If they got within forty to fifty feet, they would have the advantage. I pointed the rifle at the creep’s right shoulder, his shooting arm. I yelled even louder, “Stop! Turn around! And go away.” He raised his gun in a threatening manner. Instinctively I squeezed the trigger. With a loud noise, the spent round hit its mark. Both Vivian and Jessica covered their ears and started screaming. The creep immediately flinched back with immediate shock. He let the grip lose on his gun, and it fell to the ground.
This infuriated the angry bitch. She pointed her hand gun at me and fired. The round came close to me and smashed into the side mirror. As the shattered pieces were flying about, I pivoted my rifle right at her. Out of immediate and total fear, I aimed my rifle at the middle of her body. I had to squeeze my trigger before she could. The surge of adrenaline in my system erased the feel of the trigger as I squeezed it in a flash of fear and anxiety.
The angry bitch fell backward. Like a movie, her heavy frame went backward in slow motion as her gun slipped from her fingers. Split seconds turned into an eternity. Instinctively I looked at the little runt. I knew I had to end it right here and right now … and hopefully with no more bloodshed. I lifted my rifle like a soldier in boot camp. I ran right for the runt. He scurried away like a bowlegged cartoon cowboy into the sunset. Without its head, the rest slithered away.
For a few seconds, I watched intently as the flock put distance between them and me. The deceased old lady and the lifeless angry bitch lay near each other. With trepidation I walked slowly toward them. The angry bitch was laid out on her back, motionless, her eyes wide open. Her face showed pain with a slight trail of blood running down the side of her mouth. In the upper part of her chest, I saw the bullet hole. It had penetrated through her leather jacket. With my right foot, I kicked the gun away. My two fingers on her throat found that her soul had departed the vessel. The two girls came running out of the Buick.
“Dad! Dad! You’re alive!” Jessica yelled with a cry in her voice.
Less than five feet away from the angry bitch, I knelt down and started to heave. I put both hands on the ground and continued my ordeal. Both girls came over to me, crying and nervously laughing.
Jessica put her arms around me. “Dad, I love you. It’s all right. You had no choice. Please, Dad, you did what you had to do.”
Vivian was next to us, but she was staring at the horizon, keeping a close watch for the rest of the flock. I collected myself, and with a slow, soft voice, I said, “Vivian, please take the keys out of the ignition.”
“Yes, Mr. Randal,” Vivian said.
I slowly got up and picked up my rifle. Jessica and I walked to the Mustang. The old man was in great pain. He spoke, but the words came out with a grimace. “My wife’s dead. My wife. You can’t leave her there. You see—” He started to cry. Then he continued, “The dogs … the dogs are wild. They’ll get at her.”
At this point Vivian was coming with the keys in hand. “Vivian, please get that gun.” I pointed with a nod of my head. “Would you mind checking her pockets … for ammo clips?”
Vivian knelt down with a solemn look. With a face that showed total disgust, she put her right hand on the hip of the dead angry bitch.
She had to roll her over to get to her back pocket. There were two clips.
“Yuck,” she said as she walked away from the angry bitch. “I need to wash my hands.”
“Okay,” I said to Vivian. “Let’s clean out the Mustang.” After a few minutes, Jessica and I grabbed his wife. I took her upper body, and Jessica grabbed her legs. She was heavy. We put her down next to the door of the Mustang. I opened the door, and we had her halfway in. At this point Jessica let me handle her. I lifted her around the waist and gently put her in backseat.
“Okay, Jessica, let’s get the other.” She followed me, and I grabbed the corpse of angry bitch under her torso. Jessica grabbed her kegs.
Vivian was happy not to be part of it.
“Stop,” yelled the old man. “That bitch killed my wife. Not in my car with my wife.”
I did not want to argue. Time was wasting. Jessica and I bought her to another car nearby. I broke the window and opened the door. With as much respect to her corpse as we could muster, Jessica and I gently put her in the backseat.
The runt and the others viewed from a distance. I told the old man, “Grab your keys.” He did. He started to lock the car. I said, “Stop. If those degenerates want in your car, they will break the window.” He knew I was right. “Look,” I said. “How far to the nearest hospital.”
“Not far. Less than ten minutes,” the old man replied in pain.
I hated to do this, but he sat in the front passenger seat. Jessica had to sit on his lap since she weighed the least. I took a few more bottles of water and bread out from around him and stored some in the trunk and the others with Vivian. Poor girl, she almost needed a periscope to see out beyond the pile. We soon pulled off 95 and into Providence. “The hospital is just two streets away,” the old man said with even more pain.
As we were turning the corner, there were two city policemen on bikes.
“Stop,” said the nearest one. I turned my car around and drove away.
We turned down the hill. I stopped. I said to the old man, “I’m sorry.
This is as far as we go. The cops want our car.” Jessica opened the door and let him out. I disassembled the periscope and rearranged the stuff around Vivian.
“Thanks,” the old man said with even more pain. “I don’t care anymore. My wife was my whole life. How can I go on? Why should I go on?”
“Bye,” Jessica said with a meek voice.
Soon we were back on 95. Thankfully there were no more dramatic incidents. It had been the most defining day of my life. I didn’t need any more drama, especially not right now.
CHAPTER 3
Collaborative
AS WE ENTERED Massachusetts on I-95, we sighed with relief. It had been an emotionally and physically draining day.
The last fifteen minutes was filled with silence, not the stoic kind but the kind that admits the limitations words. Vivian was spacing out, twirling her hair. Jessica looked out the window like a sad, lost puppy. I was lost in my head, drifting from moment to moment of happier times before all this EMP shit began. I couldn’t allow thoughts of those last seconds before I squeezed the trigger at the angry bitch to surface. The repetitive recriminations of what-if thinking would doom us right now. We had to breathe in some relief first. Survival demanded it that away.
“Hey, Dad,” Jessica shouted. “You’re going past the exit.”
Whoa! I thought. What I am doing? “Thanks, Jessica,” I replied as I returned to the present. I stopped, backed up the car, and proceeded to our exit.
Most of the same cars were still stranded on the road. A few were pushed to the side, including the SUV with broken windows. Even in the affluent neighborhoods, there were some really bad apples. As we were anticipating our arrival, we passed the attorney Schiller’s house.
He owned a corporate law firm in downtown Boston. His home was a monstrosity of a palace, gated with at least one and a half acres of manicured lawn. My guess was that his BMW had met the same fate as mine. I wondered if his security systems still worked.
The last three years in the Boston area, we have had very cold and snowy winters. During a three-day nor’easter, it was common to lose electricity in the suburbs. It was very costly to purchase a natural gas generator and have it wired in if you were fortunate to have natural gas on your street. Unlike oil, there are no delivery trucks, and there is a meter that registers usage, which is all very convenient. The Schiller’s have an automatic natural gas generator. As long as the gas keeps coming, he will have electricity. The main problem though was that their home would make for a well-lit target.
We were now within minutes of our home. When our neighbors heard our car, the
y started coming outside. Its distinctive noise was the sound of a lifeline. “Crap,” I said out loud. “Too much notoriety.” It was difficult to stay under the radar when you were the only game in town. We drove by Officer Ryan’s house. His straight three-bedroom ranch had a small but well-maintained lawn. It represented the two-mile mark from our home. He had both his car and the blue and tan squad car in the driveway. He was on the night shift. He was a Massachusetts State Trooper.
All the time I lived here, he never talked much to me or his neighbors. Maybe he thought it would be a conflict of interest. Or perhaps it meant he wanted to maintain a professional distance. But this time he did a half salute with two fingers while he was dressed in blue jeans and his trooper’s tee shirt. I was sure to wave back. There was no use in burning that bridge.
“Hmm, girls, that was weird,” I muttered softly. I imagined him like my drill sergeant in basic training. It was the army way or no way. There was no deviation, no adaptation. When we fought the red coats, did we not adapt? Were they not lined up in a row and the patriots fired from behind trees and stone walls? Maybe I misjudged him.
As we pulled in the yard, both Alice and Randy heard the Buick’s engine. Without a TV, cell phone, radio, or other electronic gadgets, one picks up an engine sound very quickly. Our house was a twenty-year-old colonial. It sat on a little more than an acre of land. A nice work shed sat in the back of the house. Randy and I spent a lot of time there working on the Buick, the lawn mower, and the snow blower. The land sloped in the back to a swampy, wooded area. The realtor had showed this feature last. Somehow she knew our wants and needs, making sure to satisfy them first.
Alice hugged both Jessica and me. Randy had a big smile and was about to say something. “What the f– happen to my mirror?” Randy exclaimed in shock.
“We went through a lot, didn’t we, Dad?” said Jessica. “Yes, Jessica. Yes, we did,” I replied, about to collapse.
“Hi, honey,” Vivian’s mom said to her daughter. Vivian’s mom was shorter than her daughter. She also had a full figure. She wore a light black jacket, dress jeans, and a pullover blouse. It was not a typical biker’s outfit.
“Mom, how did you get here?”
“Your cousin’s bike. God, am I out of shape,” Vivian’s mom touted.
Before I could tell Randy what to do, he grabbed the keys and pulled the car behind the shed so it was out of sight from the road.
Everyone chipped in to carry in the water, bread, and corn. As we walked into the house, Alice informed me that it had been a stressful day for her and Randy too. I didn’t even get a chance to unwind or talk about the day’s event. I went to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth.
No hot water gets old very fast. But we did have a gas stove. So far there was still gas coming through the town pipes. The main problem was that there was no electrical ignition. We had to turn on the knob and use a lighter. So far most of us just take GI baths.
Today’s events started to annoy Alice. She informed me that the police chief came by twice to talk about the Buick. “I think they wanted to confiscate it,” she said.
Vivian’s mom was in the kitchen. To me, this was not a good time to air out family laundry.
“Ben,” Alice commented with anger and frustration.
“Yes, dear,” I calmly replied, wishing I could just have a nightcap to calm my nerves.
“There has been a steady stream of neighbors and strangers coming here today,” she said with a determined point of view. “It seems many people know of our survival radio … and the Buick.” In a despondent voice, she continued, “Some had the audacity to ask to use our stove to cook on. These are people I have never seen before.”
“Dad,” Randy now chimed in.
“Yes, son,” I said as if I had the option to ignore him.
“Mom and I listen to the radio,” Randy said. “It seems that not only the president but also the governor has declared martial law for our state.”
I slowly looked at Vivian and her mom. I knew there could not be a reasonable conclusion. I was really emotional and beaten up. “Today I took someone’s life. I am not myself,” I said, but Alice pushed on.
“Look, Ben, Randy and I have been considering that we need to act,” she said with a commanding voice.
“Not tonight please. We will have a family meeting in the morning.” With angry and deep emotion, Alice shouted, “I am the one who worked, cooked, and took care of the kids. I am due my respect.” Then she started to cry.
“Yeah, Dad,” Randy said. “We have the car. We have marketing talents. We can go north.”
“What makes you the boss? It’s my car. I paid for it. I repaired it.”
Randy left and slammed the bedroom door. Anger and frustration was showing their ugly heads. Vivian’s mom walked over to me. She was wearing a large cross on her neck.
“Mr. Randal, sir,” she said in a soothing tenure.
“Yes,” I replied, hoping that this was not going to be a lecture.
She reached in her coat pocket and pulled out a small Bible. “Mr.
Randal, you’ve been a good influence on my daughter. You have been a father figure to her. This has had a stabilizing effect on her and me. I came here today and kept my hand on this Bible. I prayed. Dear Jesus, please keep the Devil away. Tonight, Mr. Randal, I want you to hold this Bible to make you strong. I pray for you to have the courage to do the right thing.” She smiled.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Vivian and I will leave now. We’ve got an hour of sunlight left.”
“No, you can’t. Please not now. There is some water and bread for you. Two women walking alone without a cell phone or protection is not safe. One dead woman is all I can live with. I will calmly make a concession to my wife tonight,” I said with resignation. “I will agree to the move in two days. I know we can survive this. The house and money are material things. God and my family are important. Even if in my heart I feel that it is the wrong move, I will do it,” I said with a slow, sad, and soft tone. I continued, “You have given me strength. Tonight please sleep on my sofa and loveseat. Tomorrow morning there will be no drama. Randy has a car and .22 rifle. You’ll be safe.”
“Mr. Randal,” Vivian said, twirling her hair.
“Yes, Vivian,” I replied.
“I still have the gun, you know, from the angry bitch,” Vivian stated, showing it to me.
“You’re right, Vivian,” I stated, my mind going into overdrive.
Jessica heard her mom crying. She made a vain attempt to communicate.
“Not now, Jessica,” her mother replied as Jessica tapped at her bedroom door.
I saw to it that Vivian and her mom were all set. The temperature this April night was in the upper forties. I gave each of them a quilt and one towel. I had to shampoo my hair in cold water. I put on a bathrobe and clean underwear.
God, this is going to be difficult, I thought. It had been an hour since all of the drama. I held the little Bible tight. I slowly opened the door. My wife was sleeping on her side, facing away from me.
That was uncharacteristic. “All right, honey, we will leave. All I beg for is two days. Today Jessica and I went through a lot. I took a woman’s life. I need to digest everything. It is difficult not only for us but for the whole country,” I commented as I pulled the blanket over me.
Alice put her hand on her mouth. I know she wanted to hug me. It was her own fleeting ego that stopped her. Both of us were emotionally drained. I slept with a tight grip on my borrowed Bible. Somehow it gave me a second wind.
Morning came. Days were getting longer, but it was still a chilly morning. Vivian and her mom were up. It’s hard to sleep when you’re not in your own element.
I looked at both as I headed to the bathroom. “Morning, ladies,” I said, trying to sound cheery. “Morning, Mr. Randall,” they said almost
in unison.
After I finished with the bathroom, I went to Vivian’s mom, kissed the Bible, and handed back to her. I spoke clearly to both. “The pain is real. I have to come to terms with it.”
As I was walking away, Vivian’s mom stated slowly and clearly, “God has his own way and his own timetable. He will lift your grief.”
“I pray so. I pray so,” I said as I continued walking away.
Alice got up. “Well, the milk will go sour soon. We also have a couple dozen eggs,” she said with an accommodating voice.
“The French toast was not bad. I never got used to instant coffee, but it’s better than no coffee,” Randy blurted in his pissy mood, while Jessica joined us at the table.
“Randy,” I said, “we will leave in two days.” I had to throw him a bone to stroke his ego. “Would you be so kind as to drive Vivian and her mom home?” I said with empathy.
Feeling a little embarrassed and guilty, Randy replied, “Sure, Dad.”
Vivian and her mom grab some water and bread. As they were leaving, I said, “Son.”
“Yes, Dad,” Randy replied.
“Grab your .22 rifle and a few clips,” I said with calmness. “Come right back.”
They got into the Buick and left. Alice and I did not talk much that morning. I did not want to listen to the survival radio. Somehow I knew it would make matters worse.
“Alice, I am going for a short walk. I’ll be back soon,” I tried to say with respect.
“All right” she replied indifferently without bothering to look up.
The cold war between us was still on. Gads, I thought, I’m in a no-win situation. So I decided to go off to see my friend William, who lived down the street behind a gated driveway. He always had a calming effect when there was a storm.
Since it was harder now to keep clothes clean, I put on my gray sweatshirt and wore the same blue jeans as yesterday. It was a quiet street with a half dozen homes. I couldn’t ring the buzzer because there was no electricity. Fred was outside.
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