As the Ash Fell

by AJ Powers

  Charlie was wide-eyed as he looked around the retail section of the store for a few minutes. There wasn’t much left to scavenge, mostly superfluous items that really had no value in their present day world. But still, Charlie thought, how incredible is this place?

  Charlie followed Clay through a couple of doors, and they found themselves in the rifle bays. Clay set up some old cans on a makeshift platform he had made from a couple of sawhorses and cardboard the first time he visited.

  “My father first taught me how to shoot with a .22 long rifle. However, it was hard to find that ammo before the eruption, let alone after. So now we only hunt small game with .22; we train with the real deal,” he said as he tapped the side of the M4’s receiver.

  Clay once again went over the safety instructions, and then he explained how to use the sights, load the magazine, and charge the weapon. He handed Charlie the rifle and a magazine. Charlie clumsily put the magazine into the rifle and yanked back on the bolt. Clay watched carefully and ensured Charlie followed the safety protocols he had explained earlier; he did well.

  Charlie raised the rifle and tilted his head behind the peep sight. As expected, he stuck his right elbow out so that it was nearly horizontal. For whatever reason, it was the default position most shooters had. Even Clay still fought the urge at times.

  “Pull that elbow in,” Clay said as he demonstrated the proper stance. “Keep that elbow in as close to your body as you can. Remember, someday your targets might be shooting back at you. Make yourself as small of a target to hit as you can.”

  Charlie made the proper adjustment and once again took aim; he closed one eye and lined up his target. He pulled the trigger and sent one of the cans flying through the air.

  “Nice shot, Charlie!”

  “Thanks,” Charlie replied with a nervous laugh.

  Clay looked at him, then at the cans. The second one was lying on the floor a few feet back. “You weren’t aiming for that one, were you?” he asked.

  “No.”

  Clay laughed. “Well, we’ll pretend you were,” he said and patted Charlie on the shoulder.

  Clay critiqued a few things he noticed and answered Charlie’s questions. Charlie shot again, this time grazing the first can. It danced around on the cardboard then dropped to the floor. Charlie’s follow-up shot was a direct hit to the third can, then the fourth. He paused for a moment and looked at Clay with a smile. He continued to the fifth can, narrowly missing it.

  “Remember what I said, just slow down and squeeze the trigger. Don’t pull it.”

  The fifth can went spiraling into the air like an out of control rocket. Charlie then set his sights on the sixth can. He squeezed the trigger, and the sixth can exploded, sending expired cream of mushroom soup flying through the air. Charlie stepped back in disbelief; his jaw dropped.

  “Did you know that was gonna happen?” Charlie asked excitedly.

  Clay smiled.

  “What about the food, though?”

  “That can was bloated—something I found a few weeks ago. Shouldn’t eat food from a bloated can. You’ll get very, very sick.”

  Charlie made another mental note of Clay’s advice.

  He had Charlie remove the magazine from the M1 and clear the action. They walked down the range, moved the table to 50 yards, and set the cans back up. Charlie took down all six targets in just seven rounds. He was a natural. Since Charlie was comfortable with the M1 carbine, Clay had him move on to the M4. Even though that was Clay’s rifle, he wanted Charlie to know how to shoot any and all guns, whether they found another one in the future or if Charlie suddenly inherited Clay’s, it was a skill he needed to have. Charlie’s training would encourage proficiency with all of the firearms Clay owned.

  Intimidated by the much louder boom and the slightly heavier recoil, Charlie was a bit reluctant at first, but after a few rounds he felt comfortable with it. The holographic sights made aiming a cinch.

  “I like that one better,” Charlie told Clay as he pointed to the M1 Carbine.

  “Hey, ya can’t go wrong with a classic,” Clay said as he put the M4 down. He pulled the Scout from the sling over his shoulder. “Now this one is going to have the most kick of all.”

  Much to Clay’s surprise, Charlie really liked the Scout. It was a superb design to have such a small rifle shoot a .308 with minimal recoil. Clay wanted Charlie to be familiar with it, but only allowed him to shoot five rounds—Clay’s inventory with that caliber was thin as it was.

  “That was so awesome!” he said to Clay.

  After rifles, they moved on to pistols. Clay had given him the Smith & Wesson bodyguard, a compact .380 that was good for a beginner. Charlie struggled with the pistol the most, but was competent enough to use it as a fallback weapon. They would work on it more after winter.

  Clay and Charlie collected the ejected brass and made their way home just before nightfall. Charlie was very excited to tell the other kids all about his natural talent as a marksman. An “honorary paratrooper,” Clay called him.

  As night drew on, Clay set up a table in the kitchen and turned on a lantern. Megan took advantage of the light and started reading. Much to Clay’s surprise, it was a fiction, not one of the medical books.

  Clay showed Charlie how to fieldstrip the M1 and explained how to clean the gun. He had Charlie clean the bolt while he worked on the receiver.

  “What’s it like to kill someone?” Charlie asked out of nowhere, a tinge of trepidation in his voice.

  Clay was a bit taken aback by the blunt question. He pondered how to best answer before saying, “Charlie, I’m not going to sugarcoat it. It’s one of the worst feelings I’ve ever experienced.” Clay sighed deeply as he carefully chose the next words to say. “In all likelihood, you will find yourself in a position at some point where you will need to decide: kill or be killed. Unfortunately, it’s the world we live in now.”

  Charlie looked down, his excitement which had shone throughout the day had diminished. It was replaced with a solemn understanding of what his new responsibilities entailed.

  “I’ve killed many men before, Charlie. To this day, I get sick each time I am forced to pull the trigger.” Clay lowered his head, ashamed to continue, “But each time, I notice that trigger gets easier and easier to pull.”

  Charlie’s expression was blank as he stared at the disassembled rifle on the table, unsure of how to respond.

  Clay continued, “My dad once told me a story about an Indian Chief talking to his grandson. The Chief had said, ‘Inside every man is a battle—a battle between two wolves: one evil; the other good.’ His grandson then asked, ‘Which wolf wins?’ to which the chief simply replied, ‘The one that you feed.’”

  Charlie was quiet as the tale Clay recited sank in. He polished the bolt with a rag, wiping away the excess solvent.

  “Don’t feed the evil wolf, Charlie. You will be tempted in so many ways to do that, but that’s not who we are. That’s not who you are. Don’t ever let it win,” Clay said with a firm yet affectionate tone.

  “Yes sir,” Charlie said and went back to cleaning.

  Midnight had rolled around. Charlie had gone to bed while Clay finished cleaning the guns. The following day, Clay would give Charlie the M1 with an empty magazine, tasking him to carry it around for a week while Clay paid close attention to his safety procedures. If all went well, Clay was planning on giving Charlie ammo and promoting him to one of the defenders of the home.

  Megan called it a night and retired to her bedroom, which was a long closet that had once housed a copy machine and some office supplies. Clay gathered the guns and put them back in the armory. As he was heading to bed, he got lightheaded for a moment and leaned against the wall. He thought he was about to faint when he heard the rattling, and felt the vibrations tumble through the drywall. It was a tremor. Probably not much above a 3.5, but enough to feel. That was the third one in the last month. There had been an increase in quake activity in the last year. He had no idea whether
or not that meant anything—there were no longer geologists on TV speculating what it meant for the future—but each time it happened, he was less and less comfortable with sleeping 150 feet in the air.

  Chapter 9

  Clay was once again gathering items to barter. He was headed to Watson’s farm to trade, and was glad that last week he had found some tools that had fallen behind a bench at an old mechanic’s shop. Hand tools were always in demand and were among the most valuable items to trade. It was fortunate timing to find such rare items since his trade was for a special occasion.

  Bethany was turning two, and per Megan’s birthday tradition for the children, Bethany got to choose her birthday meal. Typically, birthday meals fell short of Megan’s expectations—this was especially the case with Lona’s request for beef stroganoff—but regardless of how it looked or tasted, it always brought back fond memories for those who could recall having the meals in the past. Having been born after the eruption, Bethany had never tasted food cooked with all of the proper ingredients. After carefully scanning each page of a cookbook for over an hour, the birthday girl picked macaroni and cheese. The dish was like a beacon for kids, even those who had never tasted it before. Ordinarily, such a dish would be in the disaster zone for Megan, but with Watson having the majority of the ingredients available for trade, it would likely be an exquisite meal for the family to enjoy.

  Megan, in an effort to educate the kids as best she could despite the circumstances, had just finished telling them about the Model-T and the substantial impact the first line-assembled vehicle had on the world. Most of the younger children’s eyes had glazed over, but a few of the older ones were interested, asking questions and talking about it later in conversation. Megan had had no plans to be a teacher, but knew the importance of providing an education for the kids, regardless of whether or not the world would ever return to a normal state.

  Afterwards, the kids all zoomed by Clay as he was locking up his room, each one saying “Hi!” as they passed in a frenzy to get up the stairs to the roof for as much playtime as they could squeeze in before winter hit.

  “Everyone has to wear a jacket!” Megan shouted as she walked towards Clay.

  It was late August, and the afternoon highs barely climbed out of the 50’s. It was looking likely that the first snow would happen by mid-September, then it was all downhill from there until about May.

  “Here’s what I need,” Megan said casually as she turned her attention to Clay and handed him a list of ingredients, as if she was just sending him to the supermarket. “If he has it, get it,” she said, ultimately giving him no room to argue.

  Clay looked at the list. The dairy wouldn’t likely be a problem, but he didn’t know what else Watson might have. “I’ll do my best,” he said, then folded the piece of paper and stuffed it into his pocket.

  He gave Megan a heads-up that he might be a day or two late. With winter fast approaching, the window to scavenge was nearly closed. Clay hadn’t ventured down to Watson’s area all that much, and he had noticed quite a few potential spots as he escorted Kelsey home. Even though most places had been picked clean years ago, Clay had a knack for finding goods that others overlooked. He attributed it to his thoroughness.

  After saying goodbye to Clay, Megan went up to the roof to tend to the garden and keep an eye on the kids during recess. She very much enjoyed working in the garden; it felt more like a hobby than a chore, which brought some sense of normalcy to her life. It took her mind off of being a mother to 10, the family doctor, chef, seamstress, maid, and all the other roles she filled after modern conveniences ceased to exist. Gardening was a pastime for her; something she’d done with her mother; a connection to her childhood.

  Clay walked down the hall to Charlie’s room. Besides earning a gun, Charlie’s recent promotion awarded him some other perks, such as his own bedroom with no bedtime. Though his room was right next to the other kids, he still had privacy and an area to call his own.

  Clay walked into the room and saw Charlie reading; the kid was a bookworm most days. His M1 was leaning up against the wall within arm’s reach, per Clay’s instruction.

  Charlie looked up. “Hey Clay. Are you heading out?” he asked.

  “Yep, shouldn’t be gone more than a couple days, maybe not even that.” Clay reached into his pocket and pulled out two loaded magazines. “Here. Just in case.”

  The kid in Charlie wanted to smile, but the young man he was becoming suppressed it. Over the last week, Clay had stressed the point that having a gun was not a game, but rather a responsibility. Charlie was always serious when it came to anything about guns. So much so that Clay had to tell him to relax just the day before. Charlie had only known firearms to be an important, life-saving tool in a brutal world; he never really experienced the recreational aspect of firearms.

  Charlie took the magazines from Clay and placed one into the gun and the other in the cargo pocket of his pants. He gave Clay a nod. “I won’t let you down!”

  “I know you won’t,” Clay said. “And remember,” he continued, “don’t chamber that round unless you need to, understand?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good. You are the man of the house while I’m gone. Keep everyone safe. I’ll be back soon.” Clay looked down and saw that Charlie was reading Ender’s Game, “Oh man, I remember the first time I read that one; I couldn’t put it down.”

  Charlie’s serious demeanor lifted, and he smiled, “It’s very good so far, I really like Ender.”

  And what kid his age wouldn’t? Ender, although just a boy, lived the dream that most kids had: be the best soldier there ever was. The book encouraged tactical thinking and strategy as much as, if not more than, weaponry and combat. Ender constantly found himself in situations that really made the reader think. And, with any luck, it would cause Charlie to be more strategic and less confrontational than instinct encouraged. Become a scalpel instead of a broadsword.

  Charlie returned to his book when Clay left the room. Clay stopped off in the kitchen to grab a little bit of food and fill up his hydration pack. As always, Megan had a small care package for him to take. He grabbed that and was on his way.

  Watson’s farm was a comfortable fourteen miles away, a more desirable four hour trek compared to the full day’s journey to reach Liberty. Clay wasn’t sure what Watson had to trade, but he knew he wasn’t going to find fresh dairy anywhere else. Vlad’s unique inventory—along with the pleasure of visiting the small community—would ensure Clay’s continued business. But more mundane trading would likely go to Watson’s ranch.

  Clay looked down at his watch as he approached the gate: three hours and forty-five minutes, not too shabby.

  “Howdy,” Clay said as he stepped up to the gate.

  “Hi there,” the guard said, searching his brain to recall Clay’s name.

  It had been 10 days since he and Kelsey had limped their way to the ranch. Clay could see that the guard couldn’t remember who he was.

  “I’m Clay. I think we met a little over a week ago. I helped Kelsey get back home.”

  The light switch flipped in the young man’s mind, and everything came to the forefront of his head. “Oh yeah, that’s right! Duh! Sorry about that, Clay. We get a lot of people that come and try to trade here. Believe it or not, we’re very selective about who we do business with.”

  “Oh?” Clay responded. It wasn’t altogether surprising to hear that. Most communities were reluctant to open up trading to outsiders, though Clay got the impression the VIP list for this place was even more exclusive than Liberty. “Well, I believe I should be on the guest list.”

  “Oh yeah! Definitely,” he exclaimed, as if Clay was silly to even ask. “Mr. Watson himself said that you are welcome to come here anytime.”

  Clay walked up to the gate but it was still locked.

  “Forgive me,” the guard said as he unlocked the gate and opened it. “Here I am yammering away...”

  “Thanks,” Clay said as he walked
through the gate. He stopped just as he passed through, trying to recall the gatekeeper’s name. “Derrick, isn’t it?”

  “Yes sir,” the young man said with a tilt of his head. “Enjoy your stay.”

  Clay leisurely made his way over to Watson’s house. He watched as various folks busied themselves with chores and tasks for the day. It was simply amazing to see such things. It was commerce: a carpenter sanding down a beautifully crafted hutch; an older woman delivering fresh eggs to a family; a young boy playing jacks on the porch with some of his pals while their mothers sat in rocking chairs knitting, talking amongst themselves. It was as if he had stepped out of a wasteland right into Mayberry. Most everyone that made eye contact with Clay either smiled or said hello—a bit of a warmer welcome than last time, though the situation was substantially different.

  He walked up to the porch and Matthew stepped outside, greeting him at the top step.

  “Hey Clay, good to see you again. What can I do for ya?”

  “Here to see Mr. Watson. I have some things he might be interested in,” he said as he turned his body slightly to reveal the backpack.

  Before Matthew had a chance to respond, a voice from inside interrupted, “Well, hello there, Clay,” Watson said boisterously. “What brings you this way?”

  “Thought I would take you up on your offer to do some trading.”

  “That sounds good to me,” Watson said as he pushed the storm door open and walked out on the porch. “Let’s head on over to the store then, shall we?”

  All three of them left the porch and walked down a small dirt path that went between various buildings. It was set up like a miniature downtown street.

  Watson was a man in his mid-60s, and was relatively fit for his age, but despite his physical stature, he still walked a bit slowly. Clay didn’t mind. Life for him usually meant moving fast. Slowing down and being able to enjoy a moment was always appreciated.