Next World Series (Vol. 1): Families First

by Ewing, Lance K.

  This is an odd mix, I thought, and suddenly wished I had covered the carts with something, anything to hide our goods.

  “You see those people over at the store?” he roared, with a booming voice. “They can’t get any food, ’cause the managers won’t take any Lone Star cards today.”

  “How did you guys get a Lone-Star card?” I asked, trying not to feel intimidated by them.

  “They give them to people who can’t afford groceries.”

  “I know that,” I interjected, with a bit of sarcasm. “I asked how you guys got one.”

  He smiled a crazy you-don’t-want-to-really-know-the-answer-to-that kind of smile. I could tell he and I were doing a little dance here, each of us not wanting to show all our cards.

  My mind was thinking six steps ahead as Lawrence pushed his way in front of me in a flash. “Lawrence,” I cautioned, in a stern parenting-type voice. “Get back behind me now.” He didn’t move and held his right index finger up, shaking it at the men in front of us. “Now listen here,” he squeaked. “There are eleven of us and only four of you, and we don’t like your tone. I suggest you go on about your way.”

  Fuck, I thought, as I briefly locked eyes with Jake and Nancy. They both nodded discreetly and I felt a little better. They knew exactly what was going on and were laser focused.

  The man in front of us laughed at Lawrence as he repeated his pathetic attempt to get rid of them. “How about I cut that finger off and put it in your mouth to shut you up?” As he said this, he reached behind his back, never taking his eyes off Lawrence, and produced a large bowie knife, quickly putting the tip just under Lawrence’s chin. Lawrence let out a scream and immediately wet himself. The tattooed men all started laughing and pointing. Lawrence was crying now, and even though I didn’t like him, I felt bad about what was happening to him.

  “Can someone give our lady friend here a wine cooler?” he joked, talking about Lawrence. “A Bartles and Jaymes, or maybe a Zima? She looks dehydrated now.” The other thugs were all laughing at this.

  “All right, guys. That’s enough,” came a stern sergeant-type voice from my right side. It was Jake and he sounded like a drill sergeant. I thought these guys might just drop to the ground and give him 20. Hell, I might join them.

  I turned my head around and saw Jake flanking to my right side and Nancy coming around on my left. The thugs started looking at each other but I couldn’t read them. Were they scared or about to start some shit? There were no visible weapons on either side, with the exception of the knife the man still held to Lawrence’s neck.

  “What do you guys want?” I asked in a calm steady voice.

  “Well, as I see it we have two choices,” he replied. “We’re going to get food today one way or the other. We can knock off the grocery store over there and teach the asshole manager a lesson, but I’m sure they have cameras and I’m not interested in going back to jail anytime soon. Or we can just take your stuff and no one will know the difference. I know these people aren’t going to say shit,” he added as he pointed to the crowd in the parking lot, with their attention now drawn to us. “So what’s it gonna be?” he asked with a slow deliberate drawl.

  This is a scary fucker, I thought, but we’re not giving up our supplies for anyone. The people in our group would no doubt need these goods to help them get through the next few weeks. I’m sure most of them only had a week’s worth of food at best in their homes, like most Americans nowadays.

  The other three thugs started fanning out behind the leader, like there was about to be an old-time shootout at the OK Corral.

  Nancy bent down and appeared to be tying her shoe when one of the Hispanic guys pulled a pistol from his back pocket, aiming it squarely at me. When Nancy came up, she had her pistol out, apparently from an ankle holster. She didn’t say a word and put her laser sight directly on the black man’s forehead.

  In an instant Jake had his pistol out and aimed at the thug fixed on me. This is getting bad, I thought. I need to bring this down a notch before all hell breaks loose.

  Two gunshots rang out from the store parking lot, drawing all of our attention for a split second. I turned back just in time to see the bowie knife being dragged swiftly and deliberately across Lawrence’s throat. Blood splattered in all directions and his body dropped like a felled tree in slow motion.

  In a second both Jake and Nancy were firing their weapons. Nancy catching the leader right in the top of the forehead, snapping his head back. He dropped where he stood. Jake’s bullet hit the skinhead in the right shoulder, spraying blood across the sidewalk. His second shot caught him just above the left eye, erasing any doubt of return fire from him.

  I drew my Ruger LC9 pistol from my right hip holster, steadied on the Hispanic guy behind him, and squeezed off two shots, hitting him first in the stomach and then in the center of his chest. He gasped and tried to take in a deep breath as he fell. He was making a lot of noise, but it was being drowned out by both screaming and yelling, both from our group and the bystanders in the parking lot. The fourth man, a young Hispanic guy, just turned and ran straight back. I aimed for his mid-back and just watched him run. Even with everything changed, I didn’t want to shoot a man in the back, at least not yet.

  Two more gunshots came from the parking lot and more yelling ensued. It didn’t seem to be directed towards us, so I told our group, “Get your carts and let’s get the hell out of here.” Jake, Nancy and I took up the rear, walking backwards, ready to defend if needed from the onlookers. For the moment they seemed preoccupied with the grocery store mayhem, so we quietly slipped away down the road.

  About a half mile down Preston Road, when I was pretty sure no one was going to be following us, I said to the group, “OK, hold up for a minute.” The entire group had been silent since the incident and I wasn’t sure what to make of that. As soon as we stopped, everyone started talking all at once. Everyone, that is, but Jake and Nancy. “OK, OK. One at a time,” I said. “Raise your hand if you want to speak.” They all raised their hands. “We need to keep this short, so you start,” I told one of the middle-aged ladies in the front. “Why did that have to happen?” she asked. “All you had to do was give them our carts and none of this would have happened.” “Yeah,” chimed in a young guy from the back, “and Lawrence would still be alive.”

  I looked at Jake and Nancy for some help but they were going to let me take this one, I could see. “OK, listen. What you have in your carts is probably all you’re going to have to eat and drink for the next few weeks. It’s not going to save you but it’s a start and it’s more than most other folks are going to have. I am willing to give up what’s in my cart to all of you because I have prepared for this over the past few years, but I am not going to give it to a bunch of thieving thugs for any reason. I feel just as bad as you do about what happened to Lawrence, but that’s just the start.

  “I don’t need you to agree with me about how the situation was handled, but you all need to know this is a different world now and you had better be ready to defend what’s yours, no matter what.” I instinctively looked at Jake and got a subtle approving nod. The same lady asked, “So you’re one of those Doomsday preppies, like on TV?”

  “I think you mean preppers,” I said, “and no, I’m not. I’m just a family man with a wife and kids to take care of. A few years ago I could see that our country was heading down a dangerous path and we were not prepared for our new enemies across the globe. So I did a lot of research and listened to more than a few audiobooks. I decided to put some food and provisions away, just in case something like this happened. Now I’m trying to help all of us get home—that’s it!”

  “What’s even the point of trying?” she added. “I mean, if we’re all going to die anyway?”

  “A lot of people will die, that’s the sad truth, but some will make it to the other side. It will take months or years to get the electrical grid back up, but those who can survive until then can still have a great life.

  �
��Most of us will become farmers again, I assume, at least for a while. I have a wife and kids to protect. And I will get them all to the other side so I can watch them grow up, or I’ll die trying.

  “OK, who’s next?” I asked. All of the hands went down. “OK, let’s head out.”

  I made my way over to Jake and Nancy and asked, “Have either of you had to do this before?” “Not me,” replied Nancy. Jake didn’t say a word and I knew his answer. “Does it get any easier?” I asked. “I mean, if I ever have to do it again?” “Unfortunately it does,” is all Jake said.

  * * * * * * *

  Chapter Four ~ Loveland, Colorado

  Sharon was sitting outside the back of her condo, as she did most mornings before she headed to the office. It was a beautiful morning, the air still crisp in the spring Northern Colorado foothills. She watched some deer, a good-sized buck and two does milling around the nearly four-and-a-half-acre garden directly behind her home. She felt truly blessed to call this 350-acre ranch her home for the past forty-four years.

  Sharon was a beautiful woman, both inside and out, and the kind of person who never met a stranger. She was a proud mother and grandmother, always doting on her family.

  She had come to this place called Saddle Ranch when she was in her early 20s, seeking a spiritual destination that she could feel a part of. She and her husband Bill had raised their two boys here. Her oldest son, Lance, now 47 years old, had moved away at age 18 after graduating from high school. He spent quite a few years in Southern California in the “OC,” as she heard some others call it. He was briefly back for about a year before settling in Dallas. He had gone there to attend Chiropractic school.

  He really only had two choices: Dallas, Texas, or Davenport, Iowa, which was in her home state. She remembered him telling her, “I don’t know much about Dallas, but I know it’s warmer than Davenport.”

  Her younger son, Karl, was a smart kid growing up—tall and slim, like his dad, and always looking for his next invention. He was in all AP advanced placement classes during high school. Lance had always said Karl should be an attorney because he loved to debate any subject. Karl remained on the Ranch, learning various trades, including carpentry, woodworking, gardening, cooking and landscaping. He loved the freedom of this open land. Thank you, Lord, she would think, for giving us this protected place to find peace in this complicated world.

  Her husband, Bill, slim and standing at 6’4”, was a former military man—a forward observer in the Army for eighteen months during the Vietnam War. He had been an accomplished wildlife and landscape artist, painting mostly in acrylic, with a few watercolors thrown in every now and then. He had his paintings in galleries all over the Colorado Rocky Mountains, as well as New Mexico, Arizona, the East Coast, and most of the country in both public and private collections.

  He had made quite a few trips to the VA hospital in Cheyenne, Wyoming, over the past couple decades, as did a lot of the Vietnam soldiers she knew. There were chemicals used over there and no doubt in most, if not all, the other wars our country has been involved in since then that just never made it to the mainstream media. No wonder so many veterans are dealing with illnesses years later.

  It was 9:02 Mountain Time when she saw the flash of light on the horizon. She had been watching the deer, and the light appeared in her peripheral vison. She would be glad later, when talking to some other neighbors, that she didn’t see it directly. That’s strange, she thought, as the deer just froze in place.

  “Mom,” she heard from the kitchen. “The power is out.” “OK, Honey. I’ll be in in a minute. I’m sure it’s just a breaker.”

  Living in this land brought its fair share of power outages, although usually in the winter months. They had installed a woodburning stove right in the middle of the house just a few years ago for that exact reason. It had gotten them through what would have otherwise been a few scary cold nights. They were thirty miles from the closest town of Loveland, so it wasn’t easy to just drive in during a storm and get a room at the Holiday Inn.

  She called for Bill and then remembered he was teaching an early morning art class in the Pavilion. The Pavilion was a central place on the Ranch with a professional kitchen and eating area for the nearly 150 full-time residents and another 25-50 people there for various events, ranging from a week to six months. Downstairs was a classroom for all types of learning, and this morning it was painting.

  She checked the breaker box and found nothing out of sorts. She powered up her iPhone 5 and just saw a blank screen. “That’s not good,” she said aloud. “What’s not good, Mom?” asked Karl. “Nothing, Honey,” she said. “I just need to check for something in my car and I’ll be right back.”

  After talking with her son Lance last year about the state of the world and his concerns about our country’s safety, she knew to check her phone first after an outage and then to see if her car would start. Her car door was unlocked, as it always was around there. Most folks on the Ranch didn’t even lock their homes.

  She put the key into the ignition and held her breath as she turned it. Nothing happened, so she tried it two more times, just to be sure. She thought about trying Bill’s SUV but she just knew it would be the same.

  She always had a sense about things that others could not explain. Once when her son Lance was in his early 20s, living in California, she woke up at 1 a.m. with a jolt. She called him for the first time ever at that hour, nearly a thousand miles away, and he answered on the first ring.

  “What happened, Honey?” she asked. “Are you OK?” He told her that his car had broken down about a half hour ago, and when he was checking under the hood a large gust of wind blew the hood down onto his head, giving him quite a lump. He was shocked that she had called but was happy someone was watching out for him.

  She called to Karl, saying, “Let’s go for a walk and see what Dad’s up too.” They passed her old friend Mabel’s house on the way and she stopped in to check on her, as she did often. Mabel was 87, going on 37 in her mind, but her body wasn’t having it. She spent most days, weather permitting, on her back porch smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and drinking mint tea. She loved the tea from Starbucks but thought the prices were outrageous. She was right, but Sharon brought her one anyway whenever she was near Starbucks.

  “How are you today, Mabel?” Sharon asked, as they came up to the side of her porch. “Not so good, I guess,” she replied. “I can’t see a damn thing.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Sharon.

  “Well, I was rolling some tobacco when I looked up and saw the brightest light! And since then, I can’t see anything. Would you be a dear and finish rolling my fag?”

  “What is she talking about?” said Karl, with a grin. “It’s just an old-time word for a smoke, Honey,” said Mabel. “They went and did the same thing with the word gay. You know, the one Frank Sinatra used to sing about—and trust me, he was talking about fun. He used to show up backstage at some of my Vegas shows, if you know what I mean.” Sharon loved to hear Mabel’s stories of her singing-comedian performance days in Las Vegas and Atlantic City. “Now be a dear and give me a hand.”

  “Sure,” replied Sharon. “Always glad to help.” She got the cigarette rolled and lit for Mabel and started her questioning. “Can you see at all, Mabel?”

  “Well, at first I couldn’t see squat, but now it’s coming back a bit. Guess I’ll just wait here for a while and see what happens. I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”

  “OK,” said Sharon. “I’ve got to find Bill. I’ll check back with you in just a bit. I’ll roll you a couple more before I go. Just don’t go burning the place down while I’m gone!”

  “Or what—I’ll go to heaven?” Mabel laughed. “I already have one foot in the Pearly Gates!”

  When they reached Bill, they found he was teaching his class to about thirty people outside the Pavilion, next to the orchard. They apparently were not even aware of the power outage. Sharon waited the twenty minutes more for the c
lass to finish, respecting those students who had no idea of what was coming in their lives.

  “Bill,” she said as he walked over to her and Karl. “It’s happened,” she stated matter-of-factly, as she held up her blank cell phone. He knew exactly what she meant.

  “OK,” stated Bill. “Let’s get started.” Sharon and Bill went into the Pavilion, where they were preparing lunch. In about an hour they would be feeding nearly 150 people, Vegas buffet-style. The menu at the front announced today’s lineup:

  Loaded garden salad with all the veggies was line item number one.

  Roasted turkey sandwiches, just like after Thanksgiving dinner, it read. Bill loved these as a kid. He still did, even though they ate so much turkey here that they didn’t serve it on Thanksgiving.

  The turkey would be served on homemade bread, with lettuce and tomatoes from the garden. The bacon was from the farm just down the road, but still part of the Ranch property. Bill preferred buttered bread to mayonnaise for his sandwiches. It didn’t hurt that they made their own butter as well. Collard greens from the garden were sautéed in the same top-quality butter and actually went quite well with the sandwiches. Watermelon rounded out the fine meal. Bill knew they would easily improvise without power and get it done on time. All would no doubt be satisfied with lunch today.