Dead Earth Read online

  Dead Earth

  by

  Matt Demers

  Copyright © 2013 Matt Demers

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to author , addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at [email protected].

  Proud to be published, promoted and printed independently.

  Available for sale at Barnes and Noble, Amazon, CreateSpace, Apple, Smashwords, and Kobo.

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Mom & Dad — Richard and Michelle Demers

  Special Thanks:

  Most people place the special thanks section last, but it just won’t do for these fine folk…

  Special thanks goes to Kerry Donovan, whose been encouraging yet honest, not to mention an invaluable help with formatting what you now read. His British humor remains an enigma to this humble Canadian.

  Also to May Linton — an underpaid editor with a heart of gold.

  For those on Scribophile.com — Aerial White especially — thanks for your critiques of the alpha version of Dead Earth

  Okay, let’s do this…

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1: Armageddon

  Chapter 2: Streets on Fire

  Chapter 3: The Wreck

  Chapter 4: The Last of Us

  Interlude I: What’s a Matter with Grandpa?

  Chapter 5: From the Inside Out

  Chapter 6: Beyond the Wire

  Chapter 7: The Road

  Chapter 8: Hiram Walker

  Interlude II: Death from Above

  Chapter 9: R & R

  Chapter 10: Joey

  Chapter 11: The Cure

  About the Author

  Bonus Stories

  RV Park, Greenville

  Another quiet morning…

  We knew the war was lost when the sirens stopped.

  During the Escalation, they rang constantly. Fire trucks, ambulances, police-cruisers, we heard them blaring from in town and as far away as Monroe City, all around, day and night. Two weeks later it was stop-and-go, usually a few hours of stillness would be followed by the shriek of a rogue fire truck or cop. We cheered them on every time they broke the silence. The sirens meant we were still in this.

  Now it’s month two.. No car alarms. No megaphones. No gunfire.

  In the words of Mr. David Gilmore — “Is there anybody out there?”

  CHAPTER 1

  Armageddon

  James should be dead.

  Cra-cra-crack!

  The sound was like a pair of giant chalkboard erasers snapping together.

  The burst of gunfire reverberating through the neighborhood confirmed that James wasn’t dead. Not yet. One of his archery trophies toppled off a shelf and shattered on the hardwood floor.

  Barely awake, James knew already that the gunshots had come from above his bedroom ceiling. That meant the shooters stood on the highest part of his roof. To get down, they’d face a four-foot drop to the low roof where they could either jump for the backyard hot-tub, or bust through James’ bedroom window.

  He waited in his bed, naked under a thin sheet, eyes fixed on the west window.

  A flash of green and brown plunged from above, gathered itself, and peered inside. The white of the soldier’s eyes stood out against his camo paint.

  Gunfire. Head pounding. The bottle of pills and the bottle of whisky both empty on the nightstand. My window. The US Army staring at me.

  “What’s this happy horse shit?” James said under his breath.

  “By order of the State Governor, martial law is now in effect for all of Monroe County."

  Marshall who?

  The soldier’s voice sounded hollow and shaky through the glass. “We need access to ground level. Open the window or we break it.”

  We?

  Another flash of green dropped beside him and a second pair of eyes peered around the room.

  James hesitated, extracted himself from his sheets, and limped to the window, giving a full frontal to the wide-eyed strangers. He unlocked the flimsy latch and pushed the hinge. Lanky townhouses blocked James' view of the suburbs. He heard sirens and smelled gunpowder, the rest was none of his damn business.

  The troopers climbed over the sill, scanning the room as they tossed their rucksacks on the floor. Both flicked the tab on their rifles. Their arm patches read, "AIRBORNE"

  “Did you see that? Three hits. Three hits and he kept coming,” the stocky soldier exclaimed, voice shaky. His nametape read Bondy.

  The tall one nodded. “I saw it, too...Lost the radio on the drop.” He turned to James. “Hey, mister...”

  The world peered back at James from the end of a dark tunnel. This wasn’t what he needed. Not now.

  “I said hey, mister!” The tall one roared and James snapped to. James’ temper stiffened his neck and brought focus.

  “Which one of you jarheads is going to tell me why you’re in my house?!” James demanded.

  “Which way to Green River?” The tall one clearly wanted answers first. “Thrasher,” his tag read. Acne scars pocked through his face paint.

  Bondy and Thrasher.

  Fire team partners, James thought and pointed north. “Follow the back alley and it’ll lead you straight there. Now spit it up,” James demanded. “And don’t give me any of this ‘it’s classified,’ bullshit.'"

  The men’s adrenaline rattled their carabineers.

  “The honest-to-God truth, sir: we don’t know,’ Bondy admitted.

  James believed him.

  Thrasher rushed for the door, opened it and checked the hallway. Bondy ran to the east window and peeked through the blinds. The soldiers gulped large breaths as their combat rifles shook. .

  These grunts aren't prepared. No, sir—e Bob. A fork would crack them.

  “Hallway secure!” Thrasher finally shouted, as if suddenly remembering protocol. His voice sounded fractured. “How’s it look, Bondy?”

  Keeping his eyes on the street, Bondy muttered, “I’d say not good.” More labored breaths.

  Bondy finally gulped, turned to James, and frowned.

  This ain’t no greenhorn, James realized. Worry lines and crow’s feet showed through the face paint. James guessed 33, maybe 35, a career soldier. Three chevrons marked the man’s epaulette. Sergeant Bondy, then. Stress and bewilderment seemed to have wiped boot camp from his system. Balls of spittle had collected at the corners of the sergeant’s mouth.

  “Is it terrorists?” James asked, but he already knew. He knew the instant their darting white soldier eyes appeared in the window. Whatever those eyes saw wasn’t terrorists. Something worse.

  “Some things you just have to experience for yourself,” Bondy answered and pointed at the window blind’s pull cord. Thrasher closed the bedroom door, locked it, and watched as James stepped up to the blinds.

  “The earth shall quake before them; the heavens shall tremble,” Thrasher recited. He squared his shoulders, as if the words called him forth, “The sun and the moon shall darken, and the stars shall withdraw their shining light.”

  James’ bare foot landed square on a sharp-edged piece of the broken trophy and he swore as he stumbled toward the window. James grasped the plastic tip of the blind’s pull-cord. With one hard yank, he tugged and the blinds went up.

  The world he knew was gone.

  “Sir,” Thrasher began, looking James in the eye and holding it there for the first time. “This might be Armageddon
,” he said. “I’d suggest you put some pants on.”

  #

  CHAPTER 2

  Streets on Fire

  Across the tree-lined street, a FedEx truck had jumped the curb and overturned onto Don Riddle's front lawn. Orange and blue FedEx packages spewed out from the rear cargo door onto the road. Loose waybills scattered over lawns.

  Trails of red paint crisscrossed the pavement in every direction. Don Riddle’s Honda Civic alarm bleated. A man lay face-down on Riddle`s lawn, almost invisible beneath the dandelions and crab-grass. Riddle never could kill those weeds.

  While Bondy and Thrasher starred out the window and into the street, arguing under their breath, James grabbed a pair of blue jeans and socks. He sat on the edge of the bed to tie his work-boots. Everything ached. Nerves tingled. The soldiers didn’t ask how James managed to sleep through the escalation. He saw Bondy give a quick, assessing glance at the prescription bottle-whisky cocktail. That seemed to be enough.

  How many days had he been out? Did it matter?

  As he pulled an old Holy Names High gym shirt over his head, a noise blared from across the street. As he watched, a black speaker tower crashed through the neighbor’s ground-floor window, flipped through the air, and cracked its casing on the patio floorboards. The sub-woofer split with a hollow crack.

  Whoa.

  A girl with long brown hair rushed through the window frame and vaulted the patio railing. Her long legs caught the top of a rose bush and she face-planted into the lawn. She pulled her legs from the foliage, stood, and peered back into the house, her hands cupped over her mouth. Was she stifling a scream? James saw enough. His hand reached for the window lock. The soldiers grabbed his arms and yanked him back.

  “You gotta a death wish? Leave it shut,” Bondy hissed.

  James spun around and dug his finger into the short man’s chest. “Look, my head feels like a lead balloon, and my guts are one more surprise from spilling out onto the hardwood. Tell me what the fuck is going on!”

  James’ answer came in the form of 6’3 230-pound Holy Names running back , Philip Rettig. A massively built teen with dreads and full sleeve tattoos. Philip was following the girl, climbing through the same broken window and crossing the patio. He stumbled down the steps onto the lawn. James could see, even from fifty yards out, the kid’s daunting muscularity — roadmap veins, bowling ball shoulders, bicep and ripped abdomen — a walking anatomy chart.

  But something wasn’t right. The kid James knew ran a 40-yard dash in under five seconds. This Phil barely stood.

  “Phil!” The brown-haired girl screamed. Her sobs trailed long and slow.

  The running back fell to his knees on the lawn and bowed his head. Burgundy stains streaked from his temples, nose, mouth, and down his wife beater.

  The boy had lived at 502 Laurier since James moved to Greenville. James had watched the lanky fifth grader grow into a towering colossus, the kind of kid who looked tough, but liked to hang around and ask about, well, how to please women, while James worked on his F350 in the driveway. But that healthy boy now drooled from a drooping head. Phil’s chest heaved and he teetered where he knelt. He keeled over, and vomited brown and yellow bile.

  The girl reacted on instinct. She moved to comfort him, but Phil, with his large, vascular arms, shoved her back. She went sprawling.

  “Leave me!” He roared. The veins in his neck bulged. The girl rose and stood her ground.

  “My…My brother is coming with the Jeep!” She cried.

  Slowly, Phil staggered to his feet. He kept his arms outstretched, anticipating another fall. Then, swift as wind, Phil's arms dropped to his side and his posture straightened out. Something had changed. Something bad. This was the running-back as James remembered him from Friday night games at Holy Name. Strong, poised, imposing. The Phil that stood strong and true behind the line of scrimmage — before dishing out the punishment.

  Phil balled his fists and barred his teeth. He crept forward, keeping his head low. His girlfriend stood still. James wondered why she didn't run for it. Then the thought returned and he realized: Why aren’t I running?

  The window lock was a cheap dollar-store replacement. With one hard palm strike, James cracked the seal and it blew open.

  “Hey!” Was all James could think to yell. Phil and the girl looked up. It might buy her time.

  The soldiers grabbed for James, but he ducked and raced for the door. He pulled the knob, but Thrasher had locked it. After a fumbling moment, James released it and yanked the door open as hands grasped his sleeves.

  James’ shirt tore to the neckline. Another hand grasped his wrist. James flailed his arms, but the army boys held tight. An image flashed of Phil’s scrimmage-line stare — his girlfriend — if that’s who she was — wouldn’t fare well against a Philip Rettig bull-rush.

  “He’ll fucking kill her!” James screamed..

  Bondy and Thrasher either lost grip or gained remorse James raced downstairs, through the kitchen and out the door onto the streets.

  But there was no one to save. The girl lay in the pile of FedEx boxes, head turned at an impossible angle, glassy eyes wide. She stared at James in accusation — “If only you were a moment sooner,” she seemed to say.

  Phil sat cross-legged next to her, tearing at neck-flesh with grubby hands using a small pocketknife to slice and stab into the tough meat. He kept his head low, biting into the gaping wound and letting blood spray over his face, an indifferent buffet customer enjoying his meal.

  You want a bib for that Philly-boy? How’s about a wet-nap? A refill on that Coke you say? Comin’ right up.

  And the boy’s gaze would haunt James forever. Because it seemed to be Phil still — the kid across the street with the soft handshake and polite manners and unstoppable off-tackle. Phillip looked up and his eyes met James’. He stopped eating then, and just stared. James stared back, saying everything but nothing at all, two neighbors considering each other from opposite ends of a shallow grave. They seemed to share the same universal thought — what have we come to?

  Phil's eyes dropped to the pavement and his shoulders sunk, a melted candle of a boy.

  “Am I next?” James asked.

  “We’ll see,” Phil responded in a somber voice and as if it wasn’t up to him.

  He returned to his work, pulling and stabbing and cutting away at the dead girl’s oozing jugular. James recognized her then — the girl who made the front page of the Greenville Times for tying the district’s 400-meter sprint record. His inclination was right — she was Phil’s girlfriend. The paper had run a photo of the couple in tux and gown, standing in the atrium of Greenville’s aquatic center. Runners-up to the coveted Prom king and queen, the photo inset had read. She had looked pissed about it.

  Phil pulled and tore at her. Strands of flesh, still attached to the corpse, hung from his bloody grasp like tight elastic bands. When his eyes met James’ again, they embodied blank serenity. The boy was content with the meal before him, and content that James was far enough away not to take it.

  James heard the familiar clank of his own door slamming shut.

  “Those motherfuckers,” James said, backing toward home. The thudding of boots made him turn his back on Phil and the wreckage of the FedEx truck. He hobbled after Bondy and Thrasher. If the jarheads headed for a landing zone, he wanted in. James followed them through his backyard, around the pavilion, past the tomato garden, out the back gate and down the alley.

  Adrenaline gifted James with running speed he shouldn’t have this late in his illness — he was closing in on the soldiers when the Sacred Heart Secondary’s crossing guard stepped into the alley. She barreled straight for them, still wearing her reflective vest, sprinting at the speed of an athlete half her 55 years.

  James knew her for flipping him the bird every time he gunned it past her crosswalk at Laurier and Parent drive. Now she came for vengeance, or so it seemed — her eyes stared past the troopers and locked on James, shaking the bright red st
op sign now spattered with hair and gray matter.

  She began to shriek then, but the shriek came out garbled and bubbly as if drowning. Her eyes looked lost, bloodshot, afraid, angry. But her smile showed a different emotion; her lips were curled at James revealing a crimson grin just for him.

  The paratroopers aimed from the hip and unloaded both clips. Rounds pelted her stomach and chest, and she blew backwards, ribbons of blood jetting the air in thin, hard spurts. She cartwheeled, knocking over a garbage bin before flattening out. Her body convulsed. She arched her back and screamed at the blue Greenville sky. The soldiers didn’t wait to confirm-kill, only sprinted past her without a word, heading northward toward the river.

  James hesitated a moment, and trailed behind them. “We’re heading for the main strip!” James warned them. The sound of screams and police sirens roared louder with each step.

  #

  CHAPTER 3

  The Wreck

  “My son!” A suited man screamed from across the street. His mustard-yellow Mustang convertible’s front-end was wrapped around a tree, belching smoke. He stood on top the wreck, pleading.

  “We gotta help,” James told the soldiers. “No bailing this time.”

  Bondy and Thrasher exchanged glances. They wanted to jet, that seemed clear to James.

  “We should,” Bondy suggested to Thrasher. Thrasher nodded with resignation.

  James wove around stalled traffic; the soldiers’ boots smacked the pavement close behind.

  “My son!” The dad went on, accentuating the word with increasing hysteria, “My sooooooooon!”

  James and the troopers stopped at the foot of the wreck. The dad’s arm dangled uselessly. It swung like a rubber band as he pried at his son with his good arm. The boy, glassy-eyed like his father, sat in the passenger seat below, blood bubbling from a deep hairline gash.