Oil Apocalypse Collection

by Lou Cadle

  Dev led him into the woods and they brought back the woman’s body, then went back for the man’s.

  “What are we going to do with them all?”

  “Burn them. Our road is wide enough we can do it without risking setting the whole neighborhood aflame. The main road would be better, but we don’t want to risk the sheriff coming along.”

  “Or anyone.”

  “True. I saw a good fat branch that we just passed. Let’s start building a platform with the biggest deadwood we can find.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Crocker came up. “Pyre, huh?”

  “I think it’s best.”

  “Okay. Let me help.”

  In silence, the three of them worked together and built a square platform, knee-high.

  “I want to check their wallets,” said Crocker. “See where they’re from.”

  Dev let the other two do that as he kept tucking in smaller branches and some dried moss and tufts of brown grass he found, kindling to get the fire started more easily.

  “Phoenix, Phoenix, Tempe,” said Henry. “And a wad of cash in one of them.”

  Crocker said, “I have Phoenix as well, and two from Mesa, one from Gilbert, one from Apache Junction. Also some cash, but not a lot. So with all those different locations, they probably didn’t know each other before they drove up here.”

  “Nope,” said Henry. “Don’t look like each other, so it’s not an extended family either. Died together though.”

  “Does it bother you, ever?”

  “Does what?”

  “Killing people?”

  “It bothers any thinking man. Any sane person. But I try to not think too deeply on it, if you see what I’m saying. We did what had to be done.”

  “Here, Dev,” Crocker said, “take the cash back to your mother. Probably won’t be good for anything right now, but it might be again one day.”

  Then Crocker and Henry took each body, one at a time, and slung them up onto the platform. When they had eight bodies on the platform, Mr. Henry called a halt. He took out a lighter and lit some of those small branches and strands of moss, working his way around until the fire was going in five different places.

  “I’m still on watch,” Henry said. “I know you both have work to do. I’ll deal with this.”

  “Sierra’s taking care of the crucial chores,” Crocker said. “And she’s helping Mitch.” He was staring at the fire, licking its way closer to the bodies now.

  A finger of flame appeared on the loose shirt of the woman Dev had shot in the woods, and it spread quickly.

  “Synthetic fiber,” Henry said, nodding at it. “Like my lighter. Made from petroleum too.” He held up the lighter, a blue plastic one, the color of the morning sky. “By the time you’re my age, Dev, this stuff will all be gone. Nothing but scraps of plastic trash you might find by the road.”

  “You think so?” Crocker said.

  “I’d bet my life on it.”

  “Maybe I should say a prayer,” Dev said, as the clothes of the person next to the woman started smoldering as well.

  “By all means,” Crocker said.

  “God, forgive them for trying to steal from us. Have mercy on their souls. Let them meet their families in Heaven. And find a place for their children to rest in this world, if you can. In Jesus’s name. Amen.”

  “And have mercy on us for killing them,” Crocker said.

  “I thought you didn’t believe in God,” Dev said to him.

  “I think it’s a good day to hedge my bets on that topic,” he said.

  Dev didn’t understand what he meant, but he let it drop. His mother said it was best to avoid talking about religion with people unless you were in church, or talking with people you knew from there. “You can stay on watch if you want,” he said to Henry, “but I think I should go through the woods and double-check first, just in case.”

  “Should we do three-hour watches again?” Crocker said, glancing from one to the other.

  Dev realized he was offering him the courtesy of being a full partner in the decision. He appreciated it. “I don’t know how my mom is going to feel about taking a watch for a few days. Not with my father so hurt.”

  “How’s he doing?” Crocker asked.

  “Okay, I guess. He’s in pain. And he lost some blood. He looks pretty pale.”

  “I’m sure your mom knows what to do for him.”

  Dev nodded. “So anyway, three-hour watches again?”

  “Assuming Kelly isn’t ready yet, there are only four of us—no, five, with Morrow,” Henry said. “Maybe we should divide the day into ten watches. Two hours and twenty minutes each watch. Everybody gets a day watch and a night watch, women same as men.”

  The hesitation was clear on Crocker’s face.

  “Your daughter is tougher than you know,” Henry said to him.

  “Good. That makes one of us.”

  “Okay, we all agreed?”

  Dev nodded and checked the time on his phone. “I’ll take the next watch. I’ll be back in two hours and twenty.” He set an alarm.

  “I’ll take the third,” said Crocker. “And write down the schedule for all of us.”

  Henry said, “You’ll both have to add bodies to the fire as these burn on your watch.”

  “Right,” said Crocker, his voice faint. “There are a few more on the Morrow property.”

  “Oops. Forgot about that,” said Henry. “Three?”

  “Four, I think.”

  Henry looked around. “That’s thirty-seven dead total.”

  Dev said, “Thirty-nine dead counting the two on the road, but they only had fifteen weapons between them. Or fifteen that they left and we collected.” The bodies on the road hadn’t been there when Dev had checked again after helping get his father inside the house last night. He and Henry had walked through the woods most of the night, watching for trouble. Whether the absence of the bodies on the road meant their surviving friends had taken them away in the cars, or scavengers had gotten to them, he couldn’t say. If the latter, it could have been coyotes. Bears, probably not—not at this time of year, as they had plenty to eat.

  But maybe it was bears. Or mountain lions. Dev wondered if, as the world changed, as cars were no longer a threat, as people ran low on ammunition, if that’d make the wild predators braver around humans, if they’d develop a taste for human meat. It could be that in a year, they wouldn’t have to worry about people but about wild beasts.

  Upon further consideration, Dev realized it really didn’t make much difference. Hungry beasts, hungry people—one was almost the same as the other.

  Chapter 26

  Mitch Morrow watched Sierra Ash walk away. Lovely girl, inside and out. So nice to come and help him out today. He wished he’d had a chance to teach her in university. Her and Devlin both. Sierra might have more native intelligence than Devlin, but Devlin was one hard worker, and often that meant more in the classroom. Growing up quickly now, both of them, and growing up faster after last night.

  Anyway. He had more problems than he or either young person could solve. His entire electrical system was bollixed up. Yards of cable insulation had melted, exposing raw copper. The wind turbine was damaged and would not spin to the pressure of his hand. It wouldn’t spin again, not without a major repair with welding equipment.

  He didn’t have that. Or the skill to use it.

  The solar panels were still intact, but they relied on the same system of cables. He had some in the garage, but he doubted they were enough. He had never planned for this level of damage. Electrical system cable was not like any old wire. You needed—for his system—3/0 cable. It wasn’t even carried at the hardware store in Payson—if that was still open, which seemed doubtful. It was a special-order item.

  It might be true that Crocker or Quinn had extra. But he wouldn’t sponge off them because he had planned poorly.

  It had been sunny the past few weeks, with no sign of the start of monsoon yet. Usually by this date they were get
ting the gathering of afternoon clouds, even if they didn’t drop any moisture, the afternoon clouds being an early sign of the daily showers that would last for a month or two. So far, though, this year there was nothing.

  For electrical supply, this was good news. The storms got so bad that the Crocker wind turbines had to be shut off and locked down, though his turbine’s design could take more wind. With the sun out every day, the solar had been generating plenty of energy. Last night at sundown, all his batteries had been topped off. He had enough battery power to last four days without additional input from wind or sun.

  And Sybil needed electricity. The CPAP took juice, and the oxygen delivery system, and while he had a small generator, if he didn’t get his electrical system repaired, Sybil would not be able to breathe for long. In a week, she’d suffocate. It’d be a bad death.

  He’d been thinking about this since dawn, when he’d come out to discover the true extent of the damage.

  Possibilities were, as he saw it, the following. First, beg for supplies he should have had himself. Possibility Two, impose himself on one of the two families by moving Sybil in with them. They’d feel compelled to help, and to feed him, and to do more than they should. Possibility Three, a little locked box inside a safe, with drugs he’d long known he might need. Euthanasia, the good death. Could he? Did he have the courage to do that to her? The heart? The selfishness? The generosity? He didn’t even know what it would take from him: weakness or strength, kindness or cruelty.

  He went back inside to talk it over with Sybil. What he’d give for her sharp mind, and wit, and perfect balance of optimism and realism right now. But he didn’t have that. He had this shell in the bed. Sybil still, but not Sybil whole.

  For an hour, he watched her, held her hand, and talked to her. Some of the talk was aloud. Some of the talk was only in his own mind.

  He found himself getting hungry, and wanted to laugh at himself for it. Such a stupid, base human need. He still had a half bottle of the wine he’d opened the other day. He opened up a can of artichoke hearts and put on a steak, both treats, not meant to be eaten every day. He ate alone, drinking up all the wine, and writing a letter as he finished the steak.

  He was a little tipsy by the time he was done, but he’d already made his decision while he sat at Sybil’s bedside. The wine had not made it for him. Not Possibility One or Two. And he didn’t have the courage for Possibility Three.

  He had decided on a fourth choice. The locked box was the answer. But he’d use two syringes, not one.

  He cleared the table, washed the dishes, dried them, and put them away, and set the letter he’d written against the salt and pepper shakers in the middle of the table.

  Then to her sickroom and the syringes. He loaded 3/4 of the solution into one, and 1/4 into the other. And then he systematically swallowed a half bottle of pain pills, one at a time, as he started her IV.

  He couldn’t live without Sybil, and he couldn’t see a reason to live in this world, this horrible new world where strangers attacked you and you shot them dead. He’d die with his civilization. He felt it was apropos.

  He kissed her one last time, then loaded the biggest dose of drug into her IV. He turned on the drip. And then he climbed in next to her and shot the rest of the drug into the purple old man vein on the back of his hand.

  And that was all he knew of this world.

  Chapter 27

  After Crocker relieved him on watch, Dev checked on his folks. His mother was in the garden. “Your father is sleeping. Be quiet if you go in.”

  “I can grab a drink from the hose,” he said.

  “No need. I brought out lunch. It’s in the shop, on the big table, in a cooler. Give me a few minutes to check on your dad, and I’ll eat with you.”

  “Okay,” he said. He took the time in the shop to clean his rifle, hearing his father’s voice in his head lecturing him about the importance of maintaining your weapons. He was right about that. This rifle had done a lot of important work this week.

  His mother stuck her head in the door. “He’s still asleep.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I drugged him.” She didn’t sound a bit guilty about it.

  “Probably for the best,” Dev said. “Five more minutes, and I’ll be ready.”

  “I’ll set it up under the apple tree.” They had four fruit trees. Cherries were coming in, but the apples would still take several weeks to ripen.

  Together they ate a lunch of deviled eggs and a vegetable salad with sugar and vinegar. His mother had made up two dozen deviled eggs, and Dev ate a good eighteen of them before his mother said, “You’ll make yourself sick.”

  “Sorry. I’ve been so hungry.”

  “You’ve been doing a lot. I should have made bread. But I didn’t have time.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I can make something from a box if you want me to. Biscuits or cornbread or whatever.”

  “You have enough to do. I’ll get some bread baked today, though it might be quick bread and not yeast. I’ll be inside checking on your father anyway.”

  “Is he going to be okay?”

  “He’ll live,” she said, and a worry line appeared between her eyebrows.

  “But?”

  “I don’t know how he’ll heal up. I think maybe there’s nerve damage, but maybe it’s just from swelling.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with him?”

  “He can’t lift his arm more than a few inches off the bed. If it were anyone else but your dad, I’d say it was the pain. But he’d power through pain if he could.”

  “Thank you for being honest with me,” he said.

  “You need to know the truth, don’t you? If you’re to protect yourself and the property.”

  Dev still appreciated that he was being treated like an adult, whatever the reason. He wasn’t too worried about his dad. Either he’d heal up, or he wouldn’t, and Dev couldn’t do a thing about it either way. God might have a hand in that, and Dev would pray for his dad, but then the two of them, God and Arch Quinn, would need to work that out. “When will you know?”

  “Two or three weeks, maybe. And he might get the use of it back by working at it. Physical therapy. So he might be a lot better in two months.”

  Two months was a long time to have one of their fighters out of commission. “Let me know if I can help.”

  “You’re helping. Doing more than your share, and I appreciate it.”

  “If you don’t need me for the next hour, I thought I’d go over and check out the Morrows, make sure they don’t need anything. Sierra too. Crocker is down on the road right now standing guard, so she’s alone.”

  “That’s thoughtful.”

  “But only if you don’t need me.”

  “Not right now.”

  Dev left his mother to the garden work and went to the Crockers’ first. Sierra was in her garden, harvesting. “Hey.”

  “Hey, Dev. How are you?”

  “Tired, to be honest.” He sniffed his shirt sleeve and realized he smelled of burning meat. Burning human meat. He didn’t get too close, though she’d be taking her watch and smelling it soon enough. “Wanted to make sure you didn’t need another pair of hands.”

  “I’m okay. Thanks for asking. Is everything okay out on the road?”

  “No signs of intruders on my watch.”

  “I hope that’s the last of it.”

  “And if it’s not?”

  “I’ll cope,” she said. “Man, we are knee deep in squash here. You guys need any?”

  “No, we have plenty.”

  “I think I’ll have to read a cookbook in bed tonight to figure out what to do with all this.”

  “You cook?” He thought he’d heard her say she hated cooking.

  “I’m trying, but I’ll never be Pilar.”

  “Or my mom.” He blushed. “No offense.”

  “Not offended. She is a good cook—really good at baking sweets. When this is all over, I’ll ask her for some
lessons.”

  “She’d like that, I think. In winter, maybe, when there’s less to do.” He rested his rifle against a wheelbarrow while he stretched his back. “Going to the Morrows’ now.”

  “See you later,” she said. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  It was, he reflected, as friendly as she ever was with him. Maybe things were changing between them. On the other hand, he cared less than he had a couple months ago, when he was looking at her through the binoculars and wanting to see her naked. Of course he still wouldn’t mind that—but not by peeking at her. If one day she wanted to.... Hmm. A thought to explore another day. Too much else to do right now.

  Mr. Morrow wasn’t in his garden. Dev looked at the torn-down wind turbine and wondered if it could be repaired at all. Then he saw the burned cable. Not good. They’d have to get this fixed quickly, within the week. Maybe the day after tomorrow he could carve out enough time. Maybe all the men could work on it all afternoon while Sierra stood a double watch and they could get it done. They had extra cable at home, if Mr. Morrow didn’t have any. Needed quite a bit. He’d lay all new and cannibalize this bit for what might be used later. Forty, fifty yards should do it.

  He knocked on the back door. No one answered. Well, he couldn’t be far, could he? Couldn’t drive out of here. Dev circled the house and saw no signs of anyone.

  He came around to the back door again and tried the latch. The door opened.

  “Mr. Morrow? Are you asleep?” He might be napping.

  Feeling nervous about the intrusion, Dev stepped into the kitchen. He saw an envelope sitting up, leaning against the salt and pepper shakers. His name was on it.

  Dev opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper. It was thick paper, unlined, and it was full of even, small writing, somewhere between handwriting and printing. It began: Bury us under the crab apples.

  He dropped the paper and ran back to the bedroom where he never went. And he saw them, both of them in her bed. Mr. Morrow had a needle in his arm. So did she, a long tube in her case, ending in a needle buried under the skin.