《O Negative》


 Pulling Over for the Night

    A loud hiss sounded as the driver of the bus set the parking brakes. The door opened and the driver hopped out. He wore a red leather jacket and red ball cap, both sporting the same logo that was on the side of the bus; "Falcone Racing". The man took a couple of steps, before halting. His eyes were closed as he took a long draw of breath. He held it. His shoulders rolled back, slowly, as he cracked his neck. First, one way, then the other. He exhaled.


    ¡°I tried.¡± He mumbled as he spun and reentered the bus¡¯s stairwell. He leaped onto the second step, poking his head over the stairway partition.


    "I can''t do a goddam thing about I-35 being shut down." The agitated driver yelled. "We were supposed to leave Joplin at six. I sat in this fucking bus for five hours waiting for you to finish partying and chasing tail. It''s three o'' fucking clock in the morning. I AM TOO TIRED TO DRIVE, DOYLE!"


    An unexpected projectile whizzed by the driver¡¯s right ear. The sound of shattering glass, and the pleasant scent of barrel-aged whiskey, let the driver know what was thrown at him. Glass shards tinkled and sparkled, as they cascaded down to the stairs. The driver bailed from the open door. Skating over the loose scattering of broken glass, the man stomped away from the bus. He shook the glistening shards from his clothes and stomped both legs, for good measure.


    "Fuck you, Doyle. I''m getting a room." He informed the man on the bus. Without looking back, he raised his right hand high, middle finger directed at the bus behind him. It stayed there for a few paces.


    As the driver reached the motel lobby, the bus''s unseen occupant came shambling out the door. The mixture of intoxication and loose glass made the stairs a treacherous undertaking. A cacophony of grating glass, legs stomping, and hands flailing rang from the bus. The intact neck of the whiskey bottle tumbled to the asphalt, followed by a few pieces of floating paper. Next, came Doyle, but facing the wrong direction.


    His landing was not graceful. His back impacted on the unforgiving parking lot. Instinctively, his head was rolled forward, toward his chest, but both arms and legs were stiff and vertical. The air exploded from his lungs and the world went narrow and his senses retreated. Arms and legs curling in, he rolled to the side. An eternity later, his breath came back.


    It took a few moments for him to regain awareness. Doyle tried to get up, but he was still hammered. Jelly arms and noodle legs wobbled. Struggling, he obtained his footing, but still required the side of the bus to keep him vertical.


    "Get your sorry ass back here, Jimmy!" Doyle screamed, before snatching the broken whiskey bottle neck and chunking it toward the motel lobby door. "I''m Doyle fucking Falcone. I pay you to do what I say. Stop walking away from me Jimmy."


    Doyle pushed himself away from the bus, intending to go after Jimmy. He didn''t make it three steps before he started to stumble. He reached back to steady himself with the bus, but his hand found only air.


    For a second time, Doyle tried to get up. His interest in being vertical quickly disintegrated. The asphalt was cold and refreshing.


    Being quite drunk and lacking the focus to stay angry at his driver, Doyle quickly found his thoughts shifting upward. The clear sky revealed the full panorama of the night''s stars. Doyle was mesmerized. The calmness eased Doyle''s emotions and the alcohol soothed his thoughts. He was nearly unconscious when he began to feel somebody pulling on his arms. Doyle''s eyes sprang open. Was somebody talking? Was somebody talking to him?


    "You''d think they''d make you guys go on a diet. Might squeeze out an extra mile per hour."


    Head raising, Doyle jerked his legs back when he discovered a figure standing at his feet. The figure was imposing. He wasn''t very tall, maybe six feet, but he was broad and thick. He carried some extra weight. He had a belly and a soft chest, but Doyle could tell that this man was dense with muscle. He had thick arms and tree-trunk legs.


    ¡°Let me get you up.¡± The stranger offered. ¡°Grounds gotta be freezing!¡±


    The man bent and grabbed Doyle¡¯s hand, trying to pull him to his feet, but he quickly released the hand. The man straightened his back and closed his eyes, trying to hide a full-faced grimace. The man peeled his eyes open. Doyle¡¯s staring was noticed, and the stranger shrugged away his embarrassment. Almost in defiance, he bent and extended Doyle his bear paw of a hand.


    "A little help?" the man asked Doyle. ¡°This time¡­¡± he added. Rolling onto his knees, Doyle got his feet set and straightened his legs. The return to standing was too swift. His head swished around, while he fought to keep his legs steady. The stranger felt Doyle lean into him. He caught Doyle¡¯s forearm, preventing him from falling back to the ground.


    "Thank you. I''m Doyle Falc¡­"


    "Falcone?" The stranger finished for him. "I gathered as much by the giant tour bus with your name all over it."


    Doyle never got tired of being reminded that he was a famous NASCAR driver. He let the man walk him over to his bus, and he sat on the bottom step.


    "Thanks, mister," Doyle said, flicking a piece of glass from the steps. "I don''t guess dozing off, in the middle of the parking lot, would be a very good idea. There¡¯d be pics and videos all over the internet, by lunch." Doyle joked. He looked up at the stranger, but instead of seeing the man smiling at his self-deprecation, he found the man leaning against the bus. Forehead pressed against the bus, with one hand clenching an empty pill bottle and the other rubbing the back of his head, the stranger kicked a tire. ¡°Gah¡¯dammit,¡± he muttered.


    "Are you ok...Mister?" Doyle asked the man, with genuine concern.


    After a moment, the man rolled his back against the bus. Slowly, and with practiced control, he slid down the bus. Once the stranger''s butt reached the ground, he let both legs extend and turned to acknowledge Doyle.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    "I''m fine. Bad back." The man explained.


    "Anything I can do for ya?" Doyle offered.


    The man shook his head, then answered, "Not unless you know how to get this filled¡­" He raised the empty pill bottle, "in the middle of the night"¡­he tossed the bottle to the ground¡­"in the middle of nowhere."


    "What is it?" Doyle asked.


    "Cyclobenzaprine, meloxicam, gabapentin...take your pick." The stranger remarked. He noticed the look of confusion on Doyle''s face and elaborated. "One is an anti-seizure med, but I take it to help with the nerve pain. One is an anti-inflammatory, and the last one is a muscle relaxer. Damn car broke down three days ago. There isn''t a pharmacy within thirty miles of here, and I took my last pills yesterday."


    "Shit man! So, you''re hurting huh? What the hell happened to your back?


    "Drunk driver ran a stop sign. T-boned me."


    "Break your back?" Doyle asked the stranger.


    "Nope. I didn''t even know I was hurt. Took a bit to notice. A few months later, started feeling stiffness in my back. Over a couple of years, the stiffness became having a hard time bending over and tying my shoes. The pain didn''t start until four years later, or so. Not much at first, but it got worse and worse. And here we are, now. Fusing spine, pinched nerves, muscle spasms, numbness in my legs, chronic back pain, my outer thighs feel like they are burning, and to top it all off, constant migraines and high blood pressure from the constant pain."


    The stranger looked at Doyle and felt awkward for over-sharing. He reached his hand toward Doyle and offered him a handshake.


    "My name is Barry. Barry Merch."


    "Thanks, again, for helping me back to the bus."


    Barry took his hand back and nodded at Doyle.


    "Now, I don''t have any of those pills for you," Doyle informed Barry as a grin formed on his face. "But I do have some nice bud in the bus. It might help to take the edge off."


    "No thanks, not a fan."


    "Well, how about some Hydros? Or a fentanyl patch? Don''t know if it will help with the nerve stuff but will work wonders for the pain!"


    Doyle stood and motioned for Barry to follow him into the bus. As the two men entered the living quarters, Doyle asked Barry to have a seat on the couch. He grabbed the TV remote and flung it on the cushion next to Barry.


    "Be right back. Make yourself at home."


    After a few minutes, Doyle returned with a box full of unfinished medications and first aid supplies. He rummaged through the box and produced a bottle and a small box. He shook the bottle, checking to see if it held any pills. He handed the bottle, and the box of fentanyl patches, to Barry.


    "Where the hell did you get fentanyl patches from?"


    "Same place I got those Hydros. From a doctor." Doyle joked. "Don''t worry, they were prescribed. Don''t you remember when I took that nasty tumble at Daytona a couple of years back? And shattered my leg and sternum?" Judging by Barry''s expression, Doyle knew Barry had no idea what he was talking about.


    "Sorry. Not a fan of racing. But my dad never stops talking about it."


    "Oh well. You''ll come around." Doyle said, with a wink. "Careful with those patches. They are strong stuff. I only used one and couldn''t feel myself breathing. Freaked me the fuck out."


    "Oh, I know¡± Barry assured. ¡°My grandpa got them after open heart surgery. He said the same thing. I won''t need them." Barry returned the patches to Doyle. "But thanks for the Hydros."


    Barry opened the bottle and smiled as he poured a couple into his hand. "Number 10s! Nice." He popped the pills in his mouth and began speaking again. "So, what are you doing in little bitty Tupelo, Oklahoma?"


    "Well, we were heading to Dallas¡­from Joplin."


    "You would take Highway 69, how the hell did you end up here?" Barry asked.


    Doyle threw his head back and let out a deep, guttural, laugh.


    "Well...I may have picked up a fan at my last race, and I decided to drop her off at home." Doyle answered, shyly. "She lived in this place called Ada. Dropped her off and started up 75, back toward Dallas. Fucking Jimmy¡­um¡­Jimmy''s my driver. He got tired and wouldn¡¯t drive anymore. So here we are."


    Barry smirked at the racecar driver. "Must have been a, really, nice fan, to drive her, all the way, to Ada."


    "A, really, REALLY, nice fan" Doyle confirmed.


    Both men were laughing when the bus door opened, and Jimmy came running up the stairs. The driver was, obviously, excited; but also surprised at seeing a strange man in the bus. For a fleeting moment, he appeared like he was going to address the stranger but decided against it.


    "Doyle, you gotta get your drunk ass out here¡­QUICK." Jimmy began to turn, but he stopped to look at Barry, again. Jimmy¡¯s mouth opened, but no words came. He was frozen, mouth wide for half of a second. It didn¡¯t take long for him to decide that whatever was going on outside, was more important than who was on the bus. He yelled as he left the bus. "NOW DOYLE. COME ON."


    The other two men were a second behind Jimmy. Doyle, expecting trouble, came wobbling out of the bus, still very drunk, carrying a tire iron. Aside from Jimmy, two other people stood outside. Doyle looked around, before turning to Jimmy. "Well, what the hell is going on?" Doyle asked, seeing no obvious need for the tire iron. Jimmy didn''t answer his question. He simply raised his hand and pointed up. Doyle and Barry both followed Jimmy''s gaze toward the stars.


    From east to west, as far as the eye could see, the night sky was filled with hundreds of falling objects. They pulsed with yellow light. Some were larger and brighter, while some were feint, almost too dim to see. They made no sound. Barry was reminded of paper lanterns, floating in the wind. They were different. This was not a cluster of falling stars. The objects were not speeding through the sky. All of them were moving linearly. They didn¡¯t bob, they didn¡¯t drift. The glowing objects were falling straight down.


    "What the hell are they?" Jimmy asked out loud. "Not a clue" Doyle answered. Barry became aware of a slow strobe of light above his current field of vision. He tilted his head back and an audible gasp escaped him. Barry and Doyle heard the sound, both men turned to see Barry raising his arm and pointing above their heads.


    There was a huge glowing orb directly over their heads. The sky was black, and lacking a point of reference, Barry had no idea how high the orb was, but he knew it would eventually reach the ground. His pulse spiked and his stomach knotted. Years of watching war movies, and documentaries about doomsday preppers brought images of bombs being dropped. "Is it bombs?" he asked, voice quivering. Doyle shrugged his shoulders. "Falling too slowly...seems like" Jimmy answered. "Yeah, I guess you''re right" Barry admitted, more to himself than to Jimmy.


    "Besides," Jimmy began to explain, "I served two tours in Desert Storm. I''ve seen hundreds of bombs, RPGs, rockets, mortars, you name it. None of them ever glowed like tha¡­"


    A hundred bright lights exploded, simultaneously. The entire night sky turned brighter than the sun. A moment later the resounding booms of countless percussions rang their ears. The percussion, overhead, caused windows to shatter and the ground shook. No more than three seconds had passed before Barry¡¯s eyes recovered from the flash. There were no traces of the things floating in the sky. No sounds, and no lights...anywhere. No traffic droning from the nearby highway. No static whine of the nearby transformers. Barry couldn¡¯t hear any crickets, owls, or coyotes. Only the huffing of his own breathing. It was unnaturally quiet.


    It was a new moon and dawn was hours away. In a flash, all the artificial light evaporated, leaving the world unnaturally dark.


    "The power is out" Barry announced.

 Bright Lights and Dim Futures

    Barry tried to rub the spots from his vision, but most of his field of view was still obscured by shifting rainbow hues. Disbelief prevented him from doing much of anything. Jimmy looked to Doyle. He started to speak, but no words came. With his slack-jawed expression, and the way he managed to open, and close, his mouth a few times, Jimmy reminded Doyle of a goldfish blowing bubbles.


    Before any of them could speak, the dust kicked up and a droning hum reached their ears. The dust was joined by leaves and light debris. The hum became an intensifying whoosh. It grew louder and louder. The cadence of clinking and clanking cheered the accelerating winds. The very air became hostile. The wind was tidal. It began to shove on them. The sand stung at their uncovered skin. Leaves rocketed into, and past, them. Discarded litter twirled as it raced by. A swarm of roof shingles flapped off the post office and jetted toward them.


    The motel manager sprinted into the lobby. The other man ran to his car. He yanked at the door handle and the door flung wide. The contents of his car were sucked out and hurled away. Deciding his room would be safer, the man juked, around the open car door, and vanished behind door number seven. Taking queue, Jimmy and Doyle bolted for the bus. Barry¡¯s room was on the other side of the building, causing him to follow the latter two men.


    The three men were frantic. They arrived at the staircase and all three men tried to squeeze in. Doyle slipped inside but snagged the second step and slammed forward. Jimmy tripped on Doyle, causing him to flop over the man. ¡°HEY. GET THE HELL OFF ME,¡± Doyle screamed. ¡°Trying. Stop elbowing me!¡± Jimmy ordered.


    Jimmy yelped as he felt himself being ripped back outside. Arms flailing, he managed to grab both sides of the doorframe, before his feet felt the ground. Barry kept a single handhold on Jimmy¡¯s jacket, as he leaned into the bus. He planted his left palm under Doyle¡¯s upraised ass and sent Doyle tumbling over the top step. Barry turned back to Jimmy and grabbed a second handful of the red leather jacket. Quickly, setting his feet, both legs pumped upward as Barry snapped both arms toward the door.


    Jimmy had just moved, away, when Jimmy flew up the stairs like a tossed bale of hay. The bus driver landed in the driver¡¯s seat¡­mostly.


    Barry cleared the folding bus door and yelled for Jimmy to shut the door. "Hurry!" Barry screamed as dust and debris swirled around him. Barry crested the top step, but the door was still open and the outside was filling the inside of the bus. Jimmy rapidly smacked the button. Barry realized the problem and turned back down the steps. ¡°There¡¯s no power, Jimmy.¡± He yelled over his shoulder. Objects bounced off the bus. Objects bounced off everything. Darkness already consumed the moonless night, and the air became dense with everything not secured. Only moments had passed, but the world got impossibly darker. Barry was assaulted by the torrent of wind. He pulled his shirt over his face and fumbled for the door. He located the door''s central hinge and shoved it. Nothing happened. He retreated a step and used both legs to drive the door shut. Still nothing.


    ¡°I NEED HELP!¡± he roared. The other men quickly made it to the door. They wedged themselves around Barry and pushed. Grunts and groans erupted, but the door stayed open. Barry felt Jimmy turn from the door. ¡°What are you doing?¡± Barry yelled over the deafening wind. ¡°Help push, Jimmy!¡± Jimmy did not reply. Giving up on Jimmy, Barry rebuffed Doyle to push harder. The two men heaved. Barry ignored the searing pain in his back. His mind didn¡¯t register the electric sting sprouting from his right thigh. With feral rage, Barry pushed. He screamed in frustration. His head started throbbing, and the sides of his neck ached.


    The door jerked. It closed an inch and halted. There was a hydraulic hiss as it slowly slid further along the track. The more it closed, the easier it became. The howl of the winds grew louder as the door closed. The howl lowered to a roar, then a high-pitched whistle. The door closed more and the pitch became sharper, sounding like a forgotten tea kettle. As the door sealed shut, the tempest protested with a final ear-splitting screech. The bus was quieter. Even as debris battered them on all sides, growing in frequency and force, they were insulated from the terrible force of the gale outside.


    Doyle¡¯s ears perked at a sudden crunching sound, but soon recognized the sound, as it was followed by the ever-increasing luminance of a glow stick. Jimmy cracked another stick and tossed it into the stairwell. ¡°I think we¡¯re good¡± Jimmy told the other men. Doyle removed his weight from the door. Barry was forced back, as the door tried to fold open. Barry screamed for Doyle to keep pushing. ¡°It¡¯s not staying shut,¡± Barry explained. Jimmy hopped down and squeezed the big man. After frantically feeling for the manual locking bar, he gripped the rubber-handled lever and yanked. A metal "thwunk" signaled the door was secure. He leaned away from Barry, patting his shoulder as he did. ¡°You should be good, now" he assured the exhausted man.


    ¡°Nothing is fucking working" Jimmy informed them as he slapped the electric door switch. "The entire bus is dead. Lights don''t even work. We couldn¡¯t shut the door because it is hydraulic. I reached under the dash and cut the line. That let us close it, and that is why it wouldn¡¯t stay closed.¡±


    The commotion outside was so loud the two men could barely make out what Jimmy was saying.


    "E.M.P." Barry yelled. "It had to be. That would explain the explosions and the loss of power. And the random hurricane force winds."


    Doyle watched Jimmy nodding in agreement. He heard Barry groaning as he used the handrail to tow himself up from the stairwell. Rushing to help, Doyle reached out and took Barry¡¯s left arm, helping pull the heavy man along.


    Barry stepped onto the landing and used the stairway partition to support himself. Placing both hands on the partition, he groaned as he straightened his arms and forced his spine straight. There was a loud exhalation as he shifted his weight, from his arms, back to his legs. Barry and Jimmy both noticed when Barry¡¯s knees went limp noodle, forcing the man to lean onto the partition, again. Before they could ask if he was ok, Barry managed to stand erect and turned their direction.


    The three men were silent, for a time. They were all in varying degrees of shock. They each spent a moment looking around the bus. The windows were blacked out, but the green light provided enough illumination to pick out the random objects that happened to clatter off one of them. It reminded Barry of watching one of those shows where the little submarines are recording from deep in the abyss, or like when spaceships would zoom off at warp speed and the stars were whizzing past. The bus rocked and swayed from being buffeted by the wind and the many objects that it carried. The windshield had dozens of cracks from flying objects; street signs, rocks, outdoor furniture, even a garden gnome. After the gnome, Jimmy closed the curtain by sliding it across the windshield. "Just in case" Jimmy explained.


    "Barry?" Doyle''s voice broke the silence. "Yeah." Barry''s returned. "Terrorists?" Doyle asked, disbelief apparent in his voice. Barry shook his head as he answered, "We''re in the middle of Bum Fucked Egypt. "What were the terrorists trying to terrorize? A couple of farmers and a herd of cows?" Doyle released a nervous chuckle, then swung around and walked off, into the dark bus.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    ¡°I don¡¯t get it, either,¡± Jimmy started yelling, but that was, definitely, a bomb. Those were all bombs.¡± His last words were unexpectedly loud, as the roar of the wind drastically lowered. Like a retreating rain storm, the "tinks", "clanks", and "whomps", began to dissipate. The men could feel the bus relaxing as the relenting wind allowed it to settle onto its springs. They all felt relief, but Barry¡¯s relief was accompanied by a sense of dread. Deep down, he sensed that the calm was an omen, a bad omen. Sure, the bomb''s destruction was over...and boy were they lucky to be far enough away to have survived...but he knew things would not be the same. In a way, he was grateful for the curtain of darkness that veiled them from the outside.


    Barry and Jimmy were startled by the sound of Doyle stumbling over something in the dark, followed by the even louder sound of him knocking something over. "Found it!" Doyle exclaimed. There was a clicking sound and his face materialized as it became illuminated by the flame of a butane lighter. He used the flame to search through a few cabinets. He located four candles and spread them around the bus. He finished lighting the last candle and flopped down onto the sofa.


    Barry and Jimmy walked into the living area of the bus. Barry took a seat across from the sofa. Jimmy shoved Doyle''s legs off the sofa and plopped down beside him.


    "What the hell...cough...do you...cough...think is going..." Jimmy couldn''t finish his sentence. His coughing became hacking. Doyle straightened and grabbed a half-empty water bottle from the nearby table. He tried to hand it to Jimmy, but the man was coughing too violently. "You must have breathed in too much dust." Barry diagnosed. "Drink some water."


    Jimmy coughed and wheezed for a few seconds. He finally reached for the bottle of water, but another coughing fit started. This time the coughing was hard and deep. It was an intense cough and it was incessant. Jimmy rose from the couch and leaned forward; hands on knees. Barry got up and tried to steady the unstable bus driver. Jimmy''s eyes were darting around, panic evident. He slumped to one knee as the coughing turned to laborious wheezing. He tottered onto his side. The other two men dropped to his sides.


    "Goddamn it, Jimmy. Breath." Doyle pleaded as he rolled Jimmy onto his back. Barry reached over and grabbed Jimmy¡¯s shoulder, preventing Doyle from rolling Jimmy over. Jimmy was gagging on thick wads of bloody mucus. "Keep him on his side, so he don''t choke" Barry explained. They returned Jimmy to his side. The violent coughs and gags calmed and became labored wheezing. Jimmy''s eyes bulged as they darted between the other two men. His face flushed as he suffocated on his own fluids. Jimmy strained to lift his head and shoulders from the floor. Panic painted across his face as he clawed and pawed at Doyle''s shirt. Then he collapsed back to the floor.


    "MOTHERFUCKER." Barry yelled as the wheezing was replaced with a low gurgle. Pink bubbles were sprouting around the man''s mouth. Both of his eyes were red from countless busted capillaries. Blood oozed from the corners of his eyes. The sides of his neck glistened with the trails of blood that ran from his ears. Both of his eyes stretched wide, and his mouth opened so far, there was an audible crack. Jimmy snapped his head toward Doyle and his chest heaved, though no air was taken in. Jimmy convulsed with a powerful pleading in his eyes.


    Doyle began to sob. He had never felt so terrified. He drove past concrete walls at over two hundred miles an hour. He voluntarily strapped himself into thousands of pounds of metal and rocketed around in a circle for hours. He had been rolled, ramped, crushed, and launched countless times, but still, he had never felt as helpless, as he did now.


    Jimmy began to spasm and then thrash. His body knew how to breathe. It performed all the necessary machinations for breathing. The chest expanded, the mouth was open, the heart was beating...but there was no air. Instead of spent breath, only blood and phlegm bubbled from him. Jimmy was drowning from the inside. Doyle wanted to help. He needed to help...but he could not.


    ¡°What can I do?¡± Doyle whispered, before anyone who could give him the answer. Jimmy strained and raised his arm to clutch Doyle''s collar. Jimmy¡¯s fingernails darkened as blood began to escape from beneath his nails. He violently began to kick and flail. A moment later, his hand relaxed its grip and the thrashing subsided. His arm collapsed, dragging his hand from Doyle''s collar. His head slumped to the floor and his body went limp.


    Both men were frozen. Their shock became bewilderment as Jimmy''s skin seemed to bloom before them. His very skin went from a soft beige to a deep purple. A trick of the green light from the glowstick. Jimmy''s white t-shirt blossomed with thousands of tiny purple pin drops. Each one quickly wicked outward, spreading until they connected to the next one. Soon, Jimmy¡¯s t-shirt was the same color as his leather jacket. Barry knew it was blood.


    Doyle stood up and planted his hands on the sides of his head and he began pacing around the bus.


    "What the hell is going on, man? I''m supposed to be in Dallas. I have a race in two days. My bus driver just fucking died. Jimmy is dead. He is dead. He shouldn''t be dead. There shouldn''t be bombs going off. There aren''t supposed to be any fucking EMP bombs blowing up in the sky. There are supposed to be motel signs, and street lights, and traffic lights, and bus doors that close. Not motherfucking bombs, and hurricanes, and dust storms, and flying fucking yard gnomes, and my bus driver is supposed to be a-fucking-live. Not melted on the FUCKING BUS FLOOR!"


    Barry listened to Doyle''s tirade, never taking his eyes off Jimmy. He didn''t know the man. The entirety of their interaction spanned two minutes of panic-fueled confusion. Jimmy was just a guy who was yelling at another guy in a parking lot who ended up on a bus and couldn''t get the door to shut in the middle of an aerial bombing. Even after all the madness that he had just endured, seeing this man die like that shook Barry''s sensibilities. What could cause a death like that?


    Barry sprang to his feet and peeled off his shirt. "Hey." He yelled, toward Doyle. Doyle turned around to see a shirtless Barry standing over Jimmy''s blood-soaked body. His chest and belly jiggled as he slung his shirt around his head and covered his mouth and nose.


    "Es¡­oda¡­e¡­stur¡­as¡­er¡­ump¡­em." Barry spoke through the shirt that covered his face. "What?" Doyle asked. "Is¡­godda¡­e¡­must¡­d.as..or..hump..ing." Barry screamed again, trying to force the words through all four layers of his folded shirt. "WHAT?" Doyle yelled back.


    Barry stared at Doyle for a few seconds, but did not respond. He took a deep breath. He removed his shirt and repeated what he said, as fast as he could. "Itsgottabemustardgasorsomething.¡±


    All at once, the realization of a potential chemical attack set in, and Doyle jumped onto the sofa. He buried his face in a throw pillow. He quickly lifted his head, breath held, and scanned the room. Doyle shoved his head back into the pillow. He repeated this process three more times before he found what he was looking for. He sprang up, lunged across the edge of the kitchen counter, and grabbed a metallic silver box with a bio-hazard sticker. He flipped the clasp up and ripped the box open. He rifled through box. After a few seconds, he spun around and flung a surgical mask at Barry. He quickly put the other mask on his face and gave Barry a thumbs-up.


    "Always prepared." Doyle congratulated himself.


    Barry held the mask in his hand, looking at it, but not yet switching it with his shirt.


    "Put it on, man. Doctors use ''em. They block germs and stuff."


    Barry looked, from Doyle to the mask, and then back to Doyle. He closed his eyes and dropped the mask to the floor. A moment later, he pulled the shirt from his face and took a big deep breath.


    "NO MAN!¡± What are you doing?" Doyle pleaded. "The gas will get you." "Doyle...people wear gas masks for this shit. Not t-shirts and cotton masks. If it¡¯s some kind of gas then this cotton thing isn¡¯t going to help us. Doyle thought about it for a moment, then took his mask off. "Guess you''re right." Doyle conceded.


    Doyle returned to the couch and sat down. He grabbed one of the pillows and hugged it against his chest. He couldn''t help but look at his bus driver; his friend. Barry noticed Doyle¡¯s gaze. He grabbed a throw blanket and delicately draped it over Jimmy, before taking a seat in the recliner. Suddenly, Barry became very aware of the pain in his back and legs. He popped a few of the pain pills and reached for the chair''s lever.


    "Sixteen years¡± Doyle announced. "Jimmy has been my driver since before I was a hot shit household name. He was like a big brother. Always lookin'' out for me. Trying to keep me on the straight and narrow. Always told me when I was being reckless, but never judged me."


    Barry saw tears well up in Doyle''s eyes.


    "What the fuck is going on, Barry?"


    Barry closed the recliner and leaned forward. "I haven''t got a clue" Barry admitted.


    "I forgot I was drunk." Doyle blurted. "Rooms starting to spin." He leaned over and let himself fall across the couch. He stayed there, quietly hugging his pillow, until he passed out.

 The Eerie Silence of a New World

    Joel was born without the ability to hear. The doctors said they had procedures that could allow him to hear, but he was the son of a farmer in Oklahoma. They would never save enough to pay for one of those procedures. He wasn''t bitter, silence was all he ever knew. His father wasn''t an intelligent man. Though he tried to learn sign language, he grew frustrated with it and soon stopped trying. Joel learned the routines of the farm and focused on his choirs. When something needed to be done, or information needed to be passed along, it was in the form of a note on the fridge.


    Joel didn''t hear the explosions the night before. Their farmhouse was tucked between two high hills. The entire property, north of the house, was dense woods. These features, and the fact that no bombs exploded within ten miles of the farmhouse, allowed the property to remain unaffected by the damaging winds. Less than an hour after the attack, Joel woke up. He was always up before daylight. He stood and stretched. After a final yawn, he exited the room. He gave the bedroom light switch a perfunctory flip, but nothing happened. Leaning back into the room, he gave the switch a few more flips before deciding the bulb was out. He felt his way down the dark hallway. The bathroom offered no illumination. The same for the extra bedroom. He tried the switch for the kitchen lights, with the same results.


    Joel stalked across the kitchen, careful not to kick, or snag, anything. He found the cover of the breaker box and opened it. He had no way to read the panel, but none of the breakers felt tripped, and they all faced the ¡°on¡± direction.


    Dad didn''t pay the light bill again.


    Joel''s father only kept one flashlight, and it was in his dad¡¯s pickup. Instead, he favored the old-style kerosene lamps. He said it was because they always worked if they had fuel and a wick. He didn¡¯t trust battery-powered flashlights, with their loose connections, and corroding batteries. Joel knew the real reason was because a few dollars¡¯ worth of kerosene would fuel their lamps for a year. Joel believed that most of his father¡¯s philosophies in life were directly related to being a cheap bastard.


    He felt his way to the fridge and walked his hands over the counter beside it as he felt for the lamp. Finding it, he located the drawer beneath the lamp. Joel brought out a box of matches. He lit one for light, and quickly readied the kerosene lamp to be lit. Using another match, he ignited the wick and lowered the globe back down. Joel spun toward the refrigerator and saw his father had left a note. He walked closer and positioned the lamp above the note.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be back day after tomorow. I put $300 under the bible on the coffee table. Take the truck in to town and get 5 bags of cow pelits and a salt lick. The truck had a flat tire when I left. Put the spare on and get a used tire while your in town. Make sure its got lots a tred still on it. Check for bubbles or uneven tred ware. Use whats left over and get any food we need.


    Joel was so distracted by the power being off, he forgot his father left at midnight. It was a four-hour drive to the Woodward auction. His father had to be there, and unloaded, by the time the auction started.


    Joel¡¯s father believed the animals eat before the people did. Joel didn¡¯t think it mattered, plus his father wasn¡¯t there. He quickly ate a bowl of cereal before he started his tasks.


    Sunrise was a couple of hours away. Joel walked outside and found a strange fog. He noticed the yellow hue of the fog, but he attributed it to the amber glow of the lamp. The air smelled of chemicals, but Joel ignored it, too. This was farmland and crop dusting was common on the surrounding farms. Joel assumed a neighbor had sprayed overnight.


    He made quick work of his jobs and headed back into the house. The sun was just about to pop over the hills, so he went ahead and changed the tire, figuring he could take a nap after. The feed store didn¡¯t open for a few more hours, so Joel washed up and let himself take a rare nap.


    Joel woke up to the light of day, but it seemed off. It wasn''t the vibrant, crisp light he was used to. It seemed muted and dull. Without power, his digital clock couldn''t tell him what time it was. He rose from his bed and put on shoes. He walked to the window to try to gauge what time of day it was. Everything was shrouded in a sickly yellow haze. Joel walked through the house and headed outside. As far as he could see, it was the same yellowness. It was the most bizarre thing he had ever seen.


    Oklahoma was known for its finicky weather. Violent storms, tornadoes, or chilly nights could turn into sweltering days. Months with no rain, followed by months of flooding. He thought he had seen all there was to see. His first thought was of grassfires, but he abandoned that theory. Smoke smells like smoke, always. The smell outside was not smoke. The smell was the same as earlier, but not as strong. Though the yellow fog was strange to him, it didn''t seem to be anything dangerous. As he walked to the pickup, he tried to decide what the fog was. He chalked it up to being a freak dust storm or a bumper season for pollen. The screech of the rusty pickup door pulled him from his contemplations. He had work to do.


    Joel slid into the weathered seat. The key waited in the ignition. He pressed down on the clutch and twisted the stainless-steel key. Nothing happened. There were no lights, and the starter did not crank. After popping the hood, and tinkering with a few things, Joel decided the battery was dead. They had a battery charger that could jump an engine, but without electricity, it was useless.


    Why did you have to forget to pay our electricity, again?


    Joel decided to walk into town and have the feed delivered. He knew the owner of the feed store. He knew the man would give him, and the feed, a ride home. He returned to the house to grab a few things. He stuffed a few bottles of water, and some Pop Tarts, into a backpack and headed out.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    It was about two miles to the highway, and from there, another three miles to the feed store. Joel had made the trek before, and it only took a couple of hours. It took less time if he jogged some of it. There were no houses between his house and the highway. He jogged the first three-quarters of the way to the highway. The last half mile was paved, and by the time he reached the asphalt, he was ready to walk. Joel reached the highway and noticed that the yellow haze was still around. It reached as far as he could see. The roads around there weren¡¯t very busy, but after a half hour on the highway, the lack of traffic was noticeable. Joel began to get a feeling of unease about the haze, and the seemingly abandoned roadway. He became more anxious. His pace increased.


    Joel was a couple of miles down the highway when he came upon a car stranded in the ditch. The car veered off the road and slammed into a steel pipe fence. Joel approached the car. Immediately, he knew something was wrong. The driver¡¯s window was smeared with blood and streaks of dark matted hair. The driver¡¯s head and shoulder leaned against the door and window.


    He searched the highway, in both directions, but saw nothing. Being deaf, and mute, Joel never bothered with carrying a cell phone. He could not call for help, and he knew help was nowhere close. He knocked on the side of the car to alert the occupant that he was there. He slowly approached the driver¡¯s door. Joel didn¡¯t bother knocking. He grabbed the door handle and carefully opened the door.


    Joel never tried to use his voice. Aside from the odd yelp, when he stumped a toe or cut a finger, he was always silent. However, as the corpse tumbled out of the car, Joel was anything but silent. A sound, like a honking goose, was forced from his mouth. It was immediately replaced by the sound of powerful retching, as Joel expelled that morning¡¯s cereal.


    From head to toe, the deceased woman was covered in blood. Her eyes and ears ran dark with it. Crimson rivulets flowed from her nose and mouth. The deflated airbag was mostly crimson, and the seat absorbed enough blood to leave a silhouette of the driver.


    What he saw convinced him there was danger. Joel judged that this death was the result of being stabbed or shot. That amount of blood meant it happened multiple times. Joel was raised slaughtering their animals. It was a way of life and routine. Joel was no detective, but he knew this happened recently. The blood on her body was dry, but the thicker areas, like her hair and where the body sat, were still wet.


    Joel¡¯s thoughts were frantic. looked around for help. His normal self-consciousness about his voice was gone, as he screamed for help. If anybody were around to hear, they would not discern his yells were pleadings for help, but were more likely to liken them to the guttural bellows of a mother cow looking for her calf.


    "MUUMP, MUUMP, UUUMP." Joel continued to yell, hysterically.


    He realized there was no help coming. He took a final look at the grizzly scene, and he sprinted off. He ran as fast as his legs would go. The adrenaline propelled him faster and further than he would normally be able to achieve. He made it the last mile in no time.


    Even from a distance, the barrenness of the city was apparent. There weren¡¯t any cars driving around. No people coming and going from the businesses. A few cars were sitting in ditches or oddly parked in front of a building. A semi was stalled in the middle of a red-light intersection. There were even a few silhouettes of what appeared to be people laying on the ground or in parking lots. It was a strange and eerie scene. As the scene unfolded, Joel was overcome with panic and anxiety. To top it off, was the all-encompassing yellow haze.


    Joel ran for the nearest building. It was a Valero gas station. There were no cars in the parking lot, and the door was still locked. He knew this store opened at 5 a.m. He ran through the cross street, to the Bank, but it was empty and locked, too. Next was Tupelo Elementary School. There were no kids to be seen. All the buses were still parked out back, in the bus parking lot. There were a few faculty cars parked out front, but every entrance was locked. All the interior lights were off. Joel felt confused about what day it was. He ran it through his mind and decided it was not the weekend.


    What the hell is going on?


    Frantic and full of ever-growing dread, Joel continued. He saw a dead body down the street, in the motel parking lot. There were a few cars there, and a giant tour bus, but the thought of seeing another dead body, up close, drove Joel to turn away from the street and down a side road. He didn''t know where he was going. In his panic, he wasn''t thinking coherently enough to remember the layout of the town. He noticed the police station and ran for it.


    Joel ran up to the station door and yanked at it. It was unlocked. He blew past the vacant receptionist desk and ran into the station. The first thing he saw was the back of a dispatcher, slumped over her station, headset on her head, and blood dripping off the table. It pooled in a puddle of crimson on the floor.


    Please, God, help me. What''s going on?


    Joel continued past the dispatcher, to the closed door of the police chief. He shoved the door open, only to see another dead body. This time, he was spared the gory scene. The legs of the unseen police officer stuck out from behind the massive oak desk. Joel didn''t bother a closer inspection. He rapidly spun and exited the station.


    He searched the nearby streets for signs of anything helpful. Everywhere he looked, he saw either crashed cars, dead bodies, or businesses and homes that should be lively, but were solemn and motionless. His thoughts, once frantic and fearful, dulled into shock and confusion. Joel wondered, aimlessly. He abandoned the roads and meandered in a straight line toward the other end of town. He cut across yards and through allies. The only people he found were soaked in blood and dead. There wasn''t a single light on. Not a single "OPEN" sign or neon light worked.


    Slowly, Joel realized that his father hadn¡¯t forgotten to pay the electricity bill. The power was out, everywhere. That realization brought his attention to his father.


    Please, Lord, let my dad be ok. Please! I''ll do anything, God. Let him be alive.


    Without knowing it, Joel had let himself wander back to his side of town. He returned to the Valero gas station. Joel was in full-on shock, now. He had seen too much. There were too many questions and too many dead bodies. His mind could not take it¡­neither could his legs. His body was shaking, and he felt light-headed. He hurried off the road and sat on the concrete, his back against a fuel pump. His head tilted against the cool metal. He closed his eyes. Joel wanted to pray, but instead, he began to sob.


    If Joel hadn''t closed his eyes to cry, he might have seen the semi-truck creeping down the street. If he wasn''t def, he may have heard the hum of the diesel engine. If Joel wasn¡¯t shaking from fear and dread, then he might have felt the low vibrations of the massive truck¡¯s engine. He would have found relief, knowing that there was another living, breathing, person.


    He didn''t see the truck, though. He didn''t hear the engine humming. He just leaned against the fuel pump, with his eyes closed, trembling and sobbing.

 Unanswered Questions and Unexpected Guests

    Barry awoke to intense pain in his lower back. Sleeping in a bed was bad enough. Falling asleep in a recliner was a horrible idea. The throbbing of his sciatic nerve pulsed down his left leg. His right thigh was burning and there was a concrete stiffness from his tailbone to his neck. He tried to close the leg of the chair, but as soon as he pushed down on the leg, a searing pain knifed his lower back. Barry went rigid but quickly realized it made the pain worse. He went limp. Letting his weight sag into the padded leather. The intense pain in his back began to dull.


    Going sack-of-potatoes, like that, was not pleasant. The muscles of his core, neck, and shoulders were stiff and taught. Forced to endure the constant shifting and favoring, to adjust to the eminent needs of his back, these muscles were overworked. Relaxing into the chair forced his spine to bend forward. As his massive weight pushed downward, it overcame the resistance of the supporting muscles and connective tissues. Slowly, his ass sank as his head and knees drew together. It was not that drastic of a stretch. He shifted only a few inches. The decompression of his spine sent needles to his fingers and toes. Long pinched nerves awoke, and little fairies danced down his right leg. An electric tingle ribboned down his penis and into his scrotum.


    For a moment, the tortured man¡¯s body was enraptured by prickles, tickles, shocks, and jolts. There was a rush to his head, almost as if he were on the brink of unconsciousness. He hovered in euphoria, unaware of the pain. He sank a little deeper. His knees bent a little more. The searing pain no longer assaulted him.


    It became uncomfortable to breathe¡­


    As he was folding in the chair, his voluminous belly had nowhere to go. Crammed between his chest and thighs, his gut prevented his diaphragm from fully expanding. Barry wished he could stay like that forever, but he knew better. He lifted his hips, to straighten out, but after a couple of inches, he couldn¡¯t force them any further. He was afraid of this. Barry called this problem, the Hollow. Sometimes, if he stayed in a position, too long, it made him feel this hollow feeling in his lumbar spine. When this happened, it was like a kink in a water hose. If it was kinked, completely, Barry felt nothing below his waste. He couldn¡¯t walk, stand, or wiggle his toes.


    There were times when it was only a little kinked. In times like those, a little signal got through. His feet may be dead, but he could feel the rest. Once, his whole right ass cheek went dead. No sensation, or feeling, at all.


    It was inconvenient, but Barry learned that it only lasted as long as the position was maintained. All he had to do was change positions. Unfortunately, this Hollow was preventing nerve function from reaching the muscles needed to fully thrust his pelvis forward. Barry strained to lean forward, but his center of gravity was centered around his belly. He let himself flop back into the chair.


    I¡¯m so tired of this shit.


    He twisted to one side and rolled toward the chair''s armrest. His right leg rotated over his left leg. He felt for the floor with his foot. He found the floor and planted the ball of his foot. Next, Barry let his right hip drop from the leg of the chair and lowered his knee to the floor. Finally, with both hands on the arm of the chair, Barry pushed with his arms as he straightened his right leg. He placed his left foot, now free of the recliner, next to the right.


    The whole ordeal only took about ten seconds, but Barry felt like he had just climbed a flight of stairs. At over four hundred pounds, it took a lot of strength, and effort, to move around as well as Barry did. He was always athletic and never avoided hard work. Even now, he would do anything that was needed, but he avoided unnecessary physical tasks.


    Resolve was a trait of Barry¡¯s, long before his injury. He could always muster enough of it to cook dinner. Even when he should have sat down hours ago. When he was on the clock, he ignored the nagging pain and kept going. If the trash didn¡¯t get taken out, he would shuffle it out to the garbage can, telling himself ¡°Just a few more steps¡± as he made his way back inside.


    Over time, how Barry prioritized his ¡°needs¡± began to shift. He started forgoing long walks or sitting in hard chairs. He learned to live without being able to access anything below his knees. A dropped pen required a broom and dustpan to retrieve. His shoes now had no laces, as he could not tie them. A thousand little things needed a thousand new ways of doing them. As his life became more painful, he stopped wasting willpower on things that caused him extra pain. Cardio was the first thing he cut.


    As Barry leaned on the arm of the chair, huffing and puffing, he knew he needed to lose weight. He knew that whatever was happening to the world, it wasn¡¯t going to be pleasant. He had a feeling there was a lot of walking in his future.


    Barry leaned against the chair for a moment, dreading the pain that would come when he stood straight. He summoned his resolve and pushed himself from the chair. He straightened his spine. The nerves in his back erupted. His mind swirled and his balance evaporated. Reflexively, he let himself teeter toward the wall. He just needed the support, for a moment. It always took a few seconds for his head to stop spinning after the initial jolt of pain.


    Barry''s focus returned. He no longer needed the wall to support himself. He opened his eyes and spun away from the wall. His foot snagged on something. The other got tangled in the unseen obstacle. His body was still vertical, so his fall started slow enough. Barry had time to plot an optimal trajectory. Deciding on the nearby couch, he twisted to the right and allowed his right knee to bend into the turn. As he fell, he reached out to soften the landing. Just before impact, Barry noticed Doyle curled on the couch. Barry let his knees collapse, hoping to drop faster and avoid the sleeping man. His right knee dropped down on the wood frame of the sofa, while his left continued toward the floor. This caused Barry to pitch to the left. His momentum flung him downward. There was a sharp crack as all of Barry¡¯s weight drove his left shoulder through the front edge of the couch. Barry cursed loudly, as he rolled onto his back.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    Barry tried to straighten his right leg, to see if it would help the throbbing in his knee, but something was in the way. He lifted his head and looked to see what was in his way. Barry spotted the garish remains of Jimmy, and the events of the previous day rushed back into his thoughts.


    The commotion startled Doyle. He bolted upright, clinching a throw pillow. "It wasn''t a fucking dream," he yelled toward Jimmy¡¯s bloody remains. Doyle noticed Barry on the floor.


    ¡°Are you ok, man?"


    ¡°I¡¯m fucking great,¡± Barry spat, sarcastically. "Could you help me up?"


    Doyle reached down and grabbed the prone man''s hand. He pulled as Barry pushed himself up with his other arm.


    "What the fuck happened last night man?" Doyle asked. "This shit can''t be hap¡­¡± he trailed off. ¡°What¡¯s with the yellow color?¡± he asked.


    Barry¡¯s first few moments of being awake were frantic and he hadn¡¯t noticed the yellow tint of the world outside. ¡°I haven¡¯t got a clue. But, it has to be from the bombs. Probably, what did that to Jimmy,¡± Barry theorized.


    Doyle gazed out a nearby window. The yellow haze was everywhere. It wasn¡¯t thick, like a fog, more like when dust gets kicked up and hangs in the air. For about thirty yards, Doyle could see things clearly. The farther out he looked, the more the discolored air obscured the view. In the distance, he could just make the darker rooftops. They appeared to be floating in the strange atmosphere.


    It was eerily quiet. The calmness was unnerving. Doyle could not see the Sun, but he could tell where it was glowing. It was a few hours after sunrise. Even a podunk town like this should have some cars, some people, or something moving around.


    ¡°I don¡¯t even see a dog, man, ¡°Doyle informed the other man. ¡°Not a squirrel, a bird, not even a damn¡­ never mind,¡± Doyle interrupted himself. ¡°I see a couple of dogs.¡±


    Barry walked to the front of the bus and inspected the other side of town. He quickly spotted a large group of little birds flittering around some bushes. ¡°There have to be more people,¡± Barry assured Doyle, and himself.


    Doyle turned from the window and plopped onto the couch. ¡°What do we do? Where do we¡­¡±


    BANG BANG BANG


    Both men jumped at the unexpected banging on the side of the bus. Doyle jumped to his feet and grabbed a knife from the tiny kitchen sink. Barry turned in the direction the noise came from. Both men listened, but didn¡¯t hear anything.


    ¡°Who¡¯s out there?¡± Doyle yelled, but no reply came.


    Barry was not a jumpy person, but this whole situation had him on edge. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. His breathing was shallow and rapid. Scanning the area, he grabbed the little wooden tire club protruding from behind the driver¡¯s seat.


    ¡°See anything?¡± Doyle asked.


    Barry started to answer, ¡°I don¡¯t¡­¡±


    BANG BANG¡­bang bang bang bang


    Doyle¡¯s head snapped toward the front of the bus. He watched as Barry spun around, facing into the stairwell, and dropped into a fighter¡¯s stance. The wooden club looked too small in the man¡¯s massive hand.


    ¡°There¡¯s somebody at the door!¡± Barry yelled. Doyle asked him who it was, the foolishness of the question eluding him.


    ¡°How the fuck would I know?¡± Barry shot back at him.


    The door shook. Barry took a single step down and tried to get a better look at the person. A gloved hand slapped the door glass.


    ¡°FUCK,¡± Barry growled. He hated being startled. ¡°What the fuck do you want?¡± he asked the stranger.


    ¡°Inside.¡±


    Doyle heard the response and looked to Barry for answers. Barry waved Doyle over to him. Doyle hurried over, stepping carefully around Jimmy¡¯s body, and peeked around the staircase partition. All he could make out was the silhouette of a person wearing a jacket with the hood up.


    "Who are you?" Barry asked the unseen speaker.


    ¡°Is that you, Doyle?¡± the outsider asked.


    Doyle looked profoundly perplexed when he heard his name. Purely out of shock, he answered back, ¡°It is.¡±


    "Holy Shit! You''re alive." The voice answered back. "I thought everybody was dead."


    ¡°What¡¯cha wanna do? It¡¯s your bus. Your call.¡± Barry asked.


    Doyle had no idea what he wanted to do. All of this was way beyond him. He had no idea what was going on. He did want answers, though. He and Barry had no idea what was going on outside, but this person would have seen something.


    "Can I come in, please?" the voice politely asked.


    Barry looked from the door to Doyle. ¡°Your call,¡± he repeated.


    Doyle didn¡¯t move. He froze up.


    Tap tap tap tap


    ¡°Give us a minute.¡± Barry told the stranger.


    Doyle looked at Barry and started to speak but stopped. He did this a few more times, before Barry held up his empty hand to stop the man.


    ¡°Take a deep breath. Count to ten, and just pick yes or no.¡±


    Doyle did as Barry instructed. He finished his ten-count and opened his eyes.


    ¡°Well?¡± Barry waited.


    TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP


    The door rattled with each of the rapped knocks. Doyle looked from Barry to the door, and back to Barry.


    ¡°Hello?¡± The stranger was growing impatient.


    ¡°Yes, or no, Doyle? In or out?¡± Barry pressed Doyle.


    Doyle still wouldn¡¯t decide. Barry moved down the stairs and stood at the door.


    ¡°You have ten seconds, or I decide for you.¡± Barry¡¯s hand moved to the sliding bolt that locked the door. He looked up at Doyle and began to count.


    ¡°10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5.¡± Barry grabbed the bolt. ¡°4. Come on Doyle. It¡¯s your bus. Your choice. 3!¡± Barry slid the bolt, just a bit. ¡°MAKE A CHOICE,¡± Barry ordered.


    ¡°I CAN¡¯T!¡± Doyle screamed. ¡°What if it¡¯s the wrong choice?¡±


    ¡°2.¡± Barry continued. Last chance, Doyle.¡± Barry slid the bolt, a little more. The bolt was nearly clear.


    ¡°Wait, wait, wait!¡± Doyle pleaded. ¡°What if he is going to rob us, or something?¡±


    Barry didn¡¯t answer the question. Instead, he lifted the little wooden bat into the air and waived it around.


    ¡°He could have a gun!¡± Doyle¡¯s eyes were wide with fear. Genuine terror rode on his words, but Barry did not care. He recognized anxiety. He knew Doyle wasn¡¯t reacting, logically. Doyle had been through as much as Barry. They were both scared and uncertain. Barry lowered the bat and put on a kind expression.


    ¡°We will be ok, Doyle. I¡¯m here, with you. That person is alone, they are probably just as scared as we are, but they are stuck out there.¡± Barry pointed through the glass panes of the door. ¡°In that yellow stuff,¡± Barry added.


    Doyle calmed, slightly, as Barry finished speaking. He closed his eyes and took another deep breath. When they opened, Doyle opened his mouth to speak. He froze again, but only for a second, before he lost his composure again.


    ¡°I can¡¯t,¡± Doyle whispered


    ¡°1.¡± Barry turned back toward the door; like he was tearing off a band-aid, and he jerked the bolt clear.

 Welcome. Care for some coffee?

    Barry pushed the bus door open and yellow air swirled into the stairwell. Barry backed up the stairs, careful not to trip. He kept his eyes on the newcomer. He looked back at Doyle. Doyle¡¯s anxiety was palpable. Doyle¡¯s anxiety made Barry¡¯s stomach knot. He steeled his resolve and turned back toward the door. His hand shook as he took ahold of the slide bolt. He took a deep breath and yanked the bolt clear. At that moment, Barry regretted his decision. Barry knew there was no going back. He didn¡¯t care what was on the other side of the door. He had no concern for what danger waited outside the bus. The big man¡¯s entire focus lasered in on making sure he didn¡¯t let anything harm Doyle.


    Before the door fully opened, the stranger¡¯s head popped in. The face was covered by a hood, but it quickly swiveled upward to look at Barry. Whatever terrors Barry¡¯s imagination conjured, the man before him was none of them.


    The man slowly stepped onto the bottom step and thanked Barry for letting him in. He had a green rucksack slung across his back. He wore a pair of faded denim jeans and a camo jacket over a black hoodie. His greasy black hair hung down to his shoulders and his beard draped over his chest. The man had to be in his thirties, but his attire and weathered face made him seem older. He had too many wrinkles and a crooked nose. His right eyebrow was split, down the middle, by a deep scar. Despite his appearance, the man had an honest smile and friendly blue eyes. When the man reached the last stair, he held out his hand to shake Barry''s.


    "Name¡¯s Jaxon, Jaxon Holmes."


    Barry shook the man''s hand and told him his name. He then gestured over his shoulder and introduced Doyle. Jaxon let go of Barry''s hand and rushed around the staircase''s partition. He saw Doyle standing there. He let his rucksack slide from his shoulders and raced toward Doyle. Jaxon dropped to his knees and stared at Doyle. Barry and Doyle shared a look of confusion.


    "I saw the "Falcone Racing" on the bus, and it made my year. I told myself there was no way Doyle Falcone would be way out here. I told myself that even if he was, he was dead like everybody else. I just wanted to see the inside of your bus. I never believed I would find Doyle Falcone, alive and breathing."


    Barry let out a slight chuckle. Jaxon turned and glowered at him.


    "Do you know who this is? Doyle is the best driver since Dale!" he exclaimed.


    Barry dropped his head and rubbed at his temples. "Great. Three people are alive in the world. One is Doyle Falcone, and another is a Doyle Falcone groupie." Barry joked.


    "Get up, man. You''re embarrassing me." Doyle pleaded.


    "I''m sorry, I''m sorry." Jaxon apologized. "I bet I look like a nut." he acknowledged. As he stood, he turned to face Barry. "I''m not a nut. Just a big fan."


    "I was just being a smartass. It was a joke." Barry assured the man.


    Jaxon picked up his rucksack and walked into the living area. He stepped over Jimmy¡¯s body and plopped on the couch. His nonchalance about the bloody corpse didn''t escape Barry''s notice.


    "Don''t mind ole Jimmy there, he used to be Doyle''s driver," Barry informed the newcomer. Jaxon looked down at the dead body and then looked up at Doyle.


    "Sorry for your loss¡­want a soda?" he asked Doyle. "Got a few grape ones left."


    "Um¡­uh¡­no thanks. I''m not thirsty." Doyle responded. Jaxon''s indifference to the bloody body unnerved him. He quickly turned the exchange toward answers. "Any idea what is going on out there?"


    "Oh yeah. Some sort of terrorist attack,¡± Jaxon cracked open a grape soda, took a long sip, and then continued. ¡°I''m guessing they detonated E.M.P.s and used the blast to spread whatever the yellow shit is that is fogging up everything."


    The strangeness of how carefree Jaxon spoke about what was happening felt wrong to Barry and Doyle. It seemed as if Jaxon was detached from the reality of the situation. Barry told himself that the man was probably in shock.


    "This whole thing doesn''t bother you?" Doyle asked the man, a tinge of anger and frustration apparent in his voice.


    "Course it bothers me. Why would you think it doesn''t?" I''m just used to death and stuff."


    "How the hell do you get used to death." Doyle wondered, aloud.


    Jaxon looked at Doyle, then shifted his gaze to Barry. ¡°I was Special Forces. Seven years,¡± he explained.


    That was enough explanation for the other two men.


    ¡°Thank you for your service,¡± Doyle offered Jaxon.


    Barry, also, thanked Jaxon, as he took a seat on the couch. There was something about the way Jaxon grinned at Doyle. Barry reasoned the man was just another awestruck fanatic, but Jaxon¡¯s gaze was laser-focused on Doyle. The way he kept his eyes locked on the other man; it almost seemed predatory. There was a long silence. Barry watched Doyle fidget with a couch pillow. Jaxon was making Doyle uncomfortable. Barry broke the silence, by asking Jaxon where he was from.


    ¡°All over, really. I go where I¡¯m blown,¡± Jaxon answered, never relaxing his grin or looking away from Doyle. ¡°Dang, man. I¡¯m sorry, but I just can¡¯t believe it¡¯s you.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s me. I¡¯m real!¡± There was a tinge of sarcasm in Doyle¡¯s reply.


    Barry moved to stand before Jaxon. He thought he would intimidate Jaxon. Barry was aware of how imposing his size could be, and there was no way Jaxon missed the implied threat. Nobody gets that close without a reason. ¡°Gonna need more than that, man.¡± Jaxon showed no acknowledgment that Barry had moved or spoken. Barry towered over the seated man. Leaning close to Jaxon¡¯s face, which was still pointed at Doyle and still hung that creepy grin.


    Barry spoke, stern and slow. ¡°What is your deal ma¡­¡±


    Doyle watched Jaxon¡¯s left arm knife out and clamp around Barry¡¯s neck. The action was swift and unexpected. Barry¡¯s reflexes were surprising. The big man¡¯s hands sped to intercept the attack but were milliseconds late. As Jaxon¡¯s hand closed around Barry¡¯s throat, both of Barry¡¯s hands locked around Jaxon¡¯s wrist.


    Jaxon didn¡¯t appear to be tightening his grip. He sat, staring at Doyle, with an unwavering grin. Barry tried to wrench the hand from his throat, but this resulted in Jaxon squeezing harder.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    ¡°I will break your fucking arm,¡± Barry threatened, while he moved one hand from Jaxon¡¯s wrist and positioned it under the other man¡¯s straightened elbow. Barry gave a short, but sharp, push on the elbow. This caused Jaxon to finally face Barry.


    As Jaxon turned, from Doyle to Barry, his grin shifted to a cold emotionless glare. Barry reapplied pressure to Jaxon¡¯s elbow, but if Jaxon felt any pain, he hid it well. Jaxon responded by digging his fingernails deep into Barry¡¯s thick neck. Blood trickled as fingernails parted the skin.


    ¡°I don¡¯t wanna do it, man,¡± Barry warned.


    ¡°I don¡¯t like people in my bubble,¡± Jaxon explained. He squeezed harder after he spoke.


    ¡°fuuck thiiis,¡± Barry squeezed the words out, as his airway began to close.


    Barry¡¯s left hand released the elbow and struck out, grabbing the collar of Jaxon¡¯s jacket. His right hand, unclamped, curled into a fist and jabbed into Jaxon¡¯s armpit. Jaxon winced and gave a short moan, but his grip didn¡¯t loosen much. Barry grabbed a second handful of Jaxon¡¯s jacket and pulled the seated man off the couch. In a single motion, Barry curled his arms upward, straightened his back and legs, and hoisted Jaxon over his head.


    Barry forced Jaxon to arm¡¯s length. Barry strained to tear the hand from his throat, but the big man had shorter reach than Jaxon. Barry hated hurting anything, but his vision got fuzzy, and instinct took over. Barry thrust Jaxon against the roof, cracking the faux wood paneling. The moment Jaxon connected with the ceiling, Barry yanked downward.


    Jaxon still clutched Barry¡¯s neck when he hit the ceiling, but the sudden change in velocity and direction caused him to reflexively reach out. The floor sped toward him, and he only thought of one thing to do. Jaxon folded both arms in front of his face and turned his head to the side. He clenched his eyes. He heard Doyle yell for Barry to stop, but his mind was focused on the coming impact.


    There was a loud grunt, as Barry jerked Jaxon¡¯s body to a halt. The instant stop forced the air from Jaxon¡¯s lungs, but his legs continued, downward. His left boot whipped down on Jimmy¡¯s head with an audible crack.


    ¡°GODDAMMIT,¡± Doyle screamed. ¡°THAT IS ENOUGH OF THAT SHIT.¡±


    Barry was struggling to stand upright. He was hunched with each hand on a thigh to support him. Doyle stomped over to Barry and roughly yanked him upright, before continuing over to Jaxon. Doyle reached the man just as he climbed up from his knees. Doyle shoved the man backward, onto the couch.


    ¡°You, stay there. Please.¡± It was more of a warning to Jaxon than a request from Doyle. Without turning from Jaxon, Doyle firmly asked Barry to stay put, as well.


    ¡°Yes sir, Mr. Falcone.¡± Jaxon grumbled, like a child put in timeout. ¡°I¡¯m sorry for fighting with your friend,¡± he added, without making eye contact with Doyle.


    ¡°I tried to warn him, man. I did.¡±


    Doyle snapped his head toward Barry. So intense were Doyle¡¯s eyes, Barry thought he might have to fight again.


    ¡°Warned him¡­shit,¡± Doyle stepped to the side and pointed at Jaxon. ¡°He weighs a buck fifty. MAX! I¡¯d think about getting the first strike in, too, if some big, biker-bar-bouncing mother fucker stepped up like that.¡±


    ¡°Biker what?¡± Barry asked as he inspected his blue jeans and red polo shirt.


    ¡°Just look at you,¡± Doyle gestured at Barry. ¡°You look like a goddam refrigerator on legs.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t think he was going to start shit,¡± Barry explained.


    ¡°Barry, you don¡¯t look like the kinda guy people stop to ask for directions. No offense, but we are in Oklahoma. Your head is shaved, and you got that mountain-man beard going on. I mean¡­if it weren¡¯t for those EMPs, I wouldn¡¯t have invited you in here. No offense.¡±


    Barry mindlessly stroked his beard. He looked hurt.


    ¡°I¡¯m just trying to help you see it from the other guy¡¯s perspective,¡± Doyle assured him.


    ¡°No. You¡¯re right, man,¡± Barry admitted before he slowly walked to Jaxon and offered him his hand.


    ¡°I apologize, man. Are you ok?¡± Barry sincerely meant the words.


    Jaxon looked into Barry¡¯s eyes and held his gaze. Jaxon¡¯s face was blank; his eyes were not. Barry was not intimidated by the other man¡¯s stare, but he was ready for another attack. The exchange was uncomfortable.


    As moments passed, Barry began to shift his weight around. still waiting with his hand out. Impatience, and a swelling irritation at Jaxon¡¯s childish stare-off, Barry started to drop his hand. Barry watched Jaxon¡¯s eyes shift from cold and violent, to bright and happy. Before his hand could drop a quarter of an inch, Jaxon¡¯s motionless face became pure glee. Jaxon¡¯s hand shot out and intercepted the retreating hand. He shook it rapidly and his smile reached higher with each shake.


    ¡°No hard feelings. It is my fault, really.¡± Jaxon assured Barry


    At that moment, Barry became aware that Jaxon had challenged him. It was another moment before Barry realized Jaxon had won. He was irritated to be part of the juvenile exchange, but what bothered Barry more was how much it pissed him off that Jaxon had stared him down and he had been the one to give up.


    ¡°Now listen. We need to figure out what is going on. We have to do what we can to survive,¡± Doyle spoke up. Jaxon, what did you see out there? Where did you come from, and where were you heading?¡±


    Jaxon did not move. His eyes focused on nothing, as he started to answer their questions.


    ¡°I came from an old buddy¡¯s place. Bout fifteen miles from here.¡± Jaxon walked over and peered out a window, before he continued. ¡°I started walking about six, last night. The moon was high when I decided to camp. I was east of Centrahoma when the lights lit up the sky. I holed up inside a dry creek underpass. I climbed out to take a leak. That¡¯s when I saw the bombs.¡±


    Barry used Jaxon¡¯s pause to take a seat on the couch. Doyle did the same.


    ¡°I knew, right away, what they were. There was one east of me¡­less than a mile. I ran back under the concrete culvert and braced myself.¡±


    Jaxon turned from the window and looked at Doyle.


    ¡°The winds were dampened by the roadway, above me. It was still dark when I walked into Centrahoma. I already suspected an EMP, because my digital watch and phone stopped working. I saw the dark town, and knew it was. Centrahoma is a tiny town. The main street is about three blocks wide and about seven or eight blocks long. You could yell from one end and be heard on the other.


    The whole town was torn up. The blast wave had taken everything that wasn¡¯t steel or concrete. Even the brick homes had missing walls and roofs. Trees were combed over, in rows. Even vehicles had been pushed and shoved around. A few taller cars were flipped on their sides.¡±


    Barry looked to Doyle, but the other man had his head back, gazing at the ceiling.


    ¡°What about survivors?¡± Barry interrupted. ¡°Did you see anybody, else?¡±


    ¡°Oh¡­I saw lots of people. They were all dead or bleeding out. There were people and debris scattered all over. Those winds churned the place up.¡±


    ¡°Good God,¡± Doyle whispered.¡±


    ¡°It was pitch black. I only strayed from the road, once. I heard this sobbing. It was a powerful, sad, sobbing. It came from the side of this cinder block house. The roof was gone, and all four sides were torn apart. But the north and south walls were left a few feet tall. I followed the sound and turned the corner.


    There was this lady there. She was in a white gown, and it was soaked in the blood of the little boy she held. She just sat against the wall holding him across her chest.


    I asked her if she was ok, a few times, but her mind was someplace else.¡±


    ¡°Wait. How long did it take you to get to that town, from when the bombs hit?¡± Barry inquired.


    Jaxon faced Barry and addressed him.


    ¡°Well, I waited in the culvert for a bit. It was dark and I wasn¡¯t sure what to expect, out here¡­but would say deciding to leave, packing my things, and walking into town¡­¡± he stopped talking and appeared to be figuring something in his head. ¡°Couple hours, tops.¡± Jaxon decided.


    Barry twisted on the couch and looked out the window. Barry could see more of the town than before.


    ¡°The yellow shit, in the air, is thinning.¡± The big man announced.


    The other two men turned to nearby windows and did their own inspection.


    ¡°Sure, as hell, is.¡± Doyle agreed.


    Barry adjusted his position to see both men.


    ¡°Jaxon, what happened to the crying lady? Was she leaking blood, all over?¡±


    ¡°Well, Barry, I don¡¯t know, ultimately. I leaned closer, to get her attention, but once I saw the boy, I knew it wasn¡¯t the winds that got him. He looked about like your friend, here.¡± Jaxon pointed at Jimmy¡¯s covered body on the floor. ¡°I turned around and got out of there real fast. I didn¡¯t leave the road, after that.¡±


    ¡°She the only one? Living, I mean.¡± Doyle asked.


    ¡°I heard signs of life, but only two times, besides the crying lady. They came from off the road, and it was too dark to see anything. I didn¡¯t go off investigating, though. Best to not take any chances.¡±


    Barry went back to looking out the window and asked Jaxon what this town looked like.


    ¡°I can say it was better than the first town. You guys were about five miles farther from the blast. Most of the structures are still standing, but the whole place is trashed. Literally. Debris all over the place.¡±


    ¡°Survivors?¡±


    ¡°Maybe, Doyle, but maybe not. I heard talking, coming from one house. Sounded like somebody digging through debris, a few blocks back, too. This place is clear of dead people. You all had structures to protect you. Unlike Centrahoma, where the wind forces leveled most of the town.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a good thing,¡± Barry expressed.


    Jaxon sat on the edge of the recliner and silently offered the men one of the sodas in his hands. Barry took one and thanked the man.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think it made a difference, Barry. All the windows are missing, along with whatever curtains and blinds had covered them. I walked around this place for a couple of hours. Except for the one voice and the rummaging sounds, I haven¡¯t seen any movement. I haven¡¯t heard anything else,¡± Jaxon finished, but quickly added, ¡°until I found you two.¡±


    ¡°HOLY SHIT.¡± Barry yelled. He sprang from the couch and sped toward the front of the bus.


    ¡°What?¡± Doyle yelled after him.


    Barry rounded the stairwell and reached to unlatch the lock. He felt a tug on his shirt.


    ¡°What are you doing, Barry?¡±


    ¡°Let go of me, Doyle. There is a person out there.¡±


    ¡°A living person?¡± Jaxon¡¯s head popped over the stairwell partition, after he spoke.


    ¡°Is it safe to go out there?¡± Doyle cautioned.


    ¡°Yes, a living person. They just turned the corner by that gas station. And I don¡¯t know, Doyle, but Jimmy died within five minutes. This bus isn¡¯t airtight, and Jaxon was out there for hours,¡± Barry pulled the slide bolt as he spoke.


    The door released and Barry folded it open. The slightly amber air invaded the stairwell and swirled around as it mixed with the more diluted bus air. He hesitated, for a moment, before he turned back and asked if the other two men were coming.


    Doyle froze. Apprehension prevented him from responding. Jaxon came around the corner and bowled passed Doyle, patting the still man as he went by. Doyle watched both men step from the bus. His fear of what was going on was no match for his fear of being alone. Like a child flipping the light off and leaping to the sanctuary of their bed, Doyle sprang after them.


    ¡°Wait for me!¡±

 Quarries and Quotas

    "Eighteen is enough, Dillon."


    "Our quota is twenty, Robert. That means eighteen is not enough."


    "Dammit, Dillon! I''m tired of riding around in this truck. Let''s just tell them these are all we found," Robert pleaded.


    "We both know that wouldn''t work. Eighteen is not the number we were given. It''s twenty. If we come back with eighteen, they will ask us why we didn''t keep looking. It''s twenty a trip. Twenty per truck, per trip. More is good, and less is not an option." Dillon reminded his partner. "Besides that--whatever that was, we have only found four living people since those bombs exploded. We need to find the last two and get the load delivered."


    "You''re right. I''m sorry. It just pisses me off. It is the same quota for every shepherd, for every truck. It doesn''t matter if it''s New York City or Bum Fucked Egypt, Oklahoma. What did we do to deserve the middle of nowhere in Oklahoma?"


    Dillon turned to scowl at his passenger.


    "You know exactly why we were sent HERE! YOU FUCK!." Dillon screamed at Robert. "If I didn''t have express orders not to slit your throat, I would have already."


    Robert gulped and sheepishly turned to look out his window.


    "We just pulled into this town. It''s not very big, but we should be able to find a sheep or two." Dillon guessed. All we are concerned with is the number two. Two more until we can head back. Dos mas!" Barry turned and held up two fingers. "Let''s hope we find them in this town so we can deliver. Deliver and find a different line of work." Dillon sounded melancholic as he spoke the last words.


    "Different work?" Robert squeaked. "What the heck you talkin'' about, Dillon?"


    Dillon kept driving and ignored the question.


    Dillon turned the truck off the highway and onto the main road of Tupelo. He slowed the truck to a crawl. They needed to be alert for any signs of life.


    "Before last night, the snatching business was good, but you''ve seen what I''ve seen. You heard the boss, man, yesterday. We knew the Keepers were planning a big attack. That''s why we lowered the truck into the bunker."


    Dillon pulled the truck into the school parking lot and surveyed the surrounding area. Visibility was still terrible, from the yellow haze.


    "See that school?" Dillon asked Robert.


    "Yeah, I can see that sch¡ª"


    "Shut up, Robert. I know you can see the school. Just listen." Dillon chided the other man. "A town this size--minimum¡ªtwo hundred students, K through senior year. Ah¡­plus faculty and staff." He turned to Robert again. "How many total, do you think?"


    Robert heard the question and faced Dillon. He was unsure if he was supposed to answer this time. A moment went by, and Dillon kept waiting. Robert began to stammer and stutter.


    "Jesus, Robbie Boy, you need to learn to relax. You''re wound, TOOOO, tight, my friend."


    Dillon reached over and gave Robert''s shoulder a friendly squeeze.


    "The point is, Roberto, a whole hell of a lot more than showed up for school today. I think that humans are an endangered species now." Dillon patted Robert''s shoulder and continued. "When the Jefe radioed earlier, he was shaken. I could hear it. He said the attack was global, but I don''t think he realized how effective those damn bombs were."


    Dillon flicked Roberts''s ear as he pulled his hand back from the other man''s shoulder.


    "WHAT THE HECK! Robert yelled. "Why?"


    "Because I can."


    Robert glared at Dillon as the truck took off. He began grumbling under his breath but stopped when he noticed Dillon''s threatening gaze.


    "Pay attention. If we don''t come across visible targets, it will be house calls."


    Robert frowned at the thought of going from house to house. The smell of all those hours-old bodies was hard to stomach. The sight of them was hard enough to cope with. Robert leaned closer to the window as if the extra few inches would be the difference in spotting somebody or not. They passed the first few buildings and businesses, but the only signs of life were snuffed out hours ago. They continued down the road, stopping outside the police station.


    "There is no hospital in town, but somebody may have come here looking for help." Dillon reasoned.


    "Good idea, Dillon. You go check it out, and I''ll wait with the truck."


    "The fucking hell you will. Not after last time. Your ass is never staying with the truck again." Dillon threatened Robert. "We should be on the way back. But you had to waste those three back in Durant. You stupid fuck! The only reason I don''t tell them what you did is because I know they would blame me for not controlling your ass."


    "Please, don''t tell them. I''ll do anything. Please. I don''t have any chances left." Robert pleaded.


    "I know you will. Now get out of the truck, and let''s go check out this police station."This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    The two men exited the station. All they found was a couple of bloody corpses.


    "What now, Dillon?"


    "A hardware store, a feed store, a vet, a motel, and a gas station. All were closed when the bombs hit. Our best bet is the motel. Let''s hit up the gas station first. We need diesel. After that, the motel is just a few hundred feet from there."


    "Do I have to work the pump crank?" Robert whined.


    "You bet your ass you do. No power means the pumps don''t work. Now, remember what I told you. Open the lid to the diesel tank. Run the hose to the bottom, then pull it back up a couple of feet. We don''t need to suck up trash from the bottom of the holding tank. Put your foot on the hose and crank the pump handle. Simple enough, right Bobbo?"


    "I''m not a moron!" Robert squawked.


    "Could have fooled me, Robby," Dillon joked. "Only a moron would try to pull the shit you pulled in Durant."


    "You''re an asshole, Dillon."


    "Get in the damn truck. And shut up. The gas station is four blocks away. Keep your eyes peeled."


    The men climbed back into the truck and headed for the gas station. They made it to the end of the road, not seeing a soul, and turned onto the next street.


    "There is the gas station, Dillon." Robert pointed out.


    "No shit, Robert. Climb in the camper and get the pump and hoses."


    "Hey, Dillon, are you seeing what I''m seeing?"


    "And what does the moron see?" Dillon taunted.


    Robert leaned forward and started pointing and tapping the windshield.


    "Right there, Dillon. He''s right there. Beside the gas pump." Robert, frantically, spit the words out.


    "Calm down, Robert, I''m not seeing what has you so excited."


    Dillon leaned over the steering wheel and squinted. He scanned the direction Robert pointed, but he was having trouble noticing anything.


    "Goddamn bombs and their stupid fog." Dillon cursed.


    "There! Somebody''s leaning against that second pump. There. Look," Robert exclaimed, again, while pointing.


    "You''re right, damn it. There is." Dillon confirmed. "Do you think they are alive? They aren''t moving."


    "You never know, but I hope so. Let it be number nineteen."


    "Don''t count your eggs yet, Robert; they could have been walking around when the bombs went off and stumbled over there and leaned over to die." Dillon reasoned.


    "You''re such a killjoy, Dillon. Shut up."


    Dillon snapped his head at Robert. His intense glare was enough to let Robert know that he was treading on thin ice.


    "Sorry." Robert apologized. "Guess I''m a little anxious."


    The truck rolled up to the station and stopped on the road beside it. The two men got out and walked to the front of the truck.


    "Where the fuck is the pump?" Dillon asked the other man.


    "I didn''t grab it."


    "Why the fuck not? Do we not need diesel anymore?"


    "I thought we were gonna check on this guy real fast," Robert answered.


    "We are, but we still need fuel. Get the damn pump. Get it set up. Once we see if this person is alive, I''ll pull the truck over. You start pumping."


    Robert nodded as he turned and headed back to the truck. He returned a couple of minutes later.


    "Now listen carefully. I will walk around to the pump. I''ll say something to get their attention, assuming they aren''t a blood puddle. You walk around the other side. Try to keep the pumps between you and them. If they are alive, I''ll keep them occupied, and you come in from behind and hit them with the taser. Once they are down, I''ll hold them while you apply the chloroform. You grabbed the TASER and chloroform, didn''t you, Robert?"


    Robert sat the pump down and sprinted back to the truck. He came back holding the taser, a bottle, and a rag.


    "Forget about the pump, for now," Dillon ordered. "I don''t want to test your ability to multitask."


    Robert began to speak, but Dillon raised his hand and stopped him.


    "Head behind the station. I''m going to check this person out. When you hear me mention the yellow mist, that means it''s time for you to use the TASER."


    Robert snuck off to the other side of the pumps. Dillon approached the leaning figure from the side. The figure didn''t move. Dillon doubted the person was alive, but as he got closer, he heard faint sobs. His ears perked at the sound. His pulse rose. Hunting was his greatest thrill, and the hunt was on.


    "Are you okay?" He asked the figure, but no answer came. "Hello". Still, no answer. Dillon walked closer and could better see the crying teenage boy. He sat with his head against the pump. His eyes were closed, and tears ran down his face. "Are you okay, son?" Dillon asked again. The kid showed no signs of hearing him. Dillon reached out and touched his shoulder. The boy opened his eyes and rolled away from Dillon. The boy quickly recovered from being startled, and he rose to his feet. He flung his arms around Dillon, and his sobbing became deep moans of relief.


    "Whoa. Easy there, fella. It''s okay." Dillon assured the boy as he pushed him to arm''s length. "Everything is going to be okay."


    The young man pointed at his eye then shook his head and pointed at his ears. He then pointed at himself and followed the gesture by putting both hands over his ears.


    "You''re deaf?" Dillon mouthed slowly.


    The boy nodded.


    "Can you read lips?" Dillon mouthed asked.


    He nodded again.


    "Good. Everything will be okay. You are safe now. I don''t know what is going on, but this weather sure is strange, huh?"


    The man nodded again.


    "I don''t know what is going on with this YELLOW AIR."


    The boy pointed at the sky and started another gesture, but it quickly turned into spastic jerking. His body went rigid, and he toppled to the ground. Dillon pounced on the young man and held him down. Robert put the TASER away and pulled the chloroform-soaked rag from his pocket. He dropped down to the ground and clamped the rag over the boy''s face. There was a brief struggle, but it only lasted a few seconds. Dillon rolled the unconscious teen onto his side. He secured his prey''s hands and feet with zip ties. Dillon got up and pulled their victim off the ground. Robert helped hoist the man onto Dillon''s shoulder.


    "Go get the pump set up," Dillon ordered Robert. "I''ll throw this one into the trailer and pull the truck around."


    Dillon and Robert walked back to their rig. Robert stopped at the front of the truck to gather the pump and hoses. Dillon carried his prize to the rear of the trailer. He unlocked the trailer door and swung one of its doors open. The limp body was quickly flung to the trailer floor. He rushed to close the door and muffle the cries of the other eighteen captives. The trailer was soundproof if the doors were closed. But when it opened, the chorus of the eighteen terrified voices assaulted Dillon. They begged for freedom. They begged for answers. They sobbed and cried. Dillon slammed the door and silenced the sorrowful cacophony.


    "Nineteen down. One to go." Dillon congratulated himself.


    I love the hunt!

 Running into Danger

    Barry sprinted to where he saw the figure. Jaxon easily caught up to the bigger man and asked which way the person went. Barry gestured down the nearest intersection. Jaxon was much faster than Barry, and he quickly outdistanced the bigger man. Doyle reached Barry just as he disappeared around the corner.


    Barry was already huffing and puffing. Doyle slowed and began to ask Barry if he was okay, but Barry gestured for Doyle to keep going. Doyle stalled for a moment.


    "Ge¡­huff¡­go¡­puff" Barry stopped his pursuit. He planted both hands on his knees and took a long, deep, breath. "don''t lose¡­huff¡­them!" he barked.


    Doyle ran ahead to the edge of the house on the corner. He took a look back toward Barry as he headed around the house.


    "Son of a bitch!" Doyle screamed as Jaxon popped back around the house. The scream made Barry lurch back into motion, but he relaxed when he realized there was no danger.


    "I almost shit myself," Doyle informed Jaxon. A look of sincere consideration formed on Jaxon''s face, and he quickly placed a hand on Doyle''s shoulder.


    "I really didn''t mean to startle you, Mr. Falcone. I just realized y''all weren''t with me, and I came back."


    Doyle shrugged the hand off his shoulder and took a step back.


    "It''s fine. No worries, man." Doyle assured. "We''re all good."


    Jaxon''s concern shifted to relief, and he smiled at Doyle. Barry stumbled up to them, and they both turned to face him.


    "Did you see ''em?" Barry quizzed Jaxon.


    "Yeah, looks like an older boy. He''s heading toward the gas station."


    "Let''s go, then¡­before we lose him." Barry urged.


    Jaxon took the lead, and made his way back around the house. Barry saw Jaxon look around the corner and quickly pull his head back. His arm went down and he pumped his open palm at the other two men, motioning for them to stop. He rolled his back against the wall and gestured for Barry and Doyle to be quiet. Slowly, Jaxon walked toward them.


    "A big rig just pulled up to the gas station," Jaxon whispered.


    "A running truck? For real?"


    "Yes, Barry¡­and two men got out," Jaxon informed them.


    Doyle became excited at the hope of operating vehicles. The idea made this whole catastrophe seem less bleak. Barry also felt a little dread evaporate. Walking everywhere would keep him in constant pain. Just knowing how much walking he had in store filled him with depression and anxiety. Now a vehicle to ride in, that was a game changer for Barry.


    "Probably filling up with diesel." Barry guessed.


    "Maybe they got news and room for us?" Doyle chimed in.


    "I don''t think so, Mr. Falcone," Jaxon answered, sounding certain.


    Doyle started to speak, but Barry raised his hand to prevent the other man from speaking. He looked Jaxon in the eyes for a moment. Jaxon did not pull away from Barry''s glare. Barry could not read the other man.


    What is wrong with you, Jaxon? There is something off. How are you so unbothered by everything?


    "Why do you think that?" Barry asked Jaxon, with more than a little accusation in his tone. Jaxon didn''t respond at first. It took prompting from Doyle to get the man to speak.


    "Mainly because they got the boy we are chasing," Jaxon said the words with no more regard than a person talking about the weather. "Two men. One of them is carrying the boy over his shoulder. Boy wasn''t fighting or anything." Jaxon finished far too calmly.


    "WHAT?" Barry and Doyle exclaimed simultaneously.


    Barry was pushed by Jaxon, forcing him to the side.


    "What the hell, man?" Doyle snapped at Jaxon as he hurried to catch Barry.


    Barry rounded the corner and spotted a man cranking a hand pump. There was no sign of the other guy or the person he carried. He walked faster, and Doyle followed. As they reached the end of the block, the front of the semi became visible. Barry motioned for Doyle to halt, and he peeked around the corner. He didn''t see anybody and pulled back around the corner.


    "I don''t see the second guy or the person we saw," Barry informed Doyle. Jaxon arrived as he finished speaking.


    "What''s the plan, then, guys?" Jaxon asked.


    "No idea. We don''t know where the other¡­"


    Barry was abruptly interrupted by cries for help. Numerous voices pierced the silence with their wretched screams of anguish. Barry didn''t finish his words. He rolled around the corner and sprinted toward the pleading voices. He yelled for Doyle to take care of the man at the pump.


    Doyle, being prone to inaction, did not move. He looked at Jaxon, but the man was leaning against the brick wall and appeared to be inspecting the laces of his shoes. Jaxon realized he was being watched and returned Doyle''s gaze.


    "What? He was talking to you." Jaxon explained with a calmness that didn''t fit the situation.


    "What the hell, man," Doyle yelled at Jaxon for the second time.


    Urgency forced Doyle into action. He ran toward Pump Guy. Adrenaline fueled him onward, but his cowardice was still present.


    What the hell am I doing. I drive cars. I don''t STOP people. Shit¡­ he''s turning toward me. What am I supposed to do? Am I going to have to punch somebody? What if he has a gun?


    Pump Guy didn''t hear the approaching footsteps until Doyle was a dozen strides away. By the time his mind registered the sound, he didn''t have much time to react other than to turn and face the noise.


    Shit, shit, shit¡­ he''s looking at me. What do I do?Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Doyle closed the distance to less than two paces.


    Awwwww Fuuu¡­


    "FUUUUUCK!" Doyle roared as he flung himself headlong into the unprepared man. Doyle was athletic, but he had never been in a fight in his life. His tackle was all wrong. He drove his head into Pump Guy''s sternum. This forced his head down against his own chest. His teeth bit into and then through the tip of his tongue. His teeth clinked together, and the nerves within them screamed. A moment later, he felt Pump Guy''s abrupt halt and the air blasting from his lungs. Doyle grunted as he landed on the other man. Disoriented, Doyle managed to get up. The cool air stung the newly exposed nerve of his chipped tooth.


    I chipped a tooth. Son of a gun¡­really?


    Doyle put his thumb to his teeth. Instant regret followed the surge of pain. Doyle looked down at Pump Guy, and uncharacteristic rage erupted. He did not plan to kick the man, but that''s what he did. One kick, then another. There was a third. Doyle began kicking, and he kept kicking. When the man covered his head, Doyle started stomping instead.


    Jaxon was not a follower. He always did what he wanted and never felt social pressure. Why did Doyle''s reaction bother him? Twice, now, Doyle used that look and those words. Both times, it made Jaxon feel¡­bad. It was a foreign feeling for him. He had not experienced it in years ¨C not since his adoptive mother.


    Jaxon decided that if Doyle thought something needed to be done, then he would help him. He ran after Doyle, but he caught sight of Barry running toward a man at the end of the trailer. At first, Jaxon didn''t think much of it. He knew how formidable the stout man was and assumed he could handle the smaller man. That belief quickly faded, however, as he saw Barry swinging his large fist at the stranger, only to have the other man casually catch the punch in his palm. Barry''s momentum stopped so abruptly that his elbow buckled, and he fell toward the man. The stranger shot his flat palm into Barry''s chest and sent the enormous man stumbling back. Barry''s confusion was apparent as he backed away slowly from the other man.


    Jaxon was rarely surprised, but the sight of such a large man being overpowered made him stop in his tracks and gawk. Pump Guy''s pathetic cries for "Dillon" snapped him into action. He quickly checked on Doyle and saw him stomping on Pump Guy''s ribs. Jaxon had no love for Barry, but Doyle appeared to be friends with Barry, and he would probably be upset if anything happened to him. So, Jaxon decided it was in his best interest to help Barry.


    Fighting was something Jaxon was good at. He never took people''s shit, and that led to many physical encounters. People always underestimated him, even though he was an above-average-sized man. Most people misconstrued his social detachment as dimwittedness. Most people were wrong. Jaxon was calculating. He was strong. He was fast. He had no reservations about clawing eyes and biting flesh.


    As he sprinted, Jaxon pulled a set of brass knuckles from his pocket. They weren''t actual brass. Instead, they were forged by Jaxon himself, using scavenged railroad spikes. They were harder and more rough than cast brass knuckles.


    He grew excited as the iron knuckles slid over his fingers. He hadn''t used them before, and he couldn''t wait to see what they could do to this fucker''s head.


    The kidnapper lurched forward. Faster than Barry would have expected, he found the man''s hands clamped around his throat. He clutched at the kidnapper''s wrist but suddenly found himself being lifted into the air.


    Barry couldn''t breathe. Panic took hold of his thoughts. He felt the pressure building behind his eyes. He kicked outward and struck the kidnapper square in the testicles. The kidnapper''s legs went a little limp, and Barry felt his toes touching the ground. The grip on his neck loosened slightly, and Barry started to pull at the wrists again. Too quickly, the kidnapper''s grin returned to his face, and his vice-like grip returned. He leaned back and straightened his arms. He hefted Barry fully into the air before he stepped back with one leg. He twisted away from this planted foot and jerked Barry back the other way. Barry''s stomach lurched as he flew away from the kidnapper. After a few feet, Barry slammed into the ground and began a disorienting set of flips and tumbles. Barry''s eyes couldn''t keep up with the spinning and bouncing, but he did register Jaxon''s shocked face¡­just before the two of them collided.


    Jaxon gagged once as a hand slammed around his neck. He was pulled from the ground and lifted into the air. He couldn''t breathe. The pressure from the squeezing hands made his head throb. He clamped his eyelids shut tightly against the throbbing inside. The sensation of movement made him open his eyes. The kidnapper walked him toward the front of the semi. Jaxon''s vision began to go fuzzy, and his head started to swim. Rapid kicks bounced off his attacker. He tore at the impossibly strong hands around his neck. Nails ripped skin. The grip did not loosen.


    Unconsciousness started pulling on the edges of his mind. As his vision filled with flurries of flickering dots, Jaxon curled his legs up and kicked out. He drove his feet into the kidnapper''s chest. Every muscle fiber strained to straighten his legs. He managed to force the other man''s arms straight, but all progress stopped there. Their bodies were close together, and Jaxon could not get his legs straight enough to engage the strongest muscles in his legs.


    They cleared the truck, and Jaxon saw Doyle kicking Pump Guy. He tried to scream for help, but that required a path for air to escape his lungs. He began to wave his arms around - he needed to get Doyle''s attention.


    Look at me, dammit! Turn around¡­air. Help!


    Jaxon''s vision began to darken. His eyelids lowered over the image of the kidnapper looking up at him. Jaxon was unaware that he had been hurled through the air. He did not notice the two men he was careening toward. There was no worry about the kidnapper or the Pump Guy. Jaxon did not know of pain or fear. He had no rational thoughts. What he did have was air. Both lungs were full of sweet, fresh air. He didn''t know how, and he didn''t care.


    AIR!


    Jaxon got one full breath before slamming head-first into Doyle.


    The kidnapper stalked back around the truck.


    Barry was hurting, but adrenaline and the dire situation drove him to his feet. He hurried as best he could along the side of the truck. As he rounded the front of the cab, he collided with the kidnapper. Barry skipped off of the other man. He stumbled briefly but managed to turn to face the kidnapper.


    The kidnapper spun on Barry. He was still smiling as he stalked toward Barry. Barry peddled backward, afraid to take his eyes off of his pursuer.


    As the man stalked closer, Barry felt real terror for the first time in his life. He was always on the winning side of fights. Barry never shied away from pain. After countless fights, the big man was confident in his fighting prowess. This was different. He continued to back away from the other man. This guy was dangerous. In a few seconds, the kidnapper had completely crushed Barry''s confidence. The stranger was faster than anybody Barry had ever fought or seen fight. That speed was disheartening, but his inhuman strength filled Barry with immense dread.


    Barry''s foot slid on some loose gravel, and he looked down for just a moment. At that moment, the kidnapper took four strides and wrapped both hands around Barry''s neck.


    Before he could register the movement, Barry was dangling off the ground.


    Panic came instantly as the hands clamped off the blood flow to Barry''s head. His hands tugged at the kidnapper''s hands, but his grip was unrelenting. Next, he tried clawing at the man''s wrists, but Barry was a chronic nail-biter. The attempt did no damage, and if it caused pain, the kidnapper showed no signs.


    The harder Barry struggled, the wider the kidnapper''s grin grew. Barry''s panic intensified as he realized how much the other man was enjoying this. Each breathless moment was an eternity. He violently punched at the grinning face. Even with just his upper body powering the blows, Barry could break a man''s jaw, but this guy just absorbed the heavy blows. With the punches not working, Barry started kicking at the man. The kicks were powerful but wild. Just like the punches, Barry''s kicks just bounced off of the man''s thighs and legs.


    A moment of control settled into Barry as his vision began to blur and narrow. He grabbed the man''s wrists and tightened his core. As much as he could manage without his feet touching the ground, Barry cocked his right leg back. He drove his size fourteen shoe into the man''s balls again. This time, Barry knew the other man felt the kick. The man grunted, and his knees bent enough for Barry''s feet to sag back to the ground.


    At that moment, Barry was flooded with hope. He thought that maybe this man wasn''t so tough after all. Then the kidnapper straightened his legs and lifted Barry high before sending him flying¡­for a second time.


    Barry''s gut dropped from the sudden change in velocity. He had no time to brace for impact before he started tumbling across the parking lot. Realizing he was no longer in motion, Barry ignored the full body pains he felt and lifted his head. He was barely conscious, but he knew he had to keep his eyes on the kidnapper. Barry found the man was already walking toward him. His heart sank. He knew this man would not stop until they were dead.


    The kidnapper''s murderous glare flickered to the side, and Barry followed it. A woman was soaring toward the kidnapper. Barry''s brain was quickly sinking into darkness. His thoughts were fragmented and jumbled. There was something strange about seeing the woman gliding toward his attacker, but Barry couldn''t figure out what. He felt the need to warn this lady. She needed to run! Barry wanted to warn her, but the words would not come. Moments from unconsciousness, his mind was having difficulty stringing cohesive thoughts together. Then, he could no longer keep his head raised.


    Barry''s final thought was whether or not the still, slightly yellow air tasted like lemons.

 Fight or Flight

    Cassandra knew how effective the bombs were. She cleared the previous town and was glad this town was far enough away to survive the devastation of the blast. She finished clearing a block and crossed to the one. She almost yelped at the unexpected figure that walked down the road. Managing to restrain herself, she ducked back around the edge of the nearest house.


    She eased around the corner and watched the figure meander away from her. His walk was nearly a shuffle, and his arms hung loose. His gait and posture made her worry about his condition. He very well could be infected. It wasn''t supposed to take more than a few minutes, but human biology was complex, and there were always deviations from expectations. She was supposed to gather healthy survivors and avoid the sick and injured.


    "Triage," the guys called it. They lectured about how difficult life would be and how resources would be scarce. Triage included anybody under twelve years old or over fifty. Anybody showing signs of sickness or having ambulatory issues had to be left behind. It was her duty to shepherd the rest back to a mobile processing center, or an MPC for short. The nearest one was scheduled for five days after the attack. She planned to spend a couple of days heading south and gathering whom she could. The closest MPC was in Durant, Oklahoma, and was about 50 miles due south. It would be a rough trek, but she knew she had to grab as many people as she could, and anybody who proved to be a hindrance would get left behind.


    Her quarry crossed into a section of residential blocks. The rows of houses had mailboxes, trees, and decorative yard fixtures. She noticed a house with a picket fence surrounding the backyard. It gave her an idea.


    Changing tactics, she cut away from the road and sprinted behind a house. Using the house as cover, she managed to get around him and head him off. After deciding on the best house, she crawled through the broken window and made her way to the front of the house. She squatted away from the window, using the shadow as cover. The man was four houses away and slowly getting closer. As he neared the third house, she started to pick up on a sound he was making. Two houses away, and she could hear him sobbing. She realized he was not a man but a teenage boy.


    He edged around the house she was in, and she could see his face. There was no blood anywhere on him. His eyes weren''t seeping blood; neither was his mouth or ears. He appeared to be traumatized or in shock, but he showed no signs of sickness.


    He did not appear to be heading anywhere in particular. He trudged straight down the middle of the main street, heading toward a gas station. Beyond the station was the empty road. She knew she needed to get his attention, but he was in shock. Cassy didn''t want to startle him. She exited to the next room. She wanted a better look at the boy. She was focused on getting to the nearest window and tripped over an unnoticed corpse. She crushed a flimsy nightstand as her weight slammed into it.


    A ceramic seahorse lamp flew from the nightstand. It shattered on the floor and destroyed the silence.


    Shit! If he heard that, he might bolt.


    She dropped below the window and calmed her nerves for a moment. After a few deep breaths, her head peaked over the window frame. The boy walked onward. Still sobbing. If he heard her, he showed no signs of it.


    Deciding on her course of action, she headed out of the room. She tried not to look at the blood-soaked form, but she had to step around it. She couldn''t ignore the gruesome scene.


    It was too much. Cassy couldn''t shove it away. Her emotional walls blew away, and a flood of primal emotion overtook her. An immense sadness overwhelmed her. Cassy was a nurturer. She was the shoulder for crying and a hug for the weary. Sympathy, empathy, compassion, revulsion, sorrow, guilt¡­they all assaulted her. From all sides, from all directions, they crushed her. Her chin quivered as she fought to control her emotions.


    She clamped her eyes shut. Tears pooled beneath her eyelids before they ran down her face. But the tears could not wash away the image of the bloody girl lying on the floor. The child was around ten years old. Her dark pigtailed hair was a weave of shimmering wet red and dull, crusted crimson. She floated in a pool of her own blood. Her snow-white pajamas swirled in a gradation of red hues as the silken fabric absorbed the ever-thickening liquid that jellied around her.


    It is necessary. We must do what is necessary. Mankind depends on us.


    Steeling her resolve, she wiped her face and hopped clear of the body. She hurried down the hallway and exited the back door. No longer able to see the boy, she decided to try to head him off. She circumvented the gas station and ran another 2 blocks before hiding behind an old wooden sign that read, "Welcome to Tupelo."


    She planned to wait for the boy to approach the gas station, and she would then walk toward him. She felt this would be the best way to appear unthreatening and coincidental. She only waited a moment before he came slinking toward the gas station. She waited for him to be obscured by the fuel pumps so she could hurry out to the road and begin her walk toward him. Her head stayed low as she peaked to check his progress. The boy sat against one of the pumps. He was facing away from her, and only his right arm and leg were visible. She knew this was her best chance. She got to her feet and stepped toward the road. She swiped the dust and grime from her clothes and started his direction.


    She froze.


    A sharp screech pricked her ears. It was followed by the loud hiss of tractor-trailer brakes. Her training kicked in, and her right knee bent while her left leg pushed out to the side. Her torso twisted toward the sign, and she lunged behind it. After a full roll, her right arm and leg stayed wide. They struck the ground, and she let her knee and elbow absorb the momentum. Cassy finished the maneuver on all fours, with her head up, scanning the area around the station.


    That''s a tractor-trailer. But the bombs should have knocked out the vehicles.


    She spotted movement. A large man appeared and approached the young man. She couldn''t hear the words, but she could see the newcomer was trying to talk to the boy. She wondered if the boy knew the man. He didn''t appear to be alarmed. She lost sight of the man as he walked around the pump to stand before the boy. She could just make out the top of the stranger''s head and caught glimpses of his gesturing hands. This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Maybe it''s just some local, after all. He moves around like he is healthy enough. I need to get closer and see if I can hear what''s going on. I may be able to gather them both.


    Another figure materialized from around an overstuffed dumpster. She knew right away something was off. The newest man was flanking the boy.


    The boy''s hand pressed to the concrete as he pushed himself to his feet. The pump completely prevented her from seeing the boy, but she could still see the first man''s head and hands.


    Slowing to a tiptoe, the ambusher closed the last few feet to the pump from behind the boy. He pulled something from his pocket and carefully slipped around the pump. The pump prevented her from seeing what happened, but she could see the boy''s right hand flailing. Then, it went limp. Moments later, the two men were carrying the boy toward the side of the gas station.


    She started to run to the boy, but her training kept her in control of her emotions. She wanted to help, but she could not risk her safety. One boy meant nothing when considering the rough road mankind now faced.


    Cassy didn''t know if she would be able to help, but she could try to get closer. She needed to see what was going on. She did not know if this was an isolated event or if these men posed a risk to other survivors.


    The men and their captive disappeared behind the station. She took advantage of this and sprinted straight down the highway. She needed to avoid being spotted, so she chose to keep the gas station between them. She sped toward the tall chain-linked fence that paralleled the station. Still a dozen feet away, she launched herself into the air. She soared over the fence, clearing the top rail enough to plant her right foot against it and thrusting herself toward the station''s flat roof.


    She could have easily landed on the roof, but she was not sure what was on the roof. It would not be good to slam into an air conditioner condenser or an exhaust vent. Instead, she aimed for the wide eve of the roof. The second jump was gauged perfectly. Instead of jumping toward the structure, she angled higher and neared the eve on her way down. She hit the side of the structure nearly flat to the eve. She led with her feet and let them absorb her impact. Her hands clasped the top of the roof''s raised walls and stabilized her. She hung for a moment and listened. She could still hear talking coming from the other side of the parking lot.


    Pushing out with one hand, she flipped her back against the wall and grabbed the roof with her free hand. She tucked her head backward beneath the overhang and curled her knee toward the eve. She straightened her legs and tightened her biceps. Forcing her legs over the top of the wall. As she rose, she crunched her stomach and let her rigid legs fold over the lip of the wall. With a twist of her wrist, her momentum pulled her head over the wall. A gentle push from her hands, and she flowed backward onto her feet.


    Silently, she crossed the roof.


    The sound of voices caused her to stop. She didn''t have a chance to catch what was being said. The two men were already moving toward the truck. The bigger of the two men had the boy thrown over his shoulder. The young man was limp as a wet rag. She scanned around, but the area around the semi was wide open. If she jumped down, she would be spotted by the man who was feeding a hose into the station''s fuel tank. The loud grating of a rusty hinge drew her attention. The big man had opened the door of the trailer, and she could no longer see him.


    Numerous voices could be heard screaming and shrieking.


    What the hell is going on?


    It took all the discipline she had to keep from dropping down and sprinting to the trailer. There is always a bigger picture, but sometimes, the matter at hand can overpower logic. This was one of those moments for her. She trained for and witnessed the most gruesome and tragic experiences man could face. She had seen it all, but being able to save a life was a different experience. It was hard for Cassy to ignore a life she could save.


    Her compassionate heart quarreled with her sense of duty, but she took no action as she watched the man close the trailer door and swing the latch down. He disappeared around the driver''s side of the trailer, and she turned her focus to the other man, the one cranking on the pump.


    She had no idea what the correct course of action was. She knew she needed to decide before it was too late. Her focus turned inward, and she pondered her dilemma. Her attention was drawn back to the external situation by the sound of rapid footfalls. A loud yell rang from a new stranger.


    ¡°FUCK¡± the new man yelled


    The new man rushed at the pump-cranking guy and flung himself into the man. Both men hit the ground hard, but Kidnapper landed on his back, and his breath was taken. The man on top regained his feet and began kicking the pump cranker in the head and upper torso. When Pump Cranker used his arms to protect his head, Head Kicker stepped around and stomped his ribs. Pump Cranker did not try to escape or fight back. He kept his head covered and screamed, over and over, a single word¡­


    "DILLON! DILLON! DILLON! DILLON! DILLON! DILLON!"


    A loud, hollow thud caused her to look back toward the trailer. A very large bald man stumbled backward, away from the hood of the semi. He was stalked by the man who loaded the boy in the truck. Kidnapper wore a devilish grin as he stalked after this bearded bald man. Bald Man was shorter than Kidnapper by a few inches, but Kidnapper was slighter in build. Bald Man easily had one hundred fifty pounds on Kidnapper, but he was sheepishly retreating from him.


    Cassy noticed a third man sprinting toward Kidnapper and Bald Man, but neither of the two seemed to notice him. Kidnapper became a blur as he sprang forward and wrapped his hands around Bald Man''s neck. So fast was the movement that Bald Man''s feet were dangling in the air before he had time to react.


    Bald Man''s face was rapidly shifting into darkening shades of red. She watched the big man claw and club at the hands that were choking him, but it did not affect Kidnapper''s grip. Bald Man kicked out and landed a powerful blow to Kidnapper''s testicles. This time, there was a reaction¡ª but not one that boded well for Bald Man.


    Kidnapper grunted from the kick, and his knees became a little looser. Bald Man''s feet sank back to the ground. For a moment, she saw Bald Man''s face go from panicked doom to hopeful optimism. That moment disappeared as fast as Kidnapper''s grin reappeared. Kidnapper wore an expression of murderous glee. He redoubled his grip around Bald Man''s throat and lifted the man as high as he could. Kidnapper stepped back, twisted, and then heaved Bald Man through the air. Bald Man flew a half dozen feet before his heels drug the concrete, and the rest of him came slamming onto the hard concrete. So forceful was the throw, Bald Man fully rolled backward and into a second flip before he began to tumble sideways¡­slamming into the third man.


    "Drolka¡­" Cassy whispered in disbelief.


    Now, she knew what she had to do.


    Running at a full sprint, she jumped from the roof, aiming for the man she now assumed to be "Dillon." Before she landed, Dillon noticed her movement and looked her way. A look of yearning sprouted on his face. She could see he was not surprised by her arrival but eager for it. His posture was relaxed, unconcerned. That alone made her neck hairs prick up, but his gleeful smile made her question her decision.


    Dillon spun around and waved as if he saw an approaching friend.


    "Welcome, to the party. I''m glad you''re here, pen''Kai." Dillon greeted.

 Rescue and Retreat

    Barry stared at the little girl that was speaking to him. Her long curls tickled his face as she leaned over him. He turned away. as a strand of hair tickled his nose. As soon as he did, he felt little hands and feet clambering over his hip.


    ¡°I¡¯m sca¡¯ wid, Daddy,¡± the sweet voice whined; though Barry knew she wasn¡¯t scared.


    She flipped over him and nuzzled her head under his scratchy beard. Barry wrapped his arm over her and then grunted, as she curled her knees in and jabbed his gut.


    ¡°Sawee, Daddy.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t apologize, baby. Daddy¡¯s fine,¡± he assured her, pulling her closer.


    Barry gently shook his head, trying to push her hair away from his ticklish nose. She smelled like bubblegum. That was her favorite scent of shampoo. It had been, since the day she asked him if he liked it and he wrinkled his nose and acted like it burned his nose. She giggled and giggled. For days after that, she would run up to him and wag that shampoo bottle in his face. He would put on the same charade and she would scamper off, tickled to death.


    He closed his eyes, with the scent of her bubblegum hair. He heard yelling coming from the living room. He lifted his head and cocked it toward the door.


    ¡°Go to the trailer!¡±


    That made no sense to Barry. He didn¡¯t have a trailer. The thought fled from his consciousness. His mind was pulled back to the soft strands of hair dragging across his face. He smiled at the familiar bubblegum aroma. He took a slow pull of air through his nose, so sweet was the metallic scent of blood¡­


    Blood?


    Barry opened his eyes and looked down his chest at his daughter. She looked back up at him and giggled. He smiled back and ran his hand through her copper hair. He gently scratched around her head, careful not to tangle or pull her delicate hairs.


    ¡°You need to get to the trailer,¡± a voice screamed. ¡°You need to get that door open.¡±


    Barry shifted the girl to one side so he could slide out of the bed.


    ¡°Baby girl, Daddy¡¯s gonna go see what all this shouting is about. I¡¯ll be right¡­¡±


    ¡°GET UP. NOW.¡±


    Barry snapped his head around. The yelling was directly behind him, but nobody was there. He turned back toward the bed, to ask his daughter if she heard the voice. She was not there.


    ¡°Emma? Emma? Where did you go, Emmalynn?¡±


    Barry reached down to look under the thick comforter, but a tremendous wave of pain assaulted his head. He clenched his eyes tight against the ravaging pain.


    ¡°You have to get to the tailor.¡±


    Barry forced his eyes open to look at the speaker, but the light was too bright and it caused a fresh wave of head-splitting agony.


    ¡°HURRY! The trailer.¡±


    He started to raise his arm to shield his eyes from the light, but his shoulder spasmed from the effort. Reflexively, he let his arm drop back down. He squinted at his arm and saw scrapes and cuts all over it. His knuckles were skinned, as was his elbow.


    Barry became more awake and that brought awareness. He didn¡¯t want to leave her, again, but he understood it was just a dream. His daughter wasn¡¯t there¡­she hadn¡¯t been for a while.  He started to remember pieces of what happened. There was something urgent. There was a survivor.


    He tried to collect his thoughts, but his whole body was in pain. His knees ached, but they moved fine. He gritted his teeth and pushed through the pain of raising himself from the ground.


    ¡°You!¡±


    Barry slowly turned toward the voice. It was still so bright that he couldn¡¯t focus on the speaker. The voice was female and the form appeared female, but Barry could not discern more than that.


    ¡°I can¡¯t keep him busy much longer,¡± the woman pleaded. ¡°You have to get the boy from the trailer.


    The boy!


    The day¡¯s events flooded back into Barry¡¯s mind. He started to question the speaker but decided it wasn¡¯t the most pressing issue.


    Barry ran. Every step was jarring to his spine, but he kept running. He reached the trailer and looked back toward the female speaker.


    The kidnapper had thrown a punch, but it appeared to have missed the mark. As a spectator, the amazing speed of the kidnapper''s movements was impossible. Barry was in awe of the fighting pair. She was as fast as the kidnapper; hopefully, faster.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    The kidnapper leaped and threw a flying overhand punch. The woman flipped backward, landing a small blow with one of her spinning feet. The kick knocked the man¡¯s head backward. He lowered his head. He still wore his seemingly permanent grin, except it was now split into two halves. The kidnapper looked sinister as he grinned. Blood ran from over his newly exposed teeth and pooled at the edges of his lips. He showed no signs of pain.


    The kidnapper threw his head back and howled with laughter. He clapped his hands as he lowered his head. Then he pointed at the woman.


    ¡°You must be a Rhahka¡¯Ven,¡± he accused.


    The woman did not respond¡­to him.


    ¡°Stop gawking, and get the boy.¡± She ordered Barry.


    Barry turned and ran toward the rear of the trailer.


    ¡°Have to be.¡± The kidnapper reiterated. ¡°A Penth¡¯Thoora would  have already killed me.¡±


    Again, the woman did not answer the man.


    The kidnapper wagged his finger and made a clicking noise, with his mouth.


    ¡°You should have stayed out of it, bitch.¡±


    Barry rounded the rear of the truck and looked at the door. His heart sank as he saw the padlock looped through the door lever. He grabbed the lock and tugged. It was hooked, but not locked. He was startled as something heavy slammed into the side of the trailer. The trailer rocked from the impact.


    ¡°Shit!¡± Barry exclaimed.


    He grabbed the lever and unlatched the trailer door. Barry could hear the grunts of the kidnapper and the scraping of rapid footsteps on the gravel. The fight had come to the trailer. Barry swung the door wide and light flooded into the trailer. He gagged. His nostrils were assaulted by the mixture of piss, shit, and sweat.


    A macabre chorus of pleading voices rose as the door opened. The sight of the people shackled to the sides of the trailer disturbed Barry more than Jimmy¡¯s gruesome death. He spotted a solitary form, on the floor. It was the survivor that he saw from the bus. He was unconscious, but not secured to anything. Barry winced, as he used his knee to climb into the trailer. The boy was breathing. Men and women cried for him to release them. A child¡¯s voice found its way through the tumult of begging voices.


    Barry scanned for the child and realized there was more than one. His eyes landed on a small blond girl with her hair in a double braid. The right side of her face looked like an overly ripe plum; black and purple. She wore a pair of panda bear pajamas. They were supposed to be white, but they were stained with days-old urine and long-dried vomit crusted the front of her shirt.


    She sat with her back against the padded wall of the trailer. Her legs were spread wide and straight out in front of her. Barry walked toward her.


    The two kids on her sides shrank from Barry, as he approached. The little girl did not move. She kept looking straight at Barry. Barry stepped to her but he cast a shadow over her form.


    ¡°It¡¯s ok, kids,¡± Barry assured the two nearest children. ¡°I¡¯m here to help.¡±


    Barry put a hand on each cowering child¡¯s shoulder and gave a reassuring squeeze. Neither child seemed to be comforted. Barry squatted before the little girl and angled his body to let the light around him.


    Her face became visible. Barry looked into her gray eyes, and he collapsed to his knees. She wasn¡¯t breathing and her eyes were glazed and unfocused. Barry¡¯s chest caught and his chin quivered. Tears trickled down his cheek as he reached out and closed the little girl''s eyes. Barry began to sob.


    The bombs, watching Jimmy die, the kidnappers. Barry¡¯s mind could not take the sheer tragedy of it all. Fear. Confusion. Frustration. Pain. The emotions imploded before erupting as anger. He began tugging on the chains; violently, savagely. He would yank on a chain and growl in frustration when he could not break it. He tugged on chains and became more angry with each failed attempt to release the poor soul trapped by them. After he tried to loosen the last one, he punched the padded wall and screamed.


    The woman appeared at the rear of the trailer and made a quick inspection of the scene before she danced away to avoid another attack from the kidnapper. Both fighters vanished from view, but Barry could still hear the guttural growls coming from the kidnapper.


    The trailer shook and Barry heard a groan. He feared the worst, for the woman, but she suddenly appeared at the door again. She scanned the trailer, once more, and then looked at Barry.


    ¡°Grab the boy. Get to your friends.¡±


    ¡°What about the¡­¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t beat him. I¡¯m a distraction. We can¡¯t free them.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not lea¡­¡± Barry started.


    ¡°Grab the boy, and get to your two friends.¡±


    The people in chains heard her words and the pleas and cries became screams. They were given hope, just to have it ripped away. Their anguish pierced Barry¡¯s soul. He looked back at the captives, then to the woman. His face scrunched as he tried to keep himself from breaking into sobs, again. He nodded to the woman and walked over to the boy.


    A stiffening back meant Barry had to spread his legs wide, just to be able to bend low enough to grab the boy. Despite his battered condition, Barry tugged the boy up and slung him over his shoulder. Barry stepped to the door and realized he couldn¡¯t hop down. It was over three feet to the ground, and he knew his knees would buckle under the load.


    Leaning his empty shoulder against the wall, he slid to the floor and lowered his legs out the door. He grabbed two handfuls of the boy''s shirt and let him slide off his shoulder and down his chest.


    ¡°Fucking Christ!¡± The words were startled from him as the woman suddenly appeared before him and casually lifted the boy from Barry.


    ¡°Move. NOW!¡± She barked the order while she positioned the boy. She cradled him across both arms; and pulled him against her chest. It looked ridiculous. She was barely five feet tall. The boy¡¯s feet nearly dragged the ground, and he was twice her size. Barry was astonished that she held the load so casually. He wondered how she didn¡¯t pitch forward under the weight.


    Barry scooted out of the trailer and lowered his feet. The begging and pleading had shifted to mostly angry shouting and hate-fueled curses. Barry wouldn¡¯t look in the trailer again. He felt like a piece of shit.


    ¡°Hurry,¡± she urged, as she stepped around the trailer.


    By the time Barry rounded the corner, she was at a full sprint. Despite the weight of the boy, the woman sped away. Barry was not fast, but faster than anybody would expect. Even so, he had no chance of catching up to her.


    Who the fuck are these people?


    She headed for the fuel pumps. Barry could see Jaxon standing over Pump Guy. Doyle leaned against a pump.


    The woman reached them in a few seconds. She softly rolled the boy on the ground and addressed Jaxon and Doyle.


    ¡°There is no time to question me. I led him away, but he will be back, soon. Take this boy and go south on Highway 48. After you cross over the last street, look for the fourth house. Right side of the road. It has a driveway that wraps around the back. There is a metal shop behind the house. I¡¯ll meet you there.¡±


    Jaxon looked for Doyle¡¯s reaction. Doyle climbed to his feet and walked to the boy.


    ¡°You gonna help?¡± he asked Jaxon.


    Jaxon hurried over and they each took one of the boy''s arms.


    ¡°Good,¡± she said. ¡°Don¡¯t talk to anybody. Get to the shop and stay put. Stay out of sight.


    Barry stumbled up, huffing and red-faced.


    ¡°I just heard the trailer door slam shut,¡± Barry warned the woman.


    ¡°STOP RUNNING FROM ME. YOU BITCH.¡±


    The kidnapper growled as he stomped their way.


    ¡°Fill him in.¡± Was all she said, before she charged off, leaving Jaxon and Doyle to explain the plan to Barry.


    Jaxon and Barry watched her as she raced away.


    ¡°We gotta get outta here,¡± Doyle reminded them.


    ¡°Damn right,¡± Barry agreed.


    Jaxon and Doyle scurried toward the highway. Barry limped behind them. He frequently slowed to listen. He thought he heard a window shatter and stopped, but there was no other sound.


    ¡°Pick up the pace, slow poke.¡± Doyle taunted.