How to Survive a

NUCLEAR WAR

A STEEN O’MANNON NOVEL

By

Miles Baldwin

Copyright © 2014 Miles Baldwin

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the author.

This is a work of fiction.  All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Second Edition

Also by Miles Baldwin:

SURVIVAL MODE

A Steen O’Mannon Novel

SURVIVAL MODE: EXTERMINATION

A Steen O’Mannon Novel

APOCALYPSE

A Steen O’Mannon Novel

Chapter 1

The silence was deafening.  No traffic, no airplanes, no dogs, no birds – nothing.  A crumpled piece of paper rolled by like a tumbleweed.  Everywhere I turned there was total devastation.  Piles of rubble where buildings once stood, shards of metal and broken glass, twisted steel, chunks of concrete.  Everything was burned and blown to pieces.  I sat on a chunk of concrete to take a break from walking.  I heard insects buzzing around behind me.

I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman.  Most of the skin was gone and both arms were truncated somewhere mid-forearm, the hands no doubt incinerated by the intense heat.  The corpse’s head was tilted back and its mouth thrown open as if frozen in an eternal scream.  The flies had their way with the body, unaware of the danger that lied within.  I shook my head as I struggled to come to grips with my new reality.

In the weeks that followed the nuclear war, people died off in droves.  The numbers were staggering.  Hundreds of thousands.  Millions.  Tens of millions.  The average citizen, the typical American, the uninformed and the clueless – most of them perished.  Those not vaporized in the blasts received lethal doses of radiation and died soon after, their bodies littered the streets.  Many of us who survived had been prepared – the preppers and the survivalists.  Once bound by a shared philosophy and common interest, we now found ourselves pitted against one another in a desperate battle to survive.  The world had become a desolate and lawless place.

With little in the way of landmarks it was hard to navigate.  My GPS had been fried by the strikes, however the needle in my compass still aligned itself with the Earth’s poles.  Sometimes low-tech was best.  I was somewhere in the middle of the city and I was headed south, that much I knew.  The midday sun bore down on me like a curse.

I opened the hydration tube on my mask and took a long drink of water, trying not to think about the body behind me.  I was dressed from head-to-toe in survival gear: Kevlar helmet, ballistic vest, gas mask, Tyvek suit, leather gloves, and combat boots.  A hunting knife and 9mm pistol adorned my belt, an AR-15 rifle suspended from a single-point sling.  My backpack with its integral Camelbak was filled to capacity with food, water, and other assorted survival gear.

Breathing through the mask’s NBC filter was no day at the beach.  It took noticeably more effort than breathing normally.  It took me a while but by this time I had learned to tune out the Darth Vader-like sound of my own breathing.

As I sat there I thought I heard the sound of gravel crunching underfoot.  I scanned my surroundings but saw no one.  I slowly pulled the hydration tube from my mask, my eyes remaining ever vigilant.  I capped the tube and quietly put it away.  My heart began to beat faster.  Then I heard it again, a brief sound of gravel crunching.  I thought it came from my left.  Still, I saw nothing moving.  Suddenly a red dot started bouncing erratically between the concrete and my knees.  I instinctively dove for cover behind the concrete block.  Just as I did, a shot rang out.  I landed face down on the corpse, flies scattering everywhere.  I pushed off and knelt behind the block.

Whoever was shooting at me was doing a pretty good job of keeping themselves concealed.  I crept to the side of the block and peered out.  I wondered why the laser sight was still working.  Perhaps the nuke’s electromagnetic effect had been sporadic.  In my preparation as a survivalist I had steered clear of the holographic and laser sights which are so prevalent today.  Much like the compass, I wanted something that I knew would still work in a post-nuclear world.  For that reason an optical scope sat atop my rifle.

I couldn’t see anything from my vantage point so I decided to stick my head out for a second.  Big mistake.  Another shot.  It ricocheted off the concrete block.  I set my jaw and took a deep breath.  This asshole was starting to piss me off.  I had better things to do than sit here all day pinned down beside a corpse.  I assume he wanted to kill me for my backpack.  Things were getting downright uncivilized out here, people willing to off each other for a morsel of food or a drink of water.

I have always believed that the best defense is a good offense, so I decided to go on the offensive.  I pulled the 9mm and cut loose a hail of gunfire.  Then I sprinted for the twisted remains of a nearby truck.  Breathing hard I crouched low and waited.  After a second I heard the sound of feet beating street.  I lifted my head just in time to catch a glimpse of him.  He was wearing a gas mask and camouflage coveralls.  He dove behind a heap of burnt cars.  I moved to the edge of the truck without making a sound.  The shooter was maybe 75 yards out.  The truck I was using for cover had been turned upside down and I discovered that I could see his position through the truck’s broken windows.  I lay prone and carefully aimed my rifle at him.

Suddenly the shooter shouted, “Just drop your bag and walk away.  I’ll let you live.”

I had him in my sights.

“That’s all I want,” he said.

A slight adjustment in my aim and now the crosshairs were placed right between his eyes.  I slowly began to pull the trigger.

“I promise I’ll let you live,” he shouted again.

I paused for a moment and took my finger off the trigger.  I got to my feet and shouted, “You really mean it?”

“Yes, I promise.”

I waited for a moment.  “Alright, I’m coming out.”  I stepped out from behind the truck with my rifle in one hand and my pistol in the other.  “Don’t shoot.”

“Drop your weapons,” he demanded.

I set the rifle and the pistol on the ground.  If he was going to shoot me, now would be the time.  I stood and we glared at each other.

“Give me the bag,” he demanded.

I began slowly walking toward him, my arms at my sides.

“This ain’t no fucking game,” he shouted.

I didn’t reply.  When I was about 10 yards away he said, “That’s far enough.  Drop the bag and walk away.”

“You can have it,” I said as I kept walking.  “I’m dying anyway.  I don’t need it.”

He didn’t respond.  We faced one another not six feet apart.  I could see his eyes through his mask.  They looked dark and weary.

“What are you dying of?” he asked.

“Radiation poisoning.”  I held the bag out to him.  “Here, take it.”

He reached for the bag.  Just as he did I grabbed his wrist and twisted hard, spinning him around.  I tackled him from behind and he fell face-first to the pavement, his rifle pinned beneath him.  He bucked and screamed, “Get off!  Get off me!”

I drove a knee hard into his back and he screamed.  I watched as his arms flailed.  He alternated between trying to get his gun and reaching back for me.

“I was going to let you live!” he screamed.  “I was going to let you live!”

I pinned his wrists together and pulled his arms up.  He screamed in pain.  With my other hand I reached for my knife.  I whispered in his ear, “That’s very generous of you…to let me live.”  I put the razor-sharp knife to his throat.

“No!” he begged.  “Please!  No!”

I pressed the knife and a trickle of blood appeared.  I whispered, “But I’m not going to extend the same courtesy to you.”

“Please, no!” he begged.  “I’ll—  I’ll do anything.”

I relaxed the knife a little and waited.  “Anything?”

“Yes!  Please!  I’ll do anything!”

I waited.

He began sobbing, “Please, God.  Please no.  Please help me God, please—”

I grasped his mask by the filter and jerked his head up exposing the white underbelly of his throat.  I pressed the knife with all my strength and slit his throat from ear to ear.  I nearly decapitated him.  His arms flailed and there was a sickening gurgling sound as his lungs sucked air directly through the huge gash in his throat.  Blood sprayed everywhere and pooled on the ground beneath him.  I let go of the mask and his head dropped to the pavement with a dull thud.  As he lay dying, I wiped the blood off my knife on the back of his shirt.

I got up, turned, and slowly walked away.  The only sound I heard was my footsteps.

Chapter 2

It all started a little over a week ago.  I was in a meeting at work discussing some meaningless bullshit when out of the blue a young project manager stuck his head in the room and interrupted.  “Excuse me,” he said.  “But there’s something happening on TV you probably ought to know about.”

Puzzled looks around the room.  I stood.  Everyone filed out of the conference room and we followed the PM to the main conference room.  The room was packed to the point of overflowing, the large flatscreen on the far wall tuned to CNN.  The news coverage seemed frantic.  My thoughts immediately turned to terrorism and I wondered if there had been another attack.  The picture on the screen was grainy and smoke billowed up in the background.  The reporter looked into the camera and spoke breathlessly.

“—I’m standing here on the Garden State Parkway overpass in Cranford.  As you can see, there was a huge explosion just a while ago in New York City.  We are about thirty miles from—”  He paused for a moment, then he said, “Forgive me.  I am—  I am getting word now…”

He trailed off and pressed a hand to his ear.

“We—  Okay.  We are going to go live now to our affiliate in Washington for another breaking news alert.  Please stand by.”

More of my coworkers squeezed into the conference room.  The room was beginning to heat up and I unbuttoned my shirt collar.  People exchanged nervous looks around the room.

The television showed a new face, a young man who appeared to have been caught off guard.  He scrambled to put in his earpiece and face the camera.  “Hello, this is John Chancey reporting…”

The man was clearly fighting to maintain his composure.  The cameraman pulled out to a wider shot.  “I’m sorry,” the reporter said, then he began to sob.

People gasped.  “Oh my God,” a woman exclaimed.

A voice could be heard on the television.  “Alright, cut—  Cut the feed.  Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize.  You are watching live coverage of breaking news.  This is Anthony Lasker, CNN producer.”  The screen went black.  “Roll one.  One.”  There was a pause and I heard whispering.  Then: “Ladies and gentlemen, what you are about to see happened just moments ago.  This video was shot here in Falls Church.”

There was a beep and then the television showed a blinding light, the entire screen filled with white.  After a few seconds, the screen’s outer edges began to darken.  The light coalesced around the center as something else began to emerge.  Gasps could be heard around the room as a huge fireball formed and billowed up into an enormous mushroom cloud.

“Oh my God!” someone screamed.

“Jesus Christ!”

“Holy shit!”

The producer continued, “We believe we have just witnessed a nuclear explosion in our nation’s capital, though there’s been no official confirmation of that yet.”

The image on the television became shaky as the fireball continued rising higher into the air.  The trees in the foreground began moving and then thrashed around wildly.  I heard the sound of rushing wind grow steadily louder and then the screen went blank.

My AA was standing next to me muttering, “Oh God, oh God, oh God….”

The television began emitting a series of unpleasant beeps which I recognized as the Emergency Broadcast System.

I had seen enough, I started for the door.  I made my way to the stairwell and took the steps two at a time.  I raced across the lobby.

The receptionist called after me, “Steen?  Steen!  What’s going on?  Is everything alright?”

I called, “Go home, Ashley.  Go home!”

“What—?  Steen?”

I hit the door in stride and sprinted across the parking lot.  I jumped in my truck and fired it up.  I figured I had maybe thirty minutes before general panic set in.  I pulled out of the parking lot with the tires squealing.

At first traffic was not that bad as I made my way home.  Then suddenly a car pulled out in front of me and I had to swerve to avoid it.  Perhaps my initial assessment had been too optimistic; general panic was setting in sooner than I thought.  I turned on the radio and heard the same beeps I’d heard at the office.  I turned it down so I could concentrate on driving.  In a matter of minutes the streets were filled with frantic drivers.

I had always felt that my city situated in north Florida was relatively safe from attack.  So perhaps there was little for people to be worried about.  We fall short of being considered a major city and are certainly not a hub of political power by any stretch of the imagination.  We’re many hundreds of miles away from New York City and Washington D.C.  Still, nuclear bombs exploding right here in our own country is a major deal and nothing to be taken lightly.

I grew up during the cold war, when Russian nukes posed an ever-present danger.  As schoolchildren we practiced drills designed to teach us what to do in the event of a nuclear attack.  Back then I remember seeing buildings downtown with the nuclear symbol posted out front.  I asked my Dad what that was and he explained it meant the building was a nuclear fallout shelter.  Now I rarely see that symbol.  Over the years with the collapse of the Soviet Union we’ve allowed ourselves to become complacent and our country’s nuclear readiness has waned.  Fallout shelters are practically nonexistent and schools don’t practice nuclear drills.  Tests of the Emergency Broadcast System have been relegated to virtual obscurity.  I wondered how many young people were sitting at home staring at their radios wondering what those strange sounds meant.  Or, do they even listen to the radio anymore?  Do Twitter and Facebook and Snapchat participate in the Emergency Broadcast System?  What a joke.

I thought I heard someone talking on the radio so I turned up the volume.

“—interrupt this program with a special announcement. This is a national emergency. I repeat: this is a national emergency.  The president of the United States has ordered a nationwide activation of the Emergency Broadcast System.  This is not a test.  I repeat: this is not a test.  The president or a designated representative will speak momentarily to issue further instructions.”

I managed to survive the ever-increasing frenzy of traffic and pulled into my subdivision.  I parked the truck in the driveway and dashed through my front door.  It was time to get into survival mode.  I made a beeline for the spare bedroom where I keep all my survival gear.  I grabbed everything and stashed it in my truck behind the seat.

I got back out on the boulevard and headed towards downtown.  When I first became interested in survivalism I had researched the local shelter situation.  I knew of a library that provided both blast and fallout protection.  I had no idea how many people could fit in the shelter but I was going to find out.  If it was already full I would take my chances out on the open road.  The only problem with that was it was probably everyone else’s plan.  The highways would be jammed with crazed drivers trying to get out of town.  It could take hours to travel just a few miles.  That had been the case a few years ago when a mass evacuation was ordered ahead of a large hurricane.  I heard stories from my friends about how they sat on the highway until they ran out of gas.  I didn’t relish the thought of riding out a nuclear war on the road in my pickup truck.

I managed to make it to the library without major incident despite the efforts of countless panicked drivers.  I tossed my pocket pistol in the glove box and made sure all my survival gear was out of sight.  I locked up the truck and made my way to the library entrance.  I was encouraged to see the doors were still open.  I studied the faded sign above me as I climbed the stairs: the nuclear symbol with the words Fallout Shelter.

Chapter 3

An older couple reached the steps about the same time I did.  I nodded and gestured for them to go ahead of me.

“Thank you,” the woman said as she began ascending the stairs.  The man clutched a blanket to his chest and the woman held a shopping bag in each hand.

“Are you here for the shelter?” the man asked.

I nodded.  “Yes.”

“So are we.”

A frail old woman stood at the door with a clipboard in her hands.  She wore a peach colored suit with a white blouse and stockings, a thin pearl necklace adorned her neck.  She asked, “Are you here for the shelter?”

The man indicated that they were and she asked him to sign a form.  As they stepped inside I received the same treatment.  I scanned the document before signing it.  I shook my head but didn’t say anything.  Lawyers gone wild.

Once inside, I made my way down a darkened stairwell which led to a long, narrow corridor.  The building smelled like mildew and dirty socks.  At the end of the corridor was a doorway where a large woman stood.  Next to the door was another fallout shelter sign.  The woman looked me up and down as I made my way down the corridor.  Without saying a word she reluctantly handed some papers to me and pointed inside.

The fallout shelter was a large rectangular space which probably doubled as a meeting hall or recreational room. At the far end I saw restrooms, a line of folding cots, and various other supplies.  I guessed there were maybe a couple hundred people in the room already.  I recognized the couple I had spoken to on my way in and went over to introduce myself.  I extended a hand.  “Hi, I’m Steen O’Mannon.”

“George Pascoe.  This is my wife Gloria.”

She smiled and reached out a delicate hand.

“Nice to meet you,” I said.  “Are you folks from around here?”

“Yes,” George replied.  “I’m a native and Gloria here is a transplanted Yankee.  How about you?”

“Same here.  I’m originally from upstate New York.”

George smirked.  “Another Yankee.”

I put him at around 60, which would make him 15 years older than me.  He was dressed in loose-fitting black slacks and a blue college football jersey.  His face was tanned and he had a full head of white hair.  He sported a small beer belly but otherwise appeared to be in decent shape.  Gloria looked to be about the same age as George.  An original marriage I guessed – a real rarity these days.  She was at least six inches shorter than her husband.  She was thin with white hair cut in a short, stylish fashion.  She wore a lavender pantsuit and a pair of white tennis shoes.

I said, “I’m going to go see what they’re saying on television.  You’re welcome to join me if you like.”

“Sure, why not?” said George.

There was a large, old-fashioned tube television suspended from the ceiling in the corner of the room.  People were gathered around it watching intently.  It was tuned to the Fox News Channel and it showed a reporter wearing a poorly-fitting helmet with the letters TV stenciled on the front.  He was outdoors and appeared to be standing on a riverbank.

“—sources are reporting the near simultaneous explosions in Seattle and Los Angeles just moments ago.  The explosions appear to have been caused by large missiles said to be strategic nuclear weapons.  Strategic nukes are capable of wiping out entire regions we are told.  In Dallas, the devastation has been—”

The reporter looked off-camera for a moment and then said, “I am being told we are going to go live now to Washington.  As promised, the president is about to address the nation.”

A moment later, the presidential seal filled the screen.  The television fell silent for a few seconds and I glanced at the papers in my hand.  The handout talked about food and water rations and shelter rules.  The president stepped in front of the camera.  His face looked weary and he was devoid of the polish and good cheer with which we’d grown accustomed.  He set a notebook on the lectern and looked grimly into the camera.

“My fellow Americans, I am speaking to you from a secure location far from the reach of our enemies.  My cabinet and I are safe, as are key leaders of congress.

“Today, our nation has suffered a mighty blow, an unthinkable act of barbarism which we neither anticipated nor deserved.  We have been attacked on our own soil by nuclear weapons.  We were attacked without provocation or cause, by an enemy on the other side of the world.  Earlier today, U.S. satellites detected the signature of a large-scale missile attack originating within the borders of North Korea.  Today, the leaders of that rogue nation have made good on their threat to engage the U.S. in nuclear war.  In their stated message to the world, this was a pre-emptive strike against the United States.  The North Koreans have long said they feel threatened by the U.S. and our military capabilities.  Although our missile defense system was able to neutralize a number of the incoming missiles, others slipped through and have struck at the very heart of our great nation.

“Casualty estimates are pouring in from major cities including Chicago, Washington, New York, Miami, Los Angeles, Seattle, and Denver.  They number into the millions.”

He looked down and cleared his throat.  Then with a rattled look on his face he added, “Tens of millions.  In the northeast, entire regions have been wiped out.”  His eyes flashed with anger.  “It would appear that the nuclear capabilities of the North Koreans far outpace even the most ambitious assessments of our intelligence community.  Furthermore, as we speak, our nation is still under attack.  I urge you to heed the warnings that have been broadcast nationwide and seek shelter immediately.  Every American under the sound of my voice is in imminent danger from the nuclear attack.”

The president looked down at his papers again and appeared to be collecting his thoughts.  “My fellow Americans, it is important for you to know that this attack has not gone unanswered.  I sat down with the joints chiefs of staff and the defense secretary in an emergency session to determine the appropriate U.S. response.  As I’ve said, this is an unprecedented act of aggression.  After evaluating our options, I authorized a full-scale nuclear counterattack.  Strategic nuclear assets targeted for North Korea have been launched and have hit their targets.  The counterattack includes major metropolitan areas such as the capital city of Pyongyang.  Follow-up measures by our military will ensure that the North Koreans fully appreciate the consequences of their actions.”

He nodded at the camera, then cleared his throat again.  “In the coming days and weeks I will address the nation as circumstances warrant.  May God have mercy on us in this, our darkest hour.”  The president’s eyes watered, then he quietly stepped back from the lectern.

I heard sobbing and crying in the room.  Someone shouted, “Can we see the local news?”

A man reached for the remote which was velcroed to the side of the television.  The picture switched to a reporter standing on a busy street.

“—as you can see, traffic is backing up.  Everyone seems intent on getting out of town in the wake of the nuclear attack by the North Koreans.  In a moment, we’ll go back to the studio but first let me share this fellow’s story with you.”

Someone grumbled, “Damned local news.  Surprised they ain’t talking about the weather.”

The camera pulled out to reveal a young man in his teens standing next to the reporter.  The teen wore a baggy pair of shorts that ended mid-calf and a colorful tee shirt.  He was chewing gum and held a skateboard under one arm.  The reporter asked, “Can you tell us your name, please?”

“Kyle.”

“Kyle, you don’t seem too concerned about the threat of nuclear war.”

Kyle shrugged.  “Well…there’s nothing I can do about it.  If they’re gonna get us, they’re gonna get us.”

Gloria shook her head.

George said, “These kids today, they’re nothing like the ones that fought in WW II.”

I nodded.  “That’s for sure.”

The reporter continued.  “—but can you tell us, is your family planning to leave town?”

“Naw.  My dad says if they drop the big one he hopes it lands right on him.”

“Not interested in trying to survive a nuclear war?”  the reporter asked.

Just then the screen filled with static.  A second later the building shook violently and I heard a horrific boom, then howling winds unlike anything I’d ever heard before.  Everyone was screaming and the room was plunged into total darkness.

Chapter 4

The battery-powered emergency lights cast an eerie glow throughout the shelter.  Outside the wind howled and I heard debris crashing into the building.  I stood there in total disbelief.  Could this be what I thought it was?  Had I just experienced the detonation of a nuclear bomb right here in my own hometown?  I said a silent prayer and thanked God that I made it to the shelter in time.

People were pushing and screaming and I fought to stay on my feet.  It was total pandemonium.  Finally the winds died down to the point where I could hear myself think.

“Oh God!”  someone screamed.

“We’re all going to die!” someone else shouted.

“Jesus, save us!”

I noticed a red light glowing along the wall by the door.  The signed below it read, Radiation Hazard.

Suddenly a shrill whistle pierced the air.  “People!  People!  Do not panic.  Remain calm.”

It was the woman who’d handed out the papers in the corridor.  She blew the whistle again and people began to quiet down.  “People!  Listen to me!  Everything is going to be alright.  You are safe here.  Remain calm.  Quiet, please!”

“Oh my God!” a woman screamed.

“Ma’am, settle down.  You’re going to be alright.  Quiet, please.  Quiet, please.  My name is Moesha Jackson, but you can call me Ms. Jackson.  I am the shelter captain.”

I looked over at Gloria.  She was sobbing quietly as George held her in his arms.

Ms. Jackson went on.  “Please be quiet.  We are going to go over some rules in a minute but right now I just need everyone to remain calm.  Relax.  Quiet, please.”

As the wind outside grew quieter, the level of hysteria in the shelter came down a notch.  Like all of the others, I was shocked by what I’d just experienced.

I asked George, “Do you have any family in town?”

George cleared his throat.  “Yes, our son and his wife.  And our granddaughter.”

That elicited an audible moan from Gloria.

I said, “I hope they made it to a shelter in time.”

George nodded solemnly.  The look on his face said it wasn’t likely.

Ms. Jackson corralled us together and managed to get everyone’s attention. She was dressed in baggy sweatpants, black tennis shoes, and a red tee shirt.  Her hair was piled on top of her head in a vertical bun and her fingernails were long and lavishly painted.  “Everyone in here should have signed a form before you came in.” She held one up.  “Did anyone not sign this form?”

No one said anything.

“Good.  This is your commitment to abide by the shelter rules.  Alright, I’m going to read the rules, and if anyone has a question just let me know.  You can follow along in the handout I gave you when you came in here.  Now listen up everyone.  Rule number one: You may leave the shelter at any time but you cannot re-enter.  Under no circumstances will anyone be allowed back in the shelter if you leave.  Is that clear?  It’s because of radiation.  That sound you just heard was a nuclear bomb.”

A renewed round of cries and gasps.

“People!  People!  Quiet, please.  You are in a nuclear fallout shelter, you’re going to be alright.  Now listen up everybody, this is important.  If you leave the shelter before it is safe to go outside you will be contaminated with radioactivity.  If we allowed you to re-enter, you would contaminate everybody else.  So, that’s not going to happen.  Leave if you want to, but don’t come back.  Uh-huh.”  She wagged a finger.  “That’s rule number one.”

“I want to leave,” a woman shouted.

There was grumbling in the crowd.

“Well, now hold on,” Ms. Jackson said.  “Wait until I explain rule number two.  Rule number two is, we will tell you when it is safe to leave.  We have a radio over there that runs on batteries, and we will be listening to official reports that will tell us when it’s safe to go outside.  Plus, we have our own radiation monitor.  If you go outside now, you will die.  It takes time for the radiation to go away.  Now, anybody still wanting to leave?”

No one said anything.

“Uh-huh.  I didn’t think so.”  Her head gyrated a little as she said that and she seemed to pick up steam a she went along.

“Okay.  Now let’s move on.  Rule number three: Food and water will be dispensed by ration tickets only.  If you don’t have a ticket, you don’t get to eat.  Simple as that.  We will be handing out ration tickets shortly.  There’s enough food and water here for everyone so don’t worry about it.  We just gotta follow the rules, that’s all.

“Rule number four: No weapons allowed.  It’s for everyone’s safety.  No weapons of any kind will be permitted in the shelter.  If you have a weapon, you must surrender it.  We will be coming around in a little bit to make sure you don’t have anything dangerous.  If we find you have a weapon later on after the weapon confiscation, meaning you hid it from us, you will be asked to leave.  Surrender your weapons now or you’re out the door.

“Rule number five: You must be quiet during lights out.  That’s from 10:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m.  Nobody should be making any noise in here so everyone can sleep.

“Rule number six: No one may harass, attack, or abuse anyone else.  That means verbally or physically.  So be nice people, and get along.

“Rule number seven: This one pretty much goes without saying but I have to read all the rules.  Elimination of bodily wastes shall occur in designated areas only.  That means do your bathroom business in the bathroom.”  She pointed.  “We have a mens room and a ladies room.  If the toilets stop working, chemical toilets will be set up in their place.  So either way, do your business in there and in there only.  That rule is for the safety and hygiene of everyone in here.

“Rule number eight: No sexual relations.  I’m not going to go into detail on that one, but take a look around you.  There’s children in here and we are all in one big room.  So you know what I’m talking about.  Enough said on that one.  No sexual activity of any kind.

“Rule number nine: No stealing.  Some people brought things in here with them, and that’s fine, but that’s their stuff so leave it alone.

“And finally that brings us to rule number ten: Rule violators will be asked to leave.  That means if you break the rules, you’re going on the other side of that door.”  She pointed.  “People, believe me, that’s a death sentence.  You do not want to be going out that door until it’s safe outside.”

She held up the paper and said, “I’m going to post these rules on the bulletin board and you all have copies.  If anyone has any questions, please come see me.  We are going to come around now and confiscate your weapons.  We need everyone to line up single file along the walls.”

I looked at George and Gloria.  “The ten commandments.”

George allowed himself a guffaw.  “Yeah, and she just appointed herself God.”

After Ms. Jackson and her assistants collected a handful of pocket knives and at least two handguns that I saw, the next few hours were spent settling in.  Ration tickets were distributed and everyone was assigned a cot.  Ms. Jackson was flanked by her own security detail, a couple of big dudes who followed her around and obeyed her every command.

I stood in line to use the bathroom, then later I stood in line for dinner.  Dinner our first night consisted of green beans, Vienna sausages, rice, and bottled water.  Everything came on a plastic tray like the ones I remembered from grade school.  George and Gloria went through the serving line with me.  We made our way to a table where two ladies sat.  I said, “Mind if we join you?”

“No problem,” one of the ladies said.  She was a big woman, probably mid-fifties with light hair.  Her body resembled a refrigerator, a place she no doubt frequented often.  She spoke with her mouth half full and barely acknowledged us.  The other woman was about 30 years younger, probably her daughter.  Unlike her mother, she was thin and had a shapely figure.

We were quiet at first, all of us still in shock from the day’s events.  I glanced over to the television which had been off since the lights went out.  “I guess the television isn’t on battery backup like the lights,” I speculated.

George thought about that for a minute and said, “Or, maybe the station got knocked off the air.”

I nodded.  I glanced over at the two ladies and offered an introduction.  “Hello, I’m Steen O’Mannon.”

The older woman nodded.  “Good to meet you Steve.  I’m Suzanne and this here is Jennifer.”

I didn’t bother to correct her.  George and Gloria introduced themselves.

“You live here in town?” I asked.

“Yes, we live on the Westside,” said Suzanne.  She paused for a moment and then asked, “How about you all?”

George said, “We live on the Southside.”

“Same here,” I said.  “Or used to.”

George asked, “What do you mean—?”  Then he caught himself.  “Oh.  What a thought.  Yeah, maybe we should all speak of our homes in the past tense.”

Gloria shook her head.  “Now there’s a cheerful thought.”

“Now just hold on,” said Suzanne.  “We don’t know that.”

“Mom!” Jennifer said. “Get real.  A nuclear bomb just exploded.  You think our house is still there?”

“Some information would be nice,” Gloria said.  “We’re being treated like children.”

Suzanne agreed.

“Well,” I said, “I guess they feel like they need to establish order.”

George said, “I can look around this room and tell you who’s going to be trouble.”

Gloria said, “Now George, don’t you start.  You don’t know that.”

“The hell I don’t.  I can spot a troublemaker from a mile away.  And we’ve got a few in here.”

I looked down at my food.  It had been hours since I’d eaten, but under the circumstances I just wasn’t hungry.

Anxious to change the subject, Gloria asked, “Jennifer, does your cellphone work?”

“No,” she replied.  “Does yours?”

Everyone but George agreed their phones didn’t work.  George had his turned off.  After a few minutes of fiddling with it he declared his was dead as well.

“Probably blew up the cell towers,” I said.  “Or the power plant.  Or both.”

George nodded.  The women stared blankly.

“Well, I don’t know about all that,” Suzanne said, “but I’m fixin’ to go crazy if I can’t make some calls.”

“Me, too,” Gloria said.

After dinner, one by one people laid claim to their cots.  We sat around and talked until Ms. Jackson blew her whistle and announced it was time for lights out.  I settled in for what would be a fitful night’s sleep.

Chapter 5

Days in the shelter were spent talking and playing games when we weren’t busy standing in line.  We stood in line for ration tickets, we stood in line for meals, we stood in line for water, and we stood in line to use the restroom.  The toilets quit working after the first day and the shelter staff set up chemical toilets as promised.  The sinks no longer had running water so we used hand sanitizer instead.  My nights were spent tossing and turning on that godforsaken cot.  I never slept for more than an hour at a time.  There was no television, no radio, and no telephones.  We were completely cut off from the outside world, save for Moesha Jackson’s radio.  If she was receiving any news on it she certainly wasn’t sharing it with us.  Her goons pushed a man out the door for having a concealed weapon.  The radiation warning light glowed continuously and time went by more slowly with each passing day.

By the sixth day the ventilation fan stopped working and the temperature in the shelter soared.  The stench from the chemical toilets and body odor hung heavily in the air.  I noticed mealtime portions had grown steadily smaller.  One night at dinner I asked George if he had noticed, too.

“Yes!” George proclaimed.  “You’re right.  They are giving us less food every day.  I think they’re trying to starve us to death.”

Gloria shook her head.  “George, you and your imagination.”

Suzanne and Jennifer ate dinner with us most nights as did a young man named Ben.  Ben was a construction supervisor who had developed an interest in Jennifer.  I honestly could not imagine worse circumstances to pursue romance but I kept my mouth shut.

As I looked over my meager meal I mopped sweat from my brow and declared, “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

George looked up from his tray and said, “Me neither.  What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m thinking about leaving.  Getting out of here.”

“Are you crazy?” Ben said.  “That would mean certain death.  You heard what Ms. Jackson said.”

“No one else has left,” Suzanne pointed out.  “Except for that man with a gun.”

I said, “I think I can manage.  I know a little bit about nuclear radiation.”

I struggled with how much to say here.  I didn’t want to give away too much.  I have learned that being too transparent about my survivalist ways can work against me.  The responses run the gamut from ridicule to instant mooching.  The latter comes from people who feel entitled to share in the benefit of my preparation despite the fact that they’ve never given a moment’s thought to their own preparation.

I continued.  “Radiation degrades quickly after a nuclear blast; the rate of decay is exponential over time.  For every seven units of time, the level of radioactivity decreases by a factor of ten.  Two days after a nuclear blast the level of radiation has reduced to 1/100th of the initial reading, and two weeks after the blast it’s reduced to 1/1,000th.  It’s called the seven-ten rule.”

Jennifer laughed.  “Are you some kind of scientist or something?  I thought you said you were an accountant.”

“I am an accountant.  I just…watch a lot of documentaries, that’s all.  Anyway, I’m not saying it’s safe to go outside right now, but the time is coming when I think my chances of survival might be better out there than they are in here.”

“When will that be?” George asked.

“Couple days,” I replied.  “Generally, eight or nine days after the blast, or two weeks if you really want to be safe.  I imagine that’s when they are going to turn everyone loose: two weeks.”

“So if you leave, what are you going to do for food and water?” Ben asked.  “Everything’s going to be radioactive.”

“Well, not everything,” I said.  “Canned goods and bottled water are generally safe as long as you wash the containers before you open them.  You can drink water from a river or a stream if you purify and filter it first.  You take potassium iodide tablets to prevent radiation from causing thyroid cancer.”

“Do you have any?” Suzanne asked.

And it begins, I thought – the mooching.  And the lying.  They mooch, I lie.  “Sorry,” I said.  I learned a long time ago that if you give in to every request you’ll end up just as dead as everybody else.

“Say, are you one of those survival guys?” George asked.

“No, not really.  Like I said, I watch a lot of documentaries.”

***

Forty eight hours later marked eight days since I’d entered the shelter.  I decided it was time to leave.  I announced my intentions over breakfast.

“You’re really going to do it?” George asked.

“That would make you the first to leave,” Jennifer said.

I looked each one in the eye and said, “I’m really going to do it.  I can’t take this place anymore.  I need my freedom.  I need to breathe.  Plus, I think it’s safe outside with the right precautions.”

George said, “Well, you’ve got a pair, I’ll give you that.”

“George!” Gloria exclaimed.  “Language.”

I said, “I wish you all the best.  Maybe after this is over we can get together sometime.”

Gloria said, “I’d like that.”

Agreement all around.

I stood and shook George’s hand.  “Good luck to you,” he said.

After handshakes and hugs I found Ms. Jackson who was sitting with one of her bodyguards.

“Ms. Jackson,” I said.  “I’m ready to leave now.”

“You can’t do that,” she said.  “It’s not safe to go outside yet.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Her bodyguard said, “You heard the lady.  You can’t go outside, fool.”

I cleared my throat.  “Thank you for everything, it’s been wonderful.  But, it’s time for me to go.”

Ms. Jackson glared at me, clearly rattled by my challenge to her authority.  The look on her face said, ‘I’m in charge here and I will decide when you can leave.’  With each passing day her ego had grown by leaps and bounds.  What began as shelter captain had morphed into some kind of supreme being.  She held the power of life and death over us.  She could throw any one of us outside at any time.  She was judge, jury, and executioner.  And while we had been disarmed, she was protected by a couple of NFL linebackers.  On top of that, we were completely isolated from the outside world so she answered to no one.  It was a powerful combination of circumstances that had gone straight to her head.  In Ms. Jackson’s case, she seemed particularly vulnerable to succumb to it.  She struck me as the type who’d played the victim most of her life.  Now with the measure of power she’d been given here, she was anxious to ram it down people’s throats.  “What is your name?” she demanded.

“Steen O’Mannon.”

She rifled through some papers until she found mine.

“Steen O’Mannon,” she repeated, drawing out the name.  “Alright Steen, if you’re sure you want to do this...”

“I’m sure.”

“Sign here.”

More legalese, the city’s attorneys had been working overtime.

“Collect all your things and meet me at the door.”

“I don’t have any belongings, this is it,” I said, pulling at my shirt.

She stared at me for a moment while she digested that.  Then she stood and said, “Okay, follow me.”

I followed Ms. Jackson to the door, the bodyguard was close behind.  The room grew quiet as everyone watched what was happening.

“You know you can’t come back,” she said.

“Yes, I know.  Thank you.  You’ve made that quite clear.”

We reached the door and she punched in a code.  There was an audible clunk.

“Alright, there you go.  Goodbye Mr. Steen.”

Chapter 6

I stepped out of the library and into the light of day.  The sky was clear and the fresh air smelled wonderful.  I stood for a moment just to take it all in.  I’m sure the people in the shelter envisioned me stepping into a hellish nightmare, my eyes bulging as violent convulsions gripped me while I clawed at my throat and gasped for air.

I looked around and tried to get my bearings.  Nothing looked anything like it had before.  All around me were pieces of things – pieces of buildings, vehicles, trees, insulation – just a big jumbled mess.  My truck that I had parked in the parking lot was gone.  The whole parking lot was gone.  So were many of the buildings.

I had no idea where ground zero was.  The library was relatively close to the center of downtown, so I could have been standing at ground zero for all I knew.  No, if the nuke had landed right here there would be absolutely nothing left.

I picked a direction at random and began walking.  If figured if I didn’t find my truck heading in one direction, I’d try another.  It was still early in the day and the air was fairly cool.  A gentle breeze blew which came as sweet relief from the rancid air inside the shelter.

I walked a block or so and found nothing resembling my truck.  I turned around and headed back the other way.  As I approached the library I noticed most of the top floor was missing.  There was no one outside.

On my third attempt I finally located my truck, or more correctly what was left of it.  It was pushed up against a building and battered and bent almost beyond recognition.  It was no doubt totaled but I was just happy to find it.  I was beginning to get concerned about being exposed for so long.  I rushed to the truck and tried to open the door.  Nothing doing, it was wedged shut.  The roof was caved in and the other door was pinned against the building.  The roof was crushed in so far that I couldn’t fit through any of the window openings.

I looked around and found something to pry the door open.  It looked like it belonged to a car – an axle or a steering column perhaps.  I went back to the truck and got to work on the door.  After a few minutes I managed to pry it open.  I was relieved to find my survival gear still intact.  I donned the Tyvek suit, leather boots, gas mask, body armor, bugout bag and weapons.

I located my compass and started heading south.  I had an ample supply of food and water at my house which would last me until things got back to normal.  Or, as normal as things could get after a nuclear war.  Tens of millions of people the president had said.  I shook my head in disbelief.  If I hadn’t lived through the EMP attack and the zombie virus I probably wouldn’t have been able to comprehend numbers like that.  But I knew what it meant: now there were less than 100 million people left in the country.  Those are numbers not seen since World War I.  We were a country in decline and it seemed like the whole world was against us.

I picked my way through the city ruins coming across numerous dead bodies in the process.  I wondered whether they had died instantly from the blast or if they had died later from radiation poisoning.  I recalled the research I had done a few years earlier.  Radiation exposure is measured in Roentgens.  People who receive high doses of radiation, over 1,000 Roentgens, go into immediate shock and die within hours.  A lesser dose of radiation, 500 to 1,000 Roentgens, causes its victims to suffer severe nausea and vomiting for several days.  The symptoms include bleeding under the skin and bleeding of the gums.  All of their hair falls out a week or so later and the symptoms just get worse until they die.  People who receive a lower dose, less than 500 Roentgens, experience nausea and vomiting within 24 hours which lasts for a few days.  After that they experience some hair loss, fatigue, and sore throat.  Only half of the people at that level of exposure will die.

After trekking a few more blocks, I saw another body.  I decided I would have a closer look.  I could see it was a man.  He had on pants, dress shoes, and a short sleeved golf shirt.  He was lying on his back with his body in a contorted position and it looked like he had taken quite a beating.  His eyes were swollen shut but his mouth gaped open.  He looked like he had been relatively young, perhaps 30 or so.  His tongue was swollen and it protruded from his mouth.  He had all of his hair, which was key.  That meant he did not die from a prolonged bout with radiation poisoning.  He either died relatively quickly from a massive dose of radiation, or the shock wave took him out.

I walked a few more blocks and decided to stop for lunch.  I had to think about the best strategy for eating out here.  It looked like it had probably rained since the attack, which was a good thing.  That meant much of the radioactive fallout had been washed away.  However, everything that had come in contact with the fallout would still be radioactive.  At this point the radioactivity had dropped to a level where touching something contaminated wasn’t going to kill me.  The biggest threat was ingesting radioactive material – a speck or a piece of dust – either by breathing it or swallowing it.  That would expose my internal organs to radioactivity which are more susceptible to radiation compared to our skin.  I decided I would be better off eating outside in the open.  The fallout had stopped and the rain had washed much of it away.  If I went inside a building to eat I would likely kick up radioactive dust that could potentially end up in my stomach or lungs.

I sat on a chunk of concrete and took off my gas mask.  I retrieved the potassium iodide tablets and an MRE from my backpack.  Although it’s a far cry from a gourmet meal, at least an MRE is satisfying.  The military packs a lot of calories into the average MRE, unlike the tiny meals they were serving us at the shelter.  Another week in that place and my body might have literally gone into starvation.

I spent the remainder of the day picking my way through the ruins.  At nightfall I ate dinner and slept between two chunks of concrete.

* * *

The next morning I awoke with a bad headache and a stiff back.  Sleeping out in the open on piece of concrete wearing a gas mask is nearly impossible.  I thought about how miserable I felt.  As they say, war is hell.  Hard to believe that man would invent such weapons that can turn a perfectly good world into such a wretched place.

After taking my vitamins and eating breakfast, I continued on my way.  After a while I began to realize that the level of destruction was getting worse, not better.  I found another body and checked it out.  This one had little skin and less clothing.  The person looked like they had been roasted alive.  How could I have missed it the night before?  I was headed in the wrong direction.  I was headed toward ground zero rather than away from it.

I stepped away from the corpse and sat down to think.  Just like the day before, I wasn’t sure where I was due to the lack of recognizable landmarks.  I took a deep breath and came to the conclusion that there was very little chance my house was still standing, or that I would be able to find it even if it was.  I needed a new strategy.

Obviously I had to change course.  Heading south was taking me straight toward ground zero.  If I headed east I’d end up at the beach.  I had no idea what was going to happen next, but if the North Koreans were going to invade that would be the place to do it.  That left me with north or west.  As I sat and considered my options, my thoughts were interrupted by someone shouting.

Chapter 7

“Butt-plug licker!”

I wheeled around to see a black man standing behind me.  Where the hell had he come from?  He startled me.  The man was mostly bald on top with a week’s worth of growth on his head and face.  I put him at around 45.  He wore a brown short sleeved shirt and a pair of dark green pants.  Both the shirt and the pants were tattered and filthy.  I wondered if he was homeless, but the backpack and the relatively recent shave said he probably wasn’t.  I said, “Excuse me?”

He waved a hand dismissively.  “Naw, nothing.  I don’t know.  I didn’t mean nothing.”

Not homeless.  Crazy.  I asked, “What are you doing out here?”

“G’oh boy!”  He seemed to have the wind knocked out of him, then he stumbled backward.

At that point I started thinking maybe he wasn’t crazy, just drunk.  I asked, “Are you alright?”

He laughed and bent over, then suddenly his face turned serious.  “I don’t have a gun.”

I said, “Okay, I can see that.  Who are you and what are you doing here?”

He moved toward me and held out a hand.  “Otis Junior’s my name.  How do you do.”

I didn’t know what his problem was, but I figured whatever was wrong with him I wasn’t going to catch it by shaking his hand.  Not with all of my protective gear.  We shook hands and I introduced myself.  Then I asked once again, “Otis, what are you doing out here?”

“This is where I live,” he replied, then he trembled a bit.

“Are you alright?”

“T-t-tour, t-t-tour—”

He was trying to tell me something, and appeared to come in and out of focus.  One minute he was fine, the next he seemed possessed.  He reared his head back and shouted, “Lick my balls!”

I threw my hands up.  “Alright, that’s it.”  I turned to go.  “Have a nice day.”

“Tourette’s syndrome!” he shouted.  “I have— I have Tourette’s syndrome.  Sorry.  Sometimes I just blurt things out.  I can’t help it.  It’s a disease.”

Tourette’s syndrome.  I’d heard of it, but I’d never actually met anyone who had it.  I studied him for a minute.  I didn’t know much about it, other than seeing something on television and maybe hearing a joke or two.  I asked, “Otis, are you homeless?”

“No, I told you, I live here.”

“Out here.”

“I used to live here, before the damned Koreans blew everything up.”

I was struck by his sudden lucidity.  I asked, “How did you survive the nuclear blast?”

“I was…G’oh boy!  Whoop!  Whoop!”  He shuddered, then returned to normal.  “I was visiting my cousin.  He lives on the Westside.  Then yesterday I decided to come back home.”  He threw up his hands.  “Only now I don’t know where my home is.  Nothing’s left.”

“Yes, I’m having the same problem.  Listen, it’s not safe for you to be walking around out here without any protection.  You at least need a mask.  If I had another one, I’d lend it to you.”

“Naw, I’m alright.  I figure maybe I best head back to over Grover’s place anyway – that’s my cousin.  There ain’t nothing here for me no more.”

“He lives on the Westside, you say?”

“Yeah.”

“How were things there when you left?”

“Helluvalot better than they are here, that’s for sure.”

I thought for a minute.  “You think you can find your way back to your cousin’s house?”

“I think so…I don’t know.  Why?  G’oh boy!”

I waited.  “I have a compass and I’m heading that way, too.  You’re welcome to tag along if you like.”

“Well, I don’t know.  If you don’t mind, I suppose I could.”

We began walking.  I wondered what had come over me.  I must be getting soft.  Normally I do not pick up strangers in survival situations.  Not unless they happen to be young, female, and attractive.  Otis was 0-3 on that score.  Was I feeling lonely?  I’d seen nothing but dead bodies for the past 24 hours, so perhaps.  Otis just seemed so helpless.  We couldn’t be more than a day or two from the Westside.  He wouldn’t go through much of my supplies in that amount of time.  And he was wearing a backpack.  I had to assume he had something in there.

I asked, “Otis, how long have you had Tourette’s syndrome?”

“All my life.”  He paused for a moment.  “It’s a damned curse.”

“I can imagine.  Can’t the doctors do anything for it?”

“Man, I’ve been to doctors, witch doctors, shrinks, preachers, faith healers, exorcists…you name it.”

“Wow.”

“Can’t do nothing.”

“That’s too bad.  Does it come and go all the time?”

“What?”

“Are there certain things that trigger it?”

“Yeah, when I’m feeling stressed or bored.”

“Uh-huh.”

As if on cue, he took a deep breath then exclaimed, “Vagina boob!”

I studied him for a moment.  “So, how do you feel right now?  Stressed or bored?”

“Well, I guess when I saw you sitting there at first I was a little surprised, so I guess I’d say I was stressed.  You looking all Rambo and shit.  But now that I’m talking to you, I guess I’m feeling a little….  Well, never mind, it don’t matter.”

“Bored?”

“No!  Well, maybe a little.  It don’t matter.  You guys got your way of talking and I got mine.  You are white, aren’t you?  I mean, all I can see is your eyes.”

“Yes, I’m white.  And you’re right, we do have our own way of talking.  I’ve always wondered about that.  Why do you suppose that is?”

“What’s that?”

“I wonder why most white people talk a certain way and most black people talk a certain way?”

“I don’t know, I ain’t no expert or nothing.  I guess maybe the black man don’t want to be like no white man.  You know what I’m saying?  We don’t want to hang with all your rules and shit – act like you and talk like you – because if we do, then it’s like we are trying to be white.”

I nodded.  “Yeah.”

“If we turn our back on our culture, who are we?  It’s like this, man: what if somebody made you move to Africa and you had to talk their language and dress like they do and act like they do.  You probably wouldn’t like it, would you?”

“Probably not.”

“Well, there you go.  It’s the same with us.  We never asked to be here, but we’re here.  That don’t mean we like it.  That don’t mean we gonna become all white and shit.  You know what I’m saying?”

“Yes, I see your point.”

“Hey, hey…see?  It ain’t no thang.  I get along with everybody.  Otis go along to get along.  Get along to go along.  Know what I’m saying?”

“Yes I do.”  I paused for a minute.  “So what do you do anyway?”

“I just try to treat people the way I like to be treated.”

“No, I mean for a living.  What do you do for a living?”

“Oh.  Well, I’m kind of in between jobs right now.  I was working as a janitor at a high school for a while.”  His face hardened.  “But they fired me.  Said my behavior was ‘inappropriate.’”

“I could see how working around children might be difficult for you.”

“Man, working around anyone is difficult for me.  Fuck me!  G’oh boy!  Whoop!”

“You alright?”

“Whoop!  Yeah.  Whoop!  I’m alright.  Shit comes and goes.”  He shook his head.  “I’m alright.”

We walked for a while without talking.  Then I asked, “Have you lived downtown long?”

“Oh yeah, for years I guess.”

“Do you have any family besides your cousin?”

“Naw, I never been married.  My folks are gone.  What about you?”

“I’m divorced.  I had a girlfriend a while back, but we split up.”

“Oh man, that’s too bad.  You find somebody to love you got to make that shit last.”

I nodded.  “Yes.”

Otis said, “So what’s with all this Rambo shit?  You look like you robbed the Army or something.”  He laughed.

“I’m a survivalist.  I’m prepared to survive any manmade or natural disaster.”

“No shit?”  He studied me.  “For what?  You gonna restart the human race?”  He laughed again.  “Is that it?  Man, you better get that girlfriend back.  You can’t do it by yourself.  Whoop!  Jerk off!  Whoop!  Masturbate!”

I couldn’t help but laugh.  “Otis, you have quite an imagination.  So how does that work?  Are you thinking about something and then you can’t help saying it?  Or do words just come out at random?”

“I don’t know, man.  A little bit of both, I guess.  Yeah, sometimes it’s just random shit, whatever.  Other times if something pops in my head I just say it.  That’s how I lost my job at the school.”

“Yeah, I figured it might have been something like that.”

“There was this girl there.  Mmm-mmm.  She was fine, you know?  She had big old titties, out to here, man.”  He pantomimed large breasts.  “I seen her one day walking down the hall by herself in a tight shirt…I say something to her.  I don’t even remember what it was, but I said something to her.  Principal said it was ‘inappropriate.’  She said they’d be lucky if the school don’t get sued.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Yeah, I don’t know.  It’s the way it goes, I guess.  It probably worked out for the best, though.  I got disability now.”

“Social Security?”

“Yeah, it ain’t too bad.”

Something caught my eye up ahead in the distance.  Someone was coming our way.

Chapter 8

I pointed.  “Otis, you see that?  Does that look like a person to you?”

He shaded his eyes and squinted.  “Yeah, I think so.  Look like it to me.”

I pulled up my rifle and looked through the scope.

Otis exclaimed, “God damn!  Whoop!  Don’t shoot him!  G’oh boy!  Butt fuck!”

I put down the rifle and looked at Otis.  “I’m not going to shoot him.  I just want to see what’s going on.  This is a scope.”  I pointed.  “It magnifies the image.”

“Dick licker!  Whoop!  I know what it is.  G’oh boy!  Fuck you!  Fuck me!  Fuck everybody!”

I laughed.  “Otis, settle down.  Damn, you get excited easily.”

“Shit too.  Whoop!  You go shoot somebody.”

I looked through the scope again and saw an old man looking rather unsteady on his feet.  I said, “He doesn’t look like much of a threat to me.”

“What do you see?”

I told him and we resumed walking.  When we got to within 50 yards, the man appeared to take notice.  He stopped and stared at us.  I kept my finger on the trigger just in case.

Otis said, “Look like he having a bad day.”

The man moved like a baby taking its first steps.

I said, “He’s probably got radiation sickness.  He’s lost all his hair.”

“Well God damn, let’s go the other way then.  I don’t want to catch that shit.”

“You can’t catch radiation sickness.  Not from another person, anyway.”

“Easy for you to say.  You got all that shit on.  You look like, fucking, R2-D2 or something.  I’m all out here in the open.”  He waved his arms around.

“Radiation sickness is not contagious.”

“Well, whatever man.  I don’t want nothing to do with him.  He looks fucked up to me.”

The old man was dressed in filthy dark clothing.  As we got closer I could see bloodstains around his mouth.

The man reached out to us.  “Help me.  Help me, please.”  His voice was raspy and weak.

I whispered to Otis, “He’s in the advanced stages of radiation poisoning.  There’s nothing we can do for him.”

The man repeated, “Help me.  Help me.”

Otis exclaimed, “G’oh boy!  Cunt monkey!”

The old man vomited, then he collapsed.

“Come on,” I said.  “Let’s get out of here.”

A moment later Otis shot a glance over his shoulder.  “That was cold, man, leaving that old dude to die back there.”

“Once a person gets to the point where they’ve lost all their hair and they start vomiting and bleeding, it’s pretty much over.  He was exposed to the fallout, that’s it, game over.”

We walked for a while longer, then I suggested we break for lunch.  I took a seat on a twisted pile of rubble that had once been a car and removed my mask.  Otis looked at me but didn’t say anything.  I rummaged through my bag and pulled out a couple of MREs.  I showed them to Otis.  He selected one and told me all he had was water.

Otis had beef stroganoff and I had chicken parmesan.  We got about halfway through our lunch when a shot rang out.

I scrambled around to the other side of the car and hissed, “Otis!  Get down!”

He was frozen in fear.  I reached out and pulled his arm.  “Get back here!”

Another shot.

Otis said, “Somebody’s…Whoop!  Whoop!  Whoop!”

“Shhhhh!”

We crouched behind the car and waited.

I said, “I’m going to see if I can tell where it’s coming from.”

Otis was in shock.

I poked my head up and took a good look around.  Whoever was shooting at us was no marksman.  We’d been sitting right out in the open.  “Stay down,” I said.  I fired a couple of rounds with the pistol.

Otis stuck his fingers in his ears and shouted, “Whoop!  Whoop!  Whoop!”

I spotted the shooter.  A thin figure about 60 yards out, dashing from one hunk of debris to another.  He looked like a teenager.  Dark jeans and dark shirt.  I tried to move slowly, saw him look out at me.  I put the 9mm away and pulled up the rifle.

Otis muttered, “Butt, butt, butt…butt licker!  G’oh boy! Clitoris!”

The kid stuck his head out again and I put the crosshairs directly on him.  I pulled the trigger twice in quick succession and watched as the skinny figure crumpled to the ground.

I got to my feet and motioned for Otis to follow.  As we got closer I saw the kid was sprawled out on his back with a gaping bullet wound to the face.  A small revolver lay by his side.

Otis said, “G’oh boy!  He’s just a kid.”

“Yeah, it’s too bad.  But a kid who was shooting at us.  He’d still be alive if he hadn’t done that.  Probably wanted the packs and the guns.”  I picked up his revolver and offered it to Otis.  “You want it?”

“Whoop!”  He nodded.  “Hell yeah.”  He examined it for a minute then placed it in his bag.

I scooped ammunition out of the kid’s pockets.  .38 Caliber.  I gave that to Otis, too.  I said, “Let’s keep moving.  And keep an eye out for others like him.  You have to watch your back out here.”

As Otis and I resumed walking, I noticed our surroundings were gradually improving.  More buildings left intact, the roads were in better shape, and I spotted a few cars that looked like they might be roadworthy.  I had definitely begun my journey near ground zero.  By this time we had put maybe ten miles behind us and we were seeing the occasional person out on the street.  Some were not in much better shape than the old man we’d passed, but others seemed to be doing okay.

I asked, “Otis, how far is it to your cousin’s house?”

“Oh, I guess maybe a couple miles,” he replied.

I looked at him.  “Do you even know where we’re at?”

“Yeah, I know where we’re at.  Do you?”

“I’ve got a pretty good idea.  But I don’t come to this side of town very often.”

“Uh-huh.  Where do you live?”

“Southside.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

I sighed.  I had hoped to stay on his good side at least long enough to spend the night at his cousin’s house.  I wanted to avoid another night sleeping out on the streets.  I decided to change the subject.  “So, what’s your cousin like?  Is he older than you?  Younger?”

“How old you think I am?” Otis asked.

I looked at him.  “I figure around 45.”

“61.”

“No shit?  You don’t look anywhere near that.”

“Be 62 this December.”

“Damn, that’s amazing.  I had no idea.  You look good for your age.”

“Thank you.  Yeah, I get that a lot.  Good genes, I guess.”

“You must be living right.”

“Lucky mostly.  That’s all.”

I shouted, “Look out!”

Otis nearly stepped on a snake.

He jumped back and exclaimed, “Bitch slapped!  Homo licker!”

I laughed as I kept an eye on the snake.  “Damn, Otis.  Where do you come up with this shit?

“Whoop!  That scared me.  Fucking snake, damn near bit me.”

The snake was all black, either a racer or a water moccasin.  Wouldn’t that be ironic?  To survive a nuclear bomb only to get bitten by a snake and die.  We carefully walked around it and kept moving.

When the threat had passed, I asked, “Otis, don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but are you some kind of pervert?”

“What?  No!  I ain’t no pervert.  Why you say that?”

“Well, I’ve noticed that when your Tourette’s syndrome kicks in you say some pretty colorful stuff.  It’s mostly something to do with sex or body parts.”

“No.  Whoop!  I ain’t no pervert.  Whoop!  It just happens, that’s all.  I don’t have no control over it.”

“Okay, okay.  Don’t take it personal.  I was just asking.  I mean, if you’re a pervert, that’s none of my business anyway.  It makes no difference to me.”

“I ain’t no pervert,” he muttered.

“Okay, good.  I’m glad we settled it.”

We trudged another couple of miles in search of Otis’s cousin’s house.  The last part of the journey had us going down back roads.

As we started up a gravel drive, Otis announced, “This is it.”

“Thank God.  I’m beat.”

“Me, too.”

“I meant to ask you, does your cousin live alone?”

“No, he gotta wife.  Loretta.  They got kids, too, but they all grown.”

I removed my gas mask as we approached the house.  No sense giving them a heart attack.   The house had to be 100 years old.  It was white clapboard construction badly in need of paint.  The shutters leaned at various angles and there were some pieces of siding missing above the porch.  I followed Otis up the stairs.

Otis pounded on the screen door.  “Grover?  Loretta?”

“Hold on,” a woman’s voice called.

Otis shuddered and then he got that look again.  Just as a woman approached Otis shouted, “Enjoy my scrotum!”

She laughed, “Otis, you and that nonsense!”  Then she saw me and said, “What in the world?”

Otis said, “He’s…Whoop!  This…G’oh boy!  Whoop!  Whoop!”

I said, “Ma’am, my name is Steen O’Mannon.  I ran into Otis this morning downtown.”

Her eyes grew wide and she said, “Is he in some kind of trouble?”

I said, “No, ma’am.”

She studied me for a minute.  “I’m Loretta Johnson.  Are you the police?”  She called over her shoulder, “Grover?”

Otis continued.  “Whoop!  Whoop!  Whoop!  Sack muncher!”

Loretta said, “Otis, you just calm yourself down.”

He shook violently and shouted, “Female ejaculation!”

She shook her head and chuckled.  “Oh my, the things you come up with.”

I said, “Ma’am, I’m not with the police.  And Otis is not in any trouble.  I’m dressed this way because of the nuclear attack.”

Otis finally regained his composure.  He said, “Lor-Lor-Loretta?  He-he-he’s okay.  He gave me lu-lu-lunch…then we walked all day.”

She said, “Alright, well come on in, Otis.”  To me: “Would you like to come in?”

Chapter 9

I followed Otis down a narrow hallway to a family room which overlooked the backyard.  The small room was furnished with a television, a couch, and two recliners.  One of the recliners was in full recline where a man lay fast asleep.

“Grover!” Loretta scolded.

“Huh?  What?”  The man’s eyes fought to focus, then they came to rest on me.  “What the fu—?”

Loretta interrupted, “Grover, Otis is back and he brought his friend.  This is…um—”

“Steen O’Mannon.” I nodded to Grover.

Grover said, “Okay.  Pleased to meet you.”

Loretta gestured to the couch and said, “Please, sit down.  I’ll get you something to drink.  You must be thirsty after walking all day.”

I removed my helmet, backpack, gloves, vest and guns and set them along the wall.

Grover eyed me suspiciously.  He was about the same size as Otis but a little heavier.  He wore glasses and was mostly gray on top with a thick mustache.  He was dressed in a plaid short sleeved shirt with dark brown trousers.  His feet were ensconced in a pair of comfortable-looking red slippers.

Nightfall was approaching and a cool breeze blew through the windows.  Otis busied himself untying his shoes.  Loretta returned with two glasses of lemonade.  I thanked her and she sat in the recliner.  Her hair was in the midst of changing from gray to white and it made her look older than her husband.  She was even heavier than Grover.  She wore a simple pink house dress and her feet were bare.  She looked at the pile of survival gear and said to Grover, “Mr. O’Mannon here wears all that stuff to protect him from the bomb.”

I said, “Please, Mrs. Johnson, call me Steen.”

“Alright.  You can call me Loretta.  And he don’t answer to nothing but Grover.”  She tossed a pillow at her husband.  “Right, you old buzzard?”

Grover chuckled.  Otis gulped lemonade while I let mine sit.

We chatted a bit, then Loretta noticed I hadn’t touched my lemonade.  She asked if I had concerns about its origins.  She assured me she had made it from bottled water and a powdered mix stored in a sealed container.  Later we dined on black beans and rice which Loretta heated on the backyard grill.  After dinner Grover yawned and announced he was going to bed.  Loretta brought a candle into the family room and sat with Otis and myself.  She asked, “Would you like some ripple?”

“Yes, huh!” Otis said.

I smiled.  “Sure.”

I had never tasted ripple before and honestly wasn’t sure what it was.  Loretta returned a minute later with a bottle and three old fashioned glasses.  After she’d poured some for me I took a sip.  It tasted like fruity wine.  Not my thing, but I was polite about it.

Otis said, “That’ll put hair on your chest.”

“I hope not!” Loretta exclaimed.

I asked Loretta, “So what have you been doing since the attack?  What do you do with no electricity, no water, no television, no lights, no radio, no phones, no air-conditioning?”

“My goodness,” she said.  “Well…pretty close to nothing.  We take it one day at a time.  Grover sleeps a lot, and I like to read.”

I asked, “Have you heard anything as far as official news?”

“No.  Well, there was a truck come by day before yesterday.  It was like an Army truck or something.  They were talking over a loud speaker and told everybody to stay in their homes.  They say the water and lights would be turned on real soon.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, but that’s all.  That’s all we know.”

We fell silent for a moment, then Loretta said, “My sister lives just a few miles from here.  We haven’t been able to talk to her since it happened.”

I said, “That’s too bad.”

Loretta said, “We’re too old to walk over there, and she’s too old to come over here.”

Otis piped up, “Speak for yourself.”

“Okay.  Grover and I are too old to walk over there.  I forget Otis here is forever young.”

A while later Loretta suggested the sleeping arrangements.  She offered to let me stay in the guestroom but I insisted Otis have it instead.  After Loretta and Otis retired for the evening I stretched out on the couch and promptly fell to sleep.

* * *

After breakfast the next morning I thanked Loretta and Grover for their hospitality and told them I’d be on my way.  I offered that if there was ever anything I could do for them, not to hesitate to ask.

“Well,” Loretta said.  “There is one thing.”

I’d meant in the future, but I smiled and said, “Sure.  Name it.”

“Well, you remember last night when I told you about my sister?”

“Yes.”

“I’m worried about her.  We have no way of knowing if she’s alright or not.  I know it’s a lot to ask, but—”

“Would you like me to go check on her?”

“Would you?”  Loretta beamed.  “That would be wonderful.”  To Grover:  “Can you tell him how to get there?”

“I can take him,” Otis said.  “I ain’t doing nothing anyway.”

Loretta said, “I don’t know if you should be out there wandering around again, Otis.”

“It ain’t no big—  G’oh boy!”

Loretta put her hands up.  “Alright, alright!  Go.  Do it.  Just don’t get upset.”

So it was settled, Otis and I would embark on another journey.  Loretta thanked me profusely and topped off my bag with water and snacks.  I promised to return with at least a report and possibly her sister.  Otis and I made our way back out onto the main road.  About halfway through our trek I suggested we stop and take a break.  There was a bus stop and we sat on the bench.  I pulled out a couple of waters and handed one to Otis.

Otis mopped his brow.  “Hot out here.”

I nodded.  “Sure is.  So, you figure you’ll stay with your cousin now?”

“I guess so.  I don’t have nowhere else to go.  What about you?  Where are you going?”

“I’m headed west, away from the city.”  I took a long drink of water.  “I’ll figure it out when I get there.”

Otis nodded and took another drink of water.

I thought I heard something, a sound I hadn’t heard in a while.  I said, “Otis, do you hear that?”

“What?”

“That.  It sounds like a car.”

We sat in silence for a moment.  Then Otis said, “I thought you said last night, something about TNT and cars not working?”

“EMP,” I corrected.  “Electromagnet Pulse.  It’s a byproduct of a nuclear explosion that causes electronics to fail.  Older cars like your cousin’s won’t start but newer cars – those made after the EMP attack – are shielded.”

“Yeah, that, like you was saying.”

“Well, it’s hit or miss.  With a low altitude strike the EMP is not evenly distributed.”  I stood.  “That’s definitely a car or a truck, and it’s coming this way.”

Otis stood.  “Whoop!”

I said, “Well, I’ll be damned.”

A white van approached and slowed to a halt.  The driver leaned across to the passenger window and said, “You need a lift?”

My eyes narrowed.  “Uh…you just out here offering people rides?”

He laughed.  “No, I’m making a run into town to get some supplies, just thought I’d ask.”  He got back behind the wheel.  “Alright, well good luck to you then.”

Even seated, I could tell he was tall and solidly built.  He was about 35 to 40 years old with a light complexion and a bald head.  He looked like he could be a bank president.  I held up a hand, “Wait a second.”  I turned to Otis.  “You okay with this?”

“G’oh boy!”

The driver gave an amused look.  I explained, “He has Tourette’s syndrome.”

He said, “No problem.  Hop in.  I’m Roger by the way.”

Against my better judgment, I climbed into the van.  I sat in the passenger seat and Otis sat in back.  I said, “I’m Steen, and this is Otis.”

“Good to meet you.”  He put the van in gear and we started off.

I said, “I think I’m just amazed to see a vehicle that’s actually working.”

“Yeah, there aren’t many,” Roger agreed.  He looked at me.  “Looks like you’re ready to go to war.  You in the military or something?”

“No, I’m a survivalist.  I rode the bomb out in a fallout shelter downtown.  I’m trying to get as far away from that mess as possible.”

Roger said.  “I was downtown when the bomb hit, too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Good thing you made it out alive.  Hey, you mentioned you were making a supply run.  Is there a store open around here?”

“Yeah, Purcy’s.  It’s about a mile up here on the right.”

We rode without talking for a while.  I looked out my window at the passing scenery.  Suddenly something hit me in the head and everything went black.

Chapter 10

When I regained consciousness I found myself in a hole suspended from a chain.  My head was throbbing and my eyes were slow to focus.  The air was thick with engine fumes and the smell of death.  I heard a beeping sound and the rattling of chains.  Where the hell was I and what the fuck was going on?

My eyes finally focused on something large above me, coming my way.  I heard a loud metallic groan and suddenly I felt something cold, wet, and heavy slam into me.

I screamed, “Hey!  Hey!  What the fuck?!  What the fuck is going on here?!”

I tried frantically to free myself but to no avail.  The hole quickly filled with liquid up to my neck.

“Hey!  What is going on?!  Get me out of here!”

“Give it up, man,” I heard someone say.

I looked around and realized I was not alone.  Other people were in the same predicament.  I saw twenty or so heads sticking up above the ground evenly spaced about six feet apart.  We were arranged in neat little rows all facing the same direction.  What the hell was this?  Some kind of sick joke?  Planting people like petunias?

I was in a large building, a factory of sorts, with a high ceiling and industrial equipment all around.  I heard the din of an engine in the background, a generator perhaps.  Instinctively I started to move my hips and feet.  If someone was trying to bury me in concrete, I wasn’t going to make it easy.  I pushed again and again against the thick liquid with limited success.

Then I saw him.  Roger from the van.  He stepped out from behind a control panel and came toward me.  My God, what had I been thinking?  Accepting a ride from a stranger, in a white van, no less.  Everyone knows that killers and perverts use white vans to kidnap their victims.  Why had I let my guard down?

As Roger approached, I could see he looked different than before.  Gone was the friendly demeanor, obviously just an act.  Now his face was set hard as steel and his eyes were filled with hate.  He was dressed in a white tee shirt and camouflage pants with black boots.  He stopped right in front of me.  In my position it was difficult for me to look up at him.

“You’re not supposed to be awake yet,” Roger growled.

“What the fuck is this?”  I demanded.  I looked around again and that’s when I saw Otis.  He was planted right next to me.  He was unconscious and he had a huge welt over one eye.

Roger said, “When your retarded friend here wakes up, we’ll get started.”

I said, “Get started?  Get started what?”

“You’ll see.”

Groans from around the room.  He turned on his heel and walked out the door.

I started working my feet again in the hardening cement.  I turned to a nearby man and asked, “What is this?”

He wearily turned to me and said, “Dude crazy, that’s what.”

A woman’s voice behind me said, “He a racist.  He hate black people.”

I looked around again and realized everyone else was black.  I said, “What the hell am I doing here then?”

The man said, “I don’t know.  Maybe he hate white people, too.”

That elicited a guffaw from one of the other captives.

The man continued, “But we ain’t never getting out of here, that’s fo sure.”

The woman agreed, “No way.”

“See them piles of concrete?” the man asked.

I looked around and saw a few mounds of concrete where people’s heads should have been.

“Them’s used to be people.  That’s what he do.  He kill everybody then he cover them up with concrete.”

I said, “That’s insane.”

“Damn straight.”

I thought for a minute.  “Did any of you know each other before this happened?”

“No – I don’t know.  I didn’t.”

A couple of the others agreed.

“So he just brings people in here at random?”  I kept moving my feet.  Either I was getting tired or the cement was hardening.  My efforts were bearing little fruit at this point so I stopped.

Otis groaned.  “G’oh— G’oh— G’oh boy!”

“Otis,” I hissed.  “Over here.”

His eyes grew wide when he saw me.  “What—?”

I said, “You’re going to be alright, just try to stay calm.”

Otis screamed, “Cock noodles!  Nut sacks!”

“Otis!” I hissed.  “Get a hold of yourself.”

“G’oh boy!  I can’t move!”

“Me neither.  None of us can.”

Otis looked around.  “What the fuck—?  G’oh boy!  Whoop!”

Roger reappeared and the room got quiet.  He closed the door behind him and said, “Well, what do we have here?  Looks like the retard is awake.”

“Lick me!” Otis blurted.  “G’oh boy!  Whoop!  Cocksucker!  Whoop!”  He shook violently and shouted, “Enjoy my vomit!”

Roger chuckled.  “You’re not retarded.  You’re fucking crazy.”

“Whoop!  Whoop!  Whoop!  G’oh boy!  Cunt lapper!”

Roger laughed harder.  He shook his head and said, “Damn.  We might have to keep you around a while.”

Otis growled and shook again as he tried desperately to control his disease.  “Whoop!”

Roger stood at the front of the room and said in a sing-songy voice, “Guess what time it is boys and girls?”

Moans all around.

Then in a low, breathy voice he said, “That’s right.  It’s negro time.”

“Jesus God No!”  someone screamed.

“Anything but that!  No!  Not negro time!”

“Aaaaaahhhhh!!!”

The room filled with cries and screams as Roger laughed.

When it had quieted down, Roger approached Otis and myself and said, “I’ll explain for our newcomers here.”

More groans.

“I believe I mentioned to you that I was downtown when the bomb hit.”

I glared at him but said nothing.

He continued, “But I wasn’t sitting in a cozy little bomb shelter like you were.  No, I was very much exposed.  Out in the open.”  A theatrical pause to let that sink in.  “I took a lethal dose of radiation.  That’s right, I’m dying.  It’s only a matter of time before I simply drop dead.  Something I’m sure everyone in this room is eagerly anticipating.”

Mumbled agreement.

Roger ignored them and went on.  “I decided to do something useful with the rest of my life – however long that might be.  I am righting wrongs and improving the world – one negro at a time.”

I stared at him, incredulous.

Roger began to roam around the room and he picked up volume and speed as he spoke.  “Yes, I believe you negros are the cause of all the problems in America.  I know the North Koreans nuked us, but that’s not what I’m talking about.  I’m talking about before that.  Long before that.

“Let’s talk about slavery.  Slavery was wrong, no doubt about it.  But what happened after slavery ended had much more far-reaching consequences.  Why did we let all those newly-freed slaves stay here in America?  Your great-grandparents.  What were we thinking?  Did we really think that Africans were just going to blend in and assimilate?  Assimilate into a society made up of Europeans?  Really?  Africans and Europeans?  We’re about as different as night and day.  Oil and water.  I say, if there was money enough to ship all you negros over here, then there was money enough to ship you back.  The biggest mistake our country ever made was letting you stay here after slavery ended.”

I looked around the room.  I saw icy stares and faraway looks in people’s eyes.  It was as if they were consciously willing themselves to be someplace else.  Anyplace else.

Roger continued.  “So, what do we have in America today?  A few negros have managed to get an education and make something of themselves, but most of you will never fit into American society.  You’re leaches who live off the government dole.  Welfare, food stamps, housing assistance.  All courtesy of the American taxpayer.  White taxpayers, because we’re the only ones who work.

“The white man has achieved a level of success unparalleled by anyone else in human history.  Let’s take a look.  White men put a man on the moon.  White men brought the world electricity, the light bulb, telephones, radio, television, locomotives, automobiles, airplanes, air-conditioning, modern medicine, computers, cellphones, the Internet—  I could go on.  The list is endless.  Every good thing around you was invented by white men.  A few bad things too, like the bomb that brought us all together today.  But let’s stay focused.

“What has the black man given the world?  Cue the crickets, please.  That’s right, nothing.  Zippo.  Nada.  Zero.  Goose eggs.  Come on somebody, shout out one great contribution that Africans have made to the world.  Just one.”

He paced back and forth between the rows of heads.  No one responded.

“That’s what I thought.  No African has ever done anything worthy of mention.  Unless you want to count carving grotesque statues of men with giant penises, rampant disease, misery, killing, stealing, starvation, and tribal warfare.  You’re pretty good at all that stuff.”

He waved a hand.  “What I really wanted to talk about is the mess you’ve made of America.  You have really fucked things up.  It’s not enough that we have to support you.  No, no.  We have to live with you.  We have to live in an America that you have ruined.  Open any newspaper, watch any news program and tell me what you see?  Story after story about negros.  Negros committing murder, negros committing robberies, negros dealing drugs, and negros causing mayhem and violence everywhere you turn.  If you’re not stealing something to buy more drugs, then you’re killing somebody just for the hell of it.

“Sure, it’s not as apparent as it used to be.  There was a time when the news told it like it is.  A black man was seen doing this.  A black man did that.  But now the truth is obscured by political correctness.  Yes, that’s right.  It’s racist if we tell the truth.  It’s racist if we say a black man committed the crime.  God forbid!  Now unless you see a video or a picture you don’t really know what happened.  Because they won’t tell you.  You have to listen for clues, like when they mention dreadlocks or slip in an African name like Tyrone or Jamal or whatever in the fuck you people call yourselves.  No, God forbid we actually tell the truth and just come out and say it.  Can’t do that.  But we don’t even have to.  Everybody knows it.  Everyone knows the truth.  You negros are the ones committing all the crimes.  You negros are the ones who have managed to turn America into the shithole that it is today.

“Let’s take a look at the facts.  Blacks account for 13% of the U.S. population but go into any prison and what do you see?  They’re almost all black.  You negros are incarcerated at a rate six times higher than whites and more than twice that of Hispanics.  More than anybody else.”

He looked around the room.  “How does that make you feel?  What do you have to say for yourselves?”

Silence.  They had probably heard it all before and they knew any answer would be met with retribution.

“No one’s got an explanation?  You probably think it’s because the system is biased against you.  Right?  You think you’re treated unfairly by the police.  ‘The man is holding me down!’”  Air quotes.  “Isn’t that what you’ve been told?  You tell yourselves that because you can’t handle the truth.  The truth is, the police pay special attention to you because so many of you are criminals!  It’s a well-deserved stereotype!  You’ve earned it!

“Instead of being treated unfairly, actually the opposite is true.  You get a pass.  Go to any downtown courtroom on a typical day and take a good look around.  The whole room is filled with negros.  They shuffle you through the system like it’s the express lane at the supermarket.  ‘Time served, next.’  The judges are sick of sending the same people to prison over and over again, so they let you off with a slap on the wrist because that’s what they’ve been told to do.  Otherwise we’d be spending all our money building prisons.

“Go into any urban area in America and tell me what you see?  You see criminals, you see drug dealers, you see car thieves.  Negros.  You see gangs of negros roaming the streets just looking for trouble.  Here’s the truth people: the prisons are full of negros because you negros are committing the crimes!  It’s as simple as that.  Wake up!  Wake the fuck up!”

He was shouting now.

“You got no fathers in the homes, there’s not a goddamn one of you that can stick around after you’ve knocked some black bitch up.  You’re breeding like cockroaches a whole generation of degenerates.  Do you know how many negro children are born into single parent homes?  Seventy-two percent!  Seventy-two percent of blacks born in America are born into single parent homes.  Single moms.  Are you getting this?  All these teenage boys are being raised in homes without a father, and wonder of wonder, guess what happens?  Mama can’t control the little shits and they turn into criminals and gang members.  Who would have thunk it?  Listen to me negros: pull your pants up, finish school, and be fathers to your children!”

He paused for a minute to catch his breath.  “You want everything the easy way.  So what do you do?  You kill people and you steal stuff.  That’s pretty much it.  That’s what you do.  You beat up old ladies and take their purses.  You break into churches and steal the offering money.  You go onto social media and organize flash mobs so you can rob convenience stores.  Oh—  That, and you deal drugs.  You’ve pretty much got a monopoly on dealing drugs.”

He picked up a newspaper.  “Look at this: ‘Man shoots son on Father’s Day.’  What kind of person does that?  Who?  I’ll tell you: someone who is naturally violent.  Somebody who has no self-control.  That’s the kind of man who would shoot his own son on Father’s Day.  Oh golly, I wonder if he was a negro?  Let’s see.”  He unfolded the paper.  With a look of faux shock on his face he said, “Oh, look!  He was a negro.  Imagine that.”

He picked up another paper and read: “‘Man shoots baby in face.’”  He held up the paper for all to see.  “A negro.”  He read another: “‘Teens kill 22-year old Australian man.’  Says here a ‘group of teens’ shot the white man because they were bored.  If you dig a little deeper you find out they were negros.  So.  Really?  You kill people because you’re bored?  I remember being bored when I was a teenager.  So…let me see…what did I do?”  He drummed his fingers against a cheek.  Then he shouted, “I sure as fuck didn’t go out and kill somebody!  Jesus Christ!  How do you fucking people live with yourselves?  Here’s another: ‘Eight dead after shooting at prayer vigil.’”  He laughed.  “I don’t even know where to begin with this one.”  He shook his head.  “Yes, it was you.  You did it.  Who else?

“Those are just a few examples I happened to have handy.  Not the worst…not by a long shot.  But I don’t have to tell you.  We all know the truth.  Murders, robberies, home invasions, rapes, drugs, beatings—  Oh, speaking of beatings, what about the knock-out game?  Isn’t that some kind of fun?  Gangs of negros going around knocking out unsuspecting white people.  Now that’s entertainment.  That’s just some kind of fun for you people, isn’t it?”

He glared around the room.

“That’s a game to you?  The news says it’s ‘gangs of youths’ but we all know the truth.  Anyone who’s ever seen a video knows what’s going on.  It’s negros beating up white people.  Just for the fun of it.  That’s how you entertain yourselves.  And it’s happening all over the country, every day.”

“G’oh boy!” Otis blurted through clenched teeth.

Roger snorted.  “You got something to say, retard?”

“Whoop!  Shit sucker!”

Roger got red in the face.  He stormed out of the room and returned with a shotgun in one hand and a rope in the other.

Chapter 11

People gasped as Roger used the rope to fashion a crude noose.  He slipped it over Otis’s head.

“No!” I shouted.

Roger turned to me and said, “Shut up.  I’ll deal with you later.”

He looped the noose around Otis’s jaw and pulled it tight to the top of his head so Otis couldn’t open his mouth.  Roger said, “That’s for your own good, retard.  I’d like to keep you around for a while.  But right now I want you to shut the fuck up.”

Roger pointed at me and said, “You might be wondering what he’s doing here.  He’s not a negro.  No…he’s even worse than a negro.  He’s a negro-lover.  Nothing worse than a negro-lover.  Found him and retard here sitting on a park bench, kissing and hugging.”

“That’s a lie!” I shouted.

“I told you to shut the fuck up!  Keep your fucking mouth shut, or you’ll be next.”  Roger returned to the front of the room.  “Who would like to volunteer for tonight’s entertainment?”

Silence.  Roger leaned over and got into a young woman’s face.  “How about you?  Are you ready for negro time?”

She shook her head violently.  “No!  Please don’t hurt me.”

A man shouted, “Why you gotta be so cruel?”

Roger straightened.  “Oh, it looks like we have a winner.”  He smiled and started toward the man.

The man continued, “Leave her alone.  So what?  You hate black people.  So kill us already and get it over with.  Enough with all this ‘negro time’ bullshit.  We never did nothing to you.  Just kill us and get it over with.  You don’t have to torture us.”

Roger said, “Oh, but I do.  An eye for an eye.  Isn’t that what the Bible says?  You people have been torturing us for years – decades.  I say it’s time for a little payback.  You torture us every day with your very existence.  We’d like to go to the movies or ride the subway without dealing with the likes of you, without hearing your mindless yapping, you have no respect for anyone around you.  Always hooting and hollering and laughing at nothing at all.  What’s so goddamned funny?!  Nothing!  But you just keep laughing.  Maybe if I didn’t have to work and got everything for free I’d be laughing, too.

“Maybe we’d like to walk down the street at night and not have to look over our shoulder every five seconds.  Looking for the likes of you.  Negros lurking around every corner just waiting for someone to attack.”

The man shook his head and muttered, “Fuck you.”

Roger got in his face.  “What did you just say?”

The man was silent.

“What did you say to me?  Fuck you?  Is that what you said?  Fuck me?  No.  Fuck you!”  Roger straightened and lowered his voice.  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re the one stuck in a hole shitting all over yourself, and I’m up here.  Look at me!”

The man looked up, then struggled.  He grunted and shouted, “Goddamn it!  If I could get out of here!  I would rip your fucking face off!  I’d rip your fucking face off, you racist mother-fucker!”

Roger said softly, almost whispering, “Yes, yes you would do that, wouldn’t you?  Because you’re a negro.  It’s in your nature, isn’t it?  Violence.  No self-control.  You don’t belong in civilized society, negro.  You don’t belong here.”

“God damn you cocksucker mother-fucker—!”

“Enough!”  Roger shouted.  He turned and marched over to a large crate at the front of the room.  He stepped behind it and emerged with a chainsaw.

“No!” a woman screamed.

“Please, no!  Please God no!” another pleaded.

There were shouts and pleas for mercy all around.

“Shut up, all of you!” Roger shouted.  He stared us all down. “Shut the fuck up!  You’re all going to get what you deserve.”

“No!  Please!” a woman shrieked.

He walked over to the man and looked down at him with utter contempt.  “Look at you, you miserable fuck.”  He kicked dirt in the man’s face, then he stepped back.  “We give and we give and we give.  And what do you do?  You take and you take and you take.  Then you want some more.”

Roger gave the chainsaw a quick tug, then another.  It roared to life and filled the room with noxious fumes.  Roger gunned the engine a few times, then let it idle.  It twitched and jerked in his hand.

The man was clearly terrified but he tried not to show it.

Roger pointed the tip of the chainsaw blade at the man’s face like a huge knife.  He looked at the man with pure hatred and shouted, “You have anything to say, negro?  Any last words?”

The man glared at him.

“Well?” Roger demanded.

The man screamed, “Fuck you!”

At the same time Roger screamed, “Die, mother fucker!”  He raced the engine and literally rammed the chainsaw down the man’s throat.  Blood and bones and teeth flew everywhere.  Roger plunged the chainsaw into the man again and again.  Deeper and deeper he went.  The engine strained as he bore down, then raced as he pulled it back out.  He jammed the blade in and out, over and over again.  Finally the engine stalled and Roger clumsily pulled the machine out of the man.  What little remained of the man’s head folded grotesquely into a bloody mess.

Screams and cries filled the room.  A woman in front of me screamed and vomited then passed out.

“Oh my God!  Oh God!” someone screamed.

“Jesus Christ!”

Roger wasn’t finished yet.  He restarted the engine and held the chainsaw high overhead.  Then he swung it down and began plunging it into the ground again and again, deeper and deeper into the man’s body cavity.  The chainsaw kicked up blood and gore and sprayed it all over the room.  People’s heads were covered with blood splatter and stringy bits of flesh.  Finally after burying the blade into the man’s body up to the engine, Roger pulled it out and killed the engine.  The air was thick with exhaust fumes and the sickening odor of blood and internal organs.

Women cried and screamed.  I was in a total state of shock and disbelief.

Roger stood, the chainsaw dangling from his hand, his clothes covered with blood.  Blood dripped from the chainsaw blade.  Roger dropped the chainsaw and he began to laugh.  He laughed harder and harder until he doubled over and sank to his knees in a fit of laughter.

“Oh God,” he wheezed.  “Oh— that was fucking awesome.”  He pumped a fist in the air.  “Fuck yeah!  What a perfect end!  The perfect ending to a perfectly meaningless life.”  He stood, dusted off his knees and regained his composure.  “And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen.  I’ve just made the world a better place.  You can all thank me later.”  He took a bow.

Sobs and cries could be heard throughout the room.  Roger seemed oblivious and whistled as he tended to the controls of the overhead crane.  He deposited a mound of cement over the man’s remains.  When he had finished, he retrieved the chainsaw and walked out the door.

I looked over at Otis.  “You alright?”

“No,” he managed to say.  He could barely move his lips.  “No, I’m not alright.  Fuck, Goddamn shit!  Who could be alright after seeing that shit?  That’s fucked up.”

“Fucking bullshit,” a man behind me said.

I couldn’t turn around to see him.

The man continued, “I can’t take this shit.  Can’t take this shit no mo.  Uh-huh.  Can’t take it.  I gotsta get outta here.”

“Fuck this,” I heard somebody else say.  “That shit done fucked me up.  I’m gonna go crazy in here.  That shit’s fucked up.”

I tuned out the chatter and began planning my escape.  Before I woke up in this place, I thought surviving a nuclear war was a challenge.  But this, being at the mercy of a madman.  This was far worse.

A while later Roger returned with something in his hands.  He set it in front of a man in the first row.  Then he brought out another.  Then another.  They were dog bowls.  When Roger reached Otis, he pulled the rope off his head.  Roger returned with more bowls and placed one in front of me.  One side was filled with water, the other with cereal.  My initial reaction was to refuse it.  Then, on second thought, I realized that if I was ever going to get out of this place I needed my strength.  I bowed my head and ate.  I thought about all the animals that had to eat like this, without the benefit of hands.  It was humiliating.  All part of Roger’s strategy to dehumanize us.  A quick glance around the room revealed a few of the prisoners were refusing to eat.

What a miserable existence this was.  To be kept alive only to be slaughtered for the amusement of a madman.  My bowl was filthy and it smelled awful.  The cereal was stale.  There obviously had been no attempt at sanitation.  I wondered if the food and water had been kept safe from the fallout.

Later Roger returned to collect the bowls.  I wondered if he recycled any cereal left uneaten for next time.  I shuddered at the thought.  What kind of fresh new hell was this?

Chapter 12

As the sun rose the next morning the big industrial building filled with light.  One by one the prisoners came to life.  There were no happy sounds, just the dreadful groans of people realizing their reality was far worse than any nightmare they might have had.

I woke up with a sore neck.  Somehow I had managed to sleep with my head nodded forward and now I was paying for it.  I yawned and needed to stretch, but my body was frozen in place.  I wondered if anyone had ever died from being held like this.  I guessed not.  People who are paralyzed never move and they keep on living.

Much to my dismay, I discovered meals were only served once a day.  Worse still, they told me cereal was the only item on the menu.  As an adult I have never been much of a cereal eater.  I find that when I eat cereal in the morning I am hungry before I even get to work.  Why bother?  The thought of eating only cereal once a day meant I was going to be starving from here on out.

One of the worse things about my situation was not being able to touch my face.  Sweat would bead on my brow and run down my face and get in my eyes.  Occasionally a fly or a gnat would land on me and I couldn’t shoo it away.

Sometime during the day I witnessed the planting of two new victims.  Both were black men, both unconscious.  Roger used a powered wheelbarrow to bring them in.  He drilled the holes with an overhead power auger, then chained each man to the bridge crane and lowered them into the holes.  Finally, each man was encased in cement just as Otis and I had been.  Roger dusted off his hands and turned to go when one of the women in the front row spoke up.

“You evil,” she said.

Roger wheeled around and glared at her.  “What did you just say to me?”

“You heard me.  I say, you evil.”

Roger went apoplectic.  He stomped over to the woman and got down in her face.  “Listen to me you worthless piece-of-shit bitch: I will fuck you up the ass anytime I want to and you will enjoy it!  Do you hear me!  You will speak when you are spoken to.  Understood?  Otherwise, shut your cunt hole!”  He straightened.  “You fucking worthless cunt.  Here’s a thought: why don’t you learn how to speak English?  You should have figured it out by now.  It’s English.  Get it?”

He got a crazy look in his eye, then he got down in her face again.  In a dark, evil voice he said, “Soon and very soon you shall be mercilessly tortured to death while I giggle like a silly little schoolgirl.”

The woman began to cry.

Roger laughed.  He stood and said, “Suck it up, bitch.  You’re a breeder.  You get stamped out first.  That’s the rules.  If I let you live, you’ll just keep popping out black little babies.  How many you got now?  Five or six I’ll bet.”

She didn’t answer.

“Uh-huh.  I figured.  More welfare babies.  More parasites on society.  More killers and thugs.”  He waived a hand.  “Enough!  You must be stopped.”

Roger left the woman in tears and walked out the door.  I studied her.  Although I couldn’t see her face, she looked young.  Her hair was arranged in an elaborate bouffant which sat atop a graceful neck.

“Fucking asshole,” one of the men grumbled.  “He ain’t gonna get away with this.”

“Fuck him,” another said.

Somehow I made it through the day doing absolutely nothing.  It was torture.  My face itched and sweat dripped down and I was starving but I just stood there and took it.  There was little conversation in the dreary room.  Some people slept.

Early in the evening Roger returned with a big smile on his face.  “Hello negros!” he shouted.  “Guess what time it is?”  He cupped a hand to his ear.  “I can’t hear you!  That’s right!  It’s negro time!”

Screams and cries all around.

“No please!” a woman begged.  “Stop!”

“Help us!  Please, somebody help us!”

With bounding enthusiasm Roger said, “Shut up and listen.  This is my favorite time of the day.  You don’t know how much I look forward to this.”

One of the new men spoke up.  “What is this shit, man?  Get me outta here.  This is bullshit.  This is some fucked up shit, gnome sayin’?”

“Yo, yo, yo, homes,” Roger said, jutting his hands like a rapper.  “How about a whole lot less talking and whole lot more SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!  Got it?!”  He mocked the man with an exaggerated imitation, “‘Gnome sayin’?’”

The man seethed with anger but he kept his mouth shut.

Roger calmed down a little and continued.  “I’m going to tell you a story tonight, negros.  It’s a story about a once-great nation that went down the tubes thanks to a little thing called affirmative action, or as it’s known by its new name: diversity.  Some of you may have heard of it, though I doubt you really know what it means.  You probably think diversity is a good thing.  Right?  That’s what you’ve been told by your race-baiting leaders.”  He displayed a limp wrist and in a nasally voice said, “‘Diversity is what makes our country strong.’”  He laughed.  “That’s what they tell you, isn’t it?”

He paced back and forth as he had the night before.

Otis, who had been quiet for most of the day, suddenly blurted out, “G’oh boy!  You—  Lick— Whoop!  Whoop!  Whoop!  My anus invites your licking!”

The room became deathly quiet.  Roger glared at Otis.  Then Suddenly he burst out laughing.  I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Oh,” Roger laughed, “you are some kind of fucked up.  One fucked up little dude, that’s what you are.”  He composed himself and went on.  “Now as I was saying, diversity is the goal.  Diversity in the work place.  Diversity in our schools and universities.  Diversity, diversity, diversity.

“But what is diversity?  Well, simply put, it means you have to have a certain percentage of blacks, a certain percentage of Hispanics, a certain percentage of Asians and so on.  The liberals demand that we have a certain percentage of blacks in every aspect of our lives.  It doesn’t matter whether you are qualified or not.  Doesn’t matter.  Diversity is all that matters.

“We used to live in a country where employers hired people for their qualifications and experience.  For what they could bring to the job.  That made for successful businesses.  Successful businesses make for a successful country.  But now what do we have?  We live in a nation saddled by an albatross.  The albatross of diversity.  D i v e r s i t y.”  He drew out the word with disdain in his voice.

Roger began shouting again.  “I’ll tell you what diversity is.  It’s give the negro a job because he’s a negro, that’s what diversity is!  We don’t care if he’s illiterate!  We don’t care if he speaks ebonics!  We don’t care if it takes ten of him to do what one white person can do!  The more the merrier!  Bring on the negros!  Get those fucking percentages up.  Way up!  Fuck yeah!  Hire every fucking negro you can find!  Get them the fuck in here!  It’s fucking great!  Fuck yeah!”  He pantomimed masturbation.  “Let’s have a fucking negro orgasm!  Fuck yeah!  ’Cause negros are fucking great!  Fucking bring on the negros!  Bring ’em on, fuck yeah!”

His faux enthusiasm waned.  He paced back and forth and stared down every last person in the room.  In a dark, low voice he said, “I’ll tell you what diversity is: it’s a nonstop ass-fucking.  We have to work with you fucks.  We have to redo everything you fuck up.  We have to stand by and say nothing when our performance is questioned – the group as a whole.  Everyone in the room knows what the problem is, but we can’t say it.  It’s negros.  Fucking negros.  The company brought them in to achieve diversity and look what they’ve done.

“It’s not enough that we have to put up with you in the workplace.  It’s everywhere you turn.  Walk into any government office and what do you see?  Big militant black women.  The government can’t help themselves.  That’s all they hire.  And you give a big black woman a little power, and oh my God.  You better look out.  She’s the fucking queen of the world!  You better do what she says.  She’s large and in charge!  Fuck yeah!  She’s the queen of the fucking world!

“Oh there’s more.  There’s a lot more.  I’m just getting started.  Do you know what I was doing when the bomb hit?  Do you want to know why I got radiation poisoning?”

No one said a word.

“I’ll tell you what I was doing.  I was working downtown as a janitor.  A fucking janitor!  I have an MBA!  That’s right, a fucking MBA!  But no one will hire me because I’m white!  I used to be somebody!  I used to have a great job.  You want to guess what happened?”  He paused a moment for effect.  Then in a low, breathy voice he vomited the word, “Diversity.”

I took a deep breath.  Once again, Roger was building to a crescendo.

“‘We are too white.’  Those were her exact words.  The HR lady—  Personnel administrator—  Whatever in the fuck she called herself!  Worthless cunt, that’s what she was.  I lost my job so they could hire a negro to take my place.  I lost my job because of diversity.  God forbid we have too many white people!  No!  Get rid of all the white people and bring on the negros!  Fucking bring them on!  Halleluiah!  Hoo Ha!  Fuck yeah!  Bring on the negros!”

He laughed at himself.  “It’s not enough that we give you equal opportunity.  We gave you that a long time ago.  You’ve had the same opportunity as us to apply for college or get a loan or a job.  But guess what?  That wasn’t good enough.  Equal opportunity doesn’t achieve diversity.  You want to know why?  Because blacks can’t compete with whites.  Not on a level playing field. Equal opportunity didn’t achieve diversity so you demanded equal results.  See, that’s what diversity really is.  It’s forced equal results.  A percentage of negros in every pie, whether you are qualified or not.  You want the same success as the white man with no regard to what you have to offer.  And trust me, it ain’t much.

“So where has that gotten us today?  We have D-student negros edging out A-student whites for enrollment in colleges and universities.  We have unqualified negros pushing whites out of good jobs.  Diversity in our schools.  Diversity in the workplace.  Isn’t it grand?  ‘Diversity makes our country strong.’  Fucking bullshit!

“Meanwhile our country is in a death spiral because you fuckers have dumbed everything down so much.  This country is being run by a bunch of fucking idiots.  Look at what happened when we elected the first black president.  He put his negro pals in charge at the Justice Department then proceeded to preside over the most inept and corrupt administration in U.S. history.  The Justice Department was more concerned about righting perceived racial injustices than about doing anything to rein in our failed leader.  The fucking world could be on fire and he wouldn’t do shit.  But you have some black kid get killed by a white cop and the president would be holding a press conference the same fucking day.  That’s what happens when you put negros in charge.  They take care of their own.  They even the score.  It’s payback time for negros.”

The new guy interrupted.  “What do you want from us, man?”

Roger wheeled around.

The man continued.  “Look, we didn’t do that shit, man.  I was just walking down the street and—”

“Silence!” Roger screamed.

“Fuck this, man.  I can’t take this shit.  Just fucking shoot me or something.  I can’t stand listening to yo cracker ass—”

Roger screamed, “Shut up!  Shut the fuck up!  Shut up!  Shut up!  Shut up!”

“Fuck you, man.  I don’t have to put up with this shit—”

Roger stomped over to the crate and pulled out a sledgehammer.  He carried it back to the man – who was still talking – and raised it high up over his head.

The man continued.  “—gnome sayin’?  Fuck this.  Fucking bullshit mother fuck cock sucking cracker.  You say I be doing all that shit but I ain’t be doing nothing—”

Roger set the sledgehammer down.  “No.  It’s too easy.  I’m not going to let you off that easy.  Okay.  It was going to be the breeder’s turn tonight, but I’ve got something special for you.  Yes, I’ve got something special.  You’ve earned it.”

The man never stopped talking.  “—calling me all that racist shit, man, you faggot-ass mother fucker.  I get out of here Imona fuck you up.  Imona fuck you up good.  After I be done with yo cracker ass you be shittin’ out yo mouth and shit, gnome sayin’?”

Roger returned with a five gallon plastic bucket in one hand and a squirt bottle in the other.  He squirted the man all over his face with something.

“Goddamn, what the fuck, man?  What is this shit?  You fucking be dead now mother fucker—!”

“That’s it negro, keep running your mouth.  Get that shit all in your mouth.”  Roger flipped the bucket upside down and shook it rapidly.  Then he quickly removed the lid and slammed it down over the man’s head.  He trotted back to the crate and fetched a brick.  He set the brick on top of the bucket and stepped back.

The man was screaming, “Hey!  What the fuck?!  What is this?  Get this shit off me!  Fuck!  Help!”

Roger raised his voice over the man’s screams.  “Ladies and gentlemen, our honey-covered friend here is wearing a bucket filled with an assortment of nature’s finest pests: flies, bees, wasps, hornets, fire ants, and – my favorite – an Arizona Bark scorpion.”

There were gasps all around the room.

“But don’t worry, he won’t suffocate in there.  Being the kind, considerate host that I am, I’ve provided a screened opening for him to breathe through.  Now, let’s sit back and enjoy the show.”

“Help!  Aaaah!  Help!  Ow!  Please!”  He spat something out of his mouth.  “Pthe, pthe.  Help me please!  Jesus God!  Help!”

Roger pulled a chair out from behind the crate.  Then he sat down and placed a bowl in his lap.  As he tossed a few kernels in his mouth, I saw the bowl was filled with popcorn.

“Please sir!  Please!  Sir!  Sir!  Pthe, pthe.  Get this off me!  I promise— Ow!  Ooooow!  I promise I won’t say nothing I swear!  Please!”

Roger shouted, “Too late my friend.  You had your chance.  You all had your chance to be decent people, and you blew it.”

“Ow!  Damn!  Fuck!  Aaaaah!  Help!  Ow!  Pthe, pthe.  Aaaah!  Jesus God, no!  Fuck no! Aaaah!  Help me Jesus God, help me Jesus God, please!”

Roger laughed and tossed more kernels in his mouth.

“Pthe, pthe.  Ow!  Goddamn!  Get off me!  Pthe, pthe.  Please, I’ll do anything!  Just get this shit off me!  Pthe, pthe.  Not like this!  Jesus God no, not like this!  Pthe, pthe.  Aaaah!  Aaaah!  Help me Jesus!  Please!  Ow!  Help me Jesus God, help me please!  Ow!  Ow!  I’m begging you!  I’m begging you, please!”

The man screamed and sobbed.

“Please!  I’m begging you!  Pleeeeeease!  No!  Anything!  God!  Pthe, pthe.  Ow!  Ow!  Stop!  I’ll—  Pthe, pthe.  Just get this off me—  Sir!  Sir, please!  Ow!  Ow!  Aaaah!  Goddamn!  Help me Jesus God, please help me!  I’ll do anything!  I won’t say nothing!  I promise!  I’ll be good.  Please!  Please!  Please!  Jesus!  No!  No!  NO!!!!  Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!  Jesus Christ!  Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

It was the longest and loudest scream I have ever heard in my life.  Man or woman.  I knew it could only mean one thing: the scorpion.

Chapter 13

The screaming went on for hours.  At least it seemed like it.  It was probably more like twenty minutes.  It was horrible.  The man’s voice got raw from screaming.  Towards the end his tongue thickened and his words were unintelligible.  Roger stayed until the bitter end.  Like the psychopath that he is, he showed no emotion whatsoever, other than the occasional chuckle or laugh.  Women cried and screamed.  Even some of the men cried.  It was horrific.  Finally, the man stopped screaming and fell silent.

After a few minutes, Roger got up and pulled a can of Raid out of the crate.  He walked over to the bucket and aimed at the screened opening.  He stood there and emptied the entire can into the bucket.

Roger left and returned a few minutes later to pull the bucket off the man’s head.  I have never in my life seen anything like it, a person that horribly disfigured.  His head had ballooned to almost twice its normal size.  His lips were huge – two inches thick at least.  His tongue was swollen and purple and it protruded far beyond his lips.  His eyes were swollen shut and his entire face was covered in angry red welts.  This man had suffered like no one should ever suffer.  It was so horrible that I had to look away.

Roger covered the spectacle with concrete, then distributed our dog bowls.  After he’d set out the last bowl he returned to eat with us.  He held a plate in one hand and a wine goblet in the other.  He placed the glass on a small table and sat with the plate in his lap.  “How’s the cereal, negros?”

No one answered.

Roger stabbed, sawed, then placed a bite of food in his mouth.  He chewed, then washed it down with some wine.  “Mmmm, mmmm.  Filet Mignon, medium rare.  Prime cut.”  He held up the glass.  “Nice ten year old cab.”

What a dick.

I could hear people sobbing as they ate.  I got madder.  Mad as hell, in fact.  I tried not to show it.  I didn’t want Roger to see the fire burning in my eyes.  I focused on eating and planning how I was going to get out of there.

***

I did not sleep well that night.  My nerves were jangled after witnessing the depths of Roger’s depravity, plus my body was sore from being held in the same position for so long.  I worried that my muscles would atrophy and I would grow weak from malnutrition.  I was starving.  I had to get out.  But how?

I could move my feet a little, though not enough to break free.  I thought maybe if I could sweat off a few pounds I might be able to slip out of the mold.  I dared not discuss it with anyone.  Roger probably had the place wired for sound and video.  He seemed to appear at just the right moment whenever anything was happening.

Otis woke up and let out a groan.

I asked, “You doing alright Otis?”

“No, no.  Not so good.”

“Me neither.  I hardly slept at all.”

Otis asked, “You think there’s any hope for us, Steen?”

“I don’t know.  Don’t give up.  Somebody could come and rescue us.”

“Fat chance,” the man behind me said.

It was almost impossible to keep your spirits up.  I thought about people who were terminally ill, people wasting away in hospital beds.  How did they do it?  They were miserable, no doubt.  But when you are in the hospital you have people taking care of you.  You have nurses feeding you, bathing you, giving you pain pills, and there are books and television to pass the time.  In here, what did we have?  We were cast in concrete and eating out of dog bowls.  We were lorded over by a madman who slaughtered one of us each night.  The question of when it would be my turn weighed heavy on my mind.

That night Roger returned to lecture us yet again.  He carried an AK-47.  As he entered the room, he said, “Evening negros.  Guess what?  It’s negro time!”  Big smile.

Screams and shrieks around the room.

“Tonight I want to talk about African Americans.  That is what you like to call yourselves, isn’t it?  African Americans?”

The room quieted and no one answered.  Suddenly Roger took a rigid stance and pointed the gun at a woman.  He screamed, “Ready for your merciless machinegun death?  Answer me!”

She nervously mumbled, “Yes, yes, African Americans.”

Roger relaxed and removed the gun from her face.  “That’s more like it.”  Then he began laughing.  “What kind of question is that?”  Laughing harder, “‘Ready for your merciless machinegun death?’  Oh, Roger…is anyone ever really ready to be machinegunned to death?  I mean, come on.”  He shook his head and took a step back from the woman.  “Breathe negro.  I’m not going to kill you.  Yet.”

The woman was clearly terrorized.

Roger paced up and down the aisles, looking down at us.  As he walked by me I stared straight ahead.  Being buried up to your neck makes you feel terribly vulnerable.  I knew one good kick and he could snap my neck.

Roger was dressed as usual: black boots, camouflage pants, a simple shirt.  Once he passed by me he continued preaching.  “African American.  Such a long name, don’t you think?  Isn’t it easier just to say ‘black?’  But it’s getting to where we can’t say that anymore.  ‘Black’ is becoming racist.  Funny, it’s been fine up until now.  Before black what was it?  Colored.  You used to call yourselves colored.  You were just fine being called colored back in the day.  But then suddenly that became racist and we had to start calling you black.  Before that it was negro.  You were just fine being called negros, but then that became racist and we had to start calling you colored.  Are you seeing a pattern here, people?  Are you getting this?  How long will it be before ‘African American’ is considered racist?  What will it be then?  Huh?”

He looked around the room.

“Two hundred years ago, do you know what they called the president?  They called him the president.  In the sixties, do you know what they called astronauts?  Astronauts.  Two hundred years ago do you know what they called a hero?  A hero.  Do you know what they called white people two hundred years ago?  White people.

“Have you ever noticed the things that get renamed over the years?  Think about it.  Retarded people.  That’s what we used to call them.  Like our retarded friend here.”  He nudged Otis’s head with the rifle.  “Everyone was fine with it.  Then we had to start saying, ‘mentally challenged.’  Trailers became mobile homes.  Cripples became physically challenged.  Blacks became African Americans.  Do you see a pattern there?  Notice any similarities?”

Silence.

“I know you’re slow so I’ll tell you.  The things that get renamed are bad things.  They are things people aren’t particularly proud of.  Bad things.  Think about that for a minute.”

He paced up and down the aisles, the drone of the generator outside the only sound.

“You people keep changing your name.  As if a new name will somehow make everything all better.  Why is that?  Could it be because you don’t like yourselves?  Could it be that you don’t like who you are, what you are, or what you do?  How can you expect anyone else to like you if you don’t even like yourselves?

“But what is there to like?  Not much.  For one thing, you’re all lazy as hell.  God I hate getting stuck behind you people when I’m out anywhere.  Slow walkers, you’re like zombies just shuffling your feet in no particular hurry, like you got no place to be.  You can barely muster the energy to put one foot in front of the other.  That’s not all.  You fuck up everything you touch.  Music, with all your rap shit.  Cars, with your stupid spinner wheels and your giant rims.  Clothes, with your hats on sideways and your pants falling off.  You can’t talk.  No one can understand a fucking word you say.  ‘Yo, yo, yo homes, gnome sayin’?’  No we don’t know what you’re saying because you can’t speak English.  You’re all killers and rapists and thieves.  You negros have done more to fuck up this country than any foreign enemy ever could.”

He shook his head.  “You know what?  We should have picked our own damn cotton.  That’s what we should have done.  What were we thinking?  Opening the door to a race of people who are completely incompatible with us.”

I heard a grumble.

Roger looked around the room.  “What was that?”

No one responded.

Roger stared everyone down, then continued.  “Look at downtown America.  You people have taken it over and look what you’ve done with it.  It’s a goddamn sewer.  Everything’s falling apart, crime is everywhere.  Look at Africa.  The whole country is fucked up.  Everybody is hacking each other’s arms off and spreading disease like crazy.  Everything you touch turns to shit.”

He paced up and down the aisles growing increasingly frustrated that his little speech wasn’t eliciting a response.  No one was volunteering to die tonight.  He pointed the rifle at the man closest to him and fired a single shot.  The man’s head whipped back and then slowly fell forward.

Screams and cries erupted throughout the room.

Roger said nothing.  He walked to the front of the room and leaned the rifle up against the wall.  Then he manipulated the lift controls and began the nightly ritual of covering the body with cement.

Chapter 14

Treadway Dental Clinic is housed in a brown cube-shaped building on Lincoln just south of the city.  A short drive from my office which was the primary reason I had selected it.  I pushed the door open and stepped inside the waiting room.  Framed pictures of teeth lined the walls, those of the before-and-after variety.  The subjects’ gums were pulled back in the photographs, something which I found gross.

There were a half dozen people waiting for their appointments.  I spotted a window at the far end of the room with a sign on the frosted glass.  The sign instructed patients to sign in, ring the bell, and be seated.  I did just that and took a seat between a rotund middle-aged woman and a skinny teenager.  I rifled through the magazine selection and found nothing of interest.  I sat back and looked around the room.  Everyone else was reading a magazine.  I reached for a well-worn celebrity rag.

The window slid open.  “Steen O’Mannon?”

“Yes?”  I stood.  There at the window sat perhaps the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.  My heart stopped beating and I felt lightheaded.  It was like I was floating on air as I made my way over to the window.

She was young and gorgeous with blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes, perfect teeth, and a curvy athletic figure.  She wore a blue silk blouse and a delicate gold chain around her neck.  In an angel’s voice she asked, “May I see your insurance information please?”

My mouth felt dry and my palms were sweaty.  “Um, sure,” I managed to croak.  I felt myself getting an erection, which for me was nothing unusual at that age, a strong breeze could produce the same effect.  I handed her my newly-minted insurance card, just one of the many perks from graduating college and landing my first real job.

Her nametag read Julie and I watched her as she studied my card and wrote something on a form.  Knowing full well that I shouldn’t be doing this, I stole a glance down her blouse.  White bra, tiny red rosebud in the center, ample cleavage.

“Here you are, sir.”  She handed the card back to me.

Busted.  I had been a little too slow on the uptake.  Instead of being offended, she smiled.  I held her gaze and smiled back.  Despite the fact that I was a tall, good-looking kid, at that age I was hopelessly shy around women.

After the appointment, Julie checked me out of the clinic.  I mustered the courage to ask for her number and we began dating.  A year later we were married.  Meeting my first wife is a pleasant memory for me, even though she eventually became my ex-wife.  I can separate the two in my head.  As they say, the person you divorce is different than the person you married.  Anyway, meeting her is a good memory that I can replay over and over again.  My happy place, available anytime I needed to escape reality.

That little mental vacation was interrupted by Roger.  It was evening and he burst into the room and greeted us with that now-familiar line:  “Hello negros!  Guess what time it is?”  Gaping smile.  “It’s negro time!”

Like the others I cringed when I heard those words.  It meant the circus of the absurd was about to begin.  Night after night we were subjected to unspeakable acts of cruelty and none of us knew when it was going to be our turn.

Roger preached another sermon extolling the greatness of whites and the shortcomings of blacks, after which he proclaimed it was time to make the world a better place.  He focused his attention on a man near me.

“Come on, negro,” Roger taunted.  “Tell me why I should let you live.”

The man answered, “I don’t deserve to die.  I have a family.”

“You have a family,” Roger repeated.  “You mean you’ve contributed to the destruction of America.  Every time you people reproduce you make this country worse than it already is.  More welfare recipients, more car thieves, more drug addicts, more killers and thugs.  When will it end?”

“Please,” the man cried.  “I’m begging you.  Please let me go.”

“Let you go?  Yes, we should have let you go.  A hundred years ago.  Let you go back to Africa where you belong.  You don’t belong here, negro.”

Roger was working himself up again.

“Please!” the man begged.

Roger marched over to the auger controls and began manipulating them.  The auger growled to life and began moving overhead.

“No!” the man pleaded.

Women cried and screamed.

“Jesus God!  Help us!  Help us somebody, please!” a woman cried.

“Lord have mercy,” another said.

Roger positioned the auger directly over the man’s head.  He pressed a button and with a loud hydraulic whine the auger began to spin.  Dirt from that afternoon’s planting flew through the air.  The auger was tipped with a steel screw about six inches long and an inch wide.  The screw whirled dangerously above the man’s head.

Roger left the auger controls and confronted the man.  He shouted, “Alright, last chance negro.  Why should I let you live?  What good have you done?  Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.”

The man shook his head.  He knew it was no use.

Roger screamed, “That’s right, nothing!  You got nothing!  You and your ilk bring nothing of value to our country.  All you do is take.  Take, take, take!  And that’s all you’ll ever do!”

The auger continued to spin.  Women screamed hysterically.

“Stop it!” one woman yelled.

“Leave him alone!”

“Monster!”

Roger went back to the controls.  He faced everyone and announced in a loud voice, “I will now make America a better place.”  With that, he pressed a button and the auger began to descend.

“No!” the man screamed.  “Please, NO!”

The screw was just inches above his head.  The man writhed and lashed and screamed, but to no avail.  The spinning auger kept coming down and it caught hold of his head and immediately began to screw itself in.  The man let out one last ghastly scream.  Blood and brains sprayed out of his skull as the auger bore down.  Gore flew everywhere as the huge auger literally disintegrated the man’s head.

Roger raised the auger and it stopped spinning.  Blood dripped from the end of it.  People screamed and cried and sobbed.  Roger said nothing as he laid a fresh mound of concrete where the man’s head had once been.

***

When I awoke the next morning I was overwhelmed by feelings of sadness and despair.  The whole situation was terrible, simply terrible.  The day seemed to drag on forever.  Minutes seemed like hours, hours seemed like days.  Sweat dripped from my forehead and ran down my face.  Insects came and went.  Occasionally I got the aggressive fly – you know the one.  The fly sent straight from hell that just won’t go away.  My stomach growled and I was starving.

Otis was quiet for most of the day.  I thought perhaps despair and hopelessness had crushed his spirits, too.  Then when I least expected it he let one rip.  “Douche bag drinker!”

If I hadn’t been so miserable, I might have laughed.  Was he talking about Roger?  I hoped so.  I tried to think happy thoughts.  I thought about the owner of the company I worked for.  He was a likable fellow, and no one ever accused him of being politically correct.  He was always doing quirky things just to get a laugh.  Like when he named one department with an unusually high number of young attractive females Administrative Support Services, which he thereafter affectionately referred to by their acronym, ASS.

Eventually evening rolled around and right on cue the door flew open and there was Roger – the crazy mother-fucker that he is.  When was he going to die, anyway?  I thought he had radiation poisoning.  He looked fine to me.

Roger gleefully announced, “Guess what time it is, bitches?  It’s negro time!  Hello, negros!”

Groans all around.

Roger laughed.  “What, is that all you have to say?  How about, hello Roger!  Thank you for feeding us and taking care of us?  How about, thank you for paying for our welfare checks and our food stamps?  Huh?  How about that?  Where is the love?”

No one said a word.

“How about we start a chant?” Roger said.  “You people love to chant, don’t you?  It’s that jungle fever in you.  Come on, here we go.  Say it with me now.”  Roger began chanting, “No justice, no peace!  No justice, no peace!  No justice, no peace!”

The room remained quiet.  I could feel the tension rising in the air.

“Come on, I thought you liked that one.  That’s what happens when whitey has to put one of you down.  Right?  It’s time to march!  It’s time to rally!  Fuck yeah!  Get down!  It’s time to boogie!  Let’s get it on!  Let’s get funky!”  He started undulating his hips and pumping his fists in the air.  “No justice, no peace!  No justice, no peace!  No justice, no peace!  Fuck yeah!”

Roger was particularly animated tonight.  I wondered if he was drunk.

He continued.  “No justice, no peace.  What the fuck does that mean, anyway?  I’ll tell you what it means.  It means a white man had to shoot a black man in self-defense and now you are holding the city hostage until whitey gets punished.  Throw whitey in jail.  Put his ass on death row.  That’s what you think.

“Let me tell you something, negros.  You don’t even know who the enemy is.  Look in the fucking mirror.  That’s your worst enemy.  It ain’t whitey.  Do you know who kills the majority of blacks?  Look around you.  Other blacks, 90% of the time.  90% of black people who get murdered are killed by other blacks.  Where are your marches about that?  When are you going to protest that?  Huh?  Black on black crime?

“Did you know that in 99.9% of the arrests made in this country every year no one gets shot?  No one.  99.9% of the time.  Then once in a blue moon a white cop has to shoot a black man in self-defense, and what happens?  You go crazy!  The whole fucking world goes nuts.  You take to the streets and march and riot and break into stores and steal stuff and burn down everything.  You fight the cops and throw Molotov cocktails.  You scream racism.”  He paused for a moment to catch his breath.  “You know what you are?  You are a fucking disgrace; a disgrace to mankind.

“Do you have any idea what kind of hell you make this country for everybody else?  Just by your existence?  Do you have any idea how much better off America would be right now if we’d sent you back to the jungles of Africa where you belong?”

He looked around the room.  No one responded to his taunts.  Finally he gave up and just chose someone.  “You there,” he pointed to a woman in the second row.  “I think tonight’s gonna be your special night.”

“No!” she screamed.  “Why me?”

He got closer.  “Because you exist.  Because I fucking hate you.  I hate everything about you.  I hate the way you talk.  I hate the way you look.  I hate the way you smell.  I hate your shitty fucking attitude.”

The woman sobbed.

“Get ready, because you’re going to die, and it’s going to be slow and horrible.”

“No, God, Jesus, please, no!” the woman begged.  “I don wanna die!  Please help me!  Please somebody!  Please help me!”

Roger worked the controls and positioned the crane over the woman’s head.  She watched as it moved toward her.  “Whachu doin?  Whachu doin?”

“Shut up!” Roger yelled.

Others cried and shrieked.

The crane lowered and the chains made a high-pitched tinkling sound as they coiled onto the ground around her.  Roger stepped behind the woman and wrapped the chains around her neck.

The woman screamed, “Don you be doin dat!  Don you be doin dat shit!  Get off me!  Get the fuck off me!”

Roger bolted the chains together and returned to the controls.  With a loud whine the crane rose and took up the slack in the chains.  The woman’s head was forced upward.  She screamed and Roger stopped the crane.

“You fucking cracker!” she screamed.  “Get this shit off me!”

Roger laughed.  He pressed a button and the crane lifted another inch.  The chains began to groan as they pulled on her head.

“Aaaaaaaah!” she screamed.  “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!!!”

Roger laughed harder.  He pressed the button again.  The woman’s screams became garbled as the chains began to choke her.  When it looked like she might pass out, Roger pressed the button and held it.  The crane labored and the chains barked.  Then the inevitable happened.  The powerful crane capable of lifting heavy concrete structures, pulled the woman’s head completely off.  In a grotesque display that I desperately wish I could forget, the woman’s head popped off and flew through the air.  It bounced off the ceiling and landed in the dirt with a loud thud.  The room erupted in horrified screams and cries.

The spectacle was downright ungodly.  Arterial blood spurted from the woman’s headless body and splattered all over the ground around her.  Her head rolled to a stop in front of the room and blood pooled beneath it.  I closed my eyes in horror and disbelief.

Chapter 15

The days which followed were much like the ones before.  New prisoners were brought in by day, gruesome executions carried out each night.  I continued working my feet in the concrete and felt like I might be getting close to breaking free.  The concrete’s surface was slick with perspiration and I had definitely lost some weight.  I managed to break through the thin layer of concrete around my shoulders by arching my back over and over again.  Fortunately the surface cracks disappeared when I returned to a state of rest.

Roger’s mood was like a pendulum, and with respect to Otis the pendulum had swung the other way.  Roger was becoming increasingly annoyed by Otis’s outbursts.  Last night Roger tied the noose around Otis’s head again.  When Roger returned the following evening, the first thing he did was pull it off.  He tossed the noose and said, “Go on retard, say something stupid.”

Otis shook for a second, then he shouted, “Tongue my scrotal anomaly!  I will bitch slap yo mamma!”

Roger wasn’t amused.  He said, “Alright freak show, I think it’s time you joined the others.  Up there in that great negro heaven in the sky.”

Otis looked terrified.  “G’oh boy!  No!  I don’t wanna die!”

Roger chuckled.  “Yes, it’s time.  Your usefulness here is over.  So what’s it going to be?  You want your head popped off like the other night?  You want the bee bucket?  Or how about a quick bullet to the head?”

“Splooge monkey!” Otis blurted.

I said, “Go easy on him.”

Roger glared at me.  “You are in no position to negotiate here.  You’re next, by the way.  And I can assure you it will be neither be quick nor painless.”

I ground my teeth.

Roger returned his attention to Otis.  “So retard, what’s it going to be?”

“Whoop!  Whoop!  Whoop!”

“Let him alone,” a woman demanded.  “Can’t you see he ain’t right in the head?”

Roger walked over to the woman.  “What did you say to me, negro?”

“You heard me.  We done had about enough of you.”

“Oh really?  And just what are you going to do about it?  Report me?  Call the police?  Guess what?  They’re not here.  There’s no one to call, bitch.  It’s just you and me.”

Roger made his way to the crate.  As he walked he began singing:

“Enjoy your death, Mrs. Robinson,

“It will be so nice to see you die,

“My, my, my.

“Here comes the saw, Mrs. Robinson,

“I will be so glad to see you go,

“You ho, ho, ho.”

He pulled out the chainsaw.  He gave it a quick pull and it started on the first try.  He raced the engine and screamed, “Yeah bitch!  Who’s in charge now?  Got something you want to say now, bitch?”

He held the chainsaw high overhead and raced the engine with a crazy look in his eye.  As he stood over the woman, he shouted, “Got any last words?  Any last demands?  Want to tell me what to do?  Just one more time?  Come on, you’re the queen, right?  You’re the boss!”

He looked down on the woman.  She kept her head down and sobbed.

“Look at me!” Roger screamed.  “Look at me!”

The woman looked up.  Just as she did, in one swift move Roger dropped to one knee and swooped the chainsaw down against her neck.  The engine labored briefly as he cut through bone, then it raced as the blade emerged from the other side.  Roger killed the engine and dropped the chainsaw on the ground.  He grabbed the severed head by the hair and lifted it up.  “Here she is,” he shouted, “the queen of the world.  She’s in charge of everything.”

There were shrieks of horror throughout the room.  Blood rained down from the severed head and splattered on the ground.

He looked the head in the face and said, “What’s the matter?  Got nothing left to say, queenie?  No more demands?”

He let go and it fell to the ground.  He backed up a few steps, then he gave it a swift kick.  Her head sailed across the room and landed with a dull thud.

People screamed and shrieked and cried.  I couldn’t watch.  I concentrated instead on struggling against my bonds.  I had no doubt he would carry out the threat he’d made earlier.

Roger turned his attention back to Otis.  “Did you make up your mind yet, retard?”

Otis repeated, “No, no, no.”

The cries in the room grew louder as everyone realized Roger was going to kill again.  He went to the crate and pulled out the rifle.  He returned and pointed it at Otis’s head.  He bellowed, “Ready for death, negro?”

I pulled at my legs with all my might.  Suddenly one of my feet broke free.

Otis was on the brink of going into convulsions.  “G’oh boy!  No!  G’oh boy!  Dick sucker!  G’oh boy!  No!”

Roger jammed the rifle barrel into Otis’s mouth and screamed, “Ready now?”

My other foot broke free.  I screamed, “No!”

Just as I emerged from the hole, a shot rang out.  I lunged at Roger and tackled him from behind.  The rifle fell to the ground.  Surging with adrenaline, I flipped Roger onto his back and pinned him down.

Roger’s face was filled with shock and awe.  “What the—?  How—?”

I landed a right cross to the jaw which nearly knocked him unconscious.  I groped for the rifle, then I spotted the chainsaw.  I scrambled to my feet.  Roger held his head in his hands and fought to remain conscious.

I started the chainsaw and raced the engine.  I stomped on Roger’s leg and slammed the blade down hard against his ankle.

Roger screamed.

The chainsaw chewed through flesh and bone like it was hot butter.  Roger tried to get up but his severed limb wouldn’t let him.  Then I quickly sawed off his other foot.

Roger screamed at the top of his lungs.

I stood on his arm and readied the chainsaw.

Roger’s face was sheer panic.  He screamed, “No, no, NO!”

With his arm pinned to the ground and his bloody legs flailing, all he could do was weakly slap at my leg.  I held the nose of the chainsaw just above his wrist and revved the engine.  Smoke belched from the machine and the noise was deafening.  Roger watched in horror as I slowly lowered the nose of the chainsaw and it began chewing into his wrist.  I sawed his hand off.

Roger never stopped screaming.  I stepped on his only remaining intact limb and looked at him.  Then I sawed his other hand off.  I killed the engine and dropped the chainsaw.  I quickly clasped my hands together and came down with a crushing blow to Roger’s neck.  It knocked him out cold.  I uncoiled the noose and tied off his ankles which were bleeding badly, then his wrists.  I pulled the knots as tight as I could and the flow of blood stopped.  I stood and for the first time I realized everyone was cheering.

“Righteous!”

“Amazing!”

“Thank you, Jesus!”

“Oh my goodness!”

“You da man!”

I checked on Otis but it was too late.  His eyes were closed and his head bowed.  I knelt beside him.  The bullet had exited through the back of his neck.  He’d been shot right through the spinal cord.  At least he hadn’t suffered.

I used the remainder of the rope to attach Roger to the crane.  Then I manipulated the controls and suspended him a few feet off the ground.

Chapter 16

I searched for something to use to break the others free.  I looked through a backroom filled with tools and located a long steel rod.  I brought it back up front and found Roger’s sledgehammer.

“Me, me,” a man in the front row pleaded.

I jammed the rod into the edge of the hole.  Choking up on the handle, I hoisted the sledgehammer with one hand and took aim.

The man said, “Be careful.”

“Don’t worry.”  I brought the sledgehammer down squarely on the end of the rod and heard a loud crack.  With several more well-placed blows the concrete gave way and I pulled the man from the hole.

“Thank you, man.  Thank you,” he said breathlessly.  He took the rod and we went to work on his neighbor.

He held the rod steady and said, “My name is Demaryius, by the way.”

I raised the sledgehammer and said, “Ready Demaryius?”

He gripped the rod tightly in both hands and said, “Do it.”

We worked together and set the others free.  The room buzzed with excitement and relief.

Demaryius said, “We owe you one, man.  You got that bastard.”

I turned and looked at Roger.  He was still unconscious.

“Say,” Demaryius said.  “You don’t think the way he does, do you?”

I shook my head.  “No, I’m not a racist.  The world has good people and bad people in every race.”

Women hugged one another and cried.  I saw others stretching and loosening up sore limbs.

I went to the backroom and scooped some nasty-looking water out of a barrel and carried it up front.  I splashed Roger in the face with it and he came to.  He looked around groggily and muttered, “Huh?  What?”  Then the pain hit.  He screamed.

I reached down to the ground and picked up one of Roger’s severed appendages.  I held it in his face and asked, “Need a hand?”

Roger screamed in horror and vomited.

I tossed the hand and said to Demaryius, “He’s all yours.”

A look of sheer terror gripped Roger.  He screamed, “No!  No!  No!”

I pushed the door open and for the first time in days I felt sunshine on my face.  I breathed in the fresh air and allowed myself a little smile.

There was a sign in front of the building that read Wilson Pipe and Precast.  I made my way to the front and tried the door.  It was locked.  I was in no mood to play civilized, so I picked up a rock and smashed a window.

The light streaming in through the windows illuminated the outer office area but further inside it was dark.  I tried a light switch but no luck.  Apparently the generator only powered the factory equipment.  From what I could see, the office was a mess.  There was trash scattered all over the place.  I wondered what Roger’s connection was to the business.  Had he worked here before?  Or did he just come in and commandeer the place?  How had he known how to operate the equipment?

As my eyes adjusted to the light, I began going room by room looking for my things.  I found them tossed in the corner of an office.  I gathered my belongings and carried them up front.  There was another small wing I had yet to explore.  The second room down I discovered where Roger had been staying.  It was a large conference room with a mattress at the far end.  Food, water, and clothing were scattered all over the conference table.  I immediately began stuffing my face with chips and crackers and pretzels, whatever I could find.

I rummaged through the clothing and found some camouflage pants I’d seen Roger wear.  I wasn’t happy about wearing Roger’s clothing but anything would be a vast improvement over my own soiled clothes.

There was more bottled water than I could carry so I decided to use one for a shower.  I stripped off my clothing and used Roger’s pillowcase for a washcloth.  It seemed fitting to wipe my filthy body where Roger’s face had been.  I cleaned myself up as best I could, dried off and got dressed.  I stuffed my backpack with all the bottled water and food it would hold.  I spied a bottle of Jack Daniels and wedged it into my pack as well.  Maybe I could drink this place off my mind.  I thought of a drink I’d had in a tourist bar years ago.  The place served frozen drinks and one of them was named the Mind Eraser.  That’s what I needed right now, a mind eraser.

I put on my gear and walked out the front door.  I stood on the front step for a moment.  The generator continued to run but I could hear something else.  It was Roger screaming.

“Please, no!  God help me!  I’m begging you!  Stop!  Please!  I’ll give you anything.  Please no!  Help me!  God please!  Let me die!  Please kill me God, please!  I’m begging you!  Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!!”

I wondered what they were doing to him.  Then my thoughts turned to Otis.  I was going to miss him.  I looked at the van and for a moment considered taking it.  Then I decided the others would need it more.  I consulted my compass and began walking.

Roger’s screams faded as I made my way down the road.  I didn’t know where I was but I recognized the area.  The west side of the city is home to lots of industrial businesses and hard-working people.  The road turned north and then opened up to a major thoroughfare which I recognized.

I was alone on a deserted highway.  It was getting late and I knew the sun would be setting soon.  I needed to find a place to stay for the night.  I thought about my proximity to the city and ground zero.  I was certainly close enough to be in the fallout zone.  I had to assume that anything I touched could still be contaminated, though since more time had passed the contamination level would be much less than before.

After walking several blocks I came to a brick building with large storefront windows and three rollup doors.  It was a tire store.  Old tires were stacked all around and there were two derelict cars in the parking lot.  They looked like they’d been there long before the bomb went off.  The rollup doors were closed and the store looked abandoned.  I crossed the parking lot and made my way to the front door.  It was locked.  I walked around back and waded through waist-high weeds.  In back there was a heavy steel door which I also found to be locked.

I pulled the crowbar from my backpack and went to work.  The doorframe bent, but not enough to spring the door.  Frustrated, I went back up front and used the crowbar to smash through the glass door.  It made a ruckus but there was no one around.  I used the crowbar to smooth the broken glass around the edges and crawled inside.

The little store smelled of rubber and rotten trash.  Chairs lined the wall of a small waiting room.  A long counter held a cash register and various papers and forms.  New tires were displayed along the front glass.  I peered out the window to see if anyone had watched me break in.  Then I set about securing the place for the night.  I was excited about the prospect of sleeping horizontally.

I stuffed the hole in the door with a couple of tires and backed them up with a chair.  Surely I would hear something if anyone tried to come in during the night.  I dragged another chair behind the counter and began rummaging through my bag for something to eat.  Even though I’d eaten at the plant, after days of starvation I was already hungry again.  I selected an MRE and began warming it up.

After dinner I washed down a potassium iodide tablet and settled in for the night.  A cold hard floor behind the counter of a tire store might not sound like much, but to me it felt like a five star hotel.

Chapter 17

The next morning I awoke to the sound of a dog barking.  Startled, I sat up and reached for my pistol.  The morning light streamed into the little store.  Gun in hand, I peered around the counter.  There was a man standing outside the door.

The man struggled with a large key ring.  He was short and pudgy with a light complexion and a balding head.  He wore a tan short sleeved shirt and a pair of jeans.  A black nylon leash extended from his hand which led to a thick-bodied pit bull.  The dog’s head looked like a wrecking ball.

I pulled back behind the counter.  The dog barked again.  I heard keys jangle and a moment later the door opened.  I jumped to my feet and trained the 9mm on the man’s head.

Standing not ten feet from me the man showed no reaction to the gun.  He growled, “What the hell are you doing in here?”

I said, “I could ask you the same thing.”

The dog barked loudly.

The man said, “Shut up, Harley.”  To me: “I own this place, that’s what I’m doing here.  You’re trespassing.  You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.  Did you do this to my door?”

I didn’t respond.

He said, “Put that damned gun away before you hurt somebody.”

I considered my options.  Then I lowered the gun.

“That’s more like it,” the man said.  “Well?  What are you doing here?”

“I was sleeping,” I said lamely.

“Sleeping,” the man repeated.

“Yes.  I was held hostage, in the concrete plant down the road.  I just escaped.”

“Held hostage at a concrete plant.  And you just escaped.  Is that so?” The man shook his head.  “Sounds like you escaped alright – from the funny farm.”

I stepped out from behind the counter.  “Look, a man in a white van kidnapped me and my friend.  We were buried up to our necks in concrete and he did terrible things to us.”

“No shit?”

It was obvious he didn’t believe a word I was saying.  So much for honesty being the best policy.

The dog barked again.

“Harley!” he yelled.  To me: “Listen buddy, I let go of this leash and this dog’s gonna tear you a new asshole.”

I took a step back.  “I’m not looking for trouble.  How about you just step aside and I’ll be on my way.”

“I don’t think so,” the man said.  “What about my door?”

“I’ll pay you back after this is over.”

He considered that for a moment.  “How do I know if I’ll ever see you again?”

“You have my word.”

The man eyed me warily.  He looked down at the gun in my hand, then at the dog.  Suddenly he yelled, “Sic ’em, Harley!”

He let go of the leash and the dog bounded toward me.  All I saw was a blur of teeth and fur.

Reflexively I fired and wasted the dog in mid-air.  I dropped to the floor and the massive animal sailed over my head.  He slammed into the wall behind me and slid down to the floor.

“Harley!” the man wailed.

I got to my feet and shouted, “You’re a fucking idiot.”  I fired off two rounds hitting the man in the head and the chest.  He dropped to his knees, then collapsed on his face.  That’s when I noticed the wedding band on his finger.

I took a deep breath and scratched my head.  That didn’t have to happen.  I rounded up my things and made my way out the back door.  As I quickly walked to put some distance between myself and the scene, I tried to remain calm in case anyone was watching.  Just a regular day, nothing to see here.  Just a killer walking down the street decked out in body armor carrying an assault rifle.

The man threatened me, right?  More than that, he attacked me with his dog.  That big, enormous, hairy-assed dog.  Over a broken door.  How stupid is that?  I would have paid for it.  His insurance company would have paid for it, too.  He was looking at a profit opportunity.  Nothing to come all unglued over.  Instead, now he was lying dead on the floor in a puddle of his own blood.  Next to his dead dog.  His poor wife was going to come looking for him and find that mess.

I walked down the street and wondered where everybody was.  I thought it was strange that no one was out on the street except me.  Where had everyone gone?  Had they been evacuated?  No, the city didn’t have the resources to do that.  Had people learned they are better off staying home?  After all, the only people left at this point were survivors – people who had survived the zombie virus and the EMP attack.  I ate some of Roger’s granola bars as I walked.

As I continued heading west, I passed self-storage places and used car lots and gas stations and fast food joints and trucking companies and various other industrial enterprises.  I put several miles behind me before I decided to stop and eat lunch.  An hour or so earlier when I had sat down to take a break, I felt like somebody was watching me.  I thought I saw something, but when I looked there was no one there.  My helmet blocked my peripheral vision so I figured I was imagining things.  Just as I was finishing my lunch, it happened again.  Only this time it was not my imagination.

An unarmed man made the bold move of attacking me.  It wasn’t the first time and it probably wouldn’t be the last.  Desperate times call for desperate measures.  I heard rapid footsteps behind me.  I turned just in time to see a crazed man screaming bloody murder, his arms flailing.  I raised the AR-15 and fired quickly.  The round caught him under the chin and knocked him off his feet.  His legs went flying out from under him and he landed flat on his back.

I stepped in for a closer look.  The bullet must have hit a major artery.  He was bleeding out badly.  Skinny kid, probably around 20, looked like he hadn’t eaten in a while.  His hair was mostly gone, just a few strands remaining.  I watched as he took his last breaths.  His gums were bleeding.  He looked right at me, then without a word he died right before my eyes.

By the end of the day I figured I was at least 15 miles outside the city limits.  The landscape had changed to mostly residential.  I wanted to refill my water supply before I settled in for the night.  The heat was making me go through water rather quickly.  Earlier I had stopped into a couple of stores but found nothing but empty shelves.

I made my way off the main boulevard and into a neighborhood.  The houses were about 20 years old judging by the landscaping.  Funny how people spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on their homes, but they couldn’t part with a few hundred every now and then to replace the landscaping.  Overgrown foliage really gives away a home’s age.

I didn’t see any signs of life.  I saw a car here and there, but nothing that looked new enough to have EMP shielding.  I picked a house at random, walked up to the front door and knocked.  Nothing.  I knocked again but got no answer.  I tried the door.  It was locked.  I walked around to the side of the house where I encountered a gate.  It was not locked.  The backyard was in decent shape though the grass had not been mowed in weeks.  There was a pair of french doors in back and they were locked.  The flimsy glass doors were no match for my steel-shanked boots.  One well-placed kick and the doors sprang open.  I stepped inside hoping to find no one home, or that everyone was dead.  Then I caught myself.  What an awful thing to wish for.  What I meant was, if I had to break into someone’s home, then I was hoping that that they weren’t using it and that it was abandoned.  Whatever I’d been thinking, my hopes were dashed when I was confronted by a man holding a shotgun.

“Fuck me!” I yelled as I dove behind a couch.

Chapter 18

The shotgun blast knocked the stuffing out of the couch.  Lying on my back, I fired a round at the ceiling.  I heard nothing so I crawled to the edge of the couch.

Another shotgun blast.  I ducked back just in time and the top of my helmet caught a few pellets.  The man was definitely standing his ground.

We were mere feet apart firing weapons powerful enough to bring down an elephant.  My ears were ringing and my side where I’d landed was killing me.  I called, “Hold you fire!”  I was hoping my protective gear might have led him to believe I was law enforcement.  I said, “Put down your weapon and let’s talk.”

“Who are you and what are you doing in my house?” the man demanded.

“I’m Homeland Security.  Now put your weapon down, I’m coming out.”

As I started to get up the man pumped another shell into the chamber and pointed the gun at me.  Once again I dropped behind the couch just in time before he blasted off another round.  I was done talking to this asshole.  This fucker was relentless.  I didn’t hear another shell get pumped into the chamber so I seized the opportunity.  In a split second I jumped to my feet and leveled my rifle at him.  Shooting from the hip I hit him three times in the chest.  He dropped the shotgun and collapsed.

I relaxed a bit and took a deep breath.  A large dark stain formed on the carpet around the man.  He lay perfectly still.

All the blinds were pulled shut and the house was dark.  I pulled the 9mm and began going room by room to clear the house.  It soon became apparent the man lived alone.  One of the smaller bedrooms had been turned into an office and another was filled with junk.

Convinced I was alone, I pulled off my backpack, gloves, helmet, vest, and boots.  I was so hot that I just kept going.  I took off my shirt, socks, pants and underwear.  I was tired of feeling sticky all over and needed to rinse off.  There was no running water of course so I sacrificed another bottled water to shower.  After being in my backpack all day the water was actually a comfortable temperature for a shower.  I was happy to see he had soap.

As I rinsed the grime off my body, I wished I could do the same on the inside.  In my first day of freedom since I’d escaped, I had killed a dog, a shop owner, a kid, and now a man defending his own home.  I was practically a mass murderer.  It was nothing to be proud of.  Who was I to take their lives?  Was my survival worth all the lives it cost?  Was I headed for a day of reckoning, a time when I would have to account for all my misdeeds?

I dried off and went looking in the closet.  I was done wearing Roger’s clothes, I wanted to forget about him.  I tried on a pair of dark green khakis but they were too small for me.  Same with a black pair of dress pants.  Damn, this guy was too little.  I went into the bedroom and rummaged through the dresser.  I found some clean underwear and decided to be happy with that.

Much to my dismay I found the kitchen shelves were empty.  I opened the refrigerator which turned out to be a big mistake.  I was immediately hit with the putrid stench of rotten food.  I saw unrecognizable brown and green orbs before I slammed the door shut.  I wondered what the man had been living on.

I went into the family room and sat on the overstuffed chair adjacent to the couch.  The couch looked like it had literally exploded.  I dug through my backpack and pulled out a bag of pretzels that I’d found at Roger’s and the bottle of whiskey.  Back in the kitchen I found a clean glass and brought it back into the family room.  Then I looked at the man lying on the floor.  This wasn’t right.  I grabbed an armful of clothes from his closet and piled them on top of the body.  I scrubbed my hands with hand sanitizer and poured whiskey.  This was going to be nice.

The pretzels were stale, but not too bad.  I sipped whiskey and looked out the broken back doors.  The colors were fading as day turned into night.  I began to relax and settle in with my thoughts.

Wasn’t this what everyone wanted?  Just some peace and quiet in their life?  A home to call your own, a backyard, and some food to eat?  Why did we tear down what we worked so hard to build up?  I thought about all the adversity we had to overcome to get to where we are today.  What was it like for the people who had settled the country?  Nothing but tangles of trees and weeds and vegetation so thick you couldn’t even walk through it.  They had to hack their way through the underbrush with machetes.  We cleared all that land and built houses and bridges and roads and utilities and stores and factories and everything else that makes up our modern world.  Then war comes along and destroys everything.  And for what?  Because of differing religious beliefs or politics?  Guess what?  People are different!  Get over it!  That’s why we have different countries, so different people can live in different places.

Why had the North Koreans started a nuclear war with the United States?  Did they do it because they thought we were going to start a war with them?  How stupid is that?  Here’s an idea: wait until the first missile gets launched before you do something.  Maybe it will never happen.  In our case it never would.  Look at our history: did we start a nuclear war with Russia all those decades during the cold war?  No, we didn’t.

I poured more whiskey.  How much better off would the world be if there was no war?  How much better off would we be if all the time and money and lives spent on wars and military were instead diverted to other things?  How much poverty could be eradicated?  How much further would we be in the areas of science and technology?  In curing diseases?

But of course that was just a pipedream.  Since the dawn of mankind conflict has existed.  That’s the way God made us, and no amount of dreaming about world peace or sitting around a campfire and singing Kumbaya was going to change it.

I poured more whiskey.

It occurred to me that a parallel could be drawn between my own survival and national security.  Just as countries spent a portion of their resources on armies and navies, I had spent a portion of mine on survivalism.  In a time of war, the military did what it had to do in order to defend the nation and defeat the enemy.  As for myself, in a time of crisis I did what I had to do to defend myself and survive.  If that meant I left a trail of bodies in my wake, then so be it.  How many people had died in wars?  Lots of them.  More than anyone could count or even comprehend.  If some weaker, less-prepared people had to die in order for me to survive, then that’s the way it had to be.  Was it illegal?  Sure.  Was it immoral?  Perhaps.  Was it necessary?  Most definitely.

I had spent my time and money preparing to survive, and I did it in good times when everybody else was playing around and having fun, enjoying the typical American life of leisure and entertainment.  They played while I was busy collecting body armor and guns and ammunition and storing up food and water.  Now the tables had turned.  I was going to live and they were going to die.  Why should I feel guilty about it?  Did they feel bad about me when they were having fun and I was working at becoming a survivalist?  No, they didn’t.  In fact, most of them would have ridiculed me.  ‘Get a load of this nutjob.’  But who was laughing now?  You could almost say they were the enemy, the unprepared masses who scoffed at me while I was preparing for a coming disaster.  Now that disaster had come, weren’t we all competing for the same finite resources?  Did that not put us in competition with one another?  Did that not make us enemies?

I poured more whiskey.  The pretzels were almost gone.

Most of the people in this country couldn’t tell you the most rudimentary facts about how our government works or about the Constitution or the rule of law.  Many of them can’t even name the vice-president.  They know nothing about world events or foreign leaders or potential threats.  History to them is something in an old high school book, long ago forgotten.  But those same people can tell you every detail about popular celebrities – what they wear, where they go, what they do and who they do it with.  They can name every contestant on the latest talent or dance show.  They can name the starting lineup of every sports team and recite endless sports statistics.  That’s the problem with America.  We have become so complacent and focused on entertainment that we invite our own destruction.  The world is filled with jealous zealots who toil day and night singularly focused on a mission to come over here and take what we have.  People who look forward to the day when they will take over America and call it their own.  People who would change the name of every state, every street, every river, and every city.  People who would kill the president and plant their flag atop the White House.  People who would gleefully demolish the symbols of American independence and freedom like the Statue of Liberty, the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, and Mount Rushmore.

I emptied my glass and set it down hard.  I looked at the pile of laundry on the floor.  Despite all my mental gymnastics and philosophizing and self-justification, I still knew there was a body under there, and that I had killed him.  Fuck it.  I decided I was going to quit feeling guilty about it.  Excrement occurs, as they say.

I got up and chugged a bottled water, then I pushed furniture against the broken doors.  I felt my way through the darkened house to the master bedroom.  I curled up in the king size bed and promptly fell asleep.

Sometime in the middle of the night I was awakened by the sound of breaking glass.

Chapter 19

Someone had smashed a window.  I sat up, my head feeling thick from the whiskey.  I got out of bed and reached for my rifle.  The small ballistic flashlight at the end of the barrel is operated by a remote-mounted pressure-sensitive pad which is perfect for these kinds of situations.  The pad is mounted where my hand naturally grips the rifle so it gives me complete control over the weapon and the light at the same time.

I moved slowly to the bedroom door.  I could hear voices.

“Come on,” a man whispered.

“I’m going around.  Unlock the door,” another man said.

Slowly I unlocked the bedroom door and silently turned the doorknob.  I eased the door open about an inch.

A moment later I heard the front door open.

“Looks like somebody’s already been here,” the first man said.  “There’s a dead body over there.”

“Really?” the other man said.  “Why is it covered in clothes?  Did you do that?”

“Fuck no.  It was like that when I seen it.”

I heard kitchen cabinets opening and closing.

“There’s nothing left.  Let’s get out of here.”

I opened the door a little further so I could see.  Just as I did the hinges creaked.

“What was that?” one of the men asked.

“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”

I quickly backed away and positioned myself on the far side of the bed with the rifle aimed at the door.  A second later the bedroom door flew open and there stood a man with a revolver in one hand and a flashlight in the other.

I squeezed the trigger.  Dammit!  I meant to squeeze the light pad.  Fuck.  I did that sometimes.  My brain must be mentally dyslexic.

I had shot the man in the stomach.  He fired back.  I had no protective gear on whatsoever and I felt totally exposed.  Fortunately he missed.  I fired off five more rounds in quick succession, hitting him in the chest, neck, and face.  He dropped the light and collapsed to the floor.

The other man cried, “Jason?  Jason!”

I tried to impersonate him.  I cupped a hand over my mouth and said, “Yeah, in here.”

It didn’t work.  The next thing I heard was the front door slamming.  I jumped over the body and ran out the front door.  The man was running as fast as he could.  I fired several rounds and he fell headlong to the street.  I trotted after to him.

When I reached him he was still breathing.  He was lying on his back, spitting up blood.  I stood over him, suddenly aware that I was wearing only boxers and a tee shirt.

“What are you—?” the man gasped.  “What are you going to do?”

“This.”  I pointed the rifle at his forehead and pulled the trigger.  His head bounced and blood poured from the hole between his eyes.  He slumped to one side and stared blankly off into space.

I trotted back to the house, shut the door, and headed for the bedroom.  I needed to put some clothes on but I was determined not to leave wearing Roger’s things.  I found a thin pair of lounge pants.  They would have to do. I quickly gathered my belongings and left through the back door.

Back out on the street, I couldn’t help looking over my shoulder.  No one followed me, there were no sirens, and nobody seemed to care.  What were things coming to when you could shoot a man in the middle of the street and have absolutely no consequences?  I wasn’t sure if I wanted to live in a world like that.

Sometimes I surprise myself.  I hadn’t meant to shoot the first man, it was an accident.  But once it happened, I had to clean up my mess.  I couldn’t leave his buddy out there to plot his revenge.  Better to tie up loose ends.  Once you’ve crossed that line there’s no turning back; the state can only execute you once.

I made it back to the main boulevard and put a couple of miles behind me before sunup.  At dawn there wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the air was cool and wet.  I looked ridiculous, wearing what essentially amounted to pajamas.  Pajamas and body armor.  Now people would really think I had escaped from a mental institution.

The businesses out on the boulevard became fewer and farther between.  I knew that if I was going to score some clothes I needed to break into another house.  Maybe I’d get lucky this time and find something my size.

I came to an apartment complex and decided to give it a try.  I went in and studied the buildings which were three stories of wood and stucco.  There were a few cars in the parking lot, but much like the neighborhood, none were of recent vintage.  Any car new enough to have EMP shielding was long gone by now.

My thoughts were interrupted by a group of teenagers sitting in a breezeway.

“Look at this bozo,” one of them said.

I stopped and stared.

“What are you looking at?” one of the teens said rudely.  He was skinny with long black hair and a little scrub of growth on his chin.  He wore ripped jeans with holes in the knees and a ragged tank top.  Black hairs protruded from his armpits.  He had a piercing over his right eye and his left ear was pierced.

“Nothing.” I replied.  “Just surprised to see anyone up this early.”

“Well, now you’ve seen us, so piss off pajama man,” the other teen said.

Why all the hostility?  He was beefier than the first one.  He had spiked blonde hair and a tattoo of a green snake on his neck.  He wore a faded red tee shirt and a pair of dark brown pants.

The girl sitting between them laughed.  She was cute and showed plenty of skin.  She had blonde hair, blue eyes, and a million-watt smile.  Her shapely breasts were barely contained by a pale pink tee shirt cut midriff and ripped down the center.  Down below she wore a pair of faded skintight jean shorts.

I returned my attention to Beefy and said, “That’s not helpful.”  It’s one of those meaningless PC phrases I’d picked up somewhere along the way.  I tossed it out there when I felt I needed to say something but really didn’t want to say anything at all.  We can all learn a few tricks from the liberals.  They’re the kings of bullshit and it’s fun to turn it around on them sometimes.  What I really wanted to tell the shit was that he better shut his fucking mouth or I would shut it for him.

Skinny mocked me and said in a nasally voice, “‘That’s not helpful.’”

Now I was starting to get pissed.  I adopted an authoritative tone and asked, “What are you doing out here?”

Ignoring me, Beefy said, “You’re one of them scavengers, aren’t you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know, them fuckers that keep coming around stealing everything.”

“Maybe I am.”

“Thought so.”

Skinny said, “We ain’t got nothing, so fuck off.”

The girl arched her back and her nipples strained against thin cotton fabric.  Not having seen an attractive female in weeks, it caught my eye.

Beefy said, “What are you looking at, perv?”

The girl obviously had done that on purpose.  She looked like the type who enjoyed flaunting her body.

“Yeah, why don’t you get lost?” said Skinny.

I moved closer.  Suddenly without warning I pushed Skinny hard.  I quickly turned and pushed Beefy onto his back and stepped on his neck.  I looked down at him and said, “It’s not her I want, it’s you.”  I reached down and started unbuckling his pants.

The girl backed up and screamed, “Oh my God!”

Beefy croaked, “Get off me, you faggot!”

Skinny got back on his feet and tried to grab me.  I swatted him away like a fly.

Beefy gasped for air and punched at my leg.  It hurt, a lot.  He punched me in the thigh, right where I’d taken my share of football helmets back in high school.  I let go of his pants and delivered a solid left jab.  Beefy’s nose exploded and blood went everywhere.

The girl screamed again.

“Fuck!” yelled Beefy, then his head dropped back.

I pulled his pants off, exposing him in the process.  The girl looked.  I had a pretty good idea it wasn’t anything she hadn’t seen before.

I took a step back with the pants and admired them.  “Just my size.”

Beefy sat up, one hand covering his junk, the other his nose.

I smiled at Beefy.  “I’ll wear these with pride knowing I pulled them right off your sorry ass.”

He started to get up.  I pointed the rifle at him and the smile ran away from my face.  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

He sat back down.  We glared at one another.  I nodded at the girl, turned and walked away.

I hadn’t taken ten steps before Beefy started running his mouth again.  “I’ll get you.  I’ll get you for this!”

I didn’t even turn around.  I flipped him the bird and kept on walking.

Chapter 20

Figuring I had worn out my welcome at the apartment complex, I made my way back to the boulevard.  I’d been walking maybe five minutes when I heard a voice behind me.  “Hey, wait up!  Hey!”

It was the girl.  Are you kidding me?  I stopped to let her catch up.  She wasn’t wearing a bra and her breasts were bouncing all over the place.  This girl was incredibly sexy and she knew it.  She had jailbait written all over her.

When she caught up to me the hostility I’d seen earlier was gone.  “Hey,” she said breathlessly.  “What’s your name?”

“Who wants to know?” I asked.

“I do.  I’m Emma.”  She flashed the million-watt smile.

I wondered, what was this girl up to?  Being that she was just in the company of a couple of jackasses whose butts I’d kicked, I had my suspicions.  I studied her.  Finally I asked, “What do you want?”

“I just wanted to know your name.”  She looked down at her feet.

“Steen O’Mannon.”

“Oh.”  She smiled again.  “That’s a nice name.”

“Thank you.  Well, you have a nice day.  Sorry about your friend’s pants.  I was—  Well, anyway.  Sorry.”  I turned to go.

I took a few steps and she said, “They look good on you.”

I stopped.  “What?”

“The pants.  They look good on you.”

“Oh.  Thank you.”  Was this some kind of trap?  I looked around for her friends.  I didn’t see anyone.  I asked, “How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”  She smiled again.

“You live around here?”

“Yeah, I live with my mom.  Her boyfriend lives with us, too.  My mom doesn’t really have much to do with me.  She wants me out.  She’s told me that.  ‘You can move out anytime now, you’re eighteen.’  The bitch.  And her boyfriend – he’s a real winner.  He’s never had a job the whole time I’ve known him.  And he stays drunk most of the time.”

“Sorry to hear about that.  Who were those guys you were with?”

“Oh, just some friends.  We hang out sometimes.  It was funny what you did to Ian.”

“Is he the pants guy?”

She laughed.  “Yeah.  Bones is the other.”  She turned serious for a minute and took a couple of steps toward me.  “Look, I’m sorry I followed you.”  She moved closer still.  Looking up at me she said, “Steen, I’ve been wanting to get out of here real bad.  It’s a mess at home and nobody has anything to eat.  When I saw how you kicked Ian’s ass, I was like, damn!  You’re a badass.  A girl could use a tough guy sometimes, you know what I mean?”  She inched closer.  “I know I could.”

“Look, Emma,” I said.  “I’d like to help.  Really I would.  But you’re a young girl living at home with your parents—”

“Mother,” she corrected.

“Right.  Still, I don’t think—”

She drew closer still, then she reached down and gently cupped my manhood.  She started rubbing and suddenly my pants got tighter.  She said in a low, breathy voice, “I could make it worth your while.”  She rubbed a little more.  “Looks like you like it, big boy.”

I took a step back.  “Um, Emma.  I, uh, okay—  Wow, I wasn’t expecting—”

She laughed, “Look at your face!”  She laughed harder.  “I was just messing with you, man.”

“Alright.” I cleared my throat.  “So…”  I straightened my vest and hooked a thumb over my shoulder.  “I’d, uh—  I’d probably should be—”

“Look,” she said, “just let me come with you for a couple of blocks.  We’re just hanging out, walking down the street.  No big deal.  Come on.”  She started walking.

I stared at her for a moment.  I couldn’t help but notice her long tan legs and her perfect ass in those skintight shorts.  I caught up to her.

Neither of us said anything for a minute.  Then Emma asked, “So, how long have you been a scavenger?”

I said, “I don’t really consider myself a scavenger.”

“But you said—”

“I know what I said.  I’m more of a survivalist.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Well,” I began, “to the casual observer there probably isn’t much difference.  We both use available resources in order to survive.”

“‘Available resources,’” she repeated.  “You sound smart.”

I gave her a look and continued.  “Scavengers are just reacting to a situation.  There is no forethought or planning on their part.  The bomb hits, they survive and they figure they’d like to go on living.  So they do whatever they can to survive and they become increasingly desperate.  When things start running out they get downright dangerous.  A lot of them take too many risks and they don’t really know what they’re doing.

“Preppers and survivalists, on the other hand, have typically spent years learning survival skills in order to prepare for any type of disaster.  It could be a natural disaster like a hurricane, or a manmade disaster like the bomb.  We store up food and water and we prepare.  We stockpile weapons and ammunition and we become proficient in how to use them.  We practice at the target range.  We try to keep ourselves in good physical shape and some of us practice martial arts or other types of hand-to-hand combat and self-defense.”

“Wow,” she said.  “I never realized there was so much to it.”

I smiled.  I figured she was shining me on, but I continued anyway.  “There’s more to being a survivalist than just preparation.  It also involves the human spirit – the will to survive.  It comes from deep inside of you.  You either have it or you don’t.  It’s not something you can learn from a book.  It’s a steadfast commitment to do whatever it takes to survive.  There’s nothing you won’t do.  I mean nothing.  You will stomp on babies’ heads, you will butt-fuck grandma, you will sacrifice virgins – whatever it takes.  That’s what I mean.  That’s what it takes to be a survivalist.”  I took a deep breath and tried to relax.  I hadn’t meant to get myself so worked up.

Emma laughed.  “You really get into this shit, don’t you?  Butt-fuck grandma?”

“Well, in a manner of speaking.  Sorry, I guess I got a little carried away.  I shouldn’t have said that.”

She laughed.  “It’s cool.”

I spotted a gas station up ahead that looked like a good place to stop and eat breakfast.  “Are you hungry?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m okay.”

“Have you eaten anything today?”

“No.”

“Well, let’s stop up here.  I have some food we can eat.”

As we drew closer I could see the gas station’s windows were all smashed in and the door was standing partially open.  The shelves appeared to have been picked clean.  We walked around to the shady side of the building and sat on a ledge.  I unclipped the rifle from its sling and leaned it against the wall.  Off came the gloves and the helmet and the backpack.

Emma watched me.  I handed her a bottled water and some hand sanitizer.  Then I located the potassium iodide tablets, vitamins, and some crackers.  I explained the purpose of the potassium iodide tablets and she accepted one along with a vitamin.

As we sat and ate, Emma asked, “Are you from here originally?”

I shook my head.  “I’m from upstate New York, but I’ve lived here about 25 years.  How about you?”

“Yep.  Born and raised here.”

“I don’t mean to pry, but what happened to your father?”

She was quiet for a moment.  Touchy subject?

She said, “He and my mom were never married.  I never knew him.”

“I’m sorry.  That’s too bad.”

Her face hardened.  “He’s a bastard.  Mom says he never gave her any money and he never wanted to see me or have anything to do with me.”

“I’m sorry.”

She faced me, a longing look in her eyes.  Needing a father figure?

She said, “Whatever, it’s no big deal.  Can’t miss somebody you never knew.”

I decided to change the subject.  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

Head shake.  “No.”  Big smile.  “Why?  You applying for the job?  I’m trophy wife material, you know.”  She looked down and took her breasts in her hands gently hefting them.  “Look at the size of these things.”

I laughed.  Oh, I was looking alright.  Then my pants began to tighten again.

“What about you?” she asked.  “Are you married?”

“No, I’m divorced.  No kids.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

We ate in silence for a moment.

Emma asked, “Do you think you’re going to get through this alive?”

I looked at her.  “Of course I do.  I survived the EMP attack.  And I survived the zombie virus.  I will survive this.  It’s just a matter of staying focused and disciplined.”

“Like how?”

I thought for a minute.  “Well, being careful about what you eat and drink.  Steering clear of potential contamination.  Knowing where radiation gathers, like in puddles and in bodies of water.  You’ve got to stay vigilant against predators, always watch your back.  And you’ve got to maintain your supplies.  No waiting until you’re starving before you resupply.”

She nodded.  “That sounds good.”  She regarded my rifle.  “You ever shoot anybody with that thing?”

“Sometimes.  Only when I have to.”

“Were you really going to shoot Ian?”

“No, I was just having a little fun with him.”

“Well, you sure had him fooled.  He nearly peed himself.  He’s kind of a wimp, you know.  Even though he’s a big guy.  He cries sometimes when we watch sad movies.”

I chuckled.  “That just means he has a heart.  You sure he’s not your boyfriend?”

“No!  I mean, we might have—  Nothing.  It doesn’t matter.  No, Ian is not my boyfriend.  I don’t have a boyfriend.  I don’t want a boyfriend – don’t need one.  If I want to hook up with somebody, I hook up.  I don’t want a steady boyfriend.”  She scoffed, “Too much drama.”

Just then I saw a couple of people coming down the road.  My first thought was Emma’s friends.  Had they trailed us?  But as the duo drew closer, I could tell it wasn’t them.

Emma followed my stare and saw them, too.  “What should we do?” she asked nervously.

I placed a hand on her thigh and whispered, “Just hold tight.  Let’s see what they do.”

I put my helmet back on and picked up the rifle, my eyes never leaving the two men.  Just as I glanced down to check the safety on the rifle, the men disappeared behind an abandoned car.

I began barking orders.  “Alright, that’s it.  Get behind the building and stay down.  This doesn’t look good.”

Emma ran around back.  A second later somebody fired a shot.

Chapter 21

The bullet made a high-pitched sound as it ricocheted off the building.

“Get down!” I yelled to Emma.

I dove to the ground in the prone position.  That left only the top of my helmet as a target.  I worked at finding the men in my scope.  Finally they came into view.  “Now I’ve got you fuckers,” I muttered under my breath.

I saw a thug with a stainless steel semi-automatic.  The gun was pointing right at me.  He had one eye closed, taking aim.  I quickly put the crosshairs on his head and fired.  I saw a fine pink mist and then watched as his body slumped to the ground.

I waited.

“Come on, you son of a bitch,” I breathed.  “Show yourself.”

“Steen?”  Emma called.  “Are you alright?  Did you get them?”

“One of them,” I replied.  “Stay down.”

I moved the scope along the outline of the car.  The other man was not showing himself.  I waited.  After a couple of minutes there was still no sign of him.

I pulled myself up off the ground and called, “Emma?”

“Yeah?”

“Stay here.  I’m going after him.”

Another shot.

“God damn!”  I dove back to the ground.  Alright, I thought to myself.  If this fucker wants a gunfight, he’s going to get it.  I set the rifle to safety and placed it on the ground.  Then I jumped to my feet and pulled the 9mm.  I sprinted toward the car just as fast as I could, firing several rounds for cover along the way.  When I closed half the distance I saw the shooter looking through the car windows.  I fired off another couple of rounds and he returned fire.  He obviously had the advantage.  It was impossible for me to hit anything while I was running.  I figured worst case I might take a bullet to the vest.  Not a pleasant experience, as I had learned in the past, but it wouldn’t kill me.  I made it to the car without getting shot and slammed my hand against the fender.  Breathing hard, I crouched low and was careful to keep my feet behind the tire.  I put the pistol under the car and randomly fired three times.

I heard a sharp intake of breath, and then, “Ah, fuck!  Ahh!  Ahh!”

I quickly ran around to the front of the car.

I heard once again, “Ah, fuck.  Fuck me.  God damn.”

Leading with the pistol I emerged on the other side of the car.  Before me sat a young black man holding his foot in his hands, blood seeping through the hole in his shoe.

The man looked up at me.  “Goddamn!  Shot me in the goddamn foot.”   He sucked air through clenched teeth.  “Fuck.  It hurts.”

I moved closer, the 9mm trained on his head.

“Why did you go and have to do that?” he asked.

“Why were you shooting at me?”

“Fuck, I don’t know, man.  Tee just say let’s get him.”  He winced.  “Ahh, fuck.”

I glanced down at the dead body.  “Tee was the brains of the operation?”

He ignored me and winced again.

“Here,” I offered.  “I’ve got something for the pain.  It won’t hurt a bit after this.”

“Really?”

I pulled the trigger.  The bullet struck him near his eye and blew out the side of his skull.  He crumpled over, eyes still open, blood and brains oozing out of his head.  I scanned my surroundings.  There was no one in sight.  I holstered my pistol and began checking their pockets.  The first one had a plastic bag in his front pocket containing some kind of gray rocks or crystals.  I tossed it and picked up the pistol.  Large caliber .45.  The magazine was half full.  I ejected the round in the chamber and returned it to the magazine.  Then I shoved the gun in my waistband and headed back to the gas station.

Emma saw me and came out from behind the building.  “Did you get them?”

“Yeah.”  I put the .45 in my bag and picked up my rifle.  “Come on,” I said.  “Let’s get out of here.”

When we passed the car, Emma stopped and stared.  “Are they dead?”

“Very.”

“You killed them?”

“I did.”  I studied her for a minute, trying to figure out what was going on inside her head.  I rarely knew what women were thinking.  Then my eyes were drawn to her breasts again.  I marveled at the way they strained against the material of her shirt.  They were magnificent.  After a second I snapped back to reality and said, “Come on, let’s keep moving.”

We walked in silence for a while, then Emma asked, “Do you feel bad when you shoot somebody?”

I thought for a minute.  “No,” I said flatly.  “Not really.  It was self-defense.  I don’t feel bad about it.  They were trying to kill me.”

“I know it was self-defense, but that was a person, you know?  Two of them.  They had their whole lives ahead of them.  Maybe they might have had wives someday and kids.  You don’t know.  Now they will never do that.  They will never get to see their kids grow up or know what it’s like to grow old.”

I shrugged.  “That’s a pisser, Emma.  Maybe they should have thought about that before they started shooting at me.  I’m not going to just lay down and let somebody kill me.”

We passed by a dry cleaning business.  The windows were broken and there were no clothes inside.  Like everything else, the place had been savaged by looters.

Emma said, “It’s not fair.  You’re good at this, you know what you are doing.  You’ve got a helmet and a machinegun and a bulletproof vest.  No one can touch you.  You’re just like our country.  America goes around bombing everybody and we are way bigger than them and they don’t even stand a chance.”

“Is that what you think?” I asked.

“Yeah.  I mean, we learned in school how America beat everybody in World War II and every war since.  America is like a big bully.”

“Emma, you’re young, and there’s no telling what kind of garbage they’ve been teaching you at school.  First of all, as far as me, anybody could have bought a helmet and a gun and a bulletproof vest.  They chose not to.  So now if I win and they lose, it’s their own fault for not being better prepared.  As far as the country goes, America is a great country, the best in the world.  America has stood for freedom and liberty ever since our founding.  We are not the world’s bully, we liberate people who are being bullied.”

“Bullied by us, you mean,” she said.  “Look at Iraq.  We started a war with them just to steal their oil.  You can look it up.  That’s a fact.  We killed all those innocent people and we took their oil just because we could.  Because we knew nobody would stop us.”

I shook my head.  “Emma, you really have a twisted view of America.  I don’t even know where to start.”  I looked at her.  Such a cute girl, such a mind full of mush.  “Look,” I said, “first of all, we didn’t go into Iraq to steal their oil.  I don’t know where you heard that but it’s not true.  Iraq still has their oil today, and if we want any we have to pay for it just like everybody else.  America has always been a force for good.  We liberated Europe from the Nazis during World War II.  We pushed back against communists in the Korean War.  We fought to protect the South Vietnamese from communists in the Vietnam War.  We liberated Kuwait from Iraqi aggression during the Gulf War.  We beat back terrorism in the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.  We don’t use our strength to take over countries and steal their land or their oil.  On the contrary, we liberate oppressed people and give them back their freedom and their land and their oil.  We spend billions of dollars rebuilding those countries and making them better than they were before.  America is the best and most generous country in the world.  And I think it’s sad that our schools are filled with America-hating liberals who spread lies to their students.”

She was quiet for a minute.  “So we didn’t bomb Iraq to steal their oil?”

I laughed.  “No!  Where did you hear that?”

“I don’t know.  I just figured everybody knew it.”

“You probably heard it at school.  Let me tell you a little bit about our education system.  Back in the late sixties and early seventies, America was involved in the Vietnam War.  The war became very unpopular in America and most people just wanted us to quit and get out of there, which we eventually did.  Back then there was something called the draft.  That’s where men eighteen and older had to sign up and they could get picked at random to join the military.  If the government pulls your name, you have to go fight in the war.  Most people went along with the system even though they didn’t like it.  But there was a provision that if you were in college, the draft was deferred.  So people who were either afraid to fight in the war or who were against the war on some moral grounds went off to college.  They couldn’t get drafted as long as they stayed in college, so a lot of them never left.  The tie-died, dope-smoking, draft-dodging hippies of the sixties and seventies took over our education system and they became the professors and teachers and administrators of today.  It’s been a liberal bastion ever since.”

Emma listened intently.

“The same thing happened in the media with newspapers and radio and television.  For the most part they were taken over by liberals after the Vietnam War and they’ve been that way ever since.  This country changed in the sixties and seventies, and not for the better.  That’s how we got to where we are today, with generations of people thinking that America is bad and that we are big bad bullies.”

“Wow,” she said.  “You know a lot about history and stuff.”

I smiled.

Emma asked, “If America is not the bad guy, then why does bad stuff keep happening to us?  Why did Iran do the EMP attack?  Why did the terrorists try to kill us with the zombie virus?  Why did North Korea nuke us?”

I thought for a minute.  “Emma, it’s like this.  You probably have some girls at school who are jealous of you.  You are a very pretty girl, and some people might treat you badly because of it.  Is that true?”

“Yeah,” she said, with a bit of an attitude.  She could have appended that statement with ‘duh’ and it would have fit right in.

“Okay.  Well, it’s the same way with countries.  For a long time America has been the best country on earth, a beacon of light for freedom and prosperity.  Meanwhile the rest of the world see themselves as less fortunate.  They’re jealous.  They want to have what we have.  They want to be like us and be the world’s leader.  They want to be admired and respected by the rest of the world.  So they attack us and try to destroy us.

“Part of it is our own fault.  We invite attack when we show weakness and inconsistency.  Every four years we elect a new president.  Sometimes we go from having a strong leader like Ronald Reagan or George W. Bush, to having a weak president like Jimmy Carter or Barack Obama.  When we have a weak leader, our enemies smell blood in the water and they come after us.”

She stopped and looked at me.  “How did you get to be so smart?”

I shrugged.

She said, “I don’t even know what you are.  Are you like a history professor or something?”

I laughed.  “No, I’m an accountant.”

“Oh.  That’s cool.  Hey, can you hang for a sec?  I have to pee.”

Chapter 22

I surveyed the desolate landscape while I waited for Emma.  There was no hustle and bustle of everyday life.  No moms taking their kids to soccer practice.  No businessmen on their way to the office.  Just empty streets peppered with abandoned cars.  Windows were smashed in, there was trash everywhere, and buildings bore the scars of recent fires.

I tried to ignore the emptiness that surrounded me and focus instead on my talk with Emma.  When she reemerged, I asked, “Do you ever watch the news?”

We resumed walking.  Emma answered, “Not much.  Sometimes I watch Larry Wilmore.”

I chuckled.  “That’s not news.  People your age don’t watch the news.  Or if you do, it’s something like that or The Daily Show.  You know that’s not really news, right?”

“Well, duh.  It’s Comedy Central.”

Such a bratty girl.  I felt like turning her over my knee and giving her a good hard spanking.  Just smacking that big, round, soft, white fleshy ass of hers and watching it jiggle.  Whoa, where did that come from?  I shook my head.  I said, “Even the real news isn’t the news anymore.  It’s news that’s been perverted and skewed to fit the liberal agenda.  If it’s something that makes democrats look good or the republicans look bad, then it leads.  If it’s something that makes the democrats look bad or the republicans look good, then it gets buried.  When Bush was president the media went crazy trying to make a huge scandal out of every little thing he did.  On the other hand, during Obama’s presidency they rarely asked him a tough question and they barely mentioned it when there really were scandals.”

“Like what?”

“Like the IRS targeting conservative groups.  People believe that the Obama administration used the IRS to prevent conservative Tea Party groups from gaining legal status ahead of his reelection.  Like Benghazi.  There’s evidence that the president couldn’t make up his mind in time to order a military response after the U.S. Libyan consulate came under attack by terrorists.  People including the U.S. Ambassador languished there for hours with no help until they were killed by Islamic extremists.  Like the VA scandal.  Some veterans died waiting months to see a doctor while VA administrators lied about it and even got bonuses for doing such a ‘great job.’  Like illegal immigration.  Obama ignored the laws and welcomed illegals across border so he could woo Latino voters already here while importing the next wave of democratic voters.  You want more?”

“I never heard of any of that stuff.”

“No, and you wouldn’t.  Thanks for making my point.  You wouldn’t hear about any of that from the mainstream media.  They buried those stories because the storylines didn’t fit their agenda.  While news was breaking on those stories, the mainstream media was busy with stories about storms or wildfires or some green energy bullshit.  You have to watch Fox News to see what’s really going on.  They’re the only ones who don’t toe the line for the liberals.”  I shook my head.  “Anyway, we live in a crazy world.  America has been in decline for years – decades really.  The way things are going now, we may not be around much longer.  Our country is rotting from the inside out and our enemies know it.  They’re standing at the door just waiting to finish us off.”

“That’s depressing,” Emma said.

“Well, it is.  And it doesn’t have to be that way.  If our country had remained true to our core values we would be every bit as strong today as we were when we first started.  But we’ve pandered to these liberal weanies for so long and given them way too much latitude.  They promise a great society but they never deliver.  All they’ve managed to do is gut our military, run up the deficient, and create an underclass of government dependants.  The point is, show your enemies an ounce of weakness and they will extract a pound of flesh.  Back when I was in school—”

Suddenly a shot rang out.

“Hit the fucking deck!” I yelled.  I landed in the weeds and Emma came crashing down beside me.  “You okay?” I asked breathlessly.

She nodded and swallowed hard.  “Yeah.”

“Could you tell which way that was coming from?”

“I have no idea.  Why do people keep shooting at us?”

“Scavengers,” I said.  “They want my guns, whatever’s in my bag, you.”

“Great,” she said sarcastically.

I unclipped the rifle.  I scanned the horizon with the scope but it was no use, I could barely get anything to show up in the scope when I knew exactly what I was looking for.  Otherwise, I could just as well forget it.  I was beginning to question my choice of sights.  Maybe I should have gone with the holographic sight, EMP be damned.

Across the road sat an old brick building which drew my attention.  I pointed.  “I think it came from there.  I don’t see anything else around.”

Emma looked frightened.

“Just stay down.  Let’s wait here for a minute and see what happens.”

“Wait for what?  To get shot at again?”

“Just stay close to me and you’ll be fine.”

Always the coach, always the cheerleader.  I wondered where that came from.  It certainly wasn’t how I felt.  Sometimes I wanted to say fuck it, we’re doomed.  Just shoot me and get it over with.  There wasn’t much to live for anyway.  I was wearing all this survival gear in this godforsaken heat.  I was perpetually running low on supplies.  I was sunburned, ass-whipped, bug-bitten, morally bankrupt, mentally fatigued, and physically exhausted.  I had just witnessed countless brutal torture-deaths at the hands of the craziest mother fucker I have ever had the misfortune to meet.  There’s no telling how many years of therapy it was going to take to get that out of my head.  And now here I was getting shot at again by some derelict who wanted to steal my backpack.

I looked at Emma.  I sometimes wondered about myself, why I took on stragglers like her and Otis.  Could it be that I needed them as much as they needed me?  Maybe I was afraid that if I didn’t have someone to protect, I might become my own worst enemy.  I might just give up and put a bullet in my brain.

“Well?”  Emma asked anxiously.

“Well, what?”

“Well, are you going to do something or are you just going to lay there and wait for him to kill us?”

“Let’s go see what’s in that building.”  I got to my feet.

Emma remained on the ground.  “I’m not going, right?”

“Yes, you are.  Come on.”

“But I’m not wearing a helmet or anything.”

“You don’t need that.  Just stay behind me and you’ll be fine.  Come on.”  I held out a hand.  Reluctantly, she took it and I pulled her to her feet.

Together we made our way over to the building.  As I got closer I studied the windows.  No sign of movement.  When we got to the front door I put my back against the wall and Emma did the same.  I shaded my eyes and searched the horizon.

“You see anything?” I whispered.

“No.”

“Me neither.  Alright, take this.”  I checked the safety on the rifle and handed it to her.

“No!” she protested.  “I don’t know how to use that thing!”

“You don’t have to.  Just hold it for me.”  I pushed it into her hands.  “Please.”

She took the rifle, regarding it as if it were a snake.  I pulled the 9mm and pushed on the door.  It was partially open and it appeared to be jammed.

“Stay behind me,” I said as I pushed again on the door.  It didn’t budge.  With the pistol leading the way, I turned sideways and slipped through the doorway.

“I’m not going in there,” Emma said.

“Yes you are.”  I grabbed her arm and pulled her through.

“Godammit—!”  she protested.

“Stay with me,” I hissed.  “I’m not leaving you out there by yourself.”

I took a few steps and crouched low, taking in my new surroundings.  The dirty windows blocked most of the daylight.  It took me a second for my eyes to adjust.  The building had been abandoned and whatever used to occupy the space had cleared out long before the bomb.  There was a counter with some display cases beneath it and not much else.  The display cases were empty save for bits of broken glass.  It was quiet inside and a musty odor filled the air.  I wondered if someone had been living there.  I inched forward keeping a watchful eye on the counter.  I broke the silence and said, “Come on out.  We know you’re in here.”

I heard a sound from behind the counter.  Emma clung to me tightly.

I said, “Come out, whoever you are.”

Nothing.  I crept to the edge of the counter, readying the pistol.  Then in one quick motion I hurled myself to the other side and saw something moving down low.  Instinctively I fired a shot.  Fur flew everywhere and the little body launched into the air and slammed against the wall.  It was a skinny yellow cat.

Emma felt me relax and ventured a look from behind me.  “Ah, it’s a kitty!  Poor baby.  Steen!  You killed it.”  She knelt over the body.

I said, “I’m sorry.”

Emma shot me a hard look.

I said, “Here, hand me the rifle please.”

I holstered the pistol and took the rifle.  My pistol is better in tight quarters but I needed the rifle light.  I crossed the room to a door opposite the counter.  I slowly turned the knob and pulled.  It was dark inside.  I squeezed the pad on the rifle and lit up the room.  The instant I did I heard a shot.  Reeling backwards, I landed on my ass.  It felt as if I’d been punched in the stomach.

“Fuck!” I shouted.

Emma screamed, “Steen!  Steen!  Are you alright?”  She rushed to my side.

“I’m alright.  Stay back.”

The pain got worse and more intense.  “God damn!”  I inspected the vest.  The material was frayed in the lower corner right where I hurt.  The vest had done its job, I would live.  I pulled myself together and stumbled to the counter.  Emma was trembling and crying.

“Sonofabitch,” I hissed.

“Steen?  Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.  It hurts but it didn’t penetrate the vest.”

“Thank God.”

The backroom door had shut by itself.  I stared at it for a minute and I got an idea.  I had something special in mind for whoever was in there.  I pulled the bag off my back and rifled through it.  My hand closed around a pipe bomb.  Not legal by any stretch of the imagination, but oh so useful in these kinds of situations.

Emma’s eyes grew wide.  “What are you going to do?”

“Just stay back.  This could get a little dangerous.”

I lit the fuse, opened the door and tossed the bomb inside.  As it clanged across the floor I dove for cover and yelled, “Eat shit mother fucker!”

The explosion ripped through the building.  It blew the backroom door off its hinges, blew out all the windows, and slammed the front door shut.  I fought to get to my feet and watched as black smoke billowed out of the backroom.  Emma had her fingers in her ears.  I hadn’t been so lucky.  I could see Emma’s lips moving but I couldn’t hear what she was saying.

Incredibly, a man staggered out of the backroom.  Unfuckingbelievable.  He was a big man, bigger than me.  His clothes and face were covered with soot and smoke rolled off his body.  He looked dazed and confused.  He took a few feeble steps and then he collapsed.  Face down, he continued moving his arms and legs as if he were swimming.  I grabbed my hatchet and raced to him.  I raised the ax and came down with a crushing blow that landed squarely on the back of his neck.  He stopped moving.  Blood and fluid flowed from the fatal wound.

I still couldn’t hear anything and wondered if I had permanently damaged my hearing.  I rocked the ax back and forth until it dislodged.

I turned and saw Emma screaming.  Then I realized I could actually hear her, although just barely.  I took that as a good sign.  I went to her and held her.  She was trembling and shaking.  I took her by the hand and led her out the front door.

Chapter 23

Emma and I continued our trek through the post-nuclear countryside, remaining ever vigilant of the danger around us.  This far from ground zero, there were no blast effects and the threat from fallout was significantly diminished.  The biggest threat came from scavengers and fellow survivalists.  In their wake they left an ever-widening circle of desolation.  With no new supplies or aid coming in, it was a zero sum game.  Anything consumed by someone else left that much less for us.  As usual, I was running low on supplies.  The heat caused us to go through the bottled water very quickly.

The tiny piece of brass I’d dug from my vest said the shooter probably used a .22.  Not much in terms of firepower and no match for my Kevlar vest, but potentially lethal just the same.  In this environment with no healthcare and little sanitation, any bullet wound could prove fatal.  I had a bottle of antibiotics in my bag, but there were no guarantees.  A few hours after I’d unleashed the pipe bomb the ringing in my ears subsided and my hearing returned to normal.

As nightfall approached, we searched through a neighborhood and found an abandoned house.  It was a three bedroom ranch with two baths and all of the furniture intact.  There was no food in the pantry and the patio door had been broken into.  Emma and I dined in the kitchen on MREs by the fading evening light.

“We were pretty lucky to find this place,” Emma said.

I said, “The owners probably got in their car and left.”  I poked at the remainder of my turkey and stuffing.

“Where do you think they went?”

“Probably headed west, away from the city.  They packed their food in the car and went somewhere out in the country, away from all of the scavengers and crazies.  That’s what I would have done.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I was in the middle of everything when it happened.”  I gave her a brief summary of the fallout shelter and my truck getting ruined.

She said, “Wow, you’ve been through a lot.”  She pushed her empty tray aside and finished off her water.

I looked out the window.

A minute later Emma snapped me out of a thousand yard stare.  “Steen?  Steen!”

“Yes?  Yes.  I have.  I have been through a lot.”

Emma raised her arms and stretched.  As she did her cutoff tee rose with her and partially exposed her breasts.  The shirt had developed a couple of new rips over the course of the day and it barely contained her chest.  She realized what had happened and tugged her shirt back down.  Then she smiled and asked, “So, now what do we do?”

“Well, we need to bunk down for the night while there’s still a little bit of light.”

“Bunk down?”

I nodded, finishing my water.  “Yeah, pack it in for the night.”

“Sounds interesting.”

I gave her a look, then I went into the living room and sat on the sofa.  I said, “I could use a drink.  I don’t think I can sleep the way I’m feeling right now.  Could you see if there’s a glass in one of the cabinets?”  I pulled the bottle of whiskey out of my bag.

Emma emerged from the kitchen with two glasses and sat down beside me.

“You want some?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said, again with that ‘duh’ attitude.

I poured a finger of whiskey for each of us and added a splash of water.  As I handed her a glass I said, “I know you’re not old enough to drink this, but—”

“Fuck that,” she said as she took the glass and downed it in one gulp.  Her face screwed up and she sucked air.  In a strained voice she said, “Smooth.”

I laughed.  “Damn, girl.”  I took the glass from her and poured her another.  We settled back on the couch.

Emma gave me a look that made me wonder what she was thinking.  Finally she said, “Let me see it.”

“What?”

“Where you got shot.”

“Which time?”

“You’ve been shot more than once?”

I didn’t answer.

“Today,” she clarified.

“It’s nothing.”

“Come on.”  She tugged at my shirt.  My belly was exposed and she ran her hand over the welt that had formed there.  “Does it hurt?”

“A little.  I’ll be alright.”

She leaned over and gently kissed it.  “There, all better now.”  She sat back and took another sip of whiskey.  “So,” she said, “today you said I was pretty.  Did you really mean it?”  She twirled a finger in her hair and smiled at me.

“I…uh…did I say that?”  I downed the rest of my whiskey and started to get up.  I could see where this was going.

“Sit down.”  She grabbed my arm.  “Where do you think you’re going?  Yes, you did.”

Suddenly my head was swimming and I wasn’t thinking clearly.  “Did what?”

She smiled.  “Say I’m pretty.”  She touched her shoulders.  “You know, I hurt too.”  She reached down and cupped her breasts.  “When we dove on the ground today it hurt my boobs.”

I stared.  “They look alright to me.”

She grasped the bottom of her shirt.  “Maybe you could have a look?”

“Emma, I don’t think—”

She lifted her shirt and her large breasts came bouncing out.  She arched her back and asked, “So…what do you think?”

I was at a loss for words.  Finally, I managed to say, “They’re beautiful.”

She laughed.  “No, I mean, thank you.  But, do you think they look okay?”

I nodded.  “Oh, yeah.”

“No!  I mean do you think all that jumping on the ground might have hurt them?”

“Well, I don’t know.”  I swallowed hard.  Unable to take my eyes off her, I found myself getting tongue-tied.  Her breasts stood up so firm and tall.  Definitely all natural.  She had large pink nipples perfectly centered in each giant orb.  Her young nipples were erect and appeared desperately in need of attention.

Emma pulled her shirt completely off and lifted up each breast.  She looked down at them.  “I think you better check them out.  I want to make sure they’re okay.”

“Emma, are you sure about this?”

She gave me a big smile and said, “Yes, doctor.  Please?”

She took my hands and placed them on her breasts.  They were magnificent.  So young and firm, so soft and smooth.  I cupped each one and gently lifted them, feeling their heft.  My thumbs brushed lightly across her nipples and she let out a little moan.

“So what do you think?” she asked.  Suddenly serious now, her voice had become breathy and low.  “Maybe you should have a look at the rest of me.”  With that she took off her shorts and pulled down her panties, making a show of dropping them on the floor.  She began running her hands up and down her thighs, gently spreading her legs in the process.  I saw creamy white skin sitting atop tanned thighs with a patch of neatly-trimmed blonde pubic hair.  She opened her legs a little wider each time she caressed her inner thighs.  Her thighs spread and relaxed, again and again, and I could see her inner lips peeking out.  Soft pink petals, wet and swollen with desire.  Opening and closing.  Opening and closing.  Again and again.  Over and over.

Intoxicated by her blatant display of sexuality, I pulled her close and passionately kissed her.  Her hands were all over me and I in turn explored her youthful figure.  A moment later she pushed me back and laughed.  She said, “Let me see it.”

“See what?”

She laughed again and started pulling at my belt buckle.  A moment later she had me naked.  Emma gasped.  “Fuck me!  Those are some huge balls.  Those are the biggest balls I’ve ever seen.”

I laughed.

“I knew it,” she said.  “I knew you would have big balls.  A man like you, you’d just have to.”  She reached out and fondled them.  “They’re huge!  They’re like fucking baseballs!”

I laughed, “They’re not really that big.”

She lifted.  “And heavy too.”  She played and cooed for a while, then she shifted her attention a little higher.  “This thing…”  She tugged.  “This is a goddamn telephone pole.  Holy shit!”  She ran her hands up and down its length.  “I can’t even get my hand around it!  Look how fucking big it is!”

I smiled.  A second later, I looked down and all I could see was the back of her head, bobbing up and down.  My arousal reached a new level.  After several pleasurable minutes of that, she released me and laid back on the couch.  She spread her legs and said, “Fuck me.  I want you to fuck me right now with that giant fucking dick of yours.”

I knew what I wanted to do, but I also knew what I should do.  In a last-ditch effort to do the right thing, I said, “Emma, I don’t know if we should be doing this.”

“Fine,” she said.  “If you won’t do it, I will.  It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s gotta do it.”  With that, she began tracing a finger over her pussy lips.  She went up and down each one, then she plunged a finger deep inside and began masturbating in earnest.  Her fingers glistened with her arousal as she jammed them deeper and deeper inside.  She spread her legs as far as they would go as she continued to finger-fuck herself.  Thick white fluid pooled in her pussy and it began to run down between her ass cheeks.  This girl wasn’t kidding, she was horny.  And so was I.  She began moving her hips and moaning, then she frantically circled her erect clit with her other hand.

I’d held out as long as I could, but every man’s got his limits.  As she frigged herself I climbed on top and replaced her fingers with my rock hard dick.  She let out a huge moan as I entered her.  We kissed passionately as I felt the wonder of her tight teenage pussy engulf my rigid member.

After a minute she broke free of our kiss and screamed, “Oh God!  You’re going to make me cum!  I’m cumming!”  She panted loudly, then let out another huge moan.  I felt her muscles spasm as she gripped me tighter.  Her nails dug into my back and she screamed out her orgasm.  Finally she took a deep breath and relaxed.  I kissed her again and continued to pound her as my balls relentlessly spanked her ass.

“Let me get on top,” she said breathlessly.

I dismounted and laid on the floor.  She climbed on top of me and put me back inside.  She felt wet and warm inside.  As she rose and fell, her huge tits bounced up and down right in my face.  This girl was incredible and I couldn’t resist, I sucked first one and then the other into my mouth.  She moaned and rode even harder, hitting bottom on every stroke.  A moment later she screamed again and had another orgasm, this one even more intense than the last.  Her spasms confirmed this was no act.  After she calmed down, she climbed off me and got down on all fours.  The sight of her perfect ass sticking up in the air was all the invitation I needed.  I took her from behind and pounded her with reckless abandon.  My balls were slapping her clit and I felt warm, sweet pussy juice running down my thighs.  She came again and again.  This girl was so hot it was fucking unbelievable.  Finally I sensed myself reaching the point of no return and I pulled out.

Panting, she said craned her neck to look back at me.  “Why’d you stop?”

I took a seat on the couch and said, “I don’t want you to get pregnant.”

“Oh.”  She seemed disappointed.  She turned around and crawled between my legs.  She began sucking me again.  A moment later I exploded a torrent of cum into her mouth and she swallowed every drop.  “Mmmm,” she said as she sat back wiping her lips.  She smiled.  “That was yummy.  Steen juice.”

I laughed.  She reached for her whiskey and took a sip.  Then she sat beside me on the couch and we kissed.  She said, “That was amazing.”

“It was.”  I held her close.  After a few minutes I led her by the hand to the master bedroom.  We collapsed on the bed and fell asleep.

Chapter 24

Life is funny.  Sometimes when you least expect it you find yourself in the midst of grandeur.  Who would have guessed that in the middle of a nuclear war I would be sleeping with a beautiful young goddess?

Emma was still asleep when I rolled out of bed to make my way to the bathroom.  On the return trip I stopped for a minute to admire her.  She was lying on her side, still nude from the night before.  Her thick mane of blonde hair spilled all around the pillows, her breasts were lying atop one another and looked as magnificent as they had the night before.  Her ass was on display, and her legs were splayed revealing her most intimate parts.  She was a sight to behold.

I climbed back into bed and stared at the ceiling for a while.  As pleasant as the night before had been, my thoughts soon turned to survival.  We were almost out of water and we had eaten the last MREs the night before.  Today I needed to replenish my supplies, but where and how?  Every place I’d tried had been picked clean.  While I’d been hunkered down in the fallout shelter everyone else had been emptying their cupboards and leaving town.  Those who stayed had fallen victim to the raiders and scavengers.  Bottom line, there was nothing left for those of us who came late to the party.  What was I going to do?

Emma let out a sleepy moan.  “Morning,” she croaked.

“Good Morning.”

“My head hurts.”

“You probably have a hangover.  Here, let me get you some aspirin.”

A while later, Emma was feeling better and we ate crackers for breakfast.  Then I started gathering up my things.

“What are you doing?” Emma asked.

“I’m getting ready to leave.”

“Go where?  Why can’t we stay here?”

“The back door is broken and there’s no food.”

“You have food.”

“I’m almost out.  We have to keep moving and replenish our supplies.”

“How are we going to do that?”

“You’ll see.  We just have to play it by ear.  That’s part of the adventure.  Every day is a new opportunity and you have to go with the flow.”

She screwed up her face and said, “That sounds kinda iffy.”

I didn’t reply.

Emma pouted but located her shoes and put them on.  “That bed was awfully comfortable,” she said.

“It was,” I said, “and I’m going to miss it.  Look Emma, I’m not going to lie to you.  This was the exception, not the rule.  More often than not it’s sleeping on the floor of some old abandoned store or whatever we can find.”

“That doesn’t sound very good.”

“If you want me to take you back to Igor and Boner, I will.”

“Ian and Bones,” she corrected.  She thought for a moment.  “No, I don’t want to go back.  There’s no food there.”

I lifted her chin and our eyes met.  “We are going to be fine.  I’ve survived much worse than this.  You are with me.  I will take care of you.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because you need my help.”

She stood, gave me a smile and rested a hand on my chest.  She kissed me and whispered, “Thank you.”

I put on my helmet and vest and gloves.  I looked at Emma as I clipped on the rifle.  “You ready?”

“Yes,” she said.  “I’m ready.”

The bright morning light greeted us on the other side of the door.  The birds were chirping and the streets were empty.  We left the neighborhood and made our way back to the main road.  As we walked I turned to Emma and asked, “You ever shoot a gun before?”

“No.”

“Would you like to learn how?”

“I don’t know.  I guess.”

We stopped and I pulled the 9mm.  I showed her the basics of how to pull the slide back, how to eject the magazine, and how to see if the chamber was empty.  I demonstrated the safety and explained how it worked.

“Alright,” I said.  “That’s about it.  You ready to shoot it?”

She looked scared.  “Really?”

“Really.  That’s the point.  You can know everything there is to know about guns, but if you’ve never shot one it’s like knowing everything there is to know about sex but never doing it.”

She giggled.

I held the pistol in both hands directly out in front of me.  I aimed into the woods alongside the road.  “Now when you aim, close one eye and line up the sights.  Or, if you are shooting at close range you just point and shoot.”  I demonstrated, then handed the gun to her.

She pointed it at the woods and tried to aim.  “I’m not sure if I’m doing this right.”

“Okay, forget about aiming, just hold the gun tight and point it at one of those trees over there.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

She seemed so helpless.  No wonder so many women get raped and killed.  If you’re smaller and weaker than a man and you’re afraid of guns, how are you supposed to defend yourself?  I took the gun from her, pointed it at a tree and fired.

“Shit!” she screamed as she clamped her hands over her ears.

“Yeah, it’s loud.  Alright.  You have to hold it tight.  It tends to pull up on you, so hold it tight.”  I handed the gun back to her.  “Come on now, I know you can do it.”

She pointed the gun at the same tree.

“That a girl, just hold on tight and squeeze the trigger.”

There was silence for a moment as gun drifted about.  Finally she fired off a shot.  “I did it!”  She was beaming.

“See, I knew you could do it!”

She turned and was pointing the gun right at me.  I gently nudged the barrel to one side.  “Forgot to tell you, never point it at anyone unless you intend to shoot.”

“Oh.  Sorry.”  She handed the gun back to me.

“You did good.”  I gave her a hug.  Then I produced the stainless .45 I had lifted from the shooter.  “You want it?”

She looked nervous, but a little excited, too.  “I don’t know.”

I made sure the chamber was empty.  “See, there’s no bullet in the chamber.  If you have to use it, pull back on the slide like I showed you and you’ll be ready to go.  It can’t go off accidentally like this, the slide has to be pulled back first.”

Hesitantly she took the gun.  She admired it for a minute.  “Cool.  Where should I put it?”

“In the small you your back.  Just tuck it into your shorts nose first.”

She did as I suggested with a little more dexterity than I had expected.  She must have seen her share of cop shows and action flicks.  She turned to show me.  “Like this?”

“Yep, you got it.”  I reached out and squeezed one of her butt cheeks.  “With an ass like this, that gun’s not going to go anywhere.”

She laughed and we began walking again.  She asked me about my bullet wound and I told her I was fine.  I was taking aspirin every four hours and it really didn’t hurt that much.

I had watched the terrain change from urban to suburban to rural.  The road we were on had only two lanes and the businesses and gas stations were almost nonexistent.

Emma stopped and pointed down the road.  “You see that?”

I squinted, then I spotted what she was looking at.  It was a car up in the distance, and it was coming our way.  Warily I said, “Yeah, I see it.”

I ushered Emma to the other side of the road.  We kept walking, my eyes never leaving the vehicle.  As it drew closer I could see a row of lights along the top.  I said, “It’s a cop.”

Emma got nervous.  “What should we do?”

“Just act natural, stay calm, and let me do the talking.”

The car approached and slowed to a halt.  My heart was beating fast.  The man inside rolled down the window and looked us over.  He shut off the engine and stepped out of the car.  White man, mid-forties, decent build, black hair and a smooth face.  He wore a blue police uniform complete with the requisite gun and badge.

We squared off as I studied him.  I said, “How do we know you’re really a cop?”

He rattled off a name I didn’t quite catch and some digits I assume were his badge number.  He tugged on the badge for emphasis.  He said, “What are you two doing out here?”

I said, “We’re walking.”

“I can see that, jackass.  Don’t get smart with me.  Where are you going?”

“We don’t know,” I said.  “We’re headed west.”

The cop smiled at Emma.  “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Emma,” she said quietly.

Standing in the presence of this salty cop about my age, suddenly Emma seemed like a toddler.  Had I really just given her a gun and slept with her last night after plying her with alcohol?  What if she was lying and she wasn’t even eighteen?  It’s not like I checked her ID.

The cop waved her closer.  “Come here, darling.”

Emma padded over to him.  I didn’t like the way this was shaping up.  The gun was sticking out of the back of her shorts but the cop hadn’t seen it yet.  I began to get that feeling – the feeling that this wasn’t going to end well.

The cop pulled her close and spoke too softly for me to hear.  Emma shook her head.  He backed up a bit and studied her, as if looking for confirmation.

“No,” Emma insisted.

Emma’s body language said she was about to come back my way so I quickly walked over to them.  I didn’t want Emma to turn around and let the cop see the gun.  She and I hadn’t discussed the legal ramifications of someone her age carrying a firearm.  It never even crossed my mind since I hadn’t seen a cop for so long.

The cop’s big head swiveled my way and he barked, “Did I call you over here, boy?”

I held up my hands and said, “Sorry.  Just seeing if I could help.”

He said, “I’ll tell you when to come, and you come.  I’ll tell you when to go, and you go.  Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now get back over there until I tell you otherwise.”  He pointed.

“Look,” I said, my patience wearing thin.  “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the middle of a crisis here.  We survived the nuclear attack and we came out here to get away from the city.  We don’t have much food or water, and standing around in this heat talking to you is getting us nowhere.  How about you lay off the hardass cop routine and let us be on our way?”

His eyes hardened and his face turned red.  He got in my face and started poking me in the chest with a big, thick finger.  “Let me tell you something, you fuck-monkey.  I don’t know who in the fuck you think you are, but I will decide what happens here and when it happens.  You got that, shit-for-brains?  Now march your ass back over there and keep your hands where I can see them.  We haven’t even gotten started yet on all the weapons violations you’ve racked up.”

“Yes, sir,” I said as I retreated.  Weapons violations?  Was this cop going to haul me off to jail right in the middle of a nuclear war?  Or worse, take my guns and leave me out here to die?  I looked him over.  He seemed like a cop, but not a city cop.  The emblem on the side of his car said he was from a small town nearby.  One thing was for sure, his eyes were all over Emma.  The way her breasts looked in that tattered shirt, I can’t really say I blamed him.  But still, I didn’t like it.  I think he was treating me like shit to buy himself more time to eye-fuck Emma.

The more they talked, the more engaged they became.  I felt pissed off, jealous, betrayed, and paranoid all at the same time.  Strange combination of feelings but I can’t control how I feel.  I decided to try to tamp down my emotions and let the other half of my brain work.  My survival instincts told me this little moment with Emma was an opportunity.  If I missed out on it, very shortly I might be sitting in the backseat of his cruiser.  In handcuffs.  Various scenarios flashed through my mind.  I could take off running, but he’d probably take Emma and that wouldn’t be fair to her.  Plus he might shoot me in the back.  Cops know how to shoot, that’s for sure.  I could go back over and try to see for sure where this was headed.  Based on the last time I tried that, it didn’t seem like a very good idea.  He’d made it quite clear he was in charge of everything, including where I could stand.  I could shoot him in the head and we could take his car.  Emma would freak out.  What the hell, that seemed like the best option to me.  Without any further hesitation, I lifted the rifle and fired off a shot.

The cop never saw it coming.  The bullet struck him in the shoulder and it knocked him off his feet.  Emma screamed as the cop slammed into the car and reeled back.  I saw him reach for his gun so I shot him again.  His head flew back and he fell to the pavement.  He was breathing hard.  I went and stood over him.  I pointed the rifle right between his eyes.

Emma screamed, “Steen, no!”

I glared at the cop, his eyes desperate and uncertain.  He struggled for air.  I said, “I decided it was time for you to go.  Boy.”  I pulled the trigger and shot him point blank right between the eyes.  His giant melon head exploded and blood and brains were everywhere all over the pavement.

I stepped back and the ringing in my ears was replaced by Emma screaming.  I turned and grabbed her by the shoulders.  “Emma!  Emma!  Get a hold of yourself.”

She screamed, “Oh my God, Steen!  You shot a cop!”

“I know, I know.  Come on, we have to get out of here.”  I gestured to the car.  I got in and she reluctantly followed.  I started it up and did a 180.

“Steen, you shot a cop!”

“I know, and I feel really bad about it.”  I stopped the car.  “Stay here for a minute.”  I left the car running and pressed the trunk release.  Around back, I tried to put the cop in the trunk.  His legs lifted pretty easily, but the rest of him was a different story.  He was too heavy and I was too tired.  I gave up and dragged him to the side of the road.

Emma rolled down her window.  “What are you doing?”

“We can’t leave him out in the open.”  I began taking off his uniform.  There was a lot of blood where the bullets had entered, and his collapsed head was grossing me out – the bloody hair and eyeballs and chunks of brain and skull fragments.  I tried to block it out as I stripped his clothes off.  I threw the police uniform in the trunk, then I got back in the car and we took off.  I left the dead cop in a ditch wearing nothing but his boxer shorts.

Chapter 25

We drove along the deserted road in the stolen police car with only the trees as our witness.  I knew I couldn’t show up in the little town driving one of their cruisers so I figured I’d get as close as I dared and ditch it.  After I’d put some distance between ourselves and the body, I slowed down to enjoy the air conditioning.

Emma was clearly in a state of shock.  She repeated, “Steen, you shot a cop!”

I gave her a look but didn’t respond.  After a moment, I asked, “What were you two talking about back there?”

“What difference does it make?  He’s dead now.”

Silence.

She huffed and said, “He wanted to know if you had taken me against my will.  That’s all.”

“What did you say?”

Incredulous, she answered, “I said no!  I told him no, I was not here against my will.”  After a minute she calmed down a bit.  She added, “He wanted to know my full name, how old I was, where I was from – stuff like that.”

I nodded.  “Okay.”

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“We’re driving this thing back to where it came from.  I recognize the name of the town painted on the door.  I’m not sure exactly how far it is, but this road takes us there.”

She shook her head.  “I hope you know what you’re doing.”  Then she lifted her shirt and exposed her breasts to the air conditioning vent.  She looked at me and said, “My tits are hot.”

“They sure are.”

She didn’t respond.

A moment later she placed the gun I’d given her on the seat and pulled all her clothes off.  She spread her legs and said, “My pussy is hot too.”  She laughed.  “Don’t say it.”

After driving a few more miles, I felt like I’d taken it far enough.  I pulled to the side of the road and stopped.

Emma asked, “What are you doing?”

“I saw a sign a few miles back that said we were five miles out.  We have to walk the rest of the way.”

“Can’t we go somewhere else?  I mean, damn, this beats walking.”

“I thought about heading the other way, maybe finding a road that went around the town, but the car’s almost out of gas.”

“Oh.”  She raised her butt off the seat and placed her pussy right in front of the vent.  A distinctly feminine aroma filled the air.

I asked, “Does that feel good?”

“Oh, you have no idea.”

I let the car idle for a few minutes.  Here I was in a stolen police car that I’d taken from a cop I’d just killed, sitting next to a nude and possibly underage teen who I’d had sex with last night.  How do I get myself into these situations?  Finally, Emma reached for her shorts and put them back on.  I said, “Let me borrow your shirt for a minute.”

She handed it to me and I proceeded to wipe down the car for fingerprints.  After we’d exited the vehicle, I wiped the door handles, too.  I handed Emma her shirt back.  As she put it on, I took a last look at her chest.  Whoa momma.  I started to tell her we needed to get her another shirt, then I thought better of it.  That shirt looks damn good on her and I’m not her daddy.  I put on my backpack and said, “You ready?”

“I guess.  My feet hurt.  I didn’t notice it as much before.”

“Me, too.”

We began walking toward the town.  After a while, Emma said, “I’m hungry.”

“I know, but we are seriously low on supplies.  That’s mostly why I wanted to come here.”

She didn’t respond.

I asked, “Do you regret coming with me?”

She thought for a moment.  “No.”

“You sure?”

She looked at me and said, “You regret taking me?”

“Are you kidding?  After last night?  I have a new reason to live.”

She laughed.  “Men.  All you ever think about is sex.  You’re all alike.”

“That’s not all I think about.”

“What, then?”

“I don’t know.  I think about love and romance.  Unicorns and flowers, butterflies and poetry.  Stuff like that.”

She didn’t hesitate for a moment.  “Bullshit.”

I laughed.  “Okay, you’re right.  But…I think about surviving.  Water, shelter, food.  I think about the threats out here on the street, an keeping us alive.  On a grander scale, I think about the future.  The future of our country, and what’s going to happen when—”

“Hey,” she interrupted, “look up there.”  She pointed.

Up ahead in the distance I saw a group of men on the road.  I kept watching, didn’t say anything.  I checked to make sure the rifle and the pistol safeties were off.

“Steen, what are we going to do?  Who do you think they are?  It looks like they are waiting for us.  Do you think they know about the cop?”

“No!  Calm down.  Whoever they are, they have no way of knowing about the cop.  Let’s get our story straight.  We are survivors making our way out of the city.  We don’t know anything about any dead cops.  In fact, we never even saw him.  Just stay calm and we’ll be fine.”

The five men were standing in the middle of the road.  Four of them looked like they were over forty, the other man was probably in his twenties.  There were lawn chairs arranged in a semicircle behind them.  They all had guns, an assortment of shotguns, hunting rifles, and the younger one had a revolver.  I figured them for deputies or townspeople standing guard.  One of the men stepped up.  He had a broad face with a white beard and graying hair.  He wore a green pair of shorts and a brown shirt.  His pump-action shotgun was pointed in our general direction, but not directly at us.

The man held up a hand and said, “That’s far enough.  Keep your hands where I can see them and state your business, please.”

About 50 feet separated us.  I stopped and said, “Our business?  We’re walking down the street.  We don’t mean you any harm, we’re just passing through.”

One of the other men stepped up and whispered something into White Beard’s ear.  White Beard said, “Send the girl and set your weapons on the ground.”

I asked Emma, “Are you okay talking to them?”

She shrugged.  “Yeah, I guess.”

“Remember, we need to do this.  We need food and water.  I’ve got your back.”

“Okay.”

I admired her bravery.  She was just a young girl and here she was out on the street surrounded by gunmen.  I unclipped my rifle and set it on the pavement, then the pistol.  Emma started towards the men.  I snatched the pistol from her shorts and set it on the ground.  She shot me a look, then continued.

White Beard asked her, “What are you doing with that man?”

First question, I thought.  Really?  Do I look that shady?

“We’re walking,” Emma said.  “Walking away from the city because of the bomb.”

Another man stepped forward.  He was tall with a bald head.  He wore a dark blue button down short sleeved shirt and a pair of dirty shorts that used to be white.  The deer rifle in his hands was pointed down at the ground.

Baldy said, “Let me see your teeth.”

Emma said, “What?”

I called, “You okay, Emma?”

She looked at me but didn’t answer.  I took that as a no.

“Your teeth,” the man repeated.  “Let me see them.”

“Why?”

“I want to see if your gums are bleeding.”

“No, my gums aren’t bleeding.  Look.”  Emma pulled her lips back.  “You want to see my pussy, too?  See if it’s bleeding?”

Baldy looked a bit shocked by her outrageous response.  He said, “No need to get testy, miss.  Who is that man with you?  Is he your father?”

With only a second’s hesitation, Emma nodded and said, “Yes, he’s my father.”

Quick thinking.

White Beard called, “You can come over now.”

I reached for the guns.

He added, “Leave the guns there, please.”

I had to think about that.  How did I know these were really townspeople?  What if they were a bunch of scavengers who’d developed an elaborate scheme to rob people?  Even if they were really townspeople, how did I know they would allow us through?

“Step away from the guns,” White Beard said.

I decided it was too risky.  I called, “That’s okay, we were just leaving.”  I picked up my rifle.  One of the men pointed his rifle at me.

I shouted, “Come on Emma, let’s go.”

She started back my way.  My eyes never left the man with the rifle.  He relaxed a bit and the barrel drifted toward the pavement.  I gave Emma a fatherly hug and stuck the pistol back in her shorts.  I whispered, “Let’s get out of here.”

“What about food?”

“It’s not going to happen like this.”  I started walking away from the men – backwards.

Emma asked, “What are you doing?  That looks weird.”

“I don’t care how it looks.  I don’t trust anyone out here.  I’ve been shot in the back before, and believe me it hurts.”

I kept the rifle pointed to one side, not wanting to pose an imminent threat.  But if one of the men so much as flinched, I was ready to waste them all.  They likewise kept their eyes on me, weapons at the ready.  After a bit I turned around and walked normally.  I figured if they were scavengers they probably would have shot us by now.  They got what they wanted, to repel the outsiders.  I suppose that had been the cop’s goal as well.  Too bad he’d been such an asshole.  If he’d shown a modicum of respect like these men had, he might still be breathing.

Once the men were out of sight, Emma asked, “Now what are we going to do?”

“We’re going to have to go around them through the woods.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I wish I was.  We have four options here Emma.  We can sit down and stay right here; we can go back to where we came from; we can go around them; or we can go through them.”

“Options,” she muttered.

“Yes, options.  Life is about choices.  Make the right choice and you win.  Make the wrong choice and you lose.  At any point in your life, you are the sum total of the choices you’ve made.”

“That’s heavy.”

“It is.”

She said, “Look, we already know there’s nothing back where we came from.  We’re not staying here, and I don’t know what you mean by go through them but I’m guessing you mean kill all of them, right?”  She looked to me for confirmation.

I didn’t deny it.

She said, “Okay, let’s go around them, then.  If you can lead us through the woods then it’s definitely better than killing them.”

The brush along the roadside was thick but not impassible.  I made my way to a small opening and Emma followed.  The palm trees grow naturally in Florida and they’re everywhere.  They all seem to be about knee-high and the palms are fairly sharp.  We picked our way through maybe a mile of them along with the other underbrush and lots of spider webs.  I wasn’t certain but it felt like we’d gone far enough to be beyond the men’s position.  I was about to suggest we cut back toward the road when I saw a clearing up ahead.  We trudged a little further and a house came into view.  We had stumbled on a neighborhood.  I picked my way through the brush and we found ourselves standing at the edge of somebody’s backyard.  I wondered what we must look like to anyone watching from inside the house.  Two filthy jungle people, no doubt.

I said, “Let’s see if anybody’s home.”

Emma looked exhausted.  “I don’t care if they’re home or not.  I’m starving and I’m dying of thirst.”

It was mid-to-late afternoon.  We had blown right through lunch and the crackers we’d eaten for breakfast hadn’t stuck around very long.  I reached into my bag and handed her a bottled water.  “Don’t drink it all,” I said.  “It’s the last one we’ve got.”

We shared the water standing at the edge of the backyard.  Then I traversed the overgrown grass with Emma close behind.  The house was a single story with wood siding painted a light shade of beige.  A chimney rose above a steeply-sloped roof.  A similar model sat on either side.  It was one of those neighborhoods where every house looks the same.  There were no fences so I hurried to limit our exposure to prying eyes.  When we reached the sliding glass door I gave it a try but it was locked.  I cupped my hands over the glass and looked inside.  I thought I might have seen movement but I wasn’t sure.  I leaned my rifle against the wall and removed my backpack, retrieving the crowbar and hatchet.  A few well-placed pulls with the crowbar and the flimsy door came open.

Suddenly I saw a man inside the house.  “Hey!” he yelled.  “What do you think you’re doing?”

The crowbar clattered to the ground and I firmly grasped the hatchet in both hands.

Chapter 26

There wasn’t much of a struggle.  Aiming for his chest, I chopped the man as hard as I could.  The ax went deep inside and blood sprayed out like a firehose.  I’d either scored a direct hit on his heart or severed a major artery.  The force of the blow knocked him to the floor and I landed right on top of him, still clutching the ax.  His eyes stared blankly ahead.  He was already dead.

Emma screamed, “Steen!  Jesus Christ!  You killed him!”

I shushed her through clenched teeth.  “The neighbors!”

Emma and I stood over the man for a minute.  She shook her head and muttered, “Jesus Christ.”

I placed a foot on the man’s stomach and with considerable effort managed to extract the ax from his chest.  I motioned for her to stay back.  I whispered, “I need to check the rest of the house. Stay here and don’t shoot me.”

She retreated to the broken door.

The family room ran together with the kitchen, which ran together with the dining room.  The builder had been stingy with the wallboard in this house.  With the ax in hand, I moved toward what I assumed was the master bedroom.

I looked down and saw blood dripping from the ax.  I was leaving a trail on the carpet.  My God, what had I become?  An ax murderer?  I had literally become an ax murderer.  And what was I going to do if I found other people in the house?  Was I going to kill them with the ax, too?  What if I found a child or even a baby?  And what was the point?  To maybe score a meal or two and some water?  What had this world come to when a man’s life was worth nothing more than a paltry meal?

I began to question everything: my mental and physical condition, my preparation as a survivalist, even my will to live.  I questioned whether this was worth it anymore.  I had become a scavenger.  A worthless, lowlife scavenger.  No better than the thugs downtown who went door-to-door robbing people of everything they owned.  But what other option did I have at this point?  I was out of food and water.  What?  Were we supposed to go out in the woods and live off the land?  Scenes from a survival show flashed through my head, people who’d been dropped off in the woods, naked no less, with virtually nothing in terms of survival gear.  They were expected to survive for 21 days with no food or water.  Entertaining?  Yes.  Something I wanted to do?  Not in this lifetime.  That was not my kind of survival.  My idea of surviving is packing the right stuff in my bugout bag.

Another hunger pang shot through me.  I marveled at what a motivator hunger is.  Again, thinking about the survival show, I recalled that most of the people on the show pretty much just starved.  I doubted I could do that.  I don’t think I have 21 days worth of fat on me.

Fuck it, I thought.  I have come this far, I wasn’t going to turn back now.  I rounded the corner on the master bedroom and raised the ax.  There was no one there.  Same for the garage.

“It’s me,” I said as I stepped back through the family room.  Emma was sitting on the floor, back against the wall.  She didn’t even have her gun out.  I crossed the room and made my way to the other bedrooms.  Opening the door to the last room, I was met with a surprise.

In the center of a dark room sat a little boy on his bed.  He looked scared.  Holy shit.  Holy fucking shit.  Karma had finally come around to bite me in the ass.  I dropped the ax outside the door.  Then I plastered a fake smile on my face and said, “Hey, buddy.”  The boy looked to be about four years old.  I called over my shoulder, “Emma?”  To the boy, big smile: “Hold on little buddy, I’ll be right back.”

I backed out of the bedroom and came face to face with Emma.  I grabbed her and rushed her into the family room.  “There’s a fucking kid in there!” I hissed.

“A kid?”

“A fucking kid.”

“Fuck.”

“A boy, like maybe three or four.  Fuck, I don’t know.  Fuck!  Now what are we going to do?  Fucking shit.  Fuck.  I just killed his fucking dad.  Fuck.  He probably heard me do it.”

“Steen, what the fuck are we going to do?”

Alright, I told myself.  I was the adult here.  I had to get a hold of myself.  “Okay,” I said.  “Listen.  You go in there and be nice to him.  Play with him or something.  I’m going to finish what we came here to do and then I’ll figure out something to do with the kid.”

Emma looked shocked.  “Steen!  You’re not going to—”

“No!  I’m not going to kill him!  Jesus!  We have to get him out of here without him seeing the body.  Then we’ll give him to somebody who can take care of him.”

“Like who?”

“I don’t know.”

Emma rubbed her face.

I said, “I don’t fucking know!  Just go in there and play with him.”

She dropped her hands and gave me a hopeless look.

I added, “And don’t let him come out.”

I went into the kitchen and started rummaging through the cabinets.  I couldn’t stop thinking about the child.  What a fucking nightmare.  I could not believe I had just killed some kid’s father.  I was a monster.  Worse than a monster.  I was a monster’s monster.  I couldn’t stop with the self-flagellation.  The whole thing had gotten out of control.  I’ve killed my share of men before – plenty of them.  But they all deserved it.  Most of them, anyway.  Well, some of them did.

There wasn’t much left in the kitchen.  The refrigerator was empty and the door was propped open.  The sink was full of dirty dishes and there were cockroaches crawling everywhere.  Roaches are at the head of the class when it comes to surviving nuclear wars.  I found a couple cans of beans and soup, a small can of potted meat, a half-empty bottle of vegetable oil, and some bottled water.  I loaded up everything except the oil.

Back in the boy’s bedroom, Emma had managed to put the boy somewhat at ease.  They were sitting on the bed and looked at me.  I plastered on another fake smile and said, “Okay buddy, we’re going to play a little game now.”  My voice was sugary-sweet in that tone I’d heard fathers use with their children.  Hearing it typically made me want to puke, but now here I was doing it.

“Come on, buddy,” I said, the smile never leaving my face.  I picked him up.  “We’re going to play stay the night at the neighbor’s house.”  I covered the kid’s eyes and quickly rushed him to the back door.  I stopped for a second and turned to Emma who had followed me.  I said, “Stay here.”

“Are you fu—?  Are you kidding me?”

“Just for a minute.  I’ll explain later.  It’s important.  I’ll be right back.”

She sighed.

Five minutes later I returned to find Emma sitting on the couch staring at the body.  She gasped when I came through the door.  “What is that on your face?” she asked.  “You scared the shit out of me.”

“It’s a balaclava,” I replied.  I removed my helmet and the sock-like covering from my face.  “Come on,” I urged, “we need to get out of here.”

“Steen!” she protested as I dragged her out the door.

I rushed her around to the front yard and we hit the street in full stride.

Emma stopped.  “Steen!  Let go of me!  Tell me what happened.”

“I will but we have to keep moving.”

She jerked her hand away from me.  “No!  I’m not going anywhere with you until you tell me what happened!”

“Will you keep your voice down, please?” I hissed.  “I put on a mask and took the kid down the street to a neighbor’s.”

“You didn’t kill him?”

“No, I didn’t kill him!  Jesus Christ!”

“You promise?”

“Yes, I promise!”

“Are you sure the neighbors were home?”

“Yes they were home, I talked to them.  Now will you come on?”

She relaxed a bit.  “Okay.”

I gently pulled her and she followed.

“What did they say about that thing on your face?  The bala—?”

“I made up some bullshit about black ops…special forces…missing child…we’d be back—”

“We’re coming back?”

“No, we’re not coming back.  It is what it is.  This is war.  Think about Nazi Germany, what went on there.  You think some crazy shit didn’t happen then?  You think those people weren’t fucked up?”

“What—?”

I shook my head and kept moving.  We quickly made our way out of the neighborhood.  Between myself, Emma, and the kid, I was doing a great job of generating business for the psychiatric profession.

Chapter 27

We walked the main road of the little town and in no time we found ourselves in the town square.  I had visited there years earlier, just passing through really.  The square had been nicely preserved and it made you feel like you’d stepped back in time.  There were quaint little shops like an ice cream parlor, a barber shop, beauty salon, candy store, furniture store, and a dog groomer.  Of course they were all closed but what struck me was none of the windows were broken.  Also, some people were out on the streets.  Not many, but a few.  In no time we found ourselves on the receiving end of some less-than-friendly looks.  We quickly realized we weren’t welcome there.

“Steen,” Emma said without moving her lips.  “Why is everybody staring at us?”

“It’s the gun and the body armor,” I said.  “Plus, in a small town everyone knows everyone, so I guess they know we’re not from around here.”

“Well,” she said as she continued talking without moving her lips, a skill I presumed she learned while gossiping about other girls in their presence.  “How about we get the fuck out of here before one of these small town freakazoids does something to us?”

I suppressed a laugh.  Small town freakazoids?  I imagined they would have an equally unflattering characterization of us.  “Tell you what,” I said, “I’ll lose the guns and the helmet and put my vest under my shirt.  Maybe that will help.”

We stepped into an alcove and I pulled the pin from my rifle and broke it down.  I managed to fit it inside my backpack although the barrel was sticking out.  The bag swallowed up the pistols, too.  The helmet wouldn’t go inside so I suspended it beneath the bag by its straps.

Emma studied me.  “That looks much better.”

“Thank you.  Only thing is, now I’m totally defenseless.”

“Join the club.  Besides, I don’t think you have too much to worry about here.”

I didn’t mention the concealed carry pistol in my pocket.

Back out on the street, Emma said, “Please tell me you got something for us to eat back there.”

“Yes.”  I told her what was on the menu for the evening.

“It’s fine, whatever.  I just need to eat, I’m starving.”

We spotted a married couple across the street coming our way.  They were retirement age and had probably been married all their lives.  The woman whispered something into her husband’s ear.  They glared at us.

I said, “Ix-nay on the armor-nay.  It isn’t working.”

Emma said, “What?”

“People are still staring at us.”

After they had passed, Emma called, “Excuse me.  Excuse me.”  She crossed the street and ran after them.

I trotted along behind her.  “What the hell are you doing?”  Now I was talking without moving my lips.

“I want to know what their problem is.”  She closed in on them and said, “Excuse me.  Hey!”

Finally, they stopped and turned to face us.  Emma said, “I’m sorry, but I was wondering if I could ask you a question?”

The old man’s eyes were like saucers as he took in Emma’s shirt.  He was completely bald save for a few unruly wisps that blew in the breeze.  He wore a plain red shirt tucked into a pair of tan khaki pants.  His shirt pocket held a black glasses case.  He was barely taller than his wife in that way that some people tend to shrink as they age.  He said, “Yes?”  His voice was weak and uncertain.

Emma asked, “Why were you staring at us back there?”

The woman gave Emma a disapproving look.  She had a bushy head of white hair and her entire face was covered with wrinkles.  She wore a pale yellow blouse with an ankle-length brown patterned skirt.  “Why were we staring at you?” she repeated in a high-pitched voice.  “My goodness, young lady.  Just look at the way you are dressed.  Your filthy teats are on display for the whole world to see.  Have you no shame?  Shame on you!  No daughter of mine would go out dressed like that.”

Emma didn’t hesitate for a second.  “You jealous, grandma?  At least my tits aren’t bounding off my knees like yours are.”

The woman’s hand flew to her mouth. “Why, I never!”

The man leaned in and shook a finger at Emma.  “Now you see here, young lady.  Don’t you talk to my wife that way.”

“What’s the matter, grandpa?  Leave your little blue pills at home?”

I started pulling at Emma.  I said, “I’m sorry folks.  She didn’t mean anything.  She’s…been under a lot of stress lately.”

Emma lifted her shirt.  “See my filthy tits?  Want to see my cunt too, grandpa?”

The woman shrieked.

I tugged on Emma’s arm and said, “She’s off her meds.  Really, I’m sorry.”

Emma continued, “Probably give you a fucking heart attack.”  She laughed and pulled her shirt down.

After I finally managed to pull her away, I said, “You really know how to make friends, don’t you?”

“Fuck them,” Emma said.  “I don’t have to take their shit.”

“Look,” I said.  “Maybe we can get you another shirt.  Something a little less revealing.”  I smiled at her, the troubled youth that she was.

She shrugged.  “Sure, whatever.”  She was suddenly cool and her voice was suddenly flat and emotionless.

We walked to the end of the block and circled back around behind the buildings.  We were greeted by dumpsters, weeds, and wooden crates.  On the other side of the crates sat an old picnic table which served as a smoking area.  We made our way to the table and sat down.  I removed a couple of cans from my backpack and opened them with my Leatherman.  “Soup or beans?”

She winced and said, “I guess I’ll have the soup.”

I set the can in front of her and handed her a bottled water and a spoon.  The soup was beef and barley of the condensed variety.  It was packed solidly in the can.  I took a bite of my pork & beans.  They were cold but I could still taste the familiar flavor.

“Yum,” Emma said.

I looked at her.  “Seriously?”

“No.”  She laughed.  “I was being ironic.  It tastes like donkey balls.”

I laughed.  “We’ve got to find a better way to get supplies.  Breaking into people’s houses is not working.”  I shook my head.  Probably better not to discuss the fiasco with the boy.  I took another bite of beans.  “Any suggestions?”

Emma shrugged.  “I dunno.”  She ate her soup. “You’re the survivalist.”

My eyes fell to her shirt again.  Her nipples clearly showed through the thin fabric.  Thanks to all the new rips there was more breast than shirt.  Emma said, “Are you staring at my tits?”

I adjusted my line of sight and held her gaze.  “No, I was just thinking.”

“Hmmm.  About what?”

“Tomorrow we need to check out some stores.  Maybe we’ll get lucky and find something left in a backroom or something.  We’re pretty far from the city, you know.”

Emma didn’t respond.  I saw a twinkle in her eye and then she lifted her shirt.  This girl definitively had exhibitionist issues.  “Look,” she said.  “This will take your mind off your shitty dinner.”  She pinched her nipples.  Then she diddled with them and I watched as they stiffened and grew.  “Mmm,” she cooed.  “I’m making myself horny.”  She closed her eyes and dropped a hand beneath the table.  “My pussy is getting wet.  Wanna see?”

I was speechless, but I was also hard as a rock.  How had we gone from talking about our survival to her masturbating?  And what was there to spur her mood?  The cold food?  Being insulted by that old lady?  I had always thought – been told actually, by women no less – that a woman’s arousal is a mysterious, mystical thing.  That women need certain things to get them in the mood.  Love and affection, kindness and commitment, wine and romance, song and dancing, flowers and candy, poetry and jewelry.  Even after all that sometimes they still might not be in the mood.  Emma seemed to be the exact opposite.  Perhaps it could be attributed to teenage hormones.  Whatever the reason, she never ceased to amaze me.

I snapped out of it and said, “Emma!”

She laughed and pulled her shirt down.  “You dirty old man.  You like watching me play with myself.”

I laughed, letting her know that I knew she’d just been teasing. Hadn’t she?  My other head didn’t know the difference.  We finished our dinner and shuffled back out to the street.  A fast food restaurant announced the end of the historic district.  A block later the street turned residential.  “Let’s go down that road up there.”  I pointed.  “We need to find a place to spend the night.”

The road led to a neighborhood lined with pristine, well-preserved houses that looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting.  There were no shattered windows, no broken doors, no scavengers lurking around every bend.  We marveled at the peaceful haven that was this little town.  Just then, we discovered how it had stayed that way.

“Hold it right there!” I heard somebody say.

“Get them!” someone else shouted.

I wheeled around to see a group of men closing in on us.  I reached for the pocket pistol.

I heard, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

When I looked up there was a man pointing a shotgun at my head.

One of the other men demanded, “Get your hands where I can see them.  Now!”

Chapter 28

Emma and I were surrounded by seven men with guns.  We put our hands up.

The men ranged in ages from thirties to sixties.  Like those we’d seen at the city limit, they were armed with an assortment of shotguns, hunting rifles, and pistols.  They looked like a bunch of regular men who under different circumstances might have been mowing their lawns or enjoying a round of golf.  The one with the shotgun trained on my head said, “Check his pockets, Russ.”

I said, “You want to put that thing down?  We’re not going anywhere.”

Shotgun said, “Shut up, scumbag.”

Russ frisked me and yelled, “Gun!  Gun!”  He pulled the tiny pistol out of my pocket and paraded it around as if he’d won a prize.

The gun emboldened a couple of the other men to point their weapons at my head.

“Look,” I said.  “We are not scavengers.  We’re just a couple of folks passing through.  We don’t mean anyone any harm.”

“Really?” one of the men said.  “That’s what you said when we stopped you up the road earlier.”

I studied his face, then I recognized him.

He said, “I thought you said you was leaving.”

I didn’t respond.

“How’d you get in here?”

Again, I remained silent.

Someone started pulling off my backpack.  I resisted.  I got bull-rushed by two men and the next thing I knew I was face down on the pavement with my hands behind my back.  Someone pulled off my bag, then they zip-tied my hands together and yanked me to my feet.  Emma looked terrified as they tied her hands, too.

“More guns in here,” said the man with my bag.

“Let’s go,” Shotgun said.  He appeared to be in charge.  He looked at me and pointed to the neighborhood entrance.  “March.”

Emma and I retraced our steps with the men close behind.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“You said you were just passing through,” Shotgun said.  “We’re taking you to the city limit.  On the other side of town.”

“Thanks,” I said sarcastically.

“Don’t mention it.”

I said, “You could face kidnapping charges for this.  You know that?  You’re holding us against our will.”

“Please,” Shotgun said dismissively.  “The mayor declared martial law shortly after the bomb hit.  We could kill you right here if we wanted to and the town would throw us a parade.”

I said nothing.  We walked in silence for a while.  I heard a couple of the men whispering behind me.  Something to the effect of, ‘Did you see the tits on that girl?’

As we approached the city limit, I saw a different group of men standing guard.  The four men watched as we approached.

“What’s going on?” one of them shouted.

“Scavengers,” Shotgun replied.  He added, “Snuck around our post on the other side.”

We stopped as we reached the men.  Shotgun pointed down the road and said, “That’s where you’re going, pal.  Hit the road and don’t look back.”

I felt someone behind me snip the zip-tie, then they cut Emma loose.  I rubbed my wrists.

Shotgun said, “If we see you here again, we have orders to shoot.  Is that clear?”

“Got it.”  I held out a hand.  “My bag.”

“You’ll get it after this is over.  Same with the weapons.  Come back to city hall after martial law has been lifted and fill out a request.  Make sure you bring some ID.  In the meantime, your property will be tagged and put into storage.”  He pulled a handful of tags from his pocket and clicked a pen.  “Name?”

I said, “You’ve got to be kidding.  That bag has critical survival gear in it.  We won’t last a day out here without it.”

Shotgun shook his head.  “Sorry.  You should have thought about that before you snuck in here.  Listen, have you noticed how well we’ve been holding up?  How we’ve got food and water?  That’s no accident.  We learned the hard way during the EMP attack.  You’ve got to take care of your own and keep out the riff raff.”

“Look,” I said, “I’m going to ask you one more time.  Please give me my things back.”

“Steen,” Emma pleaded.  “Just let it go.”

“Sorry,” said Shotgun.

I glared at him.  His eyes hardened.

I felt the blood pounding in my ears.  Heard it.  Everything slowed down.  Off in the distance I heard Emma say my name.  There was a man standing next to Shotgun with a large revolver in his hand.  As I continued the staring contest with Shotgun, I pinpointed the pistol’s location with my peripheral vision.  Without warning, I lunged at the man and stripped the gun from his hand.  I grabbed Shotgun’s arm and spun him around and put him in a headlock.  I held the revolver tightly to his head.  “Drop it!” I shouted.

The shotgun clattered to the pavement.

“Steen!” Emma screamed.

Russ aimed his deer rifle at Emma’s head and said, “Shoot him and I’ll shoot her!”  His voice wavered.

I stared at Russ.  “Do it.  She means nothing to me.”

Emma screamed again.

“That’s his daughter,” Shotgun croaked.

I tightened my grip around Shotgun’s neck.  “Shut up, you fuck!  She’s not my daughter.”  I regarded the revolver in my hand.  Blued steel, wood grip, six inch barrel, Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum.  I pulled the hammer back on the big gun and ground the barrel into his temple.

“Alright, alright!” Shotgun gasped.  “Give him his stuff back!  Give it back!”

The man holding my backpack tossed it at my feet.

“The pocket pistol, too,” I said.  “And don’t throw it.”

Another man produced the pistol and set it next to my bag.

“Get on your knees,” I growled.  Shotgun sank to his knees and I repositioned the revolver on top of his head.

“I’ll kill her,” Russ insisted.

I reached down with my other hand and picked up the pocket pistol.  Keeping the .44 Magnum pressed to the top of Shotgun’s head, I pointed the little pistol at Russ.  “Do it,” I said, “and it will be the last thing you ever do.”

Russ blinked.  A street-hardened thug he was not.  The look on his face said this wasn’t worth it.  He swallowed hard and lowered the rifle.

I said, “All of you, set your weapons on the ground or I blow his fucking brains out, right here, right now, right in front of you.  I swear to God I’ll do it.”

One by one the men set their weapons on the ground.  Emma ran to me and started crying.

I said, “Round up their weapons.”

She did as I asked, visibly shaken.

“Hey—” Shotgun started.

I nearly pressed the barrel into his skull.  “Shut up, you mother fucker!  Shut up!  Shut up!  You’ll get them back.  That’s more than you were willing to do for me.”

“I said—” Shotgun started again.

I growled, “Guns later aren’t worth dick, fuckhead.  What good is getting your gun back after you’re already dead?”

He didn’t answer.

I removed the gun from Shotgun’s head and took a step back.  “We’re going to leave your little town just like you asked.  We’re going to walk down the road and set your weapons down.  When you see us do that, walk, do not run, to come get them.  Anyone takes a shot at us after you get your guns back, dies.  Are we clear?”

Grumbles, but no dissenters.

Emma and I split the guns between us and we started walking.

After a bit, Emma said, “You son of a bitch.”  She gave me a frosty look that could cut ice.  “You told them to shoot me.”

“They weren’t going to shoot you,” I said.  “Or me either, for that matter.  That’s what you do.  You call their bluff.  He was not going to kill you.  He didn’t have it in him.  I could see it in his eyes.”

“Hmmmf!  Well, I’m glad you’re so sure of yourself.  I could be dead right now.”

“Emma?  Emma!”

She stared straight ahead.

I glanced over my shoulder.  The men were milling around, some watched with their hands on their hips.

A while later Emma said, “These are getting heavy.”

I shot another glance over my shoulder.  We had put close to a quarter mile behind us.  “Okay,” I said.  “This is far enough.  We can leave them here.”

We dumped the guns on the ground, then one by one I began unloading them.

“What are you doing?” Emma asked.

“Making it harder for them to shoot us.”

I dumped the ammunition another 50 yards down the road.  The men were coming our way.  I retrieved my rifle from my bag and reassembled it.

Emma shot several nervous glances over her shoulder.  “Steen, what if they start shooting at us?  Do you think they will?”

“Emma, you just watched me single-handedly disarm eleven men.  Trust me.”

She didn’t respond.  Instead, she looked nervously over her shoulder again.

I fished Emma’s gun out of the bag and handed it to her.  “Here, maybe this will make you feel better.  If they start shooting, drop to the ground and shoot back.  Okay?”  I thought maybe a little self-empowerment might make her feel better.  It didn’t. She stuck the pistol in her shorts and began walking even faster.

Eventually we reached the moment of truth.  I saw a couple of the men stoop to pick up their weapons.

Emma saw it too.  Her hands started shaking.  “Steen, they found their guns!  Oh God, they found their guns!”

Chapter 29

I studied Emma.  “Will you relax?” I said.  I put a hand on her shoulder.  “At this distance they’d have to be crackerjack shots to hit us.  Plus, it’s almost dark.”

Emma looked worried.

I said, “They haven’t even found their ammunition yet.  And once they do, they have to sort it all out.  Plus half of them had shotguns.  Shotguns are no good at this distance.  We’re safe, Emma.  Don’t worry.”

She seemed to relax a little, though we continued walking at a stiff pace.  Eventually the men dropped out of sight.

The landscape was pretty barren.  After a bit I spotted a gas station up ahead.  I figured it would have to do for the night.  We traversed the parking lot and made our way to the door.

“All the glass is broken,” Emma observed.

“Yeah.”

“It’ll be like we’re sleeping outside.”

I readied the rifle.  The door was locked so I stooped and went through a broken window.  Emma followed.  Inside it smelled like spoiled milk.  Shattered glass crunched under our feet.  The shelves had been picked clean.  I used the rifle light to check the place out.

Emma asked, “Steen, where are we going to sleep?  There’s glass all over the floor.”

“Hang on a second, I’m going to check the backroom.”

I tried the door but it was locked.  “Well,” I said.  “This is it.  We’ll just stay out here.”  I toed glass with my boot.

Emma said, “I don’t know about this.”

Despite her objections, Emma helped me clear a spot large enough for us to lie down.  We sat on the floor and a moment later I heard thunder.  “Great,” Emma said, “Now it’s going to rain.”

Despite the fact that night had fallen, it was still hot outside.  Emma and I used our shoes for pillows.  We lied side by side on the floor and stared at the ceiling.

Emma said, “This sucks.  I don’t think I can sleep like this.”

There was a flash of lightning and then a loud clap of thunder.

I said, “Let’s be thankful we have a roof over our heads.  The rain will help cool things off.”

Emma didn’t respond.

I thought about what I’d just said.  Had I become a narrator of the obvious?  I’d always had trouble talking to women.  Talking about anything meaningful, that is.  It was funny.  I generally got along great with men.  But with women, it was different.  I sometimes sensed they felt something was missing.  Men are fine keeping the conversation light and on the surface.  In fact, most men prefer it.  Men get uncomfortable if the conversation steers into anything personal.  We’re hopelessly homophobic and subconsciously I guess we equate any form of emotional intimacy with physical intimacy.  Women, on the other hand, crave emotional intimacy.  If their man is unwilling or unable to fulfill their need for emotional intimacy, they will get it someplace else.  It might be with a friend, a romance novel, or in the arms of another man.  Emotional intimacy to women is what sex is to men.  It’s a need, not a want, and it’s going to happen one way or another.

As the rain began to fall, I went with my old standby.  I asked, “How are you feeling?”

“Shhh, you’re ruining the mood,” she replied.

“What?”

It was then that I realized her arm was moving.  She was masturbating.  While I had been off in my own little world pontificating the differences between men and woman, Emma had slipped a hand in her panties.

I said, “Are you doing what I think you’re doing?”

“Yes.  Now be quiet, please.”  She grunted as she rubbed, redoubling her efforts.  “Oh, yeah.  Fuck yeah, that’s it.  Oh, that feels good.”  She turned to me.  “I can’t sleep until I rub one out.”

“You’re incredible,” I said.  I shook my head.  I reached over and cupped a breast.

She shooed my hand away.  “Don’t, you’ll mess me up.  I need to concentrate.”

“Okay.”  Duly admonished, I sat back and enjoyed the show.  I couldn’t really see anything, but it was erotic nonetheless.  I swelled down below and I began to wonder how I was going to get to sleep.

“Oh yes,” Emma whispered.  “Yes.  Fuck, my pussy is on fire.”  She rubbed even harder and let out a long moan.  “Oh, yes!  Ah, I’m cumming.  I’m going to cum!  I’m cumming!  Aaaaaaaaaah!”

She moaned throughout her orgasm, then panted for a moment as she struggled to catch her breath.  She held herself down there for a minute, then she quietly she folded her hands on her stomach.  Just as quickly as it had begun, it was over.  She grinned and said, “Good night.”

I cleared my throat.  “You feel better?”

“Yes.  Good night.”

“Good night.”

I felt a little left out.  What a contrast to the night before.  I wondered if she was still mad about the whole ‘go ahead and shoot her’ thing?  Who knows?  A familiar feeling washed over me.  The feeling that I would never understand women.  Never ever, not as long as I lived.  My erection quickly faded and I succumbed to exhaustion.  I listened to the steady drumbeat of the rain on the roof and moments later I was fast asleep.

***

The next morning I again awoke before Emma.  She was sleeping on her side facing away from me, her head resting on her shoe.  I put my boots on and quietly stepped outside for a minute.  When I came back, Emma was awake.  She rubbed her eyes and said, “Hey.”

I said, “Good morning.”

“Where’d you go?”

“To take a—”  I hooked a thumb.  “I had to use the men’s room.”

“Oh.  You can say ‘take a piss’ around me.  I’m not some dainty little lady, you know.”

“Uh…yeah.  I know.  Okay.”

She smiled.  “Is there a little girl’s room out there, too?”

“Yes, I think so.”

She put on her shoes and got to her feet.  “Oh man.  I am stiff.”  She rubbed her butt and stretched.

“Yeah, sleeping on the floor takes a little getting used to.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.”  She stepped through the broken window and disappeared around a corner.  A moment later I heard a scream.  I grabbed my rifle and ran outside.  Emma held her shorts in her hand and was naked from the waist down.  She grabbed me.

“What’s the matter?”

“There’s a snake!  I saw a snake!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!” she screamed.  “It rattled at me!”

I asked, “Where?”

She pointed.  “Over there.”

Cautiously, I made my way over to have a look.  All of the sudden I heard a dry rattle.  Coiled up in the weeds was a big, thick rattlesnake.  It had to be at least five feet long.  It looked angry and ready to strike.  Its tail rattled rapidly.  I debated whether to kill it or just let it be.  I looked at Emma.  She squatted down.  “Sorry,” she said.  “I still had to go.”

I refocused my attention on the snake.  I decided to kill it.  I aimed and fired.  Emma screamed.  It was a direct hit; hard to miss from ten feet away.  I went back inside.  Emma was drip-drying as I stepped around the puddle she’d made.

Inside I traded the rifle for my knife.  I retraced my steps and proceeded to prepare the snake for breakfast.  I cut off its head, gutted it and skinned it.  I carved a point on a stick and threaded the thick white flesh in a zigzag pattern.

The wood outside was too wet to start a fire.  Back inside, I used the hatchet to demolish a section of the wood counter.  I ripped up cardboard boxes for kindling and a short time later Emma and I were dining on grilled rattlesnake.  Emma was a little unsure at first, but after taking a bite she said, “This isn’t half bad.”

“See, we’re survivalists,” I said.  I took a bite of the tough meat and chewed.

“It could use a little salt.”

I nodded.

I felt the snake was safe to eat.  We were close to 50 miles from ground zero and although the area had surely received some fallout, the radiation should have diminished to a relatively safe level by now.

When we’d finished eating, Emma stood and held out her arms.  I stood and Emma gave me a hug.  She said, “I feel so much better now, thank you.”

“For what?”

“Thank you for saving me from the snake.  Thank you for cooking him for our breakfast.  Thank you for saving me from those men yesterday.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.”  She hugged me again and kissed me on the lips.

I smiled as my hand fell to her bottom.  I patted her behind and said, “You’re welcome.”

She pulled me close and kissed me again.  She whispered, “Let me thank you a different way.”  She smiled as she ran a finger down my chest and continued south.  She cupped my crotch just as she’d done when we first met.  I was already hard from kissing her, and probably some from the night before.  She dropped to her knees and unzipped my fly. She pulled my cock out and licked up and down its length.  Then her tongue did a couple of laps around the head before taking it in her mouth.  Her head began bobbing up and down in that familiar rhythm and I knew this wasn’t going to take long.

As I was enjoying this, I became aware of the public nature of our tryst.  I thought about moving it inside, but I didn’t want to spoil the mood.  Emma seemed to be especially attuned to her moods.  She was really going to town on me at this point and I didn’t want her to stop.

About that time Murphy reared its ugly head and something just had to spoil it.  I spotted a man on the road coming our way.  Perfect.  Just perfect.  He was wearing camouflage and a backpack and held a long gun.

Emma pulled off of me and gasped, “God, I love your dick.  It so fucking big!  I can barely get my mouth around it.”  She slurped me back in again.

I said, “Um, Emma?  Somebody’s coming.”

She stopped again and said, “Good baby, cum.  Shoot your big load down my throat again.”

I debated.  Should I stop her or just let it go on?  I thought for a minute, then I evaluated my progress.  On a scale of 1 to 10 I was maybe at an 8.  Sometimes I get stuck around 9 for some reason.  In debating what to do, I realized I’d lost my focus.  I reevaluated.  Damn, now I was back to a 7 again.  This wasn’t going to work.

“Emma,” I said as I pulled back.  “There’s a man coming down the road and I think he can see us.”

Chapter 30

Emma wiped her mouth as she stood and took a look around.  Meanwhile I was busy stuffing myself back in my pants.  This was embarrassing.  I definitely do not have an exhibitionist streak in me.

As the man got closer, he and I began to do the dance.  He eyed me, I eyed him.  He held his shotgun in both hands, I held my rifle in both hands.  He pointed his gun in my general direction, I did the same with the rifle.

As he reached a distance where a perfunctory greeting was in order, the man called, “Good morning.”  He was maybe 5’-9”, about 175 pounds, with light brown hair and a slight beard.  He was probably in his early thirties and he seemed to be in good physical shape.  I was almost certain he had seen Emma giving me a blowjob.  When he got a little closer, the shit-eating grin on his face confirmed it.

“Morning,” I said.

Unfortunately, he mistook that for an invitation.  He altered his course and started heading straight for us.  I tightened my grip on the rifle.  I felt like shooting the dickhead just for interrupting us.  I could see he was looking more at Emma than at me.  He carried the shotgun a little looser now, in one hand with the barrel pointing down.  I sighed.  I felt like saying, ‘No, asshole, she’s not giving out free blowjobs.’  What he should have done was pretend not to see us and walk on by.  Instead, here he was standing right in front of us.  My erection had wilted and I felt a good case of blue balls coming on.

He gestured to the gas station and asked, “Anything left inside?”

I shook my head.  “You can have a look for yourself if you like, but we didn’t find a thing.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”  He extended a hand.  “Barry Miller.”

“Steen O’Mannon.”

He turned his attention to Emma and repeated, “I’m Barry.”

She awkwardly shook his hand.  “Emma.”

Barry asked, “So what are you two doing here?”

Fucker.  Like he didn’t know.  He knew exactly what we were doing.  I replied, “Just…you know, trying to survive.”

He hooked a thumb and said, “You been through that whackadoodle town back there?”

“No,” I lied.  It occurred to me that he could be an envoy sent from the town to try and find us.

“You headed towards the city then?” he asked.

“No, away from it.  We bypassed the town.”

“How’d you do that?”

“Through the woods.”  My story was getting a little unbelievable, but I was stuck with it now.  I couldn’t tell him we were headed into the city, that would be stupid.  And we sure as hell didn’t live at the gas station.  I asked, “What about you?”

“They escorted me through.  A posse of men met me at the city line.  They took my gun and walked me across town.  Then they gave it back to me and told me not to come back.”

He’d certainly received better treatment than we had.

Barry regarded Emma.  “You’re such a young thing, and pretty too.”

She blushed and said, “Thank you.”

Now I had seen everything.  Emma blushing.  I would not have believed it possible.

Barry said, “And you’re packing heat, too.”

She turned and stuck out her ass.  “Yep, sure am.”

He added, “And I’m not just talking about the gun.”

She laughed.

Wasn’t this wonderful?  Watching this dickhead flirt with Emma right in front of me.  “Well,” I said, “you’re probably anxious to get to where you’re going.  Don’t let us keep you.”

“No problem,” Barry said.  “Hey, I was thinking.  If we’re headed in the same direction, maybe you two would like to tag along with me.”

Now he was really pissing me off.  Tag along with you?  Some jackoff who looked like he was on his way to go duck hunting?  Here I was decked out in full body armor with an assault rifle and he had the nerve to ask if I wanted to tag along with him.  I rotated my neck and took a deep breath.  “Barry, we’ve managed pretty well so far.  Appreciate the offer, though.”

He wasn’t giving up.  “Oh yeah?  How so?  Where’d you come from?”

“Ground zero.”

“Impossible.”

“Not when you’re in a fallout shelter.”

“How’d you get here?”

“Walked.”

“What about the radiation?”

“I spent a week in the shelter, then I set out on foot in a Tyvek suit and a gas mask.”

“No shit?”

“That’s a fact.”

“Damn.”

We stared at one another for a moment.  Then to feign politeness, I asked, “What about you?  Where’d you come from?”

“I live west of the city,” he replied.  “I stayed home until I ran out of food.  The stores ran out of everything and people started looting.  I figured I’d better get out of there while I still could.”

“Steen,” Emma said.  “It might be nice to have some company.  Maybe Barry can help with the food situation.”  She smiled at me.  “What do you say?  Can he come with us?”

I looked at Emma and then at Barry.  Against my better judgment, I heard myself say, “Sure, why not?”

Emma and I gathered our things.  There was still some snake left so I wrapped it in plastic and put it in my bag.  I can’t say I was thrilled about Barry coming with us.  True, there is safety in numbers.  But this far out the threat had significantly diminished.  Plus, there’s the concept of two’s company, three’s a crowd.  That’s what I was really feeling.  I felt jealous, disrespected, and intruded upon.  Once in a lifetime I manage to hook up with a nymphomaniac teenage girl – someone who regarded fucking and sucking and playing with herself as just everyday things – and this jerkwad has to come along and ruins it.  I wasn’t so naïve as to not know why he wanted to join us.  He’d been drooling over Emma since the moment he laid eyes on her.  It didn’t help that her barely-there shirt looked like it might lose the battle with her breasts at any moment.

As we began walking, we exchanged typical get-to-know-you banter.  Where are you from, what do you do, and so on.  Emma and I shared our stories with Barry and he told us his.  He was a musician, graduated with a bachelor’s degree in music, tried teaching high school but didn’t like it, now he played in a country band and worked at a music store.  He was 29 years old, a Florida-native, he had never married and he had no children.  ‘None that I know of at least.’  Yuck, yuck, yuck.  Like no one’s ever heard that one before.  He liked to hunt and fish.  Whatever.  Emma seemed interested, I was busy hoping he’d spontaneously combust.

After we’d put probably six or eight miles behind us, we agreed to stop and eat lunch.

“You want to just sit in the grass?” Barry suggested.

“Sure,” Emma agreed.  “It will be like we’re having a picnic.”

I didn’t argue.  We were so far out in the boonies that there was literally nothing.  No stores or gas stations, just the occasional farmhouse.  Barry headed for a clearing on the side of the road and Emma and I followed.  We sat under the shade of an old oak tree.

I took off my backpack and removed the leftover snake.  I offered it to Emma.

She crinkled her nose and said, “What else you got?”

“Soup, beans, and potted meat.”

“What’s potted meat?”

“I don’t know.”

Barry shuffled through his backpack and said, “I’ve got some beef jerky you’re welcome to.”

I started in on the snake while Emma and Barry shared his beef jerky.

“Oh, God,” Emma exclaimed.  “It feels so good to get off my feet.”

“Yeah,” Barry laughed.  “So…I’ve been meaning to ask you.  How did you two meet?”

I said, “Emma asked if she could accompany me and I agreed.”

Barry looked at Emma.  “Oh, so you two are just—  This is just since the bomb.”

Emma nodded.

“Did your parents approve?”

“I don’t have ‘parents.’”  Air quotes for emphasis.  “I’ve never had a dad, and my mom is a total bitch.”

Barry quietly said, “Oh.”

I could see Barry doing the math in his head.  Runaway teen + daddy issues = easy whore.  I couldn’t argue.

After lunch we resumed walking.  A brief afternoon thunderstorm rolled in and we had to sit it out in an old dilapidated barn.  As nightfall approached, Barry spotted a shed and thought it would make a good place to spend the night.

As we walked the dirt road that led to the shed, Emma asked, “You think this place is safe?”

“It’ll be alright,” Barry said.  “I’ve slept in worse.”

The door was constructed of the same material as the shed: wood siding, only arranged in a vertical pattern.  It was more of a gate, really.  Barry pulled on it and insisted he go in first.  He stepped through the doorway with his shotgun in one hand and a flashlight in the other.  A moment later he reemerged and smiled at Emma.  “Come on in, the water’s fine.”

She giggled and stepped inside.  Reluctantly, I followed.  The shed was hot and musty inside.  It looked like it had been used to store cattle feed.  There was hay and kernels of corn all over the dirt floor.  I wondered about rats and snakes.  I would have much preferred sleeping outside.  I got out of my gear and leaned my rifle against the wall.

We ate dinner by the light of Barry’s battery-powered lantern.  Barry again shared a meal with Emma while I decided to unravel the mystery of potted meat.  The can was filled with a reddish-brown paste that smelled and tasted like meat, only it wasn’t very good.  I suppose if I’d had some crackers to spread it on it might not have been too bad, but I was fresh out.

After dinner Emma begged Barry to sing.  He feigned modesty then allowed himself to be persuaded.  He sang a song about a woman who’d left him and something about a pickup truck.  He was pretty good actually, hitting every note acapella.

After Barry finished Emma was beside herself.  She cooed, “Wow, that was so amazing.”

“Not bad,” I said.  “Excuse me while I visit the men’s room.”

I stepped outside into the cool night air.  As I stood there and did my business, I could hear Emma and Barry through the thin shed walls.  They were talking in hushed tones so I couldn’t make out what they were saying.  I heard girlish laughter and then silence.  I finished and headed back inside.  When I opened the door, Barry and Emma were locked in an embrace.  I stood there for a second in shock.  They were kissing passionately and were clearly oblivious to my presence.  I eyed my rifle and knew what I had to do.

Chapter 31

I have always enjoyed solitude, it’s never been a problem for me.  Some people go nuts when they’re alone, but I often prefer it.  Given the choice of being in a crowd or being alone, I’d choose solitude every time.

I can’t say I was surprised, Emma’s attention had been focused on Barry all day long.  She was clearly enamored with him.  I had no delusion that Emma was sleeping with me because I was the perfect man for her; I was almost 30 years her senior.  She was sleeping with me because she’s a slut and I was the only man around.  Barry was much closer to her age and better suited to her anyway.  Besides, it hadn’t felt right.  I felt like I was taking advantage of her, like I was robbing the cradle.

I’d thought about saying goodbye, but they seemed pretty preoccupied at the moment.  Barry is a complete asshole.  He just barged in and stole the girl, without an ounce of remorse. He certainly deserved a good beating, but what would that accomplish?  Besides, it would piss off Emma.  Better to stay on her good side since she’d seen me commit numerous capital felonies.  Maybe she was hoping for a three-way.  Sorry, not interested.  Anyway, it was over now.

I felt cheated and betrayed.  Stupid, I know.  Emma and I had known each other for what?  A couple of days?  Beyond idiotic to feel that way, yet I did.  Sometimes things happen in life and it makes you react more intensely than it should.  Out of proportion, clearly an overreaction.  ‘Psychological triggers’ they’re called.  Unresolved feelings from your past that surface when something similar happens.  Suddenly I felt the pain of everyone who’d ever left me.  As I walked down that dirt path alone, I cried.

God, I told myself, get a hold of yourself you fucking pussy.  Get your shit together.

I decided to walk for a while, put some distance between myself and them.  I certainly didn’t want to run into them tomorrow.  When I reached the end of the path a crazy idea hit me.  Instead of turning left and continuing down the road, I decided to turn right and head back where I came from.  It was the surest way I’d never see Emma or Barry again.

As I walked, I felt a little foolish.  I was essentially undoing what I’d spent all day doing.  Oh well, it was just a day.  The average person gets 30,000 of them.  What was just one day?  I had survived and that’s what really mattered.  Every day I survived I was one day closer to when life would return to normal.

Besides, earlier in the day I had consulted my map.  I knew there wasn’t another town in the direction we’d been travelling for over thirty miles.  At least I knew this way there was a town within a day’s walk.  What was I going to do when I got there?  About the men standing guard?  I’d figure it out later.

I walked a couple of hours in total darkness.  When I got tired, I used the light to search alongside the road for a clearing.  I came to a gated entrance to someone’s property and decided that would suffice.  I stretched out beside the gate and rested my head on my backpack.

***

The next morning I awoke at the crack of dawn, I hadn’t slept well at all.  I sat up and enjoyed a moment of ignorant bliss while my brain rebooted.  Once it did, the memories from the night before came rushing back.

Breakfast was the last can of beans, a vitamin, and a potassium iodide tablet.  I readied myself for the long day ahead.  Despite the fact that I hadn’t slept well, I felt strangely energized.  Maybe it was because I hadn’t wasted all my energy fucking Emma’s brains out.  Or maybe it was because the whole thing was behind me now.  Resolution can be invigorating to both body and spirit.

I walked all day in the unforgiving heat, stopping only for lunch which was the last can of soup.  I saw nary a soul along the way.  As evening approached, I knew judging by the road signs the little town was drawing near.  The terrain looked familiar.  I recognized it as the place Emma and I had dumped the weapons.  I decided it was time to take a little detour through the woods.  I cut a path through the dense underbrush, trying to be quiet.

After a while using my binoculars I spotted the men standing guard on the city line.  There were four of them.  I redoubled my efforts to be quiet as I picked my way through the woods.  When I got within about 75 yards I stopped.  Steadying myself against a tree, I studied the men through my scope.  They were just sitting around, talking.  I thought I recognized a couple of them.  Their guns were lying at their feet.  I concentrated on holding the crosshairs steady on each man’s head.  Then I practiced moving from one to another.  I put the rifle down and sat back against the tree.

What was my motivation here?  I had the skill, but did I have the will?  I thought about it for a minute.  These men had tied my hands behind my back and run me out of town at gunpoint.  They had taken my guns and supplies knowing full well that I’d probably die out here without them.  They said they would shoot me if I ever came back again.  What else?  The soup I’d eaten for lunch was the last food I had.  Thin, cold, watery, chicken noodle soup.  I was hungry again five minutes after I’d eaten it.  And that was hours ago.

With a renewed sense of purpose, I got back on my feet again.  I practiced quickly moving the crosshairs again from one head to the next.  I did it several times.  Then I moved back to the first man.  Only this time it wasn’t practice.  I took a deep breath.  The scope was about to pay for itself.  I steadied the rifle and let my finger rest on the trigger.  Slowly I began to pull.  ‘Let it surprise you,’ I could hear my firearms instructor say.

I continued the steady pull on the trigger until suddenly it did surprise me.  The rifle exploded.  Head shot.  I quickly moved to the next man and fired.  Head shot.  I moved again but by this time the remaining two men had reacted.  The man closest to me was leaning over picking up his gun.  I aimed for center of mass and fired.  The other man jumped to his feet and began running.  Then things got kind of messy.  I fired four shots at the man running and he fell headlong to the street.  I swung the gun back the other way and fired four more shots at the other man.  He appeared to be dead, but the runner was still alive.  He was on his belly desperately pulling himself with his arms.  I led him by a foot.  As soon as he entered the crosshairs, he got a double tap to the head.  I lowered the rifle and allowed myself to breathe.

As I approached the men I took in the scene.  What a fucking mess.  The first man was still sitting in his chair, part of his head missing.  There was blood all over the place.  The second man had fallen out of his chair and was lying on his face.  His head was ringed by a large pool of blood.  The third man was on his side clutching his chest.  His eyes were still open but he wasn’t breathing.  The fourth man looked like his head exploded.  There were brains and blood all over the place.

The men had brought some supplies with them.  I went through their bags and emptied them of their contents.  I scored a couple of sandwiches, a bag of chips, some soda and a six pack.  As I chugged a can of warm beer, for some reason Billy Johnson came to mind.  In the second grade he amazed us with the ability to talk while he belched.  I finished the beer and tossed the empty can on the body next to me.  As I did, I belched, “Fuck you very much.”

I hadn’t gotten far before I heard the siren.  I took up a position alongside the road and waited.  A minute later I could see the blue and red flashing lights.  I watched through the scope as the car approached.  As it drew nearer I could see the driver.  He was alone.  The siren got louder as the car closed in on me.

Chapter 32

Despite the fact that the police car was travelling at a high rate of speed, it was coming straight at me and presented an easy target.  The policeman’s head grew larger and larger in the scope and the crosshairs were trained right on the center of his face.  Without any further hesitation I took the shot.  I lowered the rifle and waited.  The car kept coming.  Had I missed?  How could I have missed?  Had the windshield altered the bullet’s trajectory?  Was the windshield bulletproof?  Then it happened.  The car began to drift off course.  It crashed at full speed into a large group of trees and burst into flames.

I watched it burn for a minute, then I approached.  Funny, I didn’t feel bad about it.  I didn’t feel anything.  I began to wonder about myself.  I wondered if I only felt remorse for my actions when there was someone there to witness them.  I had felt terrible about killing the boy’s father.  But had I really?  Or had I seen it through Emma’s eyes and felt bad only because I knew how she felt?  What had I become?  Was I a psychopath?  Was I unable to feel empathy for my fellow man?

I have no control over my feelings.  I was glad the cop was dead, as well as the four men.  How’s that for a feeling?  Glad.  As far as I was concerned, they were enemy combatants and they had to be dealt with.  It was them or me.  I decided right then and there that if anybody else got in my way, they would be similarly dispatched.  I was pissed off – pissed off at this fucking little town that had treated me so shabbily.  Or was that it?  Maybe I was really pissed at Emma and Barry.  Maybe I was taking it out on this town.  Either way, I was determined to spend the night in a bed, in a house, with a full stomach.  And I was willing to slaughter as many people as it took to make that happen.  At this point I felt like if I didn’t have a decent meal and a good night’s sleep I was going to lose my mind if I hadn’t already.

I could smell the fuel burning and could feel the heat.  I walked right past the carbeque without even stopping.  Rest in peace Mr. policeman, rest in peace.

In a town this size, there was precious little real estate between the city limits and the town square.  I knew I didn’t want to risk walking through town so I headed into the first neighborhood I came to.  Older homes, probably twenty to thirty years, with low-pitched roofs and dated architecture.  Every house had a two-car garage and most of the driveways were empty.  I wondered about the cars that remained.  Would any of them start?  The police cars obviously worked.  But what difference would it make?  If I found a car that started I could only drive it until it ran out of gas.  Along the way I would draw a lot of unwanted attention.

Not knowing anything about the condition of the country was frustrating.  What was the government doing?  It had been weeks now and I had yet to see a single military or government vehicle.  Where was the National Guard?  What about Homeland Security?  Last I’d heard, Homeland Security was busy stockpiling weapons and ammunition.  For what?  To use against American citizens?  Shouldn’t they be more concerned about foreign enemies?  Look what just happened.  What the hell was I paying my taxes for?

There was no one outside as I walked past the first several houses.  It was almost dark and even in this town people knew better than to be outside after dark.  After putting some distance between myself and the subdivision entrance, I crossed through someone’s yard.  My boots kicked up a swarm of insects in the tall wet grass.  I went around behind the house and looked through the window.  Nothing moving inside that I could see.  I tried to open the window but it was locked.  Same for the sliding glass door.  I knocked on the door.  No answer.  I didn’t really want to break in, there were neighbors fifty feet on either side.  Seeing no other option, I used the end of my crowbar and broke the glass.  I opened the window and climbed into a small, dark bedroom.

No sooner had my feet hit the floor, I heard a scream.  A woman dressed in a nightgown stood in the doorway.  I ran straight at her and tackled her.  We landed on the floor and I clamped my hand over her mouth.  “Just calm down, lady,” I panted.  “No one’s going to hurt you.”

Her eyes were wide with fear.  She moaned beneath my hand.  She was about forty, black hair mixed with a little gray.  She was a bit on the plump side, kind of dumpy-looking with a body that said she’d never seen the inside of a gym.  After a moment she calmed down enough to stop moaning.

I whispered, “I’m going to take my hand off your mouth.  You promise not to scream?  You promise?”

Still wide-eyed, she nodded.

I took my hand from her mouth and allowed her to sit up.

Frantically the woman said, “What are you doing here?”

“Look,” I said in a calm voice.  “I’m not going to hurt you.  I just need a place to stay the night.”

“You can’t stay here!  Now get out or I will—”  She began to cry.

I waited.

She sobbed for a minute, then tried to pull herself together.  She threw her hands up and said, “Oh, what’s the use?” She got off the floor and went into the other room.  I followed.

The house opened up into a large family room furnished with a pair of matching couches, a large flatscreen TV, and wood and glass tables.  The woman sat on the couch and cried.

I sat on the opposite couch and waited.  I never knew what to do when women cried.  Finally I asked, “Are you alright?”

“No,” she sniffed.  “No, I’m not alright.  I was going to say I’ll call the police.  But I can’t.”  Another sniff.  “They’re—  He’s—”

I waited.

Eventually she managed to say, “He’s dead.  My husband is dead.  He was the Chief of Police, and now he’s dead.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said.  “Chief of Police…here?”

She nodded, cried some more.

“Did this happen recently?  Since the bomb?”

She nodded again as she kept crying.  “Yesterday.  They found him outside of town.  Somebody shot him in the head.”  She began to wail.

What were the odds?

When she’d finally calmed down a bit, I said, “I’m so sorry to hear that.”  I rubbed my face.  I felt lower than worm spit.

She cried, nodded, shook her head, then buried her face in her hands.

“Look,” I said.  “I’m, uh—  I’m just gonna go.”  I stood, rested a hand on her shoulder for a moment, then turned and walked out the door.

I breathed a sigh of relief as the door closed behind me.  Words could not express how bad I felt.  I had caused her pain.  I had taken her husband from her.  It’s one thing to kill a man, it’s another to have to deal with his grieving widow.

I walked past several houses then decided to try my hand on the other side of the street.  It was almost dark now, so I didn’t bother to go around back.  I picked a house that showed no signs of life and knocked on the front door.  After I got no answer I pulled out the crowbar and went to work.  I pried the door open and stepped inside.

I was immediately blinded by an intense light.  Instinctively I dove headlong to the floor.  Shotgun blast.  I saw the fireball from across the room.  I jumped to my feet and ran head first.  The next thing I knew I was lying on the floor face to face atop a very large man.  I pried the shotgun out of his hands and tossed it.  I fought to pin his arms down.  The man bucked me off and scrambled for the shotgun.  He grunted and pointed it at me.  I dove for cover in the hallway just as the gun exploded again.  Scrambling to my feet, I opened a door and threw myself inside.  It was a small bedroom with a bed against one wall.  I leapt on the bed and came face to face with a little girl.  She screamed.

I spun her around, clamped my hand over her mouth, and pulled the 9mm.  When her dad entered the room, he was greeted by the sight of me holding a gun to his little girl’s head.

Panting and desperate, I shouted, “Drop the gun or I’ll blow her fucking brains out!”

Chapter 33

The girl wiggled free of my hand and screamed, “Daddy!”

She was a feisty little thing, probably about eight or nine.  I grabbed her around her waist and growled, “Stop it!  Stop it!”

The big man panted heavily.

“Do what I say!” I shouted.  “Drop it!”  I pulled the hammer back on the pistol.

The girl never stopped screaming.

“Alright, alright!” the man said.  He set the shotgun on the floor and raised his hands.

“Daddy!  Help!” the girl screamed.

“Shut up!” I hissed.

The father said, “Don’t hurt her.  Just put the gun down.”

I said, “Tell her to settle down.”

“It’s going to be alright, princess.  Just calm down, everything’s going to be alright.”

She stopped screaming but continued to squirm.

I said, “Go in the kitchen and bring me four bottled waters.”

He gaped.  “What—?”

“Do it.”

He vanished, returned with the bottled water.

I said, “Put them on the bed.”

He did as I asked.  Incredulous, he said, “You threatened to kill my little girl for four bottled waters?”

I didn’t respond.  We glared at each other.  The girl whimpered.

“On the floor,” I demanded.  “Face down, hands behind your back.”

The big man got down on his knees, then laid on the floor.

I got off the bed and tied his hands with a zip-tie.

The girl was clearly traumatized.  “Daddy?”

He said, “It’s okay, honey.  Just relax.  Everything’s going to be okay.”

I took the water and his gun and ran out the door.  I headed back up the street and tossed the gun three houses up.  I didn’t stop running until I reached the neighborhood entrance.

What the hell had I just done?  Maybe I had lost my mind just as predicted.  It was totally dark by now and I couldn’t see a thing.  I came to another neighborhood, walked all the way to the end and spent the night sleeping on a dirt road.

***

The next morning I awoke covered in bug bites.  Breakfast was a lousy peanut-butter sandwich on soggy stale bread.  I thought about everything that had gone down the night before.  I shook my head.   As I got to my feet, I decided it was time for a change.  I couldn’t go on like this.  I wasn’t going to put a gun to another little girl’s head.

I was on a utility road in the back of a subdivision.  I walked further down the dirt road until I found a spot marked by an electrical transformer that I thought I could find again.  I took off my body armor, the backpack and guns and stashed everything behind the transformer.  I kept only a pocket knife, a bottled water, a pen and a pad of paper.  Then I headed back into the neighborhood.

I stopped at the first house I came to and knocked on the door.  After trying again I gave up and went to the house next door.  After knocking three times a man finally opened the door.

“What do you want?” he asked in an annoyed tone.  He was a rotund man, with an extraordinary amount of body hair.  He had a headful of curly black hair, a bushy beard, and his arms and shoulders were covered with hair.  He wore a tank top that looked slept in and a pair of navy board shorts.

I smiled.  “Good morning, sir.  I’m Richard Garrigose with the Times.  We’re doing a story on how people are surviving after the attack.  Can you spare a few moments of your time?”

“Spare a few—?  What?”  He scratched his head.  “I don’t know…”

“Please?  It will only take a few minutes.”

He sighed and let me in.

We sat in the living room.  Most of the blinds were pulled shut and it was dark inside.  The man gave me his name, that of his wife and two sons.  I took notes as he described how they were surviving on the food in the pantry and eating everything in sight.  “We’re almost out,” he said.

A woman appeared.  She asked, “Larry, what’s going on?”

“This guy—  What did you say your name was again?”

“Richard Garrigose.”

“Right.  He’s with the paper and he’s doing a story about how people are surviving.”

“Oh.”  She extended a hand and introduced herself.  “I’m Jean.”

I listened to their story and took copious notes.

“You know…” Jean said.  “If you really want a story, you need to talk to the Sturgills up the street.  They are really into that survival stuff.”

“Yeah,” Larry said.  “I always thought they were a couple of kooks.  You know the type: tree-hugging hippies, green this, sustainable that.  Anyways, I guess now they must be feeling pretty good about themselves.”

I got directions to the Sturgills, thanked them and was on my way.

One street up I found a house matching the description they’d given me.  A brick ranch on a corner lot with two large palms in the front yard.  A white Toyota Prius sat in the driveway.  The backyard was shrouded by a tall wooden fence.

I knocked on the door but got no answer.  After knocking again, I called, “Mr. and Mrs. Sturgill?  Hello?”  I knocked again, louder.

Finally a man opened the door.  “Yes?”  He was tall and thin, about thirty years old with thinning blonde hair and a clean-shaven face.  He wore a white cotton short sleeved shirt, a pair of olive drab khakis and black sandals.

“Mr. Sturgill!”  I said enthusiastically as I thrust out my hand.  “Richard Garrigose!”

We shook hands.  Mr. Sturgill looked puzzled.  I placed a hand on my hip.  I adopted a lilting, sing-songy voice and said, “I’m with Survival Mode, perhaps you’ve heard of us?”

No sign of recognition on his face.

I waved a hand.  “We’re new.  Anywho, it’s a reality show about survivalists, and as you can imagine we’re just going crazy with everything that’s happening right now.  So many stories!”  A hand flip.  “So little time!”

Mr. Sturgill brightened.  “Yeah?”

“I’m a producer with the show and we’ve heard so much about you.  We’d like to feature you and your wife on an upcoming episode.”

“Really?”  Back over his shoulder: “Honey?”

“Oh!” I said with a flourish.  “It’s just going to be fantastic!  May I come in?”

“Sure, sure, come on in.”

The house smelled of fish and dirt.  A woman dressed in a nightgown started out the bedroom, thought better of it.  “Oh,” she said as she put a hand over her breasts.  “I didn’t know we had company.”  She disappeared back into the bedroom.

I said, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t catch your first name.”

“Ryan.”

“Ryan, yes of course, Ryan.”

Ryan gestured to the couch.  “Please, have a seat.”

“Oh how nice!” I exclaimed as I ran my hand over the off-white upholstery.  I settled in on the sofa and Ryan sat in a nearby chair.

Mrs. Sturgill reappeared wearing a white tank top and a pair of blue shorts.  “Ryan, who is our guest?”

“He’s with a reality TV show about preppers.”

I stood and extended a hand.  “Richard Garrigose, with Survival Mode.”  I cocked my hip to one side and she gave me a look.

“Kate.”  She had a pretty face and small breasts.  Thin, just like her husband, with pale skin, shoulder-length straight blonde hair and blue eyes.

I smiled and said, “I love what you’ve done with the place!  And I’m just delighted to meet you.  Now please, tell me all about yourselves!”

Chapter 34

Interrupting each other from time to time to finish each other’s sentences, Ryan and Kate shared with me the story of how they met shortly after college at a Sierra Club convention.  They travelled the world together in support of various causes until they decided to settle down and buy a house.  Kate penned two blogs, one about environmentalism and the other about women’s issues.  Ryan was writing a book on climate change.  As I looked around the house I wondered how they made ends meet.  That little mystery was solved when Kate let it slip her parents helped them out financially.  “You know,” Kate said, “just a little here and there.”

“Oh, I think that’s marvelous,” I said.  “So nice to have parents who love us for who we are.”

Kate laughed, “I know, right?”

I said, “Now, I want to see your prepping setup.”

Ryan led me outside to a large enclosed pool.  He explained how they had converted the swimming pool into a self-sustaining microenvironment.  It was teeming with fish.

“They’re Tilapia,” Ryan said.

Kate put on a sad face.  “I make Ryan clean them, I can’t bear to harm another living thing.  They’re spiritual, you know?  Every living being has a spirit.”

I put a hand to my cheek.  “The poor little dears.”

Kate laughed.  “You are so sweet.”

Ryan said, “It’s the only meat we eat.  We don’t believe in killing, we’re pacifists.  We don’t hunt or own any guns and we don’t believe in violence.  The world has too much violence in it already.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” I said as I touched his arm.  “If only more people were like you.”  I smiled.

We stepped outside the pool enclosure and Kate showed me her organic garden.  She proudly displayed the peas, squash, tomatoes, zucchini, and various other vegetables she grew.  “It’s all natural,” said Kate.  “We don’t use any pesticides or chemical fertilizers.”

I said, “I’m impressed.  This is quite an operation you have here.”

“We’re very proud of it,” Ryan said.

We went back inside.  On our way to the family room, Kate showed me one of the bedrooms they’d converted to storage.  The walls were lined with cans of food and bottled water.

We sat in the family room and talked while I took notes.  I asked, “What about security?”

Kate and Ryan looked at each other.  Kate said, “Well, there’s the police.”

Ryan added, “The town has set up guard posts at the city limits.”

I said, “Oh, yes!  Yes, of course.  I believe I met them on my way in.”

Kate said, “Where are my manners?  Would you like something to eat?  Do you like beets?”

I pressed both hands to my cheeks and exclaimed in vibrating falsetto, “Love them!”

She laughed, then disappeared into the kitchen.

Totally disarmed by my nancy boy routine, Ryan and Kate pretty much gave me the run of the place.  I rose to my feet and began ambling around.  “Yes, this is quite a place you have here,” I repeated.  I ended up behind Ryan.

“Thank you,” he said.

Those were his last words.

I pulled the knife and clamped my hand over his mouth.  I stabbed him hard in the neck, then cut his throat from ear to ear.  The little knife struggled sawing through his windpipe and vocal cords.  A muffled cry escaped from his lips.  Blood squirted everywhere.

Kate called out from the kitchen, “Everything alright in there?”

I grabbed Ryan by the ears and twisted hard.  His neck snapped like a twig and his head spun completely around.  I pushed him off the couch and his head banged against the coffee table.

Kate emerged from the kitchen, her pleasant expression instantly shattered by a look of horror.  The plate of vegetables fell from her hands and broke into a thousand peices.  She backed away slowly, saying, “No, no, no....”

I lunged at her and knocked her to the floor.  She struggled as I pinned her arms down with my knees and sat on her chest.  She looked like she was about to scream so I clamped my hand over her mouth.  Her eyes were wide as she stared at me in total disbelief.

Speaking in my natural voice now, I whispered, “Maybe you should go get your gun.  Oh, that’s right, I almost forgot.”

I slit her throat and her blood spilled all over the floor.  She stopped fighting.  I removed my hand from her mouth and leaned back.  She held my gaze.  I whispered, “I’m sorry.”  I took her hand.  She didn’t resist.  Her eyes dulled and a second later she was gone.

I found a shovel in the garage and buried the bodies in the backyard.  I located a bottle of bleach and did my best to clean up the bloodstains.  Then I caught a fish and cooked it for lunch.

As I dined on grilled tilapia – which was delicious by the way – I thought about the Sturgills.  They’d done everything right with the fish and the garden and the storeroom.  They were nice people in their own green, environmentally-friendly, pacifist way.  But as survivalists, they left out one important part.  No one has any business calling themselves a survivalist if they don’t own a gun.  And no husband has any business calling himself a man if he can’t protect his wife.

For the survivalist, guns and ammunition are the most important tools in your arsenal.  If you’re going to stash food and stay home like the Sturgills, you need to be able to defend it.  You need a gun.  If you’re forced out on the road like I’d been, you need to defend yourself.  You need a gun.  Plus, there’s only so much food and water you can fit in your bag.  Sooner or later you’re going to have to hunt for food, be it in the woods or the urban jungle.

The Sturgills depended on the government for their protection.  Where was the government in their hour of need?  How had the Surgills planned to call the police with no telephones or cell service?  As the saying goes, when seconds count, the police are only minutes away.  The Sturgills learned that the hard way.

That night I walked to the utility transformer and retrieved my belongings.  After I returned to the house, I stayed there for more than two months.  I had plenty of food and water, though I did tire of eating fish.  A few days after I’d been there someone had climbed the fence in the middle of the night and tried to break in through the back door.  I shot him in the face and buried him next to the Sturgills.  The next day someone knocked on the door.  I assumed it was a neighbor who’d heard the gunshot.  I didn’t answer and they never came back.

Eventually planes and helicopters returned to the skies.  I saw relief supplies being airlifted in, pallets of food and water dangling from parachutes destined for the town square.  I stayed put not wanting to risk being seen by the townspeople.  Weeks later when I saw National Guard trucks rolling past several days in a row, I decided it was time to for me to leave.

I set out after dark walking south away from the town square.  I sat on the side of the road and waited.  A while later a big truck approached from the other direction.  I flagged it down and it slowed to a halt.  On the door was stenciled National Guard.

The driver leaned out and shouted over the noise of the engine, “You doing alright, sir?”

I said, “No, not really.  I could use a lift.”

“I’m going east, back to the city.”

“That would be fine.”

He said, “If you don’t mind stowing your gun in your backpack, you’re welcome to ride along.”

“Thank you.”  I did as he asked and climbed into the truck.  The driver was a young man with a crew cut and a clean-shaven face.

He studied me for a minute.  “You been living out in the woods or something?”

“Something like that.”  I rubbed my face.  “Just doing what I had to survive.”

He put the truck in gear and we started moving.

“You live in the city?” he asked.

“Used to.  My house was destroyed by the bomb.”

“They have shelters for that, and tents set up with every kind of insurance agent you can imagine.”

I leaned back in my seat, suddenly feeling exhausted.  I nodded and said, “Good.”

We drove the next hour without saying another word.  I rested my head against the window and fell asleep.

BONUS!

Chapter 1 from the next book in the series:

Apocalypse

Does not the potter have the right to make out of the same lump of clay some pottery for special purposes and some for common use?  What if God, although choosing to show His wrath and make His power known, bore with great patience the objects of His wrath – prepared for destruction?

Romans 9:21-22

Muslims.  Islamic extremists.  Terrorists.  Towel-headed miscreants ill-suited for the modern world.  Demons from the darkest depths of Hell whose wicked souls exist only to sow evil and reap destruction.  Missionaries of misery who snuff out the dreams of the righteous and crush the hopes of the innocent.  Barbaric savages who feast on the still-beating hearts of newborn pups and wash them down with goblets filled with little girls’ tears.  Fascists who foist their twisted ideology onto every unfortunate soul who crosses their path.  Convert or die, their endless mantra.  Today I was about to introduce them to a third option.

I whispered, “You sure you’re up for this?”

Becca nodded.  “I’m ready.”

The few windows still intact in the abandoned building we’d spent the night in were blinded over by soot and ashes.  The floor was littered with trash and charred walls bore witness to fires set by careless wanderers.

I located my rifle and checked the action.  I did the same for Becca’s and handed it to her.  I touched her face and I looked into her eyes.  They were bleary and unfocused, her hair disheveled and dirty.

“Don’t look at me,” she said.  “I look like shit.”

“You do not.  You look beautiful.”

She pulled away.  “You always say that.”

I leaned my bulk against the concrete blocks that formed the building.  Carefully I peered through the broken glass to the convenience store across the street.  Becca took up a position beside me.

As I watched the three men, my thoughts drifted to the bigger picture.  Thoughts of radical Islam and its impact on the world.  For as far back as I could remember, the vast majority of global conflicts could be attributed to Islamic extremism.  I wondered what the world would be like without it.  How much safer would we be?  What advances might we have made if all the resources allocated to fighting radical Islam had instead been spent on something more useful?  Might we have cured cancer?  Ended poverty?  Put a man on Mars?  The waste of life and treasure was regretful, and it made me angry.  Accountants don’t like waste, we place a high value on efficiency.  It occurred to me that if at that very moment every Islamic extremist were to spontaneously combust, it would make this the happiest day of my life.

I could hear the men jabbering in Arabic but I had no idea what they were saying.  Nor did I care.  They must have arrived this morning or at some point during the night while Becca and I were sleeping.  I was thankful I had discovered them before they spotted us.  Just moments before I had been on my way out the door to relieve myself.  That’s when I saw movement across the street.  Recoiling as if I’d just stepped on a snake, I woke Becca and got ready to fight.  Now as I stood here with my bare chest pressed against the cold cinder blocks, my bladder reminded me that I still hadn’t finished my morning task.

The men appeared to be examining every nook and cranny of the little store.  It had been ransacked, its windows broken and the door missing.  Becca and I had checked it out the night before.  I chose one of the men and lined him up in my sights.  I whispered, “I’ve got the one in the middle.”

“Okay.”  A moment later Becca whispered, “I’ve got the one on the left.”

I said, “On three.  Ready?  One, two, three.”  I squeezed off a couple of rounds and dropped my man.  I quickly shifted my aim to the right but he was already gone.  I had to shout to hear myself over the ringing in my ears.  “You get the one on the right?”

“No,” Becca shouted.  “I got the one on the left.  I told you!”

“I know, I mean after.”

“No!”

“Me neither.”  I thought for a minute.  “Stay here.”

She placed a hand on my arm.  “Steen, be careful.”

“I will.  Keep your eyes open.”  I threw on my helmet and stepped outside.  Thankfully, there were no cars to contend with or anyone outside.  I looked ridiculous wearing my boots and helmet with just my boxer shorts.  I scurried across the road as fast as I could, dodging from side to side to make myself a more difficult target.  I didn’t see the man anywhere, but just as I reached the store a shot rang out.

“Fuck!” I yelled as I dove for cover.  That was close.  I clambered to get the rifle in my hands and fired off three rounds.  I shouted, “You’re gonna die mother fucker!”

He shouted something back in Arabic.

I stuck the rifle into the window and fired.  Then I stole a glance inside and saw him diving for cover.  I fired off another round but missed.  A second later I saw a gun and I ducked.  He blasted off several more shots.

I considered my rifle and its 30-round magazine.  I knew this was a game I could win.  I stuck the rifle in the window again and fired off a few rounds.  He did the same.  I returned fire.  So did he.  Wash, rinse, repeat.  A few volleys later I heard the inevitable: click, click, click.

Not giving him a chance to reload, I burst through the doorway and caught him off guard.  I barreled into him and knocked him on his ass.  He shouted Arabic gibberish and threw his pistol at me.  It made a loud thud as it struck my helmet.  I shot at his legs and hit him in both knees.  He screamed in pain and clutched at his wounded limbs.

I set my rifle down and glared at him.  Then without warning I smashed him in the jaw with a vicious right.  He ended up on his side, gasping for air and fighting to remain conscious.  I grabbed a nearby display case and toppled it onto him, pinning his legs.

He shook off the cobwebs, spit blood and yelled something again.  He had dark, rugged skin and his eyes were as black as coal.  His scraggly beard was heavier beneath his chin giving him the appearance of a monkey.  He was missing a few teeth and the ones that remained were rotten and chipped.  A black scarf was tied tightly around his head and little tufts of hair spilled out beneath it.  He was young, probably early twenties.  I wondered how he felt, lying on the floor with his dead brothers around him.

He tried desperately to remove the display case but I kicked his hands away.  I grabbed one of his wrists and twisted hard.  He screamed in pain.  I placed a boot on the back of his elbow and bore down.  His screams intensified.  Grasping his wrist in both hands, I pulled up with all my might.  Suddenly his forearm gave way and his elbow snapped.  He wailed in agony.  I released his useless limb and it fell to the floor grossly misshapen.

I stood back and smiled, made sure he saw it.  Then I kicked him in the side.  I did it again, harder.  Then I got down in his face and hissed, “You are a worthless piece of shit!  You know that?  I should just leave you like this.”  Instead, I grabbed his other arm and gave it the same treatment.  He screamed and writhed in pain.  “There,” I said.  “Now you have a matched set.”

I watched him for a while until I could no longer bear his screaming.  I placed a boot over his filthy mouth and pressed down.  I asked, “You ready to meet your 72 virgins?”

I lifted my boot and he screamed, “Allahu Akbar!  Allahu Akbar!”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

What a pathetic excuse for a human being he was.  I wondered what made these people tick.  I’ll never understand it.  I picked up my rifle, pointed it at his chest, and fired off a single round.  He stopped screaming and his eyes flew open wide.  He gasped several times, much louder than before.  Then his breathing became shallow and sporadic.  His lips labored and he looked like a fish out of water.  Through it all, his dark, hateful eyes never left mine.

I stood over him and reached inside my boxers.  Freeing myself, I aimed for his face.  As he lie there taking his dying breaths, I completed my morning task.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

BONUS!