Chris held up a hand and apologized as they pulled into the driveway at Barbie’s house. The home was much larger than Chris had imagined. It was two stories with a four-car detached garage and a U-shaped driveway. It looked at least twice as large as his own home. A veranda protruded from what he assumed to be the master bedroom suite overtop the covered cathedral front porch.
“Okay, I don’t see her car anywhere. Let’s see if this hooker is home yet,” Jessi said, holding her hand down on the horn.
After Jessi had honked a handful of times, Chris pulled her hand from the steering wheel. “Okay, that’s enough. I’m sure if she’s here, she’s heard you by now.”
Jessi yanked her hand away. “Barbie’s bedroom is in the basement,” she said, opening the door and exiting the car. “So maybe not.”
“Oh.” Chris stepped out of the car slowly and watched as Jessi hopped merrily to the front door and began tapping repetitively on the doorbell button. Before long, the front door opened and a young brunette similar in height to Jessi stepped out.
While she and Jessi embraced, Chris studied her from afar, realizing how wrong his hypothesis regarding her appearance had been. She doesn’t look like any Barbie I’ve ever seen, he thought to himself.
Indeed, she didn’t. Barbie was slender and muscular, and her skin was radiant and well tanned, perhaps artificially so, considering the winter months were only now coming to an end. Her hair wasn’t blond by any means. In fact, it possessed such a darkened hue it almost appeared black, depending on the angle of view. It even had an anomalous sheen to it, which seemed to mirror the sun’s rays at times. One thing was for certain, the girl was just as much a perfect ten as Jessi was.
Jessi called to him. “Chris, stop standing there with your tongue hanging out like some darby. Get the hell over here and meet my cousin.”
Chris waved and nodded, then trotted over, catching a hangdog smile from the brunette. He held out his hand to her. “You must be Barbie. I’m Chris.”
Barbie snatched his hand in a surprisingly rigid grip. She smiled expectantly. “Nice to meet y—wait…you’re Chris Young, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“Chris Young…the track star? The state champion pole-vaulter?”
Chris cocked his head semi-bashfully. He could feel his cheeks warming. “Yeah, I’ve won a few times. But I don’t like to brag about it.”
Barbie chuckled timidly. “I never imagined you’d be so modest! If I had as many trophies and ribbons as you, I’d brag about it.” She squeezed his hand before letting go. “I’ve seen you in action. You got skills, Chris. And your team trounces us at almost every meet. It really is nice to finally meet you…in a noncompetitive venue, that is.”
Chris smiled awkwardly. “You too. So…you compete?”
Barbie’s smile faded, and she sent him a cross look. “Are you saying you don’t remember me?”
Chris racked his brain, doing his best to recall her face. “I’m not trying to sound insulting, but I can’t say I’ve ever seen you before.”
Barbie’s lips tightened. “Oh, I see. Too busy winning first place and being interviewed by reporters to notice the little people.”
“No, it’s not that. Seriously. It’s just that—”
Barbie offered a reassuring smile. “Chris, it’s cool. I’m fucking with you. And to answer your question, yes, I compete. I’m a sprinter, but I also do shot put and long jump.”
“Okay, that’s cool. So, you’re varsity?”
The brunette nodded. “Yeah—just nowhere near as good as you are. But I’m working on it. In the gym, hard-core…six days a week.” Barbie tapped on the muscles of her upper thighs, the texture of which could easily be distinguished through the thin, almost sheer material of her leggings.
Chris’s eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to the natural athletic curvature of the teenager’s legs. Six days a week in the gym? Evidently, he needed to up his game.
Jessi snapped her fingers. “Okay, enough of that shit,” she said, drawing out her syllables. “I don’t know anything about pole vaulting or shot putting or running or whatever, so can we change the subject?”
Chris and Barbie smiled clumsily at Jessi, both attempting to shield their mild fascination with one another.
Barbie motioned to the red Mustang in her driveway. “Is that the new ride? Damn, Jess. That thing looks like a freaking jet.”
Jessi smiled broadly. “Yeah, that’s it. And trust me, it moves like a jet.”
As the trio made their way to the car, Barbie glanced at Chris. “What say you, Chris? Is it as fast as my cousin claims?”
Chris nodded. “Oh yeah. It definitely flies.”
Barbie tapped on her smartphone screen, and the far-right door on the detached garage to their right opened, exposing the rear end of a pearl white Mercedes-Benz E-Class. “Think it could take that?”
Chris’s jaw fell open at the sight of the German-engineered automobile. “Is that yours?”
“Mm-hmm. You like it?”
“I love it,” Chris said, forgetting himself for a moment. He moved awkwardly away to stand closer to Jessi after noticing the suspicious look she was giving him. “Both of you have sexy cars, but I’m not sure the Benz could take a five-liter V8. I think Jessi has you beat by about a hundred horses.”
“How do you like that shit, slutbag?” Jessi pondered playfully.
“Jeez! Listen to you! Pull those Hanky Pankys out of your crack,” Barbie said with a semi-content smile. “I was just asking.”
“No need,” Jessi replied, eyeballing Chris and strutting away. “I’m not wearing any.”
Six
Winchester, Virginia
Wednesday, March 26, 3:02 p.m. EDT
Nihayat al’ayam minus 32 hours, 58 minutes
While filing his fingers through his whiskers, Adam Young gazed down upon the pristine well-oiled receiver of the Armalite AR-10 he’d purchased for a dollar amount just short of an arm and a leg. He toyed with the rifle’s components while it lay dormant in its case and tried hard not to think about how much money he’d spent, knowing all the while that his wife was going to give him hell the moment she found out. And she most definitely would find out.
Chuck Keeler, the owner of CK3 Guns, Adam’s preferred FFL dealer, stood across from him on the other side of a display case. He set Adam’s paperwork down and handed him a pen, then pulled open a desk drawer, reaching inside for a crinkled pouch of flavored chewing tobacco. “Everything checks out, as usual. You know the drill,” he said. “At least, you should by now.”
“Thanks, Chuck. It’s good to know I haven’t been charged with any new crimes recently.”
Chuck looked the firearm over. “It’s a solid weapon. Has real reach-out-and-touch-someone potential. What’s the occasion this time? Wife’s birthday?”
Adam smirked and shook his head, but didn’t say anything. An AR-10 for Elisabeth’s birthday? No way in hell. That would go over worse than a fart in church. Maybe a new stethoscope or something from one of her Scentsy or Pampered Chef catalogs.
Chuck crossed his arms. “You know…far be it from me to complain or anything, but it seems as though you’ve been on, well, a spree, as of late.”
“A spree?”
“You know what I mean,” Chuck said, placing a wad of tobacco in his mouth. “I wouldn’t say anything at all if I wasn’t trying to look out for you.”
“Okay, well, I guess I appreciate you doing that. Not sure why, though.”
“The ATF has been known to flag purchasers who go over a certain threshold, though they fail to inform us exactly what that threshold is.” Chuck paused. “How many have you bought so far this year?”
“This is the first one this year.”
“First one from my shop, you mean.”
“No, first one this year.”
Chuck laughed. “Every weekend, I play Texas Hold’em, Adam. I know a lie when I see one. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter.”
“You should work harder on learning my tells,” Adam said, grinning. “I’ve had to save several months for this baby. Consequently, I haven’t had the money to buy as many as I would’ve liked.”
“Well, if it’s quality versus quantity you’re going for, you chose the right one this time around. You need anything else while you’re here? Maybe an optic? I’ve got some really nice match-grade ammo for it.”
Adam shook his head. “I bought so many rounds last year, Homeland Security started making daily passes by my driveway,” he joked. “I appreciate it, but I think I’m in good shape.”
“Good shape, huh? Don’t go getting too complacent on me. You can never have too much ammo. That’s been my philosophy since…well, since forever.” A pause. “So…are you headin’ down to the rally Friday evening?”
“What rally?”
Chuck cleared his throat, coughing over a mouthful of spare saliva. “Are you kidding? The Second Amendment rally. The big one everyone’s been talking about? It’s been all over the paper lately. Being the devoted gun purchaser you are, I assumed you knew about it, is all.”
“Oh, I knew about it,” Adam said. “But I’m also aware of the counterprotest that’s being ushered in alongside it, just like the last one. And I have no intention of going anywhere near that mess.”
Chuck harrumphed. “Why not?”
“Better things to do with my time, I suppose.”
“Ah, the diplomatic approach,” Chuck said. “Shame. That’s the same apathy common to many of our fellow constituents, unfortunately. It’s what’s allowed this country to fall into dire straits.”
“I’m no diplomat, Chuck. And I’m far from being apathetic. I just prefer to be in control of my situation…and choose my battles.”
“Adam, a right not exercised regularly is a right lost. If we don’t start fighting back and showing them we give a damn, they’re gonna rip the Constitution right out from underneath us like some old rug. This rally and others like it are our opportunity to have our voices heard in public. I guess I figured you different. You might want to consider getting with the program before it’s too late.”
Adam smirked. “Chuck, in a lot of ways, it’s already too late.”
“How’s that?”
Adam paused, taking in a deep breath. “Do you remember back when everyone was in an uproar about the renewal of the Patriot Act? While legislators criticized its unconstitutionality, three fellow GOPers quoted George W. Bush as saying the Constitution was ‘just a goddamned piece of paper’. Whether he did or didn’t, that same attitude is shared by nearly every politician in office today, for the most part. They couldn’t care less about our rights, and their voting practices confirm it. There’ve been laws, codes, and orders enacted on all levels since the Constitution’s inception that’ve nullified it six ways to Sunday. No rally or protest is going to change anything, and nothing ever will, short of a revolution.”
Chuck took a step back and fell into his seat, and it squeaked under his weight. “I see. I suppose it doesn’t bother you one bit that they’re planning on bussing in those counterprotesters and staging them downtown like some army? Sort of like they do in the big city every time one of our boys in blue has to shoot somebody’s kid in the ghetto. They’re going to turn our little hamlet into a damn war zone if we don’t do something to stop it.”
“Um, Chuck?”
“What?”
“Who are they?”
“They?”
“Yes, they. This elusive they I keep hearing about. The ones responsible for bussing in all the counterprotesters.”
Chuck huffed. “Well, whoever’s got the means to fund it all, I’d imagine. All of those people are paid to riot and counterprotest, you know. They even advertise it in the job listings on Craigslist and pay better money than you probably make. It’s Soros and his gestapo crew, Rockefeller or another one of them billionaire globalist buddies of theirs. Mark my words, though, it’ll probably be a few thousand of them. Black Lives Matter, Antifa, left-wing militants and the like. They’ve already been posting threats on Facebook about what they’re planning, and our beloved Confederate Cemetery is one of their prime targets.”
Chuck went on and on, but Adam was absorbed with his environment. He glanced over his shoulder, then his other shoulder. Chuck used to sell firearms out of his home but had done so much business in recent years, he’d been forced to open his own commercial storefront. The store was eerily quiet today, and to Adam, it seemed a bit abnormal. From what he could recall in his past dozen or so visits, the place had been bursting with customers, almost to the point of exceeding the building’s occupancy rating as set by the local fire code.
This day and age, it seemed like a day couldn’t go by without some breaking news report of a school shooting, someone being shot at the hands of another, or a law enforcement officer using his weapon or even being shot and killed in the line of duty. Almost immediately after and before all the facts could be discovered and made available to the public, the news media would home in on the story, focusing only on gun violence. They’d exaggerate, embellish, and stretch the truths, ignore whatever evidence existed, and do whatever they could to send the entire country into mass hysteria. While the crime itself and the perpetrator were treated with relative indifference, the inanimate objects, firearms themselves, were victimized, as were the law-abiding citizens who owned them, soon after in the timeline.
Discussions concerning revocation of gun rights and repealing the Second Amendment were incessantly brought up as the panacea to the never-ending onslaught of gun violence in the country. In turn, citizens, plagued and pulled on by mainstream media bias, felt obliged to choose one side of the fence or the other concerning the legality, as well as the morality, of owning firearms.
Adam had seen it time and time again. Mainstream media was a mechanism of propaganda, fully operational now, and everything they had to say concerning the nation’s alleged problems had been said before. It was a broken record on repeat and had become predictable to him. He’d stopped watching television news long ago, opting to retrieve information about world events from alternative sources, both online and via the airwaves. Most news found on television was bogus anyhow. It was mostly commentary, political opinions by so-called experts, and disinformation—most of which had only one purpose: to rile up, drive a wedge between, and subjugate a misinformed populace.
Each time a violent act was committed using a firearm, the resultant media uptake was to victimize firearms and their owners, as if both were somehow to blame. Our forefathers’ decision to allow citizens of the Republic uninhibited ownership of military-style weapons to regulate their own government was thereby put into question, and the wave continued into shore. As such, a panic of sorts would begin. Those worried or those who felt threatened that their rights were being infringed upon, or were close to being taken from them, would, in turn, buy more guns and more ammunition.
Adam had been no different. He knew he owned what many might consider to be a private arsenal. He even owned guns his wife didn’t know about, and had hidden them in multiple places in and around his home and even in remote locations, should his right to own them become annulled.
There had been a rash of firearm and active-shooter incidents already this year, and anti-gun protests were on the rise and were starting to spread like wildfire. They began by hitting every major city in the country, and they were now branching out into the smaller, rural, more conservative communities, like Adam’s hometown.
Adam knew full well what was going on. He’d seen the writing on the wall long ago. Not one single government in the history of the world hadn’t been guilty of tyranny in some form or another. Not one government in the history of the world had been innocent of stealing, lying, or even democide—the murder of its own people, including his own. But there wasn’t much he could do about it, and instead, long ago, Adam had made the choice to focus only on what directly affected him and his family in their ow
n backyard. They’d always blended in. Never did anything flashy and never went out of their way to be outspoken in public, and especially on social media. Adam had always chosen to be like the gray man, following the mantra of fitting in and not standing out, and he’d managed to coax his family into doing so along with him. Or so he’d thought.
Their home was as modest as the vehicles they drove. He had been the quintessential prepper for years, though he’d never purchased large quantities of supplies at any single time so as not to catch unwanted attention. His preparedness moves had always been done incrementally. He knew if the shit were to ever hit the fan, anyone looking his way would be none the wiser unless they found some way to read his mind. Technology hadn’t yet reached a point where it was able to do so. At least, he hoped. If the thought police of George Orwell’s 1984 existed today, Adam would be screwed.
Taking notice that Chuck had finished his tirade, Adam took one last look at his newly acquired AR before securing the case. “On second thought, Chuck, I think I will take some ammunition today.” He pulled out his wallet and set a credit card down on top of the case.
Chuck nodded, smiled, and sent a wad of tobacco juice into an empty plastic water bottle. “There you go. That’s a start. How much are you looking for?”
“Five hundred for now. Enough to sight this in and some extra if you got them.”
“Of course I got them,” Chuck quipped. “Got a lot more where they came from, too. So if you need more, you know who to call.”
Chuck efforted himself from his chair and walked away, returning moments later with a green fifty-caliber ammo can. He used both hands to hoist it onto the display case, then ran Adam’s credit card through his machine. “Is there anything else I can interest you in today?”
Adam shook his head, chuckling. “No, thank you, Chuck. I think I’ve done enough damage. Once Elisabeth sees this, she’ll be on the phone with our marriage counselor again. I don’t want to push my luck any more than I already have.”
Until Nothing Remains: A Hybrid Post-Apocalyptic Espionage Adventure (A Gun Play Novel: Volume 1) Page 7