Shoot Like a Girl_A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller

by L. L. Akers

  Emma didn’t believe him. “Are you thinking about how you killed a man?”

  Elmer shook his head. “What in tarnation are you talking about, girl? I didn’t kill him…you did when you shot off his twig and berries. He was gonna die. Ain’t no help for that out here. I just helped him along. Stopped his pain. It was a mercy that I did for him, and I hope someone would do the same for me,” he ranted, in denial about his part.

  For a moment, neither of them said anything. Elmer blew out a big breath and looked over his shoulder, glancing at her, then put his eyes back on the dusty road. “What about you? Are you bothered by what you did?”

  Emma didn’t hesitate. “Nope.”

  After another few moments of silence, broken only by the sounds of the tractor, the tree frogs and the crickets, Emma spoke again—but what Elmer didn’t know, was that she was speaking from experience—of her own and her twin sisters in their early years. “If I’d been alone, that man would have sexually assaulted me, Elmer. And I’m not at all surprised by that. Those kinds of men are bad apples, and they’ve existed since the beginning of time. They’ve been getting away with it for generations when women were too scared to speak up. Or when they do tell, they’re either accused of lying or the judge lets the bad apples off with a slap on the hand. Then they go back out and do it again. With the power out now, and the phones down, we’re on our own out here. No cops. No judge and no jury. But you know what?”

  Elmer gave her a sidelong glance, prompting her to finish.

  “So are they.”

  Elmer nodded his understanding, but she went on anyway. “Men are usually stronger than women. I’m okay with that… nothing like having my husband’s strong arms around me for protection; except when they’re not. That leaves me, and millions of other women, the weaker sex, and we’ve had to put up with far too much for far too long. Now, that gap in strength can be equalized with a bullet, at no cost. No consequence. Finally, I can do what I need to do to protect myself and then walk away and leave the rotten piece of fruit on the side of the road to wither and die with no help from anyone. I won’t lose a wink of sleep over it, either. Actually, I’ll sleep better for every one of the bad guys that I put down.”

  Elmer spit off to the side of the tractor. “Good. You do what you have to do to keep yourself safe, missy. This world’s about to go crazier than a pet coon. Just be sure you don’t forget the majority of us men aren’t bad apples. Most of us are too sweet, even for apple pie.”

  “You are,” Emma said with a smile.

  She could see the tips of his ears turning pink.

  Not being able to stand the silence, or respond to her compliment, he said, “Speaking of apple pie, that’s our turn up there. Maybe Edith will make us a pie for supper,” he said. “Give me some water and a cloth. I need to at least wash off my face and hands before I get there.”

  Emma laughed.

  Elmer had told her that he and Edith’s fiftieth wedding anniversary was coming up in a week, yet he still wanted to make himself presentable for her. She thought that was sweet, and hoped her and Dusty were still so much in love after five decades.

  38

  Tullymore & Grayson’s Group

  Jake pulled Ruby into the driveway at the old ranch-style brick home at 2315 Parpham Drive. The house was nestled in a grove of Oak trees on a large tract of land, at the end of a wooded street. The few other houses on the street they’d passed were uninhabited.

  An old van was parked in the driveway, the gas cap wide open.

  He kept the engine running. All eyes watched the windows and doors with nervous fingers hovering over triggers. The quiet was broken only by the sound of the engine, and the song of crickets and cicadas coming loudly from the trees, nearly drowning Ruby out.

  The sun shone its beams brightly on a blue door with a flowered wreath. It slowly swung open, and as everyone held their breath the wheels of a very old wheelchair rolled into view, slowly creeping out of the dark house.

  Jake squinted, as the driver of the chair took their time, moving out of the shadows into view.

  It was an old lady, heavy in size, wearing a flowered house-dress that nearly matched the wreath. A tube snaked from her nose down the side of her chair to a portable oxygen tank hanging from the back. Stumpy legs poked out of her dress, crisscrossed with blue and green veins. Swollen feet with no ankles were barely shoved into black slides.

  The loose skin on her arms waved against the chair in protest as she labored to turn the wheels. She huffed and puffed, and then grunted as she forced the chair over the metal plate of the door-frame. She came to a stop and tried to speak. “Can I help—”

  Her voice broke off as she coughed uncontrollably, clutching her heavy bosom.

  Jake stepped out of the truck, holding up a hand to everyone else to stay. “Ma’am,” he said, and nodded respectively. “May I step up to the porch?”

  She waved him up, still trying to catch her breath.

  Tina called out from the front of the truck. “Jake, I’ll talk to her.”

  Jake threw up his hand to Tina, telling her to stay put. This was something he felt he had to do. It was his truck, after all. He felt as responsible as anyone. More, actually. He should have done something—anything—to avoid what had happened.

  If he’d only figured out the bike was getting so close to them because they wanted them to stop; or to read a note…this could all have been avoided. Only an idiot wouldn’t have known. Why else would those kids have risked coming so close to a truck loaded down with guns?

  They’d all been stupid. Not using their brains. With the chaos and devastation all around them, it never entered their minds that they weren’t the only people out there that might not be bad—that might just need help in some way…that not everybody was dangerous.

  Jake approached the woman and put a foot up on the first step. “Does someone here need help?”

  The woman looked him over. “Are you a… doctor?” she huffed and then went into another coughing fit.

  Jake shook his head and waited for the fit to end. “No…no, I’m not. We don’t have a doctor. But maybe we can help in some way?”

  “Did my kids send you?” She looked out to the truck again, her eyes searching.

  Jake swallowed hard. “Yes. They did.”

  The woman’s chin quivered. “No, we don’t need a doctor. Not anymore. But I do need help.”

  She backed the chair up, and waved Jake inside. The sounds of her coughing again trailed behind her. Big, wracking, wet coughs.

  Jake took a deep breath, held up a finger to his group, telling them he’d be back in a minute, and followed the woman in.

  When he walked into the main living area, the stench hit him. As his eyes adjusted, the first thing he saw was a pile of rolled-up adult diapers in the corner. Beside the diapers were a double row of portable oxygen tanks, like the one hanging from the back of the woman’s chair. The open door shined light into the kitchen where a round table stood, covered in opened soup cans and empty water jugs.

  On one wall of the living room was a couch with a dark shape atop it. He squinted, stepping closer.

  “Can you take him to the funeral home?” the woman asked.

  Jake flinched.

  The dark shape of the man barely made a bump under the blanket. The man was covered up from toes to shoulders, still clutching a bible a’top his chest. His mouth hung wide open, as though trying to grasp a last breath. His cheeks were sunken and sallow, a mere skeleton, probably close to eighty years old. At the other end of the couch was a medical machine of some sort, which of course wasn’t working.

  “They left them all there to die,” the woman said.

  “Where?” Jake asked.

  “At the nursing home. They were all dying or already dead. The kids took him to the hospital when the staff said the power wasn’t coming back on. But the hospital was closed. They had all they could deal with and everyone was dying there, too. So, they brought him home
. I told them a doctor couldn’t help him. The only thing keeping him alive this long was power. And a doctor can’t make power.”

  The woman pulled a used Kleenex out of her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “The kids used all our gas in the van getting him back here. They’ve been out on that bike trying to find a generator and supplies. They haven’t found anything, yet. We’re out of water—and food—and probably gas for that death machine they’re riding too, by now.”

  “I brought you a huge bag of rice,” Jake said. “And I can bring you back water in an hour or so, and maybe more food. Do you have more containers I can put water in?”

  She shook her head. “How about first you help us out with that truck out there, we’d sure appreciate it. I may not be able to come to the funeral, but the kids can say goodbye to their granddaddy.”

  “This is your father?” Jake asked in surprise. He’d guessed it was her husband.

  She nodded and then turned her chair around, looking out the window. “The kids should be back any time now.”

  Jake avoided her statement. He looked at the machine. “What was wrong with your father?”

  “Does it matter?” she asked. “Anyway, at this age…everything. He wasn’t long for this world before the power went out. Then, the nursing home ran out of food and water. But even food and water wouldn’t have kept him alive. We didn’t have his medications either. I tried to tell the kids that. So, it doesn’t matter.”

  Jake shook his head. “No, I don’t guess it does matter now.” He knelt down beside her and put his hand on top of hers as it rested on the arm of the chair. “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am.”

  She dabbed at her nose with her other hand, and looked away, staring out the window again. “It’s Vera. You can call me Vera.”

  Jake stood up and looked around the room. The narrow table under the window held framed photographs. College graduation pictures of the young blonde man and woman stood on each side of a collection of crystal paperweights. Jake stared hard at the first one, and then the other. Not twins…but probably just a few years apart.

  It was a tragic loss of two young lives, just starting out in life.

  The room was quiet other than the loud whistle coming from Vera’s oxygen tube. The woman was obviously in bad shape to need it turned up that high. A silent electronic oxygen machine stood in the corner, unplugged. It was a huge, expensive piece of machinery.

  And worthless now.

  Jake looked at the portable tanks lining the wall, wondering how long one lasted at this strength, and how she intended on getting more.

  He exhaled a big breath and kneeled beside her once more, praying for the right words. He gently squeezed her hands. “Ma’am—I mean, Vera—there’s been a terrible accident out on the road.”

  The room filled with silence again.

  Finally, the woman lifted her chin and looked at him, her jaw set firmly. “Are they dead, too?”

  Jake nodded, and she lowered her head and wept. “Where are they?” she sobbed.

  “They’re here…in the back of my truck. I’m so… sorry,” he mumbled, his voice breaking on the last word.

  Her head dropped and fresh tears plopped on her lap. “I told them… I said they’d get killed on that contraption. I told them.”

  Jake stood up and stepped out the door, giving her a bit of space to mourn a moment, and nearly ran smack into Grayson.

  Tina and Grayson had been standing on the porch, listening. Jake quickly sucked through his nose, and swiped at his eyes. Grayson patted his shoulder and walked past him, leaving him with Tina, who had tears streaming down her own face as well.

  He approached the woman and moved in front of her, crouching down. “Vera, my name is Grayson. I’m sorry for your loss. The funeral home is closed for business, but if you’d let us, we’ll gladly bury your family here. When we’re finished, you can come with us. We’ll make room for you in our own family for now.”

  Vera looked Grayson over and then leaned forward, laying her head on his shoulder. He patted her blue-ish curls as she cried for a few moments, then pulled back and cleared her throat, resulting in another coughing fit. Grayson stood and patted her back until she could talk.

  “There’s shovels in the garage,” she said. “You take care of that, and then you can go on home. No need to come back. No use wasting food and water on me. We’re all going to die, anyway. Old people first. Then all these pill-heads that are all over the place. They’ll suffer the longest. The power’s not coming back on. There’ll be no more food. Everyone will starve eventually…you, and all your friends. The children even. Starving is a painful, slow death, and you’ll all be fighting over the last bean and grain of rice. I’ve got no mind to see all that up close and personal.”

  Grayson crouched down beside her again. “You won’t. I’ve got food, and plenty of water. My wife and I will take care of you. We all will,” he assured her.

  “You’ll run out, too. You’ll see. You can’t save everybody, mister.” She stuck her hand into her deep pocket and came back with small ball of yarn, knitting needles, and a pair of scissors. She dropped the yarn and needles in her lap and held the scissors up.

  Grayson jerked back in surprise, startled at the sharp object so close to his face.

  “Bury us all together, under the apple tree in the backyard.” And with that said, she cut her oxygen tube in half.

  39

  The Three E’s

  Emma jumped off the wagon before Elmer had pulled it into the barn, and headed to the house, looking for Edith. On the way, she passed Elmer’s truck, packed down with food and supplies. She wondered where Edith was planning to go. She ran up the porch and flung open the screen door.

  The kitchen was empty, and a complete mess. Food remains and trash were piled on every counter. The sink overflowed with dirty dishes. This was very unlike how Emma had seen it the last time she’d been here, when the whole house had been neat as a pin.

  Edith must be sick.

  “Edith?” she yelled, holding the screen door open as she looked in. “It’s me, Emma. I came back with Elmer.” There was no answer. The house was quiet—too quiet.

  Emma quietly pulled the screen door shut, not letting it slam. She didn’t want to startle the old woman. She stepped into the kitchen. “Edith!” she called out again, receiving no answer. The house was small. A kitchen and den on one side, and two bedrooms and a bathroom on the other, separated by a short hallway.

  Surely, Edith would hear her, if she was home.

  Turning around, Emma opened the screen door to go back outside to look. Maybe she was feeding the chickens behind the barn? She took one step, and heard a rustling behind her. She whipped around.

  Trunk was standing in the doorway leading into the living room. His clothes and hair were rumpled, as though he’d just got up from a nap. He yawned. “Oh… hey. You surprised me.” He stood looking blankly at her a moment. “Let me start again… Howdy, darling.” He reached for his gun, as a wide smile spread over his face. “You’re not gonna believe this, but after you ladies left me at the rest area, I figured out something… me and the boys drove right through your town just before we met up with you. Our home base is only about twenty miles from your county. How’s that for a coincidence?”

  Emma whipped around and ran like the wind out of the house, jumped off the porch, and dashed to the barn, where her gun—and Elmer—were.

  Breathlessly, she skidded around the corner and to her amazement found Elmer trying to corner a pig. “Where’d you come from, Bacon Bit? Come ‘ere…” The old man was hopping left to right with his arms spread wide, trying to block the pig from running by. If it wasn’t for a biker standing in his living room, Emma would have laughed.

  She stood transfixed watching him a second. That was the pig from the rest area—tutu and everything, although it was filthy at this point. Did they walk with that pig all the way here? She hadn’t seen their motorcycles or any other vehicle outside. Just Elmer�
�s truck. She blinked her eyes rapidly, pulling herself out of her stupor. “Elmer!” she panted. “They’re here! The bikers…” she sucked in a breath and pointed frantically. “In your house!”

  Elmer stood up straight and grabbed his shotgun that was leaned against the open stall wall. The pig squealed happily and ran past him, out into the yard. “Where’s my Edith?”

  “I don’t know. I called for her, but she didn’t answer. I didn’t see her either.”

  His eyes went wide. “Get your gun, girl. Quick.”

  Elmer checked his shotty to be sure it was loaded, hurried to the end of the wagon with Emma, and covered the wide-open door of the barn while she jumped up and grabbed her pistol. She couldn’t believe her stupidity in leaving it there in the first place. She racked the slide, putting one in the chamber, and jumped down, her heart beating wildly.

  Trunk had found them after all. How had he known they’d been here? Where was Edith? Emma couldn’t lie to herself. That man gave her nightmares. Her courage from earlier was nowhere to be found. Instead, her body vibrated with fear as they ran out of the barn.

  Elmer pointed to the right, his liver-spotted, wrinkled hand shaking in the air. “Peek in through the windows. If you see ‘em, shoot ‘em,” he said. “But don’t hit Edith!” He hurried to the left of the house, both of them avoiding the back door.

  Emma took off, ducking under one window that was too high for her to shoot through and squatting beside the next window. She listened.

  She could hear voices.

  Leaning closer with her gun held up high against the wall, she tried to make out if she heard Edith. But only a man’s voice came through loud and clear. “It’s just the little sister and the old man. Try not to hit the girl, but kill ‘em both if you have to.”

  Emma shuddered, and then leaned in to take a peek. The same two men she’d seen with Trunk at the rest area were with him now. The biggest one had a bandage wrapped around his massive arm; his wound was bleeding through. A patch on his leather vest said, “Smalls.”