Selected Scenes from the End of the World, page 7
Mean raised the.22 and took aim. His hands and legs felt numb, and his ears rang.
Shock, he thought. I’m going into shock.
He was about to squeeze the trigger when something brown and furry leaped ahead of the worm and ran towards him. Mean had time to register that it was an opossum. Then the animal climbed up his leg like it was a tree trunk and wrapped itself around his head. Mean let out a muffled scream as the terrified opossum roped its prehensile tail around his neck and dug into his scalp with its long, sharp claws. The thing was incredibly strong. Mean yelled, beating at it with his flashlight. The opossum clung tighter. The pain was intense and the smell from its wet fur was revolting.
Unable to see, Mean heard the giant worm slithering closer. He ran blind, stumbling over the rocks and almost slipping in the mud. He dropped the flashlight and the gun and gripped the animal with both hands. Pulling with all his might, Mean yanked the creature free. Its claws left deep, ragged gashes in his scalp and face. It wriggled in his grip, tail lashing the air like a whip.
“Get off me,” he shouted.
The opossum squealed.
Mean smashed it against a boulder, hearing the bones snap. Seizing it by the tail, he swung the creature over his head and slammed it repeatedly against the stone. Then he flung it to the ground and stomped on it until it was a red, jellied pulp. His boots were covered in gore. Blood flecked his face-both his and the opossum’s.
Behind him, the worm slithered closer. Mean glanced around for the gun, but it was missing, swallowed up by the marshy terrain. As the worm closed the distance between them, he turned and ran, fleeing along with the rest of the animal procession, into the shadows of Mount Taranaki. The worm undulated after them all, single-mindedly determined.
More animals screamed in the darkness.
Mean screamed louder.
13
RIDING THE STORM OUT
Modesto, California
“Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink…”
Larry Roberts licked his cracked, bleeding lips and tried to remember what the line was from. Some story about a mariner? He should know. Books were his life. He read them. Sold them. What was it from?
He didn’t know anymore.
What he did know was that he was suffering from dehydration. He was on part of a roof that had been torn from a house. Surrounded by water, floating on water, water falling from the fucking sky-and yet he was slowly dying of thirst. His mouth was dry and felt like cotton. There were no tears when he cried. He pissed once a day now-if that-and his urine was brown. Larry felt lightheaded most of the time. His skin was cool to the touch, his heartbeat rapid. And now he couldn’t think, either.
A corpse bumped into his makeshift raft. The slight impact made the roof bob up and down. The body rolled over as it floated past. Something had eaten its face.
Larry huddled beneath a canvas tarp, shivering and soaked. This was all he had-a roof and a tarp. No food. No dry clothes. No matches or weapons. His last meal had been two days ago-a pigeon he’d killed with his bare hands. He ate it raw, gagging with every bite, but chewing ravenously.
The water around him was unfit for human consumption and full of Modesto’s remains-dead bodies and chemicals and debris. The stench made him nauseous. He couldn’t drink the rain, either. He had no way to catch it, other than cupping his hands. The drops felt oily. Slimy. And before riding the storm out on this roof, Larry had heard from other survivors that the rain was poison. If you drank it, you got infected with some kind of fungus-a whitish mold that eventually covered your entire body. That was the rumor, at least.
Larry believed it.
Three days ago, he’d seen a man clinging to the top of a tree jutting from the water. Well, not a man, but a man-shaped thing. A figure composed of white fuzz that waved its arms and moaned when it saw him. The creature had slipped into the water as Larry neared it. He’d panicked, waiting for it to surface on the roof, but the tide carried him away before the thing emerged.
Drinking the water was suicide. But he was so thirsty. He listened to the rain as it drummed against the tiles, and tried to remember his family’s names-and found that he couldn’t anymore.
Larry looked up at the stormy sky and wished that he could weep.
Then he saw a light-a strange red glow flashing behind the black, roiling clouds. As he watched, the clouds parted and a phantom ship sailed out of the breach, floating far above the sea. It was an old vessel, and appeared to be damaged. There was a jagged hole in the side. One of the masts had been snapped off and the tattered sails fluttered in the wind. Despite the damage, it flew.
Hovered.
Whatever.
“I’m in worse shape than I thought.”
His voice was hoarse and weak. Larry felt like laughing, but he was afraid that if he started, he might not be able to stop.
The ship slowed. A rope ladder plummeted from the deck and hung directly overhead. Arms and legs trembling, Larry grasped the rope and tried to climb. He felt a twinge of unease as his feet left the roof. He glanced up at the flying ship, but couldn’t see anybody onboard. He climbed higher, not looking down. His weakness grew. Larry clung to the rope, unable to proceed. He squeezed his eyes shut and gasped for breath. Suddenly, the ladder began to rise on its own. Somebody was pulling him up. He kept his eyes closed.
Eventually, Larry felt rough hands grasping him. He opened his eyes and saw a dozen men pulling him over the rail and onto the deck.
“Easy, lad,” one of them said. “We’ve got you.”
The men smelled like road kill.
They sat him down on the wet deck. Blinking, Larry studied his rescuers. They were dressed in the tattered remains of antique costumes, and armed with rusty muskets and cutlasses-rejects from a Pirates of the Caribbean movie. The largest, a rotund man with a wiry, unkempt beard, stepped forward.
“Welcome aboard, mate. I’m Captain Hendrik van der Decken.”
Larry stumbled to his feet. His head swam and he lost his balance. Hands reached out to support him.
“W-where am I?” Larry mumbled. “What’s happening?”
“You are onboard the Flying Dutchman,” the Captain said. “We sailed from Amsterdam in 1641, in the employ of the Dutch East India Company. After a highly successful trip to the Far East, we were on our way back to Holland. As we approached the tip of Africa, in the Cape of Good Hope, a storm came up. Not like the storm that covers the globe now, but a bad one nonetheless. The wind was against us and we made no headway. I commanded my men to lay on steady. The storm wouldn’t stop us. I swore we’d continue sailing. Told my first mate, ‘May I be eternally damned if I head for shore, though I should beat about here till the day of judgment.’ The Lord must have taken offense at my blasphemy because here we are. We have sailed around the world, unable to die or put in to shore. We’ve no provisions, yet we need not eat.”
“So you’re ghosts?”
“No. We are not dead, but neither are we alive. We are cursed to roam, like Cain and the Wandering Jew.” The Captain swept his hand towards the rail, gesturing at the rain. “But now our long cruise is nearly over, for surely this is Judgment Day. Soon, we shall make our final port of call…and rest.”
Larry nodded in agreement. They were right; this was the end of the world. He cleared his throat and tried to work up enough saliva to speak.
“Thanks for rescuing me,” he said. “I thought for sure I was a dead man.”
“Not yet, lad. You can ride the storm with us.”
Larry glanced over the rail. Below him, the waters over Modesto soared by as the ship picked up speedagain. He became aware of how close the crew stood, encircling him.
“Please,” Larry croaked. “Do you have any water? Wine? Anything? I’m really thirsty.”
The Captain’s expression was sad. “And so you will be for as long as you remain aboard. As I said, we are not dead, but neither are we alive. You are not the first castaway we’ve picked up. As long as you stay onboard the Flying Dutchman, you remain perpetually frozen in time. Harkon, there, had a broken leg when the storm came upon us. It has remained broken all these centuries. I’m afraid you will remain thirsty until we are finally free of the curse.”
“Shit.”
The Captain stepped closer, his hand encircling the cutlass at his side.
“Of course, with your throat cut, your thirst won’t matter.”
“What?”
The crew seized him again. Larry struggled, but in his weakened state, his efforts were futile. They held his arms and grabbed his hair, jerking his head back. The Captain eyed his throat.
“We have no need of food, but neither are we content to accept our fate. We’ve spit in God’s eye since the curse began. At first, it was to insult him. But eventually, we found that we liked the abominations we enacted.”
“What are you going to do with me?”
“Put you in the hold, along with the rest of the castaways we’ve picked up throughout the years. We’ll slice your throat every night and fill our goblets with your blood. And since you cannot die, we’ll do the same the next night.”
Larry turned pale.
“Be glad you are not a woman. We do other things tothem, aye?”
“Y-you’re insane! Let me go!”
The Captain laughed. “Hear that, lads? He thinks we are insane.”
The sailors laughed.
“We are insane,” the Captain growled. “As you would be, if you shared our fate for as long as we have. But with Judgment Day nigh, perhaps you will not suffer as long as the rest of our guests.”
Larry squirmed. “Let go of me, you bastards!”
“Take him below,” the Captain ordered.
With all of his remaining strength, Larry tore free of his captors and ran for the rail. Crying out, they charged after him. Larry slammed into the rail and toppled over it. As he plummeted, he refused to scream.
It took him a long time to reach the ocean. The rain lashed at him and the wind whistled in his ears.
When the fall was over, Larry wasn’t thirsty anymore.
14
BAD FISH
Somewhere in the New Atlantic
Brian Lee was sick of fish. Since leaving home on his twenty-seven-foot Baja 272, all he’d had to eat were fish and one molting seagull. Since there was no way to cook them, he’d eaten both the bird and the fishes raw-some-thing that got easier every time. The bird had been the worst-chewy and cold and full of gristle. Worse, its lower half had some kind of weird fungus growing on it. He’d been careful not to eat that part, but devoured the rest, guts and all, and then puked when he was done. But that had been weeks ago, and Brian had eaten so many fish since then that a fresh seagull now would be fine dining.
He turned his head to the sky. Raindrops blinded him, streaming down his upturned face. Brian held his pants up with one hand. His wet T-shirt, which had been tight-fitting before the rains started, now hung loose.
“Let it rain cookies,” he shouted. “Let it rain potato chips or pizza or popcorn. Or a steak. Anything!”
The storm clouds didn’t answer. He hadn’t expected them to. Even though he was alone, Brian spoke aloud every day. He was afraid that if he didn’t, he might forget how. He was very lonely.
Worse, he was afraid he might be going mad.
At night, he sometimes heard voices singing over the roaring waves. They belonged to his wife, Theresa, and his daughters, Kirsten, Jessica, and Kimberly. Of course, that was impossible. His family was gone. But each time he heard those phantom songs, Brian had to restrain himself from jumping overboard, convinced Theresa and the kids were floating somewhere nearby-perhaps swimming like they did in their backyard pool back home in Goffstown. After a few nights of that, Brian had started stuffing his ears with strips of cloth and tying his legs to the bed when he slept.
Thoughts of his family and their home made him think of Goffstown. Would he ever see it again? Doubtful. Goffstown, like the rest of New Hampshire, was under-water now.
Brian’s Baja 272 had been docked on the shore of Lake Winnipesauke, along with their Honda wave runner. They hadn’t used either one very much, which was a shame. Boating on Lake Winn could be an adventure, with all of the rocks, islands, and stupid people. It hadn’t been until Lake Winn was swallowed up by the Atlantic that he finally got to use the boat. In the weeks since, when he grew tired of eating raw fish and the loneliness and the boredom and the rain-especially the rain- Brian occasionally thought of just slipping overboard and swimming away until he drowned. It wasn’t a rational or sane impulse, but he had it just the same.
He could swim, but not well. His problem was simple-he sunk. He couldn’t tread water because he tired out quickly. When he’d been fifteen, Brian had gone to Boy Scout camp, and had to take a swim test. He was required to jump in the lake and swim one hundred yards in order to pass and receive his badge. He jumped in and nearly died of shock. It was late July, but the water was absolutely frigid. Brian did three laps and got out, shivering and completely drained. He crawled back to his tent and threw up. The scoutmaster took pity on him and gave him a badge anyway.
He was thinking about this and ignoring the gnawing pains in his stomach when he saw the seagulls. His mouth watered as he watched them swoop overhead. They dived down to the surface, scooped debris from the water, and then soared back into the sky. A few of them were daring enough to land on his boat, desperate for a place to rest. Poor things looked exhausted.
Brian didn’t care. They were dinner.
He edged towards the closest bird, careful not to scare it. The seagull cocked its head and stared at him, unblinking. Something splashed out in the water, but Brian ignored it. It wasn’t until the rest of the seagulls began shrieking that he turned his attention back to the sea.
A school of silver fish shot out of the water and into the sky. Each was about eight inches long. Their eyes were large and bulbous, and their pectoral fins were broad and curved like wings. In fact, they were wings. Brian had heard of flying fish, of course, but he’d never seen them before. He forgot all about the birds and watched the fish, delighted at their aerial acrobatics. More of them burst from the waves. They swam just below the surface, with their fins tucked close to their bodies. Then, as they left the water, they spread their fins and glided through the air. Laughing, Brian grinned.
The seagulls squawked with delight and dived down to meet this flying smorgasbord. Birds and fish crashed together.
Brian’s laughter faded. Then he screamed.
The fish had teeth. Like flying piranhas, they ripped through the seagulls, shredding and tearing. Blood and feathers joined the rain falling from the sky. Then came severed bird heads, feet and beaks. The surviving seagulls scattered, trying to flee, but the fish turned in mid-air and circled around for another attack.
Brian threw up his hands as more blood and feathers plummeted towards him. The rain’s pace seemed to increase with the slaughter. It fell quicker, drumming against the deck. There were more splashes from all around the boat as school after school of carnivorous fish leapt from the water and joined the hunt. Their silver bodies flashed in the gloom.
Then they glided towards the boat.
Panicked, Brian ran across the wet deck, one hand gripping the rail to keep from slipping. His heart pounded in his throat. He was dimly aware that he was crying and screaming at the same time. He shouted for Theresa and the girls. Their songs were silent now, if they’d ever actually existed at all. The only sound was the drone of his pursuers. Their wing-fins hummed slightly. The noise from their gnashing teeth swelled, drowning out everything else.
He glanced from side to side. There was nowhere to hide. He was defenseless. Weaponless. In seconds, they’d be on him, stripping him to the bone. Brian’s shoulders slumped. He hung his head.
There was only one way out-the ocean. If he ducked below the surface long enough, maybe the fish would forget about him and move on. All he had to do was avoid sinking. This was the biggest Boy Scout merit badge of his life.
With a final anguished cry, Brian vaulted over the side of the boat.
The fish swarmed him as he plunged towards the water, and what sank beneath the surface was red, wet and ragged.
15
LOADS AND LOADS
Worcester, England
When the looters arrived, Stephen “Macker” McDornell and his three year-old son, Charlie, hid inside a toilet stall. Stephen made a game out of it and told Charlie to stay quiet. He did. Charlie was a good boy.
For the last several days, they’d been holed up in the football stadium, famous for being the highest league ground in England-one hundred and sixty-eight meters above sea level. The league ground and the steeple of the cathedral that had once overlooked the River Severn were all that remained above water now. Everything else had been swallowed by the sea. The river. The rain.
Whatever. They were all the same now. They were all water.
Before the current disaster, the worst flooding Stephen had ever seen was last summer when the river breached its banks, damaging thousands of homes and submerging whole villages along its banks underwater.
But this…this was far worse.
Worcester was gone. Not flooded, but gone. Vanishedbeneath the waves. And even though Stephen secretly considered that an improvement, it was still heart wrenching-not so much that Worcester was destroyed, but all the people that had been destroyed along with it. His mates and Wendy (Stephen’s former girlfriend and Charlie’s mum), and even his co-workers at the firm where he’d worked as a printer (although he didn’t miss them that much). It was hard to believe that he’d never drink a pint with his friends again, or root alongside them for West Brom. God…West Brom! Hard to fathom that there would be no more matches. Stephen had been a season ticket holder for all home league games. They’d been doing so well after missing out on promotion last season by one bloody goal in the very last game. Now, there would be no more games.
