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The gosh-darn sun was blinding even worse. Paul wore his buddy's Aviators; and they did nothing. He peered through the windshield as his cumbersome truck rolled down the empty streets of the place he once knew. The horizontal rip in the heavens was flickering now, like lights on Christmas Eve; it was an array of colors, fascinating but seemingly deadly.
"Jesus..." Paul murmured to himself, finding it hard to keep his eyes on the road. The sky was flickering all the forms of red. From crimson to cherry to rose to a violet—to colors and shades and hues and tones and accents Paul didn't even have words for.
He shot a look quick to the girl in the passenger seat. She sat perfectly erect, her white eyes unmoving, her tiny fingers spread on her knees. She hadn't said a word the whole drive, and Paul had given up trying.
He had been driving for a while now, though it had never struck him where he was heading. Surely, he had embarked with a destination in mind...
But that sky; that brilliant, intoxicating sky. Paul didn't know whether it was the impossible heat, the sewers, or the jungle of seemingly abandoned homes and vehicles, stores, shops, businesses and communities—but something was making him woozy. Maybe it was just the weirdness of it all.
Paul wiped a bead of sweat from his face. And that's when he became aware of the sweat everywhere else. He was perspiring like a Sumo Wrestler in a sauna. He was a big man, and had never done well in the heat. Then again, it had never been so gosh-darn hot in Marin's Dale. Not like this.
And speaking of that heat, it was almost, almost... artificial. Like something somewhere had switched the setting on a giant oven, an oven containing them all. Paul wondered if the government had something to do with it. Would it really be that farfetched to assume that they were doing something dubious? After all, Marin's Dale was a secluded place. What better way to test a new controversial technology than to unleash it upon an unknowing town? It would be an easy clean-up and an easy cover-up when things got dicey.
Paul shook his head. But people knew about this town—people from all across the US. Well, 'least the people who bothered to do the research. Marin's Dale was supposed to be a haven of sorts. It was supposed to be a good place for raising a family and settling down—especially if you were the upper middle-class.
Paul groaned. His thinking was going awry, and it bothered him. He remembered the days when such a feeling had been desired. But that had been 28 years ago. And Paul was done with that lifestyle. He had sworn to himself and his wife and his kids and on the graves of countless relatives that he would never go back to that way of living.
28 years, 8 months, and 17 days. He kept track every day, to remind himself of how far he'd come. He reminded himself how lucky he was to be alive, with loved ones and a steady career—it all could have ended a million different ways, so, so, long ago.
Not a day went by where Paul didn't have at least one craving. But he was okay with this. He was an addict, and he understood this now. There were ways of combating those cravings. Whenever things got bad, Paul knew what to do. He liked to go to the movies now, by himself. It was his way of putting things back in order, of reminding himself of all his blessings.
Those who knew him respected this—they gave him his private time. Those who used to know him, those who used to kill the nights with the Demon rushing through their veins—these people, they would never understand.
But then again, most of these people had disappeared long ago. Paul doubted if any of them were still living. And if they were, it wasn't the kind of life he'd wish on anybody. It was amazing the kind of people that turned to these lifestyles. People who seemingly had everything, they were the kind who seemed most susceptible.
It was a cruel irony, really. Others always assumed that the people with everything had everything to lose. But Paul knew it differently. The people with everything feared losing nothing because they had everything.
But it could happen to anybody. Paul did not judge. He wished the best for everybody, but nobody could make you change. It had to come from within. No matter how many interventions, how many ODs, how many lonely nights spent in half-way houses and alleyways, in hospitals with IVs running through your collapsed veins as your heart pounded for survival—none of it mattered, if you didn't care.
And the only way to care was to find your voice.
There came a mumble from his side. Paul checked the girl once again. She was still staring out into nothingness with those eerie eggshell eyes, but something had changed. Her right arm was raised at a perfect 90 degrees to her torso, and her index finger extended outward.
Paul slowed the truck. They had come to a dead-end court.
There were nice rancher homes with manicured gardens and shiny stone walkways. They looked untouched, unscathed by the events of today. Somehow, these cozy abodes floated outside the realm of weirdness that had befallen the sacred Marin's Dale. The tulips were lovely; the bushes were green and lively.
In the middle of the court, there was a manhole. Paul rubbed his eyes. The cover had not been blown. But it was trembling, and rattling with the force of an impending doom. The little girl mumbled something again, incoherently. Paul frowned.
Then the manhole exploded, straight up like a rocket. Cracks in the asphalt and pavement radiated out from the sewer entrance; the epicenter. The court began to shudder, tremble. Paul grabbed ahold of the steering wheel, but the truck was moving, sinking. He looked once to the girl, who showed no emotion, her finger still pointed toward the opening.
Cracks became fissures, rocks and bicycles and parked cars quaked amid the tumult of moving earth, and all things inanimate and living were caught in the storm. Paul grabbed ahold of the girl, so much like his own daughter all those years ago—and then he did something.
He pulled her into his arms, in his big bear arms, and gave her his strongest, most secure hug. Saying a prayer to the Lord and Savior, Paul closed his eyes.
This was it. He tightened the seatbelt around them.
A screech, much liked grinded gears, emanated from somewhere below the street level. And the trembling stopped. The shaking homes and cars and vision halted. The mini quake was done.
Just like that.
The world was restored to a sense of normalcy. The landscape had changed, but the movement had ceased. Paul opened his eyes.
And that's when a noise, a belch from the open sewer, spewed forth a stream of human bodies.
###
Tyler gave his face a slap.
What a nice face. What a handsome, strapping young face. His reflection in the bathroom mirror was one gaunt and sickly and lacking the vital stuff that made the human creature tick: blood. But nonetheless, he retained something. Other squares would have crashed and burned by now, but Tyler wasn't some weaksauce kid. He was a goddamn stallion.
He closed his zipper. That blown load had sobered him up. Audrey had taken it like a good girl too. And why wouldn't she? Tyler could bang with the best. He hated going to wars strapped—he preferred the raw feel, like a slimy eel.
It was all about the rotation. A lot of these squares would thrust and pound and go to town like they were goin into freakin epileptic shock. Tyler knew that it was all about the slow and steady. He had rhythm, groove, mojo.
And girls knew it. He saw the way they looked at him. Most these girls, in public places with their miniskirts and their belly button rings—they all wanted him. Even with their bitch-ass boyfriends draggin them to every store and buying them everything in sight—and they still wanted Tyler's bratwurst.
It was because they could sense it. They knew Tyler had that good. Before Audrey, Tyler had dominated. It was almost funny how easy they came; like beetles to dung. And he took them all. Caucasians, Asians, butter-pecans, big asses, big boobs, screamers, biters, and sadomasochistic emochicks. He took them all.
Tyler smiled in reminiscence. He had lost his virginity at 13, when most these schoolboys were gettin in their first wank. Tyler had been an incredible athlete back then, with an incredible immune system. He never got colds, never got the Flu, never really had a 'bad' day, despite everything he put in his body.
Back then, panties just seemed to drop, and out came Mr. Diehl Junior. It was hilarious to Tyler, how these girls behaved. They acted all good and proper, but they were all bad. Point out one prude, and Tyler would summon the slut brigade. Girls wanted it as bad as guys. They were all horny, and they loved it. This, Tyler was sure of. They'd turn their asses up and Tyler would do his thing. He could make those bitches moo like a goddamn farm animal. Down on all fours, takin what Papa gave 'em.
But he had never cheated on Audrey. When she came into the picture, out the window went the days of promiscuous sex. She was the catalyst to his change. Well, she had changed him in that way at least...
But nobody would change him all the way. That's what the goods were for. If they wanted focused and studious Tyler, in came the Dextroamphetamines. Snort a couple of those baddies, and Tyler could write a goddamn thesis on anything their hearts desired. Besides, school wasn't about showing your understanding. It was about disguising your lack thereof.
Or maybe they wanted a happy-go-lucky Tyler, in which case, poppin a few Prozacs did just the trick. Sunshine city, here I come! Sometimes, the world demanded a stoic soldier to take on the bad times. When those tough times came rollin in, Tyler went rollin on. On anything, really. Who was he kidding? When were there not bad times?
There was a feeling for every occasion. A little crystalline tropane alkaloid here, a squirt of psilocybin there, some greenies and poppers and jumpies and, of course, the always reliable and predictable choice of the masses: good ol' alcohol. Tyler laughed. He was a goddamn pharmacist for shit's sakes—probly knew more than those hacks, anyway.
Tyler gave his hair a quick rub. He brought Audrey here cuz he wanted to scope out the public place. It was a mall after all, a place where people convened and bought overpriced brand-names and shoveled garbage fast food down their gullets. It's where a thousand people sat their asses on the same toilet, shared the same space and judged one another in passing.
But like he had expected, there was nobody here.
It didn't bother Tyler in the slightest that there was nobody here. He liked to do his thing and get skonzed—it was pretty darn cool. People were stupid sometimes, trying to insinuate that he was some kind of lost soul. What the hell did that even mean? "Lost soul?" And what, the guy with the steady job makin 50k pushing pencils for the guys in the shadows stroking the white cats—these lifers were happy with their lives?
Nah, Tyler was done with that crap. Screw those people who didn't know him and didn't care to know him. Those skonzoids could do whatever they wanted. Tyler wasn't going to sit around and let the circumstances rule him. He was done with waiting.
He wasn't lost.
He knew his position exactly. He needed to save people; he just didn't know how. That was it, was it not? This... virus was affecting everybody. There had to be others out there.
Like his family.
He slammed the sink, his knuckles crackling on the porcelain. He didn't care. People were dying today. He would not cave to the world around him. He and Audrey were going to make it. There was no question; they would leave the mall immediately. They would take one of the nicer vehicles cast aside on the road, and go. Straight to Moonshire through Wellington Tunnel. It was the only way in and out of Marin's Dale: through the mountains.
Tyler knew that the Lake at Moonshire was a welcoming place. He had been there many times before. The Lake was probably where most the people had gone. It had trails and camp spots, and high cliffs and nooks and crannies. The Lake was a good spot for many people.
Tyler nodded. Surely the Lake was where the survivors had gone?
He turned quickly from the sink, plan in mind. Tyler knew that they could not waste any more time. He was no good to the others dead. He would help who he could along the way, but some would likely perish. Tyler knew he had to accept this, though it truly bothered him. He would help who he could.
If they found anybody left. Tyler slapped his face. Downing another one, he opened the door to the bathroom and the long, dimly lit corridor leading back to the food court. Little did he notice, as he stepped outside the restroom, the thick crimson fluid leaking from his ear.