The Jakarta Pandemic

by Steven Konkoly

  THUNK.

  Now what?

  Max barked once and popped his head up over the top of the couch. He barked weakly, following it with a low growl that tapered off. Alex shifted in bed.

  THUNK.

  Sounds like something hit the house.

  Alex heard a voice emanating from the backyard, then the sound of something clearly hitting their house right behind their bed.

  Son of a bitch!

  He jumped out of bed, throwing the comforter on top of Kate.

  “What is it, what’s wrong?” she whispered forcefully.

  “Hold on.” He moved quickly to the rear window of their bedroom, peeked out of the side of the window blind, and stared for a few seconds. They both heard another cracking sound against the side of the bedroom, and he pulled his head back. Max growled from his curled up position on the couch with Ryan, but made no move to get up. Alex started walking quickly, nearly jogging, toward the bedroom door.

  “Honey, keep the kids away from the back windows, I don’t want them seeing this.” He paused, rethinking his choice of words. “And I don’t want them to get hurt standing near the windows. Todd is standing in our backyard in jeans and a fucking T-shirt, throwing rocks at the house.”

  “What? Why would he…”

  “I don’t know. I thought I was done, but now Captain Caveman is having a mental breakdown in our backyard,” he yelled back into the bedroom.

  Kate got out of bed and walked over to the closet. She reached it just as Alex emerged, holding the shotgun in one hand and a box of shotgun shells in the other. He leaned the shotgun against the wall, scraping the light blue paint, and removed four shotgun shells from the box. Kate stared intensely at the shells and then looked up at Alex while almost imperceptibly shaking her head. He grabbed the shotgun and rapidly slid each shell into the underside loading breech.

  Four rounds should do it.

  “I really don’t want to hurt him, but enough’s enough.”

  He walked down the hallway to the stairs, Kate following closely behind, pleading, “Hon, there’s probably a reason why he’s here. Don’t just go out and shoot him. He hasn’t bothered us in a while, and if he wanted to break a window, he could have done it by now. He’s probably out of his mind. Maybe he lost another one of his kids. Can you imagine how you would feel?”

  Alex started down the stairs, stopped halfway and replied. “What am I supposed to do, just let him vent a little on us? Thanks for laying that guilt on me, but I am not going to sit around and be thankful that he hasn’t hit a window yet. Maybe he’ll take a shot at the solar panels. I am going out there to put an end to this. All of it.”

  He paused, then continued, “I am going to do everything in my power not to use this. Just keep the kids away from the windows.”

  “Take it easy on him.”

  “I’m gonna knock some sense into him, and if that fails…clean up on aisle two.” He turned to continue down the stairs.

  Once in the kitchen, he got a bottle of water from the pantry, took a long drink, put the bottle on the kitchen island, and turned toward the mudroom. He skipped the snow pants and slipped right into his insulated boots. He stared at the snowshoes stacked in the small study adjacent to the mudroom. He was not sure how much snow last night’s storm had dropped, but he figured it to be at least an additional foot. Given the effort it had taken to move across the yards the night before, he seriously considered using them, but ultimately decided against it.

  He’d need mobility when he reached Todd, even if it meant trudging through snow. He also decided against a winter jacket, not wanting to wear anything bulky that could get in his way, as he still had no idea what he might have to do out there.

  Worst case, I’ll have to drag a corpse off my property.

  He put on a black wool watch cap and pulled it tightly over his ears. He stepped into the library and checked the old fashioned bulb thermometer just outside the window. He caught a glimpse of Todd behind the garage and ducked.

  Is he in a short-sleeved shirt?

  The thermometer read thirteen degrees Fahrenheit, and he saw gusts of wind shake snow from the pine trees in the backyard.

  He’s gotta be freezing out there.

  He thought about the jacket again and shook his head. He grabbed one of the radios, but quickly changed his mind and put it back into the recharging cradle.

  The last thing I need is for the voice of reason to chime in. This is going to be hard enough.

  Alex slung the shotgun over his shoulder and disassembled the planks and cans sitting on the stool in front of the door leading to the garage. Despite seeing all three of the Manson crew dead, he had recommended that they keep the sound contraptions in place at night until they felt completely comfortable with the situation in the neighborhood and the greater Portland area. He stepped into the garage and could immediately see his breath. He looked at the back door to the garage, catching another glimpse of Todd through the door’s window. He heard another rock hit the side of his house and adrenaline started pumping through his body.

  I really don’t want to go out there, but this shit ends today. All of it.

  He walked toward the door, careful to keep out of Todd’s line of sight, and peeked out to determine Todd’s distance from the house. He estimated roughly forty feet.

  Far enough away that he can’t effectively charge me.

  He reached for the deadbolt and turned it slowly until he heard the distinct release of the lock. He put his right hand on the doorknob, which was frozen to the touch, and he immediately regretted not putting on gloves.

  This is it, out we go.

  He pulled the door open and stepped outside, slamming it closed behind him. A strong northerly wind made the air feel much colder than 13 degrees, and he was not pleased to be back outside. He looked up at the shapeless, uninterrupted ceiling of clouds just as a strong gust of wind pelted his face. He returned his glare to Todd, who was standing knee deep in snow, wearing faded blue jeans and an old Boston Red Socks T-Shirt. Alex could see that Todd had lost a considerable amount of weight.

  I have a bad feeling about this. He’s absolutely lost it.

  He glanced around the yard at the young, snow-laden pine trees, scanning for signs of any other neighbors.

  You never know.

  He saw no other footprints in the snow, other than a line of prints ending where Todd stood.

  Fair to assume he is alone.

  Todd seemed oblivious to his presence and picked up another solid object from a blue duffel bag at his feet. He cocked his arm back and hurled it at the side of the house. THUNK! Alex started walking toward him, but movement proved difficult in the snow bank behind the garage. A considerable drift had developed overnight, and Alex fought his way toward Todd. Todd never even looked at him as he closed half of the distance. Instead, he leaned over, reached into the duffel bag again and pulled out a baseball. When he bent over to reach into the bag, Alex caught sight of something tucked into his jeans, but the object disappeared before he could figure out what it might be. He thought that it may have been the wooden handle of a revolver, but as far as he knew, Todd did not own a firearm.

  Todd pulled his arm back, aiming at the house again. However, instead of throwing it at the house, he suddenly pivoted his left foot, stepped toward Alex, and whipped the ball at Alex’s head. At only twenty feet, he didn’t have much time to react, and he barely moved as the ball sailed by his head. It struck the side of the garage with a much louder smack than anything else he’d heard this morning, and he fought every instinct to point the shotgun at Todd. At that range and speed, the ball could have killed him.

  Lucky Todd’s not much of an athlete.

  “Todd, what’s going on here? I thought we had an understanding,” Alex said.

  Todd responded in a barely audible tone. “They’re all piled up inside the bulkhead door, frozen. The animals can’t get to them there. Nowhere else to put them. All I have left is Jordan. I’m sorry abo
ut this, Alex.”

  He strained to hear Todd over the wind, and when he finished speaking, Alex took in a deep breath of freezing air and let it out with a sigh.

  What the hell can I possibly say to him?

  “Jesus, Todd, I’m sorry, I don’t…I don’t know what to say.”

  Todd didn’t say anything, just continued to stare at Alex. Bloodshot and glazed, his desperate brown eyes strained deep in their sockets. He sported a disturbed grin which, combined with months of unkempt facial growth, made him look even more unstable, and Todd barely resembled the man he had been in early October. Several weeks of starvation, fear, and perpetual tragedy had dragged him to the brink of existence.

  This is it. He wants to die.

  He continued to stare intently at Alex, then spoke again. “I didn’t really have a choice, Alex. I’m…”

  What is he talking about?

  Todd’s right hand slowly moved behind his right hip to the small of his back. Alex saw that and swung the shotgun to face him. The motion was swift, and within a fraction of a second, Todd had a shotgun pointed at his head. The sudden movement surprised Todd, and he furtively moved his hand back around to the front of his thigh. His hand was empty.

  Alex racked the slide mechanism on the shotgun, chambering a “double ought” buck shell into the chamber and thumbed the safety into the off position. He pointed the gun toward Todd’s chest and looked over the barrel to increase his field of vision.

  “Time to go, Todd, one way or the other.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Todd said.

  Todd reached down to pick up another object out of the duffel bag. It looked like a large rock to Alex.

  “Suit yourself,” Alex mumbled.

  Goddamn it.

  He stared into Todd’s feeble eyes and tried not to picture the corpses stuffed below his bulkhead door. An image of Todd’s daughter, Jordan, flashed through his head, and his anger deflated.

  Maybe I need to lighten up on him. Maybe I should help.

  Todd’s eyes flickered left, and Alex simultaneously caught movement in his peripheral vision. His first instinct was to pull the trigger and kill Todd. He knew that Todd set him up, and if the trap was set right, it might be his only chance of killing at least one of his attackers. Or he could swing the shotgun barrel to the left and try to engage what he assumed was the more pressing threat. He processed both options in a fraction of a second and decided on neither. He charged Todd.

  As soon as his body lurched forward, one of the pine trees on the edge of the Thompons’ yard exploded, shedding most of its snow. A distinct snap passed behind him. Todd reacted hastily and whipped the rock at Alex. The poorly-aimed throw glanced off Alex’s right arm, and Todd turned to run, but Alex was already on top of him. He struck a blow to the upper left side of Todd’s head with the butt of the shotgun. The impact turned him off like a light switch, and he collapsed into a pile.

  Just as he turned the shotgun toward the Thompsons’ yard, the tree exploded again, and Alex felt a sledgehammer pound his upper left torso. The impact of several “double ought” buckshot pellets spun him ninety degrees to the left and knocked him off his feet. He landed on his left side, with half of his body ploughed into the snow, and his face jammed straight into the fresh drift. He lay there physically stunned, but not disoriented, painfully aware of his desperate situation, and acutely alarmed that he no longer held the Mossberg.

  He tried to slide his left elbow up and out from under his body, with the intention of using it to lift himself off his side, but got no response at all from his arm. A sharp pain began to fill the entire left side of his upper body. He shook the wet snow from his face and glanced down toward his shoulder, seeing bright crimson stains spattered on the snow. A dark red stain was starting to melt through the snow piled up around his left shoulder.

  He strained to lift his head up a little further to look toward the source of the gunfire, hoping that this involuntary prone position had given him some cover from the shooter. There was a small rise between the Thompsons’ yard and his own that might be enough to keep him out of the shooter’s sights long enough to get back into the fight. His hopes were immediately dashed by the sight of a brown camouflage patterned baseball cap emerging over the top of the snow.

  Manson came into view aiming a pump action shotgun at Alex’s crumpled figure. He held the shotgun in the crook of his right arm, with his left hand on the trigger. He appeared unable to raise the shotgun to his shoulder, and Alex saw why. Manson’s right arm was wrapped in a makeshift reddish-brown stained sling. Alex clawed at the snow behind his back with his right hand as Manson casually closed the distance, keeping the shotgun trained on him the whole way.

  Alex knew he didn’t have much time left. He wasn’t sure how this man had survived last night’s ambush, but he couldn’t waste any time or mental energy trying to figure it out. His body surged with adrenaline, and he rolled over onto his back. He tried to move his left arm again, but only managed to shift it over his left leg.

  Useless.

  An incredible amount of pain surged through his left shoulder, radiating down his arm and into his chest. A quick glance down at his shoulder confirmed the devastation; he saw a flash of bone in the carnage.

  He looked back at Manson, who grinned wickedly. He fumbled his right arm out further, digging randomly through the snow.

  “You ain’t anywhere close. Your little pop gun’s by your feet. Nice one, too. I think I’ll add it to my collection,” Manson drawled.

  The man walked up to Alex’s feet, and a wave of helplessness washed over him as the man towered over him. Alex focused on his cold, blue eyes, which betrayed nothing about Alex’s fate, though Alex had no delusions of being spared. He quickly scanned the man. He could see that Manson had taken a hit to his shoulder, probably shattering his clavicle, or more likely, passed right through.

  Had to have passed through. He wouldn’t be here if it had burrowed into his chest.

  “Wondering how I’m still around?” he asked and squatted in front of Alex.

  Alex nodded once, his mental acuity fading as the pain in his shoulder spiked. He thought about the garage door and was thankful that he had forgotten to unlock the door handle from the inside.

  It’ll slow him down a little. Kate can take care of the rest. I just need to buy her a little more time.

  He tried to focus on the man aiming a shotgun at his head.

  “Hurts like a bitch. Don’t it? Hurt like hell when I got hit last night, but I was a lucky son of a bitch. Bullet passed right through. In and out. Still dropped me like a fucking rock though. Once I got my senses, I crawled as far as I could into the Hayes’ yard before I heard you coming back to finish me off.

  “You should’ve let your buddy put one in the back of my head. You were pretty much right though. I wasn’t going anywhere lying face down in the snow, and I sure as shit couldn’t have crawled back. But I got lucky again. My sister-in-law was hiding by the Hayes’ deck with a shotgun. She came looking for us when the shooting started. Of course, she had no idea that her husband’s brains were splattered on the side of that house just twenty feet away, or that you’d shot her son in cold blood. If she’d known that…who knows what might’ve happened? After you left, she dragged me all the way back to our house…”

  “Not your house,” Alex grunted.

  “It’s my house now,” he said and kicked Alex’s leg. “Anyway, my wife did a couple of years in the ER at Good Samaritan before the kids came along, and it came in real handy last night. It’s almost like I got a guardian angel keeping watch over me.” He sneered.

  “Lucky me,” Alex said, and Manson responded by viciously kicking his left thigh.

  “Kept my little nephew alive, too, though he’ll probably never be able to use his hand again. Skimmed one off his head, too. I knew you were all business, but I didn’t think you had it in you to blast away at kids.”

  I should have gone over there and finished ever
yone off.

  “What was that? Nothing? Well, we’re gonna need some serious medical supplies and plenty of food to recover,” he said and glanced in the direction of Alex’s house. “Shouldn’t be a problem now that we’ve found ourselves a new home.”

  Alex looked at his house and winced in pain. He tried to say something, but the words faltered.

  Manson glanced over at Todd’s slack body. “You did a good job on your friend Todd. I didn’t expect that at all. For a second, I thought this might not go my way after all. But…here we are, Alex. Ain’t so chatty now, are you? Don’t fade out on me!” he said and kicked one of Alex’s feet.

  Alex struggled to talk. He was cold and starting to feel lightheaded. The pain in his shoulder was slowly subsiding, and he knew that neither of these developments was a good sign.

  “Everyone knows. It’s only a matter of time before they come for you,” Alex said.

  “Before what? The cops show up? Haven’t seen much of them lately, have you? Besides, you think they’ll put up much of a fight against that assault rifle you got locked up in there? Shit, by the time they show up for real, we’ll be long gone. Fact is, there’s a new sheriff on the block, and nobody’s gonna fuck with him.”

  Todd stirred again. Without warning, Manson pointed the shotgun at Todd and fired. Alex heard the sickening wet sound of the shotgun pellets ripping into Todd and was jarred out of his haze.

  Jesus Christ.

  Manson pumped the shotgun, chambering another shell. An empty red shotgun casing flew out of the ejection port, and Alex heard it sizzle when it hit the snow.

  “No need for him anymore,” Manson said and grinned. He kept the shotgun in his left hand, pointed at the ground. “I’m not seeing much need for you either, although I might need a little leverage to keep that wife of yours from blasting away at me.”

  “Fuck you. Either way she’ll take your head off.”

  “Don’t bet on it,” he said, flashing a sickly pleasant smile at the house. “Up on your feet, soldier. We have some work to do.”

  “Marine,” Alex corrected.

  “Whatever. Now get off the ground,” Manson ordered.