by Gideon, D.
“It’s just like after the Carrington Event back in the 1800s,” the Sergeant said. “Michael’s a hurricane, and he’s headed straight for us.”
Preacher
Preacher was cold, wet, and angry.
The nights had been dipping down into the fifties, but with the steady light drizzle falling on his head and the wet grass and soaked ground under him, it felt a hell of a lot colder.
The family had gone to bed hours ago. Staying up late was hard to do without lights and televisions. After the Guard had dropped their bomb and left, the group of would-be revolutionaries drifted off to plan preparations for Michael.
They only had about three days, give or take. It depended on how much the terrain slowed the storm. From the way the Sergeant had talked, the thing was a beast and had pretty much leveled Galveston. It was stomping across the south as if it were over water rather than land.
A freaking hurricane.
Dotty had called it Murphy’s Law. Preacher just called it more shit to deal with. They’d decided to move things around in the cellar tomorrow to make room, and they’d ride the storm out down there. There wasn’t much else they could do. They’d already used up all the plywood they could find, unless they took down the outhouse. No one wanted that pit uncovered. The Millers were going to follow suit. If one cellar got flooded, they could all squeeze into the other, and if both of them flooded out, they could try the one at the Cobbs’.
And after all the work they’d done moving the food, now the kids were dead set on going over there and finding a way to get everything up higher, just in case that cellar flooded.
Gotta stop calling them kids. They’re only a few years younger than me.
And he still needed to get those doorknobs for Dan in the morning, get started on Teddy’s outhouse pit, and keep working on the firewood supply.
So much work to be done.
But right now, his most pressing issue was his wet crotch. He hadn’t thought this through when he came creeping out earlier and had tucked himself down in the shadowed corner next to the back porch steps. Wet ground, wet grass, wet crotch.
That asshole better show up tonight.
Three chickens gone and the thief hadn’t gotten caught. In Preacher’s old world, the thief would chalk that up as good luck and never go back. Too much a tempt of fate. But who knew how desperate this thief was. Maybe his or her success would encourage them to try again.
He hoped it would. He had a couple loads of bird shot reserved especially for thieves.
Who’d have thought that he’d be back to teaching bad guys a lesson, here on the outside?
The Outside.
He hadn’t admitted it to anyone, but the freedom was actually eating at him. On the inside, everything was so tightly scheduled and controlled that you knew exactly where you were going to be and what you’d be doing any minute of the day, even three months in the future.
Out here, things could change from minute to minute. If you decided you wanted to do something else, you could simply do it, and not even give a thought to being tased. While he was in the pen, he’d dreamed of that kind of freedom.
Now that he had it, it was like a low-level itch in the back of his head. He kept catching himself trying to recreate some kind of routine that matched what he’d had inside.
He missed running. Now that he had some shorts, he was going to start that back up. He could run to Teddy’s and back tomorrow for the doorknobs; that would be a good warm-up. He’d help install the things, then run back out there. Hell, he might even take a few laps around Teddy’s property. At least back there, he wouldn’t be attracting attention or scaring some little old ladies seeing him pound by on the sidewalk.
He thought he heard something, but couldn’t be sure with the sound of the drizzle. He turned his head extra-slow, so if someone was nearby they wouldn’t catch the movement.
Maybe I should’ve put Jax in the coop, after all.
He’d considered having her out there because if he drifted off and a stranger came into the yard, she’d go nuts and wake him up. But the chances of the thief having a gun and shooting her to shut her up were too high. He wasn’t going to be responsible for getting one of Ripley’s dogs killed.
Not like I could fall asleep in this cold, anyway.
There it was again. A low rumble, with a tick. A car’s engine, creeping by slowly.
He resisted the urge to sprint to the edge of the house and watch. If this was his guy or gal, he couldn’t chance being seen until it was too late.
Besides, after sitting here in the cold for so long, sprinting might be out of the question. Just in case though, he quietly lifted himself up into a squat and stifled a groan. His legs weren’t happy.
He squatted there for what seemed to be twenty minutes. It was probably just five, but he didn’t have a watch.
A tall, thin shadow sprinted down the side of Dotty’s yard. It tucked itself behind the fence on Dan’s side, crouching down behind what was left of the dead green bean vines.
Preacher barely dared to breathe, watching the shadow from the corner of his eye. If the thief had a flashlight, they hadn’t used it yet. He hoped they didn’t. One sweep of the backyard and he’d be seen.
After a number of minutes watching the back of the house, the shadow crept back up the fence and came around to Dotty’s side. From there it sprinted to the side of the house itself and Preacher lost sight of it. Was it going around the front? Maybe deciding to go for a bigger payoff? Maybe whoever it was had been watching this evening when they’d moved the chickens from the tractor into the house?
The shadow sprinted past him, closer than ten feet, and headed straight for the chicken tractor. Not bothering with the pen, the thief went right for the sleeping quarters and fiddled with the latch. He flipped it out of the way, grabbed the handle, and cussed.
The door would take a little more than a simple tug to open, since Corey had sunk a screw into it.
Preacher lifted the shotgun to his shoulder and took aim. He caught himself aiming for the back of the thief’s head and lowered it a bit. They wanted to catch the thief, not kill him.
Or her, Preacher thought. He still couldn’t tell.
The thief grabbed the handle with both hands and began yanking on it, putting all their weight into it in rapid tugs. He heard little grunts of air.
To speak, or not to speak?
He let the shotgun speak for him.
BOOM.
The thief let out a distinctly male scream and dropped to the ground, clawing at the back of his head. Preacher racked another shell into the chamber and stood up.
Well, he tried to stand up. His cold, cramped legs had other ideas. He fell over.
The thief scrambled to all fours, grabbed at his middle, and pointed a hand Preacher’s way.
BOOM.
The orange flash of light from the thief’s barrel seared his eyes. He heard something whiz over his head and the sharp splinter of wood as a bullet hit Dotty’s porch railing.
He pulled the shotgun’s trigger again.
BOOM.
Firing at this angle, it would have been a miracle if he’d hit anything. The thief scrambled to his feet like a runner coming off of the blocks and took off for the street. He flung an arm in Preacher’s direction as he went by and fired off three more shots.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Preacher had no idea where those rounds went; he was too busy hugging the ground. When it seemed there wouldn’t be a fourth shot, he looked up.
The thief was gone.
The back door slammed open.
Preacher climbed to his feet as quick as his legs would let him and stumbled for the corner of the house.
“David!” Dotty screamed. “Stop!”
Can’t stop. Gotta catch that son of a-
“DAVID! NOW!” Dotty screamed.
His shoulder slammed into the corner of the house but with the rain, he couldn’t even see to the street.
A car eng
ine roared and tires spun on the wet pavement.
He’d missed his chance. The thief was gone, and probably would never come back.
He’d failed.
Dotty
Dotty sat at her kitchen table and stared at Teddy’s envelope. She still hadn’t opened it. She still didn’t want to. It had been days and Teddy hadn’t returned. She was starting to wonder if he ever would.
She closed her eyes and said a small prayer for the old coot and his family.
A nice breeze was blowing in from the back porch. It smelled of green things, and rain. Corey and Thomas had been in and out of the cellar all morning, moving things around to make room. They were down there right now, hammering on something. Probably shoring up a loose shelf.
Other than that, it was strangely quiet. Mel and Marco were over at the Cobbs’ house trying to raise everything up, and the Millers were all trying to ready their own cellar. Even Jax was missing, and lately she’d been living in Dotty’s house more than she lived in her own.
Dotty had gone out this morning, when Preacher had run up to Teddy’s house, and looked at the fresh bullet hole in her porch railing.
People were firing on her family. For nothing more than a chicken, for god’s sake.
The world had gone crazy. She was glad Nate wasn’t here to see it.
She checked her watch. Preacher would be home soon, wanting some lunch. After he’d helped Dan put the new doorknobs in, he’d seemed almost desperate to get out of the house again. Sure, he had that outhouse to dig and he’d promised to do it, but Dotty couldn’t help but feel that he felt ashamed about something and just didn’t want to risk talking about it.
Maybe he’d talk to her tonight, after it got too dark to work. She didn’t want him beating himself up for not catching that chicken thief. He’d done the best he could. They hadn’t been able to tell if Preacher had hit the man--he might have just screamed because the blast startled him--but it was a safe bet he wouldn’t be coming back. The chickens were safe now and no one here had gotten hurt; that was the important thing.
Said chickens were bumbling around in the bathroom upstairs, talking to each other and trying to make a perch out of the shower curtain rod. It was spring-loaded, and Corey had lowered it for them. At least the floor in there was tile; it would be easy enough to clean up after them.
She reached over and put a hand on the Wonderbag that was keeping Preacher’s lunch warm. Ripley had given it to her as a christmas gift a couple years back, so she could stop using her good wool blanket to bundle around her soup pots. She loved it. Get the soup to boiling, put it in the Wonderbag, and a few hours later you had a fully-cooked meal. Today’s lunch wasn’t that fancy; just a chicken soup stretched with lots of rice, but it would fill the men up.
Something thumped on her front porch, and she stood and put the envelope on the shelf next to her ICOE booklet. Preacher must be back. She pulled down a soup bowl and fished around in the drawer for a spoon.
A knock sounded at the door.
Oh, that’s right. He’s only got a key for the back door, she thought. She set the bowl and spoon down on the table and hurried to the door.
“You could’ve just come around the back-” she started, then froze.
Frank Stalls filled her doorway. He had more papers in his hand. There were people behind him, but she couldn’t see past him to know who they were.
“Ms. Parker,” Frank said. “Is your grandson Thomas Winters home? I need to speak with him.”
“What do you want with him?”
Frank sighed. “I want to speak with him. Could you call him out here, please?”
“Give me a minute,” she said, and shut the door in his face. She flipped the deadbolt and hurried to the window, then nearly cursed when she pulled the curtain aside and could see nothing but plywood.
“Thomas?” she called. “Officer Stalls is here to see you.” She went back through the kitchen to the porch and met him as he was emerging from the cellar. “I don’t know what he wants-”
She looked up and saw a man standing on the back porch steps, staring through the screen at them. Two more men were in the yard. All three were armed.
“Grams?” Thomas asked. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “But I’ll go with you. I’m right beside you, you hear me?” Then she called down the cellar stairs. “Corey, you stay down there. There’s men up here with rifles. We don’t know what they want. You stay down there and don’t do anything foolish.”
They walked back to the front door, holding hands, and Thomas pulled her to a stop.
“Should I go upstairs and get the shotgun?” he whispered.
“Lord, no. You go out there with a gun and they’ll shoot first, ask questions later. We’ll just see what they want, and we’ll deal with it together.”
“I can see both of you,” the man at the back door called. “I suggest you open the door.”
Dotty shot him a glare and reached for the deadbolt. Her hand was shaking.
Frank was still standing there, but turned to the side, and talking to...Mayor Wilhelm?
“Officer Stalls, you needed to speak to me?” Thomas said.
“Step out here please, Mr. Winters,” Frank said, gesturing to the porch. “I don’t want the door shut in my face in the middle of our conversation. It would be a shame if my men and I had to turn this into a forced entry situation.”
Thomas looked down at Dotty and then pushed the door open. She followed him out and got an eyeful.
There were more men in the front yard, and over at the Miller’s, it looked like the same situation was going on. Seth, Lily, and Ripley were all on the front porch, and they were arguing with a big man in a black shirt.
What in God’s name is going on? She thought.
“Mr. Winters, can you tell me of your whereabouts last night, around midnight?” Frank asked.
Thomas looked confused. “I was upstairs, asleep. We’ve been going to bed early since there’s no lights.”
Frank nodded and scribbled on a little notepad. “You weren’t outside at all at that time?”
“No,” Thomas said.
“Is there anyone who can confirm you were inside your home between the time period of eleven PM to about one AM?”
“I can,” Dotty said. “I was still awake. I know he was asleep upstairs.”
“You saw him go upstairs?”
“I did.”
“About what time was that?”
Dotty looked at Thomas and shrugged. “Maybe about nine-thirty? Ten? I didn’t look at my watch.”
“Mmhmm,” Frank said, still writing. “Mr. Winters, did you perhaps fire a shotgun last night?”
Thomas blinked. “No. I was asleep.”
“Liar,” Mayor Wilhelm spat. “You shot my son! You threatened to shoot him a week ago, and last night you shot him!”
“I’d never shoot Donny,” Thomas said. “We go to church with Donny. He’s a nice kid, usually.”
“Not Donny. Jack! My son Jack!” Wilhelm pointed.
Dotty followed his fingers and her eyes flew wide. There, at the bottom of her steps, stood the same kid who had been messing around with all the trash bins; who’d stood out in the street and tried to get Bill to come fight him.
The one Thomas had threatened to shoot with the shotgun.
He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. He waffled between staring at the ground and peeking up through long lashes to glare at Thomas. He had fresh, bright pink scores in his closely-shaven scalp. They nearly matched the ones on Ripley’s head, but hers were on the side. At the edges of his white tank top, she could see more scores tracing over his shoulders. His whole back must have been covered.
He’d been the thief, and Preacher had hit him, after all.
“That’s your son?” she gasped. “But he’s never been at church-”
“He lives with my ex-wife most of the year,” Wilhelm said. “He was on visitation when all of this happ
ened. At first I was grateful, because he’s safer here than in Towson. But now your grandson’s gone and shot him!”
“I didn’t shoot him,” Thomas said.
“Bullshit you didn’t,” Jack said. “Lyin’ mother-”
“Jack!” Wilhelm barked. “Stay quiet!”
“Lady and gentlemen,” Frank stepped forward and everyone quieted. He turned to Thomas and handed him a piece of paper. “This is an emergency Extreme Risk Protection Order against you, Mr. Winters. It gives us permission to enter your home and seize all of the firearms and ammunition inside.”
“What?” Thomas said, shock evident on his face.
“But it’s my home,” Dotty said. “And the shotgun is mine.”
“And it’s his residence,” Frank said. “And by the Maryland Code of Public Safety, Sections 5-601 and 5-602, all firearms in the home can be seized, no matter who they belong to.” He spoke into a walkie-talkie. “Protection order’s been served. Enter and seize the weapons.”
Dotty heard her back porch door bang open, and boots thumping through her house.
“Grams?” Corey called. “What’s going on?”
Thomas scanned over the paper, lips moving quickly as he read. “Reasonable grounds to believe that the respondent poses an immediate and present danger of causing personal injury to the respondent, the petitioner, or another by possessing a firearm? How am I a danger to anyone?”
“By threatening Jack last week, in front of witnesses, and by shooting him last night!” Wilhelm said.
“But I didn’t shoot him!” Thomas said.
Frank held out another piece of paper, this time to Dotty. “This is a warrant for his arrest. Thomas, if you could turn and place your hands behind your back, please?”
“What in the world for?” Dotty gasped, snatching the paper from Frank’s hand.
“For attempted murder,” Frank said. He grabbed Thomas’ shoulder and spun him around. “Thomas Winters, you have the right to remain silent-”