Desolation

by M. L. Banner

  His eyes popped open. “Are we home?”

  “Sorry kiddo, we’re still at that abandoned house—”

  He sat straight up, eyes wide. “Where are the bad men?”

  Still looking at him, she touched his hair tenderly. “The bad men are gone and we’re fine…” She waited until he was calm again. Then she turned to slip on her shorts and grabbed her backpack from under the bed. “Get dressed; we need to leave right now.” She still spoke soothingly.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I think somewhere safe.”

  He still didn’t move.

  “Come on, get dressed!” He knew better than to disobey when he heard that tone.

  ~~~

  They were at the back of a horde numbering perhaps a thousand people, all traveling west, away from where Darla had intended to go. She had wanted to move east back to Mamie and Poppy’s house, but several of the group had told the same tale, which felt true. A giant wall of flames had burned much of Chicago, then swept south through Northern Indiana, making the whole Indiana-Illinois border impassible. Others told of large parts of Michigan on fire. When she asked specifically if any had seen Michigan, none had, but many had heard this from others and all had seen Chicago’s fire and smoke. All were sure that getting to Michigan would be a fool’s errand and probably impossible.

  Okay, now what? She couldn’t just leave her grandmother and grandfather. What if they needed her and Danny’s help? But what really pressed at her was the concern that as each day burned away under the intense sun, she and Danny were going to have more and more problems finding food and water. She didn’t just feel this; she knew it.

  She also felt like she was being drawn west. She couldn’t explain this, either. Maybe it was Steve and his father, who hopefully made it to Denver when the power went out; she reflexively touched her silver dollar necklace. Of course, even if he was there with his father, how would she find him? She couldn’t even contemplate that something more serious would have happened to him. Going west also brought them closer to the rest of their family. If they made it to Colorado, they could certainly make it to Arizona. And if they made it to Arizona, they could make it to Mexico.

  “Are you going to follow the Teacher to the Promised Land?” asked an overly enthusiastic middle-aged man, with soft features and a belly created from many years of playing armchair quarterback over Sunday football. He had dropped back to where Darla and Danny were in the throng of people covering the road, like ants covering a picnic blanket of food.

  “Who is the Teacher and where is this Promised Land?” she asked, not wanting to sound foolish, but needing as much information as she could get.

  “Oh, you must have just joined us.” His voice rose, more animated than before, and he beckoned to her. “Come with me and I’ll introduce you to one of his staff. Don’t worry, they won’t bite. Look, they have lots of food and water. In fact we all do. The Teacher–he’s our leader–just asks that you contribute your talents to the group as we head west.” Soft Man finished his sales pitch and then was quiet, waiting for her response.

  Darla checked off each of the boxes on her mental checklist: food, water, safety with a large group, and they were going west. She wasn’t into joining, but for Danny, she was willing. “Do you have any asthma medicine among your group? My brother has asthma, and we’re out.”

  “I’m sure we do. We have practically everything you need. I’m Carl, by the way.” He held his hand out.

  “Darla,” she said as she accepted his mitt, wet with perspiration, and returned his shake vigorously. “This is my brother, Danny.”

  “Hey Danny,” Carl said in a comforting tone.

  “Hey,” came the disinterested reply.

  Darla, on the other hand, became more interested with every step.

  18.

  The Eunuch

  Western Nebraska

  Best she could figure, two days ago she’d been drugged and knocked unconscious. She had been beaten several times and raped once; she fought off two other rape attempts, nearly castrating one of the men with her teeth. This had resulted in the most recent beating from which she was just waking. In her mind, she made each interaction an exercise, learning something more about each of her captors so that she could gain the advantage. Logic and reasoning were her strengths, and for now, she had no place for emotions. The tally was pretty simple: all but one lacked any brains or balls, and all had egos the size of a John Deere combine. Cowboy Hat never touched her. She had only seen him once since their first conversation. She guessed he had brains enough for all his idiot sons. She was still puzzled at what they wanted with her or why they kept her alive. She knew she had just about outlived her usefulness as some sex toy for these men who were not likely to catch the eye of any woman by any other means except through force.

  Every conscious moment was applied to finding the quickest route to her freedom, and with some luck, killing these men. She knew no one was going to save her. She was completely on her own. There were no police, not even the rule of law anymore; each person became their own law, judge, and jury. She had found these men guilty and planned to exact justice by any means she could find.

  Her plan was easy but not simple. Cowboy Hat had the keys to her chains. She needed to kill CH, take his keys and weapon, then kill the other two and leave. Of course, they all had guns and she didn’t; that’s what made this difficult. Her best weapon was surprise. She had to act quickly, without them knowing she had taken the advantage from them. Another difficulty was their moving her from the kitchen to this dark and musty cellar, where there was no light except when a propane lantern was brought down for her next feeding, beating, or raping. For her plan to succeed, she had to lure CH to her. She was pretty sure that he had no interest in her, so she was working on a way to use Butch, whom she expected back any time now.

  The cellar door creaked open and light from a lantern cut through her darkness. She could see Butch’s feet, recognizing his obese ankles and unlaced boots immediately. Butch had tried to touch her only once, but she’d popped him in the nose, probably breaking it. He was easily the dumber of the two sons, but also the less testosterone-filled, so he was manageable. She pushed back her emotions, hiding them in her darkest recesses, and forced a smile to her puffy face.

  “Sleeping Beauty, it’s dinner time,” Butch called down the cellar. Each of his heavy footfalls down the steps punctuated her resolve and purpose. Belying this, her smile became more sultry and helpless. When he was in full view, he stopped and she could see his expression was one of fear and confusion. His throbbing red and purple nose warned him to stay back. Yet, he could see her demeanor was different this time, calling him forward. With his lower lip and shoulders drooped and one of the straps of his grungy overalls unbuckled, he looked like a little boy–a three-hundred-pound little bearded boy. In another life, she might have felt sorry for this man. In another life.

  “Howdy, Butch. I’m so glad to see you,” she cooed as she tried to look helpless. “Oh, what’s wrong? You know I didn’t mean it. After what Chase did, can you blame me?”

  He stood his ground, not buying into her act, yet.

  “Come on, Butch, I’m sorry. Could you help me, please?” She held up her two hands, which had been handcuffed after she nearly made Butch’s brother into a eunuch. “I have a horrible itch that needs scratching and I can’t reach it.”

  “Daddy says not to get close to you or you’ll break somin else.” His feet started forward and then stopped again.

  “If I promise I won’t hit you again, would you at least bring my food?”

  That seemed to do the trick, as Butch remembered he was holding her tray. The man-boy shuffled forward and set it down in front of her.

  “Would you sit down while I eat? I would love the company,” she said before tearing into the bread. She knew the drugs had to be in either the soup or the water. She was hoping it was the soup, which she pretended to taste and then said, “I’m going
to let this cool a bit longer.”

  Noticing he seemed to be a little less defensive, she pursued her plan. She stopped chewing, shot him another sexy smile, pretended to look for anyone who might be listening, and then leaned closer to him so she could whisper. “Tell me, Butch—can you keep a secret?”

  Butch looked around too to make sure the others couldn’t hear them. “Yes!” he whispered back like the little boy she imagined him to be, bouncing with excitement.

  “Do you know what I do… what I did before the blackout?”

  “Noooo.” His voice rose and his eyes got wide. She had him hooked. This might be easier than she thought.

  “I was an astronaut. You know what that is?”

  “You fly in space, like on Battlestar Galactica?”

  “Yes, exactly. I’m like Starbuck.” She paused to see if he caught on.

  “Ohhh, woooww,” his face lit up and his bearded smile wrapped around his face.

  “Well, I got shot down by the Cylons and my spaceship is only a few miles away. I have food and water and everything you and I could use, if you can help me break free. Can you?”

  “You got a ray gun too?”

  “Yep, but if we don’t hurry, someone else might get it before we do. Can you go get the keys?”

  “I think so. But if I get caught, I could get a whoopin’.” His face grew serious. Then, a single thought exploded in his head and he looked at her with eagerness. “Would you teach me to fly, like Apollo?”

  “Yes, you could be my Apollo and I’ll be your Starbuck. Do we have a deal?”

  Butch scrunched his face in shallow-deep thought, and then rose with purpose and headed up the stairs, carrying her only light with him. After a couple of steps he turned back and whispered, “I gotta go, but I be right back with the keys… Okay, Starbuck?”

  “Okay, Apollo,” she said sweetly.

  He bounded up the stairs two at a time and slammed the door, again plunging her world into total darkness.

  It seemed like hours to her, but Melanie only had to wait fifteen minutes when the door crashed open, its strained hinges braying a tortured squeak. A set of cowboy boots clomped down the stairs, led by lantern light. It was Cowboy Hat.

  He stopped at arm’s length from her, first examining her tray to see if she had eaten her food. She had made sure her bowls were emptied into the five-gallon paint bucket they’d given her for a latrine. She also acted the part, pretending to be drugged, having difficulty opening her eyes as she croaked, “That you, Butch?”

  CH leapt forward so that his mouth was an inch from her ear. “Cut the bullshit, Ms. Lieutenant Sinclaire, or would you prefer I call you ‘Starbuck’?”

  Melanie, careful to not move her upper body, was poised and ready to spring at the right moment.

  “That line of shit may work on my son, but it doesn’t wash with me. I know you’re an astronaut and you crashed somewhere around here. I saw your uniform.”

  She clutched a steak knife; she had found it under a kitchen cabinet when she was held up there and managed to spirit it down to the cellar. Any moment now, she told herself.

  “The only reason you’re still alive is because we can’t find your ship yet and my idiot sons keep beating you senseless before I can get you to talk. But you seem good enough to tell a line of shit to my spawn, and now I’m plumb out of patience.”

  She swung her arms and the knife around and up.

  “Either you tell me where—”

  Melanie plunged it upward deep into his throat. The rush of warmth over her fists and down her arms told her she hit the carotid. She watched the life drain out of his face. Feeling revived and stronger, she pushed up on the blade moving it closer to his brain. His eyes bulged, his mouth slacked, and a torrent of blood continued to pour out. His heart worked harder against his dropping pressure, until it spurted with each beat over her face. His fight over, still she drove her knife deeper until he was lifeless and she was holding up his corpse with just her grip on the knife. Releasing him, his body leaning into her, she was able to reach around to his key ring.

  “Hey Pop, you all right down there?” yelled Chase, the near-eunuch son.

  The key ring released easily and she found the right one quickly, unlocking her handcuffs. Then, she pushed his heavy body away. It slumped into the large puddle of blood around them.

  A few tentative footsteps down the stairs, then Chase stopped and lowered his head to see an overturned lantern, casting light away from the woman and something else he couldn’t see. He took a couple more steps down.

  She reached down and unholstered CH’s .45 Colt revolver, just like the one she’d learned to shoot on her family ranch in Wyoming. She jumped up, calmly held the revolver out steady, and cycled a round by pulling the hammer back, all while walking forward with deadly purpose. Without hesitation, she pulled the trigger. The explosion was followed by a hollow ringing, that oscillated with every beat of her heart.

  Chase fell backward, either from the bullet’s heavy impact or from surprise, or both. His heavy frame slid down a few of the stairs and stopped. A small red circle grew on his T-shirt.

  She scaled the steps two at a time, cycling the next round, until she was standing over him. She watched him stare past her helplessly, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His eyes held fear and the knowledge that his miserable life was coming to an end quickly. A stream of red ran below him and down the stairs. She had slaughtered enough animals on the ranch to know his death would come soon, without her doing anything to hasten it.

  “How does it feel being the helpless one?” Her anger and hatred blasted out of her eyes. “This is because I didn’t get the job done the first time.”

  Lowering the gun to Chase’s crotch, she looked one last time at his face, and just as he yelled “nooooo” she pulled the trigger.

  A faint noise above, almost impossible to hear over the church bell ringing in her ears, told her she was not alone. Her head popped up and there was Butch standing in the doorway, holding a rifle at ease, his mouth agape. Before she could raise her gun, he dropped his, turned, and ran, his footsteps echoing throughout the house, up another set of stairs before a door slammed in the distance. No other sounds now but the ringing.

  Melanie let go of the gun. It clacked and clattered before coming to rest at the bottom of the stairwell, spent of all energy like her. She collapsed into her palms, her withheld emotions breaking loose like a thunderstorm in summer. Her body shuddered in self-loathing for what she had been through and what she had been forced to do. She remained this way for a long time, until she was empty, forgetting that Chase’s blood collected around her. The red stream slowly ran down one step, pooled, and then ran down to the next. Finally, it surrounded her bare feet, its sticky warmth reminding her of what she had just done. She needed to leave, now.

  She got to her feet, fetched the gun from the base of the stairs, and went back up to the landing and into the kitchen where she had been first held captive two days earlier. Other than Butch, who was probably in his room, the house appeared empty. Her backpack, uniform jacket, and shoes were in a corner of the living room, where the family apparently kept the ill-gotten gains they stole from neighbors. She slipped her bare feet, stained red, into her boots, relishing their feel again. Finding a new black tee that said Kimball Football from a large stack of clothes, Melanie swapped out her torn shirt, put on her uniformed jacket and checked out her other supply options, going from stack to stack, like she would in a regular market. Only here, she had earned unlimited store credit. She grabbed a box of granola bars probably pilfered from a nearby mini-mart and shoved them into her backpack with some bottled waters. Not wanting to spend another second here, she slung her pack over her shoulder, grabbed the gun, shoved it into her waistband, and walked out the front door to the street.

  The green bands of the auroras had a magical feel tonight. A full moon’s light burned through some of the striations, creating a mystical aura, the green and white light i
lluminating her path plainly. She marched away from her captivity, relishing every moment of her freedom.

  She was headed west. She was headed home.

  19.

  Getting Help

  Laramie, Wyoming

  Carrington was horribly ill, and he knew exactly when and why this happened. A few gulps of water from a stream yesterday was all it took. He wasn’t unaware of the risk, but he had little choice: he was out of water and food, all of it stolen by the highway robbers a few days ago. Without the purifying tablets, also stolen, every drink was potentially poisonous. Dehydration, made worse by his vomiting and a fever brought on by whatever bug he picked from the unfiltered water, was sapping him of energy. He bent over and dry-heaved once more, his body trying to expel what was no longer there.

  He righted himself again on the trike, wiped his lips on his forearm, and continued to pedal. It took all his strength to go a few inches before his stomach convulsed again and he had to stop. He stayed bent over this time, exhausted and resting. He needed help soon. His chances of running into someone or some group that would render aid were minimal. The only people he had encountered were those robbers. He was thankful for the good fortune of finding the bicycle tire so quickly, and replacing the flat. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to travel this far.

  The retching seemed to have passed, so he sat up again.

  Looking up, he saw the town of Laramie before him, and surprisingly it looked like a fairly normal town, almost pre-Event. There was some obvious fire damage on the northern side of town, but very little elsewhere from what he could see. Maybe there was still some sort of community in Laramie, or even one person who would take pity on him. “Just a little farther now,” he told himself.

  A faint sound off the road caught his attention. He stopped again–each stop or start took way too much energy.

  “Hell…,” a soft voice called from a ditch.