun. What he doesn’t know—or, if he listens to the news, what he knows and doesn’t want to admit—is that the sickness isn’t contained to his little bum-fucked town. No. It’s spread to every inch of the planet, killing indiscriminately, jumping from host to host without rhyme or reason. It isn’t just his little town dying out here in the middle of nowhere; it’s all the little towns, and the big ones, too. It isn’t just the good ol’ U.S. of A., but the entire world dying. How can one possibly hope to outlive that?
So the tire blows, the station wagon skids, and the dark blue minivan barreling from the opposite direction—also trying to outrun the sickness, not realizing it’s running right smack-dab into the very thing it’s trying so hard to get away from—the minivan doesn’t see or, worse, does see but can’t stop in time. The van T-bones the station wagon so hard, skid marks burn into the gray asphalt, leaving smears similar to those the dried up oil left behind.
Court could see where the impact crumpled the van’s hood and shattered the windshield. Through the broken glass, the body of the van’s long-dead driver was sprawled across the accordion of crumpled metal and lay, face down on the hood, as if taking a snooze in the sun. If it weren’t for the polished bone poking out of the driver’s clothes, Court might have almost believed the man or woman really was sleeping.
Almost.
The windows in the station wagon were rolled up. Whatever remained of the occupants inside the car had to smell ripe, sweltering in the last vestiges of the summer sun. Court saw a body slumped over the steering wheel—had the driver been killed by the accident? Or had the virus done the job first? As he neared the vehicle, he saw more bodies in the middle seat, rags now, one strapped into a child’s seat. His heart lurched at the thought of children dying trapped inside the car.
This might get ugly.
He felt a dizzying silliness drape over his thoughts—he tended to act stupid to buffer himself from the worst life had to offer. A few months ago, at the height of the epidemic, he’d been borderline manic for most of the time. The last thing Jeanine said to him before she died was, “Can’t you be serious just this once?” As if she were scolding a particularly rambunctious child. The cough rattled inside her chest and bloodied her lips. Court remembered holding her hand as she slipped away.
Can’t you be serious just this once?
The short answer? No. He couldn’t. Not as she lay dying, and not here, where death had already staked its claim.
Giving the cart a final hard shove, Court released the handlebar and walked up alongside it. He reached for the baseball bat, felt the warmth of the polished wood beneath his hand, then plucked it from the cart. Closer to the car now, and narrowing the distance fast. The cart rattled a little off-course, but Court laced his fingers through the holes in the basket and yanked it back towards him. It struck the left taillight of the station wagon with a metallic ping!
“So sorry, ma’am,” Court cried out with a wink in Adam’s direction. “I guess the damn thing just got away from me.”
“Court,” Adam warned.
Hefting the baseball bat, Court approached the vehicle. From the corner of his eye, he saw Adam pick up the hammer—Adams’ weapon of choice—then skirt the back of the car. They had a system worked out, one Ronnie had come up with to deal with the worst cases—the vehicles with all their windows shut, doors locked as if that might keep out the virus, the dead entombed within and festering like old wounds that never seem to heal completely.
Court glanced into the back of the wagon—brown paper grocery bags, a good sign. They might get something out of this little excursion, after all. Then he moved up a few steps and peered into the back seat, the middle section.
Sure enough, there were what had once been two small children, one strapped in a child’s seat and the other in a booster beside it. Between them rested a bright blue animal carrier.
Shit.
This was worse than he thought. Court stood and looked across the roof of the car at Adam, who had gone as far along the other side of the car as he could before the van stopped him. “Adam—”
“Too late,” Adam said in a small voice. He leaned over the front of the van, gaze locked on the station wagon’s interior. “I see it.”
The animal carrier made it bad. The children had most likely already been infected, the one in the booster seat probably injured or even killed on impact as the van struck the car. But whatever had been inside the animal carrier was most likely still alive at the time of the accident. And stayed alive, that was the thing. The virus that had wiped ninety percent of the human population off the face of the earth in the short span of three months’ time didn’t affect animals, or at least, not that Court had seen. Dogs, cats, rabbits, deer…he’d seen many in his travels once the virus died out, leaving behind a handful of survivors struggling to regain a foothold in the world. Whatever had been inside the animal carrier had died of starvation, maybe heatstroke, maybe a horrible combination of the two Court wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy.
To add salt to the wound, Adam would know exactly how the creature had died. Why wouldn’t he? Before the virus hit, he’d been a veterinarian.
For a bright moment, a flash of hope struck Court. “You don’t think maybe…”
“It’s dead,” Adam assured him. He took a step back away from the car, positioning himself near the window that looked into the back compartment. “Let’s just get this over with, can we?”
Court needed no further prompting. He wrapped both hands around the neck of the baseball bat and positioned himself like a switch hitter on home base—left foot forward, weight on his right leg, knees bent just a little, just enough. He gave one slow practice swing, bringing the bat to the window in front of him and touching the glass tenderly, almost reverent.
Then his voice rang out like judgment. “Sa-wing, batter batter batter batter! Sa-wing…!” He pulled his right arm back, cocking the bat, then swung with all his might.
When the bat connected, the glass seemed to crumple in on itself. As it gave way, Court cried, “And the crowd goes wild! Ahhh! Ahhh! Home run!”
He inhaled the sickening stench of sour meat and scrambled to pull up the bandanna tied around his neck. Even with it over the bridge of his nose, he drew in shallow breaths. “Adam! What are you waiting for? A golden ticket? This shit stinks!”
On the other side of the car, Adam pulled up his own bandanna facemask and swung the hammer. Once, twice, third time’s a charm—when the hammer struck the last time, the glass shattered. The fetid miasma swirling in front of Court from the broken window seemed to suck back into the car, seeking the newly-made second exit. He didn’t dare lower the bandanna, though. God, no.
He leaned in close enough to check the floor of the car, making sure nothing had been stored there. Nothing but a few used tissues, desiccated clothes, and dark stains that looked like blood seeping into the carpet. With a nod, he turned his attention to the glass along the back compartment. That’s what he wanted, what they both wanted.
Raising the bat a second time, he readied himself to strike again. “Batter up!”
Inside the back of the station wagon, they found what they’d hoped for—food. Canned and nonperishable food.
The first person to be diagnosed with HVT6, as the virus was known in its early days, died of severe hemorrhaging in March. She came down with what felt like a slight cold at first, followed by a long week of aching muscles in her back and neck. Her primary care physician prescribed a round of traditional antibiotics. When they didn’t work, they tried a different, hardier strain. No dice. The muscle aches turned to weakness as the virus ate its way through her nervous system, destroying all sensation in her extremities. A lingering cough raked her throat and chewed her lungs into a blood, septic mess. One by one, her internal org
ans began to fail. When she was admitted to the hospital, four weeks after the first sniffle, death came in only a matter of hours. Her kidneys failed, her liver, her bowels. At a little after six in the morning on the twentieth of March, the index case for HVT6 crashed and bled out.
She was contagious the entire length of her illness.
Soon others fell sick with the virus—those who’d sat beside her in the waiting room at her physician’s office, the doctors themselves, the technicians who ran her lab results, the ambulance workers who had rushed her to the hospital that one last time. Each person thought it was just a little cold, or they were feeling rundown, under the weather, and they managed to transmit the disease to hundreds—no, thousands—before anyone realized an epidemic was underway. The few who didn’t catch it nursed those who did. Soon the hospitals were overwhelmed, and people were told to stay at home no matter how sick they were. Then the morgues grew crowded, and no one came to retrieve the corpses of those who died. Rioting began, and looting.
Many of the stores Court and his friends had found since the virus had killed its last victim and seemed to die out were hollow husks of their former glory. Windows smashed, storerooms ransacked, shelves stripped free, all the canned food already stolen. What fresh vegetables, bread, and meat hadn’t been eaten rotted with disuse. Some stores had been burned to the ground, but whether fire had been set intentionally or caused by a short in the electrical system when it failed, Court didn’t know.
The remaining survivors could hunt—animals hadn’t succumbed to the disease, as far as Court could tell—but most of the wildlife they’d seen in their travels so far had been afraid of them. That would change over time, Court was sure, as nature reestablished itself and began to reclaim the land. For now, they were reduced to searching any homes they found, which weren’t many; Ronnie wanted to stick to the interstates, using the roads as a map to move them along, and Court thought that was a brilliant idea.
