Stone Age (Book 2): Desolation

by M. L. Banner

  “Come in,” Doc said gruffly, withdrawing into the darkness. The lock’s tumbler disengaged and the heavy wood door swung inward slowly.

  Accepting the invitation, Wilber and then Steve stepped inside, shutting the door behind them.

  Even in the dim light, Steve noticed the foyer was far more ornate than he would have guessed based on the home’s plain exterior: elegant, stained oak floors; a palatial staircase of the same oak with oriental runners up the middle, fastened with polished brass bolts that reflected the window’s limited light. The twenty-foot-high tin ceiling was outlined with intricate molding; from it hung a giant chandelier which, judging by its size must have given off an amazing amount of light when they had power.

  Wilber watched the doc as he stood in the darkest corner of the hallway, waiting until they both focused on him.

  “I have an ample supply of erythromycin, and a few other drugs here, all well hidden. You can have those and you can have me, but we come with conditions. Are you prepared to negotiate?” Doc stood, unmoving, his features still mostly hidden by the darkness, the business end of his gun pointed downward—ready to be brought to bear in an eyeblink.

  “Cut the crap, Doc, it’s me, Wilber. You brought me into this world and fixed every broken bone in mine and O’s bodies, not mention you birthed our son Buck. This no-power thing sucks, I know, but what the hell is going on?”

  Doc’s voice cracked a little as he spoke. “They killed my dog, Wilber. Ma loved that dog, and … when I lost her two years ago, that stupid mutt, it was her dog, but it was all I had left of her.” He paused for a moment and regained some composure. “It was that Randall boy who killed her and then his slaves broke into here yesterday and stole all the meds in my drug cabinet.” He motioned with the gun toward his office, which was out of their line of sight. “Then, at gunpoint, Randall made me fix a gunshot wound one of his slaves probably got from breaking into someone else’s home. I’m not happy to say, the kid died because he followed Randall’s orders.” He paused once more.

  Wilber knew Bart Randall very well; he was the town bully, who had beaten him up a few times when they were in school together and threatened him a couple of times as an adult. He was a loud-mouthed drunkard, and probably someone who was ecstatic when the accountability of the old order disappeared. With guns and manpower, what Doc called “slaves,” Bart could do what he wanted when he wanted.

  “Anyway, it’s not safe anymore in this town with those thugs roaming the streets killing and shooting whomever they want. So, if you want me and the drugs, you’ll have to take me in, as well as Emma and Robert Simpson. She’s in the later stages of cancer, as you know, and I don’t want her to die at the hand of that little shit’s evil. I’ll take care of Emma, and Robert’s good with his hands on a farm. We just need a little food and a roof over our heads; other than that, we won’t be a burden.”

  There it was. Wilber had known this day would come. He’d told himself that they would only take in family, if they showed up when the shit hit the fan, but not anyone else. That plan had crashed in on him from the skies ten days ago. It was unlikely that his family out west—who prepped better than he did and owned their own ranch—or Olivia’s family back east would show up. Doc was good people and was just like family. Besides, he would be very useful to have around, as would Robert, who he had heard was a hard worker. And, Emma was one of O’s best friends…. “You’ve got a deal, Doc.”

  They all agreed to meet in half an hour at the crossroads just outside town. Doc and the Simpsons would bike down a small dirt road there so they would not be seen. This would give Wilber and Steve enough time to make one more stop before heading out.

  About fifteen minutes later, after they bartered for some candy for Buck from Dingles, which was otherwise cleaned out like all the rest of the stores, they headed for the crossroads. At the building on the edge of town, maybe twenty yards before the turn down the long road back home, stood Bart Randall and two others, all armed and watching their approach.

  “Follow me,” Wilber said and abruptly turned down a small alley between two buildings. Steve pedaled right behind him.

  “Hey Wright! Stop, you little shit. You think you can get away from me?” yelled a shaky voice. Randall was chasing them on foot.

  “You know these alleys?” Steve asked.

  Just like that, they ducked down another alley and then into an even narrower walkway, barely wider than their handlebars. Steve pedaled with all he had to keep up, turning into the walkway just before Randall and one of his crew reached the alley. Steve focused on keeping his handlebars between the walls, knowing a bump and a loss of balance would have a deadly outcome. He looked up and saw Wilber’s back tire turning down another alley, back in the direction they had come from.

  Steve felt his right handle lightly scrape the wall. With a jerk he corrected just as he came out of the walkway and turned into the alley, now about twenty feet from Wilber. They could hear their pursuer’s footsteps echoing in the other alley, and then they stopped. Randall’s voice floated to them. “You, go down there.” Then, the footfalls started up again.

  Steve looked up and saw that he was about to come out of the alley back onto the street. Wilber was off his bike, pointed his gun one way down the street and then the other, and then mounted his bike again.

  “Come on, we’re clear, for now.”

  They raced to the highway.

  12.

  The Great Escape

  Rancho El Gordo

  All the men were passed out from a full day of murder, rape, theft, booze, and drugs. Max too was exhausted, not from consumption of these evils, but from bearing witness to them every day, and doing almost nothing to stop them. When he could, he would carefully intervene to save one person at a time, never too much to cause the ire of El Gordo’s men. However, today’s activities had been too much: he couldn’t acquiesce any longer. All day long he repeated the same thing in his mind: time to get living or time to get dying.

  All these days, he had acted beaten down and compliant to their demands; after a while, it was no longer an act. Worse, witnessing so much depravity infected his soul, like a virus that was consuming every bit of goodness that remained in him. If he stayed even a day longer, he feared he would pass the point of no return, literally becoming one of them. It had to be tonight.

  “Time to get living or time to get dying,” he said as he grabbed his bag and left his room.

  At this point, due to his submissiveness, he was largely ignored by the men. After grabbing his keys he walked silently to his Jeep. He had already fastened extra gas cans to the back, behind the spare tire. That would be enough gas to get back to Rocky Point. He added a few days’ worth of food, a five-gallon bottle of water, and an extra AK-47 with lots of ammo. Each had a folding stock and was loaded with one full magazine that had another taped to it in reverse, for easy loading during a firefight. Everything was tightly stowed in the back in anticipation of a hasty, bumpy getaway.

  Satisfied with his cache of supplies and silent efficiency, he focused on setting up his diversion. After permanently disabling the other two vehicles, he wanted to ensure his exit wasn’t noticed. His goal was to put as much mileage between himself and El Gordo’s men as possible, as quickly as possible, and not get shot in the process. Engaging them in any sort of firefight would be suicide because of their sheer numbers. Yet, he also wanted to hurt them all for the evil they had inflicted on others.

  This evening’s auroral lights were brighter, making it more difficult for him to remain covert. He had to hurry or risk being seen. Gas can in hand; he sneaked up to a shed on the far side of El Gordo’s developed property. The auroras turned the large shed into the head of a green giant with a bad complexion; an earthen roof was its hair, the two windows on each side were its ears, and the locked door its nose. The giant appeared asleep.

  He stopped beside the giant’s right ear, looking and listening for anyone who may have seen him and might now be wo
ndering why he was slinking around in the green darkness. Loneliness was his friend. The shed was one of many sprinkled around El Gordo’s vast grounds to hold various tools, supplies, guns, drugs, or simply as shelter from the endless sun. He wasn’t sure of this shed’s purpose, but he knew about the pile of flammable materials on the far side. It was a conglomeration of wood and other building supplies, all haphazardly tossed there, castoffs of endless projects. It was perfect, not only for its incendiary nature, but because the distance from all the occupied buildings and El Gordo’s house meant it would take them longer to investigate. All eyes would be trained in that direction while he left in the other. He sprinkled a little petrol from the one-gallon can onto some of the wood in the pile and parked the open can, still nearly full, underneath. The air around him was heavy with the gasoline’s acrid vapors. Striking a match, he tossed it into the pile and ran to his Jeep. The fire spread quickly.

  ~~~

  Jose was fast asleep, dreaming of the woman they had played with on the last run today. She was pretty and plump, but all he wanted was sex. His compañeros had had much more in mind. Her blood and her screams still rattled around in his head, like a bad movie. He tried to push these visions away and hide them in the deep recesses of his mind, sure the evil things he had done would earn him a place in hell.

  Then, he was suddenly awake, the sweat-soaked hairs on the back of his neck abruptly alerted. He sat up without a sound and listened for what had woken him, kneading his aching neck. The case of dynamite had been a piss-poor pillow. He was surprised he had slept at all, since this place always scared him; it held much of El Gordo’s excess ammo and explosives, all kept at a distance from El Gordo’s home and the other buildings, just in case they blew: it was that just in case that scared him.

  Crack followed by flomp-flomp-flomp-flomp-flomp told him someone was just outside the windows. Jose climbed onto several other cases of dynamite to gain height and saw a man running away. Though he could only see the man’s back, he knew instantly it was Señor Max.

  Crack-crack followed by a whoosh from the other window filled Jose with fear. Then, the smell of–fire! He beat a panicked path to the other window, on the other side of the shed, and saw his worst nightmare. He heard a full-throated roar of air as the pile of wood and debris ignited and angry flames viciously gobbled up every molecule of oxygen. The mouth of the fire intended to snack on Jose, its tongue working its way to the window where he stood. The glass shattered and a solid wall of heat like hot bricks knocked him over, then hungrily gnawed at him and the shed’s supply of explosives.

  ~~~

  Max was halfway to his Jeep when he heard the gas igniting. He’d hoped that he’d reach the Jeep before the explosion, and that it would’ve been quite a bit louder. At this point, he wasn’t sure it would provide enough diversion for him to get into the Jeep and take off, let alone get away unnoticed. Now he was alarmed that someone would see him even before he had a chance to get into the Jeep, much less drive away unnoticed. He ran faster, unslinging his AK while he ran, just in case he needed it.

  ~~~

  Dazed from the blast, Jose could feel fire biting into his skin all over his body. He swatted at the few flames dancing on his chest and hair. It felt like he had been covered by a warm winter blanket. Yet, he was still alive. He jumped up and stumbled a little, his right leg not working right. One look confirmed it was broken, a good chunk of his tibia protruding from his skin halfway between knee and ankle. He hobbled to the door and tried to open it, but it was locked. Next he tried the window he had seen Señor Max running from, but it too was stuck. If he didn’t do something, this place would be his coffin. The other was a wall of flames. Jose reached for the nearest crate, intending to toss it at the stuck window. It was open, full of dynamite sticks. A rolled up coil of fuse lay on top; it was alive and hissing at him like a long, thin snake. He stared, mesmerized by its red-blue slithering movement around, and around, and around, until it disappeared in a blinding, deafening—and lethal—flash.

  ~~~

  Max could see the Jeep’s outline only a few more strides away. The sound hit him first. A thundering roar, as if from some gigantic pissed-off lion, crashed his eardrums. It was unlike anything he had heard, even in war. The lion’s breath, a wave of heat and debris, hit him next. It lifted him up, his legs momentarily running in the air, and pushed him toward his destination. He watched in awe as he flew several feet before coming back down to the ground, faltering as his feet struck mid-stride. He was about to turn and look when something hard hit his shoulder, knocking him to the ground, spinning him around to show him the bright ball of fire rising to the heavens.

  “Holy shit, that was no gas can,” he said to the explosion.

  More debris rained on him, alerting him that his time was short. Max sprang up, ran the last couple of steps, and hopped into the Jeep, his keys finding the ignition almost immediately. The well-lubed engine awoke at once. He threw it into gear, the wheels engaged immediately. He hit the gas and accelerated onto the secondary driveway, keeping the headlights off. Only one more person to worry about: the guard posted at the end of this drive. Holding the wheel with his left hand and steadying the AK with his right, Max trained it on the spot the guard should be; the gun’s sling steadied it to his right shoulder.

  Gunfire erupted behind him: not just a few rounds, but hundreds going off all at the same time, as if thousands of men were firing at him. Max instinctively ducked lower and pushed harder on the gas. The rounds continued endlessly, but none struck his Jeep, or even came close. Then, he realized what had happened; he had ignited an ammo and explosives shed. More explosions filled the air with fire and light, adding extra illumination to his path. Max was near the end of the drive when he saw the guard, his face red and yellow, lit by the explosions; it was contorted with shock and awe. The guard stood unmoving, watching the fireballs rise into the air, his mouth agape. His head turned slightly, barely acknowledging Señor Max as he drove by. Max almost felt like he should wave goodbye. He turned onto the highway, keeping his headlights off, and drove, occasionally turning to watch in amazement as the flames spread to most of El Gordo’s home, now visible, and many of his other structures. He turned again, onto the main highway, empty of cars and humanity, and floored the accelerator. He had to get back to Rocky Point.

  Like a second sunset, red and orange flames danced on the horizon.

  13.

  Giving Back

  Rocky Point, Mexico

  Bill and Lisa were startled awake again. This morning, the noises were fainter: the clanging of metal pans—muted by the hands that held them—and two whispering voices. Once more they found themselves standing beside their bedroom window, surreptitiously peeling open their blinds. What they saw was more shocking in a way (they agreed later) than the giant cruise ship’s beaching the previous morning. Scott and Kathy Smith, their next-door neighbors who had been made homeless by the Event, were scooping putrid liquid from the Kings’ pool into beaten pots and pans. Dead and decaying birds had made the pool’s water undrinkable before Bill could safely remove them; without a means to filter the water, it was surely poisonous now. They were kneeling on the pool decking, their clothes torn and dirty. Scott sported a scrubby beard, like most men these days. Both looked sickly and thin although, granted, in auroral light everyone looked unhealthy. The Kings had wondered what happened to the Smiths after the Event destroyed their house, having only seen them once since.

  Bill and Lisa stood transfixed, so shocked they couldn’t even speak, each internally trying to make sense of what they saw: This couldn’t be possible in only eleven days. It was like watching a car crash while it was happening; they could not look away, even though they desperately wanted to. Lisa smacked her hand against the window pane to steady her faltering body and mind, disturbing the blinds as well. The Smiths’ heads shot up at once, their foreheads green and splotchy. They looked at each other, grabbed their containers of water and scrambled off, each lik
e a neighborhood cat caught with a pet canary in its mouth.

  Lisa spun around and slid to the ground, curling into a fetal position. She held her knees to her chest, rocking, and started to cry.

  “Lisa honey, I know that’s heartbreaking, but what can we do?”

  “Bu-bu-but, they’re our neighbors–our fr-friends. How could it come to this so qu-quickly?”

  “They’re homeless. They’re worse off than most of our other neighbors.”

  “That doesn’t make it right. We have two houses now, with Max gone. We need to give them ours. Let them stay here until we figure out what we’re going to do next. We certainly have enough food, now that Max isn’t here.”

  He couldn’t argue with her about this, even though something in his gut told him what he was about to do was wrong.

  He opened up the bedroom slider and ran in their direction. Even in the auroral light, he could see a trail of water slopped from their pails. Each spot looked like blood; he had a flashback of deer hunting years ago, when he’d tracked the blood trail of a buck he had shot. That deer ultimately had succumbed to its wound. He hoped he wouldn’t find the Smiths in similar condition. He followed the trail around to where the front of their house used to be, now the debris of a partially fallen wall. He heard them on the other side of their waist-high front wall and gate. He leaned over and said, “Don’t run, we have food for you.”

  Both were on their knees, almost in a starter’s crouch, ready to take off. They looked like frightened animals. It was downright creepy how two normal adults could devolve so quickly. He thought that perhaps any one of them could end up like this.

  “Please come with me to the house. Lisa and Sally are making food for both of you and we have some clean water. You don’t want to drink from that pool. You could be electrocuted, and besides, it’s probably poisonous from all the dead birds.” After a few moments of silence, he asked, “can you talk?”