Mass Extinction Event (Book 1): Days 1-8 Read online

  Without saying a word, Joe throws his backpack into the rear of the truck, before heading around to the driver's side door.

  "I asked if you understood what I just said," our father continues.

  "I speak English, don't I?" Joe says, climbing into the truck and pulling the door shut. "I went to school every day like a good boy, so I know what all those fancy words mean." That's typical of Joe: he's always pretty sarcastic, especially when he's talking to our father. Deep down, though, Joe's a good person: he's got a heart of gold buried beneath that rough exterior. Other people maybe don't see it like that, but they don't know him well enough; he's my brother, though, so I can see right through him. He's cool. One day, I'm gonna be just like him.

  "It's not only -" our father starts to say, but Joe starts the engine, floors the throttle and accelerates out of the driveway. "Hey, wait a minute!" our father calls after him, but it's obviously too late. He's left standing in the yard, watching as Joe heads off into the distance.

  Realizing that this might be my best chance to hang out with Joe for a while, I turn and race across the field. I can see the truck following the curve of the road as Joe heads to the junction, and I'm pretty sure I've got a chance of catching up to him. Racing across the uneven ground, I see Joe indicating to turn left, and finally he pulls onto the main road. I leap over the fence and make my way through the mud bank before running out into the middle of the road just in time to make Joe slow down.

  "What do you want?" he asks, sounding as if he's irritated.

  "Where are you going?" I reply.

  "Town."

  "How come?"

  "The old bastard needs something. Or wants something. Or just fancies getting his hands on something. I don't know. Some kind of wire. You know how it is. He gets some stupid idea in his head, and I'm the one who has to go running off to fetch a bunch of junk."

  "And he's letting you drive again?"

  "Why wouldn't he?"

  "Can I come?" I ask, shielding my eyes from the sun.

  "Why the hell would you want to come?" he asks. "I'm only going to Scottsville."

  "I've got nothing else to do," I tell him. "Power's off, so I can't watch TV, and I can't play any games if the internet's down. If I hang around here, Dad'll eventually find me and give me some stupid job. I'd rather be heading off to Scottsville with you."

  Joe stares at me for a moment. "Read a book," he says eventually. He puts the truck in gear, ready to drive away, but I run around to the other side, pull the door open, and climb inside. "What the fuck are you doing, Thomas?" Joe asks, staring at me as if I'm some kind of madman.

  "I'm coming with you," I tell him.

  He sighs. "No, you're not."

  "It'll be fun!" I say. "Come on... please? There's a power cut, so it's not like I've got anything else to do. Anyway, it's way cooler hanging out with you than sitting around at home."

  "You think I'm cool?" He laughs. "You really need to get out of the house more, kid."

  Sighing, he puts the truck in gear and eases us away down the road. He hasn't said anything, but I know that this is his way of acquiescing to my demand. I knew I could talk him around; after all, despite his constant protestations to the contrary, Joe and I are very similar. People often comment on how we look quite alike, even though he's almost ten years older than me, and we certainly have very similar characters. We're both stubborn and independent, and we're both prone to attracting trouble occasionally. There are differences, though; I don't have moments of madness where I do completely stupid things, but other than that I reckon Joe and I make the perfect team.

  "So you're talking to Dad again," I say eventually as we head along the road. I can't help noticing that Joe's driving pretty fast, but I figure there's no point saying anything; he'd probably speed up, just to make a point.

  "Am I?" he asks.

  "I saw you."

  "There's different kind of talking," he says, keeping his eyes on the road.

  "He let you take the truck out."

  "He had no choice. His hernia's playing up again. He knows he can't drive."

  "But it's a big deal for him to -"

  "Drop it."

  "Why?"

  "Because I said so."

  "Sorry."

  We drive on in silence. I want to tell Joe that I'm glad he's finally talking to our father, but I know what my brother's like: he'd probably kick me out of the truck and make me walk home. That's the problem with Joe; you can't be completely honest with him, because he tends to take honest sentiments and twist them around until they seem dark and bitter. Still, I know that he and our father are getting closer again. Maybe they'll never be best friends, but they can handle being around one another. That's progress, at least. It means that maybe, when our father eventually wants to retire, Joe might reconsider his refusal to take over the running of the farm.

  "So what wires are we getting?" I ask eventually.

  "No idea," Joe replies. "He wrote it down. I'm just gonna hand the piece of paper over to old Steve and let him sort it out. At least that way, there's not much chance of me ending up with the wrong stuff."

  "Yeah," I say, turning to him, "and you're like a -" Suddenly I spot something in the distance; up ahead of us, parked slightly off the road, there's a police patrol car. It's far from unusual to find one of the local cops snoozing in his vehicle during the mornings, but something looks wrong this time; the car's tilted slightly into a ditch that runs by the side of the road, and the driver's side door is open.

  "Fucking cops," Joe says, slowing the truck as we drive past the patrol car.

  "Do you think he's okay?" I ask, staring through the window and seeing that the vehicle seems empty.

  "Fucking hope not," Joe replies.

  "Yeah, but -" At that moment, I see movement on the seat of the police car, as if someone's slumped over on the seat. "Hey, stop the truck!" I yell at Joe.

  "No way."

  "I think he's hurt."

  "So what?"

  "So stop the truck!"

  To my surprise, Joe slams his foot on the brakes and we screech to a halt. "You go check on him," Joe tells me after a moment. "If he's dying, let me know so I can go piss on his face."

  Realizing that it's pointless to argue, I get out of the truck and walk toward the patrol car. Joe's never been a big fan of the local police, mainly because they've picked him up so many times for being drunk. It's not as if I'm fond of the cops either, but at least I'm curious to see if this guy's okay. Cop or no cop, he's still a human being. As I approach the car, I can hear a vague scrabbling sound from inside, and I walk slowly around the side until I can see into the front seat.

  And there he is.

  One cop, slumped over with his face pressed against the seat. I don't know what's wrong with him, but my first thought is that maybe he's had a heart attack or something. He seems to be clutching his belly as if he's in pain.

  "You okay?" I ask.

  He doesn't reply. It's almost as if he hasn't even heard me.

  "Hey," I say after a moment. "Are you okay?"

  Still no reply.

  "It's okay," I tell him. "We're gonna get help." Turning to the truck, I wave in an attempt to get Joe's attention. "Hey!" I shout eventually. "Joe, seriously! Come here! I think he's hurt!"

  "How bad?" Joe shouts back at me.

  "I don't know. I think -" At that moment, the cop seems to react to our voices: he shifts position slightly, and finally he looks up at me. I'm instantly shocked by the state of his face: he looks so thin and ill, and his skin's a kind of pale yellow and gray color. Although his eyes are staring straight at me, it's almost as if he's not really able to process the fact that I'm here. He sure doesn't say anything, and he breathing seems labored and raspy. Whatever's wrong with him, he's deathly sick and he needs help fast.

  "Come on!" Joe shouts. "We're running late! I ain't helping no cop."

  "Come and look!" I shout back. "Seriously, I think something's really wrong with
him! I'm not joking!"

  After a moment, Joe gets out of the truck and slams the door shut before stomping over to join me. He's clearly not happy about being disturbed, although a smile spreads on his face as soon as he sees the emaciated figure of the cop. "Well," he says, "what we got here? You weren't kidding when you said he was sick, were you?"

  "What's wrong with him?" I ask.

  "He's a cop. They all get like this eventually. Something to do with selling their soul to the Devil."

  "Seriously, Joe."

  He shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe he's got some kind of STD on his face from hanging out with too many whores."

  "We've gotta help him," I say.

  "You wanna put him out of his misery?"

  "No, I mean we've gotta get him to a hospital."

  "I ain't taking no cop to no hospital," Joe replies, before leaning a little closer. "Well, would you look at that. This here ain't just an ordinary cop, Thomas. This here is Deputy Sheriff Robert Haims."

  "Who?" I ask.

  "Deputy Sheriff Robert Haims," he continues. "Even by the standards of this fair county, this man is a particularly dumb and nasty piece of work."

  "You know him?"

  "Asshole booked me a couple of times," he says. "I swear, he had this big shit-eating grin on his face every damn time." He pauses for a moment. "Hey, Mr. Haims. How you doing this fine afternoon? I think my tail-light might be faulty. You wanna book me?"

  The cop turns his head slightly toward us and lets out a brief gurgling sound.

  "So what do we do?" I ask. "What's wrong with him?"

  Joe stares at the cop for a moment. "Go back to the truck," he says eventually.

  "Why?"

  "Because I say so." He turns to me, and I can see that his mood has changed. That's one of the tricky things about Joe: he can be happy and cheerful one moment, and pissed as all hell the next. Sometimes it's kind of scary to see how he can change on a dime like this. It's impossible to predict how he'll react to anything, but one thing's for sure: this cop has tapped right into the anger at the heart of Joe's black soul.

  Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my mobile phone and try calling for help. After a moment, I realize that there's no signal.

  "Go to the truck," Joe says darkly.

  "What are you gonna do?" I ask.

  "I'm gonna do the right thing," he replies. "The guy's in agony. We can't leave him here to suffer, even if he's a stinking cop. I just don't want you to see what I do. Not up close."

  "You mean -" Looking down at the cop, I realize what's about to happen. My first reaction is that this is wrong, that there's no way Joe can do something like this. Then again, maybe Joe's right and this is the best thing. Hell, for all I know, the cop might want to die; he seems to be in a real bad way, and it's hard to believe that he'd even survive the drive to hospital. If I was in such a bad state, I figure maybe I'd want it all to be over. There's no point living if you're in constant pain. I learned that from my grandfather, after he spent the best part of two years dying of cancer and begging the doctors to kill him. Still, I don't much feel as if it's Joe's place to decide that this is the right thing to do.

  "What are you waiting for?" Joe asks, staring at me darkly. "This ain't no spectator sport. Go to the truck so I can do the humane thing and put this cock-sucker out of his misery."

  "Are you sure we shouldn't -" I start to say.

  "Go to the truck," he says firmly.

  "Okay," I say, taking a step back.

  "I always knew I'd end up killing one of these sons of bitches one day," Joe says, rolling his sleeves up in preparation. "I just never pictured it being a mercy killing." He crouches down next to the car and reaches inside, carefully slipping the cop's gun from his holster. Although the cop looks down and watches his gun being removed, he seems powerless to do anything to stop his weapon being taken. I guess he knows what's coming; I just hope he can find some peace with the Lord before he dies.

  Sighing, I turn and head back to the truck. Once I'm sitting in the passenger seat, I reach out and tilt the rear-view mirror until I can see Joe standing by the side of the police car. I watch as he wipes the gun on his shirt, and then slips it into his pocket. There's a pause, as he seems to just stand and stare at the cop, and then finally he puts his hands on top of the car, turns his body slightly and kicks the cop as hard as he can. Shocked, I stare for a moment as he kicks again and again, and finally I have to turn away and close my eyes. I hear a crunching sound in the distance, followed by silence. This is a side of Joe I don't want to see. Eventually, I hear footsteps coming closer, and I open my eyes in time to see Joe getting back into the truck.

  "Job done," he says with a grin on his face.

  "I thought you were gonna shoot him," I reply.

  "And waste a good bullet? Fuck, no." He laughs as he starts the engine and gets us underway. "What's wrong, Thomas? You don't hate cops enough to think that was kinda funny?"

  I stare at him. All my life, I've looked up to Joe and seen him as a kind of hero, but right now there's a part of me that wants to punch that smile right off his face. He looks so self-satisfied, as if he's just done something worthwhile and noble, when what he just made that guy suffer a painful death. A bullet to the head would have been so much more humane, and at least he could show some degree of compassion. As it is, it seems like Joe finds the whole thing kind of amusing, which makes me wonder whether my brother is in fact some kind of monster. When we set out today, I looked up to him; now he makes me feel sick.

  "Don't look at me like that," he says after a moment.

  Feeling physically ill, I turn to look out the window. I can't help thinking about that cop, and what it must have been like for him. He was dying, and one of the last things he experienced in his life was Joe kicking his head to pieces. Closing my eyes, I pray that at least maybe he was so far gone, he didn't know what was happening to him. I figure there's no way God would let the man suffer like that, so his death was probably quick and painless. Still, none of that changes what Joe did: I've always seen my brother as some kind of cool rebel outsider, but now I see that he not like that at all. He's a violent asshole who doesn't give a damn about other people. Looking down, I see that my hands are shaking.

  Chapter Three

  Manhattan

  "Are they back yet?"

  "No."

  "Did you hurt your finger?"

  "No."

  "There's a bandage on it."

  "No."

  "Yes, there is."

  "That's not my finger. That's my thumb." Turning to Henry, I'm briefly filled with uncontrollable loathing. All he's done, all day, is sit around and watch TV, and then sit around complaining after the power went. Everything's my fault: when the internet's slow, it's my fault; when the laptop overheats, it's my fault; when the power goes, it's my fault. I don't want to be one of those whinging, constantly complaining martyrs who feels put-upon all the time, but right now I feel as if I've had the entire burden of our family dumped onto my shoulders. I can certainly think of things I'd rather be doing instead of babysitting my younger brother for the thousandth time.

  "What are you looking for?" he asks.

  "Candles," I say, crouching to open another cabinet door.

  "What for?"

  "Gee," I say, "I don't know. Why do you think I want candles in a gloomy apartment, Einstein?" To be honest, I don't think I've ever seen a candle in this entire apartment, but I figure everyone has to have a few floating about, don't they? Even if they're just old, discarded gifts, they'll do for now. After all, my mother seems to keep huge stockpiles of just about every other household item you could imagine: we have boxes of rubber gloves, and whole cartons of cupcake holders, and pile upon pile of plastic party plates with matching plastic cutlery. Just one fucking candle doesn't seem like too much to hope for. So far, though, it's looking like there's nothing. We live in a high-tech, high-cost luxury apartment in the heart of Manhattan but, when push comes to shove, we don't ha
ve a candle. At least cavemen could light a fire.

  "When's Mom getting back?" he asks.

  "I don't know!" I reply, raising my voice. "I don't know, I don't know, I don't know! I'm not a fucking mind-reader! I'm not omnipotent!" Sighing, I stand up and march past him, heading to the window. Looking down at the street, I see a bunch of cars parked in the street, but none of them are moving. It's as if all the drivers have just abandoned their vehicles and decided to walk home instead, although I don't see any pedestrians on the sidewalks at all. Frankly, it's almost like the city is deserted. I keep expecting the lights to flicker back on at any moment.

  "Maybe it's the apocalypse," Henry says.

  I turn to find that he's come to join me at the window, staring out at the subdued cityscape.

  "Don't be stupid," I say firmly.

  "I mean it," he says. "If it's the end of the world, they'd probably turn off the power. I mean, why else would it have been off for so long? This is what they'd do in an emergency, to stop people from panicking. They've got experts who know what they're doing, so if they were operating normally, they'd have fixed it by now. Therefore, something's wrong." He pauses. "Maybe someone's blown it up."

  "Blown what up?" I ask.

  "I dunno. The place where they control everything from."

  "You sound just like Mom sometimes," I mutter. "No-one's blown anything up."

  "How do you know?" he continues. "The TV's off. The internet's not working. We haven't got a radio. So how do you know the apocalypse isn't happening right now? Or maybe aliens have landed. It's not like there'd be any way to find out." He pauses. "If the end of the world was happening, this is how it'd be. You wouldn't have all the details. Everything'd suddenly stop and no-one would know until it was too late. There'd be, like, nuclear explosions and zombies eventually, but it's not like anyone would go around making sure people know exactly what's happening. There wouldn't be, like, newsletters and stuff."

  I take a deep breath. Right now, Henry is being particularly annoying. I mean, he's always kind of irritating, but right now he's excelling himself. It's pretty typical of his fucked-up generation to assume that a brief power-cut is a harbinger of total apocalyptic catastrophe. It's like someone's cut the metaphorical umbilical cord that connects him to the grid, and now he's floundering around in sheer panic. I swear to God, if Henry's not staring at a screen, he gets withdrawal symptoms.