by John O'Brien
Two men are standing near the couple tied to trees, their weapons held in a relaxed grip. Four others are dragging a squirming woman to one of the picnic tables. Her attempts to wriggle free are for naught in the grasp of the four men. Koenig pulls back the bolt slightly to see a round in the chamber. There are four others ready to be chambered, which means that he’ll have to reload. Opening the box of shells, he places them within easy reach at his side, ready to grab more.
Okay, let’s see if I can remember this shit, he thinks, placing and holding the rifle firmly against the trunk.
He looks through, placing the center of the reticle on one of the men standing upright. The figure is taller than the five mil dots on his scope. He raises the barrel a touch until the man’s feet are on the mil dot just under the crosshair. The top of his head barely touches the fifth mil dot.
Okay, that’s six mil dots. The average man is two yards tall. Two times a thousand…two thousand divided by six. That’s, um, shit, what? A little over three hundred. So, three hundred yards away. Plus a touch. If I remember correctly, with it sighted into a hundred yards, that’s about a six inch drop with the .270.
Trying his best to ignore the struggle taking place and the potential of what it means, he turns his gaze to the field across the highway. The waist-high plants aren’t moving, which means little breeze. Koenig picks up a pinch of fine dirt and drops it. It falls straight down.
Good, I won’t have to completely Kentucky windage this shit.
He knows the heat of the day will affect the travel of his bullet, cold weather making it drop more and the heat keeping it aloft longer.
Six inch drop at three hundred yards, the distance being a little over three hundred yards…six inches it is.
His pulse throbs rapidly as he brings his rifle to bear, focusing on one of the men near the couple. He turns the zoom to its highest level. The cross hair jumps with each heartbeat, so Koenig takes even breaths to calm himself. He’s never killed anyone before. Not directly, at any rate. Trying not to think about what he’s about to do, he moves the crosshair in minute increments, centering it on the base of the man’s neck. His finger tightens on the trigger, his thoughts making what he’s about to do an academic exercise.
The buttplate kicks back against his shoulder, the loud crack of the rifle echoing across the endless fields. Koenig quickly recovers, flipping the bolt back and forward again. He brings his eye back to the scope. The man he targeted is staggering, a red blossom of blood growing on the yellow of his T-shirt. He then goes to his knees, falling to the ground on his side.
Koenig notes that the six inches seemed correct, but the bullet trailed a little to the right, either from his scope being off, the kick, wind, or just poor aim. All eyes in the rest area turn sharply in his direction. Koenig barely notices as he places his reticle on the next man near the couple and tightens his finger on the trigger.
A second shot reverberates across the farmland, the bullet streaking out for its target. It doesn’t care what it hits, doesn’t seek to alter its path. Its job is to go where it’s pointed, nothing more, nothing less. It sails over the plowed field, spinning, and impacts the man’s chest just next to the sternum. Hitting one of the ribs, it mushrooms and splits, driving through the chest wall. Tumbling from the impact, the pieces tear through the soft tissue of heart and lung. One of the larger pieces slams into the vertebrae and comes to a stop, fracturing the bone. Another exits through the rear ribs, dragging blood and tissue along its path.
Koenig watches as the man stumbles backward, the stagger turning into a fall. Chambering another round, he sees the remaining men unceremoniously drop the woman and race around to the back of the nearest pickup. The woman stays low to the ground and begins crawling toward the tied up couple. Koenig keeps his attention focused on the men crouched behind the truck, making sure the two downed men don’t rise and begin shooting.
Looking under the truck, he makes out legs as they jostle back and forth. A face quickly appears over the tailgate, vanishing just as quickly. Another rises, a weapon aimed in his general direction, and fires. He manages to get off two shots before dropping quickly out of sight. The rounds land nowhere close to him.
Koenig sights in on the legs, adjusting his aim for the distance, and fires. He sees a spark from the lower edge of the truck’s side. Chambering another round, he lowers the crosshair a fraction and sends another round out. It sparks off the pavement just past the rear tires and ricochets. He sees a full body drop into view, the man dropping his carbine and grabbing at this shin.
Grabbing one of the bullets from the box at his side, he slams it home and takes again takes aim.
“Let’s try this again” he mutters.
His mind is on an academic exercise, not on the fact that his bullets are striking real flesh and bone. Had that thought fully materialized, he might have started shaking and fled. He feels the rifle kick on his shoulder and watches the round spark on the pavement just in front of the man rolling on the ground. The man seems to shiver as the round, now split, drives into his body. Blood seeps to the ground from two wounds appearing in the neck area.
The three remaining men, as one, run for the pickup parked farther away. One throws the driver’s side door open while the other two dive into the bed. Gauging the bullet drop at a longer distance, Koenig fires, the round slamming into the windshield, starring it. The truck roars out of the parking lot and up the road, thankfully away from Liz.
Koenig stares at the rest area, trying to see whether any of the downed men have risen. With the truck driving away, he observes as the woman rises to her knees, crawls toward the couple, and begins untying them. Continuing to watch the scene unfold, he sees the man pick up one of the weapons and empty it into the dead or wounded assailants.
Koenig doesn’t move. The others could come back, but at least now those in the rest area are armed and can defend themselves. The man turns in his direction and waves. Koenig is still shaking, his task completed and the reality of the situation coming back. Without returning the wave, he turns and retraces his steps.
He doesn’t have to relate the story to Liz, as she watched the entire thing through the binoculars. She gives him a big hug upon his return, her eyes glistening with tears. They aren’t sure where or how far the attackers fled, so don’t drive to meet with the survivors. In the end, they turn around, leaving behind a tail of dust as they decide to take a much longer detour.
Chapter Fifteen
South of Pineville, exact location unknown
October 9
Emily opens her eyes, gray light filtering in under the bridge. She rolls over in her thick bag, back aching but not as much as before. The air is chilly on the outside and she wants to stay in her bag, warm and comfy. However, waking also brings a certain urgency that she can’t disregard.
I’ve already peed in two pair of pants, she thinks, wondering if it’s possible to somehow pee outside of the bag and let it trickle down the slope.
With disgust, she unzips her bag and crawls out, the chill of the morning instantly whisking away any trace of warmth. With her morning ablutions finished, she rolls up her bag and descends the slope to her bike. Taking out some of the wrenches, she sets to adjusting the height of the seat more to her liking. The three-wheeled bike is much easier and more comfortable to ride, but she has to extend her legs to hit the bottom of the pedal’s rotation. She loosens the bolt, works the seat down lower, then retightens the bolt. Climbing on the bike, she sits and pushes on the pedal. The seat promptly falls to its lowest position, jarring Emily’s back.
I guess I need to tighten that more, she thinks, adjusting the seat back and pulling on the wrench until the bike actually lifts off the ground.
“That should do it,” she mutters, satisfied.
A chill wind blows through the overpass, whipping Emily’s hair around her head. Thick gray clouds race across the sky, sucking the color out of the land below. Donning the jacket she picked up the day before, E
mily looks south. The hills in that direction look much larger, the only indication that she’s made any progress. Of course, progress implies that there’s some goal to be reached, and she doesn’t have one. Keep moving, survive, and try to find help. That’s what her life is now limited to.
Oh, and don’t get injured, she thinks, glancing back in the direction of the town she passed through.
Even with the change in weather, her spirit doesn’t drop to the low point it was a day ago. She has supplies and is a survivor. And that’s what she’ll do: survive as best she can. There will always be other towns and truck stops to get more. Eventually, she has to find someone.
I mean, right? I can’t be the only one left alive, Emily thinks, downing a meal package she picked up. It’s not entirely good, but it’s not awful either.
The thought of being the only one left is frightening, but also a little exhilarating. Although she really misses her parents, if she could find a place where there weren’t any bad people, it wouldn’t be so bad. The electricity seems to be okay, so she could get whatever food she wanted, maybe even figure out how to make a Big Mac, and watch DVDs. Everything would be at her disposal, as long as she didn’t get sick or something.
Her excitement at the prospect wanes as she realizes that people make the electricity work and things would break after a while. She’d miss playing with friends and there are bad people in every town. And if she got sick, really sick, there wouldn’t be anyone around who could help. No, her best bet is to keep going. Checking that everything in her baskets is secure, Emily sets off. The seat holds and it’s easier to pedal. The wind gusts against her, her jacket fluttering. It’s not raining, but she thinks that it’s only a matter of time. She’ll have to find shelter before then and considers staying where she is until the weather gets nicer, but wants to get some distance in. She feels that if she’s moving, there’s a better chance of running into other survivors.
Closer to the hills, with the end of the vast plain almost in sight, Emily sits on her bike at the side of the road. The weather hasn’t changed; the clouds are still rolling across the sky, the darker ones looking like they could spill rain. During her ride, in the distance, she saw gray streaks of rain stream from several clouds, emptying onto the wide plain.
Ahead, a group of bad people has caught her attention. She watches them for a while as they try to attack a cow in a pasture. With screams, they run up to the large animal and try to swarm over it. The cow runs a few feet away and stands, waiting for the next attempt. The bad people manage to get around it, swarming over its back and biting at its side, but they can’t penetrate its thick hide. The cow bucks and kicks, throwing its assailants to the side. Yet, they persist. For Emily, it’s like a never-ending movie. She laughs when the bad people are thrown off. She doesn’t feel the least bit remorseful for feeling amused, thinking who doesn’t chuckle when someone falls down.
One of the bad people grabs something from the ground. Leaning forward for a better look, Emily sees him holding what looks like a piece of wood. Looking closer, she sees that it’s one of those thin metal fence posts. The man looks at the thing in his hand as if trying to determine its purpose. Swinging it around, it hits another, the bad person screaming in pain and dropping to the ground. Several leave the attempts at the cow and dive toward the wounded one, the screams rising before suddenly cutting off.
Emily is sickened by what she knows is happening, but can’t take her eyes off the man holding the metal pole. He looks from it to the man being torn apart, to the cow, and back again, repeating his circuitous gaze several times. Ignoring those eating one of their own, he walks up to the cow and swings. Emily hears the sharp snap of the bone, turning her stomach. The cow bellows in pain and tries to run, the first step on its broken leg sending it to the ground with a loud thump and a flurry of dust.
The man again looks at the post, then steps toward the downed cow, swinging down. The bellowing of the cow and sight of blood splashing into the air with each swing is too much. Emily leans over and deposits her lunch on the side of the road. She continues gagging until there’s nothing left, and still her stomach revolts. Forcing herself to not be sick, she pedals away, her amusement long gone and feeling sorry for the cow.
As Emily continues south, she passes a few fields where the bloodstained remains of sheep lie in the middle of fields. She doesn’t see any of the bad people, but the evidence that they’re around is prevalent. Off to the sides, sheets of rain descending from heavy clouds obscure parts of the plain. So far, she’s managed to avoid being drenched, but that seems inevitable if she stays on the road. She doesn’t want to catch a cold and needs to find shelter soon.
Nothing of the sort comes into view, and the day progresses, as does the cold of the wind and the rain showers. On the plus side of things, there haven’t been any signs of the bad people. Emily pedals up a small hill, having to push the trike the last distance. Cresting the top, she sees a house in the distance. Looking to the sides, it’s the only one in sight. Her hesitance about being anywhere where people once were revisits, remembering the terror of the sporting goods store.
They won’t hurt me, they won’t hurt me, she mentally chants, hopping on the bike and coasting down the hill on the other side.
Arriving at the lone mailbox in the middle of nowhere, Emily eyes the long dirt lane leading to the house. It’s the only structure for miles, but the rain showers in the vicinity conceal much of the surrounding terrain. She waits, listening for any sound that might reveal the presence of either survivors or bad people. There’s only the wind swishing through fields and the creak of swaying tree limbs. The first patters of rain hit her jacket, a gentle reminder that she needs to take action soon or be drenched.
Puffs of dust rise from the lane as large drops of water fall onto its surface. Emily pedals her bike up the lane, the sides rutted with the middle humped and grass-filled. The rear wheels keep catching on the rise in the center and she soon finds that she can’t ride the three-wheeled cycle very well. With the rain beginning to fall more heavily, Emily hops off and pushes the bike up the driveway at a run. The bike bounces and careens, but she manages to get to the house and manhandles it onto a covered porch. The rain begins falling in earnest, the patter of the large drops soon turning into a splashing downpour.
Emily shakes the water from her jacket. She makes sure the bike and her supplies are completely out of the rain, hesitantly steps to the door, and knocks. Her raps echo inside, but without an answer. She tries again, with no one coming to the door. Looking at the drive, there aren’t any vehicles. Peering through a gap in the curtains of the front window reveals a living and dining room beyond. The lights are off, but she doesn’t see any shadows suddenly dart across the strip of light.
“Hello,” Emily calls, now kind of fearful that someone, or something, might answer.
A bright flash is followed seconds later by a peal of thunder that shakes the wooden porch. Emily jumps, her heart in her throat.
“Well, that doesn’t make it scarier,” she mumbles, thinking about every horror movie that she’s ever watched.
Thunder rumbles across the plains. Anxiously holding her breath, Emily turns the doorknob and pushes. The door opens, the hinges creaking.
“Of course they would.”
She thinks that this is the point in the movie when everyone yells, “Don’t go in!” She pushes harder, a metallic squeal echoing off the hardwood floors and walls.
“Hello,” Emily yells, her head poking through the open doorway.
There’s no reply. A bank of light switches is just inside. Emily flips them upward and light fills the entrance. Ahead, a hallway extends forward with a living room opening to the right. She makes ready to run in case someone responds to the lights coming on. Scared, she takes her first step inside. Being inside a store taking stuff is one thing, but entering someone’s house without permission is something else entirely.
That’s how people get shot.
; The fact that no one is answering is kind of reassuring. If there were bad people around, she would have heard them scream when she shouted. As would any survivors, unless they were also scared. But, she knows her voice sounds like a girl’s. Who would be scared of a little girl? Leaving the door open, the sounds of the storm drifting inside, Emily walks into the living room, then dining room and kitchen. She leaves lights on wherever she goes, hearing her mom’s voice in her head to turn them off. The rooms don’t show any real signs that they’ve been used recently. There aren’t any dishes on the table or in the sink, no pots on the stove with vestiges of food within.
“There’s no one here,” Emily says, partly in an attempt to reassure herself.
To Emily, that only leaves four possibilities. Either they’re dead and their bodies are here somewhere, they’re dead somewhere else, they’re still alive and may return, or they’ve turned into bad people.
If they’re bad people, then they aren’t around here. If they went somewhere else and died, then it’s not a problem. The other two fuel her anxiety. If they’re dead and their bodies are still here, she does not want to find them. Or be in the same house with dead bodies. The older house looks like those in the scary movies that she’s seen, with ghosts and evil spirits all around.
Stop that! Ghosts aren’t real!
The last possibility holds the greatest fear, but also hope. If the owners return and find that she’s intruded, they’ll be mad. But, they most likely won’t hurt her and they’ll be like her—survivors.
A sudden light flashes through the curtains, followed by thunder that shakes the house. She startles and nearly pees in her third set of pants. Even though she’s scared to death, she knows that she needs to find out if there are dead bodies inside. Shakily, she creeps down a branching hall, the wooden boards creaking under her feet.