It was only 4:40 p.m. in the afternoon, but the traffic was already beginning to snarl. Officer Justice Kinkead turned off his radar. Speeding wasn’t going to be a problem for the next couple of hours. Now he was down to assholes and idiots who couldn’t manage to keep traffic flowing in spite of everyone going in the same direction.

He sighed. The sun was slipping down the horizon, exhaling its last gasp of the day, lending everything a golden glow and magnifying the heat that combined with the asphalt and exhaust to make this the hottest time of day.

At least he was on a bike and not trapped in one of the cruisers. He enjoyed the maneuverability, the wind in his face. Sometimes it made him more vulnerable, but at six feet one inch and with his fairly aggressive workout schedule, not too many people messed with him. Just the drunks.

Speaking of, he heard before he saw a vehicle weave onto the shoulder of the road. A late-model Ford, white. He started to call it in when he heard a hard crunch of metal and glass. To his left, three cars had already begun piling up on one another. Few cars stopped, surprising considering that usually the flow of traffic was more disturbed by rubberneckers than by the accident itself. The onslaught of cars didn’t even slow, the end-of-day rush kept coming, creating a wall of twisted steel and a growing pool of gas.

Justice turned around to find several similar walls progressing up the freeway with only a handful of cars trying to dodge out of the way of speeding vehicles that drove into the giant pileups.

Where to start?

He looked down at his radio and only then registered hearing several frantic voices, all calling in reports of vehicular accidents, people collapsing on the streets. A responding fire truck had overturned when the driver and half the crew passed out. Several officers did not reply.

The chief called all the officers back to headquarters.

Justice looked up and around. A car zoomed past him. The woman behind the wheel, blonde, curly hair, looked very at peace, slouched against the seat, eyes closed. Her mouth lolled open. Sleeping?

The car struck the pileup farther up the road. Another car smashed her from behind and another and another. Soon her automobile was indistinguishable from the rest of the massive metal bulk.

A few cars drove quietly on the shoulder of the road. Occupants and drivers wide-eyed as they took in the scene—those who were awake, that was.

Justice looked up, having seen one too many of the Left Behind movies as a good Christian boy growing up, expecting to see Jesus. No Jesus. Not even a cloud in the sky.

“Officer Kinkead. Are you there?”

Justice looked at his radio. That wasn’t the voice of dispatch. Other than it being a woman, he wasn’t sure who it was. “Yes?”

“Report to headquarters.”

How long had he been standing here? Ten minutes? Five? Two hours? The catastrophe had disoriented him. By now few cars were moving—the ones that were had found routes around the carnage. “There’s a massive wreck here. I need to find survivors. I need backup.”

“I can’t send backup. Half of everyone here is… I think they’re dead. I can’t find a pulse.”

Justice stared at the receiver as if it could give him more answers. Shock immobilized him. In the back of his mind, he shouted at himself to move, to run in and check for survivors, to go to headquarters, just to do something other than stand there and feel sick. What had just happened was so far beyond his training, he didn’t know where to start. “Dead?”

There was a clicking, as if an alternator was attempting to turn over. Click. Click. Click.

It took half a second for Justice to realize the danger inherent in the pool of fuel and sparks incurred by the alternator. He started his bike and sped down the road against traffic. He did his best to wave survivors away from the impending explosion.

Most responded by circling around and following him. He turned on his siren, hoping to shock people into action. The first explosion sounded farther away than it must have been, given the wave of heat that threatened to unseat him.

There was another wave as he veered them off an entrance ramp. Behind him came more sounds of blunt steel hitting steel as the larger trucks had to smash into side rails and other cars to bully their way through the narrow passageways left between cars crashed or stalled on the road.

Without knowing where else to go or what else to do, he led the way to headquarters. More explosions came from the distance. Heat blazed behind, but he didn’t dare turn around. In his side mirror, it looked as if the entire freeway had caught fire. Behind him there had to be at least twenty vehicles. Survivors.

They drove through the city on the sidewalks. He tried to ignore the soft thumps of bodies that the other automobiles, not having a motorcycle’s spryness, had to roll over.

Aside from bodies and stalled cars, the streets appeared empty. There were people inside the stores, staring out the glass windows, eyes wide in fear and questioning. They looked lost. Probably as lost as Justice felt.

When he reached headquarters, there were fewer cars behind him. Maybe some of them had decided to take their chances on their own. He couldn’t fault them. He was pretty sure there wasn’t going to be anything particularly helpful at headquarters, but he was at a loss for what else to do.

Men and women dragged bodies from inside headquarters and stacked them by the curb for lack of anywhere else to put them.

Justice parked his bike in the yard. Three cars that had been following him peeled off the group, apparently deciding they weren’t going to get help or answers there. The others got out of their vehicles, faces pale and tight.

One man in a stained shirt shouted at them, “What the fuck did you guys do?”

Justice shook his head. The man approached, fists clenched. He wanted to hit someone. Justice was more than willing to punch back. Fighting felt natural at a time like this. He’d dedicated his life to maintaining order, and now everything was in chaos. What was he supposed to do?

As Justice prepared to meet his challenger, the man’s face went slack with grief, and he dropped to his knees. He dissolved into retching and sobs.

Justice knelt beside him. The pavement dug into his knee. “Sir. I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what this is.”

The dark man looked up at Justice. “My baby. My baby.”

Peering out into the settling gloom, with just enough light left to see into the truck the man had been driving, he saw a child seat. Justice set his hand on the man’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

* * * *

Merlin awoke to howling. Or praying. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he sat up from his couch and glared at the television. Apparently no longer content to isolate news channels from the religious channels—though those appeared to be the only kinds of channels running anymore—the news network he had on had interrupted its program to bring screaming snake handlers to the screen.

He sat up, head echoing with their entreaties not even to a god who would listen, then grabbed his remote to give another pointless search. Oh, the company was still billing him for full service, but there were only two channels anymore. Sure, now he had the full range of programming from every country on Earth, but each language only had new programs that spoke of zombie attacks more like traffic warnings and the weather and then religious nuts who cried crocodile tears, but he could tell they were eating the situation up every bit as much as the newspeople.

What he wouldn’t give for soap operas. Nutty talk shows. Anything.

He’d gone out a few times and picked up DVDs, CDs, practically anything of entertainment value, but either he didn’t care for the movie or show or he’d already run through it. Just what the hell was going on out there anyway?

With a heavy sigh, Merlin stood up as he switched the television off. It was probably long past time he get up off the couch and stop brooding anyway. He’d had no luck finding a job when he was interviewing, but he still had a large cache of impressive suits he’d gotten for the occasion. So maybe they weren’t quite the style that the interviewers would approve of, but he’d seen them on the television and knew he’d look quite dapper in them.

After slipping on one with the label that read Prada, he checked out his reflection. Lifting his chin, he thought he looked quite as nice as anyone he’d seen in a flamboyant designer suit, and then he packed a couple of bags in case anything came up and he got stuck.

Then he made his way down the long hall to the grand staircase of his home. He didn’t have to work, but at this point, he was pretty sure he could contribute, and if it got his stories back on, well, then it would all be worth it.

He found his mother in the kitchen, her back to him as she brewed coffee. She jumped slightly at his approach, then huddled over the coffee before she turned around to hold a mug out to him. “Going somewhere, dear?”

Merlin narrowed his eyes at the mug but took it. Her eyes glimmered as if she was possessed as he brought it to his lips. Then he tossed the liquid out casually into the sink. It sizzled as it went down the drain. “Yes. I’m going out to see about a job. I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”

“Like that?” She didn’t look in the least bit contrite about her attempt on his life. “Why don’t you put something more traditional on? Call your friends.”

“What friends?” Merlin looked past her at the coffee. It smelled good, but he couldn’t be sure if she’d poisoned the whole pot. He’d get something while he was out. Apparently Starbucks were still running and had a strict policy of only hiring the living, so there was that.

His mother shrugged. “You were such a popular boy in school, Merlin. You have all those awards.” She pointed in the direction of his room upstairs.

While he was pretty sure the fact that he won so many awards was part of why he wasn’t popular among the other students, they both knew the other half of that equation was the fact that a visit to Merlin’s family home could end in death.

He looked outside to their huge yard and generous, blooming garden. They didn’t go to complete waste, anyway.

“Anyway, I thought I’d go see about this zombie problem they’re having. It’s been going on awhile, seems they’re shorthanded. Or limbed.” He tried not to chuckle at his joke. Poor taste, sure, but a little funny.

“What? You’re going out there?” His mother put her hand over her heart. “Oh darling, it’s dangerous!”

“I’ll be all right, Mother.” Merlin leaned in, giving her a conspiratorial smirk. “You of all people know I’m pretty hard to kill.”

She play swatted his arm as if he’d made an insouciant joke. “Oh, you! Very well. Will you be back for supper?” The greedy look in her eye cured him of his appetite.

“Not sure. Don’t hold off on my account.” He held a hand up to ward off the hug she was attempting to give him. Normally she just worked with poisons, but he didn’t want to take the risk of getting stabbed on his way out.

Clasping her hands together, she nodded. “All right. Do let me know if you settle in somewhere. You know I worry.”

He let the statement hang and then made his way out of the manor.

~~This series will continue in daily increments through the end of March 2026. After that, it will be once a week on Tuesdays~~