Desolation

by M. L. Banner

  Thomas had been waiting to ask the Teacher these things since the power went out ten days ago. They had been in this hotel outside Joliet for two weeks. Everyone knew this was something big and permanent. Since what some of the Teacher’s people were calling the “Event,” there had been no power, no cars operating, and all their electronic devices appeared to be dead. Brooklyn—no one could remember his name, only that he came from Brooklyn, New York—had found a little battery-powered portable radio in the basement. Excitedly, he brought it up, yelling that it worked. When he turned it on, it did appear to work; he twirled the dial, searching for a station from anywhere. It played static, which after silence sounded almost magical; at least that was something. Then, less than a minute later, came a clicking noise like an invisible hand reached in and squeezed the insides dead. Now it was just another piece of electronic junk.

  He watched the Teacher leisurely chew his sandwich. It seemed that after each bite, his face curled into a poised smile, as if he had known this was all going to happen and he was in complete control. Thomas had grown to both love and fear this man, who appeared to have control over the elements, able to call up the auroras and the electricity that seemed to be everywhere. He had performed healing miracles, too; he’d brought back a blind man’s sight. Thomas was starting to think the Teacher really was a messenger from God. Who knows, maybe he was the Second Coming like some of his followers claimed.

  After swallowing the last morsel and washing it down with a large sip of his tepid water, the Teacher wiped his lips with the white linen napkin and leaned back in the plush lounge chair, a luxury afforded by the presidential suite. He stared at Thomas for a disquieting couple of minutes. Was he sizing him up or was he just bored? Thomas nervously scratched at his palms.

  “Thomas, are you scared of something?” he asked, crossing his olive-toned legs, which jutted out from his stark white linen bathrobe.

  “Me? Hell no. What I gotta be scared of? I know you’ll tell us what to do,” Thomas answered fairly quickly and truthfully.

  “Make an announcement now that I will speak later today. I will let everyone know my plans then. Do that for me?”

  “Yes, Teacher.” Thomas pivoted on his toe and started toward the door, a little more unnerved each second.

  “Thomas?” the Teacher called out behind him.

  “Yes, Teacher,” he answered. Now he wanted out of the room, which felt more and more like a jail cell.

  “Thank you for the sandwich. Would you take this away?” he said, waving his hand over the tray that had been cleaned of its food, only a couple of crumbs remaining. Thomas grabbed it and scurried toward the door. “Then, I want you to do one more thing,” the Teacher added.

  “Yes, of course. What is it?” Thomas was almost begging to get out of the room by his tone and stance.

  “Go now and feed my children. They are hungry.”

  He realized instantly what the Teacher meant and that they were going to be leaving very soon. He nodded and then sprang out the door, handing the tray to one of the five people just outside who had obviously been listening to the whole conversation.

  “Here”—Thomas couldn’t remember the man’s name—“you take this and don’t bother the Teacher unless he calls for you.” The other four waited to hear Thomas's instructions for them. It seemed odd to Thomas that their entire group looked to him as the de facto leader. He hadn’t asked for this, but somehow in the last ten days Thomas wound up in charge of their group. In a way, the Teacher informally chose Thomas as his favorite, as he was always the one the Teacher asked for. He liked the responsibility and he had to admit he liked the power that came with his responsibilities. If he snapped his fingers, someone would come running. It was weird that no one even questioned this power transfer, or why he was the benefactor of Teacher’s benevolence, which probably should have gone to John, as the most senior in their group.

  Thomas did overhear John tell another in the group that it was unfair that he wasn’t chosen over Thomas for that same reason. "Besides," John continued, "when Jesus died on the cross, it was John who Jesus said was the disciple he loved most.”

  That was the only murmur of discontent from anyone.

  Thomas smiled at this thought as he turned down the hallway of the hotel, the four others in tow. They walked through the lobby and then out the front entrance into a throng of anxious people, which appeared to have doubled since he spoke with some of them yesterday.

  Many of these people stood up immediately, also recognizing Thomas as the confidante of the Teacher. “There he is,” murmured a few.

  Others approached. Thomas held up his hands as an assertive sign to hold the crush back from proceeding any farther. “The Teacher,” he belted out as loud as he could, “will make an announcement sometime later today. He has a plan for all of you and he will announce it later.” Thomas dropped his hands and was about to turn when the questions and statements poured out. “What will we eat till then?” “How long do we wait?” “Where should we stay?” “We’re thirsty!”

  Thomas remembered the Teacher's last command and thought of the remaining supplies in the kitchen, thankfully well stocked just before the Event. He had intended this food for the Teacher and their group, even though it wouldn’t last long. But Teacher had said “Feed my children,” so that must be what he meant.

  He held his hands out again, quieting the murmurs. “We will bring you some food. And water. Just be patient. The Teacher will make sure you are all cared for.” He hoped that’s what the Teacher would say, anyway.

  Thomas turned around and nearly ran into the four who had followed him out and a couple more of the Teacher’s high-up people, right there, waiting for instructions. He gave them directions for fixing food and bringing it outside. He grabbed a few others to go about finding and setting up a food station.

  He would make sure that the masses were fed by the time the Teacher was ready to speak to them.

  4.

  Tired and Thirsty

  Near Joliet, Illinois

  “I’m tired,” Danny King protested to his sister for what must have been the tenth time in the past hour, “and I’m real thirsty.”

  “I know, kiddo,” Darla said only half-heartedly, her voice weighed down by the burden of the many miles they had walked and her own extreme thirst. It had been hours since her last drink and about an hour since Danny’s. She made sure he had most of the water to minimize the possibility of his having an asthma attack. His inhaler was empty, and they would be in trouble if he had an attack on the road.

  She was not doing much better. Her mouth felt like the inside of an old leather shoe roasting in the sun. Her throat burned, demanding satiation. It was hot, without the normal July Midwest humidity, the result of a multi-week drought. Smoke from rampant fires saturated the air, adding to their misery.

  Those same fires made Chicago unapproachable, consuming the city and everything around it. Darla decided they would head south and work their way to Michigan, to their grandparents’ home, trying to keep the fires at their backs. She could not think of any other place to go—at least not that was navigable by foot. Yet, the farther south they went, the thicker the smoke grew as the flames continued to gain on them. Yesterday, the flame’s progress had seemed to slow a bit; she had hoped it was running out of fuel. Ash and smoke still hung in the air around them, and probably would for days. They moved at a snail’s pace now, thanks to the infernal heat and their insatiable thirst. Water was now their primary concern.

  “Can we try here?” Danny begged, pointing to the first house they had seen in almost an hour. It looked abandoned. Its garage door was half open, as if stopped by the power outage. Disorder blanketed everything: the front door stood wide open; a woman’s purse had been discarded on the driveway, its contents strewn about. At the center of this strange scene, a dead station wagon—driver-side door ajar—rested on top of a small sapling recently planted in the front lawn. It was a picture of silent chaos, a mome
nt frozen in time on a a painter’s fading canvas, already slowly being erased by the elements.

  Darla led them to the entrance. “Hello?” she called into the empty house. No one answered.

  They searched from top to bottom for anything useful. They found some cans of food, which they would get later, but no liquids. Water first, then food.

  “Danny, come help me,” she beckoned to her brother from the garage

  She plucked two one-gallon milk containers from a green recycle bin. Both appeared to have been rinsed out, without the expected stale or foul smell. The over-heated garage's already rank aromas didn’t need help. She grabbed a screwdriver from a pegboard of tools neatly organized on the wall, and marched to the water heater. “Hold this steady,” she instructed the boy, who held the milk jug to a spigot on the bottom. “See, most people don’t think about the water in their water heaters, but there is always some in there.” Stooping over, she brushed back the end of her long black pony-tail, which had fallen forward, and went to work on the screw, opening the release valve. Delicious water poured out immediately. When the bottle was full, its excess leaked out onto the floor darkening the ground beneath their feet. She retightened the screw, sealing the opening. Danny licked his lips in anticipation, in spite of the water’s murky appearance. His face, like hers covered in a sheen of sweat and dirt, spoke more about their condition than either could say. “Almost," she answered his expectant glances, "just want to clean it up a bit.” She placed the front end end of her shirt over the full bottle’s mouth. Holding it tight, she used it as a filter, and poured half of the half of the filtered contents into the other gallon jug; its wetness wicked up her front, the cool material feeling wonderful against her belly.

  “Here kiddo, you go first,” she said as she offered him the jug.

  “Mmm, that’s good,” he said gulping it down, not minding the warm rusty taste. “How-d-ya-know?” He took another gulp and then passed it to her.

  “Our Uncle Max.”

  “I miss Uncle Max,” his voice elevating and quivering. “I miss Mom, Dad, and Sally.” Tears welled in his eyes, as he considered their separation for the first time today.

  “I know Danny. We’ll see them again soon.” She worked at sounding believable, even though her breaking heart told her the reality; they might never see them again. “Think you can walk a little farther?”

  “I’m real tired,” Danny stated matter-of-factly. “Can’t we stay here?”

  They were both tired and sleep would do them good. “All right… why not.”

  After securing the garage door, which took some effort to disconnect from the dead motor, she focused on the front door, the lock and door frame broken from someone kicking it in violently. She was able to wedge a dining room chair under the knob, and then pushed a heavy chest in front of it for good measure. They opened a can of corn they had found and ate it together, forcing themselves to feed a hunger they didn’t have. She tucked Danny into one of the bedrooms upstairs obviously used by young children; she guessed grandchildren, based on the family pictures in the hallway. The room was bathed in a flourish of colors, accented by DC and Marvel comic artwork on the walls, and held two twin beds. One sported Superman pillows, comforter, and sheets, and the other Wonder Woman. Danny wrapped himself in Superman’s cape of protection in the bed by the window. After getting his shorts and shirt off and sliding under the covers, he was fast asleep before she could even whisper a good night.

  While there still was some light, Darla looked more carefully throughout the whole house for more things they could use. Although she was tired, her mind was a little sharper for her having had some water. She found some more food in an office: several boxes of crackers and some bottled water in a little cabinet by the desk. And to think of all the hassle we went through with that water heater. Darla snickered at herself.

  From the desk drawer, she pulled out a small plastic flashlight and casually pushed the On button, not expecting anything. The click generated a beautiful canopy of light, removing the ghostly shadows threatening by the minute to consume the remainder of the day’s light. She had found two other flashlights in their ten-plus day journey and neither worked, she assumed for the same reason that no other electronics were working. She was curious why this one did, and wished she could feed off of her Uncle Max’s wisdom to learn why. At this point, it didn’t matter. She had light.

  The master bedroom didn’t yield much, but in the bathroom, she found several vitamins and holistic remedies, grabbing what she needed. When she saw the capsicum powder, she grinned knowing this would be useful for Danny’s asthma.

  Deep in the recesses of the other guest bedroom closet, thanks to the flashlight, she spotted scuba diving equipment. Three things caught her interest: a wet bag with a sling that would easily hang over her shoulder, a plastic zip-lock with about thirty glow sticks, and a small, expensive-looking spear gun, in a holster, along with five spears. She withdrew the pistol-shaped gun, with a bright yellow trigger and almost two-foot-long barrel where the spears slid in. Poppy had one just like this, and had showed her how to use it. She couldn’t restrain her smirk, as she worked the pneumatic pump and loaded the gun easily, and then took it with her. She now had her weapon.

  Before retiring to Danny’s bedroom, Darla rigged a few trip wires, mostly to slow down any intruders and to alert her and Danny to their presence. The first she connected from the bottom of the stairs to the used corn can, on top of which she stacked a few discarded organic juice cans from the recycle bin in the garage. The second trip wire she set up mid-way up the stairwell where it would be impossible to see in the black of night. After taking a moment to examine her work in the gathering darkness, Darla retired for the evening.

  Although she could have easily chosen the master bedroom and its inviting bed for herself, she didn’t want to leave Danny alone. She opened the window to let air in the room that was still hot and stuffy from being closed up for days. Granted, it wasn’t the freshest air, but it was moving and cooler, and those were plusses. Shedding her shorts, she crawled into Wonder Woman’s bed, the loaded spear gun in its holster pointed toward the closed bedroom door. She found herself touching the handle many times in the darkness, confirming its presence and readiness if needed. She tried to think of anything she might have forgotten, but her scattered thoughts were shrouded in a cloud of fatigue born from their long, hot journey and today’s dehydration. She too shared her brother’s longing for her mom, dad, and older sister. Then, she thought of Steve Parkington. Her finger brushed across the silver sand dollar necklace and the images of their short time together flooded back: his patience toward her nervous chatter when they reunited, his handsome smile and genuine laughter at her jokes, his kiss under the fireworks… Darla drifted off to the melodic sounds of a chorus of crickets, who serenaded them through the open window.

  5.

  Nurse Wilber

  Wright Ranch

  “Your dad’s infection is getting worse,” Wilber Wright said to Steve Parkington, laying a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. “If we don’t get him some antibiotics and maybe even medical attention soon, I’m not sure he’ll pull through. I just don’t have the medical skills or supplies to help him any further.”

  “Fine, what about the town? Wouldn’t they have a pharmacy or a hospital?” Steve pleaded with Wilber, who had informed him two days ago when the infection started that he had only penicillin. He remembered vividly hearing from his mom how allergic his dad was to this. There had to be an alternative somewhere in town.

  “You know the situation about as well as I do,” Wilber said. “None of my vehicles work. They were all damaged from the same solar flares that knocked out the power in your plane¸ and everywhere else. We don’t have a hospital, just a clinic with one doctor.”

  “Well, I’ll go then. It can’t be too far of a walk.”

  Wilber stood up and rubbed the strain from his knees, aching from being bent be
side John for the past few minutes studying him and his vitals. After Wilber had found the men crashed on his land ten days ago, he and Steve had carried John up to the house. Wilber had tended to the gash on John’s head and a larger one to his leg using his two-pound fishing line. Although he’d lost a little blood, it shouldn’t have been enough to cause this. He should be getting better, but somehow he got an infection.

  He knew basic EMT stuff like field dressing wounds, but that was it when it came to medicine. Being a farmer, over the years, he had administered emergency medicine to his animals, including his pigs, whose anatomy he found was quite similar to humans’.

  “Aw shit, let’s go then. You’re coming with me,” Wilber grumbled in frustration.

  ~~~

  Steve hadn’t ridden a bicycle in years, he said, especially not a kiddy bike. It was Wilber’s son’s bike, which he grew out of last year. He snickered a little, in spite of the seriousness of their mission, at Wilber reciting his wife, Olivia’s statement on not having a bike: “I don’t care if there are no cars after the apocalypse; I’m not getting on no damn bike.”

  Steve had to pedal twice as fast as Wilber in order to keep up. But they hoped their trip would be fruitful and the town’s doctor could be talked into coming with them or at least sparing some antibiotics if the pharmacy had not been emptied already.

  Wilber wanted to stock up on a few supplies, too, since John’s injuries had used many of his bandages and he realized he needed something other than fishing line to suture up bad cuts. He was curious to get a sense of what was going on in town, which might tell him how much time he had before the violence started. It was a small town of fewer than a hundred people, many of whom were retired or worked at the Dresden nuclear power plant, about forty miles north. There was no industry to speak of. The economy was mostly fueled by dollars brought in by I-55, such as drivers looking to score fresh apple pie from Annie’s Apple Orchard or filling their empty gas tanks at McGuire’s.