Desolation (Book 1): Desolation

by Lucin, David

  “You sure you want to come, Jenn?” Gary asked. “It could be dangerous.”

  She tried the passenger door behind Liam. It was locked. The fire in her chest was growing hotter every second. “I don’t care. I’m going.”

  “Jenn . . .” Sam said. He reached out for her again, but she dodged him.

  “Stop trying to help me! I’m fine. I—” How could she make him understand? Sam hated conflict. Even in his draft year, the idea of enlisting in the military to avoid conscription disgusted him. It never crossed Jenn’s mind, either, but things were different now. She wasn’t fighting the Chinese in India, the Russians in the Ukraines, or the Brazilians in Mexico; she was here, in Flagstaff, protecting her home and her new family.

  “Clock’s ticking here, guys,” Liam said. “Gary, is she coming or not?”

  “I taught her to shoot.” He was speaking to Liam, but his eyes were still on Jenn. “And you’re undermanned. You admitted so yourself: if there’s a hundred people marching into town, you need all the help you can get, especially from someone who’s going to support your plan to let them in. I doubt everyone’ll be on board with that.”

  Liam slapped the car with a palm. “Then hop in.”

  The door finally unlocked. Jenn pulled it open and went to lower herself inside but paused when she saw seamless plastic seats with a recess for her butt. A black cage atop a wall of sleek gray metal separated the back seat from the front. In the center console rested a shotgun. When she sat, Sam stood on the curb, his posture stiff, and chewed a fingernail. She expected him to try and join her, or maybe he was waiting for an invitation, so she said, “Go check on Maria so she knows what’s going on.”

  She braced for an argument, but Sam bowed his head and tucked his hands into his pockets. Liam switched on the siren and Jenn shut her door. With a screech of the tires, the vehicle tore forward.

  The flames in her chest cooled as she left Sam behind. A block later, she could breathe. She’d had enough of him treating her like she was damaged or broken. Maybe after she went with Gary and Liam he’d finally understand that she was the same Jenn as always and didn’t need his help or pity.

  Eyes on the road, Liam said over the siren, “Jenn, what can you shoot?”

  Her index finger twitched as she recalled pulling the trigger at the golf course. “A pistol. Gary’s Glock.”

  “Anything else?” Liam peeled around a corner, and Jenn slid right on the smooth surface beneath her.

  “That’s all I’ve shot.” She searched for a seat belt. The buckle was beside her, but she couldn’t find the rest.

  Liam hit the gas, and acceleration forces rippled through her chest. “Gary, give her your Glock and use the shotgun.” He flicked his head at the weapon in the console, then took another sharp right.

  Abandoning her quest for the seat belt, Jenn braced her hands against the metal wall between her and Liam. “In the glove compartment,” Liam said. “Take one for you and Jenn.”

  Gary fiddled with a latch. When he finally got it open, he pulled out two masks wrapped in plastic.

  A radio on the dash crackled. “Unit two-zero-nine,” the female voice on the other end said.

  “Unit two-zero-nine,” Liam answered without removing his hands from the wheel. “Go ahead.”

  The dispatcher spat more alphanumeric jargon. Jenn caught “I-40” and nothing else.

  “Ten-four,” Liam said. “En route. Over.”

  Gary twisted in his seat to face Jenn. “Roadblock’s just outside of town on I-40,” he translated. “There’s a squad car and some other civilians there to help out.”

  Liam hung a hard right that threw Jenn against her door. Milton Road was a few blocks ahead. From there, she guessed, they would turn onto the interstate.

  “Jenn,” Gary said, drawing her attention. “When we get there, you follow my lead, understand? We don’t know what we’re dealing with. Orders are still to send the refugees away. We’ll do our best to make sure that doesn’t happen, but it’ll be a tense situation. The gun, it’s only for self-defense. We have to be cautious.”

  “Got it.” Jenn’s palms were sweaty, and they slipped as she braced them against the divider. When she lifted her head again, Gary’s gaze was still fixed on her. “I said I got it, Gary. Stick by you. Roger that.”

  The corners of his lips twitched like he was struggling to fight off a smile. Was he excited to be in his element, policing and protecting his town? Or was he happy that Jenn had volunteered to help? Before the bombs, he encouraged her to enlist in the military. Camila enlisted, and Jenn knew he admired her bravery and sacrifice. Yesterday, he told Jenn that he was proud of her for defending Sam and Nicole. Maybe he was proud of her now, too.

  Liam weaved between two stalled vehicles as he merged onto I-40 and tore west. The road straightened out in front of them, and the squad car whined as Liam pushed it past seventy miles per hour.

  More blabbering came from the radio. Jenn heard Mayor Andrews’ name and something about the westbound lane and a drone. How long had these people been walking? Since the day of the explosions? How could they survive in the desert? And why was the mayor intent on sending them away? There weren’t many supplies in town, as Liam had said, but the pump from the reservoir to the water treatment plant would be up and running within a week and the hospital already had emergency solar power. Flagstaff might not be able to keep the refugees forever, but the mayor could at least do everything possible to save their lives.

  After what felt like only seconds, Liam decelerated. Ahead, a sharp rock face flanked the right of the highway. Straddling the outside lane was a blue Waterworks Plumbing Company van. The median, dotted with Ponderosas and spindly bushes, sloped down toward the eastbound lanes, where a second squad car and a black pickup truck stood guard. Fewer than ten men and women, only three of them clad in Flagstaff PD uniforms, patrolled the road. Most carried long hunting rifles. Some had pistols.

  Liam cut the sirens and positioned the vehicle between the median and the van, reminding Jenn of the roadblock near Payson. Ambushing a pack of refugees in the same way didn’t seem right.

  With the car parked, Liam killed the engine and climbed out. Gary took the shotgun and followed him. From outside, Liam opened Jenn’s door with a squeak, then shouted to another officer next to the Waterworks Plumbing van.

  As Jenn stepped out of the vehicle, Gary handed her one of the masks. With slick fingers, she tore apart the plastic bag, tucked it into her pocket, and fitted the mask atop her mouth and nose. The inside smelled like cardboard and made it hard to breathe. At the back of her head, the elastic band pulled her hair.

  Next, Gary gave her his Glock. When she took it, the smell of gunpowder filled her nostrils.

  “It’s loaded,” he said.

  “Okay.” Jenn checked the chamber anyway, just to be sure. Gary nodded approvingly, then gripped the shotgun with both hands and racked the slide. The sound made her skin crawl.

  “Gary!” Liam called from the van.

  “Remember,” Gary said to her as they approached Liam, “stay beside me.”

  Jenn tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat.

  They passed a woman wearing a ball cap and carrying a hunting rifle. She spoke to a man in a tight-fitting white T-shirt and camo pants. An assault rifle hung across his chest. A second man, this one in red plaid, slapped a magazine into his weapon and tucked it into his belt. Liam, his service pistol drawn, peered past the Waterworks van. Almost everyone wore masks that covered their mouths and noses.

  With Liam was another officer, a middle-aged woman Jenn didn’t recognize. Her brown hair was weaved into a tight braid, and she had a mole on her cheek. Her face was lean and her features sharp, like someone had drawn them with only straight lines. She reminded Jenn of her high school English teacher, a severe and uncompromising shrew who berated her for using commas wrong in essays.

  “Where’s everyone else?” Jenn asked. She counted ten people on this side of the
highway and half as many on the other side. At least a hundred refugees were on their way. This couldn’t be all that was coming to help, could it?

  “This might be it,” Gary said. “Let’s hope everyone’s on the same page.”

  “Same page?” Jenn objected. “It looks like they’re getting ready to go to war.” The man wearing plaid shot her a fierce glare. She pretended not to see it.

  “I know.” Gary slowed and spoke quietly. “Remember, keep close to—”

  “Gary!” Liam shouted from the van. He waved to the officer with the braid. “Officer Carrera. Carrera, Gary.”

  Officer Carrera blinked at Gary. “Refugees are approaching on the westbound lanes, coming straight for us,” she said, her voice muffled through her mask. “So most of our forces are up here. We’ve got a few down below on the eastbound side but out of sight.” She waved a hand toward the highway. The road stretched forward, through the smoke, and then, maybe two hundred yards ahead, it curved right and disappeared behind the rock face. “If all goes according to plan, we should catch them off guard when they round that corner, and we’ll take them by surprise.”

  “Take them by surprise?” Jenn heard herself say. “What is this? An ambush? You’re planning to shoot these people. Are you insane?”

  Officer Carrera lowered her mask to reveal thick lips. “The mayor explicitly—”

  “Not happening,” Liam said. He stood up straight and towered over Carrera. “The LT put me in charge, and I’m not sending anyone back out there. Forget what the mayor wants. We’re not monsters.”

  Carrera recoiled in disgust. “And the lieutenant’s given you the green light to do that?”

  Liam’s eyes flicked to Jenn and Gary.

  “We don’t have the resources for a hundred more people,” Carrera said. “My husband’s got cancer, and the hospital’s running out of chemo drugs. You think I’m going to stand here while they give them to some refugees from Las Vegas?”

  “Seriously?” Jenn snapped. “My parents are in Phoenix.” She cringed at her use of the present tense but didn’t correct herself. “Who are you to say who gets help and who doesn’t? You become God all of a sudden?” Her hand was on the Glock now, and Carrera saw it. Good.

  A vein in Carrera’s neck pulsed. “Listen, you little brat. If you—”

  “Whoa.” Liam stepped between the two women. He faced Carrera and held his arms out. “Officer,” he said in a neutral but stern tone. “Don’t make me remind you who’s in charge here. You got a problem, take it up with the lieutenant. Otherwise, you carry out my orders. Understand?”

  Carrera, staring past Liam and straight at Jenn, nodded curtly, put her mask on, and spoke to a pair of civilians.

  Gary squeezed Jenn’s shoulder, but his expression was unreadable. He could have been upset with her outburst or proud of her for speaking up. She didn’t care. Thinking of shortsighted police officers turning away people like her parents made the fire in her chest return, worse this time, and she was beginning to see red.

  Liam tugged on his earlobe. “Okay then. Good to know at least Jenn’s on my side.”

  She began to spit toward Carrera but stopped when she remembered the mask over her mouth. “No problem. She’s a real b—”

  Liam’s radio crackled. When the staticky voice went silent, he said, “Copy that,” and spun around. “ETA ten minutes. Get into position.” Then, after a second, “There is to be no violence, you understand me? I don’t care what the mayor says. We’re not sending these folks away. I’ll go out and talk to them, see what we can work out. Keep your weapons ready and stay sharp, but do not under any circumstances fire unless I and me alone”—he poked his chest for emphasis—“give the order. We clear on that?”

  Carrera, next to a civilian carrying a hunting rifle, shook her head dismissively.

  “Understand?” Liam repeated, louder now. Jenn sensed he was speaking more to his colleague than to anyone else.

  Mumbles of agreement spread among the group, so he went to work directing the armed civilians and the other officers. Jenn and Gary were instructed to guard the front end of the squad car.

  She rested her elbows on the hood and took stock of their position. Gary was on her left, aiming the shotgun down the highway. To her right were the man holding the assault rifle and the woman wearing the ball cap. Past them, another civilian and Officer Carrera waited near the van’s bumper. Closest to the rock face, Liam stood guard with another male cop and two men in street clothes. All were armed.

  A breeze blew hair onto Jenn’s lip. Birds chirped behind them. A woman coughed, and someone shushed her.

  The mask itched. Straining to see in the smoke, she blinked hard. Her eyes were dry and stung, and her fingers were ice cold. Both feet had gone numb. She shifted her weight to adjust her back, which spasmed right above her hip. According to her watch, fourteen minutes had passed. They felt like ninety.

  She tried to imagine how the scene would play out. Would the refugees have weapons? From the sounds of it, they didn’t have any vehicles, but they could still be carrying guns. If they started making demands Liam couldn’t satisfy, would they become violent? Could ten people stop them?

  “You holding up all right?” Gary asked her, his eyes on the road.

  “Fine,” she said reflexively.

  He adjusted his grip on the shotgun. “I see. You’re breathing a little heavy. Smoke bothering you?”

  She held her breath. Had she started hyperventilating? She always used to do that in the on-deck circle before a big at-bat. She recalled the relaxation technique her brother Jason taught her: breathe in for three seconds through the nose, hold, then blow out for three seconds through the mouth. “No. I’m good.”

  After her fifth repetition, she said to Gary, “What do you think’s going to happen?”

  “I don’t know. But I trust Liam to make the right call.”

  Jenn did, too, though she didn’t trust Carrera. Looking down their line, she found three or four others she didn’t trust, either. The man in red plaid made eye contact, so she pretended to scratch her cheek on her sweater.

  When she finished, a figure, shrouded in smoke, rounded the corner and appeared from behind the rock face. Then another. And another. Dozens more joined them within seconds.

  “My God,” Gary muttered.

  Jenn focused on a woman at the head of the group. In her arms, she carried a child aged no more than two or three. A ten- or eleven-year-old boy limped alongside her. Dust and ash covered their clothes and faces. Her left foot dragged behind with each step. A man to her right pushed a wheelbarrow. In it lay an elderly woman. Jenn wondered if she was alive or dead. The sound of coughing rumbled toward the roadblock like thunder during a summer storm.

  A shirtless man fell to his hands and knees. Beneath the ash and dirt caking his chest and stomach, his skin burned red. He hacked violently and threw up. Someone took his arm and lifted him to his feet. His body went limp, so a second refugee supported him. Together, they dragged him forward.

  Bile crept into Jenn’s throat. The scene reminded her of migrant trains trekking across deserts to escape the wars and heat of the Middle East, but this was the United States, not Iraq or Jordan or Turkey.

  She found herself searching the crowd for her parents.

  “Radiation poisoning!” someone shouted. “They have radiation poisoning!”

  Jenn’s heart rate spiked. The woman with the child had white scabs on her cheeks, and her scalp was visible through thinning hair. Radiation poisoning wasn’t contagious, was it? Did fallout particles stick to clothes? And why were they poisoned at all? Gary said there was no fallout. Did the bombs that hit Las Vegas not explode in the air like the ones that hit Phoenix?

  Down the line, the man with a white T-shirt and assault rifle stirred. Past him, Officer Carrera spoke into her radio. Liam slid between the squad car and the plumbing van and approached the refugees, his hands empty. Gary leaned forward on the hood.

  The horde cont
inued marching, but one person emerged from its ranks. Dressed in the remains of a business suit, he walked with a limp. His right pant leg was torn at the knee, and the top buttons of his shirt were undone. Like the others, ash covered his face. The skin was pink, but his hair, dark and wavy, remained thick.

  “I’m Officer Liam Kipling,” Liam said, his hands out and above his head. “Of the Flagstaff Police Department.”

  Jenn could hardly hear him from this distance and over the thundering of her pulse. She caught herself breathing heavily again. Three seconds in, hold, three seconds out.

  After coughing into his hand, the person in the business suit spoke, but Jenn couldn’t hear him. Liam retrieved a water bottle from his belt and held it out for the man, who accepted the offer and took a long sip. The two exchanged words. Jenn caught a few: a comment about the hospital, a question about if the refugees had any weapons, and a curse word followed by Mayor Andrews’ name. Liam had said that last one.

  The person beside Jenn peered through a scope on his assault rifle. Beads of sweat rolled down his cheeks, despite the cool temperature, and his finger hovered above the trigger. He pulled off his cap and laid it on the hood of the van. The woman next to him mumbled under her breath and bounced on her toes. Every second or two, her neck twitched.

  The horde had come to a standstill, but the coughing continued. The low grumble of voices carried down the road. Somewhere, a baby cried.

  “Think Liam’s getting through to him?” Jenn asked Gary.

  Liam spun around to face the roadblock. With both hands, he pressed the air, gesturing for everyone to lower their weapons.

  Gary stood up straight. “Looks like it.”

  “Good.” Jenn nudged him with an elbow and tilted her head to the man and woman beside her. “Because I think this guy’s starting to lose—”