Tallos - Episode Two (Season One) Read online

  Tallos

  Season One

  Episode Two

  By: Brian D. Anderson

  Tallos – Season One - Episode Two

  Copyright © Brian D. Anderson 2015

  Published by Longfire Press

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher and/or author.

  Episode Two

  No matter how much he tried to shut them out, there was no escape from Slade's barrage of commands. His authority-filled voice thudded into Jim's ears yet again.

  “Do it!”

  He looked down and for the first time realized that he was holding an M-16 assault rifle. Slade was positioned thirty feet off to his left. Dressed in an impeccably tailored blue pinstripe suit that appeared ridiculously out of place in their current surroundings, the man's mouth was twisted into a villainous smirk.

  “Do it,” he repeated. “That’s an order.”

  Jim gazed down from the high ridge on which he was standing. Below was a grassy field surrounded by razor wire and populated by thousands of mannequins of all shapes and sizes. Some were clumped together in careless groups, others spread about haphazardly.

  “I said that’s an order, soldier!” Slade roared.

  Unable to resist any longer, Jim raised the weapon and fired into the heart of a group chosen at random. The bullet struck with precision – a head shot that sent pink confetti exploding out in every direction. He fired again, and then again. His accuracy was flawless as ever-increasing amounts of confetti showered across the field like pretty pink snow.

  He felt a hand touching his shoulder. It was Slade. He pointed to a truck parked a few yards away. There was a .50 caliber machine gun mounted on the top.

  “That would do the job much faster,” he told him. “Then you can go home.”

  Jim looked him in the eye. Slade's expression was now friendly and warm, his voice calm and reasonable. Suddenly eager to please, Jim dropped the rifle and hurried over to the truck. He could see that the mannequins were positioned differently now. Some had become tangled in the wire, while others appeared to be huddled tightly together in small groups. Just finish it and go home, he told himself, getting into position behind the rotating turret and training the weapon on the nearest group.

  Once Jim began firing, the rapid chattering of the gun and hail of bullets continued unabated, sweeping in wide arcs across the field until nothing remained standing. When all went quiet, the ground looked as if it was covered in pink rose petals. The scent of gun powder and oil was deep inside Jim's nostrils, invigorating him beyond belief. While looking down to appreciate his handiwork, he felt indestructible.

  “Well done,” Slade told him. “Very well done. “Why don’t you go and take a closer look?”

  Jim found himself smiling at the prospect. He jumped off the truck and started down the hill. After finding a small gap in the wire, he entered the field. His sense of excitement was almost intoxicating. He had done well; Slade was pleased with him. It was now almost time to go home, but that could wait for a short while longer. He stopped a few yards inside the wire to survey the area. Not a single mannequin remained standing. He had hit every one.

  He continued to wander about, casually kicking his ruined targets aside and shaking some of the confetti from his boots every now and then. The bits of paper were oddly clingy and dense.

  Just as he reached the center of the field, he heard a high pitched whistle. At first he thought it sounded like a tea kettle or a broken steam pipe, but after listening carefully, he realized it was coming from beneath a pile of confetti covered mannequins a little over to his left. As he drew near, the whistling sound changed to a soft cry. Beneath the body of one of the females, he found a plastic baby doll. Its cries were erratic and labored, as if the batteries were dying. He wiped the confetti from its tiny face and examined it closely, but there was nothing unusual that he could see.

  He was about to toss it aside when Slade called from the ridge. “Bring that to me.”

  Jim frowned. Why would he want this? It's just a toy. He started back toward the ridge anyway. Slade was standing at the crest. His smile had vanished and he was wringing his hands nervously.

  “That’s right,” he said. “Bring it here.”

  Jim moved on for a few more paces, but suddenly his feet slipped on something wet. Clutching the doll tightly to his chest, he staggered around for several seconds before finally regaining his balance. And all the while throughout his struggle to remain upright he could hear a sickly squishing sound coming from underfoot. He looked down. It was no longer pink confetti that covered the ground and shattered mannequins. Everything was now oozing blood. He stared up at the waiting Slade and froze.

  “Don't stop. Bring it to me!” Slade shouted.

  “No,” Jim replied. His voice was barely a whisper. He looked at the doll in his arms. A need to keep it safe – away from Slade - was growing within him. “I can’t.”

  “You don’t have a choice,” Slade shot back. “It’s not yours. It never was.”

  Regaining his movement, Jim took a step back, but his heel slid in the soaked grass. He fell hard to the ground, though once again instinctively encircling the baby doll with protective arms.

  “He can’t have you,” he found himself muttering.

  He could feel the blood on the ground soaking through his clothing. He tried to get to his feet, but the surface had become like ice. No matter how much he clawed and clambered, he couldn’t seem to find a foothold.

  What’s happening? I have to get home.

  Slade was reading his thoughts. “Give it to me,” he said. “Then you can go home.”

  “No!” Jim cried. “It’s not yours. It’s mine.”

  In a flash, Slade was standing directly over him. “You’re wrong,” he snapped. Reaching down, he grabbed the doll by one of its arms.

  With no strength left in him to resist, Jim could only watch helplessly as Slade wrenched the doll from his grasp and turned away. He let out an anguished scream.

  His cry of despair was enough to make Slade pause and look over his shoulder. “Why should you care so much?” he asked. “It’s only a doll. And now it’s mine.” With these words, he set off up the hill and quickly vanished.

  Tears streamed down Jim’s face as screams of rage and frustration poured from his mouth. He thrashed around wildly, scraping and scratching at the ground. But still he was unable to raise himself from the blood soaked quagmire.

  “Wake up! Wake up!”

  The repeated call finally got through. With one last gasp and a cough, he opened his eyes. Peter was standing over him, a concerned look on his face.

  It took a moment for Jim to realize where he was. The small fire they had built was nearly burned out, and the fog of his rapid breathing was billowing all around like steam from an old fashioned train engine. Gradually, the feeling in his extremities returned, prompting him to examine his hands. The tips of his fingers were raw and bleeding from where he had been digging them into the earth during his sleep.

  “Must have been one hell of a dream,” remarked Peter.

  Jim could still hear the crying of the doll: still feel the helpless desperation of its loss. He wiped his bloodied fingers on his pants. “I’m
fine.”

  Peter gave him an understanding nod. “Yeah. Sure. I get it. I have bad dreams too.”

  I bet you do, Jim thought.

  Even though it was still an hour or so before dawn, he knew that getting back to sleep would be impossible. They had been walking for five days, and every night he'd been having increasingly vivid nightmares. The decision had been made to avoid Mobile by traveling east along I-10 into Florida, then north back through Alabama to Atlanta. So far, only a few scattered signs of people had been evident – a wisp of smoke from a fire, or an occasional distant gunshot.

  Jim had limited all conversation between them to essential discussions only. Peter tried to be friendly, and Jim had to admit the man was pleasant enough. But he couldn’t look at him without being reminded of the fact that he had assisted in the murder of so many innocent people. This was made even worse after he was told about the method used. Apparently, the 'enemy' – as Peter had now taken to calling them – had built massive vacuum chambers. So vast, in fact, that they could hold five thousand people at a time.

  “One-hundred percent fatal,” Peter remarked, as if discussing the weather. “Painful too, from the looks on their faces.”

  On hearing this, Jim had come within a whisker of shooting him.

  Possibly realizing his narrow escape, Peter quickly attempted to make himself appear less unfeeling. “When you see horrible things enough times, you become numb,” he explained. “It was the only way to get by. I did my best not to go near the chambers if I could help it. But sometimes I had to.”

  That was the last time Jim had spoken more than a few sentences to him. His suspicions were growing that Peter was holding something back. He had thought to press him, but given what he already knew about the man, it was better to leave it alone. So long as he didn’t withhold anything vital, Jim had no use for his personal secrets.

  All the northbound roads, even the lesser used country ones, were littered with cars and refuse. Many of the houses were burned to the ground, and all the gas stations and convenience stores had been looted long ago. It wasn’t until they passed the State line and were crossing back into Alabama that they saw their first person.

  An old man who Jim guessed to be in his late sixties was sitting on a rocker in front of an abandoned feed store. He was wearing a pair of worn overalls and had heavy work boots on his feet. A shotgun leaned against the wall beside him. His deeply carved wrinkles and sun baked complexion suggested a life of hard labor and simple tastes. What's more, from the look of him, it was a life he had decided to continue leading, come what may. He waved and gave them a polite nod.

  “Out here all by yourself?” Jim called over.

  The man picked up his shotgun and laid it across his lap. “Just me and ole Betsy here. Where you fellas headin’?”

  His thick southern drawl and easy manner brought a smile to Jim’s face. He had always enjoyed the company of country folk. Their gracious ways and down to earth attitudes were refreshing. “North,” he replied.

  The man leaned forward to spit. “I can see that. I’m old, not blind.”

  Jim thought it best to keep their destination close to the vest. He shrugged. “Just north, that's all. Looking for food and supplies. Whatever we can find.”

  “Yeah, bunch of folks come through here lookin’ for that kinda stuff. Can’t say if they find it. Can say I don’t see um but once.”

  “Maybe they find what they’re looking for?”

  “Or maybe they just get themselves killed,” he countered. “You fellas hungry?”

  Jim looked at Peter, who nodded enthusiastically.

  “Yes, sir,” Jim replied.

  The old man stood up. “Name’s Carl. Carl McKenna. Ya’ll come on in then.”

  “We sure appreciate it, sir. I’m Jim. This is Peter.”

  Once inside, Jim cast his eyes around the store. There was a small table surrounded by four chairs, a cot, and a row of footlockers along the back wall. Most of the shelves were bare, and the counter had been smashed beyond repair, although oddly enough there was not so much as a single small crack in any of the windows. In spite of the shabby appearance, the air was remarkably cool. Both he and Peter placed their backpacks next to the door, along with Jim’s AR-15.

  “It ain’t much, but at least you don’t die of heat stroke,” Carl informed them. “Ole boy who used to run the place said a spring ran underneath the buildin’. Saved him a load of money on coolin’ in the summertime.”

  “Where is he now?” asked Peter.

  “Went up north to Atlanta. Army dragged just about everyone up there after the power went. It’s all fishy if you ask me.” Carl sat at the table and leaned his shotgun against an empty chair.

  Jim and Peter joined him.

  “What’s fishy?” asked Jim.

  Carl sniffed. “The whole damn thing. No power, cars won’t start, phones don’t work. On top of that, them damn psycho killers start wanderin’ around all over the place, choppin’ up folk. Then they want us all to pull up and go to Atlanta?” He curled his lip. “I bet anything you like there ain’t nothin’ in Atlanta worth goin’ there for. And if that’s where you boys are headin’, do yourself a favor and turn right back around.”

  His words brought a frown to Jim's face. “You’ve seen the clones around here?” he asked.

  Reaching into his front pocket, the old man pulled out a plug of tobacco. “Don’t know nothin’ about them bein’ clones. But whatever they are, they’re gone now. Haven’t seen um around these parts in about a year or so.”

  Well, that's one piece of good news, Jim thought. Dealing with the army was going to be tough enough without the added risk of bumping into any more normal guys or little girls with murderous intentions. “So you’ve been here by yourself this whole time then,” he said.

  Carl gave a lighthearted grin and bit off a chew of tobacco. “Been on my own longer than that. Wife up and died ten years back. Been cookin’ and cleanin’ for myself ever since.”

  “What about food and water?” asked Peter.

  “You must be a city boy,” he teased. “My Daddy raised me huntin’ and fishin’. Got me an old wood burnin’ stove in the back. Hell, I didn’t have much cause to put on the lights even when they were still workin’. Do miss the refrigerator though.” He stood up with a groan. “You boys wait here. I got some smoked ham for you.” Grabbing his shotgun, he shuffled off through a door at the rear of the building.

  Peter's eyes tracked him until he was gone from sight. “How do you think an old guy like that made it all alone?” he asked.

  “Men like Carl are a different breed,” Jim told him. “They’ll be around long after we’re gone.”

  Peter shrugged. “If you say so. I just get the feeling that something’s not right. Old as he is, it’s hard to believe that he’s made it all on his own without some kind of help.”

  Jim shrugged. “You heard the man. He didn’t need much in the first place. Just shut up and be happy we get to eat something good for a change.”

  Carl returned a few minutes later with a tray of sliced pork that he placed in the center of the table. He then went to the corner of the store to pick up a large clay jug and two plastic cups. The moment he uncorked the jug, Jim smiled.

  The old man grinned back at him. “I see you know good moonshine when you smell it.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s much appreciated.”

  Carl filled both cups and handed them to his guests.

  “You’re not having any?” Peter asked.

  “Ain’t touched it in years,” Carl told them. “Wife made me promise I’d quit before she passed.” He held his nose over the jug and sighed. “I do miss it though.”

  “I’m sure she’d understand,” Peter suggested.

  Carl leveled his gaze. “Boy. There are some folks who you don’t go tellin’ lies to. And some promises you don't ever break.”

  Jim chuckled at Peter’s unease. “He wouldn’t understand, Carl. He’s never been marrie
d.”

  “Yes I have,” Peter protested.

  Carl grabbed a slice of ham. “Yeah, boy? For how long?”

  Peter hesitated, his face turning bright red with a combination of irritation and embarrassment. “Two years.”

  Carl threw up his hands. “Ha! That ain’t marriage, boy. That’s a date.” He nodded to the platter. “Now ya’ll dig in. You need to keep your strength up.”

  Jim grabbed some ham. It was a bit salty, but otherwise good. The whiskey on the other hand tasted like pure grain alcohol. “So there isn’t anyone else around?” he asked.

  “Oh, there’s some folks here and there,” replied Carl. “I do some tradin’ now and then with the smart ones who stayed behind.”

  “What do you trade?” asked Peter.

  “This and that. Depends.”

  Peter took a quick look around. “No one tries to take your stuff?”

  “Not the smart ones,” Carl said, grinning. “But there are a few dumb fools every now and then. Folks who ain’t got no sense sometimes think I’m easy pickins.”

  Jim nodded. Anyone who would think this guy was an easy target was definitely an idiot. “Looks like you managed to chase them off,” he said.

  Carl leaned back and picked up his shotgun, stroking the barrel with pride. “Yep. This ole girl usually does the trick. My daddy gave it to me when I was ten. Sure comes in handy when I have to handle some of the dumb asses who pass through here. Take you two boys for instance. You come a wanderin’ up, guns strapped all over, totin’ more shit than you need to carry. Headin’ straight up towards places you know you shouldn’t be goin’.”

  Peter looked offended, but Jim merely laughed. “I sure wish I didn’t need to carry all this stuff,” he said.

  “Well you don’t,” Carl told him. “If you knew a thing about survivin’ you’d be carryin’ half that amount. But that don’t make you dumb. Just ignorant. What makes you dumb is walkin’ up into a stranger’s home, eatin’ and drinkin’ without knowin’ where it came from or who’s givin’ it to you. Sitting there stuffin’ your face with your back to the door. Now that’s real dumb.”