Primal Shift: Volume 1 (A Post Apocalyptic Thriller)

by Griffin Hayes

  “Not passion, Larry, fear.”

  “Yes, the fear. You’re right, that’s exactly what it was, fear. Of the people who are out there, the millions of them who want nothing more than to come in here and take what you have. If you think I’m lying, all you need to do is take a trip into town and see for yourself. They’re not human anymore.”

  “Sure they’re human. They’ve simply forgotten who they are, and that’s what we’ve been preparing for all this time. To help them remember.”

  Larry struggled to keep calm and rational. This kid was living in a dream world, but he couldn’t push back the way he did in the boardroom. This wasn’t Nutrilife headquarters. These people didn’t answer to him. He was their guest, after all. “I appreciate what you’re saying about helping them remember and all that jazz, but you won’t even get close before one of them sinks the end of knife in your head. Capisce?”

  The mere mention of violence made Simon’s body tense.

  Larry noticed the change. “You’re a gentle people, and I think that’s wonderful, but it’s only a question of time before someone bad finds this place and flips it upside down, you get me?”

  Simon laughed, and his voice cracked a little, revealing his age. “With talk like that, you’re starting to sound like Brother Timothy.”

  Larry raised an eyebrow.

  “He’s always after my father to protect the compound from intruders,” Simon went on, “but that’s clearly against the rules we set down.”

  “Rules?”

  “Yes, there are many. At the very top is the golden rule: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

  A smile crept over Larry’s lips. “Watch out, Simon, you’re starting to sound like a Christian.”

  Simon ignored the comment. “Hurt no living thing. That’s the basis of life here in Rainbowland.”

  “And what about self-defense?” Larry asked, fixing Simon in the kind of stony gaze that used to make ol’ Sam Huff’s knees knock together. “Do you have a rule for that?”

  Before Simon could answer, three young girls in blue dresses, with long wind-swept hair came to the river carrying plastic buckets. One at a time, they each bent, lowered the container into the stream and then pulled it up when it was full.

  The youngest of the three, a freckle-faced girl no older than 12, turned to Simon and smiled.

  “Any word yet?” Simon asked her.

  She nodded. “Yes, Brother Timothy and a few others are bringing the summer solstice tents to the empty field so the newcomers will have somewhere to stay.” Her eyes found Larry, and she blushed with embarrassment for talking about him as though he wasn’t there.

  “Very well, Sister Margaret,” Simon said, conscious of the squeak in his voice. “Tell them we’ll be there shortly.”

  The girl nodded, and all three lifted their burdens and struggled back to the main house.

  Larry watched the girls as they walked away. “Is that how you get your water?” he asked.

  “Don’t worry, Larry. Living here, you’ll get used to it.”

  “For Christ’s sake, there’s got to be a better way. With that radio broadcast you guys have blaring over the airwaves, it won’t be long before this place is crawling with more people than you can handle. What will you do when fetching water in buckets isn’t enough?”

  The bewildered expression on Simon’s face caught Larry by surprise. He’d just finished telling the kid their water system sucked the big one, and he expected, maybe even hoped for, a bit of anger in return.

  Simon’s face didn’t look angry. He looked baffled. “What radio signal?”

  Alvarez

  Grand America Hotel, Salt Lake City, UT

  The ballroom in the Grand America Hotel could accommodate well over 500 people. Surely in its heyday, it was a sight to behold. That was before the great chandelier had come crashing down, impaling the finished wood floors with the edges of its sturdy iron frame. Water was leaking from the high ceiling in at least five different places. The tables, once set with the hotel’s finest china and crystal, lay mostly on their sides, having given up their now worthless burden.

  Alvarez stood, surveying all of these things. Even without the benefit of electricity, soft early morning light reached in from a series of tall windows against the far wall, and the potential of the place was perfectly obvious. With a little work and some imagination, this would make an exquisite throne room.

  The biggest obstacle to accomplishing this very simple, and yet exquisitely vital task, was plain old communication. One way or another, the majority of the less barbaric survivors had already been wiped out. Safety in numbers and control over essential resources. These were the areas of the mind that were so deeply ingrained they could never be erased. Some of them might not have known what to eat or how to get it, but the grumbling in their bellies had acted like an electric prod, urging them forward to greater and greater acts of cruelty. This was not Alvarez’ doing. This was the way of the world, as evidenced by nature in all of its exalted splendor. But without the use of a common language, getting them to do a goddamned thing besides move out of his way when he passed was beyond frustrating. Already, Alvarez had killed two of them when they’d failed to understand a simple set of hand gestures; reduced them to piles of smoldering ash in a way that had surprised even him. The power surging through his nervous system was far greater than anything he’d ever known. Life or death and only a simple touch of his finger separated the two. Harry hadn’t let on about the full extent of his abilities, and Alvarez found the idea both exhilarating and frightening. He’d become a grim reaper in a long line of reapers stretching back throughout history. Could almost see the faint hint of a long line of figures stacked behind him, toward the beginning of time. They’d always been there, he knew now, in one form or another.

  So if he was so damned powerful then why couldn’t he get these tables moved or this room cleared away? Didn’t have a thing to do with intelligence, did it? Make no mistake, their minds had been wiped about as clean as they came, but the spark within them hadn’t dimmed. He had brought in two more and had showed them how to drag the table out of the ballroom and prop it up against the front windows. And off they went, continuing their work, careful to evade, with almost superstitious terror, the two heaps of ash piled neatly on the carpet floor.

  Alvarez had even caught a few of them using a crude form of sign language and seeing that had given him an epiphany. No doubt they would develop their own brutish language over time, and there wasn’t much he could do about that. What he needed was someone from the old world who could re-educate them. Nothing fancy. Just the basics, because in a very short time, Alvarez would be issuing orders, and he wanted to make sure those orders were followed to the letter.

  Alvarez was in the ballroom, still contemplating how to find a throne that was worthy of his magnificence, when five men were forcibly brought before him and thrown at his feet. They were dressed in black leather chaps and jackets. One of the men had a goatee, but he wasn’t the leader. Oh, no. That was clear enough. The leader was the first to rise to his feet, his narrow features as sharp and cunning as his eyes. His skin was pockmarked and a far cry from his hair, which was greasy and slicked tight against his skull. In the old days, guys like this probably would have scared the shit out of him.

  “Do you speak?” Alvarez asked them evenly.

  The man with the bad skin and the clever eyes nodded. “The name’s Jeffereys.” He was cordial, but the surprise on his face was clear enough. Alvarez could just imagine that seeing a man with old world knowledge in charge of a motley group of brutes was probably not a sight he’d seen before. Sounded strange, considering everything had gone to hell not more than a few days ago.

  But danger had a way of slowing down time, didn’t it? And right now the world was filled with more delicious mayhem and murder than at any point in its history. Survival nowadays wasn’t about avoiding the same mistake twice. It was about not making mistakes, per
iod. Failure to adhere to this new reality had but a single consequence: death. Alvarez had become something of a good judge of character since Harry had climbed into his brain, and judging by what that new intuition was telling him, it had taken no more than a few hours for this Jeffereys to size up the new normal.

  “We don’t have a beef with you or your people,” Jeffereys said in a deferent tone Alvarez appreciated quite a bit.

  “Of course you don’t.”

  “Grunters aren’t our business. We hunt for those who haven’t been touched by the change. Came upon a few last night. Broken down car on the highway in the middle of nowhere. The woman travelling with them was a nice-looking MILF, too. How about I throw her in and we call it even-Steven?”

  Alvarez smiled. “I don’t want your MILF, Mr. Jeffereys. But I am wondering why an intelligent man such as yourself would go for a few stragglers when you could nab the entire herd?”

  A light twinkled in Jeffereys’ eyes. “Herd? Care to elaborate?”

  Maybe he’d had been wrong about Jeffereys. He couldn’t be very smart at all if he thought Alvarez was going to just tip his hand and reveal all of his cards. Ever since Alvarez’ arrival at the Grand America Hotel, Harry had been showing him flashes of a sign knocking back and forth in a stiff breeze. Scrawled across it in a nauseating little arc were three simple words:

  Welcome to Rainbowland.

  Except this rainbow didn’t lead to a pot of gold the way the Lucky Charms commercials promised they would. No, this led to something far more valuable.

  Memories.

  Alvarez clapped his hands together, and they sounded like the jaws of an old skull snapping shut. “Mr. Jeffereys, I have a proposition I believe will interest you.”

  Finn

  Rainbowland, UT

  Pulling into the compound with Lou and Ethan trailing in the car behind him, Finn couldn’t help but wonder what the hell he’d gotten himself into. Clouds of dust whipped up from a wide dirt road, trailer homes lining either side. A young boy in a white shirt and blue pants waved him forward, toward a stretch of road where a number of cars were already parked. On his left was a long beige two- story structure about as simple and boring as it was ugly. On Finn’s right, was a beehive of activity, as dozens of people, many looking weary and disheveled, struggled to raise a series of large tents. None of the tents said FEMA. Clearly, Lou had been right on that count. By all outward appearances, whatever was going on here had nothing whatsoever to do with the government, if such a thing even existed anymore.

  They parked next to one another. Lou and Ethan got out of their battle wagon, the elder holding the brim of his cap so it wouldn’t fly away. In the open field, an entire tent lifted 10 feet off the ground before it came crashing down. The wind wasn’t making any of this very easy.

  “I feel like I’m at Woodstock,” Lou said and slapped Finn’s back. “Point me toward the naked ladies and the reefer, would ya?”

  “What do we do about Mom?” Ethan asked, killing the mood. “We can’t just leave her in there.”

  “Don’t worry, Son, we’ll figure something out.”

  A man in a white flowing gown approached them.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Lou murmured.

  “Not exactly,” the tall man said, grinning as he reached out with both hands. He had a thin, almost frail body and sunken cheeks. Soft gray hair touched his shoulders.

  The three newcomers glanced at one another, unsure what to think. Then Lou broke the ice by taking the man’s hands. They looked to Finn like two men about to spin each other around until one of them threw up his lunch.

  “I am All Father, but you may call me Peter.”

  “Thank you for taking us in,” Finn said and pointed to the tents. “It’s quite the city they’re erecting.”

  “We’d never dream of turning anyone away,” Peter said and glanced over his shoulder. “Those are normally reserved for the summer solstice retreat we make every June to Montana. This year was the only time since 1973 we haven’t made it there.”

  “Why’s that?” Ethan asked.

  Peter looked over at the boy. “We were preparing for The Shift, of course.”

  Just then, another tent flopped over, burying a handful of figures under heavy canvas.

  “Can I ask you fine strapping young men to give us a hand?” Peter asked.

  Lou and Ethan nodded and rolled up their sleeves at once. Peter was about to follow when Finn called him back. “Peter ... uh All Father ... I’d like to ask you a question.”

  Peter turned, his soft face framed by his twirling hair, the front of his gown outlining his emaciated form. “What is it?”

  “I’m looking for a man. His name is Bob. I don’t have a last name. Has anyone by that name arrived in the last few days?”

  “Is this man a relative of yours?”

  “He’s ... my uncle,” Finn lied, not entirely sure why he did, but also not entirely sure what business it was of Peter’s.

  “Yes, your uncle may have come in this morning. Although I will tell you there are currently two Bobs and one Robert on the compound.”

  “Thank you, Peter,” Finn said.

  “Was there anything else?”

  Finn nodded. “You know, there might be. You mentioned before that your people were preparing for The Shift. What exactly did you mean by that?”

  An almost condescending smile began to form on Peter’s lips, and Finn wasn’t amused by it. “You know, you’re the eighth person today who has asked me that question.”

  “Are you surprised, given what’s happened?”

  The crossness in Peter’s eyes was little more than a flicker, but Finn caught it, before the man swept it away. “There will be plenty of time for those kinds of answers.” He looked up at the darkening sky. “Now it is time for putting up those tents.”

  It took well over an hour to finally set up and secure the tents against the heavy winds still swirling through the compound. A wiry man in a dirty gray suit with thinning hair and lightly tanned skin hadn’t lifted a finger to help. He was standing off to one side with his hands on his hips like he owned the place. There was an arrogance to this guy Finn found upsetting, even from a distance. He didn’t appear to be one of the hippies from Rainbowland and yet, in spite of that, he had watched the others work as though he were a foreman on a construction site. Could this be the Bob that Finn was after?

  Finn approached him and put out a hand. The man in the gray suit studied Finn’s tattered blue overalls and when his gaze dropped to the tattoo on Finn’s forearm, now partially exposed, his lips parted with a hint of surprise. The change was subtle, but Finn noticed it all the same.

  “Bob?” Finn asked.

  The man went back to surveying something off in the distance.

  “Larry Nowak. From Manhattan. Do I know you from somewhere, JP?”

  Finn laughed and told him his name. “No, I’m sorry to say JP didn’t make it, although he was nice enough to let me borrow his clothes. Long story.”

  Larry smiled politely.

  Finn left Larry to strike his self-important pose and made his way through the newly erected city of tents. They were laid out in a series of concentric circles. In the center was a communal outdoor eating area and three fire pits, with grills placed over them. One of the teenage children from the compound explained this was how they set them up in Montana every year, that the configuration was meant to mimic how the city of Atlantis had been laid out in 10,000 B.C.

  Nut jobs.

  The words kept popping into Finn’s head every time he heard these people speak. He and most everybody else here had left cities populated with savages and cannibals only to wind up on the doorstep of a New Age loony bin. They sure as heck were easy to dismiss when you ignored the single most important point. That so many of them had been saved from the effects of what they kept referring to as “The Shift.” Could it be that underneath the whacky getups and far-out beliefs, they had stumbled onto some truth the rest of th
e world didn’t know about?

  The hand on Finn’s back startled him. He turned to find a bearded man in his 40s, sporting a pair of cracked eye glasses.

  “You made it,” the man said with obvious joy. The khaki pants and dress shirt he was wearing were torn and grungy.

  Finn smiled, deciding to play along. “Only by the skin of my teeth,” he answered.

  “So you found my note?”

  Finn’s expression changed. “Bob?”

  “Yeah.” Bob grabbed Finn by both shoulders. “I didn’t think anyone from the plant made it back to the city. The whole thing is just horrible, isn’t it?”

  Leaning in, Finn said: “We need to talk.”

  They entered a nearby tent and lowered the flap. These temporary sleeping quarters were much larger on the inside than they appeared from the outside. Two sets of bunk beds lined each wall with enough space to accommodate 12 people. Finn sat down on one of the beds, and Bob settled next to him.

  “Say you weren’t the only one who made it out,” Bob said, pulling at a twig stuck in his beard.

  Finn nodded and rolled the sleeve of his Tevatron overalls up to his elbow. Both men stared down at the numbers tattooed onto his forearm. “I need to ask you about this.”

  92574301.

  Bob’s face rose; the color visibly drained from his cheeks.

  “Listen, Bob, about 72 hours ago I woke up in some kind of underground bunker, and I don’t have a clue how I got there.”

  Bob looked dreamy, almost lost. “I thought you worked in the maintenance department.”