Linda Andrews - Extinction Level Event

“I do!” The niños chorused. Behind him, the foursome sat in a row on the bench seat, bookended by the Wilson sisters. The two girls had remained mute on the ride, but their face masks spoke of their fears.

“I’d like to eat inside.” Irina seconded it the same time Mildred did.

Sitting on the floor between Mildred and Irina, Manny glanced out the front window. Unease twitched down his back. “The parking lot seems kind of empty.”

The van coasted through the three-way intersection before turning toward the fast food restaurant. “This is the third day after opening. I hope they didn’t run out of food.”

Manny swayed as the older man pulled into the handicapped spot in front. Seat belts unsnapped and fabric rustled. His attention remained on the white sign on the door. “Maybe they didn’t reopen.”

Henry shifted the car into park, but didn’t kill the engine. His face lost some of the color as he twisted in his seat to face the back. “Might be. Manny can go check.”

“Sure.” Manny scooted around Mildred and opened the sliding door. Numb legs carried him to the sparkling glass entrance. He read the sign, once. Then twice. His heart raced and sweat beaded his upper lip.

Closed due to illness.

He drew a ragged breath into his lungs. Bright red letters on crisp white paper. The sign was new—too new to be from the initial outbreak of the Redaction. Stars danced on the fringes of his vision.

Oh, God. Was the dying about to start all over again?

Trent licked his dry lips and shielded his eyes from the midday sun. Hours. They’d been walking for hours, steadily heading east. And his companion, whose body odor stunk like decaying fish, was growing more pungent with each passing minute. “How far is this place anyway?”

The bum, Lump, pulled another ball of crumpled paper from his many tattered layers and tossed it to the ground. He’d been a fat man when he’d first stumbled across Trent in the dry Salt River bottom, but as the day progressed, the man had whittled down to a shambling reed. “Not far.”

“That’s what you said an hour ago.” And the one before that, and the one before that. Trent’s borrowed boots slipped around his feet. Blisters burned his heels through his cashmere and wool socks. Off the rack shoes were just one more offense the bitch who’d shot him would pay for. He shuddered at the image of his hobo companion pulling them off the stiffening feet of the corpse stretched out next to Trent.

“You got somewheres to go?” The bum abruptly bent over and coughed. His face turned an old shade of puce as spittle hung in gossamer threads from his open mouth.

“Yeah.” Trent had to find the gang-bangers who’d high-jacked his car and retrieve his murder kit. But not before he used it again. He rubbed his thigh careful not to pull his trousers away from the wound where the bullet had grazed him. “I’ve got places to go and people to see.”

And kill.

After a little friendly torturing. Belinda had given him a taste of the power that accompanied inflicting pain. Of course, the two gang whores wouldn’t like it as much as that masochistic slut.

“Thought you didn’t remember nothing.” Lump hocked up a lougie before scratching at the scabs on his exposed arms. Fleas jumped from his clothes, aiming for Trent.

He swatted the pests with a rolled up newspaper. Despite his best efforts some of the buggers had already gotten through. New itches rose just thinking about the insects sucking his blood.

“I don’t,” he lied. Fortunately, the graze at his temple gave him a perfect excuse to hang out with the losers of the world—amnesia. At least, until one of bum cartel told him where the gangbangers hid out. “But look at me.” He raised his arms showing off the abused Armani suit. “This is a designer suit. That means money. Someone should be looking for me.”

The cops for one. They’d be trying to find him to inform him of his ex-wife’s suicide. On the bright side, he wouldn’t have to feign any emotion. He could pretend he didn’t remember her. God that would stick in Denise’s craw.

Lump straightened and wiped his nose across his sleeve, the smear of dried-snot indicated a well-worn path. “You coulda stolen it.”

Trent clamped his jaw closed. Idiot. Couldn’t the fool see the coat was cut to accentuate his toned stomach and muscular shoulders? No, of course he couldn’t—the man was a loser, a bum, a nobody who wallowed in his own filth.

“I don’t think I did.” He adjusted his suit jacket. “It feels like it was made for me.”

“Could have been a gift from some wealthy Sugar Mama.” Lump dug his fingers into his matted black beard. The man’s age was hard to pin down. The tanned skin looked young, until a smile pleated his skin with age. The track marks on his arms, whittled teeth and scabs on his face spoke of drug use. The brown eyes under black busy brows were far too observant for Trent’s taste. “Then her daddy showed up and shot you. Only reason I can see to shoot a man in his privates.”

Trent shook his fists out. For this…this cretin to think for a minute, he’d be beholden to a woman… He hoped God struck him and his wheezing cough dead. His feet pounded the dirt as he followed Lump along the river bottom.

“Unless…” Lump chuckled, shook his head and changed his shuffling north. Toward civilization.

And the tank in the center of the intersection. About a hundred yards away, Marines sat on the tan behemoth, facing the four cardinal directions, guns at the ready.

God damn it! Trent’s mouth dried. He’d thought they’d agreed they wouldn’t pass the soldiers. That last thing he needed was a bunch of nosy bastards in his business. Trent glanced back at the gnarled trees and dense brush. Maybe it wasn’t too late to dive into the vegetation.

Lump turned around and walked backward. “Unless of course, your wife caught you cheating and decided to shoot off the beans and frank.”

The bum’s bark of laughter dissolved into another coughing fit.

The Marine’s attention swung their way, complete with gun turret.

Fucking shit! Trent’s skin wiggled over his skeleton as if it wished to slough off and disappear into the cracks in the street. Twitching on the cold pavement, he stopped by his doubled-over companion. “I thought we’d agreed to avoid the soldiers. For all I know, it was one of them who shot me.”

Lump snorted before straightening. “If a Marine had shot you, you’d have woken up in pieces. Legs on one side of the street, head on the other and nothing but a streak of goo in between.”

Yeah, he’d seen those pictures, too. Normally, the chances of that happening to him were remote. He glanced at his itinerate companion. But then he wasn’t keeping as refined company as he once had. And who would miss a few bums? He shifted behind Lump. If the soldiers did open fire, maybe he could get away while they focused on cutting the real bum in two. “Where is this mission place anyway?”

Lump shook his head. “Ain’t gonna tell you, man. You’ll cheat me out of my lighter.”

“It ain’t gonna do you any good if the soldiers shoot you.” Asshole. What was the world coming to if a contemptible bastard like Lump held sway over him ? But he did. Shelter dining hadn’t made the list of places to eat before he died. He was hungry and couldn’t go home. Trent kicked a rock off the street. It skittered into the bushes and was answered by a rustling.

“They ain’t gonna shoot me .” Lump placed his hand against his thin chest as he wheezed. Black dirt outlined the cracked nails. “Now, you…” He shrugged and ambled toward the intersection.