Dust to Dust: An Apocalyptic Thriller Page 9

  “I didn’t see that,” I remark.

  “It wasn’t in view of the front door. You actually had to go behind the sofa to see it.”

  Funny, how he kept that from me. If the man’s family was only that individual, no one else was going to show up. Despite that, it was best that we didn’t stay. I wouldn’t have been able to be in the same house with a dead body in the bedroom and the remains of another in the living room.

  “There’s another problem with your theory,” I respond.

  “What’s that?”

  “Last night, I felt something go up my nose and down my throat. Something went in your ear. The Cicadas are too big. There had to be some other alien technology that’s out there. Something we haven’t seen before.”

  Michael considers my point, but he doesn’t say a word. He has to think about it more. Eventually, I’m sure he’ll come up with another notion.

  “What if I see the Cicadas coming? Or the Seeds,” I ask uneasily. “What should I do?”

  “Wake me up. We’ll have to run.”

  “To where? Where could we go?”

  “Sis, all I can say is that we run until we can’t.”

  “That’s not a plan.”

  “It’s all I got.”

  DAY THREE

  C H A P T E R

  22

  An explosion wakes me. I jump to my feet. Burning debris fall around us, hitting the ground like bombs, but we’re safe under the bridge. Michael tells me to stay where I am. He climbs the hill against the support wall to the top deck and looks through a fence. Another explosion rocks the area. By instinct, he ducks. Eventually, he slides down and grabs his backpack.

  “What is it?” I yell.

  “I’d forgotten the tanks.”

  “From the Army?” I ask, really confused.

  “No, Kris, there’re huge gas tanks not too far from here.”

  “Seriously? Are you kidding me?”

  More explosions go off. The bridge is beginning to crumble. Pieces of cement and steel fall way too close.

  “We can’t stay here!” I yell over the noise, but I don’t think Michael heard me.

  Figuring he’ll understand action better than words, I grab my bicycle and run out from under the bridge. I go around flaming debris while trying to keep my distance. I glance back quickly, only to see if Michael is with me. He is, and he’s gaining ground.

  I keep pushing onward, eventually clearing the debris field, but up ahead there’s a wall of fire and smoke. It has to be what the locals call the Mixing Bowl. It’s where two major highways and a few local roads come together in jumbled loops of bridges. I’m willing to bet the aliens destroyed the area. Those thoroughfares are critical access for the east coast. It opens the doors for drivers to avoid Washington DC, and it gives unhindered entry to points north like Baltimore and New York City.

  We won’t be able to continue. We are trapped by smoke and fire in every direction. I never thought I’d experience a night like this. The air boils with anger. The ground feels like it’s going to dissolve from under our feet. Seeds streak overhead, brightening up the sky with red electrical fury. It’s complete madness.

  “Are you okay?” Michael asks. “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m good. What about you?”

  “I’m fantastic. I love explosions early in the morning.”

  “I bet you do. Which way can we go?”

  An explosion rocks the area once again. Chunks of blazing metal and cement pummel the ground. I can feel every hit to the core of my bones. We dunk and run without knowing where we’re going. Several times, we’re almost hit, but by some miracle, we find a clearing.

  Quickly, Michael and I scan the area. We don’t see a way out, but it’s not long before Michael spots an escape route.

  “Follow me and stay close,” he yells.

  He doesn’t have to tell me twice. He cycles to the cement barrier that separates the local highway lanes from the high occupancy vehicle lanes, the HOV. He lifts both of our bicycles over, and we climb onto the gravel shoulder. To our right, a ramp sweeps over southbound Highway 95, but it’s wobbling. I don’t want to go up the ramp, but Michael rushes off before I can stop him. It’s too steep to ride, so we have to roll the bikes. At the top of the ramp, we follow the bridge to the right, away from the fires. At the end, there is darkness, no fire and no smoke. I’ll take it. We get to the end of the ramp safely where Heller Road is the cross street. We make the left and stick to the asphalt path until we see another intersection. Michael makes the turn, immediately sees another road, and heads for it. We’re going through overgrown grass and weeds, but amazingly, it doesn’t slow us down. We’ve reached a three-lane highway, and Michael gets back on his bicycle. I do the same, and we’re off, cycling as fast as our legs can go.

  The sun rises over the horizon, and we can see a lot better. We roll under a sign that says Barta Road and Rolling Road. I know where Rolling Road is, but I can’t place Barta. I’m not going to worry about it though. Michael seems to know where he’s going, and I’m keeping up with him. Moments later, we see another overhead sign. It indicates we’re on Fairfax County Parkway. Good deal. We’re headed in the right direction for Ashburn, and I’m relieved we’re getting farther away from the destruction.

  When we finally reach the interchange for Rolling Road and Fairfax County Parkway, we take a breather under the bridge. I’m already tired from peddling like a madwoman. Michael is hyped, worried, and angry. I don’t know why he’s mad, and I’m not going to ask. There are times his anger manifests for reasons I don’t want to hear.

  “We’re not making good time,” he grumbles. “And it’s only getting worse.”

  He paces back and forth. He rubs at his infected ear. The virus, or whatever we got, hasn’t spread, but it hasn’t gone away either. I imagine mine is the same.

  “Kris, we have to go straight to Pennsylvania. Ashburn isn’t a good idea.”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Dammit, Kris, you’re trying to get us both killed.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “What do you think is going to happen if we keep messing around out here? It’s getting more dangerous by the day.”

  “Michael, if that was me in Ashburn, would you come up there and get me?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “How would you feel if you left me behind? Without even trying to find me?”

  Unwilling to answer, Michael sighs and lowers his head. He now understands. There is no choice. I love Gabe enough to risk everything, including my life and Michael’s, and I will not falter from what I must do.

  “That dude better be alive, or else I’m going to kill him dead.”

  “You make absolutely no sense at all right now.”

  “Kris, the aliens are using lightning and fucking bugs to turn people into dust. They’re not showing anyone any mercy, and we’re out here in the midst of it, riding bicycles and dodging cement boulders. All that crap we’re going through, I meant what I said.”

  “Okay, Michael, you meant what you said.”

  “He better be alive. I’m serious.”

  “I got it. If he’s dead, you’re going to kill him. I hear you loud and clear.” I roll my eyes and excuse myself. I can’t take any more of his temper tantrums, and nature is howling.

  When I return, Michael is checking my bicycle. He’s still steaming, but he’s calming down. I eat a couple of health bars and drink water. I’m still hungry after I’m done, but I try not to think about it.

  “Why did they destroy the gas tanks?” I ask Michael.

  “They’re crippling our ability to fight back.”

  “They already did it with the Macemps.”

  “If we happen to get any planes or vehicles working again, we’ll need fuel. Can’t drive a vehicle without gas. Can’t fly without gas. Well, at least when it comes to jets and planes with engines. The goal is to take away what makes us strong and wipe us out.”

  “They wo
n’t be able to kill us all. I don’t believe it for a second.”

  “You’ve seen what they can do.”

  “Seven billion people on the Earth, Michael, and we’re not all in one spot. People live in jungles, desolate lands, and islands. This planet is a big place.”

  “They don’t have to kill everyone, just enough to make a difference. That’s all the aliens have to do is reach enough people - the right people - to wipe out humanity’s advanced knowledge. You know, get rid of technology innovators, medical geniuses, economic intellects, scientists, mathematicians, historians, artists, anyone and everyone of importance. Take away all those influencers, and you’ve destroyed humankind.”

  “Like those people have labels. I can hear it now. The aliens would announce, ‘Whoever’s a scientist, please raise your hand or step in front of my spaceship. It’s time for you to die.’ Yeah, that’ll happen for sure.”

  Michael chuckles, “You know what I would do if I was the aliens?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “What I would do is I’d hit the powerplants first, fuel reserves, destroy bridges and highways, and take out their online capability.”

  “Well, they’ve done that.”

  “Then I would move on to places with large populations, destroying it all, and then spread out to surrounding smaller towns and suburbs. I’d chip away at them until no one is left. Might take decades, but that’s how I would do it.”

  “And then what? There would be nothing left.”

  “Maybe, the aliens don’t want anything we have. They could be sweeping this planet of its major problem.”

  “I thought about that,” I reply. “How we were the pestilence.”

  “We are. Humankind pollutes the air and trashes the seas. We exterminate entire species from the face of the earth, and we kill each other for oil, land, and religion. We’re worse than the plague or the flu. We invade and kill for no reason other than for our pleasure.”

  “We’re not all fucked up.”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “Whatever. Why couldn’t they have come in peace? It sounds stupid, but this is a big planet. There’s plenty of room.”

  “Kris, when you want the land from the natives, there are usually two ways to get it: invasion and annihilation. Because the invaders know that no one in their right mind will give up the territory they grew up on and nurtured. Think about how the United States began. The white man came to these shores. Brought weapons, and over time, they took the land from the Native Americans. Many of them were wiped out. This invasion is no different.”

  “And what will become of us? How long can we really survive?”

  “We make it to the bunker. We can survive for years.”

  “It’s such a long way. Look where we are, still in Virginia.”

  “By the end of the day, we don’t have to be. That’s all you got to do is forget about going to Ashburn.”

  “I love him, you know.”

  “Please, don’t go there. I’ve been able to stomach the invasion so far, but that love crap. Spare me, seriously.”

  “That’s why you’re single,” I remark.

  “No commitment. No answering to anyone. A bachelor supreme. I’m good with that.”

  “Yeah, I bet, and now that it’s the end of the world, you’ll never ever have to worry about commitment. You’ll be in the bunker with your Army friends. They’ll be at your side, and it’ll be a great time for you. But then they’ll have to go to their families. They’ll have their wives to keep them warm at night. Kids to keep them young. What will you have, Michael?”

  He suddenly grasps the gravity of his lifelong preference for being single. Watching his chest deflates makes me feel rotten. Being a smart ass is not a win.

  “I’m sorry,” I reply.

  He huffs as if it’s nothing, but the lack of companionship is a big deal. Before yesterday, he had choices. He could date someone or not. He could make love to them or not. Life was good when there were opportunities every time the sun rises. Now, what does he have?

  “We better get some miles behind us,” he says gloomily. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Yeah. Michael, I am sorry.”

  “Stop apologizing. We’re moving on.”

  Of course, he won’t accept or give forgiveness. That’s not who he is, but I’ve made my regrets known. At least, he is aware, and hopefully, he’ll find consolation in that.

  C H A P T E R

  23

  Fairfax, Virginia

  I am starving. My hunger has not been satisfied with mere water. I need sustenance to sustain. I want a piping hot meal. If I can’t get it, I’ll take a salad instead. Anything so I won’t suffer. We’ve gone by many restaurants, and each time I saw one, I thought about the hamburger I could be having. Or the tacos I could be munching on, wallowing in the ground beef, cheese, and sour cream. Pizza would be perfect. So, so perfect. That’s it! Michael is not going to bicycle me into oblivion. My body can’t take another second of not eating, and just as I’m about to call for a break, Michael stops cycling. He sees exactly what I’ve been thinking. It’s a twenty-four-hour restaurant. No, it’s a twenty-four-hour miracle.

  “How did you know I was hungry?” I ask.

  “I had no idea. I stopped because I was hungry too. Do you think they’re open?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m willing to break in there.”

  “You? Break the law?” Michael laughs as if it’s a stretch for me to do something so blatantly wrong.

  “Laws are a thing of the past. Everyone, including cops, is trying to make it through this invasion.”

  “Alright, Sis, since we’re doing this, I have to be real. You might have to kill another human being with that shotgun. Are you okay with that?”

  “No, but what choice do I have?”

  “We can keep going.”

  “Not until we eat.”

  Michael takes one last look at me. I nod to reassure him. I’ll say anything for food. I’m at a starvation level that’s beyond hangry. I’m to the point of weakness and possibly fainting.

  We hide our bicycles in a clump of trees, making sure they can’t be seen from any angle. Michael takes a moment to consider the lay of the land, the buildings, anything weird, and out of place. Everything looks fine to me, but he’s concerned.

  “Okay,” he whispers. “We’re going to enter through the back of the building. You go to the right. I’ll hit the left. Wait for me at the corner in the back. I’m going in first to check the area. You keep your eyes open. You see anyone coming, whistle. You still do know how to whistle?”

  “Yes, Michael, I’m not a complete prissy.”

  “Keep your head low. Okay?”

  “Got it.”

  “You ready?”

  “Hell, yeah, I’m ready to eat.”

  Michael chuckles, but I’m dead serious.

  We take off, separating when we get a few feet from the restaurant. When I reach the end of the wall at the back, I peek around the corner. Michael hasn’t made it to his post, but it’s not long before he does. He sneaks up to the back door and twists the knob. The door is locked. Michael aims the pistol, breathes in and out, then squeezes the trigger. The knob burst into pieces, and the door cracks open. The sound is horrendously loud.

  This is a bad idea. My nerves tingle. I’m beginning to sweat, and my stomach is mad as hell. We should just raid another store. That wasn’t so bad.

  Michael goes in. His pistol on point to take out anyone in his path.

  I’m having big regrets. Hunger clouds my good judgment. Now I worry that Michael could get hurt. Someone might already be in there and could kill him on sight. I listen for a scuffle. Michael will not back down from a fight. This could end just as badly as it did when we took the bicycles.

  Creaking comes from inside the restaurant. I want to check the back entrance, but I’m too scared.

  How long have I been out here? Where the hell is he? I count to ten and then backward.
I pray for his safety.

  “Kris! It’s all clear.”

  I peek around the corner. Michael is outside with his gun holstered. Breathing a sigh of relief, I follow him inside, down a long dark hallway that leads to a spotless kitchen. I move on to the dining room floor. The chairs are on top of the tables. The floor is shiny and clean, except for broken glass under the windows.

  “I have to wash up,” Michael replies. “I’ll cook after if you won’t mind waiting.”

  “That’ll work. I need to get cleaned up too.”

  Michael and I go our separate ways, heading to our gender assigned bathrooms. I strip down naked to my socks and commence to cleaning my body. First thing I do is check my neck. The bruising hasn’t changed. At least, it’s not getting worse. But I relish in the glorious feeling of having fresh soap and running hot water. Though it’s not a bath or shower, it still feels great to clean up. But the part of being hungry lingers, and I begin to rush.

  I find my brother in the kitchen later on. For a tough-guy soldier, Michael is a great cook. No such thing as written recipes in his world. He creates by memory, smells, and tastes. He had no choice but to learn. His mother worked all the time. Our dad wasn’t around. Michael has always been dependable, and I’m glad he never changed.

  “Turn up the heat!” I reply, going into the kitchen.

  “Fine food requires a delicate touch and sometimes a tender fire.”

  “So that you know, slow service means no tip.” I say as I grab plates, napkins, and utensils.

  “Be nice to the cook, or else.”

  “Or else what? You’ll make me cook? You don’t want that.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  I leave out of the kitchen and make place settings. The only thing that’s missing is drinks. I find a wide variety in a refrigerator behind the customer counter. Two sweet teas are in order.