Shoot Like a Girl_A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller

by L. L. Akers

  She raised her eyebrows at his cool, collective demeanor. “Big fan of Justified, huh?”

  Ignoring her stare and her comment, and not breaking eye contact with the gangbanger directly behind Tucker, he spoke quietly and calmly to his own group as he walked closer. “Claim your man, Chuck.”

  “I call the guy in ink, John,” the man to his right said in a gravelly voice; he resembled a modern-day hippie with light brown hair that fell in loose waves long past his shoulders, and a mountain-man beard, dotted with gray. He also wore body armor. He kept his one open eye sighted in on the man not wearing a shirt.

  John—the name of the man leading them now revealed—nodded. He came to a stop beside Tarra, still not making any moves to draw his own pistols. “He’s yours,” he answered.

  To his left, another man in his late-forties, sporting a short white beard streaked in brown, took a knee on the other side of a register counter, and set up his shot, at the ready. He wore tactical pants and a button-up shirt with the name ‘Pete’ embroidered over the pocket. “Dibs on BLM, John.”

  John positioned his feet further apart, keeping eye contact with the gangbanger that held the gun on Tucker. “He’s yours.”

  Bringing up the rear, a younger, stocky guy clearly enjoying their sport, easily handled an AR15 pressed up tight against his chest rig with a sardonic smile on his face. His eyes twinkled behind wire-rimmed frames, contrasting with a beard that looked like it’d been dipped in the blood of his enemies.

  Without looking back at him, John said, “Ralph? Your pick.”

  “Basketball fanboy for the win,” Ralph said, and smirked.

  The gang’s smug smiles disappeared; replaced by nervous sweaty lips and darting eyes.

  John snickered. “He’s yours. I guess that leaves me the wife-beater.”

  “Fuck you!” the boy with the dirty tank-top spit out, waving his gun in the air to emphasize his point.

  Tarra flinched at his outburst.

  The gang tittered nervously amongst themselves, trying—but failing—to seem unconcerned.

  A loud voice thundered from behind, startling everyone. “Hey boy! Watch your manners in front of the lady!” A split second later, after the voice had all of their attention, it was followed by a gun shot that echoed through the nearly empty story as it cracked like lightning through the space.

  A fifth gangbanger, previously unseen, toppled from the top of a high-shelf, landing hard—and dead—on the floor between the two groups, directly in front of Tucker, the sound of his head hitting the floor like the thump of a watermelon. His rifle clattered to the floor beside him.

  Momentarily distracted as they tried to find the voice, the gang was stricken with panic. WifeBeater stared at his friend on the floor for three seconds and then screamed at the top of his lungs and lifted his gun, aiming at the back of Tucker’s head.

  Before he could squeeze the trigger, John pulled his pistols and squeezed the triggers in unison. One in his head, and one in his heart. The gangbanger fell to his knees as blood and brains splattered behind him, and then did a face-plant. John reholstered his guns, ignoring the other gang members. A second later, they too went down like dominos, as Ralph, Chuck and Pete met their targets with one killing shot each, almost in unity.

  The air filled with gunpowder and lead.

  Tucker lay on the floor face-first, his hands over his ears.

  Tina whipped around wild-eyed, her weapon up and ready, only to see Grayson stepping through broken glass with an AR15 tight against his shoulder. He stalked closer, keeping his eyes on the tops of the aisles. “Come on, Tarra,” he yelled, moving his eyes—and gun—to the dead gang members—making sure they stayed dead. “Let’s get out of here before we have more company.”

  Finally, John spoke to Tarra. “I think he thought you needed saving?” he asked, a grin on his face. “I’d say he was mistaken.” He gave Tarra a wink and a polite nod, and then turned and flashed a hand signal to his crew.

  He stalked away, deeper into the store, as his three buddies followed.

  A slow smile spread over Tarra’s face, and she almost laughed at the turn of events. She liked this guy. She lowered her shaking arms and looked at Grayson. “Thanks for the help, but it’s not me that needs it,” she said, jerking her head toward Tucker, who was still face-down on the floor with his hands over his ears.

  Grayson stepped over to Tucker and nudged him with his boot. “Get up.”

  Not knowing what exactly what was going on behind him, Tucker slowly—very slowly—turned his head and opened his eyes, coming face to face with the dead body in front of him.

  He scrambled away, crab-walking backward away from it, and bumped into another body. He jumped up and turned around. “Shit, shit, shit!”

  His hands were shaking as he looked all around at the massacre with wide eyes.

  Five dead.

  Calmly, Grayson pointed at Tucker’s gun. “Pick up your gun. Let’s roll.”

  Tarra led the way out of the store, loosely holding her gun with both hands. As she jumped in the back of the truck, a final thought popped into her mind about John and his group; Grayson may have fired the first shot, but those men finished the job, smoothly and efficiently, without batting an eye.

  They’d saved their asses, and she’d break lead with any of the four, any time.

  Little did she know, she soon would.

  34

  The Three E’s

  “Miss Edith, time to get up now,” Smalls said through the door in a kindly voice.

  After the number ‘2’ had been branded on Edith’s arm, they’d untied her and attempted to help her from the chair.

  She’d fainted.

  Smalls had insisted on carrying her to bed to rest, promising to do another thorough check of her room. Backfire had already checked it once, but to assure Trunk, he swore he’d do another while Edith slept.

  He had kept his promise. After laying the old woman down on her pillow, he’d unfolded the quilt from the foot of the bed and covered her up, being careful not to touch her arm, and then he’d rummaged through the bathroom and found medical supplies, rubbed some salve on her burn, and wrapped it up. He’d tucked her in, leaving her arm out.

  After that, he had checked high and low, but didn’t find anything to worry about. He did find 9mm and .22 caliber ammo, and some shot gun shells though. He carried that to the den to put in their pile.

  While Trunk and Backfire worked outside, Smalls had stayed in the house to keep an eye on Edith, and to search the rest of the rooms. He made a pile in the den, and then carried most of it out to the truck. Against his better judgement, he loaded batteries, oil lamps, blankets and lots more medical supplies and all of their food. He couldn’t have Trunk thinking he wasn’t pulling his weight, heavy as it may be.

  While he worked, Edith had awoken. She had been waiting to be done with these men.

  She stood on the other side of the door, in a clean housedress with her hair freshly put up in a flat bun a’top her head. She leaned against the old wood, clutching her bible to her chest. She felt sick to her stomach. It wasn’t just from the burning, throbbing pain in her arm either; an hour earlier, she’d found the bottle of pain pills she’d hidden away in an old bag, prescribed to her last winter when she’d turned her ankle, causing a sprain. She’d swallowed all five pills that had remained in the bottle.

  Now she was woozy.

  Tears stained her cheeks as she took one last look at her and Elmer’s wedding picture, blew it a kiss, and turned the knob, ready to face the wolves at her door.

  Smalls stood with his head down.

  Edith had to lean her head way back to look up at him. She gave him a fiery stare.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I really am,” he said, and held his arm out, pointing down the hall for her to go.

  “Save it,” she snapped, and wobbled past him.

  She hurried through the house and out through the screen door, letting it swing shut behind her, ne
arly hitting Smalls in the face, and stepped off the porch, nearly falling. Smalls quickly moved to grab her arm and steady her.

  Edith jerked off his hand, waving his help away and shooting daggers at the large man with her watery, red eyes.

  He held up both hands, palms out and stepped aside.

  Edith stomped over to Trunk, who was sitting in her Adirondack chair by the grave, combing his hair with her comb. She stopped in front of him and watched him bare his teeth at the mirror, picking at them with his fingernail. Finally, he looked up, and she said, “Go ahead. Kill me and bury me. I’m ready.”

  Trunk stopped primping in the handheld mirror with the handle that he’d stolen from her bathroom, and stared at her in surprise, and then laughed a full, deep belly laugh. “We’re not going to kill you, Edith. What kind of monsters do you think we are?”

  He stood up. “Seriously, Edith? Have you been thinking that all along?” He paused. “You poor old woman. Why did you think we were digging up Mei’s grave then?”

  Edith huffed. “To put me in there, of course. Why break new ground when you can be lazy and just double us up in there together?”

  Trunk laughed again, slapping his leg in amusement. Finally, he choked back his mirth. “You know, that’s actually good thinking. But wrong.”

  He sighed.

  “If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t worry with burying you. I’d leave that for your husband.”

  He looked at Backfire and Smalls, and held back his grin. He turned back to Edith, and held his hands out as though to explain. “We just need you to take the picture. The scavenger list didn’t say the one-handed Asian had to be alive. We’re taking back a picture of us with her. They’re going to give us those points. I just want you to get in there and clean her up a bit. Change her shirt. Brush her hair. Wash her face, and put some makeup on her...” he explained slowly, as though talking to a child. “She needs to look pretty again.”

  He pointed at a box that contained a big bowl of soapy water on the ground. The outside of the box had a rope tied around it. A washcloth floated on top of the water. In the box beside the bowl was a hairbrush, a fresh bandana, a clean shirt, and her make-up bag, all stolen from her and Elmer’s things. “Leave off her bra, too,” he said.

  Edith stepped up to the grave and gasped. They’d mostly swept the dirt off of her with a broom that still sat atop Mei, leaned against the dirt wall. What now lay there was a macabre version of the girl. Her bandana was askew, showing hunks of dried blood on the side of her very misshapen head—what was left of it—and her face was still covered in spots of dirt. Hollowed eyes filled with the red clay gave her a zombie-ish appearance.

  Edith tore her eyes away from Mei and shuddered with revulsion. “No. I will not desecrate the dead. You and your thugs need to just get on out of here,” she said, and bravely pointed at Elmer’s truck. “Take our stuff and go.” She wobbled again as she pointed and Smalls stepped behind her, expecting her to faint.

  She didn’t.

  She stood tall, facing down the evil man in front of her. She’d already been through hell, but she’d be damned if she’d let them disrespect that poor girl one more time. It was partly their fault she was in that grave to start with.

  Trunk smiled and put his hands on her feeble shoulders. He squeezed gently and nodded. “I understand. You’re a good soul, Edith.”

  And then he pushed her into the grave.

  35

  Tullymore & Grayson’s Group

  Tucker, Tarra and Grayson jumped in the back of the truck, quickly taking their seats on the hay and keeping their guns ready in case they ran into more trouble.

  Grayson was shaking. He took a deep breath and tried to get control of himself, before anyone noticed. None of this seemed real. He’d actually killed a man.

  A man.

  A real human being…

  Were all those guys really dead? Did this really happen?

  His mouth filled with saliva and he repeatedly swallowed it back down. His stomach flipped and flopped. He glanced at Tarra and she met his eyes. His horror was reflected back at him, but she cleared her throat and gave him a steely stare with a subtle shake of her head.

  She reached out and squeezed his knee. “We’ll be home tonight. We still have things to do out here.”

  Her message came through loud and clear.

  Suck it up, Buttercup. Don’t fall apart out here in front of everyone.

  Grayson nodded his understanding, and her kindness reminded him that Tina and Tarra wanted to leave, according to Jake. It was now obvious that it was much too dangerous for these women to go out on the road alone.

  But he knew if he said that, the ladies would scoff. He had to admit now, they were tough as nails. While he’d yet to see Tarra shoot, she’d handled herself well back there. Most other women would have fallen apart long before now. He was actually impressed with both of them, and they might just need two more guns at the farm—if they could keep feeding them. “Tarra, we would love for you and Tina to stay with us until this all blows over. We might need your help, and we’ll provide you food and shelter until you find a safe way home. Olivia will grow on you, and it’s a big farm. Y’all can avoid her. Will you stay?”

  Tarra studied him for a moment. “Yes, we’ll stay for a while. No promises on how long though. Deal?”

  They shook hands.

  “By the way,” she said. “Way to shoot like a girl back there.” She winked at him.

  Grayson took it well—as a compliment, the way it was intended. He nodded his appreciation.

  Jake popped the clutch, pulling Ruby through the parking lot toward the exit. Tina rode shotgun up front, both her arms hanging out the window as she provided cover, with Frank and Mickey hunkered down in the back.

  Mickey finally met Tucker’s eyes. “What happened in there?”

  Tucker glared back at Mickey. “Oh yeah, you two missed the final act of the show, didn’t you? Well, let’s see if I can recap it for you. I nearly got assassinated when you two scuttled off and left me. But, while the gangbangers stood peacocking to Tarra, they got caught with their pants down—well, not really…er…down. Just a figure of speech,” he said, looking at Tarra. “Everybody’s pants stayed up… But then four guys named John, Ralph, Chuck and Pete came in, ready to rumble.”

  He paused and cut his eyes at Frank, who had yet to look at him. “I, however, still had a gun to my head while everyone took turns picking a buddy,” he said sarcastically. “Then, there was another gangbanger hiding on top of an isle shelf that no one saw, who was probably about to take dibs on said head, when Grayson spooked him, shot him dead, and then the other four gangbangers took a spankin’ from a more seasoned, ready group. They’re all dead.”

  Mickey and Frank were speechless. Tucker shook his head in disgust and turned on his hay bale toward Grayson, putting the cowards out of his sight. He slapped at the knees of his jeans, trying to wipe dirt and tiny pieces of glass off.

  Grayson had mercy on Mickey and Frank, and spoke kindly to them. “Look, nobody expected anything like that. I guess we all need to realize this shit is for real now. It’s crazy out here; truly teotwawki. A word of advice, guys… if you can’t run with the big dogs, stay on the porch. I’d recommend no more town runs for you two.”

  Mickey and Frank both mumbled sorry to Tucker, and then hung their heads low, suddenly finding great interest in their shoes.

  “Who the hell were those guys?” Tarra asked.

  Grayson’s rubbed his jaw, his face suddenly ashen. The adrenaline was crashing fast. “Friends of Gabby’s. They saw Ruby and recognized the truck. They also saw that.” He pointed at the gang signs that now practically screamed from the mess of graffiti on the walls of the building as Jake lurched out onto the road, heading away from the store.

  “Oh, hell.” Tucker lifted his shirt, wiping the sweat from his face. “So, they knew the store was claimed by the gang?”

  Grayson answered, “Yeah, same as we sho
uld’ve known. That’s why there’s no one else around. According to them, the smaller gangs had laid claim to anything left around town. But MS13 is popping up now and the smaller gangs are on the run. They’ll probably be here soon, too, and MS13 makes these small-town gangs look like the Peanut Gallery. They’re nuts. Gabby’s friends stopped to warn Jake, not knowing y’all were already in there. When Mickey and Frank ran out, they offered to go in and provide backup.”

  Tarra blew out a breath. “They did more than backup. Hell, they took over. Why would they risk their own lives going in there like that?”

  “MAG,” Grayson said and shrugged. “And the possibility of more supplies. Tucker’s boys here told them there was only four. Four guys are a walk in the park to them. But it was a good thing I had their six—y’all were wrong about the numbers.” He said the last bit to Frank and Mickey.

  “And that means?” Tucker asked.

  “Six means watching someone’s back. Like a clock. Six o’clock is behind you,” Grayson explained.

  Tucker rolled his eyes. “No. I know that. What does MAG mean?” he asked in an exasperated voice.

  Grayson shrugged, trying not to take offense at Tucker’s tone. The poor man had just been through hell. “MAG is a local Mutual Assistance Group for preppers. Ralph—the one with the red beard—started it. He said Gabby had joined up. They all met several times at different locations before all this—that’s how they knew Jake’s truck. For some reason, she’d driven it to the meet-ups back before he took it apart to rebuild it. They had an agreement to help each other, if possible, if ever the shit hit the fan.”

  Tarra leaned up to join the conversation. “So that guy, John, is in charge?”

  Grayson laughed. “Nobody is in charge. They’re all friends. They played Rock, Paper, Scissors to decide who took lead.”

  Jake gunned it and swerved Ruby around another corner. They’d already found out from the MAG group that the doctors’ offices were all looted, same as nearly everything else in town.