by AJ Powers
To Clay’s surprise, Megan’s calming, sisterly words had disarmed him. It didn’t change how pissed off he was that he, once again, made such a foolish mistake, but it did suppress his anger enough to see the forest through the trees, giving him a shot of optimism he so desperately needed. Clay was indeed no stranger to long expeditions without a map, and he was confident that they would find some fortune during the rest of the trip. But it would be a whole lot easier to plan with the map.
Clay forced a quick smile at his sister, which was all the thanks she needed. “All right,” he said. “Let’s keep moving. I know we keep heading west on this road for quite a while before it swings north. A few miles after that should be a small town. I had planned on us stopping there for a quick lunch and scavenge before continuing north, but I think it might just have to be our pit stop for the night.”
Megan gestured ahead, “Lead the way, little brother.”
****
With nearly an hour before sunset, the minute, rural town came into view. Thankfully, they managed to steer clear of unwanted travel companions, and as they got further from the campsite, the snow became easier to negotiate, increasing their speed.
As they walked into what Clay could only assume was downtown, he laughed as he looked around. “I’ve seen small towns before, but this one might take the cake.”
Megan looked to the left: a mediocre strip mall, a gas station and strangely enough, some sort of war memorial. To the right: a few older brick buildings of various retail shops—mostly antiques and other trinket stores with a Subway plopped right in the middle of them all. Beyond the small town, no matter which way they looked, were towering grain silos, several of which were crumpled or leaning over.
“Yeaaaaah, this is pretty small,” Megan added.
“Pretty small…” Clay mocked. “I’ve seen intersections in Fort Worth bigger than this.”
Megan chuckled.
Before getting started on their search, curiosity had gotten the best of Clay, and he walked toward the war memorial. Recognizing the jet as an F-4 Phantom and the helicopter as a UH-1 “Huey”, Clay quickly pegged it as a Vietnam Memorial.
The flying war machines, which looked like toys from the road, appeared to be life-size as he and Megan got closer. Their father had served aboard the USS Harry S. Truman arming F-18s. Though he never got behind the throttle himself, the man loved avionics. Clay spent many nights helping his old man assemble scale models of various military jets, listening as he talked about what each one could do and how they were used in war. He even had a plastic A-10 Warthog hanging from his rearview mirror in his squad car. Bittersweet memories.
As Clay walked toward the Huey, he saw three metal statues of U.S. soldiers bravely charging into battle. With one hand pointing toward the road, and the other tightly gripping a 1911, a Lieutenant led the way as two men behind him followed, clutching to their M16s.
Whoever had sculpted the statues had managed to capture both valor and fear in the expression of all three men. Each one of their rust-stained faces seemed to tell a story of their own. It was beautiful.
A plaque in front of the soldiers read:
Success is not final; failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.
Winston Churchill
Beneath the quote it said:
In memory of Lt. Franklin Fontaine Jr. Husband. Father. Son. Gave his life to save those in his charge. February 1, 1968
It hardly seemed to matter now, but Clay whispered a thank you to the late Franklin Fontaine Jr. for his dedicated service to this country.
As Clay and Megan left the memorial, another plaque caught Clay’s eye. It was a list of people, groups, and businesses that had contributed to the erection of the memorial. The only name on the first line was:
Mayor Franklin Fontaine Sr.
Clay also whispered a thanks to the Mayor for the sacrifice of giving up his son as he left the memorial to search the town.
With daylight running out, Clay and Megan covered as much ground as they could. Unfortunately, the entire strip mall had long been picked clean. However, as night arrived, Megan spotted an old fire station out the back door of a liquor store.
“What do you think?” Megan asked.
“Looks good to me.”
Chapter 35
Clay’s feet had already swung off the bed and his hand reached for his rifle before he had fully woken up. The shattering glass sounded as if it had come from downstairs. Without thinking, he swiftly walked across the bunkroom with his rifle at the ready. “Stay here and get your gun out,” he said to Megan, keeping his eyes on the door he approached.
He walked out into hallway and squinted; the orange glow of the windows from the rising sun wreaked havoc on his tired eyes. A crisp, clear dawn was a sight to behold these days, but at that moment in time, Clay would have given anything for yet another drab, lifeless sunrise. He tried to blink away the blinding radiance, but to no avail. The best he could do was keep his vision low, and be ready to fire at the first set of feet he saw.
He heard footsteps echoing around the cavernous engine bay, but when he stepped off the stairs, it was empty. The sound came from the kitchen. An L-shaped hallway was all that separated Clay from the intruder. Quietly, he moved to the corner of the hallway and put his back up against the wall. He waited and listened as he continued to hear the footsteps. He felt a tinge of relief when he realized it was just one person.
One person could still do a whole lot of harm though, and the truth of the matter was he couldn’t know for sure that there weren’t more. He needed to be smart. He needed to get the drop on the burglar and assess the situation before they had a chance to react. Based on what he could hear, the individual was on the left side of the kitchen.
With his heart thumping and every muscle sufficiently constricted, Clay began the silent countdown to make his move. Three…two…one.
He pushed off with his right foot as he pivoted his body around the left. The spin transitioned seamlessly into a sprint as he made his way down the short, carpeted corridor. As he stormed into the kitchen, Clay planted his foot on the linoleum tile and twisted his body to the left.
“Don’t move!” he shouted before he realized his socks had kept him moving long after he wanted to stop. The whole sequence had been a blur and before he realized what was happening, Clay had fallen to the ground, his back taking the brunt of the impact.
With a thousand thoughts going through his head, the only one he could hear was, Is the intruder armed? Then it was, Are you really going to go out like this? Slipping on cheap kitchen flooring? Before Clay could snap out of his daze, he heard snorting laughter come from the direction of the intruder.
Clay looked up and saw Megan covering her mouth with her hand, her eyes squinting as she snickered at the sight of her brother on the floor. Next to her head was an open cabinet, and there was a pile of broken dishes at her feet.
Megan’s attempts to corral her amusement were not going well. “That was very Schwarzenegger of you there, little brother,” Megan said, fighting back more laughter as she stepped over the larger chunks of porcelain to help Clay up.
Clay winced as he took in a sharp breath. Finally finding his feet, he looked over at Megan and shook his head, “Do you want to get shot? Because this is the kind of thing that will get you shot.”
Megan leaned back, as if Clay’s breath was offensive, and gave him a snarky look. “You’re one to talk, Rambo. If I had been who you thought I might be, you would be the one on the ground right now.”
Clay rolled his eyes. “Seriously, Megan…”
Megan’s laughter finally waned. Sincerity struck her voice. “Look, Clay, I know it’s been a rough couple of days for you…I woke up early and you seemed to be sleeping pretty soundly, so I thought I would get a jump start on the day by looking around downstairs while you caught a few extra minutes of sleep.” Her sincerity morphed back to comedy. “And all was well until I opened that cabinet and g
ot blitzkrieged by some cheap china.”
Even though he wasn’t in a laughing mood, Megan’s comment caused Clay to chuckle. He knew his sister meant well, even if her execution had been less than stellar. Of course, Megan was right, he had no room to comment on execution based on this morning’s performance.
“Well, while I do appreciate the extra sleep, if it’s all the same, let’s just go ahead and stick together in the future, okay?”
“Fine by me.” She noticed Clay still held onto his side. “Anything hurt? Besides your pride, of course?” she jabbed.
“I think something might’ve pulled when my legs decided to keep going after the rest of my body had stopped,” he replied as he absentmindedly rubbed the side of his abdomen.
“You going to be able to move today?”
“Believe me, I’ve traveled with much worse.” Clay looked over at Megan’s backpack sitting on the counter next to the sink. “Find anything good?” he asked, nodding toward the open pack.
“A few things here and there. Found a few needles and a couple of bags of IV tubes in the bus out in the bay. I think the thing had been decommissioned or something beforehand.”
“Why do you say that?”
“No gurney for one. Everything was gone, but it was still clean, which I find very unlikely if someone had torn it apart looking for drugs. I mean, even the defib was missing. I just happened to find the needles wedged between one of the seats and the wall, and the tubes were stashed in one of the drawers.” Megan looked around the disheveled kitchen, “But, besides that, it’s been slim pickin’s. Oh! I did find a sample bottle of dish soap underneath the sink just before your epic fail,” she added, grinning ear to ear.
Clay sighed. “I suppose you’ve already decided that I won’t be living this down for a little while, huh?”
Megan bellowed a fake, sinister laugh as she walked over to her backpack. “You have no idea, little brother.” She gave the zippers on her pack a quick tug and then slung the strap over her shoulder. “There’s just another room or two I need to check out, so while I am doing that, why don’t you go get packed up and meet me back down here in a few minutes?”
“All right, sounds good.”
As Clay gathered up his things in the bunkroom, he suddenly found himself laughing over the events of the last few minutes. Pushing aside the thought that he could have accidentally shot Megan or that he could have been killed had Megan actually been an intruder, the whole thing was pretty comical. Even though a lot of things could have gone wrong, it ended with merely a bruised ego and a lot of laughter—the latter of the two was a welcomed change.
The final two rooms Megan searched yielded several useful items including a pair of utility scissors, a full box of antiseptic wipes, and various sized trauma pads. Already, the day was off to a much better start than the previous day.
The shops across the road were filled with mostly useless items. Megan found a half dozen travel-sized sewing kits and a vintage scarf. They both found coats that were in much better shape than the ones they wore, boosting their moral that much more.
While Megan continued to shop around the antique store, Clay ventured up the stairs into the apartment above. The home’s décor was too similar not to have been the owner’s place. Boxes of inventory overpowered the dining room, a gaudy chandelier suspended just above the small round table. The boxes spilled into the living room where a bright orange floral couch—a design that could have only been conceived in the 70’s—sat up against one wall, a small tube TV entombed in oak sitting on the opposite wall. In front of the couch stood a single TV tray with an empty plate collecting dust on top.
It would take hours, if not a day or more, to thoroughly pick through everything in the cramped apartment, and since Clay was not expecting to find much, he focused his efforts to just a few areas.
When he walked into the bedroom, it was more of the same. A mess of boxes and random junk strewn about. The room was a wreck except for the beautiful dresser just beneath the only window. Besides accumulating dust over the years, the antique piece of furniture was immaculate. At the very center of the dresser was a flag box, picture frames flanking either side. On one side was a black and white photo of a good-looking man in an Army uniform, sergeant stripes sewn to his arm. The other photo was the same man, his arm locked around a beautiful woman wearing all white, their smiles as bright as the sun.
Investigating the dresser more, Clay found a shoebox in one of the bigger drawers. Max’s things was scrawled across the top with a thick, black marker. Clay opened it up to see personal photos from Europe, letters exchanged between the man and his wife, newspaper articles, and multiple medals tucked away at the bottom.
In the next drawer, Clay found an old .25 caliber pistol and two boxes of ammo that looked older than him. The pistol was tiny, and felt terrible in Clay’s hands, but he wasn’t about to pass up a perfectly good gun and ammo—someone back in Liberty would feel slightly more at ease having the sidearm on their hip.
Clay set the pistol and ammo on top of the dresser and kept searching. Jackpot! A box of .45 ACP. Sadly, the accompanying pistol was nowhere to be found. But it was no matter, Clay was thrilled to have some additional cartridges for his newly reacquired M1911.
Megan joined Clay upstairs as he finished up his search. In addition to the gun and ammo, Clay found a bottle of Benadryl, Ibuprofen, and a box of bandages. Megan spotted an automatic blood pressure cuff buried beneath a pile of coupons. While they both agreed it was unlikely that the thing still worked, it was worth grabbing with the understanding that if they ran out of space, it would be among the first things to discard.
“Find anything else down there?” Clay asked.
“Yeah, actually. A couple of things. It’s funny, I almost told you we shouldn’t waste our time with this place, but it’s not been half bad.”
Clay shook his bag, the sound of the ammunition jiggling in their boxes caused Megan to tilt her head—it was a sound she was very familiar with. “Nice! What caliber?”
“Twenty-five and forty-five.”
“We got anything with us that shoots it?”
“Just this,” Clay said as he held up the gun, its size even humorous to Megan. “But I’m not complaining.”
Megan made fists with her hands to get the blood circulating and restore feeling to her fingertips. “Not bad at all,” she said, slapping Clay on the back. “So, are you about ready to hit the road?”
“Yeah, I think I’m set.”
As they walked across the tiny apartment, Clay suddenly stopped, his gaze stuck on the window.
“What do you see?” Megan asked, a touch of panic in her voice.
Clay held his finger up to his mouth and signaled for Megan to stay put. He tiptoed toward the window and knelt behind it, ensuring he hadn’t been seeing things.
He hadn’t.
Leaning his .300 blackout up against the wall, Clay slowly unzipped his pack and retrieved the M6 Scout rifle. The oddly designed gun looked even stranger when folded up. Clay unfolded the rifle, leaving it slightly broken. He reached into his bag and retrieved both a .410 shell and a .22lr cartridge, holding them in his hand as he debated on which to use. The .410 would improve his chance of success at that distance, which was a serious concern for a gun Clay had never fired before. But, with only four shells from Kohler, and two in his random ammo bag he always kept with him, there wasn’t much ammo to spare. Nevertheless, with his shot demanding perfection with the .22, Clay didn’t want to risk exposing his and Megan’s position and come up empty-handed. The small shotgun shell was the way to go.
Clay inserted the .410 shell into the barrel and quietly snapped the gun closed before leaning it up against the wall next to his ARAK-21. Opening the window was no easy task, especially quietly, but all he needed was a few inches.
He picked up the Scout rifle and rested the barrel on the rotted windowsill. He gently eased the hammer back as he took aim.
“Clay,” Megan whi
spered, “what are you doing?”
Clay remained silent as his fingers wrapped around the strange trigger on the bottom of the gun.
The rifle bucked up from the windowsill as the .410’s blast filled the room. It was louder than he had expected, but still pretty quiet.
“Clay!” Megan exclaimed, trying to keep her voice at a whisper. “What did you just shoot?”
He stared out the window for another moment before turning back to his sister, a smile on his face. “Our dinner for tonight.”
Chapter 36
“I think she’s waking up,” a woman’s voice said from the darkness.
“Good. Send someone to get Shelton. He wanted to be notified as soon as she was conscious,” a man responded.
Silence.
Then pain.
Dusty’s eyes opened to a blurry world filled with blobby people walking to and fro, paying her no attention as she labored to breathe. It wasn’t that her lungs didn’t work, but with each drawn breath came the sensation of an elephant tap dancing on her ribs.
After hearing the hushed murmurs of several different conversations around the room, there was no question where she was. How she got there, on the other hand, was a different story—one she wanted to know.
