The Colony: Genesis (The Colony, Vol. 1)

by Michaelbrent Collings

  He looked over at Maggie. Floating there in a two-piece bathing suit on her own inflatable raft. A local kid had let them borrow the rafts when Ken told him they were newlyweds. “Just float, man,” said the kid, with the mellow tones of an island-born. “Just float, feel the ocean. Let it carry you a while.” Then his deeply tanned face seemed to split in two, cleaved by a smile so bright it rivaled the perfect sand underfoot. “Just don’t do the nasty on my rafts, man. My sister uses these things.”

  Then he was gone, apparently trusting in two strangers to find him and return his property when they were done.

  So Ken and Maggie floated. Drifted. And he stole glances at his new wife and wondered how serious the kid had been about his injunction against nasty-doin’ on his rafts.

  Maggie didn’t look at him. But apparently she had some special sense that women had when in the presence of overblown hormones. “Cool down, Don Juan.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “We’ve had sex, like, sixteen times today.”

  “Not more than twelve.”

  “You’re going to have to find an entire rhino horn and grind it up in a gallon of Gatorade.”

  “Totally worth it.”

  “You sure? You could just dry up and blow away.”

  “I’ll chance it.”

  He paddled over to her. She still had her eyes closed, but her smile rivaled that of the kid who gave them the raft.

  He reached for her.

  Whoomp.

  Something exploded in the distance. He looked over his shoulder, but all he saw was surf and shore, leaves and the too-green-seeming plants that he was still trying to convince himself weren’t some kind of Hollywood special effect.

  He shrugged and looked back at Maggie. She was still smiling, but now her face was wrong. It took him a moment to realize what it was about her, but then put his finger on it: her lower face was missing. The bottom half of her jaw was gone. Her tongue wagged freely against her chest.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said, though suddenly he didn’t feel so okay.

  “C’mere.”

  He leaned in to kiss her.

  Another muffled explosion sounded. He looked at the beach again. The boy who had loaned them the rafts was there. He was on fire, waving at them and shouting.

  “Go with the flow, man!” Then he turned to ash and glowing embers, a solid outline of what had once been flesh. “Just give up!”

  Ken turned back to Maggie. She shook her head. “Stay with me,” she said. But now she didn’t sound like his wife. She sounded old, used up. Spent.

  He blinked. And where Maggie had been, now there was someone else. A woman he’d never seen before, looking down at him –

  (Down at me? I was on top of the raft, on top of her. How can she be looking down at me?)

  – through eyes that peered at him with concern. The eyes seemed to shine, and it took Ken a second to realize that it wasn’t so much that they were bright as that the rest of the woman’s skin was so dark. Dirty.

  No. Not dirt.

  Blood.

  His lips moved.

  “What’s… what’s happening?” he said.

  “Shh,” she hissed. She looked up and away as though waiting for something to pass. Then she looked back at him. “End of the world, sonny.”

  24

  End of the world.

  End of the world.

  End of the world. Apocalypse. Go directly to jail, and definitely do not collect two hundred dollars.

  Ken blinked slowly as the words danced an electrified jitterbug through his mind.

  It felt like his eyelids had gained weight. He didn’t remember blinking being this hard before.

  Before what?

  And then it snapped back. Images of Becca clawing at her torn throat, of Stu with his blank stare, of Matt flipping out the window. Joe Picarelli pulling looping coils of guts out of a student.

  Falling.

  The SUV exploding.

  He looked at the woman above him. She was crouching, her palm parallel to the floor in the universal sign for “shut-the-hell-up-bad-shit-is-happening.” Ken didn’t say anything, just studied her.

  She looked like she was in her late fifties, maybe early sixties. It was hard to tell through the blood and dirt that coated her skin and clothing. The only real clues were the hints of gray that peeked through her matted hair, and the wrinkles on her face that had caught thick streaks of gore.

  Ken’s gaze moved from her body to her hands. One was still outstretched, still signaling quiet. The other held what looked like an L-shaped lug wrench, though it was much longer than any other such tool Ken had ever seen: nearly four feet of solid metal. The socket end looked clotted with blood and hair, and the other end terminated in a flat, blade-like apparatus that was probably supposed to be used for wedging tires off of rims. It was bloody as well.

  The woman looked down at him. “They’re gone.”

  “Where are we?” said Ken. He tried to sit up. Pain sprinted from the base of his spine through the top of his head. He winced.

  The woman squatted beside him. “Easy,” she said. “We’re in some tax office. H&R Block or something.”

  “Tax office?” Ken couldn’t quite make sense of the words. He looked around. All he saw was beige ceilings, a beige wall, and some sort of desk/reception setup that hid everything else from view.

  His benefactress seemed to think he was challenging her choice of refuge. “It was open and it was empty,” she said. “Not like I had a lot of choices, draggin’ your ass.”

  “No, I….” Ken shut his mouth. Tried to order his thoughts. “Thank you. For whatever you did. I just don’t understand what exactly that was.”

  She smiled then, as though he had said something tremendously funny. “Understanding went out the window about an hour ago, kiddo.”

  He smiled back. “I’m Ken,” he said. It felt weird to say it. He was laying on his back, possibly badly hurt, looking up at a woman who looked like she followed the Countess Bathory bathing regimen, and he felt compelled by some sense of good manners to introduce himself. He laughed.

  She laughed, too.

  “I’m Dorcas,” she answered. She shook the lug wrench at him at the same time. “And if you make fun of my name, I will brain you.” She was smiling as she said it.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He held up a hand. “You mind helping me up?”

  She nodded, and her free hand clasped his. She had a very strong grip. A lot of the women in the area worked farms, and Ken guessed Dorcas was one of them. She certainly had the attitude of a woman accustomed not just to rowing her own boat, but chopping down the tree and making the damn thing in the first place.

  He got halfway up, proud of himself for not vomiting all over the desk, and then was stopped by Dorcas’ hand on his shoulder. “Slow up,” she said. “It’s not smart to be in full view.”

  Ken straightened a few more inches. Just enough to see over the reception desk. He wanted to see where in the world he was.

  What his world had become.

  25

  At first he didn’t see anything. Just a wall of windows with “Brooke Gale, CPA,” and “Got Taxes?” and “Se habla español” written across them in large white letters.

  He recognized the signs. He’d never been in the office – never had a need to, since the kind of money he made as a teacher generally insured that his taxes could be figured out on the side of a cereal box and squared by sending Uncle Sam a roll of shiny nickels – but he drove past it every day.

  It was a quarter-mile from the school.

  A quarter-mile closer to the Wells Fargo Center.

  A quarter-mile closer to Maggie and the kids.

  “How did we get here?” he said.

  Dorcas favored him with a look that made it clear she thought the question an exquisitely stupid one. “I brought you,” she said.

  “How?”

 
; She grimaced. “I was fixing a flat on the side of the road when everything started to fall apart. Couple cars crashed, couple more stopped and the people in ‘em came after me.”

  “How’d you…?” Ken’s voice drifted away. He didn’t need to ask. “That’s quite some tire iron you’ve got.”

  “Yeah,” she hefted it in both hands for a moment like a star hitter about to go on deck. “My ex-husband made this for me. He was a walking penis, but good with tools. I think it was his way of letting me know he didn’t actually want to have to be around to help me with anything ever.”

  Ken was saved from having to figure out how to respond to that by the fact that several figures ran by the windows. Dorcas grabbed him and hauled him a bit lower, so they could barely see over the top of the reception desk.

  The figures ran lithely, with a grace and speed that Ken normally associated with professional athletes. But one of them looked like a soccer mom and the other two were dressed in fast food uniforms. All three were spattered with blood. The soccer mom was holding onto something that looked like a human spine.

  They were gone as fast as they came. Just a few streaks of red across the glass.

  “How did you get me here?” asked Ken. He was speaking to speak, he knew. Talking to keep his mind off what had just happened, off the pain that was still roaring through his body.

  “I found you by the high school. You looked pretty bad, but alive.” Her eyes never wavered from the front of the office. She looked like a hunter, eyes ready for any sign that would lead her to what she sought. Ken had been invited to go hunting several times over the years, but had never gone. He was regretting that fact now. Something told him it might have offered him a few useful skills.

  “Anyway,” Dorcas continued a moment later, “there had been some kind of explosion, looked like –”

  “An SUV blew up.”

  Dorcas nodded. “Yeah, but it looked like maybe more than that. Maybe hit a gas main or something as well. Wasn’t a whole lot left of that side of the school.”

  “What?” He was dumbfounded. Somehow the idea that the school had fallen prey to whatever sickness – attack? infestation? – that had altered everyone was easier for him to deal with than the concept of the building suffering a gas explosion.

  All those kids dead, he thought.

  Then he thought: they were already dead.

  Of course, he didn’t know that. He didn’t know anything. He was just guessing. And guessing was a terrible way to go about making life and death decisions.

  Dorcas was nodding slowly. “Yuh,” she said. “Good thing for you, too, ‘cause I don’t think these whatever-they-ares would have left you alone if you’d fallen over in the middle of anywhere else. You being in the middle of a big ol’ kaboom is what saved you.”

  Another one of the things ran by. Dorcas waited until it was gone, her hands tightening on the lug wrench to the point that Ken worried the thing beyond the windows would see her knuckles glowing.

  It didn’t, though it stayed at the windows for a very long time, smelling along the glass like a two-legged bloodhound. Ken looked around for something to use as a weapon. The receptionist’s desk was clean to the point of being irritating. The only things on it were a few post-it notes, a pencil, and some letters. Ken thought about opening the drawers, but he didn’t know how well-developed the things’ hearing might be.

  After another few breathless moments, the thing ran off. Ken noted that it looked less sure on its feet than had the first three, though he didn’t know why. It hadn’t appeared injured. He filed away the information.

  “So anyways,” Dorcas continued, as though they had been interrupted by nothing more than a minor annoyance, a glitch in the day’s proceedings, “even though you hadn’t been torn to itty-bitty bits, I didn’t think it’d be a good idea to leave you there, so I grabbed you and brought you here.”

  “But how? No offense, but I’m a bit too big for you to pick up.”

  A cloud of smoke drifted by the window, as though to underline his question.

  Dorcas grimaced. “Yeah, I had to drag ya. You’ll probably find a fair amount of gravel in the back of your head, legs, and ass tonight. Sorry.”

  Ken tried not to gawk at her. She had dragged him for a quarter-mile? She had to have done it one-handed, too, or she wouldn’t have been able to retain her XXL lug wrench. And she was apologizing?

  “Why?” he said. And even as the word escaped him, he wasn’t sure what he meant by it. Why had she cared to stop for him in the first place? Why would she apologize when she’d done nothing to warrant an apology? Why had he survived when so many had not?

  Why was any of this happening?

  Dorcas lavished another one of her “my, aren’t we the idiot?” looks on him. “It was the right thing to do,” she said. “Jesus said ‘Do unto others.’” Her eyes flashed to the side. “You’re head’s bleeding again.”

  Ken touched his temple. His fingers came away red. The sight of his blood made him woozy. Or maybe it wasn’t the sight, but the fact that he’d probably lost so much of it. Either way, he once again found himself riding a Tilt-a-Whirl that nobody had bothered to ask him if he wanted a turn on.

  Dorcas put a hand on his shoulder. “You should lay back down.”

  “Can’t.” He closed his eyes, willing the vertigo to stop. It didn’t. He opened his eyes and concentrated on seeing through his dizziness. He seemed to have better luck with that, if only marginally. “My family’s out there.”

  Dorcas’ face tightened. “Where?”

  “Wells Fargo Center.”

  She nodded. “Well, we best get to it, then.”

  “To what?”

  “To them.”

  She started moving toward the front doors. Ken moved after her, pausing only a fraction of a second. He didn’t have to ask her why. He knew what she would answer.

  “It’s the right thing to do.”

  26

  The Wells Fargo Center was less than two miles away. Less than a half hour’s hard walk under normal circumstances.

  But then, these were hardly normal circumstances. Now, with the world spiraling into a maelstrom of chaos and violence, two miles could take a day. Longer. There was no way to know.

  Ken took a moment to search the receptionist’s desk. It yielded little more helpful than the pencil he had already seen. Just a ruler too flimsy to use as a weapon, and a plastic stapler that would probably fall apart if he tried to use it for anything more strenuous than attaching one sheet of paper to another.

  Welcome to the world of disposable living.

  Looked like he would be leaving the office as empty-handed as he came in. At least he was still alive.

  Dorcas led the way out, creeping on cat-feet to the front of the drab room. She unlatched the door, and Ken was amazed anew at the woman. Not only had she rescued him, not only had she dragged him a quarter-mile through decidedly hostile territory, she had had the presence of mind to lock the front door when she came inside.

  The tax preparation office was in the middle of a small line of businesses. One of the little groupings of buildings that would grow a few stories every block or so until they became the dozen or so high rises at the center of downtown Boise.

  Ken looked around. Smoke clouded the air, turning day into a half-lit twilight. It was hard not to cough. Pits of brightness peeked through the air in every direction as dozens of fires burned unchecked, as though Hell itself was forcing its way through to a higher plane – or dragging this plane lower. Cars lay askew in the streets, some crumpled into each other, some crumpled into buildings, others simply abandoned. There would be no driving anywhere within city limits, not in the permanent gridlock that had fallen upon Boise.

  Ken could also hear the sounds of chaos. The crackle of flames. Glass tinkling. Sounds of concrete and shearing off in the distance, and steel bending under some unimaginable forces.

  Car alarms chirped all around him, a cacophony of noise that mixed
and mingled and could almost hide the other sounds.

  Almost.

  But the electronic screams of the car alarms could not quite mask the flesh and blood shrieks of people being maimed and dismembered and killed.

  And turned.

  “Have you seen anyone get bitten and not turn?” he whispered.

  “Turn? What’re you talking about?” she looked up and down the walkway. Ken followed her gaze. There were four cars in the small parking lot. Two of them had their doors hanging open, their own alarms blaring and adding to the bedlam. But no one could be seen.

  There was some blood on the sidewalk below his feet. Nothing like it had been at the school, but more than you could write off as a passing nosebleed.

  “Turn. Into one of… one of them.”

  Dorcas swiveled to stare at him with wide eyes. “You mean if you get bit you turn into one of these crazies?”

  Ken nodded. “It happened to one of my studen – I saw it happen,” he amended, trying not to think about Stu, screaming as blood streamed through the bite on his shoulder, staining his letterman jacket even as his eyes drained of their humanity. It was an impossible thing to try. Ken suspected that moment would be present in every moment he experienced for the rest of his life, like a horrible stained glass window through which he viewed the world.

  “So they’re zombies,” said Dorcas.

  “What?”

  But she was already moving away, almost dancing down the sidewalk, hugging the walls of the building as long as she could. She looked like she’d trained for this. Maybe she had. Ken again regretted not going hunting.

  He also wondered at what she’d said. Zombies?

  He was a history teacher. He believed in facts and events, in what actually happened.

  But he also knew that much of history was a lot closer to fiction than to fact. Often “history” was simply what the winners of major conflicts got to call their propaganda.

  So… zombies.