When he arrived at the base of the hillside, where the slope leveled out near the cabins, he stopped and leaned against the trunk of a pine tree. It, along with a dozen others, shaded a small parking area in front of the lone cabin. His stepfather, Bob—or 'Blob' as he privately referred to him—was stacking suitcases on top of the family car, a silver Honda Pilot. Since his mother and sister were not in the car yet, Sebastian figured they must still be inside the cabin, doing the useless primping and preening things that all women do.
“Shit,” he said after checking his watch. They would make him late. He couldn't have that.
Closer to the cabin was a small patch of sun. He waited there and watched Blob lift a heavy suitcase and place it on top of the SUV. The man was struggling. Sebastian wanted to laugh, but smirked instead as he eyed a nearby rock about the size of an orange, thinking how much fun it would be to use it to cave in his stepfather's skull. He pictured Blob sprawled out on the ground, limbs all twitching, brain oozing from his smashed skull.
“There you are,” his stepfather said, dropping the suitcase to the ground. The bag landed with a dull crunch, breaking the stillness of the morning.
“How long?” Sebastian asked.
“Until what?”
“Until we get the hell out of here.”
“Soon,” Blob replied. “Faster if you help me out here, son.”
Sebastian considered. He hated being called 'son.' He wasn't that asshat's son. Still, he decided it was best to help. Maybe get them all going sooner.
“Thanks,” Bob said as Sebastian came nearer. “Where have you been?” Gray mist boiled of him as he laboriously breathed. He had only lifted one suitcase, and he already seemed out of breath.
Pathetic. “Around,” Sebastian said.
Bob eyed him suspiciously, one corner of his mouth turned up. “Go see if your mother and sister are ready yet.”
“When can I have my cellphone back?” Sebastian asked.
“Are you so excited to get home?” Bob said. He waved his arms in circles. “Don't you just love the fresh air up here?”
“No,” Sebastian replied as he left for the cabin. He'd seen the sunrise at the precise moment he had wanted to. He was finished with this place and hoped he never had to return.
The air inside the cabin smelled of pancakes, fried bacon, and last night's pasta dinner. When he stopped by the kitchen, everything in it had been cleaned up, and the dishes put away. On the countertop next to the buzzing refrigerator was an overstuffed paper bag filled with groceries. He began digging into the bag and looking for something to eat.
“Stop that,” his sister said as she came out of the bedroom to his right. “Or I'll tell.”
He hated his little sister. His name for her was 'Loozy.' She spent most of her time finding ways to get him in trouble.
“Mom, Sebastian's making a mess!”
“Shut up,” he said softly.
“No. Make me,” she said and stuck her tongue out at him.
Stupid bitch. He went back to rummaging through the bag. Maybe there was some cereal or something else worth eating. He found some granola bars.
“Stop it. Those are for the trip,” his sister said.
Movement caught his eye. His mother had emerged from the bedroom. She was looking down at the bulging suitcase she was carrying. He quickly raised his middle finger, pointing it at his sister. He scratched his cheek with it. His sister smirked and raised both hands, flipping him off with both her middle fingers. He quickly made a fist and coughed into it, causing his mother to glance up.
“Suzanne Elizabeth!”
His sister froze and lowered her arms. “But Mom,” she said. “He started it.”
“I don't care who started it. That gives you no right to be rude to your brother. Tell him you're sorry.”
“No.”
“Do you want your phone back?”
“Yes, Mom,” she said in a monotone.
“Then you apologize to your brother.”
“Sorry.”
“With meaning this time.”
“Sorry, Sebastian,” she said.
He suppressed a smile. He knew his little sister's apology meant nothing. He'd won. That was all that mattered.
“Go check the windows and doors, Sebastian. And carry this outside for me,” his mother said, indicating the suitcases on the ground next to her. “We'll be along in a minute.”
He went through the house pretending to check the windows, not caring if they were locked or not. After walking past the back door and giving it a cursory glance, he shoved his hands into his pants pockets and left to join his stepfather outside.
“Sure will be nice getting back to civilization,” Bob said.
What a dick. “Uh, yeah,” Sebastian said. He just wanted to get home and make sure his Call of Duty clan had been practicing while he was away.
“I'll bet you want to get back to your Xbox buddies.”
How did he know? Dumbass.
“But,” Bob continued, “you do know football tryouts are in two weeks? When that starts, no more Xbox. Okay? I want you playing this year, not riding the bench with the other losers.”
Asshole. Sebastian hated his stepfather. He hated warming the bench for the high school football team almost as much. He never did more than sit and watch those muscle-kissing dickwads run up and down the field and play grab ass. His stepfather somehow thought taking away his Xbox would get him to participate.
Screw that.
Bob threw a black nylon rope over the luggage rack on top of the car. Sebastian absentmindedly grabbed it, looped it through the crossbar, and tossed the loose end back to his stepfather.
It had been a week in the wilderness with no cellphone, no Internet, and no TV. Not that he watched TV anymore. Still, it sucked being out of touch for so long. The first few days had nearly bored him out of his skull, but he soon found ways to keep himself entertained. There were plenty of things to destroy. At night, he had been forced to read the way old people do, with paper books. Fortunately, his girlfriend had given him a boxed set of books before he left. She told him he would love them all, and that there was even a TV show about them. He'd heard of the show, but never watched it because he didn't believe in all that fantasy bullshit. But the first book had been a real surprise. While he didn't give half a squirt about some Winter is Coming zombie bullshit, the struggle for power resonated with him. Everything he'd been studying on gaining power and control over people was right there in those pages. He could hardly wait to get home and put the lessons into practice.
On the opposite side of the Pilot, Sebastian's father opened the driver side door, reached in, and started the car. The door ajar buzzer began chiming. “Jackie! Suzy! Come on ladies, we haven't got all day,” he shouted back at the cabin.
They emerged on the porch, each dragging an overstuffed suitcase. His sister looked ridiculous in her light blue, fluffy down jacket and rainbow-colored hat. His mom was just a horror story unto herself.
“Dammit,” Blob said in a low grumble. He turned off the ignition. “Come on, Seb.” He stepped to the back of the Honda and raised the hatch. His mother and sister mindlessly got in and closed their doors, leaving their suitcases on the ground outside.
Sebastian ignored his stepfather's request for help and instead hopped into the passenger side back seat, slamming the door closed behind him. He watched in the side mirror as his stepfather grappled with the bags.
After the bags had been put away, Blob again climbed into the driver's seat.
Sebastian's mother, who was checking her lipstick in the sun visor mirror, looked over. “What's taking so long?” she asked.
His stepfather leaned forward without a word and turned the key in the ignition. The car was already running, so the action produced a loud grinding sound from the engine.
“Goddamn it,” Blob said.
Sebastian smirked and looked out the side window, wondering if his mother had even bothered to lock the front door
to the cabin.
Gravel crunched beneath the tires as Blob turned the Honda Pilot around and drove it down the one-lane road, heading for the highway three miles away. Sebastian continued to watch out the side window, wishing the trip were already over. Soon it would be. Life would return to its bleak normalcy. He would lead his Xbox clan to victory over their rivals. He and Loozy would wake up and go to school. Blob would go back to work and do whatever useless thing he did. And his mother would go back to spending her afternoons spreading her legs for the UPS driver.
-3-
DRINKING BUDDIES
IT WAS BEDLAM outside Jesse's home. The chaos had only grown worse. His neighbors were acting as most do in a crisis. They were waiting until the last possible second and then panicking. He couldn't really blame them. He had also failed to leave his home when he should have. On the drive home, he had banged his hands numb on the steering wheel thinking about it.
Many of his neighbors had strapped furniture to the roofs of their cars or had overstuffed suitcases with their useless belongings. Two doors down, the Klines were attempting to shove a large flat-screen television into the back seat of their Ford Explorer. Jesse could only shake his head in disgust and get on with the task of escorting his family to the waiting safety of his own truck. On the driveway across the street, bathed in the warm orange glow of sodium-vapor streetlights, stood Mr. Robert Neville. Jesse knew the crazy old coot would never leave his home voluntarily. The old man had seen his share of bad shit. With a finger on the brim of his hat, Jesse gave the guy a respectful tip, essentially saying: Good luck to you, you old bastard. He then corralled his family along the cement path that stretched from the front door to the driveway, keeping the shotgun ready to blast anything that got in his way.
Movement down the block caused his lizard brain to lock him into place. A new sound cut above the din, a cry of pain and anguish, a high-pitched yelp of an animal in pain. He turned to the sound. A tan-and-black German Shepard darted out from behind a waist-high hedge, yipping horribly. The dog's tail was missing, and a fleshy chunk had been torn from its hindquarters. The animal's shrill cries lit Jesse's already over-stressed nerves on fire, shattering the temporary calm he'd wrapped himself in before going outside.
“Daddy! Save him!” Hannah yelled from behind.
“Jesse! It's Bo. Please,” Cheryl pleaded, “you gotta do something.” She dug her fingernails into his arm and pinched, hard.
Jesse pushed them both toward the truck and opened the twin passenger-side doors. “We have to go. Now! Get in!” He started helping them both inside. Cheryl in front, Hannah in back.
“No, Daddy. Save him. Please. Save Bo,” Hannah said as she climbed into the backseat of the truck. She slid across to watch out the rear window.
Jesse raised the shotgun and headed in the direction of the dog. He had no idea he was going to do, but he knew he had to do something, so he ran toward the dog with the barrel of the gun raised. Before he could get close, the dog limped off into the bushes.
He was too late.
Engine racing, a car approached from behind. Red and blue flashes illuminated the street. Thousands of crisp-edged shadows blossomed in the neighborhood as a Crown Victoria came speeding up the block. Emergency lights strobing, the patrol car skidded sideways in front of Jesse's house. Smoke rose from the tires.
Jesse almost fell over in shock. Alive? Still alive?
With an unlit cigar clamped firmly between his teeth, Sheriff “Big John” Prieo stepped from the passenger side of the patrol car. A second later, Deputy Henderson got out from behind the wheel, brandishing a shotgun.
“AJ!” Big John bellowed. “Get your worthless ass over here!”
Jesse tripped over his own feet as he limped toward his father. Reaching him, he had to tilt his head up to look into his father's cigar-chomping face.
“You ready?” Big John asked. “Know where you're going?”
Jesse swallowed. Cigar and whiskey tainted his father's breath.
“Yes,” Jesse lied, knowing the radio had just said that all routes were blocked. He curled his fingers into a fist. He didn't know which route to take, but was not going to admit it. Not to his father. The man hated indecision more than making the wrong decision. “We're taking 27 North.”
Big John shook his head. He clamped his fingers on the cigar stub in his mouth, removed it, and pointed the soggy roll at Jesse. “No, you are damn well not. Bad idea. Whole damn way's blocked. Haven't you been listening to the radio, boy? They're all blocked. Every goddamned one of them.” He stuffed the cigar back in his mouth, waited a beat. “You have a map in that fancy truck of yours?”
Nodding obediently, Jesse limped to the truck and dug around until finding a map of Texas. He hurried back to his father, unfolding the brittle paper along the way. Big John spread the map out on the hood of the squad car and traced a new route. The route bypassed the highway and instead relied on surface streets. Jesse followed along, blinking hard to keep his eyes focused. Henderson stepped alongside them both. He raised the barrel of his shotgun and spat out a wad of brown goo, then wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist and smiled wide. Like Big John, he also reeked of alcohol and tobacco.
Jesse stiffened. He loathed everything about Henderson. He wanted to punch the guy in the face just to wipe away that damn grin.
Henderson eyed Jesse's truck. “Lucky bastard,” he said.
“Huh?”
“Just lucky, man. You take care of that family of yours.” Laughing, Henderson turned on his heel and strode off toward the growing confusion at the end of the block.
What the hell did he mean by that? Lucky? Who the hell was lucky here?
Without any warning, horns began to blare, and cars shot out of driveways all at once. The street quickly filled with honking traffic. Once friendly neighbors now greeted each other with their horns, raised fists, and shouted obscenities. A silver Honda raced directly at Henderson. The man did not budge, which forced the Honda to come to a screeching halt. Henderson banged on the car's hood with his palm and pointed his shotgun at the driver. “Now back off, asshole!” he shouted. He then straightened and tipped his wide-brimmed hat at the driver. “And ya'll have a nice day.” He raised his gun and let the car pass. The Honda sped off down the street.
Jesse turned to the sound of an argument, people shouting. Two doors down, the Klines, who had been stuffing a television set into the back of their late-90s Ford Explorer, decided to toss the flat-screen TV onto their driveway instead. The glass shattered into thousands of sparkling pieces that went skittering across the concrete. A whooping Bobby Kline seized a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew from the roof of the SUV, hopped into the driver's seat, and slammed the door shut behind him. The backup lights blinked on along with the brake lights. Bobby's wife still hadn't climbed into the passenger seat. She was yelling words so crude even Jesse felt a little uncomfortable. He looked to see where Hannah was. Then he looked back to the screaming woman, thinking that her tirade would have nearly filled up the swear jar still sitting in the kitchen.
The SUV's passenger side door almost closed on the woman. It was hanging ajar. Bobby yelled, “Get your fat ass inside.” She was yelling back at him, louder. After a few starts and stops, she managed to climb in and get the door closed. With screeching tires, the Ford Explorer rocketed into the street, narrowly missing a careening, out of control, convertible Mustang, which was also filled to overflowing with junk.
Detached, Jesse watched the disorganized progression gather. In the span of about thirty seconds, the vehicles formed into some semblance of order and rolled down the street. A few seconds later, only the patrol cruiser and its blue and red flashing emergency lights remained.
Circus. It had been a goddamned circus.
Immobilized by indecision, Jesse didn't know whether he should run for the truck or stay and help his father. Down the street, Henderson's shotgun went off with a bang. The loud report echoed from the houses like a thunderclap. Th
e man started backing away from something, spun, and came jogging in the direction of the patrol car. A group of raptors at the far end of the street had driven something to the pavement. The raptor's three-foot tall bodies were made orange, red, and blue by a mixture of the streetlights and the patrol car's flashing emergency bar. Jesse could not immediately tell what they were feasting on. Then, with budding alarm, he suddenly wanted to turn away.
“No, not Bo. Not Bo,” he said as he watched the raptors tear into the dog's carcass. He glanced at the truck hoping Hannah hadn't seen it yet. That dog Bo had been such a great dog, always there with a wagging tail and a slime-covered tennis ball. Hannah would giggle and throw the ball for him. Over and over she'd throw it. Over and over.
Another shotgun blast went off, spooking Jesse. Henderson was advancing on the raptors. With a jerk, he ejected a spent round. He raised the gun and fired again into the snapping mass, continuing his press forward. The things hovering over Bo's corpse raised their heads to the danger like prairie dogs, but they did not seem the least bit afraid. Henderson finally stopped about twenty feet away from them. They gaped at him, their jaws hinging open and closed. Some hissed. Each time the lights on the cruiser flashed, wet redness dangling from their teeth glinted. A single raptor broke off from the group. It distanced itself from the pack and started moving closer to Henderson.
Don't do it. Back off. Get away. But the man couldn't hear Jesse's thoughts. Henderson closed the gap with the single blood-drenched creature and fired. The thing spun with the shot and fell, its legs kicking spastically. Jesse crabbed sideways, watching the pack. He tripped on the curb between the street and sidewalk. His ankle rolled and he toppled over, nearly dropping the shotgun. Reeling, breathing rapidly, he stayed propped against the curb, watching Henderson continue his advance. The guy had to be crazy, maybe drunk. Probably both.
Red Asphalt: Raptor Apocalypse Book 2 Page 2
