Stronghold

by Ron Tufo

  To say everyone at my father’s house was a bit jumpy and nervous would have been a callous understatement. No one was talking to each other; they were just manning their indoor posts on shifts. Lyn thought she would break the tension a little bit and yelled from the kitchen, “Anyone want a snack?”

  There were three groups of varied responses. Gags could be heard throughout the house, there were also two emphatic: “No thank you,” and the final one was a: “Yes, I would” from dad. Heads turned to see if my father, who was poisoningly aware of Lyn’s disastrous capabilities with a menu, had lost all semblance of higher brain function. He looked back and scowled, “What? I am going to let her bring me a bag of chips. Unopened. What could happen? What is wrong with you people?”

  Having been duly chastised, everyone went back to concentrating on their duties with a silent: “Well, when you choke on them, don’t come crying to me.”

  It was atypically quiet at my house too. There was almost always some activity going on, some background singing or humming. Although, I used to hate the humming part. It usually meant that Nancy was mad at me for something I had done, and as usual, I had no clue as to what it was. Even Melissa had taken a post. Nancy was both elated and sad. Elated, because Melissa was doing something other than crying. Sad, because her youngest daughter was willing to shoot something.

  You can only maintain an alert status for so long before the adrenalin in your system runs down and takes the sense of a pending emergency with it. It had been hours without any sign of bad guys when the first shot hit my father’s house.

  Wait! What!? The first shot? When the fuck did zombies start carrying guns? It was almost a relief when the ultimatum came right behind the shot.

  “Hey, Talbots! I know you all can hear me. We have guns all over your house, so don’t try anything unless you want to make my day.”

  Dad answered his question when the first return shot from his 30.06 kicked up dirt at this bean brain’s feet. “And you better get off my property before you make mine. What the hell do you think you’re doing, Mayweather?”

  Mayweather beat a hasty retreat behind a tree where he continued his bravado. “We saw the nice little note you guys left at the Armory and we want the fuel.”

  “Well, if you had learned how to read, you would have known all you had to do was ask for what you need.”

  “You are not hearing me, old man. We want all the fuel.”

  There are only a few things my dad will react to instantly and badly. One of them is hurting his family in any way. The other, because he is just wee bit vain, is telling him he is old. And so the return insults streamed out in a torrent.

  “You listen to me you walking turd. You and your perverted little band of brothers could have come here and gotten all the fuel you needed and then some more when you needed it again, but if you think you are going take this fuel from us and then sell it,” the intake of breath from behind the trees outside showed that my father had nailed the reason why this bunch of scumbags was really here, “then you best leave right now because you are standing where you are going to die.”

  He made with an exaggerated nod, which was the cue for everyone to let go a volley. The sounds and smoke from inside the house were staggering. It would have been completely overpowering if the Gatling gun had been part of the show too. Well, maybe not; it would have been Mark and he would have been exposed. You can’t have everything.

  These jerks did have some experience. They kept their cover until the volley was over and then leaned out and returned fire. Glass broke and Jesse swore when a piece flew right across the top of his head.

  Head wounds almost always look and bleed worse than they are, but that didn’t stop Lyn from running to her son’s side in a state of fear. Jess had the smarts to pull her down from in front of the window just as another shot came through.

  Steve had done what nobody else had thought to do and it had worked like a charm. He was whispering sweet nothings into the ear of a blonde American Girl. Much later he would jokingly admit that it had always been a fantasy of his, much to Lyn’s chagrin and our entertainment. Wink and Hom had received the call for help and were already circling behind the would-be fuel thieves. From the fire they returned, Wink estimated there were six of them. Hom took a wider path than he did and got on their other flank. Wink radioed back to Steve to tell us to begin concentrated fire on the right side contingent of bad guys–that should force them to evac toward him. Steve passed the word, and on my father’s yell, the fusillade began again.

  My bet would have been that Mayweather and his group were wishing the trees in our wooded areas were a few years older. That way they would have been a little wider at the trunk and provided them with just a little more cover. The shots were relentless. Anyone who thought I was joking when I’d said: “You can never have to much ammo!” knew now that it was a true statement.

  The shooting just didn’t stop. Extra guns were reloaded and passed to the shooters. Empties were handed back and reloaded again. On command again, the shooting ceased. Maybe a bit raggedly, but it stopped, nonetheless. There were some moans in the woods where a couple of assholes had been wounded. That is when Wink opened up with his Semi-automatic Mossberg 500 Tactical Pump. There are so many survival rifles that will do the job, but this gun is as scary as it sounds. Kind of like a train coming out of a tunnel as it compresses the air in front of it: “Whoompff!” Low and loud. And it was coming from another direction and into the sides of Mayweather’s shrinking little group of dickheads. When they turned to face the new threat, Hom broke out with her AK-47 set to semi. In semi mode, everything on that weapon is over engineered and dependable; plus, you can aim the damn thing as opposed to emptying a 75–round magazine in three seconds. The second Wink stopped to reload, she was on them from another angle.

  With three of his men down, his force had already been cut in half. When Hom stopped firing, those that still could, broke and ran. Two of the three left in the woods were wounded; one was substantially more than wounded, poor baby. Wink and Hom told the ones left behind to leave their weapons where they could be seen and then went to provide aid.

  Home spoke into her doll radio one more time to let Steve know the fight was over. Dad came out, hoping Mayweather himself was one of the wounded so he could get in a well-placed kick, fulfilling the other Talbot Family Motto: ”It’s no fun kicking someone if they are not already down.”

  To his disappointment, Mayweather was not one of the men down. He helped Wink drag those who were down inside the house for some medical attention. One of them was gut shot and would die. Nothing to be done for it except some palliative care with morphine. The other had a foot blown up from one of Wink’s Mossberg blasts. He, too, needed medical attention we could not provide. Lyn, who was the closest thing to a qualified nurse in the house, shot him up with painkillers and was bundled into one of Ron’s trucks for the ride to Doc’s.

  He was laid across the backseat, and blood was leaking through the dressing onto the upholstery. All Wink could think about was that Ron would not be pleased as he took off for Doc’s.

  Dad was berating himself for not seeing the possibility of an attack coming from something other than zombies. He knew bad guys would be out there in the world along with the other mentally challenged enemies; he just didn’t think his neighbors would be any of them. “Should have known better, you stupid jackass,” he mumbled to himself. “You knew Mayweather was a dick from the get go.”

  Back inside, Gary and Steve were taking inventory of the damages while some other folks were cleaning up glass and brass. Undoubtedly the best news was that no one was hurt. The windows were going to be a challenge. That Home Depot run would have to come sooner rather than later.

  Dad came back inside and called for Gary and Steve to follow him down into Talmart.

  They gave each other a quizzical glance but followed the family patriarch with alacrity. He had one of those Marine Corps looks on him that brooked no discussion
or hesitation. Once they got into an area where dad felt he would not be overheard upstairs, he began asking questions.

  “Gary, what is your best guess as to a zombie attack coming in the next few hours?”

  “Dad, the only way to tell is to go look. They have been here in broad daylight and in the dead of night. I have no idea when they may be back.”

  “Take a truck. Try not to fuck it up, and go make a circumference run of the area. Look for any signs that look like they may be massing.”

  Gary didn’t ask why. He could see though his father’s eyes what he was planning and he agreed.

  “Steve, tell everyone upstairs to clean and reload all the weapons and put them back in their ready positions. I do not want anymore surprises. Then they are to get some rest for the next few hours. Understood? Then you get up to Nancy and tell her what happened. I am sure she must be frantic by now with no word from us.” Steve nodded.

  “When you get back here, I want you and Hom to do a radio check with each other. I want to know the range and clarity of those things, especially through woods.”

  Once he was satisfied everything of importance had been addressed and he was alone in Talmart, his shoulders slumped and his eyelids grew heavy. “Maybe I am just a bit too old for this shit. Ron picked a hell of a time to go gallivanting around New England. Aw shit, that’s not fair. I would be doing the same if I thought there was any way to get to North Carolina and find Glenn.” Some of my father’s best conversations were with himself.

  Wink got back from Doc’s with the backseat now blood-covered but empty. Nancy was greatly relieved to know that everybody was all right and was coming down with Melissa to help with cleanup and repairs. Steve was just getting back with Hom from their radio check. A camera would have captured a most valuable future blackmail photo: two adults, walking through the Maine woods talking and listening into doll orifices!

  Gary was just pulling in from his rideabout of the area. Dad got him, Wink, and Steve together again for a huddle. He looked into Wink’s eyes and told him flat out, “You may or may not want to hear what I am planning to do, but in no way are you and Hom joining us! We are the outsiders here. I don’t want any future controversies to be directed toward you and yours. Understood?”

  “Tony, in your shoes, I would be planning the same retaliation. We will be here when you get back. In the meantime, we will coordinate any defenses that may be needed. Good luck, you old jarhead. Give ‘em hell.”

  Steve and Gary were just beginning to get a drift of my father’s plan. He now focused on them. “If either of you chuckleheads have any questions or opinions about what we are about to do, voice them now or bury them deep. You will need to take your orders from me and discharge them without questions if you agree to do this thing.” Their only response was a couple of affirmative nods. Good thing, too, because I think my dad would have done this mission by himself if he had to.

  “Gary, go and fire up that Russian truck and make sure the gun is ready. Steve, get our rifles and extra ammo and be sure to bring some belts for the rat patrol machine gun. I will explain where we are going to the household. Pull the truck around in five minutes. I do believe Mayweather has had a chance to get home by now, even if they were on foot all the way. I want to be there with the low afternoon sun at our backs.”

  Wink came out of the house with Hom and told Tony that the wounded man had died. My father’s acid reply was only one word: “Good.” Then he told Wink, “Put him the bed of the truck. We will take him with us. No way that POS is being buried on Talbot property.”

  It took me an hour of pacing and thinking to work out what to do. I just couldn’t get my head around heading back up North without having found my oldest daughter. In the end, I had to rely on an old Star Trek quote: “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one.” It was the only thing that made any sense to me. Once back home, we could drop off Squeak’s sister, who really wasn’t too fond of me anyway, make sure everyone was okay, and head back down. God, but I was dreading any more visits from Chief Pain-In-The-Ass.

  The drive back to Searsport was done mostly on the wrong side of the highway. We had already cleared it, and without winch cables, trying to clear the northbound lane would have been backbreaking. We were all the way up to the first few Maine exits when the first sign of trouble stopped us cold in our tracks. I knew we had already opened the way under the bridge we were coming up on. It was the one with the prophetic spray-painted message: “Into the valley of death….” We saw the unlikely bridge men a few feet before we came to the exit ramp. I yanked the wheel and headed up.

  It was just clear enough to try and squeeze through. Kinda. A couple more dents to fenders of the Ridgeline were just not going to make a difference in the resale value. I had no idea if the entrance ramp on the other side of the bridge was open as well. Really didn’t give a flying fuck. As we topped out on the ramp. I had everyone climb out and threw my one and only flashbang into the gang of pus-filled morons who wanted to block my way. As you may have ascertained, I have absolutely no fucking patience when I am in a hurry.

  One jerkwad fell off the bridge when the flashbang went off. Too bad, so sad, bye-bye. A whole bunch more bolted away as soon as they regained some wits. What was left of this assembly of asswipes was better armed than the ones we’d faced in Boston. From the sound of their return fire, they were mostly .22s and a small bore shot gun. “Sorry guys,” I mumbled, “you are going to learn the hard way that you should be more careful who you fuck with.”

  I spoke just loud enough for my team to hear. “Lay it down, everybody. Squeak, pin that shot gun. Make this quick.” Mark and Meredith showed no compunction about the differences in threats. Whether they were alive or undead created no disparity in their thinking. No worries there. I fired my shots under the cars they were using for cover. At least one got lucky and took out an ankle. One down, three or four to go. Back at the homestead, I had shown my kids where to hide when you are using a vehicle for cover. The tire is your friend!

  I heard another loud grunt of pain as I was reloading and looked up to see Mark’s thin smile. Two down.

  Squeak had shotgun boy well and truly pinned. Mer was lining up her next shot when the surrender came. “No Mas! No Mas!” It seems our adversaries were Hispanic. Squeak took the lead once again; the big man never ceased to amaze me. “Lleve a su amigo, lleve. Ahora!”

  All of them upped and screwed, dragging the ankle bleeder with them and all the while yelling: “No dispare! No dispare!”

  Once I was satisfied the threat had indeed left the building, we piled back into the trucks and saw a quivering Manuia on the floor of the backseat in the Ridgeline. Squeak lost it. “Dear God in Heaven I forgot all about my sister!” He gathered her shaking body in his arms and enveloped her entire being from sight. It took long minutes for her to stop quivering.

  It felt shitty, but I had to interrupt. I did not wish to wait around any longer to test if our new friends had developed some balls and had a change of heart about running away. I told Squeak I would drive the rest of the way and he could get in back to comfort his sister. He gave me a thank you smile and helped her into the truck. The kids were already loaded up. We had to turn around the way we came and head back down the highway exit ramp as the other side of the ramp was just too bound up to negotiate. Back on the highway, I hammered the accelerator. I had a bad feeling.

  Mark was enjoying the raw brawn of the Chevy’s 5.3 liter V8 power plant and passed me on a clear stretch. For just a moment, teenage Ron emerged and accepted the challenge of a drag race. Then sadly, father Ron took over again and played the resulting conversation with Nancy in his head. “Gee, hon, we were doing fine until Mark challenged me to a race on a highway full of wrecks at eighty-five miles an hour. It was fun while it lasted. I would have beat him, too, if wasn’t for the damn fog.” Fog?

  Damn it to hell why couldn’t this guy just leave me alone? I couldn’t see ten feet in front of me and im
mediately downshifted to a safer speed. I didn’t know if Mark was caught up in this quagmire or not, but I didn’t want to take a chance of rear ending him, and damned if that ugly thought didn’t start up a whole new discussion with Nancy in my head and also, not surprisingly, would spell the end of the Suburban.

  A smirking face came upside down over the windshield from the roof of the truck. “Holy Sheeeit! What the fuck do you think you’re doing? I’m driving a freaking truck here. You want to kill us all?” In my rear view mirror I could see Squeak covering Manuia’s ears and looking at me like I had gone into a completely different universe.

  “Sorry, white man. I just wanted to get your attention. I see you’re headed back to your home. A good choice. I wondered what you might do after my last visit. I can give you something this time, though. I thought you may want to know that everyone is alive back home. I can feel the presence of a brother and sister though; I don’t know their names, but one is evil and the other is on the fence, could go either way. They already carry some influence up here, even though they are far away. They will cause you much pain as they get closer.” I took a peek into the back seat. “No…not that brother and sister you dolt.” And with that remark, the fog cleared again. I was getting so fed up with this cosmic BS.

  I looked up and there was Mark heading straight for us. The boy had turned the Chevy around and was coming straight at us. It was all I could do to frantically smash both hands down on the horn. We were just a sitting target. No way we were going to have enough time to move out of his way. Thank god the fog dissipated rapidly enough that he had time to see us emerge from it and almost swerve out of our way. He clipped my side mirror and sheared it clean off. Damn it to hell.

  I hadn’t heard many swears in Samoan, and I’d certainly never heard any swears in Samoan coming from a woman. I would have to remember to ask Squeak what “O tiapolo uma I seoli” meant.