The Last World

THE LAST WORLD

Written by CP Bialois

Copyright 2014

Cover Design by

Melody Simmons of eBookindiecovers

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. An unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, electronic or mechanical, photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and situations are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locations is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

To my wife, Jamie and my dad Ray: Both of you have given me the courage and tools necessary to follow my dreams.

To my readers: For your constant support and desire to read my work. You all are the reason this dream is a reality.

Chapter 1

“It’s something you need to know.”

His father’s words echoed in Franklin’s head as he stood staring at the flat tire. Right then
, Franklin Bowen felt stupid for not listening to his father on one of the numerous times he offered his advice. Being twenty-one years old offered more than its share of perks, but for this particular young man the knowledge on how to change a tire wasn’t one of them. So far, Franklin managed to jack the car up without the parking brake on and remove three of the lug nuts, but the fourth one was the problem.

Locking bolts were the brainchild
of someone Franklin never heard of. Their design was simple and provided the owner of the car the luxury of not having their tires stolen. Each vehicle was supplied with a “key” attached to the original tire iron. Of course, when you’re the third owner of a ‘91 Thunderbird and the key was never passed on, you could have a problem. In most cases, a phone call to Triple A would be all that was required, if one had them.

Franklin fought the urge to throw the tire iron and tightened his grip. It wouldn’t solve the problem and m
ight make matters worse. Like he really gave a shit about making things worse. He was stranded in the middle of nowhere with no way to change his tire and he was fucking pissed off! In a quick motion, the tire iron flew from his hand and thirty feet into the field to the left side of the road. The right side was filled with trees, bushes, and overgrown grass. He regretted his action as soon as the tool left his hand.

Franklin spent the better part of the last year in therapy for his temper.
The sessions were the result of a bar fight getting out of hand. He was lucky the judge only gave him probation and ordered him to seek counseling. The fight was over a girl, of course. Worse yet, he wasn’t involved until someone shoved him. Twenty stitches later he was arraigned and told he was being sued. The judge understood he was defending himself, that much he was thankful for. Somehow though, he didn’t feel the need to thank his mother for her gift.

An Irish woman from New York, Nancy Bowen was a good, gentle woman with flowing red hair and a temper to match. While she never raised a hand to Franklin that he wasn’t deserving of, she did curse and ramble on about what she wanted to do to this person or that person after they crossed her in some way. Whenever she would lose her temper she’d send Franklin out to play while the Devil visited. Franklin was ten years old when he
finally understood the deeper meaning behind her words. She and his father, Winfield, were a perfect match as Winfield was a determined military officer known for his iron-fisted will.

He supposed he’d gotten the better part of the deal
. It was better to have people fear you, wasn’t it? However he chose to look at it, his birthright wasn’t the best thing to happen to him. Now because of his “Visiting Devil”, he needed to look for his tire iron. Maybe he could break the lock off. It was worth the effort if it meant he didn’t have to walk five miles back to the nearest town. Entering the field, he could pat himself on his back for something—he’d made one hell of a throw.

Being from the city
, he wasn’t well versed in what farmers did and he didn’t want to know. He didn’t even care about what was planted in the field. Though it was waist high and green, he believed it was wheat. Whatever it was, it hid the location of his tire iron better than he would’ve thought possible. Pausing, he looked back toward the road. He was about where the tire iron landed distance-wise. Everything looked undisturbed in the afternoon sun and the last thing he needed was to be stranded because of his own stupidity.

With the field appearing the same no matter where he looked, he was about to call it quits and walk to town when he tripped. Letting out a startled cry, Franklin landed on his hands and knees. The scraping sounds of the grass combined with its semi-smooth texture were the only sensations he noticed. Not a single bird or animal made its presence known.

Of course not, you idiot!
He pushed himself onto his knees. There weren’t any birds close to him and he thought it was weird that he focused on such a thing. He remembered reading somewhere that the brain did strange things sometimes. Aside from thinking odd thoughts, he was also curious as to what he tripped over. While his knowledge of farming — and country life in general — was wanting, he did know the feeling of something solid. He was sure it wasn’t a rock of some kind. Whatever tripped him wasn’t too heavy or fixed into the ground. More curious than angry, Franklin worked to regain his footing. The odd angle he landed at was due more to the textile strength of the crops than his own physical design. His struggle reminded him of a waterbed for as much as he tried, he couldn’t separate himself from the crops as they followed his vertical efforts.

“Everything tries to reach the sun.”
It was another of his mom’s sayings she was fond of using when starting her yearly work in her garden. Those were some of the few times Franklin remembered her truly happy and at peace. He’d seen her happy many other times, but it was a different level. As good as she was to him, Franklin often wondered why she seemed to always be in a good mood while also in turmoil. His confusion on the topic lasted until his fifteenth birthday when he began to understand about his own devil and peace.

After regaining his footing, Franklin crouched over where he tripped and pushed aside the plants. It took him a few seconds to realize he’d be lucky to fall over the object a second time. No matter how many times he pawed at the grain
, he only caught a brief glimpse of the ground. He began to resent throwing his tire iron into the field, but most of all he resented the fact he was there to start with. Just when he was about to lose control of his temper, he pushed aside another patch of the crop and spied what had tripped him.

“Well, I’ll be…” His voice trailed off and his temper dissipated when he saw the object. The single
-bar tire iron landed with its wedge end stuck into the ground causing the angled, hexagonal end to form a perfect metallic snare. Reaching with his free hand, he grasped the cool metal and pulled it free. A smile appeared where a grimace was set a few seconds before. He began the trek back to his car whistling a tune he heard in some B-rated 70s horror film. It looked like his luck was beginning to change… now if only he could get that damn lock off his tire.

Behind him, an object streaked through the blue sky. Its grayish-silver skin kept it hidden from skyward turned eyes. Not a single sound marked its approach until it slammed into the field with a deafening thump. The impact sent a tidal wave of earth and plants hurtling from its central point. The force wave preceding the wave of dirt struck Franklin from behind, knocking him the final few feet forward and into the side of his car. The impact knocked the wind from him and a handful of pops were the last thing he heard before blackness took him
. His limp form was pelted with dirt, stones, and remnants of the crops.

*****

Pain. White, blinding pain greeted Franklin when consciousness returned to him. At first he thought it was the usual aches and pains one gets from sleeping in the wrong position. That belief disappeared as soon as he flexed a muscle. At least, that was what he thought he did. The pain forced out a scream, but he couldn’t tell if it came from him or if it was just inside his head. Wherever it was, he wanted it to stop at any cost but his hopes went unheeded. Had he the ability, he would’ve prayed for the first time in years but the excruciating torture robbed him of even that bastion.

After what felt like an eternity, the pain lessoned and he could move his arms.
Franklin wanted to look to make sure he was moving, but the effort to open his eyes brought a new wave of agony. Following an untold amount of time he was relatively free of any cringe inducing restraints and opened his eyes. The sight greeting him was welcomed despite its strangeness. Asphalt. The rough, gritty texture of the paved road was inches from his face, but in its own way, it held a beauty he had never known before.

He remained there, face down on the road
, next to his car for several minutes longer attempting to work out what happened and where he was. The latter was easy enough — in fragments anyway — but he couldn’t begin to guess what happened. With a manageable ache still in his joints, he pushed himself up from the ground before rolling into a sitting position. The action brought his back into a hard contact with his passenger car door that sent new waves of pain coursing through him, but they weren’t as bad as the previous ones. For all intents and purposes, he seemed to be getting better.

Only then did he notice the dirt and pieces of plants scattered around him. “What the…”
A throbbing reminder shooting through his head brought any further thoughts to a halt. He gently rubbed his head, not that it did any good, but he saw it in the movies and hoped it’d work.

“I am sorry. You weren’t meant to take the shockwave.”

The unexpected voice caused his eyes to fly open and his body to jump, causing another lightning bolt of agony. Next to him, the owner of the voice crouched over him and set his hand on Franklin’s right shoulder.

“My apologies, causing you pain isn’t my intent.
”

Between gasps, Franklin answered through clenched teeth, “That’s… nice to… know. Take… me to the… hospital…” He didn’t care who this guy was, he just knew he needed help.

The gentle hands of the stranger grasped him under the arm pits and lifted. The intense pain from the action brought a scream from him louder than Franklin would’ve imagined possible for a man, but the pain subsided just as fast. He gazed around him in a daze at being able to stand.

“You will recover. Mending takes time. Your back was broken.”

If my back was broken then how am I standing?
The question floated through his pain-soaked mind but he couldn’t find the strength to voice it.

“Patience. All will become known to you in time.”

Franklin ignored the voice as he struggled to deal with the fading fire within his body. No matter what was going on, he was suffering and the asshole wouldn’t take him to a doctor. So much for his luck changing.

Chapter
2

“What the hell’s gotten into you?” Janice Townsend stood with her hands on her hips and looked down at the puppy sitting in front of her. Two months old, the yellow Lab was still in the process of being house broken, but what caught Janice’s attention wasn’t a mess made off of the papers, it was the mess made
with
the papers.

For his part
, Buster, the pup’s official name, sat on the floor wagging his tail since his mistress came home. In the week since his adoption, Buster and Janice formed a strong bond. The only problem was the little guy was still learning.

Despite the mess before her, Janice did everything in her power not to look pleased
at it only being paper. She crouched in front of Buster, causing him to prop himself up as high as he could and lick her hands. She pointed to the shredded pile of papers. “What is that? Bad boy!” Her voice took on the same strict tone attributed to parents and angry pet owners. Buster knew the tone and he shied away, still wagging his tail and hoping for the best.

Janice shrugged, reaching down to scratch Buster’s ears. “You don’t play fair.” She always caved on such things when it came to the little guy. Just when Buster started to appreciate how she worked her fingers over his ears the phone rang.

“Sorry, boy.” Janice stood and walked over to the phone attached to the wall next to the refrigerator. She picked up the cream-colored receiver from its cradle and answered, “Hello?”

As apartments went
, Janice’s wasn’t too bad. A kitchen/living room combination was the bulk of the space with a small bedroom and bathroom down a narrow hallway rounding out apartment 2B. It was a temporary setup until she saved enough for a larger place. A graduate of the nearby community college, Janice took a job as a paralegal for one of the better lawyers in Tarken Heights. The money was good, and within a year she’d be enjoying the American Dream.

“Hey
, babe, got any plans for tonight?” The husky voice on the phone belonged to her boyfriend, Horace Foster. The former captain of the local high school football team, he had spent the majority of his school days having his pick of the girls on campus. Having graduated two years earlier, he was forced to get a job out of high school to help pay the bills after a back injury forced his dad into early retirement. As a groundskeeper at Tarken Community College, Horace was allowed to take one or two classes a semester at a discounted rate, but it still made things difficult on his family financially.

The two of them met through an economics class they were taking the previous fall. Despite his reputation as a jock, Horace preferred the company of books
, making him the perfect match for his current girlfriend. It was a bond that became apparent to the duo on their first date. Not a bad track record for the first African-American student to set foot in the college in years. The town wasn’t racist, but most black folks were put off by the white population. That’s what his father always told him and for seven years Horace never once heard a racial slur from a classmate.

Janice smiled and started twisting her light brown shoulder length hair between her fingers. It was a habit she picked up early in her youth whenever she was feeling shy or embarrassed. “Just staying home with Buster. He’s been feeling neglected.”

“Should I be jealous?”

Janice could hear him smiling on his end of the phone
. “Not if you come over in a bit.”

In a few seconds
, their date was set and Janice found herself standing by the phone smiling. Even after a year and a half of seeing each other, Horace made her feel better than anyone else could. When she looked back at Buster, she noticed him sniffing around where his paper usually sat. She grabbed for that day’s edition and ran toward her dog. “Buster! No! Don’t you dare!” Life is full of failure, and Janice failed by two steps.

*****

Horace put his cell phone in his pocket and turned back to the task at hand. This was the only day he had off from both school and work and the last thing he wanted was to be caught up in a wild goose chase, especially when he had somewhere he’d rather be.

“See
, Steve? You can’t say shit now; I can’t go with you.”

Horace’s best friend, Stephen Drake, was the type of friend everyone wished they had
, but didn’t really want. He was loyal, trustworthy, and had a heart of gold. His main drawback was he never thought ahead. Once he got an idea in his head it was impossible to get it out. His current idea had to do with the meteor he swore he saw streaking over their heads a few minutes earlier.

“Aw, don’t give me that bullshit. You called her
to
get out of going. What’s your problem? I’m not good enough for you? What? You want tongue or no tongue?” To emphasize his joke Steve leaned toward Horace with his tongue flapping out of his mouth like a landed fish.

Horace couldn’t help but laugh as he pushed his friend away. “Jesus Christ, will you keep that thing away from me?”
There was a time and a place for joking, but when Horace wanted to envision Janice, that wasn’t one of them.

Steve sat back
, bursting into laughter himself. He could tell his friend was annoyed despite the fact he was also laughing, but he didn’t cave. “Man, life’s too short to be tagged and bagged this early. You need to live some, my brother.”

Now
as far as guys went, Steve was average in looks but he made up for it with his personality. He could have any girl he wanted and he often did. Twenty-three and out of school, he never saw himself being tied down, or as his uncle was fond of saying, “You don’t want to be spreading the same ass cheeks the rest of your life.”

Horace was the polar opposite in many ways. He thought everything through to the point he wouldn’t make a decision until he took in
to account any and all variables. He wanted a family, but he wanted to ensure he had enough money saved so his children wouldn’t have to miss any opportunities for lack of wealth. They were two people from opposite sides of the track that somehow met in the middle.

In answer to Steve’s argument
, Horace clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m not you.”

“Damn straight.” At least they were outside in Tarken Height’s small park. Had they been sitting in Steve’s truck instead of a bench
, the argument would already be over and they’d be on the road. As it was, Horace had won, though Steve wouldn’t admit it. “I bet it made one helluva crater.”

Horace rolled his eyes
. “You’re seeing things.”

Steve’s look was defensive. “If I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’.”

“I didn’t say you’re lying, I said you’re seeing things. There is a difference.” Horace felt a small stab of pain beginning behind his eyes. He wondered if this was worth it?

Steve shook his head
. “I don’t see it.”

Horace had the feeling he won the battle but lost the war. He glanced at his watch, three-thirty, which meant he had about two hours before he was supposed to be at Janice’s. He let out a sigh
. “Have me back in an hour, and you have a deal.”

Steve’s face lit up
. “That’s what I’m talking about! Don’t you worry, brother, I’ll have you back in time for your date.”

Horace only nodded
; what else could he say or do? He hurried after the animated Steve, running toward the blue F-150 in the neighboring lot. He had a feeling he’d be late and Janice would kill him. He found himself asking one more, was this worth it?

*****

As rides go, things could’ve been worse. Horace continued telling himself that while Hip-Hop blared through the truck’s speakers. He didn’t have anything against the music, he liked some of Eminem and Dr. Dre’s stuff, but his preference was country. There was something about the guitar’s twang and the singers that made him feel comfortable and at peace.

Steve, on the other hand, was your typical
corn-fed white kid who wanted to appear tough like the rappers he saw on TV. Stereotypical analysis would claim they must’ve been switched at birth, or Horace polluted Steve’s mind. Truth was, Horace had the beginning of a terrific headache and wondered, on more than one occasion, whether his friend was trying to kill him.

“WHOO! Now that was an awesome track, don’t you think?” Steve looked at
Horace, expecting a reply for a second or two before turning his attention back to the road.

He was forever trying to convert Horace to his fa
vorite rappers. The problem was Horace didn’t care for songs talking about cappin’ someone’s ass, doin’ time, or bustin’ some ho’s. Such things were below his standards. Far below. In answer, Horace shook his head. “Sorry, not my thing.”

“I don’t get you. You’re black
, so why don’t you like rap? It’s dope.”

“And because I’m black I also like fried chicken and watermelons
, right?”

Steve shrugged
. “If the shoe fits, nigga.”

Horace shook his head, he wasn’t disgusted as
it was the same conversation they had a hundred times. “There’s only one nigga here, and it’s not me.”

Steve burst into laughter
. “Brother, you’re hilarious.”

Horace shook his head once more, nothing ever seemed to change. “You should watch something besides those music videos before your brain’s fried.” At least their exchange took his mind away from the fact they were driving over seventy miles an hour. That is, until he saw the parked car in the road ahead of them. “Watch out!”

During to their conversation, the truck had moved into the other lane which wouldn’t have caused an issue under normal circumstances had a car not been sitting there. Steve slammed on the brakes and turned the wheel hard but it was too late.

*****

Highway 66, or old 66 to the people of Tarken Heights, was little more than a straight shot between the Heights and the Interstate. The Powers That Be decided the road didn’t need a place to go aside from a highway. Serving as a major artery between the Heights and the outside world, traffic was scarce aside from the occasional delivery, sightseer, or local out for a joy ride.

Being straight and mostly flat allowed most to drive over sixty, a full twenty miles per hour over the speed limit. Such was the case with Steve and Horace. Following Horace’s shout, Steve yanked hard to the right to avoid the car. Another foot or less speed would’ve saved them from the
collision, but that wasn’t in their destiny. The screeching of the locked brakes and the smell of burning rubber preceded the impact and, for the briefest of moments, Horace thought they wouldn’t hit. The shock of the driver’s side impacting with the other car’s rear passenger side sent a wave of shock through them.

The jolt knocked Steve’s foot off of the brake and by the time he pressed the pedal again his truck came to a stop twenty feet into the field. “Jesus. Where’d it come from?”

Horace stared straight ahead in shock, not believing he was alive. After a moment, he closed his eyes and thanked whoever was listening. Whether it was God or his angels he didn’t care. They all deserved his thanks. When he finished, he opened his door and slid out, landing hard on the crushed grain. He heard Steve follow in much the same manner on the other side of the truck but with a loud
whoof
.

After sitting there for a minute or two
, Horace regained some sense of where they were and what happened. “You alright?” he asked, his voice hoarse and dry. He thought he sounded like he did when he had strep throat a couple of years previous.

“Yeah
,” came the weak reply. “You?”

“I think I’m alright.” Horace’s nose settled on a familiar smell that he wasn’t happy about.
I shit myself. I fucking shit myself!
Disgusted, he tried to pull himself up using the truck door.

“Fuck, I think I pissed my pants.” Steve’s usually high-pitched voice rose another notch. “Damn it! I can’t believe this!”

Horace finished pulling himself up and winced at the sudden pain in his back that disappeared as suddenly as it came. When he looked down, he let out a breath at how lucky he was. Below the grain was a sharp rock he missed and behind it was a pile of what looked like dog droppings. Relief swept through him on both counts, he cheated what would’ve been a painful, but not mortal injury. His headache was also a distant memory
and
he didn’t crap himself. With his nerves calmed somewhat, a chuckle escaped from him.

“What’s so damn funny?” Steve had pulled himself to his feet at the sound of his friend’s cackle. “Look at my truck! My dad’ll kill me!”

Horace waved at him, as if he were shooing away a fly until he could stop laughing. It was harder than he thought. “I’m sorry, Steve… I couldn’t help myself.” His smile froze on his face.
Shit!
He broke into a run toward the road through the swath they created.

At first, Steve watched him
, not understanding. “Where the hell are you going? I wasn’t going to…” His words trailed off when he saw the car, a Ford like his truck. He tore after his friend. “Shit! I didn’t see anyone… I swear to God.”