Descent: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (The SpaceMan Chronicles Book 2) Read online

  “The neighborhood I was in last night,” she said. “Those people have so much stuff they were giving it away. All we had to do was ask.”

  Justin shrugged. “So?”

  She walked back to him and put her hand on his cheek. “You are super fine, Justin, but you are thick in the head sometimes.”

  A chorus of “oooohs” filled the living room. The boys weren’t grumbling anymore. Their collective attention was clearly focused on the lecture unfolding in front of them. The boys laughed until Justin shot them angry looks. They shut up.

  “They’re rich,” she said. “They’ve got food and water and that super soft toilet paper you never buy. They’re also used to having power. They’ll start leaving in another day or two. You watch a couple of houses, see when they leave, and then take whatever you want.”

  “Won’t they take everything with them?” Palero asked from the kitchen.

  “No,” she said, her voice dripping condescension. “Cars don’t work. And even if they did, they can’t take everything. They have to leave some things behind—clothes, foods that spoil, stuff like that. Trust me.”

  Justin popped the stiffness from his neck. He didn’t like that word: trust. It didn’t hold any meaning, not in his world. He had little choice, though, as far as Wanda was concerned. His plan hadn’t worked.

  He planted his tongue in the side of his mouth and nodded. “All right,” he said. “I gotcha. We’ll try it your way.”

  “Good,” she said. “Now could you please go make a bottle? I gotta feed your child.”

  Justin clenched his fists and set his jaw. He took a deep breath and glanced around the room. The boys were wide-eyed. Their jaws might as well been resting on the carpeted floor. He sensed their shock and disappointment in their leader.

  Justin swallowed hard. “You do it,” he snapped at the mother of his child. “I got work to do.” He marched out of the house, angrily swinging open the front door and stomping into the apartment complex parking lot.

  He knew he’d pay for his insolence later, but that was a better option than suffering any more humiliation. Justin scratched the crown of his head and scuffed his feet along the cracked asphalt that surrounded an aging cluster of low-end two-story apartment buildings. He flexed his hands as he walked purposefully away from his place. He ground his teeth and mumbled about the perpetual injustice that followed him through his life.

  Justin glanced to his left and saw a couple standing together outside their apartment. Their front door was open and they were leaning against the rusting wrought-iron railing that framed the second-floor balcony. The man held a cigarette between his fingers. He watched Justin and took a long drag. He held the smoke in his lungs and then exhaled through his nostrils. The woman was talking to the man, but Justin couldn’t hear what she was saying.

  “Probably nagging him,” Justin mumbled to himself. “Telling him how stupid he is.”

  Justin had lost to women twice since the sun had risen, and that wasn’t counting the women on the bikes the previous day. It was uncool. It was untenable. Too many times, he’d suffered emasculation in front of his crew. His steps quickened as he retraced his path to the house he’d unsuccessfully tried to burgle hours earlier. His bubbling rage fueling him, he accelerated into a jog.

  He reached the house and immediately worked his way around back. The door was closed. The broken window was covered with strips of silver duct tape. Justin crouched low and inched his way along the back of the house toward the master bedroom.

  Staying low, he cupped his hands around his face and pressed his nose to a screenless window. He saw the familiar bed, unmade and empty. He tried glancing underneath the bed, but couldn’t see anything from his position. His eyes shifted to the dresser opposite the bed. The drawers were still open, as he’d left them. He scanned back toward the bed and noticed the door leading into the master bathroom was nearly shut. Steam filtered from between the narrow space between the door and the jamb.

  She was in the shower!

  Justin quickly moved back to the kitchen entry. He balled his hand into a fist and punched through the tape, reached in through the opening, and unlocked the door, as he’d done earlier that morning.

  The pillowcases full of the homeowner’s belongings were pushed against a wall. The pantry door was open. He stood there for a moment, looking at the pillowcases. His eyes moved toward the bedroom and then back to the cases. He checked over his shoulder at the open kitchen door and then eyed the cases.

  He took a step when a voice in his head interrupted him. It was Wanda’s voice, scolding him for being stupid and weak. It echoed in his head.

  “You are super fine, Justin, but you are thick in the head sometimes.”

  He clenched his jaw and changed his direction, creeping through the living area and into the bedroom, where a wave of humidity hit his face. He stepped to his right and closer to the steam seeping through the opening in the bathroom door.

  Justin reached into his back waistband and drew the weapon he’d used to pistol-whip Palero. He checked its safety. It was off. Slipping his finger onto the trigger, he took a deep breath, hoping to inhale the immoral courage his next move would take. He exhaled with a puff of breath through his pursed lips, yanked open the bathroom door, and burst into the bathroom.

  The steam disoriented him at first, but the woman’s scream from inside the shower helped him find her. He swung his body, and his aim, to the right. Pulling the trigger, he fired a trio of deafening hollow-point shots into the frameless glass. The glass shattered and then exploded, the noise echoing against the travertine and marble. The woman screamed again and cried out in pain. Her bloody hand reached through the steam, shaking, seeking help from the man who would not give it to her.

  Justin, his chest heaving, pulled the trigger a fourth time and silenced the woman. He couldn’t see her, but he heard the sickening crack and thud of her body as she collapsed awkwardly in the shower.

  Still amped, he kept his shaking arm extended and his finger on the trigger as he moved toward the woman. Glass crunched under his feet as he approached, and her mangled form emerged from the haze. Keeping his eyes on her body, he turned off the running water.

  The woman was half-seated on a tile bench that ran the length of the shower. Her neck was posed at an unnatural angle. Her eyes were fixed open, her stare vacant and distant. There was soap mixing with the blood that painted her body and the wall behind her like dark red watercolor. It drained from the holes in her chest and stomach. Thick shards of glass porcupineing her torso and limbs. Justin swallowed hard and stared into the woman’s eyes. Despite her lifeless gaze, he saw fear. He saw judgment. He looked away from his victim and toward the marble vanity behind him. Perched on its edge, next to a sink, was the woman’s gun. He rose to his feet and backed away from the shower.

  He shook his weapon at the woman. “This is your fault,” he told her, his voice warbling through the thickening knot in his throat. “You did this to yourself.”

  Justin slid the gun from the vanity and wound his way back to the kitchen. His mind was swimming and his vision blurred. He reached the pantry as a wave of nausea overcame him. His stomach heaved and he retched. The pulsing in his stomach throbbed until there was nothing left but spittle dripping from his mouth.

  Justin wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. He stuffed the woman’s gun into one of the pillowcases, tucked his weapon into his waistband, tossed the sacks over his shoulders, and carried them out of the house.

  His body trembled with aftershocks as he walked to the edge of the woman’s backyard. He smacked his lips at the thickly foul, acidic taste in his mouth and he tossed the bags, one at a time, over the fence onto a grassy easement. He clambered over the cedar posts and dropped to the ground, breathless. He walked mindlessly back toward the road, the adrenaline leaving his body. He didn’t recall how he’d gotten back to his apartment when he shouldered open the door.

  His eyes adjusting to the dark, he lumb
ered into the family room. The boys were still on the sofa. Their eyes followed the stuffed pillowcases when Justin tossed them onto the floor at their feet. Wanda appeared from the dark hallway, the baby in her arms. She stopped at the entrance to the family room and unconsciously swung her hips back and forth to comfort the child.

  “Where have you been?” she snapped. “You just left and—wait, is that blood?”

  Justin checked his hands first, then his arms. He tugged at the bottom of his shirt. There was a brownish-red Rorschach splatter on his chest and stomach. It was on his pants too. He let go of the shirt and looked up at his girl. There was a deep crease between her furrowed brows. Her eyes danced between his and the stains on his clothing. She stopped swaying and more tightly cupped the back of their child’s head with her hand.

  He swallowed, sensing the eyes on him. Palero stepped from the kitchen, a beer in his hand. He motioned at Justin with the can. “What did you do?” Palero asked, sounding as if his mouth were stuffed with cotton.

  “I went and got our stuff,” said Justin.

  Palero glanced down at the floor, noticing the twin pillowcases. “You went back to that lady’s house?”

  Justin tensed and pulled back his shoulders. He lifted his chin. “Yeah, I did.”

  Wanda stepped into the family room. Even in the dim light of the apartment, Justin could see the gloss in her eyes. Her chin trembled. “Did you…?” she asked, her voice cracking.

  Justin took a step back, rubbing his palms against his head. “I killed her,” he said and cleared his throat. He pointed at the pillowcases on the floor. “She didn’t need all of this. She should have let us take it. If she had, she’d be fine.”

  Palero shook his head. “I didn’t know we were about straight-up murder, J. I mean, thugging is one thing. Killing people… I don’t know, man.”

  The others grumbled in agreement. Wanda shook her head, her face drawn with disappointment.

  Justin’s stomach lurched. His neck felt hot. The judgment was suffocating. He flexed his hands, balling one of them into a fist. He reached into his back waistband and pulled out the handgun. He aimed it at the boys on the couch, panning from one to the other.

  “Don’t judge me,” he spat and beat his chest with the fist. “I did what I had to do. You understand? I did what I had to do. And I’d do it again.”

  His eyes and aim moved to Palero, who raised his hands above his head. Then he shifted back to the sofa. He caught a glimpse of Wanda. Tears were streaming down her face.

  He lowered the gun but kept it in his hand. “Until the lights come back on,” he said, “this world is gonna be different. It’s gonna make us do things we wouldn’t normally do. We either take what’s ours or die. And I know what I aim to do, no doubt about that. You’re either with me or you can get out.”

  His eyes landed on Wanda. He took a step toward her. “You were okay with us thieving. You had no problem with that. It ain’t a big leap to what comes next. You know that.”

  She sniffed and blinked the tears from her eyes. She nodded and lowered her lips onto their child’s head.

  “I got you some nice things,” he said. “That woman ain’t gonna need them no more, so I suggest you check them out. There’s also that soft toilet paper you like.”

  Justin’s stomach was settling. The sweat was evaporating, cooling his neck and forehead. He walked to the kitchen and slapped the gun onto the counter. He stood next to Palero, who took another swig of warm beer. He watched the boys go through the bags, holding up the contents like freshly unwrapped Christmas gifts.

  He’d always heard the first one was the toughest. It was the one that weighed on one’s soul. The next would be easier. Justin could feel it. The next one wouldn’t make him puke. The next one wouldn’t haunt him with nightmares. And he knew the longer the lights stayed out, the more likely it was there would be a next one.

  CHAPTER 12

  SUNDAY, JANUARY 26, 2020, 2:08 PM CST

  CLEAR LAKE, TEXAS

  Jackie sat on the edge of Chris’s bed and wrapped her hand around his foot. He’d been in his room since the team from NASA had left. He’d stalked upstairs, shut the door, and hadn’t come out.

  “Your dad is going to be okay,” she said. “He’s tough.”

  Chris had his knees pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped around his legs, and his face was tucked under a dark blue Rice University hoodie, the drawstring pulled tight.

  She ran her thumb across the top of his bare foot. “I know you’re afraid,” she said. “I know you’re worried about him. I was worried about you when you weren’t home. You made it back. He’ll make it back too.”

  Chris lifted his head and spoke through the drawstring hole in his hoodie. “It’s not that,” he said. “You don’t get it.”

  Jackie pulled one leg onto the soft down comforter. She looked past her son at the large framed NASA poster on the wall above the bed. At the center of the poster was a large schematic of the ISS. Behind it was the orange outline of the sun. At the bottom was the traditional agency meatball logo.

  She sighed. “I think I do get it,” she told her son. “But why don’t you try me? Talk to me.”

  Chris took the crinkled edges of the drawstring hole and pulled it open. His eyes were red and puffy, the tip of his nose glistened, and his hair was mussed such that it reminded Jackie of her boy at a much younger age.

  “I’m not worried,” he said. “I mean, I am worried, but it’s more than that. I’m angry.”

  Jackie bit the inside of her cheek. She nodded.

  He shook his head. “I shouldn’t be. It’s not his fault this happened. He didn’t cut off the power. But he’s not here. I don’t know if he’ll ever be here.”

  Jackie inched toward her son and brought him close to her. She embraced him. He tensed at first, then relaxed and threw his arms around his mother’s neck. His body shuddered, his hot breath ragged against her neck.

  “It’s okay to feel the way you do,” she whispered, doing everything she could to suppress her own urge to cry. “It’s normal.”

  Chris pulled away. “Normal?” he asked, his face twisted with confusion. “I don’t get how any of this is normal.”

  Jackie offered an understanding smile. “That’s not what I meant. I meant that it’s normal to be upset with your dad for him not being here.”

  Chris wiped his nose with his sweatshirt. “It’s just that when we were camping, Kenny had his dad with him. Then when we were on our way back and we ran into trouble, his dad was there. Mine wasn’t.”

  Jackie tilted her head and scooted back on the bed. “Trouble?” she asked. “What trouble?”

  Chris looked down, as if he wished he hadn’t mentioned it. “Nothing. It was no big deal.”

  “Chris,” she said, “let’s finish talking about your dad. Then I need to know what trouble you ran into. It’s important. I need to know what it’s like out there.”

  He wiped his eyes with his hands and shook his head. “I’m fine,” he said. “And nothing happened.”

  “That’s not what I heard,” Marie said from the doorway to her brother’s room.

  Jackie snapped her attention to her daughter. “How long have you been standing there?”

  Marie shrugged. “Not long.”

  Chris’s face reddened. “You were eavesdropping. You should have knocked.”

  “I wasn’t eavesdropping,” said Marie. “I was looking for you. Rick wants to have a big meeting.”

  “He can wait,” said Jackie. She waved her daughter into the room and patted the bed in the space next to her. “What did you hear?”

  Marie eyed Chris as she answered her mom. “I heard they got attacked, like, three or four times. Somebody even tried to steal the car.”

  Jackie looked at her son, her gaze narrowing. “Is this true?”

  Chris pulled his knees back to his chest and nodded. “Yeah, kinda.”

  Jackie sighed. “Tell me what happened,” she said. “All of
it.”

  Chris rolled his eyes but obeyed his mother. He detailed the confrontation with the doomsday cult, the truckers, the fake DPS troopers, and the workers at the truck stop. With each successive example, Jackie’s jaw widened. It nearly hit the floor when Chris explained how Nikki had been the savior in most of the tight spots.

  “You know Deep Six Nikki, right?” he asked. “She’s her. She’s that Nikki, the MMA fighter.”

  Jackie’s mind was swimming. She’d had no idea how much danger her son had faced on his way home. “I don’t know who that is,” she said blankly. “But I owe her a thank you.”

  “Rick is probably waiting on you, Mom,” said Marie. “He’s got some big plan. It involves everyone.”

  “Is that how you know what happened?” Jackie asked. “Did Rick tell you?”

  Marie shook her head. “No, I overheard him talking with Kenny’s mom, trying to explain why they had to stick together. He’s going to try to convince you to go to that compound near Austin.”

  Jackie folded her arms across her chest and paced. “That’s not happening. I couldn’t have made it more clear. And now, hearing what Chris told us, I’m certainly not exposing us to that.”

  Rick appeared in the doorway and knocked on the jamb. “It’s only going to get worse,” he said. “It’s not getting better.”

  Jackie stepped to the door and blocked Rick from entering the room. “Rick, this is none of your business.”

  “Sorry, I thought—”

  “You thought it was okay to come up here and interrupt our conversation?” Jackie dropped her hands to her hips. “You thought it was appropriate to have a discussion about the horrors you faced out there in front of my daughter before you’d shared them with me? You thought you could call a meeting in my house and demand we caravan to a supposed oasis in the middle of nowhere? You thought what exactly, Rick?”

  Rick took a step back and waved his hands in front of his face. “Whoa, hold up. I’m only trying to think about what’s best for everyone here. You heard those NASA people. They’re saying the lights aren’t coming back on.”