Apocalypse: An Anthology Part 14

"Tommy," James said, a tinge of disgust clouding his words. "Stop drinking."

Tommy shook his head, sending droplets of water cascading from his beard.

"Tommy, stop drinking," Jim said more sternly.

Smiling, Tommy turned toward his concerned friend. "Why? What's wrong?"

Jim motioned up river. Following his gaze, Tommy's smile immediately faded. Upstream, only a few hundred feet, a rotting deer's head jutted from the center of the stream. The water cascaded around and through the rotting carca.s.s, carrying its decay in the water from which Tommy was drinking.

Tommy turned aside, shoved his finger down his throat, and forced himself to vomit. There was a chance the decaying deer would have no impact on the section of water from which he drank, but the bacteria and filth a.s.sociated with decomposition could make him violently ill.

He threw up onto the ground. His bile was mostly water, since he had little food in his stomach, and he vomited until he reached the point of dry heaving. His sides ached from the exertion, and he collapsed onto the damp ground when he was done.

Panic ran through his mind. He had vomited as quickly as he could, but there was no promise it was fast enough. As fatigued and dehydrated as he was, his body would absorb the water quickly. There was no telling if the toxins were already working their way through his body, except to wait until later and find out.

Chapter Nine.

Fever burned Tommy's skin as he rolled across the cool ground. The muddy earth absorbed the cool evening air, but it did little to fight off the sickness that burned through Tommy's blood.

He tried to sleep, to give his body a chance to recover, but he was denied rest. Every time he began drifting off, his stomach clenched and he was forced to roll away and purge. The fact that nothing remained in his digestive system mattered little to the poison in his system.

The fever made him sweat away what little moisture he still had in his body. The water not stolen by sweat or vomiting was taken during multiple bouts of diarrhea.

Sickness muddled his thoughts as he lay beneath the sea of twinkling stars. The only prevalent thoughts that broke through the haze over his mind were thoughts of discouragement and disappointment. He and James were so close to the Grand Canyon, having traveled for so long to get there. To make so rudimentary a mistake at the end was careless. If he couldn't overcome his sickness, then he knew how his story would end: he would die in the wilderness. It was ironic that there were so few people left in the world that every death was significant, but no one would ever know about the loss. No one would ever come to visit his grave. He would simply fade away, without as much as a footnote in the annals of history.

The night faded to day and the day again to night. Jim sat by his side, keeping watch through Tommy's fevered vision. Sweat soaked through his clothes and he tore at his beard, trying to relieve some of the heat contained in his body. Slowly, the diarrhea abated, as did the constant urge to vomit. He knew the fever was receding as well, but Tommy wasn't sure it really mattered much. Even if he recovered from the poisoning, he wasn't sure he had the strength remaining to finish the trip. Their food was practically gone, and they no longer had any drinkable water. Even the small amount of palatable that had remained when they came upon the stream had been mixed with the tainted water, spoiling the whole batch. For a while, he considered going further upstream and collecting more water, but there was no telling how many other dead animals littered the stream. He'd live in constant fear that his next drink would be just as toxic. His body couldn't fight off another sickness.

That night, his thoughts faded away to blissful oblivion and Tommy finally fell asleep.

Chapter Ten.

The next morning, the sun shone brightly through the trees. Tommy weakly raised a hand to block out the light. He tried sitting up, but lacked the strength.

"Take it easy," Jim cooed as he came over to his friend's side.

"I'm almost surprised to still see you here," Tommy croaked. "I figured you'd be long gone."

James smiled. "Where would I go?"

Tommy pushed himself up to a sitting position, despite his abdomen screaming in protest. His muscles felt like jelly, and even holding himself up in a seated position took extreme effort.

Slowly, he shook his head. "I'm not sure I can do this, Jim."

The admission of his weakness brought a painful lump to his throat. Dry tear ducts burned with the effort to make tears. Tommy sat forward and sobbed into his lap.

"I'm sorry, Jim. I'm just so tired."

James put a hand on his back. "Your apology isn't accepted, Tommy. You brought me hundreds of miles on foot so we could get to the Grand Canyon. You convinced me that the people who left the message were real. You showed me that you were strong enough not to give up when the rest of the world disappeared and left you alone. I won't accept that you're going to quit right here, when your goal is so close."

Jim stood up and scowled down at Tommy. "Now get up! We have a mission to finish. Get up!"

Tommy looked up at his friend.

"You can do this, Tommy. Now get up!"

The threat of disappointing his only friend ignited a fire within him. Tommy climbed slowly to his feet, though his knees threatened to buckle from the effort. With James leading the way and yelling encouragement, Tommy forded the shallow river and pushed into the brush beyond.

The walk was grueling. Tommy tripped often, and every time he had to right himself it became a bigger challenge. His body moved beyond fatigue and dehydration. Hunger was left far behind as his body fought against every step he took.

Ahead of him, the ground sloped upward, and Tommy sobbed at the effort. No longer standing upright, Tommy crawled, alternating pus.h.i.+ng with his feet and pulling against roots of the trees ahead of him. Rain, unexpected streams, and creeks had carved the hill into small ravines of soft earth. His toes lost purchase and the roots of the plants pulled free of the loose ground. Falling forward, a cloud of dust erupted from the impact of his face.

"Get up, Tommy!" James screamed angrily. "You're almost at the top! Come on, Tommy, don't you quit on me now!"

Feeling the burn of disappointing failure aching in his chest, Tommy dragged himself upward, his body lacking the strength to stand upright. The thick plants gave way to wispy gra.s.ses and the trees parted, allowing in bright sunlight.

The hill leveled out as Tommy dragged himself onto the flat plateau. Over him, blocking out the brightest of the sunlight, Jim looked down and smiled broadly.

"You made it," James whispered.

"I made it up the hill," Tommy echoed.

"No, Tommy. You made it to the Grand Canyon."

Stunned, Tommy pushed himself off his belly, sitting up until he rested on his knees. Spread before him in panoramic beauty, the Grand Canyon stretched as far as he could see. A half-fallen railing marked the entrance to a trail, leading the way down the steep cliff-face to the Colorado River below.

"We made it," Tommy cried as much from relief as exhaustion.

He pushed himself up, stood on unsteady legs, and looked across the beautiful view. Pulling the brochure free of the pack, he looked at the faded photograph, admiring how much more impressive it looked in real life.

"You know they'd be at the bottom of the canyon, near the river, if they're here at all," James explained, standing behind him as Tommy enjoyed the view.

Tommy nodded, feeling rejuvenated. "It's not going to be an easy climb down. You sure you're up for it?"

"Don't worry about me," Jim replied, his voice growing faint. "I'm just a figment of your imagination."

Tommy turned and stared at the empty s.p.a.ce behind him. He followed his crawl marks as they crested the top of the hill, but found no other footprints.

Looking down briefly at the brochure, he looked out over the Grand Canyon. He longed to find the strangers at the bottom of the canyon.

Tommy hoped they really existed, because he'd been alone for so very long.

WHAT IF.

JOCELYN SANCHEZ.

Dedicated to: My best friend Dorotea Conklin Author Info: Jocelyn Sanchez is a student that enjoys spending her hours reading and writing. She gains inspiration from her favorite authors, books and family. She one day hopes to publish her books and inspire others to write as well.

You can connect with Jocelyn at: http://www.facebook.com/jocelyn.sanchez.359 What If We ran through the streets. Away from the monsters that have taken over our world. You ever heard of the zombie apocalypse? Well it's like this but a hundred times worse. Our world has been taken over by zombies, werewolves, and vampires. Their goal: to eliminate all the humans in the world. Our objective: make it through the night and look for help.

I'm Jocelyn and I'm traveling with my best friend, Dorotea. Together we might stand a chance, or we might not. We were trying to quietly get into the abandoned warehouse that the monsters avoid because of all the silver and metals it contains. We almost made it there but then someone grabbed Dorotea and she screamed. I turned quickly to help her but it was too late. The zombie bites her and she screamed again. She was now one of them. I had to leave her, despite the ache in my stomach for doing so.

I ran and made it in, almost getting grabbed by a vampire. They all hissed at me but stayed away. Okay, you made it, Jocelyn, now think!! I wander around the warehouse when I see movement out of the corner of my eye. I grabbed my bag and took out the colt revolver I had in it and took aim.

"Wait," a voice called. "Don't shoot," the person said as they walked into the light. I let out a gasp.

"Marco?" I whisper, "You're alive?" I grab him into a hug.

"Yea, it's me and Mia only though. Where's Dorotea?"

I shake my head and look down "She's gone?" he asked "Worse," I whisper and look up, "she's a zombie now."

Marco closed his eyes and shakes his head from side-to-side. "Well how much supplies do you have left?"

"I have two water bottles left and a few matches. But I'm running out of ammo."

"We were just headed to the police station to see if they have any supplies," Marco said as Mia walked up to them. "You want to come?"

"Let's go," I say and we walk off.

We look around the warehouse to see the best place to leave through without being seen. We finally find a way out without any monsters finding us. We walked as fast and quiet as we could. We made it to the police station when we heard a laugh.

"Run in and look for weapons!" I yell. "I will cover our backs!" I go to take out my gun but can't find it. I turned around and froze. Standing right behind me was Dorotea. And she was holding my gun in her hand...

CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN.

NICKI SCALISE.

Dedicated to: Jon: who believes in me with the patience of a saint, Jannah: my partner in crime and Wimbley: my sweet little protector and keeper of my heart.

Author Info: Nicki Scalise lives in Colorado with her husband, 4 dogs and chinchilla. She is co-founder of A Thousand Lives Book Blog. When not reading and reviewing books she spends her time creating strange and unusual crafts, painting, and working as a dog groomer.

You can read Nicki's book reviews and general ramblings at: http://thousandlivesbookblog.blogspot.com http://www.facebook.com/Pageturnersbookaddicts Cheyenne Mountain It's fall but soon the cold will be upon us. I can feel it in my bones and in the depths of my soul. I know if we have an early snowfall that we won't make it to Cheyenne Mountain, and then we're as good as dead. A death from the cold would be welcome in comparison to how all my friends and family perished, hunted as they were by the Anathema. Dubbed so by the media, who or what the Anathema are I can't say for sure. Some said they were demons or vampires or evil spirits. I'm not sure it even really matters anymore. The Anathema are unstoppable, unkillable, and have a sole mission: total annihilation of the human race. They have almost succeeded.

My dog, a small black and tan dachshund named Wimbley, and I have been on the road for days. Making the long trek on foot from our home town in northern Colorado to the southern part of the state where Cheyenne Mountain resides. In the early weeks of the "apocalypse", it was thought that Cheyenne Mountain would be a safe haven for survivors. Rumors flew that the high ranking officials of the government and armed forces are taking refuge there. I think it may be a false hope; a c.o.c.kamamie notion dreamed up by those who have seen too many Hollywood blockbuster films. A false hope it may be, but it's the only hope I have left.

The trek has been slow going as we must calculate every step we take to avoid being caught by the Anathema. In better times what would have been a three hour car ride has taken the better part of a week. I curse myself for not being brave enough to leave sooner when a car might have still been an option. Most of the roadways are now clogged with abandoned vehicles; abandoned either because they ran out of fuel or the Anathema came upon them.

My large mountaineer backpack, which was once heavy with food and supplies, feels uncomfortably empty now. Before Wimbley and I set out I had pillaged the local sporting goods store for supplies. I loaded up on military style MRE's and dehydrated foods. I grabbed clothes and comfortable hiking shoes. I even found a pair of booties to protect Wimbley's feet.

Surveying the map I was smart enough to grab, I know that we are near Castle Rock; still at least four days away from our final destination. However, when I performed an inventory check I found that we have three days of food left. If I carefully ration everything and skip a few meals, we should have just enough to make it. Our water situation is looking slightly bleak. We have four bottles left. Not being an outdoorsy- woodsy kind of girl, I'm very scared to get water from rivers or streams in fear of making myself or Wimbley sick. However, it appears that if it doesn't rain soon I will have to take that chance.

It is early morning as we leave Castle Rock behind us. Each time we leave a city I send a quiet plea to the universe that it won't be the last time I see it. All these cities I have taken for granted since childhood seem so very precious to me now. Wimbley and I walk mostly in silence. When his little legs get tired I let him take naps in the backpack as I trudge along. This last leg of the journey will be dangerous. It will be four days out in the open as we follow the path of I-25. I will have to make camp roadside at least three times before we reach Cheyenne Mountain. There will be no fires those nights, which maybe just as well as we are beginning to run short on matches.

It's midafternoon when I begin to see a strange shape off to the side of the road. I duck behind the pile of vehicles on the highway. Wimbley, who has been dozing away, pokes his little nose out of the pack.

"There's something on the road up ahead. Stay down little buddy," I utter barely above a whisper. He acknowledges me by nudging my arm with his snout and disappears back into the pack. I creep forward, using the cars as cover. I remind myself to step lightly as I go. As I inch closer the shape comes into focus and I realize it's a young man. He appears to be crying. I am taken aback by this discovery as I haven't seen another person in weeks. His back is to me, which works out in my favor. I am so shocked to see another person that I stand straight up from behind my hiding spot.

I am transfixed, frozen in place staring at him. I feel a little nip on my arm and a tug on my sleeve as if Wimbley is trying to remind me that I should be hiding. Rationally I know how unsafe a situation I have just found myself in, but my loneliness has taken over. "h.e.l.lo?" I say softly.

Startled, the young man jumps to his feet and turns to face me. We stare at each other for what seems an eternity before he finally speaks. "Who are you? Where did you come from? Are you one of them?" he questions as he takes a defensive stance.

I put up my hands as a signal that I mean no harm. Having trouble finding my voice I simply shake my head. "Where did you come from?!" he spits at me. Still unable to speak, I point north like a ridiculous mime. "Can you speak?" he asks.

I nod my head. "Yes," I respond, while choking back a sob. The weight of remaining strong for the past few weeks had taken its toll. I was blissfully unaware of how afraid I had been that I was the only one left, until my fear suddenly surfaced in the gravity of the moment. The young man relaxes, but only slightly.

"I'm sorry. I haven't seen another person in so long I was beginning to think..." I trail off, shaking my head as the tears form in my eyes. "...you were the only one left?" the young man finishes my sentence. "Yeah," I nod. I take a step towards him but he quickly backs away.

"How am I to be sure you aren't one of them?" he asks, still in a defensive stance, his eyes darting around looking for an escape plan.

"Guess I could be asking the same thing," I reply, unsure of the situation myself.

The young man eyes me as he a.s.sesses the situation and is likely sizing me up. He blows out a long breath and I see some of the tension relax from his posture. "Well, we're both moving about during the day. I guess that's something, since they tend to prefer the night." He pauses before continuing. "Although...I have seen them occasionally during the day," suspicion in his eyes as he speaks.

"If either of us were one of them, the other would have been dead by now," I say calmly, with certainty. He slowly nods in agreement, acknowledging the truth in my previous statement. We stand in silence for a few moments before he speaks again. "Where are you walking to?" he asks, as he wipes his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket. "Cheyenne Mountain," I reply. He nods. I make the a.s.sumption from his gesture that we are on the same path. A small smile creeps onto his lips. "Care for a walking buddy?"

Stunned by the offer I tilt my head, brows furrowed, and stare at him in confusion. He lets out a small strained laugh. "I'm sorry. I know I was just accusing you of being one of them and now I want to walk with you. I realize what a quick turnaround that was. You made a good point; if you were one of them I would have been dead before I even knew you were here." He continued to ramble on, "It's just that I haven't seen anyone else either and I just..." He looked away from me as he finished. "I don't want to be alone anymore."

I considered him for a moment, this young man who stood before me. He was about 5'11, medium build and average looking. He had black hair and dark eyes. There were no red flags or warning bells going off to indicate he meant me anymore harm then I meant him. Besides, I have a weapon; a knife I found at the sporting goods shop. It was made to be concealed, fitting snuggly into a sheath that fit nicely into the back pocket of my jeans. My s.h.i.+rt then covers the handle. I can protect myself if it comes down to it. "Yeah, okay. We can walk together," I answer him slowly.

He lifts up his backpack from the ground as I walk down the slight embankment of the road to meet him on the shoulder. "My name is Ian," he says, as he extends his hand for a shake. I acknowledge the courtesy by shaking his hand in return. Wimbley pops his little head out of my pack. "And who is this?" Ian asks, as he lets the dog sniff his hand. "This is my little dog, Wimbley."