Primal Shift: Volume 1 (A Post Apocalyptic Thriller) Page 9

  Nowhere was safe. If he’d opted to stay in the building, something was bound to fall on his head. Out here was double trouble. Crap falling from 50 stories up and people scrambling over one another to get to safety. It was like the Twin Towers were tumbling down all over again.

  He’d watched the whole thing from his office that day back in 2001, until the call had come to evacuate the building. Outside, the sound of sirens was all they’d been able to hear. And that’s when Larry noticed the next strange thing. Beneath the squawk of car alarms, he hadn’t heard any sirens. Police, ambulance, fire department. The men and women who had saved hundreds and maybe thousands of people that day were nowhere to be seen.

  Larry stumbled out of the alley, toward what he assumed was Pine Street. There hadn’t been more than one or two aftershocks so far, but he knew enough about earthquakes to know that was usually when people assumed they were safe, when they learned otherwise.

  Only when he reached the sidewalk was Larry suddenly convinced he wasn’t in New York at all, but instead on the streets of Fallujah.

  Or maybe he was dreaming. Back in his penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue, stretched out on his king-sized, pillow-top mattress sawing Z’s and settling into the kind of nightmare you can’t wake up from fast enough.

  Then another smell hit him, one he hadn’t caught before and he knew he wasn’t dreaming.

  Blood.

  It was pooled around a pair of soft white legs protruding from under the mangled remains of a giant letter N. An N from the Nutrilife sign 49 stories up, that must have fallen and shattered at about the same time the entire city was being bitch-slapped by Mother Earth. And by the looks of those legs, it had nailed the Wicked Witch of the East and split her wide open.

  Larry covered his nose.

  If what remained of her wasn’t turning his stomach, Larry might have hung around to see if those legs shriveled up and retreated from view the way they had in the movie.

  The flashing lights of a police cruiser up ahead caught Larry’s attention, and his shoulders sagged as he breathed a noticeable sigh of relief.

  He’d been wrong about the emergency responders, and he was happy to admit it. The cops were out all right, trying to restore order. They’d have one hell of an uphill battle on their hands, given that at peak hours Manhattan alone contained over 11 million people.

  He pointed his feet in the cop’s direction and began walking determinedly before hesitating, the soles of his brand new Testonis sliding on the bits of dust and gravel that caked the streets and seemed to be floating down the boulevard in a giant cloud.

  Larry’s initial hesitation hadn’t been entirely rational. How could a simple beat cop know he’d pushed Josh, the gimp intern, to his death? Hell, how would anyone know? The answer was simple. They wouldn’t. Nor would they, once all of this was finally sorted out. And sorted out it would be. The government would surely call in the National Guard or something, and that’s exactly what Larry was thinking as he approached the officer from behind.

  The cop was down on his haunches, bent slightly at the waist and underneath him was a man. The cop was trying to revive him. Maybe he was doing CPR or something.

  “Excuse me, officer ... ”

  The cop turned and grunted as he rose to his feet and came at Larry, swinging his police baton. In the cop’s other hand was a loaf of Wonderbread. The guy lying on the ground hadn’t been receiving CPR at all. He’d been receiving enough blows from the cop’s baton to make his skull look like a punch bowl. And spilled on the ground beside him, some of them trailing under the police cruiser, were the groceries the man had been walking home with when all hell had broken loose ... when this deranged policeman had decided he wanted whatever food was in that bag and was perfectly willing to break a stranger’s head open to get it.

  The cop came at Larry in a series of feigned charges, before bringing his baton down against Larry’s shoulder. The pain was sharp and blinding.

  This asshole was insane. Larry could see that now, from the dull look in the cop’s eyes. There wasn’t anyone home. At least, no one with any sense of right and wrong, although the irony of his passing judgment wouldn’t come home to roost until much later.

  Larry turned to run away, and the cop buried the end of his night stick into Larry’s spine, sending Larry sprawling to the ground where he received a mouthful of concrete dust, his face sliced by pieces of glass and everything else that littered Pine Street.

  Larry rolled onto his back, arms raised, his tongue working overtime to clear the crap out of his mouth.

  The officer had thrown away the Wonderbread now. He seemed to know on some deep primal level that with the club he was wielding he would be able to eat whenever he wanted to.

  Larry was still on his back, hands propped in the air, wondering what the hell he had done to trigger this guy’s rage, not entirely sure how the world had suddenly gone bonkers. Then he remembered the gun in his pocket.

  He stuck a hand out to the cop. “Hold on!” he shouted. “I got something for you. All the food you want.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his Emporio Armani wallet, packed to the brim with a wad of crisp new 100-dollar bills he got from the ATM on his way to work this morning.

  The cop snatched the wallet and put it in his mouth, grinding the leather between his teeth. He seemed to chew on it for a second or two before realizing it tasted like shit.

  “You like that, don’t you?” Larry asked. “Well, if you like that, then you’re gonna love this.” Larry raised the .38 and pulled the trigger twice. The first slug made a perfect hole in the cop’s forehead. The second grazed his skull, tearing away a flap of skin as it sped away. The cop’s eyes rolled up to whites, and his jaw dropped open.

  If he hadn’t been brain dead before, he was now.

  Larry quickly rolled out of the way as the policeman collapsed to the ground.

  No rescue workers. Crazy cops acting like Neanderthals. If this were any indication of how things were gonna be before full order was restored, then Larry knew without a doubt he needed to get the hell out of New York City as soon as possible. He stood, dusted himself off, and removed the Glock from the cop’s holster. Why on Earth the crazy bastard hadn’t used it instead of that silly night stick, Larry didn’t know, but he never was one to look a gift horse in the mouth. His back and shoulder were sore as hell, but Larry didn’t think anything was broken.

  What he did know was that darkness was fast approaching, and he would have to move quickly. He still wasn't sure what was wrong with everyone. This was way beyond that post-traumatic crap disorder those talking heads on CNN were always crying about. It was as though people had suddenly taken a noticeable step backward on the evolutionary tree. The new world order, run by a bunch of frickin’ apes. Larry glanced up at the dancing lights above him. Whatever destroyed his city had also somehow destroyed people’s minds. The how part he didn’t have just yet. If New York weren’t the only place affected, if the rest of the country or rest of the world were the same, then that nagging fear he’d been trying his best to ignore might be right after all. That without a hint of warning, the end of the world had come, and the lucky ones were already dead.

  PRIMAL SHIFT 2: Exodus

  Finn

  Nevada desert, Route 95

  Finn engaged the cruise control, heading toward Las Vegas along Route 95. The early morning sun was low over the mountains and directly in his eyes, mingling with the strange lights still overhead. He removed the shades from the pocket of his coveralls, flicked them open and slid them on. Las Vegas was still two hours away, and once his brain stopped feeling as if the sun’s rays were poking it with hot needles, he could at least go over what had happened last night in his mind.

  Jackson was kind and had allowed him to stay the night at Nevada Joe’s. He’d spent some of that time trying to question Betsey about the image she’d doodled on that scrap of paper, that same image he’d been seeing floating in his head these last 24 hours, bu
t soon enough, he realized there wasn’t any point.

  She was blank, just like everyone else.

  Her gaze had followed him, and Jackson as they tossed around theories of what had happened, but in the end, she still couldn’t communicate in any meaningful way. A few times Finn and Jackson heard her make grunting noises, like an ape, and their eyes had grown wide with hope. Then hope had turned to despair. If she were speaking a language, it was one they didn’t understand.

  He left first thing in the morning, stocked with a day’s worth of provisions and a map of Las Vegas, so he’d at least have a clue where the hell he was going. The shades, taken from the dead Tevatron worker killed with the scattergun, had been Jackson’s final gift. Before he hit the road, Finn had emptied the gas from another car. The long, isolated stretch he’d be driving wasn’t somewhere he wanted to run dry. His offer to bring Jackson and Betsey along fell on deaf, mostly stubborn, ears.

  “Nevada Joe’s is all I own in what’s left of the world, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let a bunch of looters come and strip her clean.”

  Finn was secretly sure that Jackson was determined to wait until the government got things back under control. Didn’t matter to him that neither of them had been able to contact another living soul since whatever it was that had happened, happened.

  Above all else, getting to Tevatron’s regional office was first and foremost on Finn’s mind. He hadn’t forgotten that; not yet, at least.

  He whipped by an abandoned car. The driver’s side door was ajar, but no one was home.

  That was a good enough analogy to describe how he felt right now, a single notch up from babbling Betsey back at Nevada Joe’s. He could speak, thank God, and remembered how to drive a car and wipe his ass, but that was about it. The memories would return soon enough, or at least he hoped they would. Maybe the sight of Sin City would rattle something loose in the old coffee can.

  Las Vegas was a funny place. Out in the middle of the desert, you might think it would be visible from miles away, like an oasis, but that wasn’t how it was. It was flat and rather drab. Subdivisions flickered by on both sides, filled with rows of homes and who knows what else lurking inside; hiding, waiting, maybe even killing.

  The real indication he was getting close to his destination was the increased number of abandoned wrecks along the highway. In one was a body: an elderly man, who’d stayed in his car after the earthquake and more than likely roasted himself alive in the heat.

  Finn took a swig of water and then pumped the brake, slowing the Land Rover to a crawl.

  He cursed.

  Ahead lay a tangle of cars. There’d been a pileup, the mess forming an impassable barrier across the highway. There also wasn’t much chance of jumping the curb and going around, especially given the two concrete barriers that were hemming him in on either side.

  He kicked the truck into reverse and turned around. The thought of driving in the wrong direction on a highway made his guts twist into knots, but he was nearly positive a head-on collision wasn’t a real danger, not anymore, especially given that he hadn’t seen any traffic since he’d left the plant.

  He went back to the Durango Drive exit and realized things were even worse there.

  The big-ass SUV he’d acquired wasn’t suited to cruising through a city jammed with abandoned cars. He pulled the truck to a stop when he saw the bodies. One of them lay on the road, depressed in the center with a perfect tire track. Others were scattered in an open field to his right, as though after escaping from their cars, they’d wandered aimlessly until the scorching sun had worn them down.

  Which brought up a point he hadn’t given all that much thought to before: Had these people really gone crazy, or had their minds simply been wiped clean? He’d tried for over an hour to speak with Betsey without a shred of luck. What would have happened to her, he wondered, if she’d been driving when the world had been turned upside down? What of all the people who were prepping for the holiday weekend when everything they knew was torn from their minds? If Betsey had forgotten how to speak or use the bathroom, then she certainly couldn’t have operated a car. Whatever had happened had turned people into children, which sent an uncharacteristic chill up Finn’s arms. Children could be sweet and innocent, but they could also be harsh and cruel. They hadn’t yet learned the difference between right and wrong. Their only compass was raw emotion and the clawing, neverending needs of the body. Hunger, shelter from the elements, and the willingness to take another life if it meant saving their own. The thought was a frightening one. And then something else occurred to Finn, which froze the blood in his veins. What if this natural disaster, for lack of a better term, went beyond the state of Nevada? If the entire country, or even the world, had been affected, then millions, no billions, would die. But there was more, wasn’t there? The ones who came out on top wouldn’t be like the others he’d seen so far, weak and already half dead. No, this new breed was sure to display the kind of unbridled ferocity that only Mother Nature could produce.

  Finn was about to back up again and take his chances elsewhere, when he spotted a motorbike up ahead. It looked like a Kawasaki Ninja, leaning against the guardrail, almost begging him to hop on. It wouldn’t protect him from the heat or from anyone who decided to take a swipe at him, but it might be the only way of getting to Tevatron to find the answers he needed.

  Dana Hatfield

  Coast Guard Station Golden Gate, Fort Baker, CA

  Dana awoke with a start. She'd locked herself in the CO's private quarters shortly after the sun went down. The SIG 229R sagged in her hands. She’d been holding the pistol all night, more than ready, able, and willing to blow away anyone who tried to get in. She stood, and the joints in her knees popped. The horrible taste in her mouth wouldn’t go away, no matter how many times she swallowed. Gun at the ready, she crept to the door and inched it open a crack so she could peek outside.

  The hallway that led to the radio room was empty. The blood on the floor was still there, and the sight of it brought back yesterday’s horrors in a fresh wave of pain. She’d made Alvarez dig a grave for Keiths and Nash at gunpoint and had locked him in the brig after he finished. There was still no sign of the others they’d locked in the conference room after the change. Nash had been among them and when he got out, or when he was let out, they'd all broken free.

  Dana went to the mess hall, grabbed a few day-old muffins wrapped in cellophane and made her way to the brig.

  A lot of things about Keiths’ death didn't set well with her and one of those in particular stood out. Keiths’ pistol was still in its holster when she’d arrived. If Alvarez had killed the CO, then why hadn’t he taken the man's gun? Unless Nash really had attacked Keiths and Al had fought and killed him in the process of saving his own life.

  Dana reached the brig and found Alvarez crouched in the corner of his cell. He didn’t seem nearly as defiant as he’d been the night before.

  "You know I didn't do it," he said. “I can see the doubt in your eyes.”

  Dana stayed quiet.

  “So what you gonna do with me?”

  She tossed him a muffin. “First things first: Eat, then I'll decide whether to shoot you or not.”

  “This might be my last meal then. That what you’re saying?”

  “Might be.” Her features were hard, difficult to read.

  “If I knew that I woulda ordered a Big Mac, large fries, and a strawberry shake.” Al gave her a weak smile.

  “I'm sure you would.”

  She left the room, letting him stew while she tried to figure out her next move. There was still no word from the big cheeses back at the Department of Homeland Security, nor had Dana heard anything like the sound of sirens she’d been praying for. A sound that would have signaled the closest thing to hope she’d felt in a while.

  For a brief moment that morning, as her eyes had sprung open to the soft light creeping in through Keiths’ window, she had thought the entire thing had been nothing more than a ter
rible dream. Her heart had soared, before it came crashing back to Earth with the realization she’d been wrong. This was it. Hell on Earth, and there was no way to escape it, except through death. The thought of dying made her think of her father. Was he at home, waiting for help? Her help? Was he even still alive?

  The family lived in a semi-detached in Bernal Heights. Avoiding the Golden Gate was a no-brainer, especially after the terrible carnage she’d witnessed there. She would take the MLB, loop around the downtown district and tie the boat at Pier 42. From there, she’d make her way to Bernal Heights and with any luck find her father, alive and waiting. However, there was one hitch.

  What would she do with Alvarez?

  If something happened to her on the way and she couldn’t make it back, if she were somehow killed, then he’d stay locked in that cell until he starved to death. On the other hand, if he had killed Keiths to avoid being court-martialed, then what would stop him from getting rid of her the moment her back was turned?

  Alvarez was playing sweet right now. She’d never known him to utter a single sentence to her that wasn’t laced with sexist profanity. Even she could smell what he was up to. He was trying to get on her good side, buttering her up, biding his time until he found an opportunity to make his move. There was a chance she was wrong; Dana knew that as well as anyone, but gambling with her life wasn’t a risk she was willing to take.

  She spent the next hour gathering up as much gear as she could carry and stuffing it all into a rucksack. Water, MREs, a box of .40s for the SIG, and three extra magazines that she loaded and stored in the belt that held her holster. As far as she was concerned, this was a quick trip. Grab her father and a few things from the house and head back to Fort Baker. She’d seen the news after hurricane Katrina had turned New Orleans into a crime-ridden cesspool. The pistol was a no-brainer, but going in armed to the teeth like Dirty Harry seemed counterproductive, especially given she’d be walking uphill most of the way after she made landfall.