by JEFF MOTES
I get my pistol cleaning kit and sit next to the fire on an old wood box. Unloading my Glock, I disassemble it like I did Officer Brunson’s Glock 22. One of the things I like about a Glock is its simplicity of takedown. I pull a Rem Oil wipe out of the kit and wipe everything down; the slide, the barrel, the inside of the frame, and lightly around the guide rod and spring. I don’t want too much oil, as it will attract dirt and dust. Reassembling the pistol, I check it for operation by working the slide a few times and pulling and checking the reset on the trigger. I check the magazine, then insert it into the pistol and rack the slide to load a round. Removing the magazine, I add the extra 9mm round and reinsert it into the gun. I reach back to my pack and pick up Jill’s Glock 19. Stripping it, I clean it as I did mine. She has an extra round too. I wonder if she normally carries it that way or if she had to use her pistol under duress and do a tactical reload. I make a note to ask her later.
Moving on to my Keltec Sub2k carbine, I unload and fold it. Pulling a 9mm snake from the cleaning kit, I add a piece of the Rem Oil wipe to it and pull it through the barrel. I check the action and clean it without disassembly. The disassembly of the carbine is a little more involved with some smaller parts and I don’t want to chance losing a piece on the ground. Unfolding the carbine, I wipe the exterior, then clean the red dot using a clean lens cloth and a wet lens wipe. After removing the suppressor I disassemble it, wiping the insides down. After reassembling, I reattach it to the carbine. Once it’s clean, I reload the carbine and lean it against the wall. From my pack I retrieve the extra sub-sonic ammunition and reload the nearly empty magazine.
Now for the guns of the bastards. I unload the Hi-Point and wipe it down. I do the same with the snub-nosed revolver. Moving to the long guns, I unload and wipe them down without disassembly as well. I lean all the long guns against the wall and set the Hi-Point on the ground next to them, then place the snub-nosed revolver in my pack.
Chapter 22
Jill
It’s John Carter
Day 3
They are holding me down. I struggle, swinging my arms and legs. They keep grabbing me.
“Get off!” I scream, and continue to struggle.
There are three of them. Things are foggy in my mind, yet I fight viciously. Abruptly, they fall away, yet I continue to strike and kick to make sure they don’t attack again. Someone is speaking. Did I hear my name? My mind is spinning. I see a face, a kid’s face. I’m lying on the ground. I’ve been smacked around, then it stopped. Someone pulled that guy off of me. I watch as they fight, until the bully runs away. Then the kid comes to me and says, “It’s okay, Jill, everything is okay.”
But it’s not a kid, it’s a man and he is saying, “The bastards trying to hurt you are gone. It’s okay, Jill. You’re okay.” It’s the kid from the 8th grade, but he wasn’t in the 8th grade, no it’s the boy from the 12th grade. No, it’s not the boy, it’s a man, yet it’s the kid. My confusion gradually diminishes as my mind comes into focus.
My eyes grow wide. “Is that you? Is that you John Carter?”
He smiles. “Yes, it’s me.”
A flood of relief overcomes me. I don’t understand. How can he be here? I was being attacked and then everything went black. Now, here is John. I don’t understand.
“But why… I mean how are you here? I don’t underst…” A wave of nausea overtakes me as I remember what was happening to me before I passed out. “I-I think I’m going to throw up.” I sit up quickly, turn to the side of my blanket, and heave. My head is hurting pretty bad and it throbs from where it hit on the asphalt. From the corner of my eye, I see John walk away and a pang of fear returns.
Don’t leave! I want to scream, though I’m unable to speak.
He soon returns with a cloth, soap, and a shirt. He hands me the cloth and soap then says, “There is some water by your side. You may want to clean up. And here is one of my shirts.”
Looking down, I notice the blood on my chest and my hand moves frantically, searching for the wound, but I find none.
“I think the blood is from one of those bastards I shot last night,” John says.
I look up, still confused. Then I start remembering. Those guys had torn my shirt apart and cut my bra, but they didn’t cut me. I flush when I realize I am completely exposed. “John, um…do you mind turning around?”
He blushes and turns around. I remove my torn clothing and wash the blood off. I realize the cool air is going to make things awkward if I don’t put a bra on. Covering myself with the shirt I ask, “Uh, would you mind getting me a bra out of my pack?”
I don’t know where my pack is. I don’t know where I am or even what day it is. I’m relieved when he returns with my bra in his hand. He gives it to me and I flush again. No man has ever touched one of my bras, except for maybe Dad when he folded laundry. John turns and walks to the fire.
I dress as quickly as my lightheadedness will allow. The shirt is big on me, but it’s clean. “Okay, I’m dressed now.”
John looks at me with concern, and hands me another bottle of water. “I have some coffee made. Would you like sugar and cream?”
“Oh, thank you. Cream only.” I drink the whole bottle of water. My throat was parched. I don’t remember when I drank last. Sometime before I fell off my bike, but I didn’t just fall. I was knocked off. When I try to stand, I wobble, and John is quickly by my side offering support.
I take his arm. I feel weak, but his arm is steady. My pants feel loose. I look down and see they’re partially down. I pull them up and buckle my belt. I start crying as I remember what they were doing to me. Sobbing, I choke out, “Did they…did they…” I can’t continue the awful thought.
“No, Jill, they didn’t. I got here in time.”
A wave of relieve overwhelms me. Thank God! I lean my head on his arm and weep, then look up into his eyes, “Thank you, John. Thank you.”
He leads me to the fire and I sit on a wood box. Somehow, I think everything is going to be okay. I feel safe. He picks up a cup of coffee and hands it to me. Taking the offered cup, I bring it to my nose and sniff. It smells so good. I sip the warm liquid. The taste is wonderful. My spirits are lifted. Yes, things are going to be okay. Smiling, I look at John and say, “There is nothing like the first cup of coffee in the morning.”
“Jill, everything is going to be okay,” John says over his coffee cup. Then he asks, “What are you doing out here?”
I tell him about traveling back home from a meeting near Birmingham when the event happened. That I walked with a woman and her two children the first day. Having been given a bicycle by the woman’s husband, I rode it the second day coming through Helena and Brantleyville trying to make Montevallo before dark when I was attacked.
“I was in a hurry, not paying good attention, and I guess they clotheslined me with a rope. How I ended up here, I don’t know, since I was knocked out when I fell from my bike and hit my head on the road. When I regained consciousness those…those guys were holding me down. A few minutes later I passed out again. The next thing I remember is seeing you. I don’t know how I got here or even where here is.”
“Did you have trouble on the way, other than the three bastards?”
“Yes. On the first day. I had to…I didn’t have a choice. I…I…I can’t talk about it.”
“I understand,” Johns says. “I thought by the way your Glock was loaded that you had use it.” He reaches over by his pack and picks up my Glock and its pink IWB holster and hands them to me. “I think this must be yours.”
I like that holster. It was made by the Well Armed Woman LLC and cost about $45. The pink highlighting on my Glock I did myself after dad showed me how. A slight smile crosses my lips as I remember his eyes rolling when I showed him the hot pink fill I did the lettering in. It’s pretty simple to do. Some hot pink nail polish dabbed into the recessed lettering then after drying, lightly wipe across the frame with non-Acetone polish remover. The highlighting remains. It looks cool.
He brings my pack over and sets it by me. “I think this is yours too.”
I smile again. “It is. Thanks.”
“Maybe I should look at where you hit your head. Would you mind?”
“Of course not. Thank you.”
He pulls something from his pack and walks behind me. “Okay, I’m going to touch you. Is that okay?”
Geez, he’s already been touching me, why is he asking now?
It dawns on me. Our contact before was me touching him. He’s wanting my permission for him to touch me. “Yes, John, I appreciate it.”
He moves my hair around and it stings a little. “You have a nasty bump back here and a cut that has bled some. I’m going to clean it.” He pulls some gloves from what I suppose is his first aid kit and cleans the blood away with an antiseptic wipe, then applies a dab of antibiotic cream. “Okay, I think you’re good.”
I say, “Thank you.”
He sits back down. “As to where you are, you’re in a barn on AL119 about five miles north of Montevallo. Based on what you’ve told me, you were attacked sometime yesterday evening. Probably not long before I found you in the barn.”
Timidly I ask, “John, what happened to the…you know, the other guys?”
He looks me straight in the eye. “I had to kill them. They’re over there in the corner, covered with a tarp.” His gaze doesn’t move as I look back.
“Now tell me how you came to my rescue.”
As expected, he downplays the rescue remark. Looking away he says, “I just happened to be at the right place, at the right time. I was up near Leeds on The Day—the day of the event. I’m calling it, The Day until some better word for it comes around.”
I smile a little since I called it The Day myself. Maybe his dad made him read that book too.
“I purchased a bike and started south the next day. I encountered those evil bastards the day before yesterday for the first time. I saw them yesterday coming out of this place. I thought they might be involved in murdering and kidnapping some teenagers, so I came up here. There were three kids, two girls and a boy. All had been beaten and the girls, well, they were raped. I freed them and then they left. When I was back on the road heading south, I saw the bastards coming this way with a person on back under a tarp. So, I followed them back and, well, I had to kill them. I didn’t realize it was you until late last night. I’m thankful I was able to stop them.”
Standing carefully on my wobbly legs, I walk over to John and hug him hard. “Thank you, John. Thank you. You seem to make a habit of saving me.” I pull back and look at him again. John looks transfixed and embarrassed at the same time. “You weren’t just at the right place at the right time. You were the answer to my prayer for help. You, my friend, were God’s instrument of my salvation. Thank you.” I return and sit back on the box, noticing John is uncomfortable with all the praise.
The movement has made the thumping in my head worse. What else could I say and what else could I do? The man saved my life. He did more than that, he saved me from the most horrible thing I can imagine. It’s not the first time he has intervened on my behalf. He’s done it three times before. Somehow he keeps popping up at the right time.
“I’m heading back home too,” John says. “I think it would be good if we travel together. There is a half a tank of gas in the truck. If we leave by noon we might be able to make it home today. What do you think? Want to travel together?”
“Absolutely! Somebody needs to protect you.”
“Good,” he says with a grin. “Let’s plot a route from here to Jackson.” He pulls a map from his pack and, moving closer to me, spreads it out. “I think we should avoid going thru Montevallo, Brent, and the other towns along the way if we can. How about we hit this county road north of Montevallo then turn back south to HY25?”
I look the map over. “Yeah. I think that’s a good plan. HY25 takes us to Brent. How do you want to go around Brent? Or do you think we can go straight through? I don’t know the roads around Brent or any of the other small towns until we get to Thomasville.”
John pulls out an electronic device and turns it on.
My eyes wide I ask, “How is that working? I thought all electronics were destroyed.”
“Well, I wasn’t caught completely unprepared,” John says with a smile. “I stored some of my electronic equipment in a Faraday box in my truck. It protected this GPS and a few other items from the EMP.”
“A Faraday box?”
“A Faraday box is an all metal box lined with an electrical insulating material. It’s supposed to protect electronics from an EMP. I took an additional step of putting my devices inside anti-static bags and, well, it worked.” He pulls up the GPS map and plots a journey all the way to Brent. “We’ll program the rest of the route as we get closer to Marion. Let’s study this route until we have it memorized. That way if something happens to the GPS we won’t be lost on a back road.”
“Sounds like a plan to me.”
Chapter 23
John
Staying at the Barn
Day 3
“Jill, I’m starving. I bet you are too. Since we’ve got a good fire here, how about I fix us some breakfast?”
“Yes, I’m hungry,” Jilly replies, “but my head and back hurt pretty bad. I don’t know if I can help.”
“I got it, don’t worry about it. What if we get you propped up against the wall over there while I fix breakfast? Then I’ll get you some ibuprofen.”
“Yes, I think that would be good, but I don’t want to be over there.” She points to where she was lying yesterday. “If you don’t mind, will you move me over to the other side of your stuff? I don’t want to be in that spot any more. I would do it but—”
“Hey, no problem, Jill.” I pick up an armload of old hay and dump it on the ground where she indicated. I pile it thick and spread it so it won’t be lumpy. Then I lay the blanket on the hay, and put my ground pad on top of that. Zipping up Jill’s sleeping bag, I set it on top. “I’ve got enough in my gear to fix breakfast. How about we set your pack up against the wall so you can lean on it?” I suggest.
“Yes, that sounds good.”
I place her pack against the wall by the bed I made for her, and return to help her. She sits on top of the sleeping bag and leans back on her pack. “That’s better, thank you. My back is smarting pretty bad, I guess from hitting the pavement yesterday.”
I get my cook kit from my pack, remove it from its pouch, and separate the pieces. Stored inside the kit are a small bottle of canola oil, dishwashing liquid, a scrub pad, a hot pad, some beef bouillon and a ziplock bag of rice. Setting the contents aside, I fill the stainless steel cup with water from one of the reserve water bottles and set it on a brick in the fire. In the fry pan, I squirt a little oil and set it on the other brick. From my pack I take out a freeze dried Mountain House scrambled egg two serving pouch. I also pull out a pack of single-serving Spam and MRE bread and a ziplock bag of condiments. I place the Spam in the fry pan and hear it sizzle. After the water starts to boil, I open the egg pouch, remove the oxygen absorber and pour the water in, stir, then re-seal the pouch. In fifteen minutes we’ll have scrambled eggs. I turn the Spam over, then refill the stainless steel cup with water, placing it back on the brick. Another cup of coffee won’t hurt my feelings this morning.
I slice the MRE bread in two pieces, then cut a pocket into each piece, squeezing a pack of Hardee’s strawberry jelly into each half. The Spam is almost ready. Fixing two more cups of coffee using the camp cups, I take a cup and a strawberry jam sandwich over to Jill. “Get started on this and I’ll have eggs and ham ready in a moment.”
Jill accepts the offered cup and bread. She looks like she doesn’t feel well. Pulling the pan of Spam off the fire, I cut it into little pieces. The eggs are also ready. I dump the Spam into the eggs and mix them up. Using the extra pot from the cooking kit, I place half the eggs and Spam in it.
“Do you want salsa?” I ask Jill.
With a look of surprise, she says, “You have salsa?”
I grin. “Compliments of Sonic.”
“Yes, please.”
Picking up a pack of salt and pepper and the extra fork, I walk over and hand her the pot.
Sitting next to her, I eat from the pouch and try to strike up a conversation, however, she seems not to be up to it, so I let it go. The eggs and Spam are tasty. Jill finishes her plate and coffee.
She smiles at me. “That was good. Thank you. You’re going to make somebody a fine housewife someday.”
We both get a chuckle out of that. She hands me her plate and cup. I fill the stainless cup with water about halfway and set it on the brick, pour about a half cup of water in Jill’s camp cup, and retrieve four ibuprofens.
“John, my head is killing me. I need to lie down for a while. But I…,” she flushes, “I have to use the bathroom.”
I look out the door. The rain has slackened, yet it’s still falling. To the back of the barn, opposite the tarp covered bodies are several large round hay bales. There’s about a four foot space between two of them. “How about over there?” I suggest, nodding my head in that direction.
She agrees, and I help her up. I get my U-Digit folding shovel and a roll of toilet paper and hand them to her. She takes the toilet paper. “I’m not going to need the shovel.”
I drain as much of the oil out of the fry pan as I can, then add a few drops of dishwashing liquid to the now hot water in the stainless cup. With the scrubby I start washing the cups, forks, and the pots, saving the fry pan for last.
Jill calls out, “John, I need some help.”
I turn and see her leaning against the hay bale.
“Can you help me to the sleeping bag? I’m a little dizzy.”
I’m growing concerned, thinking she may have a concussion. Walking to her side, I help her over. She sits down and I remove her walking shoes. They certainly don’t smell like flowers. I help her get in her sleeping bag and she lies back. I touch her forehead but can’t feel any fever.