by Bobby Akart
As Jake spoke, he moved through the lower floors to remain a moving target and to catch any occupant off guard. He walked down the hallways and cleared the bedrooms, as he’d been taught in his training. Just a few minutes later, he was satisfied that the home was empty, so he walked through the living areas and turned all the lights on.
Relieved that he’d avoided a confrontation, Jake opened the front door and was greeted by the barrel of a shotgun.
Chapter 51
Pressley Farm
West of Vale, Oregon
“Hey, take it easy there, Annie Oakley,” said Jake as he immediately raised his hand in the air.
Ashby lowered her gun and looked past Jake into the well-lit house. “Everything okay in there?”
“Yeah,” replied Jake. “Come inside and put that thing away. Remember what I said about keeping your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to fire.”
“I was ready to fire,” she shot back.
“No, I mean really ready.”
“But I was really—”
Jake didn’t wait to hear any more. He pulled Ashby inside and jogged out to the motor home to shut it off. He grabbed their backpacks and hustled back inside. Before he entered, he kicked the ash off his boots and wiped off the bottom of his pants.
He found Ashby, who had removed her mask and made her way into the kitchen, where she was surveying the inside of the family’s refrigerator.
“These leftovers really need to be polished off, don’t you think? There’s ham, mashed potatoes, biscuits, gravy.” Then she paused and used her best grandma impersonation. “Would you be a dear and fetch the beer.”
Ashby let out a hearty laugh, which Jake couldn’t resist. He was so glad to see her mood lift as their day went on. After being exposed to the loss of Rita and Dusty, Ashby struggled to be her usual perky self, as opposed to the person who mourned the loss of her two closest friends.
Jake hustled outside once again and grabbed the beer out of the small refrigerator. Before he exited the motor home, he considered the other belongings they had and, out of precaution, grabbed the keys and locked up. Half a minute later, they were opening up the bottles of Blue Moon and warming the leftovers in the kitchen.
“I’m not going back out tonight,” started Jake, “but I suspect that fork in the driveway leads to their barns, where the diesel is stored. Did you notice the pictures of grandkids on horseback? I’ll bet they have horses.”
“I think we’re almost ready to eat,” announced Ashby.
While Ashby finished warming the leftovers, Jake noticed a calendar on the wall. “Hey, his name is Wilbur.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Pressley. Wilbur. According to this calendar, he had surgery in Portland this morning. They must’ve been delayed or prevented from returning due to the manhunt.”
Ashby fixed their plates and motioned for Jake to join her at the small kitchen table. The vinyl tablecloth covered a mid-century-style aluminum top with metal legs. She doubted the Pressleys’ farmhouse had changed since it was built seven or eight decades ago.
“Animals are in real trouble,” commented Ashby. “Not only are they inhaling the ash, but their food and water supply is contaminated.”
“You know what, in the morning, I’ll make sure they have plenty of hay in their stalls and I’ll refill their water troughs. Hopefully, the owners can make it home soon to take care of them.”
Ashby finished off a biscuit and nodded. “It’s really sad, but I’m afraid that’s just going to postpone the inevitable. Think about the fact that so much of our beef and dairy production comes out of the Midwest. All of those animals are destined to the same fate as these horses. Chickens, ducks, pigs. All of them will die.”
Jake suddenly felt guilty for eating the Pressleys’ food but couldn’t stop because it tasted so good. It made him think of Flo and the diner at Grant Village. He wondered if she was safe. He shook off the thought and cleaned his plate. He rose and took Ashby’s to the sink, where they washed the pots and dishes together by hand.
“I’m thinking about washing my clothes,” Jake began as he caught a glimpse of himself in a hallway mirror. “I’ve been wearing these since, well, the cave.”
They walked down the hallway until they found a utility room with a washer and dryer. Ashby found a tee shirt and some overalls in the Pressleys’ closet and sized Jake up to see if they would fit.
“Close enough. Strip, mister. I’ll wash mine too. Also, I’m gonna look for some extra linens for the motor home. Do you think they’d mind if we took them? You know, leave them some money and a note, or something?”
“I planned on doing that anyway, to pay for the diesel. As long as we have cash, we can pay our own way. Pretty soon, cash won’t be accepted anywhere.”
“Why not?” asked Ashby.
“Do you remember a reporter mention on the radio about the stock markets and banks being closed?” Jake asked. “The environmental catastrophe of Yellowstone is just the beginning of the collapse. We’re already seeing society falling apart. Lawlessness in the cities. Anarchists in the countryside of Oregon. America’s economy is based on consumption, and with transportation cut off, stores don’t get restocked. There’s nothing to consume because there’s nothing to buy.”
Ashby had a puzzled look on her face as she closed the lid on the washer. “Why would that make money worthless?”
Wrapped in a towel, she brushed past Jake, who stood in the doorway in the farmer’s overalls. “I’m going to take a shower, but keep talking. I’m listening.”
Jake watched as she led the way toward the master bedroom. He was having trouble concentrating, but he gave it his best effort. “A week ago, a loaf of bread cost a couple of bucks. But now, you can’t produce any more bread because the wheat fields of Montana, North Dakota, and Kansas are destroyed.”
Ashby started the shower and held her hand under the water until it warmed up. Jake leaned against the door for a moment and wondered if he should leave to give her privacy.
“Keep going,” she said.
Flustered, Jake continued. “So now that simple loaf of bread is worth ten dollars, or as much as a person is willing to pay. It’s basic supply and demand. The same applies to money. It’s being withheld from depositors, and credit cards aren’t taken anywhere. It’ll spiral out of control.”
Jake’s jaw dropped, and he stopped babbling on about economics. Ashby had dropped her towel, revealing the back of her naked body to him. She looked back over her shoulder and smiled.
“You’re welcome to join me.”
After their shower, they fell in bed together, and the intimate moment Jake had envisioned along the water’s edge became a night of passion between the two of them as they let out their emotions and feelings. It was hours after they’d arrived at the farm before they were sound asleep in each other’s arms.
Chapter 52
Pressley Farm
West of Vale, Oregon
Emotionally exhausted, and content now that she’d found the love of her life, Ashby bypassed the usual stages of sleep and went directly to REM sleep, characterized by rapid eye movement and dreaming. Physiologically, REM is very different from stages one through four of the sleep process. Muscles become atonic, meaning without movement. Breathing becomes erratic and the body’s heart rate can increase dramatically.
During REM, dreams become more vivid and are often remembered upon awakening. External stimuli such as sounds and movements are sometimes disregarded by the brain despite the fact they are real, because it is difficult to differentiate between the visions of the dream and the sounds surrounding the sleeper.
Ashby’s dream was an odd combination of her evening’s intimacy with Jake and the filming of a television show on a deserted island, in which they were the only participants. What didn’t fit in her sleepy state were the rumbling sounds. Her brain tried to process the noise.
Is it a volcanic eruption, preceded by an earthquake? Or is it an ai
rplane flying overhead?
No, the sound is higher pitched. Not a rumble, more of a whine. Like a weed eater. A motorcycle that sounds like a weed eater.
Frustrated by her inability to reconcile the intrusion and her luscious dream with Jake, Ashby opened her eyes and shot up in bed. She felt for Jake and found his muscular back. That part of the dream was plausible. Next she took a deep breath and listened.
She heard the sound, but it was much louder. Something was coming. Vehicles of some kind. And more than one.
“Jake! Wake up!”
Jake, whom Ashby had learned was slow to awaken in the morning and was more grizzly than human being once he did, grumbled an incoherent response.
She shook him. “Jake! Somebody is here! Sounds like motorcycles.”
“That’s impossible,” he remarked as he forced himself awake. Then he heard it too.
Jake jumped out of bed and didn’t bother to get dressed. He rushed for the window and peered out. Through the blinding fallout, he could see lights bouncing up and down as some type of small vehicles were approaching the house.
“They might be four-wheelers,” he continued. “Hurry, we need to get dressed.”
“Our clothes are in the washer. They’re not—”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Jake grabbed his rifle and moved down the hallway, where he could get a view of the incoming vehicles without his field of vision being obstructed by the Bounder. Naked, he stuck his head around the window frame and counted the sets of headlights that slowly surrounded the motor home and then inched forward toward the house.
“At least four of them,” he began as Ashby handed him his partially dried pants. “I can’t see through this stuff.”
Ashby pulled on her clothes and then took a turn at the window while Jake put on his shirt and then his boots. Jake pointed to her shotgun, and when he did, he noticed a light on over the stove.
“Ashby, quick, go turn off that light.”
As instructed, she raced to the kitchen and turned off the light. She also locked the back door and quietly slid the kitchen table and chairs in front to slow the progress of anyone attempting to enter from the back of the house.
She raced back to Jake’s side and suggested they move a leather club chair out of the living room to block the front door as well. Just as they positioned it, the drivers turned off their engines. Only the faint ticking sound of the motors cooling off could be heard, as the newcomers didn’t speak a word.
Jake whispered to Ashby, “First thing we have to do is get a head count. To do that, we’ve got to draw them onto the porch. We’ll let them believe nobody’s home.”
“Then what?”
“Let’s see if they’re just a bunch of kids or, worse—the anarchists from Portland.”
“Then?”
“We just shoot ’em.”
Ashby reared back, and her eyes grew wide. Then she shrugged, picked up the shotgun, and studied it. She remembered the simple steps for its operation. Pull the slide that racked a shell into the chamber. Flip off the safety, point and shoot. Jake assured her the scatter pattern of the shotgun would find its mark. She also remembered his admonition about the number of shells she had available. He’d called it ammo management. You have seven shots. Don’t waste them.
“Hi, everybody! We’re home. I hope you rich farmers got plenty of food, ’cause me and the boys sure are hungry!”
One of the boys began to lay on the horn. It had a wimpy, four-wheeler sound. It definitely was not a car or pickup.
Then the others added to the high-pitched, blaring sound, creating a symphony of annoyance.
Jake whispered to Ashby, “We should shoot ’em for disturbing the peace.”
“Fine by me.”
They stopped in unison, causing Jake to be concerned he had been overheard.
“Check out the motor home. You two, go around back. We’ll take the front. Either they’re gone or scared. Not that it matters, ’cause we’re goin’ in. Right, boys?”
“Yeah, let’s do it!” one of the group cheered.
The leader walked slowly toward the door and began shouting in a menacing voice, “Go ahead and open up. If we have to bust in, then we bust everything. You know what I mean? That’s what we do! We bust things. Including skulls. Now, what’s it gonna be? Welcome mat or brains gone splat?”
Ashby heard laughter from the rest of the men as the thumping of their heavy feet walking onto the porch startled her somewhat.
Jake studied the man as he and two others approached the front door. He caught a glimpse of two rounding the corners of the house to approach the rear. He turned to Ashby and pulled her close. “We can do this. Do you remember what to do?”
She nodded her head. “Just shoot ’em.”
His face got close to hers. “You can’t hesitate. Identify a target, and once you hear me fire, hit ’em hard. Hopefully, that will cause the others to scatter.”
“What if they shoot back?”
“Always shoot and find cover, okay?” Jake tried to give her reassurance. “Listen, between the sound that shotgun makes and the rapid fire my rifle is capable of, these guys should tuck and run. We may be outnumbered, but we’re not outgunned.”
Ashby relayed to Jake what she recalled from the back of the house. “The windows facing the rear are too small to climb through easily. If they’re going to come in, it will be through the back door.”
“Good. Makes sense. Guard the back door. If I need you, I’ll have you cover the front door too, but keep this hallway and path to the living room open. I’ll be running back and forth, shooting through the windows.”
Ashby picked up the shotgun and racked a round. The distinctive metallic click would’ve turned the common burglar into a ball of frightened mush if he’d heard it. These guys hadn’t made their way into position, but Ashby intended to be waiting for them when they did. She’d seen enough death in her life, and she was not gonna let a bunch of thugs take hers, or Jake’s.
Chapter 53
Pressley Farm
West of Vale, Oregon
Three men bounded up the front steps and began walking along the porch, periodically stopping to peer in the windows. One of the men, dressed in all black, had a skull bandana tied around his face. Jake wasn’t sure if that was to protect his lungs from the ash, or if it was part of his everyday attire. He suspected the latter. He’d seen these guys at work on news broadcasts. In his mind they were a bunch of punks looking for a reason to pillage. If a speaker came to a local college campus they disagreed with, they’d disrupt the speech by breaking windows and setting cop cars on fire. If a police officer shot a black man in the line of duty, they’d rush to judgment and condemn the cops, then proceed to smash storefront windows and steal anything that wasn’t tied down.
What puzzled Jake was why they were in the middle of B-F-E, Oregon. In this moment, it didn’t matter, as the leader strutted across the front porch with a baseball bat like he was Negan on The Walking Dead. He walked back across and then stopped at the front door. He pounded the door with his bat.
THUMP—THUMP—THUMP!
He screamed, “Little pigs, little pigs, let me in!” He let out an odd, evil-sounding cackle. His friends joined in.
Jake hated when he was right. He positioned himself in the hallway to provide some cover and glanced in the kitchen toward Ashby. She was pointing her shotgun at the glass half of the Dutch door. Jake saw a shadow move quickly past the rear entry.
Jake’s head was on a swivel as he readied his weapon. With a little luck, one of the thugs would position himself at the back door while the Negan wannabe, as he thought of him, was mouthing off at the front.
“Let’s try this again!” the leader bellowed.
THUMP—THUMP—
Jake didn’t wait for the third knock. He opened fire with the powerful M16, ripping half a dozen holes in the solid wood door and tearing into the body of the man on the other side.
A split second
later, Ashby fired a round through the glass half of the door, killing the man on the other side instantly. The recoil, however, knocked her off balance, causing her to lose control of her shotgun and fall on her butt.
Ashby was moaning in pain. Jake recalled that it was her right shoulder that had been dislocated in the helicopter crash. He eased backwards into the kitchen.
Shouts emanated from around the house.
“Are you kidding me?”
“What do we do?”
“Let’s get out of here!”
“No, we fight. They killed Mackey.”
The sound of breaking glass came from the front guest bedroom. Jake quickly leaned down to Ashby, who’d pulled herself up to lean against the wall. He pulled the slide on her shotgun and handed it to her. She was having difficulty breathing.
“Knocked. Wind out. I’m okay.”
Jake gave her instructions. “Ashby, stay propped against this wall. Point the barrel toward the door and lean the butt of the rifle against the wall behind you. If you get a shot, take it.”
She replied, but Jake didn’t hear it as he positioned himself in the hallway. He had full peripheral vision of the front door, the living room, and the man who broke into the bedroom.
The living room glass was abruptly shattered as a baseball bat came flying through and landed on the sofa. On both sides of the window, two men were knocking out the glass with a bat and a tire iron. Jake was relieved that so far, no guns had been used in their assault.
He focused his sights on the edge of the window opening, hoping one of the men would make a move inside. He waited; then he heard a grunt from behind him. Jake dropped to one knee and swung his rifle to point down the hallway.