Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Pat’s right hand sliding up her arm, yanking the pistol from her grip, the snarling faces getting closer and closer. Pat’s left hand covering the top of the pistol, pulling back the slide. Pat’s right hand lashing down and forward, like a snake, the arm extending, seeming to lock in place. She could see saliva on the teeth of one snarling mouth, saliva glistening in the sun. Explosions, two of them, so fast they blended together, spaced only by the half-second of Pat shifting his right hand. Spittle flying from the snarling mouth, two bodies falling forward, clenching hands flailing the air only a few paces in front of her. The tinny clink of brass against pavement; a horrible, guttural moaning from the two heaps twitching on the ground. Pat stepping in front of her, right arm extended and pointing down. Her body jerked at the sharp crack of the pistol. The first body jerked as well, then lay still. Pat’s upper body half-turning, following his right hand. Another sharp crack, followed by rolling echoes.
Pat stepped backwards, right arm extended in front of him, pistol held at the ready. Without turning his head, his left arm wrapped around her waist. He walked her backwards, away from the two dead heaps before her. All the while, the pistol swept back and forth in front of him. Back and forth, back and forth.
The little wagon had rolled away, dragging its handle behind it. Ten backward paces from the dead things, he turned her body away. Liz let herself be guided, her mind still reeling. Pat walked her to the wagon, his grip firm around her. She felt him stop, holding her still. The arm released her, his hand finding her shoulder, giving it a squeeze. Liz saw the hand rise to his mouth, one finger over his lips, then palm outward, his eyes locked on hers. A message she could grasp: Be quiet. Wait, wait here. So she did.
She watched him, watched his deliberate movements. He took two steps away from her, closer to the wagon. He did not stoop to grasp the handle. Pat’s right arm was extended down, the pistol held at his thigh. He turned a slow circle, his eyes up and searching.
Liz was frozen in place, tears streaming down her face. She raised a hand to her cheek, surprised at the wetness she found there. She stared through the tears, her eyes finding the dead things lying on the far side of the road. Then Pat was beside her, the wagon trailing behind him. The pistol had disappeared. His right hand closed on hers.
“C’mon Baby, let’s go back to the Fort.”
LIZ CURSED THE COLD, cursed the shadows, cursed the plywood over the windows. She pushed her feet closer to the kerosene heater. Dammit, will I ever be warm again? Maybe, but if you want to get warm, you’re going to have to survive until April. Her thumb counted the months against finger tips. Four months; that’s a long time. Blanket clutched to her throat, she pulled her counting hand back inside.
From the roof above her came a scraping sound; Pat adjusting his camp chair. How can he do it? How can he sit up there in the cold, watching the street? Watching and smoking; she could picture him. The collar of his tattered canvas jacket was flipped up, wool cap low and tight on his head. One hand holding his cigar, the other stuffed into the blanket lining of his jacket pocket. Switching hands when his knuckles started to ache. Just sitting, legs in front of him, sitting in the cold. Like an animal.
Pat had walked her back to the Fort, the empty wagon trailing behind his heels. Then they were safe, the steel door locked and barred. Taking her empty pack, he led her into the Galley. He did exactly the right things; starting the heater, boiling water for tea, getting her a blanket. Liz let him work, left the questions unasked. Pat brought her tea, sat with her. The third time he asked if she was okay, she replied by asking him if he didn’t, maybe, have something that needed doing. He was up and gone like a shot.
She heard him working in the shop, cleaning the pistol. Fine, let Pat keep the damn thing. It’s been nothing but a curse. I couldn’t even make it shoot, not when it counted. Why the hell did I take it in the first place? I should have just left it alone, left it in that schmuck’s desk drawer. The answer came on the heels of the question. You took the Glock because you needed it, because the world has gone nuts. You took it to survive. So quit blaming the damn pistol.
Liz chewed on her thoughts, chasing them around in circles. When Pat stuck his head through the door to say he was going up on the roof, she nodded and managed a weak smile. She heard him climbing the ladder in the shop, heard the access hatch open and close.
She wiggled her toes, feeling the chill easing. The kerosene heater was actually doing something besides making the air smell bad. So, are you going to be mad at the pistol, or mad at yourself? You messed up, you know you did. You know better than to half-learn something. Be mad if you want, but you could have been killed. And you could have gotten Pat killed. Better to carry the driver. You know how to use a golf club, that’s for damn sure.
So learn how to use a pistol, really use it, like Pat. Yeah, and that’s the damn question, isn’t it? Where did Pat learn to use a pistol like that? What was that? What the fuck happened out there? Liz shook her head, the scene playing out in her memory. Pointing the pistol, the fear and shock when it didn’t fire, those snarling faces getting closer. Then Pat has the pistol, only it’s not Pat, it’s someone else, some crazy killing machine. Two shots and they were both down. Then he shot them both in the head. Just like that.
Liz remembered the look on his face, cold and hard. Where did that come from? Who was that? Liz felt the scared little girl in her; the need to confront, the need to ask questions. Elizabeth drew a breath in, let it out; drew in another, let it out. She felt her focus returning.
So now you know: Pat’s got a secret. He knows how to use a pistol far better than any pacifist has a right to. You know it, and now he knows that you know it. And what about you? Have you told Pat everything about your past? No, not even close. But this is different. Nothing in my past is so, so... scary. That’s what it was: fear. The realization brought her up short. Is that it? Are you afraid of Pat? She rolled it over in her mind, looking for the answer. The answer was not completely reassuring. No, I am not afraid of my Pat. But this other Pat, I’m not so sure.
She shook her head, trying to shake away the nagging fear. C’mon Liz, you know Pat. You might not know everything about the man, but he is the same guy you were standing in the sun with not two hours ago. You know him, you know how his mind works. He’s up there on the roof, and he’s worrying about this. He’s smoking his cigar and worrying. What is she going to ask me? When is she going to ask me? How long can I make this cigar last? Sure, that’s Pat through and through; she could picture it.
That’s fine, let him stew for a while. I’m not afraid of Pat, I’m angry. It doesn’t matter whether he lied by omission or not, it’s still a lie. Let him stew about it for a while. That will teach him. He will do a fine job of torturing himself if you just let him wait and worry.
Meanwhile, ask him to teach you everything there is to know about that stupid Glock. That is important knowledge; important for staying alive. The same goes for the shotgun. You need to know it inside and out. The rest of it can wait. We’ve got nothing but time and nowhere to go. Pat will tell you all about it when the time comes. This isn’t over yet.
Finis
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Did you love Clouds Before Rain? Then you should read The Best Dark Rain: A Post-Apocalyptic Struggle for Life and Love by Marco Etheridge!
Seattle is dead. Almost dead. Liz and Pat are the last couple standing. Survival is only half the battle. Living is hard, trusting is harder.There is precious little room for love in a dead city, a dead world. For not quite everyone died. Better if they had. Armed bands stalk the streets. In the shadows worse enemies prowl, horrible enemies. At the center of this bleak urban waste lies a makeshift fort. It is the r
efuge of Liz Walker and Pat O'Shea. They are the last living couple in the shell of what was once Seattle.Here on these dead streets a woman and a man must learn to love and fight. They bear weapons scavenged from the dead. Each of them carries the shadow of a past that could threaten their future. Amid murderous survivors and unlikely allies, the threat of hunters, and the danger of trusting, Liz and Pat must battle for their lives. The stakes are high. They must protect their new-found love as well as their lives. To lose either means to face alone this horrific world.Follow the adventure of Liz and Pat in "The Best Dark Rain: A Post-Apocalyptic Struggle for Life and Love." Download the book today!
Read more at Marco Etheridge’s site.
Also by Marco Etheridge
The Best Dark Rain
Clouds Before Rain
The Best Dark Rain: A Post-Apocalyptic Struggle for Life and Love
Standalone
Blood Rust Chains
Breaking the Bundles
Watch for more at Marco Etheridge’s site.
About the Author
Marco Etheridge is a world traveler and writer. He is the author of The Dark Rain Series. This post-apocalyptic saga opens with the novella "Clouds Before Rain" and continues with "The Best Dark Rain.” Marco's novel "Blood Rust Chains" is set in Portland, Oregon. His third novel, “Breaking the Bundles,” is a political thriller set across two continents. It is now available at fine online booksellers world-wide.
Marco is hard at work on a series of short fiction. Ten stories have been published. Four stories are live on the great online journal Literally Stories. Another short piece, “Broken Luggage,” has been featured at Five on the Fifth. The introspective story “Orphaned Lies” is live on Dime Show Review. There are more stories at Storgy, Castabout Art & Literature, the Manzano Mountain Review, and Every Day Fiction.
Marco's fiction takes the reader on an intricate literary journey through different genres. Marco builds immersive worlds crafted to house diverse characters. Character and dialogue driven, Marco's novels captivate the readers with dark charm and unforeseen plot hooks.
For more on Marco's work, visit his Author website at:
https://www.marcoetheridgefiction.com/
Though born in the USA, Marco considers himself a citizen of the world. The long and winding pathway that has led to writing novels is one of varied experience. His feet have happily trod the soil of over thirty countries spread over five continents. The world is his playground and his fellow citizens are his playmates.
A complete street-food junkie, there is nothing he won't try. Munching wok-roasted spiders in Cambodia? Absolutely! How about a four-course meal in Bangkok’s Chinatown, with each course from a different street stall? He is there! If you are interested in tall tales of travel, please check out Marco's travel blog at:
https://newland-newtale.blogspot.com/
Read more at Marco Etheridge’s site.
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