Sunfall (Season 2): Episodes 7-12 Read online

  He shook his head, rolling his eyes like a scolded teenager too smart to heed parental advice.

  “You'll come around,” she continued. “I can see the kind of man you are. I think this place has warped you. You've lost a bit of yourself in here. Leaving this place behind will be good for you.”

  “What do you mean? Leaving it behind?”

  Tina narrowed her eyes and scratched her chin. “What do you mean? Once you've realized this place isn't the answer—”

  “This place is the answer. It's always been the answer. Can't you understand that? Why doesn't anyone else see it?”

  “Sam, no,” Tina said. “We tried it your way and this...” She waved her finger in circles. “This is where your way got us. I hate to say it, but Soren was right. It was only a matter of time before this place finished serving its purpose. Even Rome fell, Sam.”

  He grabbed his hair and for a second Tina thought he was going to rip the clumps right out of his skull.

  “You're blind like the rest of them. You don't want to follow me anymore? So be it. Anyone who wants to go astray and die at the hands of flesh-eating maniacs and whatever else is out there, more power to you. I'm not gonna stop you. Not anymore.”

  “Sam...”

  “Don't.” He bent down and grabbed the bags packed with plenty of goodies to keep his body fueled. “If you're not with me, you're against me.”

  “No one is against you.” What the hell is this guy talking about! she wanted to scream. In the short amount of time they knew each other, he never acted like this much of an asshole. Stubborn, sure. Firm in his beliefs, yes. But now that the evidence was right in front of him, Costbusters reduced from a perfect sanctuary to a bloody battlefield, he could not allow himself to consider other options. He can't be that nuts, she thought. He's a normal guy in an abnormal situation. He's not thinking clearly. He'll come around. She had her doubts about the last bit; she had seen men pushed over the edge and attempt the impossible climb back up. It seldom ended well. “Go outside, and talk to the group. Be level-headed about this.”

  “If the others don't have a solid plan to get my children back, then I have no interest in what they have to say.” He stormed off down the aisle and disappeared around the bend.

  Tina shook her head. Part of her wanted to cry, but there was no time for tears. Not today. She stood up and stared at the propane tanks, debating whether to waste another second trying to convince Sam that his dream was dead.

  -9-

  THREE DAYS BEFORE THE BIG BURN

  The shed reeked of cigarette smoke, just the way he liked it. He lit another, exhaling a rolling cloud as he cleared the tools littering his workbench. After the bench stood uncluttered, he rested on the small couch in the corner of the room, savoring the ashy taste on his lips. Taking another drag deep into his lungs, he wondered if this was truly how he'd spend the rest of his life: cleaning other people's messes, patching up their mistakes, replacing dead light bulbs, and pleasing that shithead principal. How could a man with no understanding of the theory of relativity and zero comprehension of probability density plots ensure society's youth was properly educated? Soren had grown tired of working for people less intelligent than him. Also, he was bored. Something needed to change. There was an injustice taking place, no further explanation required.

  It's all part of the plan, he reminded himself. What that plan was, he didn't know. The world needs a sharper tool in the shed, a bulb without a flicker. And when the time comes, they'll see. All will be clear again.

  Soren stared at the corkboard above his workbench. Sticky notes and a small itinerary for the next several days practically covered every square inch, but something was out of place. A pink note the size of an index card was tacked to the center, covering mundane notes about which florescent bulbs were awaiting replacement in the faculty room. He never used pink notes. Always white or yellow. The only time he saw notes in that color were from the teachers' desks.

  Stubbing out his smoke in the ashtray next to the couch, Soren stood up, stretching his painfully-tight muscles. He ambled back over to the workbench, his curiosity piqued. The words were small and written in cursive, barely legible. Soren squinted and read:

  AS QUAKES HAVE FALLEN, SO SHALL THE SUN.

  ROOM D8. LUNCH.

  Rattled, the rest of the day dragged. He couldn't concentrate. A few times he felt dizzy, disoriented, as if lost in a desert for days without water. The hallways of B-wing tilted, the science lab spun, and the mop wouldn't go in the direction he wanted no matter how hard he tried. People spoke to him, but he barely answered. His inarticulate responses were met with curious glances, but he didn't care about them or the people who gave them.

  He passed Principal Reynolds in the hallway. The boss man stopped, muttered something, but Soren continued walking. Reynolds shook his head and walked away, rambling on about how he needed to “clean house”, but Soren didn't hear that bit either. His eyes remained focused on the clock and the fast approaching lunch hour.

  The clock struck eleven and Soren stood outside of room D8. Pushing the door open, he stepped inside. The door closed behind him as he stared at the man sitting at the desk, his face hidden behind the paperback cover of Stephen King's The Stand. At the click of the door latching into place, the stranger rested the book down and greeted him with an expressionless nod.

  Soren's chest tightened and his hands trembled into fists. Clenching his teeth, his jaw flexed. When he was ready to breathe again, he uttered one word.

  “You.”

  “Hello, old friend,” the substitute teacher replied.

  Waving his forefinger in the air, Soren shook his head and stepped forward. “Understand this: we are not friends.”

  The man rolled his eyes. “Spare me the dramatics, Alan. At least this once. There is much to discuss, all of which concerns you greatly.” He paused and reached into the desk drawer. “But if you really don't care for what I have to say,” he continued, tossing a pair of scissors at Soren's feet, “then feel free to cut out the messenger's tongue.”

  Staring at the scissors on the floor, Soren dropped his hands at his sides and relaxed his shoulders. It took everything he had not to act out his impulses. His eyes moved on from the shiny shears to the aged bastard staring back at him.

  “I'm only asking for ninety seconds.”

  “Okay, Joseph. Speak.”

  “Look, I'm sorry about what happened in Alaska. I truly am. No one meant for things to turn out the way they did.”

  “You should have listened to me from day one. You and Aldo. But no, you had to have your Plan B.”

  “It wasn't meant to play out that way, Alan, I swear it,” Joe reiterated. “But, if it's any consolation, you were right.”

  “About what?”

  “About Elias Wheeler needing to be stopped.”

  Soren almost laughed.

  Joe glared at him as if he had swallowed something rotten. “You don't understand. Things in The Dish are bad, worse than ever. I wish I saw it before like you had, but I was blind. We wanted a plan in case you failed, but in truth, I was a coward, looking after my own skin. I should have been more on your side. Things should have been different.”

  “Yes. They should have.”

  “I could spend all day apologizing to you,” Joe said.

  “Please don't. It's boring and doesn't suit you.” Staring at his old friend, Soren fought to subdue years of bottled aggression. “What is it you want, Joe? I know you didn't come here to apologize.”

  “After the Mexico City event, the government cracked down on Elias. Hard. For years we had daily visits from mouth-breathing bureaucrats. Then they wanted their own people in on 'Special Projects', wanted to know exactly what was happening and when, basically turning Elias into a fucking company man. And you know Elias. He doesn't respond well to taking orders. He fought with them for decades, but not enough to where they pulled the plug on the whole operation. He figured he needed them as much as they needed
him, with all the bullshit overseas. Every decade had its problems and the government kept paying Elias to figure out how to solve them.”

  “Time's up, Joe,” Soren said, glancing down at the scissors.

  Ignoring him, Joe continued. “Secretly, the United States saved the world on more than one occasion. Elias had come close to pushing the button several times. He became this loose cannon, and the only thing that stopped him from firing was intense government oversight and... her.”

  “Who?”

  Joe's eyes shifted from side to side.

  “Who?”

  “Look,” Joe said, his eyes fixed on the clock, “lunch is almost—” The bell rang. “Over. I have three more classes to sub for, then I'm all yours. I can meet you in the shed after class, okay? I'll explain everything. In the meantime, take these.” Joe tossed him a cloth bag, small enough to fit inside his breast pocket, next to his cigarettes. “It took me a long time, but I've finally perfected it.”

  Soren peeked inside. He immediately looked at Joe, his eyes bulging. “A61Z?” he asked.

  “Something like that. We we're close back then, but not close enough.” Proudly, Joe reissued his famous shit-eating grin. “After school. Your shed. I'll explain everything.”

  Joe knocked on the shed door. Silence. He knocked for a second time, then a third, and finally a fourth. Pushing open the door, he let himself inside, expecting to find Alan waiting for him with a baseball bat or that pair of scissors. He could tell Sandborough hated him; the man's scornful gaze couldn't be ignored. And Joe couldn't blame him much either. But the past was the past and neither one of them could change it. The future, however, was in their capable hands.

  The shed stunk of cigarettes and another toxic stench his nose couldn't decipher. Thirty years of a gram-a-day coke habit will do that to you, he thought, looking over the shed's décor. Empty soda cans, heaping ashtrays, decaying fruit, and trash weeks old greeted him in the dim light.

  What felt like hours passed and Sandborough never showed. Joe decided he was halfway to Texas with the thought he'd been sent to kill Alan, not liberate him. He went back to his car, parked in the teacher's lot, a special corner reserved for substitutes and other visitors. By the time Joe reached the lot, most of the cars had disembarked on their journey home. He set his eyes on his 87' Blazer, put the school behind him, and never looked back.

  He had tried to give Sandborough the opportunity he never got thirty years ago. He had tried to make amends, but Alan was stubborn. Same old Sandborough. He sat in the Blazer's front seat and sighed. He hated New Jersey and the past few months spent in that dumb retirement village. Nothing depressed him more than watching ambulances carry away the deceased elderly every other day. Aldo's “connection” said that was the best he could do with short notice and Aldo had told him to “suck it up.”

  Fuck you, Aldo. He wasn't the one who had to deal with inquisitive old folks with nothing better to do than knock on his door, wanting to meet the newest resident of Pleasant Gardens.

  Joe slipped the key into the ignition and cranked the engine to life. He shifted into gear and adjusted the rearview mirror. As he drove from the parking lot, he thought a lot about the future, what might happen if the worst really were to happen. Luckily, he had plenty of A61Z to keep him safe, a whole stash no one in the world would find; unless they were told.

  A few miles down the road, Joe noticed the Blazer's tank was just about empty. The next gas station wasn't for a few miles and he had a hankering for sushi. Although gas station sushi was as safe as juggling dynamite, the craving could not be ignored. His mouth began to water just thinking about it.

  Something latched around his throat and his nervous system jumped, lifting him off the seat. The Blazer swerved, and if someone had been barreling down the opposing lane, a nasty head-on collision would have ensued. Joe put one hand to his throat and felt leather. The belt constricted and his eyes bulged. Slamming the brakes, he took both hands off the wheel, attempting to loosen the belt's grip around his neck. Rubber screeched beneath him and the Blazer skidded to a complete stop in the middle of the empty road.

  He watched the man in the backseat lose his seat. The belt became loose and Joe used the opportunity to free himself. He started choking, his windpipe nearly crushed. Instinctively, he opened the door and stumbled to the road. He tried to run into the nearby field, but his legs gave out and he tumbled to the pavement.

  A shadow fell over him.

  Sandborough looked down at him, belt in hand.

  “Please... stop,” Joe croaked. “Don't.... ma... stake.”

  “I've made many mistakes,” Soren said, “but this won't be one of them.”

  “Not... jus... sun... fall.”

  He wrapped the belt around Joe's neck, slipped it through the buckle, and pulled with every ounce of strength he could muster. He watched intently as Joe's face went from red to purple in the matter of seconds. He pulled harder; Joe's eyes nearly exploded from their sockets. A minute later, his body went limp, but Soren kept the pressure on until he heard the audible break of the man's neck.

  Then he let go, allowing the lifeless body to fall freely.

  Soren searched Joe's pockets. He found another pouch of A61Z—two vials inside—and a wallet. He opened the wallet, stripped the cash, and examined the license. The name was fake. Frank Wieser. The address? 616 Canterbury Lane.

  What did he want to tell me?

  Soren would never know.

  Probably more lies.

  There was plenty of time to investigate and plenty of stones to kick over. He'd get to the bottom of it—what was happening at The Dish—one way or another. Why Joe came bearing precious gifts, he had no idea. It raised many questions.

  He said “her.”

  Yes, but that was a lie. Kyra was dead. He was sure of it. He had watched her die.

  But...

  No “buts.” Dead was dead, and Soren remembered the red as it poured from her body.

  But it's possible.

  He needed to investigate. But first, there was a body to dispose of.

  -10-

  He considered picking the solid red brick off the porch and chucking it through the window, but the front door was cracked open. With two fingers, Soren pushed the steel six-panel door in, cringing when the old barrier's hinges squealed in protest. A smell suffocated his nostrils, something of the old world; leftover Chinese and skunky beer.

  Soren set one foot on the dull green carpet, soggy beneath his boot. He peered to the right and left, shining his battery-operated lantern in both directions. He didn't know exactly what to expect; he wouldn't be surprised if a two-headed monster with long fangs jumped out, or nothing at all.

  Surveying the living room, he couldn't overlook the mess. Garbage littered the floor like an episode of Hoarders. Empty cases of beer covered the coffee table, leaving no spot for weary feet. Empty boxes of TV dinners were piled on the couch, surrounding the impression of a grown man's body. Things looked more or less the same in the kitchen. The island had no visible counter space left; old newspapers and magazines were bundled several feet tall. Used paper plates were scattered across the rest of the counters. The dishes in the sink were stacked so high they blocked the window looking out into the backyard. Rats scurried between the walls, gleefully chattering to each other as they enjoyed the freedom provided by a non-existent homeowner.

  He shone the light to the right, down a lengthy hallway. Quietly he stepped forward, passing a room on his right and looked inside. It had been an exercise room, but the treadmill had turned into a clothes rack, the weight racks converted into a magazine stand, and the padded mat on the floor a surface for dirty laundry. Soren thought he heard rustling farther down the hall and directed his lantern toward the commotion.

  Continuing down the hall, he concentrated on the last room and the movement he heard inside. Drawing the blade from his pocket, he kicked open the door. A shadow jumped, turning away from the far wall. It shoved its hands in the
air and dropped something on the floor. Soren looked down at two familiar vials. He glanced back at the shadow and found a face he didn't recognize.

  “W-what t-the f-fuck!” the shadow shouted.

  “Who are you?” Soren asked, holding the knife out.

  The shadow, belonging to a frightened teenager, backed himself into the corner of the room, tripping over more crap the previous owner had left behind. Trying to speak, he stammered several times. Soren approached him and the kid's eyes followed the sharp dagger in his hand.

  “Are you from The Dish?” Soren asked. “Did Elias send you?”

  “Elias?” the kid asked, confused. “Naw, man. I'm Braiden. Patty Worchester's grandson? From Ellsbury Street.” He pointed as if Soren knew where he was talking about.

  He stared at the boy as if he were lying. “Are you sure?”

  “Fuck yes, I'm sure. What the fuck? You don't think I know who I am?” the kid asked, his eyes watering.

  “What are you doing here, Braiden?” he asked. “A little ways from Ellsbury Street.”

  “The man who lived here hasn't been around since... you know.” He pointed to the sky. “Thought maybe he wouldn't mind if I took a look around. Being dead and all. Figured he wouldn't care.”

  “And how do you know he's dead?”

  The kid's eyes widened. “I just assumed. If you haven't noticed, mister, a lot of people are dead.”

  “Yes. Yes they are.” Soren tapped the knife's sharp point with his finger.

  “Please don't kill me, mister.”

  He didn't answer. “What were you looking for?”

  Braiden swallowed. “Food? Water? Anything I could find. We raided most of the nearby stores. Not much left. Figured we'd start raiding homes.”

  “And what were you doing with that?” Soren asked, pointing to the two vials on the floor.