“But …”
“I think I killed him. Don’t look at me like that. What was I supposed to do? Gray-haired or not, he had a crowbar. Tried to splatter my brains across the walls. I had no other choice.”
“Okay.” Michael kept his mouth open, but nothing else came out. Instead he went back over to the door and double-checked the lock.
“Look.” Evans started pacing around the cramped living room. “I’ve been driving around. I didn’t know where else to go. My wife. I can’t get ahold of her. I’ve got a little girl, too. You’ve gotta help me. I need to get home to them. I don’t know what to do. They’ve barricaded the roads. I can’t get out.”
“Okay. Where’s your wife?”
“Somers. Right on the lake.”
Michael nodded. “I’ve been there. That’s not very far.”
“How are we supposed to get there? We can’t go by car.”
“There’s got to be a way,” Michael said. “There are other roads. They can’t have barricaded them all.”
“You don’t get it, kid.” Evans stomped over to the window and pointed out at the street. “It’s psycho out there. They’re killing everyone. It’s only a matter of time till they find us.
“It’s the earthquakes,” Evans said. “Something happened that’s …” He paused. “Something’s turned people.”
“But we’re both fine,” Michael said.
“For how long?”
Michael went over to the phone and picked it up. Tried calling his mother’s number. Nothing. Suddenly, more than anything else in the world he wanted to hear her voice. He’d be satisfied with a recorded message saying she wasn’t home. But he couldn’t even get that.
What about Dad? Was he okay? He was supposed to get back from Denver in a few days. They were going to the football game this weekend. The tickets were on his dresser.
“I need to get home,” Evans said. “My wife. My daughter. She’s only two.”
“Maybe I can help you,” he said. He looked over at the fishing rods leaning against the couch.
He didn’t want to go outside. More than anything he wanted to crawl into bed, pull up the covers, and wait for this whole thing to blow over. The lock on their door was strong and there was more than enough food to keep him alive for several weeks. But he knew Dad would be disappointed in him if he took the cowardly way out. Especially when there were children involved who needed help.
He took a deep breath. “I know a way out of here. We can walk.” Michael went over to the window and saw that the street below was still empty. “There are trails not too far from here. I know of a few that loop around back to the highway. They’ll take us about five miles from town. There are ski resorts out that way. We might be able to find a working phone or even someone who can give us a ride.”
Evans nodded.
“Just let me get some stuff. I think we’ve got a flashlight kicking around. Not sure about batteries. There’s water in the fridge. Why don’t you grab it and whatever else you can find in the cupboard?”
Michael was surprised at how calm he felt. He went into the den, where he was pretty sure he’d last seen the flashlights. Sure enough, he found two of them in the back of the closet. Both of them worked.
Evans had reached out for him and Michael had found the solution. The fact that the older man needed help was the very thing that was keeping Michael from falling apart. His mother was like that, always the one to take control in serious situations. Although he hadn’t seen her in years, he couldn’t help but think she’d be proud of him for helping this man in his time of need.
Back in the living room, Evans seemed much better. He’d grabbed the water and shoved it into the backpack Michael gave him.
“We don’t need much,” he said. “There’s tons of gas stations along the road. We’ll be able to find what we need. It shouldn’t take us more than a few days tops, even less if we can catch a ride with someone.”
“You sure you won’t get us lost?” Evans asked.
“I grew up here,” Michael said. “I know the woods.” He grabbed his jacket and put it on. “I need to go check on Joe first. Do you just want to hang out here? It won’t take long. I know a good shortcut.”
“Don’t,” the older man said. “I went there first.”
Michael noticed that Evans’s hands were shaking. There was dried blood on his fingers from when he got attacked by the guy with a crowbar. “Was it bad?” he finally asked.
Evans nodded.
Joe had three younger sisters. His parents were cool. Michael turned away from Evans, not wanting the man to see the tears burning in his eyes.
“What about your family?” Evans asked. “Any idea where they are? Should you leave a note? I mean, how old are you anyway?”
“My dad’s in Denver,” he said, trying to keep his voice from trembling. “At this point there isn’t much I can do about him. I can’t reach him on the phone and he’s not due back for a few more days. I haven’t seen my mom or sister in years. Mom’s remarried. They’re out east. And I’m seventeen.”
“Good God, you’re just a kid.”
“Hey, you asked me for help.”
Evans put his hands up. “I didn’t mean it that way. You just seem a lot older. At seventeen, I’d probably have been hiding in the closet and sucking my thumb through something like this.”
The comment made Michael feel oddly proud. He put his hand on Evans’s shoulder. “We’ll get through this. We’ll find your wife and child.”
MASON
Mason couldn’t sleep. He moved across the house in the dead of night, the almost empty whiskey bottle firm in his fingers. He was drunk but it wasn’t a good time. Happy hour was over.
There were pictures on the walls, chronicles of his life:
—Disneyland when he was seven. He cried because he wasn’t tall enough to ride Space Mountain.
—A five-year-old Mason wearing his dress shirt and tie for his cousin’s wedding. He’d been the ring bearer. Someone had spilled red wine on him just before he walked down the aisle. He’d cried.
—A baby with a bright red nose, laughing while playing in the bathtub. One of the rare times he hadn’t cried.
—A picture of him and a bunch of his friends on the first day of high school. Tom had his arm around him. They’d dropped by the house after class and Mom had made the whole group sandwiches without complaining. A bunch of happy, hungry teenagers.
—Seventeen and standing in front of his new car. Okay, it wasn’t new but he had been thrilled just the same. He’d saved up for it for a year by working part-time at the mall. Mom had come through at the last minute and chipped in a few grand so he’d buy something safe and not a relic from the eighties.
—Mason at four. Back when Dad was still alive. In the picture, his mother was holding him, they were both wearing sunglasses, and he had on Dad’s baseball cap, which was several sizes too big. Mom looked so happy; her hair was loose and blowing in the breeze. Dad had taken the picture, and afterward they walked along the beach holding hands. The tide was out and Dad picked up some of the heavier rocks so that Mason could watch the baby crabs scuttle away. Afterward they had fried shrimp, and Mom laughed because Mason thought the marinara sauce was ketchup and poured it over his fries.
The picture slipped from his hands. He watched it drop in slow motion and hit the ground, the glass cracking across his mother’s face. Dropping to his knees, he picked up the broken frame and shook away the glass, fingers trembling; he removed the picture from its casing and turned it over so he could read the inscription.
STANLEY PARK. SECOND BEACH.
VANCOUVER, BC, MASON AND MOM—
ENJOYING THE SUN.
He couldn’t stand to look at it anymore. His eyes scanned the room, desperately seeking something else to grab his attention. Immediately he found his reflection in the darkened flat screen.
The television was no longer broadcasting.
Sometime around two the stations w
ent off the air. There was no warning. No emergency broadcast system. No lecture on how this was a test, only a test. Everything went dead, and black filled the screen.
The Internet was down too.
He didn’t even bother to check his cell phone.
Before it went off the air the television was full of questions. News announcers told people to remain calm while glancing agitatedly offscreen. Stay inside. Lock your doors. If you feel you can’t be alone or that you’re in danger, call the local police for a listing of safe areas to relocate.
Remain calm.
Helicopter reporters circled the skies, their cameras shooting footage of riots in the bigger cities like New York and Chicago. People were behaving erratically all over the world, even in places where the earthquakes hadn’t hit. Don’t panic. Los Angeles was gone. All electronic communication was halted. No one knew the exact extent of the damage. A few reports came in from Seattle and Portland. The cities were in ruins. The death count was immeasurable.
Don’t panic.
Something was happening to the citizens of the United States and the rest of the world. People were going crazy. Hurting each other. They were bombing schools and government centers. Strangers were setting things on fire. Reports of shooting sprees at restaurants and hospitals were popping up. Children were being hunted down in playgrounds and preschools. People were attacking randomly at both loved ones and complete strangers. The melted bag of frozen peas on the couch was testament to the last one. No matter how much Mason drank, his shoulder still hurt. Several times during the evening he stood in front of the bathroom mirror and moved his arm as much as he dared. He flexed his fingers and worried about the swelling and bruising when he took off his shirt. He’d toyed with the idea of going back to the ER but didn’t think he’d even get through the doors. He wondered if his mother was still in the intensive care ward, dead and forgotten. Was her body stiff by now? Rigor mortis lasted only so long, didn’t it? Maybe her body was soft again, slowly decaying, cellular structures breaking apart, and there was no one there to put her in cold storage down in the morgue. She might never get a burial; instead the hospital bed would become her tomb. Would she mummify? Or would she simply rot away?
He should go back and get her. There was a shovel in the garage; he could bury her in the garden. It might not be as glamorous or sacred as a cemetery, but his options were slim. He couldn’t bear to see her body again, though. What if it was already bloated? What if he’d been wrong and she’d still been alive? What if she was dying right now and calling out his name and he was selfishly pissing away her only bottle of whiskey? No, he couldn’t go back. He just wanted to stop thinking. It was easier that way. The numbness hadn’t left him; if anything it was spreading. When he looked at the pictures, there was no emotion, even though he knew there should be. He should be sad.
But he wasn’t.
He felt nothing.
The drinking didn’t help.
Somewhere in the darkest recess of his brain, a button was pushed. Everything he cared about simply vanished. He’d malfunctioned.
It was better this way, or at least that’s what he told himself. Caring only led to heartbreak. He’d probably be curled up on the floor in his bedroom, crying like a baby, if it weren’t for the numbness. This way he was able to still function, or he would tomorrow morning once he sobered up.
He was done mourning.
It was time to act. Whatever was happening was going to continue. He needed to find someplace safe if he was going to survive, a nice rustic cabin in the mountains where he could silently wait the whole thing out. Maybe he could find a beach, become a castaway where the sun could warm his body. He’d do it alone; he didn’t want people around. They’d only hold him back. He didn’t need anyone.
All he had to do was burn his bridges.
There was a gasoline can in the garage for the lawn mower. Drunkenly, he stumbled out to find it in the corner underneath some tarps. Back in the house he started with his bedroom. A clean start would make everything better. There was nothing he wanted. He sprinkled his bed with a healthy dose of the flammable liquid and then moved on. Next were the guest room and the bathroom. He passed his mother’s bedroom—no need to go in there. He briefly considered taking her jewelry but then decided against it. It’s not like he’d be able to sell it. The odds that the pawn shops might be open during this crisis were laughable. Downstairs he soaked the television and the couch. In the kitchen he baptized the microwave, table, and curtains. Methodically he moved from room to room until he finally ran out of gasoline. It was enough; he’d managed to do sufficient damage. When he lit the match the entire house would burn. Maybe he could roast marshmallows.
Back in the living room, he dropped the canister on the floor and looked around for the whiskey bottle. He found it, but somehow he’d tipped it over and the last remaining liquid had spilled out and stained the carpet. His brain became assaulted with white noise. Darkness clouded his vision. He couldn’t even think straight enough to try and step back and figure out where the rage came from. Picking the bottle up off the floor, he blindly hurled it at the wall. It smashed against the television, cracking the screen and sending bits of glass across the floor.
It wasn’t enough. Over at the wall he tore down the pictures. One by one, he slammed them to the floor, stomping on the frames and grinding the glass into dust beneath his heel. The bookshelves were next: Mom’s paperback collection. He pulled them down, tearing the covers off and crushing the contents inside. The vase he’d given her was thrown at the fireplace, her plate collection used like Frisbees. In the kitchen he toppled the refrigerator, hurled the chairs out the window, uprooted the plants, and used the silverware for target practice.
He began to cry. Big whooping sobs that consumed him, blinded him, but still he carried on. He almost made it to the bedrooms but collapsed on the stairs when his legs refused to keep moving. Closing his eyes, he felt the rage disappear as quickly as it had come, and he was left there sobbing on the carpet, his back against the railing, completely unsure of what he’d just done.
When there was nothing left inside, he laid his head down on the carpet and stared at the wooden railing. He was even emptier than before. How was it possible that hollowness could dig so deep?
Breathing heavily, he wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve.
It was late and he was tired. He couldn’t remember what he was going to do. The smell of gasoline was strong, but there was no memory of why.
Eyes closed, his body gained a few hundred pounds. It was too much effort to do anything except lie there awkwardly. All he needed was a few minutes, and then he’d get back up and do whatever he was supposed to do.
He slept. There were no dreams.
When he woke the next morning, his head was pulsating from the whiskey and the fumes. Picking himself up off the stairs, he couldn’t remember how he got there. All he could remember was taking the whiskey bottle from its hiding spot and the first few swigs. His back was all messed up from sleeping crooked; he must have pinched a nerve. His shoulder throbbed; he could barely move his arm. Stumbling, wincing, grabbing his head with his good hand, he made his way into the bathroom to find some medicine.
In the mirror a worn-out person stared back at him. There were black circles under his eyes and his hair was tangled. Taking off his shirt, he winced when he saw the black-and-purple pattern across his shoulder. He splashed some water on his face, and the coolness quenched his skin. He chewed down two Tylenol without taking a drink.
The living room was a disaster. Everything was destroyed or lying on the ground. He was pretty sure he’d done it. But he couldn’t remember exactly.
Did he pour the gasoline?
The Stanley Park picture was on the ground, and he picked it up, turning it over in his hands so he didn’t have to see the smiling faces. Folding it carefully, he tucked it into his back pocket.
Mom and Mason in Stanley Park.
He’d felt safe the
re.
It would be nice to see Vancouver again.
The kitchen was worse. He wandered from room to room trying to retrace the steps he’d taken, but his mind was a blank slate. In his bedroom he tried turning on the television, but none of the channels were working. His cell phone said there was no signal.
The world was in chaos. He remembered that much. In the hospital his mother was rotting on a bed. Had anyone come to take her away?
He grabbed his jacket and car keys. If he was going to survive this, he needed to be where he could get news. The whole world couldn’t be cut off. There had to be other normal people out there. He’d find them.
But he wouldn’t care. Never again would he get close to someone. They’d only leave him, and he was going to do whatever it took to outlive this war. This sickness. Apocalypse? Who cared what it was. Out of sheer defiance he’d beat it.
He paused at the front steps before he left. The match lit on the first strike. The flame hurt his eyes, made his heartbeat throb at the back of his brain. He set the packet ablaze and dropped it in the closest gasoline puddle.
From the safety of the car he watched the flames eat away at the living room blinds. The street was completely empty; no one witnessed his crime. He didn’t know if his neighbors were hiding away behind closed doors or if they’d fled like he was about to do. He didn’t really care.
Something was happening to him. Mason didn’t know what it was, but deep down inside his soul, he was changing. A tiny voice in the farthest corners of his mind was whispering things he wanted to hear, forcing him to behave in a way that was foreign to him. A new Mason.
“I’m going crazy,” he said. The words echoed through the car.
He floored the gas pedal and, tires peeling, backed out into the street. As he drove off he didn’t bother to take one last look at his house going up in flames.