Desolation

“Leave those,” Bill told them, and reluctantly they set their pails of toxic water in the rubble.

~~~

Even though it was still a couple of hours before sunrise, they were preparing a feast for Scott and Kathy. Sally, who had been mostly despondent since the Event, finding comfort only in her bed most days, shone a bit brighter, receiving much needed succor from helping them.

Their guests tore at their food like the feral dogs they often saw on the beach, ripping at the dead fish that daily washed ashore. After the Smiths had their fill, all the Kings helped them get clean using buckets of water and sponges in each bathroom, girls in one, guys in the other. Employing this method, the Kings washed only a couple of times a week. Even then a sponge bath felt excessive, and they were always cautious; everyone was aware of how much water usage Max had calculated per day. This was definitely a splurge. Afterward, Bill gave Scott an I Got Wrecked at the Reef in Rocky Point T-shirt, announcing allegiance to a local restaurant-bar, along with clean shorts. Sally gave Kathy a similar ensemble. They tucked them into the spare bedroom, and then, crying in silence, watched their guests slumber in the same beds Danny and Darla slept in when they were all together.

All agreed that giving solace to their neighbors felt good and was a fine counter to the spreading evil. But they also felt like they were taking some sort of action for Darla and Danny. The inaction drove them all crazy; there was absolutely nothing they could do for their own absent family members, so the Smiths would be their needful replacements.

Everyone returned to their beds, exhausted for many reasons, but only Sally slept.

Bill and Lisa held each other, weeping for their losses and the world’s. After their tears ebbed, they decided to do something with some of their food. They just couldn’t hoard it and let others die. They felt blessed to be in the position they were, reminded that they could have easily been like the Smiths, had it not been for Max. So, they decided to give thanks to God and provide a gift to some of His hungry in the morning.

When they awoke much later that morning, they found the Smiths had left without a word.

14. Clyde Wants Revenge

Clyde Clydeston woke up pissed at the world, pissed at his aching shoulder, but most of all, pissed at Thompson and the Kings.

Ten days ago, he had awakened in his bathtub after hiding from the previous day’s explosions and gun battle next door. His girlfriend fled after the battle was over, and hadn’t been heard from or seen since. This morning, like every morning, his shoulder was on fire. It started last month when he wanted to show off for her and tried to jump into his Ferrari like Magnum P.I. used to do on his TV show. He missed the damned cockpit, and crashed shoulder- and face-first onto the pavement in front of her, tearing his rotator cuff and breaking his nose. When the gun battle raged, Clyde had jumped into the bathtub for cover, further screwing up his shoulder. He pretended not to be too concerned about the girlfriend—what was her name again?—and rubbed his shoulder as he sat up. He wasn’t going to sweat the little things any more.

In today’s world, there were new realities to deal with. No power, no food, and no water anywhere here or in town, now a three-mile walk away. He tried to use his money to buy supplies there, but no one would sell. Yet that asshole Max Thompson had boasted about preparing for everything including this. Surely, he had more than enough food. And if not him, his buddies the Kings would.

Walking through the walk-in closet to the bedroom, he stopped at the full-length mirror, and stared for a moment at the image staring back at him. Even in the harsh morning light invading his bedroom windows, he looked good. He stroked his formerly bald head, now a mass of gray stubble (shaving was a luxury), along with his new forest of gray and black whiskers merging with his mustache and goatee. An admiring smile broke on his otherwise sour face as he flexed his biceps, pumping up his already elevated self-image. No wonder the women love me, he confirmed, knowing no one would rebut this even if they were here.

Well, it was now survival of the fittest. Either he was going to persuade them to willingly give him some of their food, or he was going to take it. He pulled up his Hawaiian shirt, admiring the .38 tucked in his elastic waistband. It was the only weapon he could get from one of the Mexican gang-bangers. “You bastards kept the AK-47s for yourselves and left us gringos with the pea-shooters,” he had groused at the one who’d sold it to him.

Smiling once more at himself, Clyde turned to walk out onto the patio and start some negotiations with his neighbors, when a knock echoed from his solid front door.

“Who the hell is that?” Clyde yelled to the intruder who interrupted his plans.