Apocalypse Utah: A Collection of Utah Horror

By Griffin Publishers, LLC

From the Creators of Old Scratch and Owl Hoots and It Came from the Great Salt Lake, comes the next installment of new Utah horror, Apocalypse Utah a Collection of Utah Horror.

Twelve Apocalyptic horsemen of the Rocky Mountains have come together in this terrifying anthology of Utah Horror. After years of dysto

• Language: English
• Publisher: Griffin Publishers, LLC
• Release date: Feb 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9780997747959

Book preview

The Fateful Hour

Jasmine Angell

On July 2nd at 3:01 p.m. MST, 2.5 million people across the globe dropped dead without warning. Blood streamed from their eyes and ears and eerily coalesced beside the bodies spelling the word murderer in their native language.

The dead included warlords, convicted criminals, members of drug cartels and terror organizations, and many politicians, but it was those least suspected of such a heinous act that held mankind paralyzed in grief and denial. Like the sweet elderly neighbor who had her judgement spelled out in blood, her husband’s body was found in the garage freezer. The high school principal’s death that solved the cold case of a teenage hit and run from three years earlier. His son came forward with the truth of that tragic night.

The gory label was a shocking sign of a global reckoning.

On July 3rd at precisely 3:01 p.m. MST, convicted sex offenders died where they stood. Most appalling were the college professors and males aged 16 to 23 who littered the dead. Blood ran from their eyes and ears to form the word rapist.

On July 4th at 3:01 p.m. the human race held its breath as the relentless verdicts were brought down. Upstanding members of communities, trusted family members, youth group leaders, and those involved in child sex trafficking died and pedophile was the bloody word next to the bodies.

Day 5 of the Cain Effect

Sam watched the afternoon sunlight pour in through the kitchen window of the isolated cabin and flicker upon the worn table in front of him. The aged wooden chair creaked beneath his weight and he set his Bowie knife on the table with a heavy thud. The clean blade taunted him—out of place beside his smart phone, a Zippo lighter, and his six-year-old son’s baseball glove.

He cleared his throat, but the acrid odor of burnt coffee and smoke from the Salt Lake Valley clung to the back of his gullet like tar on a road. Society had devolved quicker than anyone had expected. Looting was a daily occurrence and two of the five oil and bitumen refineries north of the city were still burning from catastrophic fires. With no wind to disperse the vaporous clouds and no rain forecasted, the valley was a veritable beehive choked with black smoke.

The cabin provided relative safety, nestled away from the mass of population. Sam coughed and winced, his hand shooting to his left side. He grimaced, his fingertips coming away with the stain of blood from his bandages soaked through.

Relative safety indeed.

He’d inherited this cabin from his great-great-grandfather who’d been one of the first silver miners to come to Utah in the 1860’s. His was one of the last remaining, privately-owned cabins in one of the glacially-carved corridors in the Wasatch Mountains now known as Little Cottonwood. Secluded but still vulnerable to looters looking to escape the increasing chaos of the valley below.

A round clock hung on the wall over the gas stove. Its yellowed face read 2:40 p.m. with silent indifference. The minute hand jerked unrelentingly toward the top of the hour, a blatant countdown to more death.

Tick, tock.

Sam swallowed hard and stared at the fleeting light filtering through the aspen and boughs of the Engelmann spruce outside. He snatched up his Zippo lighter and the cold metal clanged in his grasp against his black titanium wedding band. He flicked it open and the satisfying clink of the lid mingled with the mechanized white noise of the cabin’s generator. He snapped it shut at the sound of shuffling in the hallway and reached for the handle of his hunting knife.

Mrs. G entered the kitchen. His shoulders relaxed and he lowered his hand back to the wooden surface of the table. The nanny’s short, white hair stuck matted on one side where she’d fallen asleep in a chair in Sebastian’s room.

Your boy’s fever finally broke. Her voice was like gravel with her lack of sleep.

Sam glanced at the small baseball glove on the table. Bastian had been diagnosed at age three with aphasia voluntaria or selective mutism—the ability to speak, but the failure to do so. Countless doctors attributed his son’s condition to the circumstances of his adoptive mother’s tragic death when he was a toddler and asserted that he would simply grow out of it. But there were unusual instances of doves dying in their backyard, their white bodies littering the ground like unnatural snowfall. The trees around their house lost their leaves out of season, standing like skeletal husks, and the beetles—Sam shivered at the memory of the black horde inhabiting their walls, floor boards, and dark corners, far more than the exterminator could contend with. How could the doctors explain away all that?

The elderly woman filled a cup with tap water and stifled a yawn. He’s still asleep but he looks the best he’s looked all week. You should come in and see him.

Sam clenched his jaw and eyed the Bowie knife.

Bastian came down with a fever the afternoon of July 2nd, Day 1, while Sam and Michael had been big-game hunting east of the Uinta Mountains like they’d done as teenagers when their dads used to take them shooting. One of the young men in their group, a man Sam knew from work, collapsed and they’d watched the blood leak from his face and slide across the forest floor like liquid metal from a sci-fi movie. The image of the word murderer spelled in the man’s blood haunted Sam every time he closed his eyes.

Mrs. G had been a godsend, tending to his son as she had since he’d been an infant. When all hell had broken loose, they couldn’t risk taking the six-year-old to a doctor in the city and decided to hole up in the cabin instead.

Sam’s gaze bored into the kitchen table. You should go.

What are you talking about? Bastian needs me and where would I go? The whole world’s going up in smoke.

He flicked his wrist and the lid of the lighter flipped open again.

Clink.

His thumb flirted with the notched flint wheel of the lighter before snapping the lid closed.

It’s not safe for you here.

Mrs. G frowned, but a hacking cough, thick with mucous, distracted her, and she pulled out her asthma inhaler. I heard the trouble last night. You did what you had to.

The nights were the worst when the cities along the Wasatch foothills blazed with sirens and fires, screams and mayhem, but the days also echoed with violence as home owners struggled to protect their families and property. The cacophony drifted up the canyon, an unavoidable and weary reminder of how the world was transforming.

Only during the half hour leading up to 3:01 p.m. was the violence subdued.

Mrs. G eyed Sam’s left side, the bandage leaking red and staining his white undershirt. You need me to look at that?

Sam didn’t answer.

She studied him a moment, sucked in the medicine of her inhaler, and ambled back to the boy’s room in silence. Mrs. G’s life revolved around the boy’s. She was with Bastian more than anyone else and while he knew she’d never leave, he had to at least try to warn her.

He reached for the Little League glove, smearing the brown leather webbing with his bloodied fingers. The scarlet streaks were long and hard against the well-worn surface. A half-smile quirked his lips. Bastian possessed uncanny athletic ability in the realm of baseball. For a six-year-old, he had an arm any twelve-year-old would envy. The solid smack of the ball making contact with Sam’s glove reverberated through his memories, followed by the sweet satisfaction of pride welling up inside him at Bastian’s astonishing accuracy.

If only Bastian was a normal, human child.

Sam eyed his own reflection in the mirror-like metal of the lighter and stared hard at the shrunken and distorted image. He flipped the lid open but snapped it shut at the stomping on the porch.

The screen door creaked open and the wooden floors squeaked beneath Michael’s heavy boots. Sam heard the clicking of a dog’s nails and the door slammed shut. The Malamute shoved her wet nose under Sam’s arm and she panted in welcome. Sam ignored her, released an uneasy breath, and set the lighter beside the baseball mitt.

What are you doing here? Sam said, his voice detached. You shouldn’t be here.

What are you talking about? Michael said, setting his rifle on the counter. I did the perimeter check and now I’m back.

It was supposed to take longer. Why didn’t you check the gate at the road and the lookout?

We only check those at night and besides, it’s dead out there during the day. You must be more sleep-deprived than I thought. You look like hell and some caffeine would do you good. One cup of high octane coming up.

Sam exhaled a long, shaky breath and snatched up the lighter.

Michael took a swig of the black stuff in the coffee pot and spit it out with a scowl. It’s like battery acid! The only thing worse than burnt coffee is java that tastes like refinery smoke because that’s all any of us can smell anymore.

He dumped out the coffee pot and rinsed it clean before peering out the window over the sink. It’s quieted down out there.

They’re waiting to see what judgement will be delivered today.

Michael glanced cautiously at the clock, his expression grim. Yesterday had been a new twist the world had never seen before. For the first time in three days, the fateful hour claimed no lives. Instead, slander was the crime written with the blood of the guilty who’d spontaneously lost the ability to hear or speak.

Mankind breathed a sigh of relief. Lesser crimes apparently didn’t warrant the death penalty, but there would still be a price to be paid in blood.

Michael snorted derisively, nodding toward the muted television. They’re calling it the Cain Effect. Before that it was Armageddon, but I think I like the Purge better.

The Malamute whined.

Sam glanced at her but his smart phone drew his attention from her imploring gaze.

He pushed the home button and the black numbers in the corner read 2:52 p.m. The time hovered above the background image of a young woman peeking around the trunk of a maple in autumn. Her mahogany hair clung to her back and set off her green eyes, shining at once bright and haunting. He could almost hear her laughter echoing in his mind.

The Malamute nudged Sam’s arm but he trained his gaze on his friend. You need to leave.

That some kind of joke? Michael said and he grabbed a can of coffee off the shelf.

Sam tightened his grip on the lighter. I’m not kidding.

"Now that’s the lack of sleep talking. I can’t leave you here with your boy, and Mrs. G ain’t as good as me when it comes to firearms or coffee machines."

Loyal to the end. That was Michael, always had been and always would be.

His friend’s tone sobered. I know it was a hard thing you did last night.

A twinge of pain lanced the wound in Sam’s side but he shook it off. I know why the world is ending.

Michael snorted, spooning out coffee grounds into a new filter. No one has a clue why the world’s gone to hell, least of all us.

I can stop it. I’ve known for days, but I don’t know if I have the guts to do it.

His friend cocked his head to the side. "You’re gonna stop the world from ending? I got news for you. Something supernatural is happening here and its way out of anyone’s control."

The Malamute whined, this time more persistent, and she paced nervously between the two men.

Michael stuffed the coffee can in the cabinet. Any change with the little man?

Sam flipped the lighter open and closed it. Clink. His fever finally broke.

Well it’s about damn time! I was beginning to worry there wouldn’t be anything left of the kid’s brain. His noggin was headed for charred and extra crispy.

Sam’s chest tightened at hearing the obvious affection his friend had for the boy.

I never wanted him.

Michael frowned and shut the coffee pot lid. What are you talking about?

Sonya wanted a baby so badly, adoption was the only way for us. I’d do anything to see her happy. I didn’t understand why she died, but I see it clearly now.

It was a shame what happened to her, neither of you deserved it.

Michael flipped the switch to the coffee maker and did a double-take as the indicator light remained dark. He fiddled with it impatiently and pulled the coffee maker away from the wall. The plug dangled from the outlet, its cord hanging like a snake with its head cut off.

What the—? When did this happen? Michael met Sam’s unanswered gaze and slammed his hand down on the counter. Aw, what do you have against coffee, man? It’s not like there’s a Starbucks around the corner! He yanked out the coffee filter and chucked it into the sink.

Sam stared at the image of his wife on his phone. Sonya loved Bastian from the instant she saw him. I didn’t understand why she died but I do now. It’s all Bastian’s fault.

Now you’re not making sense. An aneurysm took Sonya. How could Bastian have had anything to do with it? He was only two years old at the time.

Sam shook his head. He was never ours to have. My Sonya was too good for this world. I brought Bastian into our lives; that part’s on me.

He thrust his hands into his hair and squeezed his eyes shut. Images of Sonya lying dead on the kitchen floor assaulted him. A trail of blood dried beneath her eyes and ears like those whose lives had been claimed by the Cain Effect.

For years her death has been in the back of my mind, festering, but now everything is clear. When I got home from work, I found Bastian sitting next to her, feverish and smeared in her blood. Don’t you understand? There could’ve been a judgment spelled there.

This is crazy talk.

The coroner said she died in the afternoon, at approximately three o’clock.

"That was four years ago. That had nothing to