Linda Andrews - Extinction Level Event

Before he could puzzle it out, the driver’s side door opened.

Hands reached in, shifted the engine into park. The car lurched to a stop.

Trent jerked forward hitting the steering wheel and his thoughts broke loose from the shock. He’d been shot. The bitch had shot him. Blackness crowded his vision. “Fuck.”

“The mother fucker was trying to leave us, Candy.” After the man spoke a fist slammed against Trent’s temple. Once. Twice.

Trent tried to clear his mind. He must not let them have the Jag. It cost him a year’s salary.

“Just get the bastard out. That shot might alert the Marines.”

He willed his arm to move, to push aside the fingers gripping his shirt. His hundred and twelve dollar silk shirt. He glanced up, caught sight of the orange vest before his head dropped back. Why was the world spinning?

“What do you want me to do with him?” The construction worker lifted him up.

His head collided with the top of the Jag’s interior. Trent tried to focus through the stars dancing on the fringes of his vision. He was bodily dragged out of the car.

“Toss him in trash with the other one.” Candy-the-Goth scrambled around to the side. Her torn fishnet stockings appeared in his line of sight.

Nails dug into his scalp before her knee smashed against his nose. Warmth gushed down his chin. Trent fought against the darkness. He couldn’t let them win. His head bobbed forward. As he watched the asphalt roll by, his feet dangled behind him. A burning sensation traveled up his legs. One shoe popped off. The bitch had ruined his favorite Berlutis.

“Finish him off.” Candy’s orders drifted through the buzzing in his ears. “Double tap. One to the head, and the other to his… dick.”

Trent’s stomach clenched. What the fuck! He tried to cover himself but his hands refused to obey.

“Sure thing, boss.” The man panted as he continued dragging Trent. The street gave way to weeds, sand and river rock.

“Not you,” the Goth bitch shouted. “Terry needs to earn her teardrop.”

“Me?” A woman screeched.

He hoped the bitch’s apprentice cried a damn river. Trent heard fabric rip. Damn they’d destroyed his slacks. One hand dragged uselessly on the ground, through jagged pieces of glass that ripped into his flesh. The fingers on his other hand twitched. Pushing back oblivion, he focused. Grab something. Anything.

“Yes.” The Goth bitch chuckled. “Shoot his balls off first, then the head.”

Footsteps sounded on the asphalt and then something beside him swished through the weeds.

“And hurry, before the fucking square jaws decide to leave their precious posts.”

Trent landed face down in the dirt. He coughed and stirred up a small cloud.

The fake construction worker rolled him on his back. “Wouldn’t want you to miss the show.” He slapped Trent’s jaw before standing. He grinned, flashing metal on his teeth before squatting by Trent’s feet. He felt a tug then cool air washed over his foot. “And I’ll take this since you won’t need them anymore.”

Trent closed his hand. Sand and small pebbles dribbled out the space between his fingers. Mustering up his energy, he threw it at the thief. The dirt and debris rained down on his belly.

The thug laughed and shrugged out of his vest. “Still have some fight in you, huh?” He kicked Trent in the ribs.

Air rushed out of his lungs. And the pain in his head built to a crescendo. A second kick joined the first. His good arm flopped across his stomach. He tried to curl into a ball.

The guy yanked his arms flat, weighted his hands with warm boulders

Trent stared at the top of his head. God damn it. The bitch and her friends were going to kill him and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Air flooded into his lungs in a painful gush. His legs were forcibly straightened.

“Remember.” The guy splayed Trent’s legs. “Shoot his dick off first.”

Through slitted eyes, Trent watched the girl lick her lips and nod. He memorized the curve of her jaw, the slant of her eyes. He’d come back from Hell and drag them back with him. He would. And then he’d be the one dealing out the pain.

She pulled the trigger.

Trent felt the heat along his inner thighs before surrendering to the darkness.

Pulling the wagon, Manny followed Irina, Henry and Connie to the community’s gated entrance. He stuck his hand in his hoodie’s pocket. Despite the afternoon sun, he hunched against the chill. They were going to meet the soldiers for their food rations. He fingered the paper booklet in his pocket. Would his ration card work in this neighborhood? And if it didn’t, what then?

For the first time in weeks, his belly was full and the niños were clean—even being tutored by Henry’s wife, Mildred. While he could liberate enough food from the empty houses to cover the cost of feeding them for a while, what happened when the food ran out? He was nothing but a Latino. Despite their words, he couldn’t trust that Connie would let him stay.

There was nothing in it for them.

As for Irina… He glanced at his best friend’s sister. With her blue eyes and blond hair, she could definitely pass for Connie’s granddaughter. At least once the swelling went down. Connie might even be able to get her a new ration card. Which was good, in a way. But he hated having to think about leaving her behind.

Propping her cane against her arm, Connie traced the edges of the code box before settling her fingers on the numeric buttons. “I’m the distributer for the neighborhood. Not that there are many of us left. Still, Belinda works days. She does some administrative duty at the hospitals. Then there’s Denise Powers. Poor lamb lost both of her children and has slipped into a bit of a blue funk.”

Gears ground as the gates parted. Henry put a hand on Connie’s arm until the opening was unimpeded. “Every one’s lost someone. That’s no reason to stay in bed all day.”

“And then there are the Wilsons and us.” Connie’s cane swished across the asphalt as she led the way. “That’s it. The neighborhood used to be filled with such noise.” She smiled as they passed the gate. “Just like it was today. I’m so glad we found enough bicycles for the little ones.”

Irina clutched Manny’s arm when the gate started to close. Increasing their pace, they cleared it before it reached the halfway mark. “They certainly enjoyed being out in the sunshine.”

Connie stepped onto the curb. “I can’t believe the nerve of those gangsters.”

Gangsters. Shaking his head, Manny lifted the wagon onto the sidewalk and leaned against the block fence. Like Al Capone was going to tear around the corner, Tommy guns blazing.

“Gangbangers kill people indiscriminately, steal their food, and terrorize youngsters.” Henry wheeled to the entrance and checked the street. “The old and infirm do all the heavy lifting, while the young laze about in bed and contemplate their navels.”

Manny felt the blood heat his face. He barely slept five hours. As for napping… Today after breakfast was more like passing out then a power nap. He stifled a yawn. Not that he couldn’t use more sleep.

“Now, Henry.” Using the fence as a guide, Connie followed it to the ground. She groaned before closing her eyes and resting against the block. “Manny and Irina aren’t loafers.”

Clutching her ribs, Rini lowered herself to the gravel next to Connie. Despite the aspirin and chunk of ice, swelling and bruising still distorted her face. The bandage around her chest snagged the loose tee shirt, causing it to bunch up.

“No. No, they’re not.” Henry pivoted in his wheelchair and rolled back and forth across the opening. The steel gray ponytail wiggled against the seat back as he moved. “You did a good job of evading those gangbangers.”