Fracked (12 page)

The concussive force of the blast spread outwards and flattened the sparse mesquite trees and thorny bushes that peppered the desert landscape.

As soon as the shockwave hit the cruiser, John lost control.

The cruiser spun across the road, ran off of the asphalt, slid down a dusty embankment, and broadsided a toppled mesquite tree.

The disabled vehicle sat with its engine smoldering while Tres Rios burned behind it.

John slowly regained consciousness and looked around the wrecked cruiser. Every window was shattered and glass shards were everywhere. He looked over at his wife, coughing.

Rebecca was slouched over in her seat with her eyes shut, still wearing her seatbelt. She had a small laceration on her forehead and blood trickled down her face.

“Becky?” he said hoarsely as he reached over and gently shook her shoulder. “Becky?!”

She groaned and slowly opened her eyes and looked over at him.

“John…? What ha– Are you okay?” she groggily asked.

“I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about. How do you feel?” he asked. “Are you hurt?”

“No… I think I’m fine…” she said as she struggled to take off her seatbelt.

John frowned as he looked at the small gash on her forehead.

Rebecca looked over at him and slowly reached up to touch her forehead. She touched her wound with her fingertips and looked at the blood.

“I’ll be fine,” she said as she wiped her fingers on her pants. “Let’s just get out of here.”

John nodded and tried to open his door, but it wouldn’t budge. He groaned as he pushed his aching body against the door, straining to get the dented door open.

Rebecca managed to kick her door open and stumble outside. She leaned inside the car and held out her hand towards John.

“Come out this way,” she said. “I’ll help you.”

John groaned in pain and climbed across the passenger seat. He took her hand and slowly stepped outside, coughing.

He brushed the glass off of himself and looked towards downtown…

Tres Rios had a faint orange glow as multiple fires continued to burn out of control. Most of the buildings appeared to be gutted by the napalm.

“Jesus Christ…” John muttered as he looked at the surreal scene.

“Do you think that stopped them…?” Rebecca asked as she stood next to him.

John regretfully shook his head.

“I hope I’m wrong, but from what I’ve seen of… well, whatever this is, it’ll take more than a little fire to knock it out,” he said. “The further we get away from this place the better we’ll be. Let’s stick to the plan.”

Rebecca furrowed her brows and looked down.

“How?” she asked. “We don’t even have a car now.”

“I know, so we best start walking,” John said. He leaned inside the car and grabbed the two M-16s they had tossed inside. He got out, popped his back, and handed one of the rifles to her. “Cooper’s farm is just up the road a few miles.”

Rebecca took the rifle and slung it over her shoulder as she climbed up the embankment.

“You still got those extra magazines, right?” he asked as he followed her.

She patted her stuffed pocket to answer his question.

They started to walk along the side of the road, Rebecca in the front and John in the back.

Rebecca kept her eyes on the ground and didn’t seem to have much to say.

John stared at her and frowned.

“Becky?”

“Yeah?” she answered without stopping or turning around.

“We’re going to get through this, you’ll see,” he assured. “We’re going to be fine.”

“Yeah… I know,” she said without much emotion.

He frowned.

He knew she didn’t believe him.

A few miles up the road, they came across what appeared to be a traffic accident next to a dying cornfield.

A Triburton van was overturned in the middle of the road with its rear doors open.

On the other side of the road, a Tres Rios police cruiser was stuck in the ditch with its rear end pointing up towards the sky.

Rebecca and John slowed their pace as they approached the scene…

The whole area reeked of gasoline.

“Stay here a minute while I check it out,” John said.

Before Rebecca could protest, he readied his rifle and started walking towards the back of the van.

John slowly pushed the van’s backdoor open with the tip of his rifle and peered inside.

Gasmasks, white hazmat suits sealed in plastic, sealed cardboard boxes, and oxygen canisters littered the back of the van. One of the cardboard boxes had burst open during the accident and revealed various tactical uniforms and multiple Velcro patches.

The various reflective Velcro patches read ‘FBI’, ‘SWAT’, ‘CDC’, ‘FEDERAL AGENT’, ‘DHS’, ‘POLICE’, and even ‘FEMA’.

John heard a noise coming from the front of the van…

He carefully made his way around the vehicle, weapon ready.

Near the engine, a large puddle was forming as gasoline dripped from the fuel line.

An infected man wearing black combat fatigues was on his hands and knees next to the puddle. A black tentacle-like appendage lolled from his bellybutton and was greedily sucking up the puddle of fuel. As the man consumed, his flesh almost seemed to crawl as every muscle inside his body started to move and grow. Thin organic fibers formed over his exposed skin as they pushed and wiggled their way out of his pores.

The man noticed John and immediately retracted his tentacle back into his stomach; the fibers that covered his skin retreated back inside his body and his muscles stopped growing.

The man gave a feral scream, jumped on his feet, and sprinted towards John.

John backed away while simultaneously firing into the man’s head.

It took four shots before the man finally went down.

He collapsed near John’s feet.

The black substance started to pour out of the man’s head and creep towards John’s boots. As it exited the corpse, the man’s bulky body slowly deflated as his muscle mass returned to normal size.

Disgusted, John stepped away from the substance before it could reach him.

Suddenly another infected man emerged out of the shadows from the direction of the wrecked police cruiser and started running towards John. It was a morbidly obese man wearing a police officer uniform. He had a fat face, bald head, and a thin mustache. His silver nametag read ‘C. Wilbur’.

Before John could even aim at the man, Rebecca fired.

The burst of gunfire blew the top off of Wilbur’s head and sent his lifeless corpse tumbling backwards into the ditch.

John, heart pounding, turned around and looked at Rebecca.

One hit, one kill.

Thank God for country girls, John thought to himself.

Rebecca lowered her rifle and stared at him.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” he said as his nerves settled. “Thank you.”

Rebecca nodded and looked at the van.

“Is there anything inside we can use?” she asked.

Just as John was about to respond, a black helicopter approached from the distance. It turned its spotlight on and focused it on the couple.

“Shit! We can’t let them get us! They’ll shoot us like dogs! Let’s go through the field!” John said, panicked. “Cooper’s place isn’t far from here!”

The couple ran away from the searchlight, slid down the embankment, and disappeared into the dry cornfield as the helicopter approached.

The helicopter arrived moments later and hovered over the wrecked van. It scanned the cornfield with its searchlight, but it was too late.

They were already gone.

The couple stumbled out of the corn and walked to the edge of the dirt road that led to Cooper’s farm.

Cooper’s house was an older two-story farmhouse with a wraparound porch. Despite the immaculately clean-looking home, an old rotting red barn stood in sharp contrast next to the house with a rusty old tractor inside. In front of the house sat a well. It was a quaint homestead, the type that used to dominate the area before the oil companies moved in.

Every window was illuminated by oil lamps and Mr. Cooper’s pickup truck was sitting in the gravel driveway.

“Well, it looks like they’re home,” John said as he slung his rifle over his shoulder and started walking towards the house. “It’s about time we caught a break tonight.”

“Do you really think he’ll just hand over his keys and let us drive away?” Rebecca asked with a frown as she walked behind him.

“No,  but I reckon once he hears what we saw in town, he’ll be ready to pack up his family and head out of here with us,” John said. He stopped at the porch and turned towards her. “Stay out here and keep an eye out for visitors, okay? I’m going to go inside and talk to him.”

Rebecca nodded and took a seat on one of the rocking chairs on the porch. She laid the rifle across her lap and stared out into the darkness.

John knocked on the door, but nobody answered. He heard music playing from inside the house. He knocked again.

No answer.

He waited a few minutes before finally trying the doorknob.

It was unlocked.

John pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Gospel music blared loudly from the living room. It sounded like it was playing from a scratchy old vinyl record.

I don't know about tomorrow;

I just live from day to day.

I don't borrow from its sunshine

For its skies may turn to grey.

I don't worry o'er the future,

For I know what Jesus said.

And today I'll walk beside Him,

For He knows what lies ahead.

“Mr. Cooper?” John called out as he walked into the foyer. “Are you home?”

He carefully made his way into the living room towards the sound of the music. The living room was dark aside from the two oil lanterns burning on the table in front of the window. Every wall was covered with gaudy decorations and framed family photographs, while every shelf was crammed with trinkets and old knickknacks.

Many things about tomorrow

I don't seem to understand

But I know who holds tomorrow

And I know who holds my hand.

The sofa, an old 60’s relic covered with a hand-knitted quilt, sat against the wall next to an archaic tube television. On top of the wood-paneled television sat an antique wind-up RCA gramophone and a dusty stack of vinyl records.

Mrs. Cooper was sitting slouched in an old recliner with her back turned towards John.

John frowned and carefully readied his weapon as he walked towards the recliner…

“Mrs. Cooper?” John called out as he approached.

Every step is getting brighter

As the golden stairs I climb;

Every burden's getting lighter,

Every cloud is silver-lined.

No response.

John pushed the recliner with his foot and wrapped his finger around the trigger, ready.

There the sun is always shining,

There no tear will dim the eye;

At the ending of the rainbow

Where the mountains touch the sky.

Mrs. Cooper was sitting with her chest blown open by an apparent shotgun blast. Her nightgown was soaked with gore and the open bible in her lap was drenched with blood. Her eyes were rolled up in her sockets and her mouth hung open.

John stepped back as he lowered the weapon. As he walked away, he noticed the spent shotgun casing on the floor.

She wasn’t infected when she died.

I don't know about tomorrow;

It may bring me poverty.

But the one who feeds the sparrow,

Is the one who stands by me.

And the path that is my portion

May be through the flame or flood;

But His presence goes before me

And I'm covered with His blood–

His blood–

His blood–

His blood–

His–

John reached over and took the needle off of the skipping record.

The sudden silence was unnerving.

He heard water running in the kitchen.

John kept the rifle ready against his shoulder as he turned down the narrow hall and entered the kitchen.

The kitchen was painted canary yellow and had old-fashioned cabinetry; it even had an old rotary telephone on the wall. The tiles on the floor were ancient, but still very clean. The refrigerator was covered with magnets and children’s drawings. One of the pictures depicted a crude stick figure drawing of a smiling Mrs. Cooper and said ‘WORLDS BESTEST GRANDMA’ underneath it. Crayons and markers covered the kitchen table along with a plate of half-eaten Oreos and two half-empty glasses of milk. An oil lantern sat on the counter next to the sink.

John reached for the phone and put the receiver against his ear, but there was no dial tone. He dropped the receiver and walked towards the sink…

The tap was running and the sink was overflowing. A broken glass lay next to the sink. The water coming from the tap was tainted with streaks of the black substance. The organic substance started to slither and move out of the sink and squirm along the kitchen floor towards John.

John stepped back as he realized that the entire floor was covered with what looked like tiny, oily black beads.

He stared at the sink when it suddenly dawned on him.

The well was contaminated.

Whatever the substance was, it was spreading underground.

He startled as he heard a thump upstairs.

Carefully making sure to avoid the black beads, John grabbed one of the lanterns off of the counter, hurried out of the kitchen, and made his way up the stairs.

At the top of the stairs, John froze as soon as he saw a message sprawled across the wall with a red crayon: Greave not for us, for we are with the Father.

In the upstairs hallway Mr. Cooper was slouched in the corner with the top of his head blown off. Above him, the ceiling was speckled with gory chunks. The shotgun he used to do the deed was still lying beside him along with a red crayon.

All of the bedroom doors were closed.

One of the bedrooms, the one closest to the staircase, had a wooden chair propped up underneath the doorknob to prevent it from opening.

John walked past the barricaded bedroom and read another message scribbled on the door: I tried, but I couldn’t do it when I saw their faces. I am sorry.

As he walked away from the barricaded room, he heard another thump and noticed the chair move.

John had an idea about what was on the other side and didn’t particularly want to stay long enough to encounter it.

Just grab the man’s keys and go, he thought.

He hurried towards Mr. Cooper’s corpse and sat the lantern on the floor as he fished the truck keys out of the man’s bloody overalls.

He found the keys and quickly pocketed them.

As he turned around and started to walk back towards the stairs with the lantern in one hand and the rifle in the other, a floorboard creaked loudly under his foot.

John froze.

The pounding against the bedroom door became frantic and frenzied. The wooden chair started to splinter and the door started to bend outwards. Four tiny, bloody hands reached out towards John from the crack along the side of the door. Vomit spewed from the crack and splattered onto the floor.

John jumped away from the bubbling, black bile, ran past the door and down the stairs with the gun and the oil lantern.

At the bottom of the stairs, John startled as soon as he saw Mrs. Cooper standing and twitching at the entrance leading into the living room. Clumps of her bloodied innards were falling out of the gaping hole in her chest and plopped to the floor.

Her eyes were black and the oily substance was crawling all over her skin, entering up her nose and slithering its way into her mouth.

He fumbled with the lantern as he tried to shoulder his rifle.

Mrs. Cooper gave a feral scream and ran towards him with her arms extended.

John kicked her in her abdomen and sent her tumbling backwards against the television. She struck the gramophone and knocked the needle back onto the record.

Every step is getting brighter

As the golden stairs I climb;

Every burden's getting lighter–

Mrs. Cooper rebounded back onto her feet and charged towards John. The tentacle appendage tore erupted from her bellybutton, tore through her blouse, and shot towards John.

John ducked out of the way right before the appendage spritzed the wall with a fine black mist. He hurled the oil lantern towards her as hard as he could.

The lantern shattered on impact and engulfed Mrs. Cooper in flames.

Mrs. Cooper let out a wild howl as she tossed and flailed in the fire as it consumed her entire body. She blindly ran into furniture and knocked pictures off of the wall, spreading the fire. She ran in the middle of the living room and collapsed on the floor.

The fire spread across the room and snaked its way up the floral print drapery.

John bolted out of the house and nearly crashed into Rebecca on the front porch.

She studied his face and immediately became concerned.

“Jesus, John, what’s wrong? What happened?!” she asked with a worried expression. She gripped her rifle tightly.

John simply shook his head and pulled the truck keys put of his pocket.

“Nothing,” John said as he hurried off the porch towards the pick-up truck. “I got the keys. Let’s go.”

Confused, Rebecca looked towards the house.

“What about the Coopers?” she asked.

“They’re not coming,” John quickly replied as he got inside the truck and started the engine.

The living room window shattered.

Rebecca screamed and ran off of the porch.

Orange flames lapped out of the shattered window and black smoke billowed up into the night sky.

John honked the horn impatiently.

“Come on! Get inside, Becky!” he shouted as he reached over and swung open the passenger door.

Rebecca ran towards the truck and climbed inside the passenger seat.

She slammed the door shut as John sped out of the gravel driveway and onto the street.

The couple remained eerily silent as they kept their attention focused on the road.

Behind them, the engulfed house faded into the distance.