by Rick Tippins
Something Jared had been avoiding was the gun factor. He hadn’t cared for them as a kid, neither disliking nor hating them, he simply couldn’t care less about firearms. He never had a use for them and therefore had never bothered to learn a thing about them other than what he saw on television or in a movie. It was becoming obvious to him that he would have a far better chance for survival if he carried and knew how to use a gun. He thought about this as if it were a piece of technology he’d never used in his old job and now needed for a project. He would seek out a weapon, familiarize himself with it, and that would be that. Deep down he knew it wouldn’t be that easy.
Steering clear of the two dead juveniles, Jared scavenged a small black JanSport backpack from inside Target. After securing the small day pack, Jared pedaled a short distance before pulling off the road and moving into a large thicket. There he set about loading the smaller JanSport pack with what he felt were essential items for a short survival period in case he was forced to run, leaving his bike and trailer behind.
When Jared came near a strip mall or a grocery store, he would stop and watch. People were usually in and around these places, foraging for food and water. He would then pick his way around the area, trying to avoid contact, which worked fairly well for most of the rest of the day, but resulted in a very slow trip as he zigged and zagged his way around the crowds.
Once, Jared rounded a corner and came face-to-face with a woman carrying an armful of pilfered items. The woman’s face contorted in fear as Jared stammered, “Excuse me,” and pedaled past her. The woman stared straight ahead, never uttering a word. Jared even checked twice, but the woman never stopped, looked back or deviated her course. What has society come to?
On second thought, Jared was convinced society hadn’t changed much on the public social interaction spectrum. Before the power went out, people would move about in public glued to a cell phone screen, not interacting with anyone around them. Now it was fear driving the wedge between human interactions. Maybe people weren’t meant to socialize with others outside their tribes, and there would always be a reason promoting this behavior, whether it was a phone or fear itself.
Another thought flashed in his mind. He hadn’t seen a single person in the last few days scavenging electronics like he’d seen during the first couple of days. People were realizing how dire their situations were and adjusting. This thought sent a stab of fear through his chest.
Jared pedaled his bike through an older part of San Jose, with not much in the way of strip malls or places to get food, so there were few if any people in his path. This part of town was of a more industrial nature with auto shops, shipping businesses and the like. In the distance, Jared thought he saw movement in front of one of these businesses. He quickly pulled off the road and laid the bike in some bushes before creeping out to the sidewalk for a better look with the binoculars.
A good seventy or so yards out, he could see an older man on a ladder removing the letters from the upper portion of the business’s window. Jared squinted in the field glasses, wondering what in the hell this old-timer was doing, and then it hit him. He could see the remaining letters: ND AMMO. This was a gun store and the old guy was trying to make sure no one knew it was a gun store.
He was about to leap up when he realized the old man was armed to the teeth. The old codger had a pistol on his hip and one of those black rifles hanging on his back from some sort of sling. Running down there and getting shot was not how Jared wanted to end the day, so he went back to his bike, slowly pushing it out onto the street, where he stopped in plain view of God and everyone, including this gunned-up elder statesman.
Jared stood in the middle of the street, held his hands up, and whistled. The old man came down the ladder like a young sailor would negotiate a ship’s ladder, moving like a panther to a cinderblock wall while bringing the rifle around to his front and training it in Jared’s direction. This all happened in about one second, or so it seemed to Jared.
“Is it just you?” the man called out.
“Yes, I’m alone,” Jared answered.
“Move closer so we don’t have to yell,” the old man instructed in a gruff, somewhat raspy voice.
Jared pushed the bike along the street, getting within ten yards of the old fella.
“That’s close enough. Now what do you want?” he barked.
Jared stared at the half-disassembled sign, then back at the older man, whose steely eyes let Jared know without words that he was not fucking around.
“Things are going bad around here, and I was thinking I might need one of---” He didn’t finish his sentence, instead just gesturing up at the sign.
The old man’s eyes narrowed as he leaned forward menacingly with the black rifle pointed directly at Jared’s chest. “One of what, boy?”
Jared shifted uncomfortably. “A gun, sir.”
The old man’s demeanor did not change in the slightest. “You even know how to use one?” he quipped.
Jared stared at the ground. “No, I never needed one till now.”
The old man seemed to relax just a bit, gazing past Jared, looking at the trailer attached to his bike. The old man lifted his chin an inch moving his head about ever so slightly. Jared thought the old guy actually sniffed like a dog trying to catch scent of whatever was in the trailer.
Seeing the man’s interest in the trailer, Jared turned, hefting his chin towards all his worldly possessions. “I have things to trade for a gun, food and stuff like that.”
The old man pointed to the curb. “Sit down and don’t move,” he growled and, after Jared sat, he moved out from behind the wall, striding right past Jared and stopping at the trailer. The old guy inspected the trailer’s contents carefully, almost respectfully, as Jared sat and stared, wondering what would happen next.
Did I fuck myself here by just walking up to this walking gun display? Jared sat there aware of the day pack on his back, with enough supplies for a week at most. If this guy was going to rob him, he was ready for it, well, not really, but at least if the old bastard was a bad shot and Jared got away, he’d have something to eat and drink for a couple of days. If the guy was going to just kill him, he was not ready for that. Jared started to talk and then thought better of it, remembering something his father had taught him about the older generations and their love of mute young people. The man finished his inspection before turning to Jared.
“Get up that ladder and pull the rest of those letters off that goddamn sign. There’s a box of other letters up there on the ledge. Here’s what I want you to spell.”
Jared did as he was told, and in less than five minutes he was standing on the sidewalk in front of a gun store with a sign indicating the business fixed computers.
“Get your bike and all that gear inside the store, out of sight, before some damn assholes come along and I have to kill their asses.”
Obediently Jared did as he was told, pushing the bike in front of the old guy, struggling to get through the front doors with absolutely no help from the cranky old man, who stood back, watching up and down the street with those narrow eyes set deep in his craggy old face.
Once inside the store, the old man drew the shades and motioned for Jared to move deeper into the structure. Jared stopped next to the cash register before a hallway and looked back at the old man.
“All the way back,” the man ordered. He slung the rifle, his hands free, but Jared felt that if the need arose, he’d have a firearm in those old boney hands before he could blink an eye.
Jared walked the length of the hall and found himself in what appeared to be a fairly spacious workshop. There were benches with vises, a couple of huge safes, and a lot of other things Jared could not identify. Along one wall was an old leather couch, which the man pointed at and Jared understood to mean “sit the fuck down,” which he promptly did. He sat awkwardly, still wearing the day pack.
“For Christ’s sake, take that damn thing off. If I wanted any of your gear, I would have just killed ya out front.” T
he old-timer shook his head in disgust. “I can’t believe you’ve made it this long.” The old man leaned back against a bench and eyed Jared closely. “Where’d you come from?”
Jared wriggled out of the backpack, placing it on the floor between his feet. “Belmont.”
The old man threw his head back and gave a hearty laugh. “You rode that bike with that little piss-ass trailer all the way down from Belmont?”
Jared nodded and the man laughed even harder.
“You’re lucky to be alive.”
“I know,” Jared murmured.
The man just stared at him for a long while, studying him like some sort of scientist would study a lab animal. The stare lasted a ridiculously long period of time, and Jared was about to get up and attempt to leave when the man spoke.
“I don’t have but about a week’s worth of food left here. I can’t walk too far, but my water situation is alright with the creek behind this place. I propose a deal, a trade.”
Jared cocked his head as the man went on. “You go out and set me up with some food and provisions. I know this area, so there’ll be no searching; you’ll have maps and know exactly where you’ll be going. I, in return, will set you up with a pistol and a rifle. I’ll even throw in some instruction,” the man added.
Jared thought about the offer then asked, “How do I know you’ll hold up your end of the deal?”
The old man’s eyes narrowed, and Jared immediately wished he hadn’t questioned the old-timer’s integrity.
“Because I’m a man of my word, you little shit, and I don’t fuck people over unless they need fucking over.” The man leaned in close. “Do you need fucking over, lad?”
Jared shook his head. “No, sir, I’d prefer to stay unfucked over.”
“Here’s how it’s going to work,” the old man continued. “I’m gonna give you a pistol and ammo; then I will teach you how to use it. After that, you are going out to fetch my supplies and, when you get back, I will give you a rifle and teach you how to use it.”
Jared was surprised; the deal actually sounded fair and, from what he’d seen over the last few days, fair was not a commodity that was readily available. The old man looked questioningly at Jared, who slowly nodded as he thought about all his other options, which were about two. The man stuck his hand out, and Jared got up and shook the man’s hand. His grip was like a vise, and Jared tried not to visibly wince as the man pumped his pained appendage like a jackhammer.
“Name’s Bart, and yours?”
Jared realized the man had no intention of releasing his death grip until he got a name. “Jared,” he blurted out, and his crumpled hand was released.
The old man actually broke into a warm smile, and Jared could see the man who had once been, before the world fell apart and people began killing one another over toothpaste.
“Well, Jared, it’s sure nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” stammered Jared.
“There’s just a couple of house rules. If you’re gonna be staying for a few days, you should know ’em,” Bart said. “First off, there’s a shitter in the lot behind this place, been there due to some construction next door. You can shit in it, but if ya gotta piss, do it somewhere else. I don’t want that thing full and of no use to me. I know it’s gonna happen, but better later than sooner.”
Jared nodded. “Got it.”
“Secondly, no sneaking around here at night, that’s a surefire way to get your ass shot. If you gotta use the commode after lights out, get me and I will provide security for you.” Bart scratched his chin, trying to think of another house rule but couldn’t, so he elaborated on the commode rule.
“It’d be best if you did your business before dark, and any midnight potty breaks should really be done in your room. Make sure you got a bottle in there. Me, I use a Gatorade bottle with the large opening; it’s what fits me best. I don’t know what size equipment you’re sporting, so I’ll leave the make and model of your bottle up to you. Just try to get it right. Don’t want piss on the floors if I can help it.”
Chapter Fifteen
The next two days found Jared learning everything there was to know about a Glock 19 pistol. Jared held the Glock 19 in his hand, looking at the oddly square and futuristic weapon.
“So, I guess there are eighteen other models of this gun?” Jared questioned.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“If this is nineteen, then are there eighteen other models?” Jared asked again.
Bart rolled his eyes, took a deep breath, and scratched his stubbly chin. “The gun’s designer is named Gaston Glock, and he got a patent for his first gun way back when Christ was a corporal. It turned out to be the seventeenth patent he ever got, so he named the gun the Glock 17, fucking really creative guy, huh? So, as I understand the Glock folklore, the guns were then numbered or named in the order they came out. That makes this here little fucker the third gun old Gaston put on the market.”
“Oh,” was all Jared could think to say.
Bart raised both eyebrows. “Now can we get back to it?”
Jared dutifully nodded in the affirmative.
He learned everything, from the gun’s history to how it worked. Bart taught him about the malfunctions guns were prone to experience, and explained in great detail what caused each malfunction and how to remedy these breakdowns. Jared handled the firearm until his hands were blistered, ached, and then Bart made him handle it some more. Not only did Jared sleep with the gun, he went to the bathroom and ate with it. He was never without the weapon, and Bart stressed the importance of keeping it on him at all times. Jared dry fired the pistol until he was blue in the face. Bart was always by his side, tweaking his stance, his grip on the weapon, and a litany of other deficiencies Jared had when it came to weapons handling.
At the end of the first day, Bart had Jared stow all his gear in a back room not bigger than most bathrooms. The tiny room was furnished with a cot and a small nightstand.
“You can sleep here while we get you ready,” Bart said, and Jared didn’t complain. After setting up his gear and laying the sleeping bag out on the cot, Jared found his way through the semidarkness to where Bart was stringing up his early warning devices. He strung several soda cans, which contained several shotgun pellets, on fishing line and placed them across every entrance to the store. Front, back and all the windows. Bart locked the shop and drew a security gate across the front of the store.
“By the time anyone was able to break through all this, I’d be up here giving ’em hell.” The old fella chortled.
Jared did not doubt for a moment that Bart would give hell to anyone stupid enough to try to enter the store uninvited. Jared also realized all the windows in the store were covered over with foil, and wondered if it were to keep prying eyes out or light in. His answer came when Bart dropped a large piece of canvas over the entrance to the hall and proclaimed, “Let there be light,” turning on a large gas lantern. He moved down the hall and into the workshop, Jared following him in, seeing he had set up a small circular table with two folding chairs.
“Sit down,” Bart said, nodding to one of the two chairs. “We can play a little cards, have a drink before bed, take a load off, make you sleep better.”
Jared found himself sitting in the dimly lit room with Bart, an old gun guy, playing Spades and drinking straight Kentucky Bourbon from small plastic cups. The scene was surreal, and Jared nearly pinched himself. He looked at the bottle as Bart poured a second helping for himself: Knob Creek and the label indicated the juice was 120 proof. He took a draw from the cup and felt the whiskey burn his lips, then his throat, and finally warm his belly. He took a second and much longer draw, swished the fluid around his mouth, then swallowed it. The effect was instant; he could feel the last few days melt away, his shoulders relaxing, his mind slowing. He suddenly felt very safe and very warm.
The two men drank and played cards; they talked and laughed and, at times, were just silent. Bart told Jared ab
out his life, starting from when he joined the Army in 1966 when he was only eighteen years old. Bart told him how he’d gone to Vietnam, where many of his friends were killed, and how Bart was wounded and was in two separate helicopter crashes, surviving them all.
As Bart drank into the night, he told Jared how he got out of the Army after four years, came back home to San Jose, and worked for the San Jose Police Department for over thirty years before retiring.
Bart explained that after September 11, 2001, things changed for him. He married, but never had children. His wife passed away in 2003, and Bart had needed a hobby to take his mind off the void left by his wife’s death. Bart explained how he had always put money into a second retirement, and he was able to use that money to lease this building and purchase his entire inventory in order to start the business. Bart went on to tell Jared how his connections with the police department came in handy in regard to his business, which boomed within the first year. Bart finished up with, “And the rest is history, as they say.”
Jared sat staring at him as Bart grabbed the bottle and poured each man another two fingers, Bart’s fifth. After the whiskey was poured, both men—one young and naive, the other older and full of experience—sat back and studied one another.
“So, what’s your story, son?” Bart queried.
Jared looked at the cup in front of him, almost reached for it, and then thought twice. His body was already warm and humming with more than a good buzz. He thought back to his family and how he had come to be who he was.
He was born in a small town outside Seattle, Washington, to David and Shannon Culp. David attended Washington University and was on a trip to Vancouver with friends when he first laid eyes on Shannon, who was attending college at Camosun University, working on a degree in business. David made his intentions known right off and began planning for a life after college, when he would bring Shannon to the States and begin a family. The two were married a month after finishing college, and Jared was born ten months after that.
