About an hour after I awoke, they were loading me into the bed of the F250. I was already reconsidering the drugs Jean had offered, but bit my tongue, not wanting to give her the satisfaction. We gave the kid from the ranch a second chance and were taking him with us. His name was Chris and he rode in front with Lisa, who was driving my truck. Jean rode with me, surrounded by supplies stacked to the ceiling of the truck capper. Meg drove her Subaru Outback filled with Sarah’s gang, and Max brought up the rear with Lynn, Madison, and Tyler.
It was hot in the back of the truck, even with the rear window of the cab open to allow the air conditioning to flow into the capper. After about an hour of bouncing around, I begged Jean for the drugs. She didn’t gloat too much as she injected something into my IV. All I remember was her saying, “Goodnight!”
Parker couldn’t tell if the taste of salt was from the spray of the ocean or the tears running down his face. They mixed in his graying beard as the wind blew across the bow of the boat. He stood six feet tall and he was slim without being skinny. His brown eyes continued to mist as he steered the Zodiac through the waves. His mission today was twofold: lay the love of his life to rest, and check if any of the family had made it to Whidbey.
He met his wife, Rhonda, through his sister Jean in New York back in the seventies. Their spirits connected immediately, even though it would be several years before they acknowledged the inevitability of spending the rest of their lives together. She was several years older than Parker, but they were perfectly matched. Their love for the natural order of things kept bringing them together until they finally acquiesced.
Now, he was alone again. Being alone didn’t bother him—it was being without
her
. He was a loner. Rhonda always knew that and gave him the space he needed to spend days, even weeks at a time chasing his birds. He was a falconer. She was strong-minded and enjoyed being with him, but she didn’t have to be right next to him. She let him fly away, knowing that he would be there when she needed him. He was her falcon, released from his tether. He would soar off to hunt, only to return with a bounty to lay at her feet.
The boat settled as he pulled back the throttle of the fifty-horse Honda four-stroke outboard. The dogs, Poncha and Lefty, were subdued as well; they knew the form wrapped in the blankets was their pack leader’s mate. She was also their mother and they smelled death mixed with her familiar scent. They grieved as well. Poncha was a Scottish deerhound. Her name, modified to fit her gender, was taken from her predecessor, Poncho. Lefty was a mutt, and together they formed Parker’s pack.
Parker had weighed down Rhonda’s body with two large rocks from their garden wall. The rocks were handpicked and named as they built the rock wall together. It was silly, but she’d been like that with certain things. He shook his head and said goodbye as he rolled her off the boat and watched her disappear below the waves. Neither of them were religious; in both their opinions, once you were dead, you were dead.
They both thought they had escaped the virus that had taken the world by storm. They remained secluded in their home once the news broke of the highly contagious flu. But then, three days ago, Rhonda fell ill. He tried to get her to go to the hospital, but she refused. She’d been a nurse for forty-five years and told him there was no cure other than to stay hydrated and rest.
He’d narrowly escaped death twice himself. The screamers, which only came out at night, found the screeching sound of his falcons’ calls irresistible. A small pack of screamers had come the night before Rhonda took ill; they snuck around the house all night, never finding a way in, then disappeared an hour before dawn.
The next night, one of them made it into the backyard. It came through the doggie door he’d built into the wall next to the porch for Poncha and Lefty. He was asleep in a chair in the living room when the thing attacked. The dogs woke him, barking and growling as it slid through the thick plastic flap. He had a .44 magnum pistol that he kept for his trips into bear country and got off a hasty shot as the thing came at him. He was glad that it was a reaction shot and not one that he had time to consider; the thing had once been the neighbor’s ten-year-old daughter, and he was sure he wouldn’t have shot her if he’d realized it at the time.
His second encounter came the next morning. He went into town to see if the pharmacy had any antiviral drugs that might help Rhonda. He was not being overly cautious, as he knew the screamers only came out at night. He walked right into the darkened store, turned on his flashlight, and headed for the pharmacy in the back.
He was halfway through the store when he heard the shrieking just a few feet from where he stood. Being unprepared almost cost him his life. Wilson, whom Parker had known for 15 years, appeared in his lab coat, covered in blood. Instead of his usual friendly greeting, Wilson came at Parker with bad intent. Parker backpedaled, keeping the big six-cell Maglite out in front of him. Wilson plowed into him, knocking him backward toward the front of the store. Parker looked over his shoulder as he fell and saw he was still fifteen feet from the door. He held Wilson at bay with the long flashlight, kicking his old friend in the balls as hard as he could. It had no effect at all. The only thing that saved Parker was that, in Wilson’s effort to rip into Parker’s throat, the two were propelled down the aisle toward the front door. The second they entered the square of sunlight coming through the glass door, Wilson recoiled.
He had to get to the antiviral drugs he hoped Wilson kept in the back. Parker knew Rhonda was dying. He retrieved the pistol from the truck and went back in.
“Hey Wilson, I’m back! What do ya say old friend, can you spare a few drugs for old time’s sake?”
He heard panting coming from the darkness like Poncha after a hard run. Holding the flashlight in his left hand and pointing the .44 down the aisle with his right, Parker inched his way into the darkness. He wasn’t a gun enthusiast; in fact, he hadn’t shot the .44 mag more than three or four times before killing the screamer the other night. His hand shook a little as the adrenaline coursed through his veins, the panting growing louder and faster the further he crept.
In all his outdoor adventures, he’d learned how to regulate the effects of the adrenaline rush. He focused on breathing slowly through his nose and reminded himself that he was capable and well prepared. Wilson came from his right. Parker didn’t see him coming until the last second. He whirled and the boom of the .44 echoed off the walls as the bullet tore through Wilson’s eye socket. Blood and little chunks of skull and gray matter flew everywhere. The bright beam of the flashlight amplified the vivid red color of the blood as it fanned out behind Wilson as he fell. The quiet returned as Parker stood there, his ears ringing, looking at the pitiful remains.
He continued toward the back of the store. The smell of something dead reached out to him from the hallway beside the pharmacy. He pointed the flashlight down the hall that led to the offices, but decided he didn’t want to know what was producing that smell. He opened the door to the pharmacy, and after a thorough search, found some Theraflu. It was the only antiviral he could find, and he hurried back home.
Poncha and Lefty didn’t meet him at the door upon his return. That was unusual. He went up the stairs, excited to bring the medicine to Rhonda, but knew as soon as he stepped into the bedroom that she was gone. Both Poncha and Lefty were lying on the bed guarding the lifeless body of his love. He fell to the floor and cried out. Poncha came to him, whining, and licked at his face as he lay there sobbing.
That had been two days ago. Yesterday, he made the two-hour trip to Woodinville to check on his niece Sarah. He found the house in ruins with a note nailed to the garage door.
Parker, wanted to leave this note in hopes that you would eventually come by. Max and Lisa met me here the day after all this shit came down. The freaks attacked us that night but we are okay. We’re heading out to Meg’s place. We hope this finds you and Rhonda well. We plan to stay at Meg’s until this settles down. We hope to come back to check on you and see if anyone else made it to the island for the reunion. Could you check out Whidbey and find out if Cousin Molly is at the farm in Coupville, and if anyone is at the rentals? Sarah and the kids left a note, which is under this one. They left for Meg’s sometime before we arrived. Much love, Ryan
Parker read Sarah’s note and felt another pang of loss. Tim had been a great husband and father, and then there was eight-year-old Peter. He and sixty-two-year-old Parker had become good buddies since Sarah and Tim had adopted him. He would miss them both. He got back into his truck and drove straight home.
Today, he was intent on finding out whether any of the family had made it to the houses they had rented for the reunion. There were three different houses to check, as well as the farm in Coupville. Two of the houses were located in Penn Cove, which was about three-quarters of the way up the eastern shore from Whidbey Island’s southern tip. He carefully checked the tides in his book before leaving Bellingham; he would have to navigate Deception Pass in order to reach the other side of Whidbey.
Deception Pass got its name in 1792 when explorers Vancouver and Whidbey had initially missed the pass and thought that the island was actually a peninsula. Toward the end of their exploration, however, Vancouver sent Whidbey on one last expedition to map the inlets along the northwestern shore. Whidbey found the pass and successfully made his way through to the eastern side of the island. Vancouver, pleased with Whidbey’s circumnavigation, named the island in his honor.
The reason it was necessary to know the precise tidal schedule was because Deception Pass was dangerous to navigate unless the tides were static. It narrowed to less than a thousand feet wide where the bridge crossed from the mainland, and there were many submerged rocks that could ruin your day and your boat. If the tides were going either in or out, the pass would be violently pushing or pulling billions of gallons of water through its tiny passage and could actually create class-3 rapids and huge standing waves. He normally would have launched the boat from one of the many places east of Whidbey, but with the current state of affairs, he felt safer on the water than he did traveling the roads. It had also allowed him to say goodbye to Rhonda in a way that somewhat soothed the ache in his heart.
He’d timed it correctly and approached the pass when it was relatively safe to navigate. The fourteen-foot Zodiac with its fifty-horsepower engine was nimble, and Parker’s experience made the passage uneventful. He drove under the bridge and he and the dogs motored south to Penn Cove.
He docked at the Port of Coupville, which was little more than a pier and a smattering of businesses. It was still early in the day, and the hike to the farm was only about a mile. He figured on going there first to see if Molly and her husband Henry were okay. Molly and Henry ran the last producing commercial farm on Whidbey Island. Most of the island had become a bedroom community for Seattle, but they still eked out an honest living tilling the soil. The 200-plus acre farm, started in the early 1900s by Henry’s grandfather, grew mostly squash. Parker’s stomach growled as he thought about Molly’s squash soup.
He and the dogs made their way up Main Street. The small town of Coupville was deserted. It was amazing to Parker how quickly the world had gone from its hustle and bustle to dead quiet—during the day.
He arrived at the farmhouse with high hopes. He tried the front door first, knocking and loudly calling out. There was no response. The rest of the house looked secure: no broken windows, no signs of life or death.
Parker wandered around the house to the garage. He opened the garage door and found Henry’s 1967 GTO 442 parked in its place of honor. Parker knew where Henry kept the key. He retrieved it from its hiding place in the garage and sat down behind the wheel. He turned the key and the Pontiac roared to life without any hesitation. He covered the backseat with a blanket out of respect for Henry, then tried to get Poncha and Lefty to hop in. Lefty jumped right in, but Poncha was leery of the rumbling beast. Parker finally shut it off.
“Come on Poncha, or I’m leaving you here!”
She tilted her head then jumped in. He fired it back up and the beefy engine kicked out a belch of throaty thunder, causing Poncha to pace nervously in the backseat. He pulled out of the garage and onto the pavement. He couldn’t resist the urge and spun the tires as he turned onto the main road.
“Yeeeehaaaa!” It had been years since he’d been in a car with this kind of horsepower. He went through the gears, doing a hundred miles an hour before backing off.
“Woo-wee Poncha, this is fun, eh?” Oddly enough, Poncha didn’t agree, and buried her head under the blanket.
He wasn’t out for a joyride. He headed for the house that Max had rented on the north shore of Penn Cove. When he got there, it appeared abandoned. No cars were parked in the driveway, and he peeked in every window.
“Nobody home here, guys,” Parker said to the dogs. “Let’s go check out the other house.”
The other house on Penn Cove was all the way back through Coupville and close to the eastern point that demarked the entrance to the cove. He’d been there once before to check it out for Jean.
He found the place by looking for the natural stone walls that bordered the driveway. It was lined with evergreens, their branches creating a tunnel leading toward the water. The driveway turned to the right and into a clearing. The house faced the cove; it was bigger than he remembered. His pulse quickened when he saw there were several vehicles parked around the circular drive.
The next thing he noticed were several people with rifles pointed at him. He braked suddenly, and Poncha and Lefty slid off the backseat onto the floor. Parker heard a familiar voice yelling.
“Don’t shoot my car! Don’t shoot my car!” Henry popped up from behind a Lexus, waving his arms frantically and running toward him.
Parker smiled until he saw the sawed off shotgun appear next to his head.
“It’s me—Parker Brant. Don’t shoot, I’m related!” Once he said it aloud, it sounded ridiculous. He looked up the barrel at his Cousin Merle.