by Rod Rayborne
"You don't say much, do you, little one?" He frowned. "What's your name"
She stared at him quietly, suddenly serious again.
"Oh c'mon now," he continued, "everyone's got a name. I have a name. Can you guess what my name is? Go on, guess."
She said nothing.
"Can't guess? That's ok. I'm Hershel. Can you say that? Hershel. Her-shel."
Still the girl remained mute, looking at him with what felt to him like a mixture of wary curiosity.
"If you don't have a name, do you mind if I make one for you?"
The girl stayed silent but Hershel could see a tiny flame of interest in her eyes.
"Let's see. You have brown hair like a bear. Shall I call you Bear?"
Amusement flickered across her face.
ok, he thought, she has no problem understanding me.
He made growling sounds like a bear and the girl laughed again.
"Or shall we call you Fish? You look like a little fish. Like a minnow. Should we call you Minnow?"
The girl's smile faded. Hershel, seeing the change, quickly shook his head.
"No, not Minnow. No, we don't like that name, do we? How about...Rabbit? Do you like Rabbit."
Immediately the girl's smile returned. She threw her arms around Hershel's neck.
"Well, by golly, Rabbit it is! Until we find out your real name, we'll call you Rabbit!"
She hugged him again and then turned and pointed in the direction of the faint glow where the sun was falling behind the clouds.
"No sweetheart, we can't go that way. I'm making for Georgia. I got family there." He looked down at the ground and murmured, "At least, I hope I do." Then he looked back at the girl. Her eyes were beginning to cloud up.
"Hey now, what's this? They ain't no crying when you're with Hershel. That's against Hershel's law." He reached up a finger and wiped away a stray tear. Then he looked over his shoulder in the direction she was pointing. A thought came to him then.
"You got family that way? You know someone who lives in that direction?"
She smiled once more, taking Herschel's giant hand in her own. He groaned.
"Aw, why do you gotta make me feel all guilty Rabbit?" He paused again and then slapping his hands on his thighs he said, "Well ok then! West it is. But first we got to get you some better clothes. And a proper meal in that little belly. We don't want you to be skinny. Whoever heard of a skinny rabbit?"
He mussed her hair and she laughed again. He stood, his legs aching from crouching and lifting, placed her back on his shoulders. Then they marched down the street. Her laughter could be heard a block away.
Chapter Thirty
A pale radiance strayed through the tall bay window in the kitchen of the two story wood frame house, filtered by the skeletons of tall, concealing trees. Sunglow, as Mika called it. Heavy shadows dominated the rest of the large room. Three men, Floyd, Aaron and Cyrus, sat at the blistered wood table. Dented and scratched, it matched the condition of the rest of the old house.
A silhouette of the eight paned partitioned window fell over the men in ghastly rectangles that left them, in the wan half light of early morning, looking more like a Courier and Ives woodcut than living, breathing people.
Mika stood by the window, staring out warily. Her thick mane of black wavy hair tumbled around her olive skinned shoulders. Her eyes, always an attention getter wherever she went, were rounded at her nose but tapered from there to a line that gave her face a kindly but skeptical appearance. Her figure also rarely went unnoticed by members of either gender, some appreciatively, others less so. Only Mika herself seemed ignorant of the effect she had on people. She dressed in old clothes and men's long sleeved shirts more often than not, even forgetting some mornings to brush her hair. No one complained.
Unlike the sweating and shirtless men in their group, Mika was always covered when she wasn't alone, a product of her conservative upbringing. Today, despite the heat, she wore a green sleeveless blouse with a pink tank top chaser and shorts. The sweating men had jested with her about her choice of apparel but knew better than to take it any further.
Now as she gazed through the window, she realized a small sense of relief that she'd seen no movement save those of their own small group near the house since the Blow. Still, she thought to herself, there was no point in being careless. She knew, as did they all, that hostile government forces had begun to patrol the city and they had no notion of being caught by them if they could help it. Word was skirmishes with some of the locals had created a shoot first, ask questions later mentality among the soldiers. Just as they had known, under the right conditions, it would one day.
Lying on the counter next to Mika was her AR-15 semi automatic rifle. She left it there when she wasn't outside, within easy reach should she spot an intruder or worse, an army scout snooping around the premises. She'd use it only as a last resort but that didn't seem too far away these days.
An intruder would likely be a single individual looking to score some canned food perhaps or durable goods in the form of candles, matches and other survival things.
The scout, on the other hand, was already well supplied. He was on the look out for men, not goods. Men and women who might represent a threat to the government's New World Order. Or persons who could be compelled into service as canon fodder in the government's recent war on freedom in the states. He was far more to be respected. And feared. For where there was one scout, there would be another. And another, Mika thought.
Arturo, a tall thin Hispanic man with graying hair and a fan of wrinkles crackling the skin at the edges of both eyes, pushed a door open at the other end of the room, scuffed across the wooden floor and dropped into an empty chair next to Floyd and Cyrus. Aaron sat opposite them, a yellow Geiger counter in his hand. He was tapping it with a tiny screw driver, watching the indicator jump. Between them, they represented five of their nine plus one strong confederation.
Another two men, James and Rusty, the oldest person amongst them at an even seventy and the de facto leader of the group, sat outside, ensconced twenty feet straight up in a hastily built hide in the branches of a tall elm tree back of the property. They were also packing, both equipped with long range rifles and one shot gun each in the unlikely event they were surprised from below. James also kept a Bowie knife strapped to the outside of his right leg beneath his pants. The group had decided to go two on watch, not just for better coverage, but to keep each other awake during the long hot nights. And to help the hours pass more quickly.
The two other individuals in their group, Nate and Deenie, a stout but fit woman with a blond mohawk and heavily masculine demeanor, were even now scouting the neighborhood for supplies, more food and water as well as working reconnaissance. No shrinking violet that, Deenie, like the rest, may have also dreamt about Mika late at night but of the men in the group, only one of them would have preferred someone other than Deenie standing next to them in battle. That man was Conrad, the tenth and newest member of the enclave.
Conrad. Former meter reader/warlord wannabe with a taste for the ladies. The day after the Blow, he showed up at Mika's door saying, 'I told you so' and how he was going to protect her from the major baddies he assured her were coming.
"It's all coming down. Gonna get real nasty, real quick!" When Rusty walked in the room, Conrad's face fell hard. Then came the look of hate, something he checked only in degrees.
Mika stared at him in astonishment.
"Conrad," she said. It sounded more like an accusation than a friendly greeting. Then she turned to Rusty. "The gas man," was all she said. Rusty stared at Conrad.
"Yup," he said.
Conrad regained his composure. Give them the benefit of my expertise and they'll be begging me to sign on, he thought. He stood up a little straighter but still failed to meet Rusty's six/one stature by three inches. His prodigious belly might have been to blame, dragging him back to earth despite his best efforts to stand tall.
He gave it up th
en, asked if he might be permitted to join up with them in these bad times. James ran up to him then, having spotted him from the hide, pointing a gun at him from outside. The rest of the group except Nate, sitting upstairs, shuffled in then, standing back and accessing him silently. His mouth fell open. So many of them. For their part, words like blowhard and creep surfaced in their thoughts, but they remained diplomatic in the face of his newness.
He assured them that he knew 'stuff' and would be an asset to them. Said he had been a CIA operative in Iran, could kill a man with his bare hands. He looked significantly at the men gathered around him to see if they understood the gravitas of his message. He wasn't to be messed with. He was unsure that they had. Generously ignoring the slight, he said he would work alone, reconnaissance. He let the word dangle for a moment, weighing the effectiveness of his military jargon.
"What about your wife?" Mika asked, looking hard at him.
Instantly he dropped his eyes. Then he said she had been on the other side of LA on the Blow. Assumed she had 'bought it', didn't seem particularly cut up about it. The thought occurred to Mika that an event like the Blow could be a convenient time to 'clean house'. She had the impression he wouldn't have been particularly averse to doing a little cleaning of his own. Not wanting to be paranoid, she kept her thoughts to herself.
Conrad casually mentioned the patrols milling around the streets and it sounded more like a threat than a friendly tip. Rusty asked him to wait while they talked and he brightened considerably. Conrad shot a quick glance at Mika before Rusty closed the door. Rusty turned first and motioned for the others to follow him into the kitchen.
"What do you think?" he asked skeptically.
"Are you shitting us? The man's a lunatic." That was Cyrus. His acne scarred face looked even more pitted than usual in the directional half light. Nor did it help much with the wariness his rough exterior and lightening quick temper instilled in others. He was the most cautious of the group, so his words were not entirely unexpected. But he was also one of the most farseeing and liked and therefore everyone wanted to know what he had to say.
"As soon slit our throats as anything." Aaron said.
"Did you see the way he looked at Mika? I wouldn't trust him to take out the garbage. Probably dump it in our water supply. I think we have problem here." Floyd this time.
"Don't forget his comment about the army. He didn't say that to make pleasant conversation." Cyrus again.
"There's an old saying. 'Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.'" Deenie said. "He knows where we are. Are we prepared to move out? I think until we get a handle on this guy, we'd better know where he is at all times. Unless you think we should..."
"We aren't doing that, Rusty said. "Not unless we have good reason to believe he's a real threat. But yeah, unless we're prepared to slip away in the night and that's not going to be easy with over a ton of supplies under the house, we'd better keep an eye on him."
"I don't want him anywhere near me," Mika protested.
"Agreed," Rusty said. "He'll never be alone with you until and unless you say so. We should have a pretty good idea who we're dealing with here in a few days. People, abhorrent people, can't hide their intentions for too long. That's why they're abhorrent."
"Alright. Let's get back in there before he gets suspicious," Mika said.
"Too late for that. His kind were born suspicious," Cyrus replied.
Rusty walked back to the door followed by the others. He gave them one last look and then threw the door open with a flourish.
"Well Conrad, by golly, you sure convinced us! You're one interesting guy. Welcome to our humble abode." He stepped back and a grinning Conrad swaggered in.
"There are a few things we need to go over first," Cyrus said, barely able to hide his disgust. "The first is the most important. No one can know we're here. You comprende?"
Thinking they'd seen the value of his contribution to the group, he was already feeling a little patronizing.
"Do you know who you're talking to? Like I said, I was a former CIA agent, remember? I know how to keep my mouth shut."
"Secret agent to meter reader," Cyrus mumbled under his breath.
"Come again?" Conrad said, looking at Cyrus steadily.
I said I'd like to hear more about your CIA days sometime." Cyrus spat.
"If I told you, I'd have to kill you." Conrad smiled.
Rusty, knowing Cyrus's temper, quickly stepped in.
"Alright Conrad, we need to lay down some ground rules. I'll get a little grub on the table. Then it'll be time to get some shuteye. How about you and me and Cyrus tackling the first watch tonight?"
Conrad flushed. "Well truth is, I graduated from grunt work when I was twenty. I need my beauty sleep. I'm sure you'll have more important things for me to do in the morning." He turned then as though that were the end of the discussion and was brought up short by Rusty's steel grip on his shoulder.
"Conrad, truth is there's nothing more important around here than standing watch. I'm sure with your background, you can appreciate that. And there's another thing you ought to know. Until I step down or get shot, I'm the de facto leader here as per vote. So, unless you want to challenge my authority, you'll do as I say. So I'll see you tonight after supper. Cyrus, I think I've changed my mind. Why don't you get some shuteye tonight? Think I'll stay up with Conrad here by my lonesome. Maybe he can teach me a thing or three about sleuthing. I have a feeling he's a natural. Now, who wants P. B and J for supper?"
Conrad grunted, turned and walked out of the room.
Chapter Thirty One
S ofia stood frozen where she was with her hand still resting on the doorknob. How could she have been so stupid, she shouted inwardly. She should have propped the door open as she had the 4th floor door before climbing to the roof. Now she was locked out. Stuck on top of an fourteen-story hotel deep in the heart of a dead city. Releasing the knob, she cast about, looking to see if a key might be hanging on the wall of the stairwell but found nothing. Then she walked across the roof again looking for something she might use to help her get the door open, a crowbar perhaps or an axe, but again found nothing.
Extensive aluminum ductwork for the many air conditioning units crisscrossed the roof between the stairwell and the perimeter of the building. She found an assortment of tools, a screw driver, a hasp, a wooden handled ball peen hammer and three nails, all thoroughly rusted, lying beneath a section of ductwork that was wrapped in a yellowed bed sheet that had been used to cover a gap in the aluminum. A cheap hotel fix by someone who had only bed sheets at his disposal. And no boss standing over his shoulder.
Grabbing the hammer, she ran to the door. Holding it carefully in both hands, she brought it down on the knob with all the strength she could muster. Immediately she did so, the handle splintered, the steel head bouncing away. She screamed in anger. The wood of the handle was rotten, the result of years of sitting in the hot sun and cold rain.
Now the heavy rain was warm, bathing her body in waves of sepia. Her hair hung across her eyes, sticking to her bare shoulders like a label on a jar of jam. She tore off a piece of the bed sheet and used it to tie back her hair. Then leaning over to pick up the hammer head, she began to beat at the doorknob furiously.
Some minutes later, other than putting a few small dents in the tough metal, sore palms were the only result of her wild flailing. She turned to see if there might be something else that she could use and saw again the yellow sheet wrapped around the metal duct. Perhaps if she tore off a long piece, she could wrap it around her hands to buffer them from the painful impact of the Blows.
An idea occurred to her then. Gently pulling the sheet from around the duct, she walked towards the front of the building and looked over the side. Below her she could see a large balcony perhaps twenty feet down. She laid out the sheet and rolled it into a long skinny rope. She tied one end to a piece of pipe three feet from the short perimeter wall and threw the other end over the side.
Glancing over, she was disappointed to see that it was still some twenty feet above the balcony. Looking around, she saw another sheet lying on the roof. She ran to it and gathering it into her arms, walked back and tied the two sheets together.
Dropping it over the side again, she realized that it was still much too far above the landing. Looking around and seeing nothing else she might use to extend her reach, she paused, unsure what she should do. When nothing else presented itself, she shrugged and prepared to drop over the wall. Grabbing the sheet between her hands, she pulled on it to test its ability to support her weight. A stiff tug was enough to easily tear the rotten material away from the pipe, dumping her unceremoniously onto her backside.
"No!" she shouted, throwing the sheet from her. She glanced down to see if her pistols had been scratched when she fell. Lifting one out of its holster, she stared at it, another thought slowly forming in her head. Standing, she ran back to the door.
This isn't going to work, she thought. Or I'll shoot myself in the foot.
Still, she aimed the gun at the doorknob and tried to pull the trigger. She was disgusted to find that she didn't have the strength in one hand to do so and grabbing it with both hands, was about to try again when she remembered the ear shattering explosion that had nearly deafened her when she'd dropped the gun in the hallway.
Carefully she put the gun down, reached up and ripped a piece of the cloth from the hair tie she had made from the rotten material. Tearing it in two, she pushed them into her ears and picked up the gun again. Taking a bead on her target, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut, turned her head to the side and pulled the trigger. Despite the earplugs, the noise startled her and she jumped back, dropping the gun. She looked at the doorknob. It hung by a slim filament of metal.
