Surviving the Day

by Matt Hart

  It hurt worse than going up the stairs. I groaned and made my way past a bed and a nightstand covered in doilies, reaching a window. I slowly looked out at the house. One window had broken glass, and a third window I hadn't seen was on the far right. It was open and unbroken.

  Sooo, the shooter might have hit me from the top or bottom windows, which were open. They must have run up to the top floor if they hadn't already been there. So there was a chance they hadn't seen Erin.

  I lifted my gun and looked through the scope, adjusting it for a clear view. I held it on the top left window for at least ten seconds, then moved to the one I'd broken out. I saw a head poke above the windowsill, and I studied it carefully. A man, blond or light hair. I squeezed the trigger.

  The triple shot broke through the glass and the screen, and what was probably the last shot hit him square in the forehead, his head jerking backwards violently. I quickly shifted my aim to the third window and saw a gun rising up to point at my window. I fired a triple shot, then aimed more carefully and fired another set. I heard a yell and the figure moved backwards. Shot or more likely just injured or startled from the rounds striking around him, I didn't really care which. I shifted my aim below the windowsill of the house and emptied the rest of the clip.

  I switched the magazine as I backed away, finally standing then running to the other door. It was a bathroom with a small window that faced the neighbor. I looked out and could still see the other house, so I opened the window, tore out the screen, then aimed at the house, checking out the door and all three windows. A couple of shots hit the house I was in, but I didn't see the shooter. I waited another thirty seconds or so, checking the windows.

  Erin should be getting close.

  I went back to the other room and kneeled behind the bed. I fired single shot rounds, three of them, at the top of the house. Several rounds whizzed through the window and hit the wall behind me as I lay down beside the bed. I kneeled again and fired three rounds before lying back down.

  I could keep this up all night.

  Chapter 21

  —————

  Erin

  I moved around the house and turned left at the fence line. I was holding the unfamiliar AR rifle, as Joe called it. He showed me how to point and shoot, safe and reload it, but I'd never even fired it. I stopped and switched to my trusty shotgun. I knew how to use that one.

  I leaned back against the fence for a moment and closed my eyes. It seemed so long ago that I was sitting in class, trying just to make it through College Writing. Just hours ago when I'd heard the term “EMP” for the first time. When I killed my foster mom, Jean. Or “Jeanie” as she liked to be called, conjuring breakfast from her pantry and fridge: waffles, bacon and eggs, not-from-concentrate orange juice, the only kind to drink.

  I heard a gunshot from behind me. I opened my eyes again, pushed off the fence with my shoulders and ran down to nearly the end of the block. I came to a house without a fence. There was an old Camaro on blocks in the front. I moved up to the edge of the house and peeked around the corner. There was a small chain link fence around the backyard. I heard someone talking, so I crept around slowly and looked.

  “Balazos,” said a man quietly, sitting with his back to me. I knew a little Spanish, but I didn't know what that meant. He was talking to another man also facing away.

  “Sí. Son esos paletos con el gran camión.”

  Something about a big truck? I looked closely at the two guys, sitting there drinking beer, smoking and chatting about something or other. Maybe “balazos” meant guns or gunshots. I didn't want to fight them, or even talk to them, so I backed away and looked down the street.

  More gunfire, this time it seemed like a lot of shots. I ran four more houses down to the next intersection and looked both ways. There were zombies up the road to the right, and people further down to the left toward the ocean, but I couldn't tell if they were normal or not.

  I turned left and ran to the next street, then went left, looking for a big truck.

  I should have counted the houses, but I didn't think of it.

  Maybe eight or so houses down, I saw it. “Yes,” I whispered. It was a big old shiny black pickup, all jacked up with monster tires. This must be the house. I ran to the house before it and hid around the corner.

  How do I approach it? How do I get in? As I wondered what to do, gunfire erupted and I heard glass shattering. Immediately, there was more gunfire and a scream from inside the house. I ran to the front door of the house and tried the doorknob, but it was locked. There was no way to see inside.

  Well, nobody suspects a little girl. I hid in the doorway, hopefully unseen by the residents, I took off the bandolier and arranged it to go inside my shirt. This house had windows in the front, so anyone looking out would see the guns. I reluctantly removed them and set both at the foot of the door. It swung inward, so hopefully I could grab them quick if needed. I thought about that, reached down and removed their slings and set them to the side. It would be better they didn't get caught on something if I needed to pick them up quickly.

  I looked down at myself. I pulled out the machete and the baton, held them low in front of me, then took a deep breath and counted down from twenty to one. More gunshots rang out.

  I knocked on the door. “Hello? I heard a scream! I need help! Please!” I knocked again and stood a little to the side in case someone decided to shoot first and ask questions later. I heard a noise inside and knocked again. “Hello?” I used my Valley-Girliest voice.

  “Let me see you!” came a voice from inside. I backed up a little so that I was visible through the door's peephole.

  “Please!” I said.

  The door opened and a man's head peeked out. “Look, I...”

  He didn't finish. I swung my right arm like an uppercut, only I didn't hit him with my fist, rather the short end of the baton smashed into his chin with ten times the force of a punch, dislocating his jaw and ripping the skin from his neck. I dropped the machete and held the baton with both hands and brought it down on the man. His face was pointed up from the blow to the chin, so the second hit probably broke his nose and some of his teeth. He crumpled to the floor, moaning. I brought the baton down on his head and he stopped making any noise at all.

  I sure hope I have the right house.

  I pushed open the door, picking up the machete. I didn't see anyone, so I holstered both weapons and picked up the shotgun. I decided to just leave the rifle. I should have left its sling on, but I wasn't going to take the time to clip it back on now.

  Strange that a tree-trimming machete is now a weapon. Too bad I hadn't trained on it at the dojang like I did with the baton.

  I crept into the house and looked around. The man on the floor had a wound on his leg. At least I assume it was a wound, unless he normally wore a bandanna wrapped around his thigh. Maybe a good sign that I had the right house. I could see out a window in the back, but I couldn't tell if the stucco fence was to the right or not.

  I moved to my right through the house, checking in each room as I went. I reached the stairs and started creeping up. They were old wooden stairs and every other one creaked. I heard more gunfire coming from upstairs. It was loud, but also seemed a little bit muffled, almost like my ears were compensating for the volume.

  I'd have to remember to ask Camo Joe about that.

  I reached the top of the stairs and stood in the hallway for a minute. Two shooters. One in the room right in front of me, and another down the hall. I looked around the edge of the door and saw a man with an assault-looking rifle of some kind, sort of like mine downstairs but with the magazine angled strangely forward. I walked quickly up to him and poked the shotgun into his neck.

  “Don't move or you're dead!” I said in a low voice. “Put the gun down nice and slow!” That's how they did it in cop movies, right?

  This time I didn't try to sound like a Valley Girl.

  The guy stopped moving.

  “Lie down, face down,
face toward the wall!”

  He did as I told him.

  I picked up his rifle and chucked it out the window.

  Great, now what, shoot him?

  I thought about it, but couldn't bring myself to do that. Not now, not after he surrendered.

  Damn, I hadn't thought this out.

  “Alright,” I said, still talking low. “I'm going to move away. You stand up, don't look at me. You do, I shoot.”

  I backed away and the guy stood up. “Put your hands on your head.” He did it. I moved to the left a bit. “Turn slowly to your right and walk toward the doorway as you do.” He was still doing what I told him.

  I wish I had some handcuffs.

  “Walk slowly to the door, then turn left and walk to the room with the other shooter.” He walked slowly out the door, turned left, then walked to the other room. “Stop!” I whispered. “Here's what you're going to do. You walk in that room, hands over your head, and stop just inside the doorway. I'm going to be right behind you. Tell your buddy the cops are here and tell him I said to drop his gun.”

  He did as I told him. He walked to the other door, went in and stopped.

  “Hey Terrance,” he said. “Some lady cop is here and she caught us. She's behind me and says for you to drop your gun.”

  “She does now, does she? Well, we certainly want to cooperate with the cops!” said Terrance.

  “Drop your gun and get on the floor!” I yelled. I peeked around the first guy to see if Terrance was complying.

  He wasn't. He was standing up facing the door.

  “Aww,” he said. “Willy my boy, you just got caught by a teeny bopper,” said Terrance, laughing. Willy, the first guy, dove out of the way as Terrance brought up his gun firing. A pain ripped into my shoulder. I pulled the trigger on the shotgun, dove to the side, then stuck the shotgun around the door and sprayed the room with the rest of the shells. I heard a yell and cursing, so I managed to hit someone.

  I dropped the gun, pulled my baton and machete then launched into the room. Terrance was leaning against a wall, one hand on his face and the other on his stomach, his intestines spilling out around it. Willy was kneeling and reaching around his back with his right hand. I rushed him as he pulled a pistol out and swung it toward me. I spun away to my right and brought the machete down chopping through his outstretched arm.

  His finger must have tightened on the trigger when his hand was severed. The gun flopped down with his hand still holding it. The gun went off as it dropped, shooting a hole in the floor. He screamed and started to clutch his bloody forearm, but the scream cut off as I buried the machete in his neck, nearly severing it from the spine. I pulled the machete out and his body flopped backwards.

  Nearly Headless Willy.

  Man I loved those Harry Potter books.

  I think I’m going to throw up.

  I looked at Terrance. His mouth was frothing blood as he gasped his last breaths. I walked to the side of the window and was about to yell “all clear” to Joe, but I hadn't actually checked everywhere. I picked up the rifle that Terrance had been using and slung it over my shoulder. I went to pick up the pistol, but couldn't. I stared at it for a second and felt bile rising in my throat. I turned away and looked at the door, counted down from nineteen, then turned back and kicked the pistol underneath the bed.

  I was fairly certain there was no one else around, or surely they would have come running when Nearly Headless Willy was screaming. I knelt and leaned out the door to grab my shotgun, then winced as I felt a pain in my shoulder.

  Oh yeah, I think Mr. Gutless shot me.

  Forgot about that.

  I looked at my left shoulder and saw a bloody tear in my shirt. I pulled it up to look at the damage. Not too bad, looks like it just grazed me. It can wait. I reached inside my shirt to pull out the bandolier of shells and reloaded the magazine, loaded a shell in the chamber and added one more shell to complete the load out. It's called a “load out”, right? Enough playing around, time to check the rest of the house. I went to the doorway, leaned out, looked left then right. I felt exposed.

  What else could I do?

  I checked the bathroom and a closet, then re-checked the room where Willy had been. There was a body in there I didn’t see before, shot through the head. Otherwise, the house was empty. I walked downstairs and went out the front door. My rifle was still there. I picked it up along with the slings and walked into the backyard, opening and closing the wooden gate.

  “All clear!” I yelled. I looked up at the house where we'd tried to cross and saw a big black arm stick out the side.

  “Roger!” came a slightly muffled reply.

  “Meet me in the house,” I called out. “It's the one with the big truck in front.” I paused and thought about Joe coming over here. “When you leave, go right, not left, back the way we came.” I didn't want him going by the house with those two men.

  I wasn't having a lot of luck in this neighborhood with strangers—just one out of seven. I'd rather not try to better those lousy odds.

  I'm too young to gamble anyway.

  I walked back around to the front of the house, going back through the gate and onto the porch. I paused and looked at the houses around me and saw a couple of curtains quickly close. Good thing 911 wasn't working or I'd be spending the rest of my years in a state prison, underage be dammed.

  I went inside and started rummaging around the kitchen, then made my way to the bathroom. Where do these people keep first aid supplies? Unable to find anything, I went back to the kitchen and took off my gear—the shotgun, the rifle from upstairs, my rifle from outside, lastly the bandolier.

  Jeez no wonder the neighbors were closing their curtains.

  I grinned.

  I washed my hands at the sink, then pulled off my shirt. My shoulder ached a bit as I awkwardly lifted it over my head and set it aside. I carefully washed my arm with stinging soap and water until the blood ran thinly, then took a wad of paper towels and dabbed it dry. I folded up a bunch of paper towels and pressed it against my shoulder.

  An elephant walked up onto the porch and knocked on the door. “Come on in Stompy Joe,” I said, walking out of the kitchen so that I could see the door.

  Joe pushed it open, but it stuck on the dead doorman. He grumbled and shoved until the guy slid out of the way. “You could at least pick up the place if you know company is...”

  He trailed off when he saw me, his face a mixture of embarrassment as he saw me wearing just my bra, then anger as he noticed the paper towel-bandage I was pressing against my arm. He dropped the ammo bag and my backpack then shrugged out of his. He picked up the body on the floor and tossed it out the door, then closed it. Anger mixed with concern erased all traces of embarrassment as he walked over to me.

  “How bad is it?” he asked.

  “Mr. Gutless grazed me. I guess I should have shot first and asked questions later,” I said with a smile.

  “Gutless, huh?” Joe looked toward the stairs. “Up there?”

  “Yep, all taken care of. But I tossed a rifle out the back window and there's a pistol under the bed upstairs. Might want to grab those. And see if there's any proper medical supplies. I didn't find any down here.”

  Joe looked at me, my eyes, my shoulder. “I...” he began, then stopped. He looked down. “I shouldn't have let you go.” I reached up with my left hand and gently lifted his eyes to mine.

  “You couldn't have stopped me,” I told him, then winked. He took a deep breath.

  “But...” he began.

  “Joe,” I said firmly. “Go get the rifle in the back and the pistol upstairs, and get me some damn bandages!”

  Joe's mouth gaped open, then closed. He smiled. “Roger that Ninja Girl,” he said. I could hear the capital letters in his voice and smiled.

  He went out the back door, and I could see him looking for the rifle. He found it, picked it up, dropped the magazine and ejected the round in the chamber and caught it as it fell. He pocketed both a
nd carried in the rifle.

  “Kalashnikov,” he said, setting it down on the counter. “AK-47, one of the best rifles ever made. It's got a chunk of dirt in it from the fall, but I bet I could fire a thousand rounds through it and it would never flinch. We were using these in Iraq and putting our service rifles in plastic bags to protect them from the sand and grit. These things were all over the place. You couldn't jam them if you tried.” He added the bullet and magazine to the counter then turned and headed up the stairs.