M. Banner - Desolation

Jose was fast asleep, dreaming of the woman they had played with on the last run today. She was pretty and plump, but all he wanted was sex. His compañeros had had much more in mind. Her blood and her screams still rattled around in his head, like a bad movie. He tried to push these visions away and hide them in the deep recesses of his mind, sure the evil things he had done would earn him a place in hell.

Then, he was suddenly awake, the sweat-soaked hairs on the back of his neck abruptly alerted. He sat up without a sound and listened for what had woken him, kneading his aching neck. The case of dynamite had been a piss-poor pillow. He was surprised he had slept at all, since this place always scared him; it held much of El Gordo’s excess ammo and explosives, all kept at a distance from El Gordo’s home and the other buildings, just in case they blew: it was that just in case that scared him.

Crack followed by flomp-flomp-flomp-flomp-flomp told him someone was just outside the windows. Jose climbed onto several other cases of dynamite to gain height and saw a man running away. Though he could only see the man’s back, he knew instantly it was Señor Max.

Crack-crack followed by a whoosh from the other window filled Jose with fear. Then, the smell of— fire ! He beat a panicked path to the other window, on the other side of the shed, and saw his worst nightmare. He heard a full-throated roar of air as the pile of wood and debris ignited and angry flames viciously gobbled up every molecule of oxygen. The mouth of the fire intended to snack on Jose, its tongue working its way to the window where he stood. The glass shattered and a solid wall of heat like hot bricks knocked him over, then hungrily gnawed at him and the shed’s supply of explosives.

Max was halfway to his Jeep when he heard the gas igniting. He’d hoped that he’d reach the Jeep before the explosion, and that it would’ve been quite a bit louder. At this point, he wasn’t sure it would provide enough diversion for him to get into the Jeep and take off, let alone get away unnoticed. Now he was alarmed that someone would see him even before he had a chance to get into the Jeep, much less drive away unnoticed. He ran faster, unslinging his AK while he ran, just in case he needed it.

Dazed from the blast, Jose could feel fire biting into his skin all over his body. He swatted at the few flames dancing on his chest and hair. It felt like he had been covered by a warm winter blanket. Yet, he was still alive. He jumped up and stumbled a little, his right leg not working right. One look confirmed it was broken, a good chunk of his tibia protruding from his skin halfway between knee and ankle. He hobbled to the door and tried to open it, but it was locked. Next he tried the window he had seen Señor Max running from, but it too was stuck. If he didn’t do something, this place would be his coffin. The other was a wall of flames. Jose reached for the nearest crate, intending to toss it at the stuck window. It was open, full of dynamite sticks. A rolled up coil of fuse lay on top; it was alive and hissing at him like a long, thin snake. He stared, mesmerized by its red-blue slithering movement around, and around, and around, until it disappeared in a blinding, deafening—and lethal—flash.

Max could see the Jeep’s outline only a few more strides away. The sound hit him first. A thundering roar, as if from some gigantic pissed-off lion, crashed his eardrums. It was unlike anything he had heard, even in war. The lion’s breath, a wave of heat and debris, hit him next. It lifted him up, his legs momentarily running in the air, and pushed him toward his destination. He watched in awe as he flew several feet before coming back down to the ground, faltering as his feet struck mid-stride. He was about to turn and look when something hard hit his shoulder, knocking him to the ground, spinning him around to show him the bright ball of fire rising to the heavens.

“Holy shit, that was no gas can,” he said to the explosion.

More debris rained on him, alerting him that his time was short. Max sprang up, ran the last couple of steps, and hopped into the Jeep, his keys finding the ignition almost immediately. The well-lubed engine awoke at once. He threw it into gear, the wheels engaged immediately. He hit the gas and accelerated onto the secondary driveway, keeping the headlights off. Only one more person to worry about: the guard posted at the end of this drive. Holding the wheel with his left hand and steadying the AK with his right, Max trained it on the spot the guard should be; the gun’s sling steadied it to his right shoulder.

Gunfire erupted behind him: not just a few rounds, but hundreds going off all at the same time, as if thousands of men were firing at him. Max instinctively ducked lower and pushed harder on the gas. The rounds continued endlessly, but none struck his Jeep, or even came close. Then, he realized what had happened; he had ignited an ammo and explosives shed. More explosions filled the air with fire and light, adding extra illumination to his path. Max was near the end of the drive when he saw the guard, his face red and yellow, lit by the explosions; it was contorted with shock and awe. The guard stood unmoving, watching the fireballs rise into the air, his mouth agape. His head turned slightly, barely acknowledging Señor Max as he drove by. Max almost felt like he should wave goodbye. He turned onto the highway, keeping his headlights off, and drove, occasionally turning to watch in amazement as the flames spread to most of El Gordo’s home, now visible, and many of his other structures. He turned again, onto the main highway, empty of cars and humanity, and floored the accelerator. He had to get back to Rocky Point.

Like a second sunset, red and orange flames danced on the horizon.

Bill and Lisa were startled awake again. This morning, the noises were fainter: the clanging of metal pans—muted by the hands that held them—and two whispering voices. Once more they found themselves standing beside their bedroom window, surreptitiously peeling open their blinds. What they saw was more shocking in a way (they agreed later) than the giant cruise ship’s beaching the previous morning. Scott and Kathy Smith, their next-door neighbors who had been made homeless by the Event, were scooping putrid liquid from the Kings’ pool into beaten pots and pans. Dead and decaying birds had made the pool’s water undrinkable before Bill could safely remove them; without a means to filter the water, it was surely poisonous now. They were kneeling on the pool decking, their clothes torn and dirty. Scott sported a scrubby beard, like most men these days. Both looked sickly and thin although, granted, in auroral light everyone looked unhealthy. The Kings had wondered what happened to the Smiths after the Event destroyed their house, having only seen them once since.

Bill and Lisa stood transfixed, so shocked they couldn’t even speak, each internally trying to make sense of what they saw: This couldn’t be possible in only eleven days . It was like watching a car crash while it was happening; they could not look away, even though they desperately wanted to. Lisa smacked her hand against the window pane to steady her faltering body and mind, disturbing the blinds as well. The Smiths’ heads shot up at once, their foreheads green and splotchy. They looked at each other, grabbed their containers of water and scrambled off, each like a neighborhood cat caught with a pet canary in its mouth.

Lisa spun around and slid to the ground, curling into a fetal position. She held her knees to her chest, rocking, and started to cry.