Cynic, Surfer, Saint (Scenic Route to Paradise #1)

by Andrea Aarons

  Malak or Mac as he was called by his intimates, was first cousin to the king. Merry guessed correctly that he was about 35 and very capable of getting her to D’Almata and to her mother along with more than a dozen crates of American goods. He dressed in jeans, a comfortable mustard colored cashmere sweater under a black leather jacket with a travel-on bag and a soft leather backpack slung over his shoulder.

  “Welcome to America,” Merry said.

  He replied, “Thank you, Merry. How are you?” His thick accent reminded her of Count Dracula which caused her to smile.

  “Very busy trying to get out of town! Are you hungry or can we run a quick errand first?” Merry asked. She was thinking of the halfway house. The international flight had fed Mac amply. It was decided they would tend to Merry’s errand.

  Patsy Sena, the live-in house mother and longtime family friend of the Merriweathers was not home when Merry and Mac pulled into the gravel driveway. Besides Auntie Patsy there were six other women living on the premises. Ex-druggies, thieves and a violent parolee who were intent on getting their lives turned around.

  Merry came in and found only purple-haired Sylvia Medina and her volatile housemate, Angel Tapia home. There was a Bible Study scheduled for four o’clock, Merry remembered and Patsy and the women who weren’t working would return before then.

  Merry looked at Angel and demanded without preliminaries, “What is up with the kid hanging around smoking cigarettes?”

  Sylvia answered before Angel could. “What kid? Oh, you mean the punk from the neighborhood back there? Yeah, he has been coming over mooching cigarettes.” There was a huge new development of houses about a quarter of a mile away and Sylvia lifted her chin in that direction as she spoke.

  Merry ignored her to direct her questions at Angel. “He’s your little brother, isn’t he? Where is he?” Merry had heard all about Angel’s younger brother because the group had been praying about him for months as he went from foster home to foster home. Angel went to the closet door and opened it. Junior was standing next to the vacuum cleaner. Merry was undecided about what she was going to do but the next moment changed any viable decision she would have made, regardless.

  There was a stunning white flash. Momentarily Merry was blinded, as were the others. The women and the boy started cursing and bumping into one another. Merry’s back was to the flash and she wore sunglasses from her drive up from Albuquerque.

  “What was that?” she yelled. She stepped back and away from the fumbling noises coming from Sylvia, Angel and Junior. A moment later, her vision cleared. Merry turned and opened the front door to see Malak, out of the car, running towards her.

  “Dungeon! Get to the dungeon,” he was shouting. Merry turned back to the others. Junior had a bloody nose. He had run into the closet door. Sylvia, her dramatic makeup smeared, towered above the shorter Angel Tapia, as they hugged each other. Both were crying because neither one of them could see.

  “Sylvia, Angel! Get those water jugs from under the kitchen cabinet...” Merry began but she was interrupted by Sylvia’s shouting that she was “blind!” Angel and now, Junior were wailing.

  Mac rushed through the doorway. He grabbed Merry savagely by the arm, propelling her forward into the room. “Mac! Listen to me!” Merry yelled. “There is no dungeon or basement!”

  “Yes...? This is bad!” he responded but immediately began looking about for an alternative.

  Merry suggested over the commotion, “There is the well house - it’s underground. But these girls, the boy... Will you get them in there?”

  Shouting, he announced, “We’ve got two minutes… less, now.” He had Sylvia hold tight to her friend and he guided them outside following Merry who had Angel’s brother by the arm, although he struggled.

  Merry forced the boy to the left and along the side of the house to circumvent the prickly pear cactus he insisted on aiming for in his sightlessness; she made him sit down. “Sit here. It is going to be okay,” she told him. His head was shaved excepting for a three inch mohawk of dark brown hair, trembling above oversized zirconia stud earrings in each ear. His face a sickly yellow, he nodded hopefully.

  Mac followed with the others who were beginning to get their vision back. Merry lifted the metal cap from the subterranean well house. There was a ten foot drop into the room below. The ladder was in the garage but apparently there was no time to retrieve it.

  Pointing to the hole, she said to Mac, “I’ll be right back. Get in. Jogging, she returned carrying a laundry basket, Mrs. Ortiz was shuffling before her. Mac stood over the well opening, motioning to them.

  “Watch out,” Merry shouted down the hole and then unceremoniously dropped the basket. Lifting thin Mrs. Ortiz, Mac swung her over the opening and then moved down with her until he dropped her. He wasn’t as careful with Merry. She had climbed over the lip when he grabbed her wrist, forcing her to let loose. Kicking a water jug aside, she scrambled out of his way.

  As Mac secured the well house cover but before his feet hit the ground below there was a thunderous booming reverberating through their refuge. Sylvia and Angel started howling drowning out young Junior’s whimpering.

  It was pitch dark in the well room but after groping about for a moment, Merry found the flashlight above the fuse box. She flicked it on. The ground below her feet trembled continuously. The sounds, like thunder came from a long distance but the tremors were felt in the cement encased room. Fine powder sifted down from the ceiling.

  Mrs. Ortiz was standing pressed against the holding tank for the well pump. Junior’s face was smeared with blood from his nose bleed. Mac’s eyes went wide and then twinkled with approval at the flashlight as his black screened sunglasses were now positioned atop his head. The others were huddled and humbled by the shock of the last few minutes.

  The plastic laundry basket was filled sometime before the New Year. Pasty Sena and Merry had put together items for emergencies at the suggestion of their pastor. He hadn’t mentioned specifics but Merry went online and got a list of emergency basics for a large household. The intent was to have it ready to be thrown into the trunk of a car or to hunker down in a safe room at a moments notice.

  The laundry tote carried blankets, a first aid and survival kit, food, a flashlight, extra batteries and several water bottles and other essentials. Merry wanted to add more water but she tossed only one additional gallon of the dozens from the kitchen on top of the already filled basket.

  Mac whistled shrilly. “No more noise. Silence!” he ordered. There would be no genuine silence with the thunderous racket shaking the room.

  Merry wondered if Mrs. Ortiz was in shock. She continued leaning against the tank; her face pale under her olive complexion and her dark eyes staring wildly before her. Her salt and pepper hair primly cut above her shoulders was covered by the falling silt as was her long sleeve shirt. Merry had found the elderly neighbor standing in the driveway when returning with the laundry basket.

  The others quieted as Mac commanded but Merry asked, “Mac, what is happening?”

  Mac’s forehead glistened. He puckered his lips and then wiped his mouth with a cloth handkerchief. He looked at her and then at the boy. He shook his head and then turned to Merry again. She assumed his was the look of disgusted disbelief.

  Pulling off a now tattered pair of black leather gloves that he had put on sometime before Merry returned with the emergency supplies, Mac answered. “It appears to be war. From my experience, bombs or rocket flex come immediately after the flash.” He let out a whistled breath similar to a steam kettle. Nodding with appreciation, he looked around their confines, adding, “It’ll stop soon but this foxhole will do in place of a dungeon.”

  In a few minutes the thundering did cease.

  Mac said, “It sounded close but not on top of us.”

  Merry had given a flashlight to Sylvia. She held it while Mac and Junior gathered the things scattered from the basket. Merry was talking in hushed tones to Mrs. Ortiz but not getting a respo
nse from her. Angel had wiped Junior’s face with a sock that came from the basket and now she sat looking numb with the bloody sock in her hand.

  They hadn’t been down in the well room twenty minutes when Mac began his ascent up and out. He climbed the tank and balancing on it, pushed the well cover up and over the lip. Light came flooding into the cavity.

  Merry told Mac about the ladder and he came back with it. They helped Mrs. Ortiz up first. Sylvia went up next and then Junior and Angel. Merry turned out the flashlight that was left on the ground next to the discarded bloodied sock. Returning the light to the spot above the fuse box, she put the basket with the supplies behind the tank where they would not be seen from a cursory look from above.

  When Merry surfaced, no one was in sight. There was a haze and dust in the air, reminding Merry of the effects of a forest fire. The sun shone eerily pink like it would at sundown although the orb remained high in the sky, as it was not quite noon. Looking south to Albuquerque, Merry saw a horizon shrouded in a low dusty looking cloud. Near and far, sirens were sounding - ambulances, fire trucks, house and car alarms but there weren’t any natural noises; no people, no birds, no dogs barking. A normally quiet neighborhood anyway, the houses were separated by as much as three acres.

  Not bothering to pull the ladder up or to cover the well house portal for now, Merry headed inside. Sylvia had Mrs. Ortiz on the couch with a cup of water in hand. Mac wasn’t around but Merry could hear Angel shouting hysterically in English-Spanish slang at Junior in the other room.

  Merry said to Sylvia, “You okay? And you, Mrs. Ortiz? Are you alright?” Merry thought the older woman looked sane again. Mrs. Ortiz bobbed her head. Her voice was shaky but then it usually was.

  “My doggy. I hope she isn’t hurt. She ran off just before that flash and I left her... but… But how did I get down in that well house with you, Merry?” she asked.

  Merry stepped forward and took Mrs. Ortiz’s hand. She patted it gently and noticed that the widow continued to wear her wedding band. Merry said, “We’ll talk about that later.”

  Angel stomped into the room, followed by Junior. She carried a suitcase and Junior held a backpack in his arms. Angel pushed past Merry, saying, “You people are loco-crazy! I’m getting out of here. Come on, Junior!”

  “Angel, don’t be ridiculous! What? You think this is our fault?” Merry asked, incredulous. “You need to stay here, until we figure out what to do. Where are you going to go, anyway?”

  Junior looked like he wanted to stay as he lagged behind his sister as she crossed the room for the door. A cell phone left atop a Bible was on the ledge of the narrow window that ran parallel to the front door. Angel stooped and picked these up. She hesitated in the doorway to check her phone.

  Merry, staring at her is disbelief said, “Angel, your phone isn’t going to work! Katrina? 9-11? Los Angeles, just last year? Does that ring a bell?” Her voice high and sounding panicky to her own ears.

  Limp, bleached blond hair hanging unbrushed at her shoulders, Angel looked up at her not comprehending. Merry came over and touched her shoulder, glancing first to the boy and then into Angel’s fear-stricken face. “It’s serious. No telling what’s happening but my advice - and I’ve given you some sound advice lately - stay with us until things settle down.” Angel had three tears tattooed below the outside of her right eye but real droplets were flooding the inside corners of both eyes. Turning she went out the door with the child following.

  They were down the driveway when Merry called, “Angel! Your brother isn’t even wearing a jacket - come on!” Angel wore a light coat and tight jeans while Junior followed in oversized jean-shorts and an extra large white T-shirt.

  Sunny days in Santa Fe were usually warm even in the winter months but nightfall or dense shade meant frigid cold now in March. Snow was not infrequent as late as May, although rare for the lower New Mexican elevations. At the moment, with the abnormal overcast, it was cool. Merry closed the door.

  Going to the kitchen, Merry reached for the faucet. Her hand was trembling. Gripping the faucet handle to steady herself, she yanked it on... nothing. Although the house was on well water, no electricity meant no pump and no pump meant no water.

  At 21 years of age, Merry was a looker. Her parents had been missionaries raising Merry and her siblings in South Africa for the most part although they had gone into nearby nations for shorter intervals during their 20 year stint. She thought like, and carried herself as an American but occasionally her sing-song speech often gave way the fact that she was raised elsewhere. Dark blonde hair, golden brown eyes framed by dark long lashes and dramatic brows, at an athletic 5’7”, Merry was a looker. As a child, no one and specifically not her parents concentrated on her extraordinary beauty and consequently, Merry grew into adulthood with negligible vanity. That fact and because she was raised on the mission field, left Merry with a well-developed personality. Besides having a beautiful head on her shoulders, Merry had a good head on her shoulders, too. She was sensible.

  She remembered her mother saying during times of crisis, “It isn’t time to freak out. It’s time to pray.” There were perhaps a hundred desperate times in Africa. They had prayed. God had moved, Merry remembered. So far, her default response to the emergency sufficed.

  Beads of perspiration, a reaction to the mounting fear, dampened her hairline. Still gripping the faucet knob, Merry whispered, “Oh God, help us! What should we do? Where do we go from here?” Merry thought fleetingly about her deceased father’s words, “Faith is like a muscle; the more you use it the stronger it gets.” Merry wasn’t too sure about faith. It seemed like every victory she had won was due to hard work and discipline. She turned from the sink with a heavy and uncertain heart. It was apparent to Merry that her faith muscles needed a workout.

  Scenic Route to Paradise Series

  Book 1 ~ Cynic, Surfer, Saint

  Book 2 ~ Merry’s Marauders

  Book 3 ~ Catching Kate

  Book 4 ~ Desperado Dale

  Book 5 ~ Men Most Miserable