Deadline

By Lincoln Reed

When the meteorite hits the earth, my laptop battery is at ninety-four percent charge. Three hours, four minutes.

Now I’ll never finish my novel.

Obviously, radical seclusion has its pros and cons. No Internet, TV, or people are ideal conditions to focus, write, and conclude a magnum opus novel. Unless the world ends, and no one’s around to tell you about it.

A truck is the first sign of life in weeks, kicking up dust on the country road outside my cabin in northeast Montana—nothing but flat farmland and my tiny one-room bungalow. On a clear morning, I can see Canada. On a cloudy day, I can’t see squat.

When I step outside, the driver of the old Chevy, my distant neighbor, stops and delivers the news. “You didn’t hear? Chicago’s gone.” His eyes glaze. “Rubble.”

A million questions. One emotion.

“My electricity ain’t working,” he says. “Got a generator?”

My head shakes. He shrugs, saying he’s heading to the coast. Offers to take me along.

I ask him to wait. I can’t leave without my manuscript.

Palms dampen.

I run back into the cabin and check the battery life.

Ninety-two percent.

I shove the charging cord into the electrical outlet and race back to the computer screen. A lightning symbol should be hovering over the battery icon. It’s missing. No juice.

Another outlet yields the same result.

I shut down the laptop and carry it outside, but the truck is gone.

I try my cellphone. No signal.

My stomach churns, nauseous.

Today, I can’t see Canada.

The news of the devastation should invoke despair for mankind—dread, horror, fear, terror… anything. Instead, I press the computer’s power button and stare at the illuminated screen. Its battery is now at eighty-five percent. Figures. I bought it on sale from Buy-Sell-Trade.

These minutes are precious.

My finished trilogy will total 225,000 words. Of those, how much real thought or substance has made it onto the page? Fans read my words, buy my books, and gather to hear me speak. I spend my life creating fantasy worlds, fictional characters, and false drama. Pointless. I’ve wasted my life puking drivel on paper.

People will use my books as kindling.

I turn off the computer again and make a necessary drive into town for supplies. Eastern Montana is nothing but empty, flat earth. I pass no people and few animals. My old Jeep crawls underneath a broken stop light, slogs past the post office, and parks at a gas pump. Everything’s deserted.

Tingling sensations rustle gooseflesh across my arms. What lurks behind these darkened windows? Who peers at me now, studying my every step? Something or someone is watching me. I can’t shake it.

I slink toward the general store, find the front doors unlocked, and tiptoe inside. The shelves are picked through. Everything’s scattered like a toddler’s playroom.

Side note. Short story idea. An army of rogue kindergarteners ransacks an old western town. I could sell it to Fear-Gazer Magazine. Shoot. They’re based out of Chicago. Never mind.

I load the Jeep with meager supplies, but something’s still definitely off.

During the return trip, I glimpse a car in the rearview mirror—headlights dark, trailing at a long distance. When I reach the cabin, I rush inside and lock the door. The black Ford Bronco slows when it passes, lurking, then drives away until it’s out of sight.

Later that day, I find my old rusty Colt .45 stuffed in a box underneath a pile of junk in the shed. Scrounge up a few rounds of ammunition, too.

Quiet Montana swallows the cabin as I sit at the desk, gun in hand, staring at the word processor’s flashing cursor. With the novel’s fate in limbo, I no longer relish my lodge. The fields are brown. Ugly. Their solitude is unbearable.

The battery is at half-life. Whenever the laptop is shut down to save energy, I flood notebooks with ink, crafting new scenes. I will finish this novel.

Wind howls.

Rat-a-tat. Ra-a-tat-tat.

Is it a visitor… or just a squall?

Ra-a-tat-tat.

I miss the city.

After loading the Colt .45, I muster the courage to look out the window. Cloudy skies limit visibility, but I swear I see something—a tiny speck hovering in the distance but close enough to show itself as a black Ford Bronco. Charles Bronson is at the wheel, holding his index finger and thumb, pointed at me, ready to fire. He smiles, flashing his devilish white teeth.

My nose smudges the glass. Does the car move? Yes. Closer. It’s too far to be sure, but say it is Charles Bronson—the man who embodies Paul Kersey, the vigilante who defined five Death Wish films. What does he want with me? I’m no murderer. I’m a writer.

Nightfall consumes the landscape as the black Ford Bronco moves closer, now sitting fifty yards away, idling. The gas guzzler spends the evening circling the cabin. Its headlamps flash across my window like a prison searchlight. Tires grind dirt. Endless pacing.

Minutes pass like hours.

For me, the world has ceased to exist, shrunken into a one-room cabin in the middle of Nowhere, Montana. My finger again presses the laptop’s power button. Its screen glows as the Bronco’s headlights snuff out. A car door closes. Boots crunch gravel, growing closer until…

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat.

My thumb notches the gun’s hammer.

Rat-a-tat-tat.

Rat-a-tat.

The battery is at ten percent when the intruder’s axe splinters the front door.

Blade thwacks. Wood crumbles.

This can’t be the end. My life needs a rewrite and a copy editor.

Colt .45 in one hand, typing with the other, I’ll land a bullet through Kersey’s eyes and prove even the angel of death can die.

Soft moonlight crowns Kersey’s silhouette.

Gun aims.

Sh-crack!

The kickback sends me falling. Barren Montana laughs in the echo.

My free hand grips the keyboard, typing.

I will finish my story.

The axe head glistens, tumbling as the Colt raises again.

I will write, write, write…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lincoln Reed holds a B.A. in film studies from Taylor University and an MFA in creative writing from Miami University of Ohio. His freelance writings have been published in The Secret Place, The Marion Chronicle-Tribune, and in university publications. His short fiction has appeared in Zimbell House Publishing anthologies and Flash Fiction Magazine.

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