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Bukowski blew on his hands, flexing his fingers against the damp December chill. Pulling guard duty in the cold sucked just as much as guard duty in the heat, maybe more. No, this sucks to an infinite degree more. At least in Afghanistan there was the promise of a flight back to The World, back home. Sure, the flight might be a Medivac, or worse, but at least there was the promise, weak as it was. There was no getting out of this shit; no R and R, no rotation, just an endless hell.
He shifted in the camp chair, reaching for the rifle leaning next to it. The old bolt-action 30-06 was heavy in his hand. A black telescopic sight was mounted above the barrel. Perched on the deck of the driving range, he had a wide view along the flats of Interbay. Directly below him was the damp pavement of the empty clubhouse parking lot. Looking over the putt-putt course, he could see the greens and sand traps of the crappy par-three golf course. Empty, everything was empty. Of course it’s empty, Ed, almost everyone is dead; dead and gone. The only living souls are The Tribe, all snug and warm in the clubhouse. Besides, it’s a miserable, wet-ass day. Even those bastards from the Boat will be laying low. Nothing is going to happen out here, not today. Nothing to see but gulls and crows. Still, better to keep the old eyes open. You never know. He leaned back and resumed his vigil.
The clubhouse had been a good choice for a hideout. A tall security fence ran along the entire west side, separating the golf course from the Burlington Northern rail yard. There was an open view to the South, all the way to the end of the course. The north end was boxed in by the soaring fences of the driving range, and the wide expanse of 15th Avenue made up the east side. All things considered, it was a pretty sweet setup for The Tribe. It was just bad luck that the Boat Boys decided to settle in on the south end of Interbay, those sons of bitches. Still, all things considered, they were making a go of it.
Ed Bukowski checked his watch, a habit acquired during many shifts on guard duty. Two hours to go. I might as well make the most of it. He fished a cigar out of a jacket pocket, eying it ruefully. Shit, I wouldn’t give this dog-walker a second thought back in the day, but the humidor is lean. Yeah, and going to get a lot leaner as time goes on. A trip to the old cigar shop is a risky proposition. A world without cigars just don’t sound right. He slipped the cigar from its cellophane wrapper, clipped the end; let the flame of his lighter dance just shy of the tip. A cloud of smoke rose to the awning roof above his head, disappearing on the damp breeze.
You should quit your bitching, you know that, right? Things could be a lot worse. Hell, they were a lot worse, before you found some other folks, folks that had a better notion than killing everyone they met. That was a shit show, no doubt. First the panic, then the die-off. After that, nothing but maniacs with guns, everybody shooting at everybody, willing to kill for a loaf of bread or a can of gasoline. That first meeting, trusting someone not to shoot, that was hard. But then they were three, learning to work together, finding a safe place to hole up. That was how The Tribe started; a couple of people who decided not to shoot each other. I guess that’s the minimum bid for starting a new society.
Yes, Sir, a shit show for sure, that’s what it was. I thought I’d seen it all, but I wasn’t even close. Two tours, Iran, Afghanistan, nothing compared to this shit. Even in that madness there was some sense of order, but this, that was one long nightmare and no hope of waking up. First the panic, the dying, and then the killing began. Then came that deathly quiet that settled over everything. All the normal, everyday sounds of the city, they were just gone. Goddamn it was quiet, creepy quiet. Still is, but it’s better. Inside that door, there’s people that are working together, trying to build something. Yeah, and you’re on guard duty out here, trying to keep them safe. You’d best keep your eyes open; pay attention. He kept his eyes on the open ground in front of him, scanning the ground for movement, smoking, thinking. Nothing moved.
Relax, even the Boat Boys are laying low today. Besides, they won’t come this far north. Damn shame that things turned out the way they did, and all over it a stupid misunderstanding. One of them took a shot at us, or one of our guys at them, no one really clear on the story. A simple dispute about scavenger rights at the Whole Foods. A few misguided pot-shots over who got the next bottle of booze. The shelves would be empty soon enough anyway. Maybe there was some way to patch things up, but he doubted it. The Boat Boys were pretty quick on the trigger. It was an ugly truce, at best. So now the Tribe went north, raiding the stocks at Fisherman’s Terminal. Lots of booze stashed on those fishing boats. The Boat Boys could have Whole Paycheck, and good riddance.
The clouds pressed down until the air seemed liquid. The top of Magnolia hill was shrouded in mist. The smoke from his cigar drifted into the damp air, disappeared. His eyes ran the length of 15th Avenue, past the scattered hulks of abandoned cars. A dead city bus angled across two of the northbound lanes, but there was no one left to care, no honking horns, nothing but the eerie silence. He was looking to the East, across the U-Haul lot, when he saw him.
Snatching up the rifle, he laid the barrel across the railing in front of his chair. He panned the circle of the telescopic scope across the rows of rental trucks. Where are you, you bastard? I know I saw you. There, crouched down behind a box van, he saw the figure of a man. Ed Bukowski settled himself, controlling his breathing as he laid the cross-hairs across the man’s chest. His finger lay poised along the trigger guard. Magnified by the powerful scope, he had a clear view of the crouching figure. What he saw made his trigger finger relax.
Well, will you look at this sorry sonofabitch. Hell, he ain’t worth the price of a bullet; just a damn kid. And look at that shotgun he’s packing. That thing’s as long as he is tall. What did he find, his grandpa’s goose gun? Ain’t he a sorry sight? What the hell am I going to do with you, Boy? Ed raised his eye from the rifle scope, thinking it over.
Well, you can shoot him, let him go, or go down and get him; your choice. He damn sure isn’t one of the Boat Boys, poor bedraggled sod. But it’s no good letting him wander around the neighborhood. He’ll just get himself into trouble, or run into the Boat Boys, or get caught and eaten by one of the stalkers. Shit, I guess I’ll have to get him. Damn that kid, interrupting my smoke. Okay, Son, you stay put until I get down there. Don’t be wasting my time.
He rose from the camp chair, the rifle in one hand, cigar in the other. A few quick steps brought him to a door that led to the interior of the clubhouse. Four men sat around a table, a card game spread in front of them. The sound of the door opening interrupted the game.
“Hey Ed, what’s up?”
“I got a live one out there, over in the U-Haul lot. One of you needs to go with me.”
“Well, hell, we’re in the middle of a game here.”
“Yeah, and I’m in the middle of a cigar, so what? C’mon Jake, grab something and meet me out front.”
The man named Jake dropped his cards to the table.
“Shit, and it was my crib. Is it one of those fucking Boat Boys? We might all of us need to go.”
“No, it’s just some scared looking kid, all on his own. I don’t know where the hell he came from, but we can’t just leave him down there. Two of us will be plenty.”
“Alright, I’ll grab some gear. Shotgun or rifle, ya think?”
“Make it a shotgun. I’ve got the aught-six.”
“Okay, two minutes.”
Ed pulled the door closed and returned to his guard station. He raised the rifle and peered into the scope. The kid was still there, pressed so tight to the box van that he was almost under the thing. Sighing, Ed lowered the rifle and hurried to a set of exterior stairs.
* * *
ED BUKOWSKI MOVED UP the line of rental vans, his feet scrunching in the gravel of the parking lot. He held the butt of the rifle to his shoulder, barrel angled down. Dammit, I should have just shot the little bugger. Okay, let’s get this over with. His voice rang out across the quiet lot.
“Hey Kid, you hear me?”
There was no answer. He looked behind the vans, saw Jake moving on the other side. Ed raised a hand to Jake, motioning him forward. The man nodded. A shotgun held at the ready, Jake disappeared behind the row of vehicles.
“Listen Kid, we know you’re in there, okay? We just want to talk to you, that’s all. Don’t do anything stupid with that goose gun, you hear me?”
There was the faintest sound of feet crunching against gravel, then nothing. Ed edged toward the kid’s hiding place, keeping the front of the van between them.
“Hey Kid, listen, it’s cold out here. I don’t feel much like playing hide-and-seek. And I damn sure don’t want to shoot you. What do you say we just have ourselves a conversation, civilized like, no shooting?”
Ed saw Jake slide into view, creeping into position behind the van. He looked back to Ed, nodded, then raised the shotgun to his shoulder.
“Dammit, Son, there’s a guy behind you with a shotgun, and I’ve got a rifle on you. Let’s just stop this foolishness and talk a bit, how’s that? Otherwise, we just shoot you and go back where it’s warm.”
A disheveled figure rose from the side of the van. His face was smeared with dirt. A filthy watch cap was pulled low on his head. A long, double-barreled shotgun dangled from one of his grimy hands. Ed took in the sorry sight, easing the rifle down a bit.
“Why don’t you set that goose gun up there on the hood of that van? Damn thing must weigh a ton.”
The young man shrugged. The shotgun made a hollow thump against the sheet metal of the hood.
“Don’t even know if the damn thing works.”
The boy’s voice sounded thick in his throat.
“What’s that?”
“I said I don’t even know if the damn thing works. I’ve been lugging that heavy bastard around for weeks.”
“Is it loaded?”
“Yeah, but it’s old, the damn shells are old, probably wet, too. I never even shot the thing. Just been hiding.”
“I see. What’s your name, Son?”
“I’m Bobby.”
The young man reached up to wipe at his nose. He looked down at the ground, then raised his eyes to face the man with the rifle.
“It’s good to meet you, Bobby. I’m Ed, and the fella standing behind you is Jake.”
The pale figure half-turned, raised a hand towards the man behind him, then dropped his hand to his side.
Ed shook his head, then slung the rifle over his shoulder. Jesus Wept, the poor kid is scared to death. How the hell did he manage to survive at all. Then he heard Jake’s voice.
“Hey Bobby, you like hot chocolate?”
The young man blinked his eyes, looking confused. He turned towards the voice.
“Ummm... yeah, I like hot chocolate. I haven’t had anything hot in a long time.”
“Yeah, I sort of figured that. Tell you what, why don’t we head on over across to the clubhouse? It’s warm over there, and we can make you a cuppa chocolate, warm you up a bit. You look half-froze.”
“You guys aren’t going to shoot me?”
“Hadn’t planned on it. Is it okay if I walk over there? I’m getting sorta chilled myself.”
Ed saw the boy nod, saw Jake walking towards him. Jake’s hand came out, hovering in front of the boy. The boy stared at it for a long second, then he reached out to shake Jake’s hand.
“Pleased to meet you, Bobby.”
Jake steered the young man forward, grabbing up the goose gun as he passed the van. The boy shuffled along, Jake’s hand resting on his shoulder, guiding him. Bobby stopped in front of Ed, eyes on the ground. Ed saw that he was shivering.
“Damn, son, you’re shaking like a dog shitting peach pits. Let’s get you inside. C’mon now, it’s just across the road there.”
The two men walked on either side of the boy called Bobby, guiding him across the empty parking lot. Jake turned to the boy, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
“Hey Bobby, let me ask you a question. Do you play cribbage?”
The boy looked into the older man’s face, not comprehending. He shook his head no.
“You want to learn?”