Rolling.
The moment his body hits the grass, he rolls.
As soon as can, he pushes up—or tries to. He stumbles and trips and falls down again. The duffel bags keep him off balance as he tries to rise and run again.
Maybe someone is seeing him. Maybe not. But he’s embarrassed by his spastic movements.
When he is finally able to stay on his feet, he begins to weave and zigzag to try to make a more difficult target, something that makes him feel infinitely silly, but something he does nonetheless.
Eventually, he makes it to the woods and begins using the trees for cover, bobbing and weaving between them, wondering all the while if he’s being watched through a high-powered rifle scope.
6
From a distance.
Seen through a Bushnell Drop Zone scope.
Small, white painted wooden house.
A little over fifty yards away.
The old, modest home sits close to the highway—very little yard in front or on either side. More in the back. But not much more.
The four dots beneath the intersection of the crosshairs moves from door to window to yard to hedge.
He’s set up at an angle in order to see both the front and back doors. This leaves the far side of the house mostly hidden, but there is no perfect position.
Trees and plants block some of the front and near side too, but there are only two doors and he can see both.
The man had left the back door open when he entered the house through it. He had done the same, leaving it open when he left too.
His guess is if the man gets his message, he’ll assume he’s set up in the backyard and will run out the front. Of course, he could think that’s what he’s thinking and do the opposite.
Still can’t believe he stopped for a bath.
Movement.
He sweeps the scope along the side of the house to the backyard where a kitchen chair has just landed.
Then another.
Is he seeing if I’ll shoot? What a moron.
He starts to hit one of the chairs just to fuck with him, but resists the urge.
The front door then opens and he slings another kitchen chair into the front yard.
The fuck’s he doin’?
He’s tempted to shoot the chair, but again resists.
Only one chair left.
He waits, assuming it will be tossed into the front yard for symmetry sake.
But no chair is forthcoming.
He waits for a long while.
It bothers him that the bather didn’t toss out all four chairs. He could see only doing two—one in each yard—but not three, not two in one yard and one in the other.
The house is perfectly still and quiet.
The fuck’s he doin’ in there?
Frozen in fear is a pretty safe bet. Or maybe he put his back out trying to throw the couch out the front door.
This brings a smile to his face.
Going in to get him is not nearly as fun, but at some point he’s gonna tire of sitting here waiting while nothing is happening. And that point is nearly here.
7
Frightened. Moving fast.
He pushes through the trees, branches and bushes and undergrowth pushing back.
Drifting toward the edge of the woods closest to the road, he moves awkwardly, abruptly changing direction, bobbing and weaving his head like a boxer, attempting to make a difficult target to hit.
Zigzagging.
The Zapruder film plays on the movie screen of his mind.
Frame by frame. In slow motion.
26 seconds. 486 frames.
Street lined with people. Motorcade. Slow, stately speed. Black open-top Lincoln Continental limousine. Jackie’s soft pink hat and jacket and skirt suit.
JFK clutching his throat with both hands. Jackie reaching for his arm with her white-gloved hands.
One moment later. An instant. A second. A few frames.
And then frame 313—the frame that gave Zapruder and a nation nightmares. Replaying over and over.
Kennedy’s head exploding.
Rewind. Replay.
Kennedy’s head exploding.
Rewind. Replay.
Kennedy’s head exploding.
Rewind Replay.
Kennedy’s head exploding.
Now, not Kennedy’s, but his own. Whoever left the bullet and note, following him, tracking him, hunting him. His head seen through the crosshairs of a scope the way Kennedy’s had been.
Explosion. Blood and brain splatter. Blast. Echo.
Stop it. Now. You’ve got to get it together.
He realizes how lax he’s become in managing his thoughts, how mentally and spiritually lazy.
Keep moving. Make a difficult target. But quit obsessing. Stop imagining. Put a halt to all the rewinding and replaying, switching and superimposing. If you don’t, you’re going to drive yourself crazy.
He knows what to do, knows how to calm himself down and get his head right. But knowing and doing are not the same. Not the same thing at all.
Fear is no way to live—not even in a world like this one. Not even when there are legitimate things to be afraid of.
His biggest fear is not making it to help his family.
Can’t help them if you’re dead.
Can’t help them if they’re dead either.
Come on. That’s not relevant to right now.
Breathe. Slowly. In and out. Three deep breaths. Concentrate on your breathing. In and out. Nothing else.
Stop feeding your fear. Thoughts will come. Nothing to be done for that, but let them go. Don’t invite them to stay. Don’t encourage them. Don’t give them the keys. Don’t let them drive. Just send them on their way.
He thinks about how he hasn’t been praying—not even for his or his family’s safety. Why is that?
For a long time now, perhaps even most of his adult life, prayer had been listening, not talking. Doing, not asking. Prayer for him was action—creating, assisting, helping, extending himself for someone else. Prayer was connection—meditation, contemplation, reading, listening.
That’s what it was. What is it now?
He hasn’t been doing much of anything—only reacting, only responding.
It’s as if he’s shut down his spiritual side. Why?
What’s the point?
Has what has happened caused him to stop praying, stop meditating, stop listening?
He has abandoned the very things that add so much value to his life, at the very time when the quality of life on the planet has plunged so low.
Is it because he’s in survival mode, or something else? Anger? Disillusionment? Futility? Doubt? Grief? Numbness?
The question from a moment ago echoes through his mind again. What’s the point?
The point is peace—the serenity and sense of wellbeing it produces, right? If so, the condition of the God-forsaken world, the absence of beauty or any sign of divinity, has nothing to do with it.
He’s calmer now and doesn’t want to think about it anymore.
He comes to other yards, a few random places where a lot or an acre has been carved out of the forest. Avoiding the open vulnerability of the lawns, he goes around them, deeper in the woods along the backside of the properties.
Eventually there are no more homes and yards, only woods, only pines and oaks and magnolias and birches and all the grass and weeds and kudzu growing between them.
He considers circling back to see if he’s being followed, but knows he really doesn’t have the requisite skills for something like that and would most likely waste a lot of time or get himself killed.
If he’s being watched, hunted even, what can he do beyond what he’s already doing?
In the late afternoon he pauses and prays for his and his family’s and friends’ safety.
8
Graying.
The landscape changes again.
As if fading into the muted palette of winter, the color drains out
of the trees above and the brush below.
Everything is on the spectrum between black and white—wool, smoke, gunmetal, slate.
Pale. Pallid. Pasty.
Dull. Dreary. Dismal.
Soot on the ground. Ash in the air.
Pulling his bandana back up over his mouth and nose and his goggles down over his eyes, he continues through the charred forest.
Dehydrated. Wracked with hunger pangs. Exhausted.
Unable to go any farther without some water, a bite of food, and a bit of rest, he searches for a safe place to pause for a few moments.
He finds a ridgeline running perpendicular to the road and ducks down between it and the broad base of a large live oak tree.
Keeping his weapon at the ready, he removes a bottle of water from his left side duffel and begins to drink, reminding himself to consume it slowly lest it all come back up.
As he rehydrates, he scans the area around him.
No movement. No man or rifle.
He gives the water a moment to settle in his cavernous stomach, then goes back into his bag for a can of food and a can opener.
The cheap, shiny silver can opener has MADE IN CHINA stamped on the outside surface of the flat handle.
Seeing it makes him wonder how things are over there and in other parts of the world. Similar? Same? Worse?
Hell, he can’t know for sure how they are in other parts of this country, let alone other countries and continents.
He looks at the can.
Van Camp’s Pork and Beans.
420 calories. Cholesterol free. High in fiber. 98% fat free.
The can and can opener make metallic fumbling noises as he attempts to open it while holding the shotgun and watching the area around him.
He has never liked pork and beans, but when he has the lid off, he turns the can up and drinks them down like they’re good, which in a very real way they are.
He thinks about how much of his previous eating was for pleasure as much as anything else. How often he had shared meals with family and friends, meals that were nothing short of celebrations of life and love, the mouths they used in engaging, interesting conversation tingling with the rich tastes of the flavors they loved.
He recalls chicken red curry from Thai Chef, sausage pizza from Pizzeria Napoli, the low country crawfish boils Dawn did for them in their home. Dear friends gathering to drink and dine and share life. Lynn. Dave. Aaron. Dan. Lou. Herbie. Non-Slutty Stacy. Sometimes Freda and Suz, Peach and Slutty Stacy.
He had known how good they had it back then, had savored every second—something he’s truly grateful for now. It hadn’t taken losing it for him to truly appreciate it.
Will he ever have anything like that again? Is there the possibility of pleasure in the burned-out and brutal new world?
9
As he stands and begins to lift his bags back on, he sets the empty Van Camp’s can on the ridge, wondering what he should do with it.
It’s the same question he asks himself every time he eats.
The idea of leaving trash behind bothers him. He finds littering abhorrent. But it’s not as if he can carry all his trash with him—and where would he carry it anyway? It’s not like there are any open landfills anymore. The world is a landfill now.
How do you handle trash when the entire earth is trashed?
He can’t convince himself that it doesn’t matter. If anything, it matters more now.
He decides to carry the can with him, depositing it into the next trash pile he encounters, but as he’s reaching for it, it explodes beneath his hand.
A moment later he hears the report of the rifle.
10
Nice shot.
The sniper had found his mark—from a fair distance and with a lot trees and smoke to contend with.
He’d been aiming for the red can but would’ve been okay with taking off the hand reaching for it.
Fucker had made a fool of him. He’d sat for over an hour watching the front and back doors of an empty house.
He’s gonna maim him for that. See how well he does without a foot or a hand or with half his calf blown off.
He’ll get to that—all of that all in good time—but first some fear and dread, fluster and panic.
11
Running.
Stumbling.
Duffels swinging from side to side, keeping him off balance, ricocheting him from tree to tree like a bumper pool ball.
Why the hell is he doing this?
Don’t you waste a single second on why. There is no why—none you could understand. It’s a complete waste of time and mental energy—energy you need to survive this.
He could’ve taken you out if he had wanted to. He’s toying with you. Predator playing with his prey.
He had thought he was being hunted for food, but the note and can made it seem far more like sport. The hunter may have every intention of eating him, but he’s clearly not starving and plans to play with him first. Of course, he could have no designs on dining on him. Could all be for fun.
Of all the things he gathered in the Army Navy and Outdoor stores, a Kevlar vest and helmet never crossed his mind.
Coughing.
Hacking.
Gasping.
Soot and ash and smoke.
Difficult to breathe.
He’s up by the road again. Close enough to see between the trees.
A forty-foot sailboat sits in the middle of the road, its ripped and shredded sails rippling in the hazy breeze, its rigging clanging rhythmically.
All the ducking and zigzagging, bobbing and weaving is exhausting, causing him to expend far more energy than he usually does during this same activity.
Up ahead in the road, a bridge extends across a stream, an overturned fire engine blocking all of one lane and some of the other.
The stream is higher than normal, the bridge his only option for crossing.
I’ll be more exposed, but I don’t have a choice, and I can use the firetruck for cover.
He pauses for a moment to consider it.
There aren’t any other options, are there?
You could try to swim it.
And get everything wet, risk that the water is contaminated, and be an easy, slow-moving target.
You could walk along the stream. See if there’s a better place to cross farther down.
Downstream will only get wider. Not to mention more treacherous. And get you off course.
So the road. The bridge.
Okay. Here goes . . .
I don’t care how much of an idiot you feel like, zigzag like an alligator is after you.
Darting out of the woods onto the road, he dashes toward the bridge, moving from side to side, twisting, turning, jerking.
Frame 313 of Zapruder. JFK’s head exploding, blood mist and brain and skull fragments flying into the air, his body slumping back and to the left, coming to rest in his wife’s lap.
He thinks of the Van Camp’s can and pictures the same thing happening to his head.
JFK clutching his throat. Jackie reaching for him. A moment later. An instant. A split second. A few frames. Kennedy’s head exploding.
Faster!
Quit thinking and run! RUN!
He’s running all out now, fast as he can with the weight and bulk of the bags he’s carrying.
On the bridge.
Zigzagging. Twisting. Turning.
Ten feet.
No shots. Yet.
Ducking. Spinning.
Turn sideways.
Keep moving.
Overturned fire engine. Empty cab.
Seen at a glance. Not slowing. Not pausing. If anything, running faster now.
When you get to the back of the truck, pivot so that you’re running in line with it. Let it block your body from view, from the shooter.
Falling.
Hard.
Hitting ground.
Pavement. Abrasions. Hide scraped off hands, knees, shoulder.
Am I h
it? What happened?
Rolling. Turning.
As he rotates around, he sees the cable stretched across the bridge and the man who put it there.
He comes from the back of the firetruck, shotgun raised, pale skin pierced and inked with a plethora of Aryan and Confederate images and sayings. Late teens or early twenties. Shaved head. Pierced nose and nipples.
—What’s in the bags?
—I have some food and water I can share. Here, I’ll show you. Just put the gun down and—
He begins reaching into the bag.
—Stop right there or I’ll blow your face out the back of your head. Now, are those there bags worth dying over? ’Cause if they are, I’ll shoot you between the eyes right now, but if they ain’t, I’d rather save my ammo. Don’t have much left.
—Take it easy, Michael says, bringing his hand out of the bag and raising it along with his other.
—You can leave the bags and walk away. Just slip them off and walk out of here with your life. Simple as that. Or—
—No need for or, Michael says. I’ll leave them and just walk away. I’d rather live than—
Split open. Spray of blood.
Eerily similar to what he had been remembering and imagining of the Zapruder film, the right side of the young man’s head explodes. An open flap of skin and skull and hair hangs down as he slumps over toward and then onto the ground.
Michael scurries over to the back of the fire engine, his heart trying to pound its way out of his chest.
Pushing himself up, he tries to pull himself together as he estimates the distance to the woods on the far side of the bridge and how much of that span he would be protected by the firetruck.
Thirty yards to the end of the bridge. Another ten to be in the woods. If he sticks to the left side of the bridge and ducks into the woods on that side, he’ll only be exposed for about ten to fifteen yards.
Go now.
He hesitates, scared, in shock from what he’s just seen, from what lies just a few feet away in an expanding pool of blood on the pavement.
CATACLYSMOS Book 1 Part 2: Night Fires of the New World: A Post-Apocolyptic Serial Thriller Page 3
