by AJ Powers
He searched the rest of the apartment as thoroughly, but found little of value. He discovered a packet of taco seasoning and felt as if he had just found gold. The thought of having seasoned venison made his mouth water. He stuffed it into his pocket and walked back to the bedroom. Kelsey had fallen asleep against the wall. He helped lay her down on the mattress and covered her with the Mylar blanket. He grabbed a blanket off the floor and gave it several good shakes, expelling an enormous amount of dust and debris, before placing it onto Kelsey for added warmth.
“Thanks,” she barely managed to say before falling back to sleep.
Clay took off his shoes and cleared a spot to lay down on the floor. He found a pillowcase and stuffed it with some of the clothing strewn about. He found one of the baby’s quilts and laid down. With his head on a lumpy pillow and his upper body covered by a small blanket, Clay actually felt somewhat comfortable, even relaxed, and thought he might be able to fall asleep. The scurrying creatures, curious about the two life-forms that had abruptly entered their world, made sure that didn’t happen.
Morning finally came. Clay thought he might have slept two or three hours, but he wasn’t sure. It had gotten much colder inside than he was anticipating. The cave with the fire was considerably warmer than inside the dingy apartment. With a little luck, he would be sleeping in the comfort of his own bed tonight.
They left about the same time as the day before. It was still dark, but evidence of the night was being chased away by the sun as it began painting the sky near the horizon. Kelsey’s knee was quite bruised, but a touch less swollen than yesterday, though the pain hadn’t improved much. Just walking down the stairs was a time consuming challenge. Clay couldn’t afford to be out another night. He knew if he didn’t return, Megan would assume the worst and probably come looking for him, even though he had repeatedly told her never to do that.
Hours began to feel like days to the two weary souls. Clay couldn’t remember a more daunting challenge to tackle—even when he and his family had to flee their house, eventually finding refuge at their current home. Clay’s legs became wobbly, his vision fuzzy. He and Kelsey had finished what was left in the hydration pack a few hours before and were both in need of water. Besides the aching knee, Kelsey seemed to be holding up okay. Clay attributed his weakened state to sleep deprivation over the past two nights. Something Kelsey had also noticed.
“You okay?” she asked with a look of concern.
It took a few seconds for Clay to respond, “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired,” he said with a slight slur.
Kelsey thought about asking to stop and rest, more for his sake than hers, but they were almost to the ranch, and stopping might do more harm than good at that point. Ahead of them was a slight incline. Though it would be barely noticeable to Clay on any other day, the small slope might as well have been a mountain. Each step seemed harder than the last. Kelsey, bad knee and all, reached the top before Clay. She stared out ahead, then turned and looked back at Clay.
“We’re here,” she said through an exhale.
Chapter 7
Seeing the ranch renewed what little energy Clay had left, and his pace began to quicken. The ranch was incredible. Similar to Liberty, it was fenced in with a gate at the end of the driveway. About a hundred yards behind the gate was a large, rustic looking farmhouse, complete with a wraparound deck and vast bay windows. It was a snapshot from history—with the exception of the dozen or so solar panels on the roof.
Several hundred yards to the side of the house were numerous smaller, more crudely built shanties. Each one had a door, just a couple small windows, and a metal chimney coming from the roof. Clearly built in a hurry and without power tools, the dwellings were a lot less impressive than the main house. But they were tucked away from the dangers outside the gate, and that made them very appealing, even to Clay.
Off in the distance, he saw a large barn and some stables. Animals grazed throughout the fields—it looked to be a mixture of cows and goats with perhaps a couple of sheep—it was hard to see from that distance. As they got closer, Clay could see people moving about—somebody fixing a broken wagon; another replacing some wooden shingles on a roof; a cluster of women talking amongst themselves as they watched their little ones play on some handmade playground equipment. It was nice to see the existence of another place like Liberty.
As Clay and Kelsey approached the gate, the man standing guard recognized her right away. “Kelsey!” the young guard shouted as he waved at her. “I’m so glad to see you. Jeremy was about to send me and a few others out to track you down,” he said with relief, clearly not wanting to wander around outside the gates for too long. The guard then looked over at Clay and stared him down in an act of intimidation. “Who’s this?”
Kelsey, in no mood for small talk, quickly shot back, “Just open the gate, Derrick. He’s with me.”
“I’ll need to take that rifle,” the guard said.
“Sorry. That ain’t happening,” Clay said as he watched the kid eyeballing the M4, something the guard probably hadn’t seen in over a decade.
“Then you ain’t coming in,” he said with a sneer.
“Derrick, quit acting like you’re the law around here and let us in. Clay saved my life!”
“Sorry, Kelsey. He isn’t coming in unless he gives me that rif—”
“It’s okay, Derrick,” an older man said as he approached the gate. “You may let them in.”
Clay heard Kelsey mumble something under her breath but didn’t catch the words.
“Oh, Mr. Watson. He is armed with a fancy looking rifle. I didn’t think it would be smart to let him in.”
“You are wise to be apprehensive, but I’ll take it from here. Thank you, Derrick.”
The guard unlocked the gate and stepped aside. He shot Clay a glare as they passed through.
Watson was an older man who looked every bit the part of a Texas rancher. His hair and stubble—in stark contrast with his tan complexion from years spent in the sun—were nearly white with hints of the dark brown from his youth. He wore a flannel shirt and a worn-out pair of jeans held up by a handmade leather belt sporting an appropriately large Texas buckle. Hanging from the belt was a Colt Single Action Army—better known as the Peacemaker. All that seemed to be missing was a cowboy hat.
Watson looked at Kelsey and noticed her limp. “Kelsey, I am so relieved to see you back safe and sound. Why don’t you two come back to my place? I’ll have Doc take a look at your leg.”
“That’s okay,” Kelsey said. “I just need to rest; I’ll be fine.”
“I insist,” Watson said, gesturing towards the house. “I’ll see to it Doc takes good care of you.”
Kelsey conceded, and they started walking towards Watson’s house. Clay could feel the eyes of the town upon them, watching from afar as they hobbled their way to the house. Out of nowhere, a man came up and greeted Kelsey. He seemed quite concerned with her wellbeing and bombarded her with questions about the injury. Clay assumed it was the doctor.
“I’m fine, Jeremy,” Kelsey said to the worried man.
As they approached the house, Clay saw another man was standing on the porch with his hands in his pockets as if he was waiting for an order.
“Matthew, fetch some water for Kelsey and her guest, would ya please?” Watson asked the man waiting for them.
“Yes sir, Mr. Watson,” he said and walked inside.
Clay and Kelsey followed Watson through the front door and sat down on a couch in the living room. Matthew returned with the water and set it down on a coffee table just in front of them. Clay picked up the glass and was astounded at how clear the water was. He took a sip, then guzzled the entire thing down. It was even more refreshing than it looked.
As Watson took his seat on the other side of the table from Clay and Kelsey, he asked Matthew to retrieve the doctor. Seemingly unseen, Jeremy, who had been so interested in Kelsey before, stood stiffly behind Watson’s chair with his arms crossed. His muscular
physique and stone-cold stare were a complete departure from his look of concern when they arrived. It was almost as if he broke character to make sure Kelsey was okay, then immediately resumed his role as Watson’s strength. Something about Jeremy’s buzz cut, soul patch, and the way he stood made Clay think former military. He made Clay nervous, but that was to be expected.
Watson leaned into the chair and rested a hand on his knee. He raised his glass to his mouth and took a long sip. After wiping his mouth, he ran his hand down the length of his white beard. He seemed lost in thought.
“So, what happened?” Watson asked eventually, but quickly continued, “Oh, I am sorry, where are my manners? My name is Jake Watson.” He reached out his hand.
Clay introduced himself and shook Watson’s hand.
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Whitaker,” Watson responded, his attention already directed towards Kelsey, an unspoken invitation to answer.
Kelsey explained, keeping the details to a minimum, recalling the major events of the past few days. Watson seemed genuinely concerned about what would have happened had Clay not intervened.
The front door opened, and Matthew returned with the doctor. He was carrying a small leather bag like the ones doctors who made house calls used to carry. The doctor examined Kelsey’s knee while she finished recalling her journey with Clay.
“She gonna be okay, doc?” Watson asked.
“Yeah, I don’t think it’s too serious, but she needs to be off her feet with some ice. Here,” he reached into the bag and pulled out a long expired bottle of ibuprofen. “The swelling is pretty bad. Take four of these now. I’ll bring you another four later on. You should also stay off the leg for a couple of days, at least.”
Kelsey took the pills, tossed them in her mouth, and then finished the glass of water. She acknowledged the doctor’s orders. Matthew and the doctor helped her to her feet.
“Hey, Clay,” she said as she got her arm over Matthew’s shoulder, “thanks for everything. I hope we run into each other again soon.”
Clay smiled and nodded, “Yeah, I would like that.”
Watson watched as the three left before he turned back to Clay. “Well now, that’s a mighty fine piece you got there,” he gestured towards the M4. “How’d a boy like you get your hands on a LaRue? Didn’t think any of those existed anymore.”
Watson was referring to the “Safe & Smart Firearms Act”—a bill that was rammed through the House and Senate in record timing that outlawed all current semi-automatic rifles of certain calibers, improperly labeling them as assault rifles to be promptly destroyed. Citizens were required to turn in any rifle described in the bill. Those who quickly handed over their weapons were given vouchers for “Smart-Gun” substitutes. Police were issued warrants for the arrests of those who didn’t voluntarily turn their firearms in. Those people who resisted the trade lost their guns anyway, and in several incidents, lost their lives.
The smart gun was intentionally designed to be cumbersome and less tactical. Using computer chips and biometric scanners, the gun could only have up to five registered operators. An operator had to submit a passport photo, fingerprints, and written consent of the firearm owner to the ATF in order to be whitelisted for use of that particular gun. It did not have a detachable magazine; all rounds were manually loaded from above with a maximum of seven; and the computer would force a minimum of one second between each shot. Those guns were significantly inferior to other firearms. After the eruption, however, they were most effective as clubs.
Clay lifted his rifle up a bit and looked down at it. “My father was in law enforcement for a little while.”
“Oh yeah? My brother was a cop up in Denton County. His department fought to keep their personal rifles as well, but the mayor and sheriff didn’t see eye to eye with them and forced them to turn ‘em in anyway.”
“I was just 11 at the time, but I remember seeing stories like that all over the news. I overheard my father tell a colleague that he thought America had died that day,” Clay said.
All Watson could do was nod. Indeed, it seemed that America had died before her destruction had come.
“So, what would I have to give to get that rifle from ya?” Watson asked half-jokingly.
“Your life if you try and take it from me,” Clay said with a subtle grin.
Watson laughed heartily. “You got some gumption in your shorts, boy, I’ll give you that,” he said, highlighting his Texas accent.
Clay chuckled, but with far less gusto than Watson. “Well, I need to be going,” he said as he slowly got himself off the couch; his muscles ached relentlessly.
“Now, I can’t in good conscience send a young man out two hours before dark, especially after what you did for Kelsey out there. I have several rooms upstairs you could stay in. There’s a clean, warm bed. You can take a hot bath and relax yourself some, and then head out first thing in the morning. Whatch’ya say?”
Clay was split on the decision. After all, the offer was tempting, especially the bath, but he needed to get home. “While I do appreciate the hospitality, Mr. Watson—”
“Please,” Watson interjected, “call me Jake.”
“Okay,” Clay replied, “Jake. That’s very kind of you, but I have things I must tend to.”
“Well, how about this,” Watson said looking back at the man standing next to him. “Let Jeremy here take you home. Got a couple of ponies in the stable that need some exercise anyway.”
After mentally weighing the pros and cons of Watson’s offer, Clay conceded. It was not something he would normally agree to—not so shortly after meeting someone—but his fatigue overruled his overly cautious nature.
“Before you go,” Watson said holding up his index finger and walked into the other room for a moment. He rummaged through the refrigerator and returned with a quart of milk.
Clay’s eyes widened; he thought he was hallucinating. He hadn’t seen fresh milk in ages. The last glass of milk he had was almost two years ago, and it started as a powder. He looked up at Watson who had a smile on his face.
“Take it,” he said.
Clay, unsure how to respond to such generosity, hesitated.
“It’s the least I can do. After what you did for Kelsey and all—traveling all this way to see to it that she got home safely...”
Clay took the bottle from him and stared at it in disbelief. “Thank you,” was all he could say.
“Now, you best be gettin’ on. Jeremy will take you wherever ya need to go.”
Jeremy wrangled the horses from the stable while Clay stood on the front porch. He longingly stared at the bottle, now beading with condensation, just begging for Clay’s indulgence. He decided to wait. He wanted Megan to have the first taste; it would be his peace offering for being a couple days late.
The door opened again, and Watson came back out to see Clay off. “Also,” he said as if he was finishing a thought from the conversation earlier, “we have all sorts of food and goods for trade in our store,” he pointed towards a small barn across the field. “I know I probably won’t be able to get you to part with that rifle, but we can always use some more ammo,” he said gesturing towards Clay’s magazine pouch, “and I’m always interested in seeing what other folks have for trade. Come on by anytime; the door is always open for you.”
“I think I’ll take you up on that sometime,” Clay said and shook Watson’s hand.
When he heard the galloping horses fast approaching, Clay slung his pack over his shoulder, gave a quick wave to Watson, and got on the horse. He had never ridden one before and found it to be quite unpleasant. The physical exhaustion from the previous couple of days probably contributed a fair bit to the discomfort. After a few miles, he started to pick up on some cues, and with a little instruction from Jeremy, he was able to comfortably ride the remainder of the way. Clay quickly became envious of those with horses.
Dusk was imminent as they approached the city. About two miles from home, Clay gently pulled back on the reins
, bringing his horse to a stop in a small field. “Whoa, boy.” Dismounting, Clay explained to Jeremy, “I can make my way on foot from here.”
Jeremy stopped a few feet in front of him and gave a puzzled look. His expression quickly shifted to indifference as he took the reins from Clay and immediately moved out, offering a lazy “Good luck” as they parted.
As Clay began walking in a direction away from his home; he was glad he had thought better of riding the horse into the city. His exhaustion made the last couple miles home seem like an impossible journey, but his family’s safety was his main priority—and keeping their location secret was vital to maintaining security.
When Clay checked over his shoulder and could no longer see Jeremy, he ducked into a patch of trees and headed the right direction home.
It took him another 45 minutes to reach the garage. His relief to be home was short-lived when he remembered the 16 flights of stairs awaiting him. His muscles screamed just thinking about it. Climbing the steps took nearly 20 minutes because he had to stop at times just to catch his breath. It was reminiscent of the first few weeks after they moved in, before his body had become accustomed to the ascent.
Home at last. He looked at his watch; it was a little past eight. The kids weren’t in bed yet, so he went to bang on the door to be let in. As if he was holding a 20 pound weight, he swung his arm up to knock. Before he could touch the door, he heard the handle on the other side twist, and the door opened. Megan stood there, her arms crossed with a stare that could kill.
