Bedtime Tales from the Apocalypse
Episode 1: The Girl with No Name
A short story by Michael Hammor
Cover art, Photography, and Photo manipulation by: M. Hammor
Edited by Jeff Covert
Copyright © 2013 by Michael Hammor
EBOOK EDITION
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents
are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various
products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without
permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized,
associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Dedication:
I’d like to thank my wife and daughter for putting up with me. I love you! I’d also like to thank my company for laying me off and giving me the kick in the butt I needed to start this project. Nothing motivates like starvation! Thank you, Jeff Covert, for your editing efforts and encouragement. Thanks go out to my test readers, Leigh, Jess, Clint, Gina, and Carl “The Angel of Death”. Lastly, I’d like to thank the authors I have read in my life. I can’t list you all, there are not enough black pixels or ink, but you have enriched my life beyond measure. –MH
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20 years after the events of Episode .5:
Prologue to the Apocalypse
It’s dusk. The sun has barely set as the slim form steps over the crumbling wall and leaves the parking lot of the abandoned truck stop. A light breeze rattles the branches of a dead tree. Somewhere, metal bangs against metal. Scavenging hasn’t been good lately. She was able to find some cloudy water in the hold tanks of the car wash. No one checks hold tanks for water. To her, it makes perfect sense. She went through the debris and rubble inside the store but didn’t find much in the oft-looted structure. Hiking her army surplus pack higher on her shoulder, she heads toward the road. Small tan combat boots barely make a sound in the gravel of the once well-kept landscaping. She casually looks around and sees nothing alarming. She heard something. Was she being followed? It might have been a wisp of a voice, a scuff of a boot; it could have been only in her head, a stray thought. She turns and walks north along the roadway.
Several hundred yards behind her a coyote breaks cover and lopes across the cracked asphalt of the highway, grinning like a fool. It slowly trots up to the knapsack lying hidden under a bush and sniffs around it. It detects only its scent. Good. It was watching the girl from behind the building. The coyote follows her. The girl leaves food behind, sometimes. It knows it’s dangerous to follow her, so it keeps its presence hidden from her as best it can. The coyote has watched her hunt animals.
The girl heads north. As she proceeds under the overpass, a decrepit old farmhouse reveals itself. Interesting, she thinks. She tears the rusted fence from a post with her hands the wire parting with ease and makes her way across the overgrown yard full of last year’s tall grass, now yellow and brittle. She approaches the sagging porch, eyes watchful of the windows on the second story for any signs of movement. Long devoid of paint and warped in most places, the house is made of weathered gray wood planks. Many of the windows have been smashed out. The damage is old, maybe older than Before. Inside she finds nothing but refuse and the debris of squatters and travelers like her. The smell of urine and old feces was strong in the kitchen. More than one traveler used the sink as a latrine.
The house contains no furniture or appliances; it was empty when the end came. She carefully climbs the rotted stairs to the second floor. There is nothing of value. She pauses at the bottom of the stairs, sipping from one of her water bottles before she leaves the house. Water helps, but nothing replaces real nourishment for long.
The coyote watches the girl enter the farmhouse. There is nothing there she would want, it had already scouted for itself. The coyote sneaks its way onto the old porch which creaks under its weight, the coyote pauses. It can hear her climbing the stairs to the second floor. It stands in the doorway sniffing after her. As usual, her smell is cold, metallic, and harsh. The coyote hears her returning down the stairs. As it backs up a few steps to stay out of her line of sight, it can sense her pause. Fearing discovery, it sprints across the doorway and up the small rise in the yard to the highway. In moments, it’s across the highway scampering into the brush, just another coyote in the desert.
She tenses, pausing mid sip. A shadow passed by the doorway to the porch. Was it a man sized shadow? Like a flash, she’s outside. Her odd yellow eyes scanning for anything out of the ordinary in the dimming light. There, up the slight rise by the side of the freeway, a bush moved! She listens hard, hearing the click and scrape of claws on the blacktop. A coyote, a dog? Satisfied of the identity of the intruder, she picks her way through the overgrown yard.
An hour later she walks along the shoulder of what used to be the Interstate 10 highway. She carefully checks her head wrap, making sure the keffiyeh she pilfered from a ransacked surplus store in Sierra Vista still covered her face. The sky is dark blues and purples behind her.
The nearly full moon is cresting the mountains to the east as the sun retires to the mountains to the west. The black commando sweater is scratchy but warm as she zips the old beaten motorcycle jacket, being held together by generations of duct tape, to her chin. The temperature drops fast in the desert once the sun goes down. She can feel the cold creep over her, damping fear and other emotions. She can feel the play of the fabric over her skin from her too large ACU pants. Her gloves had seen better days.
She looks down the road into the distance as she walks. She’s only about a mile from the next overpass now. That’s where I would do it; she thinks to herself. She continues to observe as she journeys forth. Occasionally, she stops to lean against an old burnt out husk of a truck or car. During these fake rests, she tries to get eyes on those waiting in ambush. She can almost feel them there, watching her; anticipating. She sees a small flash of something, like a reflection of the moon, up under the stanchions where the weeds and grasses have grown high. Steeling herself, she opens her mind, she might be close enough. She keeps her mind locked down tight.
The first thing she feels is
hunger, sharp and brutal. Her throat clenches in response and her eyes water as
her throat burns with cold fire. Then, images of meat roasting over coals slam
into her, some with human looking appendages. She can taste and smell the sweet
pork-ish flavor and her gorge rises. Lustful thoughts, so full of evil and
perversion it takes her breath away, rip into her brain. She pushes back the
images of many hands on her flesh, she can almost feel them, and slams her
guards back into place.
He remains in position, crouched down next to a pile of large stones. He adjusts the sheriff’s Stetson on his head, a souvenir of a previous encounter. He stares down the road at the girl with grim anticipation, hunger, and lust. On the other side of the overpass, he can barely see Roberts. He growls thinking about the last ambush. Roberts got her first. Roberts always gets them first and leaves Ratty to take out the garbage. Not this time! Ratty, you need to assert yourself, he thinks. If he doesn’t like it, maybe I’ll kill him, too. Ratty chuckles to himself.
Roberts can’t believe their luck! He hopes she has food in that pack. Hunger is making him weak. He sees how Ratty looks at him. He’s going have to kill him soon. For the millionth time, Roberts wishes The Boss would let them have a gun. Ratty is getting unstable. There isn’t anything wrong with having some fun, but Ratty kills them which is stupid. Roberts much prefers marching their victims back to the Boss instead of carrying them. He adjusts the brown leather trench coat on his shoulders making sure his arms won’t bind when he needs them. Accidents happen all the time; he’ll explain to their Boss. Ratty got himself killed. He hefts the giant rock in his hand, almost.
Panting, she shudders with revulsion as a light sweat slicks her chilled skin. She continues towards the overpass. A small part of her wants to avoid them, but the larger part wants to meet them. Unflinchingly, she walks, her long legs eating the distance. Under the overpass on the right side, she can make out, at least one crouched figure. She stops just before the edge of the structure. The last vestiges of the sun’s rays are lighting the sky behind her with oranges and pinks, smothered with purple and black. She peers intently into the darkness as if looking for danger.
The coyote isn’t fooled. It knows, that she knows, that the men are waiting to attack her. Its stomach rumbles in anticipation. It’s crouched in the weeds at the top of the overpass. The girl passes beneath it. The coyote retreats quietly into the brush.
With a sigh, she strides forward. It’s still light enough to notice the fresh blood stains on the concrete, appearing black in the dim light. Suddenly rocks started raining down on her with whoops and hollers. She tries to run but drops to the ground when a fist sized rock bounces off the left side of her head. Her rucksack flips up resting high on her shoulders. She lays very still, her head hurting, but not more than she can handle. She tries to still her breathing so she appears unconscious. Her eyes close, and she slows her heart rate.
“Wooooohoooo!” a male exclaims, scrabbling down the side of the overpass behind her. “I got her right in the noggin! Me first!”
“Wait, Ratty, you hit her pretty good, she might be dead,” a smooth male voice responds.
“Roberts, as long as she’s still warm, you know I don’t care! Huyup!” Ratty replies with an evil grin showing jagged rotting teeth.
“Here ya go, Rat, go through this,” strong hands turn her over and unclip the buckles on the straps of her pack. Roberts tosses the bag to the rat-faced little man.
“Sure, Boss,” rat-face says sarcastically and scuttles away. He dumps the pack on the road.
Roberts checks for a pulse, studying her blood-streaked face. She had smooth pale skin, a pretty upturned nose, almond shaped eyes with a hint of Asian ancestry, full lips, and a slightly cleft chin. He brushes her long black hair from her face. This one could have had a future, Before, he thinks to himself. Now she’s just meat. Roberts finds no pulse.
“She’s dead, Ratty. Fuck! Now we get to carry her back,” he lays her down and walks towards Ratty.
“So ‘at!” Ratty says through a mouthful of food from her pack.
“I’m tired, and it’s a long way back to camp. Hurry up, you told me you wanted first go, and I don’t do dead bitches!” Roberts replies, grabbing the pack from Ratty.
“Oh, oh yeah! Thanks, man! Thank you, sir!” Ratty starts unbuckling his pants as he jogs over to the body.
Roberts moves further away from what Ratty is about to do. Alive or dead, it always ended messily. He occupies himself with the contents of the pack: a few cans of beans and meat product, a few articles of clothing, a book with a timeworn picture of a man and a little girl tucked inside, a few battered water bottles with cloudy water, and a small knife. Roberts can hear Ratty talking to himself and grunting with effort as he removes her clothes. They might be worth something in trade, later.
Roberts selects a can of beans and packs the rest of the supplies and gear back into the bag. Ratty makes a funny noise. Roberts looks back but can’t see much in the darkening twilight. It looks like Ratty is on top of the girl and giving it all he’s worth. Roberts sees movement out of the corner of his eye. A coyote is standing in the middle of the highway at the edge of the overpass.
“Hey, Ratty? Check it out, our friend is back!” Roberts calls to Ratty. “Ratty?”
Roberts can hear the muffled thumps of Ratty’s fists slamming into the girl’s flesh. Then Ratty screams and slumps down on the girls still form.
“You sick bastard! You got your monies worth on that one, huh?” Roberts jokes as he turns back to watch the coyote, wondering if he and Ratty could kill it with rocks. There is a thump and some scuffling behind him.
“Yes, I did! She was great!” a falsetto bass voice booms from behind him. Roberts spins around like a cat, knife in hand. The snarl on his lips turning into a twist of confusion, and then a rictus of terror as his brain registers what he is seeing. The raven haired girl, now wearing nothing but blood and a smile, is holding up Ratty’s body with one hand and making his mouth move with the other, Ratty’s throat torn out, and blood soaking the front of his body.
“What’s the matter, Rodney, don’t you want a turn, too?” the girl pantomimes Ratty’s voice while moving his jaw. “She sure showed me a good time! Huyup!”
“No… No…” Roberts whispers as he starts to shake from head to toe. “Please…” the knife drops from his hand with a clatter.
The girl stares at him coldly, then smiles widely and lets her viciously sharp canines slide into place. Her yellow pupils narrow like those of a snake. She carelessly drops Ratty’s body with a thud. She deftly reaches down and snatches the knife from the roadway as she walks toward him.
“Please?” she rasps, her voice getting huskier, “did you give me a chance to plead for mercy? What about the last travelers you killed? What did you do with the baby, Rodney?” she asks as she starts to pull the thoughts from his head. She can see the baby lying face up in his lap, flayed open like a rabbit. She draws closer as she speaks, her eyes never leaving his, her lip arching up.
“How did you know… my name? Please!? Don’t you touch me! What are you!?” Rodney Roberts tries to run but stumbles over her pack and falls.
“Am I the grim reaper, the angel of death, the judge, the jury, or the victim?” she says crouching over him, legs on either side of his hips. She lowers her face to his. He can smell the blood on her breath, coppery and thick. She wraps her fists in the collar of his coat and pulls him closer. He starts to lose his mind as he stares into her eyes, mesmerized. He is consumed by the sound of blowflies and the stench of rot filling his nostrils as she projects horror directly into his brain.
“I come as a thief in the night; no man shall know the time,” She forces his head to the side as he starts shrieking. “I can see into your heart, Roberts. I am Judgment!” Roberts’ heart seizes in terror as she projects the image of huge black feathered wings extending from her back and envelope him in darkness.
The coyote lifts its head in alarm at the screams floating across the desert. They seem to go on forever. It retreats to a safe distance and waits. She will finish soon, and then it can eat. She sits next to their bodies staring at the stars. She can feel their blood drying on her bare skin. The bloodlust is gone, replaced by lethargy. She reaches out and tears off a piece of Ratty’s shirt. She dribbles some water on it and scrubs the blood from her face and neck. She stands and pours the water over the rest of her body, scrubbing at stubborn areas until she stands in the moonlight naked and clean.
She takes the ¾ length brown leather trench coat from Roberts and the sheriff’s hat from Ratty. They have nothing else of value. She picks up her pack and shoulders it. She looks back at her victims lying dead on the blacktop. She leaves them for the coyotes and buzzards. She doesn’t feel sorry. It’s her nature, her place in the food chain. She has never taken an innocent human life. Her mission is revenge. She has filled her need for the time being, but her vengeance lay before her, far away in both space and time.
“Hunt only the damned, the worst of humanity,” her master told her, just days before he Danced with the Dawn, the rising sun turning him to ash. Once again, she was alone, but now she had a purpose, to find those who killed her family. Vampires. Step by step she walks out from under the overpass and into the night.
The
coyote approaches the knapsack concealed near the Love’s truck stop a few miles
from the overpass. Its belly is full. It’s a nice feeling. It’s one of the
reasons the coyote follows her. With a groan, its small shaggy form starts to
shudder and shake. The fur flows off it like water, leaving muscle, bone, and
ligaments exposed. A high whine leaves its throat as the coyote’s limbs extend
with pops and cracks and its skull deforms. Within seconds, a naked young woman
is crouched where there was only a coyote before. She gingerly stands erect,
her blonde hair pasted to her skull, her body glistening with sweat and clear
fluids. She pulls pants, a t-shirt, and shoes from her pack. She dresses and
looks around carefully. While still better than average, her senses are dulled
in human form. She shoulders her bag and heads towards the overpass. She
follows the girl with no name.
“Show me,” he says, clutching the crow tightly in his massive scarred fist. Images flow into his mind. A girl, raven-haired, slimly built, face covered by a shemagh. The same girl lying nude on the cracked asphalt, one of his pets on top of her. The girl holding Ratty off the ground, both covered in blood. Bodies were lying on the road. The girl was putting Ratty’s hat on her head. A coyote was eating from the bodies. The boss slowly releases his grip on the crow.
“Thank you, Poe,” he says to the bird as he tosses it into the air.
“Roberts and Ratty are dead. Killed by that damn girl. Send out a new team to their checkpoint,” he says to the man to his left. The man starts jogging down the street and disappears as the road curves east.
“Two. Now. Downstairs,” the boss says to the man on his right. The man heads off to the building across the street. The boss turns and walks between the pillars of what used to be a bank, and then an antique store, Before. He makes his way to the basement, cleared of merchandise and debris. It’s nearly dawn. He approaches the large coffin, made of beautiful dark ebony wood, polished to a high gloss. He removes his sturdy cargo pants, boots, and a chambray work shirt, and waits. The man returns with several others. They are dragging two disheveled young people. A youth barely a man, and a girl barely a woman, dressed in nothing but rags. They struggle weakly. The men drop them on the floor in front of the boss.
“Thank you, Stan,” the boss praises, “these will do just fine. How many are left?”
“41, Sir. We have teams out to find more,” the man answers, keeping his eyes lowered.
“Good. That’s good. You may go,” the boss dismisses him and his men. They tromp up the stairs and close the heavy vault door behind them. It will not reopen until sunset.
“My name is Lazarus,” the boss kneels down, turning the woman’s face to his. He smiles, and the young lady begins to scream as his oversize canines erupt from his gums and snap into place.
“Welcome to Bisbee!”
Acknowledgments:
Dear Reader, thank you for reading my first public effort. I apologize for any errors in spelling or grammar; I’m a soldier not an English major. Choosing to put my work on display for the public to consume was a difficult one. I wasn’t given much choice in the matter. I lost my career of over a decade, again. Little mouths get ravenous. Before this effort, I wrote mainly for fun and to amuse my coworkers. If you liked this short story, please leave a positive review, tell your friends, and stay tuned to my blog and twitter for news about future installments in my series, “Bedtime Tales from the Apocalypse.”
Please visit Amazon and download Episode 2: Aluminum Butterflies
Bedtime Tales From The Apocalypse 