Don't Call Me Ishmael

by Chris Kennedy

  I ran back to the store to find John coming in the other entrance. “People are coming!” he exclaimed.

  I grabbed an armful of cigarette cartons and gave them to him. “Take these to the truck and get in!”

  “I don’t smoke!” he exclaimed.

  “Just do it!” I yelled.

  He scampered off with the cigarettes.

  Movement caught my eye. “Alice, get in the truck!” She rushed out, not needing to be told twice. She was probably happy to be away from the dead body.

  I grabbed the box of shotgun shells behind the counter and the three first aid kits alongside it. I threw them into a bag, then filled it up with cigarette cartons and ran out the door. George already had the truck running and the kids loaded into the back, and was sitting in the passenger seat with his rifle out the window. The driver’s door was open, so I slid in, slammed it shut, and drove off in a spray of gravel.

  I slowed, slightly, as I drove over the railroad tracks on Alabama 188, then roared off. I saw a few people come around the side of the convenience store, but we were too far for them to bother shooting at us. After a couple of seconds, we rounded a curve and were out of sight, and I released the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

  George pulled the rifle back in from the window and looked inside the bags I’d brought out with me from the store. “Cigarettes?” he asked. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

  “I don’t, but something the guy asked me made sense.”

  “What was that?”

  “He asked me what I was going to trade for the gas. I’m guessing that, for a smoker, the cigarettes will be more valuable than food these days—they’re going to be in short supply. I also threw in some bottles of wine—they didn’t have anything harder than that. It’s not for us; it’s to negotiate with. I wanted to have a better answer the next time someone asks what I have to trade.”

  George nodded, then looked back to check the kids.

  You have to know how to operate a barter economy in this Fallen World.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Twelve

  We drove for about ten minutes. While I wanted to go fast, I also knew that doing so would be a good way to run into something I couldn’t get back out of, so I ended up going about 45 miles an hour. The area was residential, with single houses and neighborhoods located on both sides of the road. Nearly all of them looked like their owners had forted them up, and most of them had someone looking out a front window with a rifle.

  I couldn’t remember much of the previous world, but I didn’t like this new, fallen world I found myself in.

  We pulled up to the stop sign at a “T” intersection. Across the street were the remains of a fast food restaurant. All the windows had been broken out, and it looked like someone had halfheartedly tried to set it on fire. With as much grease as there was in there, they must not have tried very hard.

  George snorted softly. “I guess the food supplies have dwindled enough that there’s even a demand for fast food now.”

  As we headed south, we came to a large sign that someone had hand painted. It read, “Welcome to Bayou La Batre. The laws apply here and will be enforced with lethal force.”

  “Huh,” I said. “Bayou La Batre? Wasn’t that the shrimping city in that movie?” I couldn’t think of the movie’s name, just that there had been one.

  “Yeah,” George said with a nod. “Looks like they take their security seriously here.”

  I slowed as we approached the first buildings in town—another convenience store and some more fast food restaurants—since there was a barricade across the road, with four people manning it.

  “Is there another way around the town?” I asked.

  “Yeah, but there’s no telling what’s on it. It’s a small road.”

  “If laws really do apply here, then we ought to be all right…” I thought for a second, then made up my mind. “We’ll stay on the road.”

  As I approached the barricade, a man came out from behind the barricade and waved for me to stop. I did, at a spot marked “Stop Here” on the asphalt, and the man continued to walk toward the truck. I could see he was armed, but he kept his pistol in a holster. He looked tough and no-nonsense, from the cowboy hat he wore, on down to his boots. The fact that he was wearing some sort of sheriff’s uniform only added to his air of authority.

  The people at the barricade shifted as he walked toward us. They didn’t have their rifles pointed at us, exactly, but they were close enough that it wouldn’t have taken them long to get there.

  I left my weapons in the truck and got out to talk to the man.

  “Good morning,” I said as he approached.

  “‘Morning,” he replied. He nodded to the truck. “What have we got here?”

  “We’re traveling to Pensacola,” I replied. “Trying to get to family. Is the ferry still operating?”

  “Last I heard, it was. Been a while, though.” He cocked his head at me. “We don’t get many people traveling through, these days,” he said, “and most aren’t law-abiding citizens. Did you see the sign back up the way?”

  “I did. It said the laws still apply here.”

  “And indeed they do. Are you going to have any issue with that?”

  “No sir; we won’t be causing any problems. As you can see, we’ve got three kids, and all things considered, I don’t want anything more than to get them safely home.”

  He craned his neck to look at the truck, then raised an eyebrow. “Looks like you’ve seen some action. Also looks like you’ve done some scavenging. Kind of looks like you may have been looting.”

  I looked over my shoulder. Several bullet holes were visible in the side of the truck, including one in the driver’s door I didn’t remember being there before. Bundles of toilet paper could easily be seen from where we stood, as well as one of the stacks of water.

  “We haven’t been part of any ‘action’ that wasn’t started by someone else,” I replied. “And if we ended up with their stuff afterward, it was only because they didn’t need it anymore, and I didn’t want it to go to waste.” I shrugged. “I have no trouble following the law, and I can honestly tell you I’m not looking to start any trouble here.”

  “Good,” the man said. “Make sure you don’t.” He started to turn away, but then turned back to me. “I’m Sheriff Winston. If you get into trouble here, you’ll come before me. Trust me, you don’t want that, as I tend to settle things permanently.”

  “Makes sense,” I said. “Seems to be the only thing some people understand these days.”

  “Indeed.” With that, he turned and walked back to the barricade. He waved for the other people manning the barricade to open a way for us to go through.

  I jumped back in the truck and drove through, and on into the town of Bayou La Batre. “Four people seems kind of like a small group to keep out anyone who’d want to do them wrong,” George said.

  “It would,” I replied, “if that were all they had at that barricade. I saw two others on both sides of the road, hidden in the forest. If we’d have tried anything, we’d have been in a pretty good crossfire.”

  George nodded. “I guess they take their security pretty seriously here.”

  We drove south into town, and it was as if we’d driven into another world. People of all races seemed to be coming and going about their business—there were even children on the playground at the elementary school we passed. It was surreal to drive through after our experiences over the last couple of days. All sorts of people—blacks, whites, Asians—all getting along and interacting as if the last month had never existed. Weird.

  “Almost makes you want to stop and put down roots here,” George said.

  “Almost,” I agreed. “You thinking of staying?”

  George sighed wistfully. “I’d like to, and this looks like a great place, but I promised my father I’d take the kids to my uncle’s.” He shrugged. “Besides, there’s no telling. A gang could come and overrun this town to
morrow. Who’s to say? Dad said that Uncle Luc would have enough force to provide a secure zone. I know you can’t count on anything anymore, but if you could, Uncle Luc would be it.”

  We drove another couple of minutes in silence, then he turned to me. “You aren’t thinking of staying, are you?” he asked with a touch of panic in his voice.

  I shrugged. “No…not now anyway. I told your father I would help get you to Perdido Key, and I’m going to do that. Besides, I’m still looking for my past. Maybe I’ll see something along the way that jogs my memory. Maybe Perdido Key will do it; it kind of sounds familiar. If it doesn’t, maybe I’ll travel on from there and keep looking.” I shrugged. “These days, you really can’t plan that far ahead. Right now, I’m focused on getting you to Florida; I’ll figure out what’s next after I do that.”

  He sat back, apparently satisfied. He was a good guy, but both of us knew he stood a lot better of a chance of getting to Pensacola with me along than by himself.

  There wasn’t much to the town of Bayou La Batre, and we were soon out of it and headed east. The barricade on this end of town was just past a small gun and ammo store, which somehow seemed fitting. They waved us through without conversation and we continued to the east, paralleling Portersville Bay and the Gulf of Mexico.

  As we passed the sign that read, “Now leaving Bayou La Batre,” I noticed someone had scrawled underneath that in red, “You’re on your own.” I shrugged.

  You’re always on your own in this Fallen World.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Thirteen

  We made it to the flashing yellow light at Alabama 193 and drove south with Mobile Bay off to our left. The land grew progressively swampier, with trailer parks dominating the few outposts of civilization we passed.

  In most, the trailers had been pulled together to form a box or other geometric shape, and it reminded me of Wild West explorers “circling the wagons” to protect themselves from Indians. I had no idea where that thought came from; perhaps I’d been a history teacher in my previous life, before I turned into a psychopath. Regardless, it was obvious we weren’t in Bayou La Batre anymore.

  Within a couple of minutes, we were on the bridge to Dauphin Island, and I knew we were in trouble.

  “What’s that up ahead?” George asked, peering forward.

  “Dead cars.” I said. There were at least a couple cars in both lanes. It appeared as though there might be a way through the wreckage, but it would involve slowing down to negotiate the passage. The cars blocked my vision of what was in front of them, adding to my unease. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

  “Did you have to say ‘dead?’” he asked.

  “Well, it beats the ones that just pulled onto the bridge behind us.” As we’d passed Cedar Point—the last strip of land before the bridge—two large trucks had pulled in behind us and were blocking both lanes of traffic. While there were large shoulders on both sides of the road, I had a feeling they’d probably move to block any moves I made to get around them.

  “So we don’t want to go forward…”

  “And we can’t go back,” I finished. I looked in the rear view mirror and sighed. “Forward it is.”

  Whereas the last barricade had an air of professionalism, the blockage in front of us gave the impression of hoodlumism. As we approached, a woman stepped out from behind the cars and pointed at a sign on the side of the road. “Stop and Pay Tax,” it read.

  I could see the cars blocking the road a little better now. There were two in the left lane, with two in the right lane a little farther back, and two more in the left lane. There was just enough space for our truck to pass by, but I wasn’t going to be able to do it at speed, and I could see movement behind the cars. When we slowed to go through the obstacles, they’d have us…no matter whether we paid their tax or not. Every car I could see had bullet holes, and at least two of them had caught fire at some point. This wasn’t going to end well for someone; all I could hope for was that it would be them and not us.

  I checked the trucks behind us—they had slowed when we did and were maintaining a respectful distance. We couldn’t make a run for it that way, but at least they weren’t pushing us into the trap any faster than they had to.

  “You going to pay the tax?” George asked.

  “Depends on what it is, I guess.” I stopped the car and got out. “I think this one is going to go badly,” I added. “Slide over into the driver’s seat and be ready.” I also told John to be ready, then walked toward the woman. She appeared Hispanic, and was only about five feet tall, with dark hair. She could have been pretty, except for the cruel look she had in her eyes as she surveyed the truck and then focused on me.

  “That’s far enough,” she said when I was about 15 feet away from her.

  “Is that so that your friends behind the cars can keep me covered?”

  “Perhaps.” She shrugged. “Are you going to pay the bridge tax?”

  “Depends. How much is it, and how do I know you’ll let me continue on once I pay it?”

  “How about the little girl?” she asked. “Give her to us, and we’ll let you pass.”

  “Not happening,” I replied, trying to catalog how many people were hiding behind the cars. There were at least three, plus the woman.

  “How about the little boy, then?”

  I paused, as if considering, while I tried to figure out how she knew we had a young boy and a young girl. I couldn’t see much behind her; her people wouldn’t be able to see well into the bed of the truck. Did they have a rifle with a scope? That would be bad, as they could pick off my traveling companions before they could do much.

  Still…I didn’t see a rifle poking out anywhere. Then I caught a flash of something in her ear; they had a radio or three, and the truck drivers behind us were probably radioing her instructions.

  That changed things. If she were just the mouthpiece, and the real leader was behind us…

  “I think I’ll have to pass on that, too,” I finally replied. “We have some trade goods; perhaps you’d rather have some smokes or some wine? Or both?” I turned partially toward the truck as I spoke to cover the movement of my hand to the small of my back.

  “Pass,” the woman replied. “We want the girl.”

  A gun fired as I sprang toward her, but they hadn’t expected me to come closer, and it whizzed past my head. I fired as I ran past her, and she fell backward as the bullet hit her in the chest.

  Several guns fired as men came out from behind the cars, and I ran forward and jumped onto the hood of the closest one. I fired down into the head of the first man that came around it, dropping him. That got their attention. A bullet skimmed past me, and I dropped to the road between the car and the side of the bridge. I went all the way to the ground so I could look under the car, and saw feet moving toward me from both the front and rear. I shot the feet out from under the woman coming around the back of the car and didn’t pause a second when a woman’s face hit the asphalt; I shot her once through the forehead.

  I rolled to my back as the other one came around the front of the car. He expected me to be in a crouch, and his shot went over my head. Before he could adjust, I hit him twice in the chest, and he fell backward.

  Gunshots came from the direction of George and the truck; John was engaged in a firefight with one of the truck drivers, whose passenger was slumped against the door of the cab with a spray of red on the window. The driver stayed down low in his cab, making for a hard target, but he couldn’t aim very well from that position either, so the battle was currently a draw. Eventually, one or the other would get lucky, and I didn’t want to pin my hopes on a 16-year-old with one day’s experience. The other truck driver was quite obviously dead.

  I slid in a new magazine as I went around the back of the car. I needed to end this quickly. My hopes were answered; there didn’t appear to be any more of them. I had just started to wave to George when I felt the barrel of a gun against the back of my head.

  “
Drop it,” the first woman said.

  I set the pistol on the trunk of the car next to me and raised my hands. “I thought I shot you,” I said.

  “You did, you asshole, and it hurts like shit.”

  I risked a glance behind me. “You don’t look dead.”

  “Never heard of a bullet-proof vest?”

  Come to think of it, I had heard of them, and with a flash of insight, I realized that must be why I instinctively shot everyone in the head when I could. I don’t remember any of them getting back up after that, whereas the woman with the gun on me? Yeah. I may be a psychopath, but at least I made sense, sometimes.

  “Now, call to your friends and tell them to stop shooting,” she said.

  “If I do?”

  “Well, we’re taking the little girl and the little boy now, because you made this so difficult, but if you do what I tell you, I’ll let the other guy and the older boy go.”

  “What about me?”

  “Oh, you’re dead. You killed my husband and my wife. If you do what I tell you though, I won’t make you suffer. Not much, anyway.”

  “Can’t argue with that,” I replied. “Not much, anyway.” I waved my hands over my head to get George’s attention. “Stop firing!” I yelled.

  John turned to look at us, and George put down the pistol he’d been pointing in our direction.

  “Good boy—” the woman started, but I spun to the right, chopping down and away from me across her wrist. Her pistol fired, off target, and I followed with a left-handed punch to her throat.

  She went down, and I grabbed the pistol off the trunk. Either she was tougher than I thought, or I hadn’t hit her as hard as I thought, because she was raising her pistol toward me as I looked back. I dove to the side as she fired, and I could feel a tug on my shirt as the bullet whipped past me. I hit the ground on my left side with the pistol extended and fired. The bullet hit her between the eyes, and she dropped the gun.