《O Negative》


 Pulling Over for the Night

    A loud hiss sounded as the driver of the bus set the parking brakes. The door opened and the driver hopped out. He wore a red leather jacket and red ball cap, both sporting the same logo that was on the side of the bus; "Falcone Racing". The man took a couple of steps, before halting. His eyes were closed as he took a long draw of breath. He held it. His shoulders rolled back, slowly, as he cracked his neck. First, one way, then the other. He exhaled.


    ¡°I tried.¡± He mumbled as he spun and reentered the bus¡¯s stairwell. He leaped onto the second step, poking his head over the stairway partition.


    "I can''t do a goddam thing about I-35 being shut down." The agitated driver yelled. "We were supposed to leave Joplin at six. I sat in this fucking bus for five hours waiting for you to finish partying and chasing tail. It''s three o'' fucking clock in the morning. I AM TOO TIRED TO DRIVE, DOYLE!"


    An unexpected projectile whizzed by the driver¡¯s right ear. The sound of shattering glass, and the pleasant scent of barrel-aged whiskey, let the driver know what was thrown at him. Glass shards tinkled and sparkled, as they cascaded down to the stairs. The driver bailed from the open door. Skating over the loose scattering of broken glass, the man stomped away from the bus. He shook the glistening shards from his clothes and stomped both legs, for good measure.


    "Fuck you, Doyle. I''m getting a room." He informed the man on the bus. Without looking back, he raised his right hand high, middle finger directed at the bus behind him. It stayed there for a few paces.


    As the driver reached the motel lobby, the bus''s unseen occupant came shambling out the door. The mixture of intoxication and loose glass made the stairs a treacherous undertaking. A cacophony of grating glass, legs stomping, and hands flailing rang from the bus. The intact neck of the whiskey bottle tumbled to the asphalt, followed by a few pieces of floating paper. Next, came Doyle, but facing the wrong direction.


    His landing was not graceful. His back impacted on the unforgiving parking lot. Instinctively, his head was rolled forward, toward his chest, but both arms and legs were stiff and vertical. The air exploded from his lungs and the world went narrow and his senses retreated. Arms and legs curling in, he rolled to the side. An eternity later, his breath came back.


    It took a few moments for him to regain awareness. Doyle tried to get up, but he was still hammered. Jelly arms and noodle legs wobbled. Struggling, he obtained his footing, but still required the side of the bus to keep him vertical.


    "Get your sorry ass back here, Jimmy!" Doyle screamed, before snatching the broken whiskey bottle neck and chunking it toward the motel lobby door. "I''m Doyle fucking Falcone. I pay you to do what I say. Stop walking away from me Jimmy."


    Doyle pushed himself away from the bus, intending to go after Jimmy. He didn''t make it three steps before he started to stumble. He reached back to steady himself with the bus, but his hand found only air.


    For a second time, Doyle tried to get up. His interest in being vertical quickly disintegrated. The asphalt was cold and refreshing.


    Being quite drunk and lacking the focus to stay angry at his driver, Doyle quickly found his thoughts shifting upward. The clear sky revealed the full panorama of the night''s stars. Doyle was mesmerized. The calmness eased Doyle''s emotions and the alcohol soothed his thoughts. He was nearly unconscious when he began to feel somebody pulling on his arms. Doyle''s eyes sprang open. Was somebody talking? Was somebody talking to him?


    "You''d think they''d make you guys go on a diet. Might squeeze out an extra mile per hour."


    Head raising, Doyle jerked his legs back when he discovered a figure standing at his feet. The figure was imposing. He wasn''t very tall, maybe six feet, but he was broad and thick. He carried some extra weight. He had a belly and a soft chest, but Doyle could tell that this man was dense with muscle. He had thick arms and tree-trunk legs.


    ¡°Let me get you up.¡± The stranger offered. ¡°Grounds gotta be freezing!¡±


    The man bent and grabbed Doyle¡¯s hand, trying to pull him to his feet, but he quickly released the hand. The man straightened his back and closed his eyes, trying to hide a full-faced grimace. The man peeled his eyes open. Doyle¡¯s staring was noticed, and the stranger shrugged away his embarrassment. Almost in defiance, he bent and extended Doyle his bear paw of a hand.


    "A little help?" the man asked Doyle. ¡°This time¡­¡± he added. Rolling onto his knees, Doyle got his feet set and straightened his legs. The return to standing was too swift. His head swished around, while he fought to keep his legs steady. The stranger felt Doyle lean into him. He caught Doyle¡¯s forearm, preventing him from falling back to the ground.


    "Thank you. I''m Doyle Falc¡­"


    "Falcone?" The stranger finished for him. "I gathered as much by the giant tour bus with your name all over it."


    Doyle never got tired of being reminded that he was a famous NASCAR driver. He let the man walk him over to his bus, and he sat on the bottom step.


    "Thanks, mister," Doyle said, flicking a piece of glass from the steps. "I don''t guess dozing off, in the middle of the parking lot, would be a very good idea. There¡¯d be pics and videos all over the internet, by lunch." Doyle joked. He looked up at the stranger, but instead of seeing the man smiling at his self-deprecation, he found the man leaning against the bus. Forehead pressed against the bus, with one hand clenching an empty pill bottle and the other rubbing the back of his head, the stranger kicked a tire. ¡°Gah¡¯dammit,¡± he muttered.


    "Are you ok...Mister?" Doyle asked the man, with genuine concern.


    After a moment, the man rolled his back against the bus. Slowly, and with practiced control, he slid down the bus. Once the stranger''s butt reached the ground, he let both legs extend and turned to acknowledge Doyle.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    "I''m fine. Bad back." The man explained.


    "Anything I can do for ya?" Doyle offered.


    The man shook his head, then answered, "Not unless you know how to get this filled¡­" He raised the empty pill bottle, "in the middle of the night"¡­he tossed the bottle to the ground¡­"in the middle of nowhere."


    "What is it?" Doyle asked.


    "Cyclobenzaprine, meloxicam, gabapentin...take your pick." The stranger remarked. He noticed the look of confusion on Doyle''s face and elaborated. "One is an anti-seizure med, but I take it to help with the nerve pain. One is an anti-inflammatory, and the last one is a muscle relaxer. Damn car broke down three days ago. There isn''t a pharmacy within thirty miles of here, and I took my last pills yesterday."


    "Shit man! So, you''re hurting huh? What the hell happened to your back?


    "Drunk driver ran a stop sign. T-boned me."


    "Break your back?" Doyle asked the stranger.


    "Nope. I didn''t even know I was hurt. Took a bit to notice. A few months later, started feeling stiffness in my back. Over a couple of years, the stiffness became having a hard time bending over and tying my shoes. The pain didn''t start until four years later, or so. Not much at first, but it got worse and worse. And here we are, now. Fusing spine, pinched nerves, muscle spasms, numbness in my legs, chronic back pain, my outer thighs feel like they are burning, and to top it all off, constant migraines and high blood pressure from the constant pain."


    The stranger looked at Doyle and felt awkward for over-sharing. He reached his hand toward Doyle and offered him a handshake.


    "My name is Barry. Barry Merch."


    "Thanks, again, for helping me back to the bus."


    Barry took his hand back and nodded at Doyle.


    "Now, I don''t have any of those pills for you," Doyle informed Barry as a grin formed on his face. "But I do have some nice bud in the bus. It might help to take the edge off."


    "No thanks, not a fan."


    "Well, how about some Hydros? Or a fentanyl patch? Don''t know if it will help with the nerve stuff but will work wonders for the pain!"


    Doyle stood and motioned for Barry to follow him into the bus. As the two men entered the living quarters, Doyle asked Barry to have a seat on the couch. He grabbed the TV remote and flung it on the cushion next to Barry.


    "Be right back. Make yourself at home."


    After a few minutes, Doyle returned with a box full of unfinished medications and first aid supplies. He rummaged through the box and produced a bottle and a small box. He shook the bottle, checking to see if it held any pills. He handed the bottle, and the box of fentanyl patches, to Barry.


    "Where the hell did you get fentanyl patches from?"


    "Same place I got those Hydros. From a doctor." Doyle joked. "Don''t worry, they were prescribed. Don''t you remember when I took that nasty tumble at Daytona a couple of years back? And shattered my leg and sternum?" Judging by Barry''s expression, Doyle knew Barry had no idea what he was talking about.


    "Sorry. Not a fan of racing. But my dad never stops talking about it."


    "Oh well. You''ll come around." Doyle said, with a wink. "Careful with those patches. They are strong stuff. I only used one and couldn''t feel myself breathing. Freaked me the fuck out."


    "Oh, I know¡± Barry assured. ¡°My grandpa got them after open heart surgery. He said the same thing. I won''t need them." Barry returned the patches to Doyle. "But thanks for the Hydros."


    Barry opened the bottle and smiled as he poured a couple into his hand. "Number 10s! Nice." He popped the pills in his mouth and began speaking again. "So, what are you doing in little bitty Tupelo, Oklahoma?"


    "Well, we were heading to Dallas¡­from Joplin."


    "You would take Highway 69, how the hell did you end up here?" Barry asked.


    Doyle threw his head back and let out a deep, guttural, laugh.


    "Well...I may have picked up a fan at my last race, and I decided to drop her off at home." Doyle answered, shyly. "She lived in this place called Ada. Dropped her off and started up 75, back toward Dallas. Fucking Jimmy¡­um¡­Jimmy''s my driver. He got tired and wouldn¡¯t drive anymore. So here we are."


    Barry smirked at the racecar driver. "Must have been a, really, nice fan, to drive her, all the way, to Ada."


    "A, really, REALLY, nice fan" Doyle confirmed.


    Both men were laughing when the bus door opened, and Jimmy came running up the stairs. The driver was, obviously, excited; but also surprised at seeing a strange man in the bus. For a fleeting moment, he appeared like he was going to address the stranger but decided against it.


    "Doyle, you gotta get your drunk ass out here¡­QUICK." Jimmy began to turn, but he stopped to look at Barry, again. Jimmy¡¯s mouth opened, but no words came. He was frozen, mouth wide for half of a second. It didn¡¯t take long for him to decide that whatever was going on outside, was more important than who was on the bus. He yelled as he left the bus. "NOW DOYLE. COME ON."


    The other two men were a second behind Jimmy. Doyle, expecting trouble, came wobbling out of the bus, still very drunk, carrying a tire iron. Aside from Jimmy, two other people stood outside. Doyle looked around, before turning to Jimmy. "Well, what the hell is going on?" Doyle asked, seeing no obvious need for the tire iron. Jimmy didn''t answer his question. He simply raised his hand and pointed up. Doyle and Barry both followed Jimmy''s gaze toward the stars.


    From east to west, as far as the eye could see, the night sky was filled with hundreds of falling objects. They pulsed with yellow light. Some were larger and brighter, while some were feint, almost too dim to see. They made no sound. Barry was reminded of paper lanterns, floating in the wind. They were different. This was not a cluster of falling stars. The objects were not speeding through the sky. All of them were moving linearly. They didn¡¯t bob, they didn¡¯t drift. The glowing objects were falling straight down.


    "What the hell are they?" Jimmy asked out loud. "Not a clue" Doyle answered. Barry became aware of a slow strobe of light above his current field of vision. He tilted his head back and an audible gasp escaped him. Barry and Doyle heard the sound, both men turned to see Barry raising his arm and pointing above their heads.


    There was a huge glowing orb directly over their heads. The sky was black, and lacking a point of reference, Barry had no idea how high the orb was, but he knew it would eventually reach the ground. His pulse spiked and his stomach knotted. Years of watching war movies, and documentaries about doomsday preppers brought images of bombs being dropped. "Is it bombs?" he asked, voice quivering. Doyle shrugged his shoulders. "Falling too slowly...seems like" Jimmy answered. "Yeah, I guess you''re right" Barry admitted, more to himself than to Jimmy.


    "Besides," Jimmy began to explain, "I served two tours in Desert Storm. I''ve seen hundreds of bombs, RPGs, rockets, mortars, you name it. None of them ever glowed like tha¡­"


    A hundred bright lights exploded, simultaneously. The entire night sky turned brighter than the sun. A moment later the resounding booms of countless percussions rang their ears. The percussion, overhead, caused windows to shatter and the ground shook. No more than three seconds had passed before Barry¡¯s eyes recovered from the flash. There were no traces of the things floating in the sky. No sounds, and no lights...anywhere. No traffic droning from the nearby highway. No static whine of the nearby transformers. Barry couldn¡¯t hear any crickets, owls, or coyotes. Only the huffing of his own breathing. It was unnaturally quiet.


    It was a new moon and dawn was hours away. In a flash, all the artificial light evaporated, leaving the world unnaturally dark.


    "The power is out" Barry announced.

 Bright Lights and Dim Futures

    Barry tried to rub the spots from his vision, but most of his field of view was still obscured by shifting rainbow hues. Disbelief prevented him from doing much of anything. Jimmy looked to Doyle. He started to speak, but no words came. With his slack-jawed expression, and the way he managed to open, and close, his mouth a few times, Jimmy reminded Doyle of a goldfish blowing bubbles.


    Before any of them could speak, the dust kicked up and a droning hum reached their ears. The dust was joined by leaves and light debris. The hum became an intensifying whoosh. It grew louder and louder. The cadence of clinking and clanking cheered the accelerating winds. The very air became hostile. The wind was tidal. It began to shove on them. The sand stung at their uncovered skin. Leaves rocketed into, and past, them. Discarded litter twirled as it raced by. A swarm of roof shingles flapped off the post office and jetted toward them.


    The motel manager sprinted into the lobby. The other man ran to his car. He yanked at the door handle and the door flung wide. The contents of his car were sucked out and hurled away. Deciding his room would be safer, the man juked, around the open car door, and vanished behind door number seven. Taking queue, Jimmy and Doyle bolted for the bus. Barry¡¯s room was on the other side of the building, causing him to follow the latter two men.


    The three men were frantic. They arrived at the staircase and all three men tried to squeeze in. Doyle slipped inside but snagged the second step and slammed forward. Jimmy tripped on Doyle, causing him to flop over the man. ¡°HEY. GET THE HELL OFF ME,¡± Doyle screamed. ¡°Trying. Stop elbowing me!¡± Jimmy ordered.


    Jimmy yelped as he felt himself being ripped back outside. Arms flailing, he managed to grab both sides of the doorframe, before his feet felt the ground. Barry kept a single handhold on Jimmy¡¯s jacket, as he leaned into the bus. He planted his left palm under Doyle¡¯s upraised ass and sent Doyle tumbling over the top step. Barry turned back to Jimmy and grabbed a second handful of the red leather jacket. Quickly, setting his feet, both legs pumped upward as Barry snapped both arms toward the door.


    Jimmy had just moved, away, when Jimmy flew up the stairs like a tossed bale of hay. The bus driver landed in the driver¡¯s seat¡­mostly.


    Barry cleared the folding bus door and yelled for Jimmy to shut the door. "Hurry!" Barry screamed as dust and debris swirled around him. Barry crested the top step, but the door was still open and the outside was filling the inside of the bus. Jimmy rapidly smacked the button. Barry realized the problem and turned back down the steps. ¡°There¡¯s no power, Jimmy.¡± He yelled over his shoulder. Objects bounced off the bus. Objects bounced off everything. Darkness already consumed the moonless night, and the air became dense with everything not secured. Only moments had passed, but the world got impossibly darker. Barry was assaulted by the torrent of wind. He pulled his shirt over his face and fumbled for the door. He located the door''s central hinge and shoved it. Nothing happened. He retreated a step and used both legs to drive the door shut. Still nothing.


    ¡°I NEED HELP!¡± he roared. The other men quickly made it to the door. They wedged themselves around Barry and pushed. Grunts and groans erupted, but the door stayed open. Barry felt Jimmy turn from the door. ¡°What are you doing?¡± Barry yelled over the deafening wind. ¡°Help push, Jimmy!¡± Jimmy did not reply. Giving up on Jimmy, Barry rebuffed Doyle to push harder. The two men heaved. Barry ignored the searing pain in his back. His mind didn¡¯t register the electric sting sprouting from his right thigh. With feral rage, Barry pushed. He screamed in frustration. His head started throbbing, and the sides of his neck ached.


    The door jerked. It closed an inch and halted. There was a hydraulic hiss as it slowly slid further along the track. The more it closed, the easier it became. The howl of the winds grew louder as the door closed. The howl lowered to a roar, then a high-pitched whistle. The door closed more and the pitch became sharper, sounding like a forgotten tea kettle. As the door sealed shut, the tempest protested with a final ear-splitting screech. The bus was quieter. Even as debris battered them on all sides, growing in frequency and force, they were insulated from the terrible force of the gale outside.


    Doyle¡¯s ears perked at a sudden crunching sound, but soon recognized the sound, as it was followed by the ever-increasing luminance of a glow stick. Jimmy cracked another stick and tossed it into the stairwell. ¡°I think we¡¯re good¡± Jimmy told the other men. Doyle removed his weight from the door. Barry was forced back, as the door tried to fold open. Barry screamed for Doyle to keep pushing. ¡°It¡¯s not staying shut,¡± Barry explained. Jimmy hopped down and squeezed the big man. After frantically feeling for the manual locking bar, he gripped the rubber-handled lever and yanked. A metal "thwunk" signaled the door was secure. He leaned away from Barry, patting his shoulder as he did. ¡°You should be good, now" he assured the exhausted man.


    ¡°Nothing is fucking working" Jimmy informed them as he slapped the electric door switch. "The entire bus is dead. Lights don''t even work. We couldn¡¯t shut the door because it is hydraulic. I reached under the dash and cut the line. That let us close it, and that is why it wouldn¡¯t stay closed.¡±


    The commotion outside was so loud the two men could barely make out what Jimmy was saying.


    "E.M.P." Barry yelled. "It had to be. That would explain the explosions and the loss of power. And the random hurricane force winds."


    Doyle watched Jimmy nodding in agreement. He heard Barry groaning as he used the handrail to tow himself up from the stairwell. Rushing to help, Doyle reached out and took Barry¡¯s left arm, helping pull the heavy man along.


    Barry stepped onto the landing and used the stairway partition to support himself. Placing both hands on the partition, he groaned as he straightened his arms and forced his spine straight. There was a loud exhalation as he shifted his weight, from his arms, back to his legs. Barry and Jimmy both noticed when Barry¡¯s knees went limp noodle, forcing the man to lean onto the partition, again. Before they could ask if he was ok, Barry managed to stand erect and turned their direction.


    The three men were silent, for a time. They were all in varying degrees of shock. They each spent a moment looking around the bus. The windows were blacked out, but the green light provided enough illumination to pick out the random objects that happened to clatter off one of them. It reminded Barry of watching one of those shows where the little submarines are recording from deep in the abyss, or like when spaceships would zoom off at warp speed and the stars were whizzing past. The bus rocked and swayed from being buffeted by the wind and the many objects that it carried. The windshield had dozens of cracks from flying objects; street signs, rocks, outdoor furniture, even a garden gnome. After the gnome, Jimmy closed the curtain by sliding it across the windshield. "Just in case" Jimmy explained.


    "Barry?" Doyle''s voice broke the silence. "Yeah." Barry''s returned. "Terrorists?" Doyle asked, disbelief apparent in his voice. Barry shook his head as he answered, "We''re in the middle of Bum Fucked Egypt. "What were the terrorists trying to terrorize? A couple of farmers and a herd of cows?" Doyle released a nervous chuckle, then swung around and walked off, into the dark bus.The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°I don¡¯t get it, either,¡± Jimmy started yelling, but that was, definitely, a bomb. Those were all bombs.¡± His last words were unexpectedly loud, as the roar of the wind drastically lowered. Like a retreating rain storm, the "tinks", "clanks", and "whomps", began to dissipate. The men could feel the bus relaxing as the relenting wind allowed it to settle onto its springs. They all felt relief, but Barry¡¯s relief was accompanied by a sense of dread. Deep down, he sensed that the calm was an omen, a bad omen. Sure, the bomb''s destruction was over...and boy were they lucky to be far enough away to have survived...but he knew things would not be the same. In a way, he was grateful for the curtain of darkness that veiled them from the outside.


    Barry and Jimmy were startled by the sound of Doyle stumbling over something in the dark, followed by the even louder sound of him knocking something over. "Found it!" Doyle exclaimed. There was a clicking sound and his face materialized as it became illuminated by the flame of a butane lighter. He used the flame to search through a few cabinets. He located four candles and spread them around the bus. He finished lighting the last candle and flopped down onto the sofa.


    Barry and Jimmy walked into the living area of the bus. Barry took a seat across from the sofa. Jimmy shoved Doyle''s legs off the sofa and plopped down beside him.


    "What the hell...cough...do you...cough...think is going..." Jimmy couldn''t finish his sentence. His coughing became hacking. Doyle straightened and grabbed a half-empty water bottle from the nearby table. He tried to hand it to Jimmy, but the man was coughing too violently. "You must have breathed in too much dust." Barry diagnosed. "Drink some water."


    Jimmy coughed and wheezed for a few seconds. He finally reached for the bottle of water, but another coughing fit started. This time the coughing was hard and deep. It was an intense cough and it was incessant. Jimmy rose from the couch and leaned forward; hands on knees. Barry got up and tried to steady the unstable bus driver. Jimmy''s eyes were darting around, panic evident. He slumped to one knee as the coughing turned to laborious wheezing. He tottered onto his side. The other two men dropped to his sides.


    "Goddamn it, Jimmy. Breath." Doyle pleaded as he rolled Jimmy onto his back. Barry reached over and grabbed Jimmy¡¯s shoulder, preventing Doyle from rolling Jimmy over. Jimmy was gagging on thick wads of bloody mucus. "Keep him on his side, so he don''t choke" Barry explained. They returned Jimmy to his side. The violent coughs and gags calmed and became labored wheezing. Jimmy''s eyes bulged as they darted between the other two men. His face flushed as he suffocated on his own fluids. Jimmy strained to lift his head and shoulders from the floor. Panic painted across his face as he clawed and pawed at Doyle''s shirt. Then he collapsed back to the floor.


    "MOTHERFUCKER." Barry yelled as the wheezing was replaced with a low gurgle. Pink bubbles were sprouting around the man''s mouth. Both of his eyes were red from countless busted capillaries. Blood oozed from the corners of his eyes. The sides of his neck glistened with the trails of blood that ran from his ears. Both of his eyes stretched wide, and his mouth opened so far, there was an audible crack. Jimmy snapped his head toward Doyle and his chest heaved, though no air was taken in. Jimmy convulsed with a powerful pleading in his eyes.


    Doyle began to sob. He had never felt so terrified. He drove past concrete walls at over two hundred miles an hour. He voluntarily strapped himself into thousands of pounds of metal and rocketed around in a circle for hours. He had been rolled, ramped, crushed, and launched countless times, but still, he had never felt as helpless, as he did now.


    Jimmy began to spasm and then thrash. His body knew how to breathe. It performed all the necessary machinations for breathing. The chest expanded, the mouth was open, the heart was beating...but there was no air. Instead of spent breath, only blood and phlegm bubbled from him. Jimmy was drowning from the inside. Doyle wanted to help. He needed to help...but he could not.


    ¡°What can I do?¡± Doyle whispered, before anyone who could give him the answer. Jimmy strained and raised his arm to clutch Doyle''s collar. Jimmy¡¯s fingernails darkened as blood began to escape from beneath his nails. He violently began to kick and flail. A moment later, his hand relaxed its grip and the thrashing subsided. His arm collapsed, dragging his hand from Doyle''s collar. His head slumped to the floor and his body went limp.


    Both men were frozen. Their shock became bewilderment as Jimmy''s skin seemed to bloom before them. His very skin went from a soft beige to a deep purple. A trick of the green light from the glowstick. Jimmy''s white t-shirt blossomed with thousands of tiny purple pin drops. Each one quickly wicked outward, spreading until they connected to the next one. Soon, Jimmy¡¯s t-shirt was the same color as his leather jacket. Barry knew it was blood.


    Doyle stood up and planted his hands on the sides of his head and he began pacing around the bus.


    "What the hell is going on, man? I''m supposed to be in Dallas. I have a race in two days. My bus driver just fucking died. Jimmy is dead. He is dead. He shouldn''t be dead. There shouldn''t be bombs going off. There aren''t supposed to be any fucking EMP bombs blowing up in the sky. There are supposed to be motel signs, and street lights, and traffic lights, and bus doors that close. Not motherfucking bombs, and hurricanes, and dust storms, and flying fucking yard gnomes, and my bus driver is supposed to be a-fucking-live. Not melted on the FUCKING BUS FLOOR!"


    Barry listened to Doyle''s tirade, never taking his eyes off Jimmy. He didn''t know the man. The entirety of their interaction spanned two minutes of panic-fueled confusion. Jimmy was just a guy who was yelling at another guy in a parking lot who ended up on a bus and couldn''t get the door to shut in the middle of an aerial bombing. Even after all the madness that he had just endured, seeing this man die like that shook Barry''s sensibilities. What could cause a death like that?


    Barry sprang to his feet and peeled off his shirt. "Hey." He yelled, toward Doyle. Doyle turned around to see a shirtless Barry standing over Jimmy''s blood-soaked body. His chest and belly jiggled as he slung his shirt around his head and covered his mouth and nose.


    "Es¡­oda¡­e¡­stur¡­as¡­er¡­ump¡­em." Barry spoke through the shirt that covered his face. "What?" Doyle asked. "Is¡­godda¡­e¡­must¡­d.as..or..hump..ing." Barry screamed again, trying to force the words through all four layers of his folded shirt. "WHAT?" Doyle yelled back.


    Barry stared at Doyle for a few seconds, but did not respond. He took a deep breath. He removed his shirt and repeated what he said, as fast as he could. "Itsgottabemustardgasorsomething.¡±


    All at once, the realization of a potential chemical attack set in, and Doyle jumped onto the sofa. He buried his face in a throw pillow. He quickly lifted his head, breath held, and scanned the room. Doyle shoved his head back into the pillow. He repeated this process three more times before he found what he was looking for. He sprang up, lunged across the edge of the kitchen counter, and grabbed a metallic silver box with a bio-hazard sticker. He flipped the clasp up and ripped the box open. He rifled through box. After a few seconds, he spun around and flung a surgical mask at Barry. He quickly put the other mask on his face and gave Barry a thumbs-up.


    "Always prepared." Doyle congratulated himself.


    Barry held the mask in his hand, looking at it, but not yet switching it with his shirt.


    "Put it on, man. Doctors use ''em. They block germs and stuff."


    Barry looked, from Doyle to the mask, and then back to Doyle. He closed his eyes and dropped the mask to the floor. A moment later, he pulled the shirt from his face and took a big deep breath.


    "NO MAN!¡± What are you doing?" Doyle pleaded. "The gas will get you." "Doyle...people wear gas masks for this shit. Not t-shirts and cotton masks. If it¡¯s some kind of gas then this cotton thing isn¡¯t going to help us. Doyle thought about it for a moment, then took his mask off. "Guess you''re right." Doyle conceded.


    Doyle returned to the couch and sat down. He grabbed one of the pillows and hugged it against his chest. He couldn''t help but look at his bus driver; his friend. Barry noticed Doyle¡¯s gaze. He grabbed a throw blanket and delicately draped it over Jimmy, before taking a seat in the recliner. Suddenly, Barry became very aware of the pain in his back and legs. He popped a few of the pain pills and reached for the chair''s lever.


    "Sixteen years¡± Doyle announced. "Jimmy has been my driver since before I was a hot shit household name. He was like a big brother. Always lookin'' out for me. Trying to keep me on the straight and narrow. Always told me when I was being reckless, but never judged me."


    Barry saw tears well up in Doyle''s eyes.


    "What the fuck is going on, Barry?"


    Barry closed the recliner and leaned forward. "I haven''t got a clue" Barry admitted.


    "I forgot I was drunk." Doyle blurted. "Rooms starting to spin." He leaned over and let himself fall across the couch. He stayed there, quietly hugging his pillow, until he passed out.

 The Eerie Silence of a New World

    Joel was born without the ability to hear. The doctors said they had procedures that could allow him to hear, but he was the son of a farmer in Oklahoma. They would never save enough to pay for one of those procedures. He wasn''t bitter, silence was all he ever knew. His father wasn''t an intelligent man. Though he tried to learn sign language, he grew frustrated with it and soon stopped trying. Joel learned the routines of the farm and focused on his choirs. When something needed to be done, or information needed to be passed along, it was in the form of a note on the fridge.


    Joel didn''t hear the explosions the night before. Their farmhouse was tucked between two high hills. The entire property, north of the house, was dense woods. These features, and the fact that no bombs exploded within ten miles of the farmhouse, allowed the property to remain unaffected by the damaging winds. Less than an hour after the attack, Joel woke up. He was always up before daylight. He stood and stretched. After a final yawn, he exited the room. He gave the bedroom light switch a perfunctory flip, but nothing happened. Leaning back into the room, he gave the switch a few more flips before deciding the bulb was out. He felt his way down the dark hallway. The bathroom offered no illumination. The same for the extra bedroom. He tried the switch for the kitchen lights, with the same results.


    Joel stalked across the kitchen, careful not to kick, or snag, anything. He found the cover of the breaker box and opened it. He had no way to read the panel, but none of the breakers felt tripped, and they all faced the ¡°on¡± direction.


    Dad didn''t pay the light bill again.


    Joel''s father only kept one flashlight, and it was in his dad¡¯s pickup. Instead, he favored the old-style kerosene lamps. He said it was because they always worked if they had fuel and a wick. He didn¡¯t trust battery-powered flashlights, with their loose connections, and corroding batteries. Joel knew the real reason was because a few dollars¡¯ worth of kerosene would fuel their lamps for a year. Joel believed that most of his father¡¯s philosophies in life were directly related to being a cheap bastard.


    He felt his way to the fridge and walked his hands over the counter beside it as he felt for the lamp. Finding it, he located the drawer beneath the lamp. Joel brought out a box of matches. He lit one for light, and quickly readied the kerosene lamp to be lit. Using another match, he ignited the wick and lowered the globe back down. Joel spun toward the refrigerator and saw his father had left a note. He walked closer and positioned the lamp above the note.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be back day after tomorow. I put $300 under the bible on the coffee table. Take the truck in to town and get 5 bags of cow pelits and a salt lick. The truck had a flat tire when I left. Put the spare on and get a used tire while your in town. Make sure its got lots a tred still on it. Check for bubbles or uneven tred ware. Use whats left over and get any food we need.


    Joel was so distracted by the power being off, he forgot his father left at midnight. It was a four-hour drive to the Woodward auction. His father had to be there, and unloaded, by the time the auction started.


    Joel¡¯s father believed the animals eat before the people did. Joel didn¡¯t think it mattered, plus his father wasn¡¯t there. He quickly ate a bowl of cereal before he started his tasks.


    Sunrise was a couple of hours away. Joel walked outside and found a strange fog. He noticed the yellow hue of the fog, but he attributed it to the amber glow of the lamp. The air smelled of chemicals, but Joel ignored it, too. This was farmland and crop dusting was common on the surrounding farms. Joel assumed a neighbor had sprayed overnight.


    He made quick work of his jobs and headed back into the house. The sun was just about to pop over the hills, so he went ahead and changed the tire, figuring he could take a nap after. The feed store didn¡¯t open for a few more hours, so Joel washed up and let himself take a rare nap.


    Joel woke up to the light of day, but it seemed off. It wasn''t the vibrant, crisp light he was used to. It seemed muted and dull. Without power, his digital clock couldn''t tell him what time it was. He rose from his bed and put on shoes. He walked to the window to try to gauge what time of day it was. Everything was shrouded in a sickly yellow haze. Joel walked through the house and headed outside. As far as he could see, it was the same yellowness. It was the most bizarre thing he had ever seen.


    Oklahoma was known for its finicky weather. Violent storms, tornadoes, or chilly nights could turn into sweltering days. Months with no rain, followed by months of flooding. He thought he had seen all there was to see. His first thought was of grassfires, but he abandoned that theory. Smoke smells like smoke, always. The smell outside was not smoke. The smell was the same as earlier, but not as strong. Though the yellow fog was strange to him, it didn''t seem to be anything dangerous. As he walked to the pickup, he tried to decide what the fog was. He chalked it up to being a freak dust storm or a bumper season for pollen. The screech of the rusty pickup door pulled him from his contemplations. He had work to do.


    Joel slid into the weathered seat. The key waited in the ignition. He pressed down on the clutch and twisted the stainless-steel key. Nothing happened. There were no lights, and the starter did not crank. After popping the hood, and tinkering with a few things, Joel decided the battery was dead. They had a battery charger that could jump an engine, but without electricity, it was useless.


    Why did you have to forget to pay our electricity, again?


    Joel decided to walk into town and have the feed delivered. He knew the owner of the feed store. He knew the man would give him, and the feed, a ride home. He returned to the house to grab a few things. He stuffed a few bottles of water, and some Pop Tarts, into a backpack and headed out.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    It was about two miles to the highway, and from there, another three miles to the feed store. Joel had made the trek before, and it only took a couple of hours. It took less time if he jogged some of it. There were no houses between his house and the highway. He jogged the first three-quarters of the way to the highway. The last half mile was paved, and by the time he reached the asphalt, he was ready to walk. Joel reached the highway and noticed that the yellow haze was still around. It reached as far as he could see. The roads around there weren¡¯t very busy, but after a half hour on the highway, the lack of traffic was noticeable. Joel began to get a feeling of unease about the haze, and the seemingly abandoned roadway. He became more anxious. His pace increased.


    Joel was a couple of miles down the highway when he came upon a car stranded in the ditch. The car veered off the road and slammed into a steel pipe fence. Joel approached the car. Immediately, he knew something was wrong. The driver¡¯s window was smeared with blood and streaks of dark matted hair. The driver¡¯s head and shoulder leaned against the door and window.


    He searched the highway, in both directions, but saw nothing. Being deaf, and mute, Joel never bothered with carrying a cell phone. He could not call for help, and he knew help was nowhere close. He knocked on the side of the car to alert the occupant that he was there. He slowly approached the driver¡¯s door. Joel didn¡¯t bother knocking. He grabbed the door handle and carefully opened the door.


    Joel never tried to use his voice. Aside from the odd yelp, when he stumped a toe or cut a finger, he was always silent. However, as the corpse tumbled out of the car, Joel was anything but silent. A sound, like a honking goose, was forced from his mouth. It was immediately replaced by the sound of powerful retching, as Joel expelled that morning¡¯s cereal.


    From head to toe, the deceased woman was covered in blood. Her eyes and ears ran dark with it. Crimson rivulets flowed from her nose and mouth. The deflated airbag was mostly crimson, and the seat absorbed enough blood to leave a silhouette of the driver.


    What he saw convinced him there was danger. Joel judged that this death was the result of being stabbed or shot. That amount of blood meant it happened multiple times. Joel was raised slaughtering their animals. It was a way of life and routine. Joel was no detective, but he knew this happened recently. The blood on her body was dry, but the thicker areas, like her hair and where the body sat, were still wet.


    Joel¡¯s thoughts were frantic. looked around for help. His normal self-consciousness about his voice was gone, as he screamed for help. If anybody were around to hear, they would not discern his yells were pleadings for help, but were more likely to liken them to the guttural bellows of a mother cow looking for her calf.


    "MUUMP, MUUMP, UUUMP." Joel continued to yell, hysterically.


    He realized there was no help coming. He took a final look at the grizzly scene, and he sprinted off. He ran as fast as his legs would go. The adrenaline propelled him faster and further than he would normally be able to achieve. He made it the last mile in no time.


    Even from a distance, the barrenness of the city was apparent. There weren¡¯t any cars driving around. No people coming and going from the businesses. A few cars were sitting in ditches or oddly parked in front of a building. A semi was stalled in the middle of a red-light intersection. There were even a few silhouettes of what appeared to be people laying on the ground or in parking lots. It was a strange and eerie scene. As the scene unfolded, Joel was overcome with panic and anxiety. To top it off, was the all-encompassing yellow haze.


    Joel ran for the nearest building. It was a Valero gas station. There were no cars in the parking lot, and the door was still locked. He knew this store opened at 5 a.m. He ran through the cross street, to the Bank, but it was empty and locked, too. Next was Tupelo Elementary School. There were no kids to be seen. All the buses were still parked out back, in the bus parking lot. There were a few faculty cars parked out front, but every entrance was locked. All the interior lights were off. Joel felt confused about what day it was. He ran it through his mind and decided it was not the weekend.


    What the hell is going on?


    Frantic and full of ever-growing dread, Joel continued. He saw a dead body down the street, in the motel parking lot. There were a few cars there, and a giant tour bus, but the thought of seeing another dead body, up close, drove Joel to turn away from the street and down a side road. He didn''t know where he was going. In his panic, he wasn''t thinking coherently enough to remember the layout of the town. He noticed the police station and ran for it.


    Joel ran up to the station door and yanked at it. It was unlocked. He blew past the vacant receptionist desk and ran into the station. The first thing he saw was the back of a dispatcher, slumped over her station, headset on her head, and blood dripping off the table. It pooled in a puddle of crimson on the floor.


    Please, God, help me. What''s going on?


    Joel continued past the dispatcher, to the closed door of the police chief. He shoved the door open, only to see another dead body. This time, he was spared the gory scene. The legs of the unseen police officer stuck out from behind the massive oak desk. Joel didn''t bother a closer inspection. He rapidly spun and exited the station.


    He searched the nearby streets for signs of anything helpful. Everywhere he looked, he saw either crashed cars, dead bodies, or businesses and homes that should be lively, but were solemn and motionless. His thoughts, once frantic and fearful, dulled into shock and confusion. Joel wondered, aimlessly. He abandoned the roads and meandered in a straight line toward the other end of town. He cut across yards and through allies. The only people he found were soaked in blood and dead. There wasn''t a single light on. Not a single "OPEN" sign or neon light worked.


    Slowly, Joel realized that his father hadn¡¯t forgotten to pay the electricity bill. The power was out, everywhere. That realization brought his attention to his father.


    Please, Lord, let my dad be ok. Please! I''ll do anything, God. Let him be alive.


    Without knowing it, Joel had let himself wander back to his side of town. He returned to the Valero gas station. Joel was in full-on shock, now. He had seen too much. There were too many questions and too many dead bodies. His mind could not take it¡­neither could his legs. His body was shaking, and he felt light-headed. He hurried off the road and sat on the concrete, his back against a fuel pump. His head tilted against the cool metal. He closed his eyes. Joel wanted to pray, but instead, he began to sob.


    If Joel hadn''t closed his eyes to cry, he might have seen the semi-truck creeping down the street. If he wasn''t def, he may have heard the hum of the diesel engine. If Joel wasn¡¯t shaking from fear and dread, then he might have felt the low vibrations of the massive truck¡¯s engine. He would have found relief, knowing that there was another living, breathing, person.


    He didn''t see the truck, though. He didn''t hear the engine humming. He just leaned against the fuel pump, with his eyes closed, trembling and sobbing.

 Unanswered Questions and Unexpected Guests

    Barry awoke to intense pain in his lower back. Sleeping in a bed was bad enough. Falling asleep in a recliner was a horrible idea. The throbbing of his sciatic nerve pulsed down his left leg. His right thigh was burning and there was a concrete stiffness from his tailbone to his neck. He tried to close the leg of the chair, but as soon as he pushed down on the leg, a searing pain knifed his lower back. Barry went rigid but quickly realized it made the pain worse. He went limp. Letting his weight sag into the padded leather. The intense pain in his back began to dull.


    Going sack-of-potatoes, like that, was not pleasant. The muscles of his core, neck, and shoulders were stiff and taught. Forced to endure the constant shifting and favoring, to adjust to the eminent needs of his back, these muscles were overworked. Relaxing into the chair forced his spine to bend forward. As his massive weight pushed downward, it overcame the resistance of the supporting muscles and connective tissues. Slowly, his ass sank as his head and knees drew together. It was not that drastic of a stretch. He shifted only a few inches. The decompression of his spine sent needles to his fingers and toes. Long pinched nerves awoke, and little fairies danced down his right leg. An electric tingle ribboned down his penis and into his scrotum.


    For a moment, the tortured man¡¯s body was enraptured by prickles, tickles, shocks, and jolts. There was a rush to his head, almost as if he were on the brink of unconsciousness. He hovered in euphoria, unaware of the pain. He sank a little deeper. His knees bent a little more. The searing pain no longer assaulted him.


    It became uncomfortable to breathe¡­


    As he was folding in the chair, his voluminous belly had nowhere to go. Crammed between his chest and thighs, his gut prevented his diaphragm from fully expanding. Barry wished he could stay like that forever, but he knew better. He lifted his hips, to straighten out, but after a couple of inches, he couldn¡¯t force them any further. He was afraid of this. Barry called this problem, the Hollow. Sometimes, if he stayed in a position, too long, it made him feel this hollow feeling in his lumbar spine. When this happened, it was like a kink in a water hose. If it was kinked, completely, Barry felt nothing below his waste. He couldn¡¯t walk, stand, or wiggle his toes.


    There were times when it was only a little kinked. In times like those, a little signal got through. His feet may be dead, but he could feel the rest. Once, his whole right ass cheek went dead. No sensation, or feeling, at all.


    It was inconvenient, but Barry learned that it only lasted as long as the position was maintained. All he had to do was change positions. Unfortunately, this Hollow was preventing nerve function from reaching the muscles needed to fully thrust his pelvis forward. Barry strained to lean forward, but his center of gravity was centered around his belly. He let himself flop back into the chair.


    I¡¯m so tired of this shit.


    He twisted to one side and rolled toward the chair''s armrest. His right leg rotated over his left leg. He felt for the floor with his foot. He found the floor and planted the ball of his foot. Next, Barry let his right hip drop from the leg of the chair and lowered his knee to the floor. Finally, with both hands on the arm of the chair, Barry pushed with his arms as he straightened his right leg. He placed his left foot, now free of the recliner, next to the right.


    The whole ordeal only took about ten seconds, but Barry felt like he had just climbed a flight of stairs. At over four hundred pounds, it took a lot of strength, and effort, to move around as well as Barry did. He was always athletic and never avoided hard work. Even now, he would do anything that was needed, but he avoided unnecessary physical tasks.


    Resolve was a trait of Barry¡¯s, long before his injury. He could always muster enough of it to cook dinner. Even when he should have sat down hours ago. When he was on the clock, he ignored the nagging pain and kept going. If the trash didn¡¯t get taken out, he would shuffle it out to the garbage can, telling himself ¡°Just a few more steps¡± as he made his way back inside.


    Over time, how Barry prioritized his ¡°needs¡± began to shift. He started forgoing long walks or sitting in hard chairs. He learned to live without being able to access anything below his knees. A dropped pen required a broom and dustpan to retrieve. His shoes now had no laces, as he could not tie them. A thousand little things needed a thousand new ways of doing them. As his life became more painful, he stopped wasting willpower on things that caused him extra pain. Cardio was the first thing he cut.


    As Barry leaned on the arm of the chair, huffing and puffing, he knew he needed to lose weight. He knew that whatever was happening to the world, it wasn¡¯t going to be pleasant. He had a feeling there was a lot of walking in his future.


    Barry leaned against the chair for a moment, dreading the pain that would come when he stood straight. He summoned his resolve and pushed himself from the chair. He straightened his spine. The nerves in his back erupted. His mind swirled and his balance evaporated. Reflexively, he let himself teeter toward the wall. He just needed the support, for a moment. It always took a few seconds for his head to stop spinning after the initial jolt of pain.


    Barry''s focus returned. He no longer needed the wall to support himself. He opened his eyes and spun away from the wall. His foot snagged on something. The other got tangled in the unseen obstacle. His body was still vertical, so his fall started slow enough. Barry had time to plot an optimal trajectory. Deciding on the nearby couch, he twisted to the right and allowed his right knee to bend into the turn. As he fell, he reached out to soften the landing. Just before impact, Barry noticed Doyle curled on the couch. Barry let his knees collapse, hoping to drop faster and avoid the sleeping man. His right knee dropped down on the wood frame of the sofa, while his left continued toward the floor. This caused Barry to pitch to the left. His momentum flung him downward. There was a sharp crack as all of Barry¡¯s weight drove his left shoulder through the front edge of the couch. Barry cursed loudly, as he rolled onto his back.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Barry tried to straighten his right leg, to see if it would help the throbbing in his knee, but something was in the way. He lifted his head and looked to see what was in his way. Barry spotted the garish remains of Jimmy, and the events of the previous day rushed back into his thoughts.


    The commotion startled Doyle. He bolted upright, clinching a throw pillow. "It wasn''t a fucking dream," he yelled toward Jimmy¡¯s bloody remains. Doyle noticed Barry on the floor.


    ¡°Are you ok, man?"


    ¡°I¡¯m fucking great,¡± Barry spat, sarcastically. "Could you help me up?"


    Doyle reached down and grabbed the prone man''s hand. He pulled as Barry pushed himself up with his other arm.


    "What the fuck happened last night man?" Doyle asked. "This shit can''t be hap¡­¡± he trailed off. ¡°What¡¯s with the yellow color?¡± he asked.


    Barry¡¯s first few moments of being awake were frantic and he hadn¡¯t noticed the yellow tint of the world outside. ¡°I haven¡¯t got a clue. But, it has to be from the bombs. Probably, what did that to Jimmy,¡± Barry theorized.


    Doyle gazed out a nearby window. The yellow haze was everywhere. It wasn¡¯t thick, like a fog, more like when dust gets kicked up and hangs in the air. For about thirty yards, Doyle could see things clearly. The farther out he looked, the more the discolored air obscured the view. In the distance, he could just make the darker rooftops. They appeared to be floating in the strange atmosphere.


    It was eerily quiet. The calmness was unnerving. Doyle could not see the Sun, but he could tell where it was glowing. It was a few hours after sunrise. Even a podunk town like this should have some cars, some people, or something moving around.


    ¡°I don¡¯t even see a dog, man, ¡°Doyle informed the other man. ¡°Not a squirrel, a bird, not even a damn¡­ never mind,¡± Doyle interrupted himself. ¡°I see a couple of dogs.¡±


    Barry walked to the front of the bus and inspected the other side of town. He quickly spotted a large group of little birds flittering around some bushes. ¡°There have to be more people,¡± Barry assured Doyle, and himself.


    Doyle turned from the window and plopped onto the couch. ¡°What do we do? Where do we¡­¡±


    BANG BANG BANG


    Both men jumped at the unexpected banging on the side of the bus. Doyle jumped to his feet and grabbed a knife from the tiny kitchen sink. Barry turned in the direction the noise came from. Both men listened, but didn¡¯t hear anything.


    ¡°Who¡¯s out there?¡± Doyle yelled, but no reply came.


    Barry was not a jumpy person, but this whole situation had him on edge. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. His breathing was shallow and rapid. Scanning the area, he grabbed the little wooden tire club protruding from behind the driver¡¯s seat.


    ¡°See anything?¡± Doyle asked.


    Barry started to answer, ¡°I don¡¯t¡­¡±


    BANG BANG¡­bang bang bang bang


    Doyle¡¯s head snapped toward the front of the bus. He watched as Barry spun around, facing into the stairwell, and dropped into a fighter¡¯s stance. The wooden club looked too small in the man¡¯s massive hand.


    ¡°There¡¯s somebody at the door!¡± Barry yelled. Doyle asked him who it was, the foolishness of the question eluding him.


    ¡°How the fuck would I know?¡± Barry shot back at him.


    The door shook. Barry took a single step down and tried to get a better look at the person. A gloved hand slapped the door glass.


    ¡°FUCK,¡± Barry growled. He hated being startled. ¡°What the fuck do you want?¡± he asked the stranger.


    ¡°Inside.¡±


    Doyle heard the response and looked to Barry for answers. Barry waved Doyle over to him. Doyle hurried over, stepping carefully around Jimmy¡¯s body, and peeked around the staircase partition. All he could make out was the silhouette of a person wearing a jacket with the hood up.


    "Who are you?" Barry asked the unseen speaker.


    ¡°Is that you, Doyle?¡± the outsider asked.


    Doyle looked profoundly perplexed when he heard his name. Purely out of shock, he answered back, ¡°It is.¡±


    "Holy Shit! You''re alive." The voice answered back. "I thought everybody was dead."


    ¡°What¡¯cha wanna do? It¡¯s your bus. Your call.¡± Barry asked.


    Doyle had no idea what he wanted to do. All of this was way beyond him. He had no idea what was going on. He did want answers, though. He and Barry had no idea what was going on outside, but this person would have seen something.


    "Can I come in, please?" the voice politely asked.


    Barry looked from the door to Doyle. ¡°Your call,¡± he repeated.


    Doyle didn¡¯t move. He froze up.


    Tap tap tap tap


    ¡°Give us a minute.¡± Barry told the stranger.


    Doyle looked at Barry and started to speak but stopped. He did this a few more times, before Barry held up his empty hand to stop the man.


    ¡°Take a deep breath. Count to ten, and just pick yes or no.¡±


    Doyle did as Barry instructed. He finished his ten-count and opened his eyes.


    ¡°Well?¡± Barry waited.


    TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP


    The door rattled with each of the rapped knocks. Doyle looked from Barry to the door, and back to Barry.


    ¡°Hello?¡± The stranger was growing impatient.


    ¡°Yes, or no, Doyle? In or out?¡± Barry pressed Doyle.


    Doyle still wouldn¡¯t decide. Barry moved down the stairs and stood at the door.


    ¡°You have ten seconds, or I decide for you.¡± Barry¡¯s hand moved to the sliding bolt that locked the door. He looked up at Doyle and began to count.


    ¡°10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5.¡± Barry grabbed the bolt. ¡°4. Come on Doyle. It¡¯s your bus. Your choice. 3!¡± Barry slid the bolt, just a bit. ¡°MAKE A CHOICE,¡± Barry ordered.


    ¡°I CAN¡¯T!¡± Doyle screamed. ¡°What if it¡¯s the wrong choice?¡±


    ¡°2.¡± Barry continued. Last chance, Doyle.¡± Barry slid the bolt, a little more. The bolt was nearly clear.


    ¡°Wait, wait, wait!¡± Doyle pleaded. ¡°What if he is going to rob us, or something?¡±


    Barry didn¡¯t answer the question. Instead, he lifted the little wooden bat into the air and waived it around.


    ¡°He could have a gun!¡± Doyle¡¯s eyes were wide with fear. Genuine terror rode on his words, but Barry did not care. He recognized anxiety. He knew Doyle wasn¡¯t reacting, logically. Doyle had been through as much as Barry. They were both scared and uncertain. Barry lowered the bat and put on a kind expression.


    ¡°We will be ok, Doyle. I¡¯m here, with you. That person is alone, they are probably just as scared as we are, but they are stuck out there.¡± Barry pointed through the glass panes of the door. ¡°In that yellow stuff,¡± Barry added.


    Doyle calmed, slightly, as Barry finished speaking. He closed his eyes and took another deep breath. When they opened, Doyle opened his mouth to speak. He froze again, but only for a second, before he lost his composure again.


    ¡°I can¡¯t,¡± Doyle whispered


    ¡°1.¡± Barry turned back toward the door; like he was tearing off a band-aid, and he jerked the bolt clear.