The Best Dark Rain: A Post-Apocalyptic Struggle for Life and Love

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Author's Note

  Dedication

  Liz

  Pat

  Rachel

  The Hunter

  The Fort

  Prey and Predator

  Encounters

  Bukowski

  The Boat

  Steampunks

  Conversations

  Island

  Revelations

  Keep Reading

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Clouds Before Rain

  A Prequel to The Best Dark Rain

  A Novella by:

  Marco Etheridge

  CLOUDS BEFORE RAIN: A Sequel to The Best dark Rain

  ISBN:

  Copyright © 2018 by Marco Etheridge, All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from this book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at: Squeakyeye@icloud.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or were used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  First Edition: November 2018

  Cover Design by the author using Canva.

  Cover Photo by the author.

  This book was written and formatted in Scrivener.

  www.MarcoEtheridgeFiction.com

  Author’s Note:

  Hello and welcome to my novel, Clouds Before Rain, the prequel to The Best Dark Rain. This novel came about as a result of pestering by my Dark-Army of beta-readers. “We want to know this, we want to know that, etc, etc.” My attention was required. They were right squeaky bastards, that is certain. Then came the reviewers: “I’d like to see more of these characters…” Okay, okay, so I’ll write a sequel novella.

  Several drafts, rewrites, and rounds of editing later, the little monster is alive and well. For the most part, I had a great deal of fun writing it. I hope you enjoy it. The characters from The Best Dark Rain had to make some weirdly dark choices when the world suddenly came to a screeching halt. What would I do? What would you do? Sometimes the world gets very dark, but hopefully it is also darkly funny, or else what’s the point?

  Happy reading! Thanks for stopping by my small corner of the literary world.

  Marco Etheridge

  November, 2018

  Vienna, Austria

  In memory of my Dad, whom I miss very much.

  Chapter 1

  Liz

  She stood five storeys above the chaos in the street, staring down at the madness through a wall of glass. The heavy windows dulled the sound of blaring horns, the shouts of frantic drivers. Men pushing a stalled car, running back to their vehicles. Traffic lurching forward, stopped again. Close to her ear, over the dimmed noise of blaring horns, an electronic voice repeated itself.

  "All circuits are busy. Please try your call again later. All circuits are busy. Please try your call again later."

  Elizabeth glared at the cellphone. The sharp crack of gunshots whipped her attention back to the window. Echoes followed, rolling up the canyon of Western Ave: Boom, Boom-Boom-Boom. Then a final report, like the tolling of a bell. She pressed her cheek against the cool surface of the glass, trying to see further up the street. A gap opened in the frantic one-way traffic below her. Cars sped forward, suddenly, horns wailing, as if pleading to escape. The echoes of the gunshots faded. From the direction of downtown, the pulsing tide of traffic ceased, as if it had been dammed. The street beneath her feet was empty. She shivered as she stepped away from the window, falling into a chair at her desk.

  Impossible, this was all impossible. Stark images flicked across her widescreen computer monitor. Cities burning, shaky video of empty streets, aerial footage of snarled freeways. The news banners rolled across the screen: Los Angeles was gone, San Francisco was gone, rioting in Portland, massive casualties blocking evacuations. Fear broke the composure of the Talking Heads. With frightened voices they contradicted each other: Stay in your homes. Evacuate in an orderly manner. Cooperate with authorities. Emergency response teams will be coming on line. The last desperate social media posts told a different story, a story without help or hope. Photos of empty city streets littered with corpses. People pleading for aide, or sending final messages to their loved ones: Goodbye, I love you. Then silence.

  For all of their scrolling banners, their headlines, and their experts, the news anchors had no explanation. It was terrorism. But if this was terrorism, the terrorists were striking everywhere: the Mideast, Asia, Russia. The wave of death seemed to be rolling across the globe. Then another banner, another expert: It was a new plague. Or it was the old plague. Television ministers wailed over the airwaves, impotent. God was angry, or the gods were angry. Behind the banners, the images were horrific: Chicago on fire once again, St. Louis dying.

  A guttural wail broke from her throat, animal and raw. Her hand clawed for something, came up with a triangular bronze nameplate: Elizabeth Walker. She shrieked as she threw it, watching it fly end-over-end above the empty work stations. Glass crashed on the far wall; a framed poster fell to the floor. There was no one there to notice. Papers were scattered between the desks; fallen leaves on a forest floor of carpeting. An office chair lay on its side, wheels dangling in the air. The front door of the office stood half-open, an empty hallway beyond.

  Elizabeth’s ragged breathing tore through the silence. She clenched her hand, feeling the forgotten cellphone. Her thumb went to the speed dial, trying again.

  "All circuits are busy. Please try your call again later."

  The hand fell unseen to her lap, her eyes staring at the half-opened door. Where the hell was Pat? He should be here by now. Then fear rolled over her, fear and shame. She snapped upright, alert and angry. Get a grip, Liz! Pat’s out there, out in that shit storm, and he’s trying to get here. That was his last message: Stay there. Stay safe. I’m on my way. I love you. She pushed back against the fear. He’s out there, he is, he’s trying. He’s not dead, not Pat.

  There were no more messages, no calls, no emails; not from Pat, not from her Mom, not from her Sister. Elizabeth Walker felt the tendrils of fear clawing up her spine. She struggled to control her breathing, pushing out a long breath, taking a slow breath in. Shake it off, deal with it, that’s what her golf coach used to say. Fear breeds panic and panic feeds fear, remember? You may be alone, but you are not helpless.

  You are going to wait here. That is the plan. Pat said to wait, so you’re going to wait. And you are going to be ready. What does being ready look like? Being ready looks a lot like not being a victim.

  She pushed out of her chair, rising from the desk. Leaving the grisly images behind, she stalked toward a glass-walled corner office. The glass panels threw back her reflection. An athletic figure, tomboy pretty and quick. Her hair was cut in a brunette Betty Page. Dark bangs swung above smoldering sea-grey eyes. The reflection disappeared as she swung open the pretentious wooden door.

  The interior of the office was empty. Her asshole boss was not leering at her from behind the desk, the groping bastard. All her co-workers had fled into the panic, but the boss hadn’t bothered to show up at all. He was probably long gone, driving off
into the sunset in his precious Mercedes.

  Elizabeth reached into a side drawer of the oversized desk, knowing exactly what she would find. The sleazy prick had always kept his phallic symbol handy. Her hand lifted out a heavy leather pouch, the weight of it pulling against her outstretched arm. Finally, that sorry excuse for a man left me something I can use. She gave his special ergonomic chair a vicious kick, upending it to the floor.

  Back at her desk, Elizabeth unzipped the pouch. The pistol glowed a dull silver, heavy and sinister. Beside it were two clips of bullets. Yeah, okay, a pistol and some bullets, that’s a good start. But how do you work this thing? Maybe Pat would know. Right, like your pacifist boyfriend is going to know anything about pistols. C’mon, Girl, you’ve got to figure this out on your own. She reached across the desk, her hand finding the computer mouse. Pages were displayed across the monitor: Evangelists blaming gays for the coming of the biblical plague, huge smoke clouds rising from buildings, immense traffic jams on interstate highways. She clicked them all away, fingers reaching for the keyboard. Liz typed ‘how to load a pistol’ and hit enter. The page was slow to load.

  Ten minutes seemed like an eternity, but in that time Liz managed to find out what kind of pistol lay in front of her. She learned that there was some sort of trigger safety, and how to get the clip thing in and out. Pointing the pistol at the glass office, she contemplated blasting a hole through its door. Like it would make any difference. She placed the pistol back on the desk. Besides, why waste a bullet? I know a better way. I always hated his stupid glass palace.

  Liz walked across the empty floor of the office, papers crunching under the soles of her shoes. Passing the reception desk, she turned into the staff room. A long formica table was strewn with the debris of half-eaten bagels and spilled coffee. Ignoring the mess, she stepped to her storage cubby. Pushing aside a long coat revealed a brightly colored golf bag. Her hand closed over her favorite driver, a number three wood. She lifted it clear of the bag, stripped the protective cover from the head of the driver. Her hands closed on the grip, the club becoming an extension of her arms.

  The golf club floated at her side as she marched across the office. The driver rose from the carpet as she stepped into her swing, smashing the glass wall into a huge spider web of cracks. She moved to the next section of glass. There was another explosion of cracks, and another, until every panel of glass was a crazed spiderweb of circular destruction. Liz breathed in a huge lungful of air, then forced it out. You see? You were right, no need to waste a bullet.

  The sound of a phone buzzed at the reception desk, cutting through the stillness of the office. Liz dove towards the nearest desk, stabbing a finger at the phone’s single blinking button.

  Chapter 2

  Pat

  The snarl of traffic lurched forward in fits and starts, creeping down Denny Way. Pat tried to focus on the chaos in front of him while fishing a cellphone out of his jacket pocket. Ahead of his pickup, a big land-yacht in the next lane was weaving like a drunken sailor. As if there was anywhere to go. Pat honked his horn. The old Buick swung back between the lines. C’mon old fella, we’re all trying to do the same thing here, let’s try to keep it together.

  Every poor bastard in the city was trying to get out of the city, back seats and trunks crammed with whatever could not be left behind. The bed of Pat O’Shea’s truck was packed, carefully and thoroughly, with the essentials of survival. Food, clothing, camping gear, cooking gear; he knew exactly what they would need, right down to coffee and cigars. He would need cigars, anyway. And Elizabeth would most definitely need coffee, which was going to get hard to come by. After the last news reports, Pat knew that he and Liz would be on their own. There would not be any help coming from the outside. The outside world was dying.

  The old guy swerved again, causing a chorus of horn honking. Pat yelled in frustration, trapped in the cab of his truck. Shaking his head, Pat fought for control. For fucksake, Grandpa, try to keep it between the lines, okay? I’ve got ten blocks to go, ten lousy blocks. Then I’ll be gone and you can swerve wherever you want. Hell, drive on the sidewalk if you want to, but right now, keep it straight, okay?

  It was a simple plan: make it to Western Avenue, pick up Elizabeth, get out of Seattle and away from this wave of death. But the getting out of the city part, that was everybody’s plan. The streets were already snarled, far worse than the normal horror show of Seattle traffic. Once I get Liz, it might take the rest of the day to get to I-5 or the 99. And then what? Then what gets dealt with then. You just stick to the plan; one thing at a time. Get to Western, pick up Elizabeth. Step one, then step two. Pat let out a long breath. Liz was the planner. She could think long-term, way into the future. Pat could fix stuff, plan immediate actions, but he knew he wasn’t a long-term guy. So okay, we stick to the simple plan that we have, right Bucko? You told Liz to stay put and stay safe, that you were on your way.

  Pat held up the cellphone, hitting the speed dial button while keeping an eye on Grandpa Buick. The phone went straight to the automated message.

  "All circuits are busy. Please try your call again later."

  He let go a string of obscenities, dropping the cellphone to the bench seat. Pat looked up in time to see Grandpa swerve hard to the right. Slamming the brakes of his truck, he watched the hulking piece of Detroit iron perform a slow-motion wreck, hitting a parked car at a walking pace. The old man was face down across the steering wheel. The Buick’s engine was still running. The bulk of the Buick blocked his path completely. Pat tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

  Horns honked. Doors opened, drivers stepped onto the pavement. Pat saw them in his rearview mirror, shouting and angry. He sensed the panic in the shouts. Human beings always confused Pat. He wanted no part of this, but he was blocked in. Two men hurried past his truck, shouting at the old man, their arms waving. The first man reached the open window of the Buick, then backpedaled away, bumping into the second man. A third man joined in, arguing, pointing, the first man shaking his head, backing away. Then Pat saw a pistol come out of a pocket, a pistol gripped in a shaking hand.

  He slammed the truck into reverse and hit the gas, careening backwards into the car behind. There was a dull crunch, smoke billowed from the rear tires as the truck forced a gap, pushing backwards. Pat cut the wheel hard right, shifted gears, and then the truck was leaping over the curb. He saw the astonished faces of the men swim past as his truck spun out of a rolling skid, narrowly missing the rear end of the Buick. Then his truck was on the sidewalk, speeding past the space-age arches of the Pacific Science Center.

  What the hell was happening? You know what’s happening. People are scared, they’re freaking out. When human beings get scared, that’s when they do crazy shit like waving guns around. This is going to get worse, a lot worse. You need to get out of this right now.

  He reached the end of the sidewalk, bounced off the curb, and swung the truck right onto a narrow side street. There was a clear path running north into the grounds of the Seattle Center. Okay, now what? Second Avenue, dead-end in two blocks, what are you going to do? He braked the speeding truck, cutting left onto Thomas Street. Another clear path, two blocks closer to Liz. Just keep going, Man, keep going. But it was useless. At the end of the street, three cars were smashed together. They had been abandoned in a tangle of dented sheet metal and scattered plastic. Now you’re trapped; dead cars in front, gridlock behind, no where to go but across the Center grounds and that’s the wrong way. Then he saw the garage door standing open.

  The building was long and low, a single storey of ivy-covered brick. A sign over the open door read Seattle Parks Department. Through the open rollup door he could see an interior courtyard, open to the sky. Pat O’Shea made a snap decision. He turned the truck off of the street and into the courtyard. Small tractors and motorized carts were parked against one wall. Another wall was lined with tools and equipment. The grey November clouds pressed down above the open space. Pat wheeled the truck ar
ound on the pavement, forward and back, until the nose of the truck was facing the open door. He left the engine running and stepped from the truck.

  “Hello? Hello? Anyone here?”

  There was a heavy steel door leading from the courtyard to the interior of the building. It was standing open. Pat stuck his head through the doorway, repeating the call. There was no answer. He stepped into the dim interior of the building.

  Late-morning light filtered in through high windows set into thick brick walls. He stood just inside the doorway, shouted again. There was no answer, no sense of anyone in the building. Moving quickly, he searched the place. A big workshop room, a front room, steel door to the street. Off the entry area there was a large kitchen room, some sort of staff area. Behind that, at the front corner of the building, was a windowless storage room. Yeah, this might work, as long as someone remembered to leave the keys.

  Pat found what he was looking for inside the doorway to the courtyard. There was a painted box attached to the wall, right where it should be. Inside the box were rows of keys hanging on hooks. Above the hooks were handwritten labels, faded with age. God Bless the working man. He ran his eyes over the labels, selecting keys as he did. Shop Door, Front Door, Rolling Masters. Keys in hand, he walked into the courtyard. He ran the new plan through his mind, ticking off the steps.

  The rolling door rattled closed. Pat tested a key in a heavy padlock. The big lock clicked open in his hand. Satisfied, he slipped the lock into a thick steel bracket on the door and snapped it home. He repeated the steps for the lock on the opposite side of the wide door. Okay, so far so good. Then he turned to the truck, still idling where it was parked. He pulled the cellphone from the bench seat, pocketed it, then shut off the ignition. Pat locked both truck doors, checked them, then recrossed the courtyard.