by Joshua Gayou
Lizzy giggled.
“So, yeah,” Billy continued without missing a beat, “it’s like the man said: ‘the best time to plant a tree was twenty years ago and the second best time is right now’.”
There was a bit more chit-chat after that but we had all come over to Billy’s way of thinking. Wyoming wasn’t going anywhere within the next few days. Additionally, I have to admit I was a little excited about getting a new vehicle. I guess that, by definition, whatever we found would end up being “used” but any car I had ever owned in my life up to that point had been at least an 8 year old beater. This was probably going to be my one chance to own a relatively new car or truck (or whatever) and drive it before all the fuel expired. Who knew when humanity would figure out how to start refining gasoline again?
I leaned back in my chair and sipped on my own coffee while Billy and Jake planned out the first place we would stop over an old, dog-eared Thomas Guide. Sunrise over Utah was just at an end; that in-between point where the clouds stop being dark-blue and pink and start being dark-blue and white. The sun was up over the East looking out at a red desert shot through with vast expanses of muted green sagebrush and the more vibrant green of the defiant juniper trees holding themselves over all. The clouds in the sky were stretched into the distance for miles in long, fat ropes made hazy at the edges, as though they had been pulled across from one horizon to the other by God. I will remember the look of that morning for the rest of my life. It was a morning on which I was free after a time when I thought I would never be free again. Elizabeth sat next to me and held my hand (she would still hold my hand at that age) and I thought of how much I loved and missed my husband. The only thing that could have made that morning any more sacred to me is if he had been there to share it with us.
-
The main guideline we set for ourselves was to never go backwards or deviate too far from the main path. It was north of St. George that we had met up, so the next big location on the map along the 15 was Cedar City (the real one this time, not the tent city). I was relatively familiar with the area so our idea was that no matter who was going out looking for a third vehicle, I would be going along with that person filling in as a local guide/navigator. There was no way that I was allowing Elizabeth to come into the city with me (just based on past experience alone) so we would swing out left on the outskirts of the city itself and take the Cross Hollow Road up and around the densest area; we assumed that the 15 would be slammed with traffic once we got to the city’s edge and all but impassable as it made its way through the center of Cedar City. At or about the point that we hit the airport, we would set up a staging area as a base.
When it was clear that Elizabeth was staying with the vehicles on my order (something she grumbled about quite a bit), it became apparent that someone would have to stay behind with her. Jake volunteered for this, which made me nervous at first. He did not strike me as a bad or evil person, not like the others I’d run into, but he still scared me. He struck me as a dangerous person. It was him, after all, who had put the knife and gun into my hand and effectively absolved me of any social guilt within the group for what I might do to James. Then again, it occurred to me that I had taken Jake up on his offer; opting for the knife in the end and using it slowly (thankful that Jake had so effectively gagged him - I learned later that he had taken Lizzy several yards away as soon as he left the trailer to ensure she couldn’t hear). Thinking about this, I realized that I was actually confirmed to be every bit as dangerous, if not more dangerous, than Jake. It was this knowledge plus the fact that he hadn’t known of Elizabeth’s existence when he came to help me that informed my decision to agree with the arrangement. To my surprise, Lizzy was totally fine with it as well.
As we approached the edge of Cedar City, we saw that the 15 was not as bad as we had imagined. We very well could have navigated our way in for at least a few miles and then gone off the main road if we found ourselves blocked. Even so, we held to our original plan and swung up Cross Hollow. Rolling down the middle of the city felt too exposed to all of us - as though we were just asking for trouble.
We pulled off the road just before the 56 and parked in the shade of a factory on the southeast corner, putting ourselves between the factory and the main area of the city. Jake said, “Let’s get you outfitted,” and got out of the truck. He started walking over to the rear of the van, where Billy already had the doors open.
“Wait here,” I told Lizzy, and got out to follow.
As I was just approaching the rear of the van, Billy was already slamming the doors shut and locking them. Jake came around with what appeared to be a very heavy black duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He settled it onto the ground between us and I could see that it was large enough to hold a full grown man. On his other arm, he had a couple of black vests. He held one of them up to me, tsked, and shook his head.
“This might still be too big for you. This is really a shame. It never occurred to us to look for feminine-sized armor.”
“We’ll keep an eye out in the future,” Billy said. “I think we can make that work on her. We may just have to duct tape it instead of using the Velcro.”
“What is this?” I asked.
“Ballistic armor!” Billy said, happily. “Good stuff. Probably not good for high-powered rifle rounds but it’ll stop handguns and knives.”
“It’s the same stuff I was wearing when what’s-his-name shot me,” Jake said as he squatted down and unzipped the duffel. He reached inside and pulled out a rifle the likes of which I had never seen before. It looked like a space gun from a science fiction movie; I felt as though I had seen Sigourney Weaver use one to blow the face off an alien at some point. Impressive didn’t convey half of what I felt when looking at this thing. What first struck me when I saw it (the thing I appreciated the most, really) was how small it was. The rifle from before that I had been lugging around always felt big for me. I had never shot a rifle in my life before all of this started and a long rifle like that M16 just felt clumsy in my hands. The kick wasn’t that bad; I just couldn’t keep it steady.
This new thing that Jake was holding out to me was easily half the length of the M16.
“What on Earth is this?” I asked as I took it from him.
Billy answered. “That is an Israeli-made IWI Tavor X95 bullpup rifle. The Israelis were using the earlier variant of this in their military; the X95 was just starting to get some real popularity here in the states when everything fell apart. You didn’t see a lot of them around because they were so damned expensive and a lot of people hate on bullpups. Even so, these things are great for tighter control and close quarters.”
I looked over the top of the gun. There was a little window mounted on top. When I looked through it, I could just see a red dot that moved around on the screen as I shifted my gaze around from side to side.
“That’s a red dot optic,” Jake offered. “I don’t really know how to set them up but Billy managed to get it zeroed at about 100 yards. We played around with this thing for a few hours after we picked it up. This was shortly before we found you.”
“They’re really cool,” Billy added. “You don’t have to get the gun lined up with your target the way you would if you had regular iron sights. If you can see the dot through that window and it’s on your target, you’ll hit your target. Even if the dot is way over to the edge of the window - if you can see it, that’s where the bullet is going.”
“Where in the actual hell did you find all this stuff?” I asked. They both became quiet at this question, going from excited twelve year olds to circumspect poker players instantaneously.
“Here and there,” Billy finally said. “We got a bit lucky in Vegas.”
Jake scoffed to himself and nodded.
Changing the subject, Billy said, “Look, I want you to put that vest on under your clothes, okay? Just go over there around the side of the building or something and pull it on. When you come back I’ll tighten it up with the tape if it needs it...your waist i
s pretty small, I’ll just go get the tape now. Should probably put a flannel on you, too, to help hide the edges.”
Handing the dangerous looking little rifle back to Jake and slinging the vest over my shoulder, I asked, “Why under the clothes? What does that matter?”
“Two reasons,” Jake said. “First, Billy read about some shit-hit-the-fan situations in other 3rd world countries once upon a time. It seems that people outfitted with the best gear tended to get ambushed by marauders far more often than guys just roaming around in jeans and sneakers with beat up backpacks. This included soldiers loaded up in tactical gear. The less savory of the world see all that fancy looking military stuff and it doesn’t deter them at all; it paints a big target for them that says, ‘this person right here has way better equipment than you and you should come take it’. It’s counterintuitive but the truly bad people of the world tend not to be intimidated by the sight of GI Joe, especially when those bad people are moving in numbers.”
“What’s the other reason?” I asked.
Jake cleared his throat. “Yeah. Well, if you have to get shot, we want them to shoot you in the vest where you’re protected. If they see you wearing a vest, they’ll shoot you somewhere else, like the head. So, just hide the vest.”
His words had a sobering effect. I walked off to find a relatively private place to put the gear on.
It turned out that it was a little loose after all. Billy got down on his knees in front of me while I lifted my shirt up to my ribs; high enough for him to wrap the sides down tight with duct tape. I felt the shoulders bunching up slightly around my neck when he finished but the fit was still much better now than when I first put the vest on. I was amazed at how light it was. I was assured that the heavy duty stuff was not as comfortable.
The Tavor was handed back to me, this time with a sling attached to a little swivel at the back, which Billy helped me to pull over my head and adjust the length. He had me shoulder the rifle a few times to ensure that it was all comfortable and that I could get a good view through the optic. He left to rummage around in his baggage for a flannel shirt.
As he did that, Jake moved in front of me and undid my belt without warning. I felt my heart slam in my chest and my sudden rush of indrawn breath stopped him.
His hands instantly dropped to his sides, leaving each end of my belt to dangle, and he said, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
I took a deep breath and got my heart under control. “That’s okay, I’m sorry too. I know you didn’t mean anything. What were you doing?”
He dug through the duffel bag and pulled out a hard plastic pouch about as big as my two fists held together. “For your magazines. This will hold four 20 rounders. We’ll hang this off your belt on your left hip. It should be natural for you to reach down with your left hand for a magazine change if it becomes necessary.”
“Got it,” I said. “Look, again, I’m really sorry about freaking out. Will you help me to get it on?”
He nodded, not meeting my eye. His face was bright red. His hand reached out and pulled the belt out of the first two loops of my jeans. He threaded the belt through the pouch and then ran the belt back to its original position, taking great care not to come into contact with my body.
“You can cinch that back up,” he said.
“Hey, you’re okay,” I said. “We’re good.”
“Yeah,” he grunted. He went back to the truck to peek at Lizzy and make sure she was alright. He opened the door and started talking quietly to her.
“Here we go,” Billy said as he came back. He was holding out what looked like the world’s oldest and most comfortable flannel by the shoulders for me to slide into. “That looks pretty good,” he said as he circled around me. “Just let that rifle dangle on the sling. Yeah, perfect.” He pulled out four magazines and jammed them into the pouches on my hip.
“Okay, reach back there and grab one of those.”
I did as he asked, noting how hard I had to pull to get it loose. They wouldn’t come bouncing out if I had to run, at least.
“Okay, shoulder the rifle...good. When you reload, you’re going to continue holding the grip with your right hand just like you are now. You’ll insert the magazine with your left hand like so…” He guided my hand into position and showed me what it felt like to set the magazine home. “Good. Now you’ll use your left hand to charge the weapon by pulling that operating lever there on the side.”
I reached up and did so.
“Okay, good deal,” he said, “but now you’re set to pop. You need to be aware of what’s happening with your muzzle at all times, okay? Wherever you have that thing pointed, what’s on the other end will have a really bad day. Pointing down at the ground isn’t enough. If I’m standing in front of you and the rifle goes off, the ricochet from the ground will still bounce into me and kill me, got it? Always point in a safe direction.”
“Got it.”
“In fact,” he continued, appraising me, “you just stay in front of me when we’re out on foot, got it? I want to watch you a bit before I let you get behind me.”
“That’s probably the right idea,” I agreed. I didn’t want to shoot him in the back any more than he wanted to get shot in the back.
“The safety operates just like the one on your M16...you do know how that works, right?”
“I do,” I told him, and showed him with my thumb.
“Well, that’s at least one-up you have on Jake,” he mumbled. “Okay, moving on - you eject your magazine with your index finger; just press this button on the side of the guard. Go ahead and do it now.”
I did and the magazine dropped all the way out of the gun and bounced in the dirt.
“That’s how you do it,” he said. “Don’t reach up to grab it when it comes out. Don’t bend over to pick it up if you’re in a firefight. Just let it fall out on the ground, slap another one in there, and press this little button back here under the stock with your left thumb, understand? We can always come back and collect magazines after any fighting is over.”
“Wait,” I interrupted, “so I pull the lever when I put a magazine in or I press this button back here?”
Billy nodded. “I get you. It depends on the position of the bolt when you put the magazine in. He rolled the gun over while I held it so I could look at its side. “See that window there? You see how you can’t really look inside there?”
I nodded.
“Okay, watch…” he said, and pulled the charging handle back. When he did, a bullet dropped out onto the ground. “See how it’s open now? If you’ve shot the gun dry, that little window will be wedged open. This thing here,” he indicated a hunk of metal deep inside the opening, “is basically the bolt, which blocks another bullet’s entry to the chamber when it’s closed. If the bolt is closed when you load in a new magazine, the top of that magazine slams into it and there’s no way for a bullet to get chambered, so you have to pull that handle to open the bolt and get a bullet into the pipe.”
It started to make sense. “I see. So if the bolt is open when I’ve finished a magazine, I don’t have to open it again.”
“That’s right,” Billy said. He put the dropped bullet back into the magazine and stuck the magazine back in my gun. “Okay, run it.”
“Huh?”
“Point at some spot out in the distance and shoot that mag empty.”
“Aren’t you worried about attracting attention?” I asked.
“Not as worried as I am about getting jumped with a partner who has never fired her weapon. Honestly, we’re pushing the bounds of sensibility as it is. You’d be spending several hours getting comfortable with that thing if this was a perfect world. Now go ahead. Run it.”
I pulled the handle and aimed. I pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
“Safety…”
“Yep, sorry,” I said. I flipped the safety lever down, aimed, and pulled the trigger. I want to say that the gun didn’t fire so much as it sneezed; a short little jerk up again
st my shoulder. From the looks of it and the thickness of its stock, I was expecting it to slam into me but that wasn’t the case at all. A light, refined little jerk was all it gave me. The sound, on the other hand…
“That’s really loud,” I said, massaging my ear.
“I know, we’ll see if we can find you ear plugs somewhere,” Billy agreed. “As for the kick, it was the first one of its kind I had encountered when I shot it too. 5.56 isn’t exactly a hard kicking round to begin with but I was amazed at how manageable it is with this gun. It’s why I’m giving it to you: small, easy to lug, easy to fire - it all makes up for how awkward it is to load. Okay, go ahead and keep shooting and when you do, I want you to focus on squeezing the trigger down until it starts to resist your finger and then take the shot.”
I did as he advised and shot the magazine empty. As soon as I was finished, Billy was beginning to tell me what I should do next. Instead of waiting for him, I released the magazine, yanked another one off my hip, slapped it in place, and reached back to hit the release button. It all felt relatively smooth until I had to find that button; I searched around for it a little with my thumb before I got it.
“Not bad, Little Sis,” he said. “Now put the safety on that thing before you end up shooting my favorite Indian,” he said as he bent over to get the dropped magazine. While he was down there, he pulled another full magazine out of the duffel and handed it up to me. I stuck it into my hip pouch.
“What else is in that bag?” I asked, squatting next to him.
“A few extra goodies, just in case,” Billy said and spread it open for me. It was loaded full of gear - I could see at least three rifles, several magazines of various size and shape running around loose, and what appeared to be enough boxes of shotgun rounds to choke an elephant.
“Wow,” I whispered. “You’re carrying an arsenal around.”
“This is just a small piece of it,” he said. “There’s more in the van. I told you, we did really well in Vegas.”
“What, did you guys raid a police station?”