Apocalypse, Whatever

Chapter One

"Why, God?" Angelica cried to no one, everyone, the universe. Not that it mattered in the middle of nowhere. Her car was dead. Not just dead. Deceased. It hadn't given any warning - no alarms, no flashing red lights on the dash. Nothing. It had simply given up the ghost. But it shouldn't have. It had a new car sticker on it, when she'd grabbed it in . . .

No. She wouldn't go there, wouldn't entertain the memory, wouldn't let it in the door of her mind. No, thank you.

She slumped in her seat, fighting to hold back bitter tears of anger, resentment and loss: The loss of her life, her home, her sanity; the anger at those who drove her to do such terrible things. Most of all, she felt angry at herself.

She had done this. She had taken part in that silly, stupid ritual. She had foolishly, idiotically, irresponsibly, suicidally summoned forth . . . No. She wouldn’t go there, either – wouldn’t go within a country mile. No, sir! She wouldn’t stray, wouldn’t set foot in that other reality, that other time-line, where things had gone so horribly, irretrievably wrong. She would stay in this one, ignore the past and face this reality.

The car was the worst of it - or, at least, the most immediate of her many problems. It shouldn't have died. It should be running, she should be traveling at sixty miles an hour. Well, okay, maybe thirty-five. Too many curves, too little light. She took in her surroundings, glancing around, in front, behind. The full moon cut through the fog like a search-light on one side of the road, illuminating only its diameter, leaving the rest of the trees in shadow. Ahead, a hill; behind, a curve; to the opposite side, darkness. She rolled down her window, thankful the car didn't have power windows.

The wind – what little there was, ruffled her hair, caressed her face, like the cold fingers of a dead lover. She shivered.

The forest was alive with sound. That wasn't quite true, wasn't quite normal. No birds, no howling wolves like in the gothic horror movies with Vincent Price and Christopher Lee, and Peter Cushing, no chirping crickets, no life. Just the wind and the groaning and popping of the trees, their branches rustling, knocking against each other, as if calling, conversing, plotting her doom.

Now why the Hell should she think that?

She breathed in and stopped. Odd . . . No smell. No taste. Dead, stale air. How could it be? There should be something: the aroma of dead leaves, of wet wood, of earth and decay. Nothing.

Okay, so now she was freaking herself out, her thoughts spiraling into the abyss: debilitating, oppressive, consuming. The drugs should have helped. Had she taken them? No. She hadn't. She'd stopped taking them so she could . . . Why was that again? She didn't know. She shivered again.

Angelica did the only thing she could do, the only thing that worked in such circumstances:  a good, no-nonsense slap in the face. Her cheek stung, her thoughts cleared, but not enough, so she did it again. That seemed to do the trick.

First things first. She had to think, assess her situation, figure out where she was and where to go from there. She opened the car door and stood.

A wave of dread hit her like a fist, stopping her heart, as if some giant, unworldly finger had pressed the pause button. Her lungs tried to draw breath, but couldn't. Off in the distance, deep in the woods, something moaned. She leaned against the cold metal of her door, fighting dizziness. After a moment, it passed. Just like that. One moment seized by existential terror, the next, everything back to normal. But not normal. Not right.

Why had the car died? Mechanically, it should be fine. No reason. It had simply stopped. The image of that giant finger pressing pause flashed into her mind again. The air seemed filled with malice, malevolence, intent.

Something moaned again, this time closer, coming toward her.

One thought, one decision.

Run.