NightFall

DBS Publishing
LLC

Copyright 2015 
by
DBS Publishing LLC

Smashwords
Edition

Night Fall

Two Months After

West of the Hudson River, the village
of Nyack, New York, had changed drastically in the two months since
losing electrical power. The once busy downtown Main Street of
local shops, coffee houses, and diners had become virtually
deserted. Cars lined the streets, long abandoned—some with their
doors hanging open. The normally idyllic town was absent its
residents, who had simply fled in droves.

The streets were deserted and the
sounds of vehicles, leaf blowers, and lawn mowers had been replaced
with silence. Stray dogs roamed in packs. Shops along Main Street
stood vandalized with their windows smashed in and shelves pillaged
and emptied.

Shattered glass was strewn across the
sidewalks in a layer of tiny broken pieces. The sky was as desolate
gray, much like the town below it. Only a few of months ago, the
streets were bustling in this modest cornerstone of Rockland
County. And in one brief second, everything had changed.

That morning, a small group of
outsiders passing through were on a desperate search for supplies.
The five men, two women, and three children were far from home and
hoping to reach their destination before nightfall. They heard that
help awaited them there. Their leader, a Baptist minister, named
the Reverend Allen Phelps, had remained loyal to dwindling parish,
promising to get them somewhere safe. With the guidance of God, he
believed anything was possible.

They had received a broadcast through
an old emergency radio with directions to a disaster relief center,
twenty five miles from Clarkstown, their hometown. They had been on
the road for one day, in search of assistance, tired, hungry, and
nearing the end of the water supply in their canteens.

“
We’ll find help soon
enough,” Phelps said, leading the group into downtown Nyack. His
boonie cap shaded his bearded face. He carried a walking stick as
his parishioners followed closely behind. Their shoes crunched
against the broken bits of glass covering the ground.

Harvey and Beatrice Wilson were couple
in their fifties. Behind them, Dale Ripken, a landscaper from
Westchester County. And at the end Zach and Erin Brantley walked
with their two children, Tyler and Sloane. They moved quickly down
the street past the trash and vandalism saying very little. There
were dangerous people out there. That much they knew.

Reverend Phelps believed that they
could very well facing the beginning of the apocalypse. On
September 16, 2016—the day of the blast that destroyed the power
grid—many people had simply vanished. Phelps’s group had no idea
what had happened to their friends and loved ones. They had no clue
on how far things spread. And they had no idea what was out there.
They were a vulnerable group, and Phelps knew what people were
capable of, especially during times of crisis. Dale carried a .40
caliber Glock 22 pistol for protection, but violence was the last
thing anyone wanted.

The sky thundered. The clouds above
had darkened. As they passed another shop in ruin, Phelps stopped
dead his tracks. Ahead, sat a man in a lawn chair with his head
tilted up a black fedora covering his eyes.

They weren’t sure what to think of the
gray-haired, leather-jacket-clad mystery man before them as he made
no notice of their presence. Phelps turned to Dale. “Let’s check it
out.” He turned to the others. “Stay here. We’ll be
back.”

Glass crunched under their shoes with
each step. The man in the chair made no movement. He was a tall man
with long legs, wearing boots and jeans. He had some light stubble
on his face and gray hair tucked into his hat. As they neared, the
man moved his head, looked at them, and spoke.

“
Good afternoon,
gentlemen. Welcome.”

Startled, they both froze in
place.

“
My apologies. We just
wanted to make sure that you were OK,” Phelps said.

The man tipped his hat at them with a
smile. “I was just taking a little rest.” He then stood up from his
chair and stretched. “But seeing how I’ve got visitors now, let me
introduce myself. My name is Arthur Jenkins, mayor of
Tartarus.”

Phelps and Dale looked around,
confused.

“
I’m sorry, where?” Phelps
said.

Dale pulled out his map. “I thought we
were in Nyack.”

“
Oh,” Jenkins said. “We
changed the name not too long ago.”

Phelps went on and introduced
himself.

Behind his glasses, Jenkins eyes
widened. “A pastor, aye? Welcome to my town, reverend.”

“
And I’m Dale
Riken.”

They shook hands as Jenkins looked
behind him to their group waiting at the end of the
sidewalk.

“
Who are your friends?” he
asked and adjusted his glasses.

Phelps turned around and held his hand
out in their direction. “That’s my parish. We’re just passing
through and looking for a relief center.”

“
Yeah, we’re from
Clarkstown,” Dale added.

Jenkins put his hands on his hip and
looked upward, nodding. “Well, I don’t know anything about some
relief center, but you’re welcome to stay in town, that is, if you
have something to trade.

Phelps and Dale looked at each other
with uncertainty.

“
We don’t really know,”
Phelps said. “Running a little low on supplies
ourselves.”

Jenkins seemed undeterred. “You know
it’s a barter’s world out there now.”

Phelps scanned the area for others.
“Indeed it is.”

Jenkins stood at over six feet. They
were skeptical of him and wondered where all the townspeople had
gone. He then pointed to the road ahead which forked in two
directions.

“
The quickest way out is
right down that road there and take a right at the fork. You’ll
even find a park with a pavilion and everything. Some nice shelter
from the coming rain.” Jenkins paused. “Where is this relief center
located, anyway?”

Phelps thought to himself. He was
hesitant about revealing too much of their plans. “Somewhere close
to the city, I imagine.”

“
New York City?” Jenkins
said, astonished. “Heck, you couldn’t pay me to go near that place
right now.” He examined the men and then smiled. “But don’t let me
hold you up.”

“
Thanks,” Phelps said. He
turned around and signaled to the group with his walking stick.
They came forward and met up as Phelps turned to Jenkins. “You have
a nice day.”

“
You too. Be safe out
there,” Jenkins said.

The group nodded and waved, passing
him by. As they continued on Jenkins called out to
Phelps.

“
Hey,
reverend!”

Phelps stopped and turned.
“Yes?”

“
You never asked me where
everyone is. Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

Phelps look beyond the street corner
where Jenkins stood among the ruins of Main Street.

“
I guess we’re just used
to it by now,” Phelps said. “Good day.” He waved with his stick and
marched on. Jenkins watched the group as they continued up the
road. He didn’t take his eyes off them.

Phelps moved quickly without looking
back. A noticeable gap formed. Dale jogged forward to catch up. “I
think maybe you should slow it down some,” he said.

Phelps continued as his walking stick
clinked against the pavement.

“
Reverend, please.” Dale
moved in front of him, blocking him. Phelps stopped.

Harvey and Beatrice caught up out of
breath. “Why are we moving so fast?” she asked.

The rest of the group were just as
curious.

“
Who was that man back
there?” Zach asked, walking up. “What did he want?”

The group slowly looked back to see if
the man was still on the street corner watching them. He
wasn’t.

“
We need to keep moving,”
Phelps said.

Thunder echoed through the sky louder
than before.

Harvey chimed in. “I say we go back
and try to round up some food.”

“
Not with that man
around,” Beatrice replied.

Harvey waved her off. “Ah, he’s just a
harmless weirdo.”

Dale opened his map again.
“Interstate’s the other way,” he said, pointing ahead to the fork
in the road.

“
That man, Jenkins, said
to take a left,” Phelps said, pointing his walking
stick.

“
Screw him,” Dale said.
“That’s not what this map says.”

He went right at the fork as the group
followed. They passed empty vehicles and stopped at a nearby
guidepost. Dale stopped and looked at the map, then back to the
guidepost.

The sign had an arrow for the
interstate pointed in the opposite direction they were heading.
“Something’s not right here,” Dale said.

Zach pulled a compass from his pocket.
“We’re headed west, right? Well, we’re going the right way
then.”

“
Maybe the other way’s a
shortcut,” Harvey said.

“
Or a trap,” Dale
said.

“
Oh please,” Harvey
quipped.

The bickering men looked at Reverend
Phelps for guidance. “You’re the man with the map,” he said. “Show
us the way.”

They continued down the two-lane
street where cars and trucks sat motionless and abandoned in both
directions. Harvey then suggested that they take a look inside the
vehicles for supplies. The group seemed in agreement. Harvey leaned
into a Pontiac Sunbird and found a bag of peanuts

Zach and Erin searched through the
front of a Buick station wagon, while their kids looked in the
back. Zach stuffed some quarters into his pocket from the
dashboard. Erin looked under the passenger seat. The family came up
empty-handed and moved on to the next car, a red four-door Corolla,
just as drops began to fall.

The reverend approached a white
utility van and opened the door. It had plenty of room inside.
“Look everyone!” he shouted. “We can all fit in here until the rain
passes.”

The group assembled at the van with a
few found items of note—batteries, Gatorade bottles, potato chips,
trail mix, half-empty bottles of water. Harvey walked up, proudly
displaying an umbrella.

“
Think I’ll just stay out
here,” he said, pressing a button on the handle. The umbrella
popped open as raindrops smacked its canopy.

Beatrice climbed inside as the others
followed. Harvey paces near the van and then took notice of someone
walking toward them wearing a hat and leather jacket.

“
Looks like, we have
company, Reverend,” he said, tapping his shoulder.

Phelps turned and saw the figure
getting closer as the rain began to fall. “Dale!” he
said.

Dale was about to get in the van but
stopped. “What is it?”

Phelps signaled up the road. “Looks
like he’s back.”

They told Harvey and everyone else
inside the van to wait as they went to investigate. The man was a
mere fifty feet from them and advancing as if he was taking a
stroll in the park. Dale pulled his pistol out and led the way as
Phelps urged caution.

“
Better to be safe than
sorry, Reverend,” Dale said.

The rain picked up as they approached
the man, clearly resembling the person from before.

“
Mr. Jenkins?” Phelps
said.

The man pulled a pistol from his side
and aimed at them with a smile on his face.

Dale raised his Glock and suddenly
felt a cold barrel jam into the back of his neck.

“
Drop it,” a harsh voice
behind him demanded. Dale heard the hammer of the rifle click and
opened his hand. The pistol bounced on the wet pavement.

Phelps turned around to see the
rifleman standing behind Dale. He then faced Jenkins who had a gun
pointed at him, between the eyes. “What is this about?” he asked in
disbelief.