Kate called out from the kitchen, “Everything alright in there?”
I grabbed Ryan by the ears and twisted hard. His neck snapped like a twig and his head spun completely around. I pushed him off the couch and his head banged against the coffee table.
Kate emerged from the kitchen, her pleasant expression instantly shattered by a look of horror. The plate of vegetables fell from her hands and broke into a thousand peices. She backed away slowly, saying, “No, no, no....”
I lunged at her and knocked her to the floor. She struggled as I pinned her arms down with my knees and sat on her chest. She looked like she was about to scream so I clamped my hand over her mouth. Her eyes were wide as she stared at me in total disbelief.
Speaking in my natural voice now, I whispered, “Maybe you should go get your gun. Oh, that’s right, I almost forgot.”
I slit her throat and her blood spilled all over the floor. She stopped fighting. I removed my hand from her mouth and leaned back. She held my gaze. I whispered, “I’m sorry.” I took her hand. She didn’t resist. Her eyes dulled and a second later she was gone.
I found a shovel in the garage and buried the bodies in the backyard. I located a bottle of bleach and did my best to clean up the bloodstains. Then I caught a fish and cooked it for lunch.
As I dined on grilled tilapia – which was delicious by the way – I thought about the Sturgills. They’d done everything right with the fish and the garden and the storeroom. They were nice people in their own green, environmentally-friendly, pacifist way. But as survivalists, they left out one important part. No one has any business calling themselves a survivalist if they don’t own a gun. And no husband has any business calling himself a man if he can’t protect his wife.
For the survivalist, guns and ammunition are the most important tools in your arsenal. If you’re going to stash food and stay home like the Sturgills, you need to be able to defend it. You need a gun. If you’re forced out on the road like I’d been, you need to defend yourself. You need a gun. Plus, there’s only so much food and water you can fit in your bag. Sooner or later you’re going to have to hunt for food, be it in the woods or the urban jungle.
The Sturgills depended on the government for their protection. Where was the government in their hour of need? How had the Surgills planned to call the police with no telephones or cell service? As the saying goes, when seconds count, the police are only minutes away. The Sturgills learned that the hard way.
That night I walked to the utility transformer and retrieved my belongings. After I returned to the house, I stayed there for more than two months. I had plenty of food and water, though I did tire of eating fish. A few days after I’d been there someone had climbed the fence in the middle of the night and tried to break in through the back door. I shot him in the face and buried him next to the Sturgills. The next day someone knocked on the door. I assumed it was a neighbor who’d heard the gunshot. I didn’t answer and they never came back.
Eventually planes and helicopters returned to the skies. I saw relief supplies being airlifted in, pallets of food and water dangling from parachutes destined for the town square. I stayed put not wanting to risk being seen by the townspeople. Weeks later when I saw National Guard trucks rolling past several days in a row, I decided it was time to for me to leave.
I set out after dark walking south away from the town square. I sat on the side of the road and waited. A while later a big truck approached from the other direction. I flagged it down and it slowed to a halt. On the door was stenciled National Guard.
The driver leaned out and shouted over the noise of the engine, “You doing alright, sir?”
I said, “No, not really. I could use a lift.”
“I’m going east, back to the city.”
“That would be fine.”
He said, “If you don’t mind stowing your gun in your backpack, you’re welcome to ride along.”
“Thank you.” I did as he asked and climbed into the truck. The driver was a young man with a crew cut and a clean-shaven face.
He studied me for a minute. “You been living out in the woods or something?”
“Something like that.” I rubbed my face. “Just doing what I had to survive.”
He put the truck in gear and we started moving.
“You live in the city?” he asked.
“Used to. My house was destroyed by the bomb.”
“They have shelters for that, and tents set up with every kind of insurance agent you can imagine.”
I leaned back in my seat, suddenly feeling exhausted. I nodded and said, “Good.”
We drove the next hour without saying another word. I rested my head against the window and fell asleep.
BONUS!
Chapter 1 from the next book in the series:
Apocalypse
Does not the potter have the right to make out of the same lump of clay some pottery for special purposes and some for common use? What if God, although choosing to show His wrath and make His power known, bore with great patience the objects of His wrath – prepared for destruction?
Romans 9:21-22
Muslims. Islamic extremists. Terrorists. Towel-headed miscreants ill-suited for the modern world. Demons from the darkest depths of Hell whose wicked souls exist only to sow evil and reap destruction. Missionaries of misery who snuff out the dreams of the righteous and crush the hopes of the innocent. Barbaric savages who feast on the still-beating hearts of newborn pups and wash them down with goblets filled with little girls’ tears. Fascists who foist their twisted ideology onto every unfortunate soul who crosses their path. Convert or die, their endless mantra. Today I was about to introduce them to a third option.
I whispered, “You sure you’re up for this?”
Becca nodded. “I’m ready.”
The few windows still intact in the abandoned building we’d spent the night in were blinded over by soot and ashes. The floor was littered with trash and charred walls bore witness to fires set by careless wanderers.
I located my rifle and checked the action. I did the same for Becca’s and handed it to her. I touched her face and I looked into her eyes. They were bleary and unfocused, her hair disheveled and dirty.
“Don’t look at me,” she said. “I look like shit.”
“You do not. You look beautiful.”
She pulled away. “You always say that.”
I leaned my bulk against the concrete blocks that formed the building. Carefully I peered through the broken glass to the convenience store across the street. Becca took up a position beside me.
As I watched the three men, my thoughts drifted to the bigger picture. Thoughts of radical Islam and its impact on the world. For as far back as I could remember, the vast majority of global conflicts could be attributed to Islamic extremism. I wondered what the world would be like without it. How much safer would we be? What advances might we have made if all the resources allocated to fighting radical Islam had instead been spent on something more useful? Might we have cured cancer? Ended poverty? Put a man on Mars? The waste of life and treasure was regretful, and it made me angry. Accountants don’t like waste, we place a high value on efficiency. It occurred to me that if at that very moment every Islamic extremist were to spontaneously combust, it would make this the happiest day of my life.
I could hear the men jabbering in Arabic but I had no idea what they were saying. Nor did I care. They must have arrived this morning or at some point during the night while Becca and I were sleeping. I was thankful I had discovered them before they spotted us. Just moments before I had been on my way out the door to relieve myself. That’s when I saw movement across the street. Recoiling as if I’d just stepped on a snake, I woke Becca and got ready to fight. Now as I stood here with my bare chest pressed against the cold cinder blocks, my bladder reminded me that I still hadn’t finished my morning task.
The men appeared to be examining every nook and cranny of the l
ittle store. It had been ransacked, its windows broken and the door missing. Becca and I had checked it out the night before. I chose one of the men and lined him up in my sights. I whispered, “I’ve got the one in the middle.”
“Okay.” A moment later Becca whispered, “I’ve got the one on the left.”
I said, “On three. Ready? One, two, three.” I squeezed off a couple of rounds and dropped my man. I quickly shifted my aim to the right but he was already gone. I had to shout to hear myself over the ringing in my ears. “You get the one on the right?”
“No,” Becca shouted. “I got the one on the left. I told you!”
“I know, I mean after.”
“No!”
“Me neither.” I thought for a minute. “Stay here.”
She placed a hand on my arm. “Steen, be careful.”
“I will. Keep your eyes open.” I threw on my helmet and stepped outside. Thankfully, there were no cars to contend with or anyone outside. I looked ridiculous wearing my boots and helmet with just my boxer shorts. I scurried across the road as fast as I could, dodging from side to side to make myself a more difficult target. I didn’t see the man anywhere, but just as I reached the store a shot rang out.
“Fuck!” I yelled as I dove for cover. That was close. I clambered to get the rifle in my hands and fired off three rounds. I shouted, “You’re gonna die mother fucker!”
He shouted something back in Arabic.
I stuck the rifle into the window and fired. Then I stole a glance inside and saw him diving for cover. I fired off another round but missed. A second later I saw a gun and I ducked. He blasted off several more shots.
I considered my rifle and its 30-round magazine. I knew this was a game I could win. I stuck the rifle in the window again and fired off a few rounds. He did the same. I returned fire. So did he. Wash, rinse, repeat. A few volleys later I heard the inevitable: click, click, click.
Not giving him a chance to reload, I burst through the doorway and caught him off guard. I barreled into him and knocked him on his ass. He shouted Arabic gibberish and threw his pistol at me. It made a loud thud as it struck my helmet. I shot at his legs and hit him in both knees. He screamed in pain and clutched at his wounded limbs.
I set my rifle down and glared at him. Then without warning I smashed him in the jaw with a vicious right. He ended up on his side, gasping for air and fighting to remain conscious. I grabbed a nearby display case and toppled it onto him, pinning his legs.
He shook off the cobwebs, spit blood and yelled something again. He had dark, rugged skin and his eyes were as black as coal. His scraggly beard was heavier beneath his chin giving him the appearance of a monkey. He was missing a few teeth and the ones that remained were rotten and chipped. A black scarf was tied tightly around his head and little tufts of hair spilled out beneath it. He was young, probably early twenties. I wondered how he felt, lying on the floor with his dead brothers around him.
He tried desperately to remove the display case but I kicked his hands away. I grabbed one of his wrists and twisted hard. He screamed in pain. I placed a boot on the back of his elbow and bore down. His screams intensified. Grasping his wrist in both hands, I pulled up with all my might. Suddenly his forearm gave way and his elbow snapped. He wailed in agony. I released his useless limb and it fell to the floor grossly misshapen.
I stood back and smiled, made sure he saw it. Then I kicked him in the side. I did it again, harder. Then I got down in his face and hissed, “You are a worthless piece of shit! You know that? I should just leave you like this.” Instead, I grabbed his other arm and gave it the same treatment. He screamed and writhed in pain. “There,” I said. “Now you have a matched set.”
I watched him for a while until I could no longer bear his screaming. I placed a boot over his filthy mouth and pressed down. I asked, “You ready to meet your 72 virgins?”
I lifted my boot and he screamed, “Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
What a pathetic excuse for a human being he was. I wondered what made these people tick. I’ll never understand it. I picked up my rifle, pointed it at his chest, and fired off a single round. He stopped screaming and his eyes flew open wide. He gasped several times, much louder than before. Then his breathing became shallow and sporadic. His lips labored and he looked like a fish out of water. Through it all, his dark, hateful eyes never left mine.
I stood over him and reached inside my boxers. Freeing myself, I aimed for his face. As he lie there taking his dying breaths, I completed my morning task.
How to Survive a Nuclear War Page 19