CATACLYSMOS Book 1 Part 2: Night Fires of the New World: A Post-Apocolyptic Serial Thriller

by Michael Lister

  He likes the silence and solitude. Has always needed a healthy dose of both to maintain a certain equilibrium and serenity.

  Of course, recently he had been alone far too much—an experience that has left him emotionally rawboned and psychologically susceptible.

  Outside of Marianna.

  Highway 73 heading toward home.

  It had taken him a while to get through the wreckage of the crash site–like city. It’s afternoon and he’s made very little forward progress.

  Up ahead the interstate overpass rises up above the road, suspended over I-10 below. There are no onramps, no access to the other road, only a bridge that avoids an actual intersection.

  The day is less gray, the temperature marginally warmer.

  Unlike back in town, this strip of rural road is free of debris.

  Untouched. Unscathed. Spared from all that has befallen so much of the area right around it.

  Eerily empty, it appears to be abandoned.

  He had wanted, even needed some silence and solitude—or thought he had—but perhaps, because of all he’d experienced lately, it isn’t what he needs just now. Something deep inside him hums with the dull ache of loneliness.

  Seeing Lynn had been so good; leaving him so difficult. Will he see his friend again? What about his other friends? Dave? Aaron? Dan? Lou? Herbie and Stacy?

  His misses Dawn and his children more than he ever thought possible.

  It eats away at him, hollowing him out inside. How long before he completely caves in from the cavernous hole at his empty center?

  He finds climbing the incline of the overpass easier than he expects, realizes how much lighter his load is now, and is reminded he needs to find water, food, and medicine when he can. Stopping to scavenge will slow him down some, but not doing it is not an option.

  In addition to some of his food and water, he left one of his shotguns, ammunition for it and for the pistol Lynn already had, a couple of his books, medicine, and medical supplies.

  He doesn’t have to replace everything he left behind, but certain items are absolutely essential.

  At the top of the overpass, he pauses to look in both directions down I-10. Like this part of 73, it’s utterly, absolutely, entirely empty.

  No vehicles. No debris. No people. No animals. Nothing for as far as he can see.

  It looks like a vanishing.

  Though the destruction is more devastating to see, more frightening to comprehend, the desolate stretches are by far the more disturbing.

  It’s as if he’s the last person on the planet. And he feels like he is.

  He glances up at the gray sky above.

  He assumes there is still a sun and that what remains of it is beyond the low slate ceiling, but all he can see is a faint gray glow diffused by something akin to charcoal smog. As usual, there are no birds. No direct sunlight. No clouds.

  Here. In this place. There is also no wind. No sound.

  Still. Static. Stationary. Silent.

  Nothing stirs. Nothing moves. Nothing makes a noise.

  Uncanny. Unearthly. Vacuous.

  There have been times in his life when he has been overcome by loneliness, when the core of him is gripped by a dull ache that feels like it’s suffocating his soul.

  He experiences this type of utter emptiness as a kind of ultimate absence, a vacancy, a void not unlike the lonely landscape he’s in right now.

  This place is deserted, abandoned, forsaken, and that’s exactly how he feels.

  Vacuity. Nullity. Nothingness.

  The empty abyss inside him is as unforgivingly untenanted as the world about him, and in this moment he wonders if he’ll ever again encounter another living soul, if, in fact, he’s any longer a living soul himself.

  Encounter is one thing. Truly connect is another. Will he ever again experience the ecstasy of intimacy?

  Of course you won’t. You’re a fool on a fool’s errand. There is no one waiting on you, no one living left behind. You’re walking directly to your death, you dumb motherfucker.

  Well, then let’s get on with it.

  He starts walking again. Faster this time. Almost running.

  Can’t outrun loneliness. It’s in you, and you can’t outrun yourself.

  5

  In addition to leaving Lynn and the others a weapon, ammunition, medical supplies, food and water, he had also given them his can opener and one of his three remaining LifeStraws.

  He needs to stop and restock. He especially needs to find another can opener.

  Not far from the overpass, he comes to a small area with a little development along the road. Four or five places on either side of the highway. A few houses. A few mobile homes. A random roadside business or two. A small farm with a still standing fence but no livestock inside it.

  The area is open. Mostly yards. Very little cover.

  One corner between two of the lots has a few trees and bushes. He ducks in them, withdraws his binoculars, waits, and watches.

  There are no vehicles in any of the driveways.

  No movement in or around any of the homes.

  Though the dwellings seem vacant and safe enough, something about them doesn’t feel right to him, so he moves on, knowing there are a few other houses up the road.

  He’s not sure why exactly he didn’t enter any of the houses grouped together, but he trusts his instincts—and had long before this long dark ordeal began.

  Since everything is open anyway, he walks the road, scanning the area around him, glancing over his shoulder often, always with his finger on the trigger of the 9mm in his right side duffel.

  Up ahead he sees a small wooden farmhouse close to the road and decides to give it a try.

  Before even approaching the house, he hides in the hedge and watches it and the area around it for a while.

  He then walks around the yard, scanning the entire property and the forest that borders it and the area beneath the house.

  Eventually, he steps up onto the small porch, stands to the side of the door, and knocks on it.

  No one answers and no movement comes from inside.

  He tries the handle.

  It’s locked.

  He knocks again, then when there’s still no answer, he kicks the old door near the handle and it pitches open, hitting the wall behind it hard.

  The smell of death rushes out.

  He swallows hard against his gag reflex.

  Still standing to the side, he waits, searching the dark house from the cover of the doorjamb.

  He can see very little.

  Leaving the door open, he steps around to the back of the house and kicks that door in too.

  And waits.

  Eventually, he slowly, carefully enters the back door into the kitchen.

  The bandana around his mouth and nose help, but the stench of death is still immense.

  The kitchen looks to be untouched.

  He quickly goes through the drawers and cabinets closest to him, tossing cans and bottles and a can opener into his duffel.

  You can sort it later. Just grab it and get out.

  Only a few more cabinets to search through in the small kitchen.

  Leave them. You’ve got enough. Get out.

  Ignoring the voice in his head, he opens the remaining cabinets and drawers, rifling through their contents quickly, feeling guilty for taking things that belong to others—or once did.

  He finds a couple of batteries, some wipes, a gallon of water, and some zip ties.

  Okay. Time to go.

  He starts to leave, but then hears something from another part of the house.

  Death has been here, but what if life is still here too? What if he has just taken what still belongs to someone?

  He pulls the handgun all the way out of the bag, and with it in one hand and his flashlight in the other, begins to move farther into the house.

  —Anyone in here? he calls.

  No answer. And no other sounds.

  —I mean you no
harm, but I’m armed. I don’t want to accidentally hurt you. Please answer me. Is anyone here?

  Still no response.

  He moves into the small living room.

  An old couch and recliner sit beneath dusty, bunched, and gathered slip covers, stacks of newspapers and magazines on the floor next to them. Small, rickety wooden shelves hold porcelain figurines and collectable plates.

  A short hallway with three doors leads off the living room.

  The center is a small bathroom with a pedestal sink, low commode, and a claw-foot tub with a handheld shower sprayer.

  God what he’d give for a hot shower right now.

  The door to the right leads to a cluttered catchall room with a sewing machine, ironing board, and piles of clothes that smell of must and mothballs.

  He approaches the third door.

  He has saved this door for last because of how strong the smell of death is behind it.

  The Skynyrd song echoes through his mind, leaving him with a nostalgic longing.

  How many times had he heard it and in how many settings? While driving too fast. Class reunions. Throwing darts at the bar. Randomly on the radio. Blasting through the speakers of his crappy sound system at home.

  Ooh that smell. Can’t you smell that smell? The smell of death surrounds you.

  With his back to the hallway wall, he opens the final door, his light and gun up.

  Remaining in the hall, he scans the room, his eyes following the weakening beam of the light.

  Need to recharge.

  A small, sad dresser and chest of drawers, an old wardrobe, a nightstand with a Bible and a glass of water on it, and a small lumpy bed with a lifeless old lady on it, her body amazingly well preserved.

  Not well preserved. Recently deceased.

  Makes more sense.

  No violence. No suspicious circumstances. Just quiet, peaceful death.

  She had survived the end only to come to her own end a little while on. If it had only happened a few months before, she might have missed all the misery and malevolence that had been visited on the world.

  He backs out and closes the door behind him.

  He’s about to leave when a thought occurs to him.

  An old rural farmhouse like this wouldn’t be on city water, but a well system with a pump. The pump wouldn’t work with the power off, of course, but the hot water heater tank may still be full. If it is, he can take a bath. A cold bath, sure, but a bath.

  He feels so grimy and oily, so sweaty and waxy that a bath—even a cold one—sounds life altering.

  It’s too dangerous. Too frivolous for the world as it’s presently constituted.

  He can at least check. See if it’s even an option.

  Yes I can. I certainly can.

  He steps into the small bathroom, looks around it one more time to make sure he hasn’t missed anything, then turns the knob with the frilly cursive H on it.

  The pipe spits and sputters and out comes clay-colored water with bits of dirt and rust in it that quickly washes away to run clear.

  It’s an option.

  Worth it?

  No, but I’m gonna do it anyway.

  He quickly closes and locks the door.

  Then, still holding the gun, he sets the light facing up on the toilet tank, places his bags on the floor, and undresses.

  The small room is cold and he finds his shrinkage amusing.

  It’s about to get a hell of a lot worse, buddy.

  He locates the soap and shampoo and turns on the water.

  Gun in one hand, shower sprayer in the other, he sits in the tub and hoses his thin, pale body off with the freezing water.

  It’s as invigorating as it is cold and he begins to feel better immediately.

  He can take the hunger and weakness, the fatigue and sleep deprivation much better than he can take having to go without bathing.

  The soap makes his skin feel new again, and the shampoo makes his scalp tingle, his dirty, matted, in-desperate-need-of-being-cut hair feel as though it belongs to him again—and makes him feel human again.

  From somewhere in the house he hears movement again. Or thinks he does.

  He turns off the water and listens.

  Nothing.

  Pointing the gun toward the door and holding it there, he turns the water back on and finishes rinsing, his entire body tense and shaking.

  Reaching a shivering hand up to turn the water off and return the sprayer to its cradle above the faucet, he recalls his night ritual of getting in Dawn’s hot tub with her, their naked bodies enjoying one another and the Jacuzzi jets.

  It’s a thought that is both cruelly cold and warming somehow.

  He gets out shaking and shivering, his teeth chattering, and towels off, listening for any other sounds, still holding the gun.

  It’s truly a shame to put back on his filthy clothes, but he has no choice.

  He does, however, have clean underwear and socks—something to be truly thankful for. They’re his last ones. He needs to wash everything soon.

  As he’s getting dressed, he continues to listen for sounds from the other side of the bathroom door, but hears none.

  Once he is dressed, he swipes one of the LifeStraws from the bottom of his backpack, kneels down beside the tub, lowers the blue cylindrical filter into the dirty bath water, and begins to drink.

  It always takes a few seconds of sucking before the cleaned water comes through the straw into his mouth, but when it does it is pure and refreshing and he always drinks far more than he needs.

  He drinks and drinks and drinks, his other hand holding the gun up toward the door. By filtering and drinking the bath water, he saves the bottled water he has for those times when it is all he has.

  When he can’t take in another drop, he stands, his belly bloated and protruding out a little from his quickly diminishing frame.

  He withdraws a fresh bandana from his bag, then pauses. Is it time for one of the gas masks yet?

  He decides to go with the bandana for a little longer.

  Once he again has the backpack strapped on and the duffels dangling from his shoulders, he holds up both the light and the gun and prepares to leave.

  He unlocks and opens the door, standing to the side and shining his weakening beam into the dim little house.

  The light finds only empty walls and framed photographs.

  He waits.

  Nothing. No sounds. No movement.

  Once he has seen all he can of the small hallway and the entryway of the living room beyond, he clicks off the light, then steps to the other side of the door and out into the hallway.

  And waits.

  Eventually, he clicks on the light and searches the living room with it.

  Again there is nothing.

  Beside him, out of the periphery of his vision, he can see that the door to the dead old lady’s room is slightly ajar.

  Thought I closed that.

  You did.

  Did opening and closing the bathroom door dislodge it?

  Or is someone in the house with you?

  Time to go.

  The barrel of the gun follows the beam of light as it bounces through the living room and into the kitchen. He follows both, the excessive water he drank sloshing around his guts.

  He stops abruptly as he sees what’s on the small kitchen table.

  Every hair on his body stands up, their follicles tingling as his blood turns to ice in his veins and he shudders involuntarily.

  He really had heard something.

  Someone has been in the house with him. May still be.

  He spins around to check behind him, sweeping the light and the gun sight across the room.

  No one is there.

  He turns and looks out the back door.

  Then around the room again.

  When he still sees no one, he positions himself so that his back is to a wall, and looks down at the small, scarred table.

  .308 Winchester. 150 grain. Full metal jac
ket.

  There in the center of it, is a single bullet and a single sheet of paper with a single line on it. Precisely printed in black ink.

  What happened to the old man and the dog?

  Fuck!

  Somebody’s watching him. Why? Following him. For how long?

  The bullet is for a long-range high-powered rifle. Has he been in a sniper’s sights? Is he now?

  Pulse so thick in his throat he can’t swallow and is having a hard time breathing.

  Heart banging so hard, his entire body trembles with the bass drum boom of it.

  Scanning the kitchen again, looking out into the living room, he wonders what to do.

  Who the hell left this—

  Doesn’t matter. Just get out of here. Be careful, but get out. Now.

  He’s not sure why, but he grabs the bullet and piece of paper and shoves them in his pocket.

  Kneeling, he unzips one of his duffels and pulls out the shotgun. When he stands again, he slips the 9mm into his waistband and prepares to leave.

  Is he out there now? Waiting? Watching? Is he going to switch my lights off the moment I step through the door?

  Or is he still inside? About to attack?

  The type of bullet would seem to suggest that he’s outside and will do what he will do from a distance.

  I can’t just run outside.

  Think.

  He grabs one of the kitchen chairs and slings it out the back door. It lands about ten feet out in the backyard.

  Nothing happens.

  He does it again. Throwing this one even farther.

  Still nothing happens.

  He grabs another, carries it with him as he carefully makes his way through the small, dark house. When he’s certain no one is in the living room, he opens the front door and tosses the chair out into the front yard.

  He then moves to the bathroom again, back to the wall, scanning the house with his light as he does.

  Inside the bathroom, he closes and locks the door.

  He then opens the window and looks outside.

  It’s only twenty feet to the woods.

  It’s your best chance. Go. Now.

  He quickly scans the area, searching both the yard, the little piece of the road he can see, and the fringe of the forest.

  Stepping on the toilet lid, he pushes up and crawls through the window. Coming down on the outside, his back foot catches on the ledge of the windowsill and he trips, falling down, his bags around him, hitting the ground hard.