Dust to Dust: An Apocalyptic Thriller Read online

  After I finish setting the table and while Michael is on the stove, I look out the window. I have the shotgun in hand just in case I see a stranger coming our way, but all I see are abandoned vehicles. There isn’t anyone around, and it’s quiet. Not a car alarm, honking horns, or a screeching tire to be heard.

  “Here we go,” Michael says, holding up two plates of steaming food. “Cheeseburgers and fries.”

  “Aw, about time,” I remark, rushing over to the booth.

  We tear into our food silently. The burger is juicy. The fries are hot. Both are excellent and calming my angry stomach. I forgot what it was like to eat real food. Snacks were not cutting it at all.

  Just as Michael is about to take his last bite, something catches his attention. He gets up from the booth and slowly goes over to the corner. I keep eating, watching him as he stands on a seat in the booth. Something glows on the ceiling. It’s a Cicada. Scared out of my mind, I try to stand up, only managing to hit my knee underneath the table. Our drinks are knocked over, spilling everywhere.

  “Kill it!” I yell, rubbing my knee.

  “I can’t kill it.” Michael hops to the floor. “I can’t even reach it.”

  “What’s it doing?”

  “Nothing. Just hanging out on the ceiling.”

  “It’s going to attack. We have to get out of here.”

  “Settle down,” Michael says. “If it wanted to attack, it would have done it by now. You know, I was thinking. The aliens could be watching us or listening through the Cicada.”

  “What? Yeah, whatever. Are you sure you can’t kill it?”

  “Finish your food, Kris. It’s the only one in here.”

  “That you’ve seen so far. We haven’t checked the entire restaurant.”

  “I did before you came in. Remember? We’re going to be fine.”

  I cautiously slide back into my seat. That’s when I realize my chair is wet from the spilled tea. I grab my plate and move to the next table, making sure I’m facing the Cicada. Just in case it takes flight, I can run out of there.

  Michael chuckles and shakes his head.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing. Not a thing.”

  “Then stop laughing.”

  He bellows out a roar. I could throw my plate at him, but knowing my luck, he’ll duck in time. Then he’ll laugh at me even more.

  After eating, we prepare to leave. Michael repacks his bag. I notice that he has a flashlight on the table.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “Back at the last store we stopped at.”

  “Does it work?”

  “Yes.” He picks it up, presses the switch. “Like a charm.”

  “How? I thought all the electronics and electricity stopped working.”

  “It’s battery operated, genius.”

  “Still doesn’t explain why it works,” I remark. “I could have used it last night.”

  “For what?”

  “My drawings.”

  “We have to save the juice, Kris. Are you ready to go?”

  “Yes, I guess. The burger was excellent. Thank you for cooking…breakfast. I guess that’s what you would call it.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “So are we going out the back or the front?” I ask, adjusting the straps on my shoulders.

  “The back.”

  I look up at the alien Cicada as we walk towards the hallway. It’s not glowing. Wings are still. But most importantly, it’s not trying to follow us.

  Back outside, we walk to where we hid our bikes. Rolling them to the road, we see dark clouds in the direction we’re headed. Not a good sign. I’m scared at what it could mean. But I have to reach Gabe, and if I have to go through fire and smoke to get to him, I will.

  C H A P T E R

  24

  Chantilly, Virginia

  Michael and I have hit a problem. We’re at the interchange for Highway 28. We planned to take the northbound exit directly to Ashburn, where Gabe live. At most, on our bicycles, the trip would have been no more than an hour, but the major snag we’ve hit is the flood of people walking on Highway 28 bridge going south. A lot of them have taken to crossing under the bridge, which is about fifty yards from where we are. The stream of pedestrians seems to be never-ending. Some are walking fast. Others drag with the weight of backpacks and compacted strollers.

  It’s imperative that we keep our distance from this group. We have bicycles, and those we meet or see may not. They’ll get ideas. Bicycles will be more valued than gold, and lives will be unmistakably taken.

  We’re behind a black van. Both of us straddling our bikes and looking around the sides of the vehicle.

  “Where do you think they’re coming from?” I whisper.

  “Dulles Airport is just up the street.”

  “They couldn’t have all come from the airport.”

  “Well, there’s a lot of residential neighborhoods around here.”

  “Where do you think they’re headed?”

  “Kris, why do you ask questions I don’t know the answer to? I mean, seriously, how would I know where any of them are going?”

  “I’m just asking to be asking. No need to bite my head off about it.”

  “Their homes could be destroyed or on fire. There’s a lot of smoke up Highway 28.”

  “And that’s the way we have to go to get to Ashburn. What can we do?”

  “Stay out of sight and wait until the crowd is gone. Then we’ll decide which way to go then.”

  We are so close to Ashburn. I’m itching to forget about the obvious danger of a desperate group of people and just keep going, but I know it wouldn’t make sense to do a foolish thing.

  “Follow me,” Michael replies.

  We cycle to a clump of trees near an intersection. Once again, we hide our bikes in the brush. After making sure no one sees them, Michael sits down on the curb next to Highway 50. We’re far enough away that no one knows we’re watching.

  “There’s always an obstacle when you really want something,” I remark, sighing.

  “Never fails, Sis. That’s how life is.”

  “You know, I was thinking, Gabe could be in the crowd. You think we should ask if anyone has seen him?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? What harm will it do?”

  “That crowd is huge, and you looking for one man will be a waste of time.”

  “How hard could it be?”

  “Describe him.”

  “What?”

  “People are going to ask you what he looks like. Telling them his name isn’t going to cut it. He’s not famous. You’ll have to describe him.”

  “I can do that easily. Will you go with me?” I ask politely and sweetly.

  “No.”

  “Michael, if you’re worried about the bicycles getting stolen, we can leave them here.”

  “Didn’t I tell you that it was best to stay away from people?”

  “Yeah, but Gabe could be in there, on his way to Richmond.”

  “Kris, think about it. The invasion happened three days ago. The smart thing for him to do was to leave immediately. If he did, he would be in Richmond by now. That’s if the city is still standing.”

  I growl and pull at my face. It hurts my heart watching those people, knowing that Gabe could be in that crowd somewhere.

  “Kris, you told him that I decided we were leaving Richmond. Am I correct?”

  “Yes, I talked to him before the phones stopped working.”

  “Then he knows you’re not in Richmond. He’s probably still at home.”

  “You really think so?”

  “No, I actually believe he’s dead.”

  Michael is uncanny at ticking me off. Without filter or thought, he spits out exactly what’s on his mind. He doesn’t think twice about how I feel or the repercussions. Wanting to separate myself from him, I get up and brush the grass off my clothes.

  As I head for the sidewalk behind us, I suddenly stop. A m
an wearing a red cap backwards and a woman in a pink jogging suit approach us with rifles. I lift my hands. I’m shaking from the possibility of getting killed. This is not how I pictured my day would end.

  “Michael,” I say over my shoulder.

  “What?” His attention is on the migrating crowd at the bridge.

  “MICHAEL!”

  “WHAT!” Looking around, he sees why I’m calling him. He stands up, hands at his side, staring at the couple.

  The woman has a triumphant grin on her face. The man is focused, eyes narrowed, and he’s inching his way towards us. Michael slowly reaches for the gun on his hip. The woman fires at him. I jump and look back at Michael. He’s not shot, but he’s shook.

  “I missed on purpose,” she says. “Next time I won’t.”

  “You,” the man replies to Michael, “two fingers. Toss the gun over. I want that shotgun too. We’ll kill you if you try anything.”

  Michael slowly unsnaps the holster and tosses the pistol to the side. I slide the shotgun out from under the backpack straps that kept it in place and set it down on the ground a few feet away from me. I back up from it with my hands up and my palms facing them.

  “Dude,” the man remarks, “I told you to throw your gun over to me! You’re a straight dipshit! Get it and toss it over!”

  “NO!” The woman yells, pointing the rifle at my brother. Lost on what to do next, the man looks to her for answers. Michael looks at her too, surprised that she’s in charge.

  “Prater, just get the stuff,” she says impatiently.

  “Oh, right!” Focused once again, the man says, “Give me your backpacks.”

  Without a single moment of hesitation, I do as the man ordered, throwing the backpack as close to him as possible. Michael, clearly unwilling, makes no effort to cooperate. His anger is at a level that’s about to explode.

  “You got two seconds,” the woman warns him, “or I will blow her head off! Do it now!”

  Michael finally follows their commands. The man has to jump out of the way so as not to get hit by the backpack. It’s a dumb move on Michael’s part. Both of them have the upper hand, and they could kill us easily.

  “Grab all of it, Quin.”

  While watching Michael, the man places his rifle over his back. Then he picks up the pistol, stuffs it in his belt. He goes for the shotgun next and hooks that around his body. The backpacks are seized last. He shoulders my brother’s bag but holds on to mine in the opposite hand. With expert footing, the man begins to quick step backwards. The woman keeps up with him, taking long strides. Her rifle, still pointing in my direction. When they’re a good distance away, the robbers turn and run, disappearing behind the bank building.

  Michael takes off. I’m shocked by this. I scream his name. He doesn’t hear me, or he did, and ignored me completely. Stopping at the building, Michael peeks around the corner. For a moment, I think he’s changed his mind, giving up the chase, but he keeps going. I run to the bank. Just as I make it to the building, I see Michael fight his way through a clump of trees. I yell for him to stop, but he’s not listening. I run over to where I last saw him. I come out fairly quickly into a parking lot of a hotel. Michael is nowhere in sight. I’m beginning to panic. If I lose him, I will never find him again.

  Damn it!

  What should I do?

  I look around, getting my bearings. Across the street from the hotel is a shopping center, a standalone building for a credit union, and a car wash center. A tube swings back and forth in a partition set aside for vacuuming vehicles. There’s no wind. That’s where Michael went. I’m sure of it. I make my way over to the structure and run through to the other side. There’s another wall of trees, but there’s a clear path in the middle of it. It leads to a larger parking lot, and I can see to the other end and Michael. Thank goodness. He’s hiding behind a car, and his back is to me. He must be watching the robbers. When I’m halfway across the parking lot, he’s off again. I’m getting tired, but I’m not giving up. I can’t lose him. He goes behind a building, and through another set of trees. By the time I make it to where he went, I’ve come to a wooden fence. It’s taller than I am and goes the length of the wood line. I follow the fence until it ends. On the other side is a neighborhood of single family homes. My brother and the robbers are nowhere in sight.

  I feel so lost without Michael. Why did he have to chase after them? What was he thinking? He wasn’t, and now he’s gone. We might be separated for good.

  Dear God, not this. Where is he? Give me a sign. I can’t lose him.

  “MICHAEL!” I yell, sobbing. I don’t know what else to do. “MI…”

  C H A P T E R

  25

  I wake up to a throbbing ache on the back of my head. A bump is on the scalp, and it’s tender. I look at my hand to see if it’s bleeding. It’s not. Feeling pretty confident I’ll live, slowly and carefully, I sit up. I’m on a canopy bed, surrounded by sheer curtains. My left wrist is handcuffed to the vertical column next to the headboard. I get on my knees and pull at the cuffs. The column is attached at the top to a crossbeam. I won’t be able to get out. I move the pillows and the covers, hoping to find the key. Of course, I don’t see the single object that will free me. I kick the curtain out of the way. A nightstand is right beside the bed. I dig through the drawer, finding glasses and a book. But no key.

  What in the absolute hell? What sick fuck would handcuff me to a bed? And why? I can’t even think of a good reason. There isn’t one.

  I pull at the cuffs, twist them around to see if there’s an inkling of a chance I can get out of them, but there is no escape. Then I look at the canopy bed. It’s wood with sheer curtains hanging from the top crossbeams. I check to see how it’s put together at the headboard and column. It’s slotted. I push the nightstand out of the way as far as I can, and I get a good stance, wrapping my hands around the column. I push and pull, hitting the wall and making a racket of a noise. I’m sure it’ll alarm anyone in the house, but I don’t care. I’m not going to be handcuffed to the bed for who knows what sick reason. I keep at it, and finally, after a minute or so, the column falls away from the headboard. The bed collapses entirely. I disconnect the crossbeam from the column and slide the other end of the cuff off the pole. I’m free! Yes! But the cuffs are still on my wrist. Whatever. At least, I’m not attached to the bed.

  I run over to the door and open it just enough to look out into the hallway. It’s not that bright because there’s only one window. Hopefully, I haven’t been out longer than a day, but I won’t worry about that. I have to get out of this house.

  I tiptoe to the door across the hallway and listen for noise. I’m too scared to open it, so I move on to the next one. Blood seeps under the second door onto the hallway carpet. Someone must be dead in that room. I’m not willing to find out. I step over the blood and make my way to the last door. I hear sobbing. I back away and head down the stairs.

  The first level is an open floor plan. Oil paintings hang on the walls. Clean ivory carpets are on the floor. Expensive pieces of furniture are on display in well thought out places. Feng Shui at its most elegant, but I have to get out of this house.

  As I go for the front door, the knob turns. I run back the other direction, pass the steps, and directly into the kitchen, where I hide in the hamper. But I keep the door slightly open to listen for whoever is coming in.

  The front door closes. The click of the lock echoes. The floor creaks with the weight of the person walking. Whoever it is, he or she goes upstairs. Curious as to what’s going on, I make my way to the bottom of the steps. I peek around the corner and observe a shadow moving on the second floor. A woman screams, begging for the individual to stay away from her. My heart sinks. I have to help her, but how?

  I think for a moment. There must be something I can do. I tiptoe by the steps into the living room. Everything is decorative, soft, and floral, all showpieces. Nothing in there will help me help her. I venture across the short hall to the office. Ther
e has to be something I can use.

  Immediately, I spot a possible weapon, a glass rock-like shaped plaque on top of a printer. I grasp it in my hand, determining the heaviness. It’ll do, I hope.

  I go up the steps slowly. The woman is still crying. Halfway up, I begin to reconsider my decision. What if there’s more than one person that came into the house? I can’t fight two people by myself. I have to take that chance. An innocent woman is in trouble. I have to be brave. If no one helps her, she could get killed. With as much courage I can muster, and with trembling knees, I take the last two steps. I’m sweating, and my heart is going a thousand miles a minute.

  I can do this.

  I can save her.

  Breathe, Kris, breathe.

  I get to the top of the steps and wait for only a short moment before peeking inside. It’s the guy who stole my backpack. He’s wearing the same red hat, and it’s on backward. QUIN is embroidered in bold on the front flap. His shirt is off, and he’s taking off his belt. The woman is handcuffed to the bed.

  “You’re so pretty,” he says to the woman. “We’ll all be happy. You’ll see.”

  “Go away!” the woman screams at him. “Don’t you come anywhere near me!”

  “You’ll like me after we conflu…consider….You know what I mean.”

  “HELP! HELP!”

  I can’t take it anymore. With deep seeded disgust and anger, I enter the room. The woman’s eyes widen. Seeing her expression, he turns to see what she’s looking at. I swing as hard as I can. The plaque connects to his face, mostly his eye and nose. The vibration travels through my hand, all the way to the small of my back. The hit makes him twist around uncontrollably. His hat flies across the room. His head hits the corner of a pink metal chest at the foot of the bed. A cringe-worthy crack resounds from his neck, and he lands hard on his side. An open wound is on the back of his head. Blood pours downward to his neck and pools on the floor below his face.