Desolate: The Complete Trilogy Part 25

Soo cracked up and so did Howard. Emily didn't get the joke but laughed anyway at the contagious giggling. Jack and Tom exchanged curious looks before saying good night and driving off in their squad car.

Howard and his two girls, his new family, walked hand in hand back to their boat to get some sleep.

Epilogue.

He had braced himself for a smell that might be much worse than what he was expecting. The air was stale, dank, and anything but fresh, but all in all it wasn't too bad. He untied the bandanna he had tied over his nose and used it to soak up the sweat on the back of his neck instead.

Of course, it was a distinct possibility that he'd simply grown immune to the stench of death and didn't notice it anymore. He had worked on a dairy farm the summer after his freshman year of high school. The first week or so was brutal. He felt like the stench of cow and pig s.h.i.+t had absorbed into every pore of his body and permanently seared his work clothes. By the end of the summer he didn't even notice it anymore.

Room 342. He worried he would forget the number and end up searching every room on the third floor, but it all came back to him as if he'd left earlier that day. The drapes were pulled shut, just like he'd left them, just a small sliver of light illuminated the bed and the form underneath the covers.

He pulled the chair up and sat next to her, enjoying the stillness and peace of the room. He reached to pull back the sheet but stopped, gently placing his hand on the contours of her face instead. He closed his eyes and slowly ran his fingers across the thin, yellowed sheet, imagining her face, and relieved to find he could still picture it.

In his mind, he could see her clear as day, still remembered what she looked like the first time he'd ever laid eyes on her. Not hard do to since she was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen in his twenty years on the planet. He and his buddies had driven up to San Clemente, trying to find a bar without so many boots looking to get laid or get into a fight. She sat in a corner booth with her friends. By the end of the night he had her number and, a year later, her hand in marriage.

"Hey, baby," he whispered. "You know I ain't much for words. I don't know how many times you hollered at me for not talking about my feelings." He picked up a brochure sitting on the bedside table and wiped the thin layer of dust off the front. The Bob Marley museum. Not something he was even remotely interested in seeing, but she was a huge fan. They had planned to check it out on the last day before they went home.

"Well, wherever you are, I hope you're happy. Don't you worry about me. I'm doing just fine. I love you, babe."

He rose and picked up the water bottle he'd set on the dresser when he came in. He unscrewed the cap and slowly poured the contents around the outline of his wife's body. He ripped a match from the book in the ashtray and lit it, holding the flame to the gasoline-soaked bedding. He placed the matchbook, proudly stamped with the logo of the Courtleigh Hotel and Suites, into his pocket. He'd always have a need for matches.

The flames finally died down by the time dawn broke. He had started out watching the blaze while leaning up against a car across the street, but had to move back three time due to the intense heat. He kept his handgun close and his eyes open all night, half expecting the sudden fire to attract attention. He wasn't too surprised when n.o.body came. Fellow survivor sightings were becoming an increasingly rare event and he hadn't seen a single alien since leaving Montego Bay. How far would they travel, searching for food?

The sky opened up with an early morning shower, trying to kill the already dying fire. He reached into his backpack and put on his cap to keep the rain out of his eyes. He started his bike and put the old Honda into gear as the rain stopped as suddenly as it started. A good day for riding. Dave glanced at the ruins of the hotel one last time in the mirror before he turned the corner, continuing on his journey to the east.

A circle made of ink on the crumpled map in his pack marked the end of his journey. It wasn't much on paper, maybe less in person, but it was the fortress Soo had dreamed of. Navy Island. Just half a mile wide, 64 acres in all, but only two hundred yards off sh.o.r.e from the city of Port Antonio. Dave learned of the island in a guidebook he'd found while scavenging in Negril. Apparently, it was once owned by Errol Flynn and had seen its share of wild Hollywood parties over the years. Sounded like the perfect spot to spend his retirement.

It might take a while, but Dave had no doubt those creatures would eventually roam the entire country. Unless they started taking swimming lessons, he'd be safe on his private island and spend the rest of his days living in peace.

Epilogue, Part Two.

Every time I sit down to write lately, I find myself staring at the blank screen. I'm sure I have an equally blank expression on my face but, mercifully, this laptop has a non-reflective screen, so I can't be sure. Maybe it's writer's block, or maybe I'm just not ready. Maybe the problem is this stupid laptop and, subconsciously, I know I shouldn't be depending on it. It's not like I can drop it off at Best Buy if it breaks. And electricity is plentiful now but who knows what the future holds? The battery is only good for a few hours. If I were smart, I'd probably switch to longhand, or at least use a typewriter. There's got to be one tucked away somewhere in this town.

I suppose I should be glad I've gotten this far. I'm new to this writing thing after all, and the story I've spun so far is pretty good, if I do say so myself. Then again, all I'm doing is basically writing down everything that happened to me after the plane crash. It's not like I have to be creative or anything.

I got as far as me pa.s.sing out in the back of the pickup truck and that's where I ran out of steam and stopped. So I sat down tonight and figured I would write about something else, just to shake off the rust and get the literary juices flowing. I'm already a few hundred words in and I can feel myself getting back into the zone. Without further ado, I shall tell you about my day today.

The front door opened with such enthusiastic vigor, followed by frantic footsteps, it could only be one person running down my front hallway. I turned the corner and lifted the cup of hot tea over my head, just barely avoiding catastrophe as she slammed into me.

"Whoa. Easy there, kid," I said. "Where's the fire?"

"Mary an' Emma invited me to sleep over tonight! Can I go? Pleeeease?"

"What's that, Emily? Well, I'm doing just fine and I had a great day. Thank you so much for asking. And how was school today?"

She rolled her eyes and sighed. "h.e.l.lo, Howard. How was your day?"

"Uh...I already told you it was fine. Why are you making me repeat myself?"

"Stop hara.s.sing the poor girl." Soo descended the stairs, one at a time. "Can't you see she's excited?" She held on to the railing with one hand and her belly with the other. Her eyes were puffy from sleep and her hair was a mess yet somehow she managed to look prettier than the first day I saw her.

Emily impatiently hopped up and down on one foot. "So can I go? Can I go?"

"Yes, you can go," I said.

She barely let me finish my sentence before she was out the door. I shouted for her to behave but I'm sure she didn't hear. At least give me half a parenting point for trying.

Soo looked at the cup in my hand. "Have you started drinking tea or is that for somebody I know?" She stopped on the third step. I handed her the cup and kissed her distended belly in front of my face.

"How's he doing today?" I asked. "Still kicking like a karate champ?"

"Feels like a drum solo on my spinal cord. And it's he or she, remember? Why do I feel like I tell you that every day?"

"Just wishful thinking. If I say it's a boy often enough, maybe she'll magically sprout a p.e.n.i.s." I took Soo's hand and helped her down the last few steps.

She looked at the front door. "I'm so glad Emily is finally making friends." She paused midsip and lowered the teacup. "Why are you home so early?"

"It's Friday, remember? They always let me off early because it's our day for the market."

Soo groaned and shuffled to the kitchen. "That's right. I'm such a scatterbrain these days. Isn't it enough that I'm a fat cow and disgusting? My brain has to turn to mush too?"

I walked up behind her and wrapped my arms around her chest. "You, my dear, are about as disgusting as that view."

We faced the patio door in the dining room, which overlooked the beach and our postcard perfect view. Like almost half of the other residents in Jupiter, we live in Jupiter Inlet Colony. It's a nice neighborhood of over two hundred homes, and we were lucky enough to snag an oceanfront unit after the previous owner pa.s.sed away. Apparently he was some big shot author who wrote postapocalyptic sci-fi novels. I guess he couldn't handle the real deal and took his own life. Maybe that's why I can't write for s.h.i.+t these days. His ghost probably put a spell on me. Haunted or not, it's a great home. Three bedrooms and right on the beach. I'm sure it would have fetched well over a million bucks back in the "old world," as people now called it.

Soo turned around to face me. "You sure have a way with words, Mr. Bell." She kissed me on the nose and ran her hand down my chest. "Now go to the market so your family doesn't starve to death."

I rummaged through the kitchen cabinets, looking for our reusable grocery bags. "Did you hear there's an opening on the town council? Susan Dietrich resigned. Said she wasn't cut out for politics."

"Oh, yeah?" Soo absently twirled her hair with her fingers. "Hey, see if you can trade for another ration of milk. I've been craving it so bad!"

"I'll see what I can do. I heard they're still having problems with the cows they brought down from Lafayette County. They aren't producing as much this far south or something."

Soo made her famous pretend sad face, complete with puppy dog eyes. "Tell them it's for the baby."

"That rarely works, but I'll give it a try." I gathered the bags and stole a sip of her tea. "So what do you think?"

"About what?"

"Town council," I said. "I was thinking I might run."

"What do you know about politics?"

"As much as the next guy. It beats working down at the water treatment plant, and I feel like I need to do more to help out the community."

"It's not a full-time job, Ding Dong." Soo took her empty cup to the sink and rinsed it. "You'd still be knee-deep in sewage six days a week down at the plant."

"Yeah, I know, but it's something. I feel like this is my second chance and I want to make the most of it. I mean, your destiny is sealed. Can you imagine ever doing anything besides being a nurse? I want something like that."

She wrapped her arms around me and put her head on my chest. "Then I say go for it. You'll be the best ex-con, alien-hatching councilman in history. Now go get mama some milk."

I wheeled my trusty Trek DS out of the garage and started peddling toward the market. Bicycles are the main form of transportation for most folks in town. One of the salvage teams just found a full gasoline tanker out west last week but only priority vehicles like the cop cars, delivery vans, and garbage trucks get to use it. It's only a matter of time before it runs out completely, I suppose. We're a pretty capable town but I don't see oil refining in our immediate future.

But I don't mind, I've always enjoyed biking. With my handy trailer I can haul just about any food or supplies we need. Not to mention our family bike rides are always the highlight of my day. Soo is too far along to get on a bike these days, but Emily and I still get out most nights after dinner and explore the outskirts of town.

I left our neighborhood behind and turned onto the South Beach Road bridge, waving at a couple of kids fis.h.i.+ng on the river bank below. The market is just on the other side of the river in the old Concourse Village Shopping Center. The council a.s.signed each family a weekly shopping day where we can go to the market and pick up our weekly rations.

I know Soo is just humoring me about running for town council, but I'm serious. The current form of government in town could best be described as communism. Despite living relatively comfortably in nice homes, my fellow survivors and I are still just that a trying to survive. The council makes sure everybody gets the basics, like food, shelter, and medical care, and I don't have a problem with that. But if we continue to thrive, take in more refugees, and give birth to future generations, that's going to have to change. A utopian society where everybody shares equally sounds great on paper, but it rarely works in the real world. The Soviet Union was proof enough for me.

Whatever sort of government we come up with in this new world, the thought of helping shape it really appeals to me. I only want what's best for Emily and my new baby. I hope they get to live long and happy lives.

I pulled my bike up to the market, smiling and nodding at the rest of the familiar Friday faces. As I took the bags out of my bike trailer and headed for the dairy booth, hoping to score some extra milk, it occurred to me how truly happy I was. Probably for the first time in my entire life. For once I have it all. I only needed the world to end to get it.

Speaking of laptop batteries, they shut down the power over an hour ago and the little meter thingy in the corner says I only have 15% juice left. It's late and I should get upstairs to bed with my wife.

Maybe I shouldn't bother dredging up the past, recounting the horrors and the hard times. What's the point really? I envy my unborn child in a way. He or she won't be haunted by old memories, longing for loved ones who perished, remembering the old ways of life that are long gone.

In a way, all of us survivors are broken. The bond that unites us, this unexplained immunity from death that almost wiped out our race, also curses us. We can't shake the past, the low-burning desire to somehow get things back to normal, as if none of this happened in the first place. I've felt it myself. Despite living in this nice house, with my two girls who love me, I can't completely let go of the notion that there's something better out there. That if I traveled far and long enough, just maybe I'd reach a city one day where everything truly was back to normal. Two hundred channels on the cable box, online shopping, test-driving new cars, movie premieres, holiday sales, smart phone apps, going on vacation, Hollywood gossip. I have to remind myself none of that stuff was important. It was just clutter we surrounded ourselves with and pretended it mattered. Maybe we ran out of problems. Real problems like finding enough calories to survive and clean water to drink.

What really matters is people. It's the one thing from the old world worthy of saving.

But it's human nature, I suppose. The gra.s.s is always greener on the other side of the fence. Corny cliche, but I've found it's true. That's how cliches come to fruition after all. Unfortunately, some of my fellow residents can't seem to shake it. We've had a few leave recently. Some take their time to say goodbye and politely ignore our pleas to stay, others simply vanish. I hope they find what it is they think they're looking for, but I wish I knew for sure they won't. It would help me sleep better at night.

Howard Bell February 13, 2015 Who has two thumbs and loves to hear from readers? This guy! Okay, that joke doesn't really work well in print but I really do love to hear from readers. Reach out and say h.e.l.lo!

Website: robertbrumm.com Twitter: @robertbrumm Facebook: facebook.com/rbrumm73 Email: Thanks to my editor, Sharon K. Garner. www.sharonkgarner.com More special thanks to my beta readers a Bryan Harms, Jill Connley, Paulina Tharaldson,Mike Anderson, Max Zaoui, and Atina Tan And now...a note from the author.

I hope you enjoyed reading the adventures of Howard "Don't call me Howie" Bell (good one, Colby). It certainly was an adventure for me to write. If you've come this far, perhaps you're interested in some of the "behind the scenes" insights behind the story. What follows is probably pretentious, definitely self-indulgent, and most certainly boring. I'm mostly writing this for myself and fans who are really into the story and want to know more. I'd like to think there's at least one out there (I'm waving at you right now).

Desolate started out as a very simple desire of mine to write a prison story. I have a couple of irrational fears. One of them involves razor blades slicing open the veins on the top of my feet and the other involves me getting sent to the big house. I've never even gotten a speeding ticket so the chances of me getting sent up the river (I'm going for as many prison cliches as possible) are pretty slim. But what if I committed a crime of pa.s.sion? What if I was convicted of a crime I didn't commit? It happened to the A-Team. It could happen to me.

So, basically, I wanted to drop some poor schmuck who wouldn't last one day, like me, into the slammer. Then I would sit back and watch what happened to him. I knew what he did to get there, I just didn't have a story for what happened to him once he arrived.

To make things a little more interesting, I decided to send poor Howard to a prison camp off the coast of Antarctica. The island is called Desolate Island although I only refer to it by name once. It's based on a real island off the coast of Antarctica named Deception Island. Like my island, it's horseshoe shaped and was used for whaling back in the day. Everything else I made up. Apparently the real island is quite the tourist destination because of its natural hot springs.

To tell you the truth, I don't really remember why I chose to have the prison camp full of US and UK prisoners, but it's probably Guy Ritchie's fault. When I started writing the first book it was shortly after I'd watched Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels for the hundredth time. It's one of my favorite movies and I just can't get enough of the dialogue of all those colorful blokes from the East End of London. I figured I'd toss in a couple of c.o.c.kney characters to liven things up, I suppose, and to this day it still makes me cringe. If I had it to do over again, I would tone down Reg's dialect and probably craft him more like Richard Hammond from Top Gear and leave out all that slang. At the time, it never occurred to me that people in the UK might, you know, actually read this story. As of this writing, I've received nary a complaint or criticism from my neighbors across the pond. Either I got Reg's character spot on (unlikely) or they're too polite to say anything (likely).

Howard Bell started out as Ron Jackson. By the time I got to the end I really didn't care for that name so I made the switch. After the book's initial release I found out I'd missed a reference to "Little Ronny," talking about Howard as a child. Thanks to my sister Kathie for pointing that out so I could fix it. Oops!

What can I say about Carl except that I love that man? I had fun creating that foul-mouthed, racist, greasy, white-trash rapist. I only wish I hadn't killed him off so I could have played with him some more. Actually, while writing Desolate 3, I considered tossing in a flashback just so I could hang out with Carl again. Perhaps a prequel one day. Whenever I pictured Carl, I always saw him as Viggo Mortensen playing Aragon in the Lord of the Rings. Long hair, scruffy beard, and oh so dreamy. Carl was initially named Elroy. No comment there.

When I finished Desolate, I never intended to write a sequel. Howard bled out and died there in the snow, and my intent was to let the reader decide what happened next. Liz and the others carried the virus to the mainland?! Cue the dramatic music. At the last minute I decided to let Howard live and tossed him into the helicopter with Liz a just in case.

I thought about possible sequel scenarios for months. I wasn't excited about it at all, because the only plausible outcome I saw was a worldwide pandemic that wiped out most of the human race. I'm really sort of sick of the whole dystopia post-Armageddon genre, so that didn't appeal to me at all. Don't get me started on zombies, but that's a whole other subject.

So I decide to narrow the scope and point the telescope directly at Howard. I'm a big fan of survival stories and I wanted to see how he could cope being stranded in the jungle.

Quick side note: My love of survival stories is one of the reasons the prison camp was set off the coast of Antarctica. At the time, I was doing some reading about Sir Ernest Henry Shackleton's failed attempt to reach the south pole and the incredible story of how he and his crew survived. Fascinating story.

Why did I pick Jamaica? Looking at a map, I guessed the flight path from Rio Grande to Atlanta would probably pa.s.s over Jamaica. If not directly, then darn close. Especially if the pilot flipped out and changed the course because he wanted to land.

The other reason is, I've been to Jamaica with my wife, Tammy. I was only there for a week and my experience consisted of riding from the airport in Montego Bay to our resort in Ocho Rios and back to the airport again. There may have been an incident of vomiting on the clothing-optional beach and pa.s.sing out in our room by 2:00 p.m., but I couldn't figure out a way to incorporate that into the story.

The town of Boones Run, Oswald Regional Hospital, and the hotels, resorts, stores, and locations I wrote about are fict.i.tious.

Ketch, the gun-toting drug dealer who almost killed Howard, was inspired by Breaking Bad, one of my favorite shows. One of the most intense TV-watching experiences I've ever had was watching crazy Tuco interact with Walt and Jessie. I especially loved it when they were kidnapped and Tuco intended to take them to Mexico. I tried to capture that same experiencea sitting in terror while a dangerous nut in front of you could snap at any time.

A little note about Jamaican dialogue. Like my ignorant American attempts at writing c.o.c.kney, I know I took a chance with my Jamaican characters. On one hand, I didn't want them talking "normal" because it wouldn't seem authentic. On the other hand, I didn't want to go overboard and try to convey their accents so heavily that it became distracting. I've read some books involving characters from the deep South where the dialogue was almost unreadable and it slowed down the story too much.

I hope I did a decent job, and I can only apologize in advance to any Jamaican readers out there who must think I'm an idiot. I admit I referred to the Web for some Jamaican slang, and I hope I didn't muck it up too badly. Irie?

Speaking of mucking up, I wrote myself into corners many times in the series, especially when it involved medical procedures and equipment. All of it is based on lazy research, personal experiences, and best guesses. I promise I won't be offended if actual medical professionals point out any glaring errors. That goes for any facts, as a matter of fact. Drop me an e-mail.

Speaking of writing myself into corners, did you enjoy the cliffhanger at the end of Desolate 2? So did I, but I didn't know what would happen next either. It's a terrifying feeling when you've published part two of a series, dropped a cliffhanger ending into your readers' laps, knowing they are waiting for more...and not having a d.a.m.n idea what's coming next. This went on for about six months.

After hemming and hawing, I decided to stop procrastinating and just hammer out a prologue. I wanted to tell the story of what led up to the s.h.i.+p's crash landing, and give a little more insight into the critter that knocked up poor Howard. Once the prologue was done, I just picked up where I left off. My characters were kind enough to show me what happened next all on their own.

A love interest for Howard? Oh, brother. Trust me, I didn't invent Soo Kim just so I could toss in a little romance to please my female readers. I didn't know how the story would end but I did know I wanted a happy ending. I wanted Howard to live happily ever after with Emily, and I figured he deserved another shot at finding true love. Since my hapless surgical intern, Jake Wilson, needed a little help, in came my nurse pract.i.tioner from San Francisco. Soo and Howard make a good couple, don't you think?

Dave Penske was another favorite of mine, and I had a hard time steering the story away from him and back to Howard once in a while. By now we can all agree I excel at writing myself into corners and I did a little of that with Dave, Ann, Minnie, and Tre. I tossed them in at the end of Desolate 2 without much thought, and when I started writing the third book I realized I had too many characters to keep track of.

Instead of taking the time to develop these characters, I took the easy way out and killed most of them off. Minnie almost right off the bat, but I held out on Tre and Ann for a while. Ann was easy enough for me to wrap my head around as a somewhat surly teenaged girl from Canada, but Tre remains a mystery to me. Other than the brief backstory I gave him at the end of Desolate 2, I never really got a good feeling for himaand I think it shows. That's what I get for creating people and not thinking it through, I suppose.

If I was going to give Howard a happy ending then it stands to reason he'd need to end up in a happy place. No offense to Jamaica, but I think if I were stranded in a different country at the end of the world as we know it, I would always feel the need to try and get home. So I gave Soo some boat-driving skills and sent them off to Florida.

I don't know a d.a.m.n thing about boats, so I had to rely on some of that lazy research we talked about earlier. There's an old saying: "Write what you know." What I know is pretty dull. If there's a demand for fiction about promoting domain controllers or the correct pin-out for a cat-6 Ethernet cable, let me know. In the meantime, I'll keep bulls.h.i.+tting and pretend I know what I'm talking about. So all you yacht owners out there can just settle down.

Why Jupiter Florida, to be the last pocket of civilization? Well, it's close to Miami, it's got a cool name, and that's about it. It certainly isn't home to any hotshot writers. None at all. I totally made that up.

As I'm typing this, Desolate 3 a Redemption won't be released for a while, and I'm already hearing whispers from beta readers on how I left the ending open to the possibility of another sequel. As a writer I'm very flattered that anybody would want more of the story, but I can a.s.sure you that's it from me. What sort of society will Howard and his fellow survivors craft? What kind of woman will Emily grow up to be? What exactly is Dave up to on that private island of his? I'll leave that up to you and your imagination.

That's enough rambling from me. Thanks for reading.

Robert Brumm.

February 2013.

And for those of you who have read this far...

Epilogue, Part Three.

Real Admiral Flie sat upright in his chair and stretched his back. Checking the time on his tabletop chronograph, he groaned and spun the chair to face the porthole behind his desk. It had been a brutally long cycle, too many of them all part of a brutally long deployment. Despite what he kept telling his family and peers, the yarwens were catching up and retirement dominated his thoughts of late.