SENESCENCE

I had a little bird,

Its name was Enza.

I opened the window,

And in-flu-enza.

Prologue

He had grown restive waiting for the world to end. His hatred for humans was so intense that it could only come from a being whose entire purpose was to eradicate their entire species. The Source – that was the only name given by his creators and the simplest translation from their language – watched from his high-rise Tribeca apartment; wishing they would all die, eagerly awaiting their demise.

Soon…not soon enough.

The Source stepped away from the window and checked the time: 12:20 PM.

Nearly 10 years of planning was about to reach its glorious, yet nefarious, culmination.

The Source appeared by all accounts, a successful businessman; he had a thriving real estate business; appeared kind and generous to most, ruthless and cunning to those that got in his way. The Source had connections all over the world. These connections were just like him: entities of another world, carriers of darkness, deceivers of pure malevolent intent. They simply appeared human, as they were covert death bringers sent to infect an entire planet. These “people” were not from Earth, but part of another race unknown to mankind. They were things of nightmares that haunted children. The Source and his underlings had one purpose – omnicide.

In ten minutes’ time, the plan his creators had devised would come to complete fruition and his moment of release would finally come. The first phase of their plan would end and his usefulness would be truly utilized. The Source brought darkness to Earth and soon he would witness his silent scheme brought to life.

His eagerness was greater than any form of lust, unquenched for his entire life, which was brief, but with one singular purpose. Soon they would all be gone; a loathsome species who merely consumed; a vile group who destroyed one another and their planet as well. They were a cancerous growth that needed to be removed. The Source hated human beings for reasons he was told, but could not understand – he was created to hate and destroy. It was all he knew.

Soon…

CHAPTER 1

November 3rd, 2028 - 12:30 PM

I was sliding my time card to go on my lunch break, when I felt a familiar tap on my shoulder. I’m a tall guy, somewhere around 6 feet and change, and from the poke at my lower back I knew at once it was Carbie trying to get my attention.

I’m going to tell you that Carbie isn’t the smartest guy. He’s not mentally challenged, just a product of a shallow gene pool; super shallow, like kiddie-pool-up-to-your-ankles shallow. Carbie got the nickname because he is a master at rebuilding carburetors. He’s pretty much a genius when it comes to all things small engine, but he was a true guru when it came to taking out a carburetor, cleaning it up, and making sure things ran the way they should.

Carbie was a tiny guy – probably five and a half feet tall and all of 130 pounds – and was known around Shorey’s Power Equipment for his size, not his build, but the size of what he referred to as his crank shaft. Carbie had a habit of pulling out his…member I’ll say, and stealthily revealing himself to any unsuspecting male around the shop.

I know what you’re thinking, but Shorey’s didn’t exactly have an HR rep floating around our tiny family-owned store. We had a unique way of interacting with one another. Needless to say, it took a special combination of sense of humor, sexual deviancy - or at least a distant appreciation for humorous perversions - and the ability to give and receive a good ribbing on a daily basis.

“Carbie, I’m not looking. Put your junk away,” I said, with my back turned. I stared at the LED time clock screen that read 12:32 trying not to acknowledge Carbie.

I had a bad habit of taking long breaks unintentionally. On more than one occasion Harry Shorey, the store owner, had to politely remind me to pay attention to when I punched out for breaks. I’ll tell you that allotted half hour frequently became forty-five minutes.

“I don’t have my dick out for crissakes Clay. I need your help with this,” Carbie said. My first name was Mason, but most people called me Clay, which was an agnomen for my last name Clayton. Carbie wasn’t tipping me off with his usual snickering, which almost always preceded his phallic exhibitions.

“What is it then?” I said, turning around then instantaneously regretted my decision.

Sure enough Carbie had a handful of his own scrotum through his pants and had managed to keep his giggling silent. I should have known better.

“Aw come on Carbie. Put it away,” I said, shielding my eyes with my hands. Mental image of Carbie’s junk #85,306 took its place in my disturbed subconscious.

“Beware the brain,” Carbie said. “Its veiny appearance kills mere mortals and quivers the legs of all women.”

“Did you really need help with something?” I asked, staring at the ceiling to avoid making eye contact with his exposed bits.

“Not from you. Maybe that new office assistant could lend me a hand,” Carbie looked down at his crotch and I hoped he was putting things back where they belong. “Better yet, she’ll need both hands I’m sure.”

“You’re not right in the head.” I walked passed him to escape the show. “There’s something called sexual harassment Carbie. You might want to read a pamphlet or something. It’ll keep you out of handcuffs.”

“Oh, I love me some handcuffs Clay.” Carbie had his hand down his pants and put the beast back in its cage before zipping his fly.

I could only shake my head and snicker as I walked down the short hallway which contained the timeclock, breakroom, and the bathroom. At one end of the hallway was a swinging door which led to the shop out back where we mechanics worked our magic. At the other end of the hallway was the showroom. Being November, the showroom primarily contained snow blowers on the main floor, but we still kept our usual displays of chainsaws and other handheld machinery around the perimeter.

I walked onto the showroom floor and turn to the parts counter on my right, where the department manager, Shane, was helping a customer by looking up parts on a computer. I sauntered over and glanced at his monitor where he was looking up an auger housing for the customer’s snow blower.

“I’m headed to McGee’s for lunch. Want anything?” I asked Shane as I looked over his shoulder.

“I’m good. I brought lunch. Harry was talking about ordering though. Check with him,” Shane said without looking up from the screen. “He won’t want McGee’s though. You know how he is.”

Harry was our store manager and the owner of Shorey’s Power Equipment. He was the third-generation owner of the family business, and even though he liked the perks of owning a small business, he didn’t know a damn thing about the things we sold or repaired. One thing Harry did know, however, was how to run a business. He was damn good at keeping things operating the way they should and making us all money in the process.

After Harry took over for his old man two years ago, he took business ideas from the likes of Google and Facebook. Harry started profit-sharing and increased benefits among the workers. Most of us had been with the Shorey family for a long time, especially Carbie, who was now in his sixties and had been a mechanic from the start. Under Harry’s leadership, the business flourished and things were looking better every day.

I walked to his office, which was tucked away in the corner of the showroom, and knocked on his open door. “I’m going to McGee’s for lunch. Shane said you were looking to order out.” I took my John Deere hat off and ran a hand through my hair to get the hat to fit just right.

I usually kept my hair buzzed short for a couple reasons: first, I didn’t feel like giving someone else money to cut my hair, and second, I couldn’t care less about hair style. I was all about easy and zero maintenance when it came to personal style. That included trimming my hair down and ignoring my facial hair until it started to itch from the lack of attention. My hair was probably an inch long, which was long for me, and my lazy five o’clock shadow was fast becoming a patchy beard.

Harry was my age, around forty, and kept himself in great shape, unlike myself. His office walls were full of framed pictures of himself mountain climbing or any number of outdoor sports. Harry maintained his physique by eating a meticulous diet, which usually consisted of food that a rabbit would eat. I spent my free time listening to 1960s rock albums that my grandparents called modern, eating a stream of processed meats and cheese, and smoked at least a pack of cigarettes per day. My idea of an extreme sport was a meal consisting of green things followed by a jog to the corner and back.

“Nah, I’m okay. I’ll figure something else out. McGee’s isn’t on the approved dietary list,” Harry said, patting his flat stomach.

“Alright then. Shoot me a text if you want me to pick something else up in the area,” I offered and left his office.

I had my hand on the front door to leave, when a page squawked over the loudspeaker: Mason Clayton to the shop please. Mason to the shop. It must have been the new girl in the office, because no one else called me Mason. I took a mental note to remind her of my typical moniker at some point.

I walked down the hallway and pushed through the swinging door to the shop, which at first glance looked empty except for Carbie, who was under the hood of one of our utility vehicles the store owned.

“Carbie, what’s up? I already punched out for lunch Old Man,” I hollered over the blaring radio in the corner. Carbie had seniority of the shop and got to choose the music. He would frequently force us to listen to country music, not because he liked it, but because it drove Shaq and I bonkers. We both hated country music.

“Shaq needs you I think.” Carbie waved a wrench to point at Shaq’s bay.

Carbie and I had work bays next to each other, where we kept our tool boxes and whatever tools we needed to do our work. Around the corner was Shaq’s bay. He got stuck with the small bay because he was the “newbie” among the three of us having only worked at Shorey’s for three years. I’d been working at the shop since I graduated high school in 1996, which kept me out of the corner.

Shaq was one of the few black guys that lived in our town. Maine isn’t the most diverse state, not for lack of decency or a pretense of prejudice, but because Shaq once told me, “It’s too damn cold for a brother up here. I’m part Eskimo, that’s why I live here.” Whether that was true, I didn’t know, but Shaq was good people and a damn good mechanic.

Like me, Shaq had a nickname, but it had nothing to do with his real name. He was a big dude, a few inches taller than me and had to weigh in the ballpark of four hundred pounds. Shaq was a huge basketball fan and frequently wore retro jerseys of his favorite players to work before he changed into our work gear. His first day, he wore a Shaquille O’Neal jersey – that coupled with his size, provided his permanent nickname. Come to think of it, I didn’t even remember his real name it had been so long since we’d used it.

I turned the corner and found Shaq standing behind an idling snow blower. He was gripping the auger control throttle to the max, trying to get the spiral-metal that chopped up and tossed the snow to move. If Shaq had one flaw as a mechanic, it was that he got flustered way too easy. At the slightest problem with his work, he’d start throwing a tantrum and swearing up a storm. Witnessing a man of Shaq’s proportions storming around and tossing things was both humorous and scary. The key was to get him to calm down before things got out of control. Shaq once tossed a wrench across the shop and busted one of the hanging fluorescent lights overhead. That wasn’t so much a problem except that Carbie had been working under said light fixture and the bulb exploded into pieces directly over him. Carbie picked little pieces of broken bulb out of his shaggy salt-and-pepper hair for days.

I waved at Shaq to get his attention. “What’s up? Only have a minute. On lunch,” I yelled.

“Oh, sorry. Not sure what I did. Auger won’t budge,” Shaq said.

“You check the belt?”

“Yup. That’s what I fixed. Brand new,” he added.

I bent over and looked at the auger, which is the first thing I always check when the auger isn’t doing its job. Sure enough, the shear bolt that goes through the axle was missing. The bolts are made to snap or break off if the user hits something hard, thus breaking the bolt and not the far more expensive axle.

“Come here,” I said waving Shaq over. He took one look and cursed.

“I thought I looked. Sorry my dude,” Shaq apologized.

Shaq had been a seasonal employee at Shorey’s for two years before Harry hired him full time during our busy season this spring. He hadn’t worked on snow blowers much and even though he was good with lawnmowers and chainsaws, he was a work in progress.

“No worries. I have some bolts in my bay. Hold on.” I went to my tool box for a nut and bolt to replace the missing one.

I was hunched over the auger housing and fitting the bolt into place, when Carbie came over. “What’s going on over here kids?” he asked.

“Forgot to check the shear bolt,” Shaq told Carbie.

“Snow blower 101 kid,” Carbie said, with a hint of all-knowing condescension.

“I know man. I know,” Shaq mumbled.

I got the bolt in place and told Shaq to try the auger control. To our pleasure the auger lurched into its cycle and turned with ease.

“Perfect,” I said in triumph.

“Looks a little off,” Carbie argued and got on one knee to watch from a safe distance as the auger turned. Shaq had let off the control and it stopped, then Carbie told him to hit it again and the auger turned once more.

“Something’s not right,” Carbie said, and suddenly the snow blower pivoted on its wheels and tilted back, causing the auger to swing within a few inches of his face.

Carbie fell back on his behind and I looked up to see Shaq belly down on top of the handles of the snow blower. He looked like he fell asleep or passed out and had caused the machine to tilt back. Somehow, he was leaning on the auger control lever and the auger kept spinning at high speed. I stood up and was about to turn off the machine, when Carbie got to his feet.

“What the fuck happ…” Carbie’s speech cut short as he fell forward in a limp mass, landing face first on the exposed spinning auger. Blood splattered into the air. Chunks of skin and tufts of hair flew in all directions. Metal grinded on bone and flesh. The carnage continued to slap against the inner housing of the snow blower as it tore up Carbie’s face and head. For a second I stared in shock, then had enough wherewithal to reach for Carbie. I grabbed his lifeless body by the back of his work shirt and pulled him away from the machine. Blood sprayed into my eyes and I closed them against the sting. The blower kept running, sending Carbie’s fluids into the air in all directions.

As Carbie’s body fell to the floor, I went for the auger control lever, which was covered by Shaq’s colossal frame. I pushed his limp body as hard as I could. He tumbled to the side and the auger stopped. Carbie had fallen to the concrete floor on his back and lay in an ever-growing pool of blood; where his face should have been, was nothing more than a chewed up and undiscernible lump. All that remained was his lower jaw and the back half of his head, ears, and skull.

I looked away from the gory scene and tried to clear my head and think of what to do next. 911, I thought, call 911. I ran across the shop and picked up the phone in the corner near my bay. I dialed the numbers and waited for someone to answer.

“Penobscot County 911,” a woman’s voice said over the phone.

“Yeah…uh…I need…an ambulance,” I said between gasps.

“Where are you sir?” she said.

“I’m at Shorey’s Power Equipment. Mass Ave near McGee’s.”

“I will,” the dispatcher said and didn’t finish.

I waited for several seconds. “Hello? Hello?”

Nothing. Just dead air.

“Hello?” I screamed into the phone.

I hung up the phone and dialed again. The phone rang and a voice message came on the other line. I tried again. Same thing. No answer and pre-recorded message instead.

I dropped the phone and sprinted for the showroom floor. I turned right at the end of the hallway and was going to the parts counter, when I tripped over something and landed hard on my stomach. My right wrist buckled as I tried to catch myself, sending a searing pain from my wrist to my fingers. The impact stole the air from my lungs and I fought for breath as I pushed myself off the tile floor.

I looked to my right where Shane was on the floor, staring at me with empty, lifeless eyes. I turned behind me and the customer Shane had been helping appeared unconscious and in a sitting position. His legs were outstretched – the cause of my fall - while his torso was propped up by the parts counter. The man’s head was leaning on a shelf of motor oil. Several bottles of 10W-40 had tumbled onto his lap.

I got to my feet and cut across the rows of snow blowers. I headed for Harry’s office to see if he was alright. I found him slouched forward over his desk then walked over and shook him to see if he was okay. The only response I got was a constant stream of yyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy on his computer monitor as his forehead pressed against his keyboard while he was in the middle of an e-mail. I checked for a pulse on Harry’s neck, poking and probing with no result. I wasn’t even sure I remembered where to check for a pulse. I was running on pure instinct at this point, unsure of how to react.

I picked up Harry’s phone, not knowing why or thinking clearly, and dialed 911 yet again, only to receive no answer and a message. I hung up the phone and looked around the shop. There weren’t any customers in the store other than the gentleman at the parts counter. Help, I thought. I need to find help.

I heard a scream outside the store and ran toward the front door to investigate. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing and stood dumbstruck: a truck crashed through the glass frontage of the store which exploded in a wave of shattered glass. I was far enough away that I didn’t get hit by the truck, but I was showered in the wreckage nonetheless. The truck came to a stop in the middle of the snow blower display. Machines toppled over. Plastic and glass debris mixed together from the chaos.

I jogged to the driver’s side, my boots grinding on glass and sliding slightly on the littered floor. The driver, a man wearing a John Deere hat and bright orange hunting coat, hunched over the steering wheel and slowly slid to the left, his head and shoulder coming to a stop against his side window.

I rounded the front of the truck and looked at him through the front window. I was fairly sure he was dead.

Are they all dead? What’s happening?

I ran back to the driver’s door and opened it, while reaching in to hold the man from falling out. I leaned hard against his bulk and propped him up in his seat. He slumped back into me and I got an extremely close look at him. He had several streaks of black on his skin. It looked as though his veins were carrying dark ink through his body. I considered his dead eyes; they started to fill in with black fluid until they were each a solid mass, like two orbs of onyx buried deep in his skull.

My flight response took over and I left through the hole in the store made by the truck. My car was parked not far from the door and I hopped in and sped off. I didn’t know where I should drive - I only knew I had to get away from the store.

I turned onto Central Street, the main road that went through the heart of the entire town of Pinebush. Several cars had gone off the road. Thankfully, Pinebush isn’t known for its overwhelming number of citizens and the roads were relatively clear. I safely weaved around vehicles that had stopped in the middle of the road.

There was a stretch of Central Street that was pretty much empty, except for a horse farm on one side and a rundown dairy farm on the other. Both farms took up many acres and covered the expanse between Shorey’s and the main part of town. My house was located right in the middle of Pinebush’s handful of business establishments and out of sheer instinct I chose to stop home.

Home…I just want to go home.

I continued past the stretch of farmland and was driving toward the center of town, when something jolted me. It felt like a rhino had charged into the side of my Corolla. The driver’s side window burst into the air. Everything felt like it was happening in slow motion, but at the same time the crash felt like a mere second or two passed. The last thing I remembered before I passed out, was my car turning over.

Next Chapter: Chapter  2 - Razed to the Ground