Troop of Shadows

by Nicki Huntsman Smith

  “Yes, she was. She’s gone now, like everyone else. Well, almost everyone else. Rachel is living at the golf course, so at least she’s not dead.”

  Julia had no idea who Rachel was, but she played along.

  “I’m glad to hear that Rachel is alive. That’s good, right?”

  The man’s face clouded as he shifted his gaze from the sky back to her.

  “At first I thought it was, but she wasn’t very nice to me. She did this.”

  He lifted his wounded arm, wincing at the effort.

  “Oh, my. What happened?”

  “She shot me! I couldn’t believe it. I was just there looking for food and she shot me in the shoulder. I couldn’t find a Walgreens or CVS on the highway. I’m worried about infection.” He whispered the word as if saying it too loudly might conjure an infection demon out of thin air.

  “Well, you should be concerned. It’s a bad thing. The good news is that I have medicine in my car. Why don’t I help you with your shoulder and then you can help get my car started. What do you think?”

  The young man thought about it for moment, then nodded.

  “Yes, I think that’s a good deal.”

  He walked toward the Land Rover while shrugging out of his backpack. She noticed the rifle then. The pain from his injured shoulder made his movements awkward as he tried to wriggle off the strap.

  “Can I help you with that?”

  The sight of the gun made her nervous, but as long as she was kind to the man, something told her she would be okay.

  “Yes, please. It’s a Sig Sauer Tactical 2 with a Konus scope,” he said with sudden enthusiasm.

  She thought of the little kid with the round glasses from that Christmas movie; the one who was destined to ‘shoot his eye out.’ The image evoked a smile, which the young man mistook for pleasure at seeing his rifle.

  He smiled too.

  “I’m very good with it. All the guys at the gun range said so.”

  “I’m sure you’re excellent. What is your name, by the way? I’m Julia.”

  “I’m Logan. It’s-a-pleasure-to-meet-you-Julia.” It was a well-rehearsed speech, no doubt taught to him by his mother.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Logan. Let’s have a look at that shoulder.”

  The bullet hole appeared to be straight through, which was fortunate for the young man, and her too — she didn’t relish the thought of digging out a slug with nothing in her first aid kit to numb the pain. She soon had it cleaned, slathered with antibiotic ointment, and bandaged. Her only concern was whether any of the cloth from his clothing remained in the wound. It might fester, and without oral antibiotics, he could succumb to infection within a few days. Steven had told her about fish antibiotics, but there’d been so many items on her To Do list, and so many hours spent in her lab, she’d never placed the online order. She had one round of Amoxicillin, which was all she’d had time to wrangle from her pharmacist during Chicxulub.

  And she didn’t intend to share it with a stranger.

  Julia felt his eyes on her as she finished up the bandaging and helped him slip his jacket back on, which smelled as if it had been pilfered from a landfill.

  “Are you a doctor?”

  “Yes and no. I have a doctorate degree, so technically I’m a doctor, but my specialty is in molecular genetics, not medicine like a medical doctor.”

  His expression was skeptical.

  “You’re a doctor but not a doctor?”

  “I know it’s confusing, but yes. I have a PhD in philosophy specializing in molecular genetics, which means that I can use the title of ‘doctor’ before my name. A person who has a PhD in medicine is a medical doctor. Does that make sense to you?”

  He wore an expression of intense concentration as he studied her face, looking for traces of deception.

  Finally, he smiled. “It sounds to me like you have a lot of tricks-up-your-sleeves.”

  Again the childlike cadence, suggesting he was repeating a term he had heard often. Julia wondered about his IQ, and then considered how a mentally challenged person like Logan had managed to survive so well after the pandemic. He seemed well-fed, and despite the gunshot wound and the disregard for personal hygiene, he looked healthy. Maybe that tactical rifle was the key. Well, she supposed it evened up the odds. If he were as good with it as he said, maybe it compensated for the intelligence deficit. And considering what she’d discovered in her research, he probably was as good with his rifle as he said he was.

  “Are we ready to see about getting my car going? I sure hope you can help me.”

  “Yes. First we need to roll it out to the street. Then you’ll have to steer and keep your foot on the clutch and I’ll push you down the hill. That’s what Mr. Cheney told my mom do. Then when you’re going pretty fast, you’ll need to pop-the-clutch and the engine should start. Does that make sense to you?”

  Was he mocking her? She had just asked him the same question a few seconds before. She studied the strange golden eyes and decided he lacked the mental capacity for sarcasm.

  “Yes, it makes perfect sense. You know, it seems like I’ve heard of this technique before but I’ve never had to use it. I’m not that smart about car stuff. Shall we?” She gestured to the Land Rover.

  Logan’s eyes opened wide as he looked through the passenger side window. A huge smile spread across his grime-smeared face.

  “You have a cat?”

  Chapter 22

  Liberty, Kansas

  “So, we don’t have to use the pressure canner for the carrots and cauliflower, but we do for the kale?” Jeffrey’s interest in home canning was tepid at best, much to Steven’s dismay. What could be more gratifying than preserving the food you’ve grown yourself and seeing those rows of colorful jars stacking up in the cellar? It was no longer a quirky hobby at this point, but a matter of survival.

  It was just a bonus that Steven enjoyed it so much.

  He noticed his son’s bored expression, then realized exactly what was happening. His fourteen-going-on-forty son was not giddy at the prospect of home canning the fall produce from their vegetable garden.

  Imagine that.

  At what point in Steven’s life had his nerd scale crept into the red zone? He’d been a fourteen-year-old boy at one point too, and he remembered being interested in bikes, baseball, and fourteen-year-old girls. He needed to cut Jeffrey some slack. Still, the boy must learn the process at some point. He’d absorbed everything Steven taught him about guns and booby traps and chopping wood. He’d have to learn the boring stuff too. After all, his father wouldn’t be around forever.

  “Remember what I told you about acidity? High-acid foods like tomatoes and fruit don’t need to be pressure canned. The acidity makes them naturally antibacterial. Cauliflower and carrots are low acid, but because we’re going to pickle them with vinegar — very high acid — we can use the water bath method. The kale is also low acid and I don’t want to add vinegar, so that has to go in the pressure canner.”

  Jeffrey gazed out the kitchen window at the mid-morning sun, his mind on something other than the plastic tubs full of washed vegetables and the stacks of sanitized mason jars.

  Steven sighed. He glanced down at Molly sleeping in her dog bed. The sunlight filtering in revealed dirt on her bandaged paw and some red spots where the blood had soaked through.

  “Would you rather change Molly’s dressing than do this?”

  “Yes! I’ll get the medicine kit.” He dashed out of the kitchen.

  “You can chop up some more firewood when you’re finished with that! We can’t have too much going into the winter!”

  “Okay, Dad!”

  Steven smiled. He would make him learn on the next batch; maybe when the pumpkins and squash were ready to harvest.

  His amusement changed to alarm when he heard shouts from the street near the end of his long gravel driveway. He touched the leather shoulder holster, confirming the Glock 9mm was in place, and he felt the weight of the sma
ll Taurus pistol in his jeans pocket. After the incident with the intruders two days ago, they went with him everywhere. His son was also armed with a Kel-Tec handgun, and his Springfield rifle was always within reach. The boy was far more accurate with firearms than he was.

  “Jeffrey, get down here!”

  He heard rapid footsteps on the stairs as he positioned himself by the front door. Through the oval leaded glass, he could see people on the other side of his gate. The street was fifty yards from the house, but he spotted firearms.

  They were townspeople. Steven recognized many of them, even though he hadn’t seen them in a year or more.

  “The fence isn’t turned on, is it?” Jeffrey asked, peering around his father.

  “No, we don’t have enough power to keep it on for more than eight or nine hours a day. That’s why I only turn it on at night.”

  “Could you flip it on now?”

  Startled, Steven looked at his son.

  “Those are people we know, Jeff. You want to fry Mr. Bollinger from the supermarket or Ms. Shuster, the librarian?

  Jeffrey’s face flushed bright red.

  “No, but what the heck are they doing out there? They have guns.”

  “I see that. But we’re going to remain calm and see if we can handle this situation peacefully and without anyone getting shot or fried.”

  Jeffrey nodded.

  Steven opened the front door, allowing a few moments to make sure they didn’t plan on opening fire. He counted about a dozen people he knew, and at least another dozen that he didn’t. That didn’t bode well. In most small towns, especially those of a rural nature, there is an unspoken camaraderie; a bond that exists due to proximity. But it also exists because of a commonality which connects them, whether it’s shopping at the same grocery story or watching their kids play baseball in the same Little League games.

  The unfamiliar faces in the group frightened him more than the firearms they brandished. There was no neighborly bond to exploit with strangers.

  His mind raced as he considered his options. He could only assume they were here because they were hungry or angry or both. Would he give up his hard-earned food to strangers, especially when it might mean taking it from the mouth of his own son over the long, cold winter? He thought of the months of hard labor, tilling the soil, weeding the garden, hand carrying buckets of water from the well when the rains held off in the spring. Of course, if he hadn’t had the foresight to acquire the seeds and the knowledge to grow and store the food in the first place, he would be in the same predicament as the people in the street. Should he be penalized for his wisdom? Did honor demand he share the fruits of his and Jeffrey’s labor with these short-sighted people who hadn’t prepared?

  The thought infuriated him. He was an honorable man. He didn’t relish the idea of allowing people to starve when he and Jeffrey were well-fed, but these were dire times. He would never let Natalie and Brittany go hungry, but goddamn it, he didn’t intend to feed the whole town.

  “Jeff, go turn the fence on.”

  “But you just said...”

  “I know what I said. Go turn it on. Now. And stay inside.”

  His son darted off as Steven stepped out onto the wraparound porch. He made a show of pulling his Glock out of the shoulder holster as he descended the wooden steps. He felt the warmth of the sun on his face as he walked toward the street. A measured gait would exude confidence and also allow time for Jeffrey to get the electricity running.

  The crowd was silent as they watched him approach. Now was the time to speak. He hoped he chose the right words.

  “What’s going on here, Marilyn? Is that you, Ed? Gosh, I haven’t seen you since the Wildcats series with the Blue Angels. When was that, two years ago? What a great season that was.”

  He addressed a tall scarecrow of a man with thinning, greasy hair and a shotgun clenched in his hand. The man had the decency to at least appear uncomfortable to be caught at his neighbor’s house with a menacing firearm. He shifted his feet and looked down, unable to return Steven’s level stare.

  “Chuck, how’s your family? Did Carla and Bradley make it through?”

  Gone was the slightly overweight, sanguine supermarket manager. In his place was this thin, baleful doppelganger, whose eyes had a haunted cast and whose hands held a Winchester bolt-action.

  “My son made it, but Carla is dead.” The words were clipped and hostile, and the troubled eyes never left Steven’s face.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I lost Laura too. I almost didn’t make it back from that, so I know how agonizing it was for you.”

  “Well, you seem to be doing all right. Actually, you look pretty damn robust compared to the rest of us.” He waved his rifle over the heads of the people standing near him. People that Steven didn’t recognize.

  “If my son and I are in good shape, it’s because we’ve been working our asses off.”

  “We’ve been working our asses off too.” Marilyn, the former book Nazi at the town’s library, was also a skinnier version of her already skinny self. Steven had never liked her, but his wife had become friends with the woman due to their mutual love of books. He struggled to recall details about her life.

  She continued, “We've scavenged every bit of food there is to be found in a fifteen mile radius, fighting off all the others who had the same idea. Not all returned from those outings.”

  He knew she’d never married, and couldn’t remember if Laura had ever mentioned family members. He realized he wouldn’t have paid attention if she had. How many of Marilyn’s loved ones had perished? He needed to choose his next words carefully or the situation would deteriorate fast. Hungry people were desperate people. Angry, hungry people were more so.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Marilyn. I know how difficult it must have been for all of you.” He raised his voice so everyone could hear, making eye contact with as many people as possible. “But if you think it’s been easy for me and my son, you’re wrong. We’ve worked until our backs felt like they would break, until our fingers were covered in blisters. Then when the blisters began to bleed, we kept working. When my fourteen-year-old boy had leg cramps so painful he couldn’t sleep at night because of all the hard work, I held him in my arms until exhaustion won out over agony. When you people were out scavenging, we were hoeing and planting and chopping wood and hauling water and devising strategies for our future in this world where food no longer magically appears in grocery stores.

  “It’s been hard for everyone who survived the devastation of Chicxulub. If my son and I are doing better than some, it’s because we didn’t just work hard, we worked smart.” The last word echoed in the still morning air.

  “Right, Steven, everybody knows how fucking smart you are. You never let anyone forget it.” Chuck’s vehemence turned the adjective into something ugly.

  He was baffled by the statement. Had he been a dick before? One of those pedantic jerks that enjoyed lording his intelligence over others less clever? He’d never thought so, but he knew he tended to be impatient, sometimes to the point of exasperation when people didn’t grasp things as quickly as they should. But hadn’t he been careful not to let that impatience show?

  Perhaps he’d overestimated his poker face.

  Suddenly, he heard the low hum of electricity running through the wires of his fence. Good. Very good. But an electrified fence wouldn’t stop a bullet.

  “Whoa there, Chuck. This isn’t about anyone being smarter than anyone else. It’s simply a matter of good planning. That’s it. Nothing more.”

  “Wrong, Steven. It’s about a lot more. It’s about neighbors helping out other neighbors when times are hard. It’s about being a decent human being and not letting people starve when you have tons of hoarded food.”

  What the hell? How did Chuck know about their food? Had Jeffrey broken protocol and told kids at school about his dad’s weird little hobby?

  Then Steven had an insight. As the supermarket manager, of course he had run in
to him on a couple of shopping trips. One time his cart had been full of ten pound bags of beans, and another time, he was buying a dozen cases of Spam when it had been on sale. It was just his bad luck that the man must have remembered those incidents after all this time.

  “I don’t have tons of hoarded food. Much of what we’re living on now is what we’ve grown ourselves over the past summer.”

  He saw confusion on the man’s face, but it was soon replaced with open hostility — the same expression worn by most of the faces in the crowd.

  “Bullshit. We know you have a lot more in there than green beans and potatoes. We’ve taken a vote and decided it’s time for you to share. And we’ve got the firepower to make that happen.” The man flipped off the Winchester’s safety with a deft movement, never taking his eyes off Steven.

  “So that’s the way this is going down, huh, Chuck? You’ll just take what you want from whomever has more than you? Is this what society has been reduced to? The law of the jungle?”

  “When the natives on this side of the fence are half-starved and the natives on your side of the fence have more than they need? Yep, I guess you could say law of the jungle would apply here. This doesn’t have to get ugly. Just open up your gate and let us take what we need.”

  The simmering rage Steven had held in check threatened to boil over. How dare these freeloaders think they could storm into his home and take what belonged to him and his son?

  He sighted Chuck’s surly face in mental cross hairs.

  “Over my dead body.” He slid the Glock out of his shoulder holster as others chambered rounds in their firearms.

  “What a minute, folks!”

  It was a familiar voice.

  “Let’s not get carried away. Nobody is going to shoot anyone...at least not today.”

  Natalie’s voice exuded authority; the crowd parted, allowing her to pass through their ranks like an elegant, graceful knife slicing through warm butter.

  Had she been there all along? He hadn’t noticed her until now. Was she part of this lynch mob? The thought infuriated him. She had just been a guest in his home two days ago.