Anthony DeCosmo - Disintegration

Many of the houses in south Wilkes-Barre wore unusual fronts such as big bay windows or wide double doors for the reason that before QuikMarts and chain drugstores many had been small family businesses. Jon grew up in Wilkes-Barre during the tail end of those days. He had played little league for "Macris" Pharmacy against the kids from "Sarafini’s Groceries" and "The Spinning Wheel" restaurant. Shopping malls and powerful brand names had been the monsters visited upon those entrepreneurs.

A sharp breeze blew a hurricane of litter across the road. Jon watched the papers flutter and said, "We're not going to find them."

"Relax," Trevor sounded calm but he felt a growing sense of claustrophobia. Clusters of houses, churches, and funeral homes crowded the street on both sides. So few escape routes, so few avenues of retreat, but plenty of ambush points.

A window curtain fluttered.

A trash can fell over and rolled.

Out the corner of his eye, Trevor saw a shadow dart between homes.

Something hanging on tree in a corner park howled a bizarre cooing noise…their noses caught a strange, musty scent that warned of marked territory…a yellow Wilkes-Barre Area school bus sat in two pieces on a side street, its center stretch completely gone as if neatly removed by a surgeon’s scalpel.

The RV rolled to a stop in front of E.L. Meyers High School, "Home of the Mohawks!" A black cat rested in the shadow of a massive pillar at the front of the long stone building. A shaded residential neighborhood surrounded the school.

"Why are you stopping?"

"We’re not going to find them just driving around, c’mon," Trevor killed the engine and both men exited the vehicle, carbines ready.

"Perimeter," the Master commanded and ten K9s spread around the motor home.

Across the street from the high school sat a house in the midst of major porch roof repair when the apocalypse had come, leaving only exposed crossbeams where there should have been wood and shingles.

Trevor and Jon, in a state of curious shock, approached that porch.

Four bodies dangled there-two men and two women-hanging from ropes secured to those exposed cross beams with roughshod nooses around necks. Jon stepped onto the porch to examine the rotting corpses; the bodies long ago picked clean. Probably by birds.

Probably.

Both men wore tuxedos. One woman dressed in a wedding gown, the other a fancy but dated prom dress. A piece of cardboard taped to the banister offered an explanation of sorts:

"Here hangs the South Side Suicide Club,

We couldn’t take it no more.

So we dressed in our best, stood straight and abreast,

And kicked away stools numberin’ four."

"Wow, now this is so fu-"

"Shh," Trevor cut Jon off.

From the porch, the men viewed Carey Avenue and two side streets. Thick curbside trees shaded one of those side streets as it headed in an easterly direction. An autumn wind gust blew along that shady street directly toward them. Tree limbs softly waved; clusters of leaves came loose and surfed the air. Several sounds carried on that wind.

First, a subtle, eerie howl hidden in the breeze. Second, a single sharp report.

Stone and Brewer exchanged glances.

Gunfire?

Trevor estimated forty-five minutes elapsed since the crash. A gunshot meant — maybe it meant- any survivors were still survivors and not leftovers.

"Trev," Jon pointed toward a blue sign with a big white ‘H’. "Mercy hospital. Probably a landing pad on the roof. That’d be something a pilot would aim for."

Trevor whistled for his troops. The K9s piled into the RV.

Stone started the vehicle again and they drove forward on that shady street.

The tall, wide hospital dominated the surrounding blocks with its red brick and stucco frame. The main entrance waited a right turn away on a smaller street. Trevor drove to that turn, cranked the wheel, and suddenly slammed on the brakes.

Jon jumped.

"What? What?"

Trevor laughed and shook his head.

"Sorry. Just we’re going the wrong way down a one-way street. Old habits, you know?"

Jon spotted the black arrow pointing the other direction and shared Trevor’s laugh.

"Shit yeah, I know."

On one side of the street stood the hospital, on the other a four-level parking garage. An overturned ambulance lay on the curb.

The RV pulled behind the ambulance. The men and the K9s jumped out and Trevor led them toward the main entrance. One of the German Shepherds emitted a sharp yap and stared at the parking garage across the street. Hanging over the railing of the garage roof drooped the bent rear rotor blades of a helicopter…

…The stairwell door swung open. Trevor, Jon and several K9s walked out into the sun where the zing of bullets greeted them. They hunkered behind a cluster of parked cars.

Jon growled, "They shot at us!"

"No wonder, they’ve probably been getting rushed by every monster on the south side."

By the looks of things, Trevor had a point. The roof served as final resting place for six Ghouls, three giant jellyfish, as well as a lion-thing with an armor-plated head.

Two men leaned against the toppled blue and white helicopter that had smashed into an ancient AMC Matador. They wore black S.W.A.T. BDUs and brandished pistols although empty Mp5s lay near. The metallic smell of expended shells floated over the rooftop battlefield.

Trevor yelled, "We saw your chopper go down! We’re here to help!"

No answer.

"I’m coming out. I’m putting my gun down."

Trevor held his empty hands high. Jon fidgeted as if to protest, but held his tongue.

With his palms clearly visible above his head, Trevor stood and walked slowly toward the two men near the helicopter.

The first man appeared to be fifty-something. He watched Trevor’s advance through narrow eyes on a thin face. His mustache, like the rest of the hair on his head, had long ago started the change from black to gray. That man’s left leg bled profusely.

The second, a big, round guy with prematurely thinning hair and a slim mustache, stood.

"Watch whatya doin’. Go real slow-like."

His complexion matched his accent: a Philadelphia Italian who spoke as much with his hands as his mouth.

Trevor said, "Looks like your friend needs first aid."

The older man swallowed hard and said to his companion, "Have them go looking for Nina and Scott."

"Shep," the Italian answered, "we gotta worry ‘bout you right nows."

"Can I put my hands down?"

The older man-Shep-spoke to Trevor, "Sorry ‘bout that. Can’t be too careful."

Trevor waved to Jon and the K9s. The two police officers eyed the dogs with suspicion.

"It’s okay, they’re with me." Trevor's assurances meant little to the policemen.

Stone knelt in front of the wounded man.

"How bad is that leg?"

"It’s a fair-size cut. Shoulder hurts, too, but if I don’t stop the bleeding…"

"Understood. We have some medical supplies in our RV. We can get it under control. But we need to get moving, it’s dangerous here."

"If we coulda moved him we wouldn’t ‘a been sittin’ here like ducks."

Trevor explained, "I can’t bring the motor home up here; there’s not enough clearance. Let’s get one of these cars to take you downstairs."

"Wait a sec," the older man objected. "There are two more with us. They made a lot of noise and moved off to draw away a bunch of ugly things. I can’t leave them behind."

Jon said, "We didn’t see anyone else. How long they been gone?"

"Been a while," the Italian answered, "Half-an-hour or so."

Jon stated the obvious: "They might not be coming back."

The older man said, "Oh no, Nina will be back. She’s gotten out of tougher scrapes then-"

A shot of pain deteriorated his words into a grunt.