Molly, the yellow Labrador retriever — a family member for seven years — came into view. She sat happily by the man in blood stained clothes, who now held a gun to her head as he posed with a mocking grin.
The message was clear.
“Okay, son, here’s what we’re going to do.”
A minute later, Steven opened the steel door and stepped outside with his arms held high.
“Here I am. Look, nobody has to get hurt here. I have plenty of food and I’ll give it to you. Just don’t harm the dog.”
“Nobody has to get hurt? Tell that to Rodrigo, asshole. Your little trap put a nail in his brain.”
“I’m sorry. I had to take measures to protect myself. You can’t blame me for that, can you?” Steven ambled to the right, away from the open doorway, arms still held up in a gesture of submission.
“Who else you protecting? You got a pretty little wife down there? A daughter I can stick my cock in before I blow her fucking brains out?” The man was agitated. Steven got the impression losing his partner had unhinged him — or maybe he’d been unhinged to begin with. There was something odd about his eyes.
“No, no one else, I swear,” he said with a calmness he didn’t feel. “Look, let’s be cool. If you go ape shit postal on me, I won’t be able to tell you where my stockpile is. The stuff in there is just the tip of the iceberg.”
The man’s eyes gleamed as he smiled broadly. Maybe he was going for charming, but the combination of the bared teeth and the disturbing eyes produced a ghoulish effect on what should have been a handsome face. Steven felt the hair on the back of his neck stiffen, like Molly’s hackles did now that she’d realized the man was bad doggy mojo.
“Is that so?”
Steven could see the poorly veiled interest and knew the hook was set. Now all he had to do was reel in the fish...before the fish killed him.
“It is indeed. Follow me up to the house and I’ll rock your world.”
He continued to walk, arms still raised, hoping his body language exuded a defeated air.
Twenty more feet...come on you creepy motherfucker...
“Whoa, hold on. You think I’m stupid?” the man said, stopping in mid stride. He grabbed Molly by the collar and thrust the gun’s barrel against her head again.
“What do you mean?”
“You got another booby trap in there, don’t you?”
“No, of course not. Why would I booby trap my own house?” he replied and began walking again. Ten more feet...
“No. Stop right there. Something is fishy. What are you up to, asshole? You better tell me right fucking now or I will put a hole in this furry skull.”
“I don’t know what your problem is. All the best stuff is in the house. Just follow me and I’ll prove it to you.”
Steven took another step toward the house. Wedged in a front pocket of his baggy jeans was a Taurus 380 compact, but his aim wasn’t precise with the small handgun and he didn’t know if he was fast enough to retrieve it and shoot it before the creep shot Molly.
“Why would you have all the ‘best stuff’ in the house and not the bunker? Makes no sense now, does it?” The man smirked, pleased with his logic.
“Because the bunker is where you’re supposed to assume the best stuff is. See? I figured that’s what people like you would think, which is why I didn’t bother to hide it. Of course the good stuff isn’t just lying around the house, either. See those bushes over there on the left side of the house? There’s a door to a storm cellar under there that isn’t accessible from inside the house. It’s padlocked and the keys are here in my pocket.”
“I knew it, you bastard! I knew something wasn’t right. Guys like you think you’re pretty smart. Guess you’re not so fucking smart now, are you?”
Steven continued to walk toward the house as he’d been talking. The man’s attention, if not his feet, followed.
“You got me. What can I say? I thought I was pretty smart but you outsmarted me, for sure.”
“Damn straight! Now, what the hell do I need you or this stupid dog for anymore?” The man glanced down at Molly, still held by the collar.
Now, Jeff!
Steven pulled the handgun from his pocket at the same moment Jeffrey sprung through the bunker door, drew a bead and fired. The intruder’s revolver and Steven’s pistol discharged a half second later. Molly yelped, a heart-rending sound in the stillness. Their assailant collapsed to the ground.
“You okay, Dad?” Jeffrey called while keeping his eyes and the Springfield fixed on the man who lay unmoving.
Steven rushed to the bleeding heaps — one flesh and one fur — the Taurus leveled at the man’s head. A three-quarter inch hole above the right eyebrow confirmed what he suspected. Steven’s shot went wide — he knew it the second the bullet left the chamber.
Jeffrey’s was the kill shot.
What would that knowledge do to the delicate psyche of a fourteen-year-old boy?
He shifted his focus to Molly. The dog lay on her side holding up a front paw. Blood was everywhere.
“You’re okay, girl. Where did the bastard hit you?”
She whimpered as Steven examined the yellow fur of her head and body. He breathed a huge sigh of relief. Jeffrey stood behind his father, his cool blue eyes scanned the perimeter, alert and prepared to protect his family.
“How bad is she, Dad?”
“I think she’ll be okay. It looks like the bullet grazed her skull, took off a chunk of her ear, and went through her paw. She’s in pain, but she’ll survive.”
“You think I need to go check on the other guy?”
Hell, Steven had all but forgotten the second intruder. He pondered the situation for a moment before nodding.
“Good idea. Be careful. I’m going to take Molly in the house and dress her wounds.”
Even if the other man weren’t dead, he had to trust that his son could take care of himself. He wouldn’t be around forever, and Jeffrey had just proven his competence...empirically.
Steven watched his son walk to the back of the property. The fluidity of his movements and the confident manner with which he carried the rifle evoked conflicting emotions. Pride mingled with apprehension, a cocktail that set Steven’s stomach churning.
Chapter 8
Twickenham, United Kingdom
Harold was almost ready. He’d donned his waterproof Barbour coat, the pockets bulging with supplies. Then he’d wriggled into his backpack, heavy with reference books and notes from the anthropologist’s research this past year, much of which had been conducted without electricity and therefore sans the benefit of all the millions of bits of information the internet would have gifted. Worst case, if he got stranded at the headquarters of the British Institute for the Study of Iraq in London, he’d still be able to work. As good as his personal library was, the BISI’s was superior. He’d delayed as long as he could, but he’d hit a wall. He needed to examine those seven tablets in person, touch them with his fingertips, and scrutinize magnified details which the pixilated photographs couldn’t provide.
It was risky, of course. Just two nights ago he’d been startled out of a troubled sleep by a scream which sounded less than a block away. The following day, he readied himself for the journey on foot to London and also managed to sneak in a two-hour nap. He would travel at night, and even though the thought of skulking about the streets of Twickenham, Richmond, and the rest of the boroughs terrified him, he knew it would be the safest way. If everything went smoothly, he should arrive before dawn at the BISI located in the St. James district, about a mile from Westminster Abbey.
Thank goodness he still had his keys. Gaining access to the wealth of knowledge found in the four story facility, which housed the British Academy as well, would be difficult otherwise. The electronic alarm systems would no longer be functioning, so getting into the building shouldn’t be a problem.
The problem was getting to the building.
Harold took a deep breath, moved the armchair from under the doork
nob of the front door, unlocked the two deadbolts, and stepped into the darkened hallway. He flipped on the HexBright, switching the output to the lowest setting. It was bright enough to illuminate the detritus left by the apartment building’s former occupants who were now most likely all dead; although he suspected perhaps a few survivors were holed up here and there as he had been. The last vestiges of humanity took the form of empty Highland water bottles, plastic rubbish bins, and so many newspapers that he was reminded of a parakeet he’d once owned whose cage was regularly lined with them, a task performed by a housekeeper who was probably no longer alive.
The flashlight illuminated a Daily Telegraph headline: “Another 10,000 Die in Dublin” and one from The Daily Mail: “Chicxulub Leaves Swath of Carnage in Africa — More Than a Million Dead!” The narrow beam came to rest on a third one from The Mirror: “Why Is God Punishing Us?”
If his theory proved correct, as incredible as it seemed even to him, Harold knew this cataclysmic event in the history of mankind had absolutely nothing to do with God.
Chapter 9
Near Prescott, Arizona
The scream’s echo resonated for a few seconds in the thin, chilly desert air. Sound carried so well here, it was difficult for Pablo to determine how close the person was. And he was certain it had been a person, not a coyote or a mountain lion, prevalent here, as were wolves and the occasional black bear. Nor was it the cry of the red fox, which could sound eerily similar to a woman’s vocalization. He had seen and heard them all during the months since the aftermath of Chicxulub drove him from his home and into the questionable safety of the desert and surrounding foothills.
He didn’t fear those predators — at least not in the way he did their human counterparts. You could predict the actions of such creatures, and he respected them, as they in turn respected Pablo and his shotgun. But his experience with the humans who had survived the plague changed his fundamental belief system in what it now meant to be human. In almost every instance of interaction after the plague, people had proven either unpleasant or downright violent.
It was a mystery and an irony that he would survive the global scourge, only to find himself in such poor company.
With the exception of Maddie, of course. And he couldn’t bear to think about her. Not yet.
Pablo waited another twenty minutes, shotgun ready. No further screams followed and he noticed the normal wildlife sounds were returning now: the scurrying of kangaroo rats and black-tailed jackrabbits, the ‘hoo-hoo’ of a great horned owl that was answered by another farther away, and the haunting ‘whip-poor-will’ of the nightjar.
He felt unsettled. He replayed the scream in his mind, questioning whether perhaps it had been a fox after all, and decided his initial assessment was correct. No, it was a cry only a human could produce. He hadn’t seen another living person in two months, so the idea both titillated and terrified him. Titillated because he was lonely, and terrified because of his experiences with the remnants of humanity before fleeing Prescott. He entertained a brief thought of venturing out into the desert, but he knew how dangerous it would be to do so at night. He promised himself instead to head out at first light, which seemed a reasonable compromise.
“Well, there will be no rest for me tonight, Bruno.”
He saw the dog was curled up again at his feet...a good sign. He opened his journal and flipped back through hundreds of pages.
Pablo’s Journal, Entry #12
While I watched the news this evening to see the latest death tolls, the power quit working soon after the broadcast began. I knew it was inevitable but when it happened, so sudden and conclusive, I felt it was a harbinger of more terrible things to come and perhaps the final blow to our species. The mindless yet magical act of banishing darkness by the mere flip of a switch was something we all took for granted. It is a simple task to light a candle in the dark, but only if one has the foresight to place the candle and match at the ready; otherwise, we end up stumbling about, blind and unsure of where we’re going. I know this will be the fate of most. They will stumble and fall, and others will come up behind them in the night and pick their carcasses.
Perhaps in less advanced countries it won’t be as severe because they do not rely on modern conveniences. But our lazy, dependent culture has been an insidious cancer in the corpulent body of our nation. And now, what Chicxulub doesn’t take, the malignant tumor of passivity and slothfulness will.
Before the electricity went out, CNN reported astounding numbers of deaths all over the world. How accurate the reporting was at that point, I have no idea. In his press conference, the President tried to exude confidence, but it seemed clear to me he was in shock. How awful to be the most powerful man in the world yet impotent to stop the end of life as we know it. Everything is crumbling, unraveling, dissolving. Humanity is an elaborate and ungainly sandcastle built much too close to the tide.
Pablo looked up from the notebook, not seeing the cold, glittering stars, but rather images conjured by the writings from a year ago. He remembered that day as a portent, and also a turning point. He’d known it at the time, but in the days to follow he would experience the aftershocks first hand.
Pablo’s Journal, Entry #28
It’s been a month since Papa passed. It seems that almost everyone in Prescott is now dead except for a small percentage of people. What that number is, I cannot guess. One percent? Five percent? Who knows? The smell of human decomposition wafts through my bedroom window at night, a discordant mingling with the lovely scents of acacia and desert lavender. My water supply is dwindling more rapidly than I had planned; it’s been a dry year, which diminished what would have otherwise been a bountiful harvest from my garden. Still, I probably have more than most, and if someone came to me now and ASKED for food rather than demanding it at knife point, I would happily oblige. That has yet to happen. If not for Bruno and Papa’s shotgun, I would be starving just like the rest of those poor, lost souls. What am I to do? Put myself in danger by seeking out those I might help only to become a victim too? I admit my sense of self-preservation has triumphed over any altruistic thoughts I entertained. Maybe in my own way, I am just as lost as those who beg their god for salvation or an end to their misery.
At least I am not hungry. Last night’s expedition to the Safeway in the valley on Highway 69 proved successful. I had a feeling it might not have been looted as thoroughly as the ones in town because of its size and location, and I was correct. But it wasn’t unguarded. Two men were holed up there, keeping watch in shifts while the other slept. It took me hours of surveillance and eavesdropping to establish their routine, but once I had it figured out, I made my move. I slipped through a jagged opening in one of the glass panes on the left side of the store, slicing my shoulder in the process. My jacket caught the worst of it. It’s a small wound but I must not let it fester. To survive Chicxulub only to die of infection from a scratch is not the ending I see for my life. I gained entry, searching in the gloom for the man who would be sleeping. Thank goodness for obesity (words I never imagined saying before), because I found him easily, summoned by cartoonish snores while he lay on a filthy pallet in a back room. Before he could come fully awake, I gagged him with the bandana I brought for the task. Then I bound his hands and feet with nylon rope, using a quick release knot so he could escape after I was gone, assuming he had a modicum of dexterity in those chubby fingers.
Then I targeted the second man...the problematic part. I am confident of my physical abilities, but because he was armed with a rifle and appeared alert while making his rounds of the store’s perimeter, I knew he could be dangerous. My goal was to take only what I needed, leave the rest for them, and not hurt anyone in doing so. They appeared well-fed, and I didn’t feel guilt over this minor plundering of an embarrassment of riches. When he woke up, I am sure he had a considerable headache, but I’m certain the blow from the wooden stock of my shotgun didn’t inflict any permanent damage. Well, mostly sure. What does this say about me, th
e man who was so certain of his honor only a month ago?
It became apparent why they’d been so vigilant in their guard duties: they’d squirreled away enough food to feed dozens of people for months. I located their hoard in a stockroom near the sleeping man. They had removed everything from the shelves that was salvageable and stashed it out of sight. I loaded up the Jeep with cans of salmon and chicken, powdered milk, and enough Bush’s beans to create a mushroom cloud of methane gas. I left them with much more than I took.
The mission was worth the risk and I arrived home safely, but with the tank depleted. Tomorrow, I will need to locate a new source for gasoline as well as more water.
Always more water.
Pablo remembered that day as clearly as the day the power went out because it had been a turning point as well; but on a personal, existential level. He’d taken from others...something he thought he would never do. Yet he knew there’d been justification. The men in the Safeway had more than they could eat in a year, and he’d been down to a few potatoes and carrots from the garden. He hadn’t killed them, nor left them with nothing. It chafed his conscience at the time, but in the following months, he’d incorporated a healthy dose of pragmatism into his belief system. Honor and integrity still mattered, as they always had, but as one of the few remaining survivors, he felt it equally important to stay alive.
“It’s a bit of a balancing act, isn’t it Bruno?”
He scratched the pointed ears again with affection, barely rousing the German shepherd from slumber. Bruno huffed a deep sigh and went back to sleep. Within seconds, his back legs began to twitch. Pablo smiled, trying to imagine the dreams his furry companion might be having. Was he chasing jack rabbits, darting between the sagebrush and cactus? Was he dreaming of the cute little Chihuahua that had lived down the street back home?
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