by AJ Powers
Vlad was still smiling as he watched Clay admire the piece of Americana, a piece of Clay’s heritage. “You have been good friend for many years. I know that gun means a lot to you; I cannot ask you to pay. It is a gift.”
“Wow,” Clay said, stunned by Vlad’s generosity. “But I can’t do that, Vlad. Something like this has a very high price tag these days.” Clay put the gun back down in the box and looked at Vlad again. “How about a swap?”
Within a minute Clay was back in his room, rifling through his pack. He found the Glock 17 first, but he was long overdue for an upgrade from his current pistol, and he planned to keep it. He kept digging and grabbed on to the suppressor for the ARAK-21. Definitely not. As he continued rummaging through a hefty amount of PMags and boxes of ammo, Clay started tossing things out in a frantic effort to find what he was looking for.
“Crap! Did it fall out?” he asked himself. Then, finally, he sighed in relief as his fingers wrapped around the barrel of the Ruger R8.
Revolvers never felt right in Clay’s hand, but oddly enough, this one felt amazing. He had planned on keeping it for himself—something he could actually use to bring down a deer if he found himself in the right situation. And since he had quite a few boxes of .357 back home—most of which were factory—he thought the unique revolver could find a place in his arsenal. Vlad’s recent acquisition, however, changed his mind on that.
The 1911 wasn’t just a gun or even just his great-grandfather’s gun. Except for a family photo, the World War II relic was the last thing connecting Clay to his family’s past. It was important to him and he was going to get it, but not at the expense of an unfair trade with his friend.
Clay stuffed the revolver into his waistband. He quickly grabbed the box and a half of shells he had also taken and rushed back to Vlad’s store. He set down the R8 next to the 1911 box.
Vlad looked the gun over and grinned. “Yes, this is good trade,” he said.
Getting a quality trade out of the deal enhanced the Russian’s joy from the transaction. He was insistent on returning the family heirloom to its rightful owner, but Clay could have brought him a broken Derringer and Vlad still would have called it a good trade. He just wanted to make sure that Clay left with his great-grandfather’s gun in his possession.
Vlad popped open the cylinder of his newest acquisition, revealing some dried blood Clay hadn’t noticed when he cleaned the gun. Bile crept up Clay’s throat from the sight, but it, thankfully, didn’t have the gut-punching effect he expected.
Clay’s expression didn’t go unnoticed. “I am very sorry, Clay,” Vlad said.
Clay swallowed hard and forced a smile. “Nothing to be sorry for, Vlad. Honestly, I am not sure why this is bugging me so much,” he lied. Being responsible, even indirectly, for the death of a good man was not something to get used to.
Vlad loaded up the revolver with some of the shells Clay had given him and stashed it beneath the counter—a clear indication that the trader had no intentions of making it available to his customers. Following suit, Clay started sliding cartridges into each of the 1911 magazines. He was one round shy of having three loaded magazines—twenty-three bullets in all.
After helping Vlad and Olesya rearrange the store to accommodate more of their homemade inventory, Clay headed out to go check the newly updated bulletin boards to see if anything notable had been reported. Clay never made it there, because, as he walked down the main street, he spotted the two wagons in the distance approaching Liberty’s gate.
****
“Just about done,” the man said as he looked down through his glasses, watching carefully as he made the finishing touches.
“Good,” Clay said, “I am not sure how much longer I can sit here.”
“And there…we…are,” the man said as he sat back in his chair and observed his work. “This is one of my finest, if I do say so myself,” he said as he stroked the gray stubble on his chin. His balding forehead was wrought with wrinkles as he studied the drawing. The man picked up the easel and twisted it toward the couple sitting in front of him. “Sorry it’s a little…exaggerated. It was kind of my thing back in the day.”
Clay immediately chuckled with the caricature illustration in front of him. The resemblance was spot on. A quiet sniffle from Kelsey surprised Clay. He looked over and saw tears welling up in her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Clay asked, alarmed by her response and wondering if maybe the artist had embellished on one of her insecurities.
The old man also looked at her, worry filling his eyes as he grew concerned that he might have offended her somehow. As the tears slid down Kelsey’s cheeks, she smiled brightly. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
Clay looked around as if he had missed something. “Then, why all the, uh…” he said, gesturing toward her eyes.
The man handed Kelsey a handkerchief and she immediately dabbed at her eyes. This life—her life, had been anything but easy. And even though things vastly improved once she and Clay arrived in Northfield, Kelsey still struggled with the heavy burdens that had been heaped upon her shoulders—a weight that became increasingly difficult to bear as she watched her husband slay his own demons. Her fading optimism over the last year and a half did little to help Clay and vice versa. Though artificial smiles and vague answers did a good enough job at hiding her growing depression, Kelsey’s difficulty in finding hope each morning had been weighing her down. Seeing Clay for the first time in nearly two weeks—a short span of absence compared to some recent trips—had done her spirit good. The picture showed the woman Kelsey pretended to be, the person just that morning she decided she would be. “This drawing…” she said, wiping away at more tears, “Clay, this is our first portrait together.” The tears continued to stream, but her smile grew wider. “Solomon, it’s just wonderful. You are a truly gifted artist.”
“Thank you, young lady,” Solomon said, giving a subtle bow with his head. “I must say, of all the folks to come by so far, you two have been the most enjoyable to work with.”
Kelsey smiled warmly.
Though all the games and booths were free of charge, Clay handed the man a few rifle bullets. Vlad would give him a fair price for them—that is, if Solomon didn’t want to keep them for himself.
“Thank you very much, good sir,” Solomon said as he took the post-apocalyptic gratuity from Clay. He carefully tore the paper off the easel and rolled it up before tying a string around it. He handed it to Kelsey, “Here you go, my beautiful lady,” he said, before playfully kissing her hand.
“Talented and a charmer,” Kelsey said with a giggle. “You better watch out, Clay,” she added.
“I’ve got my eye on you, old man,” Clay said through a chuckle before reaching his hand out.
“You’re a lucky man, Clay. You take good care of this one,” Solomon added before grasping Clay’s hand for a firm shake.
As Clay and Kelsey left the small booth—one of dozens along the road leading to the center of the little town—Clay felt a sense of peace fall upon him. The last couple of months had been hell—among the hardest since Charlie’s death—and it was not something a good night’s sleep or a hot meal could fix. He needed an escape from the demanding reality that enveloped him every day, even if just for a little while. And finally, such an opportunity had arrived. For the next five days, Clay wasn’t going to worry about whether the freezers were stocked with enough food for the winter or how much longer the dwindling supply of medicine would last. He wasn’t going to think about the joyful torments he saw on Smith’s tablet or the losses he had experienced over the last ten years. While he stayed in Liberty, Clay would not live in the past, nor fret over the future. He would live in the now and savor every moment of it until he was dragged, kicking and screaming, back to reality.
Chapter 15
Clay tightened his grip on the club as he waited patiently for his time to act. He attempted to block out the shouting and screaming crowd surrounding him and focus on the person s
tanding in front of him—more importantly, focus on what the man held. Clay drew a deep breath and slowly exhaled...Timing would be everything.
Come on, already, he thought.
As if reading Clay’s mind, the man hiked his leg up, pulled his arm back and threw the object at Clay.
No, this no good, Clay thought to himself—his gut was wrong.
“Steeeee-rike!” Shelton yelled as he enthusiastically signaled the call.
“Full count, wuss,” Dusty said as she tossed the baseball back to the pitcher. “I’m betting you’ll whiff on this next one.”
Clay ignored her insults as he stepped back and took a few practice swings. He looked around at the makeshift baseball diamond and admired the effort it took to construct the playing field in such a short amount of time. It had turned out to be a beautiful afternoon—the perfect way to close out an incredible week in Liberty. But as the sun inched closer to the horizon, threatening clouds from the southwest had already started to move in. The rain looked to be at least an hour or two off, and seeing as it was already the top of the seventh, the game would be finished and cleaned up before the first drops hit the ground.
Stepping back into the batter’s box, Clay tapped the bat on each shoe and prepared himself for the next pitch. Two outs, full count and down by four, time was running out for a comeback rally.
“Come on, Kohler! Bring the heat!” Dusty shouted to the man on the mound.
Clay locked his eyes onto the ball as the pitcher made his throwing motion.
CRACK!
Clay connected with the ball and it popped up just out of the centerfielder’s reach and on into left field. As Clay closed in on first base, he was being waved on—he arrived at second base with time to spare. The crowd roared with applause for the big play, but that happened with any big play regardless of which team was responsible. The mere act of witnessing this classic American pastime was in and of itself thrilling, and none of the spectators cared who had the most points on the board after the ninth inning.
Even though nearly two hundred people had gathered to watch the event, Clay was only playing for one person in the stands. And when he spotted her in the crowd, he fell in love all over again. He could see the pride she had for her husband as she clapped her hands and cheered him on. It was that moment, for the first time in a decade, Clay had completely forgotten about the world they lived in. It was pure bliss.
Geoff was now at bat, and Clay could see that Dusty wasted no time ramping up the smack talk. No batter was exempt from the onslaught, but Clay saw Geoff turn around and say something back to her that made her shut up immediately.
What on earth did he say, Clay wondered. It had to be pretty epic to get Dusty to stop running her mouth.
Clay led off second base as the pitcher wound up. As soon as he heard the crack of the bat, Clay took off running. He saw the ball skim along the foul line past third base, but it stayed in play. The third base coach signaled Clay home. Quickly tagging third, Clay aligned his body with home plate and kicked it into overdrive.
Doing her best to intimidate the charging runner, Dusty readied herself to stop Clay at all costs. Halfway home, Clay saw the ball fly over his head toward home plate. It also flew over Dusty’s head and hit the fence behind her. As she scrambled to pick up the ball and return to the plate, Clay made his dive.
“Yer out!” Shelton yelled, throwing his thumb over his shoulder.
Clay immediately stood up and started shouting. “Are you blind? She wasn’t even close!”
“Now, who do you think was in a better position to see that? You or me?” Shelton fired back.
“Back off, crybaby!” Dusty chimed in, smacking Clay in the chest with her catcher’s mitt. “I could have killed and skinned a rabbit in the time it took for you to get here.”
Clay gave Dusty a nasty look before reengaging Shelton. “Get your eyes checked, old man! I was safe by a mile!” By this point, Clay was standing up tall and in the mayor’s face.
The hushed crowd watched in shock as the beginning stages of a brouhaha unfolded right in front of them. Unable to continue, the rage on Clay’s face transformed and he began to laugh. Shelton joined in and put his hand on Clay’s shoulder. The ruse was up and the crowd broke out in laughter. After all, how could they relive an American pastime like baseball without a shouting match between a salty runner and a stubborn umpire? Though Clay and Shelton were in on the scheme from the very beginning, Dusty’s involvement was an added, albeit unexpected, dose of believability.
Clay and Shelton shook hands as Clay headed back to his team’s bench to an off-key rendition of Take Me Out to the Ballgame. Clay bypassed the bench and found Kelsey among the spectators. After a quick kiss, he picked up Charles and sang with the rest of the crowd. The toddler’s perplexed look was priceless—why would people be playing a game, then suddenly break out in song? If only Clay had a camera.
“Buy me some peanuts and cracker jack, I don’t care if I never get back!” Clay shouted, but then lost his voice as he heard a popping sound in the distance. The crowd continued to sing as Clay leaned toward Kelsey. “Did you hear that?” he asked. She shrugged and shook her head.
Another series of popping faintly echoed across the field.
Clay looked over at Geoff, who was on the mound warming up to pitch. He had a startled look on his face. As did Dusty and Shelton.
The crowd’s singing trailed off and the sounds became all too clear; all too familiar.
Gunfire.
For a brief instant, everyone remained motionless, each person thinking the same thing. Did I really just hear that?
The collective question was answered when another volley of gunfire erupted from the center of town. The laughing and cheering quickly turned to panic and screams. The confusion in the crowd upgraded the panic to hysteria. There was nothing but fields around them, providing them little in the way of protection. But scrambling to their homes—directly toward the imminent threat—was also out of the question. The spectators didn’t know what to do.
Shelton and Kohler both sprang into action as if they’d prepared for this scenario before. “You, you, and you,” Shelton said as he pointed at Geoff and two other men in the crowd, “get the women and children out toward the creek and wait for the all clear.”
Each one hesitantly agreed. Clay wasn’t sure if it was because they wanted to help the others fight off the attackers or if it was the fact that nobody in the field was armed—it didn’t make much sense to strap an AR-15 to your back when trying to hit a homerun.
“Stay close to Ruth and the kids,” Clay said, yelling to be heard over the frantic crowd.
Kelsey squeezed Clay’s hand. She didn’t want to leave him—more than that she didn’t want him running toward the gunfire—but the look of worry he had for her safety spoke louder than any words could. “I love you,” she mouthed out, as trying to speak over the commotion would have been fruitless.
Clay kissed Charles on the forehead and then handed him to Kelsey. He then knelt down and looked at Dakota, who was latched on to Kelsey’s leg. “Koty, I need you to go with Mama and Charles. Tyler and Uncle Geoff are going to make sure you guys are safe, okay?” Clay spoke loudly.
Dakota gave a nod and squeezed Kelsey even tighter. Clay stood up and saw Tyler fighting through the crowd. Clay waved at him and then pointed at Kelsey. Tyler nodded his acknowledgement of Clay’s expectations.
As the three men ushered the rest of the crowd toward the stream at the back of the property, Shelton turned to those who remained. “I have no idea what’s going on, but everyone needs to get ahold of a gun right away. If you don’t have one, Daniel Kohler and I have some extras.” Shelton, eager to come to his town’s aid, had nothing more to say. He turned around and ran toward town; toward the continual clusters of gunfire.
Clay and the others followed closely together. Gunfire continued as they approached the center of town, and when they were within a few hundred yards of the first street, th
ey began to split up, each man going their own separate way to retrieve their guns.
Within moments, Clay found himself on his own. Most of the population lived on the eastern side of the community with shops and businesses—including Vlad’s—on the western half. Clay had expected Dusty to travel with him, but she opted to get a more appropriate rifle from Shelton. With his mind in such a frenzy, Clay didn’t think to tell her to grab Geoff’s AK-47.
Clay’s heart pounded harder with each round of gunfire that sounded closer by the minute. He was alone, unarmed, and surrounded by unknown hostiles. It was a tactical textbook case of being screwed. But, with no other viable options, Clay kept running toward his weapon.
He was a block away from Vlad’s when he heard two shooters engage each other. First was the shotgun blast followed by four quick shots from a pistol. The exchange was followed by a frantic cry for help.
Clay darted across the street and rounded the corner of Short Stop Grocery when he saw a body lying dead, face-first, in the dirt. The man still grasped the double barrel shotgun, and was properly dressed for the violent occasion. Clay let out a sigh of relief when he realized the deceased man was not someone from Liberty. Two people toward the back of the house caught his attention, a young woman pressing down on a man’s arm. Her crimson-colored hands shook as she tried to maintain pressure. As the woman searched her surroundings for help, she locked eyes with Clay.