Doyle felt a gentle tickle on his neck. He brushed it off as a fly, or some other curious insect. He used his free hand to swat at it.

“Damn flies.”

Jaxon turned his head and looked over the boy’s head, at Doyle. Just then, Doyle slapped his neck, again.

“S’not a fly. Boy’s waking up.” Jaxon informed him, after seeing the boy’s left hand twitch.

“Really?” Doyle questioned him.

“His hand started twitching about a minute ago,” Barry interjected from behind the trio. Carrying the unconscious boy made their progress slow. They were only a few blocks from where they rescued the boy. Barry decided to walk a few paces behind the others. He wanted to keep watch. That superhuman lunatic was out there…somewhere.

“How the hell could you know that, from back there? He hasn’t moved, or made a peep since we picked him up,” Doyle wondered.

“Noticed his left index finger curl, earlier. I would’ve said something, but you swatted at it,” the big man confessed. “He’s got three fingers twitching and bending now. I can’t believe you haven’t slapped his hand yet.”

Doyle reached behind his head and felt for the boy’s hand. He brushed one of the boy’s fingers, and the finger curled away from his touch.

“Should we try to wake him up?”

“Best to focus on getting to that shop, Doyle. I don’t like being out here. We won’t survive another run-in with that guy.” Barry warned.

He could see Jaxon and Doyle were getting tired. He knew they were hurting, but he had to swallow his pride and let them continue to carry the boy. He was struggling to keep himself moving. If he tried to support the boy it would only slow them down. His back was getting tighter with each step. Every step was jarring and both his knees were beginning to stiffen. Jaxon and Doyle were better off with the burden of the boy’s weight than Barry’s.

Besides that, if the kidnapper caught up, Barry didn’t want to be hindered by carrying the boy. None of them had a chance against that monster, but Barry believed he was their best chance. If nothing else, he could at least slow the man down and give the other three a chance to get away.

“Alright, that was the last block. Now, we are looking for the fourth house,” Doyle announced.

“And we are supposed to wait in the metal shop, behind this house?” Barry asked.

“That’s what she said,” Jaxon confirmed.

Barry stopped at the last intersection. He couldn’t believe they were all dead. Tupelo was a small town, but there were hundreds of people. Yesterday, cars were rolling around and the air was busy with sounds of radios and children playing. Now, it was a ghost town.

The quiet bothered Barry the most. He grew up hunting. Even in the solitude of a deep wood, you could still hear the distant drone of traffic on the highway. But this quiet was too quiet. No horns, no voices, no airplanes. Just the rhythmic taps of the other two men walking.

It was not silent, for the sounds of nature were unaffected by the bombs. Birds flitted about and he heard the sound of dogs barking and the occasional cat meowing. Barry was grateful for the sounds of the animals. There was a quality of normalcy, to them. Barry would take all the fucking normal he could get.

As he scanned the area, Barry wondered how the rest of the world faired. He recalled scenes from his favorite apocalyptic television and movie scenes. He pictured New York City running with the blood of millions of leaky humans. In a city that never slept, the streets would be inundated with crashing cars, as people died driving. Images of unmanned planes crashing into skyscrapers shifted to thoughts about all the unmanned factories and facilities catching fire or blowing up.

Barry thought about his home. He grew up on Lake Texoma. What would happen to the lake, if the hydroelectric dam was generating when the attack hit? How low would it get, with the gates stuck open?

Barry knew the banks of the Red River would flood if the dam malfunctioned. Thinking about the dam led to thinking about home. He knew that if any of those bombs were designated for this unpopulated rural area, then the Denison Dam was sure to be a target.

A tear dropped from Barry’s nose. He watched it fall to the dirty asphalt. He dried his face with his shirt and turned toward the others. They had made some distance from Barry and by the time Barry turned around, they were stepping from the road.

Doyle waved, silently, and when Barry waved back, Doyle made an exaggerated gesture of pointing toward something Barry could not see. Barry lifted both arms, with palms up, miming that he wasn’t sure what Doyle was trying to convey to him. Doyle repeated the same gesture.

“That isn’t telling me anything,” Barry bitched, to himself, as he clapped his hands to the sides of his head, then shook his head, vigorously. He finished with a big, dramatic, shrug.

Barry was not patient. In fact, Barry was a very impatient man. Doyle responded to Barry by repeating the same gesture…a third time.

“WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT MEAN!” Barry yelled. Regret flooded into him; and fear. His yell was deafeningly loud, in contrast to the surreal quiet. He cringed at the sound of his voice, and his eyes darted around as if he expected the kidnapper to come rushing out of the shadows. Barry spun a slow revolution to inspect their surroundings. His skin prickled and his neck hairs grew rigid from all the imagined eyes suddenly trained on Barry. The subconscious need to get out of the open road urged Barry forward. As if the road were a bed of hot coals, Barry’s pace quickened with each step. By the time he reached his companions, Barry was practically jogging along. He felt the need to scan his periphery, one last time. He saw nothing of concern and continued onto the driveway.

This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

The front yard had a giant, sprawling oak tree that completely obscured the town from view. There was a picket fence that surrounded the property, on three sides. The driveway wrapped around the house and ran into a concrete slab connecting the shop to the house.

An old red Toyota Land Cruiser was parked next to a massive six-wheel drive Deuce and a Half army truck. It had a long bed covered with a military-tan canvas. It was the type of truck that you saw soldiers being transported in.

“Coming inside?” Doyle asked.

Barry spun around and saw the man standing at the shop’s door. He did not answer, assuming that walking toward Doyle was answer enough.

Doyle held the door and let Barry step inside. Barry’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the change in light. It was still dull outside. The yellowness had mostly dissipated, but the sky had been overcast since the bombs went off. Inside the shop, however, it was bright in the sterile white artificial light. Barry squinted and took in the confounding sights around him.

Aside from the working LED lighting, the building’s walls were lined with tall, multi-tiered, metal shelves. The shop floor was filled with standing rows of the same metal shelves. There was a small corner, no bigger than your average living room. It had a charcoal grill, one of those white fold-out tables; the ones you see at church lunches or middle school bake sales, and a rack of matching fold-up chairs. The shelving, nearest that area, was stocked with all the usual long-term food stores.

Barry saw rows of canned soups, vegetables, fruits, and sauces. Dozens of boxes were labeled as MREs. Countless lidded buckets were designated to be rice, beans, salt, sugar, flour, and cornmeal. He spoke to no one, as he walked each row of shelves and took a mental inventory of what was most important, or the most intriguing.

One of the isles was blocked by a series of metal gang boxes. Barry recognized them for being used to haul tools to different job sites. They were sturdy and could be locked with a padlock. There were four of the boxes. The first one had a strip of duct tape stuck across the lid. Black permanent marker scribbled the word “Tools” over the tape. Barry checked the lid, but it was locked. He could read the next box was labeled as “Bushcraft”. The third box said “Munitions” and the last box was humorously labeled, in all caps, “BANG BANG BOOM BOOM”.

Barry became excited. He suspected what was in the last box; guns. He hoped it was guns. After having their asses kicked by Super Kidnapper, the idea of a gun made him a little less terrified about what was going to happen if the maniac caught up to them.

“Guys?” Barry called to the others.

Doyle appeared at the end of the aisle Barry occupied. Without turning from the gang boxes, Barry motioned the other man to come to him.

“I don’t have a fucking clue what this place is, or why it is what it is. I don’t know who that lady was or why she sent us here…but goddam it! We got food, shelter, and electricity.” Barry spun toward Doyle, surprising the unexpecting man as he reached up and put both his hands on the sides of Doyle’s face. Barry gently shook Doyle’s head.

“And we’ve got GUNS!” Barry shrieked with excitement.

Doyle leaned back and pulled his face from Barry’s hands. He started grumbling about Barry putting his hands on his face, but Barry flattened his back against the closest shelf and pointed toward the two boxes at the end. Doyle’s eyes widened and a big, fat, smile grew across his face.

“You can’t be serious,” Doyle whispered. “Are you sure?” he questioned again, not letting himself get his hopes up.

“Not entirely, but come, on. Help me wheel these out to the open area, by the grill.”

Barry wasted no time and grabbed the handle of the nearest box. He walked backward, towing the box out of the aisle. Doyle had nowhere to go and was forced to leave the aisle, ahead of Barry.

Doyle waited for Barry to clear the aisle and enthusiastically retrieved the “Bushcraft” box. He wheeled the box out and parked it beside the first box. Barry had disappeared down one of the other aisles and quickly returned with a hacksaw, a pry bar, and a mini sledgehammer.

“One of these should get the padlocks off,” he explained to Doyle. “Would you mind bringing the other two boxes out here”

Doyle gave Barry a double thumbs-up before he bounded off down the aisle. In no time, the sound of squeaky wheels filled the building. Doyle was back before Barry started his attempt at unlocking the first box.

“Easy, killer. You’re not qualifying for Daytona.” Barry joked

Doyle rolled his eyes and then sped off after the last box. Barry looked up from the lock; distracted by the rapidly squeaking wheels. He turned in time to see Doyle, and the final gang box, sliding out of the aisle.

A shrill whine pierced the air, as the box rolled onto two wheels and slid sideways. Doyle was nearly pulled off his feet, but he had quick reflexes. He managed to get around the box and steady it. The bang, from the box slamming back onto four wheels, echoed through the shelved aisles.

“Fuckin’ careful, man.”

“..s..sorry, big guy,” Doyle spoke softly

Barry noticed the timidity in Doyle’s voice and the tight frown he now wore.

“No, I’m sorry, man.” Barry looked at the ground. “I shouldn’t be snapping at you.”

“No worries!” Doyle smiled at Barry, but Barry didn’t notice. “Here ya go. Box number four.” Doyle shoved the box and let it roll the last few feet, where it gently knocked into box number three.

Barry unfolded one of the white chairs and sat next to the fourth box. Doyle stood behind him and watched Barry fit the narrow end of the prybar inside the lock ring. Barry raised the mini-sledge above his head.

…mmmwwwaaah…ggghammwa..uhmmmmmgwa…

Barry looked back at Doyle and chuckled. He dropped the hammer onto the box and left the prybar wedged in the lock.

“Be right back.”

Barry walked over to a shelf and pulled down a box of MREs. He waddled back to the gang boxes and plopped the MREs down. He tore into the box and ended up ripping the entire side off. There was a brief cascade of prepackaged, shelf-stable, meals. Barry took his size fourteen shoe and swept a pile of packages toward Doyle.

“I think your buddy passed out.” Barry gestured toward the other side of the shop.

“Looks that way.” Doyle bent and grabbed the food. “Should I wake him?”

Barry chewed at his lip and thought a moment.

“Yeah. Go ahead. It’s been a long couple of days, and his body is hurting.”

“But, doesn’t he need sleep to heal his body?” Doyle questioned.

“It does, but it needs fuel, more,” Barry explained. “So does yours, so you both need to eat as much as you can force down.”

Barry flipped over an MRE and looked at the name.

“Looks like I’ll be having Jalapeno Pepper Jack Beef Patty.” Barry put on his biggest fake smile. “Mmm…my absolute favorite.”