by Kurt Gepner
"A cart," corrected Hank. "This one is for hauling stuff. Back there, I got a two person carriage."
As they lined it up with the door, Salvador asked, "I know you want to get as much as you can, but how are we supposed to pull a cart, push a wheelbarrow, carry a shotgun and do everything that we’re going to have to do?"
"I decided to scrap the wheelbarrow idea. The dogs will pull the cart," Hank replied with a grin.
Disbelieving his ears, Salvador asked, "You’re going to bring your dogs?"
"Yeah," Hank confirmed. "Great idea, isn’t it?"
"No!" Salvador punched the wall. Although he didn’t throw a lot of force into it, the shed boomed like a bass drum. "What is wrong with you?" Salvador emphasized each word.
Hank gave Salvador a strange look, as if his hair had suddenly turned green with a pink bow. "What is wrong with you, Salvador?" Hank asked calmly.
"You’re having one loco idea after another." Salvador balled his fists and pressed them into his temples. "Next thing, you’re going to want to bring the kids along and have a picinic."
Hank’s mouth became a thin line behind the well-groomed beard that blanketed his jaw. He took a deep breath as he looked Salvador in the eyes. "I want you to humor me for a moment." Salvador opened his mouth to speak, but Hank cut him off and pointed to an area just inside the door. "Stand right there facing out the door." Again, Salvador opened his mouth, the word "why" forming on his lips. "Just do it, will you?"
Slowly, reluctantly, Salvador yielded to Hank’s instruction. When he was standing in the doorway, facing the rain, a whistle shrilled behind him. "Reggie, come!" Hank didn’t yell, but spoke loudly, commandingly.
From the shelter of the back porch, the massive head of his champion Rottweiler was followed by the dog’s thick, barrel-chested, bounding body. His exuberance was rivaled by a streak of white, tan and black fur that tore after him. Both Reggie and Kodie, more than a hundred pounds each, skidded to a halt in front of Salvador. The man tried to take a step back, but Hank planted a heavy hand between his shoulders and said, "Just humor me. They won’t hurt you. I promise"
"What do you want me to do?" Salvador couldn’t mask the tension he felt.
Hank answered him pleasantly. "I want you to walk past them, onto the back porch."
"Now?" asked Salvador.
"Yes. Right now," Hank confirmed.
Salvador lifted his foot to take a step. Reggie barked, his maw snapping like fanged scissors. Kodie took a half-step back and lowered his head, growling with severe menace. Salvador changed directions and tried to retreat further into the shed. "Wrong way," Hank said with a shove of his hand. Salvador grabbed the door frame and twisted sideways, away from Hank.
"What the Hell is wrong with you?" Salvador demanded, unmasked terror flashing in his eyes.
Hank laughed. "Okay, boys," he said and snapped his fingers. "Come here. Good boys." He knelt down and put his arms around the thick necks of the very happy-seeming canines. The dogs acted exceedingly friendly and shimmied their entire bodies, delighted to be receiving some attention.
Salvador backed himself into the corner. "Get those fucking mutts away from me!" he spat angrily, his voice dripping resentment.
Hank smiled at him. "Don’t be mad at them. They did what I told them to do." Hank stood and held his palm to the dogs. They remained in place. He moved his hand and they sat, in unison. Another signal and together they laid themselves down, panting happily. Salvador eyed them with deepest suspicion. Hank moved his hand as if he were making a sock-puppet speak. Both dogs began barking, while still lying on the floor. With a slice of his hand through the air, they were silent, once more.
Looking at Salvador, Hank said, "You know Evie is a professional trainer. She’s been obedience and schutzhund training for years. Schutzhund is the kind of training police and guard dogs receive. It’s only been the last few years that she’s been doing conformation, agility and carting."
Kneeling down with his two furry friends, Hank went on. "These boys," he said as he roughed up their ears, "are probably the two best-trained dogs in a hundred miles." The two canines gleefully licked their master’s hands and arms. Hank looked back up at Salvador. "Come here and pet them," Hank said. And in anticipation of Salvador’s refusal he added, "so they’ll know that you’re family."
Peeling himself from the corner of the shed, Salvador edged closer to Kodie and extended his fingertips just close enough that the Akita had to crane his neck to sniff the proffered hand. Finding it free of treats, he gave the fingers an uncommitted lick. Hank said, "You’re going to have to do better than that, if you want them to know you’re family."
Salvador scooched another step closer. "I’m telling you," Hank said with a twinge of impatience, "they’re not going to hurt you. Now get down here and get it over with, so we can get back to business."
Getting down on both knees, Salvador reached out and patted Kodie. If a dog could smile, it was apparent that Kodie was doing just that. After a few moments, Reggie couldn’t tolerate the exclusive attention that his brother was receiving and nuzzled Salvador’s hand. Obliging the handsome beast, Salvador stroked Reggie’s broad forehead. Soon the two dogs and Salvador had a pleasant truce.
Hank asked his son-in-law, "Do you still think the dogs are a bad idea?"
"Only if you don’t bring them." Salvador answered, earnestly.
"My thought, exactly," Hank agreed. "Okay, Boys, go on. Move." Reggie and Kodie stumbled over each other to clear out of the way. Hank took the shafts of the cart in hand and pulled the rig through the door. "I designed these carts to be pulled by one or two dogs," he told Salvador. "They’re pretty well balanced, and super heavy duty."
The cart was painted in the same scheme as the pick-up, green with yellow wheels. Its walls enclosed a bed that was two-and-a-half feet in width and four feet long. Its knobby-tread bicycle wheels were fixed at the center, between fore and aft. Hank explained to his son-in-law that the whole assembly weighed just under fifty pounds, but could easily support five hundred pounds. Salvador was suitably impressed and they rolled the cart to the front of the house where everything was being staged.
While Hank and Salvador had been occupied with the dogs and their cart, the population of the Shumway household grew by one. Dale’s teenaged son, Jeremy, had found his way home from Lewis and Clark Middle School. The round-faced thirteen-year-old was a momentary celebrity, as the adults clustered around and pelted him with questions.
They learned that most of the kids at his school were still standing outside, under the sheltered playground. When the lights blew out and the computers started smoking the school was evacuated, just like a regular fire drill.
Jeremy estimated that they waited for fifteen minutes, before some of the teachers decided to take things into their own hands. They saw that nearby houses were burning too and that emergency help wasn’t coming, so they used the fire hoses in the school to battle the flames. Most of the fire got put out before they lost water pressure. Nobody was hurt. Then they waited a long time.
A few parents came and got their kids, but everyone else just stood around. Some of the teachers left, because they wanted to get to their own children, but most stayed. Finally the principal said that kids who normally walked or road bikes to school could go home. Everybody else would be staying in the gymnasium. Once the adults clustering around Jeremy had exhausted his information, he was scuttled to the kitchen for some food.
As Hank bustled around gathered supplies for his upcoming adventure, Evie followed her husband and relayed Lexi’s experiences. Upon reaching the point of their daughter’s arrival, she broached the subject of her foremost concern, "What about Kyle and Izzy?"
Hank stopped working and hugged his wife tightly. "He’s a smart man. He’s probably on his way to get Izzy, right now."
"But what if something’s happened to our little Izzy?" Evie fretted about their first granddaughter.
Hugging tighter, Hank said, "I’m su
re nothing happened to her. Other than lights, there’s not much electrical in her preschool. The computer is in the office and the teachers don’t even keep their phones on their person. I’m sure they just went out to the covered play area and safely watched it all burn down."
Evie had thought the same things, but she needed Hank to speak her thoughts out loud. If he spoke her thoughts, then they must be true. It was superstitious of her, she knew, but she didn’t care. So long as her children and grandchildren were safe, she would never regret being superstitious. When Evie was satisfied, when Hank had suitably allayed her worries, she left him to see that everyone else was doing well.
After sifting through the contents of the shed one last time, Hank found his way to the front of the house. He smiled at the reunion taking place there. Dale had returned from his quest to recover his daughter, Patricia, or Patty as she preferred to be called. The father and his two children were holding each other. Dale’s arms were locked around their shoulders as he shook with sobs of relief. Jeremy’s expression was somewhat reserved, as his sky-blue eyes darted around at the faces of his audience. Patty, a petite ten-year-old with mousy hair and dimpled cheeks, was clearly elated by the reunion. She smiled and bawled simultaneously as her thin arms clung to her father and big brother.
After assessing the family for a moment, Hank dropped a set of luggage into the cart. The cart was half loaded with tools for the approaching adventure. When he thought that no more was needed, he called for Reggie and Kodie and strapped on their harnesses. Once the dogs were hooked to the cart, he bypassed Dale and his children and walked into the house.
"…was the most horrific sight I’d ever seen." Candice was sitting on the sofa talking with Evie, who occupied a chair across from her. She was wearing one of Evie’s old, gray sweat suits and her hair sat high on her head, held in a tight tail with a pink hair-tie. Both she and Evie became silent upon Hank’s entry.
Looking between the two, Hank asked, "What?"
Speaking less than amicably, Evie answered him with a bitter smile. "Oh. Hello, Hank, I believe you know Candice. I discovered her shivering in our kitchen, where you sent her, but neglected to mention to me."
Undaunted by her abrasiveness, or the sudden shift in her attitude, Hank absorbed her accusation and retorted with his own saccharine-sweet lilt. "Hello, Evie; Candice." He nodded at each in turn. "I’m terribly sorry for my negligence. I was somewhat distracted, what with the end of the world, and all."
Swiveling to face Evie directly, he continued speaking with faux cheerfulness. "Oh, Darling, do you recall where we’ve stored all of my manly, ballistic weaponry? I’ve searched among the old dishes and Christmas ornaments, but I’ve only found a bin of assorted projectiles. Somewhat useless in their present state." Evie’s face darkened as he spoke. "Shall I say to the bad people, ‘don’t come any closer, or I will push this bullet into your chest?’" He gestured as if pressing a thumbtack into a stubborn wall.
"You are insufferable!" Evie’s complexion shifted to something akin a sunburn, displaying the category of her temper.
"Why, Evie," Hank said with a distorted grin. "That was a five-syllable word. And you used it correctly, too."
Nearly combusting with ire, Evie shot sparks from her eyes telling Hank that he was dangerously close to pushing her over an eroding edge. "Now you’re just being a complete ass," she growled.
Hank bit his lip and nodded his head. "Yes, I am," he said contritely. Then the timbre of his voice became serious. "But I really can’t find my gun case."
"That’s because I put it in the cellar, behind the canned tomatoes, when we were clearing out the upstairs rooms."
Hank looked up to the ceiling and squeezed shut his eyes. "You know, that’s like keeping your mixing bowls in the bathroom and your cake pans in the attic."
"Maybe so, but my mixing bowls can’t blow a hole in somebody." Evie squared her shoulders and lifted her chin a bit higher. "I don’t like guns and I don’t regret packing away your bullets. Now that circumstances have justified owning them, just go crow someplace else. I’m too raw to have it rubbed in right now and you need to be nice to me."
Looking down at her, Hanks eyes softened and he smiled. "I’m sorry for being mean." He stepped closer to her and leaned down. Planting a kiss on the top of her head, he said, "Thank you for loving me." She looked up at him with an odd expression that caused him to blink and look again. The expression was gone, so he decided that it had been his imagination. Standing upright, he looked over at Candice and formally said, "I’m sorry for my poor hospitality. I can’t promise that it will improve, but you’re welcome to stay here until things get sorted out."
"Thank you." Candice had a reedy voice that sounded like she’d spent too many nights at a bar and too many mornings kneeling before a toilet. "I just appreciate the dry clothes. Given what’s happened, I don’t expect any better."
Hank cocked his head to the left and opened his mouth to speak. No sound came out. He leveled his gaze at her and tried again. "Right," he said. "Well, um, I’ve got to go," he pointed his thumb in the direction of the hall, "and get my guns so I can rob the pharmacy." He turned toward Evie and rolled his eyes in the direction of Candice. Evie blinked a private answer back to him. They had communicated a mutual dislike for their guest in a language evolved from twenty-five years of marriage. Hank chuckled and left the two women in the living room.
Evie excused herself with a quick smile and went to the kitchen. The counters were covered with pitchers, vases and bowls, all brimming with clean water. She felt anxiety when she looked at it. Not because she feared the implications, but because everything seemed cluttered. In fact, her whole house seemed cluttered.
There were people everywhere and wet clothes draped over shower curtains, door knobs and chair backs. The downstairs bathroom, which was also the laundry room and where the breaker box was located, stank of burnt plastic. It was equipped with retracting clotheslines and it was full of wet clothes, too.
The whole world smelled like burnt plastic and other horrible odors. Presently, Evie could smell cigarette smoke. She lifted her nose up high and pointed it to her left and right. The smell was near. She stepped out to the back porch and found Pauline out there, a bent cigarette pinched between her knuckles. Evie ripped her eyes away from the brimming tuna can that her neighbor had salvaged for an ashtray.
"How are you holding up, Pauline?" Evie asked from the doorway. "Can I get you a sweater?"
"I am a bit chilly, if you can spare one." Pauline spoke with a quality that would cut through a crowded restaurant. Her voice was not unpleasant, or particularly loud, but was clear, with a graveled edge. "Thank you, Evie," she said, "for taking me in."
Evie smiled and tried to mask her pity. She knew that Pauline and her husband, Carter, had worked very hard to own their tiny house. Carter was still working as a truck driver. They owned their own rig. He could have retired last year, but they were trying to accumulate a few more years of income to boost their Social Security payments. It was hard for them, because lately Carter’s diabetes had been getting the better of him. Evie’s smile began to fade when she thought of it. Her mother had died of diabetes, the fat man in her guest bed was diabetic and so was Pauline’s husband.
Wondering what it all meant, she pulled her smile back into place. "Don’t be silly, Pauline. You would have done the same for us." Evie tugged on her earlobe, wanting to say more, but not knowing what. She settled on, "I’ll be right back with a sweater."
Hank was opening his rifle case on the dining room table, as Evie passed by. Absently, he said, "Evie, would you see if Dale’ll come here a minute?"
She brushed her hand across his broad back and said, "Sure."
While he waited, Hank took three weapons from the foam interior of the hard-shelled case and laid them on a towel that he had spread across the table. He also took out his cleaning kit and two holsters with coiled belts. Then he set the case out of the way.
Picking
up the largest of the three weapons Hank began inspecting it. In his hands was a Mossberg twelve-gage shotgun, with a pistol grip. It was barely legal length, with the barrel terminating just past the end of the tubular magazine.
From a green antique ammo-canister, he pulled one red shell after another and fed them into the magazine. When six shells were nestled in their new home, Hank pumped the weapon and loaded in one more. Deliberately flipping the safety lever to safe, he sat it on the table.
The front screen-door slammed shut and a moment later Dale joined him. "Whatchya got?" He asked Hank, eyeballing the weapons.
Hank looked at his neighbor of fifteen years. His grin was that of a boy proudly displaying a jar of freshly caught grasshoppers. "This is my baby," he said, pointing to the shotgun. "Pump-action, five-and-a-half pounds loaded. Best hand-gun you could own, as far as I’m concerned. I call him Whisper."
"How come you never said you were into guns?" Dale asked. "I would have loved to take you hunting with Jeremy and me."
"Evie." Hank pointed his chin at his wife as she passed through the dining room with a sweater in hand. "She barely tolerated me owning them. Using them was forbidden…, particularly where cute little Bambis are concerned." Evie said nothing, but stuck her tongue out at him before she walked out the back door.
"What’s this one?" Dale pointed at an ornate, bulky pistol with a scope over its barrel.
"This," Hank said, picking up the beautifully crafted weapon. "I inherited from my dad." He thumbed a lever and the pistol broke in half, exposing a breech of large diameter. "This was custom-made by Warren Harding, for John Wayne."
"You’re kidding!" said Dale with skeptical admiration.
"Nope." Hank shook his head and pointed to an elegant script on the side of the nickel-plated barrel, which stated exactly that. "The Duke never got it, though."
"Why’s that?" asked Dale.
While sighting through the scope, Hank matter-of-factly said, "He died first."
"So how did your dad get it?" wondered Dale.
