by Schow, Ryan
The two girls were in the Jack and Jill bathroom, stacked on top of each other horizontally. Gore was splattered all over the tile floors and on the plastic shower surround. The monsters who did this had stuffed the twin eleven-year-olds inside the shower while they were still bleeding out. The bottom of the basin was tinged pink, the kids’ vitality having emptied into the basin before rolling down the drain.
Shaking, enraged, his eyes slick with tears, he fought back the rage crashing around inside of him. He drew a deep breath, wiped his eyes. At some point in time, he stopped pacing. Grinding his molars, he began to understand the play: kill the homeowners during the day, collect their spoils at night. That meant the murderers were coming back for the items in the front room. He couldn’t let that happen. First 2020, now this?
This madness had to stop!
Today, he’d stop it.
Before the power outage, before the storm, there was the insurgency of organized rioters. Men and women like those trying to take advantage of the downed power grid. It had been going on for nearly two years now. Last year, the peaceful protestors stopped marching for fear of being hurt by the rioters who—like Trojan Horses—pretended to share in their struggle.
The police stopped answering calls around the same time. Having lost support from the top brass and the mayors they answered to—having lost the faith of the people themselves—their jobs became too dangerous, so they turned in their badges and guns in droves. The cities eventually begged for them to come back, but too many good officers had been killed, targeted, and abused. For most of them, this was a life-or-death “opportunity” that no reasonable citizen blamed them for passing up. That was why his father said to take the guns. All he had on his hip was his Browning. He had a spare magazine, but maybe it wasn’t enough. Or maybe it was too much. The men were gone, the Murpheys dead. Right then, the gun didn’t matter. Ten guns and a Howitzer wouldn’t have mattered much either.
Outside the rain slowed to a trickle. He glanced outside, saw the gray skies moving fairly quickly, but less threatening than before.
For a moment, he thought of his grandfather’s HAM radio, wondered if it worked, or if his father even knew how to use it. He needed to call someone, maybe begin to organize some sort of resistance. But the second he stepped outside, all those thoughts of standing up to the scumbags out en masse changed.
He heard a couple of big engines right around the corner. Moving back inside the doorway, he pushed the door closed just enough to peek through the slit between the door and its casing.
The first truck stopped in front of the house. It was a really old Suburban, rusted so badly Niles saw holes eaten in the back quarter-panel. Another truck stopped behind that—the ancient Chevy dually he’d seen earlier.
Niles left the door where it was, started to slip out the back, but thought otherwise. Was he just going to run? Leave these murderous cretins to their homicidal ways? He didn’t think he could do that. It would be smart, though. Then again, who would they ambush next? His parents? Him? These were killers, opportunists, monsters.
“No,” he heard himself say.
The tidal wave of fury that surged inside him turned his hands into fists. These men needed to pay for what they did. He stepped back inside, returned to the front room, then took a deep, stabilizing breath, and waited.
A moment later, a handful of guys walked inside.
The moment that one of the murderers spotted him, Niles shot him. He fired three more rounds, putting down all four men in total. He snuck a look out the front door, saw five or six more guys who had been coming in now changing course and running back to the trucks. He stepped out onto the front porch, fired at the scampering cowards. He hit one of them who had been running. The skinny maggot flopped down face-first on the pavement, dead as a doornail.
One of the trucks started up, found a gear, then jolted to a start. He shot at the Suburban until he was out of rounds. He dropped the empty mag, replaced it with a fresh one, then racked the slide, but not before taking fire.
Dropping down, he shot four or five retaliation rounds, then felt a righteous zinging in his calf. Looking down, he saw the bullet hole in his jeans. He stood up, hopped toward the front door for cover, took another bullet through the side, and one more to the meat of his butt.
Growling, he all but dove inside the house and pushed the door shut behind him. It didn’t close all the way, but he couldn’t risk trying again.
The Suburban took off, but it sounded like the dually had stopped.
He pulled himself to the slightly ajar door, pulled it open enough to see what was what. The dually’s driver got out of the truck, drew his gun. Niles pushed himself back inside as he saw the shooter making his way to the side of the house. He kicked the door shut, then gathered up all his strength and got to his feet. The pain was outrageous, crippling, but his adrenaline was pumping and he was determined not to die.
Ignoring the trail of blood he was leaving behind, he slipped out the back door, and edged around the corner. There he came face-to-face with the gun-toting driver. Fortunately, Niles had his Browning up by his chest, ready to rock and roll. The idiot driver raised his gun with two hands, elbows practically locked out, but he wasn’t fast enough. Niles put a round right in his chest.
“That’s for the Murpheys,” he hissed.
The shooter staggered backward, gun dropping on the ground. Touching his chest, staring down at his bloody fingertips, he couldn’t seem to believe he’d been shot. He turned his terrified eyes up to Niles.
“This one’s for me,” Niles said. He pulled the trigger, watched the man’s head jerk backward.
The moment the shooter went down, dually’s passenger jumped into the driver’s seat, put the beast in gear, and high-tailed it out of there. Apparently, they left their dead.
Freaking cowards.
At that moment, the realization that he’d been shot three times hit him full-force. Soon the adrenaline surge would wear off and the pain would set in, along with an infection if he wasn’t tended to properly.
He hobbled across the street and down the long, straight driveway leading to his parents’ home. Niles expected the journey to take a toll. His energy would surely wane on his way to the barn. But what he didn’t expect was for the dually to circle back around. Niles glanced over his shoulder, saw the truck pull up to the Murphey’s house.
Maybe they weren’t cowards after all. The men in the truck spilled out into the streets, most of them headed inside the house, guns drawn. Instead of bringing out their dead, they were hauling out the goods they’d piled together.
“Unbelievable.”
He took one last look behind him, saw the dually’s new driver walking toward Niles, and felt a second burst of adrenaline. The maggot had a pistol in his hand and revenge written all over his face.
Niles hobbled inside, grabbed his father’s hunting rifle—the Browning X-Bolt Long Range rifle. He checked the four-round mag, saw the .308 rounds ready to go. He pulled the action, seated the first round, then hobbled back out onto the porch.
The rain was starting back up, giving him some cover, but not much. With distance on his side, he took aim at the intruder who was now halfway up the driveway. Seeing the rifle, he turned and started to run.
Through the Leupold scope, Niles tracked his target as he fled. He couldn’t have anyone knowing where he lived, but there were more men with the driver, so he was already in trouble and he had to admit this to himself.
He fired the first round, his aim true. The bullet entered the back of the man’s skull, gore blasting out of his face in a misty red cone. He toppled onto the pavement, his momentum causing him to pitch forward and just lay there face-first into the street.
The guys grabbing the Murphey’s things dropped what they had and ran for the truck. Niles shot two more of the thieves, but two got in the dually, fired up the engine, and slapped the rig in gear. Just as the newest driver started to drive, Niles put a bullet in his head. It
wasn’t an easy shot, but Niles had been shooting most of his life, so he was confident in his ability to manage the situation.
The truck lost its speed, drifting to a stop against the head and shoulders of the dead driver he’d dropped in the street. Niles worked the action again, squeezed the trigger. The rifle clicked. He pulled the action back, saw an empty chamber, frowned. The guy in the passenger seat opened the door, shoved the dead driver out of the truck, then ducked down inside the truck’s cab as he prepared to get out of there.
“Who in blazes are you shooting at?” his father called out as he stalked through the rain toward Niles.
The truck took off with barking rear tires, running over his buddy’s head in the escape. The sight of it was horrifying.
Niles calmly handed his father his rifle. But he didn’t feel calm at all. He was enraged, scared, hurting. “They killed the Murpheys, Dad. They slaughtered them.”
“What?” he asked, breathless and looking out into the street. “How many did you get?”
“Eight or nine? I…I don’t know. I can’t think straight right now.”
His hands were shaking badly, and he’d been holding down his stomach at the thought of being shot. Will looked at Niles, then saw the red he’d seen sneaking around the side of his shirt.
“You’ve been shot,” he said.
By then his mother was heading their way, too, her hands up to protect her face from the rain.
“Yeah, in a few places.”
“We need to get you inside. Any of them still in you? The bullets?”
“Not sure,” Niles said. “I don’t think so.”
His father helped him inside, a definite change of pace from a little while ago when he’d been the one helping his parents.
“Are you sure?”
“I think maybe I might have one in my butt cheek. Although it didn’t kick me forward, so maybe it just tore through the side.”
“What were you thinking?” the old man growled.
“I got trapped,” he lied. “They killed the Murpheys, then came back with friends for their stuff. I saw them leaving, wanted to check up on Seamus and Shannon, but then I found them. And the kids, too.”
“Dear God, they got the girls?”
“Slaughtered them like pigs,” he said as his mother walked in the house, dripping wet.
“Who got slaughtered?” she asked, her hearing still intact.
“The Murpheys.”
Her hand went to her mouth, her eyes unable to blink or pull away from Niles. “The twins, too?”
Niles nodded, solemn.
“Ramira, get us a couple of towels for him to lay on,” Will said.
“Why would he need towels?”
“Because he’s been shot! Now get the darn towels already!”
When Niles’s mother went for towels, his father said, “Pull down your pants before your mother gets back. Let me see what we’re working with.”
“I can look myself,” he said.
“Stop embarrassing me, kid. Just do as I say. Hurry up now.”
Niles did so, albeit with a tremendous amount of pain. Then, he stood there ashamed.
“Okay, pull ‘em up,” his father said after a quick appraisal. “It’s clean through the cheek, just like you thought. I’m thinking about heading up the street to see if Jacob’s daughter is still around. She went to school for this sort of thing, before the hospitals were practically shut down.”
“Are you referring to Kenley?” Niles asked.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll be fine for now.”
His mother brought them towels. Niles laid belly-down on the table, his calf and side burning where he’d been shot, his backside aching something fierce. What an absolute embarrassment!
“I need to get to Leighton soon,” Niles said, even though he wasn’t sure how that was possible now. “If we’re without power, and guys like the ones who killed the Murpheys realize they can pretty much do what they want, it’ll complicate matters.”
“What do you mean by ‘it will complicate matters?’” his mother asked.
“What happened at the Murphey’s house, after the ease by which we lost control of so many of the big cities to the rioting and looting in the ’20s, might start happening everywhere.”
“There’s nothing to rob on campus,” his mother reasoned. “Unless they want to steal textbooks and learning supplies.”
“There are tons of pretty girls there,” Niles said, which was enough to make Ramira’s cheeks blister.
His father said, “I’m going to pull up your shirt. It might hurt.”
Niles nodded. “Just do it.” When he did, the wet fabric pulled off the wound, giving him that sensation of being flayed. He gritted his teeth. “Mom, can you get dad some hydrogen peroxide and some anti-biotic ointment?”
“We need to get you up the road to Jacob’s place sooner rather than later.”
“Why don’t you just bring Kenley here?”
“It’s not safe,” he said.
“I’ll just stand guard at the patio,” Niles offered. “I won’t be sitting down for a while now anyway. Not if I’m going to feel like this.”
“Will?” Ramira said, panic in her voice.
His father hurried to the window, then turned and said, “An old Suburban just rolled up to the Murphey’s house.”
“Again?” Niles asked. “What’s with these guys?”
“There are a few guys…”
Niles pushed up on his elbows, craned his head around to look at his mother. “And?”
“Looks like they’re robbing the place,” she said.
Ramira joined Will at the window.
“How many?” Niles asked.
“A few guys from what I can see,” his father said.
“Are any of them coming here?”
“Not yet.”
Will returned to Niles. Then, after a few minutes, Ramira said, “They’re gone.”
“Looks like they got everything they came for,” his father said, disgusted.
“They know where we live,” Niles said, solemn.
“Did you see who they were with? What outfit or affiliation?” Ramira asked.
“Hayseed Rebellion I think,” Niles said.
“I was hoping you wouldn’t say that,” his father whispered, almost to himself.
“You think they’re going to be a problem?”
“Don’t you?”
“Yeah,” Niles told the old man. “I’m pretty sure they’re going to be a huge problem.”
Chapter Eleven
Leighton McDaniel
The endless rain was slowing Leighton down, making things miserable for her. She needed a place to go where she could escape the elements, maybe exchange her wet jacket for the poncho Walker had packed for her in the backpack.
In wet shoes, she slogged up Sunset, constantly checking behind her to make sure Aaron wasn’t following her. Part of her felt bad for attacking him, but he hadn’t been listening to her when she told him to leave her alone. The fact that he was so persistent scared her.
So now she walked by clapboard homes and brick homes, small homes and big homes, seemingly all alone in the streets. All of the lawns were a lush green—some recently cut, others in need of mowing—and the bushes and trees were full of leaves and hearty looking.
The storm persisted, however, the unremitting rain beating the earth in a steady downpour. Rising into the wet air all along the streets were thick tendrils of smoke. The burning wood smelled good, the thought of being dry and sitting beside a fire heavenly. She shivered as she walked, wondering how she could do ten miles of this, especially this wet and in squelching shoes. There was no way she’d make it by nightfall. At some point, she was coming to believe, she’d have to start thinking about constructing an overnight shelter.
At the end of Sunset, off to the left, was the Chipotle and the Smashburger. She could go for tacos or burgers right now, but both restaurants were closed with handwritten sign
s taped to the windows. Both businesses had temporarily closed and promised to reopen when the power returned.
“What if it never returns?” she mumbled to herself.
As for the streets, there were not too many people out, but some were moving along the sidewalks, and weaving through the abandoned cars.
She didn’t expect people to be out in this weather, let alone wandering around when the power was out on everything. One kid with a black mask and a pulled-tight beanie was breaking the windows of abandoned cars with a hammer. He had a duffel bag with him full of other people’s possessions. After pulling a few things out of an older Hyundai, he glanced up and saw her. She just stared at him, the distance between them generous enough for her to pull the Glock if necessary. He went back to work inside the car; she kept walking. She didn’t understand the point of a confrontation.
As she walked down a very small stretch of seven lanes on Alexandria Pike/US Route 27, she dutifully scanned her surroundings, her eyes moving from building to building in search of threats. She watched the Frisch’s Big Boy, the green BP gas station, the Dental Blu.
There were a few other people like her outside, but they were dressed for rain. Unlike her, it didn’t appear they were heading anywhere. Instead, like a rodent seeking shelter, they were moving about the buildings, checking front doors and windows, moving fast like they were up to no good. One man was pushing a grocery cart full of his possessions, a painter’s tarp pulled over the top and held in place with a bungee cord. He looked like he had been a transient even before the storm and power outage.
Off to the side of the road, under the long overhang of the BP gas station, a dozen downtrodden people had set up tents. If the winds kicked up again, would these people break into the nearby buildings? If they realized the power might not come back for days, weeks, or even years, would they smash through the glass windows and doors and occupy the nearest buildings? It wouldn’t be so hard. It just took them letting go of the concept of right and wrong and instead embracing the idea of surviving or dying.
