M. Banner - Desolation

“Yo, Frank, what happened? Where are you?” A voice from down below called and then she heard another set of footsteps bounding up the landing. Danny’s screams had given their position away for sure, if the man hadn’t heard his partner fall.

Darla looked at the empty spear gun, knowing there was no time to pump, load, and shoot it. So, she let go and scuttled like a crab toward the prone giant, searching the carpet for his gun. She peeked up and saw the other man’s head coming up the stairwell.

She felt the gun, snatched it and immediately started pulling the trigger over and over. A single crash stung her eardrums and silenced both her brother’s screams and the intruder’s advancing footsteps.

Holding her breath, she focused her eyes into the dark, searching for any sign of success. She remained motionless, partially from fear, but mostly in an effort to hear something from the other man. Her ears were ringing from the gun’s blast in the small bedroom.

Another creak, this one outside in the hall. Damn . She’d missed. Her heart beat so hard, she thought her chest would explode. The gun was empty, her spear gun was empty, and she was out of options.

The other man appeared at the master bedroom doorway and bolted toward their door.

Shocked at this turn, she involuntarily scuttled backwards until her back hit the wall. As the man came to the door, she second-guessed herself, instead rushing to protect Danny.

The man, watching her the whole time, paid no attention to his dead partner in the doorway and simply stumbled over the body. Inertia drove him forward, impaling his body on the spear tip jutting from the big man’s head.

He let out two breaths and then died.

Upon reaching her brother she asked, “Danny, are you all right?”

Kneeling beside his bed, he desperately attempted to take air into his lungs. The terror and excitement brought on an asthma attack.

“Danny, it’s all over,” she said quietly, trying to get his attention. “You need to breathe. Breathe like we practiced.” She said this while she reached in her bag and grabbed a glow stick. She snapped and shook it, and the room instantly brightened as if lit by a giant firefly. Danny looked paler still, but she didn’t know if it was from the light or his attack or both. She grabbed her bottled water, threw some of the capsicum powder she’d found earlier into it, and shook the bottle hard.

“Drink this.”

He grabbed the bottle with weak fingers and tried to drink, but most of the water was pouring out on him. She held the bottle and his hands as he gulped, coughing.

“Hot,” he said breathlessly.

“I know, kiddo, but it will help. Please drink some more,” she said as she tilted the bottle back, guiding more liquid down his throat. His breathing slowed.

“Okay, Danny, do what I showed you, with the breathing. Breathe-in-breathe-out,” she repeated, and he followed. His breathing slowed some more.

“Hot, my mouth is hot,” he complained.

She reached in his bag, pulled out his own bottle, and said, “Here, this is regular water.”

His breathing slowed some more as he took several gulps.

“I wet myself,” he said glumly.

“I think I did too.”

“We have nothing you need,” the pharmacist announced to Wilber as soon as the over-the-door bell jingled, even before Wilber opened his mouth. That struck Wilber as odd. He’d known Fred since birth. The young man’s voice quavered, when he usually spoke with such confidence, and his “Hello my name is Fred” badge was pinned upside down on a rumpled shirt that was usually pressed with distinct creases. Fred’s statement seemed true enough based on the bare shelves behind him—unless Wilber had a prescription for suppositories or heavy-duty vitamins, more suited to four-legged creatures than people.

“Wow, I can see that. At least tell me if Doc Reynolds is at home or is he making a house call now?” Wilber asked carefully, his tone reserved, not revealing he knew Fred was hiding something.

“Hell, Wilber, do I look like Doc’s secretary?” he shot back. In fact, Fred usually knew exactly where Doc was, calling him multiple times each day. Fred was more store manager than part-time pharmacy tech, and often relied on the doc’s advice when it came to recommending OTC medications and verifying whether prescriptions were legit.

“Thanks, Fred!” Wilber said, already walking away; he wanted to get moving to cure the apprehension he was feeling about Doc, and what was going on in the town.

Steve followed him outside. “Did you have any idea their supplies would be so low?”

They walked briskly across the main street and then continued parallel to it, along an invisible path Wilber knew well.

“No, not this quickly.” Wilber checked both ways before crossing the next street, probably out of force of habit, but also out of a feeling of being watched. “There’s more going on here. His meds were stolen. He did tell me this — course I’ve known him his whole damn life. That’s how I knew. There’s something wrong in this town and somehow Doc’s involved. We need to hurry.” His pace quickened, and Steve with him.

“And what happens if we can’t find Doc or any antibiotics there?” Steve figured he knew the answer but he asked anyway.

“With your father’s fever, I just don’t know. Let’s hope Doc can help. He’s one of those family doctors, just as liable to give ya can of Coke for a stomach ache as he is to give ya a drug. So, let’s see what he says first before we worry more.”

Wilber halted at a turn-of-the-century clapboard house, its shutters recently dressed in smart blue and white paint. On the post above the entrance hung a hand-carved sign that read in block letters, EUGENE REYNOLDS M.D . Were it not for the fresh colors, Wilber always thought it looked just like the old store signs seen in western movies that read “Bank” or “Saloon.”

“Damn,” Wilber blurted, looking at the entrance. Jagged glass teeth lined the top third of the door where a window had been. Wilber knocked hard. “Doc? Are you in there? It’s Wilber.” He tried to look through the mouthlike opening, his view blocked by a white linen tongue.

Poking through the drapes, a fat double-barreled coach gun broke the illusion. It glared at Wilber with its two dark, unblinking eyes. Their gaze held Wilber’s as they slid sideways, knocking a tooth out of the window, and drawing the drapes aside to reveal Doctor Reynolds’s scowling face.

“Good God Almighty, Doc. You just about gave me a heart attack. Are you all right?”

The doc sneered at Wilber’s unknown friend, and said nothing.

Realizing Doc’s trepidation, Wilber introduced his companion. “This is Steve Parkington. His dad needs your help. They crashed on my farm in a private plane, knocked out of the sky by the same shit that turned off our power. I stitched their wounds, but John, his father, I think has a bad infection and he’s allergic to penicillin and that’s all I got for my family. Can I trade you for an alternative? I’ve got some of O’s famous canned peaches. I know how much you love those.” Wilber stopped and waited to see Doc’s reaction.

“Come in,” Doc said gruffly, withdrawing into the darkness. The lock’s tumbler disengaged and the heavy wood door swung inward slowly.

Accepting the invitation, Wilber and then Steve stepped inside, shutting the door behind them.

Even in the dim light, Steve noticed the foyer was far more ornate than he would have guessed based on the home’s plain exterior: elegant, stained oak floors; a palatial staircase of the same oak with oriental runners up the middle, fastened with polished brass bolts that reflected the window’s limited light. The twenty-foot-high tin ceiling was outlined with intricate molding; from it hung a giant chandelier which, judging by its size must have given off an amazing amount of light when they had power.