M. Banner - Desolation

Wilber broke the silent sorrow they all wore like chains. “Doc,” he said in a detached voice, “I think John was hit, up on top of the pig pen. Check on him, would you?” He then said to the Simpsons, “Maybe you two could see if Steve is alive too.” Giving the instructions seemed to fill Wilber with purpose of thought, and it gave him a lift to the edge of the pit he shared with his wife.

“What about… you know?” Doc didn’t need to finish his question.

“Our enemy? They’re done. Those we didn’t kill have run off. I think their leader must be dead. But heads up just the same.”

Doc started to walk toward the pig pen, but he stopped and looked back at Wilber. “I’m so sorry,” he said, not able to say anything more. Then he walked away to carry out his assignment.

“O? I can’t even imagine….” Emma’s voice trembled with mourning, her camo-green head pointed down, not wanting to make eye contact with Olivia for fear of feeling more of her pain.

“Thank you, Emma,” Wilber answered for his wife, whose only movement was the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. “If you want to lie down inside, that would be fine. I think the fighting is over for now.”

“No, Wilber, thanks,” Emma said, trying to sound strong, even though her physical and emotional strength had mostly left her. “I’ll help Robert find Steve.”

Robert said nothing, knowing there was nothing he could say to help; he preferred to say little to begin with. He held his wife and her rifle, and they walked to the tree where they expected to find young Parkington.

Steve pulled his head out of the crook of Darla’s neck and looked at her face, with questions swirling in a flood of emotions. How did she get here, of all places on this earth, at this time? Why was she mixed up with these evil people? Why had her brother been in harm’s way? Had she missed him as much as he missed her? Would their love survive? Would they?

He simply held her and watched, her tears long since abated, the tremors of her sobbing quieting like the rumblings of the earthquake. Finally, after a long time, she looked up.

“Is it really you?”

Before he could answer, she leaned into his lips and kissed him, her arm squeezing him closer.

When she let go, she looked down and then back into his eyes. “I couldn’t save him. I should have saved him.”

He didn’t know what to say, only wanting to comfort her in her grief. “I’m sure—”

“Look at the pretty colors,” Joselin broke in, pointing to the northeast, over Fossil Ridge.

Steve looked back at Darla, kissing her again, and stood up, her hand sliding off his shoulder and finding his. He didn’t want to let go. He lifted his head to the sky. “Whatever it is, it seems to be rolling our way.”

He knelt back down to Darla’s level. “Let’s go to the house on the hill. The owner is my friend. We’ll figure out what to do about Danny, and where to go from here.” He let go of her hand and scooped both arms under Danny’s body, lifting him and Darla at the same time.

“But…”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you both,” he said as he cradled Danny in his arms. Darla held onto them both and they walked to Wilber’s house.

Joselin reached down and grabbed their rifles. “I’ll get these,” she stated. I feel like the fourth… no. The third wheel .

Continued…

When to bug out

It will be vitally important for you to have a bug-out plan. A bug-out plan addresses that worst case scenario, when everything fails and your only chance of survival is to leave or “bug out.” You must plan for this! I have provided some tools that should help you bug out of Rocky Point if the shit hits the fan.

Back Packs

You will find six bug-out back packs, one for each of us, which will have all the essential items.

“You see, Max’s great-grandfather Russell Thompson’s best friend was my great-grandfather, Peter King. I guess Great-Grandpa saved Max’s great-grand-dad’s butt after the first Carrington Event in 1859. So, Russell Thompson, who became very wealthy mining gold and buying land, made a pact with Pete’s family to always look after his descendants. And I guess Max had been doing this from before we met him.” Bill was more animated than he’d been in weeks as he shared the story.

Sally cut in. “Sorry to interrupt, Dad, but I read the journal already and know all this. So, if it’s all right with you, I’m going to go get Stanley from where we hid him out back and pull him around to the front so that we can—what does Max call it—‘bug out’ of here.”

“Wait, we’re leaving?” Lisa jumped in. “What about these supplies, and Max’s promises—”

“Hang on, hon,” Bill interrupted. “Miguel, would you go with Sally to get her truck, in case there are any more bad guys?”

“Sure, Señor Bill.” Miguel kissed his wife and checked his rifle. “Are you ready, Señorita?”

“Thanks, Miguel, follow me.” Sally led him back to the faux kitchen and out the back door.

“Okay, where was I?” Bill watched his daughter and their new friend go get their only means of escape. “So, Max long ago had been watching us. I didn’t read this, but it just makes sense when you think about it. The funding for my business, remember? It came from some unknown source. The scholarship for Sally, and later for Darla. Our chance meeting with Max in Mexico. His mysteriously brokering the purchase of our home—well, what was our home…” Bill’s words faded as he spoke them.

Judas Feinstein heard voices, just above the loud ringing in his ears. He was sure he had to be dead after having been severely burned and then blown up. He didn’t believe in the afterlife, no matter what the traditions of his Jewish family from the UK told him, and these voices weren’t angelic in any way. He recognized the dialect as Mexican Drug-Dealer.

Then the pain started to rocket through his body, like shockwaves. The voices were louder, and he looked up, his head barely moving. There were three men, all staring at Thompson’s house—rather, at what was left of it. Two looked bloody and slumped over, and the other was arguing with them. Judas was able to recognize some of the Spanish: “…all dead…” “…what now?” “…go back…”

He noticed he was on the same street as them, in between Clydeston’s house and Thompson’s warehouse, although he couldn’t remember walking this far. His AK was right in front of him. Maybe he could take them out before they saw him. Pushing himself up on his knees, he saw and remembered the state he was in. His shirt was burnt off and so were most of his pants. The pain was almost unbearable, but he didn’t care now. He was angry at these people who ruled his life with their guns and fear and he wasn’t going to take it anymore. Judas reached over and dragged the gun his way; the racket should have, but didn’t, alert his targets. He held the gun up, pointed it, pulled the trigger and nothing happened. He tried to pull the charging handle, remembering Clyde taught him how to load the gun, but it wouldn’t budge. Okay, maybe it’s loaded already , he grumbled in thought, gotta take off the bloody safety . He turned the rifle closer and flipped the lever down. That should do it .

The Spanish was louder and panicked. Judas looked up and saw all three men scrambling for their rifles on the ground; one already had his and was pointing it Judas’s way. He wasn’t going to give them the chance. Aiming it again, he squeezed the trigger, and a fusillade of bullets tore at the pavement in front of him, working its way up to the men, and then to the sky, knocking Judas on his back. He scrambled to right himself, not unlike a turtle pushed over on his shell, his legs folded under, pinned down by his body and arms flailing around. He rolled over, pushed himself up again, and looked; there was no movement from any of the men. As he dropped the rifle he noticed two things: the RPG he’d taken was also right in front of him, and he had been shot in the chest.