Desolate - The Complete Trilogy

by Robert Brumm

  “Don’t look, Emily. Hold on, we’re almost there!”

  I managed to reach the back gate, without tripping over a body, and pushed it open. We entered the alley and I lowered her to the pavement.

  “We made it,” I gasped.

  We only took a few steps toward the street when the scuffle of footsteps behind me caught my attention. I turned just in time to see a shovel before it hit me square in the face.

  18

  Lilly was crying. I tried to call out to Gina to take care of it, but for some reason I couldn’t make my mouth work. Drunk again. Man, was I going to hear about it. Screw it. I’d make it up to them tomorrow. Just need to sleep it off…

  Lilly cried out again and called my name. A man’s gruff voice told her to shut up. I opened my eyes but my vision was blurred. It was Emily. Emily was calling out my name, not Lilly. I was on my back, being dragged by one foot. I tasted blood.

  My shirt was practically up around my neck as the asphalt scraped the bare skin on my back. I reached out with my hands, trying to pull myself up, but my fingers only brushed the street. I couldn’t seem to make any muscle in my body cooperate.

  I suddenly stopped moving and my heel hit the pavement. Somebody slapped my cheek twice and hissed, “Git up!”

  “Christ, mon,” a different voice spat. “You could’ve killed ’eem. I tol’ you I want answers first!”

  A kick to my leg.

  “Sit up, mon! I know you can hear me.”

  I slowly reached for my face and gingerly touched my nose. Spots still danced in my vision as I tried to pull the ceiling into focus.

  “I said, sit up!”

  One of the attackers grabbed my shirt with both hands, pulled me up, and slammed me against the wall. I banged the back of my head on the wall and cried out. Emily started to wail.

  “And you keep your damn mouth shut!”

  The homeless guy from the day before was sitting next to Emily on a crate, rocking back and forth slightly, eyeing me with a demented grin on his face. Another man paced nervously around the garage we were in. He was tall and menacing, with shoulder-length dreads and a scruffy goatee. He wore only shorts and shoes. His lean and muscular upper body was covered in scars and tattoos. He held a large black revolver that he flailed around as he paced.

  “What do you tink you’re doing with this girl here, mon?” he shouted at me. He continued to pace back and forth in front of me.

  “She belongs to us now,” said homeless guy.

  “Shut up, Stick!” the pacer yelled at homeless guy. “I do the talking!” Homeless guy flinched and cowered like a dog being reprimanded.

  “You see out dere?” the pacer asked me. He pointed his revolver toward the open garage door. “Dis town belongs to me now. No cop. No politician.” He tapped the tip of the revolver on his chest. “Nowan but me.”

  “Nowan but Ketch,” added homeless guy.

  “Shut up, Stick!”

  The pacer walked over to a table and pulled what looked like a few crystals out of a plastic bag. He smashed them a couple of times with the butt of his revolver, leaned over, and snorted the powder. He let out a primal scream at the ceiling and jumped up and down a few times. I had a feeling he was just now hitting his stride and had no plans on mellowing out anytime soon. When he turned back to me his eyes looked even more insane.

  “You know what I tink?” he asked me. “I tink de white mon did this to my town. De white mon like you!” He emphasized his point by jabbing the gun in my direction. I did my best not to flinch but I’m sure I still looked scared shitless.

  He stopped pacing and squatted in front on me. “Tell me, white boy. What are you doing in my town, ah? Why aren’t you at de coast drinking Red Stripe and staring at titties on the beach?”

  “I’m lost,” I managed to say. “Just trying to find help.”

  “Cha!” he screamed and punched the wall next to my head. He pulled his hand away and it was covered in blood and plaster dust. He was so tweaked it didn’t even faze him. He jammed the muzzle of the revolver into my forehead and pushed my head back against wall. Bright white pain erupted through my head, and for a second I actually thought he pulled the trigger.

  “Tell me de truth or I split your head in two!” He pushed the muzzle harder into my skin and cocked the gun. “What killed my people? What do you know?”

  Emily started crying again. Homeless guy smacked her on the head and told her to shut up. The pacer pulled the revolver from my face and redirected his rage at his partner. He hopped up and got in homeless guy’s face. “What de fuck, mon? Who tol’ you to clap dat girl?”

  “S-sorry, Ketch. Just trying to keep her quiet, know?”

  “Her mudda was one of me best customers. Nobody lays a hand on dat girl but me, seen?”

  Homeless guy cowered and raised his hands in front of his face. “Sorry, Ketch. Jus’ feeling uneasy.” He glanced at the table with the drugs. “How ’bout a lil taste of that ice, mon? We hadda deal, no?”

  The pacer eyed homeless guy for a moment and nodded at the table. Homeless guy slowly rose from the crate and uneasily walked over to the bag on the table. He gave one last look at the pacer and leaned over to snort the dust.

  The pacer was on homeless guy in seconds and smashed his face into the table. Homeless guy collapsed to the floor. The pacer straddled homeless guy and started pummeling him in the face with the butt of his revolver. While homeless guy tried to scream in pain, pacer bellowed with insane rage as he delivered blow after blow. Homeless guy quickly fell quiet as his face turned to mush and his blood splattered all over his assailant.

  Emily jumped up from the crate and ran over to me. I wrapped my arms around her as tight as I could and she buried her face in my neck for the second time that day. While the pacer was distracted, I fished for the scalpel in my back pocket. It caught on the material and wouldn’t come free.

  The pacer finally stopped beating and rose, breathing heavily and moaning like a madman. He snorted another hit off the table and frantically rubbed his nose with the back of his bloody hand. He strolled past us as if we weren’t even there and stood in the doorway of the garage, staring out into the street.

  I clutched Emily and exhaled, realizing I’d been holding my breath for longer than I could remember. I finally pulled the scalpel free and slowly looked down at it. The blade had broken off. It was useless.

  Without warning, he spun around and fired all six shots from his revolver into homeless guy’s body. Emily shrieked and I closed my eyes, waiting for him to do the same to us, not having an answer for how to prevent it.

  My ears were ringing from the gunfire but I had no problem hearing his bellowing.

  “Ya!” he shouted at me. “Did you see that, mon? Fucking head exploded like a melon! That’s some wicked mad shit!”

  He opened the cylinder and held his revolver upright. The empty shell casings fell from the gun and bounced around on the concrete floor. Pacer glared at me with mad eyes while he dug in his pockets for more bullets.

  “You mus tink I’m pretty daft, no?” he asked me. “I see everyting. You an’ Stick tought you could juss take my glass?” He loaded the revolver while frantically nodding. He slapped the cylinder shut and start pacing again.

  “Dis town is my territory! Nobody steals from Ketch. Not this trash,” he pointed his gun at the mangled corpse on the floor, “and no white boy from are-can-saw.” He pointed the gun at me.

  I cleared my throat and held up my hand. “Look, I’m not trying to steal anything from you,” I said as calmly as possible. “I’m just trying to get out of town. I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

  He cocked his head to the side and grinned. His teeth were pitted and brown. “Oh, I don’t know what you are talking about,” he mocked in his best Midwestern accent. He took a step forward, leveled the gun at my head, and reached for Emily.

  “Come, child,” he cooed. Emily whined and held on to me tighter. He grabbed her arm and pulled her
from me. “Shhhh, dat’s enuf now. It’s time to go.”

  He pulled Emily close and kept the gun pointed at me. He took a step back and looked down at Emily. “Close your eyes, child. I need to make de bad man go ’way.”

  “Hey, come on,” I stammered. “You don’t have to do this.” I held my palm out at the gun, as if that could somehow stop what was coming. “Just…just let me go. You don’t have any problems with me. Let me out of here and you’ll never see me again.”

  For once he wasn’t pacing and agitated. He stared at me with cold eyes, watching me squirm and enjoying it.

  “The girl,” I pointed at Emily. “I helped her. I kept her safe and gave her food. If you really care for her, you’ll appreciate that!”

  The mention of Emily must have angered him and he lurched forward, jamming the muzzle into my forehead once again.

  I don’t know where that whole “life flashed before my eyes” crap started because that doesn’t happen. It didn’t for me anyway. I fully expected to die at that moment and the only thing going through my mind was this simple question: Would my brain register the sound of the gunshot in the millisecond before it turned into jelly on the wall? Adrenaline pumped through my veins and the primal instinct of fight or flight screamed through my psyche. I wasn’t able to do either.

  The sound of tires rolling on the pavement outside almost didn’t register at first. Ketch backed off with the gun and we both turned to see a pickup truck drive past the open garage door. Tires shrieked as it skidded to a stop.

  “There!” somebody shouted. “Back, back, back!”

  The truck slammed into reverse and drove backward into view again. Two men crouching in the bed of truck trained rifles on us. Ketch aimed at them and opened fire.

  19

  For a little girl, Emily was pretty sharp. When the garage erupted with gunfire, she dove to the floor and made herself as flat as possible. I did the same and crawled to her.

  Ketch fired his revolver dry and dropped it to the floor. The gunmen outside continued to fire. Their rounds peppered off the back wall of the garage and covered us with plaster debris and dust. Ketch, all the while screaming like a lunatic, scrambled behind a crate and out of sight. He grew quiet and the shooting stopped. Emily and I lay flat on our stomachs behind a short stack of pallets. Not very good cover, but I thought we were at least hidden from the outside.

  “Hey, in there,” a voice outside bellowed. It sounded American. “Nobody needs to get shot! Come on out with your hands up.”

  “Gunkona!” Ketch screamed from behind his crate.

  I could hear him rummaging around back there. He popped up holding a military-style shotgun and screamed. Before he could get off the first shot, the top of his head exploded in a spray of mist. The single rifle shot from outside echoed through the streets. Ketch collapsed to the floor, twitched a couple of times, and was still.

  “Don’t shoot, we’re coming out!” I yelled from behind the pallets. “There’s a little girl here!”

  I raised my hands above the pallets and waited for them to be shredded by bullets. When no shots came, I slowly rose.

  The truck was no longer in front of the garage, but two men stood there with their rifles pointed at me. One white guy who looked to be around my age and a younger looking black kid.

  “Keep those hands where I can see ’em and head this way,” the white guy commanded.

  I looked down at Emily, those big eyes looking to me for answers, and I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring nod. She got up and stood next to me with her hands up high. I wished I could somehow remove the last thirty minutes from her memory. I grabbed her hand and slowly walked toward the men.

  “We’re not with him,” I nodded toward Ketch’s body. “He was holding us captive.”

  “Just get yer ass over here,” whitey growled. “Plenty of time for stories later.”

  Emily and I shuffled toward the gunmen and out of the garage. The truck was idling down the street. A concerned looking black woman leaned out of the driver side window. I could see the silhouette of another person in the passenger seat.

  “Check him,” the white guy said to his partner.

  The black kid lowered his assault rifle and patted me down for weapons. The kid reported I was clean and the white guy waved at the truck. The woman from the driver’s seat climbed out and a young white girl followed.

  The white guy lowered his gun but kept it pointed toward my feet. “You wanna fill me in on what happened, chief?” He glanced at Emily and then back to me.

  “That guy back there was a nut,” I said. “A drug dealer, I think. He went crazy and killed the guy he was with and was just about to kill me.”

  “That must have been the shots we heard. We were up the street looking for supplies when we heard ’em.” He held out his hand and I shook it. “Name’s Dave Penske. This here is Tre.”

  I shook hands with the black kid and said, “Howard Bell. This is Emily. I’ve been watching out for her.”

  Dave pointed at my face and what was probably a mangled and bruised nose. “Looks like they worked you over pretty good.”

  I touched my nose, winced in pain, and was glad I didn’t have a mirror handy. “Yeah, took a cheap shot with a shovel.”

  The women hurried over. The black woman was short and heavyset. Probably around fifty. She had a kind face and big old mop of hair trying to be tamed by a bandanna tied around her head. The girl couldn’t have been a day over sixteen but regarded me with the eyes of a girl who had aged a little too quickly over the last couple of weeks.

  “What happened?” the woman asked.

  “Put down a druggie in the garage,” Dave said. “We’re all good. This here is Howard and Emily. Howard, meet Minnie and Ann.”

  Minnie smiled at me and then squatted down in front of Emily. “Well, look at you, child. Aren’t you juss de cutest ting?”

  Emily grabbed my hand and pushed up against my leg.

  “Let me guess, Howard,” Dave said. “You get stranded on vacation like me and Annie here when the world decided to shit the bed?”

  “Yeah, something like that,” I answered.

  “We’re heading to the north coast. Gonna try for Montego Bay,” Dave said. “We’re hoping some of the more touristy spots up there might be in a little better shape. You’re welcome to join us.”

  “Sounds good. Before Emily and I got ambushed I was planning on finding a car and trying to find Kingston.”

  “Kingston is dead,” said Tre flatly. “Dat’s where we come from. Lucky to get out of dere alive.”

  Everybody nodded silently in agreement. I had a feeling the story of what these people had gone through the last few days could rival mine.

  “Y’all got that right,” muttered Dave. “What was left of the survivors amounted to a bunch of gangbangers trying to run what was left of the city. That and dirty street people. Present company the exception ’course,” he nodded at Tre and Minnie.

  “So are we going to go, or what?” Ann asked. “This place stinks.”

  “How ’bout it, Howie?” Dave asked. “You two gonna join us?”

  “Just a sec,” I said and crouched down to Emily. “What do you think, kiddo? Should we go with these people? I don’t make a move without asking my partner first.”

  “Let’s rock,” she said.

  “You heard the lady,” I said to the group. “Just one condition. Please don’t call me Howie. Brings back bad memories.”

  20

  The truck bounced over an especially large pothole in the road and woke Emily who leaned against me. She looked around with a little scowl and closed her eyes again. We were sitting in the bed of the truck with Dave and Ann. Tre drove and Minnie rode shotgun.

  Dave noticed me looking at his rifle. I think it was one of those AK-47s like you see in just about every movie where the bad guys are Russian, Vietcong, or Taliban.

  “Not too shabby, huh?” he asked. “Nabbed it from a drug house. Not much use for the
piles of cash in there, but this has come in handy. I’d prefer my trusty M4, but it’s better than throwing rocks.”

  Dave filled me in on my new traveling companions as we headed toward Montego Bay. He just turned forty and decided to retire from the Marine Corps when he made master sergeant. He and his wife moved back to Dave’s hometown of Sevierville, Tennessee. They came to Jamaica for a week to celebrate before starting their new life.

  Ann Weston was a seventeen-year-old student from Cambridge, Ontario. Like Dave, her family picked the worst possible to time in history to travel out of the country. Both her parents and little brother got sick and died in the hotel while the entire resort fell apart around her. She was in the right place at the right time when the other three discovered her wandering aimlessly down the road. Ann mostly stared off in the distance as we drove and I could only imagine what she was going through.

  Tre James and Minnie Garvey were both lifelong residents of Kingston. Minnie was the grandmother of eighteen grandkids and cleaned homes for a living in the nicer part of town. Even from the short time I’d been around her, I couldn’t help but notice her upbeat energy and optimism, which puzzled me considering the circumstances. A shrink probably would have chalked it up as a defense mechanism. Out of all of us, Minnie had the largest family to lose, and Dave implied she couldn’t find or communicate with most of them when things went wrong. Her smile was probably the only way she could cope.

  Tre was twenty-three. When he wasn’t at his dishwashing job, he was practicing his freestyle in one of the hip-hop clubs around town. Jamaica already had a world famous reggae artist, so Tre shot for the biggest rap name on the island. I sensed some tension between Dave and Tre. It was obvious Dave was the de facto leader of the group and I had a feeling Tre wasn’t entirely on board with that.

  As for my story, I kept it vague. I’m not entirely sure why, but I wasn’t ready to let any of my new companions know where I’d come from. For now, I revealed I was from Wisconsin and was here “traveling.” That seemed to satisfy Dave.