by P D Platt
He heard the laughter of the three children as they ran around outside his room, enjoying the freedom of the wide-open spaces. For them, this was a new and exciting place to explore.
The children and puppy also enjoyed playing in the interior courtyard, which was surrounded by the four wings of the facility. With hardscaped paths winding around lush planting beds, and benches and birdfeeders adding to the park-like tranquility, the area formed a little oasis: open to the sky above as it shielded them from the world beyond.
The sound of Sammie’s scratching paws and cute yapping barks filled the building; laughter and the patter of feet formed Solomon’s lullaby. Thanks to this new and trusted environment, for the first time in a long while, Solomon dozed off with a relaxed expression and an uncrowded mind.
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Skye busied herself refueling the generator by draining fuel from abandoned diesel trucks in the neighborhood, using whatever containers she could lay her hands on for its collection. Two vehicles alone rewarded her with over twenty gallons—enough to run the generator for several hours.
Once she’d fired up the generator, the overhead lights flickered to life in rapid succession, reviving the dormant building. Controlling lights with wall switches—such a simple act, once taken for granted—invigorated everyone.
By shutting down the circuit breakers that supplied non-critical infrastructure—including all of the west wing—she managed to electrically isolate the building’s four wings. This load shedding saved fuel, allowing longer generator runtime, and enabled much-needed air conditioning to operate in the occupied spaces.
Restoring the electricity and air conditioning rejuvenated them all. The kids became engrossed in the dayroom television, watching DVDs brought from Emily’s house. They were even able to make microwave popcorn. Life almost returned to normal inside their isolated little world.
After the recent successes of rescuing children and finding medical treatment for Solomon, Skye was on a euphoric high. Indulging her innate need to fix things, getting the generator up and running had been equally rewarding; keeping her mind occupied helped to push out the terrible realities of an uncertain tomorrow.
The dwindling pile of full water jugs inspired Skye—organizing a water supply became her next self-appointed mission. And she knew just where to find at least a dozen of those precious blue bottles.
A mere eight days earlier, before everything went to hell, Skye had worked at a local car dealership as an automotive technician—or a mechanic as she’d liked to tell people, purely to see their reaction. She’d either received stunned looks of disbelief that such a petite young woman would pursue this career or the cliched condescending, disapproving looks from others.
The dealership had a storeroom full of water cooler bottles along with coffee, tea, and other snacks intended for waiting customers. Their general manager had been insistent on keeping the complimentary refreshments well stocked.
Now that things were more settled at the nursing home, she decided to head over to her old workplace to bring back the water and snacks—and, most importantly, her tools.
Working on the generator and vehicles had reminded her how much she missed her tool chest. Filled with thousands of dollars of invaluable tools and gadgets amassed over many years, it would undoubtedly come in handy in this new do-it-yourself world. She’d already planned to give the generator a thorough going-over, knowing it was essential for preserving the modern conveniences to which everyone had become accustomed—vital for the occupants’ lives as well as a source of comfort and morale.
So, she set her mission, with drinking water and tools as her main objectives. But Skye also toyed with a hidden, more selfish, agenda. She contemplated shopping for a replacement Mustang while she was at it.
Hers was quite dented, after all.
Chapter 18—Risks
Although Skye observed no one on the road during her ten-minute drive—except for the roaming dog packs, which appeared to grow wilder and more prevalent every day—she resolved to be cautious.
Reaching her destination, Skye drove around the low barrier gate that secured the large lot filled with pristine vehicles in vibrant colors. New pickups dominated the front row, with sedans and SUVs filling in everywhere else. The used car lot lay on the side, next to a sprawling seven-bay service department. That area had been her domain—her wheelhouse—the one place she’d felt comfortable and in control.
Much of a car dealership’s security is based on bright lights, alarm systems, and cameras recording from every angle. But with the absence of electricity, all that had been rendered inoperative.
Fortunately, Skye had access to the safe where the vehicles’ keys were kept. Technically, only the general manager and a few of the senior staff were supposed to have access. But, as the technicians often had to grab keys out of it for car preps and repairs, the managers had shared their codes to avoid the hassle of having to open it for them several times a day. The safe was housed in a special room with a steel door.
Skye had the keys to the building and the code to the safe.
She knew her decision to trade her car for a new one was frivolous and not at all logical. The sensible option would have been to use her dad’s pickup, load the supplies and tools, and return to the nursing home. Straightforward. Simple. But the silence of this new world created an unimaginable loneliness, a stillness and an abundance of time, an emptiness that screamed to be filled. Anything that highlighted that you were truly alive became a powerfully motivating force.
So, instead of a pragmatic plan, Skye decided to load everything onto one of the lot’s new pickups and drive it back to the home. Then she would return in her dad’s old truck and trade her battered car for a newer model.
After stopping her once-prized yellow car in front of an empty service bay, she peeked through a window in the roll up door to scope out inside. All clear. Using her substantial collection of work keys—to numerous doors, toolboxes, and lock boxes that held customers’ keys—she unlocked the door to the service department. Then, she manually raised the bay door just enough to drive her car inside. She figured it was the least she could do for the car that had been her companion for so long.
To put it out to pasture here seemed somehow fitting. It would be safe and secure, away from the elements—and this was her former workplace, the place where she’d spent so many long hours. Here, a piece of her would always remain.
Gravity did its work when she released the chain, bringing the bay door crashing back down to the ground. She intentionally made a racket, in case she wasn’t alone; she’d sooner confront a threat in the open space of the service area rather than in the tight confines of the interior offices.
Shotgun in hand, she headed for the storeroom situated halfway down the corridor that connected the showroom with the service department. After unlocking the door, she grabbed the little dolly kept for toting the water jugs to the customer waiting area. She’d helped with this task numerous times, but now she was responsible for taking them all, and not just to the cooler, but to a new truck of her choice. Skye rolled the water jugs and cases of snack items to the rear bay. Now all she had to do was pick a truck from the plentiful supply, one suitable for this new, post-apocalyptic world.
Next, she headed to the secure room, where they kept the electronic key safe that housed the coded key fobs for every vehicle on the lot. Fortunately, the lockbox had a battery backup, so she punched in the memorized combination and flipped through the keys hung double-sided on its interior panels. She knew exactly which one she wanted first: the fob with a limited-edition chrome Mustang medallion. After she’d slid that into her jeans pocket, she flipped through the truck keys, looking for one for a pickup with appropriate towing capacity and four-wheel drive, to ensure they were ready for anything.
She closed and locked the safe room out of habit, chuckling when she realized there was no longer any need. Eager to check out her new ride, she headed out to the main showroom, wher
e it proudly sat center stage. She’d eyed it every day since they’d delivered it, never imagining she might eventually own one, especially brand new off the floor.
But that was before. Now, despite the circumstances, it was exciting to know she was the new owner of such an exclusive car and would be driving it in a matter of hours.
Before heading outside to bring the new truck around to load all the items, Skye took a moment to appreciate the shimmering gloss of her new Mustang Bullitt; its aggressive lines and commanding stance shouted muscled speed. A spontaneous idea hit her, and with it, a tingle of excitement. She unscrewed the dealer plate from the wide-profile rear bumper, placed it on the nearest desk and grabbed a permanent marker. Using this, she wrote SKYE in bold black letters on the rear of the plastic plate.
She stood back to admire her handiwork displayed on the cherry red muscle car, officially claiming it as hers. Perfect! “I’ll be back for you later.”
As she headed over to unlock the showroom doors, a police car pulled up to the front walkway. Her heart pounding in her mouth, she ducked behind a sales display filled with brochures of overly happy families vacationing in their new vehicles.
What the hell? Were the police still active? And why patrol a car dealership of all places?
Her questions were answered soon enough when two young males pressed their faces to the storefront glass. The morning sun’s angle made the glass mirror-like when viewed from the outside. Dirty and unshaven, with long hair and no uniforms: these were no cops. One wore his long hair knotted in a high bun on the back of his head, while his dusty looking partner used a wide red bandana pulled across the top of his narrow forehead to tame his locks. Bun Man wielded a long crowbar, easily half his height, the other carried what appeared to be the police cruiser’s assault shotgun.
Headband Man also wore a police gun belt outfitted with tactical gear hanging loose around his thin hips, much like a cowboy in an old Western movie. Dressed in ripped jeans and faded T-shirts, they appeared to have gone for a grungy, tough-guy look.
Both failed to pull it off.
Skye entered full panic mode, her lungs sucking down air in anemic, choppy spurts. Peering through the gaps in the brochure rack, she watched them walk around the corner of the showroom, apparently heading for the side entrance.
She took the opportunity to dart to the back, not caring if they saw her or not. Her shotgun was still in the safe room; she could clearly picture it propped against the wall. Her preoccupation with the car had disrupted her usual attentiveness. Angry with herself for not keeping the gun with her at all times, she promised herself that if she got out of this, it would be the last time she failed to keep it close.
The sound of glass shattering echoed down the corridor behind her, but she didn’t look back, focusing instead on getting to her trusted double-barrel, the one thing that would even the odds. The long, straight hall left her exposed, but her only option was to keep going. Reaching the safe room, Skye fumbled with her keys, trying three different ones before finding the one that fit.
“Hey!” came a shout from the showroom.
As rapid footfalls slapped through the corridor, Skye still refused to look back. Stumbling into the safe room, she slammed the door behind her, hoping it would buy her precious moments to figure out her next move. Raucous whoops could be heard through the steel door: the only thing separating her from men with bad intentions who stood mere inches away.
What exactly was her next move? It had been smart to go for the gun, but dumb to be essentially trapped. Only one way out of this room, and with the aid of Bun Man’s crowbar, those two would eventually get in. Thudding kicks pounded the door, causing the frame to shudder and dust to fall on her head from the ceiling tiles above.
The siege had begun.
Skye positioned herself against the far wall, training her shotgun’s double barrels on the door as she waited for it to burst open any second. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness of the safe room, only thin wedges of precious light leaking around the doorway. She heard the word “crowbar” from one of the men, and soon after, steel hammered against steel, detonating the room with explosive vibrations. She only had two shells, the ones that were chambered, having expected and hoped she’d not need any at all.
As the pounding and prying continued, Skye fought to calm herself with deliberate, slow breaths, wondering if she could really shoot another person. It was something one viewed differently when there was time to consider the act. Fear and doubt panicked her even more. Was there an alternative? Surely, these guys wouldn’t listen to reason. Would they?
“We’re comin’ for ya, hun!” Their antagonistic shouts continued as the door weakened by the second, ready to crash open in defeat any moment.
Throwing back her head, Skye groaned her frustration, and the tilt of her neck triggered an idea. Of course! The ceiling was a false grid, with only tiles separating her from the expansive distance to the roof deck above.
Without hesitation, she climbed onto a bookcase and used the shotgun to push one of the tiles upward, creating a pseudo escape route. She monkeyed to the top of the shelving unit and glanced into the dusty darkness of the ceiling cavity. Locating the top of a wall at chest height, she pulled herself through the gap she’d created and balanced longways on its narrow ledge. While bracing herself with one arm, she carefully used the shotgun barrel to reseat the tile, thereby concealing her exit. Although she’d not placed it perfectly, it was too late for anything else. The door flew open below, smashing into the wall.
She froze in place, afraid to even breathe. White beams of light danced through the thin gaps in the ceiling grid.
“Where the hell did she go?”
There was nowhere to hide in the room. She heard the shelving unit topple below as the men tossed everything in the room, bewildered by her apparent disappearance. Maybe they thought the shelf concealed a door?
They began to argue.
“Are you sure she came in here?” This man’s voice sounded different than the irritating tone of his partner. It was deeper in pitch, slower in rhythm.
Their footsteps faded back to the hall but soon returned.
“This was the room—I know what I saw, Brian.”
“So where is she?”
Then, as she hid in the darkness, precariously perched mere feet above dangerous men who seemed to lack any form of morality, the worst possible thing happened. Everything went silent, leaving her with only guesses. She could visualize them pointing upward, finally solving the easy riddle of how she’d escaped.
Sweat dripped from her face and arms, the beads hitting the top of the tiles like pellets, their sound magnified by her fear. A dragging sound came from the hall. Were they bringing something else to climb up?
There was no time to lose; she became more vulnerable with every second of hesitation. Frantically groping around in the darkened space, her hand landed on a steel pipe, about two inches in diameter, running horizontally just over her head. The fire sprinkler pipes. The realization provided further inspiration. Using them to lift herself into a standing position, Skye slowly directed the gun toward the danger below. She could only hope they moved on with their search.
“Give me that!” one man ordered the other.
As ceiling tiles flew upward, poked by the long reach of the crowbar, light penetrated her refuge.
“We’re going to find you—come out, come out,” the other man taunted.
It was hard to watch everywhere at once; they had the advantage of light to see by and stood on solid ground. The hook end of the crowbar snagged near her shoes, forcing her to adjust her stance. Using the flickers of light as best she could, she straddled the fire sprinkler pipe and slid away from the men as far as possible without losing her balance.
Skye knew the adjacent room belonged to her former boss—the service manager, Eddie. She formed a mental picture of his office: the bookcase that housed his drag racing trophies, the small desk in the center of the square
room.
As one foot dangled over dead space, she propped the other against the wall, barely supporting any weight. Her limbs trembled with fatigue as wet hands made her grip fade. The dust swirling in the disturbed air settled on her perspiring skin, forming a thin layer of mud.
Deciding she couldn’t wait any longer, she used the best guess of her memory to picture Eddie’s cluttered desk somewhere below. As she attempted to use the gunstock to knock the ceiling tiles away, the weapon slipped from her sweaty grip and clattered onto the furniture beneath. Swiping for it in a delayed reaction, she tilted off-balance and toppled in a thunder of commotion. As the sharp edges of the ceiling grid slashed her arms and face, searing pain shot through her body, followed by hot trickles of blood. She landed in a heap on the paper-strewn desk, which scarcely broke her fall.
Temporarily stunned, Skye gazed at the sunlight permeating the glass window-wall of Eddie’s office; the silhouette of a man stood out against the bright backdrop of indirect sunshine filtering into the hall. The man wiggled the doorknob, eager to meet his elusive prey.
As Skye fumbled for her weapon, a top section of the glass wall shattered. An arm reached inside for the latch. She rolled off the desk and grabbed the wooden stock of her shotgun from behind the desk’s chair.
The door erupted inward, its handle lodging in the linen-papered wall. Her legs shuffled in a blurred frenzy until she felt the bookcase at her back. Jittery fingers searched for the guard that housed the double triggers. The feel of the tiny steel levers providing some comfort within her immense terror.
The squealy man with the bandana came at her. “You ain’t gonna shoot—”
Eddie’s office flashed with the explosiveness of a bomb.