Desolation

by M. L. Banner

  Wilber tried to prepare for every eventuality on this visit. They brought cash to buy their supplies. But, if cash was no longer accepted, he brought some canned food to barter with, mostly O’s canned peaches and strawberries. If they ran into any trouble, both he and Steve carried guns. He had been reluctant to give one to Steve, but after taking him out back to fire a couple of rounds, he figured the boy seemed competent and level-headed enough to be trusted with it. Wilber was taking a risk, but he might need backup.

  “How are you doing back there?” Wilber asked, barely winded, as he glanced over his shoulder at the young man trying to match his pace.

  “I’m… fine… thanks,” came the strained reply behind him. Wilber allowed himself a small smile.

  After crossing the highway from his long dirt road, they came to a T-intersection, where Wilber abruptly squeezed the hand brakes. He squealed to a stop before a barricade, which blocked the road into town. A hand-painted sign read “No visitors welcome. We don’t have any food.”

  “Not very friendly around here, are they?” Steve asked, out of breath, as he pulled up beside Wilber.

  “This is happening quicker than I feared,” Wilber said a bit flatly, already steering his bike around the barricade.

  They passed the road sign announcing “Fossil Ridge, established 1928” and headed into town.

  6.

  Lone Survivor

  Somewhere in Western Nebraska

  “Stay with me, Conrad. Don’t you die on me!” Dr. Melanie Sinclaire yelled at the supine man between counting out chest compressions. She was already doubtful of his survival; he had lost so much blood from injuries he sustained in the crash. How many days ago, now?

  Deciding to change tactics, she barked, “You lazy asshole, don’t you leave me alone here!” She was speaking some truth because she didn’t want to go it alone. But she was also shooting for the moon knowing Conrad was a chauvinist who for the last several days had acted very protective of her. She had thought the bleeding stopped and that he was on the mend, but a day ago his condition changed. He looked peaked, as if death already had its grip on him. Then this morning, when some throaty rooster broadcast the new day, she found Conrad unconscious, not breathing, and with no heartbeat.

  1-2-3-4-5. She continued to push rhythmically on his chest. 6-7-8-9-10. Her shoulders and arms were pistons in an organic engine—1-2-3-4-5—not stopping for maybe fifteen minutes. 6-7-8-9-10. Over and over again (1-2-3-4-5) she went through the count unabated (6-7-8-9-10). Exhaustion and the buildup of lactic acid in her muscles slowed her and made her a bit faint (1-2-3-4-5) but what other option did she have? (6-7-8-9-10) The chance of reviving someone by chest compressions was one in a thousand. (1-2-3-4-5) A bluish tint blossomed in his face. (6-7-8-9-10) She could see further signs of lividity creeping up from where his bare shoulders touched the ground. She stopped, feeling for a pulse she knew she wouldn’t find. Picking up his arm, she confirmed the purplish discoloration.

  He was gone.

  Right in the middle of bum-hoot Nebraska, in the abandoned shed he had been resting in for the last few days, she collapsed on the floor, her chest heaving for air.

  They were all gone. Every one of her crew had died, and she was the only one left. R.T. was most likely dead by now on the space station; four of her crew most certainly burned up on re-entry in the other capsule; Dee Winters never woke up from their crash; and now, Conrad Stutz. He had been pretty banged up and Melanie had had to pull a giant piece of shrapnel out of him.

  She continued to breathe heavily, staring at the holes in the roof of the little ten-by-ten shed, as tiny particles of dust danced in the beams of light piercing through them. Probably she should be more affected by watching everyone she knew die, but she wasn’t. Was she that spent physically and emotionally or was she “the cold heartless bitch,” as a fellow NASA astronaut and scientist called her when she beat him out for the ISS mission?

  “You wanna trade now, you prick?” she hollered at the perforated ceiling. Her voice sounded hollow and broken, like her spirit.

  She had no one left. No family, no friends to speak of, and no colleagues either, as she was out of the NASA game until they could get the power back on. She was utterly and completely alone.

  What now?

  “Why Rhett, where shall I go? What shall I do?” She started to snicker, quoting the line from one of her favorite movies.

  “Ha! And I called Conrad lazy?” she chided herself. “Get your butt up,” she commanded. Slowly she pushed her fatigued frame up on her feet, stooped over, arms cantilevered over her knees. She remembered seeing it somewhere, searching.

  “There,” she chirped with a little excitement, reaching over Conrad’s body to pick up an old but formidable-looking knife. Its ten-inch blade had some rust on it, and the handle was cracked, but it would do the job. What else?

  “Oh, that would leave a mark.” A sly smile cut into the right side of her face as she grabbed a small jar of miscellaneous nuts, screws, and nails. Touching it brought back memories of her dad’s workshop. He kept his miscellaneous hardware in a mason jar, just like this one. She placed it by Conrad’s foot and then looked once more at his face, the blue tint settling into more of the capillaries around his nose and cheeks. “I know you wouldn’t mind this. It may save my life,” she offered half-heartedly as she pulled on his right sock. She tugged harder until it came loose, his heel landing with a thud. After she emptied the hardware into the sock, she let the jar drop; it clinked and bounced on the wood floor, coming to rest against his foot.

  “That’ll do just fine,” she said while holding the cuff and feeling the weight at the toe-end of the sock. It jangled slightly as she bounced it. “Elastic’s still good. Nice sock, Conrad.” She wrapped a mangled paper clip around the sock’s heel to keep the hardware in. Satisfied, she slipped the weighted end into her back pocket, the open cuff end dangling within easy reach.

  Next, slightly revived by her activity, she grabbed the little satchel she had been carrying earlier. It held what remained of her life: a long-sleeved shirt she could find little use for in the triple-digit heat, and an empty water bottle. “You are one pitiful woman.”

  Now, she needed to find some water and food and then figure out where she would go next. There should be a house somewhere nearby, as this shed clearly belonged to somebody. Stepping outside, she trudged toward the road she had been on days earlier, churning up the dusty soil of the sterile farmland with each step. At the road, she turned what felt like west and looked down the long, flat, barren landscape, painted in dusty brown as far as her eyes could see. This land looked vaguely familiar, almost like her home town, only more desolate, like the whole area had experienced a bad drought. The backdrop was even more eerie because it was identical to the simulators she practiced on in her prep for ISS. Coincidentally, both environments lacked the same realness. There were no birds, no cars, no people, and no sounds of birds or cars or people anywhere.

  She squinted at the distance. Between the pavement and the washed-out sky seething with vaporous waves of heat, was a house, maybe two or three miles away. Surely they had water to spare for an ex-astronaut?

  Her long journey along the broiling asphalt started with one footstep.

  7.

  Just a Guest

  Rancho El Gordo

  “Jefe,” Max begged, “I have done everything you have asked me. Let me go back and help my friends. They need me in Rocky Point.” He pleaded his case to Luis “El Gordo” Ochoa, or as many referred to him in reverence, El Jefe, or the boss.

  “Eat your green chili, Max, my friend,” El Gordo responded, ignoring his pleas, “you have barely touched your food.”

  Max had been a “guest” of El Gordo’s since the Event. After El Gordo’s men “escorted” him from Rocky Point—albeit while saving his life during a gun fight–they forced Max to drive here in his own Jeep, one of the few vehicles that worked these days. Since his arrival here, Max had been put to work on
El Gordo’s ranch. Offering no complaints, for the last ten days Max had busily set up various protections against the sun around the ranch, and fixed up two old cars to work despite the continuing CMEs hammering the earth. Max didn’t even complain—not that he could have—when El Gordo’s men commandeered most of Max’s supplies from his own ranch down the road. They left maybe 20 percent of his own supplies there as proof of their friendship and El Gordo’s intent that Max would be released. Max hoped if he complied without resistance, El Gordo would let him leave soon.

  “You can leave any time, but you must leave your Jeep,” El Gordo said with a smile, chewing his food open-mouthed, and then washing it down with a swig of mescal from the bottle. The gusano rojo or "red worm" at the bottom waited patiently.

  “Señor Luis, please. This is not fair. I have been a friend and partner to you all these years, and I have not complained once since you brought me here. How can I leave without my Jeep?”

  “Let’s talk about it tomorrow. All this talk is tiring. Eat your meal and we’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

  Max knew this was not to be as promised. As much as El Gordo acted like Max’s friend, Max knew what a ruthless killer he was to even those he supposedly cared for. He had to get away from this band of murderers and get back to Rocky Point to help the Kings. His great-grandfather started a commitment that he vowed to keep: to watch over the Kings. Through the years, he developed a strong bond of friendship, even calling them family. The kids even reciprocated, calling him Uncle Max. He made a promise, swearing to Sally, Lisa, and Bill that he would return. He had never broken a promise, and wasn’t going to this time. He had to come up with an escape plan.

  Every day Gordo’s group of thugs went out on raiding parties using his Jeep and one other vehicle he had made CME-proof. They sometimes dragged Max along to help as they found all sort of uses for him. He dreaded these violent excursions, his only time away from the ranch. He had witnessed horrible acts during war, but what El Gordo’s men did was so vile merely thinking about it disgusted him, much less being involved. They stole, raped, and murdered whole families, including the children. When they returned, they parked the vehicles and emptied their plunder at a guest house now used as a warehouse. Then, the murderers got drunk and passed out… That was it. That would be his opportunity. He would wait until El Gordo’s men passed out, he would take his Jeep back, and he’d bug out south. Maybe tonight.

  “Max, my friend, I can see your eyes are in deep thought. Do not be troubled by the other men. They are animals. But, they are animals that take orders. And in a world such as this, we need animals. You are not one of them. But, if you continue to make nice, I will give you what you want. Esta bien?”

  “Esta bien, Jefe. Muchas gracias.” Max thanked him, but still knew El Jefe never intended to keep this promise. He was going to escape tonight.

  “Ándale, Señor Max,” bellowed one of Gordo’s men. “It is time to go now.”

  Max got up from the table, nodded in El Gordo’s direction and took his leave to be witness to another day of horrors. With any luck, this will be the last day of this. I’ll either win my freedom—or if I’m not careful, my death.

  8.

  Carrington Reid Gets Held Up

  Rawlins, Wyoming

  Dr. Carrington Reid, the foreteller of the apocalypse that would eventually kill most of the world’s population, was riding his tricycle like never before. With a slight wind at his back, he was attempting to add seventy more miles to his total today.

  His recumbent trike had barely twenty miles on its frame before the Event. When he bought it everyone was going green. But his purchase was not some ode to the environment, knowing how silly that movement was–as if you could save the earth by not driving your car as much or recycling a few cans, he would often point out to those shit-eating-grin-wearing idiots with their Birkenstocks who boasted to him of their efforts. His motives were much more selfish. His doctor had told him he needed to lose some weight and that he wasn’t getting any younger. So, Carrington vowed to eat a little better—avoid the late-night binge on junk food—and to exercise. The recumbent trike was his answer to exercise; he would use it to commute¸ so its utility would be doubly justified. That had been over five years ago. He had thought that he would use it to go everywhere during the summer, especially since his office was less than two miles from his home and everything else he needed was close by. The first week, he pedaled every day. Then an occasional burst of rain, or a new pain in his body, or any one of a myriad of other excuses caused him to stop using it a month after its purchase. Every day, as he hurried off to work or to a meeting off-campus, he looked at the trike accumulating dust in the corner of his garage rather than mileage outside and always found an excuse for not using it. Perhaps he would use it purely for exercise, but there was just too much to do. So, his tricycling would be nothing more than a mental game. Before the Event, he even argued to himself that working out was a luxury for those with idle hands and minds, neither of which he possessed.

  Now, every long mile on this journey was accompanied with ample amounts of self-loathing for his not having made trike riding a habit. Ever since the second day, his legs were cramping and he was sore everywhere. The 560-mile journey was taking its toll on him. The first leg should have been the most difficult—through the Wasatch Mountains outside of Salt Lake City—but the joy of hitting the road and the anticipation of his destination provided the adrenaline rush that eased his way. He made thirty-five miles, getting him well clear of the mountains, on the first day and then seventy each the second and third. Then the trike riding caught up with him, slowing him down to about twenty to thirty miles per day, because he had to stop and take extended rests. In spite of its difficulty, he was already more than halfway to Cicada, near Boulder. He was starting to feel much better, stronger, purging the impurities of his life from his system. And in ten days he knew he had already lost a lot of weight.

  He chose a route that had minimal mountains and towns, avoiding people at first as he wasn’t sure if they would be hostile or friendly. Strangely, he had only seen a few people on the roads and no one in the last few days. More strange were all the fires. He knew the induced currents from the CMEs would cause fires in many places, but he was flabbergasted by the level of destruction they had wrought. Between the fires and potential for hostile people, Carrington steered clear of towns when he could.

  The first big town, Rock Springs, he had purposely biked around. Today, when he approached Rawlins, Wyoming, he hoped to stop and check in to see how they were faring as it had been a few days since he talked to another person, and despite his assumptions he already missed human contact. He and his wife had once stopped in Rawlins on their only road trip together some years ago, and loved the few people they met there. Sadly, it looked like the whole town had burned to the ground. Lifetimes of memories were now just smoldering ashes tossed around by the warm winds.

  As flakes of Rawlins landed on him, Carrington reminisced about that day with his wife, when she was so full of life and their future together full of promise. She was the most beautiful woman in his world. She was the only one who found his acerbic humor amusing. “I miss you, darling, and so wish you were with me on this journ—”

  “Look at this guy, talking to himself,” said a scratchy voice right in front of him.

  Carrington dug into his brakes as hard as he could, metal and rubber screeching complaints. The skid ended at the boot-toes of three men with guns, who all looked like they were extras in a Mad Max movie.

  “Dirk, that fucker almost ran you over,” said Scratchy Voice, who was inches from him.

  “Why would this stranger want to run us over?” Dirk said with a smirk, as his forefinger tapped the trigger guard on his gun.

  Carrington gulped hard and steadied his thoughts before speaking rapidly. “Hello Dirk, my name is Dr. Carrington Reid, and you sound like you’re in charge. I don’t have much, but you’re welcome to it. I’m just p
assing through.” Sweat from fear and physical exertion dripped down his face.

  “A doctor, huh? Are you a doctor of medicine or some worthless piece of shit?” Dirk goaded him.

  “I’m a solar astrophysicist. I’m trying to get to a place to find answers to this problem,” he said, pointing toward the sun.

  “Problem? If you mean, the power going out, that’s not a problem, that’s what I call opportunity.” Dirk leaned on Carrington’s handlebar. “Before the lights went out, I spent most of my time in jail. I was a nobody trying to live by rich men’s rules. Now, I take what I want, when I want.”

  “Well as I said, you can take what you want—”

  Dirk held his free hand up, the universal stop signal. “Doc, before I change my mind, I would suggest you don’t say anything more.” He turned to the largest of the three men, who had yet to speak. “Grab his backpack and check his saddlebags. Take his food and water. If the doctor is as smart as I think he is, we’ll let him figure his way out of this problem first.”

  “You mean we’re going to let him go? We’re not going to kill him and take his shit?” Scratchy took a step closer to Dirk, glaring at him nose to nose. Dirk looked him dead in the eye. In his right hand a large hunting knife glinted in the ashy light.

  Dirk backhanded him, and he slinked back a step, his pride keeping him only semi-slouched. “If I wanted the doctor dead, I would have told you. We’re letting him keep his little kiddy tricycle and his life.”