by James Hunt
They came at her from different directions, all wielding rifles of some kind. All four guns were aimed at her. She could see their fingers on the triggers once they were close enough.
“Who's in the car?” the man in front of her asked.
“My children,” Brooke answered.
The men surrounding her glanced at one another. One by one they lowered the barrels of their rifles and removed their fingers from the triggers. The man who spoke to her pulled off his mask.
His hair was greying, but his face looked youthful.
“You said you had water?” he asked.
***
The four men brought her back to the only structure on the road that wasn't falling apart. It looked like an old office building, judging from the signs out front. What used to hold small businesses and doctors’ offices now acted as bedrooms.
Inside were families, with children ranging from John's age to younger than Emily. The rags they all wore weren't just because of the recent politics. These people had been living like this for a while.
Their leader, Brent, took her to the rear of the building. He was the one who had shot at her.
“How much are you willing to trade?” Brent asked.
“Depends. Have you been into Phoenix?” Brooke asked.
“It's a war zone.”
“What about the military base there?”
“Are you kidding me? Anyone that could have done something left. It's just looters and violence now.”
“I saw a helicopter in the city when I was on the road. It could be help.”
“Could be.”
Brent opened the back door, and a wave of nausea hit Brooke. The smell of gasoline was overwhelming.
“What's the exchange rate?” Brooke asked.
“We’ll give you a gallon of fuel for every two gallons of water.”
Brooke did the math in her head. She had seventeen gallons of water left. If she traded all her gallons of water but one, she'd get eight gallons of fuel. She'd need more than that to make it to Texas. From there she could start to use the money she had.
“What about MREs?” Brooke asked.
“Four MREs to one gallon of fuel,” Brent answered.
Those she could spare. She had a case of fifty in the back of her cruiser. That would give her another ten gallons.
“I'll give you ten gallons of water and forty MREs,” Brooke said.
“Done.”
Brent escorted her back to the cruiser, where her children were waiting. They carried the fifteen gallons back together. Brent fueled the cruiser, and Brooke started pulling the water and MREs out of the back.
John came around back. His attention was on Brent, who had just emptied the second of four gas cans.
“Mom, what are you doing?” John asked.
“We needed fuel.”
“So you're giving away all our water?”
“We need to get out, and we can't make the journey through the desert on foot. This fuel will give us a chance to at least get to Texas. Once we’re there we’ll have better fuel options.”
“What about Phoenix?”
“It's not safe there.”
“But the helicopte—”
“John, drop it.”
John spun around, and the cruiser bounced as he climbed back inside. Brent walked around as Brooke pulled the last gallon of water for the trade out and set it on the asphalt.
“Fuel's good to go,” he said, looking from Brooke to John.
“I'll help you carry these back,” Brooke said.
John glared at the two of them through the windshield. Brooke hadn't seen him this mad since before they left San Diego. She didn't know what was bothering him.
“How old is he?” Brent asked.
“Fourteen. He just started high school.”
“It's a tough age. I remember butting heads with my folks back then.”
“Do you have kids?”
“One. She's six.”
“Well, it starts to go downhill around twelve or thirteen.”
“Let me know when it’s over.”
Brooke took in his smile. The dirt and grime smeared across his face masked the kindness in his eyes. For a split second, she thought maybe it would have been better to stay in San Diego. Not everyone was a looter. But the moment passed. In the end, she knew people would do whatever they had to do to survive. It was only just a matter of time.
The residents of the office building came out to form an assembly line, passing the supplies to their storage spots inside. Brooke noticed a woman her age walk up to Brent and kiss his cheek. Behind her legs stood a gangly-armed little girl.
“Is this your daughter?” Brooke asked.
“It is,” Brent said, lifting her up into his arms. “This is Kara.”
Kara buried her face into Brent’s shoulder, hiding herself. Brooke smiled.
“I have a little girl just a little bit older than her,” Brooke said.
“Brooke, this is my wife, Linda,” Brent said.
“Nice to meet you,” Linda replied.
“You, too.”
Once the supplies were dispersed, Brent handed Kara back over to Linda. He walked over to Brooke and the two shook hands.
“Pleasure doing busines—”
Brent's eyes were fixated on something behind Brooke. She spun around, and the sight of her cruiser kicking up dust and speeding right toward them met her eyes. John was behind the wheel, blaring the horn. A herd of cars was hot on his tail. Just before he reached the front of the building, he slammed on the brakes, sending the cruiser skidding right to the office building’s entrance.
Brooke rushed to the car doors. She helped John grab Emily out of the back seat. She shielded the two of them as gunshots were fired from the caravan of cars that John was running from.
“Everyone inside, now!” Brent yelled.
Brent and a few of his men fired back, offering cover fire for those still outside. The bullets ricocheted off the building, sending puffs of smoke and concrete dust into the air. Once inside, everyone rushed to the back.
Brooke placed a screaming Emily in a small room with Linda and Kara. John still had the revolver in his hand and was eyeing the front of the building, where Brent and his men were fending off the attackers. Brooke snatched the pistol before he could argue.
“Stay here and do not move until I come back. Do you understand?” Brooke asked.
Brooke kept low as she rushed to the front. Windows were shattered as bullets peppered the front of the building. She saw Brent crouched by one of the windows to the left, reloading his rifle. Brooke poked her head around the corner to get a better look.
“Gangs?” Brooke asked.
“Mexicans,” Brent said. “They've plagued our area for a while now. They've never moved this far north, though.”
With the Southwest no longer part of the United States, there wasn't any fear of repercussions from the American government to those who wanted to come up from Mexico. Whatever land of plenty the immigrants thought they would enter didn't exist anymore, though. People were just left fighting over scraps.
The Mexicans lined up their cars for cover. Every few seconds, their heads popped over the hoods like prairie dogs. Brooke took aim and fired all five shots. The thumping from the bullets tearing through metal echoed back.
The smoke from the guns wafted through the air. Brent had more than fifteen armed men. From what Brooke could tell, the Mexicans had half that.
Brooke leaned back against a worn wooden desk to reload. Splinters poked her through her shirt. Each bullet she dropped into the chambers rattled from the slight tremor in her hand.
One of the Mexicans fired a shot that exploded the window pane next to her. She ducked, feeling the tiny slivers of wood and concrete land on her back. Brooke flicked the chamber into the revolver upon reloading. When she peered back out the window to take another shot, she saw two of the Mexicans break off from their group.
“They're heading a
round back!” Brooke said.
Brooke sprinted down the hallway. Brent was close behind. Her heart pounded in her chest. She wiped away the streaks of sweat rolling down her forehead and into her eyes.
The back door burst open, and one of the Mexicans charged through. Brooke squeezed the trigger twice, and two bullets pierced the man’s chest. He hit the ground while squeezing off another shot that fired into the ceiling. The man’s partner came in next, and Brooke pulled the trigger until there was no other sound than the click of the firing pin. Both men lay stacked over each other. A growing stain of red covered each man’s shirt.
Brooke kept the gun aimed at the two bodies on the floor. The muscles in her forearm tensed from the viselike grip she had on the handle. She couldn’t tear her eyes off the scene in front of her. Their faces and blood were etched in her mind.
“They were going to kill us,” Brooke said.
The words were said more to herself than to anyone around her. Brent came up behind her and slowly brought his hand to her arms and lowered the weapon.
“It’s all right,” Brent said.
Brooke stumbled backward and leaned against the wall. She looked to her left and saw Emily and John poke their heads out of a room. Both their faces were ghost white. She became aware of a slight metal clicking noise. It wasn’t until she looked down at her shaking hand that still held the pistol did she realize it was her. She loosened the grip on the revolver, and it hit the ground with a thud. She slid down the wall until she sat on the floor then covered her hands with her eyes.
When she pulled her hands away, her palms had a red tinge. She reached her right index finger to her cheek. A darker shade of red covered her fingertip. It felt warm and had the stench of metallic sweat. It was the blood from her attackers.
“They were going to kill us,” Brooke repeated.
Brooke’s fingers wouldn't stop shaking. Her body jolted when she felt Brent's hand touch her shoulder.
“C'mon. You can wash up.”
***
Brent gave Brooke one four-ounce glass of water. She splashed her face, and streaks of light pink and red washed down the sink. The tan, battered face staring back at her in the mirror wasn’t one she recognized. She wiped the excess water off with her sleeve, which smeared sand back on her face.
“We should check on your cruiser,” Brent said.
“Or what's left of it,” Brooke responded.
All but the passenger-side windows to the cruiser were smashed. Bullet holes peppered the driver-side doors and engine. Both rear tires were blown out. The sand around the vehicle was mixed with bits of rubber, glass, and shell casings.
The cruiser was tough, but Brooke was skeptical it would run. Still, that didn't stop her from climbing into the driver’s seat and plugging her key into the ignition. When she turned the key, all she heard was a click. It was dead.
Brooke rested her forehead against the steering wheel. She hung from the wheel, afraid that letting go would eradicate any chance of surviving. Then, like a spasm, her fist pounded the dash violently. The sting of the blow lingered. She smashed her shoulder into the door and stomped to the cruiser's hatch.
Bullet holes had pierced the gas cans and remaining water tanks. Both leaked onto the cruiser’s floorboard. Brooke lifted one of the backpacks and found that it dripped water and stank of fuel. Everything was soaked.
Brooke slammed the hatch
closed. The cruiser rocked from the force of the swing. Her face was beet red. She kicked the dirt, and an explosion of sand flew into the air. This can’t be happening. Not now. Not when we’re so close.
Brent walked sheepishly up behind her. He took in the damage to the cruiser then looked at Brooke.
“Why don't you come inside?” Brent asked.
Brooke turned around. Her laughter was desperate. She raised her hands in the air, surrendering to the situation.
“And do what? Stay here for a couple days until more people come and overwhelm us? Or maybe until we run out of water? Or food?” Brooke asked.
“It could do you some good to rest,” Brent answered.
“You don't fucking get it, do you? This place is dead. We have to leave, and we can't walk out of here with enough supplies to survive.”
“We have food and water.”
“For how long? Hmm? How fucking long?!”
The veins in Brooke's head and neck pulsed. Her face was purple from screaming. She wiped snot and saliva from her mouth, which were replaced by the gritty taste of sand. She was so fucking sick of that taste.
“Look,” Brent said. “You have two options right now. The first is to trek into the city to look for transportation and supplies, which we can tell you is a nightmare. Or you can stay here, recoup, and try and figure out a plan to get your family safely to wherever it is you need to go.”
Brooke softened. She knew he was just trying to help. The wave of adrenaline that had propelled her for the past hour began to recede. Rest didn’t sound like a bad idea.
Brent escorted Brooke back inside. The room was small. A single window on the far wall provided the only view outside. A tattered mattress rested in the corner. It had no sheets, no pillows, and was slightly warped on the end. Brooke collapsed on the mattress, and Emily walked in and curled up next to her. John entered and sat next to the entrance. When Brooke closed her eyes, they seemed to lock shut.
***
It was the faint hint of smoke that woke her. She opened her eyes and blinked several times, adjusting to the darkness. Emily was still curled up next to her stomach, and John was passed out by the door. There wasn't enough space for all of them on the twin mattress. Brooke gently brushed John's hair off his forehead and whispered in his ear.
“Hey, why don't you get some rest on the mattress. Get off the hard floor,” Brooke said.
John obeyed absentmindedly. He stumbled over to the mattress where his sister lay and collapsed, barely opening his eyes in the process. Brooke kissed the tops of their heads and exited the room.
Brooke followed the scent of smoke and the sound of whispering voices. There was a faint glow in the front of the building. It moved like a wave across the beaten walls and worn floors. She kept her steps light. She wanted to hear who was talking and what they were talking about.
“I don't know if her being here is such a good idea, Brent. We don't know anything about her.”
“And she doesn't know anything about us. Not everyone's out to hurt us, Tim.”
“But what if she's part of a scout party? What if she's working with the Mexicans?”
“Then why did all of her gear get destroyed? They wouldn't waste all those supplies for a hoax.”
“I'm just saying we need to be careful. That's all.”
Brooke tiptoed to the back of the building. All of this seemed like a bad dream. She kept closing her eyes, expecting to wake up, but she never did. She'd spent so much time avoiding other people because she knew desperation drove people to do dangerous things.
If these people were really that bad, they would have killed them in the street when she first arrived. But they didn't. They entered an agreement with one another, and both held true. Maybe it was time to ask for help.
Chapter 8
General Gallo's fist smashed the figurines on his military map. His officers kept their heads down.
“How could this happen?” Gallo asked. “We have more men, more guns, and more bullets than they do. This is an embarrassment!”
Colonel Herrera gently raised his head. His soft eyes found Gallo, and he spoke carefully. The general had a reputation for having a temper and following through on threats.
“General, we were unable to mobilize all of our troops. We underestimated the Americans’ military prowess,” Herrera said.
“Military prow—? I don't care what it takes. I don't care if we have to sacrifice one hundred thousand men. That is our land! That is our country!”
Each statement the general made was punctuated with th
e pounding of his fat fist into the table. The wood sounded as if it would break under the force. But it was much more likely that one of the general's council would fall victim to punishment long before the table did.
“General, the Americans, they had better planes, better ships. We couldn't contend with them.”
The small-faced captain who made the statement shrank back into his seat after seeing the look Gallo gave him. His fellow officers sitting next to him inched their chairs away from him, trying to create as much space between themselves and him as possible.
