by M. L. Banner
Carrington struggled out of his seat and shuffled slowly toward the sound.
“Help,” the voice, decidedly female, pleaded again. Now, he could see a form: a woman, lying on her back, holding up a red-gloved hand.
He scuttled over to her and knelt. “I’m here. I’ll help you.” He inwardly snickered at this thought, as if he was in any shape to offer help to anyone, much less a half-dead woman. Check that, a mostly dead woman. Her face, hair, and hands were covered in blood, which had long since dried. That face might have been lovely at one time, but now it was puffy with inflammation and serious bruising, all of it screaming of a struggle. Dirt coated her clothes: unremarkable pants and a black high-school T-shirt partially covered by a jacket that looked as if it was from some official organization, but torn and so covered in grime, it was not recognizable.
She attempted to say something and then drifted off. “Great! And how the hell am I supposed to carry you when I can’t even carry myself right now?”
With a harrumph, he grabbed her arms and dragged her to his tricycle. His trike was meant to carry only one person, but he was not going to leave her to die. So, he propped her up and into his seat, where she remained mostly unmoving, her only sign of life her shallow breaths. He slid into the seat from behind her, lifting her onto his lap, supporting her dead weight. Blindly finding the pedals, he inched forward with the last few ounces of energy he had.
They moved slowly down Lincoln Highway and then directly into the city center on Grand Avenue. By all measures, it was an idyllic little western town, especially on this street: a postcard of what the typical Old West towns should look like. It was probably their last hope, because he was on empty.
He passed over some railroad tracks and the crown of a bridge, when he noticed a purposeful grouping of vehicles forming a barricade in the road. He continued forward, hoping there was a way around it. A single gunshot cracked the silence, the bullet striking the asphalt a few feet away from him. Digging into his brakes, he came to a stop almost instantly. If it wasn’t a warning, he and his new friend’s lives were finished.
“State your business,” a high-pitched, screechy voice called out from behind a Chevy Tahoe.
Scratchy wisps of breath were all that would come out of his mouth. He tried once more. “I’m… Dr. Carr-ing-ton… Reid. I’m really si-”
“Carrington Reid? As in the Dr. Carrington Reid?” a jubilant voice asked from behind the several vehicles blocking their way.
“Yes… I am… Dr. Reid.” His words were feeble and hard to hear above the wind washing over this bridge.
“Well I’ll be damned,” came another voice out of group-led murmurs. “Let the man who probably single-handedly saved our town through the gates,” said a deep male voice with a very pronounced Texas drawl.
One of the cars, a little blue Ford Fiesta, rolled just behind the bulk of a late model Chevy Tahoe. It continued its silent march, without the sound of an engine, until it revealed seven or eight people. All had rifles, but all held in a nonthreatening manner. Before allowing himself to pass out he watched a man who wore a giant white Stetson walk through the opening, holding his hand up in the universal sign of “hello.”
~~~
His eyes flickered open. Blinking several times, he attempted to orient himself with the gray 1970s popcorn ceiling above.
“Welcome back, Dr. Reid,” said the man wearing the big white Stetson.
He wondered if it was the same day or much later, trying to remember the light outside when he passed out. Then he thought of the woman. He attempted to say something, but nothing came out. His throat felt like coarse sandpaper. “Where is the girl?” The words rubbing the back of his throat came out in harsh whispers.
“Oh, Melanie? She’s a purdy one, your wife is. She’s fully recovered since ya brought her in three days ago. We were worried about you, Dr. Reid. You were one sorry-lookin’ son-a-beach when you ended up on our doorstep. Ya’d a fever of one-hundred-four, but our doc shot ya full of antibiotics and yer fever broke yesterday. We’ve been tryin to let ya sleep. But that filly, she’s been check’n on ya all the time.”
“My wife?” Carrington asked, puzzled but feeling better by the minute. “Where is she?”
“She’s working on the wall detail. Don’t get mad, she was dying to help. Ya’ll see her shortly, I’m sure. How ya feelin’, Doc?” The way he said “help” sounded like “hail” with a P on the end.
Carrington pushed himself out of bed, onto his feet. He felt pretty good, although a little weak. He smiled his answer.
After introductions, Bartholomew T. Witherstream, who offered to be called Tex—this was of course a lot easier to remember since it matched his drawl—gave him the grand tour of the town. It turned out Tex had been a subscriber to Carrington’s CMERI Bulletins, and he’d prepped the whole town. Four days before the Event, Tex had worked with the town’s police and council to start their contingency plan. When Carrington sent out his last Bulletin, the day before the Event, Laramie carried out Tex’s plan. They sealed up the historic downtown area and literally cut the electrical lines leading to the town’s center, along with many of those leading to buildings. That let them escape the fires when the first CME hit. They also collected food and water and now had storehouses of both. Since then, they had been shoring up their defenses, awaiting an attack they were sure would come any day now.
“Everybody’s got their duties an’ so far they’s all worked t’gether,” Tex went on, continuing the tour. “Y’see, becuz most of the buildin’s are brick an’ we disconnected off the grid, we were able t’avoid th’ fires.”
“What about outside of the downtown?” Dr. Reid asked.
“Well so far, they haven’t been a problem, but we expect that to change shortly when the food runs out,” chimed in Sheriff Ralf Peterman.
“Raff takes his s’curity serious as a heart-attack,” Tex added. “Tell Dr. Reid whatchu done.”
“Besides the walls, we’ve set up scouts who watch all four points of the perimeter for any incoming threat,” Peterman continued. “That’s how we knew you were coming.”
“So, what do you have as far as weapons go?” Carrington asked, sitting on a chair in front of the sheriff’s station, a few blocks from where the tour started.
“Nothing major, Doc,” said the sheriff, “mostly hunting rifles, a few Winchesters and a couple of assault rifles from the local store. Most everyone here has a handgun. But that’s it.”
“Yep, we didn’t plan that one too good, did we, Doc?” said Tex plaintively.
“Show me the railroad yard, ’cause I have a couple of ideas on that,” Carrington said as he stood.
“Sure, Doc,” said Tex, pausing briefly. “Hey, thar’s your wife, comin’ towards us right now.” Rat naow.
All their heads turned to a group of three people walking their way.
Carrington recognized instantly the woman they called his wife, even though he had been widowed for four years now. It was the woman he’d found on the side of the road. She had short cropped hair, a confident smile, and although a little dirty from work, and still a little puffy in one cheek, she looked beautiful.
“Hi, honey. So glad to see you’re up.” Melanie leaned over and kissed him on the lips, and then hugged him. “I’m Melanie, I’ll explain later,” she whispered in his ear, away from the others.
Carrington felt more light-headed than he realized. “Ahh, hi” was all he could think to say.
“Come with us Melanie, if y’ain’t too tired. I was jus’ ’bout ta show the doc our railroad. He says he has an idear about defense.” Tex ushered them forward.
“Why not, Tex, I would love to.” Melanie took Carrington’s arm and they walked together, following Tex as they whispered their stories to each other.
Part II
40 Days A.E.
“I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought,
but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones.”
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~ Albert Einstein
“Albert got it wrong–World War IV will be fought and won by those who found all the leftover guns.” ~ Maxwell J. Thompson
20.
Revelations
Rocky Point, Mexico
Bill King found himself alone on their pool deck, a wide-brimmed straw hat shading his face, staring blankly into his own abyss. The bright sunlight didn’t bother him as much as this morning’s dark realization. It was almost certain Lisa and he would never see their youngest children, Danny and Darla, ever again. He leaned over the front of one of their two Adirondack chairs, his only support after a bout of tears. The sea winds, thick with humidity and ruination, anxiously grabbed at his muddled-gray hair, yanked at his Hawaiian shirt and partially clean shorts, and threatened to topple him with little effort. Struggling to even lift his head and see the new realities of this world around him, he realized this was no longer a place of solace.
The blazing sun had already scorched all hue from the morning’s normally blue sky, making it look almost overcast. Recently, the auroras seemed to provide the sole source of color, and then only at night. He pondered how quickly his beach paradise had changed. Only a few days ago, this place had filled him with such pleasure; now it was the realm of peril and death. Reminders were everywhere. The hulking carcass of the beached cruise ship remained unchanged, although it seemed bigger and appeared to have listed some. It was destined to remain for all eternity, a monument to all those who once played on her decks and in her galleys. The bodies of their four neighbors were gone the morning after it beached, most likely carried out by the high tide. Yet, he could see them in his mind’s eye as if they were there now.
Each day, more and more dead birds fell from the sky and fish washed up on the sand. It was now a giant caldron of rotting seafood, a silent dinner bell to dozens of locals, a smattering of small birds, and the hordes of feral dogs. Each day, they would come, all hurriedly carrying away what they could from the beach, intuitively aware that death visited this place often. What remained baked in the summer heat, made more intense by the radiation carried by each day’s solar storm. The acrid odor affronted his senses and made his eyes water. The fish were almost certainly being electrocuted, but the birds were another matter.
Before the Event, the sand, sea, and sky were alive: massive carpets and curtains of undulating birds in constant motion. Each fished, fought to secure its food, or screeched its displeasure to anyone or anything that encroached upon it space. Now, all the larger birds were gone, from sea gulls and pelicans to the less common crested boobies and herons. Nearly all were voided from the beach, except those few who found permanent respite there. Bill witnessed first-hand the effects of electrically induced charges from the CMEs on many birds in flight, especially the larger ones. It was some sort of disruption to their internal radar systems. Over the first ten to twenty days, the birds provided a good barometer to each subsequent CME. Their typical V-patterns or individual soaring would look normal enough. Then, without warning, all would stumble in mid-air, each punched in the gut by some invisible fist. Loud cries of pain and confusion would flood the skies. Most would seem to regain some control, but then it would happen again, this time taking all their fight away. Their wings would flutter feebly, offering no resistance to gravity. Losing all lift they would fall from the sky, crashing into the sand, the water, or nearby beach houses, often causing substantial damage. It was as though they decided they were through providing flying demonstrations to the humans and simply gave up. But now, they were all gone. Perhaps they were all dead. What other explanation was there?
No matter how much he tried, dread filled his consciousness. How could we even hope to live here much longer? All this death around them would eventually breed disease. And when the sea no longer provided food for the masses, it seemed certain that the many hungry, led by bandits, would try to take food from others, making it near impossible to defend their homes. It now seemed apparent to Bill that they were in the worst possible place to be for this type of apocalypse, in spite of all of Max’s planned defenses and prepping. And yet, this apocalypse had been known to Max. Why did Max think we could survive here? It just doesn’t make sense.
Then, another realization: he remembered the passage from Max’s great-grandfather’s journal. Max was the custodian of Russell Thompson’s family promise to Bill’s great-grandfather, Peter King. It turns out Peter was Russell's best friend, who had saved him from certain death. For this, Russell’s family swore an oath of protection. That was why Max had spent so much time preparing both their homes in Rocky Point… It was for them!
Guilt clung to him like the layer of sticky sweat covering his skin. He slumped down in one of the two Adirondack chairs, letting depression sink into his psyche. It was because of them that Max allowed El Gordo’s men to abduct him. But there was more. He didn’t doubt Max’s friendship, but he now realized that their meeting was not fortuitous; it had been arranged. Both Bill and Lisa remembered seeing Max before, once in Rocky Point when they first traveled down here and once in Tucson, long before they supposedly met here. There were funny excuses, but now he knew the truth. Bill remembered the day they first saw Max in Rocky Point. It was at a restaurant and they had been telling other friends that they most wanted to live on Dorado Beach. Somehow, not much later, they were persuaded to rent the house next to Max, right here on—Dorado Beach. “Son of a bitch,” Bill whispered, hoarse with emotion. He must have built his house knowing full well that he would… what? “Holy shit! You owned our house too.” Bill now spoke loudly to Max, as if he were sitting in the chair beside him. “That’s how we were able to rent this place and then… the magic killer deal. The one we couldn’t refuse. We bought our house from you, didn’t we? You sly son-of-a-bitch,” he said to the empty chair, shaking his head, connecting everything in his mind.
“What else were you responsible for in our lives, my business… hell, our marriage?”
Bill would have been livid if he’d figured this out before the world ended, but now it only made him feel guiltier. Everything Max had done was to benefit them. Had it not been for Bill’s family and their love for this beach, Max would have no doubt set himself up someplace much more safe and defensible. With what Bill now knew, he was sure Max would not have stored all of this food and built the defense he had in Rocky Point, if he had known the problems they would encounter. There was only one solution.
They had to save Max and they had to get out of here.
Taking a breath, he rose, shook off the heavy sheen of sweat and depression and headed for the patio door. He gave their pool a wide berth; he imagined an electrical hand would reach out of it and grab him if he was too close. Just before entering the house, Lisa called to him. “Bill, someone’s at the door.”
His hand went right to the .45 he now wore all the time, as he walked briskly to the door. “Where’s Sally?” he asked her.
“I believe she’s at Max’s, probably still in the safe room,” she answered.
Bill looked out the peephole and saw Miguel Fernandez and his wife.
21.
Baby on Board
Rocky Point, Mexico
“I think… they’re right behind us.” Maria’s words coming between ragged breaths.
“Don’t worry, mija, we left early enough. They did not see us, but I want to keep moving anyway.” Miguel reassured her, also breathless. He cradled their thirty-day-old daughter, Ana, in his arms. They were walking, sometimes jogging south of the city.
Once the local cartel started pillaging homes in the neighborhood for food and supplies, Miguel knew it was only a matter of time before they came knocking on their door, so they were prepared for this day. He had heard of this group and their murderous ways from the community around him. They would kick in the door and take what they wanted: the food, the water, the women, and whatever else they thought valuable. The thieves often forced the men to carry their own household supplies to the cartel’s compl
ex. If anyone resisted even slightly, that person was summarily executed as an example to others, without exceptions. The day he heard the gunshots less than a block away, he knew they had to leave rather than try to defend the indefensible. He had one revolver, they had automatic weapons; he was one person, they were many; he had never killed, they killed for their own sick enjoyment. On that day they left, ahead of the cartel, and headed to the one place where they could be safe: Max’s home.
A few days ago, he had told his wife this day was coming, explaining his plan and showing her their “bug-out bags,” as Señor Max called them. They were packed with medicines, a change of clothes, about a day’s worth of water and a week’s of food. The trip to Max’s house was maybe two hours, but they had to plan on being followed, like Miguel believed they were now. Max had said to him so many times, “Plan for the worst, Miguel, but pray for the best. That way, it will most likely be better than what you planned for.” Water was too heavy to carry for multiple days, but the extra rations of food could be used to bargain for water. A lot of people were not connected to the city’s water system, but most had a gravity-fed water system holding fifty- to one-hundred-fifty-gallons, and most were rationing so they hadn’t run out. Food was a different story. Most folks had run out of food now, so it was Miguel and Maria’s most valuable asset. They had about another mile to go, and he was sure that they had slipped away in time, unseen by the gang.
~~~
“¡Ay, no chingues!” said a voice from inside Miguel and Maria’s home. Danny “Diablo” Diaz—his men just called him El Diablo or the devil—walked into the spare bedroom and saw floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with food, water, and other supplies. It was enough to sustain this family for months, maybe longer. So much food and water for so few people. El Diablo considered why some common worker would know to store up so much.