Desolation

“Really, Dad?” Sally scowled at him, eyebrows raised in exaggeration. “Lame question. First, it’s great-grandfather, and of course he wouldn’t know about this, unless he was also a fortune teller. Max started writing in the journal about fifteen years ago, just a little bit at first and then a lot more recently.” She thought a moment. “I guess as sort of an instruction book for us.”

Maria said something in Spanish to Miguel, who cleared his throat and glanced between Bill and Sally. “Sorry, but shouldn’t we go now?”

“What’s going on out there?” Sally asked.

“A bunch of thugs are out there. I think they’re with Clyde and they’re demanding the food and supplies. They already burnt down our house and they’re probably going to do that to this one too. We’re leaving Rocky Point.” Bill spoke rapidly. He tried with much difficulty to find the door latch on the metal bookshelf Max had shown him not that many days ago; his broken arm and the time limitations on them stressed him.

“Mr. Clydeston burnt down our house?” Sally’s voice rose in disbelief.

“Yes,” Bill grunted in pain. “Where is the damned thing?”

Sally reached up and the gun she forgot she was holding clanged against one of the shelves. Her whole body reacted as if she had been slapped, everything completely tense. Switching the firearm to her other hand, she reached up again and pulled on an unseen lever. It released with a click. “Here.” Snapping back to reality, she ran to Max’s computer.

Bill swung the bookshelf to reveal another door, but kept an eye on his daughter.

“If we’re leaving, we need to bring some things with us,” Sally added as she grabbed Max’s satchel.

“Yes, of course. Hey, Miguel and Lisa, can you get two more rifles, two more pistols and extra ammo for all of us? Sally will show you where.” Bill turned back to the steel door and pressed the button where a handle would be, expecting to hear it release and partially open.

Nothing happened.

Then, the muffled sounds of automatic gunfire burst all around them.

~~~

They let loose their automatic weapons fire on Max’s house from all sides, spraying hundreds of rounds into the house. After nearly a minute, enough time to kill everyone inside but not destroy the food they were after, El Diablo led several of his men through the door.

In Spanish, he commanded them to find the bodies first and then the food. For several minutes, they searched through every room, some rooms twice, puzzled.

El Diablo knew there had to be a secret hiding area, so they looked everywhere for the doorway until he found it. A giant book case had hinges discreetly hidden on the kitchen side.

He tore into the shelves, knocking everything off: the new Cubs ball cap Bill had given to Max, a glass vase Max had brought back from Iraq, the Bible he had carried with him in the theatre of war, a signed copy of a local author’s book, and so many other reminders of one man’s life. All were tossed to the floor, useless remnants of a past that served no purpose in this present. When the shelves were bare as the day they were installed—the six bullet holes were new additions—El Diablo found the latches.

The bookshelf swung open, revealing the steel door.

El Diablo commanded his men to get all the C-4 they had from a bag left outside.

~~~

Clyde needed a drink. He slunk into his house and poured the remainder of his treasured Tres Generaciones into a shot glass and knocked it back. It was $100 per bottle before the Event, or what the natives called Los Diablos Verdes. Now it was priceless. He grabbed a bottle of Jose Cuervo that he hadn’t turned into a Molotov cocktail, and opened it, pouring it directly onto his arm which was red and angry from burns.

“Son-of-a-biiiiiiitch,” he yelled at the top of his lungs from pain and anger. This whole thing was not going down like he planned it. First that idiot kid Smith disappeared. Then, that idiot pervert Judas leaving the bottles so close to where Clyde was throwing the cocktails. “Ha! You get too close to the fire, you’re going to get burned,” he chuckled, picturing that fat tub of shit flailing around on fire.

He took a swig of the Cuervo, immediately spitting it out on his dining room floor. “Uggh. Shit! This is shit. You’re such an asshole, King. Ha, and now you have no house, and probably no life.”

He paced around his living room. “Too bad about your daughter though, she was a hottie. I’ll give you and Lisa that.”

His thoughts turned to the asshole drug dealers looting the food next door at Thompson’s place. That should’ve been his food. “Fuuuuck!” he yelled. “It’s bullshit, you greasy Mexican cholos.” He stalked to his guest bedroom, remembering the two RPGs Judas and he had found at one of the beach houses they had raided. Obviously they had been owned by some local druggies, as he doubted they would have passed inspection at the border.