Surviving The End (Book 3): New World

by Hamilton, Grace

  “I know,” Owen said. “I’m not talking about the town meeting. I’m talking about his gator hunting expedition.”

  His parents looked at each other, each apparently wondering if the other had any idea what Owen was talking about. Then his mother laughed, as if she thought it might be a joke.

  “I’m serious,” Owen said. “He says we need to learn how to live off the land, so he wants to go alligator hunting on the Ocmulgee River.”

  Grandma was folding clothes on the couch in the living room. They’d been hand-washed in a tub in the front yard and hung from a clothesline all afternoon to dry. Cleaning clothes had become quite a chore in the absence of a washing machine. Owen was only slowly adjusting to just how long it took to get anything done without appliances. They had a bit of power from the solar panels, but they mostly used it for lighting in the evenings.

  “James has been talking about putting together a hunting trip for a while,” Grandma said. “I guess he saw Owen’s expert marksmanship and decided to invite him.”

  “Hunting alligators isn’t like hunting…I don’t know, ducks,” Owen’s mom said. She was scraping leftover food into a plastic bucket that would later be dumped into the compost pile. “Gators have sharp teeth, and they like to hide in the water. You guys might go down there hunting gators and wind up getting hunted by them.”

  “I’m sure James knows what he’s doing,” Shane said, wiping the dining room table with a damp rag. “They definitely need to be careful, but not just because of the gators. Any time we leave the house, we have to be careful, but I feel okay about it, especially since the sheriff will be with them. He wouldn’t take any unnecessary risks.”

  Jodi dunked the last of the plates in the water. “I just don’t see the point. We don’t need the food.”

  “We could use the meat,” Shane said.

  Jodi laughed. “I’m not sure we need alligator meat all that much.”

  “Maybe not,” Shane agreed, “but in general, it’ll be good to start hunting. Maybe next time I can talk James into going after deer or ducks.”

  Jodi set the plate aside and turned to Owen. He’d been sitting quietly at the table as they discussed the matter. Since he was only somewhat excited about going, he hadn’t been particularly compelled to talk them into it.

  “Okay, fine,” Jodi said. “I’ll agree to it on one condition: take the sheriff’s radio with you. I want to be able to get in touch with you.”

  “Okay,” Owen replied.

  “I mean it,” his mom said. “If I can’t get hold of you, we’ll send out a search party and start combing the river. You hear me?”

  “Yeah, Mom.”

  “And you know I mean it, right?”

  Owen nodded. “Absolutely.”

  3

  James brought his best hunting rifle: a Tikka T3 Hunter. He liked the feel of a bolt-action rifle when hunting, and the Tikka was relatively lightweight for a wood-stocked hunting rifle. The 6.5x55 Swedish ammo had low recoil as well. At his age, that felt nice. He hadn’t had much chance to use it lately, and, truth be told, he’d been itching for a hunting trip as an excuse to get it out of the gun case. At the same time, he was hoping to get them into a routine of regular hunting. They were their own supply chain now when it came to meat.

  He had plenty of memories of hunting along the Ocmulgee River with his father. Some of his most vivid childhood memories were of traipsing along the river at dusk, looking for the distinctive shapes in the murky water. His father had loved the taste of fried alligator.

  Taking the teens to the river at dusk seemed like an unnecessary risk, so a bright and cloudless late-May morning would have to do. The river ran right through Macon, but James had a particular place picked out, the woody area just south of town not far from Ocmulgee National Monument. As an added bonus, the kids could get a good look at the Native American mounds while they were in the area. He didn’t know if the kids had ever seen them.

  With the sun shining brightly, he pulled up in front of Beth’s house and parked along the fence. Shane hadn’t built the loveliest fence in the world. It looked worse on the outside than the inside, but it was tall and had enough spikes—made mostly of broken glass—fastened to the top to discourage trespassing. James got out of the car, checked the nearby street—one could never be too careful—and went to the back of his cruiser. He popped the trunk to check his gear: the rifle in its bag, a gig and snare in a cardboard box, a hook and line, a few extra hunting vests, a field dressing kit, along with some bait comprised of stinky old fish he’d acquired a few days earlier.

  Shutting the trunk, he approached the gate and jingled the brass windchime. The gate latch could be locked on the inside, and Shane preferred to keep it locked day and night. When jingling the windchime didn’t seem to rouse anyone, he shouted over the fence.

  “It’s your friendly neighborhood sheriff,” he said.

  Finally, after what might have been three full minutes, he heard the front door open. Peeking through the slats, he saw Shane stumble onto the front porch, rubbing his eyes. He came to the gate, fumbled with the latch lock for a moment, then pulled the gate open.

  “Well, it’s early enough,” he said, holding his hand up to shield his eyes from the sun that was peeking between the houses across the street. “The kids are up and ready to go. Corbin already cleaned and oiled every piece of the AR-15. Should they bring the shotgun?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” James said. “We’ll have two rifles. I think that’s enough.”

  Just then, the teens seemed to pour of the house: Libby followed by Corbin with Owen bringing up the rear. Libby Horton was wearing yet another of the outfits she’d picked up at local yard sales: an eye-straining yellow blouse with a calf-length flower-print skirt and her favorite black boots. She’d tied a handkerchief over her hair, and James could just make out some big-eyed cartoon characters printed onto the cloth. The girl had a unique sense of style, he had to give her that.

  As they approached, she must have noticed his expression, as she said, “It was the closest thing I could get to a hunting jacket.” She gestured at the orange vest James was wearing over his shirt. “I told these guys you’re supposed to wear bright colors when you go hunting.”

  “We don’t have anything in neon orange,” Corbin said. He had the AR-15 slung over his shoulder, a box of ammo sticking out of his pants pocket. Like most days, he was dressed in a simple gray t-shirt and sweat pants.

  “I’ve got you covered,” James said. “I brought some extra hunting vests.”

  Owen had brought a jug of water, and he lugged it toward the cruiser. Judging by the look on his face, he seemed like the least enthusiastic of the bunch. James had thought the kid would enjoy a hunting trip. He looked like the type of young guy who would be into it, but maybe not. If anything, Libby seemed the most excited as she skipped down the sidewalk.

  As they approached the cruiser, James took the AR-15 from Corbin and put it in the trunk, though the teen seemed unhappy to part with it.

  Don’t worry, kid, James thought. I’ve got my sidearm close at hand in case we run into trouble on the road.

  The sheriff knew of the roving criminals out along the back roads, but in the city, most of the crime was still committed out of sight. Brazen attacks were somewhat rare in town, though not out of the realm of possibility. In the last few weeks, James had learned to stay on his toes at all times. He was never completely relaxed—never—and the eyes in the back of his head were always scanning for trouble.

  As he got in the cruiser, all three of the teens went for the front passenger seat. To James’s surprise, Libby won out, pushing past Corbin and reaching out to grab the door handle, as if mere physical contact made it hers. Corbin shrugged and moved to the back seat. Owen lingered for a second, looking somewhere between annoyed and confused, but he wasn’t one to complain. James knew him well enough to know that. He climbed in beside Corbin and clicked his seat belt in place.

  “It’s
so early,” Libby said. “Are the gators even awake yet? It wouldn’t feel right shooting a sleeping animal.”

  James saw the smirk on her face. He forced himself to smile in return.

  “Alligators mostly feed at night and sleep during the day,” Corbin said, leaning forward in his seat. “Did you know if you shine a flashlight in their direction in the dark, their eyes glow red?”

  “I want to see that,” Libby said, “but it might also make me pee myself. Can you imagine alligators with glowing red eyes?”

  “Yeah, I can imagine it,” Corbin said. “I’ve seen it!”

  As James worked his way through Beth’s neighborhood, he could see the results of his own dogged determination. He’d put as many people as he could recruit to the task of clearing the roads, moving dead vehicles onto the shoulders, even dragging them into fields and ditches when possible. Driving west on highway 23, he enjoyed the opened lane, though the growing tent camp still made him nervous. There were so many people living in the community now that he didn’t know or recognize.

  The drive to the hunting spot was almost as quick as it would have been in the pre-event days. James finally pulled into Ocmulgee Mounds National Historical Park and followed the main road to a secluded spot near the woods. He pulled to one side of the road and shut off the engine.

  “We’re here, folks,” he said.

  “This is where the gators are?” Libby asked, gazing out the side window. “This is just the Indian mound park. I went on a field trip here. It’s pretty cool, but I don’t remember any gators.”

  “We have a little bit of a walk ahead of us,” James said, opening the driver’s door. “The river is southwest of us. There’s a hiking trail that’ll take us there. We’ll have to cross the highway at one point, so be careful. There aren’t many cars on the road, but we don’t want the one maniac to come roaring along just as we’re crossing. We should find a few gators lounging in the muddy water or sleeping on the banks. Everyone ready?”

  “Why not park along the highway?” Owen said.

  “I think it’s safer to park my particular vehicle out of sight,” James said, getting out of the car. “Just in case. People see law enforcement these days, and they tend to react. Most of the time, they start pestering you about the power, or food, or some other little thing. Occasionally, they want to cause trouble.”

  As the kids climbed out of the big Crown Victoria, James walked to the back and popped the trunk. He took his sheriff hat off, tossed it into a corner of the trunk, and replaced it with an orange baseball cap. Then he began unloading the supplies and handing them to the kids. He carefully handed the AR-15 to Corbin.

  “How long has it been since you’ve done this?” Corbin asked, slinging the rifle over his shoulder.

  “A few years,” James replied, handing the gig and snare and the field dressing kit to Owen. “I’m confident I remember how it’s done. Heck, I grew up hunting nearly every season.”

  Libby approached, and he gave her the hook and line and the stinky jar of bait. She grimaced in disgust but took them without complaint. Then James pulled out the Tikka and grabbed a couple of clips of 6.5x55 ammo and stuffed them in his vest pocket. He gave the extra vests to Owen and Corbin. He had a vest for Libby, but she shook her head.

  “I’m bright enough, don’t you think?” she said.

  “I suppose so.” He slammed the trunk shut. “Let’s go, guys. Stay close.”

  They’d parked near a dirt hiking trail that passed near some of the larger Indian mounds before winding off into the woods. James took the lead, the rifle balanced in the crook of his arm. Though the temperature was somewhere in the low 80s when they first set off, James soon felt it rising, the sweltering heat gathering around him. Corbin and Owen stayed right with him, but it didn’t take long for Libby to begin lagging. Periodically, James paused and waited for her to catch up.

  “You guys walk so fast,” she said, fanning her face with her free hand. “Why are we in such a dang hurry? The alligators aren’t going anywhere.”

  “Don’t want them to hear through the rumor mill that we’re coming,” James said. “You know how these wildlife critters like to gossip.”

  Libby guffawed, but Owen and Corbin had no reaction at all. They finally came out of the woods next to a four-lane highway. The Ocmulgee River was visible through gaps in the trees on the far side, a lazy expanse of muddy water. An overturned truck lay on the shoulder nearby. James stepped over the guardrail and peeked around the truck to make sure all four lanes were empty. Then he signaled the kids and dashed across the highway. Libby gave a little squeal as she ran after him. They reached the far side without seeing any moving vehicles.

  The trail continued on the far side of the highway, cutting through the trees and descending a gradual slope. James waved the kids on.

  “Are we really going to find alligators this close to the city?” Corbin asked. “It seems like all the noise would drive them away. My dad took me way out in the middle of nowhere to find them.”

  “Seeing as how they sometimes wander into the city, we shouldn’t have to go far,” James replied. “Believe me, I get reports now and again from people who get one in their backyard.”

  “Maybe we could’ve just put bait in Grandma’s backyard and waited for them to approach,” Owen said.

  The trees soon gave way to a broad expanse of red clay that ran along the banks of the river. The trees here were a mix of water-loving species such as sycamore, yellow birch, and black gum, but the water was low this season, exposing many of the roots.

  It didn’t take long before they came upon a congregation of alligators lounging in shallow water at the edge of the river. As soon as James spotted them, he held up a hand to signal the others. Libby immediately gasped and rushed forward in a crouch, ducking behind a fallen log, as if moving into position for a military charge. Corbin shushed her, but then he moved up beside her, propping the AR-15 on the log.

  A couple of gators, either hearing or sensing the commotion, turned and lunged into deeper water, quickly swimming away. James knelt beside Corbin. Only Owen remained standing, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “No need for the bait, I guess,” James said.

  When he spoke, two more gators turned and made for deep water. Corbin frantically tapped a finger against his lips, and James nodded. Right in the middle of the congregation, there was a big bull alligator, fat and lazy and apparently not going anywhere. They had a clear shot. Corbin started to take aim, but James tapped him on the shoulder and shook his head. Owen seemed disengaged with the morning’s activity, and James saw a chance to get him interested. He passed the Tikka rifle to him. Owen hesitated a moment before taking it.

  “Let’s see just how good your aim has gotten,” James said quietly.

  Owen looked at the gun, turning it over in his hands. The sheriff was testing him. The gun had a two-step safety, and he wanted to see if the kid could figure it out. It took him a moment, but he finally figured it out. Then, still standing, Owen took aim at the bull gator, seating the butt of the rifle against his shoulder. He had precise form—he’d clearly done his homework.

  “Right behind the skull,” James whispered. “It’s very important to hit him in the right spot.” He tapped a spot at the base of his own skull. “Right there and nowhere else. Got it?”

  Owen nodded, a bead of sweat running down his forehead into his eye. He blinked it away.

  Fortunately, the gator was positioned so that it was facing slightly away from them, the kill spot unobstructed. Owen took a breath, held it, closed one of his eyes, and took careful aim. After a tense couple of seconds, he pulled the trigger. The shot was loud, sending birds scattering from the treetops. The rest of the gators flailed and turned, diving into deep water. Except for the bull. He thrashed once, almost a bounce, his tail whipping, then he went still.

  “Oh, my God,” Corbin said, standing up. “He did it! A single shot right to the base of the skull. Owen did it!”

/>   Libby hopped to her feet, mouth hanging open, eyes wide. James couldn’t quite tell if she was amazed or horrified—possibly both. He gingerly took the rifle from Owen.

  “You’ve become a crack shot, kid,” he said.

  Field-dressing the alligator proved quite the task. James and Corbin did most of the work. Lugging the gutted carcass back to James’s house proved even more difficult. First, they had to drag it all the way back through the woods, a task that took the combined effort of the entire group. Then they had to lash it to the roof of the cruiser. For some reason, Libby kept laughing nervously throughout this entire ordeal. Owen didn’t say much, but James thought he seemed quite proud of himself. He’d killed the gator in a single shot, so clean that the animal hadn’t even known what hit it. James couldn’t remember ever making such a perfect shot in his entire life.

  They finished dressing the gator at the sheriff’s house. James did his best to preserve the skin—it might come in handy. Getting it off required using compressed air, jamming the nozzle into one of the animal’s legs. Carving the meat was much easier, and Corbin did most of this work. He was clearly experienced at it. Finally, they carried the meat in two large plastic coolers back to the cruiser and drove to Beth’s house.

  “Time for a cookout,” James said. “Some gator-meat fritters would be pretty good right about now.”

  “You guys have an appetite?” Libby asked. She’d spent the last ten minutes wiping her hands on a rag, though they already looked clean. “I’m mostly just worn out.”

  “I could put that whole damn gator between two slices of bread and eat it like a sandwich,” Corbin said. “That’s how hungry I am.”

  At the house, they waited for someone to unlatch the gate. When Jodi and Shane responded and let them in, Jodi glanced at the big red coolers and shook her head.

  “I can smell it,” she said. “It’s not a pleasant smell, I’m sorry to say, but…good job, I guess?”