Evilution

By L.K. Scott

Traumatized after witnessing the sudden death of his loving wife, emergency responder Travis Pates watches his life take a downward turn when he is suspended for drinking on the job. With no family, no job, and unable to sleep due to vivid and terrifying nightmares, Travis decides can no longer go on.

Then one morning he wakes to find a lost child wandering down the highway alone, whose bravery and simplistic view of the world gives Travis the courage to face another day. But when he returns to work with an inspired outlook on life things go from bad to worse.

A Pacific storm had caused a tanker filled with thousands of gallons of crude oil to go missing off the dangerous and rocky coast of Washington State. Travis and his team are sent to investigate its last known whereabouts: a mysterious uncharted island where something is not quite right. It seems every survivor has gone mad.

When a man kills himself, the helicopter makes a crash landing, leaving Travis and his team stranded. While working together in the hostile conditions, it doesn't take long for deadly secrets to emerge and alliances to form. The only woman he can trust now isn't who she claims to be, but the lead suspect to one of the deadliest terrorist attacks in American history.

Then, rising from the earth comes a new, hungry threat. It can't be stopped. It can't be killed, and it's rapidly taking over the island. Travis begins to wonder what is causing this phenomenon, how is it possible this island doesn't appear on any map, and what mysterious link did Travis and his team members share?

He has limited time to find out, because they are running out of food, they have no water, and his fellow crew members are starting exhibit some strangely aggressive behavior. . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: L.K. Scott
• Release date: Dec 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370541225

L.K. Scott

L.K. Scott has written numerous successful mystery and horror novels. In addition to publishing, he has also written and produced several films. Originally from Sunnyside, Washington, he now lives in Solvang, California.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Travis Pates felt responsible for the end of the world—he never should’ve gone out for hot cocoa.

The morning the world took the first of its last breath a dense, silvery fine-grain mist flowed into the valley and coated the roads, slick with relentless rain. From the passenger seat of Rebecca’s Honda, Travis gazed first at the solemn rain against his window before noticing the man stepping blindly into the intersection. Speeding upon the Honda’s right side came a logging truck and just before it sped through the intersection, causing Rebecca in the driver’s seat to scream, the old man drew back against the hedge, held the coffee cup against his chest, and winced at the grinding shriek as it clanked passed in haste down the glassy highway and into the distance. Behind Rebecca’s little blue Honda, Travis watched with raised flesh, the black Chevrolet truck with lifted tires rumble almost kissing her bumper. In the side mirror, through the rain, Travis read: Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.

Age was a difficult code to decipher in Bridgeport where the laborious industries of mining, lumber, and welding exponentially aged boys so that they were mistaken for middle-aged men with bloodshot eyes, craggy hair on their chins, and skin like beaten silver. The driver wore the serious expression discontent teenagers donned so well. Travis looked away from the pickup and forward through the windshield. Dumbass kids. They think they can just live forever. The rain came hard against the car and for a moment between them there was silence. Rebecca placed a gentle hand on upon his knee, her smile unwavering. Her carefree spirit was the trait he admired most about her. When it rained, she endeavored to dance in it. When the power failed during a spring’s storm, she romanced him over a novel by candlelight, and when some dumb ass kid nearly ran into them, her expression revealed a motherly forgiveness.

No one lives forever, Rebecca said. And if they do, they are probably the kind of people who shouldn’t.

Travis didn’t quite understand entirely what she had meant, but because she was smiling, that sweet, heart-warming smile, he smiled with her. Her hand warmed his leg beneath his fleece pajamas. The crosswalk sign changed. Pedestrians hurried across. At the front, a woman pushed a purple stroller. Once cleared, the crosswalk sign turned again and Rebecca guided the Honda into the grocery parking lot. The front of Safeway bustled with shoppers. Few appeared affected by the rain.

Tourists were easy to spot. They were the ones carrying umbrellas. Travis and Rebecca, like all locals, were stubborn to use them. They'd rather get wet than look incapable of coping with a bit of rain. A little rain never hurt anybody.

Without checking for traffic, a pedestrian stepped into the row. Rebecca barely had time to break as the car screeched to a halt. The woman in front shot Rebecca a nasty look, the word cunt written all over her face. Rebecca mouthed an apology, Travis gestured with his right hand.

Stupid asses think they can live forever. Don't know how they live as long as they do.

Rebecca returned her hand to his knee and said nothing. The woman continued her ignorant strides as he watched in disapproval.

Pedestrians do have the right of way, sweetie. Her tone was soft and meek.

Travis replied masking the contempt in his voice with a lightness that made him sound less critical than he meant.

Right of ways aren’t magical invisible walls that protect pedestrians from getting killed. If she lived she could sue us. Then you better hit ‘em hard, he replied.

Rebecca laughed. It was a light and chirpy, dainty laugh that made Travis grin. He used the sleeve of his sweater to wipe the condensation from the window.

Pedestrians don’t actually have the right of way. They have an equal responsibility as drivers. If a pedestrian illegally crosses a street or steps into a crosswalk while cars are whipping by and was struck, he or she is held responsible. Not the driver.

Rebecca nodded but said nothing. She slowed the Honda to make room for the Subaru backing out of a space. Instead of bringing the car into the parking space, her eyes remained fastened to her rear-view mirror. A thoughtful expression passed over her. Travis turned to see Rebecca looking at the driver of the Ford Taurus behind. An old woman sat eye-level of the steering wheel. Her hair, curly and white, pinned down by a cheap silk flower dotted with golden glitter glue. Even from the passenger seat, Travis could see the cake makeup of all the wrong colors on her face. Beneath her caked eye shadow, she squinted in search of a parking space in the crowded lot. Travis felt Rebecca’s eyes on him, a begging expression on her face.

If I walked through the rain, would you walk beside me?

He placed his hand on hers, and the parking space remained vacant for the old woman and her Sunday best. What kind of person would I be if I made her walk in the rain?

Well, sweetie, Rebecca said. That would make you an asshole. Rebecca laughed again, that same high chirp that made him smile once more.

She swung the car around but had to wait again when a shopping cart filled with groceries caught the rain-drenched wind and escaped the grasp from a chubby man in a wet t-shirt and mud-stained overalls. The cart gained momentum as it rolled across the parking lot towards an approaching car, and moments before impact the chubby man grabbed it. The man offered an apologetic wave to the driver who wore an expression of great relief, followed by a shake of annoyance.

As they circled down the last aisle and headed towards the exit, Travis noted the girl scout peddling cookies in the covered area at the entrance while her mother rang a bell like a charity Santa. Rebecca loved those terrible high-fructose corn syrup cookies, but always resisted for healthier alternatives. Instead, she'd always donate money equivalent the price of two boxes and never take a single cookie for herself. Girl Scouts were a corporation, she believed, and she would not support a corporation if she didn’t have to, but she could not say no to a child. Rebecca spotted the cookie girl just as a frumpy middle-aged woman with wiry brown hair toting her sopping miniature poodle handed over a large stack of bills in exchange for several Samoa boxes. Rebecca grinned, practically beamed, which delightfully unnerved him.

Oh God, what are you thinking? asked Travis. Rebecca's grin widened. Will I need to not be sober for this?

Rebecca was ready to burst with laughter. Here it comes, Travis thought.

Rebecca looked at him, her eyes flashing. What do you call a frozen dog?

Travis shook his head. Please don't.

"A pupsicle!" Rebecca replied, and then laughed—a dorky wail of laughter with shoulders dancing. He lowered his face into his hands wishing he could un-hear what he just heard.

Is it too late for a divorce? he asked.

I bet his name is Frost, she said.

Travis shook his head. No. No. Please. I'm not doing this anymore, Rebecca. Seriously.

Because, Frost bites. Rebecca burst out laughing and Travis groaned.

I quit. I'm done. Let me out of the car.

Travis pretended to open the door and jump for his life and their laughter continued until they finally exited the lot.

Available parallel parking spaces lined the streets of the residential area behind the grocery outlet with ample room along the sidewalk. Somewhere nearby came the sound of screeching tires on wet pavement and the honking of horns.

Ready to get wet? Rebecca asked.

Travis grinned perversely.

We've got all day for that, Rebecca replied. She reached for the door handle but then paused when she saw him staring at her, consuming her with his eyes. Her damp, strawberry blonde hair fell across her cheek. Beneath her rain coat, she wore only a diaphanous white spaghetti strap shirt that clung to her breasts, her nipples hard from the chill. Between them the silver locket he gave her as an anniversary gift dangled in the clefts of her skin. He could've taken her right there with the lust and passion he felt as a teenager. Her sage colored eyes revealed she wanted it to, but their desires were left wanting in long, open mouthed kisses that fogged the windows.

A frigid wet air sucked the heat out of the truck once Rebecca opened the door. Travis pulled up the zipper of his coat.

I had a list somewhere, Rebecca said when she eased herself from the car. Just a few items. Those salt and vinegar chips you like and some onion dip and of course we need hot cocoa—

A shining dark flash reflected in the side mirror. He had no time to process. Because in that instant, five thousand six hundred pounds of metal speeding forty miles an hour swiped the side of Rebecca's Honda and, in a shrieking metallic roar she was gone, along with the door, followed by the crunching sound as his body slammed into the dashboard.

Chapter 2

Sheets soiled by muddy boots and cargo pants from the day before wrapped around his waist as he reached above for the bottle of Four Roses on the nightstand, its contents dwindling as the soundless night exploded into a fiery dawn. Naked and chilled on the floor, he had at some point in the night pulled the blankets and pillows off the bed. He hoisted his achy body to a sitting position and felt the sting of dried blood crusted over split knuckles and when he rushed to the bathroom he found more vomit around the toilette rather than in. When he finished urinating into the putrid bile, angry pain hammered into his brain like a railroad spike cured by a gargle of water and two Scotch backs.

When he returned a line of daylight cut between the curtains and sliced through the dark haze of his bedroom, down the center of his face and chest. He shielded his eyes with his hand and stared into the hostile dawn before leaning back into the mattress. Through the empty liquor bottle on the nightstand Rebecca smiled at him from the photograph. These days her smile looked sad. Travis shut his eyes and waited for the pain to subside, but it never did. It never will.

It is a universal truth widely acknowledged that a man suffering the loss of his departed wife should wish above all else to have her safely returned. The world is different now than it used to be. People were still hit by cars, struck by lightning, dying of cancer and though the life was gone, the soul continues to suffer.

Rebecca was a slender and simple beauty, and genuinely kind with a passion for the wild outdoor as a country girl should. She possessed the skill of a talented abstract painter that he only came to appreciate when it was too late—after he had found the red crayon that had once saved them from the bitter cold of a last winter’s night. It had somehow made its way from her desk onto the cement floor. She had many red crayons but he knew this one in particular for it had been melted to a small numb, the paper burnt to black.

It was neither a bus nor lightning that killed Rebecca Pates, but a black 2000 Chevrolet Suburban driven by a college sophomore girl who had been looking at her phone instead of the road.

Janice Stanford, a self-infatuated twat 23 years of age from Shoreline College near Seattle was trying to get directions to her friend Margo’s place where they planned to spend the week on a group project. Janice repeated to the courtroom that she had ‘only looked at her phone for a second.’ Travis was baffled and offended by the stupid girl’s comprehension that only a second was still only a second too long. Travis wondered how such a likable, pretty and intelligent girl could still be so dumb and irresponsible without any regard to her actions. A mere slap on the wrist and Janice Stanford was sentenced to community service on the weekends to avoid disrupting her class schedule. Travis doubted she ever thought about the suffering and pain she’d caused him or Rebecca’s family. It’s in the past, it’s over and done with, can’t change it so no use worrying about it anymore. Janice Stanford never apologized, and she never took responsibility for what she did. He knew she didn’t really deep down believe it was her fault Rebecca was dead and would complain to her friends that the sentence was unfair. Kids today never accepted responsibility. Never knew when to accept they did something wrong, never knew how to apologize unless it was court-ordered. Travis never received closure. To Janice it was an accident, to Travis, it was negligence. The only woman he ever truly loved, the woman who made him whole, was murdered by a girl who still didn’t think she ever did anything wrong, and her lenient sentence was the salt in the wound. It made him feel as if neither the courts or Janice felt the grave weight of the many lives that were ruined, that her being on the cell phone as she drove over the broken body of his wife was no big deal.

It took days for the soreness in his back and neck to subside once he was released from the hospital, and a couple more weeks for the scrapes and bruises and broken bones to heal. He’d fractured a rib and collar bone which still caused him a fair amount of discomfort two months later, and he could still feel the line where his nose had broken across the bridge, but the worst wounds were the ones in his heart that would never heal. He’d live with that pain until the day he’d die, which he begged would come every day.

Medical bills lay on the counter, none that he could afford, and insurance refused to deliver what they owed.

Insurance companies were only good until you needed them, Travis thought bitterly. He took a mouthful of bourbon straight from the backup stash from the old steamer trunk at the foot of his bed.

Moving to the kitchen with the bottle in hand he noticed in the cupboards, above a counter littered with pizza boxes and a pungent dish collection, was a hole the size of a fist that wasn’t there the night before.

He chased the second gulp of bourbon with a tall glass of cold tap water that tasted strongly of iron reminding him of blood and, by the time he stepped into the shower, the queasiness had subsided—replaced by the slightest morning buzz.

For how long he stood staring into oblivion as the hot water steamed the air, he did not know but he kept the bottle in his fist against his bare leg, covering the neck with his thumb to keep the nectar from being diluted, and took a drink whenever he needed, and eventually he placed his arm against the wall, beneath the showerhead, and stared down at his lonely, naked self, and the bottle which slowly drained as the minutes turned to hours.

When the water ran cold, he placed the bottle on the tank of the toilette and wrapped the towel around his waist. At the medicine cabinet, he stood to rub ointment over the cracked skin of his knuckles and then dressed in a clean set of cargo pants, a T-shirt with the acronym C.E.R.T. printed on the left breast and, just below, a name patch that read Travis. With twenty minutes to spare before his shift started, he reached for the radio transmitter in the duffel bag against the wall.

Fortunately for him, he was just on call which today meant he could stay home and listen to dispatch through the scanner while watching the Canucks game on television instead of going directly to headquarters. On previous days where he was on call, he carefully balanced sobriety and drunkenness with a steady buzz. Most of the time.

In the kitchen, he placed the radio transmitter on top of a stack of unopened mail between two plastic cups and a wilting spider plant before tuning the transmitter to the local frequency.

By one o’clock dispatch had reported a fender bender at county line and a half-hour later came the call of a young male hitchhiker, approximately 16 years of age who was spotted wandering down the shoulder of a highway. By two o’clock the sun had been swallowed by ominous gray clouds and a light spring rain began to sprinkle over the trees. Travis stood at the kitchen window with a cup of black coffee and another glass of water, his concerned expression in the window reflected back. A crack of thunder echoed in the distant mountains.

That was the thing about the weather in the Pacific Northwest. It was unpredictable and go from sunny and warm to a thundering downpour in minutes. On a hot July morning a few years back Rebecca had just finished hanging the laundry out back in their yard when the sky grew dark and hazy. The temperature had plummeted from seventy-six degrees to a frigid thirty-four in a matter of minutes. Before she could get the laundry off the wire, snowflakes billowed from the sky. Not just a little flurry either, but great big snowflakes the size of tea plates. Got an inch in twenty minutes. Mid-fucking-July. At the time Travis had been standing at the living room window which faced out to the porch and looked across the yard to Rebecca laughing at the sky with beautiful and wide pale eyes like a winter-blooming orchid. Travis enjoyed her carefree spirit. If it had been him caught in the storm, the laundry ruined, he would’ve cursed up a storm and kicked the side of the house. But not Rebecca. She danced and twirled with her arms stretched wide, an enchanting beauty.

After taking a sip from his coffee mug, he blew a breath of hot air against the window causing it to fog. At the moment she looked his way and spotted him through the window, he used his index finger to draw in the condensation a heart. Rebecca gushed and returned with a kiss. She withdrew the last piece of clothing, placed it into the laundry basket and lightly skipped up the steps. She let the basket fall to her feet at the top, shielded by the overhanging roof. Snowflakes clung to her strawberry blonde hair as it loosened from its tangled bun and her sun dress flared up showing off her silky thighs and the pastel pink panties she wore beneath. She reached for him to join her, guided him off the porch, and then, while she twirled and danced gracefully in the snow, he stood there like a damn fool—like he was back at his first school dance where he was just a shy little boy in front of the sexiest goddam woman he had ever known. Oh God, how he missed her.

A thundering crack jolted him from his colorful memory back into his bleak, dreary world. The thunder came close, followed by another brilliant flash of lightning. That’s when all hell broke loose.

From dispatch came a series of codes followed by a brief description of the situation. Lightning strikes blew out a power transformer, a chimney fire occurred on Gold Creek Loop, multiple car accidents on the main highway at the edge of town, a tree fell across Silke Road, and a toppled fence, blown over from the wind, allowed cows to escape a pasture. But it was the final alert that concerned him the most and he jumped into action. Flooding on Country Homes Drive, a residential district near the Middle School that was prone to flooding from the creek that snaked through campus, beneath the bridge, and into a low-lying residential area inhabited mostly by the elderly. He was certain the others could handle it, but if one of his teammates were swept away by the currents—or God forbid something happened to those children—he would never forgive himself.

The summer with his wife faded from Travis’s mind as he sprinted from the house with his duffel bag and into the storm.

Chapter 3

At any moment the people of Country Homes Drive could be buried under a mudslide and Travis was stuck in traffic. Dispatch continued to shout emergency codes through the scanner now resting on his dashboard but the team leader, Travis’s boss, instructed differently.

False alarm, Pates. Country Homes is in good shape, no need to respond.

Uh, yes, sir, Travis said, hesitantly, but he did not release the transmitter from his hand. He peered up and out through the fogging windshield as the rain bulleted to earth. Winds rocked the truck. You know what, it’s really coming down over here still. I’m already in my truck and my gear’s all packed up. Least I can swing around, see how it’s lookin’ over there.

The reply was immediate.