They Came With The Storm (The Effacing) Read online

  THE EFFACING

  THEY CAME WITH THE STORM

  by T. Anwar Clark

  THE TENEBROUS PUBLISHING CO.

  The Effacing: they came with the storm

  COPYRIGHT © 2012 T. Anwar Clark

  ISBN: 978-148010039

  Cover art and design: Double G. A Triple.

  All characters, places, and events have no existence outside the imagination of the authors wherein and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same names, places, or events. Not even are they distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author.

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. No portion of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission by the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: T. Anwar Clark

  INTRODUCTION

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

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  Coming in 2013 from The Tenebrous Publishing Co.:

  “Andrew was looking for Mike Ashe, Jr… but he was fighting the war. Andrew did us a favor… so we did him a favor—”

  —Allison Philips from Scot-Rich and The Scorchers

  INTRODUCTION

  When 21 year old, Dale Ashe, informs his older brother, Mike, a former soldier now working at Owens Sea-Tow Fleet, about an emergency news broadcast to remain indoors until further notice, they ignore the cautions and leave home in search of, Major, Mike's missing Akita Inu. After a few awkward encounters, Ann pulls up and informs the brothers that Mike's girlfriend, Sarah, has checked in at the area hospital; and only after witnessing a patient succumb to his demise and come back to life a raging animal, innocent citizens become prey to those infected, and a failed attempt to escape the city results in more casualties, they realize the anchorman’s advice should have been taken seriously... and they should have remained in the house.

  CHAPTER I

  Day 1

  “Mike! You’re not going to believe this!” I uttered down the hall while nursing a well-deserved hangover, thumbs pressed hard at my temple.

  It was the warning of an unidentified contagious infection that was brought in with the hurricane that swept through the city just two days prior. And with it, came its first death. Dozens of people were already in area hospitals with cases of internal or external bleeding, some with joint and muscle aches, others with peeling, puss-dripping skin eruptions. Cell phones were no longer useful; there were many power outages in different sections of the city, and any individual that observed the stations emergency broadcast were advised to remain indoors until further notice.

  I didn't stop to think in those first moments that the news anchorman just told his viewers we were cut off from the rest of the world, under quarantine because of some apparent outbreak. Instead, I ignored his scripted cautions, got up from the worn out, alcohol scented couch where I passed out drunk the night before, stumbled forward, and opened the front door to a dark, misty atmosphere and mild winds.

  It was the same as the day before. There was debris on top of puddles of water everywhere, beat-up automobiles, ransacked apartments, and a few people that scurried through the streets with electronics they'd looted from vacated and boarded up homes. I shook my head, and tried hard not to laugh; still hung over, and with the sound of our gassed up power generator out back beating its drum at my pulsating head banger.

  "Dale!" Mike yelled, wiping his face with a wash cloth as he turned the corner of our hallway.

  I lightly patted my forehead, attempting to will the door knocker banging inside my head to stop, directing Mike’s attention toward the television that ultimately became a black screen. "You hear what’s going on?”

  He walked to the front door, took one look outside and slammed the door. He was probably hoping Major would be out there. “I can’t say I was paying any attention.” He answered.

  I tried changing the television channel, but only after realizing every station was pure static, I turned back around to Mike and explained the broadcast the way I recalled it.

  "Where's Major?" he said, brushing his balding head with an open hand. "He's been missing ever since I came back from out sea. Let's go look for him." he finished, and then snatched the door open.

  Mike was my only brother, a buffed up workout freak and my best friend who took part in hammering away on the enemy in the war on terror. When he received word of what happened while on duty, he touched home very attentive and concerned; but unlike him, I could tell he was mentally bleeding out about his dog, taking things a little overboard. Mike worked for a well-known con man named Lester Owens. Mike suspected Lester had him hauling in tons of narcotics from time to time. What goes out to sea stays out to sea, Lester would tell the crewmen; Mike was only obligated because of the hefty cash pay at the end of each job; I was collecting unemployment and looking for work while warding off the subconscious demons of my own ominous and life-changing history.

  Outside, the streets were hardly occupied by the citizens and criminals that I witnessed just a few minutes before. The faint smell of burning wood that entered my nostrils was another oddity – without a fire truck in sight - and my ears popped from a high-pitched ringing sound.

  “You hear that?” I asked Mike.

  "Hear what, your head knocking?"

  “How could you not hear that siren?” I dug a finger in my ear and jiggled it for a few seconds.

  The noise stopped.

  “Hear what? You hearing dog whistles?”

  “Nothing… That report on the news must be messing with my head.” I answered, knowing I heard an eerie high-pitched sound. Then changing the subject, I asked him, "You think Major just got spooked? Sea sick or nervous?" and waited for a response, but Mike didn't speak. Then, knowing he had told me about his last voyage the day he’d gotten back (The day the storm arrived.), I asked him, "What happened on your last trip?"

  “I already told you.”

  “Just one more time,” I returned.

  “You said the same thing before I told you the story late, last night.”

  “What?” I said. “Man, are you serious? I was so wasted last night; I don’t remember… come on, Mike, one more time for the walk.”

  Mike laughed it off.

  I really didn’t remember. In fact, the only thing I remembered about the previous night was getting back from the neighborhood bootlegger with a liter of moonshine, and after I downed about a fifth by myself, I was pretty much done for. I didn’t see any reason to go into the past night, after all, not remembering was all part of having a hell of a time, and I was sure that’s exactly what I had; a hell-of-a-good time.

  Mike thoughtfully began to assert the events that transpired. He said a private company failed to get a response from one of their cargo ships, and a few more co-workers were called in with him to tow the haul if
required. The ship was a rusty red with a white trim and filled with large bins. It had a large custom made silver and steel-blended, barred elevator lift built for human cargo that descended upon them reaching the vessel. The cargo doors opened, and they were approached and greeted by two men in blue latex gloves wearing ventilation masks with suits underneath white trench coats. The two men offered them safety equipment before boarding the ship; they insisted that Major tag along, a dog’s keen sense of smell would be useful, and that the masks and suits were only a safety precaution but highly recommended for humans. Mike and his co-workers accepted the suits and stepped into the lift; Major gladly stuck by his owner.

  Aboard, two Blackhawk helicopters sat on the landing docks. The ship was occupied by men with high-powered automatic rifles and protective suits with gas masks; they marched across the ship with caution, scanning the areas in which they passed, ignoring Mike and his entourage. Mike was informed by the men in suits that the ship’s cargo contained tons of electronics, food and livestock from across the globe, automobiles and fragile imports of a custom make.

  “We spent about twelve hours opening up the huge cargo bins, searching. We searched for pirates or terrorist-type activity, and after a thorough investigation of at least a dozen drilled up soldiers and ten of us, they decided a further investigation jump off once the ship was docked. Our aid was unnecessary. We didn’t find jack shit. No blood. No bodies. No clue as into the crew’s whereabouts. No coast guard intervened. No Interpol neither. Nothing! What went out to sea stayed out to sea. Major only ran off after we reached land and I haven’t seen him since.” Mike finished, about a half mile from the house.

  "That sounded like some movie shit! No one will ever believe it!"

  "That's because you're never going to tell it!" he looked to me with a slight grin, calm as usual, only with an aggressive and informal hint of intimidation lowering his brow and pulling the muscles tight on one side of his mouth.

  "How much you get for the job?"

  "Five grand…"

  I looked straight ahead, eyes wide with blank thoughts. Then forced myself back, "Something must a really freaked him out. It's not Major to just run off like that. He'll find his way back..."

  "The storm was right behind us. Actually, we came in with it."

  "I mean, you take care of him, feed him, bathe him, and play fetch. It does seem odd that he'd bounce on you that easy without the necessities of life."

  "Yeah… well, he did didn’t he?" Mike said, rather frustrated. "Hope nothing happened to him. He's the only thing left since—" and he stopped there.

  I knew what he was about to finish with, but I held my silence.

  The winds began to pick up. I observed our surroundings to see a few people were moving rapidly through the watery streets. A couple of high school kids were engaged in criminal activity; they scaled the side of a two story home and climbed into a broken window. A few tweens wearing reflective raingear playfully stomped in puddles and splashed one another. A young man and woman that wore matching, black leather bombers cuddled each other as they made their way down the street, and then I caught eyes with a sickly-pale elderly gentleman.

  The elderly gentleman pushed a shopping cart full of scrap metal and aluminum cans. He was wearing an old, dingy army jacket that was two sizes too big with the sleeves rolled up. His wrist was wrapped in a fresh, lightly blood-stained gauss, and he wore threadbare blue jeans that revealed his knobby knees, rocking a pair of banged up sneaks with the laces missing, kicking up rain water as he drug his feet through the puddles, struggling his way in our direction. It was clear he was very ill and unfortunately homeless. And I sort of felt bad for the guy seeming he looked as if he had been stuck in the storm without shelter.

  Mike approached the elderly man and kindly muttered, "Sir. What happened to your arm?"

  The man just stared without responding; his yellow eyes wandered as if he were about to faint for a second. Then, his eyes returned and stared into Mike's.

  "Are you alright?" Mike asked.

  The man said nothing. He just continued to weakly gaze into Mike's eyes, but with regard, like someone drunk and barely conscience.

  Mike continued slowly and more direct, "You wouldn't of happened to see an Akita ‘round have you?"

  The elderly man looked confused, his hands slightly trembled and his nose twitched as if he had a bad sinus complication. But, he still wasn’t talking. I took a look around as I grew impatient, getting a whiff of the alcohol and his personal shit-for-deodorant aroma that brazenly lingered off of his ragged attire. I wondered to myself if that’s what I smelt like after consuming a few bottles of beer and cheap wine. I probably smelt like gasoline, since that’s the equivalent to what I took down the night before.

  Mike finished, "He's not vicious at all. The friendliest dog you could meet... anywhere? Sir..?"

  We patiently waited for his response.

  The elderly man slowly replied, "A dog!" his eyes widening.

  Either Mike's calm and subtle approach wasn't effective, or the elderly guy was standing on his last leg in need of medical help, looking as if he'd slit his own wrist about twenty times not too long ago but couldn't find any main veins. And as the old man’s sweat poured from his forehead like blood would leak from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head hustled down his face, Mike inquired the guy needed a medical hand and grabbed his smart phone to call for assistance.

  "The Anchorman mentioned they don't work. No matter how smart they are." I expressed in the 'I told you so' kind of way.

  Mike looked at me disgusted, like he wanted to say two words; I just shrugged my shoulders. The man stared at Mike like Mike was the one in need of medical attention - still without saying a word, and not paying any significance to me whatsoever.

  The veins in the elderly man's neck leisurely darkened blue and purple the longer we stood there. His over moisturized and greasy resembling face longed, and he dropped his mouth like he wanted to say something. Was he gagging for breath? Maybe he was about to have a stroke. Maybe Mike wasn’t speaking in the right language.

  I grew agitated at the going-nowhere conversation and announced, "Big... red… white chest… pointed ears… curled fluffy tail… double coated male Japanese Rottweiler-type kid friendly. Hundred and twenty pounds—" before Mike cut me off by placing a firm hand on my shoulder.

  "Alright, man." he grilled me as if I was annoying him; but I was the one with the hangover.

  The elderly man roughly pushed out underneath his breath, inching his cart past us, "Eyes of blood darkness."

  Wrong dog, I thought, before saying, "The mummy talks! But nope, he got the wrong animal. Thanks anyway, Tut."

  Major’s eyes were a distinctive, glassy bluish-grey color.

  "Yeah," the elderly man forced a choked up laugh, "Wrong dog." and continued on his path.

  I heard the noise of splashing water, and turned around just in time to catch the old guy regurgitate, and strut along.

  We continued on our journey for Major.

  The damage done to our neighborhood wasn't bad considering my inspection down the street. It was more of the same thing, just a bigger mess. Shingles and rooftops on the concrete, trees torn from the roots, and a couple power cables that were being nursed back in place by a power company employee, the power company truck was parked off to the side of the road.

  We made our way to the power company truck.

  "How bad is it?" I questioned the power guy wearing a clinical mask, propped up in the truck, sipping from a thermos.

  He wasted no time telling us what was happening, "You fellas should take it back indoors. They say the Guards are on their way in the city assisting anyone in need, and to help with the clean-up. FEMA. You know how it is."

  Mike asked him, "Yeah, I bet. What's this about people in local hospitals?"

  The power guy responded, "The news? Don't know all the details. They say the hurricane brought in some kind of flu or something… somewhe
re on the line of mosquitoes. A plane was supposed to drop some chemicals to kill off the spread of any sickness, so even though you two boys got on long sleeves, stay away from flooded areas and tall grass to reduce the risk of infection to a minimum. And definitely stay out the alleys. Take precautions, not chances."

  "Yeah," Mike continued, unconcerned for the guy’s advice, "You see an Akita by any chance around here?"

  "What's that, a dog? Sorry, man. Not much of the city's here. About two-thirds evacuated before the storm. You'll just have to ask around.”

  As the power guy finished his statement, his radio went crazy with static. It was a call from the office. The nervous woman on the other end reported, "Any power teams operating within Warwick City are now being called off-duty. I repeat. Any power teams working on location throughout Warwick City are now, hereby, ordered off-duty by way of city ordinance until further notice. Please deliver all utility vehicles to their proper stations. You will receive further instruction upon your arrival back to base. This will take place immediately. Do not attempt to finish your job. This is not a drill. Any operator of company vehicles are to return to base immediately, per city officials’ order." then went silent.

  I looked to Mike. Mike looked to me.

  The power guy yelled out to his partner, "Meadows, cut the shit short. Base is calling us in, pronto." then looked to us, "You two should take it inside. Man's best friend will find his way home. If not, when things clear up a little you should check an animal shelter. You boys take care." he finished.

  His partner hopped in the passenger side like he was expecting the call, and the pair took off. Then, out of nowhere, Ann pulled up like she was coming to our rescue, slamming on the breaks just a couple feet ahead of us, screaming, “Hurry, get in the car!”

  "What's up?" Mike asked, before getting in on the passenger side.

  I hopped in behind Ann.

  After we were both inside the car, Ann responded ecstatically, her eyes wandering and her hands tightly gripped to the steering wheel, "Sarah's in the hospital." and hit the gas in route to Warwick City General Hospital.