Mike answered right away, "Pop's Gun and Tackle for the guns. It's not that far. West from here… I'll bring the map with us just in case. And maybe pick up some Intel about those things from anyone we come across." he finished, very seriously before looking toward Maria, "Your parent's leave a car in the garage?" he asked.
Maria wasn’t too eager to give up the information. She said, "My parents would kill me."
“Would you prefer to be bitten to death?” I took another shot at her.
“I wasn’t saying no.” she answered.
“Perfect!” Mike answered. “You’re a life saver. Let’s get out of here.”
CHAPTER V
We pulled up to Pop's Gun and Tackle in Maria's parents black Hummer without incident, staring down ten-or-so drug dealers and wino's crowding the liquor store half a block up, often known for a mild rash of gang activity. I was surprised word of the infection had not spread to the area.
The gun shop resembled a small, one-story, 100 year old brick historical site that should have blown away with the hurricane. It was completely boarded up, locked and steel gated. We were sure, Pops, the owner, vacated.
“It looks just like what you’d expect pulling up to a gun shop,” I said, looking off at the thugs. “After you get yourself a new toy, just mosey on down the street to get a friendly bottle of Joys & poison, drink it down and join the party.”
“Yeah, I don’t think they know what’s out here. It doesn’t look like any power is on around here.” Mike said, and drove over.
The hoods didn’t flinch.
“What’s wrong with you?” Maria cried from the back seat. “You trying to get us killed.”
I heard the sound of the power lock.
Mike didn’t answer her. He pulled up and made a U-turn in front of the hoods on the corner of the liquor store, hit the button for his window, and said, “Hey, fellas, this ain’t the place you guys want to be right now. You see the news?”
One of the hoods came forward and said, “What’s it to ya? What you need?” and reached underneath his hood.
“Nothing man. Just be safe out here. They say it’s going to get real bad here soon.” Mike warned him, before heading back to the gun shop.
“That guy was pulling out a gun.” Maria said.
“No he wasn’t.” Mike said, familiar with the street hoods. “He was going for his stash. You think they hang out in front of the liquor store sticking people up?”
“They might.”
“Nah, he was going for his stash of bud. I saw the bag.”
“You should have got some.” I said.
“Ugh…” Maria made that noise again.
“Cut it out, cuzo.” Ann said.
Mike pulled up to the gun store. “Hop out and see if anyone answers.”
I got out the Hummer and banged on the steel gate. No answer. So, I got back in the Hummer and Mike drove around the back, into an alley where we parked.
There were no windows at all, a steel gate across a steel door that had also been locked from the outside, and a shut garbage bin up against the brick wall.
Mike stepped out of the Hummer with the axe and started climbing the garbage bin, the rest of us followed. I gave Ann and Maria a boost then headed up.
There was an old and rusted square metal hatch that lay flat on the rooftop. The latch had been opened, and the door was closed and jarred shut.
Mike checked to see if the hatch was easy to break through, but it wasn't. He raised the axe, steel down, took a deep breath, and hit the small escape hatch until the entrance was breached. And we descended the ladder, entering the darkness.
Then, as soon as we were on the ground, that’s when I heard it.
CLICK. CLICK. CLICK.
That was the all-too familiar sound of the hammer dropping on a revolver pistol.
An older, deep country accented voice vibrated thru my ears from behind us through the darkness, "Give me one reason why I shouldn't blow yer brains all over my shop?"
Mike raised the axe, surrendering. A big, hairy hand appeared from out of the darkness and relieved Mike of the axe.
No one made a sound, but my heart was pounding. And no one gave the man a reason for him not to kill us dead.
Then, Mike, calmly said, "Pops? It's Mike Jr."
A flashlight came on, and again the older, deep voice of Pops was made clear, "I woulda killed ya...” he smiled, “if I didn't already see you coming. We gotta make this place look abandoned before the shit hits the fan." he pointed at me, "You fix the ruff. And all y'all keep the noise down."
“Why didn’t you just open up?” Mike asked.
“Didn’t wan’ let nobody know I was still here.”
When I came back down I got a good look at him, and a glimpse of his history. Pops was frail, bald underneath his camouflage hunting cap, and appeared to be in his early mid-sixties’. He immediately struck me as the type of guy that liked to crack jokes, brag, and talk a lot, a little bit overboard with paranoia, maybe even a veteran. He cut the power on to his surveillance equipment from a switch in front of the monitors - five small television screens – black and white to soften the light – with night-vision. It was set up to see everything up and down the street, all three exits. You could see the drug dealers and winos thru one screen, and the Hummer in another. His equipment had been rigged with car batteries, and a secured scanner. He had a small fridge, a Blu-Ray player, radio receiver, portable stove and a twin size bed; the covers were ruffled and pulled back as if we caught him sleeping.
The girls were nervous but safe, holding each other’s hands in silence before gradually making their way to the monitors.
Pops formally introduced himself to me. He said, "Pleasure to mecha, son. The name’s Pops Sherwood, professional championship marksman. Taught myself… Hell, I taught lots a folks. Haven't seen you since a boy...” he paused and gave me a good look up and down. “Sorry about what happened to you and yer family, son. Yer father was my best friend growin’ up. And whatever’s mine izyurz." He had seen the fight between me and my guilt – he was a talker too. He pleasantly informed us, "I got guns, vests and ammo, flashlights, but not a lot of food." Then smiled, and handed Mike the flashlight, “But I’m sure as a deodorant stick you’re here bout something else—”
"Pops..." Mike began quickly, "We got to get outta here..."
"I know..." Pops shot back. "Somethin' strange is going on citywide. I can't radio out but can listen in. They might pick up my transmission." he mentioned as he walked back toward the receiver. "I heard WCPD and that secret government agency broadcast not long ago 'bout some kind of germ or virus. They're calling anyone who avoids 'em, Runners. And something about the infection being bleeding and tracking, whatever that means. I can keep track on 'em from here, and bleed them too if they come messin’ wit me. I thought you guys were those macho mercenaries I seen earlier... racing thru here banging on doors, and telling everyone to stay inside or head to the nearest hospital to be treated. Them fellas down there at the liquor store was out there when they passed. You got the same truck..." he pointed to the screen, "I shut everything down to make it look like I left before the storm hit."
Mike's said, "Bleeders and Trackers? People are coming back from the dead! Anyone that’s sick. You can't stay bottled up in here. Come with us." And put his hand on Pops shoulder.
When he mentioned "Bleeders" and "Trackers" the only thing I could figure was the blooded patients bleeding, and Fisher, tracking us into the garage.
Pops continued. "Don't see why I should. I got everything I need right here till it all blows over."
"We gotta get outta here!" Mike shot back without raising his tone.
"I will not abandon ship. But I got one stipulation bout the gear before ya go."
Maria and Ann turned to give the older man eye contact, looking to wonder what he was about to say. What could he of wanted that we had?
I cocked an eye at Mike.
Mike grinned, "Gimme ya best sh
ot."
I could tell by the look on Mike’s cheesy face he knew what Pops was going to say when everyone else was lost for clues.
"Everyone!" exclaimed a surprisingly happy, Pops.
"Okay, let’s do it!" Mike finished.
I didn’t know what was going on until after Pops walked to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of bourbon, grabbed five shot glasses and began handing them out. “To triumph,” he said.
We all took the glasses.
“Aren’t you supposed to say that once the shot glasses are full and raised?” Mike questioned.
“I say it when I want… But we can do it your way, too.”
“Do we have to?” Maria asked.
“If ya want whatcha came for.” Pops reminded her.
Maria held her nose shut prepared to take down the shot.
We all raised our glasses, toasted to triumph and took down the shots. Then we made our way into the gun shop thru a wooden door behind us. From the moment pops hit the switch and the lights flickered, all you could see was chambers, barrels, and bullets. Some were in glass cases and others on the wall wherever you examined, from revolvers to automatics, hunting gear and hunting knives.
“Got my own generator made outta car batteries.” Pops said. “I’m a live off the land survivalist of war and a do-it-yourself McGuyver kit all in one. I made it up myself.”
“We should have toasted to that.” Mike said before he made his way into his dark war fantasy.
We all walked in behind Mike.
Pops watched as Mike was giving out the material and said, "Everything you see is already loaded... the magazines and pouches of every model and number, filled. I suggest if you're going to war, use holsters for your special weapons of choice. Whatever yer pick, come see me when ya done an I'll fill up those bags wit s'more ammunition. I'll grab a duffle bag from in the hideout and throw ya something special." And then walked off.
Mike asked Ann, "Can you handle a .45?"
Ann replied, "I was only taught by the best."
Mike toughened up his voice, "We're hitting live targets this time, Ann. It's not going to be the same. And this is a more powerful gun."
"It can't be that much different than what you showed me," she finished.
It was apparent that Mike had been giving Ann private lessons. Probably when Mike and Sarah went to the range, Ann would tag along.
Mike turned to Maria and asked, "You know how to use one of these?"
"I'm a fast learner, but I prefer not to handle one." she answered.
“Take it anyway, just in case.” Ann advised her.
Mike looked to Pops, "Where's the real stuff?"
I didn't know what to expect when Pops told him the menu. We all acquired bullet proof vests.
Mike's urban camouflage fully-auto battle rifle had an extended rail, flashlight attachment, electronic sight, and extended fifty shot magazines. He had a holstered nineteen shot 9mm strapped to his leg, magazine pouches and a large ridged hunting knife on his belt that would come in handy to cut the throat of a Bleeder.
Ann gripped a silver custom made .45 with a twelve shot magazine, built-in laser sight, blood red leather grip, and a twelve shot magazine; magazine pouches around her waist alongside a small hunting knife.
Maria held a nineteen round magazine 9mm handgun around the waist with multiple cartridge pouches.
I fancied a thirty round magazine fully-automatic battle rifle with a flashlight attachment and mini red dot sight. I holstered a nineteen round magazine .40 on the hip and multiple magazine pouches.
We had backpacks stuffed with gun replacements and extra magazines. Pops had filled a duffle bag with shotguns, a couple silencers, and a few randomly picked weapons for us to take along.
I felt protected and secure. “You’re the best, Pops.” I said.
“Yeah, I couldn’t thank you more.” Mike said.
“I like the way this feels.” Ann added. “I feel better.”
“I still think we should have stayed at the house.” Maria cried.
“Girl,” Ann gave Maria that look.
“I’m just saying, we need more than just us… We could just wait and see what’s going to happen!” Maria said.
“Maria,” Mike cut in. “We already seen what’s going to happen if we stick around. No one’s going to believe us until they see it for themselves.”
“I sure hope you guys are wrong about this thing. It sounds pretty bad, but it can’t be that serious.” Pops said.
The sounds of scratching, or typing paper being crumbled came from the back room. We all turned toward the open door and raised our weapons, prepared to fire. Then, Pops hit the lights and began walking toward it.
The scratching stopped.
Pops stopped.
The scratching started again.
Pops said, "The radio," excited, as he hustled to get into the other room to catch the transmission.
We followed.
The receiver’s message went as followed:
Z2: Zone Seven… This is Zone Two.
Z7: Zone Two this is Zone Seven.
Z2: If you come across any Runners, don't use lethal force unless necessary, copy?
Z7: Roger that Zone Two.
Z2: By the time they get to week two the only way out’s through Jesus.
Z1: Zone Two. This is Zone One.
Z2: Zone Two, sir.
Z1: We're going to be here as long as it takes. If anything comes your way, send 'em back in. If they refuse, detain them. They refuse you, S.O.S... copy?
Z2: Copy Zone One.
Z1: Good. Switch to your private line, immediately.
The transmission ended.
"S.O.S.?" Maria asked.
"Shoot on sight," I answered.
"Fuck," Ann yelped, pointing to the surveillance monitors, "It's night!"
Lucky for night-vision on the surveillance cameras we could still see everything. The drug dealers and winos were still up the block, and the Hummer was still parked in the alley.
Maria put her free hand over her mouth.
I glanced at Mike.
Mike looked at Pops.
Pops announced, "Got some new night vision sports goggle headsets—"
"Wait!" Maria interrupted, "No one’s in front of the liquor store."
We all paid attention to the small screens, up and down the street, and at all three exits of the gun shop.
Pops shifted the camera control getting a different view; nothing.
"The dealers and winos are gone?" Pops rustled. "They were bored. That’s why they call it hanging out."
Shortly after, three young men in dark hoods cut the corner from the liquor store. They headed in our direction. They wanted something, and they were up to no good to get it. Without wasting any time, two of the young men helped the third up to the top of the gun shop; and the third young man was standing on top of the hatch with a crowbar.
“Oh, they finally found their balls in the alley, aye!” Pops said, pouring himself another shot, taking it back.
I flipped the switch on the flashlight attachment of my rifle.
Pops raised his .44 revolver and cut the power.
We all looked up, the beam from my flashlight circling the hatch.
THUMP!
Whoever it was was trying to pry the hatch open.
Mike crept to the top of the ladder and waited for the next thud.
THUMP!
Mike quickly opened the hatch and grabbed the young man through the opening, and the hooded would-be criminal hit the ground. I placed my rifle inches from the hooded intruders face, the blinding light giving him less of a fight; but us a better view of him. The hood quickly surrendered by shaking his head.
It wasn’t what I was expecting. A light, boyish voice gave in from underneath the hooded sweater and said, "Guess I deserve it..."
Pops hit the homemade power.
He was no more than sixteen, tried to break in and grab some guns for him and his friends,
of course. No facial hair and frightened eyes.
Pops looked the boy in the face, "What should we do with him?" He looked to Mike, unconcerned about the boy’s age. Pops only seen a trespasser intending on a B.N.E. and grand theft; he probably seen the ghost enemy he’d been tracking back in Vietnam, and was ready to claim the child as a prisoner of war.
"How old are you?" Mike asked as he shut the hatch and descended the ladder.
"Fourteen, Sir."
The kid had manners. He couldn't be all that bad, just under the wrong influence.
Pops fought to keep his voice low when his face turned upside down, "Ya get real man'rable when yer gettin' caught red handed, aye!"
Mike told the boy, "Now you know people are in here. Go home before you get yourself killed."
If only he had not entered the shop.
"Oh shit!" Maria said, pointing at the screen positioned to survey the liquor store. "Your friends are running from something."
The kid sat up, being careful not to stand. Everyone else kept their eyes glued to the screens and waited to see what they were running from. Pops got impatient and moved the camera view.
"What's ya name, kid?" Ann asked.
"Baker, ma'am." he replied.
Pops said, "We got trouble. Lights out means night vision," then he zoomed in on his targets.
Twelve machine gun wielding foot soldiers, the same get-up as the ones at the city boundary checkpoint, jumped out the rears of two black commercial vans at the north end of the street; three carried duffle bags. The twelve soldiers broke into three groups of four, a duffle bag with each group. One group headed east. The second group went west. The third moved south, directly toward the gun shop. They were patrolling the streets while the drivers and their front seat passengers remained inside the vehicles.
We were in one of the first zones they spoke of – taking control of – over the radio transmission.
Ann asked Mike, "What are we going to do?" depending on him.
They Came With The Storm (The Effacing) Page 4