M. Banner - Desolation

Wilber watched the doc as he stood in the darkest corner of the hallway, waiting until they both focused on him.

“I have an ample supply of erythromycin, and a few other drugs here, all well hidden. You can have those and you can have me, but we come with conditions. Are you prepared to negotiate?” Doc stood, unmoving, his features still mostly hidden by the darkness, the business end of his gun pointed downward—ready to be brought to bear in an eyeblink.

“Cut the crap, Doc, it’s me, Wilber. You brought me into this world and fixed every broken bone in mine and O’s bodies, not mention you birthed our son Buck. This no-power thing sucks, I know, but what the hell is going on?”

Doc’s voice cracked a little as he spoke. “They killed my dog, Wilber. Ma loved that dog, and … when I lost her two years ago, that stupid mutt, it was her dog, but it was all I had left of her.” He paused for a moment and regained some composure. “It was that Randall boy who killed her and then his slaves broke into here yesterday and stole all the meds in my drug cabinet.” He motioned with the gun toward his office, which was out of their line of sight. “Then, at gunpoint, Randall made me fix a gunshot wound one of his slaves probably got from breaking into someone else’s home. I’m not happy to say, the kid died because he followed Randall’s orders.” He paused once more.

Wilber knew Bart Randall very well; he was the town bully, who had beaten him up a few times when they were in school together and threatened him a couple of times as an adult. He was a loud-mouthed drunkard, and probably someone who was ecstatic when the accountability of the old order disappeared. With guns and manpower, what Doc called “slaves,” Bart could do what he wanted when he wanted.

“Anyway, it’s not safe anymore in this town with those thugs roaming the streets killing and shooting whomever they want. So, if you want me and the drugs, you’ll have to take me in, as well as Emma and Robert Simpson. She’s in the later stages of cancer, as you know, and I don’t want her to die at the hand of that little shit’s evil. I’ll take care of Emma, and Robert’s good with his hands on a farm. We just need a little food and a roof over our heads; other than that, we won’t be a burden.”

There it was. Wilber had known this day would come. He’d told himself that they would only take in family, if they showed up when the shit hit the fan, but not anyone else. That plan had crashed in on him from the skies ten days ago. It was unlikely that his family out west—who prepped better than he did and owned their own ranch—or Olivia’s family back east would show up. Doc was good people and was just like family. Besides, he would be very useful to have around, as would Robert, who he had heard was a hard worker. And, Emma was one of O’s best friends…. “You’ve got a deal, Doc.”

They all agreed to meet in half an hour at the crossroads just outside town. Doc and the Simpsons would bike down a small dirt road there so they would not be seen. This would give Wilber and Steve enough time to make one more stop before heading out.

About fifteen minutes later, after they bartered for some candy for Buck from Dingles, which was otherwise cleaned out like all the rest of the stores, they headed for the crossroads. At the building on the edge of town, maybe twenty yards before the turn down the long road back home, stood Bart Randall and two others, all armed and watching their approach.

“Follow me,” Wilber said and abruptly turned down a small alley between two buildings. Steve pedaled right behind him.

“Hey Wright! Stop, you little shit. You think you can get away from me?” yelled a shaky voice. Randall was chasing them on foot.

“You know these alleys?” Steve asked.

Just like that, they ducked down another alley and then into an even narrower walkway, barely wider than their handlebars. Steve pedaled with all he had to keep up, turning into the walkway just before Randall and one of his crew reached the alley. Steve focused on keeping his handlebars between the walls, knowing a bump and a loss of balance would have a deadly outcome. He looked up and saw Wilber’s back tire turning down another alley, back in the direction they had come from.

Steve felt his right handle lightly scrape the wall. With a jerk he corrected just as he came out of the walkway and turned into the alley, now about twenty feet from Wilber. They could hear their pursuer’s footsteps echoing in the other alley, and then they stopped. Randall’s voice floated to them. “You, go down there.” Then, the footfalls started up again.

Steve looked up and saw that he was about to come out of the alley back onto the street. Wilber was off his bike, pointed his gun one way down the street and then the other, and then mounted his bike again.

“Come on, we’re clear, for now.”

They raced to the highway.

All the men were passed out from a full day of murder, rape, theft, booze, and drugs. Max too was exhausted, not from consumption of these evils, but from bearing witness to them every day, and doing almost nothing to stop them. When he could, he would carefully intervene to save one person at a time, never too much to cause the ire of El Gordo’s men. However, today’s activities had been too much: he couldn’t acquiesce any longer. All day long he repeated the same thing in his mind: time to get living or time to get dying .

All these days, he had acted beaten down and compliant to their demands; after a while, it was no longer an act. Worse, witnessing so much depravity infected his soul, like a virus that was consuming every bit of goodness that remained in him. If he stayed even a day longer, he feared he would pass the point of no return, literally becoming one of them. It had to be tonight.

“Time to get living or time to get dying,” he said as he grabbed his bag and left his room.

At this point, due to his submissiveness, he was largely ignored by the men. After grabbing his keys he walked silently to his Jeep. He had already fastened extra gas cans to the back, behind the spare tire. That would be enough gas to get back to Rocky Point. He added a few days’ worth of food, a five-gallon bottle of water, and an extra AK-47 with lots of ammo. Each had a folding stock and was loaded with one full magazine that had another taped to it in reverse, for easy loading during a firefight. Everything was tightly stowed in the back in anticipation of a hasty, bumpy getaway.

Satisfied with his cache of supplies and silent efficiency, he focused on setting up his diversion. After permanently disabling the other two vehicles, he wanted to ensure his exit wasn’t noticed. His goal was to put as much mileage between himself and El Gordo’s men as possible, as quickly as possible, and not get shot in the process. Engaging them in any sort of firefight would be suicide because of their sheer numbers. Yet, he also wanted to hurt them all for the evil they had inflicted on others.

This evening’s auroral lights were brighter, making it more difficult for him to remain covert. He had to hurry or risk being seen. Gas can in hand; he sneaked up to a shed on the far side of El Gordo’s developed property. The auroras turned the large shed into the head of a green giant with a bad complexion; an earthen roof was its hair, the two windows on each side were its ears, and the locked door its nose. The giant appeared asleep.

He stopped beside the giant’s right ear, looking and listening for anyone who may have seen him and might now be wondering why he was slinking around in the green darkness. Loneliness was his friend. The shed was one of many sprinkled around El Gordo’s vast grounds to hold various tools, supplies, guns, drugs, or simply as shelter from the endless sun. He wasn’t sure of this shed’s purpose, but he knew about the pile of flammable materials on the far side. It was a conglomeration of wood and other building supplies, all haphazardly tossed there, castoffs of endless projects. It was perfect, not only for its incendiary nature, but because the distance from all the occupied buildings and El Gordo’s house meant it would take them longer to investigate. All eyes would be trained in that direction while he left in the other. He sprinkled a little petrol from the one-gallon can onto some of the wood in the pile and parked the open can, still nearly full, underneath. The air around him was heavy with the gasoline’s acrid vapors. Striking a match, he tossed it into the pile and ran to his Jeep. The fire spread quickly.