Shoot Like a Girl: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (The SHTF Series Book 2)

by L. L. Akers

  The mainstream news didn’t report that really bad things actually happened every single day and probably somewhere very close to them. When they did report on something, they acted as though it wasn’t commonplace…that it was bizarre that it had actually happened at all.

  The church helped with the façade by making them believe if they clutched their bibles, prayed hard and often, and behaved like good Christian, and followed the ten commandments…that they’d be protected from the really bad things that went on.

  The prison systems had a hand in it, too. They were overcrowded, thus releasing convicted felons way too soon just to make room for new ones, that would be released too soon, too. They told the public these men were reformed.

  Pfft.

  She’d bit into all that narrative…hook, line and sinker. Elmer constantly told her she lived a life of delusion; that she needed to wake up to what was happening in the world all around them. He had warned her that she needed to always keep the doors locked, the windows sealed tight, and carry her gun with her.

  She really never thought she’d ever need that gun.

  All her life, or for as long as she could remember, she believed every man had good in him. That no one was truly a monster deep down. She’d believed that when people did really bad things, it was usually a direct reaction to a really bad thing that had happened to them first—and the news was just not reporting on that part.

  In her mind, as long as she herself never did a really bad thing to someone else, they wouldn’t want to do a really bad thing to her.

  I was so, so wrong.

  The man standing in front of her was truly evil, and she, nor Elmer, had done anything to him to bring this hell upon them.

  I lied to him.

  That much was true.

  But, if the man before her had any moral conscience at all, he’d realize she lied not to save herself, or to hurt him, but to save Olivia and Gabby, and maybe Emma, too, from his clutches.

  Surely she would be forgiven for one tiny lie when it was purely for unselfish reasons.

  Nope.

  She’d already pled her case; she’d admitted it was Mei in the grave. She’d relived the horrible scene, trying not to cast any of the blame on him and the fools that rode with him when she’d told the story of how tortured the young woman had been; of how recklessly she’d taken her own life.

  But Trunk had been merciless.

  His plans on what would happen next were the stuff of nightmares.

  A chill ran down her back and she gripped herself tighter, squeezing her eyes shut and wishing it was a dream she could wake up from—wake up beside Elmer and hug him tight while the old fool snorted and snored and farted beside her in their bed.

  She swallowed down a sob and cleared her throat.

  Trunk glanced suspiciously over his shoulder at her, hunkered down in the short, wooden Adirondack chair. “You’re not planning on running off, right? I don’t want to have to tie you up, Grandma.”

  Edith grit her teeth. She didn’t want to even answer this demon. He didn’t deserve her words. But she didn’t want to be tied up either. “It would take me five minutes just to get out of this chair. I think you could catch me if I take a wild hair to pull a runner,” she answered sarcastically.

  Trunk quickly whipped around to face her. “Whoa, Edith! Finding your spunk, are ya? That’s good. It’s easier to deal with pain when you’re angry.”

  “You don’t have to do this. Not any of it. Please, just take anything you want and leave.”

  Trunk clicked his teeth together. “Oh, but I do. And, I will. I am a man of my word, Edith.”

  He looked around, putting eyes on his guys who were across the yard messing with the backpack-sized solar charger and the cell phone. He pointed to them. “You see Backfire and Smalls over there doing exactly what I told them to do?”

  Edith jerked her head up in a tiny nod.

  “They only do that because I’m a mean motherfucker,” he said with a cheesy smile.

  He shrugged. “I’m also fair. If I threaten to do something, and then I don’t do it…they got no reason to believe what I say. I need them to always believe me. To believe in me. I gave you a chance, Edith. I gave you a warning. I told you exactly what I was going to do if you lied to me again. Yet, you did it anyway. You did what you had to do, so I gotta do what I gotta do. I am a man of my word,” he finished, with a big grin.

  He turned from her, but not before giving her his now famous worn-out wink that turned her stomach. With ferocity, he stabbed the shovel deep into the dirt.

  Edith squeezed her eyes shut tight and gave prayer one more try.

  31

  Tullymore & Grayson’s Group

  Tarra edged around the endcap of an aisle, taking a quick peek and then swiftly pulling back, to be sure it was clear.

  Tucker had let her take point without argument. He was no idiot. He was a man who better handled a fight with his hands and feet, not guns, although it was getting more and more comfortable in his hand every minute. But Tarra was clearly more experienced than any man there.

  The store held an ominous feel to it, and she wondered why no one at all was here. Surely other people just like them were out looking for food and supplies… why not here?

  The group had left the long guns behind, choosing only to carry their pistols into the store. Slowly, they crept from aisle to aisle from the front-side, peeking down each one to be sure they were empty before going to the next. Just as they’d thought, the store had been ransacked. So far, there was nothing but empty shelves left behind. Definitely nothing in the baby aisle; or anywhere else so far…

  But they still needed to make it to the back of the store and check there.

  Suddenly, Tarra stopped, and listened.

  “What is it?” Tucker whispered, just behind her.

  “Shhh,” she warned him.

  She held her fist in the air, telling them all to stop and be still.

  Turning to Tucker, she whispered, “Do you hear that?”

  Tucker’s eyes darted from left to right while he stood stock-still.

  Finally, they all heard it.

  Laughter.

  She held up a fist and crept forward one more aisle.

  The men stood still.

  She eased up to the empty shelves and stole a quick look around the corner. She quietly gasped, pulling back quickly. She jerked her head to Tucker, and twirled one finger in the air, indicating for him and the other guys to back up; turn around and retreat.

  Tucker ignored her instructions, and pushed past her. “What is it?” he asked.

  The laughter stopped just as Tucker’s head poked around the aisle.

  A shot rang out.

  “Run!” Tarra yelled. She turned and ran past Frank and Mickey, leaving Tucker behind her, and headed for the doors.

  A thunder of boots hitting the floor, metal ringing, and strange men’s yells rang after them.

  She looked over her shoulder to be sure the guys were following her, and ran faster when another deafening shot split the air, echoing through the empty store. Mickey and Frank were right on her heels, but Tucker tripped and fell, falling behind. She saw his gun clatter to the floor, sliding away from him.

  Shit!

  Tarra slid to a stop and turned around, just as four guys popped out at the end of the aisle they’d been spied at. Each of them wore a bandana of the same color somewhere on their body. Either on their head, tied around their wrist, or hanging from a pocket.

  She gripped her gun tightly with both hands and lifted her arms—making sure to keep her elbows unlocked—and took aim. Mickey and Frank ran on by.

  “Stop,” she yelled at the strangers.

  They slid to an abrupt stop, twenty feet from Tucker who was trying to find his feet to get up. He looked over his shoulder to see the men bearing down on him with four guns aimed at his head. A glance at his own gun told him it was too far to reach in time. He turned back to Tarra, a look of horr
or on his face.

  Quickly, he put his hands up, freezing on his knees, facing her.

  Tarra took a chance to glance behind her, hoping to see Mickey and Frank stop too, with their own guns, backing her up. But the sorry-assed weasels were still running, looking over their own shoulders in terror at the group that pursued them. A moment later, they turned and ran out the front door.

  She was outnumbered.

  The young men—barely more than teenagers—surveyed Tarra, undressing her with their eyes, and one in particular had her captured and bedded down in his mind already. He licked his lips as his eyes rolled over her chest and hips. “Put the gun down, lady,” the perverted gang-rat dressed in a dirty once-white wife-beater said. His arms were covered in ink, from shoulders to wrists. “Clearly, you are outnumbered, and you is in our store.”

  Tarra shook her head. She wasn’t stupid. “Not a chance. Just let my friend up, and we’ll be on our way.”

  The gang-rat did a little shimmy with his shoulders. “You look hot handling that gun, chica. Just saying…”

  Tarra glared at him. “Not interested, asshole.”

  He angrily grumbled to his friends who nodded their heads. None of them looked any friendlier—or smarter—to her. One wore a pair of past-the-knees baggy basketball shorts with a matching jersey. Another wore a red shirt with the words, “Brown Lives Matter” printed across it, and the last one wore no shirt at all, but his many tattoos left no skin untouched.

  To Tarra, WifeBeater said, “How do we know your other homies didn’t take anything?”

  “Clearly,” she said, sarcastically repeating his words. “We didn’t take anything. You’ve got everything stacked up in the back, guarding it like Fort Knox. I saw it there. How could we have taken it?”

  WifeBeater nodded and looked to his friends again, then back at Tarra. “A’ight. You give us your guns, and we’ll let you and your friend go.”

  Tarra looked at her gun. It was a gift, and she cherished it. She had plenty of pistols…but this one was from her husband. She wasn’t giving it up. “Not happening. This gun was a gift from my hubs. You’ll have to pry it out of my cold, dead hands to get it.”

  WifeBeater turned his own firearm sideways and pointed it at the back of Tucker’s head. He smiled contemptuously. “This White Bread your husband? Doesn’t look like much of a man on his knees here.”

  Tarra flinched as she saw his finger on the trigger. One tiny squeeze, and Tucker was dead. She’d be wearing his brains. She considered the question. Within seconds, any of the four misguided hoods could blow Tucker’s head off.

  Was it best to say yes?

  Or would they try to kill the competition?

  Maybe best to say no?

  Tucker stared into Tarra’s eyes with a haunted look, as though it were already over, knowing his life might hinge on her answer. He took a deep breath, squeezed his lips together, and slowly closed his eyes.

  32

  The Three E’s

  Edith’s prayers must have fallen on deaf ears, she thought, as Trunk slowly pulled her to her feet—his gentle manner with her was in complete contrast to the terrifying plans he had in mind.

  “Time to pay the piper, Granny.”

  Edith begged, “Please, you don’t have to do this. Just take our food and go,” she cried. She dug her feet in, trying to move away from the grave, now freshly dug out.

  Trunk laughed. “No, no, no… Edith. We’re not ready for that. The sun’s not cooperating. Better pray for rain,” he said, and laughed, pulling her with him.

  They were charging a cell phone to be used in their evil plans, but the backpack charger the gang had with them was slow to charge without full sun. However, it was charging, albeit slowly. Edith shuddered to think of what would happen when it was at full strength.

  Trunk held her elbow in his hand, as though he were politely helping her across the street, and Edith shuffled along beside him, her hands still tied together. “Just this way, Edith.”

  They rounded the corner of her house where his boys had a fire raging. The chickens pecked and scratched around the dirt as though they didn’t have a care in the world.

  “Run, girls,” Edith whispered under her breath.

  Smalls, the great big behemoth of a man, was holding a metal pole, similar to a fire poker, but shorter, over the fire. In his huge hand, it looked more like a pencil. The end of it burned a hot, cherry red. At their approach, he looked at Edith, his eyes moving over her stricken face. His own face was ashen. Pleading eyes moved to Trunk. “You sure about this, Boss?”

  “Shut up,” Trunk snapped.

  But Backfire had no qualms about what they were about to do to a frail old lady. A bundle of rope was coiled up in one hand. He patted the back of a wooden chair they’d pulled near the fire. It was the match to the Adirondack chair she’d sat in next to the grave. It was slanted, so that one would sit way back in it; it was made for relaxing.

  She wouldn’t be relaxing any time soon.

  “What’s going on?” she asked frantically, her head swiveling from Smalls to Trunk and then to Backfire, who held a frozen smile, reminding her of the Joker from Batman. But she knew what was happening. She’d been told. She was in denial that it would really happen. Holding out hope that somehow, it wouldn’t.

  Trunk waved to the chair. “Sit down, Edith.” Gone was his charming façade. Pure evil oozed out instead as his mask finally slipped.

  Edith shuffled over to the chair and perched on the edge. Trunk put his hand on her shoulder and she quickly slid into the deep seat, leaning uncomfortably back. Backfire wrapped the rope around Edith’s middle, round and round, tying it in a tight knot behind the chair.

  Trunk held out his hand and waved his fingers in the air. “Gimme your belt, Smalls,” he ordered.

  Using one hand, Smalls undid his belt and slid it off, and reluctantly tossed it to Trunk, not able to turn and look at Edith; he kept his eyes cast down on the metal stick roasting over the fire.

  Trunk held up the leather strap to Edith. “I warned you. I told you exactly what would happen if you lied to me. I’ve got to follow through now.”

  A shiver ran down her spine.

  Trunk continued, “From my experience, I highly recommend you bite this. But it’s up to you. I won’t force it into your mouth.” He stood in front of her and waited.

  Edith looked from the belt, to the tool that Smalls held in the fire, and her heart thumped, taking off like a locomotive. Her eyes watered and her hands shook as she gripped them together, as though still in prayer.

  But prayer hadn’t worked.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and opened her mouth.

  Trunk bent over and slipped the belt between her teeth. “That’s a good girl,” he mumbled.

  “Smells like chicken, Boss,” Backfire said, and laughed.

  “Shut up,” Smalls screamed at him. “Have some fucking respect for her. She’s taking it better than you would.”

  Trunk gave them both a silencing glare while Edith screamed through her clamped teeth—her wails bloodcurdlingly quiet, but no less awful than if at full volume—her teeth were leaving deep impressions in the belt.

  Her chickens scattered, squawking as though it were them being held over the fire.

  She writhed in agony, her head swinging left to right. She felt like her entire body was on fire and like her hair was standing on its end. The pain was so deep and hot, it moved past all levels of red and felt absolutely white. Her head frantically rolled back and forth as Trunk held the steaming branding iron to her upper arm, the skin sizzling under it like bacon.

  “Hold on, Miss Edith, it’s almost done,” Smalls said under his breath, and then gritted his own teeth. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of her skin cooking, and squeezed her shoulder in support. “There, it’s done, Trunk. Stop.”

  Trunk held the hot metal tightly to Edith’s arm as it melted her skin like butter, barely sparing Smalls a sidelong glance. “Really, dude? Man the
fuck up.”

  The tiny bit of kindness from Smalls was lost on Edith anyway. She couldn’t hear a thing. She was deaf to the world as the red-hot metal burned through layers of her already-papery skin. Tears cascaded down her face like angry twin rivers. She worked hard to not fight the men, or her binds, afraid of what might be worse than this, if she angered Trunk further.

  Smalls and Backfire each kept one strong hand on her shoulders—one gentle, and one rough—pinning her to the chair, but it wasn’t necessary. Not only was she tied to it, but she couldn’t have got up even if she’d tried, so complete was her torture. All she wanted to do was curl up and die.

  She sucked in a huge lungful of air around the belt, panting as she filled her lungs, and howled once more and this time screamed loudly, her howl taking the form of a word… the only thing that would soothe her now, “Elllllllll…merrr!”

  33

  Tullymore & Grayson’s Group

  “Give it up, boys. If you make us pull, we’ll put ya down.”

  Tarra startled at the serious voice who echoed Marshall Raylan without a hint of humor, and risked a glance over her shoulder. A group of four men flanked the front of the store, coming closer every second. Three of the men carried rifles, sights already trained on the gang. They walked hunkered over, fingers hovering over triggers, as though stalking prey.

  The owner of the voice didn’t carry a rifle; he wore two pistols, one strapped to each hip. As he sauntered slowly through the broken glass toward Tarra, his hands hovered light and easy over his guns. His gait was slow and methodical, as though he didn’t have a care in the world. With his ball cap pulled down low, wearing a torn Winthrop University T-shirt with a ballistic vest over it, khaki cargo-pants, square black-framed glasses, and a closely shaved beard, he could’ve been out for a leisurely hike—other than the vest.