M. Banner - Desolation

“Jas, watch the trees and all around you,” Herb said, cupping his hands around his mouth to direct his voice so that it wouldn’t be heard by anyone else close by. He pulled his horse forward in front of Jas’s and fanned his hand downward, telling the boy to slow down.

A woman popped out of the back of the truck and waved at them. Here it comes , Herb thought. He gritted his teeth and waited as he dismounted, drawing his gun and walking his horse, hoping it would provide enough cover, if they needed it. He motioned for Jas to do the same.

The woman’s expression changed from tired exuberance to terror. Not the response he expected. She backed up a few paces and yelled, “Please, we don’t want any trouble, it’s my uncle, he’s hurt badly. Somebody on the road shot him.” The woman’s words sputtered out of her mouth like water from a long-dry hose.

Herb gestured for her to back up as he walked beside the vehicle, the clop clop clop of his horse’s hooves the only sounds he heard. Looking inside, he could see a little child on the back seat, maybe a year old, sleeping peacefully, but no one else. When he approached the back of the vehicle, keeping his gun aimed in her direction, he peered through the hatch’s opening and saw a man lying there, unmoving except for his breathing. He looked unconscious, and not to be faking it. Plus, he was lying in the wrong direction for a sneak attack, with his head almost hanging out the back.

“Daaaaad,” his son called out to him in alarm. Herb spun and watched in shock as another man had come from behind, a rifle trained on his son, whose hands were already raised in defeat. Dammit! It was a trap.

The approaching man then pointed his rifle upward, following suit with his other hand.

“We don’t want trouble; we only want help for our friend,” he stopped behind Jas, who was saucer-eyed and pale. “Are our other people safe?”

The threat seemed obvious to Herb. I have your son here, give me some assurances.

Herb gambled and put his gun down. “Look, we came here with medical supplies”—he opened his backpack and showed it to the woman, who nodded to the man—“and food and water, but we can never be too sure we aren’t walking into a trap. Hard to trust folks now-a-days.”

The man lowered his gun. “Amen to that one. We passed some people on the side of the road, and when we went back and offered help they shot our friend, there. He said the bullet didn’t hit anything important, just muscle, and then he passed out. We turned around and tried to head back to the town, hoping to find a doctor or nurse, but ran out of gas. Damn gauge hasn’t worked in months.”

“Wait, so this thing really does run? It’s just out of gas?”

“Sure does. It broke down several times, took a round to the radiator once, but Stanley—that’s what my daughter calls him—got us all the way from Mexico to here.”

“Wow, that’s a haul. By the way, my name is Herb and this is my son, Jas,” Herb said, extending his hand to the woman, who accepted. Jas did the same, reluctantly, to the man.

“Sorry, I’m Bill, this is my daughter, Sally, and our friend is Max.”

Darla, Steve, and Olivia waited on the porch, watching for signs of anyone returning. From what O said, the woman Jas had brought in had a bad case of heat stroke. O had cleaned her up, given her some food and water, and put her in their room to sleep. Jas also told O there were others broken down on the side of the road and someone with a gunshot wound. He’d come back again and raised a bit of a ruckus trying to secure a five-gallon gas can to his saddle. “We’re bringing back some more people and their truck,” he said as he swung his mount around to the gate.

That had been over thirty minutes ago.

They saw an approaching cloud of dust and heard the strange sound of a truck’s engine and wheels rumbling down their dirt road.

They walked toward the approaching vehicle, something none of them had seen in almost a year. It was an older Chevy Blazer, much like the one Darla’s sister had. Same color, but this had metal mesh on the hood and roof, and what looked like a half-dozen bullet holes. As it was pulling up it stopped suddenly. The man behind the wheel slowly opened the door and stepped out, and stared at her. She could see him crying and mouthing words she couldn’t hear as he walked closer.

“Darl…?” creaked out of his mouth, barely visible within his full black and white beard, and equally impossible to hear.

Then she heard “Darla, it’s you,” and saw him shaking.

But, how could he know … “Dad?” Realization hit her like a thunderbolt. She ran into his arms. “Dad, is it really you?” Already knowing the answer, she buried her face in his chest.

“Dar!” another voice cried from the back as the hatch popped open. Sally jumped out and ran to them, embracing her sister, who still clutched their father.

“Oh my God, Sis, I never thought I would see you again!” Darla was near hysterics. “Where’s M… Is that Mom inside the house?”

Bill could barely talk, squeezing both of his daughters tightly, not wanting to let go.

“Where’s Danny?” Bill choked out, not letting go, his gaze searching. “Is he here?”

That feeling in the pit of her stomach rose instantly. That horrible sadness that had taken months to rid herself of shook her body once more, as fresh as the day it had happened. She looked up into her father’s eyes; they searched hers for the answer, but her tears and mask of sadness said it all. He knew.

Darla’s body convulsed, her words muddled but unmistakable as she sobbed, “I’m so sorry, Daddy. I couldn’t protect him.”

He pulled her in close and held her, telling her it was all right even though it wasn’t. They would have to deal with that pain later. At least his daughter was safe. They should celebrate this. He waited until her crying ebbed and then he asked, “So what’s this?” Bill put his hand on her belly.

Darla looked back, wiping her face with her sleeve, and beckoned Steve over. “Dad, Sally, this is my husband, Steve Parkington.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Steve said, offering his hand.

“Oh Christ, we’ve outlived those formalities.” Bill half-laughed, and with that he hugged his new son-in-law.

“Darla should have warned you by now,” Sally said, wiping her own eyes and trying to collect herself when it was her turn to welcome him, “we’re huggers in this family. Very happy to meet you as well.”

“Hey, what about me?” A familiar voice floated toward them from the back.

Darla turned. There, resting on one leg and the bumper of the Bronco, was Max, who looked like he had been through a ten-round fight and lost in every round. There were more bandages and gauze than there was him.

“Oh, Uncle Max, I can’t believe you’re here too,” she said, hugging him tight.

“Watch it, Dar, I’m a little sensitive there.” He winced as she released him.

“Can we go see Mom now?” Darla begged, putting her arm around her father as they walked the house.

“I’m Steve, ahh, Mr. Thompson.” Steve came over, hand out.

“Bill’s correct, enough of the formalities. Call me Uncle Max. And you can tell me about you as you help me into the house.”

After several days of exchanging stories, laughter, and tears while Max healed, everyone felt a tension in the air. A decision had to be made. Herb offered them all sanctuary at his ranch, inviting them to stay as long as they wanted—forever even, if they wished.

Max told them about Cicada. He made them all swear not to tell another soul, because of its importance in finding answers to what ailed their world. When he was fully healed he would leave; he offered them all the chance to come with him. He stressed that no one but the top scientists and their immediate families were given this offer. He also explained that everyone would have a job, and he was sure that some of their skills were definitely needed.