Whispers From The Dark (8 page)

He found them in the master bedroom, their bodies tangled together on the bed.  It took Cody several minutes to muster the courage required to grab the first corpse and pull it off the bed. 

Cody carried it outside and placed it into the back of the pickup, then went back inside for the other. 

Five and a half hours later, Cody threw the last of the bodies off the truck and into the large pile he’d made in Devin Smith’s horse pasture.  The horses had watched with curiosity at first, but had now made their way to the other side of the huge field and stood grazing, ignoring Cody’s presence. 

Fifty-seven corpses, all told.  He knew who about half of them were - vague acquaintances who he’d spoken to when necessary.  The pile was about ten feet in diameter and taller than Cody.  He was thankful he lived in such a small town.  If he had been somewhere like Atlanta or New York the number could have been fifty-seven thousand. 

The thought of himself in a big city made him chuckle. 

People were assholes.  Every single one he’d known, from the old bastard that ran the orphanage he’d grown up in all the way to the waitresses at O’ Patton’s Pub who used to flirt with him to try and get better tips.  Assholes.  He’d spent his youth as a ridiculed outcast, too ugly and shy to find even one person who he could befriend.  By the time he was in high school he realized he was better off alone anyways.

On good days the idiots amused Cody, on bad days they pissed him off.  To be in a big city surrounded by millions of them…that was an unimaginable horror far worse than what he was now dealing with.       

He poured a five gallon jug of diesel fuel onto the bodies, hoping that would be enough.  Before the power had died Cody had spent a full day rounding up every gas jug he could find in the town, from Wal-Mart to his own garage, and then filling each one with gas from the BP and Shell stations’ pumps.  He used the house across the street from the one he was staying as his fuel depot, every room of it filled with jugs.  He’d amassed several hundred gallons, and knew he could siphon more from the vehicles around town.  But he still hated to use more than he needed to, especially for something like this.   

The bodies erupted into an inferno the instant Cody threw the match onto the pile. 

Green and blue flames assaulted the cold winter air, reaching fifty feet into the air. 

Black smoke rolled from the fire, so thick that it dimmed the day.  It stunk worse than the bodies themselves, nearly unbearable even with the respirator on. 

Gagging, Cody climbed into the truck and backed it down Devin’s driveway, stopping at its end to keep an eye on the flames.  The last thing he needed was for the fire to get out of control and engulf the town. 

Cody watched with strange fascination as the black smoke crept towards Devin’s horses, sending them stampeding in the opposite direction.  They ran as if they were terrified of the cloud.  It filled the valley and seemed to hang like a curtain in the air, rising so slowly it was barely noticeable.       

He slipped off the respirator and was assaulted by the smell.  The stench of the bodies clung to his clothes and sat in the back of his throat like an uninvited guest.  Every time he swallowed he could taste the stink of them.

By the time the bodies were reduced to ash and the flames only a memory, the smell had dissipated some.  It was still there when he swallowed, but it was nothing a few whiskey and cokes couldn’t take care of.

Glancing up towards the thick black smoke that hung like a hellish curtain in the Appalachian sky, Cody spat onto the driveway and cranked the truck.  

As he drove toward home a smile danced on the corners of his lips.  The stench was part of the price for being the last man on earth, he supposed.  And it was a very, very small price to pay, considering his new station in life.      

After all, Cody Springer was king of the entire motherfucking world.

***

It happened on Thanksgiving – really the night before, but who was around to keep track?  Cody had greeting the holiday with a beer and a slice of leftover Domino's and from there his morning unfolded just like the last four Thanksgivings.  His father had died when he was thirteen – lung cancer, bitch of a way to go – and he'd always had Thanksgiving dinner with his mother thereafter and on Christmas too.  But once she'd died four years earlier, his holiday plans had suddenly opened up a good bit. 

He'd sold the old house a month after he'd put her in the ground.  The walls held too many memories of a childhood that hadn't been as terrible as it could have been, but memories he preferred not to think of all the same.  Nostalgia had never been a part of Cody's psyche, and the money from the house was much more enticing than spending the next decade waxing sentimental about people he'd never see again.  He'd loved them both – more than he suspected he'd ever love anyone.  But missing them wouldn't bring them back, would it?  Better to rent out the tiny one bedroom place six miles from his childhood home than wallow in nostalgia.

Just like Cody, Thanksgiving morning on the local cable station started the same as it had for the last decade – with the annual Swayze Crazy marathon.  All of Patrick Swayze's greatest flicks played back to back with limited commercial interruption.  Cody had never been much for football, but he could damn sure appreciate some good movies.  And luckily, Swayze Crazy never showed that half-assed dancing flick.  It was nothing but six hours of ass kicking. 

It wasn't until one p.m. that he started to realize something was wrong.

Swayze Crazy ended and was going to be followed by one of the bowel games.  The automated computer system running the station played its part well, running a period of commercials and then switching over to what should have been the stadium feed.  But instead only a black screen showed up on the television. 

Cody frowned.  He wasn't planning on watching the game, but he enjoyed seeing all the goddamn idiots braving the cold, usually bare chested and painted and acting like buffoons. 

He changed the channel, thumbing through them all.  Some were still showing some prerecorded shows, but any channels scheduled for live broadcasts of the sports games were either static or just black screens.  Cody pulled his bulky frame up from his chair and into the kitchen, retrieving another beer from the fridge and cracking it open. 

He took it onto the porch, the cold of the can amplified by the November chill.  He lived in a quiet neighborhood, a dozen homes or so lining a one mile stretch of road.  It was a typical little suburb type community, albeit without the looming stench and shadow of the big city nearby. 

It was also dead. 

The cold often kept most inside, along with the fact that they would be eating a nice turkey dinner with their families or away for the holidays.  But not everyone left, and there were often a huge number of cars at least two or three of the nearby homes who hosted their family's Thanksgiving meals.  Not only that, but there were always kids in the yards on Thanksgiving, at least for as long as Cody could remember.

He saw nobody at all, and even the driveways that should have been filled with SUVs and minivans and sedans were host only to their owner's cars.  Cody took a long pull from his beer. 

There was no smoke, either.  While most people in the country opted for the convenience of electric or gas heat, the people in his neighborhood still made regular use of wood heat to save themselves money.  Not a single chimney smoked, despite the announcement from the small Budweiser thermometer on the porch post that claimed it was forty four degrees outside.         

Cody shivered and went back inside.  The television screen was still blank, not even a
Technical Difficulties
message to confirm that something was amiss.  He grabbed the telephone and went to the fridge.  He dialed the number on the Chinese menu affixed to the fridge by a magnet and waited. 

No answer. 

He hung up and dialed the local Wal-Mart. 

Nothing.

It took him a few minutes to dig out a telephone book and find the number to the regional hospital, then another minute to navigate the automated answering service's numerical choices. 

When the hospital phone operator failed to pick up, he hung up and called back, this time choosing the extension for the emergency room. 

Nothing.

The maternity ward.

Nothing.

The cafeteria.

Nothing.

Intensive care.

Nothing.

How the hell could there be nobody in a fucking hospital?

Cody returned to the television, flicking back through the channels again.  Little had changed, aside from two more channels going dark. 

He sighed.  He wasn't exactly nervous – but there was certainly a slight tingle of uneasy excitement running through him.  He pulled on his boots, grabbed his jacket, and headed back outside. 

He studied the neighborhood again, trying to assure himself that he needed to investigate further.  Already, he was far from the most popular resident in the area.  The sight of him peering into a window on Thanksgiving morning would likely set off some alarms.  Not that he cared about the neighbors' opinions of him – he just preferred not to deal with the possibility of having to talk to the police.

In the distance, he could hear a solitary dog barking. 

Otherwise, the day was silent.              

The sound of Cody's footsteps was tremendous as he made his way down the narrow walkway to the street, each gunshot step making him flinch. 

Still nothing – no sign of life anywhere.  His mouth was suddenly dry, his heart picking up speed like a train gathering momentum. 

He crossed the street, looking up and down for anyone.  When he'd reached the other side he paused and watched the home in front of him.  The Smiths…Tim?  Tom?  He couldn't remember the man's name, but was certain his wife's name was Cindy.  They had two kids who should have been raising hell in the lawn by now. 

The house was dim, none of the interior lights on and no movement inside. 

Finally, he crept up to the house, veering off their walkway and through their yard to a side window.  Another moment of hesitation, and he peered in. 

A kitchen, silent and still and immaculate. 

He moved around the house and peered in the next window.  A sheer curtain hung over the window, but he could just make out the outline of a bed in the room beyond.  It looked like someone was still in it. 

Cody continued around the wall, peering in each window as he came to them. 

The next one was an empty bathroom and the next covered by a deep navy curtain. 

The next was one of the children's rooms.  The bed was directly beneath the window, the young boy lying motionless inside it.  Cody stood sentry for what seemed like a decade, watching for movement that never came. 

Cody finally gave in to his curiosity and thumped on the glass.  His body jumped a fraction from the sudden report of his strikes, but the youth in the bed didn't move an inch. 

Another rap, this one even harder than the last, and still no response.

Cody moved back to the front of the house and walked onto the porch.  His hand hovered over the doorbell for a moment before finally committing to its use.

Not surprisingly, nobody came to greet him.  He pounded on the door, his blows rattling the windows on either side of it.

They were dead.

The thought entered his mind like an insect, appearing without warning and buzzing around inside of it, searching for release that wouldn't come. 

He repeated his actions and the next home up the street, the Solomon house, with the same results. 

After trying to wake the people in the third home with no success, he returned to his. 

He opened another beer, his hand trembling with such force that he could barely pop the top on it.  The beer calmed him somewhat and he drained it in one long swallow.  It wasn't pity or sorrow that had shaken him – it was the thought of disease.  A virus or something similar was the most likely explanation for their deaths.  And judging from the television and the telephone, it was widespread. 

Had it been his own isolation, his unwillingness to engage with others that had kept him safe thus far? 

If so, he wasn't about to fuck it up with unneeded chances.  There was no need to break into their homes, to take their pulses or try to revive them.  Doing so would only endanger him. 

Still…he needed to know more. 

He went to the driveway and cranked up his beat up S-10, switched on the heat, and went back in for a minute to let it warm up. 

He opened another beer and flipped through the channels again.  One more had gone black during his absence, and the black screen made him realize that not only would the television go, but the electricity would soon as well.  If the world really had died and left him alone, there would be no power.  There were ways around that, of course.  Ways he'd deal with later, after he investigated a bit further. 

Cody took his beer with him and backed the truck out of the driveway.  It was four miles to the strip of big box stores and chain restaurants that made up most of the town, and he drove well below the speed limit as he made his way there, trying to spot any signs of life. 

He wasn't alone in the world, after all.  He spotted dogs in their fenced in pens, cats peering out of the windows of otherwise lifeless homes.  As for human life, however, there was nothing. 

Before he reached the main strip Cody stopped in the center of the road and turned off the engine.  He rolled down his window and let the cool air rush in.  A trio of homes lined each side of the street, all of them with cars in their driveways.  He laid down on the horn, letting it scream for a full minute before letting off on it, the shrill echo bouncing off the mountains before drifting into memory and plunging the world back into its shroud of silence.

He wasn't really surprised when no faces appeared at any windows to see what the commotion was.

Cody started the engine again and continued to the main drag.