by Connor Mccoy
Conrad didn’t have time to ponder it further. A loud gunshot smacked into one of the nearby barrels. He fished one of the rifles off his shoulder. Three men near the warehouse were aiming their rifles at them, with Jack shaking his arm in the direction of Conrad and the women.
“Shoot the men! Stop those bastards!” Jack screamed. “I want the women back, now!”
Conrad turned his rifle and fired a few rounds back in their direction. By now the women had gathered behind Tom and Sarah. “C’mon, make tracks!” Conrad shouted. As he approached Tom, he slammed a rifle against his arm. “Good shooting. Now let’s see how you do with this.”
Tom quickly handed Sarah his gun. “Here.” She took it, not expressing any outward happiness at seeing him, instead just nodding.
Conrad hurried to the front of the pack. “Alright, ladies, stay close behind us! Any one of you get too far out by yourself, it’s your hide!” He picked up the pace as the end of the warehouse property was in sight.
But then two more men approached from the edge of the lot, one with a shotgun, another with an assault rifle. The women suddenly stopped. Conrad, thinking fast, turned and emptied several rounds into the man with the assault rifle. However, the man with the shotgun was too far away, and able to spin around and turn his sights on Conrad. He might have nailed Conrad, too, if another shot hadn’t felled him in time.
Conrad turned and looked over his shoulder. Sarah was holding the rifle, her fingers around the trigger. Then she began shaking, as if she just realized what she had done. Tom, next to her, reached out and took her shoulder.
“Easy, Baby. Take her down,” he said.
Sarah lowered her gun. Conrad couldn’t help but feel guilty. Taking a life was the one thing he had dreaded for a long time. Sarah probably didn’t even have a moment to think about what she’d do until she did it.
Thank God, Conrad thought. She saved my life. But she’ll be shook up. Hell, she’ll be shook up from a lot of things.
“Come on.” Conrad started off at the head of the pack. “We got to keep going.”
“Hey!” Jack waved to Ira. He had caught his attention as he emerged from the west side of the warehouse. “Get over here!” Jack already had gathered four other men and had begun pursuing the women when he spotted Ira. He wanted all the men he could find to hunt down the women and drag them back.
“Jack! What’s the deal?” yelled a skinny man in a dirty green T-shirt. Ira held onto his weapon as he jogged down the parking lot, sweat flying off in all directions.
“We’ve been hit,” replied Jacob, a bald man with a glare that could melt iron. “They came in and stole the women.”
Ira then turned back in the warehouse’s direction, toward the west entrance, where Marco lay. “Hey. They iced Marco?” Marco’s leg then slid a few inches. “He’s alive!”
Jack grabbed Ira by the shoulder. “Forget him!” Jack’s hold dragged Ira almost a foot. “He’s as good as dead. We’re going to recover the women. Now let’s go!”
Jack speed-walked toward the end of the lot. He was mad. Madder than he had been in a long time. Who the hell was that old man who just came out of the warehouse? Who was his friend who shot at them?
This was my moment, he fumed to himself. Maggiano’s dead. He had left Marco to die in that burning room, only for him to survive, but then to take a bullet, so he was nothing to worry about. Jack should be at the top of the Maggiano empire. Instead, his grand prize was abruptly ripped out of his hands. But who the hell would come rescue these women? Jack would have expected the U.S. Army, or perhaps a resurgent National Guard or even a new police force. But how many did he spot? Just two?
“Binoculars,” he called. “One of you has to have them. Look down the street!”
One of the men, Laird, pulled off a pair from his belt and looked through them. “Down there!” he pointed. “Yeah, they’re headed toward the Riard Buildings!”
“Good.” Jack quickened his pace. “Let’s go!”
Conrad didn’t bother with niceties in opening the office door. A couple of rounds from Conrad’s gun blasted the lock free of the doorframe. Then he kicked the door fully open. Conrad, Tom, Sarah and the other nine women had retreated to this small office, as Conrad and Tom had planned. Now it was time to grab their supplies and get out of the warehouse district.
“Alright, ladies, I hate to ask for this, but I need a couple of pack mules.” Conrad pointed inside with the muzzle of his gun. “I got a backpack in there, it’s the heaviest. I need someone to grab it and carry it. Tom’s got one, too. It’s lighter. Hurry!”
Two women quickly dashed past Conrad—one Caucasian and red-haired, another African American and short-haired—and took up the packs. “Alright, Tom and I are going to keep the fire off us!” Rifle raised, Conrad hurried to the rear of the party. They had outdistanced the gunfire, but stopping like this would let their pursuers close the gap, and quickly.
The two women hurried out of the office with the packs. At the same time, a gun round struck the building high up near the roof. A few of the women shrieked. Conrad squinted. “Where are you bastards?” he whispered.
A few shapes approached, difficult to see from this distance. There were three, no, make that four of them, all clutching rifles like the ones Conrad had recovered. Conrad aimed and fired off a few rounds in their direction. They quickly slowed and ran toward the nearest cover.
By now the party now was in full retreat from the office building, down the street that would lead to the end of the warehouse district. Conrad turned and hurried after them.
“Conrad!” Sarah shouted from the middle of the pack.
“Keep going!” Conrad called, “I’m your cover! And don’t scatter!”
Conrad kept a rear-guard action as they passed warehouse after warehouse. When he thought their pursuers were getting too close, he opened fire again.
I can keep them jumping, but I can’t keep this up forever, Conrad thought. I’m not a spring chicken, and these ladies aren’t exactly in tip-top shape. I’ve got to lose them.
He was so lost in his thoughts that he nearly smacked into a barrel. A familiar odor grabbed his nostrils. He found a small round cap and turned it, then pulled it off. Red liquid splashed inside. Diesel fuel!
He looked up and found they were on the grounds of another warehouse, half the size of Maggiano’s, but that had some of the same trappings, with a forklift, a red service truck, and a few barrels. He quickly shoved one of them. Empty. He kicked a second one. Again, empty. Perhaps this lot had been raided and this barrel got overlooked.
Probably some lazy son of a bitch didn’t care to check these too carefully. Conrad pushed the barrel over, letting the fuel pour out onto the concrete. Lucky for us.
Tom stopped. The rest of the women slowed their pace. “Conrad, what are you doing?” Tom shouted.
“Making us some cover. Keep moving!” As the fuel flowed, Conrad dug into his jacket. He kept some matches handy so he could see in darkness.
He pulled one out, then struck it hard against the side of the barrel. Finally, he flicked the burning match into the fuel.
The small flame quickly grew tall and wide. Conrad ran as fast as he could. The flame raced down the slick of fuel, creating a small wall of fire behind them. As Conrad approached the group of liberated captives, the fire, along with the accompanying smoke, now was tall enough to cover their escape
“What the hell?” Jacob called out as he and the rest of Jack’s force spotted the flames up ahead. The group quickly slowed their pace. With the wall of flames ahead, it now was impossible to catch any sight of the fleeing captives.
Ira coughed. “Damn,” he said.
“Where the hell did that come from?” Laird covered his mouth with his arm.
Jack stopped. “They went this way. We got to keep moving!”
“We’re going to have cut around, get to Sam’s Boulevard on the other side,” Jacob said. By now the fire had cut fully across the street. “Ther
e’s no way we can make it through that blaze.”
“Damn!” Jack let loose a string of epithets into the sky. This would delay them, badly. That old codger probably set this fire somehow to block them.
Jack turned toward a set of office buildings. The alley through the two structures would lead to Sam’s Boulevard “I am not letting them go. Those women are mine,” he repeated over and over again.
Chapter Thirteen
Carla pushed open the outside door to the kitchen, permitting Liam and Camilla through. The trio’s clothes were dirty and reeked. “Now that is how you milk a goat,” Camilla said while clutching a small metal pail full of milk. She set it down next to Conrad’s wood burning stove. “See? You’re a newbie at farming, aren’t you? Well, you learn something new every day.”
Liam wiped fresh sweat off his face. “Well, that was definitely an experience. I had no idea goats had to be pregnant before you could milk them.”
“I wonder if Conrad knows Lacey’s expecting?” Camilla patted Carla on the shoulder. “It’s a regular baby boom on this ranch, isn’t it? People, goats. Hell, I wonder if any of the sheep are expecting.”
Carla stretched her arms. “Maybe we can ask them tomorrow.” She leaned against the back wall. “I am absolutely beat.”
“I am, too, but I’m sure there’s more to do around here before the sun goes down,” Liam said.
Camilla smiled. “Look, I think I’ve put you two through enough today. How about you two lovebirds hit the showers and get some sleep?” Then she sniffed loudly. “Besides, you really do need to change out of those clothes.”
“Sure, I…Damn, I forgot the plumbing doesn’t work anymore,” Liam said. “Dad said he has his own well. Carla, I’ll go find some buckets to fill up the tub.”
“Why?” Camilla asked, “You don’t need to draw the water yourself. Conrad installed his own pump and pipe systems.”
Carla’s eyes widened. “Wait, we have running water?”
“I guess you two didn’t receive the grand tour when you showed up here,” Camilla said with a grin.
“We were pretty much in a hurry,” Liam replied.
“Today’s full of surprises for you two, isn’t it? But anyway, yeah, Conrad put in a pump in his well, plus he has his own cistern tank outside to collect rainwater. You can turn the faucet and fill up the tub. Just don’t go hog wild with it. It’s not like you can fill her up and take a bubble bath.” Camilla laughed. “You’ll be fine. Plus, you can drain out the dirty water when you’re done.”
Liam shook his head. “Amazing.”
Carla sighed. “A shower. Oh God, I didn’t even think I’d get one ever again. Liam, can I go first?”
“Hey, the tub’s big enough for both of you, am I right?” Camilla then playfully swatted Liam on his arm.
Liam, in turn, smiled. “I think we both want to take it easy for a while. Sure, Carla, go in first.”
Camilla looked in the direction of the room Liam and Carla stayed in. The thought of what those two might be up to put a smile on her face. It even made her feel young again.
Then she strolled up to her bag, still lying on the sofa. She felt compelled to dig out one of her old photos tucked away in a small compartment. After fishing the photograph out, she gazed at it with fresh eyes. Camilla Pitzo, age thirty-four, stared back at her. Her face was free of age lines, her cheeks seemed to glisten in the sun, with a little help from makeup. Her blonde hair was lighter, frizzier, and flowed longer down her shoulders. But the most striking difference was young Camilla’s clothing. She wore a long brown business skirt and jacket over a white blouse. Behind her lay the skyscrapers of the Queens borough of New York City. This Camilla worked in bank offices and later, a prestigious trading company.
“You sure have come a long way,” she whispered to the image in her hand. It was true. For a time, Camilla was part of the city lifestyle. She had worn enough nylon stockings and skirts to last a lifetime.
Not unlike Conrad, she thought. Well, minus the nylon and skirts.
Camilla had seen the pictures of Conrad in his days in the city. Sometimes she thought their histories were a sign that they were meant to meet each other. Both shared common backgrounds, with Camilla and Conrad spending their young adult years in urban settings before heading out to the countryside to begin new lives. Camilla, though, had lived in the city longer than Conrad had, which was probably why she never truly put down roots after that. She spent her late thirties and beyond bouncing between five states. Basically, she had become a nomad.
Camilla put the photo away. The past had to tend to itself for now. The concerns of the present and the future beckoned to her. She had more reason to push Liam and Carla off to a shower and bed. She wanted time to herself, to prepare. She had been nursing fears about what could hit this homestead for too long. Tonight, she would prepare.
Her boots made loud thumps on the wooden floorboards as she marched down the hall, all the way to the end, until she hit a closed door. This door possessed two locks. Conrad had good reason to keep the basement secure. Camilla pulled out her set of keys and turned each lock.
Damn, I hoped it wouldn’t get this bad, she thought.
She grasped the door and pulled on it. The door was hard to budge. Without a working air conditioner, the heat caused the wood to expand. Or maybe Conrad wanted the door to be hard to open.
Once she yanked the door fully open, Camilla proceeded down a set of stairs into the yawning darkness of the basement. She set her lantern down on a small table, the light of the lamp showing off a collection of weapons on the walls. Conrad had turned his basement into an armory.
Camilla thought back to when she first saw this basement. It was only half as loaded as it was now, but the sight had surprised her. Conrad explained that if society should break down, there’d be nobody coming in to save his hide if things got desperate. Anything could happen. Factions of the country could go to war with each other. Enemy countries might seize the opportunity to invade the United States. Or desperate folks would band together to take over properties that were growing food.
I guess nothing will surprise me now, she thought as she started counting the guns. As she got up to ten weapons, she chuckled. Damn, you couldn’t have expected to use all these yourself. Obviously, he couldn’t expect to buy new guns at a gun store if a catastrophe struck, but Camilla wondered if Conrad expected to take in wards. Conrad acted as if he expected to be alone, but Camilla pondered if that was truly the case.
“Maybe you hoped someone would come along. Someone young. Someone to carry on after you’ve gone,” she muttered to herself.
She pictured an ancient Conrad, his gray hair lying against his shoulders, age spots covering his arms and face, his robust face now sunken in. He would just be sitting in the easy chair in the living room with no strength left to fend for himself. Instead, he’d just sit there and die. The house would remain locked up unless someone discovered it and broke it open, finding Conrad’s decayed body.
Camilla picked up a magazine. “What a horrible way to go,” she whispered as she clutched the magazine. Compared to a lonely, aged death, dying on one’s feet with a gun in hand seemed much better.
Of course, Camilla didn’t necessarily want that, either. And with Liam and Carla under this roof, she vowed that wouldn’t happen.
She chose that moment to look off to the rear wall of the basement. A giant steel door stood there, with a security access panel. This was Conrad’s worst case scenario, his absolute last resort. When the chips were down, if he couldn’t defend the homestead any longer, or if the environment had grown too hazardous, he would retreat here, open this door, and duck inside the shelter beyond. The access panel included both a PIN number and biometrics. There was ample food and water in there, enough for months.
Camilla chewed her lip. Being trapped in that shelter didn’t appeal to her, either. She feared being cooped up in a tight space, not able to escape, just living there until all the supplies
ran out or her body just gave up and died. In the years since she fled New York, she had grown to love the wide-open outdoors and couldn’t stomach the thought of being enclosed for so long. No, she had to win the battle she feared would come.
She returned to counting the weapons and ammunition.
George slammed the box down on the ground hard near Derrick’s feet. “Here’s your gear. I see you’ve already got your guns.” George and Kendall then opened up the box, revealing several small backpacks.
“This will be about two-day journey,” Derrick said as George and Kendall pulled out the packs. “We’ll have to pitch camp at least once. Don’t worry about provisions. We’ll have more than enough to make it to Conrad’s ranch.”
George and Kendall passed the packs around to the men. Lance eagerly unzipped his, finding a water canteen, a few extra magazines, and a piece of dark wool cloth. He pulled it out and unfolded it. There were a few holes in it. He stuck his finger through one of them. The holes were oval shaped.
He then turned and noticed Cal slipping the cloth over his head. Lance got it. These were ski masks. Actually, they looked like masks armed thugs on television or in movies would wear.
Cal then turned in Lance’s direction. “Pretty sweet, huh?” he asked.
Looking at it from the outside, Lance wasn’t sure. “Yeah,” he answered anyway.
“A little psychological warfare,” Derrick said with a smile. “Covering your face, you don’t look all that human.” He made a fist and held it to his heart. “Instills a little fear, especially in superstitious old men. Of course, it’s your choice if you want to put them on.”
Ethan, one of the youngest men besides Lance, slipped on his mask and laughed. “Check this out,” he said with a laugh. Then he coiled his fingers as if he was holding a gun and made shooting sounds.
As Lance let his mask drop into his bag, Sandy passed by. “Shouldn’t be so damn eager to get into a gunfight,” he said quietly, “They don’t know what it’s like to shoot somebody. Bet most of these men only shot anything playing their computer games.”
