Bite the Dust

BITE THE DUST

Stephen F. Thomas

Bite the Dust

Copyright © 2012 by Stephen F. Thomas.

Smashwords Edition

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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

1

Janet Williams is hassling him. … more than a little worried I can tell you … What the hell is she banging on about? She’s wearing lederhosen. Has a parrot on her shoulder. It’s so out of character, Jon. What the fuck does she know? Patronising bitch. He turns and leaves the office. Janet is already there, ahead of him in the corridor. Naked now. On her knees. On the heliotrope carpet. Blowing the head of Religious Studies. Stern old wanker. Isn’t he gay? Jon can’t remember his name. Bizarre. He doesn’t like him. Too holier than thou. Jon laughs. Ha ha ha. Asshole’s reading the New York Times. Aloof, even while Janet deep-throats him. The twat looks bored, for Christ’s sake. A hundred or so metres farther on the corridor transforms into forest. Covered with snow. Suddenly it’s cold. Freezing. And what the fuck is that? Looks like a Victorian lamppost. In the middle of a small clearing. It is. And Mr Tumnus has his leg cocked. Balanced on one hoof as he pisses against its base. A well-practiced manoeuvre. Filthy animal. Is he a faun or what? Jon walks forwards. He doesn’t pass them but Janet and whatshisname are suddenly behind him. Jon walks towards the snowy clearing. Then whatshisname comes stumbling by, trousers flapping at his ankles. There’s blood running down his legs. Jon looks over his shoulder. There’s blood around Janet’s mouth too. Jon wags his finger at her. She swings her tits. Nipple-tassels (that have appeared out of nowhere) rotate in perfect unison. He turns back; heads for the forest. Mr Tumnus has vanished. Replaced by an Asian guy. Some dude in a white coat. Nut-job smile on his face. Now that’s a scary grin. Jon’s feet are freezing. He looks down. His shoes and socks have vanished. He thinks he might have eaten them. Snow creaks and crunches beneath his bare soles. My feet are fucking freezing. But Doc isn’t listening. Doesn’t care about Jon’s feet. The manilla folder clutched to his chest has a circular stain on it. Coffee cup. What’s up, doc? You’re going to live a very long life, Mr Talisman. How long? Doc frowns contemplatively. Strokes his chin. The latest results achieved during recent studies of the most current data available indicate that we can presume that the up-to-date information would suggest that the results are likely to be in line with expectations. Jon points a blue finger at him. You cunt. There’s no time for pleasantries, Mr Talisman. I’m happy to predict that you’ll live as long as recent studies have led us to believe possible under the given circumstances. Doc beams at Jon. Then his head melts. Trickles down his shoulders like candle wax. A new head grows from the bubbling neck. It’s dad. Except he’s too young. It’s Jon’s father from before Jon was born. His dad’s mouth moves but no sound emerges. Then he begins to age. Like a time-lapse movie. Within seconds he’s an old geezer. Much older than he actually is. Jon feels sick. Nothing for it. He raises his hand. Makes a fist. Prepares to strike. But another hand grabs his. From behind. Jon spins round. It’s Janet Williams. Still naked. Fingers of her other hand buried in her crotch. Grotesquely, she runs her tongue around her bloody mouth. Then cracking sounds. From beneath him. The snow has turned to ice. Thin ice. It’s breaking up. And Jon’s falling …

****

Jon Talisman grabs at the marmalade. Sarah scowls. A breakfast table war zone. The bint from his dreams, Janet Williams, pops into his head. He feels sick. He’s not a very nice person. Not today, anyway. Resents everyone and everything. Today he’s a miserable mofo. A screw-up. Unable to moderate his feelings. And his memory’s playing tricks on him too.

‘You look like shit,’ says Sarah.

‘I am shit,’ he says.

Sarah laughs once. Harsh, hacked derision. ‘Sweet. I think you should see a doctor.’

‘Why do I hate you this morning?’

‘Because you know I’m right.’

‘It’s stress,’ says Jon. ‘Workers at the bottom of the pile carry all the weight. Me, I take a shitload.’

‘So what’s it like, being shat on by all those lard-asses above? No. Don’t tell me. I already know.’

He snorts. Ain’t that the truth? He’s made sure of that.

‘You want me to move out?’ she asks.

‘What makes you say that?’

Sarah shrugs.

‘Don’t listen to me. Everything I say is pointless drivel. I’m not myself at the moment. Don’t take it to heart.’

‘Well I hope you get yourself back soon.’ She rises from the table. Points an accusing scrap of toast. ‘Cos this guy sucks.’

****

He drives slowly. Too tired to be behind the wheel. A wreck waiting to happen. There’s a line of traffic at the Caldecott Tunnel. He’s grateful for that. A godsend. A short respite. Who cares about the shit from above? But it’s too hot inside his crummy little car. No air-con. Couldn’t afford the extra gas anyhow. He rolls the windows down. Rests his arm on the door. It burns like a hot coal. Pain in an instant. And no fucking air. Not a breath of breeze. Someone’s holding a fucking enormous magnifying glass above him. Focusing the sun’s rays onto the roof of his car. His clapped-out Honda Trashcan. Combustion under the hood and combustion in the front seat.

Jon leans to his right. Tries to see ahead. What the fuck is causing the holdup? Can’t see a damn thing. His cheap sat-nav has been ominously silent. Nothing on the radio either. Maybe he’s hallucinating. Maybe the stress he’s been under lately has caught up with him. He should check the Web for reports but just can’t be assed.

Traffic going both east and west is backed up. Now that don’t make a lick o’ sense. How can both tunnels be blocked? Has to be one bitch of a pile-up.

Fuck it. Gonna be really late for work. And jeez, it’s hot. Hot as hell. 104 degrees forecast for later in the day. It’s there already inside his 12-year-old crapmobile. God damn sun! Jon yanks his bag open, removes a bottle of water. Tepid. Tastes like pond gloop. He takes several gulps nonetheless.

Another five long minutes pass. Where are the cops? The ambulances? The fire trucks? They should be all over this like a rash. No sign of them anywhere for Christ’s sake. He cranes his neck to see ahead. Nothing but cars and heat-ripple. Drivers starting to get agitated. Some getting out of their cars. Jon watches as they hesitantly walk down the line. Form into chattering clusters. Exchanging theories about the delay. Jon sinks into his seat. Too pissed-off to give a damn.

And then suddenly the bozos are scuttling about. Rushing back to their cars. There’s a chorus of starter motors. Impatient revving. Jon pulls himself up. Peers into the tunnel. Still can’t see a damn thing. But it seems something’s happening. He turns the key in the Honda’s dusty steering column. No movement as yet. It takes another minute or so. But then, finally, the serpent of simmering cars starts to slither forwards.

At last. The tunnel entrance. Hu-fucking-rrah! Abruptly the sun’s blocked out. A million tons of West Coast hillside swallows his spluttering car. Subterranean air fills the cabin. Cooler, if not exactly cool. As the temperature drops, Jon’s spirits rise. Well, a smidgen anyhow.

The line moves forward. Slowly. Way too slow. Second gear all the way, for fuck’s sake. A hundred metres in and he’s starting to feel oppressed. The air’s stale and musty. What’s happened to the tunnel’s ventilation system? He reaches for his water. It’s not on the seat. Damn bottle has rolled into the footwell. Plenty of time to fish around for it. A snail could outrun him at the moment. He leans across and down. Gropes among empty chip bags and soda cans. Shit! Something cold and wet. He pulls his hand away. Shudders.

‘What the—’ Takes his eyes off the road to peer into the gloom at his feet.

Complete darkness. Just like that. The tunnel’s sickly light blinks out. In an instant, everything is black. Dizziness swamps him. Along with a wave of nausea. He slams on the brakes. Waits for impact. The jolt. That car-crash cacophony. Crumpling metal … Instead there’s nothing. Holy shit he survived it. Feels sick. Shaky. But he’s still alive.

Jon sits with his eyes closed. Wills the queasiness to ebb. It does, slowly. Tensed muscles gradually relax. That had to be close. Why is it so fucking dark, anyhow? The blackness is absolute. Not a glimmer. Blinking he looks around. Thick, heavy darkness presses against is eyeballs.

How far into the tunnel is he? Can’t be far. Maybe about a third of the way. Should still be able to see the entrance behind him. Looks over his shoulder but there’s nothing. Not a flicker of light. No sound either. Just the ancient Civic idling lumpily. No traffic noise. No honking horns. No other cars. Where the hell are all the fucking cars?

Jon shudders again. Fumbles for the headlight stalk. What the fuck is going on? Maybe some kind of WMD has been deployed. A dirty bomb. Perhaps he’s the sole survivor. The headlights burst into life. And illuminate … nothing. Nada. Even on beam. Nothing but nothingness. And lots of it. Empty road, that’s all. No other cars. A moment ago they were everywhere. But there’s something else. The road’s fucked. It rises and falls like a motionless sea. Ripples. Bulges. Buckled and cracked all over. Leaning close to the windscreen Jon peers upwards. Can’t see the tunnel roof. All the lights must be shattered. Dead.

Suddenly he realises he’s utterly alone.

A chug and a sigh. Groans of weariness from under the hood. The Honda quits. He turns the key. Click. Heap of shit. Somehow he’s not surprised. Everything’s fucked-up. He just knows it. He hunches over the wheel. Closes his eyes. Hopes the world resets itself before he opens them. But it doesn’t. Fat chance he’d be so lucky.

Nothing for it. Get out and walk. When he pushes the door it won’t budge. That’s weird. He jabs the window button. Not working. What’s that smell? Inside the beat-up Honda everything smells … old. Now the headlights are dimming. The goddam battery’s nearly new. What’s the deal with that? He shoves the door hard. Maybe something’s wedged against the side of the car. Then it gives. Without warning. Jon almost spills out onto the tarmac. The door moans, shrieks, drops off its hinges, crashes onto the road.

‘Fuck it!’ His voice is loud; harsh in the silence.

The light from the headlamps is now an anaemic stain. There’s a flashlight in the back (he thinks). Jon steps out of the car. Walks round. The hatch won’t open either. He’s losing patience now. Too many malfunctions. Slams his fist down on the rear window. It collapses. Doesn’t break, just falls into the trunk. When he gropes around he finds perished rubber, jagged metal. Rust. All around the tailgate window. He knows the bodywork’s going south but this is ridiculous. The glass feels intact when he fumbles inside the trunk. He pulls it out and throws it aside. It shatters. The flashlight is easy to find. Doesn’t work though. That’s just fucking dandy. He shakes it. Bangs it against his palm. It responds with a feeble flicker then dies. The headlights have almost expired too. But his eyes are growing accustomed. He can see a little around him. But still no sign of the entrance. He walks a few paces. Trips. Almost falls. After a couple of dozen steps towards the exit he can still see nothing except the crumpled tarmac at his feet. No exit in sight. East or west. That makes no fucking sense. What kind of crazy shit is going on? It’s becoming hard to keep his cool. Jon heads back to his car. He can see now, even in the darkness, that it’s a pile of corroded metal and flaking paint. That makes no sense either, but he can freak about that later. More important matters to deal with. Has to concentrate on getting out of the tunnel. He retrieves his bag from the front seat. Going to have to walk. Which direction though? The eastern end of the tunnel should be closest. But something makes him go on. Towards the west. An inexplicable urge to head in that direction. Fifty faltering steps later he thinks he sees a light. He stops. Peers into the gloom. Definitely a chink ahead. It’s not his imagination. It gives him something to head for. Gives him a little hope.

He stumbles on. Heads for the slither of light. Going’s tough. The road is like a cracked, baked desert. Has to pick his way forward with care. Falls several times. Grazes his hands. Hasn’t done that since he was a kid.

Can’t even guess what’s happened. Something’s seriously fucked up. But it won’t help matters if he loses it. He mutters reassurances. Tells himself there’s a rational explanation for all this shit. Once he’s out of the tunnel all will become clear.

He nears the light, now desperate for escape. 20 metres from the tunnel mouth he walks into hanging vines. Ten metres from the exit he’s struggling to find a way through. It’s like a jungle for Christ’s sake. But the sunlight is strong. Stronger with each step. He can feel its heat. He pushes on.

The light gets brighter. The warmth increases. One last shove, a final expletive, and he’s out. Into the burning rays. Like stepping out onto the surface of Mercury. Hot as hell. Hellfire hot. A gaseous heat that pours into his lungs. Air syrupy with fire. Searing his throat.

Jon mumbles a curse. Looks for shade. Even considers heading back into the tunnel. But there’s a rusty old 18-wheeler nearby. Turned on its side. He hurries into its shadow. Looks at the world around him. It’s not the world he knows. It’s a screwed up place. The road, for as far as he can see, is pitted, cracked, bulging. Overgrown with brambles and weeds. Abandoned vehicles everywhere. Corroded shells. A total mess in every direction. Complete wipeout. As if some whack-job despot has dropped the big one. But that’s plain crazy. This hasn’t just occurred. Decay on this scale takes time. Years of neglect. Whatever the catastrophe, it didn’t just happen. Not in the last half hour. And that’s plain crazy too, because, 20 minutes ago, back in Orinda, everything had been tickety-boo.

So he has to be hallucinating. Tripping, maybe. That’s it: Sarah spiked his coffee. No. That’s ridiculous. She doesn’t have the imagination. So maybe this is real. He hopes to God it’s not but he sort of knows it is. He touches the flaky metal of the trailer. It’s warm and solid. Leaves tiny specks of rust on his fingers. This is all too fucking real.

He has to think. But it’s too damn hot. Needs to keep cool first. Inside and out. There has to be an explanation. Occam’s Razor, and all that shit. But where the hell is everybody? He listens. Hears nothing but the caw of crows and seagulls. No matter where he looks there are no people to be seen. Well, he’ll have to go find some.

Small matter first though. He needs a hat. Without one he’ll go crazy from sunstroke. And burn to a crisp. Left his old baseball cap in the back seat of his car. Dipshit. No way is he going back. Maybe he can improvise something. Tie a handkerchief on his head. Except he doesn’t have one. They’re so unhygienic. Who even uses them these days? Can’t make a hat from a Kleenex though. He’s filled with sudden despair. He’s so fucking helpless. Then his eye catches something. Half hidden in the mess of weeds that spreads across the highway. 20 metres away. A swig of tepid water and he’s off. Braving the onslaught of the sun. Wading through the treacle-like heat. It’s a tattered T-shirt. Tan with a chocolate brown band round the middle. Hideous. A fashion crime. Disgusting too. Smeared with dust and dirt. Crusty and crumpled. But he can drape it over his head and neck. And he doesn’t have much choice.

Damn thing’s tangled in the brambles. Natch. Fucked if he’s going to rip his hands to shreds for a lousy brown T-shirt. But after several minutes of careful prying he manages to free it. Man. Normally he wouldn’t be seen dead in this thing. Normally. It’s a filthy abhorrence. When he flops it onto his head he shudders. It does the job though. Now he can brave the sunlight. He rolls down his shirt-sleeves. Grits his teeth. Heads down the broken highway towards Merriwood.

The going’s tough. Not just the heat but the ground too. Jon swaps between the undulating asphalt and the gnarly verge. Either way it’s hard to traverse. Occasionally he stumbles. Ends up on his knees. Soon his hands are scratched and sore. And it’s hot. Hot as damnation.

Half a klick later the heebie-jeebies start to set in. He won’t let them take hold. Mumbles an old Faith No More song under his breath. For reassurance. No escaping it though. Still hasn’t seen another human soul.

Grove Shafter flyover. Or what’s left of it. No way he could’ve prepared himself for this. Oakland is a junkyard. Spreading right out to the Bay. North and south too, for as far as he can see. Nothing but junk. A dustbowl full of trashed machinery. Not a landfill as such. Mile after mile of scrap. All manner of defunct equipment. Heavy and light. Cars, trucks, buses, fridges, freezers, washing machines. Loads of stuff he can’t identify. Piled everywhere in endless haphazard heaps. The ravaged husks of consumerism. A vision of hell.

‘Oh fuck!,’ he breathes. Hot tarmac burns through the soles of his shoes. The furious sun hangs above him. In a bleached sky. Pouring fire over this mother lode of junk.

For a minute or two Jon just stands there. Gulls circle above. He watches them wheel and dive. Then the smell hits him. Rust and filthy engine oil. Garbage. So it is part landfill, as well as scrap machinery. That explains the gulls.

Something else grabs his attention. He frowns. Strains to hear. Hell yes, he likes the sound of that! A growling engine. Where? Can’t quite pinpoint it. Definitely the sound of a powerful motor. Jon squints into the distance. There’s movement away to his right. Through