Season of Rot (13 page)

4

Washington D.C.

President Clark sat at his desk, shuffling
through the reports from NASA and other organizations about the
energy wave that had struck the earth. Below them rested even more
reports, these from the military and countless government and law
enforcement agencies regarding the chaotic aftermath. Things did
not look good for the human race.

Of course, things were even worse than what
he was hearing. Ninety percent of all communications throughout the
world had been lost, and even inside the city proper, news had been
reduced to word of mouth. All forms of technology that required
more than simple kinetic or combustion energy were essentially
useless. The wave had seen to that. Even the backup systems and
batteries were down, though already some were coming back online
thanks to the available scientists and technicians.

The effects of the energy wave on technology
appeared to be dissipating at an exponential rate, but it would
still take weeks, perhaps months, for the world’s more advanced
systems to be fully restored. Fortunately, a few of the
heavily-shielded military bunkers—like the one beneath the White
House—had survived most of the wave’s impact, otherwise the
president’s knowledge of the outside world would have gone from
limited to nonexistent.

General McMahan kept insisting that President
Clark flee the city and head for a more secure bunker in another
state, and in fact the general was hard at work preparing a
makeshift convoy from the civilian and military vehicles that
filled the bunker, as well as the White House’s garages and parking
areas. Even though nuclear attacks by the former Soviet Union or
any other nation were highly unlikely, judging from the state in
which the wave had left the US’s own arsenal, he claimed the city
was not safe.

The droves of frightened people who wandered
to the gates of the White House, pleading for assistance and
looking for hope, disturbed McMahan and put him on edge, but he was
even more concerned about those who had been driven mad by the
wave, by some kind of electro-biological aftereffect on the human
mind. Clark had asked the scientists about the madness, but their
answers were vague; they assured him it would only worsen, and that
few, if any, would be immune to the wave’s lingering radiation.

So far, Clark had refused McMahan’s requests
to leave. He hoped his presence would comfort those citizens who
had retained their sanity, give them hope that steps were being
taken to resolve this catastrophe. The weight of the country and
the world lay heavily upon his shoulders, and he could only hope
his best efforts would be enough to ensure the preservation of
humanity.

He set the stacks of papers on his desk and
buried his head in his arms. With his eyes closed, he said a silent
prayer to God to have mercy on them all.

5

Jeremy awoke as the first rays of the morning
sun crept over the mountains and sparkled through the glass doors
of his bedroom. He stirred inside the open walk-in closet and
rubbed his neck. It hurt like hell from the way he had slept
against the closet wall.

Looking down at the rifle in his lap, he felt
like a fool. His nerves had gotten the better of him last night,
and he wondered what the heck he’d been thinking. He bet the power
was already back on—but what had been that strange light in the
sky? Had he dreamt the whole thing? His memories seemed
unbelievable and more than a bit crazy.

As he walked into the bedroom, he placed the
rifle on the bed and glanced at the digital alarm clock atop his
dresser. Its display was blank and unlit. So much for the power
being back on. So much for a hot shower.

Jeremy changed into a tattered Rush T-shirt
and a pair of fresh underwear and jeans. In the kitchen, he snacked
on a muffin from the pantry as he tried the phone again. No luck
there either.

As he ate, he vaguely remembered something
happening to his car during the strange light, and he decided to
inspect the damage.

The drive in front of the car was filled with
shards from the exploded headlights, and when he tried to start the
engine, nothing happened, not even a sputter.

He punched the dashboard and sat there for a
moment, wondering what he should do. Luke Thompson lived just up
the road from him, his nearest neighbor and friend. The old man was
inflicted with terrible health problems, mostly from his age, but
his smoking and constant drinking didn’t help. He might need a
hand. Besides, if his truck survived the light, he and Jeremy could
head into town and find out what was going on. At the very worst,
Jeremy was sure he would walk away with a smile and a free
beer.

Luke lived only half a mile or so up the
road, so Jeremy took his time, enjoying the green fields by the
roadside. Summer was truly here, and even the weeds were vibrant
and beautiful. He had moved down here a few years back and didn’t
miss the big city in the least.

As he started up the small hill of Luke’s
drive, he didn’t see the old man sitting on the porch of the tiny
shack that passed for a house. It seemed Luke was always there,
whittling and waiting for passers-by whom he could harass in his
own good-natured way.

Jeremy picked up the pace, nearly broke into
a run. As he reached the house, he yelled, “Luke! You in there?
Luke?”

The front door was open like always, but the
outer screen door was shut. Three weathered, cracked concrete steps
led up to the door. Jeremy bolted up them. He swung the screen open
and peeped inside.

The living room was a mess. Some things never
changed. He grinned at the microwave dinner wrappers, empty beer
bottles, and crumpled cigarette packs that intermingled with the
piles of dirty clothes covering the couch and floor.

Jeremy stepped inside, seeing instantly that
the old man’s power was off like his own. “Luke? You here?”

He picked up an open pack of smokes from
beside an overflowing ashtray on the TV stand and helped himself to
one. He hadn’t smoked since high school, but he figured now was as
good a time as any to start again. Lighting up, he took a deep drag
and coughed like a kid. He ground out the cigarette in the ashtray
and headed toward the bedroom.

He prayed the old man hadn’t passed away
during the night. He and Luke weren’t exactly close—Luke was too
old-fashioned to let his feelings show with anyone—but Jeremy got
on well with him. No one else could make you smile the way Luke
could. Jeremy couldn’t have asked for a better neighbor.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jeremy glimpsed
someone or something outside, moving around the house. Not long
after, the back door creaked open and slammed shut.

“Luke?” Jeremy picked up the ashtray from the
TV stand and weighed it in his hand. Not his weapon of choice, but
better than nothing; he imagined it would hurt like hell to have it
smashed into your nose.

He went to call out again, but suddenly Luke
came tearing at him from the rear of the house. The old man didn’t
make a sound, but his eyes were wide open, his face split into a
snarl. He hurtled forward in a desperate rage, and Jeremy barely
dodged him, dropping the ashtray in the process.

Luke crashed into the TV stand and went down
onto his hands and knees. His muscles tensed, as if he were going
to lunge to his feet and attack again, so Jeremy kicked him in the
stomach, knocking the wind out of him and throwing him onto his
back. Jeremy dropped on the old man, pinned his withered arms over
his head. “Luke, please, it’s me! Jeremy!”

Luke raised his head and snapped his teeth
like a mad dog, incredibly strong somehow. Jeremy, forced to let
go, rolled away from the old man, but not quickly
enough—fingernails raked a long gash in his arm beneath the sleeve
of his Rush T-shirt. Jeremy gritted his teeth, and then Luke was on
him again.

Before he even realized what he was doing,
Jeremy snatched up the ashtray from the floor and brought it down
on Luke’s skull, crunching bone. Luke went limp and fell over.

Feeling sick, his whole body shaking with
adrenaline and disgust, Jeremy dropped the ashtray; blood and gray
hair had stuck to the glass. There was no doubt that the old man
was dead. His scalp was caved-in and bleeding.

Tears welled up in Jeremy’s eyes as he
unconsciously rubbed the wound on his arm. He fell onto the couch
and sat there, staring at the dead television set in a daze.

6

Hours later, Jeremy placed an empty beer
bottle on the TV table. The beer had been warm but good. You could
always count on old Luke to stock his fridge with the
essentials.

Thinking of Luke caused Jeremy to lean over
and vomit on the floor in front of the couch. It was the same place
Luke’s body had lain not long ago, before Jeremy dragged him into
the bedroom and covered him with a bed sheet. The image of blood
soaking through the thin white cloth made Jeremy retch again.

He rocked back and forth on the couch,
replaying everything in his mind. Luke hadn’t been himself. He had
been more like an animal. Jeremy wondered if any part of the old
Luke had been left inside. He doubted it, and he tried to convince
himself that he’d done what he needed in order to survive. It had
been kill or be killed, simple as that. But still, it didn’t feel
that way.

He cursed himself for being so weak.

Whatever had happened the night before was
worse than a simple power outage; he realized that now. The light
hadn’t been just a dream. Something was terribly fucked up with the
world—and he should have been doing something about it. The day was
half gone and he still hadn’t tried Luke’s truck. By now he could
have been in town, hunting for help and maybe finding out what had
happened last night. Yet he sat there, stealing a dead friend’s
beer. Because what if the folks in town were like Luke? What would
he do?

He had no idea, but he did know he couldn’t
stay here, and there seemed no point in going home. There was
nothing there for him.

After a brief search, he found the keys to
the truck hanging in the kitchen, but before he started towards
town he needed to do one more thing.

Holding a dishcloth from a kitchen drawer, he
walked to the bedroom and looked at the corpse snuggled inside the
sheet. Inwardly, he said a final goodbye to the old man as he built
up the courage to step around him and open the connecting door to
the storage room. Half a dozen rifles hung on a rack on the far
wall of the room, and a glass case below them contained Luke’s
collection of handguns. Not all of them were real—some were just
replicas—but they had been Luke’s only real passion in life, aside
from sitting on his porch, drinking and smoking.

Jeremy wrapped his hand in the dishcloth and
smashed open the locked case. He inspected each gun carefully until
he found one that was both real and loaded. It was an old-style
.38, which he tucked into the back of his pants before lowering a
.30-06 from the rifle rack. Although he didn’t know where Luke kept
the ammunition for the handguns, Jeremy knew where he stored the
ammo for the rifles and he stopped to load the weapon and dump the
leftovers into his pocket.

Outside, he slid into the cab of the ancient,
beat-up vehicle and turned the ignition. The engine rolled over on
the first try and roared to life.

Jeremy glanced at Luke’s house one last time,
then left a cloud of dust in his wake as he sped off into the
distance.

7

Amy pinched her arm so hard she bled.
Wake
up!
she thought.
Oh please, God—wake up!
The last few
hours were a blur of death and running, but apparently this wasn’t
a dream because it persisted.

She sat in the back of a van with her legs
curled up beneath her. Across from her sat a boy of no more than
twelve; Jake or Jack or something like that—she couldn’t
remember.

In the driver’s seat, a man named Dan drove,
his eyes fixed on the road ahead. His black hair was streaked with
gray, though otherwise he appeared to be in his late twenties or
early thirties.

The van jolted as it hit something in the
street. Amy hoped it was a pothole, nothing else.

Sitting next to Dan, the woman, Katherine,
held a 12-gauge shotgun in her lap, watching Amy and the boy
intently. No one spoke.

There had been another man with them earlier
who had gone crazy. Without hesitation, Katherine had splattered
his head all over the wall, and she’d made Dan stop so she could
kick the body outside. Amy could still smell the blood, and she had
no doubt whatsoever that Katherine would kill all of them in an
instant if she had to.

All day, they had driven south through the
city in search of a safe place to get help, in search of others who
didn’t have what Dan called the “sickness.” The van was both a
blessing and a curse. It gave them the means to outrun any problems
they encountered, but it also drew problems to them: the sound of
the engine attracted the crazies. Already Katherine and Dan had
been forced to fight them off half a dozen times. The noise also
attracted the unwanted attention of other survivors, the kind
willing to kill for the working vehicle. Thank God they had met up
with that type only once and had been able to flee without a real
fight.

Amy didn’t really know where Dan was taking
them. She hoped
he
knew. But after all she had suffered and
seen, she wondered if there was such a thing as a safe place
anymore.

Her stomach growled. There was food in
abandoned establishments and stores throughout the city; the
trouble lay in stopping to get it. They had learned that fact
quickly and the hard way. The diseased were good at hiding and they
seemed to be everywhere.