Day1 Nov2 - word count: 2147

A forceful wind blew across the dusty parking lot, throwing leaves to and fro, swirling them in a manner reminiscent of miniature tornadoes. One dry Cottonwood leaf died a crackly death beneath the black rubber sole of a man's working boots. The boots were worn lightly, as if they'd been recently purchased and used sparingly. The yellow laces seemed out of place against the black leather, but not weird, just different. The tattered ends of well worn blue-jeans hung down over the tops of the boots and their legs rose to a brown leather belt, cinched tightly, causing the stomach of the man to show slightly. The belly pouch was held in by a thick red and black, traditional plaid long-sleeve work shirt. The shirt was nearly see-through at the elbows and the red squares that dominated it's surface were stained in many shades of grease. Thick, cracked hands hung from the sleeves, and they were bare save a thick golden band adorning the left ring finger.

The left hand rose to scratch at the beard that covered a face that was nearly as rough as the hands themselves. The gray-black beard grew wildly un-groomed and it's length and color matched that of the hair on the man's head. He wore glasses covered in dust, and he peered through them with a pair of eyes that glowed a deep ocean green. His name was Blaine Callahan and he was alone in the world. He looked around the parking lot, and everything was there. Everything but one thing, that is. The people were missing.

“Where are you?!?!” he bellowed to the world, to no-one, and to himself. His voice echoed off the buildings briefly before being swept away in the wind. His construction-worker frame sagged into the bed of his truck, and he lied down so quickly that he nearly hit his head. He was exhausted beyond anything he'd ever known; mentally, physically, and emotionally. He closed his eyes and sleep ran from the terror of his thoughts. They overwhelmed him again and again. Sitting up and dragging himself up against the back of the cab, he cleared his head for one last attempt to find a clue in the chaos of his head. Anything to make sense of the nonsense.

---

The screeching 'whoop – whoop' of the alarm clock penetrated Blaine's ears, dove into his sub-conscious, and woke him from a dead sleep. The forty-seven year old man flung his covers off, sat up and noticed something amiss. The flinging of covers was usually followed by the sharp inhale of his wife as the cold air brushed across her bed-warm body. Today it wasn't. Six AM was somewhat early for Laurie to be up. 'I made my lunch last night' he thought while trying to justify her absence. He clamored to the bathroom only to find if vacant. The kitchen, dining room, garage.

“Laurie!” Her car was still in the driveway, the newspaper still lying half-buried underneath it. Her clothes and shoes, keys and cellphone, all lay untouched in their various places in the house.

“You can't just freaking vanish, Laurie! What the hell is going on!?” Thinking he'd lost his mind Blaine decided to resume his pre-work routine. The coffee pot sputtered to life as he stuffed a bagel into his mouth two bites at a time. He shed his pajamas and climbed into the shower. The hot water released him from the remaining bonds of sleep and brought his mind to life. Doubt and terror took turns invading his thoughts, and by the time he'd finished he'd all but given up on sanity, reason, and logic. Blaine was baffled and was beginning to have a headache.

Dressed and ready for work, his wife still missing, Blaine sat on the couch with the phone and began dialing phone numbers. He started with friends who she might have been with. When five people failed to answer their home and cell numbers panic entered his mind for the first time. He dialed the local 24hour grocer, nothing. He tried several news stations, and he turned on the TV, ringing filled his ears and static filled his eyes. Panic again entered Blaine Callahan and he pounded 9 – 1 – 1. His throat constricted, his heart pounded, his ears rang, and so did the phone line. For ten minutes he paced the living room, hoping for an answer and dreading none. He went outside again and wandered the yard, lunch box in hand. When the automated female voice told him to hang up and try again Blaine threw the phone into the street with all his might. When it smashed into the ground the battery flew loose and skidded several feet beyond the impact point, stopping only against the rubber tires of a car, a car that he'd not noticed. He recognized it immediately as the little Geo Metro that the paper boy drove, and he also recognized immediately that the car was awkwardly parked. No, it wasn't parked at all, it was stopped with the front bumper pressed hard against a fire hydrant and the engine was running. It looked as though the car had hit it at about the speed that the paper boy passed through the neighborhood. Peering in the window he could see the list of houses to deliver to and that his was the last address that had been crossed off. Pulling the door open he turned off the car, it's static-blaring radio and removed the keys from the ignition.

His brain was overwhelmed with possibilities and a sort of shock began to envelop him. Almost on auto-pilot Blaine went to his truck and got in. He started it, backed out of the driveway, and began a slow tour of the neighborhood. Two other cars had crashed on the street. Alice Hathaway's green Toyota Camry was slammed sideways into her husbands Range Rover, and a car he didn't recognize was nearly halfway into the blue house six doors down. Two houses later Blaine saw something that drove him out of his running truck and into the street.

“Here boy, come here! Come on, it's OK big guy!” His excitement frightened the golden retriever and it turned to run. Grabbing his lunch from the truck he threw half of the tuna sandwich at the dog and successfully gained it's trust. When if came near to claim the remainder of the sandwich. Blaine patted it on the head and couldn't resist hugging the smelly dog. Feeling the collar under his fingers he rotated it until the tags came into view.

“Buster! That's not very creative is it big guy?” The dog looked at him with black eyes that begged for more food. Setting a few pretzels on the drivers seat of the Dodge was all it took to get Buster in, and man and dog re-started the tour of the neighborhood. Finding no signs of human life on his street, or the next one, or the three after that, Blaine decided to venture out of the housing development.

The light was out in the distance as the Black Dodge slowly put the side street behind it. As they got closer it was clear that chaos had been there. The intersection was full of morning traffic, but it was all disordered. There were several cars smashed beyond recognition and even the ones that had obviously been waiting at a standstill had bumped into each other. One entire turn lane had rolled into the intersection and collided with a mangled mess of metal. The train of cars blocked the street effectively and they were forced to drive over the curb to get past the mess.

“Buster, can you tell me what the hell is going on?” The dog's ears perked at the mention of it's name and all Blaine could do was give it more pretzels. They drove down the middle of the boulevard, weaving slowly between the various wrecks. When they got to the nearest gas station he pulled the truck in and found an empty pump. While the tank filled on the truck he went inside and grabbed two large gas cans from the shelves. He started the first can on filling and returned to the store. When he came back out, his arms were full. Both hands were holding cases of bottled water and the space between his arms and his body was filled with as many bags of beef jerky as he could manage. He lost several between the doors and the truck. Filling the second gas can he returned to the store again and filled three boxes with non-perishables and setting them on a dolly, he added four more cases of water before going back out to the truck. The second gas can had overflowed and there was gas all over the cement. Swearing silently he stopped the flow and after capping the can he rinsed it with two bottles of water. It wasn't until he was pulling out of the station that he realized that he'd switched from panic and shock into survival mode. Blaine was briefly proud of himself before the shadow of his situation overcame him.

The endless rows of wrecks soon bored him and he headed for the places where people gathered en-masse. He hoped to find at least one other person who, like him had not vanished This was like some awful movie, this couldn't be happening. Dousing himself with water to assure that he was awake worked, and he woke from a daze just in time to avoid an overturned cement truck and the still wet flow of gray that was slowly oozing from a gash in the side of the tumbler. Two malls and several hospitals later he gave up on the ghost town that Berton, Kansas had become.

“What the hell do you do with a hundred fifty thousand people?” he asked the dog and himself. Pulling onto the highway Blaine found the road surprisingly clear. Most of the vehicles here had been traveling at high speed and had left the roadway when their drivers had 'disappeared' or whatever they'd done. Fifty, sixty, seventy miles an hour, swerving around the occasional tangled semi truck. He plowed the Dodge through a small mountain of watermelons that had spilled from a produce trailer. West bound on I-70, the Colorado border was only fifty miles and Denver was the closest metropolitan area, someone had to still be there. You can't get rid of five million people.

Three hours later on the outskirts of the Denver metro area Blaine slowed the truck. The highway was obstructed with the charred carcass of an aircraft. Getting out of the truck he picked through some of the debris and found nothing, but what was he looking for? Compelled by the scene he continued to investigate the wreck. The plane was large and the wreckage easily covered all eight lanes of the highway. Looking over his right shoulder to the north, he could see the peaks of DIA not far off, this plane had not gone far. Digging through some luggage that was strewn near the rear of the craft and had not been burned he found a suitcase with clothes that would fit him.

“Great, this'll save me from some 'shopping' later.” On his way back to the truck he heard a yelp and whimper from the dog.

“Buster! Where are you!?” Another whine led him beyond one of the engines and directly to the retriever. “What's going on dog?” Buster limped toward him a few steps, faltered, and turned back to a pile of black char. When Blaine got close he could see the dog digging with one front paw and supporting itself with the other, which was bleeding moderately. Reaching for the dogs collar to pull it away from the pile he got snapped at and Buster resumed digging. It took him three more tries to get the dog away without getting bitten, but as soon as he did he relaxed in relief and the mutt escaped with one big lunge.

“Damnable dog!” He yelled and lunged after it. Buster took off at full speed and he had something clenched between his jaws. When they both tired of the chase the dog sat down to chew it's 'catch' and Blaine tackled it. Wrenching the black object away from Buster, he inspected it. What he saw made him think he was crazy. It was a human femur. Racing back to the pile where the dog had been digging, Blaine found the rest of the remains and shouted for joy. This meant there had to be others out there, if someone was on that plane when it crashed, there would be more alive, where he'd find them he had no idea, but Blaine Callahan knew that he had to find them.