by AJ Powers
The door to the bedroom just off the stairs hung wide open, revealing no threats inside. The room appeared to be some sort of packing space that was virtually empty—just a folding table with several scales, some empty baggies, and a myriad of pill bottles pushed up against the far wall. There were also a few bags of what looked like cocaine and some marijuana off to the side, near a blue ledger at the edge of the table. Malcom didn’t know whether the notebook was for inventory, or perhaps a list of customers, and he didn’t give a damn. He wasn’t there to clean up the streets, nor was he there to steal the man’s product. He needed guns. And if there were any inside the house, he was going to find them.
With nothing left to search, Malcom continued down the hall and carefully approached the next bedroom door. He reflexively raised his rifle when he saw the body on the bed. It didn’t take long to determine that she wasn’t a threat. Her naked body lay motionless on the soiled mattress on the floor, a hypodermic needle still hanging from the crook of her arm while her other arm clutched tightly to a pink teddy bear. The sight pecked at Malcom’s soul in a way he’d never felt before. He could only speculate why that bear was so important to the woman, but it was clearly significant enough that she reached for it in her final moments.
As a father, Malcom recoiled at the thought of someone finding Mackenzie the way he just discovered this woman. After uttering a quick prayer, he picked up a blanket from the floor and draped it over her body, covering the rotting flesh and heavy track marks running up both arms.
Malcolm felt the urge to cry, but what was the point? The gruesome sight hidden beneath the blanket was yet another reminder of the new normal. It was just a matter of time before he, and everyone else, would end up like this girl in some capacity. Malcom understood. She hadn’t accidentally shot up too much heroin before blacking out, never to open her eyes again. He was intimately familiar with the darkness that drove this girl to overload herself with poison so that she could escape the daily nightmare that everyone was living in. And if it weren’t for Tessa and the kids, Malcom had been fully prepared to follow that same darkness to that same end.
Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he blocked the disturbing thoughts out of his head. Whether he liked it or not, Malcom now had something to live for, and he couldn’t allow himself to be distracted with the temptation to be reunited with his family. He needed to stay focused, regardless of the awful images permanently seared into his memory.
Turning away from the bed, Malcom’s eyes landed on the Ruger LC9 sitting on a milkcrate a few feet away. The small pistol was not his style, but it would be a perfect fit for Naomi, especially with the pink-and-purple camo pattern on the frame. The gun had a full magazine inserted, and there was a spare sitting just inches away. Malcom flicked the safety on and dropped both the gun and magazine into his backpack.
The discovery of the pistol alone made the B-and-E worthwhile. Giving Naomi a means to defend herself with a gun more favorable to her petite hands was a major find. But Malcom was convinced that the woman had more to find—especially given the carnage she left out back. Which, he admitted, was all the more impressive given that the shooter was a she.
Malcom stepped over to the closet and pulled the door open. A rush of excitement rolled through his body. “There we go,” he said with a grin as he peered inside.
The first thing to catch his eye was the “poor man’s SBR.” The Bushmaster AR-15 had a ten-and-a-half-inch barrel, a Holosun red dot reflex sight, and an arm brace on the buffer tube for something to throw into his shoulder. The brace was functional but uncomfortable, and not adjustable. Malcom much preferred an actual stock to a brace designed to go over his wrist, which was why he reached for the sixteen-inch AR next to it.
Malcom immediately popped the takedown pins and separated the upper and lower receivers. He then repeated the same process for the AR pistol before he slapped the pistol’s upper onto the rifle’s lower, creating a legitimate short-barreled rifle. What he did was technically a felony, and three months ago he might have seen the inside of a jail for it, but the rule of law no longer existed. Survivors couldn’t afford to play by the rules if they were to be long for this world.
The next thing he reached for was the Beretta Cx-4 Storm lying on a pile of laundry. The 9mm carbine was another great addition to his arsenal and was even more welcomed once he found over two-hundred rounds of ammunition loaded in various-sized magazines. He’d never fired one before, but it had come highly recommended by a few of his friends in the past. It was a hell of a find.
Setting his newly acquired rifles up against the wall, Malcom continued to scour the closet for more goodies, which included a .357 revolver, a .40-caliber Hi-Point—which he tossed to the side—and seven PMags loaded with 5.56 NATO. He also found a small punch dagger that would be an ideal last-resort weapon for Naomi to keep on her. The wedge-shaped blade was only about an inch and a half long, but it was razor sharp, and the T-shaped handle allowed for maximum force application. Its size and sheath also allowed it to be easily concealed just about anywhere on the body, which was important for someone with such a small frame.
Having cleaned out the closet of everything useful, Malcom slung the M44 onto his back and picked up the AR in one hand and the Cx-4 in the other. He backed out of the closet and walked toward the door, when something else caught his eye.
“Sweet!” Malcom said as he closed the door, revealing the Mossberg 590 leaning up against the wall in the corner. He wasn’t exactly thrilled with the stock configuration—as in, it had no stock—but he could easily remedy that with a trip to a sporting goods store. Finding aftermarket parts for such a common shotgun would be a lot easier than finding the shotgun itself. And, in the meantime, it could do just as much damage as a shotgun with a stock, it just wouldn’t be as fun to shoot.
Rather than overloading himself with more guns than he could carry, Malcom took what he had back to the house across the street before making a second trip for the other AR and the 12-gauge. While he was there, he helped himself to a bottle of Oxy off the table in the other bedroom. He hoped to never have a need to use it, but he’d rather have it and not need it than the other way around.
As he sat down to a cold bowl of cream of chicken, he felt the energy of a second wind hitting him. And he started to finally feel optimistic about the rest of the journey ahead of them, now that they had rifles made more recently than World War II.
Chapter Thirty
30 – Near Wilson, Arkansas – June 13th
The creaking bedroom door startled Malcom from the oddly deep sleep he was in, causing him to whip his head to the side. As his eyes adjusted to the sunlight pouring in through the tattered curtains hanging in front of the window, he could just barely make out Naomi’s silhouette in the doorway.
“N-Naomi?” he asked, his gruff voice needing to be cleared.
Naomi didn’t reply. She stood in the doorway for a moment longer before stepping inside, walking up to the twin-sized bed Malcom slept on last night. She was close enough now for his unfocused eyes to see the shape of the Ruger pistol in her hand. His mind swarmed with a plethora of worried questions.
“Naomi, what are yo—”
“Will you teach me to shoot?” she interrupted, slightly raising the gun in her hand. Her words were sincere but apprehensive. The fifteen-year-old grew up in a time when firearms were viewed as killing machines. She never touched one before, never wanted to. She didn’t even know her mother had kept one in the bedside table, and if she had, she probably would have buried it in the backyard. But the world was different now, and she needed to know how to shoot one safely and effectively. Though her trust in Malcom was slowly growing—fatal setbacks aside—she realized the only person she could truly trust to keep her and her brother safe was herself. And that meant she needed to be able to know how to kill… When that time came.
Malcom swallowed deeply as his adrenal glands called out the false alarm, quickly drying up the flow of the ene
rgizing hormone to his body. “Uhm,” he said before clearing his throat. “Uhm, yeah. No problem.”
Naomi flashed a quick smile and gave a nod. “Thanks.”
“Sure thing. Just give me a few minutes to get dressed and get a few things in order,” he said, aware of the fact he was only wearing boxers due to the choking heat inside the house.
Naomi dipped her chin before leaving to give Malcom some privacy. He kicked his feet over the edge of the bed and rubbed at his eyes with fists as he let his pulse gradually return to normal. She scared the hell out of him. Naomi’s silent demeanor since the crash was not unexpected, but it had also made her hard to read. He suspected she blamed him for Tessa’s death, and she wouldn’t be entirely wrong for doing so. But she never broached the topic with him since that tragic night, so he could only speculate. However, in the moment she towered over him with the small pistol tightly gripped in her hand, Malcom believed that she did blame him, and that her growing rage toward him finally reached a boiling point.
Thankfully, that wasn’t the case… Or, as far as he could tell, it wasn’t. Naomi was a smart kid, and she didn’t turn a blind eye to the perils of the world she lived in. Knowing how to fight against a threat—whether it be an infected, or just plain evil—was must-have knowledge to survive. Even for a girl as young as her. Though the commitment he made to Tessa a few weeks ago evolved into something more long-term, he couldn’t guarantee he would always be there to keep that promise. But, if he could pass the torch on to a capable replacement, such as Naomi, he could at least die with a little peace of mind.
Grabbing his jeans from the floor, Malcom hiked them up to his waist and cinched the belt. Despite the truck filled with groceries outside, Malcom wasn’t eating much, and it was evident when he moved down to the last hole on the cracking, leather belt. The inner-waistband holster for his Sig 1911 did tighten things up a bit, but another few pounds and he’d need to notch a new hole with his knife.
Out in the kitchen, Malcom found an unopened box of cereal in the cabinet next to the sink. His kids had loved the fruity, sugary O’s, and would always scarf down a bowl or two every morning before rushing out the door to catch the bus. He tried the cereal once but found the bitter taste of black coffee and a couple strips of bacon to be a much more fulfilling breakfast. Nevertheless, this morning, the cereal sounded divine, even if he had to substitute the milk with water. Naomi and TJ joined him, pouring bowls of their own, though Naomi opted to eat the cereal dry while she sipped on a chocolate protein shake.
After breakfast, Malcom rounded up their gear and took it out to the truck. With the back of the cab more than a little cluttered, he transferred some of their belongings to the bed, including the Mosin-Nagants. He walked around the truck and inspected the tires to make sure none of them went flat overnight. After the road they’d been traveling on, he was both surprised and relieved to see all four still properly inflated. He then climbed into the truck and fired it up, making sure the battery hadn’t drained overnight. He let it idle for a few minutes, allowing the oil to warm up and freely move about the grinding metal parts inside the engine before shutting it down. Now that they were ready to flee the scene in a hurry—if it came to that—Malcom grabbed the guns he wanted Naomi to train with and called the kids out to the backyard.
First, Malcom gave Naomi the knife. He explained to her how to use it most effectively, and how it could be hidden just about anywhere on her body. He wrenched his head to the side when Naomi lifted her shirt to clip the sheath between the cups of her bra. Once the awkward moment passed, Malcom moved on to the “boring” yet most important part of guns: safety. To his surprise, Naomi was engaged throughout the session, asking questions and verifying statements along the way. Once he covered the basics, he walked her through the process of loading the LC9’s magazine, and then how to load the magazine into the gun itself. He went through the different jams that could occur and how to go about clearing them. He used an empty shell case from an ammo box to simulate a fail to eject, allowing Naomi to clear it herself before making the weapon hot again. He then went through the same steps with the Cx-4, which was also a learning experience for him since he’d never used the gun before.
With Naomi feeling comfortable with how to charge the guns, Malcom walked her through the basics of aiming. It would have been a lot easier if the carbine had some sort of reflex sight mounted to it, but at the end of the day, it was better for her to learn how to use iron sights first before moving to optics. That way, no matter what situation she found herself in, Naomi would be a competent shooter.
Malcom had Naomi go through the process of loading and reloading magazines several times before she did multiple dry-fire drills. He taught her some of the tactics that had kept him alive since the beginning of the outbreak, as well as a few military moves he picked up from veterans on YouTube. Malcom was far from being a tactical expert, and he wasn’t one of those guys who went to weekend run-and-gun courses, but some of the tips he’d learned from those videos had saved his ass more than a few times over the last two and a half months. So, he passed the information on to her.
He went through as much information as he could before allowing the weapons to go hot. If their range time was cut short by a group of infected, at least Naomi had enough knowledge to work the guns in a pinch. She was a good student. She listened intently and heeded his advice every step of the way. But, despite her enthusiasm to learn how guns worked, she was apprehensive to see—and feel—how they worked.
Malcom set up various targets about fifteen feet away, including a five-gallon bucket that was filled with rain water. Since he still considered their ammo situation to be within the “dire” range, he gave her thirteen rounds to use in the Cx-4 and a full magazine for the LC9, totaling twenty rounds.
“Here,” Malcom said, handing Naomi two 9mm bullets, “put these in your ears.”
She gave him an incredulous look. “What?”
“Like this,” Malcom said as he placed the rear of the shell into his ear, “Hillbilly earplugs,” he laughed.
Naomi grimaced as she stuffed the brass into her little ears but was surprised with how effective they were.
“It’s better than having your ears ring for days,” Malcom said. “Trust me on that one.”
“What?” Naomi said loudly.
“Never mind,” Malcom replied, raising his voice as well. After handing Naomi the Cx-4, Malcom gestured to the magazine on a lawn chair next to him. “Let’s see what you’ve got,” he said before turning around to look at TJ sitting on the porch stoop. “Cover your ears, little man,” Malcom said, placing his hands up against his own ears.
TJ snapped his hands to his ears and pressed down tightly as he both anxiously and excitedly waited for the fireworks.
Naomi raised the carbine and took aim. She psyched herself up for several long seconds before she was finally able to hook her finger around the trigger. She took a deep breath in and peered through the sights, finding the five-gallon bucket on the other side. She slowly exhaled and squeezed the trigger.
Nothing.
She squeezed harder. The carbine began to shake from her efforts. Still nothing.
Frustrated, Naomi lowered the gun slightly and looked over at Malcom, who was already stepping toward her. He grinned silently as he tapped the charging handle on the side of the receiver.
“Oh, yeah,” Naomi said, embarrassed, as she yanked back on the charging handle, chambering the first bullet.
Malcom was hoping she’d forget now, so that she wouldn’t forget later when it really counted.
Naomi went through the same process as before, leveling her sights on the bucket. She exhaled slowly, just as Malcom taught her, and squeezed the trigger. This time, the carbine bucked into her shoulder, rocking her small body back. A geyser of water shot straight up out of the bucket, flying six or seven feet in the air before mostly landing back inside, only to spill out from the entry and exit holes.
She looked over
at Malcom, the corners of her lips curled into a full smile.
“Nice shot,” he said approvingly.
Chapter Thirty-One
31 – Near Village Creek State Park, Arkansas – June 14th
West Memphis had been a disaster.
After spending hours tediously weaving around stalled semis, gently pushing cars off the road, and slogging through the mud wherever possible, Malcom was at the breaking point. And a close call with a pack of infected sealed the deal. The decision to travel on a major highway was a stupid one, at best, and he chided himself for not having the foresight to stick to the back roads as they’d done since leaving Tennessee. The notion that the highway would be clear enough to pass was foolishly optimistic. So, after burning through a third of a tank of gas and six hours of daylight with only twenty miles to show for it, Malcom veered off the highway and headed north again, stopping at a small Baptist church in the middle of nowhere for the night.
With a new path to El Paso charted—a path that stuck to back roads and country highways as much as possible—Malcom braced himself for the long drive ahead of him. Though the trip would take much longer to accomplish, he was confident that it would ultimately be faster—and safer—than trudging their way along I-40. And I-30. And any other major highway leading to west Texas.
“So, what’s your favorite movie?” Naomi asked from the passenger’s seat, looking to find a way to pass the time.
Malcom let out a grunt as he pondered the question. He hadn’t thought about such trivial things in a very long time. “Hmmm, I guess if I had to choose just one, I’d probably say Dunkirk.”