Victor Methos - Pestilence

“Is your internet working, Trudy?”

“No, it hasn’t worked for three days. I thought it was the canyons.”

Rick sat in the driver’s seat for a moment, staring out at the truck stop, thinking about the man with the face that appeared to be falling off. His flesh had been ragged, as though it were weak from being soaked in water and were slipping off his skull.

Rick started the RV and headed back onto the interstate. Trudy was sitting up in the passenger seat, and Marcus was on the floor behind him.

“What’s happening, Daddy?” Trudy asked.

“I don’t know.”

They passed several cars, but none of them were moving. They were all pulled over to the side of the road without occupants. As they rolled into Los Angeles, a heavy, dark, feeling came over Rick, and for some reason, it was familiar. But he couldn’t place it for a long time, until they saw a body in the middle of the road.

A man, maybe in his mid-twenties, was flat on his back, and some birds were picking at his belly, which was exposed underneath a dirty tank top. His face was bloody and torn up, and all his limbs were a dark black, as though they had been barbequed.

Rick stopped behind the corpse, recognizing the feeling he’d had before. In Yosemite, when they had entered the place where the Yosemite Killer had spread terror and evil for months, he’d felt the same.

“Dad?” Marcus said.

“Yeah.”

“You gonna go around him?”

“Yeah,” Rick said, not realizing he had been stopped for a long time. He rolled the RV around and continued down the interstate.

“Look at that,” Marcus said.

Corpses were piled on the side of the road. A massive accident had occurred. At least twenty to thirty cars were strewn about like children’s toys, rolled over or thrown onto the surrounding fields.

Bodies were everywhere. But the bodies didn’t appear to have been flung around by the accident. These bodies had collapsed from something else. And the road was painted a faded red, with droplets thrown around like on a canvas painted by a drunken artist. It was so out of the ordinary that Rick’s mind couldn’t recognize the red paint for what it was: gallons of blood from the body of every person who had died out here.

“I’m scared, Daddy.”

“We’re safe in here,” he said, unable to sound convincing. He caught her eyes, trying to appear as upbeat and positive as possible. “We’re safe in here, sweetheart. Go lay down on the bed. We’ll be home soon.”

He pulled the RV over the median and around the corpses. Then he continued down the interstate, but what they saw was no different. Corpses rotted in the sun while birds, coyotes, and dogs tore at them. He kept driving, following the speed limit, and then grasping how pointless that seemed, he sped up to seventy-five and barreled toward his home as if that were their safe house and none of this would be real if they could get there.

The inner city was even worse. Bodies lay in the gutter like trash, and cars had run through convenience stores, wrapped around light poles, and flipped upside down. He didn’t see anyone out.

Rick’s home was up on a hill overlooking the city. To get there he had to go through Laurel Canyon, and he rolled down his windows so he could smell the eucalyptus leaves. The wind hit his face and made him feel better. He glanced in his rearview, and both his children were sitting attentively on the bed, neither of them speaking. Their eyes were glued to the windows, and he knew they were scanning for more dead bodies.

Pulling into their driveway, he stopped and put on the parking brake. None of them moved. Rick turned to them, and they exchanged glances.

“Why don’t you guys stay here a minute,” he said. “Just while I check out the house.”

He walked outside and shut the door behind him. The bright sun was hot on his face, and he scanned his home, a five-bedroom built right on a cliff over the canyon, then walked to it.

Samantha woke to the sound of ringing. She checked her cell phone, but the batteries were long dead, and she realized her home phone was ringing.

Jessica was still asleep, her head nestled comfortably underneath Sam’s arm. Samantha calmly lifted her arm and rose from the couch. She didn’t know what time it was, but bright sunshine was coming through all the windows. A note from her mother’s nurse was on the coffee table, letting her know that her mother had been fed and changed and that she hadn’t wanted to wake Sam. It also asked who the girl was and said that she was adorable.

Samantha walked to the phone in the kitchen and answered it. “This is Samantha.”

“Samantha, I didn’t know if you’d made it back. This is Freddy.”

Her boss-he was the person in the entire world she least wanted to talk to. “What do you need, Freddy?”

“Um, well, I don’t know what to say. I heard about Duncan. Olsen called me and let me know. I’m sorry. I know you two were friends.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah. Well, um, what I was calling about was that I was wondering when you were going to come in next.”

“Come in to the office?”

“Well, yeah. This is an enormously important time, Sam. We’ve had four detonations, and all have come back as-”

“We had four detonations?” she asked, shocked. She remembered Olsen mentioning that to her, but in her medicated state, it had passed through without the recognition it deserved.

“Oh, well, yeah. I thought you’d heard.”

“I’ll be right down.”

Rick stood at his open front door. He didn’t move until he heard the door creak in the wind that was blowing through the trees and shrubbery. Walking in, his mouth was dry, and his heart was pounding. He was physically weak and thought, So this is what being really terrified feels like?

His gun was upstairs. He walked through the kitchen and into the living room. As he was heading up the stairs, a breeze wafted in, and he saw that the balcony doors were open.

Taking one step at a time, careful not to make them creak, he got to the second floor and glanced down both sides of the hallway before turning into the master bedroom. A framed photo of his wife was on the nightstand. He stared at it a moment and then went to the closet. Up on the top shelf was his 12 gauge. He took down that and a box of ammo. Then he loaded the weapon and cocked it before turning around.

Rick walked back down to the living room. He crossed the carpet, stopping for a moment to listen, and then was about to head out to his kids when he saw something off the balcony-a plume of smoke, several, in fact.

He walked out and slid open the screen. Standing on the balcony, he saw Los Angeles before him, but it didn’t resemble any city he’d seen. Fires raged across the city. Some were small patches that produced light, gray smoke, and others were sizeable infernos the length of football fields that discharged a black fog. The streets were clogged with motionless cars, and most shocking of all, he didn’t see a single live person. Bodies were everywhere, dotting the landscape like ants over rotting food. Many wore military uniforms.

He heard something in the sky and looked up to see a chopper heading toward downtown. The machine was veering off course, weaving in the air as though it had a drunk driver, far too close to the ground. It squealed as it neared the city and banked downward into a building. A boom and an explosion accompanied it as it slammed into a tower and shattered.

Though Rick was miles away, he flinched. When he opened his eyes again, he saw a smoldering heap of stone and steel where the chopper and fragments of the building had hit the sidewalk.

Rick turned and ran to the RV, grabbing some food and storage water on his way. He ran back to the house twice more, with his kids asking him what was going on, and loaded up as many supplies as he could.