No better time than now. He’s probably moving or reloading. He’ll expect you to be frozen in fear. Go. Now!
I don’t want to die on a little bridge in the middle of nowhere so close to finally making it home.
THEN MOVE! NOW! RIGHT NOW, DAMMIT!
He does.
Head ducked. Shoulders hunched. Staying on a course that keeps him behind the firetruck. Zigzagging some. Dancing around like a drunk at an outdoor concert.
Twenty-five yards until the woods.
Please let me make it. Please let me see my wife and kids and parents again.
Fifteen.
Why the fuck is he doing this?
Why does it matter? He’s doing it. Deal with it.
I am.
He’s doing it because whatever kept him from doing it before is now gone.
Ten.
Five.
Woods.
As he stumbles into the woods on the left side of the highway, a magnolia branch near his head explodes, splintering the wood, fragments of leaves and bark raining down to the ground.
A moment later he hears the shot.
Dropping to the ground, he crawls for several yards—deeper into the scorched woods, farther away from the man firing at him.
Eventually, when the cover is thicker, he gets back up on his feet and begins to run again.
Still ducking and twisting and turning, but running. Running for his life. Running toward his life—toward those who had been his life and who were still.
12
How far will the sniper follow?
Did killing the man on the bridge satiate his appetite?
Is he still pursuing?
The actions and motivations of a man like him are impossible to predict—not with any certainty.
Before the old world ended, Michael had been a novelist specializing in crime fiction. He had studied crime and criminals, motives for murder, sociopaths, psychopaths, profiling, forensic psychology, yet it all remained a mystery to him—particularly the motives of madmen. The sniper stalking him now had interior motivations and fantasies fueling them he couldn’t begin to understand, even if he were given access to them.
How far will the sniper follow—he thinks he may have his answer.
A burned-out pecan grove ahead serves as a gateway to a wasteland unlike any he’s seen.
He approaches it slowly.
It’s as if he’s awakened on a distant, hostile, uninhabitable planet at the far edge of the solar system, marooned in a world man was never meant to be in.
It appears as though a hurricane has blown through, toppling tress and tearing up the terrain, followed by an enormous forest fire that somehow still burned every rain-soaked thing.
Damp dirt.
Scorched understory—brush and branches, grass and weeds, pine straw and pinecones.
Charred, soggy soil beneath his boots, thick gray haze swirling around him.
Smoke rises from the black earth like steam from a subway grate.
The quality of air is so poor here, the ground surface so impassible, the sniper would have to be suicidal to follow.
He reluctantly goes into his bag for one of the gas masks he carries. Not knowing how long they will last, he had wanted to wait until he was much closer to home to use them, but he has no choice.
Pulling the gas mask on, he adjusts the straps and secures it in place—a process made more difficult by his thick beard. He then withdraws one of the filters, removes the cap and plug, and screws it into the mask.
Slow down. Breathe normally.
It takes him a few moments to adjust to it, but when he does, the difference in breathing is incredible.
Keep moving. Duck. Turn. Zig. Zag. Use any cover you can. Even if the sniper doesn’t follow you into this particular hell, he can still splatter your melon from far away.
He drifts back toward the road, needing to be close to the highway to keep his bearings.
Parts of the pavement are missing, huge chunks of the highway nowhere to be seen.
He remains as close to the road as he can, careful to use any cover available.
13
Something in the road.
Fifty yards ahead.
On a stretch of highway that appears largely unscathed, a structure blocks the road, some sort of sign strapped to it.
There’s a quality of light here he’s never seen before. Between the low ceiling of smoke clouds and the scorched earth below them, an otherworldly yellow-and-orange glow permeates the planes.
And the light here is not the only eerie element.
There are no noises. No sound at all other than the ones he’s making. His footfalls. His labored breathing inside the mask.
It’s as if he’s in an enclosure, a glowing, vacuous dome.
Adding another dimension of disquietude, all of this is experienced through the distancing and disorienting effects of the gas mask.
As he gets closer, he can see that the structure is a white cargo trailer with flat tires parked at a diagonal across the deserted highway—nothing else on the road for a mile or more in either direction.
Makeshift sign.
A painted piece of plywood tied to the side of the trailer with both nylon and grass ropes—the latter of which is singed and frayed—is one of the most disturbing sights he’s seen since he’s been on the road.
Yellow background. Black stripes around the edges.
WARNING spray painted in black above a crude but unsettling black skull and crossbones. Below it, also in black block letters: INFECTION.
In smaller print near the bottom: Danger. Keep out for your own safety. Turn back now. Nothing but death and disease beyond this point.
Beneath that, in the bottom right corner, a signature: Sheriff Raylan Caine.
You should turn back now.
No way. Absolutely not.
You’re being a fool. Unnecessarily stubborn. Either they got out and they’re alive somewhere or they didn’t and they’re dead. You’re gonna do this for . . . what? What’s the point? All you’re doing is ensuring you’ll never see them again if they got out.
He reaches into the right side duffel bag, turns on his audio player, and puts the earbud in his ear.
Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises begins where it left off the last time he listened.
Beyond the river rose the plateau of the town. All along the old walls and ramparts the people were standing.
Using the book to drown out the voices in his head, he walks around the trailer and continues down the empty road toward home, darkness descending around him.
14
Night fires.
Distant dots scatter across the black, barren landscape like a smattering of orange stars in a midnight sky.
Spray of arcing sparks.
Waves of slate smoke wafting through the woods, backlit by the burning black beyond them.
Hiss and sizzle and crackle.
Remnants of a recent burn in the pines. Black bark on long, barren bodies, small sections of fire still glowing near the tops like shimmering embers, sparks dancing in the glimmering waves and raining down to the smoldering earth beneath, bouncing on the blackened and charred ground.
Intense heat. Scalding. Stifling.
He’s so tired, so utterly spent, it’d be difficult to walk under the best of circumstances. But here, in hell, he’s finding it nearly impossible.
Smoke everywhere, thick as fog, impenetrable, unbreathable, unbearable.
Unable to do anything but slide his boots across the black pavement, he shuffles like the inmates in leg irons he used to work with when he was a prison chaplain—an occupation he did while learning to be a novelist, something that seemed now to be at least a couple of lifetimes ago.
Is it like this all the way to the coast or is there something different on the other side of this?
Shuffle. Shuffle. Slide. Slide.
No one can live in this. If this is all there is, there is no one left for him to fi
nd.
Told you this was a fool’s errand. Turn back while you still can.
The filter canisters for the gas masks he has will last less then twenty-four hours—a lot less with the way he’s been breathing.
Shuffle. Shuffle. Stumble. Stumble.
Not turning back. Can’t.
Then you’re a dead man walking.
Dead man shuffling. This brings a weary smile inside the mask.
He tries to focus on Hemingway’s prose, but he’s too exhausted, his mind too frayed, his body too hungry and thirsty.
Fires as far as the eye can see.
Low, flat land, trees thinned, missing. Spark and flame the only things visible in the blackness.
He feels as though he’s in the desert, surrounded by the cooking fires of a million desert tribes. Nubians. Nomads. Natives.
Can’t go any farther. Must stop. Must rest. Hydrate. Lie down.
Shuffle. Shuffle. Stumble. Fall.
He collapses, crumpling onto the hot, sooty pavement.
You should drink some water.
He knows he should, but he just wants to rest, to sleep, to not move a single muscle for a few minutes.
In another moment, he’s asleep.
In his dream, he’s John Jordan, the prison chaplain detective protagonist of a series of novels he wrote inspired by his experiences inside the big house.
Readers and interviewers had always asked how much of John is him. It had been a lot, but never all. Now, it is all. In the dream there is no separation between literary character and creator. He is John in a scene from one of the novels, questioning the morality of an action he’s about to take.
Though he’s standing in the middle of the compound of Potter Correctional Institution, a horn begins to honk.
Waking.
The horn isn’t inside, but outside his dream.
Honk. Honk. Honk.
He opens his eyes to see headlights racing toward him.
Wearily, he pushes himself up off the pavement and slowly stands.
The moment is surreal.
He’s groggy and fatigue-drunk, but even if he weren’t, the moment would still be surreal.
Out of the smoky darkness, an ambulance, all its lights on—inside and out—speeds toward him.
Inside fully lit up. Brights on. Emergency lights flashing. Side lamps illuminating the blackness beside the road.
He’s still dreaming. He has to be. There’s no way a—
A siren pierces the silence.
He’s awake and if he doesn’t move he’s going to be put back to sleep permanently.
He staggers to the edge of the road, but needn’t have. The ambulance screeches to a halt just before it reaches him.
He can see that both the driver and the passenger have on yellow hazmat suits and self-contained breathing apparatuses.
There doesn’t appear to be anyone in the back.
The driver rolls down his window about halfway, and Michael, placing his hand on the 9mm in his right side duffel, slowly approaches.
—What the hell are you doing out here? the driver asks, his voice muffled, barely perceptible.
He’s a white man in his mid-fifties with extremely bright blue eyes.
—You’re heading in the wrong direction, sugar, the fifty-something black woman in the passenger seat says.
—What’re y’all doin’ out here? Michael asks.
—Just made our final run. Thought we might save one more, but there’s no one left.
—Where?
—We went as far as Clarksville.
—Poor souls, the woman says.
—I’m Lyle Doyle, by the way, the man says. This is my wife, Teesha.
—Michael, he says. Is it this bad all the way?
Teesha shakes her head.
—Clears up around 20, Lyle says. Gets fairly decent a few miles past 20 down 73, but not for long.
—Where you headed, sugar? the woman asks again.
—Wewa.
—Wewa? the man says. There is no Wewa anymore.
Even if his hometown truly doesn’t exist any longer, he assumes this is the direction Meleah had headed when she left the canceled training in Marianna.
—What in the world for, honey? the woman says.
—Trying to find my family.
—Oh, she says. Bless your heart, baby, but there’s nobody left.
—Y’all’ve been to Wewa? Michael says.
—Well, no, the man says. I’m tellin’ you, you can’t get to it. Roads are impassable. And even if you could . . . that close to the coast is underwater and or full of the infected.
He doesn’t say anything, just tries to process what he’s heard.
—I’m so sorry, sugar, the woman says. But maybe they got out. Some did.
—What’s your story? Michael asks.
—EMTs, Lyle says. Worked part-time for the ambulance service in Blountstown—back when there was a Blountstown. Been trying to do what we could to help since . . .
—Had the equipment and the knowhow, Teesha says. Be a sin not to help.
If any of his family and friends had survived and evacuated in this direction perhaps they had seen them. He reaches into his bag for his phone. The devise is useless except for the photos it contains—the only reason he has held onto it.
—Who you think you callin’, sugar? Teesha says.
—I thought you may have seen or even helped some of my family or friends if they came through here.
—Might have at that, she says.
He depresses the button and waits but nothing happens.
It has been a few days since he’s charged anything, and the phone is a very low priority compared to the flashlights and other survival essentials.
Unable to show them any pics, he describes several of his friends and family—including Dawn, Meleah, Micah, Travis, his parents Mike and Judi, and others.
—I’m not sure, Lyle says, but I don’t think so.
—A couple are possibilities, Teesha says, but not for certain, you know?
—I believe my daughter was traveling this road. She looks a little like me.
They look at him more closely.
—Twenty-two years younger and a lot more beautiful, but . . . there are similarities. Her name’s Meleah.
—Sorry, Teesha says, shaking her head. I don’t think we have.
—You sure?
—Can’t be certain, Lyle says, but we’re pretty sure.
—Okay. Thanks. What happened to Blountstown? Michael asks.
—Flooded, Lyle says.
—Whole town underwater, Teesha adds.
—Hop in the back and we’ll give you a ride, Lyle says.
Michael shakes his head.
—Thanks, he says, but I’ve got to get to Wewa, then Panama City, then Tallahassee.
—It’s just not possible, friend. I wish it was.
—Got to try.
—Oh, honey, Teesha says. We understand, but . . . ain’t no reason to get yourself killed too.
—What kind of infection is it? How bad?
—Deadly, Lyle says. It’s . . . I’ve never seen anything like it. You can get it from the living or the dead. Seems like most of the dead have it. In the living . . . avoid anyone with bloodshot eyes and a reptile-looking rash on their neck.
—Where are y’all headed? Michael asks. Roads not passable in many places.
—A couple of miles this side of Marianna. We know how to get around the bad spots. There’s a small area that’s pretty much untouched. Sort of miraculous. A farm with a big barn set back off the road. We stay there with a handful of other survivors. We’ve turned a little country church nearby into a field hospital.
—We’ve saved a few poor souls, Teesha says. Come back with us. We can help you.
—Can’t. Thank you, though.
—That’s where we’ll be, you change your mind. Come find us.
—Be careful up ahead, Michael says. There’s a sniper. He killed a y
oung white supremacist on a bridge not far from the area you’re talking about.
They both nodded knowingly.
—Please change your mind and come back with us now, Teesha says.
—I can’t.
—Okay, Lyle says. We wish you luck.
—Don’t suppose you have another one of those suits with you, Michael says.
Lyle hesitates.
—The truth is we do, he says. But I’ll be honest with you, friend, I can’t in good conscience let you have it. I hope you understand. I’m sorry, but if I thought you had any chance at all of making it, I’d let you have it in a heartbeat. But knowing what I know . . . it’d be like throwing it away—and we have very few left. I’m sorry, but . . .
—I understand. Thanks for being honest.
—Good luck to you, sugar, Teesha says.
—Y’all too, Michael says.
He steps back. The window raises and they pull away.
He begins walking toward Wewa as the flashing lights fade into the distant darkness.
He stumbles along, wondering if he’s just made his biggest mistake so far.
What if you get yourself killed—a likelihood according to people who seem to know—and everyone’s somewhere safe waiting for any word of you?
I just . . . I’m not sure what I should do, so I’m doing the only thing I know to do. I don’t want to die, but I can’t live without checking to see if any of them are still there. I can’t.
He hasn’t gone too far when the lights of the ambulance grow around him again.
Turning, he sees Lyle and Teesha heading back toward him.
What the . . .
He steps to the side of the road, removing the 9mm from his bag.
There’s something about them that causes him to trust them for some reason, but he’s been wrong before. Maybe they’re coming back to try to take what he has or—
They pull up beside him.
Teesha rolls down her window.
—Whatcha got that out for? she asks.
—Habit. What’re y’all doing back—
—Least we can do is take you as far as 20, she says. Get you out of all this smoke.
Tears sting his eyes.
—You sure? he asks.
—Put your gun up. Hop in the back. Stretch out. Rest. We’ll have you to 20 and some breathable air in fifteen minutes or so.
CATACLYSMOS Book 1 Part 2: Night Fires of the New World: A Post-Apocolyptic Serial Thriller Page 4
