The Last Orphans

by N. W. Harris

The big linebacker pivoted around and raised his brows. “Yeah?”

  “You did a good thing in here,” Shane said awkwardly, hoping to ease his friend’s conscious. “We saved a lot of people.”

  Steve nodded and a slight, though painful grin rose on his plump face for an instant. “You too, man,” he replied and then continued across the gym.

  The downpour relented long enough for Shane to help Tracy get everyone outside and loaded up. Just after the last little boy climbed the steps into a bus, Kelly led the eight assaulted girls out. They looked glum and pale with shock, but only one of them still had tears in her eyes. Laura with her new crossbow and Aaron with his bow, an arrow nocked and ready, brought up the back of the line. Shane could see the adrenaline from the conflict hadn’t worn off; his two armed classmates scanned the lot with wide-eyes, searching for threats.

  “How are they doing?” Shane asked Laura once the girls climbed into the bus.

  “Better,” Laura replied. “Sorry I barked at you earlier, in the gym.”

  “No worries—I can take it.” Shane gave a little smile. “Did those criminals do anything to you?” he asked, the question bringing his simmering anger to a boil.

  “No. I hid when they came in,” she said, casting her eyes down. “I wanted to stop them, but I didn’t know what to do.”

  “It’s okay.” Shane put a hand on her shoulder. “You did the right thing. You couldn’t have taken them on by yourself. You would’ve ended up like Billy.”

  “Maybe you’re right, but I feel like total crap for standing by and letting those girls get attacked,” Laura replied. “It won’t happen again, that’s for sure.” She put a hand on the crossbow slung over her shoulder, a firm conviction rising in her expression. Shane gave his best effort at an encouraging smile, and she climbed onto the bus.

  He remembered her crying in the breezeway just hours before. Now she appeared to have taken all her grief and turned it into steel. Everyone changed so much in a short time, seeming grown up, ready to fight and to survive. If he were told earlier today he and a few friends would fight off a gang of armed thugs and win, he would’ve laughed. Yet here they stood, on the other side of the battle, alive and safe—at least for the moment.

  Pulling out of the dirt parking lot, Shane maneuvered his bus in behind Tracy’s, and Steve brought up the rear in the supply bus. Violent cracks drowned out the sound of the engine, followed by a loud, extended hiss. The roof of a long classroom building collapsed, sparks swarming into the air and lighting the campus as bright as day. The brick wall with the school’s mascot, an eight-foot-tall red devil with a pitchfork in one hand and a football in the other, still stood. Flames licked around the ominous demon, the flickering light bringing it alive. He always imagined the mascot inspired fear in their rivals, whose school buses had to pass it on their way in for football games. Seeing it standing tall, defying the school’s collapse, inspired something warm in Shane.

  The sparks settled and the flames died, having depleted the fuel. Shadows fell over the devil’s mural, and it passed out of view as they turned the corner. The high school was such an integral part of Shane’s life, where he hung out with his friends each day and spent evenings and weekends on the football field. To see it burned and crumbling piled more insult on injury—his hopes and dreams gone up in smoke, replaced by a dismal and uncertain future.

  They left the orange light of the dwindling fire and made their way down Highway 72. This section of the road didn’t have any streetlamps, forcing them to navigate around abandoned or crashed cars using only the headlights.

  Shane turned the bus into the driveway of the lumberyard, following Tracy around a flipped-over RV. The lights fell on a cluster of mangled adults, all lying within a few feet of each other in a large mud puddle with the water stained red.

  Kelly gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. She sat in the first row of seats, just behind Shane.

  “They must’ve crowded together for protection,” Shane said. Then he cringed at how calloused he sounded, like seeing the dead became as common to him as seeing the sun rise each day.

  “Do you think we’ll actually find some adults alive in the city?” Kelly’s voice trembled, sounding as glum as he felt.

  “I don’t know. But if anyone survived, it would be the military.”

  The diesel grumbled as the bus climbed the steep hill leading to the freeway. His dad’s auto shop was at the top, just before the on-ramp. Shane reckoned the chance his father had survived was remote. He knew he should just drive by and get on down the road. The buses leveled out after the long climb, and Shane grabbed the handset for the CB radio.

  “I’m stopping at my dad’s shop for a second,” he said into the handset.

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Aaron’s concerned voice asked from the small speaker.

  “No, but I have to,” Shane replied without hesitation.

  “Better make it quick.” This came from Tracy, her tone scolding.

  “I’ll only be a minute,” he replied curtly.

  Shane knew she’d lost people too, but it didn’t give her the right to act inconvenienced by him wanting to find out if his dad might have somehow survived. He bottled his irritation and pulled the bus into the parking area of the auto shop.

  “Stay here,” he said to Kelly, sounding as stoic as he could. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  Kelly’s blue eyes conveyed her uncertainty and concern. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go with?”

  “No—I’ll be okay,” he replied, giving her the most convincing glance he could muster.

  Ignoring the expression saying she didn’t believe he’d be okay if he found his father dead, he reached past her, grabbed a loaded crossbow from the front seat, and climbed off the bus. The solitary buzzing streetlamp bathed the shop and the parking area in soft, white light. It illuminated the stack of used tires on the left side of the glass garage doors, the row of cars with their hoods up in various stages of repair, and the fifty-gallon drums of motor oil sitting on either side of the entrance to the main office. A silent, soaking drizzle softened the light. Everything looked peaceful and normal on first glance.

  “Where do you think he might be?” Aaron said, causing Shane to jump. He’d slipped next to Shane without him noticing.

  “The office,” Shane replied soberly, pointing his crossbow in that direction.

  He hadn’t wanted Kelly to come along, because he didn’t know how he’d react if he found his father dead. But he and Aaron were the closest of friends for so long that they were like brothers. Aaron knew everything about Shane—had seen him fall apart when his mother died and was frequently there when his dad got drunk and turned into a prickosaurus rex. Aaron’s dad left him and his mom when he was a toddler, and over the years, he basically adopted Shane’s dad. Though Shane was sometimes jealous because his dad was nice to Aaron even when he was drunk, Aaron deserved to be there as much as anyone, and it relieved him to have his friend by his side.

  Aaron nocked an arrow, and they slipped between the parked cars toward the building. Shane saw an old, red Cadillac convertible he, Aaron, and Dad worked on over the summer. Dad promised they could have the car once they got it running. Shane felt a painful twinge and wanted everything to return to normal. Even if his father was a jerk half of the time, Shane wanted his old life back—wanted this nightmare to go away.

  They hesitated at the office door. The streetlamp’s light couldn’t shine through the tinted glass, so they’d have to go inside. Shane looked at Aaron, whose eyes widened as if to say, Don’t expect me to go first.

  Taking a deep and shaky breath, Shane braced himself for what horrors might lay inside. He grabbed the aluminum door handle and pulled it.

  A thick, ammoniac smell wafted out to meet them. Shane’s eyes watered. Quiet squeaking erupted from inside the office, accompanied by subtle scratching, like sand sprinkled onto paper. Shane stepped into the darkness, holding his crossbow ready like a SWAT t
eam member entering a crime scene. Something crunched under his new hiking boots, and the floor felt wet and slippery. Shane reached for the light switch, and something tickled his fingers, causing him to recoil.

  “Hit the lights,” Aaron whispered.

  His hand quivering, Shane reached out again, this time finding the switch. He flipped it up, and blinding light filled the room.

  “Holy crap!”

  They backed out of the office so fast that they almost fell on top of each other. The floors, walls, and ceilings moved, covered in millions of cockroaches scurrying in every direction to escape the light.

  “What the heck was that?” Aaron asked, standing behind Shane, fifteen feet back from the office door.

  “I don’t know, but I got to go back in,” Shane replied, a tremor in his voice. His skin crawled, and he wanted to run in the opposite direction.

  Praying his dad wasn’t in there, he crept to the office door. Most of the cockroaches found a place to hide, and only a few still rushed about. The office smelled damp and musty, and receipts pinned to the large corkboard on the wall opposite the door had holes chewed in them and were wet and covered with dark stains, probably bug waste.

  At the right end of the room, a man sat slumped in the office chair behind the green, metal desk. Shane couldn’t recognize him; his face was mostly eaten away. The cheekbones were picked clean, showing bright white under the fluorescent lights. But the blue Dickies the man wore were at once familiar. He spun out of the room, running into the parking lot. Passing Aaron, Shane dropped to his knees and vomited.

  “You alright, man?” Aaron asked with an unsteady voice, putting a hand on Shane’s back.

  “No,” Shane cried. “I’m not alright! I’m sick of this. It’s all bullshit.”

  He shrugged his shoulder, throwing Aaron’s hand off. Sharp bits of gravel cut into his hands and knees, and he wept into his regurgitated peanut butter and jelly sandwich. His eyes clamped shut, and it felt like a belt tightened around his chest.

  A delicate hand held a paper towel between him and the puke, wiping his nose and mouth.

  “Come on, Shane.” Kelly’s soft voice cut through the agonizing haze of sadness crushing in on him. “Sit up for me.”

  She tugged him back so he sat on his calves, his head still drooping forward.

  “We’ve got to get going,” Tracy shouted sternly from her bus.

  “Give him a minute, will ya?” Kelly retorted.

  Kelly combed his hair back from his brow, her touch soothing him like a dose of a powerful painkiller. “She is right though,” she said. “Staying here isn’t doing you any good.”

  “What’s the point?” Shane muttered. “We got no one—they’re all dead.”

  “You’ve got us, Shane,” Kelly replied. “We need you.”

  “For what?” he whispered. “It’s hopeless.”

  As depressed as he felt, he hated how he sounded so pathetic and wished he hadn’t said that to Kelly. Shane already knew his dad must be dead, expected it before he ever stopped at the auto shop. But still, seeing Dad’s corpse, sitting there in the office where Shane had so many memories—it felt like he’d been shot with one of the metal-tipped bolts from his crossbow.

  Dropping to her knees next to him, Kelly tugged his chin over so he looked at her.

  “You saved me, Shane. If you weren’t there when my parents died, I don’t know what I would’ve done.” She pushed her hair behind her ear and studied him with moist, sympathetic eyes, forcing aside the darkness closing in on him.

  “I need you. And those kids need you,” she continued, pointing at the bus. “If you haven’t noticed, everyone looks to you when they don’t know what to do next. We won’t make it without you.”

  Shane glanced at the bus. Kids pressed their faces against the windows, their wide and tearful eyes focused on him. Embarrassed at having so many people see him in this broken state, he looked at Kelly and tried to glean strength from her. He hated life, despised the world right then. But he couldn’t help feeling a little flame of hope ignite in his heart when he looked at her freckled cheeks and nose, her soft, pink lips pulled tight with concern. He didn’t care if he died right then and there, but he wanted her to be safe.

  “You’re right,” he murmured dejectedly.

  Kelly hooked her arm through his and helped him to his feet. His knees shaking, he walked to the bus and climbed on. After Shane sat in the driver seat, he looked down through the open door at Aaron, who wore a worried expression on his face.

  “You okay to drive?” Aaron asked, his voice full of empathy but also caution.

  “Yeah,” Shane replied. “I’m fine.”

  Aaron studied him, uncertainty crinkling his brow. The dogs killed Aaron’s mother, so what right did Shane have to give up when his friend was so determined to keep going? He cleared his throat.

  “Really, man. I’m good.”

  “Alright,” Aaron said, not sounding convinced. He gave Shane a concerned look for a few more seconds and then turned to walk away.

  “Hey, Aaron.” Shane stopped him.

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for going in there with me.”

  “No problem, man,” Aaron replied. “I got your back—you got mine.”

  “I got your back—you got mine,” Shane repeated. They said it to each other in the locker room before every game.

  Flashbacks of a childhood gone forever—of casting their lines in the pond below the garage where they never caught any fish, playing football together from the time they learned to walk, and getting greasy up to their elbows learning how to rebuild car engines—rolled through Shane’s thoughts. He watched Aaron walk to Tracy’s bus and climb aboard. Rubbing his hand down his face in an attempt to strip away the mixture of debilitating emotions, he started the diesel and shifted the bus into drive. They drove out of the parking lot, and Shane didn’t dare glance back at the auto shop, afraid he’d fall apart if he did.

  His chest aching from his father’s death, he steered his bus onto the on-ramp behind Tracy, and they entered the freeway. Heading south, they encountered only a few abandoned or wrecked cars on the road, so they managed to get up to a decent speed in spite of the thick, foggy drizzle limiting their visibility. At this rate, Shane reckoned they’d get to Atlanta in an hour and a half.

  Every time he blinked, his dad’s half-eaten corpse flashed in his mind, like the image had been tattooed on the insides of his eyelids. Kelly sat in the first seat behind him. He could feel her watching him, perhaps worried he’d lose it and crash the bus.

  “How are the girls doing?” Shane asked, wanting to divert her attention. He felt ashamed about falling apart in the parking lot in front of his dad’s shop, and the pity in her eyes wasn’t helping.

  “I’ll go check,” she replied.

  Kelly stood and reached forward, putting her hand on his arm. She gave it a comforting squeeze and smiled at him in the large rearview mirror. Shane tried to smile back. Then Kelly made her way down the center aisle of the bus, stopping at each seat to check on the passengers.

  They had all the assaulted victims of the gym on their bus, as well as a few of the younger kids. Fortunately, there was enough room for each person to curl up on one of the green Naugahyde bench seats.

  Shane glanced at the clock—two AM.

  Every part of his body, toes to brains, suffered the bite of exhaustion, but he didn’t expect he’d ever be able to sleep again. In the rearview mirror, he saw Kelly handing out blankets to their passengers. She paused at some seats and unfolded one of the green blankets over the sleeping passengers. He knew she had to be as torn up as he was, but she managed to put aside grief and be a caring nurse, offering her empathetic smiles as medicine.

  “They’re doing okay,” Kelly reported after she made her way forward and returned to her seat. “Five of the girls have fallen asleep. The other three are staring out the window, but at least they aren’t crying anymore. Rebecca’s face looks pretty bad.
I think she has some broken bones in her cheek.”

  “Hopefully, we can find a doctor at the Air Force base,” Shane said. Thinking about how he’d seen the proud redhead get punched down, Shane was sick and angry about the incident all over again.

  “Yeah—that would be good,” Kelly replied. “At least she has some ice on it.”

  With what happened to the girls, Shane worried they needed a doctor for a lot more than Rebecca’s face.

  “How’s Natalie?”

  “She’s asleep too.” Kelly yawned. “Has been since we left the school. Lucky her. I guess kids can sleep through anything.”

  “How about you? Why don’t you get some rest?”

  “No, I’m alright,” she said. “Besides, you need company.”

  Only the growl of the diesel and the wind whistling over the bus disturbed the silence for a few miles. Shane glanced in the mirror at Kelly, who stared blankly out the windshield. Her drawn face and sad eyes made him worry she might be reliving the horror of watching her folks get killed. He wished he could take the memory from her and burn it, knowing she’d probably never again be the happy, carefree girl on whom he had a secret crush since middle school.

  Funny how they hadn’t really talked much before. Being a grade ahead of him and a year older, she’d always seemed out of his league. And every time she’d talked to him at church, he couldn’t help but clam up. Now she looked to him for answers. Did she truly believe he could get her and her sister to safety?

  Had she always thought so highly of him?

  They traveled along a stretch of freeway with no accidents on it, and things almost looked normal for a minute. Then they were forced to slow down and steer around a motorcycle entangled with a buck. The rider lay thirty feet ahead of the bike, facedown. Shane guessed he’d been thrown over the handlebars when the deer hit him and died on impact.

  “My gramps loved his Harley,” Kelly said, sounding lost in memories.

  Shane had seen the old man many times. He had to be at least six foot four, and he looked a bit like Abraham Lincoln minus the goatee. He’d always seemed so reserved and formal, wearing a suit to church every Sunday. Shane would’ve never guessed he liked to ride motorcycles.