Stone Age (Book 2): Desolation

by M. L. Banner

  Wilber wasn’t a religious man, but as the saying goes, there are no atheists in foxholes. He bowed his head and said a little prayer to keep his new friends and family safe. Then, he waited and watched for what he knew was coming any moment now.

  ~~~

  Steve was beside himself with indecision. There was no way that could have been Darla. He was surely seeing what he wanted to see. He had been longing for her, especially the last few evenings, certain that he would never see her again. After seeing Wilber’s signal, and then forwarding it to his father, he closed his eyes and focused on exactly what he saw: the woman’s pony tail—that could be like any woman’s; then her smile—that was just his wanting this woman’s smile to be Darla’s; her eyes…

  His own flicked open. I’ll be damned, I think it’s really her. He sprang out from behind his cover and started running down the hill. He had to get to her before he lost her again.

  ~~~

  John Parkington was watching intently for any bad guys, although he suspected that some of the “bad guys” were also going to be girls, and some (maybe most) would probably not be that bad. He was pretty sure they were just as freaked as his group was. We are on the moral high ground here. If they had come and asked for a day’s food, he was pretty sure this man who had nursed him back from death would have offered help. Instead, the interlopers were poised to take their lives, over food!

  He was amazed how much life had changed for them and everyone else so quickly. They were probably isolated from the worst of it, being on this ranch that had gone off the grid before the world ended. Yet, even for Wilber and his family, the changes were drastic. They couldn’t use the power generated by the tower because the sun was still causing electrical discharges in everything conductive. Wilber had disconnected the cables running to the house after receiving the email warning before the first Event. They didn’t have transportation, or communications, or any of the other things they expected to have.

  But they had food and water, two things a lot of people didn’t have, Wilber told them.

  John thought about his wife and wondered how she was faring. They had lived separate lives for the most part, being married more to their work than to each other. “She will do just fine,” he said out loud.

  Some massive pig—he remembered the name Jumbo, like in jumbo jet—below him responded to his words with a long squeal. “Dammit,” he said quietly this time, afraid to inadvertently alert someone somewhere down the hill.

  “There,” he whispered. He could see two women down there. They were arguing about something in low voices, and farther toward Steve was a man who seemed to be watching the women rather than looking up the hill. They were all carrying rifles; all wore armbands and the same color shirt. Then, the women walked back. “Hopefully, they decided against this foolishness,” he said under his breath.

  A few moments later, his son signaled him, the signal Wilber had taught them earlier: “Watch out–should be any time now.”

  “No shit, really?” he said too loud again, and Jumbo responded in more oinks and squeals.

  Then, oddly, Steve shouldered his rifle and bolted around the tree, down the hill, and out of sight.

  ~~~

  Darla was anxious to get to where she had told Danny to meet her. She did not want to miss him, so she was rushing to get there first. Her anxiety grew from the uncertainty of their escape, and a nervous excitement to get back on the road and away from these crazy people. Was she really going to walk all the way to Tucson and then maybe to Mexico? It seemed ridiculous, but it was her family. She wished she knew where Steve was. Denver, Colorado is all she could remember, when he told her excitedly about his and his father’s quest for some place named after a bug… “Was it locust?” she thought out loud.

  “What?” Joselin asked, directly behind her. “What about locust?”

  “Oh, nothing. Sorry, was just thinking about where we were going to go next.”

  “Can we go to the ocean? I’ve always wanted to go to the ocean.” Joselin’s words carried her smile to Darla’s ears.

  “Have you ever been to Mexico?”

  “Mexico? Oh, honey, that’s a funny one. I ain’t never been outside of Chicago before this world ended.” She fell behind a little considering Mexico, so she had to jog a bit to catch up with Darla, who hadn’t missed a step. “Are you thinking we’re going to walk all the way to Mexico?”

  “Yep. You up for it?”

  “Can we get a drink first? I’m awful thirsty.”

  “Absolutely,” Darla said with confidence, as she saw the creek and the waterhole through the clearing they had just entered.

  Joselin spotted the creek and ran for it, longing for some cool water.

  “Whoa! Joselin, hold on, girlfriend. If you drink that shit, you’ll get sick,” Darla said, removing her backpack. She pulled out a bottle and unscrewed the contraption on top. “Here, get some water using this, but don’t drink it yet.”

  Joselin did as she was told, leaning over the stream and collecting a full bottle of water.

  Darla soaked a bandana in the water and tied it around her neck, relishing the coolness. She looked up, realizing her eyes had been closed, took the bottle from Joselin, and screwed on the top. Next, she opened the valve to drain the contents into another water bottle.

  “Y’see, this thing has a carbon filter on it that filters most of the bad shit out of the water, like bacteria and contaminants,” she said as they waited for the clean water to work its way out. Joselin’s foot was tapping against a rock, as Darla drummed her fingers on the side of the second bottle. “I found it in a camping store during one of our supply runs. Anyway, this should be good,” she said, handing her friend the purified liquid.

  “Yummy,” Joselin announced after the first gulp. “Damn, girlfriend, you are handy to keep around.”

  ~~~

  Sam Snodgrass was careful where he walked, making sure to step on patches of grass or rock while avoiding any dead twigs or branches that would crack underfoot. He had run almost all the way to the highway, before doubling back slowly along the creek, and he finally heard the two female voices, although he was angry that the burbling of a stream drowned out what the voices were saying. He crept up to a clearing, seeing the deserters were getting a drink of water and pretending that everything was fine.

  Sam lifted his rifle and waited. When they walked this way, or if the fighting started, he would jump out from the protective cover of the bush and mow them down. He smiled at the thought of telling Thomas after he had taken care of them.

  ~~~

  Thomas, dressed in camo and carrying a military rifle with lots of extra magazines, was ready for the battle. Although every battle was different, he always got a rush from the fear and the killing. It became a salve for him, in addition to the Teacher’s words, all of which made him feel real again. Like a man.

  He followed the course of the river on the opposite side of the Wright Ranch. He would start this battle and he hoped he would be the one who also ended it by taking out Wilber Wright before anyone else could. Where the river took a turn and moved away from the Wrights’ house, along the ridge, Thomas crossed the river and quietly trudged uphill. At a fence line, he stepped in something that smelled like alcohol. He swung up and over the fence and stopped, waiting and listening. When he was sure there was no one else, he moved up the hill, hugging the ridge line. His troops should be at the fence line waiting for his signal, which he hoped would be a shot that took out someone important: maybe Wilber Wright, the man that mocked him and the Teacher.

  In no time he gained the top of the hill, where the Wrights’ home and supplies were. Beyond this point was a clearing with many buildings. A noise alerted him from behind: a clanging, metal on metal. Thomas turned to see a flash at the top of the windmill turbine tower, and then a couple more flashes, and then one flash. Morse code. Shit, I’ve been spotted. He worked his way back into the trees when he heard a small pop followed by a sharp pain in hi
s side. Then, another pop and a pain erupted in his ass. Someone was shooting at him with a .22 from the tower. Another pop and his right ear exploded blood on his face. He ducked behind a shed that reeked of pigs.

  He pulled up his shirt and saw that he had been hit good; the little bullet had gone in his back and come out his stomach. A shot of pain rocketed through him and he sat down, square on his right ass-cheek, which sent another bolt of lightning up his back. He felt the side of his head and found his ear was a muddled mess of flesh and blood dripping down. “God dammit.” How could some prick do this to him?

  Thompson Journal Entry

  Continued…

  Rely on each other

  In spite of all that I have told you about the dangers of trusting even your neighbors, you will not be able to survive solely on your own. There will be people you will take in and make part of your family and on whom you must rely. Each person that becomes part of your group will have unique talents. What will make your group strong enough to survive, besides luck, is cultivating those unique talents for the betterment of your group.

  Just remember, when things look hopeless, rely on each other.

  34.

  Fire!

  Rocky Point, Mexico

  El Diablo’s men did exactly as he had asked; they waited patiently, staying out of the line of fire, refusing to be provoked into a firefight. He was very proud of them. Then these crazy gringos decided to burn this family alive and destroy all their supplies. What’s the point of that? If there was a benefit in setting the house on fire, then they would have done it themselves. But it made no sense to destroy the supplies, which were far more important than the people inside. Burning the house and the supplies and people in it was estúpido. He knew then he had to secure Señor Thompson’s house before those pendejos burned it down, too.

  He signaled his two forward teams to move toward the beach and around to the back of Señor Thompson’s beach house. He and Gigante stepped out from the shadows, to take out the threat and lead his teams, when they came under fire from a shooter on the roof. They returned to the front of the house and intended to signal his two men on point, but he didn’t have eyes on them. He assumed they must have sought cover as well. “We wait until the other assault teams come around and take the shot,” he whispered to Gigante.

  A large crash above and on the side of the house begged a peek. Diablo watched a Mexican man scampering across a ladder like a rat running from a burning ship, from this roof to the other. These gringos might not be so stupid after all. Another couple of shots rang out from Señor Thompson’s roof, sending bits of plaster and paint past their faces.

  ~~~

  Bill had almost reached Max’s house when he felt the ladder shift. Holding still, suspended above Max’s side yard, he checked baby Ana, who was securely bundled to his chest. Looking back to his burning home, he could see the problem: the ladder had slipped forward. Now the legs of the ladder rested on less than one inch of real estate. Slowly he turned forward to Miguel, who was trying to hold the ladder steady and not panic for his daughter. They were so close he could hear Miguel’s breathing grow more rapid. “You need to push to me while you hold the ladder,” he whispered as calmly as he could manage. Not wanting to spend any more time perched over this abyss, he bustled the few more inches to the ledge. “We… cough-cough… made it.” Black smoke was everywhere around them now. Maria reached for Ana as Bill released the clips on the harness. Miguel and Bill both exhaled at once, momentarily relieved.

  “Miguel, when I say now, we need to pull that way,” Bill pointed to the opposite end of the roof, “with everything we’ve got. Again, don’t let go.”

  Bill stretched over the void, firmly grabbing a rung, not at all sure if the ladder was simply too heavy to attempt this. No time to contemplate, “Now,” he yelled and they both yanked and ran away from the ledge, the ladder scraping loudly as it held onto the parapet edge. The weight and friction slowed them and pulled them to a stop. They only got a third of it on their side of the parapet before the weight tipped downward against them. Bill threw his right leg over and curled his foot under one of the rungs, putting all his weight into their counter balance. Miguel threw an arm around his rung and held tight. He was on his toes, and then off; the other side of their teeter totter had the leverage and the weight advantage. Miguel was being pulled up into the air as the ladder’s weight threatened to take them over. Lisa leaped and wrapped her arms around him, her extra weight and propulsion pulling him, Bill, and the ladder down. All three of them rolled onto the ladder to ensure it wasn’t moving, trying to catch their breath, made more difficult by the smoky environment.

  “Damn.” Bill coughed up the curse, then glanced at his wife, who never failed to surprise and impress. But this was no time to dwell on her virtues.

  They dragged the ladder the rest of the way. Miguel and Lisa plopped down, nearly spent. Bill gained a second wind, grabbed his rifle, and swung it against Max’s skylight. Thump. His gun and his bones rattled back, angered by the abuse. Thump. Again. Thump-crackle. He felt the plastic give. Once more, he swung like a homerun hitter. Thump-CRASH. Shards of plastic cascaded to the floor of Max’s kitchen.

  Miguel, anticipating this, had already adjusted the ladder to about fifteen feet and together they carefully lowered it into the kitchen. Bill held it steady while the others lowered themselves into the relative safety of Max’s kitchen. In the excitement, he forgot to ask—and no one remembered—to steady the ladder’s base, which started slipping just a bit. Bill had made it a third of the way down before the ladder started to shake.

  35.

  Panic

  Laramie, Wyoming

  The cacophony of cannon and gunfire was deafening to their ears and devastating to their defenses. The enemy’s tank blasted holes through the eastern wall, the .50 caliber machine gun shredded the northern wall, and the two civil war cannons punched through the southern wall. Gunmen trained automatic fire on anyone visible first on the wall’s scaffolding, before all abandoned their posts, and then on the rooftops, taking out Fort Laramie’s sharpshooters. It was a well-executed attack by a superior force.

  Frank Patton’s first and only shot from the belfry hit its intended target, the operator of the .50 cal, silencing it for a minute until a new operator replaced him. In that minute several automatic weapons held him and Jeff under cover. Then the .50 cal, awake and angry for revenge, reaped its wrath on the belfry, sending its massive rounds into and through the belfry’s wood structure. It took Frank all of one round passing under his arm before he realized they would be dead soon. He and Jeff threw themselves through the opening, falling into emptiness of the small chamber below the belfry’s trap door. They then raced down the long ladder, hoping to escape before being hit.

  When the eastern gate fell after only a few tank shells were expended, the invaders started their procession down Grand Avenue. One of Fort Laramie’s snipers took out one of the marchers, but before he was able to get off another shot, their gunmen pinned him down. That gave the tank’s gun operator the time to dial in the coordinates. Boom. Just like that, the corner of a building that had survived one hundred years collapsed into a pile of bricks and blood. They marched on.

  The southern gate fell almost immediately afterward. Then, the northern gate. More enemy troops streamed into their town from every entry point. It was an unstoppable offensive.

  Sylas Luther strutted in front of the tank, his only armor his giant-sized ego. To many of his men it appeared the tank was drawing cover from Sylas. His Number One was leading his troops through the southern gate, and his Number Two commanded those coming through the northern gate. Whereas Wimbly, his flagman and personal secretary of sorts, took notes and carried Sylas’s personal supplies and skulked behind him anticipating his every need. A flare gun appeared in Sylas’s hand, and without missing a step he pointed it skyward sending a green flare over the town: the signal, “We are in. March to the town’s center.” This was goin
g to be easier than he thought. Sylas held up his hand for them to stop so that the remaining troops, advancing from the other gates, could catch up and all converge. They were just three blocks from the center. His other men, from the other columns, should be spreading out and processing down each main street, before ending on Grand Avenue, west of them, shooting anyone who moved, whether supplicant or aggressor. Five or ten minutes more and this place is mine.

  ~~~

  Gene Larimore was on a rooftop a few blocks north of Grand on 1st Street, and his wife Sue was a few blocks south. They waited patiently at their vantage points to “dispatch the targets,” as Frank Patton had instructed them. It was Frank’s method of detaching the reality of killing a human from the actual action of pulling the trigger, to make it more palatable. Sue preferred this kind of talk, but Gene didn’t. “Let’s call a damn spade a spade,” he’d yelled at both of them earlier today.

  Both received a vintage Browning automatic rifle; each BAR had already dispatched many Nazi adversaries during World War II. Frank was quite the history and gun buff and supplied most of the town’s weapons for today’s battle. Were it not for him, the town would have had a mishmash of hunting rifles and handguns to hold back the invading hordes. Frank also selected their vantage points, two of the tallest buildings with the best cover and view along 1st Street, where today’s adversaries would be traveling.