by Wayne Mee
“What’s up, Mr. Chisolm?”, Lynn asked.
Kaream didn’t like Lynn. He knew she hated the Old Man, but she was always polite to his face. They’d found her drunk in the park a couple of days after IT had happened. At first the Old Man had kept her tied up. But she’d pleaded and smiled and said she’d do anything if he’d untie her --- anything at all. The next day the Old Man had put her to the test.
They had come across an old woman pushing a shopping cart down the main street. She was talking to herself and paid no attention to them when they stopped. The cart was full of nick-knacks taken from the fancy boutiques. The Old Man had pumped a shell into his automatic, removed the clip, and handed it to Lynn.
“Shoot her and I’ll untie you,” he’d said.
Lynn had looked at the heavy gun with her beady ferret-like eyes.
“You only have one round, girl. Shoot me and my man here will gut you like a fish and leave you for the gulls.”
Lynn had smiled, taken the gun, pressed it against the crazy woman’s ear and pulled the trigger.
Benny, Roland and Terry had been baptized in the same wild fire. Only Kaream hadn’t been forced to use the Old Man’s gun. Kaream was proud of that. He was the muscle, the Old Man the brains. Together they made a good pair.
Now, standing there in the quiet street, Chisolm pointed at the two vans parked opposite his plant. “Strangers come calling. Let’s give them a warm welcome.”
Lynn drew a .38 from the front of her jeans while Benny ran back for his shotgun. A moment later all four of them were walking down the street.
Josh and Matthew Bridger were in the front part of the Lobster Bar. The rest of the people they’d freed were crowded in the back kitchen. Brad was outside by the large stone fireplace. He’d told Billy to back the tow-truck up a side alley opposite restaurant. Though he couldn’t see her, Josh knew Tina
would be in the chair behind the cab. Eddy was out there somewhere behind Chisolm and his motley crew.
Matthew Bridger, anxiously checking Terry’s rifle, suddenly leaned close to Josh. “What do you have planned? Call out for them to surrender? Shoot them where they stand? What?”
Josh looked into his tanned face, not quite sure if he liked what he saw. “We’ll try the first one. If that doesn’t work, we’ll use what force is necessary.”
Bridger seemed about to argue when a man’s voice interrupted. “Excuse me, mister, but if there’s going to shooting, I wouldn’t mind shooting back.”
Josh looked around and saw one of the men who’d been tied up in the plant. He was tall and bearded and still a bit shaky from his ordeal, but he had a look in his eye that couldn’t be denied.
Josh held out his shotgun. “You ever used one of these?”
Taking the gun, the man smiled warmly. “Mister, I’ve been duck hunting ever since I can remember!”
Josh passed over the belt of shells and drew his Beretta.
“I’d like one of those.” This came from Bridger’s daughter, Heather. She stood in the kitchen doorway, her expression one of suppressed anger.
Josh looked at the deadly instrument in his hand, then back to the young woman. Something deep in his gut told him that the Beretta and Ms. Bridger had a good deal in common. He thought of the small .22 Backup he had strapped to his ankle and lied.
“Sorry, I’m all sold out.”
She walked towards him, a knowing smile on her pretty but cold face. “You’re either being chauvinistic or gallant; either way I still want a weapon.”
“Here, take mine,” Jessie said, handing here his .22 target pistol. “I’ve got my bow.”
Heather Bridger accepted the light gun with a formal nod. “I thank you, fair archer. May your bolts fly straight and true.”
Jessie blushed. “No sweat.”
Brad appeared at the side door. “They’re coming, Josh. Walking right down the bloody street!”
“Armed?”
“To the teeth! They must have spotted the vans!”
Josh frowned. He’d hoped to catch them off guard. He’d been stupid not to hide the vans. Now it was too late.
“Where’s Flame?”
Brad shrugged. “I thought she was in here.”
Josh swore, then turned to the boys. Jessie held up one hand. “I know, Dad. ‘Stay here with the dogs’.”
Josh shifted his gaze to Bridger. “See that they do.” He nodded to the bearded man holding his shotgun, then followed Brad out the side door.
“For Christ sake, Roland, hold the damned thing still! You want me to cut my fucking wrists?!”
Roland didn’t really give a shit if Terry cut his throat. All he wanted was the pain in his balls to go away from when Flame had kneed him.
“Bitch!”, Roland muttered. “Suckered me good, she did. But the Old man will fix her good!”
“Hold the fucking knife still or you’ll fix us both!” Terry himself wasn’t exactly having one of his better days. But he’d gotten Roland to fumble the switchblade out of his back pocket and spring the blade. Now, if the drooling idiot could only hold the fucking thing still he’d soon have his hands free!
Terry sawed away blindly, his shoulder screaming from straining around the telephone pole. His hands were sticky and wet; blood probably, but it didn’t matter. What did matter was getting some fucking payback!
Suddenly the rope parted and his hands were free. Taking the knife from Roland, Terry carefully cut through the loop around their throats. A minute later both he and Roland were limping towards the parked vans.
“Why here?”, Roland panted. “Inside the plant we...”
“We’d be caught for sure. Trapped like rats. Besides,” Terry grinned, pointing at the rifle in the gun rack inside the white van. “Now we got ourselves some firepower!” He climbed in and grabbed Josh’s .30 -.30, the John Wayne Special. Searching drawers for shells he came across Snake’s massive .44 Red Hawk.
“Jesus H. Kee-rist! These guys don’t fool around!” He handed Roland the .30 -.30 and picked up the heavy handgun. Checking that both weapons were loaded, they shoved extra shell in their pockets and stepped out into the street. They were fifty yards away from the Lobster Bar. Another fifty beyond that they saw Chisolm and his three followers moving towards them. Terry raised the Red Hawk above his head and fired. The sound shattered the silence, sending a flock of gulls screaming into the sky.
“Hey! Mr. Chisolm!”, Terry yelled. “Watch your ass! Some bastards have taken over your plant!”
Chisolm stopped in his tracks. A moment later the four of them scattered for the nearest cover. Lynn ducked behind the rusting remains of an old truck. Kaream followed the Old Man across the street and into a maze of stacked lobster traps. Benny made for a weathered boathouse.
The Red Hawk’s loud explosion caused both Josh and Brad to duck down beside the outdoor fireplace. “What the...?”, Brad gasped.
Josh was already peering over the soot-blackened stones. “It’s the two we tied up.Both have guns.”
“Great!”, Brad growled. “Now we’re caught in a bloody crossfire!”
“Maybe not. They don’t know where we are yet.”
“Ya, but now we don’t know where Chisolm and his bunch are either!”
Josh attempted a smile. “Then let’s go find out.”
Brad groaned. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
Through a crack in the ancient planking of the boathouse Flame could see Lynn, the woman from Chisholm's group, crouching behind a rusting truck. Flame cursed herself for not bringing a rifle. Something like Eddy’s .303 with its big scope would stop that bitch cold! She hefted her stubby Riot gun. Up close, it was a real ass-kicker, spraying buckshot like water from an elephant’s trunk; but for any real distance it sucked the bag big-time! She thought about using her Smith & Wesson, but handguns weren’t a hell of a lot better for distance either. Now if this was a movie, then she could easily nail the bitch right between the eyes, but then in the movies a mouse named Mickey walked, talke
d and wore white gloves!
She was about to try the shot anyway when Benny ran through the boathouse doorway. Feeling like a spider waiting in her web, a cold smile spread across Flame’s pretty features. Silently she watched from the shadows as Benny fumbled his cautious way towards her. Her only movement was her thumb flicking off the safety.
Breathing hard, Benny moved deeper into the old building. A rotting fishingboat squatted on rusting rails. Moving beyond it, Benny came within three feet of Flame. Stepping out of the darkness, she brought the stock of her Riot gun up in an arc that connected with the side of Benny’s head. Spinning around from the force of the blow, he careened into the boat and collapsed. Flame tossed his shotgun deeper into the shadows but kept the Trooper’s .38. Without a backward glance, she moved towards the open doors.
Terry slammed the driver’s door of the white van. “Bloody asshole took the keys!”
Roland remained silent, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the empty street. Terry wasn’t the most cool headed of fellas at the best of times, and this was far from the ‘best of times’. In fact, in Groin-Sore Roland’s humble opinion, ol’ Terrible Terry seemed about ready to go completely batshit!
“Any sign of the muthafuckers?”
“No,” Roland said, secretly relieved.
Terry kicked the side of the van. “Well, I aint gonna sit here with my fuckin’ finger up my ass! I’m goin’ after ‘em!”
Roland spit into the street. “Don’t think that’s such a good idea, Terry. Best wait for the Old Man to make his move.”
“Fuck the Old Man! First I’m gonna get that bitch that sicked her dog on me, then I’m gonna do that cold-eyed fucker that’s leadin’ ‘em!”
Roland drolled, “Sure you are. But first you gotta find ‘em.”
Terry cocked Snake’s heavy gun. “I’ll find ‘em! You just cover my ass!”
“Aye-ya. I can do that , but I’ll be doing it from right here.”
Terry turned and glared at the taller man. For an instant he thought of putting a bullet in his smart-ass brain, but soon changed his mind when he saw the way Roland had the .30-.30 pointing --- right at the blood-soaked
towel stuffed down the front of Terry’s pants. Terry snorted and started out across the street. He tried to run, but the pain from his bleeding balls reduced his best efforts to a crippled shuffle.
Tina, leaning over the cab of the tow-truck, sighted down the long barrel of Earl’s old rifle. The dead farmer’s warning rang in her ears. ‘Careful now, it pulls a might to the left’. She shifted slightly to the right. Terry was now half way across the street. It was a long shot, something over a hundred yards, but if she didn’t fire now he’d soon reach the safety of Chisolm’s plant. Gently Tina squeezed the trigger.
From inside the Clam Bar, Kenneth saw Terry leave the van. “One’s coming this way!”
Matthew Bridger took one look and rushed out the door.
“Father!”, his daughter called, then she too ran outside. The boys were close behind her.
Bridger was moving into the open street, trying to get a clear shot at Terry. Just as he was raising his rifle, Tina’s shot rang out. She had compensated too much for the left drift and the shot went wide. Terry dove to the ground just the same. Bridger ran forward, firing as he went. Terry rolled as the slug kicked up a puff of dirt beside him. As he rolled he fired the heavy magnum. The third shot took Bridger in the leg. Heather screamed as her father went down, then bolted towards him. Brad moved to intercept her while, Josh ran at Terry, firing his Beretta. The 9 mm’s clip held fifteen rounds. Josh used up a fair number of them. When he reached Terry, three had struck his chest, one in the leg and one in the side of his head.
Roland, seeing Terry down in the street, began firing at Josh. The first bullet went wide. The second nicked Josh’s left forearm. Cursing, he snapped off two fast shots and dropped down behind Terry’s remains. Grabbing the dead body, he propped it up before him as a shield while he reloaded. Seeing Josh down made everyone who could fire at Roland. Standing between the two vans, Roland felt one hit him in the shoulder and one in his thigh. The one that entered his open mouth he never felt at all.
Seeing Roland fall, Josh sagged back himself, the pain in his left arm finally reaching his brain. Someone was calling his name. Looking around, he saw Jessie running towards him.
“Get back!”, he cried, but Jessie kept coming, the two dogs at his heels. Josh willed himself to rise and went to meet his son.
From her place behind the rusting truck, Lynn saw the two people in the middle of the road. She stood up and, holding the Trooper’s .38 with both hands, began firing. She had squeezed the trigger only twice when the blast of a shotgun drove her back against the truck. From the shadows the tall bearded man that had been chained in the plant cocked the second hammer of Josh’s Coach gun. It wasn’t needed.
Then Chisolm’s four by four began spinning up dirt as its over-large tires dug for traction. The heavy treads bit in and the truck leapt forward, heading directly for the group in the street. In the dust, Eddy suddenly appeared, firing at the truck racing away from him.
Inside, Kaream had the peddle to the metal while the Old Man leaned out the passenger window, his .45 waving wildly about as the truck bounced over the uneven road. Everyone started firing at once.
From the boathouse Flame pumped three shots into the truck as it raced by. The arm on the window side was red with blood. Her third shot blew the front tire. The four by four swerved, hit the bearded man square in the chest, knocked him up over the cab and kept on going. Brad drew his Glock 9 mm., but the light automatic jammed after the third shot. Casting it aside, he unslung his rifle and frantically worked the bolt. Beside him, Kenneth’s
target pistol coughed repeatedly. Just to his left, Heather Bridger stood in front of her father and emptied Jessie’s .22 at the charging truck. Ten yards further down the street, Josh joined the others firing at the speeding truck.
The four by four looked as though it had just passed through a war zone. Two tires now gone, the windshield full of holes, the radiator hissing steam, yet still the bullet riddled truck continued to close on the defiant group. Dead at the wheel, Kaream’s heavy boot kept the motor racing.
From the doorway of the Clam Bar, Gus fired both barrels of the Coach Gun. The recoil knocked him back on his ass. At the same time the blast vaporized the trucks windshield, adding hundreds of tiny glass shards to the dozens of #2 steel shot that raked the cab. The remains of both Kaream and John Winston Chisolm splattered against the back window. A moment later Billy’s tow-truck came racing out of the alley. Slamming into the four by four, the heavier vehicle drove the lighter one across the street and into a large stack of lobster straps.
As the smoke and steam cleared away, silence again settled over the sleepy little town of Bar Harbour.
Chapter 24: ‘HEART’S DESIRE’
York Beach
Maine July 29
A week after leaving Bar Harbor, Josh found himself sitting on York Beach, some two hundred miles south-west of Acadia National Park. They were still in Main, but the New Hampshire border was just a short drive down the coast. Watching wave after wave rolling across the vast Atlantic, Josh thought again of Matthew Bridger and his daughter bravely sailing southward in search of a new home. Bridger had offered to take all those who wanted to go. Most of the survivors they’d freed from Chisholm's had jumped at the idea. Josh wished them well. Gus, the old fisherman, had opted to tag along with Josh’s group.
‘Got a hankering to see those mountains of yours after all,’ he had said.
After seeing Bridger off, they had taken Highway #1 south along the coast, glad to leave the bloody little town far behind. Having been warned about the larger cities, they bypassed Portland and continued on through Kennebunk, Ogunquit and had finally stopped at the seaside community called The Yorks. Josh knew it well. He and his wife had spent a week or two there each summer for the last dozen years.
He glance
d down at the piece of driftwood he’d been whittling. All that remained was a pile of shavings. Somehow this matched his present mood; a mood that had been with him ever since they’d left that bloodstained little town.
Sitting on the beach he reflected how everything looked both the same and yet strangely different. The waves still rolled in, the wind still blew. The tattered collection of houses, weathered and worn from the salt spray, still lined the sand dunes. Everything was still there --- except for the people. The hoards of vacationers were gone. No flocks of sun worshippers eagerly crowded on to the narrow strip of land. No brash, colorful umbrellas blocked his view. In town no lines of talkative tourists waited outside stores and restaurants. For Josh the strangest thing of all had been to look in the window of the Saltwater Candy Store and see the arms of the taffy puller frozen in mid air. Frozen like a fly caught in amber. How long would it be, he had wondered, till the power once again came on? Years? Decades? Forever?
The thought sent a chill down his spine.
Until The Change happened, Josh had inwardly considered himself a basically a loner; more content with his own company than the company of others. Family and a few close friends he allowed inside his own private world, but their number was far from legion. If the truth be told, those who really knew him could easily be counted on two hands. And even then, there’d be several fingers left over.
Then The Change had come, wiping out most of the human race, leaving Josh the Loner really alone. And he was one of the lucky ones! Not just because he was alive, but because he still had not only friends, but family as well! He shuddered to think what it must be like to face a dead world completely, utterly, desperately alone. Deep inside he thought he’d have gone mad.
A sound beside him broke into his gloomy thoughts. Turning, Og’s face loomed before him. A rough, wet tongue washed his face --- a face whose owner hadn’t bothered to shave for a week.
“Mind a little company?”, Flame asked from several feet away. “Og and I were swimming and saw you sitting here all alone.” She sat down beside him, her long hair still dripping. Glancing over, Josh noticed the one piece bathing suit she wore matched her large, emerald eyes. He also couldn’t help but notice how low cut the front was. She stretched her tanned legs out before her and smiled. Josh returned the gesture, then went back to watching the waves.
