(The following excerpt is from “Anarchy”.)

 

 

ONE

 

From the bluff where she stood, the young woman could easily see the children playing down on Leo Carrillo State Beach—50 feet below—throwing Frisbees, scampering along the sand, energetically leaping into the green-blue waves of the Pacific Ocean.

A few yards away from the children, a young couple walked hand-in-hand along the edge of the water, while two older women laid out towels and a picnic basket.

Just another glorious sunny day in Southern California.

Tilting her head in utter fascination at such frivolity, the young woman could almost hear the children’s cries of delight from where she stood; she could almost feel the heat of the sun on her bare arms.

Except that—she couldn’t.

Because—that marvelous, vibrant summer day at the beach existed now only on the faded Polaroid photograph that she was holding up—its corners tattered and fraying.

Because—that glorious summer day had actually happened nineteen years ago.

One month before the ‘Event’.

Two months before ‘they’ had emerged from wherever the hell they had been hiding.

Three months before the world had been ‘changed’ forever—at least for humanity.

 

* * * *

 

With an irritated sigh, the young woman lowered her ragged photograph—revealing the true beach as it now existed, stretching out from the base of the bluff on which she was standing.

This Leo Carrillo State Beach was empty.

A barren expanse of sand running alongside a silent parking lot, dotted here and there with the rusting hulks of dead cars and overturned garbage cans.

Where thousands of families had once laid on beach towels, where they had slathered sunblock on their reddening backs, where they had eaten barbequed chicken and potato salad and sung camp songs around small fires—now there was nobody.

Just a lonely beach—abandoned, deserted.

Its only occupants the bits of trash that skittered here and there, propelled by the gloom and dank of an incoming marine layer.

"Okay…here we go." The young woman lifted up a small video camera, aiming it—not at the beach—but at her own face.

"Hey, guys," she spoke into the camera's lens. "So, this is Frankie-cam—Episode 1! And me? Why, of course...I'm the soon-to-be famous Frankie!"

She grinned, widely—proud of herself.

"Yay, my first show—here I go! So…I’m twenty-three. Pretty sure about that, but I was like four when Jellystone blew and Abby was only nine, so we could maybe of gotten our ages wrong. But I’m pretty sure I’m twenty-three."

Frankie stopped to rewind her camera, then set it on preview. As she watched her intro wind past through the tiny viewing window, Frankie began to giggle—absolutely delighted.

"Look at me…I got a t.v. show!"

She was very pretty—a delicately-featured girl with long blond hair held back in a messy pony tail, and a pair of light-green eyes that sparkled with life and laughter. In so many ways, Frankie seemed almost childlike, ethereal—immature, full of self-interest, light of conscience.

Which clashed oddly with the seriousness of the submachine gun.

And the machete.

Frankie wore them both—the submachine gun strung across her back, the machete hanging from her belt. She was also wearing a ripped and stained black t-shirt, and blue jeans bleached almost white from the sun, threadbare and covered with a dark red splatter that could only be the remnants of dried blood.

Ironically—once upon a time—Frankie’s clothes might have been considered ‘shabby-chic’. Now, however, Frankie’s jeans and t-shirt were no more a fashion statement; they were simply really old and really dirty.

And the same could be said about the video camera Frankie was holding.

It was an older model—most likely from the early 2000’s. About the size of a paperback, the camera was scratched and dented, with a chunk of plastic missing from its eyecup.

Frankie turned that camera to the scenery around her now—filming a full 180 degree turn—a close-up of gloomy Leo Carrillo State Beach, to a pan across the dusty hillside behind where she was standing, then finally zooming in on a small beach house in the distance.

"Right there, ladies and gentlemen…that’s where me and Abby live!" Frankie excitedly narrated. "Nice, huh?"

 

* * * *

 

In actuality, the beach house was a dilapidated mess—tucked in amongst a tangle of overgrown trees and out-of-control bushes. To anyone else but Frankie, it would have been obvious that the little cement block building was falling apart. It appeared decrepit, uncared-for—almost as if it had been abandoned and left to rot—the walls covered in ivy, while part of the roof seemed close to collapse.

And—if there had once been a front yard to Frankie’s home—it was now completely encased in a riot of brambles; the vegetation was consuming the house—returning the land to its original pre-human condition.

 

* * * *

 

"We don’t get a lot of skeeters here," Frankie spoke into the camera. "I mean, you still gotta be careful, but they don’t seem to like being near the water much. So, as long as you’re in by nightfall, it’s basically safe."

Seeing something out of the corner of her eye, Frankie swung the camera around, aiming it at a pod of cetaceans leaping and cavorting along the shoreline below.

"Ooo…look! I love dolphins!" Then, she swung the camera back to herself, once more speaking into the lens. "Abby says that before the Awakening…even before the Event…that there weren’t as many dolphins as there are now. Abby says that people…they actually killed the dolphins and ate them in tuna samiches."

"Abby also says that it’s about to get dark!"

With some reluctance, Frankie turned around to face her older sister.

 

* * * *

 

Like Frankie—Abby was very pretty.

But—unlike Frankie—it was difficult to appreciate Abby’s beauty, unless you were willing to look past her wariness, her severity…her hardness.

Because—where smiles danced easily over Frankie’s lips—a frown was Abby’s constant companion. While Frankie laughed into a camera for an audience that wasn’t there, Abby’s eyes flitted first this way, then that—searching, always searching for any possible danger that could be coming their way.

Frankie—the younger sister—always the child.

Abby—the older sister—always the protector.

With a mischievous giggle, Frankie swung her camera over toward her sister. "So, this is Abby."

SMACK!

Abby’s hand shot out, slapping the camera away. "Get that fracking thing out of my face!"

"But it’s my t.v. show," Frankie pouted. "It’s Frankie-cam!"

"Like I give a crapola." Abby reached for her submachine gun that—like Frankie—she was wearing across her back. Its strap snagged on a silver cross around her neck and she struggled for a moment to unhook it. "Dammit!"

"Potty mouth!" Frankie lifted up her camera and aimed it at her older sister again. "Sorry, folks, but my sister’s kind of a bitch."

Abby’s hand lashed out, slapping the camera down again.

"Stop it!" yelled Frankie.

"You know it’s stupid, right?" taunted Abby, finally unhooking her submachine gun. She checked that its safety was off, then her eyes flicked to the hillside above them—looking for any threats. "There isn’t even anyone to see your stupid show."

Frankie aimed the camera at herself. "Frankie-cam out!"

Then, she turned the camera off and turned her attention to her older sister. "People might want to know, Abby…like in the future."

Abby motioned with her submachine gun—a full circle, all around them. "Have you seen any people?"

"There were the Websters, Ms. Know-it-all."

"Over ten years ago...until the skeeters got them."

"You don’t know that! Maybe the Websters went to Canada. They could of got there safe…they could of!"

"Without saying good-bye? Just up and left." Abby snorted in amusement. "You are such a dumbass."

Frankie’s eyes narrowed. "And you’re a bitch…and I told everyone on Frankie-cam, so they know that you’re a bitch, too."

Abby simply grinned. "Bitch with oranges."

An ecstatic smile lit up Frankie’s face.

She immediately took off running toward the beach house.

Abby followed more slowly—her eyes scanning the hillside, the bushes—any place that a predator could hide.

 

 

FRANKIE

 

When I was 6-years old, Abby told me of something called the ‘Event’.

It happened in this place called Jellystone Park.

There was this thing called a volcano there, and it blew up and a lot of people were killed—thousands.

Abby told me that the ‘Event’ was the thing that started it all.

The end of the world.