Desolation

Realizing Doc’s trepidation, Wilber introduced his companion. “This is Steve Parkington. His dad needs your help. They crashed on my farm in a private plane, knocked out of the sky by the same shit that turned off our power. I stitched their wounds, but John, his father, I think has a bad infection and he’s allergic to penicillin and that’s all I got for my family. Can I trade you for an alternative? I’ve got some of O’s famous canned peaches. I know how much you love those.” Wilber stopped and waited to see Doc’s reaction.

“Come in,” Doc said gruffly, withdrawing into the darkness. The lock’s tumbler disengaged and the heavy wood door swung inward slowly.

Accepting the invitation, Wilber and then Steve stepped inside, shutting the door behind them.

Even in the dim light, Steve noticed the foyer was far more ornate than he would have guessed based on the home’s plain exterior: elegant, stained oak floors; a palatial staircase of the same oak with oriental runners up the middle, fastened with polished brass bolts that reflected the window’s limited light. The twenty-foot-high tin ceiling was outlined with intricate molding; from it hung a giant chandelier which, judging by its size must have given off an amazing amount of light when they had power.

Wilber watched the doc as he stood in the darkest corner of the hallway, waiting until they both focused on him.

“I have an ample supply of erythromycin, and a few other drugs here, all well hidden. You can have those and you can have me, but we come with conditions. Are you prepared to negotiate?” Doc stood, unmoving, his features still mostly hidden by the darkness, the business end of his gun pointed downward—ready to be brought to bear in an eyeblink.

“Cut the crap, Doc, it’s me, Wilber. You brought me into this world and fixed every broken bone in mine and O’s bodies, not mention you birthed our son Buck. This no-power thing sucks, I know, but what the hell is going on?”

Doc’s voice cracked a little as he spoke. “They killed my dog, Wilber. Ma loved that dog, and … when I lost her two years ago, that stupid mutt, it was her dog, but it was all I had left of her.” He paused for a moment and regained some composure. “It was that Randall boy who killed her and then his slaves broke into here yesterday and stole all the meds in my drug cabinet.” He motioned with the gun toward his office, which was out of their line of sight. “Then, at gunpoint, Randall made me fix a gunshot wound one of his slaves probably got from breaking into someone else’s home. I’m not happy to say, the kid died because he followed Randall’s orders.” He paused once more.

Wilber knew Bart Randall very well; he was the town bully, who had beaten him up a few times when they were in school together and threatened him a couple of times as an adult. He was a loud-mouthed drunkard, and probably someone who was ecstatic when the accountability of the old order disappeared. With guns and manpower, what Doc called “slaves,” Bart could do what he wanted when he wanted.

“Anyway, it’s not safe anymore in this town with those thugs roaming the streets killing and shooting whomever they want. So, if you want me and the drugs, you’ll have to take me in, as well as Emma and Robert Simpson. She’s in the later stages of cancer, as you know, and I don’t want her to die at the hand of that little shit’s evil. I’ll take care of Emma, and Robert’s good with his hands on a farm. We just need a little food and a roof over our heads; other than that, we won’t be a burden.”

There it was. Wilber had known this day would come. He’d told himself that they would only take in family, if they showed up when the shit hit the fan, but not anyone else. That plan had crashed in on him from the skies ten days ago. It was unlikely that his family out west—who prepped better than he did and owned their own ranch—or Olivia’s family back east would show up. Doc was good people and was just like family. Besides, he would be very useful to have around, as would Robert, who he had heard was a hard worker. And, Emma was one of O’s best friends…. “You’ve got a deal, Doc.”

They all agreed to meet in half an hour at the crossroads just outside town. Doc and the Simpsons would bike down a small dirt road there so they would not be seen. This would give Wilber and Steve enough time to make one more stop before heading out.

About fifteen minutes later, after they bartered for some candy for Buck from Dingles, which was otherwise cleaned out like all the rest of the stores, they headed for the crossroads. At the building on the edge of town, maybe twenty yards before the turn down the long road back home, stood Bart Randall and two others, all armed and watching their approach.

“Follow me,” Wilber said and abruptly turned down a small alley between two buildings. Steve pedaled right behind him.

“Hey Wright! Stop, you little shit. You think you can get away from me?” yelled a shaky voice. Randall was chasing them on foot.