Extinction Level Event (Book 1): Extinction Level Event

by Jones, K. J.

“Nothing. They’re not rapists and shit. Matty would never associate with evil men. It’s just … okay, I’m sure your mouth can back ‘em off.”

  “I don’t know how to take that.”

  “In this context, it would be a good thing. I don’t know. Maybe they’d like you. Respect you.”

  Phebe crossed her arms and cocked her head to the side. “They don’t like you, do they?”

  “They’re dickheads.”

  “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

  “Peter Sullivan once threatened to pitch me over the side. And all Matty did was laugh. Never mind that Chris Higgins.” She made a disgusted sound.

  Phebe jumped at hearing gunshots close by outside. “We have to do something.”

  She went to the living room’s large windows. A deep breath for bravery. She pushed the curtain aside and parted blades of the blinds. A dead body lay on the perimeter of their lawn. She looked above the houses. Pillars of black smoke rose from fires somewhere in the distance.

  Looking out at a hostile world, she felt five years old, wanting her mother to make her safe.

  “We’ll bring in the grill from the deck,” said Syanna. “We got enough books to burn for heat.”

  “How would it vent? We’d die from the smoke inhalation.”

  “Well, then, the problem of what to do next solved.”

  “Is this curl up and die attitude rather than possibly going to the boat all because they don’t like you? Please tell me you aren’t that narcissistic.”

  “No,” Syanna protested. “It’s not.” She sighed. “I just don’t think it’s wise to leave our home where we are safe and got a roof over our heads and doors that lock to run out into the middle of a Mad Max apocalypse with freaking homicidal crazies. I do not believe we are adequately prepared for what’s out there, physically or psychologically.”

  She had a point.

  Phebe sat in an armchair near the windows, thinking and biting on her thumb’s cuticle.

  “Where’s that emergency radio?” she asked. “The solar powered, crank thing?”

  “I don’t know. Check Beck’s hurricane box.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Last I can recall, in there.” Syanna pointed.

  In the laundry room, Phebe found Rebecca’s plastic storage box tucked between the dryer and the wall. Roughly dislodging it, various detergent bottles fell from the shelf above. She laid the box on the floor and riffled through. It was a wealth of emergency gear. Batteries. Flashlights. The crank emergency radio. Canned food. MRIs. Battery-operated hand fans, which Phebe put aside as useless, along with mosquito repellent and disposable cool packs. Useful gear stacked on the dryer. She gathered the things that had fallen and placed them back on the shelf. She spotted something black with lots of buttons nested in a stand. It was plugged into the wall socket. She took it from its base and examined it. It appeared to be some kind of complicated radio. She found an On button and pressed it.

  The digital display showed the battery was charged.

  Voices came out of it.

  “Sye, what is this? I found it in the back of the shelf in there.”

  “What, sugar?” In the living room, Phebe showed her. “Oh, that. It’s a radio Matty gave me.”

  “Fancy damn radio.”

  “I think it may be one of those HAM radios, but I’m not sure. I thought those were big with antennas like Peter Sullivan has.”

  “He has a HAM radio? It talks to this?”

  “Oh, Lord, here we go again.” Syanna rolled her eyes.

  “Men are talking on it. Listen. Where’s the volume?”

  “Don’t be pushing buttons, sugar. It’s set to the channel they use.”

  “Then listen closer.”

  She held it to Syanna’s ear.

  “That’s Sullivan’s voice. I could never mistake that accent.”

  “The boat owner is talking on this right now?” Phebe whipped it away from Syanna’s reach. “Hello,” she said into the radio. She examined it again and figured out the side lever. Pressing it, “Hello. Hello.”

  The Boston accented voice responded, “Who is this breaking in? Over.”

  “This is Phebe Marcelino. I’m Syanna’s roommate. Matt’s girlfriend.” She depressed the side lever and waited.

  “The PhD from New York? Over.”

  It surprised her he knew of her. “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Say over, sugar,” injected Syanna. “So he knows you’re done talking.”

  “Oh. Okay. Over.”

  “What’s your name? Over.”

  “Phebe. Over.”

  “Hi, Phebe. I’m Peter. Over.”

  “Good to meet you, Peter. Over.”

  “Good to meet you too. Finally put a voice to the title of Syanna’s roommate. Over.”

  “Oh Lord,” complained Syanna. “He’s being nice.”

  “Peter, we’re in a bit of a situation here. Over.”

  “Are you safe? Over.”

  “For now. But I’m thinking this can’t be a permanent solution. We got blankets for heat and food we can eat without cooking and some water. But we have big windows in our living room and no lumber to cover them with. Do you know, can they get through windows? Over.”

  She resisted the temptation to be the damsel in distress and wail, “For the love of God, save us.”

  “Pretty sure they can get through windows if they wanted to,” he responded. “Are you armed? Do you have guns? Doesn’t Syanna have some embarrassing pink thing? Over.”

  “She does. And she has it out. But that’s it. I have a kitchen knife. And harsh language. Over.”

  “Tell me you know that’s a paraphrase from a line in Aliens. Over.”

  “I do. Over.” She smiled.

  Syanna rolled her eyes so hard her eyeballs were in jeopardy of becoming stuck in the back of her head.

  “Wicked.” His voice sounded like he was smiling. “Do you live in the same place where I picked up Matt when he had that piece of shit car that broke down? Over.”

  She looked to Syanna, who nodded to confirm.

  “We do. Over.”

  “Listen. I’m stuck in ridiculous bumper-to-bumper of morons who think they can evac themselves. But I’d like to come to you and pick you up. Pack essentials. Beans, bullets, and band aids. Over.”

  “Ask him if I’m coming too,” said Syanna.

  “That includes Syanna, right? Over.”

  “Yeah, I’m Catholic so she can be my penance for my sins.” He laughed.

  “Asshole,” Syanna muttered.

  “Your roommates can come. Over,” he concluded.

  “Uhm, our roommate Rebecca is dead. Over.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. Over.”

  “She attacked Syanna. Sye had to defend herself. Over.”

  Syanna sardonically raised her glass.

  “Did she shoot her? Over.”

  “It was hand-to-hand. Over.”

  “Damn! Go Syanna Lynn. Over.”

  “We’re not so excited. Over.”

  “Oh. Yeah. My bad. If it’s any conciliation, she would have died of the virus. Over.”

  “Virus? You know something about it? Over.”

  “Our friend is called R140. Hundred percent fatal once showing symptoms, and once they stop running around and hitting people. We’ll debrief once we’re all together. Listen, Plan B is we are meeting at Chris Higgins’s house. Does princess of the Deep South know where that is? Over.”

  “Isn’t it in that neighborhood around Seventeenth Street, by Dawson?” said Syanna.

  Phebe repeated the question into the radio.

  Peter responded, “Yeah. Over.”

  Syanna nodded. “I remember where it is.”

  “She says she knows where it is. Over.”

  “All right. That’s Plan B. If for any reason I cannot get to you or shit hits the fan there or any problems, you go to his house. The rest of us will be there soon as we can. He’ll look after you. I mean, he’ll in
sult you, but he won’t let anything happen to you. Just don’t listen to what he says when it’s not important. That goes for Syanna too, like, when he calls her half-caste Negro woman. Over.”

  “Sounds like a ball. Over.”

  “Well, maybe the zoms will make him seem better. Death defying, terrifying situations tend to put him in a better light. Oh, and if you see a tattooed Mexican man there, try not to let him and the big redneck kill each other. I’d appreciate it.” His tone changed. “Ah, looks like I gotta go. We have something happening here that looks potentially unpleasant for the locals. I’ll talk soon. Sully, over and out.”

  He was gone.

  Syanna steadily shook her head. “He’s a constantly joking asshole. Hope you’re ready for that. He takes nothing serious. Everything is funny. He says outlandish shit that can’t possibly be true. You know, that man won’t even tell people how he got wounded. He says he was shot by an Afghanistani goat herder who guarded his goats with a loose trigger AK-47.”

  Phebe thought about it. “That actually could be true, Sye. Afghan tribesmen are often armed, and they will shoot any soldiers from invading forces.”

  Another eyeroll. “One time he said he rescued a yak from a burning yurt.”

  Phebe chuckled.

  “Oh Lord. You think that’s funny. Freaking Yankees.”

  Another male voice came through the radio in Phebe’s hand. She recognized this one.

  “Phebe, this is Matt. Are you all alright? I heard what you said. Becks is dead? Over.”

  “Hi Matt,” Phebe said as if it was a phone. “Yeah, sadly. Over.”

  “Is Sye okay? Over.”

  Phebe pressed the lever to speak, just as Syanna yelled, “Tell him no, I definitely am not. He should be here to protect me like a man.”

  Phebe said into the radio, “She’s fine. Over.”

  Phebe depressed the lever and glared at her roommate.

  “I heard her,” Matt said. “She sounds her usual self. Over.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Syanna demanded.

  “He can’t hear you. I didn’t press the thing.”

  “Give me that.” She whipped off the comforters.

  “No.”

  Syanna struggled with comforters that had her legs trapped. Phebe ran up the stairs.

  “Phebe Teressa, you get back here with that.”

  “Matt,” Phebe said into the radio from behind her bedroom door. “Where are you? Are you okay? Over.”

  “I’m working. I’m alright. It’s really hairy out here, though. Over.”

  “You’re working? In this? Maybe that hero complex you’ve been accused of isn’t so off, Matt. Over.”

  “Somebody has got to help these poor people. Over.”

  “Did you hear Peter when he said once they are symptomatic, it’s fatal? Over.”

  “Yeah. Uhm, wish we knew that earlier. We’re kind of reassessing why we are out here, risking our asses. Hold on. Over.”

  She waited, hearing through her closed window a siren wail in the distance.

  “Pheebs, my partner and I have agreed we’re quitting after we deposit this last guy. We’ll come to your house and get you. Look for the ambulance. Pack, like Sully said, beans, bullets, and band-aids. That means the minimum needed for survival. No, like, photo albums and stuff. None of Syanna’s suitcase filled with cosmetics and crap. Pure survival. I’ll leave it to you to fight with her about that. Good luck with it. Give me like an hour or so. Be ready. Okay? Over.”

  “We’ll be ready. I’ll handle her. Be careful out there, Matt. And … thank you. We appreciate your help. Over.”

  “Okay. Cool. Stay safe. Gleason, over and out.”

  Every time these men cut off, she felt alone and vulnerable, as if her lifeline for rescue broke off in the sudden silence.

  She sighed. Looking around her room, thinking of what to bring, and what non-essentials but sentimentally important items had to be left behind. Wondering if she’d ever be back and see these things again. Would anything ever be the same again?

  “Phebe,” a voice yelled from downstairs.

  She opened the door and readied herself to battle the mighty Syanna Lynn titan.

  4.

  The conversation with Phebe lightened Peter’s mood. He feared he’d hemorrhage from boredom before then. He anticipated meeting her face-to-face, after all the things he had heard about her from Matt.

  But more important things pressed.

  Mullen beat on Peter’s bicep and pointed like a frantic monkey at the infected coming towards the lines of unmoving traffic. So Peter had cut short his conversation with Phebe to deal with this.

  “Mullen, I need you to get on the floorboard.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because you’ll be behind the engine in case of indirect fire. A bullet will hit it before you.”

  “Zombies don’t shoot.”

  “But all those civilian assholes do.” He gestured out the windshield. “Welcome to a red state.”

  Out of more than half of the vehicles came handguns, shotguns, and rifles. Many pulled out assault rifles of various makes and models.

  “Bet those idiots got them altered for fully auto,” Peter said, regarding the assault rifles. “Spray blossom the world.”

  The cops got behind their cars. Nothing scared police more than armed urban civilians, boasting of their constitutional right but neglecting their shooting range training.

  Peter scrunched low in his seat. Seeing this, Mullen dropped onto the floorboard, curling himself up. Peter lowered the windows.

  “Why are you doing that?” Mullen demanded from beneath the dashboard. “It’s freezing.”

  “Hoping the glass doesn’t get hit. We’ll need the glass against the zoms.”

  “Any way out of this?” Panic in Mullen’s voice.

  “I’d have to ram police cars.”

  Just as he said that, he saw a police car to his left move out of the way. Jimbo Conway broadly waved his arms, then gestured for him to come through.

  Peter sat up and quickly started the engine. “We’re getting out.” The big tires rolled over the center. Peter steered through the opening. Windows still down, he slowed and yelled at Jimbo. “Rendezvous at Chris’s.”

  Jimbo gave a thumbs up.

  “God bless, brother.”

  The shooting started. The Suburban banked hard right after clearing the cop vehicles. Peter gunned the engine down the clear road, going the wrong way.

  As he passed, he saw bullets entering cars and hitting innocent people. Shooters hitting other shooters.

  Further on, seeing through his right-side mirror, the infected crazies attacked the civilians. The cops didn’t stay long. A convoy of fleeing police vehicles showed in his rearview mirror a mile behind.

  5.

  A half hour after Phebe spoke to Matt, her rucksack was packed with shear essentials—underwear, tampons, toothbrush, changed of clothes, etc. It was the rucksack she used during archaeological digs. As predicted, Syanna had been difficult. Phebe snuck into Rebecca’s room, trying to avert her gaze from the sheet-wrapped body on the bed, and took a rucksack out of the closet. Rebecca had used it to travel Europe. Miss Syanna Lynn didn’t own a rucksack.

  All actual essentials Syanna put in her matching knock-off Gucci suitcases, things like underwear, Phebe took out and put in the rucksack, leaving the superfluous stuff in the suitcases, such platform shoes.

  “Would you stop that,” Syanna snapped. “I need these things.”

  “No.”

  “I will slap you.”

  It went on like that.

  Once finished, Phebe carried the two rucksacks downstairs. Syanna dragged her suitcases, determined to keep them.

  “Help me get these into my SUV,” said Syanna. “I’m not leaving my SUV behind. We’ll want our own transportation. Don’t look at me that way, Phebe Teressa Marcelino, and just help me. It’ll take longer to argue with me than to help me.”

&nbs
p; “Fine.”

  “You carry the suitcases and I’ll cover you with my gun.”

  “What?”

  “You’re so big. You got those broad shoulders. It’ll take you less effort than little ole me. It’ll go faster, trust me.”

  “I hate you.”

  “Later for that.” Syanna was already off to the front door as if her commands would be obeyed. She was a wretched tiny imp, raised by a general and a beauty queen.

  “If I ever see your parents again,” said Phebe. “I’m gonna have words with them about your upbringing.”

  “It’s clear. Come on.”

  Phebe tried to pick up the suitcases. “Jesus Christ! You taking the gold bricks with you?”

  “Shh. Don’t be so loud. Hurry up.”

  Phebe rolled the suitcases.

  “That’s loud,” Syanna reprimanded from the walkway.

  “I so hate you.” Phebe heaved up the suitcases. “Hate you.”

  At the SUV, Syanna hit her remote keys. The car chirped.

  Phebe threw the smaller bag at her, barely missing her. “Asshole,” she harshly whispered through gritted teeth.

  “Me?” Syanna harshly whispered back. “That nearly hit me.”

  “Hate you.”

  Syanna manually opened the far back. “Quick.” She stepped out and scanned, pink gun in hand, readied. Phebe hauled the bags into the back.

  The remote button to close the door beeped. Phebe slapped the keys out of Syanna’s hand.

  “I’m gonna lock your ass out.” Phebe charged up the walkway.

  She froze. Weird sounds from the driveway behind her. Her stomach sank. She wanted to bolt through the open front door to safety.

  A shot rang out.

  A screech and a tussle.

  She turned. Mr. Monroe had a hold of little Syanna by the hair. The gun was on the driveway.

  “Shit.” Without another thought, Phebe ran into the fray. She scooped up the gun.

  Infected Monroe slammed Syanna into the side of the SUV. He got a perfect hold on her and his open mouth came at her face.

  Not knowing anything of guns, but having heard of something called a safety, Phebe examined the surprisingly heavy thing. “Where is it?” She remembered in movies characters pulling back the bolt. She did it, rushed forward, and placed the muzzle against her neighbor’s head. “I’ll fire.”