Морин Макхью - Wastelands - The New Apocalypse

Then they start rolling.

If those barbed wire spines get hold of you, you won’t get away. You’ll be pulled into the flesh mass and the only human part left of you will be your eyes. I’ve seen Rollers the size of two-story houses. A hundred blinking eyes staring down at you, the air smells like chalk, and there’s nothing you can do but run.

Rollers might be meat and bone, but once they’re moving, nothing can stop them. They’ll crush cars and crash through buildings to get to you. I’ve seen them take down ten, twenty people in one mad run. So, you might wonder, why didn’t a Roller ever get me ?

It’s like the old joke about how do you outrun a bear? I don’t have to outrun the bear.

I just have to outrun you .

I headed home after the cops interviewed me and the company made me write a report on the accident. I mostly talked about the pickup truck that cut everyone off and didn’t mention the texting because, really, who needed to know? My bosses were happy enough with my story, but not with me letting a client get killed. They fired me on the spot. But at least I wasn’t going to jail.

The party that night was in San Teresa, a ritzy gated community for people who thought Bel-Air was for losers. The mansion was owned by Franklin Bradbury, one of those faceless secret masters of money who traded movie studios and record labels like kids used to trade Pokemon cards. Frank was made of cash and power—which can get you hated in L.A.—but he churned out enough good product and treated people well enough that he was everybody’s favorite billionaire. He only had a few quirks I knew about. Like, when he found out I was a bodyguard, all he wanted to do was talk about guns. Frank had an impressive gun vault, and a safe full of ammo to go with all the toys.

“Don’t worry, big guy,” he always joked. “When you’re in my house, I’m the one guarding you .”

“I always appreciate it, Frank. We all do.”

It wasn’t a big party by Frank’s standards, just a get together of thirty or so people from his TV company. They were launching a new network that weekend so everyone was in a good mood and most of them were already lit by the time I got there. That included Macy, my wife. She’d come up with some other people from work and we hadn’t spoken all day. I winced a little when she put her arms around my shoulders to kiss me.

She said, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m just a little sore. There was an accident today at work.”

Macy frowned. “ What? Why didn’t you call me?”

“It was no big deal,” I lied, not wanting to get into it here. “Just a fender bender, but I got some nice bruises.”

She pushed my hair back from my forehead, something she always did when she was concerned for me. “I’m glad you’re okay, but call me next time.”

“I promise.”

She took my hand and led me into the botoxed masses. I was never comfortable with these people. They were all so pretty and tan that I couldn’t tell them apart or remember half of their names. Still, it was drinks all around, so no one minded if you got their name wrong on the first try.

Frank had a television the size of Kansas and someone was flipping through the channels until they stopped on a late-night talk show. I watched just long enough to see Alexandra appear on screen and give the host a peck on the cheek. I looked over at the sofas. The real Alex was there with the remote in her hand. She looked at me and winked. I smiled back.

She was curled up next to Geoff somebody, a handsome up and coming actor. They had a good relationship. He got her into all of the big movie premieres and she was his beard, hanging on his arm whenever he went out somewhere the studio wanted him to look macho. Macy was off talking business with Frank, so I went over and sat down with the happy couple.

Instead of hello Alex said, “So, did you bring any with you?”

“Bring what?”

“The coke! I told Geoff you’d have enough for all of us.”

I shook my head solemnly. The one thing you never want to tell a twenty-something singer who’s been waiting all day for a bucket of cocaine is that there isn’t any. But there was nothing I could do. “I’m sorry, baby. The guy was a ringer. There was no coke.”

Alex fell back against the sofa, bounced off and collapsed across Geoff’s lap like a dying deer. She said, “You’ve ruined my life, you know.”

“No, I didn’t. I just slowed down your evening.”

“I’ve got you covered,” said Geoff. He took a small aspirin tin from his pocket. “My friend Sandra is seeing this Swedish DJ. She said he has a huge cock and great molly. Want one?”

Alex popped upright and opened her mouth like a baby bird waiting to get fed. Geoff took a pill from the case and tossed it onto her tongue. She swallowed and he held the tin out to me. “Paul?” he said.

I shook my head. “I had an accident today. The cops might call me in for a drug test.”

“That’s sad,” he said, swallowing a pill. It broke my heart to not be able to join them. I started to say something when Alex shrieked.

“No! What the fuck is this shit?”

I looked and saw that the local news station had broken into her talk show with a special report. The sound was down on the TV, so all we saw were high helicopter shots looking down on the 405 near the airport. Cars were on fire. Trucks had flipped, spilling their contents all over the road. Stuck in an endless ribbon of burning traffic, people were abandoning their vehicles and running away. By now, the room had gone quiet as everyone stared at the screen.

“Does anyone know what’s going on?” said Frank. He took the remote from Alex’s hand and aimed it at the TV. But when he pushed the volume control, the TV remained muted. He banged the remote against his hand. “Goddamn fucking thing.”

The whole room screamed as something massive crashed through the stalled traffic. The searchlight from the news chopper stayed on it as the thing smashed its way north. When the shot pulled back, it revealed that there were several massive things on the road, all heading toward the city, crushing and absorbing everybody in their path. It was our first glimpse of Rollers.

We watched for a while with the sound off. Frank switched from station to station, looking for different views of the carnage. A few more people screamed when Frank found a shot of Rollers moving down Hollywood Boulevard—all spikes, blood, and blinking eyes. He headed for the front door and I followed him.

His mansion is on a high hill with a view all the way across L.A. to the ocean. We stood on his circular driveway and looked down at Hollywood. The sky buzzed with helicopters, both media and LAPD. I counted six major fires across the city. Frank grabbed my arm.

“Paul, you’re going to help me keep these people under control, right?”

“What does that mean?”

“We can’t let them leave. Look at that shit down there.”

There was a muffled boom in the distance as a gas station or something exploded.

I said, “I take your point, Frank, but you can’t make people stay.” “But you will, right? You and Macy? I can lock this place down like nobody’s business.”

I looked back at the choppers and the fires. “Okay. We’ll stay the night. I’ll help you with crowd control, but you have to let anyone leave who wants to. Otherwise, it’s technically kidnapping.”

“Sure,” he said. “Understood. Come on.”

Frank made his pitch to the crowd and, goddammit, he was a good salesman, even saving the best bit for last. After he got through explaining about how disaster-prepped he was, he took what looked like a garage door opener from his desk and pushed a button. Steel shutters slammed closed over all the outside doors and windows.