Actually, experts always knew an asteroid like Shiva appearing out of nowhere was a very real possibility. Because we could only accurately track asteroids that had already made a close pass to Earth. The last time Shiva made a close pass was in the Seventies, when we weren’t keeping an eye on the sky. So when it comes to these kinds of killer rocks, there are two scenarios. One, they will swing by our planet many times before a potential hit, which means if we spot them we will have decades or centuries of advanced warning. Or two, their first approach will be their last, due to a direct collision, leaving us little more than enough notice to say goodbye to our loved ones and wonder how this could possibly have happened.
••••••
You know what I miss? A flushing toilet. It’s a damn indignation squatting over a hole in the backyard. I miss a lot of things, but I guess I shouldn’t be bitching. Sully’s continuing to open up. He slept on the roof with me the night before for the first time. He’s asking me more and more about the world outside Broken Hill, about Sydney and Melbourne and Adelaide, how they used to be, what I think’s happening in them now. We’re developing our old rapport. I think I’m getting my boy back.
••••••
Earth. Why do some people call it “the Earth?” We don’t say “the Mars” or “the Jupiter.” Then again, we do say “the Sun.”
earth earth earth earth earth earth earth earth earth
What a weird word when you think about it.
••••••
I hear an engine in the distance. Scratch that. Engines. A lot of them…
••••••
Bikies. I counted ten tattoo-covered, hard-ass dudes riding flamboyantly customized Harley Davidsons and choppers, some adorned with human skulls and bones. There was also a Toyota HiLux flying a black and red flag, the flatbed crowded with a half dozen young women. The caravan stopped on Argent Street out front of the Palace, the grand old dame of Broken Hill pubs. Back in the day, workers of the Central Mine built a tunnel that connected deep to the pub’s basement, so they could sneak there around noon, drink themselves silly, then clock off nicely licked at the end of the day, managers none the wiser.
Two bikies with shaved heads and unruly beards—both obviously eating well as they must have weighted a combined six hundred kilos—prodded the listless women like cattle up to the second floor of the pub, where the bedrooms were. The remaining eight roared off on their motorbikes in different directions across town. They traveled in pairs, armed with shotguns.
I went downstairs and gagged and bound Walter (sorry, boy), so he wouldn’t make any noise.
I’m back on the roof now with Sully, waiting.
••••••
We didn’t hear anything for a while except the distant thunder of the Harleys and choppers crisscrossing the grid-like town. Then gunshots erupted from the vicinity of the hospital, which, like my place, sat atop a hill. There were three shots in a row—pop, pop, pop. Shouts followed, then more shots. The other bikies coalesced on the hospital. A major shootout ensued that lasted close to an hour. Then silence. One of the fatso’s emerged from the Palace and drove the HiLux to the hospital. It returned a while later with a bedload of what appeared to be appropriated supplies.
The bikies went back to scouring the town for other survivors.
••••••
Gun laws in Australia—when laws still meant anything—had prohibited civilians from owning semi-automatic weapons such as an AR-15 and AK-47. As a prepper this never bothered me much. Because what it meant was, I couldn’t purchase one myself, but nobody else could either, which leveled the playing field. Also, if you ever found yourself in a spraying and praying situation, you were likely dead anyway.
Having said that, my bolt-action .223 Remington is my weapon of choice. It can do everything a .22 and .308 can do, and the .223 is a very popular round, which made it affordable to stockpile. And needless to say, the more shells manufactured for a given caliber, the higher the likelihood of obtaining more ammo if you ever run out. I also have two backup revolvers: a .357 Magnum and a .38 Special.
That’s my entire cache. Three weapons. Now, you hear about these armchair survivalists who have a bunker full of guns—and likely haven’t fired most of them more than a handful of times, which makes them all but useless. Contrary, all three of my weapons used to get a weekly shoot at the range. With the rifle, I could keep every shot in the kill zone at two-hundred meters, while with the handguns I could hit four-inch targets at fifty meters in quick succession eight out of ten times—
Two bikies are coming down my street.
••••••
Jesus Christ, that was something! I can’t write much now. I’m bleeding all over the place.
••••••
This is how it went down:
The two bikies parked their choppers halfway down the street and searched houses on both sides of the road in what seemed like random fashion. They were fast, efficient, spending no longer than five minutes inside each—long enough, I reckon, to determine whether anybody was home, or if there was anything worth looting.
I thought they would skip my place. Like I said, I did everything I could to make it appear abandoned, including leaving the front door wide open.
Nevertheless, they still decided to check it out. They entered through the front door one after the other, 12-gauge shotguns leveled at the ready. They would have understood almost immediately they’d walked into a trap because the small alcove didn’t lead anywhere; it was enclosed on all three sides by reinforced walls. I’d drilled a hole in the roof that looked directly into the small space. It was just big enough to poke the bore of my rifle into it while allowing me to see what I was aiming at. I shot the two goons in the top of their skulls before either knew what was happening.
There wasn’t time to hide the bodies, let alone clean up the blood or brain matter. All I could do was close the front door and resume my vigil on the roof.
Two more bikies arrived within minutes, stopping next to the abandoned choppers. They called to their mates and became agitated by the lack of a response.
I could have taken them both out right then and there, but I opted to wait until the other four arrived, which they did, pair after pair. They had a brief huddle, pointed at different houses, then seemed to make up their minds on an agreed-upon strategy.
Before they could act it out, I eliminated two with direct headshots. The remaining four scrambled for cover. Moving targets are difficult to hit, so I opted for body shots. I hit one bikie in the back and winged another in the arm. They both dropped to the pavement and attempted to drag themselves behind a parked car. Two more rounds finished them off.
The remaining pair made it into a house three down from mine on the opposite side of the street. They assumed defensive positions behind the front windows. Unfortunately for them, they were armed with shotguns, which were devastating if your target was right in front of you but useless if it was any distance away. Even more unfortunate for them, I had night-vision goggles and they didn’t.
It was like shooting fish in a barrel.
••••••
Sully wanted to accompany me to the Palace to finish off the two fatso’s watching over the imprisoned concubines. I gave him the .38 Special. He’s fired it a few times at the range back before Shiva hit. His aim was shit, but at least he knew how to shoot it, how to absorb the kick.
The Palace was a massive brick Victorian building dominated by a second-story cast-iron veranda. We approached it from the alley that ran behind it. We both wore night-vision goggles. I didn’t buy the second pair with Sully in mind; I bought them as a backup, and I’m glad I did now, otherwise Sully wouldn’t have been able to see much of anything.
I tried a steel service door in the back of the Palace that the kitchen staff would have once used to take out the garbage. It was locked. There were two other entrances, one on Sulfide Street, which led to the restaurant area,
and one on Argent Street, which led to the bar.
We tried the Sulfide Street entrance first. I twisted the door handle, expecting the door to be locked. It swung open. I motioned Sully to remain low, and we dashed inside, taking cover behind the end of the bar. I surveyed the long, rectangle-shaped restaurant. Graffiti covered the Outback landscape murals that adorned the walls. Tables and chairs were overturned. Broken bottles littered the floor. A number of the floor-to-ceilings windows that looked out onto Sulfide were cracked or shattered, which was likely why no one bothered locking the door.
We proceeded through the restaurant to a large high-ceilinged room where I used to play Two Up on Friday nights with Buzz and some of the other boys.
A passageway led to the bar. Like the restaurant, it was trashed, the booze that once lined the shelves all gone. The only item left standing upright was the pool table.
In the mural-filled lobby we ascended the carpeted staircase to the second floor. We paused at the top. I heard a rhythmic thumping coming from a nearby room—the sound of the headboard of a bed striking a wall. The door to the room was open. I crept toward it and peered inside. The room was furnished with veneered furniture and quirky fittings. A single candle burned atop a TV with an indoor antenna. One fatso was straddling a malnourished brunette, missionary style. I could barely see the poor women beneath his massive bulk.
There was no way he didn’t hear the gunshots earlier, which meant he must have assumed it was his mates doing the killing, not the other way around.
I gestured Sully over. He stopped next to me and waited for instructions, the night-vision goggles making him look like some mad scientist. I nodded for him to take the shot. He widened his stance so his feet were shoulder-width apart. Keeping the elbow of his dominant hand straight, the other flexed at an obtuse angle, he aimed the .38 Special at the back of the fatso’s head and squeezed the trigger. The fatso fell forward onto the suddenly screaming woman. A crescent of blood sprayed the wall.
I was already back in the hallway, revolver aimed. A moment later the other fatso burst from a different room, one hand tugging up his pants, the other holding a shotgun.
I put three rounds within inches of each other in the center of his chest.
As he fell backward, dying, he brought up the shotgun and fired off a round, filling the left side of my body with buckshot.
••••••
The women didn’t know what to make of Sully and me. Some stared indifferently at us and didn’t seem to care whether they lived or died. Others begged us to untie them from the beds to which they were bound with rope. I would have liked nothing more than to free them. But what would be the point? They had no food, no water, no shelter. They wouldn’t last three days on their own.
Besides, they knew about Sully and me now. If one of them managed to survive and blabbed about us to the next bike gang that rolled into town…
••••••
I burned the Palace to the ground. The women would have died of smoke inhalation before the flames got to them.
••••••
No respectable survivalist lacks a fully outfitted first-aid kit. I disinfected and bandaged my scattering of wounds a couple of hours earlier. The bleeding’s mostly stopped, and for a while I felt good enough to get everything that happened down on paper. But I think it’s all caught up with me, because I’m suddenly exhausted. I need to lie down.
••••••
Your brother’s gone, Walt. Sully left.
••••••
I tried to stop him. When I woke up, the HiLux was parked out front the house. Sully stood next to it, scribbling something onto a piece of paper. I was on the house’s roof, looking down at him. I asked him what he was doing.
His face flushed guiltily. “Leaving you a note, Dad.”
“You going somewhere, Sully?”
“I’m leaving.”
“What do you mean you’re leaving?”
“I’m going to Adelaide.”
“Don’t be stupid, Sully. There’s nothing but death there.”
“There’s nothing but death here!”
“At least you’re alive here.”
“You call this living?”
“You can’t leave me, Sully. You can’t leave Walter.”
He was silent. I think he was fighting back tears.
“Sully,” I said, “come inside. Let’s talk.”
He opened the driver’s side door, tossed the piece of paper and pen inside.
“Sully!” I picked up the Remington, “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking about finding Amy.”
He only looked at me.
“She’s dead, Sully,” I said. “I’m sorry, but that’s the sad truth.”
“You don’t know that!”
“Come inside, boy.”
“I can’t stay here, Dad.”
“You can’t leave.” I pressed the rifle’s buttstock into my shoulder, took aim at him. “I can’t let you, Sully.”
“You going to shoot me?”
“Come inside!”
He climbed behind the wheel of the pickup.
“Sully,” I said, “don’t make me do this!”
“Say goodbye to Walt for me, will you?”
I took up the slack in the trigger.
“Sully!”
He closed the door, started the engine, then drove away. I followed his progress through the rifle’s scope until I could no longer see him.
••••••
He didn’t take any of our supplies, Walt. Didn’t take my guns either, not even Buzz’s .22 Winchester. He could have. I was out cold, and he could have taken everything.
He has the supplies that were in the back of the pickup, the ones the bikies seized from the bloke holed up at the hospital. He also has all ten or however many of the bikies’ shotguns, and I suspect whatever stockpile of ammunition they had.
So he has the means to survive for a while. But he’s just a kid.
He’s just a fucking sixteen-year-old kid.
••••••
It’s been almost one year since my last entry. The sky’s cleared so we can see the sun again. Plants and weeds are poking through the ground here and there. Even so, Broken Hill remains a ghost town save the odd bike gang that passes through, or the lone survivor, usually male and middle-aged, though I once saw a ute driven by a fair-haired female, a baby in the seat beside her. Oh, you spoke your first word the other week, Walt, you said, “Dadda.” And you want to know some amazing news? Sullivan is back! I couldn’t believe it myself, and I admit, tears came to my eyes when I saw the HiLux approaching and my boy behind the wheel.
He’s changed. He might only be seventeen now, but he’s become a man—aged through trial by fire, I guess you’d say. His hair’s shorter and he has a beard. But the change is more than just his physical appearance. There’s a hardness to him. You can see it in his walk, how he holds himself, in his eyes, how he doesn’t miss anything.
He played with you, Walt. You laughed like a maniac. He told me about Adelaide, and the situation there is as grave as I’ve always feared. Most of the buildings are mausoleums, filled with the victims of hunger or thirst, or this new super-plague being spread by insects feasting on the dead. The military patrols the streets in tanks and other armored vehicles to enforce martial law. They have portable crematoriums to dispose of the bodies they come across. Gunshots are as common as honking horns used to be. Rival gangs rule neighborhoods so dangerous not even well-armed troops venture into them.
I don’t know how Sully survived so long. He didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask.
••••••
Rule number three: Never, ever let anyone leave alive.
I’m so fucking stupid.
••••••
Sully struck me with something when I was sleeping. I don’t know what he used. But when I came around my head screamed with white pain, and I was covered with dried blood.
<
br /> The fallout shelter is nearly empty. It makes me sick to my stomach to write these words, but it’s the sad truth. Sully left us enough food for maybe one month, maybe two if we really stretch it. But he took the seeds, Walt, he took the heirloom seeds. He took all my guns too—all of them except the .357 Magnum, which was in the holster on my belt.
••••••
This will be my last entry. I don’t know why I’m bothering to still write in the fucking diary. I guess because I started the damn thing, and I want to finish it.
We ran out of food today. We still have water, which means we can probably last another couple of weeks. But what’s the point? So we can starve to death slowly and miserably?
I’m not going to let you go through that, Walt. It’s not right. It would break my heart.
The .357 Magnum’s cylinder is full, my last six bullets, but I only need two.
Good night, my boy
This world doesn’t deserve you anyway.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
Thank you for taking the time to read Six Bullets. If you enjoyed the story, it would be wonderful if you could leave a review on the Amazon product page. Reviews might not matter much to the big-name authors, but they can really help the small guys to grow their readership.
Also, you can check out www.jeremybatesbooks.com for info on my other novels and novellas.
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