Armageddonville -Book Three

By Jay El Mitchell

For a while, Thomas Sullivan had it all. A career as a successful novelist, upcoming movie based on one of his books, engaged to a beautiful actress. It all seemed too good to be true, and was. Following the discovery of his fiancee's Infidelity, Sully left it all behind to take a six-week "vacation" to his grandfather's mountain cabin with only his dog Sterling for company. After completing his intoxicant-filled emotional rehab, he returns to town -and to a nightmare. Something has gone horribly wrong during his weeks as a recluse, and it is only now that he realizes that while he was trying to shut the world out, the world ended, and he missed it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jay El Mitchell
• Release date: Jun 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311434029

Jay El Mitchell

I am a carbon-based life form who has been on this planet for nearly 30 years. I live near the beach (east coast) and enjoy it, primarily after sunset. I am lactose intolerant but love ice cream. Upon my death I plan to be cremated, with half of my ashes thrown directly into Nancy Graces's unsuspecting face (I have a curse in the works) and the other half kept in an old condiment jar in the back of the pantry.

Book preview

Armageddonville: Book Three

Jay El Mitchell

Copyright by Jay El Mitchell 2014

Smashwords Edition

Note to readers: this is part three of a continuing series.

We arranged a kind of meet and greet in the parking lot of a Wal-Mart. I don’t know why that struck me as so bizarre. After all it was on the edge of the city limits, so its location was prime. Elby and I had previously discussed this scenario and so we both had a grip on our guns. This Mason could be another survivor like us, but he could also be Q-crazy, or just regular old-fashioned crazy. It was agreed that I would go first, and Elby would slide over into the driver’s seat, ready to peel out in case our possible new friend did something decidedly unfriendly, like shoot me in the head. I wasn’t very scared, but not so much because I was feeling brave; I was too excited to be afraid. We’d made contact. Contact.

Elby had a sort of hard look on her face. I hoped her imagination wasn’t as cruel as mine, and that it wasn’t tormenting her with dark what-ifs. Like, what if this Mason shot me, abducted her, and the nightmare started all over again?

You okay? I asked.

She looked at me. Sure, why?

I just don’t want you to be scared.

I’m not, she said, and it sounded truthful. I was just thinking. . . you don’t seem like a Sully.

I had to laugh. Really? What do I seem like?

Elby’s cheeks went a little pink, though she laughed at herself a bit. I don’t know. Just not a Sully.

We stopped talking because a dark blue truck on the other end of the parking lot, which we had assumed was another abandoned vehicle, began to move. It rolled our way, stopping about ten yards from us. With the glare from the sun, I couldn’t make out any details of the driver. Some of that excitement bled away, and fear took its place. The truck’s driver door opened. I put my hand on my gun, which I was wearing in a holster on my hip like I thought I was some kind of character out of True Grit. Now I was scared and felt like an asshole, great. I threw open the door.

I’ll signal you when it’s okay to come out, I told her, as if I were in charge of the situation, as if my guts weren’t twisted into knots. I hoped she didn’t hear it in my voice.

Be careful, Shakespeare, she said.

Planning on it, I assured her, and climbed out of the vehicle.

Mason wasn’t tall, but he was big. It looked like he’d spent the last two months sweating in a gym somewhere, counting on his physical strength to save him from the virus. Hell, maybe it had. He had dark chocolate skin and wore a black cowboy hat with a red feather in it, as well as a white wife-beater top and tan cargo pants. He had binoculars dangling from his neck, a gun on his hip and a shotgun in his hands. It was pointed at the ground, but still. My nerves were wound so tight I almost expected to hear them snap at any moment.

We stopped about ten feet from each other, sizing the other up. I felt the sun baking the top of my head. I wished I had a hat. Why didn’t I have a hat? It was stupid to not have a hat, it’s in the damn 90’s-

So you’re Sully? he asked, interrupting my pointless, rampant thoughts.

Yeah. You’re Mason, I said. Maybe if I removed my hand from the gun he’d loosen his grip on the shotgun. Or maybe he’d give a lunatic grin and shower me with buckshot. Maybe.

Can you hold your arms up, please? he asked. His southern lilt sounded polite enough, but I had my reservations. Most of them were gun-related.

Why?

Pox scars, he said. People seem to get ’em mainly on the face and arms. It seemed reasonable enough, but I was aware it could also be a ploy to get my hand away from my gun. He seemed to guess my thoughts because he cracked a smile and said, "You’re right.