by Roger Hayden
John folded the map up and tossed it back into the glove box. Brooke turned the steering wheel of the cruiser until the compass on the dash pointed east. All of those goals and wishes were still firmly in the distance. It was nice to hold onto those hopes to keep her going, but right now, she needed to focus on her immediate objective: fuel.
The tires of the cruiser crept over the dried, cracked ground of the barren Gila River. It was just another depleted artery of the country that had fallen under the same condition as so many of its brethren. If something wasn’t done soon, the desert would consume the rest of the country just as it had done this region.
Time was as powerful an enemy as the drought. Brooke figured that was the underlying factor behind the president’s decision. He was under pressure to come up with a solution, and instead of trying something that would work long term, he had chosen the quick way. The easy way.
It was survival instincts that had kicked in. One more day. One more hour. Just a few more minutes of life. But what the president failed to see during his blind reaction was the knife slitting his own wrists. The very thing he thought was keeping him alive was slowly going to kill him and the rest of the country. He was a man stranded in the ocean, and he was drinking seawater as fast as he could cup it in his hands.
The only real solution she'd seen for the water shortage was a few years ago. She'd never witnessed anything like Dr. Carlson's designs. Some of the chemistry and biology was beyond her schooling, but the engineering that filtered the water was impressive.
The moment the bill was voted down due to an outcry over evidence that the water wasn't safe to drink was the moment she should have packed up her bags and moved. Fear and panic had guided the people’s outcry, just as they had guided the president to exile her home.
Brooke wanted to believe that people could still break those chains, but that aspiration was dwindling. Soon that small trickle of hope would run dry, like the very river they were crossing.
The cruiser climbed the bank on the other side of the river. Then, when the SUV leveled out and there was more than just sand staring back at them through the windshield, she could see the distant beacon of skyscrapers to the northeast.
“There it is!” John said.
“There should be a highway in just a couple of miles,” Brooke said.
It was just in time, too. The fuel gauge was almost completely on empty. Everything was running low today.
Highway 85 was deserted. No traffic, no people, nothing. Brooke kept her eyes peeled for any signs of a fuel station, old or new. She could chance heading south into Mexico, but with the tension that had sprung up over the past couple years between the two countries, she thought better of it. She doubted she would receive a warm welcome south of the border.
With every mile that came and passed, Brooke realized the inevitability of heading into Phoenix. She knew that even before the president’s announcement, the city was barely surviving. Whoever stayed behind was either too stubborn or too poor to move. Both kinds were dangerous.
“Mom, look!” Emily said.
Emily's hand jutted out into the front seats past Brooke's face. She followed Emily’s finger to where she was pointing.
“What is it, babe? I don't see anything,” Brooke said.
“Right there, in the sky,” Emily said.
Brooke looked up. John scanned the horizon as well, but neither of them could see what Emily was pointing at.
“Em, I don't see—”
Then, just to the left of the Phoenix skyline, she saw the glint of metal hovering in the sky. It was most likely a helicopter, but its function was a mystery. It could be anything from a news chopper covering the situation in the region and reporting it to the rest of the country to a Mexican military craft scouting the newly abandoned territory.
If it was the former, then there was the potential for them to catch a ride. It would cut their journey down to less than a day if they could just fly to North Carolina, and it would eliminate the problem of having to maneuver through the country as illegal immigrants.
“Mom, stop!” John said.
Brooke slammed on the brakes. Their seatbelts strained against their bodies as the inertia from their motion pushed them forward. John pointed to an exit sign. It was the first they'd seen. The faded paint of symbols for fuel, food, and lodging were etched on top.
Brooke looked back to the Phoenix skyline, but the metallic figure had disappeared. Even if she drove to the city, there wouldn’t be a guarantee the chopper would still be there or even give them a ride.
The fuel gauge sank even lower. They’d be out of gas soon. Fuel was still the priority. There was too much uncertainty with Phoenix. She turned the wheel right and merged onto the exit ramp.
The signs for fuel signaled for her to turn east. She wasn’t sure how the ride would have been if she’d turned west, but the east side was in rough shape. The road was covered with potholes and cracks. There were sections where entire chunks of the road were missing.
Most of the buildings were derelict. Roofs caved in on walls that struggled to support them. There weren't any people, at least as far as Brooke could see.
“Keep an eye out for the gas station,” Brooke said.
The mileage indicating how far down the station was had faded from the sign, so Brooke had no idea the distance she'd have to travel. She couldn't imagine it'd be more than a mile.
Then the distinctive sound of a gunshot pierced their silence. Gravel flew up from the road a few feet in front of the cruiser, and Brooke hit the brakes. She grabbed the back of John's head and shoved it down, concealing him behind the dash.
“Emily, get down,” Brooke said.
Her daughter unbuckled her seatbelt and rolled to the floorboard. She kept her body flat and covered the back of her head with her hands. Brooke pulled the revolver out of the glove box and shifted the cruiser into reverse.
Brooke scanned the buildings around her, searching for the shooter. One hand gripped the wheel and the other her gun.
Whoever saw them coming had a clear shot. The placement of the bullet was a warning. But the fact that the shooter didn't hit them gave her confidence that whoever was out there hiding wasn't a killer.
Brooke unbuckled her seat belt and handed the revolver to John, who took it hesitantly. She pulled the door handle and opened the door slowly.
“Where are you going?” John asked.
“Climb into the driver's seat. If something happens to me, get back on the highway and look for more fuel farther down the road,” Brooke said.
Brooke’s left foot hit the pavement first, followed by her right. She raised both hands in the air.
“I'm unarmed,” Brooke said.
Each step she took forward was slow, methodical. Sweat stains covered her exposed underarms.
“Get back in your car and turn around,” a voice echoed.
Brooke's head shifted to the right, following the sound to where she thought the voice was coming from. Her eyes strained, trying to locate the shooter. The only structure in the area was an abandoned strip mall.
“I have goods to trade,” Brooke said.
Another bullet ricocheted off the concrete to her left. She jumped, startled by the proximity of the shot. Whoever was behind the scope of the rifle was an excellent marksman.
“We don't want a trade. We just want you to leave,” the voice boomed.
“I have water,” Brooke countered.
She stood there, arms still in the air, waiting for a response. Then, as if on cue, four armed men in masks revealed themselves. Brooke turned around to the cruiser, motioning for her kids to stay put.
They came at her from different directions, all wielding rifles of some kind. All four guns were aimed at her. She could see their fingers on the triggers once they were close enough.
“Who's in the car?” the man in front of her asked.
“My children,” Brooke answered.
The men surrounding her glanced at
one another. One by one they lowered the barrels of their rifles and removed their fingers from the triggers. The man who spoke to her pulled off his mask.
His hair was greying, but his face looked youthful.
“You said you had water?” he asked.
The four men brought her back to the only structure on the road that wasn't falling apart. It looked like an old office building, judging from the signs out front. What used to hold small businesses and doctors’ offices now acted as bedrooms.
Inside were families, with children ranging from John's age to younger than Emily. The rags they all wore weren't just because of the recent politics. These people had been living like this for a while.
Their leader, Brent, took her to the rear of the building. He was the one who had shot at her.
“How much are you willing to trade?” Brent asked.
“Depends. Have you been into Phoenix?” Brooke asked.
“It's a war zone.”
“What about the military base there?”
“Are you kidding me? Anyone that could have done something left. It's just looters and violence now.”
“I saw a helicopter in the city when I was on the road. It could be help.”
“Could be.”
Brent opened the back door, and a wave of nausea hit Brooke. The smell of gasoline was overwhelming.
“What's the exchange rate?” Brooke asked.
“We’ll give you a gallon of fuel for every two gallons of water.”
Brooke did the math in her head. She had seventeen gallons of water left. If she traded all her gallons of water but one, she'd get eight gallons of fuel. She'd need more than that to make it to Texas. From there she could start to use the money she had.
“What about MREs?” Brooke asked.
“Four MREs to one gallon of fuel,” Brent answered.
Those she could spare. She had a case of fifty in the back of her cruiser. That would give her another ten gallons.
“I'll give you ten gallons of water and forty MREs,” Brooke said.
“Done.”
Brent escorted her back to the cruiser, where her children were waiting. They carried the fifteen gallons back together. Brent fueled the cruiser, and Brooke started pulling the water and MREs out of the back.
John came around back. His attention was on Brent, who had just emptied the second of four gas cans.
“Mom, what are you doing?” John asked.
“We needed fuel.”
“So you're giving away all our water?”
“We need to get out, and we can't make the journey through the desert on foot. This fuel will give us a chance to at least get to Texas. Once we’re there we’ll have better fuel options.”
“What about Phoenix?”
“It's not safe there.”
“But the helicopte—”
“John, drop it.”
John spun around, and the cruiser bounced as he climbed back inside. Brent walked around as Brooke pulled the last gallon of water for the trade out and set it on the asphalt.
“Fuel's good to go,” he said, looking from Brooke to John.
“I'll help you carry these back,” Brooke said.
John glared at the two of them through the windshield. Brooke hadn't seen him this mad since before they left San Diego. She didn't know what was bothering him.
“How old is he?” Brent asked.
“Fourteen. He just started high school.”
“It's a tough age. I remember butting heads with my folks back then.”
“Do you have kids?”
“One. She's six.”
“Well, it starts to go downhill around twelve or thirteen.”
“Let me know when it’s over.”
Brooke took in his smile. The dirt and grime smeared across his face masked the kindness in his eyes. For a split second, she thought maybe it would have been better to stay in San Diego. Not everyone was a looter. But the moment passed. In the end, she knew people would do whatever they had to do to survive. It was only just a matter of time.
The residents of the office building came out to form an assembly line, passing the supplies to their storage spots inside. Brooke noticed a woman her age walk up to Brent and kiss his cheek. Behind her legs stood a gangly-armed little girl.
“Is this your daughter?” Brooke asked.
“It is,” Brent said, lifting her up into his arms. “This is Kara.”
Kara buried her face into Brent’s shoulder, hiding herself. Brooke smiled.
“I have a little girl just a little bit older than her,” Brooke said.
“Brooke, this is my wife, Linda,” Brent said.
“Nice to meet you,” Linda replied.
“You, too.”
Once the supplies were dispersed, Brent handed Kara back over to Linda. He walked over to Brooke and the two shook hands.
“Pleasure doing busines—”
Brent's eyes were fixated on something behind Brooke. She spun around, and the sight of her cruiser kicking up dust and speeding right toward them met her eyes. John was behind the wheel, blaring the horn. A herd of cars was hot on his tail. Just before he reached the front of the building, he slammed on the brakes, sending the cruiser skidding right to the office building’s entrance.
Brooke rushed to the car doors. She helped John grab Emily out of the back seat. She shielded the two of them as gunshots were fired from the caravan of cars that John was running from.
“Everyone inside, now!” Brent yelled.
Brent and a few of his men fired back, offering cover fire for those still outside. The bullets ricocheted off the building, sending puffs of smoke and concrete dust into the air. Once inside, everyone rushed to the back.
Brooke placed a screaming Emily in a small room with Linda and Kara. John still had the revolver in his hand and was eyeing the front of the building, where Brent and his men were fending off the attackers. Brooke snatched the pistol before he could argue.
“Stay here and do not move until I come back. Do you understand?” Brooke asked.
Brooke kept low as she rushed to the front. Windows were shattered as bullets peppered the front of the building. She saw Brent crouched by one of the windows to the left, reloading his rifle. Brooke poked her head around the corner to get a better look.
“Gangs?” Brooke asked.
“Mexicans,” Brent said. “They've plagued our area for a while now. They've never moved this far north, though.”
With the Southwest no longer part of the United States, there wasn't any fear of repercussions from the American government to those who wanted to come up from Mexico. Whatever land of plenty the immigrants thought they would enter didn't exist anymore, though. People were just left fighting over scraps.
The Mexicans lined up their cars for cover. Every few seconds, their heads popped over the hoods like prairie dogs. Brooke took aim and fired all five shots. The thumping from the bullets tearing through metal echoed back.
The smoke from the guns wafted through the air. Brent had more than fifteen armed men. From what Brooke could tell, the Mexicans had half that.
Brooke leaned back against a worn wooden desk to reload. Splinters poked her through her shirt. Each bullet she dropped into the chambers rattled from the slight tremor in her hand.
One of the Mexicans fired a shot that exploded the window pane next to her. She ducked, feeling the tiny slivers of wood and concrete land on her back. Brooke flicked the chamber into the revolver upon reloading. When she peered back out the window to take another shot, she saw two of the Mexicans break off from their group.
“They're heading around back!” Brooke said.
Brooke sprinted down the hallway. Brent was close behind. Her heart pounded in her chest. She wiped away the streaks of sweat rolling down her forehead and into her eyes.
The back door burst open, and one of the Mexicans charged through. Brooke squeezed the trigger twice, and two bullets pierced the man’s chest. He hit the ground while sque
ezing off another shot that fired into the ceiling. The man’s partner came in next, and Brooke pulled the trigger until there was no other sound than the click of the firing pin. Both men lay stacked over each other. A growing stain of red covered each man’s shirt.
Brooke kept the gun aimed at the two bodies on the floor. The muscles in her forearm tensed from the viselike grip she had on the handle. She couldn’t tear her eyes off the scene in front of her. Their faces and blood were etched in her mind.
“They were going to kill us,” Brooke said.
The words were said more to herself than to anyone around her. Brent came up behind her and slowly brought his hand to her arms and lowered the weapon.
“It’s all right,” Brent said.
Brooke stumbled backward and leaned against the wall. She looked to her left and saw Emily and John poke their heads out of a room. Both their faces were ghost white. She became aware of a slight metal clicking noise. It wasn’t until she looked down at her shaking hand that still held the pistol did she realize it was her. She loosened the grip on the revolver, and it hit the ground with a thud. She slid down the wall until she sat on the floor then covered her hands with her eyes.
When she pulled her hands away, her palms had a red tinge. She reached her right index finger to her cheek. A darker shade of red covered her fingertip. It felt warm and had the stench of metallic sweat. It was the blood from her attackers.
“They were going to kill us,” Brooke repeated.
Brooke’s fingers wouldn't stop shaking. Her body jolted when she felt Brent's hand touch her shoulder.
“C'mon. You can wash up.”
Brent gave Brooke one four-ounce glass of water. She splashed her face, and streaks of light pink and red washed down the sink. The tan, battered face staring back at her in the mirror wasn’t one she recognized. She wiped the excess water off with her sleeve, which smeared sand back on her face.
“We should check on your cruiser,” Brent said.