Chapter 81

A New World: Chaos By John O’Brien

A Trip to the Store

Pulling into the driveway, I turn off the engine and we climb out of the Jeep. Carrying the shotgun, Robert gingerly steps across the gravel and walks toward my little cottage. Nic and Bri are right behind. Normally, my little Bri would be making some noise about walking on the gravel barefoot, but not a word comes out.

“No, we are going into Mom’s house,” I tell Robert, and he switches direction in mid-stride.

The front door opens and Mom steps onto the porch. “Thank goodness you’re alright,” she sighs and comes forward to give them all hugs. We walk into the house, a little darker now than when I left, but the window shades are open giving a little light.

“I see the power has gone out,” I mention as I walk through the kitchen that opens from the entryway.

“It happened right after you left,” Mom responds.

The kitchen opens into a sitting room with a glass door that lets in a lot of light and leads to a small deck outside. Her computer desk sits against a half wall to the left, and ceiling-high bookcases fill the right wall. To the left, the living room is illuminated by two windows set into the right wall. A wood stove sits in an alcove between the windows and a large, Persian-style rug adorns the floor.

“Set the shotgun there,” I tell Robert pointing to the corner of the desk. “I’ll be right back.”

I head out to my cottage sitting in a small copse of cedar and firs to get some clothes for the kids. A single room with my bed, two couches, a large screen TV for movies and the Xbox, a small kitchen, two closets, and a small bathroom with a shower. It’s small, but it suits me and I like it.

Birds chirping in the trees fill the air, but I pay little attention to them as my mind goes through various aspects of my upcoming adventure. Items I will need to take; food, water, warm clothes, weapons, and first aid. The absence of weather reports, maps I will need, going on the assumption of no navigational aids, my route, the hope that GPS still works, what I will face, contact, fuel stops, oh, and yeah, the little fact that I will have to learn to fly a different aircraft. Hopefully I’ll be able to find a checklist and manuals on board.

I gather what I need for the kids. I look at the boots I bought for Robert for our hiking trips up the creek to the falls. We can still do that, I guess, I think briefly while piling their stuff in my arms. Or maybe not. I have no idea what the future may hold or what the world looks like. Outside, the early afternoon sun greets me as if nothing has changed.

Coming back into Mom’s house, I hand the clothing to Robert, Nicole, and Brianna. Bri takes hers and disappears into the bathroom, Nic into one of the bedrooms.

“Thanks,” Robert says and leans forward, stretching thick, white socks over his feet and then puts on his boots.

Mom has cases of bottled water. We live in the country and loss of power is no stranger so she stockpiles it. I pull several bottles out, hand them out, and plop into the other chair beside Robert. Nic and Bri come out and sit next to Mom on the couch.

Silence fills the room as we are all wrapped in our own thoughts. I have a vague idea of my route, plan, and items I need. My quandary is about the kids. Half of me wants to bring them – have them in sight and therefore safe – not wanting to leave them. The other half says to leave them here and not bring them into an unknown and potentially dangerous situation. Not only the danger of what awaits out in the world, but of the unknown aspects of my now-planned flight. Fuel, engine malfunctions, my not being familiar with the type of aircraft I plan to take, weather, all of these things and more I am sure I haven’t thought of.

My basic plan runs along these lines. I will need an aircraft capable of long-range flight, meaning some form of transport aircraft. My preference is military as that is the type I am used to. It has the radio equipment I will likely need when I get there, is a little more reliably maintained, and has cargo capacity in case I want or need it. Plus, being geared for combat scenarios, they are a more structurally sound and have better short- and soft-field takeoff and landing capabilities. The only drawback is their need for JP-4 fuel, which requires a need for military fields for refueling. Normal civilian, turbine-powered aircraft can use Jet-A fuel that can be found at any airfield.

I think about using a long-range business jet. They have a longer range than military transports, are faster, and have a higher ceiling, meaning I can climb over weather should the need arise. Why am I not taking one? I ask myself before the unknown elements come back into mind. I may not have the luxury of a long runway and may have to set down in some unimproved area. Much better to have the flexibility and capabilities that military transports afford.

Back to the basic plan. McChord AFB is primarily a transport base flying C-17s. I am not exactly sure of the range, but I believe it to be around three thousand nautical miles. That should be sufficient for what I need. Head over to the East Coast and land at a military base to refuel. From there to the Azores for another refueling stop. I may not be able to make the jump from there all of the way to the desert as that would be pushing the range. Possibly a stop in Italy. That will depend on the range from the charts I hope to find. I’ll make calls on guard – the emergency frequency – along the way to see if anyone is still about and then call around a hundred miles out from Kuwait.

No, this was not all thought out in the scant moments of the drive back to the house, nor during the walk from my place back to mom’s. In our scenario talks, Lynn and I covered a lot of these aspects about linking up. I would be calling on guard and our positions relayed. She mentioned she needed to find a radio specialist to have along. One assumption was that she would not be in a base but on the move. I told her I needed some firm ground to land but not a lot of it. We covered wingtip clearances and the need for level ground clear of obstructions, thus, my desire for the military transport capabilities.

There are several assumptions I have to work with and, without them being true, they could throw a serious flaw in my planning. The first is that the military is neither a viable force any longer, nor hunkered down in their bases. They are not just going to let me cruise on in and borrow one of their aircraft. I am pretty sure they would frown mightily over that. One other is, whatever transformations these things have gone through, that they do not like the light. This was somewhat and only vaguely verified when I was getting the kids. I am pretty sure that whatever was in there would have had no qualms about coming down and introducing itself if it were not for the light. If this is indeed true, then that will give me time and space to refuel, although I will have to plan the legs of the flight in order to land and refuel in the daylight. I won’t be able to fly all of the way over in one day or in one continuous series, we will have to rest some. I mean, it is almost an eight thousand mile flight. That is close to sixteen hours of flying assuming an airspeed of five hundred knots. So, I figure two days of flying to get there. During our discussions, we mentioned three or four days so she would have to hold out for at least that long.

“I got a text from Michelle,” Robert says, breaking the silence.

“What?” I ask, my mind coming back to the present, and look over at Robert. “When?”

“This morning before you arrived,” he responds, leaning forward with his head down. All eyes focus on him.

“Where is she?” I ask.

“I don’t know.”

“Didn’t you ask her?”

“I didn’t text her back.”

Confused, I ask him why not. He raises his head and looks over at me. “Because my phone makes noise when I press the buttons regardless of what my phone is set on.”

Michelle and Robert have only recently become an item; his first real girlfriend. He has had several dates before, but nothing like this, and I can tell he is truly worried about her.

“Well, what about trying now?”

He pulls out his phone. There are several moments of alternating between texting and reading. Apparently, she is either still around or he is texting himself.

“Well?” I inquire. “This day and time is already suspenseful and tense enough without you adding to it. Is she okay? Where is she?”

“She’s at home,” he replies.

“Where exactly is home?” I ask, thinking about the next twenty-three questions I want to ask and things I want to know.

“Olympia. By Capital High School. Over by where you used to live,” he answers.

“Is anyone else there with her? Her parents? Where are they?” I ask, bringing the number of questions on my mind down to twenty-two. Yes, that was only one question.

“I don’t know,” he replies, turning his attention back to his cell, fingers speedily working their way across the buttons.

“Robert,” I say to get his attention. Yeah, that didn’t work. His mind is focused on the next letters in his text. “Robert!” I say a little louder. He looks over at me in mid-text. “Ask her if she can talk and just call her.”

His fingers start hammering out again on the keys. I look over to the couch. Bri is resting her head against my mom’s shoulder with mom’s arm around her. Nicole is sitting with her hands in her lap watching Robert. Robert rises and walks over to the kitchen area punching buttons and bringing his phone to his ear. Some things must just be genetically coded. He likes privacy when talking on the phone just like me. It doesn’t matter who it happens to be, both he and I will walk away to be alone to talk on the phone. Not really sure why, it just is.

As he looks out of the back window, I see his lips moving as he starts speaking. I can’t hear anything, but that is not uncommon. My hearing has declined from years of jet engine noise in the Air Force. We wore earplugs while in the jet, but not on the ramp, and at any one time there were many aircraft with their engines either starting up or already running. The cumulative effect has been an overall hearing loss. Others refer to it as selective hearing but I beg to differ.

I walk over to Robert and stop a few feet behind. “What is she saying?” I ask, trying to get my number of questions down into at least the single digits.

“She’s alone in the house,” he replies, covering the microphone.

“Where are her parents?” I ask.

“She doesn’t know,” he answers.

“Okay. Tell her we’ll be there within the hour to pick her up,” I say.

Relief flashed through his eyes, and he relays this to her. I can tell he is about to end the conversation and ready to hang up. “Wait,” I say.

“Tell her to gather up some changes of clothes, some warm stuff like coats and sweatshirts, shoes, a sleeping bag if she has one, and whatever toiletries she thinks she needs. Oh, and tell her we’ll call just prior to getting there.”

He relays everything before closing the cell phone and heads toward the back door thinking we are leaving right away to get Michelle.

“Wait one,” I say. “I want to talk about something first.” A quick look of annoyance and frustration crosses his face as he turns to look at me. Another genetic aspect I guess.

Robert walks back and sits down, leaning over with his elbows on his knees. I sit beside him in a similar fashion. I look over at Nic, Bri, and mom, water bottle in my hand, and tell them, “I’m going to get Lynn. Or at least try.”

Through my peripheral, I see Robert raise an eyebrow and look sideways at me. “I’m going with,” he says like there is no other possibility. “Isn’t she in Kuwait though?”

“Yeah, she is. We’ll have to fly over.”

“Dad,” Bri says, the first sounds uttered by her since asking about her mom, “you can’t go without me.”

“Or me,” Nic chimes in.

I realize they don’t know where their mom is, where the rest of their family is – with the exception of my mom – or their friends. I am the only one left for them. I realize and understand that my kids are coming with me.

“Mom?” I ask with the rest of the question left unsaid.

“I think I’m staying here,” she responds, understanding the unasked question and not attempting to talk me out of my decision nor the reason that the kids should stay as well. She fully understands this is something I have to do and that I want my kids with me.

“I can’t very well leave you here alone,” I say.

“I am not without my own resources and abilities,” she responds.

“Okay, we’re leaving in the morning and may be gone for up to ten days. I’m not sure if we’ll be able to maintain contact. Robert, let’s go get Michelle.”

Robert rises and heads toward the door. I start to follow him but turn quickly back to mom and the girls on the couch, “You should probably grab blankets and nails while we’re gone. We should think about covering up the windows at the very least. Maybe bring those pallets up from the shed so we can put some form of barricade up on the windows.”

“You two go. We’ll dig some things up around here,” Mom says, giving both Nic and Bri reassuring hugs.

Robert picks up the shotgun and continues toward the door. I pick up the Beretta and follow him.

Outside, on a day where we would normally be gearing up for a hike along the river or on our mountain bikes tearing up and exploring some new trail, I instead tell Robert to put the shotgun in the Jeep and then meet me. He looks at me askance, but heads off to do it anyway. I walk around to the side of the front porch – really just a small deck – and cut off three sections of garden hose approximately five feet long. Robert is back by the time I finish.

“Go down to the lower shed. There should be two or three metal gas cans in there, the tall ones. Bring those back up here. Oh, and that big, long-necked funnel on the shelf,” I tell him.

As he heads to the shed, I walk over to my place. I grab two TAC-II Gerber knives. These are six-and-a-half-inch double-edged knives with serrations. Robert lugs the two metal five-gallon gas cans and funnel up the path and we meet by the hoses.

“Are they empty?” I ask, handing him one of the knives.

He lifts first one can and then the other, shaking them. I hear liquid sloshing around in both. Picking one up, I walk toward the road as Robert picks up the other and follows. Whatever is in there may be old or have condensation, so I do not trust the contents. Unscrewing the cap, I dump mine on the gravel road. Robert does the same. I do not feel overly guilty, I have the feeling mankind’s carbon footprint is now going to be drastically reduced.

Securing the equipment in the back of the Jeep, we start up and head down the road. “Don’t worry,” I tell him once we get up to speed, “we’ll get her and she’ll be just fine.”

“I know,” he says.

He reaches over and starts going through the radio stations. Good idea, I think. After going through all of the stations twice, he leans back in his seat. Nothing.

“Try the AM,” I suggest. Again, there is nothing but static.

We make it to the highway with both of us looking out of the windows drifting in our own thoughts. I still have not seen a single living person other than us. Nothing moving but wildlife – I notice I have now put the dog I saw earlier into this category. The roads are still empty, and the only thing moving is the sun as it wends its way westward toward the hills. The hills are bald in many places due to the logging in the area. Well, that’s a bonus, I think, at least we’ll have the trees back. Not that I will likely live long enough to see it fully forested again, but the thought is reassuring nonetheless.

A gas station sits to our left at the corner of our road and the highway with only a white, newer model pickup parked in the lot. Newer model means locking gas caps but I pull into the gas station hoping the keys are nearby. Well, hoping the keys are there and not attached to some transformed, crazed owner. We park about ten yards from the pickup and don’t see anything inside. I look at the gas station front and see nothing there except dark windows staring back.

“Okay, let’s get out, but keep your eyes peeled,” I say as Robert reaches for the door handle. “Is that thing safetied?” I nod toward the shotgun. He looks at the button on the trigger guard and nods.

We meet in front of the Jeep. “I’m going to go check the truck. You stay here, keep an eye out and keep me covered. Get my attention if you see anything moving and be ready to get back into the Jeep quickly,” I tell him taking my gun out of the holster.

“Don’t you want me to come with you and cover you?” Robert asks.

“No, just stay here. You have my back,” I answer.

“Okay, Dad.”

I slide the safety off and check for a round in the chamber as I cautiously approach the truck angling to the cab from the rear. I can’t see anyone inside, but I don’t want to be surprised by a door suddenly opening and slamming into me. Ten feet from the driver’s door, I glance to check the store and the drive-up coffee stand in the corner of the lot. This county probably has more of these drive-up coffee stands per capita than anywhere else in the world. Reaching the door, I stand next to it but away from its range of motion. Rising, I peek in the window.

What I see sends a small adrenaline shot through my body. Inside, a man is slumped sideways on the front seat with his legs resting on the driver’s side floorboard. One eye stares blankly at the dash in front and there is a wet mass of something on the seat and floorboard in front of his head. I know what this is from the years I spent as a firefighter/EMT following the military. The adrenaline junkie part of me had not left by then. The years in the military and as an EMT taught me that death is never pretty.

“Do you see anything?” I call to Robert.

“No,” he calls back.

It is a king cab, extra cab, extended cab, or whatever they are calling it nowadays. I look in the back seat. Nothing. Well, at least, nobody is there. A Styrofoam coffee cup is on its side and an empty candy bar wrapper lies on the seat but that’s all I see. I notice a patch of leather dangling from the steering column.

“No way!” I breathe quietly. I step back and pull the door open. The stench pours out of the door like a physical presence. It is overpowering and I swear the light of the day grows dim.

“Whoa, Nelly!” I say waving a hand in front of my face and hold my breath as I stumble backwards a step or two.

He hasn’t had enough time to decompose much. The smell is a lovely combination of feces, vomit, and who knows what else. Regaining some composure, I make a mental note to self: Have Vicks handy. That was one thing I disliked when in the fire department or riding along with the ambulance was the call of someone who had died in their sleep or, quite commonly, on the toilet. I didn’t mind death or bodies. I worked many gruesome and messy scenes without being affected; I’d witnessed and been a part of countless others in the military, but it was the smell of bowels letting go that bothered me the most. Vicks under the nose helps some with the smell.

Holding my breath, I walk back and pull the keys out of the ignition. I think of pulling the guy out or at least rolling down the window. That way, if I need to use the truck, it won’t smell so bad. But if I need a pickup down the road, there are plenty available so I just close the door. The sound of the door shutting is unnaturally loud in the stillness. There is a gas key on the key ring and I open the fuel tank. I grab the siphoning gear telling Robert to grab one of the cans and follow.

“Do you know how to siphon?” I ask.

“Not really,” he answers.

“Okay, watch,” I tell him, putting the hose into the fuel inlet hole. “Slide the hose in all of the way but don’t force it once you meet resistance. You want it close to or at the bottom of the tank.”

I slide the hose in until it comes to a stop. “Now notice how I put the hose in so the arc of the hose is arched up. That’s for two reasons. If it was arced the other way, the hose would merely slide along the bottom with the top of the hose then possibly rising above the fuel level,” I say, looking up at him.

“And the second,” he asks.

“Kneel down here with me.” I point to the tank. “Now listen.” I move the hose up and down slightly. “Do you hear the noise of the hose sliding against the inside of the tank?” He nods. “That lets you know you are actually in the tank. Some later models have anti-siphon screens on the inlet tube to prevent you from putting a hose into the actual tank. If you arc the hose the other way, it will be harder to tell or hear the hose in the tank.”

“Now, here comes the fun part.” A friend many, many years ago would cup his hands around the inlet and blow into the hose forcing an overpressure inside the tank. Once he took his mouth away from the hose, the added pressure would start the gas flowing in the hose. I, for whatever reason, could never make this work. Not that I ran around siphoning gas.

Glancing around to make sure we are still alone, I put my hand on the hose just past the highest part on my side. “Here, put your hand on the hose next to mine. You want to feel for a decrease in temp as the gas flows by your hand. The idea is to drink as little gas as possible. The ideal being zero. Once you feel the gas pass by your hand, quickly put the end of the hose into the can and let gravity do its thing.”

Opening the gas can, I create suction on the hose, feel the gas pass by my hand, and quickly jam the hose into the gas can. I hear the gas pouring, and, yay, no drinking of the gas. Ideal conditions achieved. Filling both gas cans, we carry them to the Jeep. I hold the funnel while Robert pours the gas into the Jeep. Whatever ideal conditions were achieved during the siphoning process is quickly lost putting the gas in.

“Try putting some in the Jeep,” I say after like the fourth time my hand becomes soaked.

“I’m trying,” he says.

“Well try harder. Maybe we aren’t going about this the right way. Try not getting a bit of it in the funnel. Maybe that’ll work better,” I say.

He gives me a big grin, the first in a while. We have always joked around like this and a sense of normalcy settles in on us with a warm glow. Our relationship has always been close, I mean very tight, and we both get a sense that perhaps things will be fine as long as we have this between us.

He gives as good as he takes. I remember when we were playing a co-op game on our 360. We were in the middle of a battle against the aliens on Halo 3. Greatly outnumbered but holding our own, he comments, “You’re a really good shot.” I was ready to thank him when he continues on, “I mean every single shot you fired hit me.” Yes, my gamer tag in Halo should have been ‘friendly fire.’

We manage to get some of the fuel in the Jeep, secure the cans, and put everything back inside. I make a mental note to secure a larger funnel and put the keys inside the fuel door. That way we can use the truck again or someone who needs it will be able to. Robert has retrieved the shotgun from the front seat of the Jeep and is keeping an eye on the area. Good, I didn’t even have to tell him.

“Okay, are you ready?” I ask.

“Yep,” he answers and climbs in.

The fuel gauge reads a little over three-quarters of a tank. Good deal. That should be good enough for today, tomorrow, and to get back. I pull out of the gas station and to the highway, look left, right, and left again – yes, old habits, only, they aren’t really that old – before turning southbound toward Olympia.

I drive by a casino about a mile down the road. I think it may make a safe place but then realize there are far too many entryways and it would be difficult to secure. I mentally strike it off my list of secure places in the event we need one.

“What kind of plane are we taking?” Robert asks as the casino slides past.

I fully expected him to be concentrating on picking up Michelle, but he is already ahead of that now that we were on the way. He always surprises me with his thinking abilities and inner-toughness. It’s that same fortitude I noticed when he hadn’t texted Michelle back that night. That would have been rough and must have gnawed at him. He is also one to keep his head about him.

“I’m thinking about a C-17 from McChord if there isn’t anyone there,” I answer.

“Do you know how to fly one?” he asks.

“Um…sure,” I reply with a shrug.

“Why not a C-130 like you used to fly?” he asks.

“Too slow. Besides, they don’t have any remaining there that I know of. They traded those out some time ago. I think the ranges are about the same in any case,” I answer.

“Wouldn’t you want one you were more comfortable with though?” Robert asks, knowing you can’t just arbitrarily fly any aircraft you choose just because you know how to fly.

He was close to getting his Private Pilot’s license and would have completed it this summer. His grand master plan was to head off to the Air Force Academy and go fly fighters. He was fully capable of doing just that.

“Well, yes, but it’ll take us twice as long and, like I said, there aren’t any there anyway. It’s going to be a bitch enough with all of the refueling stops along the way, I don’t want to poke around at it, too,” I say looking at him.

“I’m not saying there won’t be a steep learning curve,” I add after seeing a guarded look cross his face. “And, I will need you to be my co-pilot.”

I see flash of fire and excitement course through his eyes…to the extent that I am thankful there isn’t anything flammable in the immediate vicinity. Oh wait, there is the gas on my hand, although evaporated, I think as I mentally tuck my hand under me.

“Okay, grab that note pad,” I say, nodding toward the tablet sitting in the glove box. “We need to make a list of what to bring with us tomorrow.”

He grabbed the paper and prepared to write. We think of items and potentialities as we drive to Olympia. When we finish, this is what we have:

Water – from gas station – one bottle per person per day – forty minimum

Food - canned (from gas station)

Bread – if it is still good

Jam and peanut butter

Plastic silverware

Can opener

Flight suits - I have about ten of them with rank and patches

Flight jackets - I have one summer and one winter jacket

Sleeping bags – four

Clothes:

Changes

Gloves

Warm coats

Sweatshirts

Toiletries:

Toothbrush

Toothpaste

Flashlights

Batteries – D and AA

Battery operated cell phone charger – in Jeep

Toilet paper – five rolls

First aid – in aircraft

Sunglasses

Toolbox

Towels and washcloths – four

Rope – one hundred feet - in shed

Charts, maps, approach plates – worldwide – base ops or wing scheduling desk

Knee boards – in briefcase

Flight computer – in briefcase

Paper tablet – writing on one

Felt pens – red, black, and blue

Binoculars

Weapons – shotgun, Beretta, knives, ammo

I pull off the exit ramp as we finish our list. This list is going to put a serious dent in the available space in the Jeep, especially with five people. I am assuming Michelle is going with us. I think about using the truck at the gas station, but we may manage with the Jeep. This has been a long day. It feels like a week has passed since getting the kids this morning.

“Okay, tell me where I need to go, Robert,” I say.

“Just go up by Capital. It’s only a couple of blocks away from the school,” he answers, putting the tablet away and pulling out his phone.

After several seconds, he says, “We’re just pulling off the highway and almost there.” He listens, and says okay after getting what I can only assume is a reply before closing his phone.

“She’s waiting outside for us,” he says, turning to me.

I had expected a little traffic or to at least see someone, but we are met with the same severe lack of movement as we drive through the west side of Olympia. There are very few cars on the road—meaning off the road or in parking lots. At the stoplight and about to turn, a Safeway to the right gives the same message, as did the Walmart and Fred Meyer earlier. No one is here. The stoplight ahead blinks red, the only indication that humanity was here not so long ago.

I turn left and a high school baseball field appears to our right. To the left, the new strip mall is vacant. It’s a little warm inside, I think as the sun gleams through my driver side window. On any other day, I would take down the Jeep top for a nice summer day in the sun. Not knowing what to expect, that is just not going to happen today.

“Well?” I ask as the baseball field slides past us.

“Turn right here and then a left in front of the school.” He nods toward the street we are approaching.

A cat wanders out of the trees and dashes across the street, vanishing between two houses as we approach the high school. The normal things you would see as far as animals go, thrown in with the total lack of people, just makes everything all that much more eerie. A painted rock appears on the right by some trees. This is the high school rock the seniors would paint as the school year progressed, constantly changing colors throughout the year. I remember that rock well. Not that I attended here, but I used to live fairly close.

One night, a girlfriend of mine decided, along with her friend, that it would be a good idea to paint the rock. Oh, I might add there was a little alcohol involved with that decision. As was seemingly usual, I was tasked to go along. There was my girlfriend, her friend, several Mike’s Hard Lemonades, a can of spray paint, and me. Every time a car would come by, they would whisper-scream ‘a car’ and scramble back into trees and bushes. I would just stand there and watch them do their ninja impressions. I mean, we were just painting a rock; hardly something that was going to get us anything like solitary confinement or pounding rocks with hammers.

With the addition of more drinks, the whisper-screams became less of a whisper and more of a scream and the scrambles into the trees would get a little farther from the road. Oh, did I mention there was a large, steep hill? Well, it was inevitable. Like an apple hanging from a tree, it was only a matter of time before the apple let go and fell to the ground. It did. One of the many ‘a car’ notifications and subsequent ninja moves was followed by a screech, which was itself followed milliseconds later by a second one. I turned to look as both of their flawless ninja impressions transitioned into that of an avalanche, both literally going head over heels and tumbling down the hill. That was when I learned that laughing heartily until tears streamed down my face at two women who had just scraped a hillside free of shrubbery with multiple parts of their bodies was not conducive to one’s health; note taken.

I turn left in front of the school and see a blond girl sitting by the curb a block and a half away. I have never met Michelle but have seen her a couple of times when dropping Robert off. She is sitting on a military-style duffle bag with a suitcase beside her. We pull up next to the curb. She brushes off her jeans and picks up her duffle. Robert jumps out as soon as we stop and walks to her while I scan the neighborhood.

It’s just your normal middle-class neighborhood; houses built close together, small front yards, concrete driveways leading up to double-car garages. Not that there is anything wrong with that, just that the contractors building these neighborhoods only build three or four different varieties and use paint colors to provide the diversity. The road ends a half block up in a “T” intersection with houses at the end and across the intersection continuing to the right and left. All of the windows stare back emptily. Some of them have the drapes pulled across the windows with others drawn back revealing only darkness behind.

I continue watching the neighborhood, looking for any movement as Robert gives Michelle a quick hug and puts her gear in the back seat. My thoughts once again turn to how much room we have versus how much we are going to need. The truck—or any truck—is sounding like a better idea for packing our gear and driving up to McChord tomorrow. I think about finding and raiding an armory at either McChord or Fort Lewis, but feel that time is of the essence and there isn’t any to spare playing hide-and-seek with an armory.

“Hi, Michelle, I’m Jack,” I say, stepping out and joining them. We shake hands and I continue, “Sorry to meet you for the first time under these circumstances, and doubly sorry to ask you this, but do you know if your parents have any weapons?”

She looks at me with blue eyes; a shade darker than either Robert’s or Bri’s. Damn, does everyone surviving have blond hair and blue eyes? I think as my thoughts drift to Lynn.

“Yes, my dad had…or has…guns in his closet,” Michelle answers.

“Do you think we could get them?” I ask, feeling a little embarrassed about asking.

“I can run in and get them,” she replies.

“Is there anyone or anything in the house that was with you?”

“Not that I saw or heard, and I’ve been in there since yesterday morning,” she answers, starting toward the front door.

“Robert, go with her,” I say.

Better to put Robert into a controlled scenario knowing that, at some point, he is going to need confidence and experience in various situations, and I am going to have to get past the protective mode. Michelle has been here for some time and is unharmed, so it seems like an ideal situation to start. He has been with me for many years so he knows some things, but well, I don’t know what I would do if I lost him, especially if it was through something I caused or allowed. Same for Nic and Bri. And I hope Lynn is truly okay.

Michelle stops her door-bound trek on the green grass of her lawn waiting for Robert. He trots around to the passenger side to pick up the shotgun and then heads toward Michelle.

“Robert,” I call over to him. An almost disguised sigh escapes him before he turns and approaches.

“There’s probably nothing in there, but it’s going to be fairly dark, so make sure you know where Michelle is at all times, especially if you see movement and are thinking about firing. Your best bet if you do see or sense anything is for the two of you to back out of there. Stay with her, but cover your six and any doors you come across. There’s no need to open any doors that are already shut and check the rooms. The doors opening will be your early warning system. No risks. In and out. You got it!?” I tell him in a low voice so Michelle can’t hear.

I know he wants to look good in front of her, I mean, he’s seventeen, but wanting to look good or act the hero can make one take foolish risks or make mistakes. Sometimes you have to do what you have to do, but this is different.

“Okay,” he says.

This could possibly turn into one of the longest minutes of my life and it’s eating me up. I watch them enter the house leaving the front door open only to immediately see movement in the front window to the right of the now open front door. The drapes are moving. This brings back memories of this morning. Oh, fuck! I should have gone in! I’ve made a huge mistake! I think as I rush toward the front door. I step onto the lawn and, before I realize I am moving, my 9mm materializes in my hand.

The drapes pull to the side. I skid to a stop as I realize I am now looking at Robert standing in the window pulling the curtains to the side. He looks over at me and smiles knowing full well what I was just doing. I hang my head, shaking it slowly, turn, and walk back to the Jeep holstering my gun. Any more adrenaline pumped into my system today and I will either launch free of earth’s gravitational pull or just fall down face first. Back at the Jeep, I turn back to the house in time to see Robert finishing with the other side of the curtains. I need to perhaps give him a little more credit, a quiet voice in my head tells me as I continue to alternate my attention between the neighborhood houses and Michelle’s.

I start to think they are perhaps building a gun from raw materials when Michelle appears in the doorway carrying several objects. She has two handguns, one a revolver, the other a semi-automatic, and several boxes of ammunition. Robert follows behind her with more.

“This is all I could find,” she says, handing the pistols to me.

Both handguns are holstered and have trigger locks on them. I must have frowned looking at them because she sets the boxes of ammo on the front seat and reaches into her front pocket, pulling out keys on circular, wire key ring.

“Looking for these,” she says with a smile. “My dad keeps them in his sock drawer.”

A sense of humor and an apparent good head on her shoulders. My ‘favorable impression’ meter climbs substantially. I remove the handguns from their holsters and set them on the seat with the boxes of ammo. Robert sets two additional boxes on the seat. I pick up the semi-automatic and fit the first key to the lock. Of course, it isn’t the one I need. The second key fits, and a twist later, I remove the trigger guard. It is a nice Colt Commander .45. I remove the magazine and glance at the side to find it’s filled to its capacity. I set the magazine on the seat in front of me. Shadows fill the seat as Michelle and Robert each observe over my shoulders.

I crack the chamber of the .45 to find it empty and work the slide several times. Smooth action. It seems to be well taken care of. Inserting the mag back in, I chamber a round and flick on the safety. I pop the mag back out and press down on the remaining rounds. The spring seems to be in good shape. Inserting the mag, I release the safety and ease the hammer down into its second safety position. I set the gun back on the seat pick up the other handgun. It is a nice Smith & Wesson six shot .38 revolver. I see from the butt end that it is loaded. I take a key to remove the trigger guard.

“Damn,” I mutter, going zero for two on the keys.

Removing the trigger guard on the second try yet again, I flip the cylinder to the side, and dump the ammo in my hand. All rounds look in decent shape. I flick the cylinder back into place and dry fire a couple of times. Yes, I know, you shouldn’t dry fire. Nice, it is double action and is smooth. Replacing the rounds, I set it on the seat.

There are four boxes of ammunition on the seat. One is a full fifty round box of .45 ACP 230 grain ammo and another has eight rounds missing. Okay, I think, not bad. I would have preferred 200 grain, but for close quarters, 230 grain is nice to have, especially if you need to go through walls. Besides, I am quite sure there is plenty of 200 grain lying about for the picking. The same is true for the .38 ammunition boxes with the exception that the used box only has six rounds missing. The .38 ammo is 125 grain and are standard loads so the kick should be substantially less. Our firepower has basically doubled.

“Do you know how to use these or shoot, Michelle?” I ask, setting the last box back on the seat and turn around.

“My dad took me to the range a few times, but I’ve only fired the .38,” she answers.

“Okay, this is yours for now I guess,” I say, handing the .38 to her.

She takes it, looks down to her right and then her left, apparently searching for some place to put it. She shrugs, lifts the back of her red t-shirt, and slides the holster into her waistband. I hand the .45 to Robert. He unfastens his belt, looking a little sheepish, and fastens the gun to it.

“Okay, let’s go,” I say. Robert starts around the Jeep and Michelle stands uncertain.

“Other side is easier,” I add, anticipating that she isn’t sure which side to get in on.

Robert puts the shotgun in the back, walks to the passenger side, reaches inside and lifts the seat forward. I am curious as to what he will do next. Without hesitation, he climbs into the back pulling the seat back once he is there. Good, I raised him right. Michelle then climbs in, closes the door, and buckles herself in.

With all of us buckled in and Michelle’s bags situated to make room for Robert, we leave. When we arrived, I contemplated leaving the Jeep running to enable a quick exit but wanted to be able to hear any noises. Nothing except the occasional sound of a bird greeted us during our entire stay.

“Time check,” I say, looking in the rear view at Robert.

“Ten to two,” he responds.

I don’t wear a watch except when I am running, so I am forever asking Robert. I usually use my phone for the time but am going to have to rectify that soon. There is this one watch I have wanted for quite a while but didn’t want to spend the money. Plus, it has a flight calculator on it. I wore a similar one many years ago in the Air Force and found it to be a great tool. It even helped save my bacon once. And I had a lot of bacon to save back then.

I was an instructor pilot and we were flying to Colorado Springs. Just a bunch of other instructors who were in my class and we were doing this as kind of a reunion flight. The plan was to fly there, get skis and passes from MWR, cars from the motor pool, and go skiing up at Breckenridge. Our current wing DO (Director of Operations) was in my class and, therefore, along with us. It was actually his idea, so we had no trouble getting the aircraft and didn’t foresee any problems with the motor pool upon arrival. It was nice having a full-bird colonel along. There were ten aircraft, so we divided into two four-ship formations and one two-ship. I was only one of two Americans; the rest were German pilots. I was the lowest ranking as well.

So, off we went, stopping at Amarillo, Texas for gas before heading on. I was the lead for our four-ship at that point. It was a gorgeous day and we landed at Colorado Springs without incident. The skiing was great except for the time I found myself on a double black diamond slope. Yeah, that was the last time I let the Germans ‘guide’ me up a lift. They just powered down the slope with the term ‘slope’ being relative. I am pretty sure skiing is most effective if there is some sort of slope involved. This ‘slope’ looked like it actually angled back in towards the mountain in places and the moguls looked like Volkswagens were parked under the snow and glued to the side of the mountain.

The Germans just tipped their skis over and performed some sort of ballet through the moguls and down the slope. I couldn’t very well cry ‘mommy’ and slide down on my ass, so I tipped my skis as well. That was a freaking nightmare. I arrived at the bottom, checking myself over because I was pretty sure I had lost an arm, a leg, both kidneys, and expected my intestines to be trailing behind me along with most of my gear.

Our DO pulled up next to me. “You ski pretty well for an American,” he said, and off he went.

I looked quizzically after him. I didn’t know if he was joking or what, because I must have looked like a one-legged goat doing an interpretive dance while falling down a cliff. I remember only touching the snow like three times as I ricocheted my way down. I looked up at the slope expecting to see a yellow trail marking my route down.

“That’ll never happen again,” I remember telling myself as I pushed off to catch up.

Well, that was Saturday and we met at base ops Sunday morning for the trip home. It was overcast with clouds around the mid altitudes. So, a little weather on the way home, no big deal. I received the weather brief for my flight. Another pilot was the designated lead for this leg back to Amarillo. The weather wasn’t great with moderate to severe icing conditions en-route. We were flying trainers at the time so we didn’t have any de-icing or anti-ice capabilities. Oh, and, in case you didn’t know, icing sucks if you can’t get rid of it. I thought about cancelling the flight, but the weather reports for the next couple of days were even worse and the DO wanted to get home. I at least talked him into breaking the flights into two-ship formations. That provides a little more flexibility.

I was with the original flight lead, and the other two formed their own flight. I was not all that fond of our lead and remember him telling me in the crew bus, “Now, I’ll show you the way to truly lead a flight,” which made me even fonder of him.

Well, off we went. We were the third two-ship off the ground and were separated by fifteen-minute departure times. He asked for clearance and leveled us off at eleven thousand feet, which was below the cloud deck. Okay, that made good sense, but we burned fuel at a higher rate down that low. Plus, after leveling off, he kept the throttles up. I was snugged up into fingertip but glanced at my RPM to find we were still around ninety-five percent; burning fuel like crazy for no reason that I could fathom.

The clouds and icing forced us to ask for and receive clearance down to nine thousand feet a short time later. I had Amarillo approach dialed in on a secondary radio. The weather was not forecast to be the greatest there either. Normally, we would have fuel to the destination, to an alternate, and forty-five minutes extra in reserve. We had this on leaving, but our current fuel burn and altitude took that reserve down considerably. I switched between our en-route center freq and the approach freq to determine what was going on there. We still had enough fuel to get to our destination, but it was even odds getting anywhere else. I heard a buddy in another flight flying into Amarillo notify approach that he was initial approach fix inbound. A short time later, he called final approach fix. Approach came on asking him if he saw the airfield. Apparently, the ceiling was pretty low there. The final approach fix is close to the missed approach point – the last point at which you either see the airfield and land or put the throttles up and go around for another try or head somewhere else.

“Negative,” he replied back to them.

Oh, this sucks, I thought. I then heard him say, “Missed approach.”

Approach came back asking him if he would like another approach. “Negative, approach, Cider 34 is diverting.”

I missed his clearance switching back to our freq but knew where he was heading. Then that wonderful radio call, “Amarillo approach on guard, Amarillo is now closed.”

Yay for us, I thought. And here Mr. “I’ll show you how to lead a flight” has brought us way low on fuel. I saw scrambling in the aircraft next to me. After a moment of this, he looked over and gave me the hand signal to take the lead.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me!” I said into my mask without transmitting. Not only had he gotten us into a mess but was expecting me to get us out of it. My disgust meter pegged against the upper stop into the red zone.

I took and verified the lead, focusing on where we were. This led to a scrambling on my part. Part of me wanted to separate him off to get his own clearance and fend for himself, but that was only a thought. Breaking him off would save fuel on both of our parts, but it was obvious his clue bag was empty. I looked at the fuel gauge and damn near had a heart attack. Holy shit! We were damn low. I pulled the throttles back to a more moderate cruise setting after signaling the upcoming change to him. I looked at the clouds brushing against the top of the canopy right over my head. We had flown through some clouds en-route and ice immediately started forming up on our wings. I notified center that we were diverting to Altus and requested a vector direct.

“Roger, Otter 39 flight, turn left heading 130.”

I keyed the mic button on the throttle and responded back, “Otter 39 flight, left 130.”

Looking to the cloud base I could reach out and touch, I knew we had no choice but to climb. We were flat going to run out of gas before reaching Altus if we didn’t. The higher altitude would give us a better fuel rate and increased performance, lengthening our range. But there was the icing to think about. Well, a certainty versus a possibility.

“Denver Center, Otter 39 flight, requesting flight level 250 (pronounced two-five-zero).”

“Otter 39 flight, standby, expect flight level 250 in ten minutes.”

Well, that isn’t going to work, I thought. “Denver Center, Otter 39 flight, declaring a fuel precautionary at this time and requesting flight level 250.”

The military is different from the civilian world in that we could declare a precautionary without having to go to a full-blown emergency. This notifies our control facilities that we were in a situation that wasn’t quite an emergency but could result in one.

“Otter 39 flight, Denver Center, copy precautionary. Climb and maintain flight level 250.”

That’s better. We were bumped up on the priority list. I looked over at the aircraft tucked against my wing and gave the throttle up signal getting a nod back. Moving the throttles up into mil power, I raised the nose. We went into IFR conditions meaning we had only the instruments to guide us as we lost visual reference. Ice immediately gathered on our wings. Not only does this decrease aircraft performance, but also interrupts the airflow. Enough disruption and the aircraft ceases its ability to produce lift and turns from a high performance fun machine into a brick.

As we climbed higher, I kept expecting to break out on top. By flight level 180, I realized this may not happen and was questioning my decision. Ice coated the leading edge of our wings, but we were still flying. This, incidentally, was a good thing. At flight level 210, the clouds began to thin and I could see the sun shrouded in mist above. The icing stopped, and I fully expected to break out on top soon. But as we continued to climb, the sun only became a brighter disk in the sky, however, visibility increased. I leveled out at flight level 250—that is really twenty-five thousand feet, but we use flight level designations beginning at eighteen feet.

The visibility wasn’t too bad so I sent my wingman to chase—a loose formation where the wingman flies a thousand feet behind and to the left or right. This position lends to a flexible position where I could maneuver easier and the wingman wasn’t constantly adjusting the throttles, giving a better fuel consumption rate. I looked at the fuel gauge again. Not good! I dialed in the navigation aid at Altus (TACAN) and looked at the DME (Distance measuring equipment. This tells how far from the navaid you are). Once I locked on, I saw the DME, which will also give you your ground speed. Looking at that and at my airspeed indicator, I realized we were also battling a forty knot headwind.

“Aw fuck, of course! Why not?” I said into my mask.

I was beginning to get a bit nervous and worried at this point. Peeling my glove back, I used the flight calculator on my watch, setting the ground speed on the distance. I then looked at the fuel flow rate, which gave me the fuel required. I compared that number with what I had on my gauge. Uh oh. Those numbers were damn near the same. Totally not good. That was to just fly to the airfield and didn’t include the fuel required to fly an approach, which would most likely be required there. I had one ace up my sleeve and that what was called an en-route descent. That is a fuel saving measure where you start your descent into the airfield from a farther distance out. This allows a shallower descent path allowing gravity to work on your behalf, normally about a hundred miles out. Still, it did not save that much fuel.

I continued to calculate the fuel. The fuel required and fuel onboard differential kept shrinking. I had serious thoughts that I would have to bail out, to the point of going through the controlled bailout checklist. The thought of bailing out didn’t exactly please me. It would be a long silk ride down through some very cold clouds. There was also the chance that the chute could freeze up with ice and cease being a parachute and become more like a large piece of cardboard—a very heavy piece of cardboard. Plus, there was the inquiry that would follow. See, the Air Force severely frowns on planting their aircraft into the earth. I knew I could probably skate on this one, but it still wasn’t a pleasant thought. I liked my companion even more now!

The fuel differential finally became a negative one. I should have declared an emergency much earlier on, but I always hesitated on doing that.

“Denver Center, Otter 39 flight, declaring a fuel emergency at this time,” giving out particulars with regards to position, fuel remaining and intentions, “request en-route descent into Altus for the PAR runway 35.” (A PAR is a Precision Approach Radar—an approach option for military aircraft whereby the controller guides the aircraft in with very precise headings and altitude corrections.)

“Otter 39 flight, Denver Center, copy emergency. Turn left heading 125, descend and maintain 15,000 at your discretion.”

About a hundred miles out, having furiously checked and rechecked calculations, I signaled my wingman back into fingertip formation, completed our approach to field checks, and we started down towards Altus. During my numerous fuel checks, I would also inquire as to my wingman’s fuel. We were about on par with him being a touch lower.

I called Denver Center as we began our descent. We were handed over to Fort Worth Approach and received vectors and clearance for the approach. I was still constantly looking at the fuel gauge and calculations. We had gained a measure of fuel savings on the descent and, after switching to approach, they gave us short vectors to the airfield. The cloud ceiling was considerably higher here and when we broke out, approach asked us if we had the airfield in sight. I answered in the affirmative and we were given instructions to circle to land on runway 17, which basically gives us the freedom to maneuver to and align ourselves with the runway.

We touched down in formation and taxied to base ops. My fuel gauge read zero; I mean absolute zero while taxiing. I was pretty hot and furious and stormed over to base ops to give Mr. Know-It-All a pretty big piece of my mind after shutting down. As I walked in, the DO walked in behind me. I think he felt the mood and swept his arms wide and said, “My friends, at least we all made it.” That put a good perspective check on me and settled my mood considerably. He was good with stuff like that, and it made an impression on me. Always keep things in perspective.

Pulling my mind back to the present, I make a U-turn and retrace our route. We ride back mostly lost in our own thoughts after Robert shares our plans for tomorrow. Michelle seems to take it in stride, only mentioning that she doesn’t have a sleeping bag with her.

“We have some extras,” I tell her. Those are the only words as we drive through town and back down the highway towards home. I’m still thinking about the watch…maybe later.

On the drive back, I think about the various aspects of the planned flight—gathering some supplies on the way back and putting another to-do list together. I think about asking Michelle where she thinks her parents might be or what happened to them. I also want to ask Robert what happened that he, Nic, and Bri ended up in the basement, but the time doesn’t feel right. I feel they all have to sort things out in their own minds before reliving those experiences.

“We should gather some supplies for tomorrow,” I say as we turn off the highway by the gas station with the white pickup still in the lot.

Pulling into the gas station, I park in the same location as before with the Jeep running. I pull out the duct tape sliding the tube onto my left arm like a bracelet.

“That’s just like the .45 I used to have,” I say nodding toward the gun at Robert’s side. We used to go off into the woods periodically to target practice, so he knows how to shoot.

“Remember, it has a lot of kick so make sure you refocus the sights on your target before squeezing off the next round. It may be a semi-automatic, but that doesn’t mean rapid fire,” I add. He merely looks at the gun and nods.

“Let’s take a walk around,” I say, grabbing my gun and walking towards the store with Robert and Michelle following.

The store itself is your standard stop-and-rob gas station/store built with cement blocks. The cream-colored building has double-entry glass doors with a door-sized window to either side. It also has two additional large glass pane windows, one on the corner to the left of the doors and another around the left corner that looks into the checker stand. Both Robert and I know the interior well from the many, many times we have stopped here for soda or the occasional Subway pizzas or sandwiches.

Just inside the front doors, the double register check stand sits to the left with a counter to the right holding automated coffee and other drink machines. This opens up into the main store. Refrigeration sections line the walls to the rear and right with the Subway station situated against the front right. The middle of the store is comprised of several food and sundry shelves with the aisles angled toward the front door. To the right, between the Subway station and the refrigeration unit, a door leads outside with the kitchen part of Subway just before it. A bathroom is located on the left between the check stand and rear refrigerated section, with a hallway extending to the rear of the building where I assume there is an entry into the refrigeration unit, a stock area, and a back door.

Outside, to the rear of the building, I see a chain-link fence with wood slats in the links common to Dumpster areas. We head in that direction, checking out the surrounding area. The warm summer breeze stirs gently against my red Jeep t-shirt and jeans; my shadow extending slightly to my left across the pavement. I see two other shadows behind mine as Robert and Michelle trail behind. We round the corner to the rear of the store remaining alert. A green Dumpster shows through the reddish-brown slats in the fence, verifying my previous assumption. I want to check out every place to make sure. Minimizing surprises is a good philosophy to live by.

The gate has a lock but it is hanging open. The gate itself swings outward and to the left. I am able to see through the slats but not everything is clear. I gather Robert and Michelle around me.

“Robert, you take the gate from the right, remove the lock, lift the latch, and swing the gate open, stepping back to the right as you open it. This will minimize the possibility that the gate will swing open into you. At no time are you to step in front of the opening unless I tell you. I’ll cover the gate from the front a few feet back. Once the gate is open, you step a few feet back my direction and to the left.” I’m pretty sure nothing is in there, but this offers a good opportunity to start training Robert in tactics.

“Michelle,” I say, “you cover the area around us.”

They nod, and Robert moves in a wide circle approaching the gate from the right. I set up in a kneeling stance a few feet in front of the gate. Once at the gate, Robert grasps the lock and looks at me. I glance back at Michelle; she has her back to me and is looking around the area with her pistol out. I must admit, I am quite impressed with Robert’s exceptional choice for a girlfriend.

I give Robert a nod. He removes the lock and drops it to the ground as he lifts the latch. Swinging, the gate opens to his left with the metallic rattling sound common to all chain-link fences. He steps away from the gate bringing his own gun up. I’m greeted by the sight of a Dumpster hidden in the shadow of the store. Nothing moves except for the gate slowly swinging closed due to apparently not being quite level. I approach the gate noticing the left lift door on the Dumpster is open to the sky with the right one closed. A couple of smaller cardboard boxes lie open on the ground at the foot of the dumpster.

“Cover me,” I say at the entrance.

He moves up behind as I edge toward the open end of the Dumpster. A quick move up to my toes, bringing my gun to bear toward the Dumpster opening, reveals nothing other than it being half-full of miscellaneous paper wrappings, cans, boxes, and the standard things one would expect in a garbage bin. I feel somewhat foolish for tactically assaulting a Dumpster. However, if that Dumpster were to spring up as some transformer and attack us, we would have had it covered. More so, again, I wanted to use this to teach tactical operations, and this was a safe way to do it. Proceeding out of the enclosure, I shut the gate behind me.

“Michelle,” I call out, and she quickly joins us.

We continue along the back of the store. In the middle of the rear wall is a gray, steel door that opens outward. Against the other rear corner is an enclosure similar to the one we just exited. The difference is a small aluminum tube jutting out from the top. I was hoping to see something like this. I guess I never paid very close attention to the surroundings before; I don’t remember seeing this. Then again, I don’t remember not seeing it either. Out here in the country, there are frequent power failures during storms and winter months with some failures lasting several days. Stores would have generators in order to keep the refrigeration units going in the event of such failures. This one would likely be attached to those, the emergency lighting, and the pumps—something to think about in the future.

“Same as before?” Robert asks.

I nod and tell Michelle she has the door and the surrounding area. She stations herself in front of the door about twenty feet away and the assault on the generator begins. We go through the same motions and find it is in fact a generator…and clear. Emergency generators are usually set to automatically engage, triggered by the loss of normal electrical power. Some have a manual starter switch for maintenance check purposes. I press the green ‘on’ switch. Nothing happens. The fuel tank with the green ‘diesel only’ placard sits on the front. I tap the tank lightly working my way down with a hollow sound following all of the way down to the bottom. I test the fuel level with a small, square pole sitting to the side of the generator to find it reveals only a dark, wet line about a quarter of an inch deep. Empty. I seriously doubt there is enough residual diesel fuel in the hose lines at the pump to power it up. If we want to ever use this generator and the gas pumps, we’ll have to drain diesel fuel from some vehicle at a later point. There’s too much to be done today with the light remaining for us to search for one now.

Exiting and closing the gate, I walk to the steel door. There’s no latch, just a handle and a key slot above it. I give the door a light pull, not wanting to open it, just to test if it is locked or not. It doesn’t move.

We circle the building to the far side. The paved area extends fifty feet completely around the store allowing people to drive away by finishing a broad circle back to the entrance. A tree-lined hill, really more of small ridge, abuts the pavement to the rear and leads up to a shellfish plant on the other side of the trees.

Only two things greet us on this far side; an outside door similar to the rear door, and a darker blue four-door Honda parked nearby. With gun in hand, I approach from the front to get a better look into the interior, angling up to the front corner of the car and peer inside. There is nothing out of the ordinary and, more importantly, no one inside. I slide around to the passenger side, keeping away from the car, and find there aren’t any keys in the ignition. Moving closer, I try the front door. Locked. I test all of the remaining doors only to find the car is completely locked up. There aren’t any keys on the seat or floorboard. This tells me that whoever drove the car was either picked up in another vehicle, walked out of here, or is still around. Maybe more than one if there were passengers.

I test the steel door and find it is also locked. We retrace our steps around the building, as I don’t want to walk in front of the store just yet. If there is someone here and alive, they most likely know we are here already, but I don’t want to publicly announce the fact.

“There’s the possibility of at least one person around,” I say as we turn the corner to the rear.

“How do you know that?” Robert asks.

“The car is locked with no one in it,” I say and relate exactly what I think that means. He nods thoughtfully.

“Looks like we’re going in through the front door,” I say once we are back at the Jeep. “We’ll do a visual check through the side window and then see whether the front door is locked. If it is, then I’ll tape the front door,” I add, holding my left wrist with the duct tape bracelet up, “and break the glass.

“Once inside, both of you will stay just inside the door. Michelle, you’ll have the door itself. Robert, you cover the back of the store. I’ll go to the right to check the aisles and the Subway station. If it’s clear, I’ll head back. I’ll then check the back and the refrigeration units. Robert, you’ll switch to covering the right while I do that,” I say outlining a quick plan. “If something happens, our best bet is to just get out. If it does come down to where we have to shoot, make doubly sure you’re not firing towards each other. Make sure you have a clear shot. And,” I say with emphasis, “I mean a very clear shot. Any questions?”

“How do we tell if they’re alive or one of those…well…things if someone happens to be in there?” Robert asks.

“I’ll call out once we are inside. If no one responds, then we’ll assume that anything is hostile,” I say after thinking about it momentarily. “Always know where everyone is.”

“Any more questions?” I ask looking from one to the other. They shake their heads.

“Robert, get the flashlight off the shotgun. You’ll be using that,” I say, reaching to grab my flashlight.

Robert returns and I see from the tape still on the light that he chose to cut it off rather than unwrap it. Okay? I think.

I walk towards the wall away from the window, waving them behind me. Against the wall, I edge up to the window and peek in the corner. There’s something blocking my view from the inside and I have to rise up to see in. The light streaming inside through the front door reveals the first cash register on the front counter, along with several drawers and the drink machines on the other side of the entrance aisle. I’m not able to see all of the way to the floor. Crouching under the window, I proceed to the other side of the window and peek in the opposite corner, again having to rise up slightly. I see the interior aisles, or at least where they should be. The light from the windows and door doesn’t penetrate very far in, but there’s no movement that I can see. The rear of the building and the right side remain blocked.

I put my flashlight against the window with my hand between it and my eyes to cut some of the glare and play it around the interior. I see end displays with candy and donuts and can glimpse items peeking out on the shelves themselves. The aisles look to be clear, and the light reflects off the glass cases of the refrigeration units in back. I move to the first window situated just around the corner. From this vantage point, I see more of the front counter and some of the floor. Again, though, it is more of the same. I glance back around to Michelle and Robert to find them crouching behind me.

Ducking under the window again, although I’m not quite sure why after the light display inside, I move to the front door and peek inside. Again, the natural lighting only extends a few feet before fading off into shadows and darkness. I play the light in towards the rear of the store, but it doesn’t penetrate all of the way back and only stillness prevails. I think about driving the Jeep to the front and using the headlights to give us more light, but I don’t think I can get it angled correctly between the pumps and the door.

I reach up to the handle on the front door and give it a pull. Very cool, I think as the door opens. There’s no need for a demonstration of breaking taped windows today apparently. But my thoughts drift to the locked car parked on the side. Locked car plus unlocked store possibly equals someone inside.

I turn back to my shadows and motion them forward. They don’t have to come far as they are beneath the front window right behind. I tell them what I saw and my thoughts.

“If I tell you to leave, you both leave through this door immediately. No questions, no huh’s, no ‘let me see what’s going on’, you just leave immediately. You got it?” I whisper to them.

“Yes, Dad,” Robert whispers with a nod.

“Yes, Mr. Walker,” whispers Michelle.

“Just make that Jack from here on out. I’m rather used to it and more or less respond to that,” I whisper back to her.

A concrete cigarette butt stand is next to the door with a garbage can on the other side. There’s a concrete block next to the door at the foot of the stand. I reach across and pull it towards me.

“As I open the door and go in, Robert, you grab it and move in behind me. As you move in, Michelle, you grab the door behind him and block it open with this. Robert, you stop about five feet inside, focusing on the rear of the store. I’m going in and around to the right. Michelle, you have the door,” I whisper, reiterating the plan and push the concrete block out of the way of the door and our path.

They both nod. Crouching by the front door, I swing it open and enter, low and fast, stopping about five feet inside. I look quickly around, my light playing around the interior as Robert settles in beside me. I hear the scraping of the block behind me as I search the interior. My light still doesn’t shine all of the way to the rear, but I see a very faint line of light close to the ground in back. That must be the back door. The first aisle looks clear. I lean over the counter, clearing the floor behind the registers. I kneel by Robert who is shining his light around the interior.

“That’s your area,” I say, pointing to the back of the store with my light. “Stay right here until I return. I’ll be to the right,” I add.

“Okay,” he whispers back and adjusts his light focusing on the rear of the store. It isn’t penetrating as far as mine did

“Is anyone here?” I call out, my voice echoing inside. “Come out slowly if there is.”

Silence. “Okay then,” I whisper walking low to the end of the drink counter and focus my light down the second aisle. There’s only the front end of peanut cans, bags of cookies, and potato chip bags shining back at me. I peek around the corner and see the side door along with the entrance to the Subway kitchen area. All clear. The third aisle in front of the cooler section to the right is blocked from my view, but a musty odor permeates the air.

A sharp corner in front that leads to the Subway counter itself. I edge up to the corner, keeping my light alternating between the aisle, the side door, and the Subway counter as more of it slowly appears. At the corner, I now play my light across the whole counter. It looks alien here in the darkened building, so different from the place I so often came to. I angle toward the counter, focusing my light on the area behind and the last aisle. I still can’t see too far inside the refrigeration units because of the glare.

Looking to the rear of the Subway, various cheeses, meats, and vegetables are strewn on the floor and counter, some squished beyond recognition. Adding to the mess, bread pans and loaves are scattered about. The once spotless plastic shield is covered with dried spots and bits of cheese. The hair on the back of my neck stands straight up as I play the light on the floor once again. There is a partial footprint in some of the cheese.

I turn my light quickly to the back of the store. Nothing. I move farther in order to see the entire third aisle. Nothing. I turn to the kitchen entrance. There is no door, only an opening. I focus on the floor near the entrance. Showing faintly on the linoleum, I barely make out greasy footprints; a partial one here; a full one there. These could have been made any time, but with the footprint in the cheese, I don’t think it was that long ago. Unless, this was ransacked before. But why not take the items from the shelves and only mess with the Subway items.

I shine my light around the interior once again. Everything seems in perfect order. I have the feeling that something is here but just out of sight or reach. Like when trying to remember a song or name; it’s there and you know it, but you just can’t quite bring it to mind. I trace the prints with my light. They are very faint but head up the third aisle a few feet before disappearing. I inch over to the kitchen entrance, keeping as much distance from it as possible. The kitchen slowly reveals itself as I draw closer. I get into a position so that I can see the entire kitchen, my gun held out and ready. There is nothing but more food littering the floor.

“I’m opening the side door,” I call out, reaching for the door and wanting to let more light in if possible.

I close my left eye and squint with the right as I push open the door not wanting to be blinded by the light nor lose what night vision I had acquired. Light floods into the small area and I feel the sun cascade down. It feels good, the sun in some way filling me back up. The fact I feel this way about being outside leads me to think there is something quite abnormal about being inside the store. Perhaps it’s just the tension and weirdness of the past few days, I think. However, I know that the subconscious will pick out clues that the conscious doesn’t and relate them to the mind in the form of vague feelings—intuition. A small amount of tension leaves, knowing there is another way out. Another concrete block sits to the right of the door and I maneuver it to hold the door open before heading back in.

“I’m coming back your way,” I say and walk back to Robert, clearing the aisles again as I go. Still nothing.

“Okay, we still need to check out the back and the coolers. Shift up to the corner and cover the right,” I say to Robert and nod to end of the drink counter.

“I’m heading into the back. Are you doing okay?” I glance back to Michelle at the door.

“Yes, Mr. Walker,” she answers.

“That’s Jack, remember?”

“Yes, sir,” Michelle responds.

“I give up,” I mutter and orient to the rear of the store.

Creeping past the register counter, I approach the bathroom door to my left, switching my light between the area in back and the store interior. I give the handle a twist, push the door inward, and immediately flash the light inside expecting something or someone to be hiding there. It’s a standard store bathroom with a toilet, sink, and wall-mounted paper towel dispenser that no one seems to be using at the moment.

From this position, I can see the far wall of the back room. The flashlight has an intense beam, so there is little ambient light splashing around the room, just the circle where the light hits. From this vantage point, I see the back door and part of the back wall with the room opening up on both sides. Shelves are filled with cardboard boxes, cans, and other items, with more on the floor next to them. My current angle prevents me from seeing the room entirely, although I see the door of the cooler. With trepidation, I venture slowly up the small hallway leading to the back room. The light reflects off the cooler doors so I cannot see what is behind them. In my peripheral, the thin line of light at the bottom of the back door darkens momentarily as something flashes between me and the door.

“Oh shit!” I half breathe to myself.

“Get out! Get out now!” I yell bringing the light and my gun around.

The sound of footsteps quickly heading my way explodes into my consciousness. My light seems to take forever to sweep around, whereas, in truth, it is only milliseconds. A loud shriek pierces the once silent room and I see something large flying in the air toward me; caught in the light as my flashlight finally comes around.

I fire and shift to the right attempting to dodge the thing coming at me—the action an instinctive one. My round must have hit as its trajectory alters in mid-air before slamming into my chest and left shoulder. The impact spins me around and drops me to my knees. It knocks the flashlight from my hand and I hear it hit the floor with a metallic thunk, thankfully not breaking since the light still shines. I feel like a truck has hit me and put my hand out to catch myself from falling completely over. I begin to rise and glance up only to be met with the sight of something large once again hurtling toward me. Temporal distortion causes everything to appear as if in slow motion.

I make it to my knees, but I can’t get the gun up in time. I bring my left arm up in front of me before the impact hits me square on; blanketing me. The impact is so hard that I become airborne momentarily before slamming down on my back and skid along the linoleum with this thing on top of me. Looking beyond my feet, I see Robert and Michelle silhouetted against the light from the front door.

“Get the fuck out of here!” I yell while attempting to twist out from under whatever it is on top of me.

The flashlight, somewhere on the floor, casts a pale light around revealing the outline of a human form on top straddling me. My left arm is being twisted and shaken violently as this thing has taken hold of my forearm with its teeth. Shock must be preventing me from actually feeling its teeth ravage my arm…let alone the damage it must be doing. A dank, musty odor assaults my nose; a mixture of body odor, wet dog, and breath that hasn’t been introduced to toothpaste in some time. The weight and violence of the tugging on my arm brings the now growling thing down close to my face.

I tilt my face to the side and notice the flashlight has come to rest against the wall and is facing it. With this feeble light helping me see, I raise my gun and lock the muscles of my left arm. I need to slow down the twisting and shaking movements so I don’t actually shoot my own arm. I bring the gun closer, putting the barrel against the head of the snarling and growling thing, and pull the trigger. The muffled gunshot is followed a millisecond later by a wet sound on the floor beside me. There is a second explosive-like sound and then the full weight of the thing settles on top of me. Something wet and warm trickles down the side of my face and neck. Gunpowder and burning hair are now mixed in with the musty body odor along with the iron-like smell of blood. There is another smell in the air. It is hard to describe but is associated with death. Not decomposition or anything like that, just the smell of death. If cold and nothingness had a smell, it would be similar.

I push against its shoulder, rolling it over, and slide out from under it. Crawling to the flashlight, I shine it around, the light shaking slightly because of the adrenaline still coursing through my body. Breathing heavily, I check the back hallway and then focus the light ahead.

The body is lying on its back against a shelf; staring with bulging, lifeless eyes at the ceiling. The exit wound just above the right ear gapes back at me. The shoulder length, blond hair is matted with blood and gore on the side. A flap of skin and hair hangs down with blood leaking out, forming a slowly widening pool on the floor. A trickle of blood runs from the nostril and over the cheek. In the light, I see this was once a woman, but the flesh appears to be a pale, mottled gray with darker veins showing through on the cheek as if the skin were translucent.

Continuing to pan my light, I see her right arm as it extends out from a red, flowered, short-sleeve blouse over tan slacks. Blood covers the shoulder of the blouse, causing it to stick to the skin. The first three fingers twitch spasmodically, and I notice the same pale, mottled skin with dark veins running down her arm. I place my fingers on her wrist. No pulse. As I rise, my light shines on the shelf above her which is now covered with a spray of blood and chunks of bone, hair, and brain. There is also a spray of white, foamy liquid mixed in and slowly running down part of the shelf. Curious. Raising my flashlight, I notice that a can of shaving cream has exploded, apparently having been hit with the round or part of the round exiting her cranium.

I look toward the front and see only the sun shining through the front door and windows. The door is still open and blocked by the concrete block. No sign of Robert or Michelle. Good. I’m afraid to check my arm as I don’t feel any pain or injury and flex my fingers while holding the flashlight. They appear to be working fine; however, with my arm having been twisted and gnawed like that, I should feel something wrong. I turn the light on me only to be both fairly amused and relieved.

That thing—I guess I can’t really call it a woman—had latched onto the roll of duct tape around my wrist. The tape itself has bite marks and is shredded in places. I am amazed and thank the spirits for their protection. I check the rest of my body and, except for a sore shoulder where I was first hit and my hip where I hit the ground, I seem to be okay.

I turn toward the back room and edge once more to the hallway, slipping on the now wet floor, moving into the back, exposing more and more of the room with my light. There are only more shelves and cardboard boxes on the ground. Inside is a nook with a desk and chair against the far wall of the opening to the right. A monitor and sheets of paper litter the desk. I open the back door and notice yet another concrete block on the inside by the door. Blocking the door open, light now penetrates most of the interior. I walk to the cooler door and pull it open, ready. With the adrenaline fading, I now just want to get what we need and be gone.

Shining my light inside, I see cases of items stacked against the rear walls. The cooler makes a right at the end. Grabbing a case of beer, I set it against the cooler door propping it open and head toward the corner with my light leading the way. Oh my God, there’s not going to be any more beer!? A quick glance with my light reveals only more boxes, so I head out of the cooler and walk outside through back door.

Walking around to where the Jeep is parked, I replace the two rounds I fired. There isn’t any sign of Robert or Michelle. I walk towards the front and finally see both of them away from the front door by the pumps and aiming at the front door. Their tension screams outward like physical waves. I am rather glad I didn’t come out that way.

“Expecting something?” I call out.

The startled way they jump and turn in my direction makes me glad I didn’t follow through with my thought of walking up behind them and asking what they were looking at. It wouldn’t do at all to go through what I had only to be nicked by one of them. Plus, considering what they have both been through today, it just wouldn’t have been a very cool thing to do. Amused me perhaps, but in light of everything, maybe not really that funny.

They walk over with their eyes opening wide as they get closer. “Are you okay?” Robert asks, staring at my head.

“Yeah, I think so,” I say, walking to the side mirror of the Jeep.

There are streaks of blood drying along the left side of my face and neck with small chunks of other matter in my hair. I walk to the back of the Jeep where I keep several rags. Soaking one with some of the bottled water I keep close by, I wipe the gore from my face.

“Better?” I ask walking back to the front. They both nod.

“The store appears clear now so let’s get some supplies. I’m going to see if I can find the keys to the Honda. If I can find them, then let’s load that up with the supplies. Concentrate on getting canned food and water. You two get the supplies and load the car. I’ll keep watch. I wouldn’t highly recommend going up the aisle between the bathroom and the first shelf.

“Oh, and next time I say get out, do so! When I tell you to do something, do it immediately!” I tell them as we start toward the front door.

“What happened?” Robert asks. I give a very brief and non-detailed answer, showing them the duct tape on my arm as we walk to the front.

The darkness within is a lighter shade of gray due to the doors being propped open allowing us to see in greater detail. I walk over to the corpse lying on the ground. The fingers have stopped their twitching, and I reach down patting the front pockets checking for keys. The slacks have a hole with a large, dark stain surrounding it on the left side at about the mid-thigh. This must be where my first round hit. I feel a lump in the right front pocket and reach in, pulling out a set of keys. Along with the keys, a small amount of change falls out and a quarter rolls along the ground on its edge. I watch it as it makes a complete circle around me, falling over only when it hits the pool of blood on my other side and disappears beneath the dark liquid. In the back room, I find a couple of green aprons and cover up the corpse as best I can.

Jangling the keys, I walk out of the side door to see if they are indeed for the car outside. Inserting them into the driver’s door, the lock pops open and the dome light comes on. Excellent, the battery is still good. I wonder what drove the woman inside to come to the store. She must have been ill. I’m guessing she came for supplies of some sort and transformed while within the store. At least I hope that’s the case and these things can’t drive. Unlocking the rest of the car, I open the trunk and then start it. The fuel gauge shows just less than three-quarters of a tank. Alrighty then, I think, shutting down the car. Back inside, I tell Robert and Michelle we are good to go on the car.

Passing the keys to Robert, I tell him, “You’re driving.”

The two of them pack the car with all of the canned goods, water, aspirin and other meds, beef jerky, nuts, plastic silverware, plates, cups, batteries, and other miscellaneous food items. There are several cases of water and canned food in the stock room. The single items go into empty cardboard boxes. I grab several six-packs of Blue Moon and hand them to Robert.

“What’s this for?” he asks, smiling.

“Never mind. Just make room for them,” I answer smiling back. “I have one other thing to take care of. You two wait outside.”

I walk over to the corpse and start dragging it by the heels to the back door and outside. We may need to use this store in the future and I don’t want to leave the body inside to decompose. The body leaves a wet trail behind for the first few feet like a mop that has been soaked in a dark liquid, its hair having soaked up part of the liquid pool lying around it. Hauling it outside into the shade, I head toward the trees on the hill. With the arms dragging above its head like it is reaching for the door and reluctant to leave, I see the body better in the light of the day. The skin is translucent and light gray in color. The paleness does not seem to be totally from a lack of blood. Darker splotches blemish the grayish skin tone with the surface veins clearly visible and of the same darkish gray.

Leaving the shade of the store, the sunshine streaming down from its afternoon westering position, illuminates the body. The exposed skin changes from a gray translucence to a reddish color. Walking backwards with my hands pulling on the ankles, I see this transformation clearly.

Stopping in the sunlight, I set the body down and kneel by the side. Peeling the blouse sleeve up a little, I see the skin there is still the translucent gray but quickly changes to the red color once it is exposed to the rays of the sun. Hmmmm, interesting. It almost looks like a sunburn. The skin is cool and dry to the touch. I reach up the bottom hem of the pants to the skin there and find it is also cool but clammy as opposed to dry. Picking up the heels once again, I drag the body into the trees, leaving a faint trail of hair, skin, and blood behind as the body scrapes against the pavement, and leave it lying inside the tree line.

The car pulls around and Robert parks by the Jeep. He sits behind the wheel with the window rolled down and with Michelle in the passenger seat. The light gray interior of the car and back seats are filled with assorted boxes. It is so strange to see him driving without me sitting beside him.

“We need to get whatever gas is left in the truck,” I say, grabbing the gas cans and hose from the back.

“You get the gas. I’m going to see if some of those keys are for the store and lock it up. We may need it again, and locking it up will keep others out. At the very least, we’ll be able to tell if someone is inside or has been in because they’ll have to break in,” I add, holding my hand out for the keys.

Robert hands me the keys. He then grabs the siphoning gear from the Jeep and heads over to the truck, as I head over and close fire doors. I am having a bad key day; it seems to be the last key I try every time. Luckily, though, the keys work, and I lock all of the doors.

Robert has finished by the time I am and is walking my direction spitting on the ground every couple of steps. I see we still have a little ways to go on the siphoning techniques. He has managed to fill one can and part of the other before the truck ran dry.

“Time check,” I ask, replacing the tanks, hose, and now almost worthless duct tape into the back end of the Jeep.

“Ten after three,” Robert replies.

“Let’s head home then,” I say.

On the drive home, passing by fir trees on both sides as they soak up the afternoon sun, and with the blue Honda in my rear view mirror, I think about the events at the store. How could I have done things differently or better? Should I have just left when I thought there might be someone in there and no one answered? Should I have allowed Robert and Michelle in? How many of these things are there? What happened to everyone else? No answers come readily to mind other than using this experience for the future. I start thinking about these “things”. I can’t think of any other way to put it. I think about what I have learned from the encounters putting everything into a list-like compartment:

1. They are obviously extremely violent nature.

2. They seem to have a cunning aspect as “it” didn’t attack immediately but waited for an advantage. I’m not sure of their cognitive ability as the food that was scattered inside was seemingly solely limited to what was in the open. The rest of the foodstuffs on the shelves were untouched. I’m not sure whether “it” can use doors to go in or out. In both encounters, speech seemed limited to growls and shrieks.

3. They seem agile and strong, at least this one was. Pain also did not seem to affect it as it should; it was able to turn around and attack again so quickly with a round in its leg.

4. The reports and assumption of shying away from light seems accurate judging from the way they both hid in the darkness and the reaction of the skin to sunlight, however, I’m not sure how or in what way light affects them. One thing does seem sure, light from a flashlight doesn’t seem to affect them in the same manner as the sun or I would have noticed the redness appear when I shined the light on the exposed skin of the corpse. My assumption is night may not affect them at all, so they can operate freely then.

5. The best course of action appears to be avoidance and not drawing attention due to my limited understanding and knowledge.

I back into the driveway, wanting the Jeep parked to be able to make a quick exit if needed. Leaving the keys under the seat, I notice Robert park in a similar manner and walk over.

“We’ll leave the water and stuff here. Leave the keys on the seat. I’ll bring a case of canned food in. Take Michelle, get the generator from the shed and put it by the front door,” I tell Robert. “Oh, and make sure you bring the spool of cable next to it.”

Walking to the front door with my arms wrapped around a case of chili, I see four pallets lying on the ground at the foot of the small deck in front. Setting the case down to open the door, I look up and see the sun is about to touch the tops of the trees, but there is still time before it heads down behind the hills lying between here and the coast. There are a few hours of daylight left, but there are a lot of things to do and time seems short. Walking through the now open front door, I step into a house darker than when I left and the sound of hammering coming from the living room.

“Hey there,” I say loudly, setting the case on the kitchen counter.

“Come on in,” Mom says as the hammering stops.

“You’ve been busy,” I say, rounding the corner of the kitchen.

Blankets cover the windows and doors. The only light in the house comes from lit candles placed throughout the rooms. Mom is standing on a step stool by the far window with a hammer in one hand and holding up a corner of a blanket across the window with her other.

“How did it go?” she asks, turning back to the task at hand.

“We picked up Michelle along with some food and water,” I answer. Mom nods and the pounding resumes as she hammers in the last nail.

“Robert and Michelle are getting the generator, and I’ll wire it in shortly,” I say, also relating the events since we left—including my assumptions and thoughts about what we are looking at.

“Are you okay, Dad?” Nic asks, coming over to give me a hug.

“I’m fine, babe,” I say, hearing the screen door shut in front.

“Done,” Robert says, emerging from the kitchen with Michelle close behind.

“Get the list out of the Jeep and the four of you gather the items and put them in the Jeep and car where there’s room. Leave the front seat of the Jeep open,” I tell them after Robert introduces Michelle.

“And no arguing,” I add over my shoulder as I head back outside. This has become a ritualistic saying with all of us knowing that peace will last perhaps three minutes at best.

The next two hours are spent gathering the items necessary for the trip; wiring the generator into the house fuse box to the main fuse, breaking up the pallets, and nailing the boards across the windows and doors leaving only the front and side door clear. This will not stop anyone or anything determined to get in, but it will slow them down and give us warning. With the generator, we will have running water and electricity. That’s the nice thing about having a well. After a dinner of chili and a few cookies from our loot, we settle into the living room.

There is a load of wood brought in from outside but the wood stove remains unlit. Robert sits in one chair, Michelle in the other. Mom, Nic, and Bri are on the couch. I take a seat on the floor against the wall. A few bottles of water are against the inside wall and the sleeping bags we will be taking with us tomorrow are scattered in the room.

“We’ll have to turn off the generator in a little while. Our objective is to not to attract any attention through noise, smells, light, or movement tonight. Therefore, no fire or light, including candles, after the sun goes down. If you have to use the bathroom, wait until morning to flush. No running water. We need to make ourselves like a deep, dark hole,” I say looking around the room at each of them. “I want to be off early tomorrow morning, but we need to keep a watch tonight. Robert, you take the first watch and I’ll take the second. Wake me at 0200.”

Robert is a night owl and I have a tendency to wake up in the middle of the night and not be able to go back to sleep, so this schedule should work out. I still don’t have a watch. Need to rectify that tomorrow.

“If something does happen tonight, we’ll form a semi-circle against the inside wall,” I say nodding to where the water currently sits. “I have toward the kitchen and back door, Michelle, the two windows, and Robert, the side door and hallway. Mom, Nic, and Bri, you stay behind us and down.”

Mom gets off the couch and disappears down the hall to the back bedrooms. “I can help,” she says, reappearing with a six shot .32 revolver.

“Alrighty then. You back up the person who seems to need the most help. If things get too messy and we can, we’ll try for the Jeep and the Honda. I’ll lead, Robert in the rear. Michelle and Mom to either side, Nic and Bri in the middle. Mom, Michelle, Nic, and Robert in the Honda, Bri, you’re with me. We’ll all move to the blue car, and then Bri and I will head for the Jeep. The keys to the car are on the seat. If we can’t do both cars, the keys to the Jeep are under the driver’s side seat. Just pile in as best as you can from the passenger side door and we’ll sort it out down the road,” I say.

I grab duct tape, string, and empty tin cans from dinner and the recycling bin. Rinsing eight cans to get rid of food smells so the raccoons don’t displace them, I head outside and place pieces of gravel from the driveway in the cans. I measure lengths of string that will stretch across the stairs leading up to the front, rear, and side decks. Cutting the string, I tape it to the cans and set them on the railings with the twine across the stairs. The setup is about torso high and will give some warning should something or someone approach the doors. I then make a circuit around the house checking every window and door to make sure they are locked and head back inside.

The rest of the evening is spent rehashing our list to see if we have everything, the day’s events, speculations about what happened, making sure Mom has enough supplies, trying to talk her into coming with us to no avail, and our planned flight.

I head outside to turn the generator off. The sun sinks behind the hills bringing on that summer twilight. An orange hue shows behind and above the hills fading to a darker blue on the opposite horizon. The day’s temperature is falling to that warm, summer evening, making me think of late BBQs and friends; sitting outside feeling full, drinking beer, and watching the stars slowly appear in the night sky; that feeling of contentment and peace. A melancholy feeling settles inside thinking those days are now gone. No more. The world moves on and doesn’t seem to care. I look overhead and think about Lynn looking up at the same sky, hoping she is okay.

“I’m on my way, hon,” I breathe into the deepening twilight sky.