'Use the words: disclose, fatten, hackle, irksome, and sphenoid in your story'.

Approx 4,229 words

SURVIVORS

©2004 by W. E. Lopez

Don Sheridan fixed a breakfast of toast and eggs, washing it down with coffee and orange juice. Thank goodness the propane refrigerator still worked in the RV, all electrical service in the RV Park had apparently failed. The orange juice was cold. His stainless-steel percolator went plinka-plinka-dribble and the coffee was soon hot and strong. He took the steaming mug outside and sat in the plastic chair under his awning.

The world seemed dead and deserted. Had he drank so much at the blackjack table last night that he’d fallen through a dimensional warp and arrived in a Pahrump with no people? His head was still throbbing and the sunlight seemed to fry his eyes, even in the shade.

“Okay, Donald, what’s going on here?” he said aloud, his voice sounding weak and distant in the eerie quiet. “You’ve been on the road three weeks writing travel reports from RV parks throughout the south-west, never more than three nights in the same place. You get drunk and wake up in a town without people. What’s the story, and how can you make the most of this situation?”

When he finished his second cup, with his stomach satisfied and his hangover under control, he walked up and down the rows of RV’s parked like slumbering dinosaurs on the hot asphalt. No radios played, the old farts usually enjoying coffee and conversation with their neighbors were no where to be seen. The place was deserted. He decided to check inside the casino, surely there would still be security guards on duty.

But the casino was dark except for the faint illumination allowed by the few doors leading to the outside. No flashing lights or racous sounds emanated from the slot machines. He found six bodies on the floor in the slot machine area. Whatever had happened, these few people had not wanted to leave their machine before it paid off with a jackpot. The craps table was closed with a plywood lid covering the chips the dealers used to make change during the game. All but two of the blackjack tables were closed and had clear-plastic lids covering the neat rows of chips beneath.

A woman with a gray skirt and jacket lay on the floor in the twenty-one pit. Don had seen and talked with her last night. She was the pit boss, had been the pit boss he told himself. She was obviously dead now. The casino had not been crowded on the graveyard shift, which was probably why Don found no more than twenty or so bodies. What had killed them and why had he been spared?

He found the unnatural silence irksome, at the same time it caused the hackles on the back of his neck to stiffen and Don wanted to get away from this place. Had Al Quaeda set off some sort of poison gas during the night, killing an entire community of thirty-thousand people? Or had the real target been Las Vegas, fifty miles away, but the poison gas so powerful it was still lethal when it drifted on the wind? Don reminded himself that Pahrump was a very large town in area and he had only seen a small part of it. Perhaps there were survivors on the edges of town?

He decided he wanted no more of this macabre nightmare, afraid he would eventually run into corpses in the streets beginning to bloat and fatten under the desert sun. But didn’t he owe it to his fellow humans to search for survivors? Don rationalized his feelings and made up his mind to drive to Las Vegas where he could report this catastrophe to the proper authorities. They would have the manpower, equipment and medical resources also, to handle an emergency such as this.

Gladly he left the casino and walked back to the RV parking area. He rolled the awning on the passenger side of his mini-motor-home and cranked down the Winegard TV antenna. He took his coffee cup inside and rinsed it in the sink and set it to dry. The coffee pot he set in the sink where it wouldn’t get knocked about; might as well enjoy a good cup of coffee later this afternoon.

He made another quick look for items which could roll, slide, or tumble while he drove along the highway, Don had performed this task a hundred times and he did it automatically. He walked forward and squeezed into the drivers seat, sticking the key in the ignition and turning the engine over. While it was warming, he decided to try his cell phone and see if he could get anyone to answer 911.

The cell phone showed four bars indicating a strong signal. He punched in 911 and listened to the sound of it ring, and ring, and ring. Finally a machine answered and advised him that all deputies were busy and would he please leave a message. Don punched off. He was sure all the deputies were busy. If they weren’t pushing up daisies, they must be loading corpses into ambulances or clearing wrecked vehicles off the highway. He put the vehicle into drive and pulled out of the RV park heading south on the highway.

The only road between Las Vegas and Pahrump was deserted this morning. Here and there a vehicle had run off the road and into the desert, occasionally a north or south bound vehicle had drifted across the highway and smashed into oncoming traffic. Several vehicles were burned hulks but the flames were long dead, not even the rubber still smoldered.

Don slowed and swerved around the occasional collision, but kept the speedometer on sixty when possible. He wanted to get away from Pahrump and into Vegas as soon as possible. As a free lance writer, he was accustomed to being alone, he even preferred solitude to crowds of people, but he always knew, deep in the back of his mind, the people were always there. They were inside at the next coffee shop, the next bar, or the next shopping mall. They were places he avoided until he felt the need for human contact, if only to observe the strange and often comical antics of his fellow humans. They were always there, until this morning.

As the motor-home began climbing the Spring Mountain grade, the engine temperature began to climb also. Don downshifted to cause the engine to run faster while burning less fuel and the needle held steady, though still 30 degrees above the normal mark. For once in his life he felt thankful there were no vehicles pressing in on his rear bumper, anxious to pass him, making him feel guilty for holding up traffic. Soon he passed the sign marking the summit and began descending the grade on the south side of the Spring Mountains.

Here too, there was an occasional vehicle off in the dirt or flipped on the shoulder of the road. Ahead of him he saw a body with an arm outstretched into his lane of traffic and he began to move to the left before he saw the arm move and he slammed on his brakes! Someone was still alive!

It took several dozen yards before he stopped the heavy motor-home, putting the shift selector into Park and setting the emergency brake. Quickly he was out the door and running up the road in the direction he had come. Twenty yards from the body he stopped and made a closer inspection. It was a woman with long brunette hair. She wore Levi’s and pink tennis shoes with a denim jacket over a striped blouse. Don approached her slowly and kneeled at her side.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Do I look fuckin’ okay!” she said. “My husband ran off the road about two this morning and I’ve been laying here for hours. You’re the first vehicle that has passed and you nearly run over me!” She winced as she tried to sit up and Don involuntarily slid his arm beneath her shoulders to help her.

“Is your husband hurt?” Don asked.

“Not anymore,” she said.

“My name’s Don Sheridan,” he said. “What’s yours? Are you hurt?”

“Hell yes, I’m hurt!” she quipped. “I’m Maggie Anderson. My husband ran off the road and smashed into the side of the hill and killed himself. I think I busted my arm and my left knee hit the dash board when we crashed. I’ve been laying here shivering all night, but now the sun is up and I’m baking, and I gotta pee too. Of course I’m hurt you idiot! Do you think I lay on the highway for kicks?”

Don drew back in surprise before he realized the woman was probably in shock caused by her injuries and the death of her husband.

“Look, I’ve got a motor-home just a little ways down the road. Do you think you can walk if I help you? There’s a potty and I can heat some coffee while you’re in the bathroom. Are you hungry?”

“Sorry I snapped at you,” Maggie said. “I’d love some coffee. I can probably walk if my knee isn’t too bad.” Maggie had been holding her left arm tightly across her mid-section but now she used her right arm to brush her long hair away from her face so she could get a better look at her rescuer. Evidently what she saw didn’t frighten her and she gave him a weak smile, before holding her injured arm again. Don got an arm around her waist and helped her to her feet and together they walked the short distance to the motor-home.

He pulled out the step and helped her inside then showed her the bathroom. “Paper’s on a roll under the sink,” he said. “Call me if you need any help.” Maggie closed the door and Don flipped the water pump switch over the sink. He put the pot back on the burner and turned it on.

“Ten minutes ago I’m the only man in the world, and now I’ve got a lovely woman for company,” he said softly.

“What? I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you,” Maggie said through the closed door.

“I was just wondering if you wanted cream and sugar,” Don improvised.

“Nothing, thanks, black will be fine.”

Don heard the little pump burp as Maggie flushed the commode. She came out of the bathroom and sat down at the dinette. “I’m awful glad you stopped for me Mr. Sheridan. I guess I didn’t show it at the time, but I was probably just feeling sorry for myself.”

“Whatever,” Don said. “You’ve had quite a night of it, and I think you’ve adjusted pretty well.” He set a steaming mug of coffee in front of her and noticed she had taken the time to freshen up somewhat. Maggie had chestnut hair tied in pig-tails, which gave her a definite school-girl appearance. She had hazel eyes that he would call intoxicating. “Take it easy now and let me look at that arm. I used to be in the scouts when I was younger. I think I can still set a broken arm and rig a sling for you. It’s gonna hurt, I promise you, but there isn’t any way to avoid it. I’ve got some Darvon if you want to take one or two capsules before we get started.”

“Can I trust you?” she asked with a flash of even, white teeth and sparkling green eyes.

“Well, if you’d rather wait for the next fellow to come along….”

“Oh, go ahead. I was only joking with you Mr. Sheridan…”

“You better call me Don, Maggie. I don’t know how long it will be before we meet other people, so we might as well be friends. Let me get a couple of those pills for you.” He went to the bathroom and dug through the medicine chest until he found the bottle with a dozen capsules in it. He shook out two and put the bottle in his pocket, thinking she’d most likely need more later. He threw a hand towel over his shoulder and grabbed an elastic bandage too. He set those on the dinette table then went to the closet and found an old fashioned slacks hangar. Separating the two wooden slats which held the cuffs of the trousers, he pulled and twisted until they came loose and he had a satisfactory substitute to use as splints.

He gave Maggie two of the Darvon capsules with a small glass of water to wash them down. “We better wait a bit until those take effect, Maggie. I don’t want to hurt you more than necessary.”

“Thanks for small favors,” she said with another smile. Don decided he liked her.

He didn’t want to bring up unpleasant conversation, but they couldn’t sit here in silence waiting for the pills to do their work. “You don’t seem to be too upset about your husband, Maggie, how long were you married, if I’m not being too forward.”

“What’s to be upset about, Don? He got killed in a car crash and I didn’t. I can’t change things, and I’m not one of those TV actresses who whine and snivel when things get unpleasant. I thought I was gonna die too, but you came along and I guess I’ll live now. To answer your question, we were married three years. No children yet, we both have full time jobs. I’m a cashier at a grocery store in Pahrump, and Ken is…was…a slot mechanic at Circus-Circus. We’re putting as much as we can into the bank and Ken wants to open up a TV and computer repair shop in Pahrump when we get enough saved. And now this….”

“What happened,” Don asked. “I had a snootfull last night and went to bed around midnight. When I got up this morning, the whole town seems to have died in the night.”

“You didn’t see it then?”

“See what?” he asked.

“There was this tremendous flickering blue light that lit up the whole sky. I think it came from a flying saucer or a satellite or something. Anyway, it flared down from the sky and suddenly cars began going left and right off the road. I thought the light was blinding them, but then Ken took his hands off the wheel and began holding his head and screaming. That’s when we ran off the road and hit the mountain.

“It was some kind of death-ray I guess, something that killed nearly everyone it touched. Except you, and me, and maybe a few more, I don’t know. Maybe there is something different in our brains, or in our genes, all I know is I had a hell of a headache when I woke up after the crash.”

“I did too,” Don said, “but I attributed that to an accidental overdose of Jose Cuervo.”

“Have you got a cigarette, Don? I could really use one about now.”

“I only have a smoke once in awhile, Maggie, but I think I have a pack around here somewhere. Would a Marlboro suit you?”

“Horse dung would suit me, Don, if you had some paper to roll a smoke with. Beggars can’t be choosers.”

In the little cubby next to the driver’s seat, Don found half a pack of smokes and dug one out for the girl. He passed it to her and lighted it, then sat down across from her.

“I guess it’s about time, Maggie. Slide your arm across the table toward me.” She did so and Don gently tested her forearm with his fingers. Maggie winced once or twice, but Don decided the break was a simple fracture just above the wrist. He folded the hand-towel and carefully lifted her arm so he could slide it beneath her. “Don’t look at your arm while I set it, Maggie. Look at that ostrich out the front window.”

Surprised, Maggie turned her head to look, but Don was too fast for her. In a split second he had the arm straightened and the bones back in position before she realized he had tricked her. All he heard from her was a sudden gasp as she experienced a brief moment of pain. He cushioned the wooden splints by folding the towel over them, and then wrapped her arm just tight enough to keep the bones from moving.

“I’ve got an extra pillow case in the closet, Maggie. I’ll make a sling for you, but you’ve got to promise not to use that arm for a couple weeks cause I don’t want to have to re-break it and set it again.”

“Yes, Dr. Sheridan,” she said meekly. “I sure hope my insurance will cover this.”

“Don’t get wise with me, kiddo, or my fee will be double,” he quipped.

Don poured another cup of coffee for each of them and joined her with a cigarette, his first in two weeks. They sat on the highway for at least an hour from the time he had stopped to pick Maggie up, but not a single car had passed.

As he stubbed out his smoke he asked, “You ready to hit the road, Maggie? I’m hoping we’ll find some authority and some medical help for you in Vegas. You really do need a proper cast for that.”

“Let’s go, Don. Being out here in the middle of no where and not knowing what’s gone wrong isn’t doing either one of us any good.”

“There’s another reason I think we need to get to Vegas, Maggie. I mentioned authority. In any catastrophe, there is always a certain amount of violence and looting while the police are busy coping with the emergency. If Vegas is anything like what it was in Pahrump, and if there are survivors, some of them might head for the banks and jewelry stores and casinos before they do the sensible thing and head to the super-markets to stock up on food and bottled water. In both cases, I expect there will be trouble and people will fight over the things they need.”

Don helped Maggie into the passenger seat then got behind the wheel and started the engine. They were soon heading south again, toward Las Vegas.

“If that’s what you believe, Don, then why head for Las Vegas and disclose the fact that we are survivors and you have everything we need right here in the motor-home? Why not drive off into the desert some where and wait for things to return to normal?”

Don settled the speedometer at fifty this time. “Because we don’t have everything we need, Maggie. The water tank needs to be filled, we don’t have enough food for more than a day or two, we would need more propane, more gas, and most of all, we need friends.

“No matter how many people have died, there will be survivors. We need to link up with good people so we can defend ourselves from the bad ones.”

“You paint a pretty grim picture, Don. Are you sure we want to survive?”

“Well I certainly don’t want to throw in the towel and lie down and die. I’m not built that way. But I’m not violent by nature, I’m a writer. I want to locate the police or soldiers, or someone I can trust to fight and protect me, protect you also, I’m just not the man for the job.”

“You’re a lover, not a fighter?” Maggie observed.

“I didn’t say that, Maggie. I’m just not much of a fighter. When I think of violence, I think of what it will add to the story I’m writing, or how it affects the characters in my story. I simply can’t picture myself smashing my fist into a persons face, or beating them with a baseball-bat or shooting them with a gun. No, that’s not my style.”

They made it to the bottom of the grade, even though Don twice had to stop and, with difficulty, maneuver the motor-home around wrecked autos blocking the highway. When they got to the turn off for Red Rock, he pulled into the Exxon station. The mini-mart apparently had not been ransacked, so Don decided to do the honors.

The owner was obviously a NASA fan and the interior had been decorated much like a teen-age boys room. Slender wires attached to the ceiling held models of the International Space Station, one of the shuttle vehicles, although Don couldn’t tell which one. There was also a sphenoid shaped vehicle, reminiscent of the opening scenes of The Six-Million Dollar Man, which Steve Austin had crashed onto the desert landing area. Don supposed it was the newer X-24 or X-35 or whatever they were calling the crew emergency return vehicle.

He passed over the sandwiches, hot dogs and burritos in the deli refrigerator and headed for the canned goods. As soon as he spotted the cans of corned beef on the shelf, he cursed himself for having forgotten something to put them in. Don went to the back of the store and into the store room.

By chance, he found stock which had not been unboxed yet. Quickly he grabbed two cases of corned beef, 24 cans to a case. He set another case of tuna atop the two cases and lugged it out to the motor home. “I better get some mustard and mayo to go with these,” he said to Maggie as he scooted the cases in on the floor. “Do you think you can stow these away in the compartments beneath the dinette?”

“I’ll find a way, Don. Did you find any canned fruits or soups? We’ll probably get tired of canned meats after awhile.”

“Your wish is my command, Maggie. I’ll be back in a shake.”

In the store room he helped himself to a case of Campbell’s Minestrone and another of Chicken and Noodles. He also found a dolly apparently used for unloading delivery trucks and pressed it into service. He set a case of canned peaches and one of fruit cocktail atop the soups, then added Spaghetti-O’s and Beef-A-Roni. They were not his favorite, but beggars can’t be choosers. On top of his plunder, he tossed three cases of soft drinks, avoiding the diet sodas figuring he and Maggie might need the quick energy boost of sugars and syrups. His dolly was fully loaded and he took it out to the motor-home.

“More treasure,” he told Maggie.

“It’s getting a little crowded in here,” she said. “Would it be alright if I set some of this stuff on the floor under the table?”

“Put it anywhere it won’t slide around, Maggie. I’m going to do more shopping.

Along side the mini-mart Don found a wire cage of exchangeable propane cylinders, but was stymied by the padlock to prevent theft. He searched inside the store and located the key hanging on a hook beneath the cash register. Don estimated a twenty pound bottle of propane should last them a week and took three. He locked the cage again thinking they might want to return for more.

After stowing the propane bottles, Don went back to the store and loaded six cases of bottled water onto his dolly. Curious, he checked the ice-cream freezer and found the thermometer still read below freezing. “Stands to reason,” he thought. “I don’t imagine anyone has been in here since the power went off.” He took a pint of Neapolitan and one of raspberry sherbet and set them atop his dolly, then back to the motor-home again.

“Take a break, Maggie, and get a couple spoons from the kitchen drawer. I’ve got a treat for us we may not see again for some time.”

“Ohhh, ice-cream!” she exclaimed as he handed the pint cartons up to her.

“Set mine in the fridge, will you? I want to move the motor-home over and fill the water tanks while we still have time. I wish I could think of some way to get gas for us, but with the power off, I don’t see how I can do it.”

“You’ve done well so far, Don. I have confidence in you.”

Don went around to the driver side door and got in, started the engine and backed up to the water and air dispenser. When he had inserted the water nozzle into the tank and tied it down with duct tape to keep the water flowing, he sat down with his raspberry sherbet and indulged himself.

Maggie was still arranging their plunder in the motor-home. Don thanked his lucky stars for a capable helper in spite of her broken arm. He let the sherbet ease down his throat and began thinking of how to get the gasoline out of the underground tank. Let’s see, when he had read The Stand, Harold Lauder had simply siphoned the stuff out under conditions similar to these. Of course that would not work, you can’t siphon uphill. Don continued to examine the problem but saw no solution in the near future. He moved the problem to the back burner in his mind and hoped it would simmer to a conclusion.

By the time the water tank began to overflow, he had finished the sherbet. He removed the duct tape from the water nozzle and put it away, closing the filler vent on the motor-home.

To be continued…. (Don’t you just hate that?!)