I went back outside and backed the truck in so we could leave quickly if we needed to, then took the first watch. I woke up George about halfway through the night and lay down for a bit. I didn’t sleep very well, due to my wounds and the fact I knew George wasn’t really prepared for a night of “watch.” Ultimately, though, blood loss and exhaustion finally caught up with me, and I slept for a little while.
* * *
“That was some damn fine shooting yesterday,” George said to me the next morning as we ate some cold food from our stock. He looked a lot worse for the wear. It was probably the least amount of sleep he’d had in a while, even forted up at Sam’s house.
“Thanks.”
“Where’d you learn how to do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you teach me to shoot like that?” John, the older boy, asked. “Dad and—” he sniffed, “—grandpa taught me how to shoot a rifle, but we don’t have that much rifle ammo, and we have a bunch of pistols now. Figured I ought to learn.”
I looked at his dad, who shrugged. “That’s probably true,” George said. “He’s got to learn some time.”
“I guess I can teach you,” I replied.
“When?”
I looked at his dad, who shrugged again.
“No time like the present, I guess. We’re as safe here as we’re going to be, and I doubt anyone these days will move toward the sounds of people shooting.”
I told George to watch out the front of the building anyway—you never know; about half the people of the world are dumber than average—and took John and the two other kids out back for a lesson in pistols.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Sixteen,” John replied. “Old enough to kill someone if I had to. Especially if they’re some of the people who killed grandpa.”
“Killing’s hard,” I said.
“It looked pretty easy when you did it yesterday,” John replied.
“It may have appeared like it to you, but I got lucky. I also got wounded myself, so I’d encourage you to try a different resolution first.”
John stared at me as if I thought he were stupid. Apparently, the fallen world had already jaded him. Oh well, that might not be a bad thing.
“Okay, then,” I said. “There are two things you need to know. The first is, you never point a gun at something you don’t want to kill. Second, if you do point it at someone, you better be ready to kill them, because they’re probably going to do their best to do it to you before you do it to them. Got it?”
John said he did, so I showed him how to operate the pistol. We also talked about trigger discipline and how to load and unload it. We talked so long that his younger brother wandered off and the two older children were rolling their eyes as I gave them additional pointers on the effective use of a handgun.
“What?” I finally asked after about the 30th eye roll.
“You said you’d teach me to shoot the pistol,” John said. “We’ve been doing this for an hour, and I haven’t shot it even once yet.”
“I’m just getting to that,” I replied. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t accidentally kill me or one of your siblings while I was doing so.”
“Grampa told us about weapon safety. Blah, blah, blah, keep your booger pickers off the trigger ‘til you’re ready to shoot. Blah, blah, blah.” He held up a hand. “I know it’s important, but I’ve already got that.”
“You just want to shoot the darn pistol.”
“Yes, sir,” he said with a smile.
“Well okay, then,” I said with a grin in reply. “Let’s do that.”
I took a two foot by two foot board and propped it up about 30 feet away, then came back and drew a firing line. “Here’s what I want you to do on your turn.” I loaded an eight-round magazine into the pistol, then aimed and fired until the slide locked back.
“See?” I asked. “Nothing to it.”
“Seriously?” John asked. “You only hit the board twice.”
“Did I?” I looked at the board. Sure enough, there were only two holes through it. I shrugged. “So let’s see you do better.”
The boy loaded and fired the pistol. Although he missed twice, the board now sported six new holes.
“That’s easy,” John said. “Can we do it again?”
“Sure,” I said, walking up to put a new board in place. “We’ll have a competition to see who’s best.” I went back and toed the line. This time, I concentrated as I fired off another magazine, knowing that I put all eight bullets into the target.
“You’re not much of a challenge,” the boy said. “You still only got four on the board, and you took about three times as long. What happened to, ‘You have to be able to do this quickly?’”
“Let’s see you do it then, if you’re so smart,” I replied.
The boy smiled as he stepped up to the line and loaded his pistol. He fired off the magazine—a lot faster than I had—then walked over to inspect the target. “Ha!” he said. “I hit it nine times—more than twice as many as you!”
“That was a great job,” I replied. “I guess you win that pistol. It’s now yours, but you have to clean it and take care of it. You good with that?”
“Absolutely!” he exclaimed. “I’ll take it in and clean it right now.”
I could see he wanted to run with the pistol, but he walked—quickly—to the restaurant and went inside, careful to keep it pointed at the ground.
“That’s nice of you to build him up like that,” George said. At some point, he’d come around the other side of the building to watch. “I imagine for someone like you, it’s harder to miss a target than it is for him to hit it.”
I chuckled. “You have no idea,” I said.
George nodded. “I’m going to go inside and congratulate him, if you don’t mind watching out for a bit.”
“No problem,” I said. “I’ll take care of things out here.”
George went inside, leaving me looking at the target. I had no idea what had happened. I hadn’t let him win—I’d tried my level best to hit it every time, and I had missed more often than I’d hit it. I hadn’t even come close to the results of someone just shooting a pistol for the first time. After about ten seconds, I turned away, shaking my head.
There are some things you just can’t figure out in this Fallen World.
* * * * *
Chapter Ten
“So, what’s the plan today?” George asked as we tossed our things into the truck 15 minutes later.
“We’re going to drive to Pensacola,” I replied. “It can’t be that far, can it?”
“It wouldn’t have been that far a few weeks ago—an hour and a half, tops. The problem is that in between us and Pensacola is the charming metropolis of Mobile, Alabama.”
“And?”
“And it’s a big city,” George replied. “I’ve gotta believe it got hit with a nuke or three.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh. If it’s still there, I have to imagine that there would be all sorts of barricades and such. If I were a betting man, though, my guess would be that it’s destroyed and radioactive. There’s also a really big bridge we’d have to go over…and I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that it doesn’t exist anymore, either.”
“That’s a whole lot of ‘we can’t,’” I noted. “What is it we can do?”
“Well, that’s what I wanted to discuss with you. We’re on Highway 90. I recognized it when we got off the interstate yesterday. I’ve gone back and forth to Perdido Key a few times on 90. We take it east from here, then turn south on Alabama 188. That will take us to 193, which will take us to Dauphin Island.”
“Okay, so Dolphin Island to Perdido Key, which I’m guessing is also an island. Please tell me there’s a bridge.”
“Well, about that…” he said. “There’s a ferry.”
“No bridge?”
“No. None.” When my frown grew more pronounced, he added, “But the guys at the ferry ar
e good people! I’ve never heard anything bad about them.”
“And you think this ferry will still be in use?”
“Honestly, I have no idea. However, it’s the only other way, without going hundreds of miles out of the way.”
“I don’t think we have gas for that,” I noted. “I think we’re at about a quarter of a tank.”
“Yeah, so, unless we stop for gas somewhere, that’s not only going to be our best option; it’s also our only option.”
“Well, shit.”
“Pretty much.”
I sighed. “Okay, the ferry it is. I hope society on Dolphin Island hasn’t gone to hell like everywhere else.”
“That’s Dauphin Island,” he corrected, “and as far as society goes…me, too.”
“Well, then, I guess that’s what we’ll do,” I replied. “And the folks there will either be sociable, or we’ll have to make them sociable. If that’s the only way of getting to Perdido Key, I guess we’ll just have to make it work.”
Sometimes, plans have to change in this Fallen World.
* * * * *
Chapter Eleven
We drove a couple of miles to the east. I had cleaned out the cab of the truck as best I could, and George rode up front with me. The weather held, so, while cool, there was no problem with the kids riding in the bed of the truck. I slowed to a stop as we approached the junction of Alabama Road 188.
“What’s up?” George asked, scanning the road ahead for danger.
I pointed to the gas station across from our intended turn.
“We could use some gas,” I replied. “We’re probably going to run out before we make it to Perdido Key.”
“I don’t see any sort of defenses or issues by the pump or store,” George said.
I nodded. “I know. That’s what bothers me. Gas is going to be a very valuable commodity, and something to be protected. While it’s possible that things haven’t totally gone to shit here in rural, redneck Alabama, I doubt it. Things were shitty here before the bombs ever dropped, and I expect everyone here owns a gun or three.”
“So what are we going to do?”
“You and John are going to cover me with the rifles we have from inside the truck, and I’m going to walk into the station.”
“We only have a few rounds for the long guns,” George reminded.
I gave George a half-smile and nodded toward the service station. “I know that, and you know that, but they don’t know that.”
“They?”
“Yeah, they. I just saw someone move in one of the windows. There are people in the station, and they’re watching us. Probably getting nervous, too. I better go before they get too nervous.”
I pulled the truck a little further up, then angled it across the road so it was broadside to the station. George slid over and pointed one rifle out the window, while I had John cover the opposite direction with a pistol.
“Shouldn’t he be facing the pumps, too?” George asked.
“What if someone tries to sneak up on you while I’m gone?”
“I, uh…”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too,” I replied. “John, watch the opposite side and shoot anything that tries to sneak up on the truck.”
“Yes sir,” John said, serious. I think it had just dawned on him how “real” things had gotten.
I set up Alice with the other rifle in the bed of the truck, and had her point it toward the gas station. It didn’t really matter much that she couldn’t shoot it; we didn’t have any bullets for it, either. I had her younger brother Eric lie down in the bed of the truck.
With them as prepared as I could make them, I walked toward the gas station. I had two pistols in my belt within easy reach, but kept my hands high. I approached the building, keeping the pumps in between us. I figured having to shoot past the pumps would make them at least think twice before firing at me. I hoped.
“Hello in the station!” I called, trying not to yell so loud that all of their neighbors could hear, too. I figured the fewer participants we had, the better. “Can I come in?”
“Slowly, mister,” a man’s voice replied. “Whaddya want?”
“I’m trying to make it to Perdido Key and could use a tank of gas.”
“How you gonna pay?”
“How about credit?” I asked.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” the man said with a laugh. “Ain’t no such thing as credit no more.”
“I have some cash…”
“And what’s that gonna get me?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know what you can buy around here.”
“With that shit?” the man asked. “Not a damn thing.”
“Well, what will a tank of gas cost?”
“What kind of weapons and ammo you got for trade?”
“I have a pistol or two I could trade you. Maybe a magazine of ammo.” I reached the pump, but didn’t go any closer, figuring the pump was my best cover. They wouldn’t want to shoot at it if it had any gas; if they didn’t have gas, there weren’t any issues with hiding behind it.
“Where’d you say you were goin’ again?”
“Perdido Key, why?”
“Where ya comin’ from?”
Something was wrong; he was stalling. I glanced behind me to see that all eyes in the truck were on me.
“John!” I yelled. “Turn around!”
He spun around, and his pistol came up immediately. George spun around, too, as John began firing, and he slid to the other side of the truck. Both of my pistols were in my hands as I crouched behind one of the pumps. John fired four times then stopped, although I could see he was still pointing the pistol at the forest on the other side of the truck.
“You okay, John?” I called.
“Yeah!” he yelled back, still focused on the other side of the truck. “Two guys were trying to sneak up on us. I think I got one.”
I turned back to the service station. “That how you deal honestly with people here?” I asked.
“Don’t know what you mean,” the man replied.
“Come on out here,” I ordered.
“Get fucked!”
“If you don’t come out here, I’m going to come in there and get you.”
“Why don’t you fucking try?” he asked.
I figured we were pretty much done talking by this point, so I faked like I was coming around the pump one way, then ran out the other. A gun roared—a shotgun from the sound of it, but he had fallen for the fake, and I made it out of the pumps. I felt the wind from a second blast as the pellets went past, but it was another miss, and then I was up to the building.
I fired a round through the glass door, shattering it, and the shotgun roared a third time. The rack of hydrogenated snack cakes by the door disintegrated in the blast.
“Last chance!” I yelled.
“What part of ‘get fucked’ didn’t you understand?”
A large rock sat by the side of the building, probably used to prop the door open on nice days. I threw it through the empty door frame into the closest rack. The man behind the counter fired at the motion, like he had every other time. I fired once, hitting him in the chest, and he fell backward into the condom display stand. I avoided the glass remaining in the door frame as I stepped through, approached the counter, and shot him again through the head.
Click!
I dove behind the counter, landing on the dead man. I heard a pump action shotgun cycle, then it roared, and the condom display exploded. I tried to stand up as the pump action worked again, but slipped in a puddle of blood and fell back to the floor. The shotgun boomed again, covering me in bits of paper and metal.
This time I found my footing and rose to find a woman working the action. I shot her twice, and she fell backward into a rack of snacks.
A quick search showed no one else was in the store, so I went back out and waved George forward. He pulled up to the pump and jumped out.
“You pump,” I directed. “John, you go to the ot
her side of the store and watch for anyone coming. Alice, grab that bag and grab as much food as you can from the store. Eric, stay where you are and watch for anyone coming from this side.”
I ran back to the door and opened it, using the rock to hold it open, and started bringing cases of water to the truck. When I didn’t see Alice, I walked around the racks to find her staring at the dead woman. The bag she’d been carrying had fallen to the floor, and she stood with her mouth open, transfixed, unable to look away.
I stepped in front of her, breaking her contact with the scene, then gently—or as gently as I could—turned her around. “Alice,” I said, putting the bag back in her hand, “I need you to grab all the food you can and bring it to the truck. Don’t look at the woman.”
I grabbed another case of water and took it to the truck. When I came back, Alice was filling the bag. Not as quickly as I would have liked, but food was going into the bag. It also wasn’t what I would have selected, but it would hopefully make her and her siblings happy.
“Tank’s full,” George said as I came out with another case of water.
“Good. Grab all the spare tanks you can find and fill them too. Quickly!”
I grabbed several bags from behind the counter and scooped all the energy and protein bars into one, then added the containers of peanut butter, the two bags of rice, and the four boxes of pasta into a second and a third. I scooped up the two shotguns and took it all to the truck. Alice was on her second trip, this time with every candy bar she could carry. At least they’d be good for energy.
I took another case of water to the truck, and Alice jumped as I came into the store. She turned toward me holding a package of toilet paper and several boxes of tampons. She glared at me, as if daring me to stop her, and said, “I’m taking these for me.”
I nodded, and she walked past, then I stepped forward to look at the shelf. All that remained was single-ply toilet paper, which sucked, but was at least—marginally—better than using a leaf. I grabbed the rest of them, as well as the rest of the tampons, and ran them out to the truck.
Don't Call Me Ishmael Page 5
