by Sean Platt
“Go! GO!” Ed screamed, sticking his gun out the window and firing.
Boricio pumped the pedal, screaming, “Come on you cock-sucking cunt-fuck!”
Callie and Jung found their guns and took aim, also firing.
The aliens were 100 yards away and closing fast.
Brent fired his rifle blindly out the window, but everything was moving too fast to tell whether he was hitting anything.
Boricio tried turning the ignition again, but the van would only cough and sputter.
“Fuck!” Brent cried out, watching as the army of darkness raced toward them.
This is it! I’m sorry, Gina and Ben! I’m so sorry!
Brent continued firing blindly into the aliens until the engine suddenly turned and Boricio screamed, “Fuck yeah!” flooring the gas pedal.
The van burned rubber and squealed, then started to roll, its sides and back riddled with hundreds of black, hooked flesh, and sounding as though a million rocks were being thrown at the van, all at once.
Jung screamed.
Brent spun around to see a thick, black rope circling around his neck, ripped at one end torn from its host, but still moving, its hook embedded in Jung’s right eye.
Boricio screamed victoriously as the van rattled, moving fast and putting distance between themselves and the swarm, unaware of Jung being attacked.
Ed moved toward Jung, trying to pull the black thing from his body, but he was too late. Ed’s mouth opened in horror as the black thing snaked its way into Jung’s skull.
Brent and Ed stared, both of them frozen in the moment, watching in stunned disbelief as the last of the black thing vanished into Jung’s face.
Jung’s eyes both went black, then he screamed as he launched himself at Ed.
Jung knocked Ed to the ground, his hands gripping Ed’s neck and choking him.
Ed struggled, trying to push and kick Jung away as Brent stared helpless, lost in the moment without any idea of what to do.
“What the fuck is going on back there?” Boricio shouted, turning to look.
Brent’s head spun in indecision — was Jung possessed by the aliens? Should he shoot him?
Brent stood, rifle in his hand, paralyzed by uncertainty.
Callie hopped past Brent, raised her pistol to the back of Jung’s skull, then pulled the trigger, painting the van’s interior with a spray of chunky red.
The gunshot thundered in the cabin as Ed shoved Jung back, then yelled for Brent to open the side door.
Brent moved quickly, hoping to make up for his earlier indecision, and yanked the door open. Ed kicked Jung out of the van, where he bounced off the hardened black earth, fading into the distance as the van kept rolling forward.
Brent exhaled, then yanked the door shut.
Ed, Brent, and Callie all looked at one another, then out the back windows as Boricio put more distance between them and the dark swarm.
They were safe — for now.
Forty-Five
The Prophet
Kingsland, Alabama
September 2011
ONE MONTH BEFORE THE EVENT …
The Prophet recognized the man in black the moment he first stepped through the doors of his church — the man from his visions; a dream come true sent by The Good Lord to help him usher in the Rapture.
How it would happen, The Prophet did not yet know, and one week after Boricio checked into the rundown Motel 6 up the road, The Prophet had to wonder if God was testing him.
Boricio was the definition of a lost soul — sad, and full as a tick with resentment. He also seemed like a man who was looking to die.
Boricio wasn’t just mourning his lost love, whom he’d yet to say two words about, except to mention she was gone; he was boiling over the top of his pot with a furious, bubbling anger. The Prophet invited Boricio to stay at his main house, but the man had foolishly declined. Probably for the best, since The Prophet’s family was leery of the stranger.
That didn’t stop The Prophet from paying a visit to the man’s motel room; no harm in hand-delivering The Good Lord’s word.
The first time The Prophet visited Boricio, he could practically smell the drink from the other side of his door. Sure enough, the man was drunk as a Kentucky skunk, and told him to “fuck off” a second after he opened the door.
The Prophet wasn’t discouraged.
He returned each day until finally on the seventh, he knocked on a door belonging to a sober Boricio. The man yanked open the door, fast enough to nearly wrest it from its hinges, then said, “What in the hell is it you want from me?”
The Prophet said, “I’d like to take you for a ride.”
“A ride?” Boricio was either suspicious of the idea, or didn’t like it a lick.
“You’ve been here, what now, a week? I’m sure you’re feeling plenty cooped.” The Prophet looked past Boricio, then into a tiny room that had seen its best days maybe three decades before. It was dark, dingy, and plastered with pizza boxes and dozens of oversized bottles of booze, all empty.
Boricio’s face was covered in thick, black stubble, though his head was freshly shaved, and shiny enough to show The Prophet his reflection. The man’s one eye was bloodshot, but for the first time, his breath wasn’t reeking of the Devil’s drink.
The Prophet figured the man was beaten and tired, and maybe just worn down enough to allow The Good Lord to reach into his heart and show him His Love. Maybe now The Prophet could finally discover why God had brought the man into his life.
Boricio eyed The Prophet up and down, likely trying to figure his game. He was fluent in this reaction; it was the same one The Prophet saw from skeptics all the time.
“So, what? You’re gonna give me a guided tour of Bumfuck Egypt?” Boricio said. “You mean to tell me that my Motel 6 isn’t Studio Fucking 54?”
The Prophet ignored the man’s vulgarity. God had tested him with far worse. Vulgarity was often a defense used by those living in fear. The time for fear was over, though.
“Not a tour,” The Prophet shook his head. “More like a particular place I’d like you to see. A place that might just change your life.”
Boricio grinned, “You’re not gonna take me up to Mount Diddle-Me, are you? ‘Cuz while I might be pretty, Boricio don’t play for that team.”
The Prophet laughed, genuinely, “No, as hard as it may be for you to believe, you’re not my type.”
“Too old?” Boricio asked.
“Nah, too ugly,” The Prophet joked.
Boricio looked at him for a moment, and for that moment The Prophet was afraid he’d mistaken the man’s temperament. Then Boricio laughed and said, “Okay, let’s go for a ride. Just gimme a minute to wash up.”
“I’ll be waiting in the truck,” The Prophet said, then returned to his F-150, and sat with the engine idling and the A/C on full blast, keeping his eyes at the front of the Motel 6.
Boricio’s New York rental was the only car in the lot. In a few hours, once night fell, the place would be hopping with drug abusers and prostitutes like it always was. Some meth addicts were likely shut inside their rooms during the day, seeing as how this motel let a true Devil’s den worth of sin to happen behind its aging walls.
The Prophet’s face soured at the thought of so many lost souls, so close to salvation and yet still so far away, then wrinkled further at his mind’s movie of the motel’s owner, an old Russian man, profiting on the misery of so many. While The Prophet felt genuine sympathy for the lost souls, and their fates in the Eternal Fires of Hell, he felt no such sympathy for the man who made his living from the weaknesses of others.
If The Prophet weren’t such a holy man, he would have happily delivered justice to the old Russian with his own hand, taking the life from his beady, soulless eyes.
Justice would come to all soon enough, though.
On Oct. 15, the sinners would pay — each and every one.
And while He might have mercy on the weak, He would have no mercy on the profit
eers of evil.
Oh, what a glorious day that will be!
It was what his visions had told him. And as the day crept closer, The Prophet’s spirits rose in anticipation.
Boricio emerged from his room carrying a black leather backpack slung over his shoulder, pulling The Prophet from his thoughts.
As Boricio climbed inside the truck, The Prophet said, “Whatchya got in the bag?”
“Just my valuables,” Boricio said, “No way I’m leaving my bag in this shit hole.”
The Prophet smiled and pulled the F-150 from the motel lot.
They arrived at Lake Wilton about 10 minutes later, a thickly wooded grove of serenity — home to a glassy beautiful lake, miles of nature trails, several summer camps, and immaculate camping grounds.
They parked near one of the nature trails, then got out of the truck and headed down to a path which offered one of the lake’s best views. On the far side of the lake, the sprawling back yards from a few of the richer folks’ homes were visible.
“You brought me to a lake?” Boricio said, his backpack still slung over his shoulder. “I told you I’m not making out with you, Father.”
“Yes, this is Lake Wilton, one of the most beautiful lakes in all of Alabama. My daddy used to bring me here to fish when I was just a boy. Like his daddy took him before he took me. Generations of folks from Kingsland, Alabama, call this lake home to some of their most cherished memories. It was such a beautiful place.”
“Still is,” Boricio said, casting his eyes across the water.
“Yes, it is.” The Prophet agreed, nodding as he turned his eyes to Boricio. “But you should’ve seen it 15 years ago.”
“Why’s that?” Boricio asked.
“About 15 years back, this company in Georgia started dumping all sorts of pollutants into the lake upstream,” The Prophet pointed north. “Pretty soon, fish were dying by the thousands. And of course the birds had to keep their bellies full, so they kept eating the fish even though it was killing them by the barrel. The EPA declared Wilton a toxic dump and demanded it get closed off. Can you imagine?” he turned to Boricio. “Closing off such a beautiful place so people could no longer enjoy it?”
“People suck,” Boricio said, like it was fact. “So, what happened? I’m guessing things got better.”
“Yes, for a while, though this company was untouchable. It buried its face behind caviar-eating lawyers, lobbyists, and politicians, all crooked as the Mississippi is long. Hell, the company even got to some of the locals here, trying to sway them. But the good people of Kingsland, well they weren’t about to sit by and watch as some corporation came in and ruined their lake . . . our lake.”
“So, what did they do?”
“They banded together, pooled their money, and hired themselves their own high-priced attorney, some fellow on TV, I forget his name, and he stood toe-to-toe with the company. It was David and Goliath, and we all got to watch, smiling from the front row. It was a big win for the good people of Alabama, and we all cheered as our David slung rocks at the wobbling Goliath. It took eight long years, but finally, the fish started coming back, and soon we were able to open the lake back up.”
Boricio stared out across the water, quiet for a moment, then said, “That’s a ripping yarn, Father. But I don’t see how it has anything to do with me.”
“You young people, everything has to be about you or it doesn’t mean anything,” The Prophet said.
“Not what I’m saying, Padre,” Boricio said. The man had not yet called him The Prophet, and seemed as though he went out of his way to call him everything but his title. Like most people, he probably found it hard to acknowledge something greater than himself. The idea of God’s Eternal Love or visions of the Rapture likely scared the man.
“The point of the story,” The Prophet said, turning his eyes from Boricio back to the lake, “is that there was a time, not too long ago, when people would stand together and fight for what they believed. I hate to say it, but I’m sure if some company tried something like that today, the good folks here would just roll right over, and let it happen like it didn’t even matter. Too many people have surrendered their rights, handing them gift wrapped to politicians and companies, either too afraid or too apathetic, or hell, just too plain busy to fight back.” The Prophet shook his head. “It’s a day worth mourning when people turn their eyes from what’s right to cast them on what’s easy.”
Boricio was quiet, still staring at the lake, probably trying to figure where The Prophet was going with his sermon.
“So,” The Prophet said, “why did you give up?”
Boricio blinked, then turned to The Prophet and sighed. “Really?” he said. “You’re trying to draw a line between what’s happening inside my head and a bunch of apathetic losers getting bent over and butt tickled by The Man?” He shook his head. “I expected more from you, Preacher Man, especially after dragging me out of my room so early this morning.”
“You think you’re any different from these so-called apathetic losers?” The Prophet said. “Sorry, Son, but you don’t seem all that different from most people I see — drowning in misery, self-delusion, and ultimately, their own self-destruction. How long are you gonna bury yourself in a squalid motel drinking yourself into oblivion?”
“Until my bank account runs dry or I’m ready to move on. I don’t see how it’s your concern, Padre,” Boricio snapped, anger flashing in his eyes as he turned to face The Prophet.
“I don’t believe you,” The Prophet said. “I think the real reason you haven’t left is that you’re searching for something. Salvation, perhaps?”
Boricio laughed, turned to the lake and stared, breathing heavily before he turned back to The Prophet, “Salvation? You think I’m seeking salvation? I don’t know what you think you know about me, but let me just explain one thing to you, simple so you understand it: I’m not seeking salvation. I’m not some wretched sinner like the rest of the white trash losers you get waltzing into your church every day ending in Y. I don’t need the snake oil you’re selling or the crutch you’re offering.”
Boricio stepped forward, inches from The Prophet’s face, eyes narrowed in menace, as he growled through his gritted teeth, “I don’t need you to wave your magic fucking wand and make all my bad karma go bye-bye. So, save your talk of salvation for the suckers willing to drop their hard-earned dough into your collection box, Prophet. Or is that Profit with an F?”
Boricio turned from The Prophet and began to walk back up the trail.
The Prophet had clearly erred in his persuasion. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Boricio stopped in his tracks, but didn’t turn.
The Prophet said, “I didn’t mean to insult you. It’s just that I can see your heavy heart sinking from guilt, and I want you to understand that God forgives. Everything.”
Boricio turned and stared at The Prophet for a moment, as his eyes filled with water. Finally, he swallowed and spoke. “I was trying to save her,” he said. “I thought I knew the right treatment. I thought I knew what to do to save her, but I only made it worse.”
The Prophet wanted to know what Boricio was talking about, and was inches from asking, but he didn’t want to make another mistake by interrupting the man in the midst of confession and risk him shutting down.
As Boricio told the story of his girlfriend, Rose, the woman he wanted to marry, and the car accident that had killed their unborn child along with their future together, The Prophet walked to him and found his eyes drifting past the man, settling on the black bag Boricio had yet to let out of his sight.
Something was in the bag — something more valuable than money.
Something that beckoned The Prophet as sure as The Good Lord Himself had been whispering his name since as long as he could remember.
Boricio continued, “My dad wanted us to go with one course of treatment, but I went over his head, reached out to another doctor, and asked him to try an experimental procedure. It was supposed to hav
e worked, but . . . it didn’t.” His voice was right at the edge of cracking. “Rose died, and I killed her,” he said.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” The Prophet shook his head. He was going to tell Boricio that Rose was in a better place, as was their unborn baby. But he knew that doing so would lose Boricio for good. Instead, he said, “You did what you thought was right. Correct?”
“Yes,” Boricio said.
“And you feel like maybe you were arrogant to go over your father’s head, right?”
Boricio met his eyes in a moment of challenge, then looked to the dirt, nodding.
“Let me ask you this, Boricio: Did you act out of love? Did you try to save Rose from a life in pain and endless misery?”
“Yes,” Boricio said, trying not to cry.
“Then you did right by her, and by The Lord.” The Prophet said. “He knows you did right, and He forgives you. Now, you must realize you did the right thing, too. You must forgive yourself.”
Boricio said nothing. He turned and followed The Prophet back to the truck, but then left him standing by the open driver’s side door as he kept walking back down the road they’d taken to the lake.
“Where are you going?” The Prophet asked.
“Back.”
“That’s a long walk, Son. Do you even know where you’re going?”
“I’ll find my way,” Boricio said as he continued to walk, taking the bag and its mystery away from The Prophet.
Forty-Six
Ryan Olson
Black Mountain, Georgia
March 31, 2012
FIVE MONTHS AFTER THE EVENT …
Ryan’s head ached as he woke, feeling like he’d had way too much to drink, even though he couldn’t remember the last time he had.
He vaguely recalled a nightmare — one he didn’t want to think about now.
Mary was sleeping in bed beside him. He felt the cool breeze blowing in through the open window and watched as she breathed, her breasts rising and falling along with the soft white comforter that half covered them. He stretched out, feeling the softness of the sheets, happy beneath their comfort and warmth.
