by Roger Hayden
The woman screamed again as another man kicked her. There was no more second-guessing the situation. James knew that he needed to do something or they might kill her. He ran forward with his pistol in the air and fired once. The four men stopped and turned their heads in his direction in angry confusion.
"Get away from her!" he shouted, aiming at them.
The men continued to stare while making no moves. "Back up," he repeated as he drew closer, "with your hands in the air."
The men took a few steps back with their hands halfway in the air, sheer contempt on their tattooed and pierced faces.
"This ain't none of your business, pal. Take a hike," said the man with the long-braided hair.
“I don't think so,” James said defiantly.
“We're looking for her husband,” a heavy-set man in the middle said. “She's lying to us.”
They all wore dark, ill-fitting clothes, resembling some of what he had seen ransacked in the other homes. The culprits, he surmised, were standing right in front of him.
“Just get out of here,” James repeated with another shot into the air, startling the group. The woman trembled on the ground, holding her side and wiping tears from her eyes. He wanted to rush to her aid but couldn't take his attention off the men. “Go!” he shouted. “And don't come back.”
But the men did just the opposite. The man in the braids scratched at his goatee and stepped forward, amused. “You got enough in there to take us all out?”
“You wanna find out?” James asked, aiming directly at the man.
“Let's go,” the heavy-set man said with an elbow to the braided man's side. “We got better things to do.”
But the braided man only stared at James with unblinking eyes and a sinister smile that exposed a silver grill across the front row. James's finger caressed the trigger. He didn't know if he could shoot anyone, but he was about to find out. The heavy-set man grabbed his braided counterpart's arm, urging him to leave once again. The braided man then pointed at James. “This ain't over.”
The group ran off toward the road without looking back, soon disappearing in the direction James had come from. He stood watching them in hopes that they wouldn't return, whoever they were. His attention shifted to the woman, as he lowered his .44 and helped her up.
"Are you okay?"
The woman struggled to get up while holding her sides. She got to her feet and remained crouched over and out of breath. James kept a hand on her back and gave her a minute, though his questions didn't cease. "Who were those men, and why were they attacking you?"
The woman appeared to be in a state of shock, so he asked her name.
“Abby,” she said, sniffling.
“I'm James,” he said. “I'm not from around here... I'm just passing through.”
Abby stood of her own accord, wincing in pain. “Nice to meet you. And thank you.”
James guided her toward the church. “Would you like to go back inside?
“I just need a minute,” she said. “I'll be fine.”
He waited patiently while resisting the urge to bombard her with questions. She suddenly put her hand on his shoulder for balance, squeezing her eyes shut with a gasp. For all he knew, her ribs had been broken. There had to be a doctor or someone he could take her to. “Do you have a working vehicle?” he asked. Just as she shook her head, a voice called out from the distance, shouting her name.
James looked up, startled, and saw a man rushing toward them in a beige police uniform, short-sleeved shirt, and slacks. He approached from the road, gripping a shiny silver pistol, its barrel the size of a canon. James immediately backed away as the man leapt over a set of bushes in a frenzied sprint.
James concealed his pistol and kept some distance between him and Abby. She clutched her sides and moved slowly toward the uniformed officer as they met and embraced, arms around each other.
“I'm so sorry, baby. I just saw a few of those bastards running away. What happened?” For a moment, he didn't even seem to notice James’s presence or care.
“It's okay,” she said, voice trembling. “They left before I could say anything.” She turned and signaled to James. “This man saved me.”
The officer turned his attention to James and slowly released Abby, staring through the thick shades of his dark sunglasses. He had a slim frame and short, dirty silver hair neatly trimmed around the sides. There wasn't an ounce of stubble on his semi-wrinkled face. Even amid a crisis, he looked to be a man that kept up his appearance. “Well then,” he said, stepping toward James and extending his hand. “Thank you very much.”
They shook as the lawman maintained a suspicious demeanor. It was clear that James was an outsider, but he was sure Winslow had its fair share of those over the past week, including the very men James had nearly sparred with. James quickly introduced himself and noticed a sheriff star pinned to the man's chest.
“Sheriff Davis,” the man said. “A pleasure to meet you.”
After their brief introduction, the sheriff quickly sidestepped toward Abby and held her as she hunched over, still in a visible state of pain. He whispered something to her and then kissed her cheek while rubbing her back. “Come on, let's get you inside.”
James followed them, uninvited, back inside the church. He had many questions to ask the sheriff.
“They were looking for you,” Abby said in an exhausted tone. “I told them you weren't here.” She stopped suddenly as her voice wavered. “And they took me outside and... I thought they were going to kill me.” They stopped at the ramp as she began to cry. The sheriff pulled her close. James stood awkwardly to the side, looking away.
“We'll get you inside and you can lay down,” the sheriff said.
She nodded as her crying faded to sobs.
“Who were those men?” James asked.
The sheriff looked up, not too eager for questions, but he did offer a concession. “Let's go inside first. I've got a few questions of my own.”
James followed as Sheriff Davis guided Abby to the entrance. He assumed she was his wife. Davis looked to be in his mid-fifties, possibly older, and Abby with her long, dirty blonde hair and youthful freckled face looked to be ten or so years younger. She limped toward the double doors. She wore jeans, a matching jean jacket, and sneakers on her feet, and looked attractive even after her attack. Sheriff Davis quickly opened the doors, letting light enter the dark, red-carpeted vestibule.
James entered the church with them, eyes adjusting as Davis closed and locked the doors behind them. Beyond the vestibule and through the glass doors, sat rows of pews lined around an altar and lectern, a vast wooden cross hanging behind it. Strangely enough, there were more than just pews in the congregation area. Neatly arranged on the floor between pew rows were multiple sleeping bags and tents as though the town had been invited over for a slumber party.
Sunlight glowed through the stain-glass windows on both sides, though there was still a dark, stillness to everything. There were no open windows, and without ventilation, the room was noticeably stuffy. Among the sleeping bags on the floors and pillows and blankets spread across random pews, James saw people; some adults, some children, praying, reading, sleeping. Everyone was beginning to look in their direction. The Sheriff quickly led Abby through the nave and into the congregation area, helping her lie down on the nearest pew. Every movement on her part caused discomfort. From what he saw, James was certain that she had broken or bruised something.
Davis grabbed a blanket and placed it over Abby with deep concern spreading across his face. He then took a step back and gazed about the room, looking at the confused faces around them. James didn't see too many men among the group. Most were women and children.
“Cam, I need water,” Abby said, sitting up as her voice drifted.
He took one concerned look at her and then spun his head back around to the group of people nearby. “Can someone get my wife some water, please?”
Abby called out to him as some of the women scurrie
d to another room. “It wasn't their fault,” she said. “I was talking to those men in the lobby. I thought we could work something out. I thought we could make a deal.” She paused and held her cheek, fighting back tears. “Then one of them hit me. The heavy one. And I ran outside, and they chased me.” She then pointed to the other people. “No one saw anything.”
“That's fine,” he said. “But we all need to be vigilant and watchful of each other.” He turned to face the group as one woman with frazzled hair and wearing long johns approached with a bottle of water, handing it to Abby. “Where's Doctor Stevenson?” he asked.
“He's with the others,” the woman said. “Trying to get supplies.”
Davis nodded and then placed a hand on the woman's shoulder. “Keep an eye on Abby. Please. I want to get her checked out as soon as the doctor returns.”
The woman nodded as he turned and leaned closer to Abby, hugging her lightly. “I'll be close, dear. Don't worry.” He shifted his attention to James. “I need to talk to our Good Samaritan here and find out what he knows.” He then noticed James scanning the room in wonder, with its blanket-covered pews and occupants setting up camp. “You look like you've never seen a bunch of people living in a church before.”
James stopped and looked at him. “No, I haven't actually. What is everyone doing here?”
“Right this way,” Davis said, leading him out of the room. James followed him into the lobby where the sheriff closed the door behind them. A long Plexiglas window in the wall that divided the rooms gave him a complete view of the sporadically-occupied church. The sheriff thanked him again and then took off his sunglasses, exposing eyes as gray as his hair.
“So, what are you doing out here?” Davis asked him. “Are you lost?”
“Something like that,” James said. “I'm here from St. Louis.”
Intrigued, Davis scratched his head. “Is that so? How are they holding up?”
“We've been evacuated,” James said. “I'm just trying to get as far north as I can.”
The sheriff nodded as they paced the lobby. He noticed several sprawling biblical paintings that looked down on them from above. Amid the dangers that awaited them outside, he felt certain comfort within the church, which came with the territory.
“Why are all the homes abandoned?” James began. “And why did you close the police station?”
Davis held a hand up, urging patience. James turned and saw some young faces watching them from the other side of the window. He apologized, not realizing that he had gotten so loud.
“It's okay,” Davis said. “Are you with anyone? Surely you didn't come all this way by yourself.”
James cleared his throat, choosing his words carefully. “I have a wife. She's waiting for me. I was hoping to find someone who could help us.” He struggled to explain exactly what he was doing there in Winslow. “I was curious,” he continued. “We haven't seen another person for days.”
Davis paced toward a water cooler in the corner, linking his hands behind his back, seemingly in thought. “There's a reason for everything.” He paused and turned to him. “You see, I've been with the Winslow PD for going on twenty years now.”
“Don't you have a deputy?” James asked, remembering the names on the door.
Sadness came across the sheriff's face. “I did, but he left town with his family soon after the blackout. Can't say that I blame him. A lot of people did.”
“How?” James asked, astonished. “Most cars don't even work anymore.”
David nodded. “Some by foot. Others by tractor trailer. We had a farmer who owned a tractor that still worked. Lester Greeley, real nice man. Piled up damn near everyone who wanted to go, and they left.”
“And is this everyone else?” James asked, pointing beyond the window.
“Just about. We're just trying to keep everyone safe until things go back to normal,” the sheriff said, handing him a cold bottle of water from cooler. James drank from the bottle gratefully as the sheriff continued.
“There's a prison about five miles from here, maximum-security type, you know?”
James stood stunned in disbelief. Larry had never mentioned such a thing.
“It seems that there was a riot there,” the sheriff continued. “After the blackout, the prisoners just sort of took over.”
“Oh God,” James said, mouth agape.
“First couple of days, things were pretty normal for the most part, then we got the evacuation order.” Davis lowered his head, clearly saddened. “But a lot of people didn't want to leave their homes. They didn't want to run. I had to decide to leave or go myself. Abby... she wanted to leave. Of course, you see what decision we came to.” He glanced back toward the window with sadness. James could certainly relate.
“A few days ago, the prisoners began to spread out and found our town in the process. Hurt a lot of people. Stole our things. Tore into houses and chased everyone off. And here we are.”
James could only shake his head as he tried to process what the sheriff was telling him.
“We're seeing more and more of them each day. Some have weapons, and some don't. We gathered just about everyone left behind into this church for their own safety. We've got things under control,” Davis said this as though trying to convince himself. “We've just got to hold out for another week or so.”
James wanted to believe him. He hoped that it wouldn't be much longer, but things weren't so simple. No one, it seemed, was safe from attack anywhere in the country. He longed for another way; a plan that could get him and Marla far from the area. “Those men,” he said. “What were they doing here? Why did they attack your wife?”
The sheriff's hopeful expression suddenly shifted. “They were trying to get at me.” He hung his head down, ashamed. “I should never have left the church. I was supposed to be on guard. Won't be a mistake I make again.”
“What do they want with you?” James asked.
“A pack of them came here demanding an offering for our safety. I'm the lead negotiator. The de facto leader, if you will.”
“You should get these people out of here,” James said.
“Not an option,” Davis said with finality.
James hesitated to say more. He didn't want to stray too far from his reasons for passing through. And at that moment, he tried to remember exactly what those reasons were. It was clear, however, that Sheriff Davis and the townspeople hunkered inside the church knew no more than he did about what was going on.
They didn't know when help was going to arrive. They didn't know who had attacked the U.S. It didn't even look as though they knew where to go. They were trapped, much like him. “Sheriff, I'll get to the point,” he began. “Do you have a working vehicle anywhere in town that I might commandeer?”
“What do you do?” Davis asked, seemingly evading the question.
“I'm a writer,” James said.
Davis nodded. “Well, there's not much we can do for you, unless you know how to repair these cars.”
“I've tried,” James said. “Their circuits are fried. Whoever attacked us with that EMP really fucked things up.” He then covered his mouth, forgetting for a moment that he was in a church.
Davis then went to the front entrance, bypassing James. He pulled both doors open and allowed sunlight and air to enter the otherwise glum lobby. They looked beyond the ramp, outward toward the sprawling church grounds and its roadside sign. The streets were empty, and aside from the few vehicles parked near the church, there was little evidence of a functioning engine.
“We're way out here all by ourselves,” Davis said. “And I'm doing my best to protect everyone.”
A brief silence fell between them under the glow of a blue sky. James turned to the sheriff, hoping that the trip hadn't been a complete waste. It had to be close to noon, and Larry was probably wondering exactly where he had gone off to. “Do you have any working radios?”
“Not one so far.”
“No phones?”
“Nothi
ng.”
“Not one single working device or vehicle or anything?”
“Nothing that I know of. But we might find something soon. Search patrol is out right now for supplies.”
James brought his hand down his face with a sigh. “What about weapons?”
The sheriff nodded. “We're well-armed, I assure you.” He then leaned in closer, curious. “Do you need some weapons? It's the least I can do for your help earlier.”
James patted the pistol at his side. “I need a vehicle. Any 1970s model or older should do.”
Davis opened his arms and turned to the church. “You could always stay here. Where's your wife?”
“That's all right,” James said in an appreciative tone. “She's pretty far from here, but she's waiting for me to come back.”
After a pause, the sheriff then offered another suggestion. “You brought up classic cars. Get with Bill Mosley. He has a farm about a mile up the road. I believe he has a classic Dodge Challenger.”
James's eyes lit up. “Does it run?”
Davis shrugged. “I can't say, but he might let it go at the right price.”
“I've got cash,” he said, eagerly ready to fork it over for a ride.
“Go and talk to him then,” Davis said, stopping in front of the church. “I'd take you there myself, but I can't leave.”
James swung his backpack around, taking out a small notepad and pen. “Can I get the address?”
The sheriff pointed out toward the road. “You'll see 2438 on an old mailbox off a dirt road.” He paused, while drawing a rough sketch. “I haven't seen Bill in a couple of days, but you tell him Sheriff Davis sent you.”
James thanked him and sealed his appreciation with a strong handshake. Though there were a few vehicles parked near the church and plenty more throughout town, James was running out of time. He needed a vehicle that worked. He hurried through the church lot, bypassing dusty, debris-covered cars. Sheriff Davis yelled out to him as he reached the road. “You be careful out there. Those escaped prisoners are everywhere.”
