"Sssh,” Cami hissed. "That was close.”
A moment later, they heard another gunshot, this one further away and muffled, just before a loud boom resounded through the neighborhood.
"Shotgun," Cami muttered. She stood and walked to the corner of the porch, pointing northeast. "That first shot sounded closer, but the other two were definitely coming from the other side of the neighborhood."
Amber stood and moved next to her. "Somebody having a shootout?"
Cami shook her head, then spoke, realizing Amber couldn't see the gesture. "I don't know. I didn't think things had gotten that bad so fast. It could be somebody tried to break into the wrong house—most people don't walk around carrying shotguns, you know?"
The screen door opened with a creak, and Mitch joined them, scratching his chest. "Somebody shoot a gun out here?" he asked, his voice echoing across the yard.
"Sssh,” Amber and Cami hissed together.
"Sheesh, sorry," Mitch whispered, shutting the squeaky door softly and feeling his way along the exterior wall to join Cami and Amber. "What's going on?" he whispered.
“We didn’t shoot a gun, but someone did—I’d say it was a pistol, and pretty close, too,” Cami said.
"Yeah, then somebody fired again—a little further away, and somebody else pulled the trigger on a shotgun."
"You saw all this?" Mitch asked, incredulous.
"No, we heard it. When you're around firearms for a living, you get to recognize the sounds. Something's going down in our neighborhood, guys."
“I don’t like this, mom…” Amber whispered.
Cami stood still for a moment, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck rise. "Guys," she said slowly, her voice barely audible. "Everybody back inside—right now. Move slow, don't talk—” Cami said, putting a hand on Amber's back and gently nudging her toward the door. "Mitchell, be careful with that door. Inside…now," she said, insistent.
All three of them padded silent as ghosts to the screen door, and Mitch carefully pulled it back just far enough for them to slip through, then gently closed it behind him. The rusted hinge squeaked only at the very last second, and barely loud enough to be heard across the room.
Cami added to her mental list that they should oil the hinge first thing in the morning. She slid the locking bar down, knowing that anyone who wanted to could just walk right through the screen, but it made her feel better. Besides, she reasoned, most crooks would simply try to open the door first, in which case it would rattle, giving away their intentions and alerting anyone inside. At any rate, it was the best they were going to do in the middle of the night, in the dark.
"What exactly is going on?" asked Mitch.
Amber reached up and put her hand over Mitch's mouth. "Listen—you hear any bugs out there? Any owls or anything?"
Mitch shook his head, his eyes white in the reflected moonlight.
"Exactly. They're still spooked after the gunshots," Cami whispered, "or someone's out there. I don't like this."
"What can we do?" asked Amber in a whisper as they reached the kitchen. It was the central hub of the house, but with three openings, one down the hallway toward the front door and the living spaces in the front of the house, one to the glass door to the patio, and one hallway leading to the garage. The kitchen would be hard to defend.
Cami clenched her jaw in frustration. She’d never been able to convince Reese that they should have had a tornado shelter or a panic room built into their copious garage space. Now, more than ever, she was regretting not convincing him of the worthiness of that particular project.
"You guys get upstairs to the FROG.”
"What? It's stifling upstairs!" Amber protested.
"This is not open for debate," Cami said, sharper than she'd meant. "We didn't open the windows behind the media center. Have Mitch help you pull that beast away from the wall, and you can get two more windows open. They face north, so at least some of the breeze out of the west should work its way in.”
"But—” Amber began.
"You promised to do what I say, when I say it," Cami insisted. "It's the safest room in the house—there's only one way in and one way out. Plus, we can escape out the hobbit hole if we need to."
"You think somebody's gonna try and break in?" asked Mitch.
"I don't know—but I don't like this. You two get upstairs, I'm getting the shotgun and I'll meet you there."
"Oh, snap," Mitch muttered. “It’s gettin’ real now.”
Amber grabbed his arm and shoved him toward the stairs in the foyer. “Come on, let’s go.”
"I'll be right there," Cami hissed. She raced barefoot down the hall into her own room, then rushed to the closet. She put her hand on the biometric battery-powered scanner attached to the front of the safe, and the combination lock lit up green to show she'd gained access. Cami cursed, kicked her foot out and nudged the closet door shut, trapping the bright light from the safe inside the closet. If anyone had been outside the house casing the place, they would've seen a flash of light emanate from her bedroom window.
"Stupid," Cami muttered at herself as she rummaged through the safe, blinking her eyes to adjust to the LED lights Reese had installed to illuminate the interior. She selected Reese's short barreled shotgun and a box of self defense shells. Looking for a bag, she found a satchel hanging from a hook, magnetically attached to the side of the safe, and dropped in the shells.
She slipped the pistol into the satchel as well, along with a couple more loaded mags, then shut the safe and waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness again. Feeling her way through the house with the shotgun in her hands and a satchel full of ammunition over her shoulder, Cami felt safer, but not secure. Passing by windows on her way to the stairs in the foyer, she didn't hear any crickets or creatures in the night yet. Something still had mother nature spooked.
By the time Cami made it up the stairs and down the short open hallway toward the FROG, her heart was racing and sweat slicked her hands and the back of her neck. Amber was right. The heat upstairs was almost intolerable.
When she crossed the threshold into the FROG, she felt the cooler air through the open windows and smiled. Mitch and Amber had pulled the media cabinets away from the unused windows and cracked them open to allow the hot air trapped in that end of the house to escape. Cami took off the satchel and dropped it on the floor near the door, resting the shotgun in the corner and immediately shut and locked the door.
She moved over to the windows, peered through the filthy, dust-caked louvers, and watched. Seeing no movement for several minutes, she cautiously grabbed the bottom of one sliding window frame and pulled up. The rusted tracks, caked with dirt and dust after more than a decade of neglect, squealed in protest and Cami froze.
"Mom!" Amber hissed from somewhere in the darkened room. “We already tried that—don't you think we’d have them open a little higher if we could?"
Cami felt the heat rising in her cheeks and stepped away from the window. "You did good guys, you did good."
“See anything out there?" Mitch whispered. "I feel so useless standing here in the dark.”
"No, I don't see anything," Cami said, peering through the windows again. "I know you're not useless, Mitch. There's always safety in numbers. And I swear guys, first thing tomorrow, we’re going to go over firearms basics. This is only the second night since the tsunami hit, and I'm not going to be able to protect us all night long if I'm the only one who knows how to shoot."
"Well, I don't mean to brag," Mitch said, "but I am pretty good at Modern Conflict—I’m nationally ranked…”
"This isn't a video game, Mitch,” Amber said.
"She's right," Cami replied. "But while that kind of experience doesn't make you a combat veteran, it does put you ahead of the game compared to someone who's never held a gun before."
“See?” Mitch said toward Amber, “I—”
“Barely,” Cami warned. “It is just a video game.”
"Mom, you and dad tau
ght me how to shoot years ago."
"We did," Cami said, stepping away from the window and feeling her way toward the couch on the far side of the room. She dropped with a grateful sigh and collapsed into the warm material. "But when was the last time you went to the range?"
Amber was quiet for a moment. She listened to her daughter walk across the carpet and join her at the couch. "I guess it was when I was back in high school. Daddy took me…”
"That's better than nothing, but you're going to be rusty. Don't worry," Cami said, her spirits rising the more she thought about it. "We'll get you guys checked out in the morning. Before long, they'll be three of us armed and ready.”
Another gunshot split the night, loud and much closer than before. Amber jumped from the couch, muffling a shriek of surprise.
"What was that?" Mitch said from the other side of the room. “That didn’t sound like a pistol. I’d guess a rifle…”
"That was an AR," Cami whispered. “I think Mr. Price just shot at something."
"There goes the neighborhood," Mitch muttered.
Chapter 19
Ellsworth, Maine
Reese looked down at the trash-strewn ground. “You mean we have to sleep here?”
Cal Foster shrugged. “It’s not like I have a Motel 6 ready for you…” He took off his ball cap labeled POLICE and wiped his brow. “Honestly, you’re lucky we don’t run you off. Don’t have enough supplies for the folks from town, let alone outsiders.”
“Outsiders?” asked Jo. “I’m a park ranger on Cadillac Mountain.”
“Sound like a Texan to me,” Foster retorted. “That’s outsider enough in times like these.”
Jo stepped forward, but Reese put out an arm. “He’s right, we can’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Thanks, Officer Foster—”
“Cal’s fine.”
Reese nodded. “Either way, Cal, we’re grateful for a place to lay down and rest. After the day we’ve had…”
Foster lead them away from the already returning group of agitated locals. “Must have been quite some walk to get here.”
“You have no idea,” Jo muttered.
“You see the waves?”
Reese looked at Foster. “Yes.”
The cop took the hint and cleared his throat. Looking at Ben, he said, “Your friend here looks injured. I wish I had an aid station set up, but…” he shrugged. “Power went out, and we got swamped with people fleeing the coast. About half moved on through, but the others stayed…and since then, I’ve been dealing with fights breaking out everywhere. Local against outsider, local against local…it’s like everyone decided now’s the time to even up accounts on old grudges. Doesn’t make any sense.”
“Nothing like a disaster to bring out the best in people,” Reese groused. “You seem to be holding your own here, though. Is the store…” Reese licked his dry lips, thinking of bottled water. “Is it stocked?”
“Ahyup, near as can be expected, I suppose.” Foster stopped near a median in the parking lot that contained two straggly elm trees. “This is close enough to keep an eye on you, but far enough that the riff-raff shouldn’t notice you.” He took his hat off again. “You folks got any means of protection?”
“I got this,” Ben said, holding up his crutch.
Foster exhaled. “Well, that’s something.”
“Is there any way we could get inside the store? We could use some supplies for the trip home—I’ll pay, of course…”
Foster snorted and looked at Reese. “With what? Look, I’ll give you props for asking and not demanding, like those folks over there,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “But money’s worthless, now that the feds are shutting down.”
“What?” asked Jo.
“Yeah,” Foster said to her. “Heard it on the radio from the state troopers—D.C. got smacked pretty hard. They evacuated the surviving congress critters and guess they don’t have enough to get things going again, so the government is officially closed for business for now. Heard talk of someone taking over out in Denver, but…” He shrugged.
“So much for my pension,” Jo muttered.
“Ahyup.”
“How long?” asked Reese.
Foster sighed. “Word is, they’re taking an ‘indefinite recess.’ Military’s still spooled up, but who really knows what’s going on?” He rubbed his face. “Near as I can tell, Maine’s on its own—probably just like the other coastal states.”
“What about west of here? The rest of New England?” asked Reese, dreading the answer.
“I can barely communicate with my officers on the other side of town—I have no idea about the rest of the state, let alone New England. Only way I got any news out of Bangor was when a trooper stopped by to hand deliver a printout—hand deliver!” Foster crammed his hat back into place and adjusted the bill. “Look, you folks do what you can to rest. I’m afraid it’s all I can offer you. In the morning, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll be on your way.” He looked away. “One of my men is positioned out east. Said there’s more refugees coming from Bar Harbor—Coast Guard rescued some people from the top of the mountain.”
“Hallelujah!” Jo said, beaming. “I was worried about them…”
Foster nodded. “Problem is, we don’t have food or water to feed the people who live here, let alone all the new mouths that showed up in the last 24 hours. If we don’t get some backup from Bangor, things are going to turn ugly around here, real quick.”
Reese shook Foster’s hand and thanked him again, then watched the overworked small-town chief head back to the barricade line. The crowd had returned almost to the size it was when he’d first seen it from down the street. One of the officers picked up a bullhorn and ordered everyone to disperse. But it didn’t have the desired effect.
“They’re gettin’ pretty agitated over there,” Jo observed quietly. “Again.”
“As long as they stay over there,” Ben groused, easing himself to the ground and sighing in relief as he leaned against one of the skinny elms. “I think I’m good right here.”
“Well, I’m not,” Reese growled. “I’ve had enough of this.”
“Where do you think you’re going?” asked Jo, putting a restraining hand on Reese’s arm.
Reese jerked his arm free. “If we can’t pay for food and water, I’m willing to work for it.”
“Are you serious?” Jo demanded. “You don’t have any training, do you? No? I didn’t think so—you don’t act like a cop.”
“I don’t need to be a cop. I’m a salesman, Jo—I talk to people and convince them to buy my software.”
“He’s just not as good as me,” Ben muttered from the ground.
Reese ignored the jab. “I’m going to go see if I can help convince the crowd to disperse.”
“Reese, that’s not a good idea,” Jo persisted. “This is a sketchy situation. Let the pros handle this.”
“And do what in the meantime? Sit here and try to sleep with one eye open? Sit here and think about water, or food…or my family? I’d rather walk till my feet bleed than be trapped in my own head right now. I need to do something.”
Jo sighed. “Well, go on then, be a fool. I’ll be here to patch you up when you limp back, I suppose.”
Reese set his jaw. “Be right back.” His words brought back memories of the last time he’d seen his wife and daughter. He swallowed the emotions and the worry, his throat dry as a furnace. He had to keep pushing forward, no matter how tired he was. The only way home was forward—and the crowd yelling at Chief Foster was the biggest obstacle in his path.
“What gives you the right to tell us we can’t have water?” demanded a voice in the crowd as Reese drew closer.
“This here badge says Chief of Police—that’s all the right I need, Winston Dugger.” Foster pointed at one outspoken miscreant in the sea of faces ringing the little group of police officers.
“I don’t care who you are—my wife and I have been walking since yesterday and we haven’t
had any water all day,” another voice called out.
“Yeah! There’s plenty of water in there!”
The shouts came fast and furious, drowning out Foster’s response. He waved off the crowd in frustration and snatched the bullhorn from a junior officer. Putting it to his lips, he hit the siren sound on the bullhorn. The ear-splitting wail silenced the crowd long enough for him to speak.
“That’s better,” Foster said, his voice booming over the murmurs and grumbles. “Now listen here—this is still America, and we still follow the rule of law.”
“Who’s law? I heard the government dissolved!” a voice called in the darkness.
“What? You mean I don’t have to pay taxes?” someone hollered back.
A ragged laughter rippled through the crowd and Foster let them enjoy the levity for a moment. Reese approached the line of officers and was met with wary nods, but no one barred his path.
“I’m here to volunteer,” he said to the cop—Glivens—who’d originally pointed his service weapon at Reese. “I’ll help in whatever way I can.”
“You trained?” Glivens asked, eyeing Reese as Foster continued to argue with the crowd.
“Well, I’m not a cop, if that’s what you’re—”
“Then you’re just in the way. Go on back—”
“Look, I’m pretty good at talking to people, I’m a sales rep—”
“Sir, I’m gonna need you to go back to your position with the others you brought in. Chief Foster may like you, but I got enough problems in front of me without having to worry about one behind me.”
“But—”
“Screw this, you can’t shoot us all!” someone shouted. A bottle flew over Reese’s head and hit the side of a squad car not ten feet away, exploding in a shower of broken glass and cheap whiskey.
“Get ‘em!” another faceless voice roared. The crowd surged forward, and the line of cops drew their weapons. A gunshot rang out as three people collided with the officer on the far end of the line.
Reese flinched at the sound and stared as Foster fell under the onslaught of bodies. Two more gunshots split the night, and several people bumped into Reese on their way toward the darkened store. On instinct, he grabbed one and pulled back, forcing the man to trip and fall, which caused three others to trip over the first, making a wedge in the crowd.
Broken Tide | Book 1 | Overfall Page 20