Edge of Survival Box Set 1

by William Oday

  The bearded man ran across the street hurling threats and insults. His face turned beet red as spittle flew from his lips. His pants slipped down under his protruding belly and he yanked them up with one hand while waving the pistol with the other.

  He kicked the shooter in the gut before bounding up onto the porch. With his pants situated, the bearded man helped his wounded friend to his feet. “Bunch a idiots! Think we’re just gonna head over to the ER and get you fixed up?” He shook his head in disgust.

  Now only inches away beyond the plate glass, Mason could see just how filthy and disheveled these people were. The boss’ beard was encrusted with what looked like dark mud. Bright red droplets covered his face. His jeans were ripped at the knees and as much brown as their original blue. His short-sleeve button-up hung open and a sizable belly spilled out. Bright blood created a new pattern on the gray shirt. Older patterns showed a history of his misdeeds.

  Mason aimed the front sight of the Glock at the man’s chest. Two shots and he’d be down. Maybe the rest would panic and run. Brave men could fall to fear when their anchor was torn away.

  The leader waved to the two men standing dumbfounded in the front yard. “You two, check out the house! And do your best not to kill each other!”

  “You got it, boss,” one said.

  The leader helped the injured man down the steps and landed another hard kick on the shooter as they passed.

  The front door knob jiggled.

  It jiggled harder.

  “It’s locked, boss.”

  “Then kick it down!”

  THUD.

  A boot slammed into the wooden door. The frame shuddered but held fast.

  THUD. THUD.

  The noise stopped and the door didn’t budge. Mason silently thanked the builder for choosing solid oak.

  “Not budging, boss.”

  “Lord help me! I’m dealing with idiots! Shoot the stupid lock out!”

  Mason pivoted away from the door as a handgun’s report rang in his ears.

  “Missed it, boss.”

  “Jesus H. Christ! I should kill you myself! Forget the door! Kick the window in!”

  “Yeah, okay. Good idea.”

  Mason’s pointer finger slid inside the guard and gently rested on the trigger. Three men were now in his immediate field of fire. He was confident in dispatching them, but the remaining three and the wounded guy were less certain.

  Less certain sank a cold stone into the depths of his belly. He swallowed hard and found no saliva to help.

  It was time to do his job.

  But failure meant his entire family would die.

  The would-be invader squared up to the window that Mason was next to. Mason backed up, still keeping the window at an angle, and aimed his weapon where the man’s chest would be behind the heavy curtains.

  SMASH.

  The plate glass caved in and pushed into the closed curtain. Fragments clattered to the wood floor.

  As soon as the curtain parted…

  Any second now…

  A keening shriek from outside caught Mason off guard. The primal fury of it jolted him. It wasn’t human. But it wasn’t an animal he recognized either.

  A voice from further away shouted, “Boss! It’s them! We gotta get outta here!”

  “Yeah, I know! Let’s go!”

  “What about me? I can’t run with a bullet in my leg!”

  The bearded man answered in a flat tone. “You know where to find us if you make it.”

  “Don’t leave me!”

  Mason peeked through the curtains. The injured man hobbled down the street after his fleeing companions.

  Leaving an injured man behind.

  Scumbags.

  They all deserved no better than whatever befell their injured brother. And he didn’t deserve any good turns either.

  “What was that sound?”

  “Beth,” he whispered, “you’re supposed to be in the kitchen!”

  “Barefoot and pregnant, I know,” she said with grim humor.

  Leave it to his wife to stay cucumber cool, even in situations she had no experience with. Part of it came from operating on sick animals. She’d had her share of unwelcome surprises in surgery. But losing her head would achieve nothing more than losing her patient.

  That was part of it.

  But the other part was just who she was. He was blessed beyond words.

  “What was that?” she whispered.

  “Don’t know. But it set a gang of seven armed looters running scared like the devil himself was at their heels.”

  9

  Mason stood guard by the window for the next two hours waiting for the source of the noise to show itself, or waiting for the looters to return to finish their business. His legs alternated tingling numbness, but nothing else came to pass.

  The quiet minutes wore on, oblivious to the distance they accumulated between the present and the last breath of his neighbor lying across the street.

  “I’ll keep watch,” Beth said as she squeezed his shoulder. “You need to get ready for tonight.”

  He held her eyes and she simply nodded.

  What did he ever do to deserve her?

  She understood the risk, but she also knew that holing up with dwindling supplies was a plan with a very definite end, and that end was no better than what might happen out there tonight.

  “You’re not the boss of me,” Mason replied with a lopsided grin. The levity was forced, but it was better than lumbering around filled with morose dread.

  “Not as far as you know. But a woman has her ways.”

  “Duly noted,” Mason replied as he hugged her tight.

  He checked in on everyone else and found the household in a more relaxed, if still concerned, posture.

  Elio watched Theresa feed Clyde formula. The tender look in his eye was something Mason filed away for future consideration.

  Iridia was in what used to be his and Beth’s shared office. She’d overtaken it completely, which was saying something considering she’d arrived at his house with little more than a backless dress and a pair of high heels.

  He brushed through the rainbow of tapestries that draped across the doorway.

  Mr. Piddles turned sideways, arching his back and hissing like a leaking tire.

  “So this is where it’s been hanging out.”

  “It is a him. And you’re upsetting him,” Iridia said as she rolled off a yoga mat and stroked the cat’s back to calm it down.

  “Well, cat pee on my pillow is upsetting to me. So we’re even.”

  Iridia rubbed under its neck. “Don’t listen to him, honey. You’re a sweetie.” She kissed its whiskered snout.

  Mason noticed the office didn’t stink. Mr. Piddles must’ve chosen him to be the lucky recipient of its expressive nature.

  Iridia rolled back to the mat and bent up like a pretzel, supporting her body weight balanced on her hands. She didn’t weigh that much, but still, it was impressive.

  “Yoga,” she said. “Good for staying calm. Stress can make your body store more fat, and it can also cause premature wrinkles. Want to join?”

  “Nah, thanks,” Mason said. “I’ve earned my wrinkles.”

  He went around the house, verifying that all points of entry were secured. They were, in so far as being locked. But a large number of plate glass windows, including the shattered one by the front door, made the house utterly insecure on a practical level. They’d have to board up everything, starting with the broken window, if he could scrounge up enough plywood.

  Should’ve done it days ago but between being beat up and not really believing it could all fall apart so fast, fortifying their position hadn’t gotten done. He’d have to get on it tomorrow. Tonight’s supply run came first. His attention was required there first. Besides, they might learn something tonight that would affect their planning tomorrow.

  Mason headed to the master bedroom and closed the door. He pulled off his shirt and recoiled at the stink em
anating from it. He’d missed the window of afternoon warmth that made bathing in the backyard reasonably bearable. What passed for bathing these days… half a gallon of increasingly stale pool water and a single squirt of body soap.

  The pool water from two houses down was no doubt a godsend, but it wouldn’t be that way forever. At first, the chlorine made their skin itchy. Now that most of the chlorine had broken down, the water no longer dried out their skin, but it did leave a musty odor. And the odor was growing. He’d have to dig through the neighbor’s shed and figure out how to dose the pool with more chlorine.

  He settled for a quick minute scrubbing a wet wipe over his stinkiest parts.

  Relatively refreshed, he donned black pants, belt, and a black sweatshirt. He reverently laid out the tools of his trade on the bedroom dresser. He looked forward to preparing for the evening’s excursion, to the ritual he’d performed countless times in his years as a close protection officer.

  Gearing up. A ritual preparation he’d learned in the Corps and carried over to civilian life.

  A sanctuary of ordered progress in a broken world.

  Something to keep him grounded and sane.

  Though his gear no longer occupied the hood of a Humvee, it gave him the same sense of mental preparation.

  Preparing for battle.

  For the unknown.

  He picked up the 9mm Glock 19 and checked the chamber. Empty. He slammed in a fifteen round magazine, racked the slide, and checked the chamber. Hot. He holstered it inside his waistband. Next, a ten round magazine clipped to his belt. Next, the Glock 26. Same process. Hot. Into the ankle holster on his right leg. The Bonowi 26” collapsible baton clipped to his hip. In less than a second, he could wield a big, and very hard, stick. The Cold Steel Recon one-handed tactical knife clipped to his belt. Finally, four pairs of disposable handcuffs clipped to the belt at the small of his back.

  No tie this evening.

  That part was unusual, not that he missed it. He never understood why hanging a cloth noose around your neck made you more respectable.

  He remembered the last time he’d geared up, tie and all, and ended up meeting Iridia at her hotel room. Him praying she didn’t turn out to be crazy. Her opening the door completely naked but for the towel wrapped around her head.

  If only the insanity had stopped there.

  Unfortunately, that was just the beginning.

  He checked himself in the mirror and laughed when he realized he was staring. He looked suspicious. Made sense. He wouldn’t trust anyone dressed like he was. But the dark color made situational sense. They were going out at dusk and darker clothes drew less attention.

  Above all things, they wanted to avoid attention.

  He grabbed a black LA Galaxy cap on his way out of the bedroom.

  Time to check on Theresa and load up the Bronco. He didn’t relish the thought of what she might be exposed to this evening.

  But shielding her from the new world was no longer an option.

  10

  ELIZABETH WEST carried a stuffed backpack out to the Bronco in the backyard. Her hands trembled, not from the weight of the pack but from the weight on her heart. The two people she loved most in the world were about to risk a supply run. She understood the need, but it didn’t make it any easier to accept. Her tongue felt fat and useless in her mouth. Her thoughts veered toward mad despair, and she fought to rein them in.

  Borrowing future grief wasn’t a useful propensity in a world where the present had plenty of its own.

  A cool evening breeze tickled her nose with the welcome scent of lavender. She’d taken to plucking a few leaves from the overgrown bush in the backyard each morning, and then rubbing them on her wrists and neck. She’d never been the princess type, but she still liked to smell nice. And that was getting more and more difficult as the days ticked by.

  She recognized the dim outline of the giant Ford truck. The old beast didn’t have a single edge that wasn’t rough, but that just made her appreciate it more. Mason claimed to love it like a fourth family member, and she could understand the attachment. You invested a part of yourself into fixing something, into keeping it alive. Whether it was healing sick animals or fixing Spock, her old Kawasaki Vulcan 750, Beth knew more than most about not giving up on things.

  Spock had all the badges of old age and failing faculties. It hadn’t been treated well before she adopted it. The bucket of bolts should’ve given up the ghost long ago. But Beth didn’t give up on a patient, whether made of flesh or metal. She’d nursed the blown bike back to health and it now rode as good as ever.

  Her persistence didn’t always pay off so wonderfully. Jane hadn’t pulled through despite Beth’s best efforts. Beth shook off the dark memory as a light flashed across her chest.

  Mason stood at the open door with a headlamp around his head. Light from the fading sky bathed the backyard in soft contrast. He accepted the backpack and unzipped it.

  “Gloves, dust masks, cloth bags, extra flashlights…” he said as he rifled through the contents. He finished and zipped the pack shut. He tossed it up onto the front seat—the ginormous tires put the Bronco a few feet above most other vehicles on the road.

  The things she’d seen while riding in the passenger seat.

  The things she’d done while riding in the passenger seat.

  Riding being the operative word.

  She grabbed Mason’s waist and looked up into blue eyes that appeared a shade darker than usual in this light. He was as devastatingly handsome as the day they met, if a little more lined with experience.

  “You look positively nefarious,” she said with a forced smile. A joke was better than what she longed to say.

  Stay here!

  Don’t go!

  There’s danger out there!

  I need you!

  I can’t lose you!

  And so she told a joke to keep the fear at bay.

  “I feel positively nefarious,” he said as he gathered her up in a hug that she could’ve sunk into forever. His embrace made the world feel safe again, if only until it ended.

  He tilted her chin up and stared quietly into her eyes. Her heart thumped against his firm chest. “We’re going to be fine, honey.” He dipped down and kissed her softly. He pulled back and captured her eyes. “Don’t worry.”

  “I’m a mother. It’s my job to worry.”

  “And it’s my job to keep people safe. Our daughter more than anyone else.”

  “Not just Theresa. You,” she said as she tapped his chest. “ You keep you safe too.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  Theresa bounded out of the back door with a backpack slung over her shoulder. As requested, she was dressed in generally dark colors. She saw them and rolled her eyes. “Is there anything I could do to see less of this?”

  Beth shrugged. “Sure, close your eyes.”

  “Very funny.”

  Mason looked up at the darkening sky. “We need to get going.” He reached up to the driver’s seat and pulled down three walkie-talkies, the Motorola Talkabouts that they used for camping. He handed one to Beth and one to Theresa.

  “I solar charged them up to capacity this afternoon. Keep it on your hip at all times. You’ll probably lose us when we get enough buildings and houses in between, but it’s the best we’ve got. Theresa, we shouldn’t need one each, but it’s backup if we somehow get separated.”

  He looked at Beth. “Which we won’t.”

  Each of them clicked on their walkie-talkie and took turns verifying they were sending and receiving correctly. They got the volumes right and then stowed the devices.

  Mason lifted his sweatshirt and unclipped a holstered pistol from his belt. “This is for you, Theresa.”

  Theresa’s eyes opened wide.

  Beth stepped back to give them room. This wasn’t something they’d discussed, but she trusted Mason implicitly. This was his expertise, from a career as a Marine to a career as a bodyguard… or close protection officer as h
e preferred to call it.

  “You should carry for tonight. Again, redundancy. This isn’t the call I’d make in a sane world, but we no longer live in one.”

  They’d all gone to indoor and outdoor shooting ranges over the years. They didn’t do it every month and they weren’t what your average person would call gun nuts, but Mason had made certain that Theresa was both comfortable with a handgun and also respectful of the damage it could do. He pulled the Glock 26 out of the holster, making sure to keep it pointed down in a safe direction.

  Beth knew it was identical to the one he carried on his ankle. Yet another redundancy thing. She also knew he used cartridges for Theresa that didn’t kick as hard. Whatever they were, their daughter had never expressed any serious discomfort at firing the gun.

  Mason reversed the grip and wrapped Theresa’s hand around it, making sure to keep the barrel pointed at the ground. He held her hand in place. “What are the four rules of gun safety?”

  Theresa rolled her eyes.

  “I’m waiting,” Mason said, not releasing the pistol.

  “One, treat all guns as if they are always loaded. Two, never point a gun at something you aren’t willing to destroy. Three, keep your finger off the trigger until your aim is on the target and you have decided to fire. Four, be aware of what is around and behind the target.”

  Mason glanced at Beth. “She’s good.”

  “She is.”

  “Holster your weapon and attach it to your belt,” Mason said as he released the firearm. He watched closely as Theresa did as instructed. “Last reminder. I’ll handle security tonight. You are backup. Backup like I’m in big trouble and you’re our last hope. Otherwise, keep it holstered.”

  He was expecting big trouble?

  Mason turned to Beth. “And no, I’m not expecting big trouble.”

  Theresa gave a theatrical salute. “Yes, sir, Sergeant West!”

  Mason rolled his eyes at her. “One, you don’t call an enlisted man ‘Sir’ and a Sergeant is an enlisted man. And two, I haven’t been an active duty soldier in more years than I’d like to count. Dad is fine.”

  Theresa struck her sneaker heels together with a dull click. “Yes, sir, Sergeant Dad!”