by Bobby Adair
As I walked through the foyer, I grabbed an edge of the front door and pushed it with all the force I could put behind it. I felt the weight of its nine-foot-tall, five-foot-wide, glass-paneled weight fly. It slammed and shattered, dropping shards of glass all over the foyer and porch.
“God dammit. God fucking dammit.”
I stomped forward, snorting and huffing like a distempered javelina and crossed the driveway to where Murphy stood. He hadn’t moved since we spotted the open garage. He was fuming, eyes black, hand gripping his hammer under white knuckles, ready to pound the life out of something.
“I hope we didn’t kill every White on this street,” I said as I marched past Murphy, heading up the steeply sloping, cobbled driveway, “because I need to kill something now.”
At the top of the driveway, I saw to my right the bushes in which Murphy and I had hidden the day we’d tested our suppressors, shooting at Whites up and down the street. Just in front of the bushes lay the remains of the only one I’d shot. His clothes were shredded and most of his flesh was gnawed away.
“Good,” said Murphy, looking down at the carcass.
I glanced back. He was standing just behind me, looking at the mauled body. Whether it had been chewed on by coyotes, dogs, or Whites, I didn’t care and probably wouldn’t have known the difference. I’d already decided that the partially eaten body proved the presence of my prey. I cut hard to my left. Not that it mattered which direction. The house on the left was the first to catch my eye.
With Murphy stomping resolutely behind, we cut through a garden of cacti and decorative limestone chunks and kicked a lawn gnome hard enough to make it fly across the yard and bang that house’s front wall.
I hissed, “We’re here, fuckers.”
But no fuckers came out to meet us.
The front door of the house was open, and that angered me further as I crossed the lawn and stepped up onto the porch. Once inside, I smelled the miasma of old decay. Blood stained the floors and spattered the walls, dry and brown and red. Furniture in the dining room was disarrayed. A couch lay over on its back.
Rats, maggots, and flies crawled over the dead, uncountable in the scattered mess of their bones except that three skulls were on the floor.
“Hey,” I shouted into the house. No sound came back to me. The house was empty.
“Next door,” Murphy said as he spun on his heel and headed back out.
Running a few steps to catch up, I said, “Works for me.”
Instead of walking up to street level, we cut through the trees and underbrush that separated the two houses. Murphy pushed through, blazing the trail, and I followed.
When we burst out of the trees and back onto another lawn of crispy, brown St. Augustine grass carpeting ground still soft and muddy, our anger had dissipated an iota or two, but when I spotted another open front door, my anger found fuel to rekindle itself.
As we stepped up onto a large front porch, Murphy swung his hammer at the side of a five-gallon terra cotta flowerpot, shattering it and spilling dry black dirt into a mound that I tracked through on the way inside. The house had no smell of death, but it had been ransacked. Furniture was pushed over. Decorative items were on the floor, many broken. Paintings were knocked off the walls.
Seemingly frozen in indecision, Murphy came to a stop in the center of a patterned marble floor that gave him a view down two hallways, into the living room, and through the windows on the back of the house.
Standing beside him for a minute while I calmed a bit, I said, “We should check the house anyway.”
Murphy nodded and crossed the living room. I followed him as I looked over the mess: books, couch cushions, vases, a flat panel television, and lamps. Nothing of any value.
In the kitchen, the story was the same. It was a mess. Silverware was scattered on the floor, dishes were broken. Any knife of a reasonable size was missing. The pantry was empty. Nothing else in the house proved to be of any use. All the bedrooms had been gone through. There were clothes, blankets, and pillows. I did have the presence of mind to liberate some pillowcases. Sturdy cloth bags always came in handy for something. In the garage, we found some garden tools, though nothing that could double as a good weapon. And in the space large enough for three cars, all were gone.
We left that house and headed to the next one down the street.
Chapter 33
The street followed the curve of the ridge, and we tromped through the trees and stomped down the dead grass of people’s lawns, only to find each home thoroughly ransacked. And though we had no interest in taking a car, not a one was in a garage. None were parked in the driveways. None were parked up on the road. That was odd.
We’d been through maybe a dozen houses, each with a pre-apocalypse price upwards of a million or two. All were now in their first stages of decay with doors open, windows broken, everything inside strewn on the floor. Animals had moved in, some feasting on the remains of the dead humans inside. Many houses had water standing on the floor or soaked into the carpet. With the summer’s heat gone, the thick humidity would leave that water there a long time before evaporating it. Black mold was already growing up the sheetrock walls of some of the houses. Eventually the wooden frames would rot.
Once every four or five years, hailstorms blew across the Texas hill country, dropping hailstones large enough to disintegrate the shingles on most houses. The houses not already rotting would start, once rainwater got in through the holed roofs. Before long, houses would collapse, leaving their brick facades to crumble. Weeds would grow up through cracks in the foundations that appeared as the supporting clay soil dried and shrunk.
The asphalt streets would slowly fall apart under the assault of plant roots, rain, and seasonal temperature shifts. Ten, twenty, or thirty years in the future, cedar and mesquite forests would reclaim the endless suburban sprawl.
As Murphy and I trudged up a steeply sloping front lawn, I wondered if I would live long enough to hunt in the forest that would eventually grow to replace the houses we were searching through. Up at street level, we turned and followed an unbroken curb as it arced around into a cul-de-sac, the terminus of the ridgeline.
“What do you make of that?” Murphy asked.
Cars parked haphazardly on the street and up on the curbs nearly filled the cul-de-sac. A path wide enough to drive through bisected the scattered mess of vehicles and led to a driveway that fell away down the slope, to a house under the roof peaks that were just visible out past the edge of the pavement.
“I—” I didn’t know what to make of it.
Murphy stopped walking and turned slowly, looking at the trees all around. No houses were visible, only trees on undeveloped lots around the cul-de-sac, the scattered cars, and the driveway.
I said, “I’m guessing it’s a White like that tattoo guy. I think something goes haywire in their brains and some of them need to collect shit.”
Murphy grunted, nodded, and crossed the empty asphalt until he came to a late-model Japanese sedan. He laid a hand on its roof and looked around, still glowering.
We were near the center of the cul-de-sac, and being exposed was making me nervous. “We shouldn’t be out here.” I pointed to the shingled peaks out past the collection of cars. “I’m guessing the guy who rounded up all this shit is over there in that house.”
“Yup.” Murphy nodded, and kept nodding. He was coming to a conclusion that was getting more obvious with each nod. He pointed to the driveway. “I’ll bet our Humvee is down there.”
The self-evident deduction left me momentarily speechless. Yes. He was right. But that seemed at the same time too good to be true. I looked around at the trees again, looking for a trap. Nothing moved except branches swaying with the wind.
Murphy took a step toward the clear trail between the cars. I grabbed his shoulder and stopped him, feeling him tense as his temper started to flare. I said, “You’re right. But let’s be smart.” I pointed at the trees off to our left and took off a
t a jog across the asphalt.
A moment later, Murphy joined me in the trees.
Still looking around at what I could see of the cul-de-sac, I said, “We’ve been acting like reckless dipshits all morning.”
“Yeah.” Murphy didn’t take his eyes off the gap between the cars.
“It’s going to get us in trouble if we keep it up.”
Murphy agreed again.
“I know you whipped the shit out of that guy at the tattoo shop without any problem, but you know as well as I do that some of the these Smart Ones can be dangerous.”
Murphy drew a long, patient breath and looked down at his hammer, obviously thinking about applying it to some Smart One’s skull. He asked, “What are you thinking?”
I thumbed over my shoulder at the trees behind me. “We go down the hill a bit and work our way around that house and see what we can see. Then decide what to do.”
“All right,” Murphy said. “I say we stick pretty close to the road and see if we can get a look at what’s down that driveway.”
“You want to make sure the Humvee is there, first?” I asked.
“Yep.”
Murphy started through the trees and I followed. We moved away from the pavement as we went, using the curve and slope of the ridge as our guide. Murphy hefted his hammer as he gingerly stepped between cedars. I held my machete in a comfortable, familiar grip, telling myself to proceed cautiously, but wanting to hack a White.
I was trying to get a glimpse through the trees ahead for anything that looked like a limestone wall or a shingled roof when Murphy threw up a hand, a gesture to stop. I froze in place.
My heartbeat spiked and I slowly raised my machete, ready to fight as I looked left and right, listening. But nothing was around us that I could see.
When I looked back at Murphy, he was pointing at something on the ground.
I looked down, but couldn’t see it. I mouthed, “What?”
Murphy, with one hand still raised to hold me in position, bent his knees and lowered himself slowly until his pointing finger touched a thin wire running at shin height above the ground.
Holy shit!
Murphy saw on my face exactly what I was thinking, that the wire was part of a booby trap. He pointed along the wire, tracing its length. It came to a stop at an olive green box, partially hidden behind a sprout of branches at the base of a tree.
He pointed back in the direction we came from, motioned for me to stay where I was, and stood, taking great care to watch where he placed his feet. When he was up next to me, he whispered, “Follow me out. Stay close. Do exactly as I do. Don’t wander off on your own path.”
Without saying a word, I followed Murphy.
Chapter 34
The ground in most places among the trees was just a layer of dried cedar needle clusters an inch or two thick over sandy bits of limestone or hard rock. So, following our footprints out the way we’d come wasn’t an option. There were no footprints, just trees that all looked pretty much alike.
A few steps back along our path, I grabbed Murphy’s shoulder. He turned to me. I pointed in the direction we were moving and whispered, “What are the chances there are booby traps back that way?”
Murphy shrugged and looked around.
I said, “We could have been walking in a minefield since we entered the trees.”
“I’m not sure I’d call it a minefield.”
I rolled my eyes. “Does it matter exactly what it is?”
Still looking around at the tree trunks and across the ground, Murphy said, “This whole place could be full of traps, or that could be the only one. There’s no way to know until we find some more or get blown up by one we don’t see.”
I turned back in the direction we’d originally been moving and looked deep into the trees. “Just luck.”
“What’s that?” Murphy asked.
“We’re only alive because of luck,” I said. “Again.”
“What’s your point?”
“One booby trap doesn’t change anything.” I pointed toward the place where the house lay out among the trees. “We have the same chance of getting killed by a mine no matter which direction we go.”
Nodding slowly, Murphy said, “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” His face stretched in a wicked grin.
“What are you thinking?”
“Bad thoughts.” Murphy looked back at the mine strapped to the tree behind me.
I asked, “Can you disconnect it and reuse it?”
“I don’t know, but I think we’re on the same page.”
I put a hand in my pocket and yanked out a couple of pillowcases, kept one for myself and handed one to Murphy.
He shook his head. “If I can disconnect them, you’ll have to carry ‘em. I’ll need both hands to keep from getting blown up.” Murphy pointed to pair of tree trunks that looked to be competing for the same spot in the ground. “Go stand behind those while I do this.”
“But—”
“Besides getting blown up, what are you gonna do to help? Go over there where you won’t get hurt.”
Sulking, I walked over and put the double trunks between me and the booby trap. Murphy knelt down by the mine and leaned in close. With his back to me, I couldn’t see exactly what he was doing.
It took only a few moments of work before Murphy started to laugh and waved me over.
Puzzled, I moved between the trees, keeping an eye out for any wires I might have missed on the way to my hiding place.
Once I was beside him, Murphy said, “Get down here. Look at this.”
I knelt so I could see.
Murphy had the thin branches pushed to the side, exposing the whole mechanism. The wire was still taut. He pointed a finger at the wire and said, “Look around the other side of the trunk and tell me what you see.”
I leaned around the small trunk. The wire that extended across the path was looped around the trunk. On the backside of the tree, held in place by the loop was some kind of clicking mechanism with a wire that ran up to an explosive device, a curved, green, rectangular container very roughly the size of a Pop-Tart box.
“So, you trip on the wire,” I surmised, “the wire pulls tight, the clicker switch closes and the mine goes off.” I looked at Murphy expecting a nod and a smile.
Instead, he was holding in a laugh. “Typical.”
“Typical? What’s that mean?”
“You don’t know what this is, or how to use it?”
I was a little bit offended. “No, but how hard could it be?” As I was saying that, I realized that my guess must have been wrong.
Murphy’s big fingers went to work with surprising dexterity on the thin wire, untying the knot that made the loop. “Untie the mine.”
I fumbled with the wires.
Murphy had his untied in seconds and brushed me out of the way, having little patience for my difficulty. Again, it took only seconds, and the wire loosened and the green mine fell. I gasped and caught it before it hit the ground.
Murphy laughed. “It needs an electrical charge to blow. Dropping it won’t hurt it.”
“The fall won’t set it off?” It was hard to believe.
“You could beat it with a hammer and it wouldn’t go off.” Murphy held his hammer out to me. “You wanna try?”
I shook my head.
He looked down at the mine I was holding gingerly in two hands. “Turn it over and see what it says.”
Looking at him like he was keeping a secret from me, I turned the mine over and read it out loud, “Front toward enemy.”
“It’s an M18 Claymore directional mine.” Murphy said. He held up the clicker. “This is the clacker. You gotta click it three times to make it go off.”
“Three times?” I asked.
“This booby trap wouldn’t work. You’d get one click when you tripped over the wire. The Claymore wouldn’t go off.”
I said, “I’m confused.”
“Whoever set this up, it wasn’t somebody who unders
tood what he was doing.”
“Not soldiers?” I asked.
Murphy shook his head. “Like you said up on the street, probably some knucklehead White with a car fetish.”
That made me feel a bit better about sneaking up on the house. “So our Humvee might be sitting in the driveway and all we have to do is get in and drive off.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Murphy looked at me seriously. “Just because this guy doesn’t know how to set up a trap with his Claymores doesn’t mean he isn’t dangerous.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Where do you think he got the Claymores?”
“Probably the same place we got the grenades from.”
“The munitions bunkers at Camp Mabry?” I asked.
Murphy raised his eyebrows. Where else?
“I hope he had as much difficulty with it.” I put the Claymore, its wires, and clacker in my bag.
“Let me disconnect those clacker wires from the mine first,” said Murphy. “Don’t want you blowing us up when we’re traipsing through the woods.” I held the pillowcase open and Murphy reached in.
We collected two more Claymores while working our way through the trees on the way to a black metal fence that bordered an expansive property. Whether natural or excavated, the front yard was a half-acre of mowed—now dead—grass and flowerbeds, laid out in front of a ranch-style house that might have covered a half-acre all by itself. Across the front lawn, snaking between the flower gardens, a driveway was covered with cars. Some parked neatly, others halfway in the grass. By the front door sat two Humvees. Neither had a machine gun mounted on the roof. Out across the yard, halfway to the fence and visible from every window on the front of the house, sat another Humvee—our Humvee. The machine gun mounted on the roof was all the proof I needed.
“I can jump this fence and be inside in like, twenty seconds,” I said. “You run back up through the trees and I’ll pick you up in the cul-de-sac.” I looked over at Murphy for agreement.
