No matter how much he tried, dread filled his consciousness. How could we even hope to live here much longer? All this death around them would eventually breed disease. And when the sea no longer provided food for the masses, it seemed certain that the many hungry, led by bandits, would try to take food from others, making it near impossible to defend their homes. It now seemed apparent to Bill that they were in the worst possible place to be for this type of apocalypse, in spite of all of Max’s planned defenses and prepping. And yet, this apocalypse had been known to Max. Why did Max think we could survive here? It just doesn’t make sense.
Then, another realization: he remembered the passage from Max’s great-grandfather’s journal. Max was the custodian of Russell Thompson’s family promise to Bill’s great-grandfather, Peter King. It turns out Peter was Russell’s best friend, who had saved him from certain death. For this, Russell’s family swore an oath of protection. That was why Max had spent so much time preparing both their homes in Rocky Point… It was for them!
Guilt clung to him like the layer of sticky sweat covering his skin. He slumped down in one of the two Adirondack chairs, letting depression sink into his psyche. It was because of them that Max allowed El Gordo’s men to abduct him. But there was more. He didn’t doubt Max’s friendship, but he now realized that their meeting was not fortuitous; it had been arranged. Both Bill and Lisa remembered seeing Max before, once in Rocky Point when they first traveled down here and once in Tucson, long before they supposedly met here. There were funny excuses, but now he knew the truth. Bill remembered the day they first saw Max in Rocky Point. It was at a restaurant and they had been telling other friends that they most wanted to live on Dorado Beach. Somehow, not much later, they were persuaded to rent the house next to Max, right here on—Dorado Beach. “Son of a bitch,” Bill whispered, hoarse with emotion. He must have built his house knowing full well that he would… what? “Holy shit! You owned our house too.” Bill now spoke loudly to Max, as if he were sitting in the chair beside him. “That’s how we were able to rent this place and then… the magic killer deal. The one we couldn’t refuse. We bought our house from you, didn’t we? You sly son-of-a-bitch,” he said to the empty chair, shaking his head, connecting everything in his mind.
“What else were you responsible for in our lives, my business… hell, our marriage?”
Bill would have been livid if he’d figured this out before the world ended, but now it only made him feel guiltier. Everything Max had done was to benefit them. Had it not been for Bill’s family and their love for this beach, Max would have no doubt set himself up someplace much more safe and defensible. With what Bill now knew, he was sure Max would not have stored all of this food and built the defense he had in Rocky Point, if he had known the problems they would encounter. There was only one solution.
They had to save Max and they had to get out of here.
Taking a breath, he rose, shook off the heavy sheen of sweat and depression and headed for the patio door. He gave their pool a wide berth; he imagined an electrical hand would reach out of it and grab him if he was too close. Just before entering the house, Lisa called to him. “Bill, someone’s at the door.”
His hand went right to the .45 he now wore all the time, as he walked briskly to the door. “Where’s Sally?” he asked her.
“I believe she’s at Max’s, probably still in the safe room,” she answered.
Bill looked out the peephole and saw Miguel Fernandez and his wife.
21.
Baby on Board
“I think… they’re right behind us.” Maria’s words coming between ragged breaths.
“Don’t worry, mija, we left early enough. They did not see us, but I want to keep moving anyway.” Miguel reassured her, also breathless. He cradled their thirty-day-old daughter, Ana, in his arms. They were walking, sometimes jogging south of the city.
Once the local cartel started pillaging homes in the neighborhood for food and supplies, Miguel knew it was only a matter of time before they came knocking on their door, so they were prepared for this day. He had heard of this group and their murderous ways from the community around him. They would kick in the door and take what they wanted: the food, the water, the women, and whatever else they thought valuable. The thieves often forced the men to carry their own household supplies to the cartel’s complex. If anyone resisted even slightly, that person was summarily executed as an example to others, without exceptions. The day he heard the gunshots less than a block away, he knew they had to leave rather than try to defend the indefensible. He had one revolver, they had automatic weapons; he was one person, they were many; he had never killed, they killed for their own sick enjoyment. On that day they left, ahead of the cartel, and headed to the one place where they could be safe: Max’s home.
A few days ago, he had told his wife this day was coming, explaining his plan and showing her their “bug-out bags,” as Señor Max called them. They were packed with medicines, a change of clothes, about a day’s worth of water and a week’s of food. The trip to Max’s house was maybe two hours, but they had to plan on being followed, like Miguel believed they were now. Max had said to him so many times, “Plan for the worst, Miguel, but pray for the best. That way, it will most likely be better than what you planned for.” Water was too heavy to carry for multiple days, but the extra rations of food could be used to bargain for water. A lot of people were not connected to the city’s water system, but most had a gravity-fed water system holding fifty- to one-hundred-fifty-gallons, and most were rationing so they hadn’t run out. Food was a different story. Most folks had run out of food now, so it was Miguel and Maria’s most valuable asset. They had about another mile to go, and he was sure that they had slipped away in time, unseen by the gang.
“¡Ay, no chingues!” said a voice from inside Miguel and Maria’s home. Danny “Diablo” Diaz—his men just called him El Diablo or the devil—walked into the spare bedroom and saw floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with food, water, and other supplies. It was enough to sustain this family for months, maybe longer. So much food and water for so few people. El Diablo considered why some common worker would know to store up so much.
“Where are these people?” he demanded of his men.
“Don’t know, Jefe,” another man said from the kitchen. “But I think they leave today,” he reasoned. “Look, no dust on the sink.”
How did they know? He wondered. He and his men rifled through a desk in the storage room, full of papers, craving an answer to this question. Some papers told him the owner’s name was Miguel Fernandez. Searching further, they found a hand-drawn, folded map. El Diablo glanced at it and recognized the location immediately. “I know this place. This is where they are. And this is where we’ll find all the supplies we need. Get our men and meet me back in front in two minutes,” El Diablo ordered his man in Spanish. He dropped the map on the desk and left. The map showed the ocean and several beach houses. One house had an “X” over it, and the name “Max” written on it.
Miguel knocked on Max’s door again. He and Maria waited patiently.
“Where is Señor Max? Why doesn’t he answer?” She was rocking Ana, swaddled from the sun, and keeping her quiet. She and her husband wore clothes more suited to the winter: hoodies, long pants, and sunglasses. Yet, it was at least a hundred degrees today, probably a lot more. They were hot, sweaty, and very tired, but they were protected from the sun.