A woman stepped out from the huddle she shared with several other women. They were gathered around a car, smoking and talking in low tones.
‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Where have you come from?’
‘The city,’ Gemma answered shortly, not breaking her stride.
She was trying to get a better angle on the disorder up ahead. If they couldn’t cross the bridge it was going to be a major pain. It would mean cutting around the lagoon itself and crossing over at Waipuna Bridge a little further over, but there were no guarantees that would be any better.
‘What’s it like in there?’ the woman asked.
Gemma paused and looked at her. She was about Gemma’s own age, working class, probably a mum. Bleached hair with dark regrowth, chipped nails. Gemma’s instinct was to keep moving, not engage with anyone. She had someplace to get to and she didn’t have time to waste. But she could see the stress in the woman’s face. All she wanted was some information.
‘It’s pretty bad,’ Gemma said. ‘People are running wild and there aren’t enough cops around to keep a lid on it.’
‘Fuckin’ pigs,’ someone in the group said, and there was a murmur of agreement.
Gemma shot a glance at Alex, who was starting to look uncomfortable. He looked to her for direction.
‘We’ve gotta go,’ she said, indicating for him to follow her. She started to move off.
‘Where you goin’?’ It was another of the group, a Maori in her forties with a fat gut hanging over the front of her black jeans. She stepped out now too, taking a few steps ahead of her mate.
Gemma didn’t like the look of her, or the others who were starting to gather behind her.
‘Alex,’ she said quietly, ‘let’s go.’
‘You got any food?’ the leader said. ‘We need food for our babies.’
‘No.’
‘Whatchu got in your bag? Gimme a look in your bag.’
Gemma ignored her and continued walking, moving at an angle to keep them in sight. One was already starting to drift off as if to outflank them, and the atmosphere had changed quickly.
‘Gimme your fuckin’ bag, bitch.’ The Maori woman came forward with her fists bunched. ‘You fuckin’ slut. I’ll fuckin’ smash you, cunt. Gimme your bag!’
‘Fuckin’ smash her, sis,’ one of the others cheered. ‘Fuckin’ slut-whore.’
‘Hey, hey.’ Alex finally found his voice. ‘There’s no need for that.’
‘Shut up you fuckin’ faggot,’ the woman responded. ‘Fuck up or I’ll fuck you up.’
Gemma had had enough and she knew this was a fight they weren’t going to win by being timid. As the woman continued coming, Gemma reached under her top and pulled the Glock from her waistband. She raised it in both hands and pointed it straight at the woman’s face.
The woman took two more steps before registering what was happening. She stopped short, her mouth moving silently.
‘Back off,’ Gemma said as firmly as she could. The pistol was trembling in her grip.
‘Or what?’ the leader said. She stayed where she was, but the threat of the gun wasn’t having quite the effect Gemma had thought it would. ‘Or what, you fuckin’ slut?’
‘Or I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off, arsehole,’ Gemma snarled, with a fury that surprised herself.
‘Ow, not even,’ someone called out.
‘You’re all shit,’ the leader said, sticking out a grubby hand. ‘Gimme the fuckin’ gun before I fuck you up.’
She stepped forward and Gemma pulled the trigger at the same time.
The shot was loud and frightening, but the effect was immediate. The shot went wide of the leader, cracking past her shoulder and blowing out a side window of the car the group had been gathered around.
The leader shrieked and bolted to the side, her hair flying and her fat gut wobbling. The rest of the group scattered and ran for cover.
Gemma froze for a moment, unsure if she’d hit anyone.
‘Come on,’ Alex was saying, ‘Gemma! Come on, let’s go!’
She snapped out of her daze and ran after him, still clutching the Glock. Her ears were ringing and her heart was pounding. Nobody came after them as they reached the road and headed for the bridge.
People were still milling about, seemingly oblivious to the shot that had just been fired. One of the crashed cars had its front stoved in and it was spewing steam from a punctured radiator.
Alex led the way, picking a path around the cars and holding the first aid pack in front of him to make himself as narrow as possible as he tried to get through. As they hurried through a guy stepped in their way, steam swirling around him, and made to grab at Alex.
Without thinking, Alex barged forward with the medical pack as a battering ram, and crashed into the guy front-on. The guy looked surprised and yelped as he was knocked backwards and a second later the two runners were past him, leaving him sprawled and clutching at air.
They got past the crash, around a tussle between two men in the road – presumably the drivers involved in the crash – and were on the other side before they knew it. What had seemed a major obstacle had been overcome in seconds, and they continued running.
Gemma eventually realised she still had the pistol drawn, and shoved it back in her waistband. She noticed that her hand was steady now. Alex ducked off into a side street and bent over with his hands on his knees, wheezing.
She caught up to him and stopped, hands on her hips as she sucked down air. It hadn’t been a long run but it was fast and the fear of being caught meant she’d hardly taken a breath.
‘Thank God for spin class,’ she panted, ‘I should’ve gone more often.’
Alex looked up at her, his face glistening. ‘I should’ve gone at all.’
They both grinned, then a chuckle broke out and in seconds they were laughing hysterically, the tension breaking.
‘I gotta say,’ Gemma said, getting herself under control, ‘I was shitting myself back there. I thought those bitches were gunna kill us.’
Alex straightened up and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. He looked at her quizzically. ‘I don’t believe that,’ he said. ‘You were so calm. I would’ve actually shat myself.’
‘I wasn’t calm. My hands were shaking so much I thought I was going to drop the gun.’ She dug out her water and cracked the lid. ‘We were in serious shit there, though. I think they would’ve killed us.’
She took a drink and wiped her mouth. She realised Alex was still staring at her.
‘What?’
‘I can’t figure you out,’ he said. ‘I barely know you, like, we hardly ever even talked at work. You don’t look any different to anyone else at work.’
‘I’m just me,’ she shrugged, looking away.
‘Yeah but how do you do this?’
‘Do what?’
‘All this.’ He gestured at their surroundings. ‘This is not normal, it’s not normal at all, but here you are. Running round with a pack on your back and a gun in your hand like you do this every day. Camping under the stars.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘You keep saying that, but what’s not to get? I have a son to get home to, and a family. I need to get home. We go camping, so I know how to do that stuff. My husband’s what they call a prepper, which is why I had a bag of gear in the car. He calls it a “get home bag”.’
‘See, that’s not normal. I don’t have all that stuff.’
Gemma shrugged again. ‘Most people don’t, but they probably should. Look, I’m not into it like him, it’s his thing. But I know how to fend for myself a bit, and I’ve shot guns a little bit before, and I have somewhere to go. So here we are.’ She gave him an apologetic smile. ‘And I’m glad you’re here with me.’
‘I’m glad I am too. At least you’ll protect me.’
‘You did alright back there, you got us over the bridge.’ Gemma shouldered her bag again. ‘Come on, let’s go. We’re wasting time.’
Thirty-Six
Now
that we had a houseful and weren’t anticipating any more, we needed to make some defensive preparations.
Rob had moved the motorhome around the back of the house, out of sight of the road, and they were settled in. Relations between them and my mother had been strained for years, but they had always managed a polite civility. The circumstances being different put a whole new spin on it now, and the two women had busied themselves together in the kitchen.
I had set Archie to work with his Lego and collared Rob, taking him to the gun safe and showing him what I had. Being ex-Navy he was familiar with firearms, and I gave him a quick run through all of them. I also gave him the clip chargers and boxes of .303 ammo I had bought. He’d never got round to passing on his old Lee Enfield, but I was pleased I had the ammo anyway.
Rob raised his eyebrows when he saw the Browning, and he gave me a look that was probably disapproving.
‘Ask me no questions,’ I said, ‘and I’ll tell you no lies.’ I handed the holstered Browning to him. ‘Ever fired one before?’
He drew it out and turned it over in his hands. ‘This is what we had way back when, but I never used one. Or any pistol, for that matter.’
‘Now’s as good a time as any to learn.’
I ran him through a crash course on that as well and handed him the spare magazines with it. He looked at the pistol and the magazines and the boxes of .303 and 9mm Parabellum.
‘Looks like we’re going to war,’ he said pensively.
I paused, nodding silently. ‘Yeah,’ I said finally, not really sure how to answer that. ‘It does, doesn’t it?’
‘Do you think it’s that bad?’ He looked me in the eye. ‘Honestly?’
I paused again. I sensed that a lot rode on the question and how I responded. In the end it was a pretty simple answer.
‘I know that it will be tough,’ I said carefully. ‘I don’t know how tough, but whatever comes, I want us to be prepared for it.’
Rob nodded slowly, churning it over. This was a turning point for us. If things turned out not so bad and we over-reacted, there could be legal and social consequences for that. If it turned out real bad and we were unprepared, we could wind up dead.
Both of us got that without needing to articulate it, and we knew we were on the same page. Rob nodded again and threaded the Browning in the pancake holster onto his belt. He slipped the spare magazines into the pockets of his jeans. He drew the pistol, racked the slide and checked the safety. He re-holstered it and hitched up his belt.
‘I’m ready, boy,’ he said, a steely determination in his voice. ‘No bastard’s getting past us.’
I nodded. ‘Damn right,’ I said.
I took the Mossberg and a bandolier of spare ammo out to the hall and placed them in the cupboard near the front door. Rob gathered the ladies and Archie into the lounge and we sat on the couches like we had so many times before. This time there was no coffee and biscuits, no TV, no family birthday to celebrate.
I kicked off what I later came to think of as a council of war.
‘Until this thing either blows over or gets sorted, we need to look after ourselves,’ I said. ‘We’re a little bit cramped here but we’ll make do. We’ve got plenty of food and more in the garden, and we can always hunt more if we need to.’
‘I don’t like rabbits, Dad,’ Archie told me, with all the authority of a seven-year-old. ‘I’ve told you that before.’
‘That’s no problem, wee man,’ I said. Now wasn’t the time to point out that rabbit stew may well be on the menu in the near future. ‘As part of this, we all need to pitch in and do a bit extra. And that means all of us.’
I gave Archie a direct look and he rolled his eyes dramatically.
‘Dad, I already put my bag away, set the table, feed the cat, and close my curtains.’ He threw his hands up for effect. ‘What more can I do?’
‘You also help carry in the firewood,’ I reminded him, ‘and play with the dog. So you are very helpful, aren’t you?’
‘I know! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.’ He turned to Sandy beside him. ‘He never listens to me, Nana.’
‘Well I think we’ll manage to keep the kitchen running won’t we, Jenny?’ said Sandy. ‘At least until Gemma gets home, anyway.’
‘Of course, I’m sure we will,’ my mother agreed, with a feigned show of solidarity. ‘And we’ll probably need to afterwards, as well.’
I raised an eyebrow and gave her a look. She pretended not to notice, and Sandy let it slide. Too many more of those digs though and there would be fireworks.
‘I think while the power is still on to some degree we should make the most of it, and get some of our meat dried and maybe some baking? We can use the dehydrator for some of it.’
‘Leave it to us, my son,’ my mother said. ‘You do your thing.’
I bit my tongue again and carried on.
‘We’ll get some defences in place,’ I said, ‘make it a bit harder for any visitors to get up to us. And we’ll also visit the neighbours, see who’s around and what they’re up to. See what everyone’s heard. There may be someone with a shortwave radio or something who’s got news that we haven’t heard.’
With the phone networks out of action, getting information was going to be difficult. Luckily I wasn’t of the generation born with a smart phone in their hand; I still knew how to talk to people. I also knew most of the neighbours around here.
I stood, ending the council of war. We had things to do.
Thirty-Seven
Even though the roads were busy the traffic seemed to be moving okay, and Gemma was keen to get their hands on a vehicle, knowing that it would save them a lot of time if they were mobile.
‘We could even hitch hike,’ Alex suggested, pacing along beside her as they headed southeast on Ti Rakau Drive.
It would take them to Manukau but before they got there they would go through some rough areas and get close to others, and she figured they had a better chance of outrunning trouble in a vehicle than on foot. Plus her feet and legs were feeling it and she knew that Alex would be in worse shape than her – he didn’t seem to be very fit and was certainly no kind of outdoorsman. Just her luck to be buddied with someone from IT.
Gemma frowned as she considered his suggestion. She wasn’t convinced that hitch hiking was a safe option at any time, let alone right now.
‘We could,’ she conceded, ‘but I’d probably rather we had control of it.’ She gave him a sideways glance. ‘You look like you could do with a rest, anyway.’
He’d been favouring his left leg for some time now, but had stayed silent so she figured it probably wasn’t too bad. A geek like him probably didn’t walk further than the cafeteria.
‘I’m okay,’ he said.
They walked on, sticking to the footpath and keeping their heads on swivels to avoid any nasty surprises. They weren’t the only people on the hoof and there were also a decent number of cyclists on the road, even a few on scooters and skateboards.
Gemma noticed that the behaviour of the traffic had deteriorated. More than just a lack of basic courtesy, drivers were using the wrong side of the road, flying past when they could, mounting kerbs and footpaths to get around hold ups, and generally acting like they were in a Third World country.
Maybe they were, she figured. The thought made her feel sick. The image she kept seeing in her mind’s eye was of Archie, smiling and happy, just how a child should be. There was no way he should be growing up in an environment like this. She knew that Mark would be taking good care of him but she needed to get home.
She jumped when she felt a hand on her arm, and realised Alex was speaking to her. He wore a pained expression.
‘I need to stop,’ he said. ‘I think there’s something wrong.’
She pulled up. ‘With what?’
‘My foot, it’s killing me.’
Gemma looked around, seeking somewhere safe to stop. They may as well throw up a neon VICTIM sign by tending to an injury on the side
of the road. She spotted a small commercial block a hundred metres or so ahead.
‘Up there,’ she said.
He hobbled beside her until they got there. It was a double-storey suburban office block that housed an accounting practice, an investment adviser and a property conveyancing practice on the ground floor, the business names plastered across the plate glass windows at street level. All three businesses were locked up with the blinds drawn and lights off. She couldn’t see what was upstairs, but the windows there were also covered.
Nobody responded to knocking at the front doors so they went around the back. It was a small parking area with a dumpster and loose rubbish. The back doors were also locked.
‘What’re you doing?’ Alex said, as Gemma rummaged in her bag.
She produced a small pry bar and stood up. ‘We’ll be safer inside,’ she said.
‘You can’t just break in,’ he protested. ‘Isn’t your husband a police officer?’
She went to the closest door, being the lawyers’. ‘We need to get off the street so we can have a look at your foot and sort you out.’
She got the slim bar into the gap and leaned into it. Conveyancing may have made good money, but the manager needed to invest some of it in their office security. The door popped open on her second go and she led the way in. She saw an alarm panel on the wall but there were no power lights showing. She flicked a switch for the main lights but nothing happened.
‘Power’s out,’ she said.
‘Probably either the grid has gone down, or possibly a localised outage,’ Alex said.
They came through a small kitchenette into the reception area, and he eased himself down onto a sofa. He began unlacing his shoe while Gemma checked that they were alone. Upstairs was the main office, an open plan affair with three desks. Downstairs was the boss’ office, a larger room with better furnishings than those for the workers.
She returned to the reception to find Alex had his shoe and sock off and was examining his foot. He had a decent blister on his heel that was intact, and one on his big toe, which had rubbed raw.
Early Warning (Book 1): Martial Law Page 16
