by Chris Lowry
"They're good luck," I thought, but kept it to myself.
We were going to need all the luck we could get.
CHAPTER THREE
There was no plan. No effort at a proper escape.
There was only too many of them, and not enough of us.
Guns jutted from their grouping like pins on a porcupine. Aimed at the sky. Aimed at us. Around us even.
"Don't move!" one of them screamed.
Like we would even consider it. There were five of them for every one of us.
But they way they were grouped was stupid. Too close together, like they were a phalanx instead of a unit. Great formation against spears and maybe even Z.
They could shoot in every direction.
But bad news against a machine gun.
"I said don't move!" the one in the front screamed again.
Which was weird. None of us were moving.
"When I say, duck," I said out of the side of my mouth.
My people dropped.
"I didn't say," I shouted as I stood all by myself.
"Down!" screamed Brian.
I dropped on top of him, ignored the wheeze that exploded out of him.
He gagged as I yanked his rifle by the strap and used him like a tripod.
A squirming, mewling tripod.
The bullets ripped into the tight grouping of men facing us. Brian had it set on full auto, which I told him not to do.
He never listened and this time I was glad for it.
The front row of the group dropped, as the middle tried to push back. I raked them again before they could recover and respond.
Then they did.
Their aim was off.
Mine was not.
Their shots chewed up the asphalt in front of us, digging up geysers of chunky grit that bounced across us.
Brian screamed. Peg screamed. Maybe some more.
But someone beside me started shooting from the ground, and then on the other side and the group in front of us disintegrated and turned to run.
There is no nobility in shooting a man in the back when he is running away from a fight.
Nobility is overrated.
I rolled off Brian, held out my hand for the hunting rifle the Boy was using.
"Gimme," I said and scooted up to one knee.
I lined up on the farthest, the one who looked like he was going in a straight line and dropped.
I got six more before they figured out what was happening and skedaddled into side roads.
"Shit," I said.
Brian sat up and wiped asphalt off his face.
"Why?" he asked.
"Survivor troubles," I said.
"Don't stop believing," he said.
"Wrong band," I stood up and held out my hand to help him up.
"Really? What am I thinking of?"
"Eye of the Tiger."
"Right," he glanced at the group. "Anyone hurt?"
Everyone chimed in. No hits. No injuries.
I herded us off the road and into a driveway, in case the survivors of our encounter decided payback was in order and took a turkey shoot down the roadway.
"This is no good," I muttered watching the street.
Raymer looked at the dead bodies contorted in the road.
"I'd say half is good," he whispered.
"That means half are still out there," said Brian. "He means they'll hunt us."
"Will they?"
I nodded.
"I would."
"This is going to make a house to house search harder," said the Boy.
"Should we go back? Split up?" Bem said.
"We stay together."
It came out harsher than I meant.
"Sorry," I said.
"Geez Dad, you don't have to say it. I know how you are when you get scared."
She punched me in the shoulder.
"That's him scared?" Lou whispered to Raymer loud enough to hear.
"Shoot," said Peg. "You should see him when he's terrified. He probably would have gotten them all."
I shook my head.
"I got lucky," I said.
"He gets lucky a lot," said Peg.
"Yeah he does," Brian said in a perverted voice that drew a few laughs. Nervous laughs.
"Next house over," I said. "We go in, lay low. At least until we figure out the next move."
I didn't wait for their nods. I led them around the side of the driveway we were in, and across the green strip that separated the houses.
"You said next house," Brian said as we passed the first two by, slinking from yard to yard.
I stopped at a two story home and tried the door.
"I wanted elevation," I told him.
The door was unlocked and opened to an empty home. It had that feel, and smell. Not dead, but stale.
Unused.
I stepped back and ushered everyone through the door the closed it behind us.
CHAPTER FOUR
The front room stretched from the bay window overlooking the street to a wall of sliding glass doors in a family room in the back.
The two rooms bracketed a kitchen, with stairs along the opposite wall that led to the bedrooms.
The furniture in the front room was scooted against the windows, scratches on the hardwood from where it had been moved.
"Check the kitchen," Brian said and moved with Raymer to inspect the cabinets.
"With me," I said to Tyler.
He readied his rifle and followed me up the stairs. I almost told the Boy to stay, but he dropped in behind Tyler and moved up with us.
There were two small bedrooms to the left of the landing, and a master on the rear that overlooked the back yard.
All were empty, though the beds were messed up. Clothes were scattered in front of the closet, like someone had packed in a hurry.
I moved to the French doors in the master bedroom and peeked out into the backyard.
The view was better, but still didn't give me enough information.
I could see over several of the surrounding houses, but nothing moved.
Everything looked deserted, which we knew wasn't true.
Maybe they were hiding.
"Anything?" the Boy breathed next to me.
I shook my head.
"Keep watch," I told him. "Get me if you see something."
I motioned to the front bedroom that overlooked the street.
"Same," Tyler said and moved to the side of the window.
I left them to watch and slipped back down the stairs.
"Anything?" Brian asked.
"No."
"Nothing here either," he said. "Not a good place to call home."
"They emptied it out," said Peg.
"Or someone came and got it," Anna said.
"Are we going to stay here?" Raymer asked.
I shook my head.
"We need to find someplace better to wait," I said. "This is good for an hour. Maybe two. If we see them do something. But we're going to need water. Supplies."
Bem cracked open the bathroom door to a half bath under the stairs. She lifted the lid to the back of the toilet.
"Got some," she said in triumph.
Not to be outdone, Karen took the stairs two at a time and checked the two bathrooms upstairs.
"Same here," she called down.
"Three gallons?" said Brian. "It can last for a little while."
Julie and Peg went to help the girls drain the backs of the tanks into bottles.
"Did you check the garage?" I asked.
"No time," said Brian.
I reached for the knob then thought a second. The house was empty, but my rule was check first. Be prepared.
So I knocked.
There were no moans that answered, no scratches on the other side. Just silence.
I pulled open the door and gasped.
A canary yellow convertible was backed into the far stall, facing out. The one close to us was empty.
The walls of the g
arage were covered in beach toys. Umbrellas. Chairs. Nets, and seashells. Plastic buckets.
Bikes hung from hooks on the ceiling, dusty beach cruisers for sunshine days.
I stared at the car.
"I don't like that look," said Brian.
"I've got an idea," I told them.
"That's why I don't like it."
CHAPTER FIVE
The idea was to get in and get food and get out. Fast.
And it meant splitting up. Against an unknown force.
“This thing could go sideways six ways to Sunday,” said Brian as I buckled my seatbelt and rested a rifle on the passenger seat within easy reach.
I leaned up and pressed the button. We both watched the drop top fold up and back and disappear into a little boot at the back of the car.
“I always wanted one of these,” Brian sighed.
“I’ll let you drive next time.”
He harrumphed.
“I’ll draw them off,” I reminded him. “Lots of noise. Lots of bang bang. You stick with them.”
He waved me down.
“I know the plan.”
“Stick with it. We’re back here in an hour.”
“What if we don’t find anything?”
I shrugged.
“Then maybe I’ll find out where our welcome wagon party is calling home and we go calling on them.”
He shivered. I guess I didn’t keep the “I’m kidding” look on my face long enough.
“We’ll find something,” he assured me.
I nodded.
“Drop the garage as soon as I’m clear. Keep everyone together.”
“You’re counting on me,” he finished for me. “We got this.”
I gripped the wheel and started the engine.
Brian pressed the garage door opener. Nothing happened and he laughed.
“Power?” he said.
He moved over to the front of the garage door, twisted the handle and lifted it up.
Sunlight flooded into the garage and I jammed the convertible in gear, raced down the short driveway and squealed into the road.
I glanced over my shoulder and saw the door coming down.
Part one done.
Part two. Distraction.
I hit the horn, ducked low in case anyone decided to start shooting and roared down the street. I slammed the gear into second, slid into a wide turn on the corner and the engine screamed as I headed toward the highway.
The highway in this case was the main strip that ran from the causeway all the way to the national park at the end of the island. Six miles long, four lanes wide and not a soul on it.
Except mine.
Wide enough to hold the road, some strip malls and a couple of narrow blocks of houses on either side.
Anyone there would hear me.
I cranked the CD player, just in case, and Bon Jovi provided the soundtrack to the ride.
Distraction was my go to technique for fighting or stealing or just plain surviving. People go for the distraction like a fish for something shiny in the water because that’s how we’re hard wired.
Danger? Watch for movement.
Hungry? Watch for movement.
Scared? Watch for movement.
Loud fast noises draw our attention and we focus on it with tunnel vision.
It took four minutes to reach the end of the strip and turn around. I’d have to slow down.
I curled into a modified K turn and popped the clutch through the gears back up to speed. Fifty was too slow, eighty too fast for the narrow strip of asphalt.
Hundreds of condos in block developments had empty black windows that could house anyone. Anything.
I didn’t think there would be supplies there. Most were rentals, condo-tels leased out by owners to one week vacationers.
If she was hiding on the island, she might hole up in one though.
Bis. Her message led us here.
I don’t know how long ago she spray painted the words on a plywood sign outside the refugee camp where she was supposed to be.
But it was there.
Against the odds. The universe loved me, I mused. It must, because I had more luck than a leprechaun.
Until it ran out.
Two tan army transport trucks trundled out of a side road and blocked the way.
Two more belched black smoke from thick pipes as they blocked the road behind me when I passed.
I stopped halfway between them.
Guess my distraction worked.
CHAPTER SIX
I was reminded of a line from a poem. Instead of cannons to the left and right of me, there were guns. Enough barrels to make a porcupine blush.
“Turn it off!” one of the men screamed. “Kill the engine.”
I listened to the rumble of the motor. It was good advice.
Straight ahead was a house. Stucco over concrete bricks. A scene from a movie flashed through my mind.
The front end of the car smashing through the wall. Debris flying. Airbags popped. Blood.
Then the bullets.
I flicked my eyes up to the rearview mirror. Same house style behind me.
One difference.
The garage.
A carport conversion. Siding instead of brick.
“Get out!” the men started advancing up the road.
Time to do the thing or get off the pot.
I dropped my hand to the gear shift, popped into reverse and shoved the pedal to the metal.
A plume of smoke shot across the yellow hood. The front end shimmied as I rocketed across the yard and half the driveway. Backwards.
I aimed for the garage door.
Prayed it was empty. I think I heard bullets.
The rat a tat followed me for two seconds until the trunk crunched through the thin pressed metal of the door.
A chunk of something whacked me across the back of the head.
The car plowed through the garage and luck was with me. It smashed into the rear wall and everything went gray.
I was lucky.
Sometimes things happen so fast, move so quickly that it’s only in the memory of it that you know what happened.
The airbag deployed. A piece of technology designed to save lives in front end collisions still worked just fine when the driver chose to smash through a wall.
There was a bang and a pop, a smash and shatter, the crunch of plastic and crumpled metal and the tick tick tick of fluid as it sprayed on the hot engine and enveloped the garage in boiling steam.
Lucky.
I took a shot to the face and side of the head. Stayed half awake enough to grab the rifle as I folded out of the car and bent toward the door.
Bullets ripped through the fog enshrouded opening and nicked the rifle out of my hand.
I let it go, stumbled over the two steps and fell into a laundry room and kicked the door closed. Another layer between me and the boys with the bullets.
The house smelled like rancid meat. There was a Z in here.
I shoved off the floor and scrambled through the kitchen. The open floor plan put a bar between the living room and sink on the counter.
It wasn’t a Z giving off that smell.
A rotting body lay on the couch, the top of her head missing. The only way I could tell it was a woman was the dress.
A man sat across from her, shotgun at his feet, half his head gone as well. A pact for the end of the world.
