by Mike Kraus
Linda thought about it. “We can use the Gator to bring them up.”
“That’s right.”
“Can we do it in the morning?” Jack sounded whiny.
“I know you want to play games,” Barbara replied firmly, “but we need to at least get something done today. After we bring some materials in, you can take the night off after that, okay?”
“Okay!” Jack agreed.
“And we still have a lot of potatoes to process, too.”
“Crates of them.” Linda finished her soup and took her bowl to the sink.
“I’m thinking we can start the potatoes boiling and bake two crates tonight. Then we’ll grind them up. That should give us one jar of flakes with a shelf life of two years, maybe more. We’ll do a few jars a day, working around our other chores and defensive plans until all the potatoes are gone. We can make potato chips, too.”
“I love potatoes chips,” Jack said, almost singing the words. “And French fries. Can we make those, too, Mom?”
“We sure can.” Barbara finished her bowl and leaned back.
“That’s because you’re a potato head,” Linda smirked.
“Am not!”
Satisfied that she’d gotten a rise out of her brother, Linda crossed one arm over her chest and faced her mother, going over the list of things to do, ticking things off on her fingers. “So, we need to bring up building materials and rotate the inventory, right?”
Barbra nodded. “We’ll haul materials tonight, including extra plywood to cover the windows. After that, we’ll see how we feel. We don’t have to rush the shelving. Like I was saying earlier, I want to bolster our defenses first. Once that’s taken care of, we’ll--”
The lights flickered and died, leaving just the pattering of rain in the quiet darkness.
“There they go again,” Jack announced from the table.
“I’m betting it’ll be back in one minute.” Linda held up her watch and hit the stopwatch function.
“Minute and a half!” the boy replied.
Barbara stood and returned to her spot at the back door, breathing quietly, holding her fingers against the glass, the icy tendrils caressing her fingertips once more. Grid power had been spotty all day, and they’d been playing a game to guess when it would come back on. Ten seconds passed, then twenty. After a minute and a half, she removed her chilly fingertips from the glass and shook her head.
“Okay, this is annoying. I was hoping it would stay on at least two more days. I still haven’t activated the battery bank or generator.” She frowned, thinking of how the storms must be affecting the power along the coastal states. “Well, it’s not like it was a surprise. I should have gotten to it earlier.”
Linda stood. “Do you want me to help you?”
Barbara unclipped a thin flashlight from her belt, flipped it on, and shined it toward her daughter. “Nope. Light a pair of candles and start cleaning up the kitchen, please. I’ll have the power back on in less than fifteen minutes.”
“Okay, Mom.”
Barbara unlocked the sliding glass door and pulled it open an inch before she had second thoughts and shut it. Crossing to the closet, she grabbed a thin hooded sweatshirt and shrugged it on. It seemed crazy to have to wear one prior to fall’s official start, but the air had a bone-chilling feel to it. Back in the kitchen, Linda had gotten the candles going while Jack brought their bowls to the sink. With a quick smile, Barbara pulled open the door, stepped out, and slid it shut behind her.
She pointed the flashlight out at the yard, the light drizzle falling through the light beam, pattering on the roof and grill cover. The scent of wet honeysuckle wafted through the air, the strong odor of manure and wet wool almost canceling it out. With her breath coming out in gusts of mist, Barbara took five steps away from the house and guided the beam toward the chicken coops and beyond. The sheep huddled around the structures with the wide oak branches providing shelter, their wool coats wet and wilted as the donkeys stood in their midst and Chuck, their rooster, clucked somewhere nearby, voicing his displeasure at so much rain.
“I’ll get you guys some space inside soon,” Barbara promised.
The barn they usually sheltered the animals in sat down along the west side of the property where the men had intruded. It was farther away from the house than she liked, and she’d been wondering if she shouldn’t move them to the newer barn where they’d be easier to keep an eye on. Head shaking with indecision, she took a breath of moist air, angled right, and strode toward the fuel shed as Smooch came trotting up. Barbara bent and took the dog’s head in both hands, giving her furry cheeks a good rub.
“C’mon, girl. Foos.” She patted her own hip as she walked, causing the animal to heel alongside her in an excited trot, the dog’s eyes never leaving her as they made their way to the smaller building on the east side of the property. At the entrance, she gave the dog a sharp hand gesture, saying, “pass auf!” Guard! Smooch did a turn, sat, and looked out at the property with her ears standing straight up.
Barbara went inside and primed the generator before topping it off with fuel and hitting the start button, listening as the engine rumbled to life. With a glance toward the door, she saw the exterior lights pop on and bleed in through the doorway. She glanced at her watch and saw it was 6:47 PM, almost time for her to turn on her radio and try to pick up Darren’s call. She exited the building, her intention to head straight for the basement, activate the power and grab the radio in one trip.
Outside, she slammed the door behind her and locked it. With the yard lights back on, she headed back to the house but took a sharper angle toward the driveway, distracted by the sight of the truck, wanting to take another look at the dent.
“Foos!” she called to Smooch. The dog broke from her sitting position and ran along Barbara’s side. When she got there, she aimed her flashlight beam at the dent with its blended smudge of white and gray paint, grunting with displeasure. There’d be no insurance claim, and they wouldn’t be having the damage repaired – at least not right away. With things in town starting to turn sour, it was unlikely that mechanics would be serving customers, let alone even open.
“Let’s go, Smooch,” Barbara said, starting to turn toward the back yard when movement caught her eye at the end of the driveway. Eyes narrowed, she pivoted and strode to the corner of the garage as a vehicle cruised slowly past their home and driveway. It was too dark to determine the color, but it had a similar shape to the green Oldsmobile from the other day and the loud, sputtering engine was unmistakable.
“It’s them again,” she said, lips tightening to a scowl.
Smooch picked up on her tension, emitting a low growl from her chest as she followed the car with her alert eyes. The vehicle drove around the corner where it disappeared behind a line of trees and Barbara expected the engine to fade as it kept going, but its brakes squealed gently, the motor idling away with the same soft, puttering misfires.
As she stood and waited, her chest swelled with a mixture of anger and fear. Aggravation gnawed at her belly, her breathing picked up, and she fought to control it by grabbing her Smith & Wesson from its holster, feeling its comforting weight in her hand as she waited a long minute, listening, hoping that the engine sound would die away
“They’re not leaving.” She whispered as she backed toward the house, snapping “Foos!” at the dog.
The intruders had returned despite being shot at, so they were undoubtedly prepared for Barbara being armed. Forcing down her fears, she backed around the corner of the house, certain she had plenty of time to get inside before they came up the hill. Smooch’s head whipped to the left, ears pinned back, body frozen as a deep growl swelled from her chest and grew into a fit of vicious barks.
Two men stepped from behind the fuel shed and trotted toward them and Smooch lowered her head, creeping forward to meet them, but Barbara snatched the dog’s collar, hissing, “Foos, Smooch. Foos!” The dog obeyed her command and retreated, fore paws dancing on the groun
d like she wanted to tear the men apart as Barbara pulled her toward the sliding glass door less than twenty yards away.
“Get off my property,” she shouted, holding her weapon up, hearing the crunch of footsteps behind her a second too late. Barbara reeled to see a shadow creeping up behind her, arms reaching in a stretch of shadows across the house siding. Her fingers slipped from the dog’s collar, Smooch launching herself at him in a snarl and flash of teeth, hitting him hard, snapping and biting, forcing the man to swat at her with a canine catch-pole in his hands. He jabbed the noose at Smooch’s head, missing, giving her jaws a chance to snatch his jacket and clamp tight, swinging him into the backyard.
Barbara took aim at him for a few seconds, looking for an opening that would keep Smooch safe, but with none presenting itself and Smooch clearly in control, she spun to see that the men from the barn were fifteen yards away, sprinting at her with grim expressions on their faces. Her weapon spat a round at the man on the right, but he dove around the corner of the house, her panic throwing off her aim.
The second man launched directly at her, reaching for her gun, hitting it, almost knocking it from her hands. Barbara danced back, shoes scuffling across the concrete patio as she pulled the pistol to her chest and squeezed off two rounds, point blank, the gun recoiling, the sharp cracks slapping her ears. She swore she hit him, but he didn’t slow down, didn’t stop his grimacing, pawing charge. Panic spiking in her brain, her feet continued their delicate retreat, almost tripping over a dog bowl and garden hose. Eyes slammed open, face twisted in blind terror, she popped off another round even as she was turning to run. The man grunted in pain, his voice cut off in a pinch of sound, one hand clutching his chest, stumbling toward her, grimacing in a mask of pain as he crashed to the patio, remaining still and silent.
Smooch’s yelp snapped Barbara’s attention. Man and dog were in a tug-of-war beneath the light pole, Smooch with the man’s right wrist in her mouth and the man trying to get it back. The dog snarled and whipped of her head back and forth with the catcher’s noose wrapped around her neck but the man had lost control and was punching at the animal’s head with a closed fist.
Barbara stalked toward them, jaw set, blood pounding through her veins. Weapon raised, ticking the sights left and right, she rested her finger on the trigger. The man squatted, trying to gain leverage and jerk his hand from the dog’s shaking maw, his foot slipping from beneath him and he fell hard on his back with a pained grunt. Smooch let go of his wrist and dove toward his face, bloody fangs snapping when he swung his wounded right fist at her, the blow glancing off her back, sending a knife clattering to the dirt, its blade stained with blood and fur.
The German Shepherd danced back and then dove in, grabbing at his other arm and pulling it away. The man ripped himself free, but Smooch lunged, ravenous with rage, snapping and grabbing, locking her jaws on his ankle, dragging his leg straight. He kicked out, but the dog let go and darted at him from a different angle to seize his upper arm. Holding his shredded hand against his chest, the man spun on his backside, swinging and kicking at the enraged animal.
Barbara lowered her weapon as she crept closer, voice barely above a hiss. “Smooch, foos! Foos!” At first, the dog didn’t respond, so she took firm hold of her collar with her left hand and leaned backward, repeating the command. “Foos, Smooch!”
She released the man and allowed herself to be drawn toward the house, looking back and barking the whole time. Rolling on to his side, the man glared at the animal and then at the knife lying in the dirt a few feet away. He raised to his knees, crawled over, and scooped it up.
“Drop it!” Barbara shouted, lifting her gun one-handed, her aim drifting and jerking as she tried to hang on to the Shepherd.
Either the man didn’t hear her, or purposefully ignored her, but either way he stood with his ripped-up right hand held against his chest, bloody weapon tight in his left. His glare shifted from Smooch to Barbara, his already pained grimace stretching wide as his eyes narrowed with indecision. Steadying her arm, Barbara made good on her threat, firing four successive shots at the man’s center of mass. He jerked each time, twisting, raising his good hand to protect himself. The first three shots were like punches to his chest while the last one clipped off his index finger before pounding him in the sternum. The man fell backwards into the dirt where he groaned and keened and curled into a ball.
Barbara called for Smooch again and they finally arrived at the sliding glass door, and she jerked it open and ordered the dog inside as a bullet smacked the door frame near her head, drawing her shoulders up tight as she slammed it shut. Once inside, Barbara let Smooch go and pointed at the kids where they stood wide-eyed in the candlelit hallway.
“Linda! Jack! Upstairs! Now! Defensive positions.”
As the pair fled to the stairwell, she dashed across to the basement door with Smooch in tow, the sliding glass door shattering behind her in a crash of glass across the kitchen tiles. Wincing, she yanked open the basement door and ordered Smooch down. Right behind the dog, she turned and slammed the door shut behind her, locking it before descending the stairs two at a time. As soon as her boots hit the floor, she dashed to the gun safes.
Pistol back in its holster, she raised her shaking hand to the first safe’s keypad, pecking in the code until the digital lock blinked green before spinning the spiked wheel and pulled the heavy door open with a grunt. Heart hammering in her chest, she quickly selected a Colt M4 Carbine, grabbed a magazine from the shelf, and jammed it into the receiver. She charged the weapon with a clack, snatched two spare magazines, and stuffed them in her waistband. With a glance at the stairs, she strode to the battery room where Tom kept all the electronic equipment.
She flipped on the light and moved to her husband’s workbench. Resting her rifle on top, she searched through the loose parts, tossing wrenches and screwdrivers aside. There were boxes of circuit boards and several coils of thick battery wires, but no radios. She bent and checked the open bins on the next shelf down, relieved to discover five handhelds resting in the middle bin. Barbara removed all five and set them in a row on the bench, eyes lifting to the living room above her where the floorboards creaked beneath heavy boots.
She turned on the first radio, but it didn’t even give a burst of static to indicate it had power.
“Come on. Please say one of these has some battery life left.”
She flipped on the second radio, then the third and fourth. None of them offered her any luck. The last was a newer model, one she remembered her husband had purchased prior to leaving on his trip with Sam and when she turned it on, it emitted a low squelching sound, the light on top glowing green.
“Yes,” she hissed, glancing at her watch to see it was just past seven. “You’d better still be on, Darren…”
Taking the paper from her pocket with the channel and frequency information he’d given her, she tuned the radio to the right settings and put it to her mouth, hitting the talk button.
“Darren, are you there? This is Barbara. Please come in.”
A brief pause followed where she held the radio with both hands, staring down at it and mentally forcing the man’s voice to come through. Just when she was ready to put the radio down and deal with the strangers on her own, Darren’s jovial tone came across the air, startling her.
“Hello there, Barbara. Nice to hear you got it on the first try. How are things at the McKnight homestead? Over.”
“I’m in trouble,” she replied with a low hiss. “There are men in the house, and I’m down in the basement. Over.”
When he came through again, his voice had sobered from jovial to deadly serious. “Where are the kids?”
“Upstairs in the bedroom. Defensive positions, which means Linda should have a gun.”
“How many men are in the house?”
“At least one,” Barbara stammered. “Maybe more. I shot two.”
“We’re on our way. Hang tight.”
She left the radio on lo
w volume and clipped it to her belt before grabbing her rifle and exiting the battery room. Smooch was pacing near the foot of the steps, restless and limping on her left front leg as she stared upward with a low growl. Rifle cradled in her arms, Barbara went to the dog and knelt, holding out her hand for Smooch to sit. She whined, turning to lick her wound but unable to reach her blood-soaked side.
“Good girl.” She ruffled the dog’s head and moved it aside to get a better look. A deep gash bled from Smooch’s shoulder, and Barbara found at least two more stab marks along her side, just above the ribs. Jaw grinding, she gripped the carbine and took an angry breath as the floor squeaked overhead, Smooch’s head jerking up, her chest whine growing into a low growl, pain forgotten.
Barbara put her lips next to the dog’s ear. “Nein. Bleib!” No. Stay.
She rose and crept to the stairs with her eyes lifted, barrel raised, the weapon’s stock pressed up against her shoulder. Foot-after-foot she moved up the stairwell, pausing as the doorknob jiggled, freezing in place. Aiming to the right of the rattling knob, Barbara slid her finger onto the trigger, then stopped. Without knowing for certain who was behind the door, she couldn’t risk shooting Jack or Linda if they were trying to get down into the basement. Barbara released a steady breath and ascended two more stairs, uncertainty burning in her heart as she moved the barrel to the right and up the door frame, waiting for a sign.
The doorknob jiggled again, then something heavy slammed against it, rattling the door from other side before striking a second time with a deep thud against the wood. Barbara’s finger slid back to the trigger; neither of her children had that much weight to throw around. The intruder thumped the door a third time, splitting the wood frame with a tearing sound, two screws holding the deadbolt flying out and bouncing down the stairs, though the bolt itself still held firm.
Barbara settled the stock against her shoulder and drew a breath, swallowed, and released it in a smooth exhale. With a clenched jaw, she ascended two more steps so she wouldn’t be firing up into the second floor and shot four successive rounds through the door. The pops were deafening as holes exploded through the wood in a loose grouping. Someone screamed in pain and fired back, two smaller dots punching through but missing her as she ducked away. Barbara surged up the stairs, unlocked the deadbolt, and flung the door open, falling back as it slammed against the wall. Head even with the floor, her barrel swept back and forth across the kitchen and living room.