by A. K. Meek
There had been no traffic into Bartel since the bombs. The main highway into and out of the town was turned into a giant’s golf course of blast craters. Networks of smaller roads led to and from orchards and farms. None provided a direct travel point to any big city. Not that any of this mattered, anyway, since no electronic device worked since the second power outage, including cars.
Johnny imagined this is what was meant when people would say, “bombed back to the stone age.” Good thing he still had a couple cartons of Marlboro Reds stashed at his house.
He wiped late morning humidity from his forehead and contemplated getting another shirt from home. The one he’d been wearing for the past week had become plenty ripe. Movement to his left caused him to pause. About ten people approached on bicycles.
Sure, people were now getting out and about more, but typically they were only in large groups downtown, when the mayor was holding a town hall meeting or when a local restaurant was purging all of their expiring food by holding community potlucks.
The group seemed out of place for some reason he couldn’t quite figure out.
Quickly the bicycle gang closed the distance. They rode ten-speeds and mountain bikes. Many bikes wobbled as their riders struggled to keep them in straight lines, tubeless rims scraping on worn asphalt.
As they neared Johnny realized he didn’t recognize any of them. They ranged in age from late teens to middle-aged.
Shiloh, intrigued by the fellow bike-riding group, stopped his dizzying circles to watch the entourage approach.
Their tattered and filthy clothes indicated they have been living outside, like they’d dragged their clothes through thorn bushes. Their hair was matted and their faces were peppered in varying degrees of beards and mustaches, all ungroomed. Three guys had hacking coughs, blowing spit into the air with each violent hack. They didn’t concern themselves with covering their mouths any longer. Boils could be seen covering portions of their face, red and irritated. Johnny didn’t know what had happened to them, and made a mental note to stay away from them so he wouldn’t catch whatever they had.
“Hey there,” the man at the front of the bicycle group said. Waving, he strained to force his face into a warm smile. He wasn’t too successful. “Is this Bartel?”
“Who are they?” Shiloh asked Johnny.
He ignored the kid. “Hey,” he called back. “Yeah.” He waved to indicate he was friendly.
“We’re from up north. We’ve been heading south. We have children that are sick. Is there a hospital near?”
Johnny shook his head. “No. Nearest is Haven, but you can’t get there by bike. It’s been bombed. We have a clinic. I can take you there.”
“Really?” the man said. The rest of his group stirred. “That’s be great if you could. We could use the help.”
“I’m headed back to town. It’s not more than a mile this way.” He started back in that direction.
The group fell in line, playing follow the leader with Johnny. Several hopped off their bikes and walked them. Others straddled their seats, feet on the ground, shuffling along to the slow pace.
The leader moved so he walked next to Johnny. “Thanks friend. My name’s Rob.” He gave Shiloh, who was on the other side of Johnny, a weak smile. “Say, that’s a nice bike.”
“Dad gave it to me for my birthday.”
Rob nodded, and after a block of silence, he reached in his backpack and pulled out a beat up can of beer. “It’s hot as the devil out here.” He popped the top and it made a half-hearted fizz, a sign of being room temperature and flat. “They say this stuff’ll dehydrate you, but I say, ‘so what.’” He took a long drink then turned to Johnny. “You want one?”
Johnny knew he shouldn’t, especially since he’d turned over a new leaf. He hadn’t drunk in over a week. That was a personal record for him. He deserved a reward for his hard work.
Taking the offered can, Johnny drowned away any shame that might try to crawl up his throat.
Johnny didn’t often feel embarrassment. The fact he had passed out in a drunken stupor through the worst disaster in American history brought him pretty close to feeling shame. Clive and LaTonya riding him about that every waking moment drove it home.
But now he saw the chance to do something good for someone else. Helping these strangers get the medical care they needed would be good. No one could deny that, not even Kurt. Johnny deserved at least one beer.
“By the way, my brother’s the sheriff,” Johnny said as he was riding the emotion of altruism, piling on any other good deed to pop in his head.
“Really?” newfound friend Rob said, sounding genuinely interested.
“Yeah. We’ll swing by there first. I have to drop his son off there,” he pointed to Shiloh. “You can meet him and the deputies. I know them all.”
Rob pursed his lips, his smile no longer fake. “Are there many?”
“No. My brother just hired three people because we lost some in the bombing. Kyle’s another,” Johnny said, remembering the details of the days past. “But he’s hurt.”
“Sounds awful.”
“It was.”
“Are you a deputy?”
“Nah. Don’t wanna be one,” Johnny lied. Kurt wouldn’t even let him touch a gun. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Rob gave a hearty laugh. “I absolutely agree, my friend.” He tossed his empty can to the ground. “How much longer till we get to the station?”
“Soon.”
Johnny led the group through quiet neighborhoods, and eventually the houses gave way to small engine repair shops, an independent farming supply store, and a barber shop. They passed a Food Lion that everyone steered cleared of since the freezers defrosted and made the whole place smell like a dumpster of roadkill rotting in the sun.
They rounded a corner onto Peach Lane, where the salon-turned-sheriff’s-office was located. “There,” Johnny pointed ahead. “The end is in sight. Hey,” he called out to his brother.
Stu had made good on his promise and brought two more horses for Kurt’s use. They were in the parking lot and Kurt was out front with the new deputies, admiring the rides.
“Looks like everyone’s here,” Johnny said, beaming because he was sure he just saved a handful of men, women, and children.
“Really,” Rob said.
A gunshot rang out from behind Johnny. One of the horses shrieked and reared back on its hind legs. Kurt, who was holding onto its reins, was jerked off-balance, spinning sideways and tumbling to the ground.
“What the—” Stu began as he turned to face them.
More shots cracked the air.
Everyone on the streets ducked and scrambled for cover.
Johnny’s face flushed with fearful excitement. He froze in place, unable to work out what to do. In a flash of sudden clarity, he realized the man that he just brought into town was ambushing his brother.
An object whizzed by his ear and he further realized the deputies were firing back. And he was caught in the crossfire.
Finally, his senses kicked in. He screamed, ducked down, covered his head with his arms, then sprinted for a nearby doorway.
Reaching the storefront of a Hallmark shop, he slammed his weak shoulder against the door. The heavy oak door flexed slightly but didn’t give. Recoil almost knocked him over. He raced to the next doorway, which was a froyo shop.
This door was unlocked. He flung himself inside and shot behind the counter, cowering.
Gun fire grew in intensity so that it sounded like the world was exploding.
He could hear Clive screaming for the bike gang to drop their guns.
Cries of pain cut through the noise. Johnny imagined those were the dying screams of his brother.
His mind went back to the fact he’d brought this upon the town. He’d brought these killers that were right now wiping out Bartel.
What could he do? He had no gun, he had no way to fight back. Truthfully, he didn’t even want to fight back. What he wanted to do was
leap to his feet and run out the back door and put as much distance as possible between him and the gunfight. He would’ve done that too, but his legs didn’t work at the moment.
He waited for what seemed like a long period of time, but in actuality was just a couple minutes.
The battle that sounded like a million nail guns firing tapered into a sporadic pop here and there. Another couple of minutes and the gunfire stopped, replaced by hollering.
With his lower half finally working, Johnny stood on newborn calf-wobbly legs. He searched the streets outside the froyo plate glass windows, but didn’t see any movement outside.
Cautiously, he made his way to the front door and peered left and right. Bodies littered the ground next to the bikes. A small body was pinned underneath one.
His heart sank as he recognized the body. In a moment of rare compassion, he bolted outside.
Clive leaned over Stu, performing CPR. Next to them a horse lay on its side, its legs slowly churning. Storefront windows were shattered, sidewalks covered in glistening shards. People unable to find shelter inside were rising from their makeshift foxholes. Several more bodies were strewn about the street like trash.
LaTonya had her pistol drawn and was cautiously moving toward the bicycles. Once she reached them, she gasped and lowered her pistol; her hand went to her mouth. “Kurt!” she screamed as she holstered her weapon and dropped to her knees. She slung the bike off the body.
Kurt was checking the pulse of a middle-aged white woman slumped over a blue mailbox. The body slid to the sidewalk as Kurt let go and sprinted toward his deputy. He screamed as he neared, shoving LaTonya aside. He cradled the body that was underneath the bicycle in his arms.
And in an instant Johnny knew for sure.
Bile rose in his throat as he rushed over to his brother, clutching his son, covered in blood, in his arms. Sobs escaped him as his body heaved.
“Oh no!” Johnny exclaimed as he grasped his head. “What did I do?”
With the gun battle over, people emerged from hiding spots. They poured into the streets of Bartel to tend to those who had been caught in the crossfire. Johnny continued holding his head, ’cause he didn’t know what else to do.
Fifteen.
In minutes, in the span of a few heartbeats, fifteen citizens no longer existed in this upside-down world. At least ten others were injured by shrapnel or bullet wounds. None of them critical. Thankfully. The clinic was overwhelmed. From all across the town, residents had shown up to help.
Johnny leaned on a brick wall near the clinic. Using his boot as a shovel, he searched for cigarette butts to dig up. He’d smoked his last over an hour ago.
Night had approached quickly as Johnny watched people entering the clinic, bringing candles so the medical techs could continue working well into the night.
He couldn’t bring himself to go inside. No one had said anything, and no one needed to. Even if they weren’t looking at him he felt their condemning attitudes. It was a familiar feeling, one he knew well.
Clive emerged from the clinic. He looked at the sky, stretched, then took the couple of steps off the clinic porch to come stand next to Johnny. Blood was sprinkled over his face like someone had used it to christen him. His shirt was soaked in blood and sweat. He looked like he had been to hell and back. He didn’t say anything for a minute, like he was sorting through the right words to say to fit this moment. Finally, he took in a deep breath and said, “This sucks.”
Johnny nodded.
He wanted to ask how his brother was doing, but saying that would give in to what he didn’t want to believe.
“Your brother’s pretty upset,” Clive said, like he could read Johnny’s mind and the unspoken question. After another quiet minute he said, “We’ve got a big problem.”
Not finding any cigarette butts, Johnny turned to him. “What do you mean?”
“We’re not secure.” Clive said flatly. “We need to secure this town. We need to block off the outside world.”
“How can we do that? Shut out the world?”
In the dark, Clive’s features were lost. But even in the dimming light Johnny could see him biting his cheek.
“We need to isolate ourselves. Block the roads, put up patrols to keep anyone and everyone out. We’re in a new world and as far as I’m concerned, everyone wants to hurt us.” He looked at his red-stained hands and wiped them on red-stained pants. He gave up once he saw there was no use. “We’re gonna need a lot more deputies,” he said before walking back inside to see if anyone else needed help.
02.01
THE WALL
After watching the purple tentacles etched in the sky for the last ten minutes, Mayor Aubrey Gifford came to the conclusion they were jet trails.
Somewhere off to the west, planes were cutting up the sky. She couldn’t tell how far away they were. Miles. Tens of miles.
At one point, three bursts indicated an explosion. She thought maybe a plane was shot from the sky. Whatever it was, she didn’t like it because she didn’t know what was going on out there. She wasn’t used to not knowing. Not as mayor.
The reason she ran for office two years ago was because she hated not knowing. That became her platform.
She had been widowed five years ago, after thirteen being married. A horrible accident had claimed her beloved Donald. Shortly after his death, she hung out her realtor’s license.
With her naturally athletic build, flaming red hair, and playful personality, she’d quickly outshined her Re-Max peers. In only a couple years, she’d reached the pinnacle, as far as Bartel real estate agents went.
The last thing she ever expected to do was run for public office. But after issues with Donald’s city employee medical benefits, she decided on a career change: run for mayor. And the crazy thing was, she won.
But even after she won she didn’t know everything. The previous mayor had so many of his friends working in key positions she had yet to unravel all his secrets.
She looked to the west. There, jets were flying, which meant there was power. At least in those planes.
Her eyes turned the western sky to the pandemonium around her. Her town was in the process of being shut off from the rest of the world. Teams of horses were hitched to cars, dragging them away. They would find a home on the outskirts of town, used to barricade the roadways from any travelers, by car or by bike. Roadblocks. Just in case someone else had automotive power. And bad intentions.
After the ambush that slaughtered fifteen citizens, she had met with city emergency management, councilmembers, and the sheriff. At that time, they made the decision that a blockade was necessary to keep the town safe.
Kurt had been working day and night to secure the roads. And establish patrols. He hadn’t even had time to mourn the loss of his son.
With a somewhat morbid gratitude, she was glad she had no family left on the earth. It left her feeling guilty, like feeling this way meant she didn’t cherish the time she had with Donald. But that wasn’t true. She missed him every day. Especially now that the world was falling apart. She was scared, so scared. And alone.
“Mayor.”
She redirected her gaze to Reverend Farah, who had snuck up on her. “Yes, Rev. What is it?” she forced a smile.
“My congregation wants to know what your plan is once you’ve closed them off from society. They’re nervous. I’d say even mortified. Terrified. They see strangers come into town and kill us. What’s your plan?”
He sounded like at any moment he’d slip into a sermon, preaching about the oppression of his kind. She wanted to tell him to save his posturing and poor vocabulary skills for Sunday morning.
She admitted to herself she could understand his fear. She’d sworn to never hide anything from her constituents. Good or bad, he was a constituent. “I don’t know,” she said, honestly, somewhat hesitantly. “One thing at a time.”
The reverend’s mouth puckered, like he wanted to say more, but something kept him restrained for a change.
“Well, I hope no more of us gets shot while you’re trying to figure it out.” He turned and stormed off to his church.
He was right. She needed to figure something out, and soon. What was there left to do? Cut off the world, then what?
The world ending wouldn’t wait for her. Neither would the people. She sighed and some part of her wished she was one of the fifteen killed in the attack. Then she could be with Donald again.
“Trespassers? Where?” Kurt bolted from his chair, pushing the thoughts of his murdered son aside, instinctively reaching for his patrol car keys where he normally kept them on the corner of his desk. Then he remembered and acted like he was reaching for a stack of papers.
Everyone wanted him to take time off. They all said he needed time to mourn his loss. His and Marcia’s loss.
But the town needed to be secured. It couldn’t wait.
Or was there more to it?
If he were honest with himself, he would’ve said that wasn’t the real issue. The real issue was that he didn’t want to take time because he didn’t want to mourn. He didn’t want to slow down and cry. It was too painful. Maybe if he did stop completely, he’d start crying and never stop. Partly because of the loss, partly the guilt for not treasuring the time.
And the worst part was he didn’t realize he was making the same mistake with his wife.
LaTonya tried to figure out what he was doing, then dismissed it. “They’re at Fifth and Colony. Earl’s team stopped them. Clive’s with them now.”
In his head, Kurt mentally drew a map of the intersection. “Wait, that’s at least a quarter mile inside our border. What happened?”
When the city leaders met, they drew out a rough perimeter encompassing the town. Inside that would be patrols of community volunteers. A wall of safety. But it wasn’t a mandatory encampment.