Desolation

by M. L. Banner

  He tossed the smoking rifle down beside the pool where he stood. Hoisting the RPG on his shoulder, staring down the sight, he focused it into the open patio door. He had never shot one of these things, but figured there couldn’t be much to it if crazy terrorists used them all the time.

  Taking a breath, smirking at the hellish monster he was about to unleash, he squeezed the trigger and heard exactly what he expected. The rocket took off with a whoosh, as if directly from his ear, trailing fiery smoke into the patio door opening, where a fireball erupted almost instantly out from both that door and the dining room window, its hot breath pushed against him.

  Only seconds later, another explosion, this one larger, rocked the house and blew out part of the back wall where the patio door once was and the remaining beach-side windows. The blast’s percussion and a mass of debris knocked him flat to the ground.

  “Wha da …,” he said, dazed, as pain shot through his other arm, the one not burnt, and his face in answer to his rhetorical question. Looking down, he was shocked to find a large piece of wood had pierced his bicep.

  “Wha now?” This was an inconvenience, like a mosquito bite and not a serious injury; his crazed anger, pumped by adrenalin and mixed with alcohol, masked any sense of reality he would have normally felt.

  Ignoring the pain, he dropped the empty launcher, picked up the AK, and walked to the patio door intending to finish off the job and remove these pests from his dominion. Flames framed the patio door, with a jagged side that was once a wall ripped out farther, as if someone had engaged in a little home-grown demolition. He stepped through ignoring this as well. The feeble movement of a man and his murmurs of pain drew Clyde’s attention immediately. His entire body, face, and hands were blackened by the blasts, and he scratched slowly toward the door, like a bug attempting to flee from the boot of the exterminator. Clyde walked past the vermin, pointing the AK and spraying a few rounds, silencing his whimpers. He then continued toward a doorway into a dark void of the house, a secret passage he didn’t know existed, but had suspected Thompson of having.

  “You sneaky little shit,” Clyde thought he said, but it came out as “yahh sekaah liaah shhhh” because his jaw was broken. Clyde didn’t care. He was about to receive his ultimate bounty, one he expected. He stepped through the perfect metal opening, framed in broken, blackened pieces of wood and plaster board, still smoldering. It was like a portal into some other dimension, away from this madness. The hallway, or whatever it was, was dark. He squinted. His eyes fought to dilate after coming out of the extreme brightness of the sun. After a few moments, his eyes adjusted, even with the minimal light that spilled through the gaping holes in the beach-side wall behind him.

  He hobbled into the large room, unaware of the bloody trail he created, and saw what looked like computers, crates with guns and ammo, and many other supplies. It was hard to make out any of it, but he knew he had found what he was looking for.

  A flashing electric light alerted his attention. He shuffled toward it, like a moth drawn to a bug-zapper. He couldn’t see what it was, but knew it was a digital readout, and it said, 09 – 08 – 07… It was counting down.

  “Shiiiii—”

  ~~~

  The two families, Ana secure in her mother’s arms, exited a door that would have opened up to the kitchen from a kitchen pantry in any other house but this one. The pantry and kitchen, like the whole house, were facades. Immediately on their left was the back door exit, and on their right the doorway to the faux living room. They walked in with trepidation, waiting for the explosion.

  Lisa asked the question on their minds, “Hasn’t it been five min-“

  The earth shook once more, but only in their little portion of the world. Like a volcano, Max’s house erupted in a spectacular fireball, so bright they had to cover their eyes as they watched from the empty kitchen out the living room window. The beach warehouse shook, like an invisible hand pushed at it, trying to wrestle it from its foundation. They all shrank down, turning away from the blast and the shower of glass they expected but never came.

  “Wow, that was amazing.” Sally sounded appropriately awestruck. “Why didn’t the glass break?”

  “Everything in this house was built for protection, from spying perverts like Judas to a full-scale assault by automatic gunfire. It’s built as strong as a bomb shelter, but it’s just a warehouse. It was, in fact, to be our storehouse of food and supplies.” Bill considered his next words, and then just let them out. “Max built all of this for us.”

  45.

  The Sparks Started to Fly

  Laramie, Wyoming

  Melanie scrambled around wondering how to fix what an earthquake had just ruined. A third of the buildings along Grand had collapsed to some extent, some completely. It was a miracle that their capacitor bank, resting on the vacant lot at 3rd and Grand, sustained no damage, and neither did its cables. However, the metal plates they had so carefully arranged were tossed about like a discarded deck of cards, the rails strewn around like a giant-sized pick-up sticks game. There was no time to fix this, as now she could see the other group of men, unabated, turning onto Grand from 1st Street.

  Many of the townspeople congregated out on Grand and 3rd around them. Even Tex wandered out with the dazed crowds to view the destruction, seemingly unaware of the far greater threat only minutes away.

  Melanie heard Frank running down 3rd Street behind her, yelling “Flip the switch! Flip the damn switch!” When he reached Melanie, he stopped, dumbfounded, shoulders wilting like a flower in the heat of day.

  They looked left to the Sherman tank and men coming from the east and right to the cannons and men coming from the west. Melanie noticed something else: water. Everywhere, on all sides of them, water was flooding much of Grand Avenue.

  “Frank, the water. Where is it coming from?”

  Tex beat Frank to the punch. “Yep, it’s the way we first set up all the wat’r tanks on the buil’n’s. Their valves and openin’s point toward the street for easy access.” He paused and looked around.

  Frank finished the explanation. “It looks like every unreinforced building with a water tank on top collapsed. That’s what you’re seeing.”

  “But, it’s dry here, where we are, and flooded everywhere else,” Melanie continued.

  “Yep, that water tower in front of us, because it’s bigger, is on a steel reinforced building.” Tex pointed, as if she needed the help to see it.

  Frank erupted. “Melanie, what the hell does that have to do with anything? We are about to be kill—“

  “Frank, any chance that lucky grenade on that Batman-belt works?” She looked between him and the water tower.

  “Yes, but what the hell does that… Holy shit, you’re a damned genius.” He pulled out the grenade he had been saving for a special purpose. This was perfect. He shouted to everyone around them, “All right everyone, fall back north on 3rd Street! On the double!”

  Frank and Tex exchanged a look. “I got this one, Tex.” They both nodded in agreement.

  He looked at Melanie, “You too, missy.”

  “I’m not going to let you do this—“

  “Bullshit. Your husband needs you. Stop wasting time we don’t have.”

  “You know what to d—”

  “Of course, I’ll flip the switch. I know what’ll happen and I’m at peace with it. Please, just go!”

  She kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you… for everything.” And with that, she sprinted after Tex.

  Frank watched everyone run up 3rd Street, with Melanie and Tex directing them further.

  He pulled the pin, let the spoon flip off arming the fuse, ran two steps forward and then heaved it, aiming for the bottom of the water tank on top of the roof, thirty-five feet above and across the street. One-thousand-one.

  It clinked off of the very bottom corner of the tank, landing on the roof, coming to rest a foot away. Perfect throw, he thought. One-thousand-two. Turning back, he ran to the vacant lot with the
capacitor banks. While he ran, he called out, “one-thousand-three, one-thousand-four, one-”

  The explosion was perfectly placed, tearing a large lateral gash that exploded up and then outward with the water. A tidal wave hit the street down both sides of Grand and 3rd. The blast of water crashed against Frank, knocking him on his back, and pushed him away from the capacitor bank. Like a fish from an upended aquarium, he flopped around in the raging current, struggling to right himself back up, before finally being able to trudge back through the deluge, which was already subsiding. He reached the capacitor bank, and flipped down the lever by each capacitor, until he had his hand on the final outermost lever, and waited for the right moment.

  The foot-long lever, connected to the front-most capacitor, was part of a very simple mechanism. Pushing it downward exposed the charged cable coming out of the capacitor bank. At its lowest position, it became physically connected to the cable that ran the four or five feet to the panels and rails that had been so well arranged until the earthquake. Now, the new lake of water connected the circuit of metal panels, and throwing that switch would electrocute everything standing on or in the soup. The Exterminator, as Melanie dubbed it, really was a masterpiece of engineering by both her and Dr. Carrington. As the Doc explained it to him, the induced currents from the CMEs hitting the long stretches of railroad tracks running through town were picked up by the single rail that ran into town to the capacitor bank, built under Dr. Carrington’s guidance. Each individual capacitor could be discharged separately by its own lever, or all six capacitors could be discharged in a series–six times the punch—controlled by the last one.

  With both hands now on the final lever, Frank stood in the lake of water, looking east to west and back again, waiting until both sets of men were where he wanted them. He didn’t have to wait long.

  Sylas arrived slightly ahead of the tank and his column of men. As he turned the corner and saw Frank, he set his lips in a thin smile. “Before I obliterate the rest of your town, tell me where your sheriff is.”

  “Who do you think you are?” demanded Frank with all the scorn and disrespect he could muster.

  “Who am I? I own you. Who are you? And consider your answer, because what you say will determine how I kill you, either painfully or quickly. Your choice.”

  Frank smiled; he turned slightly to confirm the other column’s position. “Actually, it is I who own you. Your time is done here.” Frank leaned down and flipped the switch.

  Blue, green, and white sparks danced along the water and metal on the streets, electrocuting everyone in their path. The invaders danced in their places, their arms, legs, and bodies gyrating erratically. Sylas barely moved, frozen like a statue, his face carved in shock. His eyes exploded outward and he dropped like a felled tree into the steamy soup. Frank smiled at these images, which were instantaneous to others but a long movie to him. He was filled with more joy than he could remember and with gratitude for a good death, and peace.

  46.

  Mushroom Clouds

  Wright Ranch, Illinois

  As the two mushroom clouds continued to churn and surge into the troposphere, spreading as they came in contact with the jet stream, the sun inexorably slid down the firmament and crashed on the horizon’s western crest. The abnormal orange and black smoke, ruddy from the setting sun and mixing with a new zephyr of green auroras rolling in from the northwest, brewed an explosion of foreboding colors which bathed the heavens.

  Recently, humans had turned their heads away from the skies, focused instead on day-to-day survival, finding no utility in the archaic enjoyment of auroras or stargazing. But this airborne pageantry pulled all eyes upward, first with fascination, then with fear, and finally with panic as realization caught up with awe.

  Wilber looked up from his despair at the raging sky without much regard; his torment here on earth was much greater. In his arms lay his destroyed family, his wife unable to let go of their son’s broken body.

  Doc Reynolds was the first to join them, followed not much later by the Simpsons. Their heads and shoulders slumped in recognition of the clouds of anguish surrounding the Wrights.

  Doc stopped before their huddled forms amid the tangled wreckage of the tower and turbine blades. He regarded them as a father would. Their utter sadness struck him to his core. What he saw, even through his smudgy lenses, was the most heart-rending image he had ever witnessed: Wilber was completely covered in a film of blackness, blood, and dirt; the area around his eyes was streaky white where tears had flushed away the muck that covered him. He was painted in gloom. In his arms he cradled his wife, who cradled their son, who wore a death mask of gray and purple, his limbs pointed in odd directions.

  Wilber broke the silent sorrow they all wore like chains. “Doc,” he said in a detached voice, “I think John was hit, up on top of the pig pen. Check on him, would you?” He then said to the Simpsons, “Maybe you two could see if Steve is alive too.” Giving the instructions seemed to fill Wilber with purpose of thought, and it gave him a lift to the edge of the pit he shared with his wife.

  “What about… you know?” Doc didn’t need to finish his question.

  “Our enemy? They’re done. Those we didn’t kill have run off. I think their leader must be dead. But heads up just the same.”

  Doc started to walk toward the pig pen, but he stopped and looked back at Wilber. “I’m so sorry,” he said, not able to say anything more. Then he walked away to carry out his assignment.

  “O? I can’t even imagine….” Emma’s voice trembled with mourning, her camo-green head pointed down, not wanting to make eye contact with Olivia for fear of feeling more of her pain.

  “Thank you, Emma,” Wilber answered for his wife, whose only movement was the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. “If you want to lie down inside, that would be fine. I think the fighting is over for now.”

  “No, Wilber, thanks,” Emma said, trying to sound strong, even though her physical and emotional strength had mostly left her. “I’ll help Robert find Steve.”

  Robert said nothing, knowing there was nothing he could say to help; he preferred to say little to begin with. He held his wife and her rifle, and they walked to the tree where they expected to find young Parkington.

  ~~~

  Steve pulled his head out of the crook of Darla’s neck and looked at her face, with questions swirling in a flood of emotions. How did she get here, of all places on this earth, at this time? Why was she mixed up with these evil people? Why had her brother been in harm’s way? Had she missed him as much as he missed her? Would their love survive? Would they?

  He simply held her and watched, her tears long since abated, the tremors of her sobbing quieting like the rumblings of the earthquake. Finally, after a long time, she looked up.

  “Is it really you?”

  Before he could answer, she leaned into his lips and kissed him, her arm squeezing him closer.

  When she let go, she looked down and then back into his eyes. “I couldn’t save him. I should have saved him.”

  He didn’t know what to say, only wanting to comfort her in her grief. “I’m sure—”

  “Look at the pretty colors,” Joselin broke in, pointing to the northeast, over Fossil Ridge.

  Steve looked back at Darla, kissing her again, and stood up, her hand sliding off his shoulder and finding his. He didn’t want to let go. He lifted his head to the sky. “Whatever it is, it seems to be rolling our way.”

  He knelt back down to Darla’s level. “Let’s go to the house on the hill. The owner is my friend. We’ll figure out what to do about Danny, and where to go from here.” He let go of her hand and scooped both arms under Danny’s body, lifting him and Darla at the same time.

  “But…”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got you both,” he said as he cradled Danny in his arms. Darla held onto them both and they walked to Wilber’s house.

  Joselin reached down and grabbed their rifles. “I’ll get these,” she
stated. I feel like the fourth… no. The third wheel.

  Thompson Journal Entry

  Continued…

  When to bug out

  It will be vitally important for you to have a bug-out plan. A bug-out plan addresses that worst case scenario, when everything fails and your only chance of survival is to leave or “bug out.” You must plan for this! I have provided some tools that should help you bug out of Rocky Point if the shit hits the fan.

  Back Packs

  You will find six bug-out back packs, one for each of us, which will have all the essential items.

  47.

  Not Over Till It’s Over

  Rocky Point, Mexico

  “You see, Max’s great-grandfather Russell Thompson’s best friend was my great-grandfather, Peter King. I guess Great-Grandpa saved Max’s great-grand-dad’s butt after the first Carrington Event in 1859. So, Russell Thompson, who became very wealthy mining gold and buying land, made a pact with Pete’s family to always look after his descendants. And I guess Max had been doing this from before we met him.” Bill was more animated than he’d been in weeks as he shared the story.

  Sally cut in. “Sorry to interrupt, Dad, but I read the journal already and know all this. So, if it’s all right with you, I’m going to go get Stanley from where we hid him out back and pull him around to the front so that we can—what does Max call it—‘bug out’ of here.”

  “Wait, we’re leaving?” Lisa jumped in. “What about these supplies, and Max’s promises—”

  “Hang on, hon,” Bill interrupted. “Miguel, would you go with Sally to get her truck, in case there are any more bad guys?”

  “Sure, Señor Bill.” Miguel kissed his wife and checked his rifle. “Are you ready, Señorita?”