by Matt Hart
I'd used my dad's M&P Shield. He had seven—no ... the bigger magazine—so eight bullets plus one in the chamber. Nine millimeter, plenty of stopping power, and it kicked like a mule.
"But I'd have to get close," said Dad. "If I was fifteen yards away, I might hit forty percent of my shots, so that's good for maybe three and a half bad guys. At thirty yards, I'd be lucky to hit two of them. And that's assuming they were standing still and upright, with nice white shirts against a dark background.
"Just too dangerous. If any one of them had a gun, we'd be dead for sure."
So we waited in the trees, watching the scene, and maybe we would have an opportunity to help. If the old guy had offered the ride, we would have lain in the back with the survival rifle pointing over the tailgate. Dad would tell the driver to get moving right away, maybe fire a warning shot as we yelled for the trio to stay clear. I'm pretty sure that would have worked okay.
Dad said it's only an assault charge if you show a gun but don't shoot it. I wonder if that counted when you fired into the air?
I don't know.
But now ... I mentally shrugged, and watched as the truck driver went over to see what was going on. I prayed, "Lord, protect the old man and his family, and help us to get home safely."
Dad said, "Amen," and we heard a loud bang at the same time. Not a gunshot, more like a car door slamming. We were about one hundred fifty yards away, but I could see one of the Mongo Brothers, as they’d become permanently associated in my mind, strike the hood of the truck again with some kind of bar like a tire iron. The truck driver grabbed his arm, but the guy flung him away.
This was getting nasty, but I didn't see any guns, and surely they would have pulled them by now.
"No guns," echoed Dad. "Get the rifle ready."
I took off the backpack and removed the rifle, put in the medical kit, and pulled out the ammo bag and pocketed some rounds. I put in a .22 bullet and a .20 gauge shell and snapped it closed. I handed the rifle to my dad as I put on the backpack.
"I'll hold it until we get close since I can keep it behind my back," he said. "You stay right behind me, less than two feet of separation."
He got up and started walking quickly back toward the accident, with me right behind him, just in time to see the truck driver move back in and try to grab the bar and get struck across the arm. He yelled out and grabbed his arm, then the yell abruptly stopped as the guy bashed his head. He fell like a brick and didn't move. I feared he was dead, but that could have been one of us if we'd stuck around and they'd had a gun.
The fat lady was standing in front of the truck, and the other guy was in the bed, trying to get the back window open. The old guy was in the driver's seat, practically frozen, while the old lady screamed. As we got closer, it looked like maybe the person in the back had their head down and their hands over their ears.
Dad stopped twenty-five yards from the truck, handed me the rifle, pulled his gun and yelled, "Stop or I'll shoot!" The man with bar stopped his swing and looked at us. He dropped the bar. It clanged to the ground and he smiled a huge smile, then stepped to the side with my dad tracking him with the pistol.
Then the other Mongo Brother stepped out from behind the truck and I heard a gunshot. My dad staggered backwards into me.
We were wrong. They did have gun.
My dad switched his aim to the other Mongo and fired eight shots before falling. The guy yelled and grabbed his hand as my dad fell at my feet, leaving me standing there, stunned.
"You alright, Dad?" said the guy in front as he leaned down to retrieve his tire iron and turned to look at the guy in back.
"Yeah," yelled the man as he rubbed fingers, "he just hit the gun. I think it’s toast. Take care of the other one, then get their gear."
The guy with the iron turned back to me. He ignored my gun, apparently seeing my age and dismissing me.
"Put down the popgun and drop the backpack, and you can go," he said.
I aimed at his face and pulled the first trigger. The .22 popped, and I missed. The guy yelled and threw the tire iron at me and charged. I pulled the other trigger just before the guy was on me. He fell into me and knocked me down, then rolled off and staggered away before collapsing. I dropped the rifle and picked up my dad's handgun and turned the gun on the approaching older man.
One bullet left. The extra round.
"Stop or I'll shoot!" I said, hoping to get through to them this time. "Stop now!"
He stopped, anger and hatred etched on his features. He was panting like a horse, and had apparently found another iron of some kind to throw at me. He looked like he was about to throw the bar and smash my head in. "Drop the bar right now!" He didn't drop it. "Drop it now, I mean it!"
For some stupid reason, the phrase, "Does anybody want a peanut?" zipped across my consciousness.
He dropped the bar. It clanked to the ground, and from ten yards away I could see that it had blood and hair on it.
"Get over there," I said, nodding at the guy I'd shot. "You too, lady," I said, shifting my aim to her. "Hands up."
The man looked at me. I'd never seen an evil eye until then. "That's my son," he said. "And I'm going to kill you." With that, he turned and walked with his wife, or mom, or whatever, to the dying Mongo.
God, I thought, What now?
My subconscious knew what to do—have them lie on their stomachs, legs crossed, arms to their sides palms up. But my conscious brain wasn't accessing that knowledge.
My dad had just died, or was dying, right in front of me.
I dared a glance inside the truck. The old woman had gotten out and was crying next to the old man—apparently the figure who had been struck with the tire iron—while the person in the back still had their head down. The semi driver groaned and started to get up. His skull must have been three inches thick. I looked around and saw heads peeking over the concrete dividers. They ducked back down as soon as I turned my gaze their way. Good thing no one has a working cell phone camera, I thought. We're back to witness testimony and newspaper articles.
I reached down and felt for my dad's pulse. I held it there for at least a minute, searching. "Dad?" I shook him.
He wasn’t breathing.
I felt tears welling as I reached down and took the other clip from his pants, switched out the clips, then picked up the rifle.
I walked slowly around the scene and the Mongo Three, maybe just two now, and made my way toward the truck, keeping my eyes and my gun on them. "Is he okay?" I asked.
She didn't respond.
"Ma'am, is he okay?" I said a little louder. "Can anyone else help us over here?" I asked loudly. A few heads peeked around cars and above the dividers, but no one responded.
Crap.
I walked back to my dad’s body. I unhooked the waist pack and took the S.O.G. knife from his belt and the back holster. Then I stood up, thought again, then bent down and removed the ammo from his pocket, and finally … his wedding ring.
Mom had died in a car accident with a drunk driver six years ago, but he still wore his ring. I stood there for a whole minute, wishing I could just the kill the man who'd killed my father. I lifted my dad's gun and aimed at him. My finger was on the trigger.
I lowered the gun and put my finger to the side of the trigger. I didn't have it in me.
After a minute, I reached down and removed the back holster. I knelt for a few more seconds. "Goodbye, Dad," I whispered. "I love you. I'll see you again."
I won't even get a chance to bury him.
I put his ring on my finger and walked back to the truck, my eyes never leaving the two remaining Mongos. I found the gun used to shoot my father, now destroyed. A cheap .38 special. I dropped it and walked to the still-functioning old truck.
"Listen, ma'am," I said. My voice was cracking. I swallowed, then tried again. "Ma'am, we need to get out of here. Like my father said, this has happened probably across the whole state, if not the country, and we need to get your husband in the truck and l
eave before the other two decide to try something else, or someone else comes along with a bigger gun than mine."
She finally looked up at me, her eyes filled with tears. "He's hurt badly," she said simply, sobbing. "He's going to die."
"I'm sorry, ma'am, I really do wish I could have protected you earlier. But you still have your life, and your daughter or whoever is still in your truck."
More than I can say. Was this worth my dad's life?
No.
"Maybe you can get him to a hospital. We must leave now or this could get even worse."
She just looked at me. "He's my husband," she said, then looked back at him.
I didn't know what to do. If I just left, that last guy would probably take his revenge out on her or whoever was in the truck. I sure wasn't taking them with me like some Clint Eastwood character, and I sure wasn't going to shoot them in cold blood.
Warm, more likely, but certainly not justified.
I walked closer to the truck and glanced quickly inside, then back at the other two. They were still hunched over the guy I'd shot. I risked a 360 view around me. One of the conceal-carry courses I took with my dad was about how danger added blinders—where you focused on only one thing while others snuck up on you. I guess the $500 was worth it, because I remembered to look around me.
"Hey! You in the truck, your dad needs help! You and your mom need to get him in the truck and to a hospital."
"He's my grandpa," came a small voice from inside. A head finally showed, a little girl with long blond hair, maybe eleven or twelve. I shuddered to think what might have happened to her.
Might still happen.
Dad would have thought it was worth it. He's with Jesus now, and with Mom. I took a deep breath.
"Come on, help get him back in the truck."
She climbed out and said, "Grandpa? Grandma?"
"Hey," I said again, louder. "Can someone help him into the truck? We need to get him to a hospital! Anyone?"
Come ON, won't somebody help?
I knew the crowd had heard my dad say that no one was coming. No one came to help, but finally the little girl got through to her grandmother and they pulled him into the back seat as I stood watch, my gun trained on the two thugs just ten yards away.
Thugs who were probably running a small business selling calzones and pizzas an hour ago.
The old woman sat in the back seat with her husband's head in her lap, mumbling and sobbing. The girl sat in the passenger seat. "Mister? Can you drive us to the hospital?"
As she said this, I saw someone leap over the center divider and come running toward us. I turned and aimed my gun at him.
"Whoah whoah whoah! I just want a ride!"
"In the back," I said. He headed for the back seat of the truck. "The back back," I said, gesturing at the bed of the truck with the gun. A few more people looked over the divider and at the truck.
"Oh man," I mumbled. "What a friggin' nightmare." Then more loudly, "Slowly, one at a time, get in the back of the truck. We'll take whoever will fit," I said, pointing my gun back at the Mongos in front of the pickup. Four more people came over the divider, one of them a woman, maybe twenty or so. "You, Miss, you drive please."
"No," she said, "I just want to ride, not drive."
"I can't drive and protect everyone at the same time. You are the only person I see that I will trust driving, please."
She stopped and looked at me, at the gun, and back at the trio in front of the truck. "All right," she said. "Where will you sit?"
"I'm going in the passenger seat. Scoot over, little lady. You'll need to sit in the middle." Good thing it was an old truck, with genuine bench seats in both front and back. I sat down with my pack still on my back, pushed to the edge of the seat. I put the waist pack on the floor with the rifle, then I put the gun in my left hand, still aiming at the three Mongos, and closed the door, switching back to the normal two-hand grip. I'd never shot left-handed, but I might need to learn quick.
"Back up first, at least a hundred yards. Then turn around, keeping my side of the truck towards the accident. We're going back the way we came for a bit."
"Okay," said the young driver. She put the already-started truck into gear and backed slowly away. I switched hands with the gun again and rolled down the window halfway.
"That's good," I said. "Now … turn around and drive down until we can get on the other side of the highway. I don't want to pass them on this side." I was half afraid of passing them on either side. Maybe they'd create some sort of caltrops or a barrier.
The driver turned around and started speeding up down the highway. "Keep it slow, about twenty miles per hour. We don't want to run into another wreck or a car speeding this way." She slowed down, and I finally breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you." I put the safety on the gun, pulled the eight-round magazine from my pocket and loaded it with the rounds my dad had on him, then switched it out with the seven rounder. Only then did I take off my backpack. I put the survival rifle in it and put on the back holster and the waist pack. Putting the gun in the back holster, I covered it with my shirt. Unless you knew to look, you wouldn't know it was there.
I leaned back and closed my eyes, glad to be safe for the moment, in a working vehicle, heading home—or at least trying to. I could feel tears on my cheeks.
"Goodbye, Dad," I whispered.
Chapter 3
—————
"Turns out there really are aliens, and they have a wicked sense of humor. Unfortunately for us, it's the football-to-the-groin, mountain-biking-off-the-rooftop sort of humor. Misery, lawlessness, and terror on a global scale, that's what sells the alien equivalent of prime time satellite television across the galaxy.
And unbeknownst to us, we all got signed on as extras to the apocalypse."
Commander Jack Streel
Star Point Induction Speech, 21 AA
Interlude—Boreling Empire—Plannel 6
Grodge the Merciful yawned and kicked at the doglard snoring at his feet. It sounded like the creature was trying desperately to hawk up something nasty and spit it on his nice clean floor.
"Wake up, you worthless thing," he snarled. "Go outside and chase those bridlings out of the yard. They're crapping all over the tables." The doglard snorted once and looked at Grodge, then slowly got up on its four paws and did as it was told. The door opened automatically, rolling upward just enough for the doglard to go underneath. Just as the doglard appeared at the door, the bridlings squawked and flew away.
Grodge the Merciful longed for a new title. His came from being in charge of the "Aliens of Interest" channels, with stories of heroism and evil. He got a decent number of viewers—often the bleeding-hearts who didn't like the whole framework of entertainment, but hey, they watched it, didn't they? Those commercials for Bubbly-Chew drinks worked for someone.
He thought of the next five cycles and hoped he'd get to work in the Massive Carnage Plannel; maybe Grodge the Destructive would be his title. In the meantime, oh well, back to the small time.
"Hrumpf," muttered Grodge, as he turned back to his monitors. The first phase was going well. The humans believed they'd been subjected to an electromagnetic pulse, and were scrambling to figure out exactly what had happened. Channels one through eight played back the first hour of the pulse up to the current time, focusing on crashing aircraft, speeding vehicles going out of control, and hospital patients on life support machines thrashing and expiring.
"Grodge, bring up channel eighty-three," came a voice through his workstation. Grodge checked the speaker and answered his supervisor quickly.
"Yes sir," he said enthusiastically. "Moron," he said under his breath.
"What was that, Grodge?”
"I said ‘it isn't boring,’ sir. Just thinking of my great job, sir!"
Grodge switched one of his systems to channel eighty-three. A split view—half from an underwater view of a subsurface vessel, while inside it looked like a walk-through view of a bunch of humans
in distress, maybe choking or running out of air. They were panicking and running around like bridlings in a firestorm.
"Oh great catch, sir, this is hilarious! Look at them struggle to turn those wheels! I take it they've been fused?"
"Oh yes," said the supervisor. "At least half of the subsurface vehicles were slated for a watery grave. The others were allowed to surface and slowly starve to death."
"Brilliant, I think it should go on one hundred right now, and I'll start its loop at zero on channel one right away."
"You let me worry about channel one hundred, Grodge, but yes, loop it on one and move the aircraft stuff to channel two. Drop off whatever has the least violence or blood, but I want to keep the attack disease stuff going around the clock. Ratings show viewers are loving the human on human violence."
