M. Banner - Desolation

“Ha! And I called Conrad lazy?” she chided herself. “Get your butt up,” she commanded. Slowly she pushed her fatigued frame up on her feet, stooped over, arms cantilevered over her knees. She remembered seeing it somewhere, searching.

“There,” she chirped with a little excitement, reaching over Conrad’s body to pick up an old but formidable-looking knife. Its ten-inch blade had some rust on it, and the handle was cracked, but it would do the job. What else?

“Oh, that would leave a mark.” A sly smile cut into the right side of her face as she grabbed a small jar of miscellaneous nuts, screws, and nails. Touching it brought back memories of her dad’s workshop. He kept his miscellaneous hardware in a mason jar, just like this one. She placed it by Conrad’s foot and then looked once more at his face, the blue tint settling into more of the capillaries around his nose and cheeks. “I know you wouldn’t mind this. It may save my life,” she offered half-heartedly as she pulled on his right sock. She tugged harder until it came loose, his heel landing with a thud. After she emptied the hardware into the sock, she let the jar drop; it clinked and bounced on the wood floor, coming to rest against his foot.

“That’ll do just fine,” she said while holding the cuff and feeling the weight at the toe-end of the sock. It jangled slightly as she bounced it. “Elastic’s still good. Nice sock, Conrad.” She wrapped a mangled paper clip around the sock’s heel to keep the hardware in. Satisfied, she slipped the weighted end into her back pocket, the open cuff end dangling within easy reach.

Next, slightly revived by her activity, she grabbed the little satchel she had been carrying earlier. It held what remained of her life: a long-sleeved shirt she could find little use for in the triple-digit heat, and an empty water bottle. “You are one pitiful woman.”

Now, she needed to find some water and food and then figure out where she would go next. There should be a house somewhere nearby, as this shed clearly belonged to somebody. Stepping outside, she trudged toward the road she had been on days earlier, churning up the dusty soil of the sterile farmland with each step. At the road, she turned what felt like west and looked down the long, flat, barren landscape, painted in dusty brown as far as her eyes could see. This land looked vaguely familiar, almost like her home town, only more desolate, like the whole area had experienced a bad drought. The backdrop was even more eerie because it was identical to the simulators she practiced on in her prep for ISS. Coincidentally, both environments lacked the same realness. There were no birds, no cars, no people, and no sounds of birds or cars or people anywhere.

She squinted at the distance. Between the pavement and the washed-out sky seething with vaporous waves of heat, was a house, maybe two or three miles away. Surely they had water to spare for an ex-astronaut?

Her long journey along the broiling asphalt started with one footstep.

“ Jefe ,” Max begged, “I have done everything you have asked me. Let me go back and help my friends. They need me in Rocky Point.” He pleaded his case to Luis “El Gordo” Ochoa, or as many referred to him in reverence, El Jefe , or the boss .

“Eat your green chili, Max, my friend,” El Gordo responded, ignoring his pleas, “you have barely touched your food.”

Max had been a “guest” of El Gordo’s since the Event. After El Gordo’s men “escorted” him from Rocky Point—albeit while saving his life during a gun fight—they forced Max to drive here in his own Jeep, one of the few vehicles that worked these days. Since his arrival here, Max had been put to work on El Gordo’s ranch. Offering no complaints, for the last ten days Max had busily set up various protections against the sun around the ranch, and fixed up two old cars to work despite the continuing CMEs hammering the earth. Max didn’t even complain—not that he could have—when El Gordo’s men commandeered most of Max’s supplies from his own ranch down the road. They left maybe 20 percent of his own supplies there as proof of their friendship and El Gordo’s intent that Max would be released. Max hoped if he complied without resistance, El Gordo would let him leave soon.

“You can leave any time, but you must leave your Jeep,” El Gordo said with a smile, chewing his food open-mouthed, and then washing it down with a swig of mescal from the bottle. The gusano rojo or “red worm” at the bottom waited patiently.

“Señor Luis, please. This is not fair. I have been a friend and partner to you all these years, and I have not complained once since you brought me here. How can I leave without my Jeep?”

“Let’s talk about it tomorrow. All this talk is tiring. Eat your meal and we’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

Max knew this was not to be as promised. As much as El Gordo acted like Max’s friend, Max knew what a ruthless killer he was to even those he supposedly cared for. He had to get away from this band of murderers and get back to Rocky Point to help the Kings. His great-grandfather started a commitment that he vowed to keep: to watch over the Kings. Through the years, he developed a strong bond of friendship, even calling them family. The kids even reciprocated, calling him Uncle Max. He made a promise, swearing to Sally, Lisa, and Bill that he would return. He had never broken a promise, and wasn’t going to this time. He had to come up with an escape plan.

Every day Gordo’s group of thugs went out on raiding parties using his Jeep and one other vehicle he had made CME-proof. They sometimes dragged Max along to help as they found all sort of uses for him. He dreaded these violent excursions, his only time away from the ranch. He had witnessed horrible acts during war, but what El Gordo’s men did was so vile merely thinking about it disgusted him, much less being involved. They stole, raped, and murdered whole families, including the children. When they returned, they parked the vehicles and emptied their plunder at a guest house now used as a warehouse. Then, the murderers got drunk and passed out… That was it. That would be his opportunity. He would wait until El Gordo’s men passed out, he would take his Jeep back, and he’d bug out south. Maybe tonight.

“Max, my friend, I can see your eyes are in deep thought. Do not be troubled by the other men. They are animals. But, they are animals that take orders. And in a world such as this, we need animals. You are not one of them. But, if you continue to make nice, I will give you what you want. Esta bien ?”

“ Esta bien, Jefe. Muchas gracias .” Max thanked him, but still knew El Jefe never intended to keep this promise. He was going to escape tonight.

“ Ándale, Señor Max,” bellowed one of Gordo’s men. “It is time to go now.”

Max got up from the table, nodded in El Gordo’s direction and took his leave to be witness to another day of horrors. With any luck, this will be the last day of this. I’ll either win my freedom—or if I’m not careful, my death .

Dr. Carrington Reid, the foreteller of the apocalypse that would eventually kill most of the world’s population, was riding his tricycle like never before. With a slight wind at his back, he was attempting to add seventy more miles to his total today.

His recumbent trike had barely twenty miles on its frame before the Event. When he bought it everyone was going green. But his purchase was not some ode to the environment, knowing how silly that movement was— as if you could save the earth by not driving your car as much or recycling a few cans , he would often point out to those shit-eating-grin-wearing idiots with their Birkenstocks who boasted to him of their efforts. His motives were much more selfish. His doctor had told him he needed to lose some weight and that he wasn’t getting any younger. So, Carrington vowed to eat a little better—avoid the late-night binge on junk food—and to exercise. The recumbent trike was his answer to exercise; he would use it to commute¸ so its utility would be doubly justified. That had been over five years ago. He had thought that he would use it to go everywhere during the summer, especially since his office was less than two miles from his home and everything else he needed was close by. The first week, he pedaled every day. Then an occasional burst of rain, or a new pain in his body, or any one of a myriad of other excuses caused him to stop using it a month after its purchase. Every day, as he hurried off to work or to a meeting off-campus, he looked at the trike accumulating dust in the corner of his garage rather than mileage outside and always found an excuse for not using it. Perhaps he would use it purely for exercise, but there was just too much to do. So, his tricycling would be nothing more than a mental game. Before the Event, he even argued to himself that working out was a luxury for those with idle hands and minds, neither of which he possessed.