The Doomsday Sheriff: The Novella Collection (Includes Books 1 - 3) Page 8

  Andrew frowned at him. “Huh?”

  “Alcohol. I told you to give her booze; it’s the antidote.”

  “Sorry, man. I didn’t hear you say anything like that. You were all fucked up and mumbling to yourself. You kept saying ‘mother.’”

  “Fuck!”

  Andrew helped Max up and guided him to the office. Max swung the door open, revealing a desk and chair, a filing cabinet, scattered paperwork, and an office putting green…

  But no Piper.

  “Shit!” said Max when he saw the open window that sat high on the back wall and led to street level.

  He rushed to the window and climbed up on the filing cabinet. An alley came into view, but not much else. “Piper!” he yelled.

  “Sorry, man, I thought she was dead, to tell you the truth.”

  Max closed the window, locked it, and gingerly stepped down. He rested against the back of the chair, head down and trying to think.

  “You said we call them screamers. There are other survivors?”

  “Yeah,” said Max. “Everyone who was drunk last night likely survived.”

  Andrew looked beyond confused as he rubbed his neck and tried to wrap his mind around what Max was saying. “Is this one of you and Piper’s practical jokes?”

  “I wish it was.”

  Andrew whipped him up a quick omelet as he explained everything that had happened that morning. Max hadn’t had anything to eat, and he needed to sober up and figure out how to find Piper.

  “So, we’ve been invaded by space worms that you think came from a big mother worm who’s riding in a meteor?” said Andrew as he plated the omelet and added buttered toast.

  Max dug in, fighting the turning sensation in his stomach when he thought of the worms dead beneath his flesh.

  “Yeah, something like that. When I got bit I saw it all clearly, but now it’s foggier than a dream.”

  Andrew seemed doubtful and still regarded Max suspiciously. “I don’t know, Max. Sounds like a practical joke to me.”

  “You mowed down a dozen screamers outside your damn door. What more proof do you need?”

  “They aren’t there anymore,” said Andrew.

  “They’re not?”

  The bar owner shook his head.

  “Well I guess that makes sense. They resurrect unless you cut off their head or blow it off.”

  “Or…” said Andrew. “You and Piper are playing tricks like always. Maybe you loaded my gun with blanks.”

  “Trust me,” said Max, “I thought maybe it was Piper playing a prank on me, but it’s real man, I swear to God.”

  “And everyone is holed up at the radio station?”

  “Yeah,” said Max, swallowing the last bite of eggs and grabbing a piece of toast for the ride. “Come on, I need to get back there and talk to my deputy.”

  “Why not just stay here?” said Andrew. “I’ve got enough booze and food to last—”

  “Thanks for reminding me,” said Max. “You still got those Super Soakers you used to spray the girls with during the wet t-shirt contest?”

  “Dude, that was like ten years ago. Nobody has fun like that anymore.”

  “You got ‘em or not?”

  “I think so. Probably in storage.”

  “Good. Go grab ‘em, will ya?”

  “Sure, but why?”

  “To spray liquor down the throats of screamers, why else?” said Max.

  Andrew let out an I-can’t-believe-this-shit-is-real sigh and, shaking his head, turned for the storage closet.

  Meanwhile, Max grabbed bottles of the strongest stuff at the bar and stashed them in boxes. When Andrew came back successful from the hunt, they loaded up four Supper Soakers with vodka, whisky, gin, and tequila. Andrew had grabbed some balloons as well, thinking they would be good to fill with beer. Max didn’t see the practicality in that approach, but he didn’t want to dampen Andrew’s spirits; he was just trying to help after all, and Max could use all the help he could get. It was good to have someone else there, someone he had to keep it together around. Alone, Max might have fallen apart with worry over Piper.

  They strapped on their soakers, filled a hockey bag with beer balloons, and headed for the door. Max led the way out of the bar and up the stairs, Andrew following close behind with his AK47 at the ready. Is was common for people in the North Country to have guns; there were a lot of hunters up here. Though it was less common for people to have machine guns, there were a lot of collectors with illegal arms. The stairs were clear, and the sidewalk and road proved to be as well. Max and Andrew hurried to the Bronco.

  The town was deathly quiet as a faint wind blew the snow piled on the road and sidewalk into drifts. It was amazing how fast the snow took over without the diligence of the snowplow drivers. Max turned the key and gave it gas, but the Bronco didn’t want to start. He gave it a second before trying again. The engine groaned, chugging sluggishly, but then it finally fired. Max put it into gear and hurried out of town. He glanced over at Mirror Lake and found a few bloody bodies staining the ice, but the hockey players had disbursed long ago. Max assumed the bodies belonged to the screamers who had lost their heads.

  The sun began to set as they approached the radio station. He noticed first the tire tracks in the snow that had turned off the driveway and headed down the road in the direction Max had been going. He thought about following them, when Max noticed the smoke billowing into the air. As they pulled up the driveway, Max’s worst fears were confirmed.

  The radio station was engulfed in flames.

  Chapter 16

  R.I.P WHOR 92.7

  WHOR, the base camp of the wild and controversial radio host with exactly thirteen followers, was a raging pyre by the time Max and Andrew laid eyes on it. Max could feel the heat from fifty feet away and elected to park a safe distance away. He didn’t know what kind of artillery Alan had stashed in the place, but it was a shame that it was now all gone. That and the storable food would have come in handy. Max reminded himself that not only was his wife possessed by a space worm, but the world as humans once knew it was no more.

  There were going to be rough times ahead, and from what Max could guess, cancer wasn’t all that bad of a fate compared to what most of humanity had already faced.

  “Sheriff?”

  “What?” Max snapped his head in Andrew’s direction, realizing that he had been zoning out. “Sorry, stay with the truck. I’m going to check things out.”

  Andrew nodded and got out to stand guard. Max tried to block the flames from his vision and get a look around, but it was so hot and so bright that he was blinded. He turned away from it and studied the footprints that ran across the driveway. The cars and trucks were all gone, except the rusted-out shit boxes Alan kept around. The tracks told Max that a lot of people had made it to the vehicles, hopefully all of them. If something went south, Stefan would have led them to safety, but where? Why hadn’t the caravan headed for town?

  Maybe because that was the most dangerous place to be.

  Stephan might have taken them to the station on the other side of the lake—that was a safe bet. But then again, Stefan knew about alcohol being the antidote, so perhaps they had gone to a bar or liquor store like Max had.

  Finding nothing more of use, Max got back in the Bronco, and he and Andrew headed out. The others wouldn’t be hard to find with the snow on the road.

  “Sorry about Piper,” said Andrew. He felt bad about what had happened, Max could tell. And although Max would have liked to take his frustrations out on someone or something, Andrew was too nice a guy to get mad at.

  “Wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know what I was saying.”

  Andrew bit the corner of his lip nervously, looking ridiculous. “Problem is, Sheriff, I did hear you. I was just…I was too afraid to approach her.”

  Max slammed on the brakes.

  “You what? You heard what I said? What the fuck, man?”

  “I’m sorry, Sheriff, I really am. But Jesus jumped
up Christ, she’s a zombie!”

  “Dammit, Andrew, I told you how to cure her. All you had to do was—”

  “I’m sorry! Alright? Shit!” Andrew unscrewed his flask with shaking hands and tossed it back. “It’s just…when I mowed down those zombies—”

  “Screamers.”

  “Whatever. When I killed them, I had this memory of Afghanistan. And it…it…”

  “I know, Andrew. Shit, man, I’m sorry I yelled at you. This is a lot for all of us to take in.”

  “I never failed in something like that, not in the field, Sheriff. Sorry I let you down.”

  “This isn’t the field, Andrew, this is home.”

  “It sure looks like a war zone to me,” said Andrew, watching the fire above the tree in the rearview.

  “Yeah, I guess it does.” Max put the truck in gear. “Whelp, a war needs warriors. Let’s go get these space worms drunk and show ‘em you don’t fuck with humans on their home planet.”

  Andrew wiped at his eyes, sniffling and smiling at Max. “Alright, Sheriff. I’m with you.”

  Max pulled right off Alan’s road and followed the tracks left by the caravan. He saw human boot prints in the snow, telling him that dozens of screamers had chased them from the radio station and down the road. The tracks began to meander off the road here and there. It looked like the screamers had gotten bored and decided to seek out something a little less hard to catch up with, or else they had been drawn to a survivor somewhere else in town, perhaps in one of the houses along the road. There were no lights on in any of the houses, but that didn’t necessarily mean that no one was alive inside. If they were smart, they would be laying low.

  Max wondered again how many people in town might have been drunk last night. It seemed like most of the survivors were hockey players who had been partying the night before and had stayed in the hotels. But there had to be dozens of locals drinking at home. He studied the windows of the houses as he passed, wondering if any old boozers were peeking out, thinking that the world was finally going to hell.

  He decided to put on his panic lights, hoping they would draw out survivors. Max slowed down to twenty miles an hour as well, so he wouldn’t miss anyone.

  “Keep an eye out in the side mirror. In case anyone comes running for help.”

  “You think there might be people in those houses?” said Andrew.

  “I’d say the odds are for it.”

  A woman suddenly ran out into the road, and Max hit the brakes, barely missing her. She slammed her hands on the hood, her eyes wide and mascara running.

  “Mrs. Jeffreys?” said Andrew.

  It was her, Mrs. Jeffreys, one of Max’s old English teachers. She wore a big pink ski suit and a knitted purple hat, and she carried a big leather bag packed with supplies. Max saw some of the goods fall out when she’d nearly jumped on the hood: a sleeve of Ritz crackers, a can of nuts, peanut butter, and Oreos. She rushed around to the passenger side of the Bronco. Andrew got out to open the back door for her, and she hustled inside all in a huff, out of breath and talking a mile a minute.

  “Well praise Jesus it’s you, Sheriff. I’ve been calling the station all day, and Gloria isn’t picking up. I tried to get ahold of the fire department, the state police, the school, the church, the post office, the hospital in Saranac—but no one will answer their phones. There’s something going on in town, Sheriff. Something impure, something evil. People have been creeping around the house, likely Satan worshippers. They scream, and they scream, and they scream like demons.” She stopped to fan herself. “I swear, Sheriff, the world’s coming to an end!”

  “You’re safe now, Mrs. Jeffreys,” said Max.

  “Oh, thank baby Jesus for the both of you. I’ve been so worried. Could you bring me into town? My sister is bound to be worried about me.”

  Max got going, knowing that his old English teacher could go on and on forever. But he listened to her, knowing that any information might be useful in the dark days ahead.

  She told them that her husband, Larry, had been acting strange all morning. He even tried to attack her, and that was when she pushed him into the garage and locked all the doors.

  “He gets like that sometimes, got a little bit of the devil in him, I think.”

  “Where did your husband go?” Max asked.

  “I don’t know, Sheriff. He wasn’t himself. He drinks sometimes, you know?” She made the sign of the cross and her eyes watered. “He’s always had a problem with the devil’s drink, bless him.”

  Max was ninety-nine percent sure that the survivors were comprised of those who had had alcohol in their system, but he didn’t push Mrs. Jeffreys for an admission. She had been through enough already.

  “Where are you going? My sister lives in town, not on the other side of the lake,” she said.

  “I’ve gotta check on some friends,” said Max.

  Dusk claimed the world, marking the end of the first day of the apocalypse. Max watched the sun set behind the mountains, wondering what the night would bring.

  Chapter 17

  The Enemy of my Enemy

  Max followed the tracks to the Lake Placid Club Boat House, one of the many restaurants in the surrounding area. He found the vehicles parked in the cul-de-sac and helped Mrs. Jeffreys out of the car. A young meathead in full hockey garb, sans skates, met him in the driveway. He walked right up to the sheriff and almost bumped chests, staring through a goalie mask.

  “I get the metaphor,” said Max. “But we’re obviously not screamers, so get the hell out of the way.”

  The goalie pulled off his mask. He was twenty-something, all red hair and rosy cheeks. “You the dude who was out on the ice earlier today?”

  Max hooked a thumb back at the battered Bronco. “What gave it away?”

  Mrs. Jeffreys, pulling along Andrew, blew by the goalie and marched straight for the door. “Oh, thank the Lord!” she proclaimed as she entered.

  “I hope I didn’t cause you all too much trouble…” Max waited for his name.

  The goalie stuck out a hand. “John. Sorry for the stare down, you can’t be too careful, you know?”

  “I sure do. You seen my deputy around? He would have come in with the others.” Max pointed at the newly parked cars.

  “Yeah, got here about fifteen minutes ago. Come on, I think he’s still at the bar. It’s mostly full of fucking out-of-towners, but they’re a good lot.”

  “You’re a local?”

  He nodded. “My dad’s Ryan O’Connor.”

  “Ah, I went to school with your mother then. Your father graduated from Malone, right?”

  “Yeah, but neither of them made it through the night. Found them with my brother and sister…had to…I just left and came here.”

  “Are they still alive?” Max asked.

  John shrugged. “If being a screamer counts as alive, then yeah, I guess.”

  Max nodded, slapping John’s shoulder and heading for the front door. “There might still be hope, my friend.”

  He found Stefan at the bar, pouring a huge round of breakfast shots. The deputy looked up from the whiskey bottle and raised it in salute when he saw Max approaching. “There he is, the Doomsday Sheriff!”

  The crowd of mostly women cheered. Max had to push his way through them to get to Stefan. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Getting everyone drunk. It’s the only way to stay human, don’t ya know? Where’s Alan Jones? I’d like to see that nutjob drunk.”

  “The station burned to the ground,” said Max. “What happened?”

  “We got swamped by the bastards. You lured them away, but the fire that you started got out of control, smoked us out, and drew more screamers.”

  “Shit, man. I’m sorry.”

  “No worries, Sheriff.” Stefan offered him a shot, followed by the orange juice chaser. Together they tossed back the drinks. It tasted just like a pancake with maple syrup.

  “Listen, Stefan, we’ve got to conserve the booze. We need it to
turn the citizens back to normal.”

  “Can’t we still get infected if we’re sober?” Stefan asked.

  “Good point,” said Max, and he tossed back another.

  “You find Piper?” Stefan asked, leading Max away from the celebrators.

  “Yeah, but she got away again. I fucked up. Alan got infected, it was a disaster.”

  “We’ll find her,” said Stefan. “When do we set out?”

  “I’d like to get my bearings, figure out what kind of defenses this crew’s got going. Where are all the men?”

  “Standing guard. They’ve got a pretty tight operation going here from what I’ve seen. Ned Dersley is running the show.”

  “Ned? Well I’ll be damned. Where is he?”

  “He was here a minute ago. Probably downstairs preparing the shoreline. Come on.”

  They left the half-drunk women and walked out to the deck, which brought them down a flight of stairs to the shore. Ned was there with a group of men gathered around, and he sounded like he had grand plans.

  “Hey, Ned,” Max called.

  The big man, a lumberjack by trade, glanced up and scowled at Max. “Well, look what the cat dragged in. Your deputy told me you were still kicking, and I gotta tell you I was surprised to hear it.”

  “Good to see you again too,” said Max.

  “You come here to take over shit?” Ned spit in the snow, and his cronies fanned out behind him. There were twenty men and a few women, most of them dressed in hockey gear. Their long sticks all had knives or sharpened skate blades attached to the ends of them, and most of the group carried a rifle or pistol as well.

  “You look like you’ve got things under control. But I’ve got some information that you might find interesting.”

  “Alright, out with it then.”

  “I’ve found a cure.”

  Everyone glanced at Ned and to each other, some with hope in their eyes, others with fear and regret.

  “Bullshit.”

  “It’s true. We cured a woman at the radio station by feeding her alcohol. Once we got the stuff down her throat, a worm came out of her mouth. My theory is that something not of this world is hitchhiking on one of them meteors, and it laid its eggs all over the world. Those eggs were breathed in by people, and then hatched. Once hatched, the space worms—”