Apocalypstick Read online

  APOCALYPSTICK

  by Gregory Carrico

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, places, and events portrayed in this book are products of my imagination or are fictional representations. Any resemblance of the characters and events in this book to actual persons or events is coincidental.

  Apocalypstick is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you are reading this book, you should have either purchased it, or received it as a gift or a loan through the gifting and lending systems of approved retailers. If you are reading this book in violation of copyright laws, do the right thing, and buy a copy.

  Copyright 2012 Greg Carrico. All rights reserved. No portion of this text may be reproduced in any fashion without written consent of the author.

  Published by Gramico

  www.gramico.com

  Version 1.040912

  Greg Carrico

  Amazon.com Best Selling Author

  Readers are saying:

  “You just can't stop reading once you start.”

  *

  “‘Finding Home’ was captivating in a twisted way that keeps you thinking long after you've finished it.”

  *

  “…the characters leave a haunting impression long after the story ends. I see more good works coming from Mr. Carrico in the future.”

  *

  “Can't get the stories out of my head.”

  *

  “I think this new author has a hit on his hands!”

  *

  “I wasn’t able to put it down from the first word. Not usually my Genre but this author has got you hooked and leaves you wanting more…”

  *

  “This is not my usual genre, but I loved both stories. The author hooks you in right away, and keeps you there. Two creepy short stories, that keep you thinking about them long after you read "The End". Extremely well written and entertaining! Brilliant start for a new author!”

  Amazon.com Best Seller, Apocalypstick, has been on several best seller lists for its categories, entirely by word of mouth and recommendations from one reader to another. Thank you for purchasing this book, and for telling someone else about it.

  For more information about this book, upcoming releases, or the author, visit http://www.gramico.com/blog, or http://www.gramico.com.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Finding Home

  Killing Tiffany Hudson

  A note to the reader

  Copyright: Gregory Carrico

  Sneak Preview: Children of the Plague

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my partner, Amy Carrico, whose wisdom and guidance are invaluable to me in every aspect of my life.

  It is also dedicated to my best friend, Amy Carrico, whose mere presence is more of a comfort than she knows.

  Finally, I would like to include my wife, Amy Carrico in this dedication. She may not have written a single word of this text, but her labor, her patience, her encouragement, and her love are the reasons it exists.

  This, and everything I do, is for you.

  Foreword

  The new age of publishing, and reader interaction

  In this new age of digital publishing, readers no longer have to rely on a handful of big publishers to tell them what they are allowed to read. The good news is that now, anyone can publish a book. The bad news is that ANYONE can publish a book. Readers are now the gatekeepers, critics, and ultimate judges of what constitutes a good book.

  I hope you will take part in this new system by leaving an honest rating and review for this, and every book you read, on the site where you purchased it. If you liked it, hated it, or somewhere in between, let other readers know. Your opinion really does count.

  Finding Home

  by Gregory Carrico

  The yawn hit me with such violent strength and speed that I had no hope of resisting it. It pried my mouth open and forced my eyelids to squeeze closed. It utterly controlled me for three, maybe four seconds, but that was plenty of time for the minivan to drift over the line onto the grooved shoulder. The whole vehicle shook and hummed like a car-sized bumble bee. The yawn died, and my pulse slammed into overdrive.

  Jerking the van back onto the pavement, I smacked myself four times in the face, hard enough to make my eyes water and my hand sting. The blue digital clock in the dash dimly said 4:58 AM, which meant I had been driving for over sixteen hours.

  With three more cans of RC Cola and a plastic bag of questionable lunch meat in the electric cooler, I should have been able to keep going for a while, yet, but my brain was starting to struggle to find its way through my mental fog. I needed to sleep.

  “You haven’t earned sleep, yet,” my other voice said. “What kind of pathetic man are you, anyway? You’re even smoking women’s cigarettes!”

  He was right. I was weak. I was practically a woman. I flipped the lid to the console ash tray open, and stuffed the Ultra-Slim Menthol down among the other butts, noticing the whore-red lipstick rings on nearly half of them. It was just another reminder of what that hateful bitch had forced me to do. Not wanting to think about that, I opened the window and dumped them out onto the highway.

  “Clever. Just throw your trash on the street, and let someone else clean up after you. Who deserves to have hard working people follow them around and pick up their trash more than you do? It must be tiring, being such a good person.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, starting to cry. I could never do anything right. My tears would only invite more scorn, but I couldn’t help it. Instead of insults, though, I heard sirens. I looked over my shoulder, past the toddler-sized car seat and the canvas bag of soccer balls, at a police cruiser, speeding up behind me.

  “Dammit!” I yelled, punching the steering wheel. “How did he find me so fast? What do I do?”

  “Pull over. Get arrested. Go to prison. You might as well get it over with. It’s where you belong, after all; with the rest of the bad people.”

  I knew my other voice was being sarcastic, but maybe he was right. “I’m so tired of always running. I don’t want to do it anymore. I just can’t…”

  I switched the right turn signal on, and pulled out of the left lane. Except for the cop, there were no other cars on the road. I briefly wondered what it would be like to be a police officer, but as I slipped into the right lane, he sped up and drove by.

  I let out a breath that I didn’t realize I had been holding, and laughed. Was it a sign? Everything happened for a reason. Maybe I really did deserve something good for once. If not, I’d be in the back of a police cruiser. This was the sign. It must be.

  Just as I started feeling a tiny bit of hope, I saw my sneering face in the rearview mirror, and my budding confidence oozed out of me into a pool of toxic sludge. I wailed with pure despair, weeping like that little boy… but I couldn’t think about that now.

  “I just want to go home,” I said, gritting my teeth against the sobs that shook my whole body. My knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “It’s not supposed to be like this.”

  My other voice was uncharacteristically comforting. “Okay, okay. We’ll go home. But not to our last one; never to that one again. We’ll have to find a new one. We’ll be ok. I’m going to help us get through this.”

  “You will? Really?” I sniffed hard to stop my nose from dripping. Why did that always happen when I cried? It must be some sort of punishment. “Can we really find a new home? I want to be a normal person. I could get a job. I don’t care what it is. I could be a teacher.” Stop thinking about that boy.

  “We’ll see. If you can behave.”

  I could. I knew I could. To prove it, I drove for three more hours without drifting off once. The sun had come up
behind us, and cast its rosy light over the whole world.

  “Look!” I said, pointing at a giant billboard. It showed an idyllic neighborhood with big trees, and beautiful homes with flower gardens, and it said, ‘If you lived at Greenwood Gardens, you’d be home in three minutes. Exit Now.’

  Now that was a sign! I knew for certain that it had been put there just for me. My other voice knew it, too.

  “There’s a Marriot at the next exit,” he said. “Pull off, and we’ll get a room.”

  At the bottom of the ramp another sign said, ‘Open House, 108 Maple Drive, Greenwood Gardens. All day Saturday and Sunday.’

  The Billboard was true to its word. In less than three minutes, I had followed the signs, and was turning onto Maple Drive. Red and blue balloons floated above the third mailbox on the right, and an ‘Open House’ sign on the lawn welcomed us. A bluish Toyota SUV on the curb was the only car there.

  “It’s just like the picture on the billboard,” I said reverently. “Except for the trees.” It was a new development with sod yards and shrubs, but too new for full grown trees. I stopped the van on the curb across the street and admired this little slice of perfection.

  A middle aged woman in a grey skirt suit opened the front door and stepped out onto the patio. She spotted the van and waved. I forced a smile and waved back.

  “I’m going in,” I said. “I want to see the house.”

  “Someone lives here, idiot. Remember what happened last time?”

  “I don’t care. This could be the one. I’m going in.” I pulled my Red Sox cap down over my oily, messy hair, and walked up to the patio.

  “Good Morning. Welcome to Greenwood Gardens. How did you find out about us?”

  I smiled. I wanted to say something glib, clever, or charming, but I searched and searched for just the right words without finding a single thing to say. So I stood there. Smiling.

  She stood there smiling back. I could tell that she was looking for the right thing to say too, and I felt a bond with her because of it. We understood each other. We didn’t need words. I nodded my understanding of her troubles, and walked around her into the house.

  “Um, so, you can see that the owners have made a bunch of real nice upgrades. Just look at the fantastic tile work in the foyer. The entire house has colonial crown and base molding. It really helps give the home a special atmosphere.”

  That was exactly what I thought. “Special,” I said, still smiling and nodding. My attention was on the coat closet, though. Behind the double folding doors with tiny nobs that didn’t turn, I found pure gold: a man’s black cashmere jacket, umbrellas, shoes, dog leashes and collars, women’s coats, a five foot level, and a broom.

  I was almost overwhelmed by its normality. If this were my home, I would hang my coat here after a long day at the office. Would I grab a leash and take Fido for a walk? Maybe I’d have a glass of wine first. Isn’t that what normal people did when they came home from work?

  “I don’t know where my manners are today,” the realtor said. My name is Kristi. Kristi Halladay.” She held out her hand.

  I hesitated half a second before taking it. I was always worried about touching people, but my other voice was quiet, so I reached out. People like a firm grip, so when she let out a little gasp, I knew I got it right.

  “That’s a strong grip you have there, Mister… Mister…”

  I smiled and nodded. “Thank you,” I said. I meant it to sound bold and strong, but my voice cracked, and it came out as a hoarse croak. I squeezed her hand, still smiling, because people like a good smile. Then my imagination ran wild.

  It wasn’t early in the morning anymore; it was the end of the day. With her soft, warm little hand engulfed in mine, I imagined that she was my wife, greeting me with that glass of wine as I came home from work.

  She blinked a few times, and gave me an odd look, like she had just remembered something she shouldn’t have forgotten.

  “I don’t know where my head is, Hon. I’ll be right back.” She kissed my cheek and lightly touched my chest as she walked by. Her fingers felt electric through my t-shirt, and I gasped.

  “What are you doing?”

  It was my other voice. “Do I have to take care of this one, too? Stop smiling so much!”

  I stopped smiling. “But what if this is it? What if this is our new home?” I whispered.

  Kristi came back with a tall glass of wine. “Is white ok? It’s all I could find.”

  I turned back to the closet and ran my hands over the sinfully soft cashmere jacket. I could practically see the handsome man of the house putting it on to go to a meeting, or maybe just the grocery store. He was tall, with thick wavy hair, like the people on TV.

  Fido’s sweaters were soft, too. I touched the pink umbrella’s handle and pictured the pretty lady of the house. She had short, stylish hair that smelled like coconuts. I saw her walking the little curly brown dog in a light summer rain. ‘Come on, Shirley,’ she says to the dog.

  So that’s its name. Shirley.

  Kristi looked at the glass of wine like it had been put in her hand by a ghost. Her smile faltered, but her voice knew what to do.

  “Shall we look at the rest of the house? I’m so embarrassed, but I didn’t catch your name.” She held out her hand again. “Kristi.”

  Not wanting a repeat of my first words to her, I cleared my throat and spoke with a loud, firm voice.

  “Thank you, Kristin.” I might have yelled it at her, but at least I didn’t croak like a sick frog.

  She smiled again, and I knew she understood. I walked out to the front patio and back to the van. I didn’t need to see any more. It was perfect.

  But my other voice was angry. As soon as I closed the van door, it started yelling.

  “What were you doing in there, you moron? How can we ever find a new home with you going around scaring people?”

  “I didn’t scare her! She understood! She knew.”

  “She didn’t know anything! You messed up again, and now I have to clean up after you… agian.”

  “No, you’re not! Leave me alone! I’m finding home.”

  The next thing I knew, I was in a hotel room with a big, comfy bed, a chair, and a small couch. There was a little table with an office chair, too, and a couple of nice pictures on the wall. The digital clock-radio said 9:45 PM. The whole day was gone.

  I saw myself in the tall mirror by the door. I looked shabby after an entire day of driving, and whatever else I might have done. I needed a shower, but I was nervous about taking my clothes off with nothing but a thin wall between me and whatever weird strangers lurked on the other side.

  It wasn’t a place I could be comfortable bathing in, but I could smell my odor. I knew that when you could smell your own stink, it had to be pretty bad. I compromised by taking off my shirt and pants, but leaving my boxers and my unmentionables on to hide my shameful areas.

  I showered quickly, but I didn’t wash my hair. I let two full minutes of hot water do the work, and then I stood in front of the air conditioner, letting it blow directly on my wet boxers to dry them. The cold was invigorating.

  It turns out the walls were pretty thin, because I heard people talking on the other side. Room service had delivered food to them, and my stomach growled loudly. It wanted room service, too, but I couldn’t order it until my clothes were dry.

  Twenty minutes later, the thumping started. It sounded like they were knocking on the wall, but then I heard the other sounds, and I knew. I was shivering, and couldn’t tell if my boxers were still wet, or just very cold. I covered my ears, and hummed Camp Town Races over and over to block it out, but it didn’t work. I had to get away.

  I dressed quickly, and found out that my undergarments were both cold and damp. It would be an uncomfortable day, but I deserved it for listening to the horrible noise next door.

  My neighbors had put their food tray out in the hall. I made sure no one was around, and hurried over to it. I could still hear their sex n
oises as I picked through their discarded meal.

  I found half of a perfectly fine BLT, completely untouched, beneath a metal lid. Absentmindedly, I picked up a fork with a few grains of rice stuck between the tines, and stroked the smooth handle with my thumb.

  Holding it, I pictured what my neighbors might have looked like while they ate. They were young; probably no older than twenty. The athletically built boy had short blond hair and a chipped tooth that marred his otherwise perfect smile.

  I picked up the other fork, holding it daintily with three fingers, just like the girl did as she took tiny bites of her rice.

  “Eat,” the boy says, shoving half of a sandwich at her.

  “I don’t want it. Who knows where the bacon has been,” she replies.

  He pushes it back towards her. “It’s been in a frying pan, dummy. Eat it!” He’s laughing.

  “Cut it out, Dillon!” she says, pulling away from him. He shrugs, and takes a bite.

  So, that’s his name. Dillon.

  I took the half sandwich back to my room along with Dillon’s fork. I knew it was wrong, but I lay down on the bed and took a bite, caressing the fork. I could still hear them, but instead of tuning them out, I pictured what they must have been doing.

  My other voice railed against me as I became a silent witness, even participant to their vile deed. I imagined the wretched girl’s look of surprise as her stupid jock boyfriend grabbed her by the throat, still working on her as he crushed her airway. I pictured her kicking and scratching at him futilely, weaker and weaker until she couldn’t struggle any more.

  The sex noises stopped.

  I imagined that the big dumb ball player stumbled into the bathroom, cried out loud with grief, and knelt in front of the bowl. It was hard to picture, because it was so contrary to what a reasonable man would do, but with an effort, I forced myself to see the young man plunge his face deep into the filthy water, and inhale. His body wracked itself with convulsions as fell back on the bathroom floor and drowned.