Eat, Prey, Decay: 7 Tales of the Apocalypse (Zombie, Dark Fantasy, Dystopian, Horror, & Post-Apocalyptic Boxed Set), page 3
“Yes. I can shoot a gun, Grandma,” I said bewildered. Why in the hell did my grandmother have a semi-automatic pistol? We were standing behind the barn. She had guns laid out on the lid of an old feed barrel. I set the gun down.
“Good, good, then you’ll have no problem. Now, this is .44 Magnum, like the Dirty Harry movie. It has good stopping power. Lift up the safety and boom,” Grandma said pulling the trigger. The gun barrel let out a resounding noise, shattering Grandma’s old mantle-piece vase. “The man told Grandma this is a kill-shot gun, very powerful,” she said and set the gun down.
I picked it up, took aim at an old porcelain figurine, and fired. The smiling cherub exploded into a puff of dust.
“Very good! Ahh, here we are,” she said picking up what looked like a machine gun. “This is Colt 9mm sub-machine gun. Grandma had a hard time getting this one, but a nice man on the phone, of course he was Russian, helped Grandma get this one ordered for you. This gun can shoot almost 1000 rounds per minute. Very fast, no?” Grandma said and launched a spray of bullets toward the remaining china pieces she had set up on the fence-post. “Here, you try. Watch for kick back,” she said and handed the gun to me.
I set the gun down and took Grandma by the hands. “Grandma, what in the hell is going on? You’re scaring me.”
“Shoot first,” she said, picking the Colt back up and handing it to me.
I sighed. The gun, surprisingly, didn’t feel heavy in my hands. I held it as I had observed Grandma doing, and as every drug smuggler on T.V. had done, and let off an easy rattle of ammo.
“You see, very easy.”
I set the gun back down. “That is enough, Grandma. Please. What is happening?”
Grandma inhaled deeply and took me by the chin. She looked into my eyes then kissed me on both cheeks. “First, we’ll put guns away,” she said, picking up the weapons. “Oh, I also bought grenades. Just like on T.V.: pull the pin, throw, it explodes.”
“Grenades?”
After we had restocked Grandma’s personal arsenal, we went back inside.
“Sit down in living room. Watch T.V. I’ll make tea,” she said and wandered into the kitchen.
“But Grandma—“
“Tu-tu-tu,” she said to shush me. “You watch T.V. I’ll come in a minute.”
I flipped on the T.V. to find it tuned to the news channel. At once I saw what appeared to be a riot taking place. At first it looked like just another scene of violence, but then I started reading the crawling banner: wide spread outbreak and rioting in major US cities in the south and on the west coast. Police had instituted martial law in LA, Miami, and Atlanta. Outbreak reports were cropping up in all major US and foreign cities. Airlines had closed all international travel. The United States President has been moved to a protected location.
The T.V. buzzed with three loud chimes: the Emergency Broadcast System had been activated. The screen went blue and after a few minutes, an official looking White House spokesman appeared at a podium, the emblem of the CDC hanging behind him.
“Grandma? You should come see this,” I called to her. I felt like someone had poured cold water down my back. Every hair on the back of my neck was standing on its end. Is this what Grandma had foreseen? Is this why I was here? Did the spirits tell her something?
“At this point it appears to be a highly contagious flu-like pandemic,” the Director of the CDC was saying.
“Citizens are urged to stay inside their homes. Military personnel have been dispatched to major US cities,” the White House spokesman added.
A reporter asked why the pandemic seemed to happen almost overnight. I noticed then that the press were all wearing surgical masks.
“Incidents of flu have been steadily on the rise for the last one week which has exacerbated accurate diagnosis. The symptoms of this particular strain resemble seasonal flu at the onset—body pain, fever, and vomiting—but gradually worsen with additional non-normative symptoms,” the Director of the CDC explained.
“Non-normative? What does that mean, and how is it being spread?” a female reporter asked. I recognized her from the President’s regular Press Club. I’d seen her in person once at a downtown café. She’d been eating a massive plate of fries.
The Director of the CDC gave a sidelong look toward the White House spokesman. “Citizens should avoid direct physical contact with the sick until we can pinpoint the cause,” the CDC Director said at last.
“Is there a vaccine or immunization?” another reporter asked.
“Until the cause is identified, it is difficult to develop a vaccine, but we are working around the clock analyzing possible contaminants,” the Director replied.
“What is the mortality rate?” someone asked.
The Director of the CDC looked uncomfortable. “It is difficult to ascertain. At this point the mortality rate appears to be 100%, but post-mortem there appears to be brain activity-”
“No further questions at this time,” the White House spokesperson said with a scowl and ushered the Director of the CDC out of the room.
Grandma sat down beside me, setting a serving tray on the coffee table. She picked up the remote and muted the T.V.
In the far off distance, we heard the alarm on the town fire hall wail. It was used to call in emergency volunteer firefighters and medical personnel or to warn of tornado. Three rings to call for help. Seven rings for tornado warning. The alarm wailed and did not stop.
“When I was 12 years old, my grandma knew I had the sight,” my grandmother began. “My mother only had the gift a little. She had good instincts, but she never heard the spirits. I was lucky. I was born with the mark of the bear,” she said, showing me the small birthmark on her knee shaped like a bear’s paw, “so everyone knew I would have the gift. But when I was 12, my grandmother sat me down in her living room and poured me a cup of tea,” she said as she poured me a cup. I noticed that she had placed two slices of a strange looking mushroom in the water. “My grandmother told me, while I was lucky to hear the spirits, there are other things in this world, some good, some evil. There exists spirits, demons, creatures who are not like us. She wanted me to see them. She wanted me to be safe from them. She said that until the great eye inside is awake, we do not see them. She said, I must awaken and see. That is what my grandmother told me as she handed me a cup of tea,” my grandma said then handed the mushroom tea to me.
I took the cup. I looked back at the T.V. and saw strange images of people in hospital gowns being shot by military men.
“Drink,” Grandma encouraged.
I did as she asked, polishing off the cup.
“My grandma loved me. She tried to protect me by making me see the otherworld. She was right. Afterward, I saw and heard spirits and those other things in this world. This has kept me away from evil and has helped me see good. Did you know there are forest spirits living right behind our house? Ehh, anyway, my grandmother loved me, so she made me see. I drank the tea then slept for almost two days. When I woke, I could see.”
My head felt woozy. Images on the screen melted into a strange haze. I reached out for my grandmother.
“You sleep now. I’ll go close the fence and bar up the doors. It has already begun,” she said.
“What has begun?” I asked drunkenly. The room spun, and I felt like I might be sick.
“The harvest,” she replied. I heard the front door open and close then everything went black.
Chapter 4
When I woke, the zong, zong, zong throbbing in my head felt like it would never stop. I’d once dragged Ian on a winery trail tour. I’d drunk my weight in Merlot and woke the next morning with a similar mix of sour mouth, blaring headache, and nauseous stomach. I could not believe my grandma had drugged me—oh wait, yes, I could.
The alarm on the fire hall had stopped blaring, but the bell on the Catholic Church was now clanging, making my head ache even worse. To top it off, I had just awoken from the strangest nightmare. In my dream, a robed figure invited me to join him at the harvest. Excited, I picked up a wicker vegetable basket and went with him. Much to my confusion, he led me to a graveyard. I asked him, “Why are we here?” The hooded figure turned toward me, showing me his skeletal face. He extended his boney arm, brandishing his sickle across the tombstone vista. “Why, we are here for the harvest,” he said in reply. When I looked back, I saw the graveyard was on fire. I shuddered as I remembered his words.
“Grandma?” I called as my feet hit the hardwood floor. There was no reply.
I went to the living room to find the T.V. on, but the screen was buzzing static. I clicked it off. The smell of burning bacon assailed my nose. I went into the kitchen, which was full of smoke, and turned the heat off. I threw the pan, the bacon burned black, into the sink. It hit the water with a sizzle. I cracked the window to let the smoke out.
“Grandma?” I called again.
I poured myself a glass of water and checked the rest of the house. Grandma was nowhere to be found, but the radio in her room was on. The announcer was listing names of cities now under quarantine. He might as well have said the entire United States. My skin turned to goose bumps. What was happening?
I went back to the living room. The front door was unlocked and unbarred; apparently, Grandma had gone outside. My head aching, I slipped on a pair of jeans and t-shirt. There was a chill in the air, so I grabbed my vest, pulled on my hiking boots, and headed outside.
The driveway gate was closed but not locked. The church bell continued to ring. The sound was shrill. I couldn’t find Grandma anywhere. Knowing her, she was in the woods digging up more mushrooms—we needed to have a serious talk about that. Strange she’d forgotten about the bacon.
I checked the barn. She wasn’t there, but I spotted the binoculars I’d picked up at the hardware store. I grabbed them and headed to the back of the property. I scaled the fence and walked into the woods. A trail behind the cabin led in two directions; one direction led into the National Forest, and the other, if you scaled the mountain, led to the Point. The Point was the old Native American lookout on the mountaintop. It looked over the town and across the lake.
I climbed up the side of the hill. How many times had I fled to the woods and hiked to the Point? It was an escape. It was a peaceful place. I wound through the mountain laurel and over the mossy rocks up the side of the hill. The fallen autumn leaves, warm under the sun, provided the effervescence of decay. I felt the grainy grit of limestone and tree bark as I grabbed for handholds to pull myself upward. Finally, I got to the top of the hill. Now all I needed to do was scale the boulder that capped it. I had done it a hundred times. I knew every foot-and handhold. I pulled myself toward the top.
I was treated to a vista of autumn leaves: red, orange, and vibrant yellow. The cool wind whipped hard, blowing my hair around me. I looked toward town, but it was a long ways away. With the naked eye, I could easily make out the streets and rooftops. I could see people in the streets, but something seemed off. It looked like the Jamesons’ house was on fire.
I pulled out the binoculars, making some minor adjustments, and looked down. The Jamesons’ house was on fire and so was the flower shop next door. There were people all over the streets. Most of them were not moving. I could not see their faces clearly, but they looked sick. They were pale and bloody. I scanned over to the Catholic Church. The bell was still ringing. A few people stood outside looking at the building. The pandemic had come. How long had I slept?
Then I heard a popping sound. It was coming from the lower end of town. I scanned and saw a group of about fifteen people running toward the community building. They were shooting behind them. A horde of maybe twenty or thirty people followed them. They ran, shot, and ran more. Someone fell down. The horde behind swarmed over them, and I saw a flash of red blood. I nearly dropped the binoculars.
Again, gunshots rang out. Another group emerged from a side street. My heart sank. Ian was there; Kristie was beside him. Ian’s older brother, Jamie, was with him, and so were Summer and Ethel. They joined the larger group, and they all headed toward the community center.
I sat down on the boulder. My senses were on edge. I could hear every bird and insect around me. My system, sensing danger, had gone into over-drive; yet, there was no danger near me. I was isolated. But Ian was in trouble. The group entered the community center, but a huge horde circled the place. Drawn by the sound of gunfire, the sick began to gather and claw at the windows and doors. The place was completely surrounded.
I lowered the binoculars. My hands felt ice-cold. A chilled wind whipped through me and a feeling like electricity filled the air.
“Help them,” a male voice said from behind me.
I leapt up, nearly losing my balance and going over. I righted myself at the last moment. I found myself staring at and staring through the figure of a Native American chief in full ceremonial regalia. He was young, very handsome, and feathers and beads were braided into his long hair. He was clearly there and clearly transparent all at once. He knocked an arrow on his bow, and the illusory weapon shot toward town. I watched the arrow fly toward the community building then fade.
I turned back.
“Help them,” he said again. Another strong wind swept through. Like he was made of sand, the chief’s image blew away, disintegrating back into the wind, until nothing but the image of the bow remained. Then, it too faded, blowing back into the realm of the spirit.
Chapter 5
My whole body shook as I raced through the woods to the cabin. My mind was in a fit of fear and adrenaline. I clambered over the back fence and rounded the barn. I was about to call for my grandma when I saw Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher, whose farm was closest to our cabin, standing, just standing, in the driveway. The driveway gate was slightly ajar. I gasped and slid back behind the barn. I couldn’t get to the house. I couldn’t get into the barn. I checked my pockets. My car keys were there.
Quickly, I ran from the side of the barn to my SUV. The beep beep of my doors unlocking woke the Fletchers from their sick slumber. They both turned and lunged toward me. They were amazingly fast. I ran. I opened the back passenger door and jumped into the backseat. I slammed the door shut behind me, locking the doors with a thump. The Fletchers were at the SUV in moments.
They were sick or maybe even dead. Their skin was corpse white, and their eyes were cloudy white with red bloodshots striking through. Their mouths frothed, and they lunged, over and over, biting and snapping at me. Bloody saliva smeared across the black-tinted windows of the Range Rover.
I could feel my heart beating in my throat. I climbed over the backseat and into the cargo space. Suddenly, I touched something hard. My swords. Who says it doesn’t pay to be a medievalist? I pulled the shashka from the bundle and strapped its scabbard around my waist. Then I unsheathed the weapon. I had to find my grandmother.
The Fletchers were flailing about at the passenger side window. I took a deep breath and opened the back. I slid out and headed toward the driver’s side. The Fletchers moved toward the back of the SUV. Dropping low, I swung around the front of the car. They were at the back. I leaned down and watched their feet. I didn’t know what to do, but I needed to do something fast.
I took a few deep breaths and turned toward the house. With the shashka poised in front of me, I kept one eye on the Fletchers as I backed toward the cabin. The moment they saw me, they closed in.
“Stay back!” I yelled, but they didn’t seem to hear. They came toward me, grabbing at me, snapping while bloody saliva dripped from their mouths. I swished the sword in front of me to deter them, but they didn’t seem to care.
Mr. Fletcher grabbed at me.
“Get back,” I pleaded as I backed toward the porch. He lunged forward. I sliced his arm, but it didn’t faze him. His wife hissed and swiped at me.
He grabbed at me again. This time he ignored the sword entirely and pushed the blade aside as he tried to grab me. I watched in horror as the shashka sliced his fingers off. They fell to the ground. Mrs. Fletcher, her feet bare and bloody, stepped on his dismembered fingers as she advanced. I ducked and dodged sideways. They pursued.
In that moment, I remembered what the man from the CDC had said: “brain activity.” Victims were experiencing brain activity post-mortem. Was that what I was seeing?
They pursued me to the cabin steps. I quickly ascended to the top of the stairs. I looked down at those who had once been my neighbors.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and having no other choice, I let the blade sing. Mrs. Fletcher was closest to me. Taking a couple of steps back, I made a running jump. I cleared the stairs, slicing off the top of her head as I passed. I turned as I landed. My cut had been a good one. Her erect body stumbled in a circle then fell. Mr. Fletcher let out a strange howl then lunged. With an under-hand to over-hand spin, the shashka twirled through the air; I sliced his head in half. He fell instantly. They both lay on the ground, jerking spastically. After a few moments, they fell still.
“Grandma!” I screamed. “Grandma!” I ran into the house, weapon in hand, but she was nowhere to be seen. My mind was half-bent on Ian, the other half worrying about my grandmother, as I headed to the barn and the guns. I grabbed the weapons, sliding the shashka back into the scabbard, then stuffed the Glock into a holster. I strapped the Colt around my shoulder and took the safety off the Magnum, holstering it as well. I grabbed three grenades and stuck them into my vest pockets. I headed out of the barn. As I turned the corner, I found myself face-to-face with what had once been my grandma. Her face was as pale as the moon; her eyes were an occluded mix of pearl white and veiny red. White froth dripped from her mouth.
I heard my grandmother’s voice inside my head: Kill me.
