A LITTLE LAW
Copyright 2003 by K. J. Jekyll. All
rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any
manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author, except
in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles, or reviews,
that are deemed favourable.
This book is distributed subject to
the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent,
resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of
the publishing agent, in this case being specified as K. J. Jekyll, in
any other form of binding other than that in which it is bound.
All the characters in this book have
no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation
whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even
distantly inspired by any individual known to the author, and all incidents
are pure invention.
This book contains the complete text
of the first larger versions, and is marked this year of our Lord 2001
as The Original. This copy supersedes any others as the original, but all
other copies remain the sole property of the author.
All pros copyrighted as per individual
agreements in volumes VI to VIV supplemental, all parts or parts thereof
remain protected in this publication, whether it be specified or implied.
Printed in New Zealand, Christchurch
by K. J. Jekyll.
Author's note.
This is my first finished novel. Production
of this work was an uphill battle, for things always seem easier than they
really are. I found after several months of trial and error that there
is a whole new world on the writing side of a sheet of paper; you have
to live the lives of the characters, rather than watch and enjoy their
adventures. Having said this I would like to spark a little thought in
the readers mind, before a journey is taken into the unknown.
Say the world as we know it ended tomorrow,
what would be the first things you’d do; panic, cry, retreat to insanity’s
playground of the mind? As the days and supplies ran out, how would you
cope?
Then, in the ensuing chaos, there’s
an inevitable absence of law and order, but never fear, the gun will rule
the day, a bullet is judge and jury - euthanasia has its lead pill after
all. Between survival and death everyone needs the stability of reality;
a home, someone to trust, someone to love - and most of all, happiness
to feed the desire to live on and on...
In writing, I realised how fragile
is our existence, just how reliant we are on each other to do that most
basic thing - to live. Money, computers, in fact most things in our lives
aren’t really necessary, even books like this are just an extension of
luxury. You may say, “What crap!” and that is your prerogative, but it
wouldn’t take much to upset our finely balanced world and slide into lawlessness.
All it might take to produce chaos
is solar activity of unprecedented strength; a plague brought by a rogue
asteroid, or an asteroid hitting the earth and stirring up so much dust
that the sun is blotted out for years. There is also the scenario as a
sickness like I have intimated. The possibilities are actually more numerous
than could be imagined, and liked.
I think that in everyone is a survivor.
I know, when mentioning my writing, I received many comments about how
They could survive such a catastrophe. I sat and thought so too, until
as the story unfolded the hero tried to achieve various things. Sure, Bret
did finally achieve some of the goals he had set his sights on, but he
was the hero and couldn’t fail to succeed, to an extent.
I believe the emotional turmoil such
as Robin experienced to be a very real threat. We have all lost a relative,
friend, or parent, and know the feelings of loss. Imagine losing everyone
you know all at once - I bet it would knock the stuffing out of most who
think survival would be a cinch...
As the pages ran on, I kept coming
up with the same constraints, however the ones involving the basic elements
like food, fuel and power, seemed resolvable. When the subject of people
and reproduction came into play, I was at first unsure of the outcome myself.
Finally, I concluded that people aren’t
a resource, they are and always will be individuals, they shouldn’t be
treated like slaves as they had been by the Bad Gang. The point I was trying
to make was, when it came to the crunch, it was better to have a struggling
happy community, than an affluent society with only a minority reaping
the benefits.
You may wonder at the relevance of
this to the story, it is merely incidental to the narrative, but it is
very relevant to the society in which we live. Today, with the trappings
of technology and the comforts, even with a job, we are not so far removed
from the conditions which faced the Bad Gangs. We are employed for as little
money as possible, the toffs at the top take all the cream they can get
away with. We are used as an expendable resource, one of no real value,
except to provide the Toffs with what they want. Thus, we are already acting
as survivors, although the conditions are not quite so dramatic as those
of the gangs, but in a way we are being treated in exactly the same way.
I think what we need is someone like Bret to come along and administer
A Little Law don’t we...
If it weren't for time we could live
forever,
and yet if we live on in someone's
memory,
haven't we won!
Chapter 1
"Are we caught in the crossfire?” asked
the boy between ricochets. “Or are they after us?”
“Damned if I know,”
Bret replied, “Who knows what’s going on these days.”
The boy looked
to Bret with questioning eyes, then, with a grim determination, sat at
his side as if making a statement: I’ll stay with you, no matter what!
Bret gave the
boy a sideways glance and, judging him to be about twelve years old, wondered
at such a joining of forces.
They had met
five hours earlier, two innocent bystanders in the game of life and death;
and now they were, it seemed, cemented together by the crazy situation
they found themselves in. Their predicament was not at all clear. It involved
many warring gangs; but just what the gangs’ differences were was a mystery.
All Bret and the boy could wish, was that these hooligans had not chosen
this time and place to erupt into armed conflict.
The terrain
was a decimated semblance of what used to be a peaceful country town, a
place that before the sickness might have been nice to visit. Shops, where
once entrepreneurs had peddled their wares, now held only shattered glass
that gaped like broken teeth. Ever since the sickness had struck, law and
order had died out, and this scene had become all too common. So far, Bret
had managed to avoid serious trouble, but now this seemed impossible.
Huddled amongst
the rubble, he silently considered his options. Where to next, it was getting
harder and harder to find a safe harbour. Ever since IT had happened, he
had been running from the reality of what the sickness had done. He, like
the majority of the survivors, had attempted to hold onto the values of
a bygone life - the Golden Rule and all that. But, now the harsh reality
of the present was unavoidable.
“If we’re gonna
live through this” Bret declared, “I think we’ll have to fight too!”
For a moment
the boy looked concerned; then, with a sigh, he nodded his mute agreement.
Bret had never
been a person for violence and, even as a schoolboy, had managed to escape
all but brief encounters. Violence hadn't seemed necessary. Life and death
situations, however, make converts of all.
“Okay, so which
way?” Bret didn’t really know this area that well, and felt the boy might.
“Run or fight?”
the boy still had a question in his eyes, as if wanting confirmation of
what he had just heard.
So taking a
breath Bret said the one word, knowing how it would change his life. “Fight...”
Bret wasn’t
too clear on where he and his new companion were headed, all he knew for
sure was they had to get out of where they were. Alone he could cover a
lot of ground, and take greater risks - having learnt the art of blending
into the background well. But he was sick of being alone, no matter the
advantages.
On several occasion
he had come face to face with death, and done what was necessary, but that
didn’t mean he condoned such things. During the following years since the
sickness, he had come to terms with what he had lost, learnt to fight and
survive - now would seem a good time to put it all together.
“Fight...” the
boy repeated, as if he’d heard this before, and merely pointed out a direction,
not away from the conflict, nor into it - but on a parallel course.
Slowly they
crawled along a bullet-peppered wall, Bret leading, the boy following almost
blindly. Their exodus progressed from there, and
after a half hour of inching along on hands and knees, they reached the
first real bit of cover they’d known. Their refuge was a fashion boutique,
which had been virtually untouched since, in this day and age, it was no
longer fashionable to be at the height of fashion. Rather, the fashion
of the day was merely to stay alive!
For a second,
the kid in Bret took what could be considered an uncharacteristic hold.
No matter the danger and inappropriateness of the action, he just couldn’t
stop himself from pocketing several bras.
“Now we’re armed
and dangerous,” he smiled crookedly.
The boy looked
puzzled and, since he couldn’t understand, just shrugged.
Bret continued,
“You know, David and Goliath...” still the boy’s look remained blank, “You
need to go to school,” then on a lighter note, “I couldn’t find any 45s
so we’ll just have to make do with these double-barrelled 36’s.” His smile
broadening further.
In the distance,
the clatter of machine-gun fire could be heard issuing its call to death.
Shoving the bras in his pocket, Bret pointed to the back door. “It’s time
we made a move, I think.”
Cautiously they
peered past the shattered doors. The coast looked clear, but from experience
they knew it better to wait rather than sample the machine-guns’ invitations
to an easy death.
“Do you know
of any hunting shops?” Bret asked without much hope, to break the gathering
mood and silence.
“No, no I don’t,”
the boy frowned. Then with a sparkle in his eyes continued. “But I think
I know a place that might have some guns and stuff. Is that what you want?”
“Are you serious?”
asked Bret.
“Yup. But it’s
a fair way from here.” The boy began to doubt his ability to remember where
the place actually was.
This didn’t
worry Bret. “We’ve got all the time in the world. If you know of a place
where we can get weapons, I’m willing to put in the leg work.”
So they left
their close encounter with the death merchants behind, going in search
of a more positive future. With danger further from them, Bret’s nerves
began to settle, his curiosity at his companion awakening.
“Been on the
run long?” he began, a seemingly innocent enough question.
“A day or two...”
the boy replied.
“You are from
around here though?”
“Couple of miles
away.”
“Well I’ve come
a couple of hundred miles in the last months, used to live in Wellington,
but it was too built up - not much chance at peace there. Thought I might
find it here, guess I was wrong...”
“It wasn’t always
like this.” the boy ventured his first snippet of information.
“Really?”
“This lot have
only been here since the warmer weather.”
“Six months
max’ then...” Bret mused, “sure took charge of the area fast then.”
“No one else
to stop them.” the boy slowed then stopped.
“What!” Bret
judged this as a sign of trouble.
“Would you?”
the boy asked.
“Would I what?”
“Stop them...”
“I don’t see
how I could.” Bret judged.
“And if you
had help?” the boy pressed.
“Sure, I guess
- depending on the help.”
“Then we’ll
have to find it then...” and the boy moved off, as if to do just this.
It took over
two hours to traverse the length of the street, but it was most important
that no one see their passing. Once they got beyond the shopping district
there was less need for stealth, so they were able to move faster. The
gang clash they had witnessed was a local dispute, yet the situation here
was being echoed by countless other gangs in the surrounding countryside.
In this era, those who were left had to live by their wits. Where population
was denser gangs ruled the streets. Those who didn’t bow to their domination
were perceived as against them - there was no middle ground. Up to this
point, Bret had stayed neutral by avoiding such areas, or backing off in
such encounters.
Many was the
time he had seen needless victims of ambush, pursuit and simple misfortune.
His modus of survival had been to avoid the mistakes of the others, which
seemed linked to violence and mindless behaviour. He had been a loner,
there had been no need to stand and fight, just run away and live another
day. But as things deteriorated, there were less and less options making
themselves available to him. If he hadn’t had this brush with these gangs
and run into the boy, fighting back would possibly never have occurred
to him. Yes he’d been running ever since the sickness had struck - not
just from the gangs and their people, but from himself. Now, perhaps, it
was time to stop running, time to make a difference, time to take a stand.
Some things
he finally realised were worth fighting for: a place to call home, people
to call friends, the freedom to take a stroll down main street. For the
first time, he allowed himself to experience how deeply he missed life
as it had been, in the days when sanity prevailed. He remembered, yes he
did remember: friends, family, special loved ones, even those he had not
particularly liked. Now it didn’t seem to matter their stature, the sickness
had wiped them away, only their memory in him kept them from being forgotten,
as if they had never existed. Somehow this memory in him, keeping it alive,
it had kept him from doing what he really felt he should do. Still he was
just one man against an army of maniacs.
He had watched
many groups and gangs from a distance, of varying lengths, and the constant
feeling upon such encounters was always the same, to get the hell away
from them - fast!
Stopping for a well earned rest,
Bret and the boy ate a portion of canned food, which was now the staple
diet of the post sickness era. The last supply of easily acquired food
had been a stash of baked beans, a welcome change of diet, until the tenth
day...
“Have you got
a mum or dad?” Bret asked, as a diversion from his overly grim thoughts,
and distaste. The boy shook his head absently, as if distancing himself
from the question. Bret didn’t press him. Taking a new tact, he wondered
aloud if, indeed, they were going anywhere in particular. “So how much
further is this place?”
“Not much further,”
came the reply, mixed in with a half hearted sigh and followed by the silence
that seemed to be part of the boy’s nature. Any inquiries about his past
had been neatly skirted. He wouldn’t even tell Bret his name. Bret didn’t
know if this was because he could not remember it or because he simply
did not want disclose it. In any event, Bret took the hint graciously,
and didn’t pry.
“So how far
now?” he tried to judge their coming options, with just a nagging sense
that the boy didn’t know where he was going.
“It round here,
close - there are just so many places the same.” Then with what could have
been the beginning of desperation he came fully alive. “There it is, told
ya!”
The light was
beginning to fade when they reached their destination, a rather drab looking
warehouse in a whole district of drab looking warehouses. The walls were
battered and sprayed with obscenities. The bedraggled building not looking
capable of holding anything of worth, and this was, perhaps, its redemption,
for it had remained virtually untouched. There were two doors, a small
side one, which might as well have been part of the wall, and a huge sliding
affair, big enough to admit a truck if need be.
Although the
doors looked flimsy, they were actually made of solid steel. This place
was yet another of those fortresses, a fortress that most likely would
be guarding nothing but mice or their droppings. Despite this they had
to enter, such a perilous trip demanded it.
After several
attempts to jimmy open the larger door with a length of pipe, Bret abandoned
the thought of a frontal assault. They circled the building several times
looking for an easier way in. Finally they spotted a small barred window,
which must have aired a toilet or upstairs office. The window was in the
back and about ten foot up - just close enough to be tempting. Using weathered
packing cases and wood as a makeshift ladder, Bret used the pipe to hammer
at the window frame. Finally, after ten minutes of this, he succeeded in
making an opening just big enough for the Boy to squeeze through. While
the boy ventured within, Bret retraced his steps, to nervously wait outside
the main door.
It seemed an
eternity before the boy found his way to the entrance. Then, as if in a
game of blindman’s bluff, Bret directed him to locate the mechanism that
would open the door. Eventually the boy found the lock, unlatched it, and
with a heave, managed to move the heavy steel slab a fraction of an inch.
As the door moved Bret threw his weight against it, and pushed until the
opening was wide enough to accommodate him. By the time he stumbled into
the building, it was completely dark.
“It was a toilet,”
said the boy, referring to the room with the window. “And there’s an upstairs
full of books. It’s a maze up there - but nothing compared to down here.”
“Well we better
close this thing,” Bret turned to where they had just come from, well aware
of the dangers that came these days with darkness.
“Yeah, it’s
scary now,” said the boy. “Someone could easily sneak in and kill us.”
Hearing such
words from a child upset Bret’s poise. The kid was obviously scared, but
too brave to say it out loud. Shaking off the full impact of their situation,
Bret slid the door shut. The darkness within virtually impenetrable. A
thousand assassins could by lying in wait, and none would be any the wiser
till they leapt out. He couldn’t think about that right now. As Bret’s
sight adjusted, he noticed a number of skylights providing them with just
enough light to find their way around. Moving slowly and testing the ground
as they went, the obscured areas of the room became less threatening.
At the building’s
centre they came upon a pile of boxes like those outside, some of which
had their lids removed to reveal soft packing material, ideal for a makeshift
bed. After spreading the foamy sheets on the floor, Bret and the boy stretched
out and closed their eyes on the horrors of the day.
“I gotta be
crazy...” Bret aired to no one in particular.
“Why?” the boy
asked, sleep clearly evident in his voice.
“We walked right
passed them, and now are in a warehouse that they probably consider to
be theirs...” but the statement went unanswered, exhaustion had taken over
the boy, just as it was threatening to do to Bret. Just before it did,
he recalled with a pang that he was going to have to start all over again.
His recent narrow escape, where he had had to abandon everything that he
had amassed, to an unexpected rogue presence, was a clear reminder that
nothing was permanent now.
Nothing permanent: people, relationships,
possessions, nothing - nothing...
From here the
night passed swiftly, and before either of them knew it, it was morning.
~
14/12
As the light of day filtered through
the roof, Bret’s senses sprang to life. Leaving the boy asleep, he opened
the main door and stepped outside. It was a beautiful day, serene and silent,
except for the chirping of birds. Bret understood that to take this
at face value was foolish. There were many predators out there - two legged
ones for a start - and these days they would just as soon kill as not.
Bret relieved
himself in the tall grass, wondering whether there was still a real flushing
toilet left anywhere on the planet. He took pleasure in this simple act.
Most of what he wished for he could not have, and might not ever have again;
but when one had little, little things came to mean a lot.
Returning inside,
he took his first real look round. The warehouse was full of crates - many
smaller than a bread box, one as large as a one room house. To his immediate
disappointment, he didn’t see anything that might be deemed a weapon. Still,
he held out hope that there might be something suitable for defence in
one of the boxes. The first one he opened held angled brackets, the second
a number of large pins, the third motor parts for various purposes. So
it went, from box to box. After opening a dozen or so and finding nothing
interesting, he concluded that there were no weapons here.
The growling
in his stomach told him food was becoming a higher priority, so he returned
to the Boy, who was now awake.
“I thought you’d
left me.” he stated gruffly.
“No,” Bret reassured
him, “I’ve just been looking around. Are you sure there are weapons here?”
For a moment
they exchanged challenging looks, again. Then the youngster jumped up,
ready to make Bret eat his words. For a while the boy simply scanned the
boxes as if looking for a sign that could be recognized. Then he smiled.
“That box has
weapons in it.” Pointing to a large crate about fifteen feet away.
Bret shrugged.
“If you say so.” Retreating from the challenge, ready to face another.
He attacked the box with a crow bar he’d spotted on the floor. The lid,
though nailed shut, came off easily, revealing smaller cardboard boxes
containing place settings of dishes packed tightly together.
“These are pretty
good weapons,” he spoke loud enough for the boy to hear, a smile creasing
his features. “What do we do, throw them like death stars? Or maybe
we just have our victims eat themselves to death!”
The Boy looked
stunned, as if he’d been cheated. “Look under the plates, they must be
here. They gotta be.”
“Under,” thought
Bret. “Of course, that should keep us busy for a while.” Bret lifted out
dozens of dinner sets, and, finding nothing underneath them but more dinner
sets, he began to lose heart and slow down. The boy, on the other hand,
seemed to become more energized with each failure, urging Bret to continue.
They lifted another row out of the box and then another, until it looked
like there was nothing in the crate but dishes. Then suddenly, there they
were - bazookas!
“Well, I’ll
be damned,” Bret muttered, mostly to himself. “How in God’s name did you
know about this?”
“My friend’s
mother knew this man. He boasted about smuggling things. Said he worked
in a warehouse out this way and that he brought in other things as a cover.
One day when we were with her, she came here to bring him something. But
I didn’t know for sure. It was really just a guess!” The Boy looked both
pleased and sheepish at this confession.
A whistle escaped
Bret’s lips. All he could think was “Good guess!”
“So do you remember
anything else about this man?” Bret sought a clue as to what else they
might expect to find.
“The only other
thing I can remember is that he was a - what did he call it - oh, yeah,
a middle man?”
“So he might
have been exporting as well as importing?” Bret questioned almost rhetorically.
“Then there could be all sorts of useful stuff in here.” With a dramatic
flair he’d picked up watching old John Wayne movies, Bret heaved a bazooka
to his shoulder. It was a light-weight plastic affair, fire and forget
it, if he remembered correctly a Clint Eastwood movie he must have watched
a dozen time. These weapons would be as effective as anything he could
think of. Yes he pictured it clearly in his mind’s eye - thirty or forty
thugs at a time lined up and blasted into blood and bone. “As if they weren’t
already shit,” he thought. Spurred on by their astonishing success, they
continued searching in earnest. They found several more crates yielding
all told 50 bazookas and ammo. After a time, they stopped for a meal break.
Having lived
for what seemed like forever on nothing but vegetables cold from the can,
eating had been reduced to a mechanical action necessary to maintain life.
As soon as Bret had had enough to satisfy his growling stomach, he set
his tin aside. The discovery of the bazookas had fired his imagination.
“Surely there must be other goodies here,” he thought, feeling suddenly
like a kid on a treasure hunt.
Indeed, the
boxes stacked throughout the warehouse held all sorts of useful surprises,
that Bret supposed had been used as a cover for the more profitable weapons.
Bret found several new pairs of jeans and a tee shirt with the slogan,
Nuke the World! printed on the front - how apt. There were also a
half dozen pairs of good tramping boots, one pair in precisely his size.
The boy, seemingly uninterested in anything but weapons, ignored everything
else and finally found himself a nice little magnum. In spite of some trepidation
about an armed 12 year old, Bret let him keep the gun. Times had changed,
and not having a firearm of some kind, he realized, made one an almost
certain victim. But, as a precaution, he stashed the bullets.
They spent the
rest of the day seeking and finding. The haul was more than Bret could
have imagined - everything from automatic rifles to mortars. By dusk, they
had amassed enough weaponry to supply a small army, and that was exactly
what Bret hoped to do. He couldn’t get beyond his fantasy of wiping out
some of those bastards who had been chasing him round the countryside like
hounds after a hare.
Hounds after
the hare, no, he preferred it as a pack of hares chasing the hound, yes
villains chasing the law - after all in this time everything seemed reversed,
the abnormal made normal. From where he had just fled, he had been the
loner, strong and entrenched in his fortress, only to be found and routed
by a group of gutless youths. They hadn’t even bothered to find out who
he was, they just kept coming at him till he had no choice but fight -
then flee. There was no interest on their part to join forces or exchange
information, life skills, it was purely about the hunt, weapons and food.
It had pained
him to find dead youths lying at his door, day in day out. They deserved
more than this, they had survived the sickness, the ultimate killer, just
to spend their lives foolishly thing to steal what he had. But it was them
or him, and Bret’s instincts for survival were strong, he couldn’t merely
let them take his possessions and his life. Still as the numbers of dead
amassed, and his position became more tenuous, he had decided - time to
go.
The hares had
pursued him for miles and miles, they had a score to settle - and Bret,
he had fled, discarding objects that slowed his flight as need be. The
chase got so close he had been forced to stand and fight one last time,
use the balance of his ammunition, then go to ground. A hound gone to ground
he had been, and hare’s aren’t known for being intrepid trackers - so they
missed him, lost him, to trail went cold.
Once gone Bret
ran for his life, hour upon hour, day after day - ensuring he might keep
the advantage won, and his life. Rested, with fluid and food in his belly,
he had pressed on, finding quiet countryside and less need for stealth,
till running into the boy. They meeting might have gone very differently
if at the same time, several miles away gun fire had broken out. It had
grown closer, forcing them to be allies, despite being strangers, and the
rest, well - who knew...
The crowbar,
which he’d been using to pry open crates until it felt almost like an extension
of his arm, now hung idly at Bret’s side. Lost in such memories he was
just about to set it down when the largest box caught his eye. The crowbar
twitched in his hand as if having a will of its own. Although fatigue was
beginning to outstrip curiosity, Bret crossed the room and read the inscription.
On the manifest was an export declaration, neatly filled out and ready
to go - Tank Simulator, it said. What they were caught up in was no simulation
- for sure, so Bret wondered what use this thing could be to them?
Turning, however, he noticed an oily mark on the ground in front of the
box. “Hmmm,” he wondered aloud. “Strange thing for a simulator to do.”
The boy, suddenly
by his side, was still bursting with enthusiasm over the booty. “Open it,
open it!” he demanded.
Smiling and
shaking his head, Bret once again put his crow bar to work. He was tired
and expected nothing but a useless toy, but what the hey - he wasn’t fighting
for his life now. It took almost ten minutes to pry off the lid, and sure
enough inside was a tank - but it wasn’t a play thing!
What a day!
What a find! Now all Bret had to do was locate fuel to fire up the
beast. Hopefully, somewhere in the warehouse district there would be a
supply of diesel. Bret wondered idly why the warehouse owner had been exporting
a real tank. Where the hell had they acquired this, and where was it going?
There was no question that money was a factor here, but surely there were
other reasons to justify the huge risk involved. He supposed it would always
remain a mystery. Well, the reasons, they didn’t count for anything now.
All that mattered was they had themselves a tank!
While excited
about the day’s discoveries, the fast approaching night turned Bret’s thoughts
to the issues of security. A quick patrol outside confirmed that nothing
was amiss. Somewhat reassured, but not entirely at peace, he walked through
the warehouse checking for any signs of intruders, ending his watch upstairs
where the boy had made his entry. The excitement of their discoveries below
had kept Bret from exploring the upstairs before this, but now he found
several interesting rooms. One of them, as the Boy had said earlier, was
full of books. Most of them manuals for various weapons, many of which
Bret had never seen before. Sifting through the piles, he picked out the
ones that pertained to the arms they had found.
The next room
was strange. It measured only four by twenty feet and was padded with a
heavy sound-absorbent material. There were spent shells on the floor and
a wooden target against the far wall. This was, obviously, the demonstration
room. Whoever had owned this place had been into gun running big time,
but their operation had been sloppy. Just the fact that everything was
so out in the open - never mind that a school boy knew all about it - was
unbelievable. That they had gotten away with this seemed nothing short
of miraculous.
The third and
last room was a staff lounge with an adjoining toilet. Here was where
the boy had crawled through the window. Considering the contents and state
of the upstairs, Bret decided they may as well still sleep down with the
crates. Their pallets down there looked a lot more inviting than the wooden
chairs and tables up here - and downstairs seemed somehow safer.
Returning to
the corner of the main floor where they had set up camp, Bret found the
boy already foetal and almost asleep. The day was done, and so were they.
Exhaustion and the impending darkness forced Bret to retire to a packing
case bed. In spite of his extreme fatigue, he tossed and turned most of
the night, running scenarios of grandeur and doom over and over in his
mind.
~
15/12
Morning didn’t dawn nearly early enough
for Bret. As soon as there was enough light to see what they were doing,
he and the boy started de-crating their find. It turned out to be a light
armoured tank, which Bret expected would be more than adequate for what
he had in mind. A keen interest in a childhood past time called war gaming
came flood back, he had never expect it come to any use - how wrong he
and his parents had been.
War gaming had
been a big part of his childhood, along with games of strategy like roll
playing games and chess. It was a definite possibly that it had been this
background and his training as an engineer had made him the survivor he
now was. Being capable to be on his own had also been an advantage, well
in the beginning it had, now he was beginning to revise this as the exact
opposite, hares and hounds and all. But he wasn’t alone now, all he had
to ensure was that it at east stayed that way.
Staring blankly
at the books before him, he forced himself to focus on the job at hand.
There was a complete set of manuals covering everything from how to get
your new tank started, to maintenance and even driving hints for the freeway.
At the back of one of the books there was a section detailing parallel
parking and negotiating in traffic. In big red letters at the bottom of
the page it said -” Now YOU have the right of way!” he liked that, and
almost laughed out loud at the image of himself cruising through town in
the thing.
Reading the
books was educational, but not the same as experience. Under an inspection
plate in the dim interior of the tank there were banks of batteries, these
having obviously been disconnected for the trip. Searching out an adjustable
spanner, Bret managed to hook them up. The result of this labour, a sick
sounding whirr from the starter. They obviously needed a battery charger
- and about three hundred and fifty litres of diesel, which brought up
a more immediate need - transport. This was something Bret had been avoiding
up till now. The thought of using motor vehicles scared him for two good
reasons. First, it would attract attention, and second, it would bring
them out into the open where they would be easy to ambush. Still, to carry
what they needed by hand would be impractical. There no longer seemed to
be any choice. They had to risk using a car or truck to get real security.
They left the warehouse with definite
goals: one being to search for a light pick-up, the other to brainstorm
other things that should be on the “shopping list”. The immediate area
had been well scavenged, and they walked for several blocks before coming
upon a bedraggled Toyota Hi-ace. Battered and beaten,
rusted and neglected, it wasn’t very attractive, but it was empty of rubbish,
had a good battery, and, amazingly, it was, full of gas. There was grass
growing up round the tires, spider webs on the mirrors, and the beginnings
of a bird’s nest on the back bumper. The van looked to have been abandoned
- but why? Another mystery that would never be unravelled, Bret assumed.
But, at least they had wheels.
The quiet world
around them was shattered by the sound of the van’s engine. Bret had to
confirm that the thing still had an exhaust. (Yup it did). He marvelled
at how accustomed he’d become to the absence of such formerly taken-for-granted
things.
He smiled, thinking
the Toyota would be a good build up for driving the tank.
After a less
than satisfying lunch and a surprisingly pleasurable drink of flat lemonade,
they discussed likely places to search for that substance more valuable
than gold - fuel. Diesel seemed the obvious choice in that it was more
efficient, less prone to going stale, and easier on the motor than was
petrol. Strangely enough, the gangs had gone for the more spectacular vehicles.
A Porsche or Ferrari was all very fine in a modern world with clean highways,
but today such things were fading memories. For about the millionth time,
Bret was awe struck at their incredible stroke of luck in finding a tank
- was his luck finally changing?
“Can you think
of where there might be a pump around here?” Bret asked the question more
to make conversation than anything else.
Sure enough
the Boy had not the faintest idea where there might be an intact gas station.
With a sinking feeling, Bret thought they might have to visit every site
in the county to find accessible fuel. The warehouse
district seemed deserted, and, therefore safe; but travelling beyond it
in a van would be a risk far greater than any they’d taken so far. Survival
had meant remaining out of the sight of hostile eyes - and so far they
had managed it here.
“Oh well,” thought
Bret, “No guts, no glory.” He looked at the boy. “You ready for this?”
The kid nodded. “Then let’s do it!”
The van was
a pig to drive. In its day it might have been bearable, but now it was
a mere shadow of its former self. Bret experienced a flash of worry about
the heap’s previous owner, but the evidence was strong that he or she didn’t
need it any more. Still, the charged battery, decent tires, and full tank
indicated the vehicle had been in use not too long ago. “Oh well, finders
keepers,” he told himself, trying to justify an action that flew in the
face of his pre-disaster morality. “A treasure is for the taking, and what
you cannot hold is already gone”. He’d read that line somewhere, although
its source currently escaped him.
The road from
the warehouse was reasonably clear; therefore in only a short time they
were in the midst of the “Twilight Zone”, where stopping would be tantamount
to suicide. Whipping through the side streets, they made the best of the
almost non-existent traffic. Bret was sure he remembered a gas station
only a couple of miles from where they were now. “This needs to be a hit
and run visit,” he said to the boy, privately wondering if they would have
time to get to the drums, crank fill them, and get away before the evil
hordes discovered them.
Soon a garage
came into view. The station appeared to be intact. In fact, it looked untouched,
which was unrealistic considering the times. Bret’s suspicions were immediately
aroused. Instead of pulling in, he stopped the van and took a better look.
“Whatsa matter?” asked the boy.
Bret continued
his silent surveillance. Then, “Holy shit, would ya look at that!” The
place was rigged with trip wires connected to hand grenades. Though crude,
they would still be effective enough to send any unfortunate fool who set
them off straight to hell. The area here abouts was starting to exude a
distinct smell of a larger gang, where to take from them would result in
retribution. The conflict they had witnessed, the intact warehouses, this
station, the van, was there some sort of caretaker roaming the countryside,
guarding, dispatching, capturing?
Unrigging the
station was a nerve racking experience. Whoever had done this had had his
reason, though - the tanks were nearly full. It seemed, however, that he
either wasn’t very bright or was very vindictive, because if the hand-grenades
had been tripped, not only would the poor sod who did it have been killed,
but there was a good chance the whole station would have gone up in a raging
inferno. Such a person obviously had little esteem for life, and no sense
of the need to conserve the resources that were left. Even after all he’d
experienced since the sickness, Bret found such an attitude almost impossible
to comprehend.
With the wires
safely cut and the grenades stashed in the van, they began the search for
drums. After an extensive search, they found five twenty gallon drums.
While looking for drums Bret also searched for any maps of the area, but
found none. He shivered. Without a map, strangers to the area would be
lost, and, generally speaking, lost people make easy targets. Again he
questioned the area’s status, it was looking more and more like a gang
patch than a quiet countryside refuge.
Having taken stock of the station’s
contents, their movements became swift and sure. First Bret backed the
van up close to the pumps and put the drums inside. Then, using the hand
crank, he pumped for all he was worth. The five drums held 100 gallons
of fuel, and attempting to fill them took what seemed like forever. With
his arms starting to ache, and his mind on the ever-present possibility
of discovery by unfriendly forces, controlling his temper took all of his
focus.
“You do realize,”
the boy cheered him on, “that this is only the first trip? We’ll
need much more than this.” Bret just groaned his acknowledgement, so the
boy continued. “We’ll also need a pump to empty these drums, when we want
to fill the tank from them.”
With this Bret
stopped pumping. “Bloody hell!” he realized the little smart arse was right.
“This is ridiculous! I’ll be a wreck if I have to do all this by
hand.”
“What do you
mean will be?” the boy retorted with a smile.
Bret gave him
a scathing look in hopes it would shut him up. He had no idea just how
he might pump the fuel other than by hand, but if there was a way, he vowed
he would find it. In the mean time, he resigned himself to manual labour.
When they finally
left the station they had just over fifty gallons of diesel, and Bret felt
his arms were about fifty inches longer than when he’d begun. He had hoped
to fill all the drums, but this would have to do for the moment. Bret was
growing increasingly anxious to return to the safety of the warehouse,
and they still had a list of supplies to scrounge up. They needed:
1 - Petrol powered
generator.
2 - Lubrication
oil.
3 - Several
battery chargers.
4 - Electric
pump.
5 - Maps of
the area.
6 - and of course
food and drink.
With these items
in mind, they headed back into the streets, hoping the run of luck would
last and they would remain unnoticed. Bret had an uncomfortable feeling
in the pit of his stomach that they were sailing into the wind. There was
about three hours of light left, and in this time there was so much to
acquire and accomplish that he doubted it was possible.
“I think it
would be best to stay out of town.” the boy offered needlessly.
“Yes grandma,
I suppose you’ll be telling me how to suck eggs next.” Bret’s usual good
humour was beginning to return.
“Well now you
mention it,” the Boy smiled, “it would help if you sucked your cheeks in.”
Bret reached
over and gave him a good-natured cuff up side the head. They grinned at
each other as they began a circuit of the town’s outer shops.
After an hour
they reached another garage, that the boy remembered his mother frequenting
upon occasion in his old life. The gods were smiling this day, since the
garage, which had run an equipment leasing service, while outwardly a mess,
was still fairly in tact inside. There they found the much-needed generator
and a portable electric pump, as well as a chainsaw, a wheelbarrow, gardening
implements, various pumps, scaffolding, jump leads, welders, portable toilets,
tools, furniture trailers, a towable fuel tank. All these were covered
with a liberal layer of dust and grouped together near the main sliding
doors. The only thing Bret could figure was that some poor soul had placed
them here in the hope of acquiring the elixir of life and never made it
back. Had he died of starvation or been taken out by a passing gang? Such
thoughts made him stop and wonder about what dangers awaited them.
For a few moments
they both just stood there silently staring. So many good people had died,
both during and after the sickness. So many who were left were reduced
to living like animals, yet Bret fancied there were honest people out there
somewhere just waiting for a chance - perhaps one he and his tank could
give them.
Bret shook off
his ever growing somber thoughts and turned again to the task at hand.
With the boy’s help, he lifted the: generator, pump, chainsaw, wheelbarrow,
jump leads, and a selection of tools into the back of the van. Two drums
had to be sacrificed to make space, but they were, thankfully empty. Bret
chuckled at how upset he would have been had he had to sacrifice two drums
that he’d busted his hump to fill.
There was a
furniture trailer that Bret was tempted to take, but he decided it would
be better to have a reserve of fuel, so, instead, he hitched the towable,
but almost empty, fuel tank to the back of van.
They could always come back for the trailer when and if they needed it.
The tank, once full and functional, would be invaluable insurance.
With a little
effort Bret managed to find a five gallon tin into which he cranked gas
for the generator. Following this, he had a brief go at filling the trailer
with diesel. Alas it was an impossible task. Its capacity was well over
five hundred gallons, and even if his arms weren’t already as sore as hell,
at ten gallons a minute, it would take nearly an hour to fill, and it seemed
important to get back before dark.
The wreckage
that had been the station still had a small selection of junk food - enough
to stave off their hunger - and, while nutritionally nil, it was a nice
break from the canned goods they’d been living on. Bret was exhausted and
beginning to get nervous about the approach of nightfall, and all he really
wanted was to return to the safety of the warehouse and savour the goodies
they’d found. But there was one last item they desperately needed. They
turned the office and stationary stand upside down in a search for maps,
and, again, there were none to be found. The growing trend tended to support
the idea that they had been removed intentionally! In all their travels,
they hadn’t run across a single map. Bret was sure this was more than mere
coincidence. Someone was being very thorough in an effort to keep others
from learning too much, and he wondered who, and why.
Bret couldn’t
believe they didn’t miss one map somewhere - a Lands and Survey office,
some local council building, a library, a forgotten garage, house, or even
the glove compartment of a car - but that search would have to wait. It
was going on sunset when they started back. “Home,” Bret thought.
Home in the broadest possible sense - but he was grateful that there was
an arena of safety and warmth that was, for the moment, theirs.
The trip back
to the warehouse was uneventful. Making room for the van and trailer was
easy, and, except for the drums of fuel, they managed to off load most
of the haul before it got pitch black. Almost too tired to eat, they grabbed
a quick snack, and hit the hay. Again Bret found that as soon as his head
hit, he just had to talk, make a diary entry to the air.
“So what do
you think, run or fight?”
“Are you serious?”
the boy no longer took time to consider the answer.
“Okay, so you
know this area, where do we start?”
“I was here
before the sickness, now, this place is scary - the shops and houses, they
look like they haven’t been touched...”
“You noticed
it too?”
“I’ve got eyes,
just like you!” turning over in his make shift bed, ready for sleep.
“Right, and
I think we’re going to need both of them if we are to succeed...” and considerate
of the boy’s needs, and his own, Bret let sleep come. Thankfully this night
he slept the sleep of the just.
~
16/12
As another day dawned, Bret awoke with
a groan. His arms ached, his head throbbed, and he wanted to die. God what
had he had to drink last night - oh that’s right, nothing...
“I’d give my
right arm for a cup of coffee, a piece of toast, and a newspaper,” he thought
glumly. Sitting in the morning’s silence, he listened
for the whisper of the wind or any other sound from outside, but all was
quiet. There weren’t many sounds left in this world, Bret realized, apart
from the distant chirping of unworried birds and the odd cricket rubbing
its legs together. In the oppressive heat of late morning, the only thing
that ever disturbed the silence now was the occasional rumble of thunder
(or machine-gun fire). Bret cringed at the mere thought of a hard rain
on the tin roof of the warehouse. But it hadn’t rained in weeks.
Seeing that
Bret was awake, the Boy bounded over to him, obviously eager to continue
pulling their new life together. He stopped short, sensing something amiss.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes, and no.”
Bret replied, touched by such open concern.
“It’s hard sometimes,
now,” the boy said softly. Then with a sigh sat and took hold of one of
Bret’s blistered hands.
“Well, I’ll
be damned,” thought Bret, peering at the boy as if to make sure this was
the same person he’d been travelling with. This was the first sign of emotion
the boy had shown since they’d met. “Maybe there’s
hope for this kid yet!” They sat in silence for a while, each remembering
what was probably best forgotten - a past with everyone and everything
they’d loved and would never see again. Before the slide into depression
was complete, Bret forced himself to make a move.
“Okay. Okay,
let’s get this show on the road.” With a somewhat forced sparkle of anticipation
they rose, each a bit revitalized and reassured by the other’s continued
presence. Both looked forward to the “awakening of the lion”. It took only
a matter of moments to hook up the generator, but starting it was another
matter. The bloody thing just didn’t want to go. In the end Bret had to
dismantle the carburettor and clean out the jets, which were blocked by
a varnish-like substance. After several hours of bad language, and a little
blood, the generator roared into life. “About bloody time!” they agreed.
Bret left it running, not wanting
to tempt fate into forcing them to repeat the performance. He then prepared
to transfer the diesel from the drums in the van to the tank’s fuel tank.
That took a few minutes, since the fuel tank was pretty well hidden at
the back under all the workings, in spite of the fact that the filler had
been placed at the front. “Well that’s bloody logical.” Bret mumbled, thinking
how “bloody” was rapidly becoming his favourite word. On this vehicle nothing
was exposed, everything was either armoured, or in some other manner removed
from harms way. In the future such care might pay off handsomely, but in
this moment, it had cost him some time.
The fuel transfer
took about fifteen minutes, but the generator’s task wasn’t over by a long
shot. Now it had the ominous job of charging a
tank that had never been started. Bret had a bank of chargers running -
three in all - and each could supply five amps at 24V. It was only with
the generator running flat out that they were able to do this, and then
just barely. The noise of the generator in the confines of the warehouse
was deafening. They would really need to figure out some way of muffling
it. But that problem would have to wait for another time. Now they had
to go hunting for something to eat.
Stepping outside,
Bret realized the noise of the generator had masked the sound of rain.
And the rain, he hoped, would mask the sound of the generator. The discomfort
it presented was more than offset by its promise to, at least for the moment,
keep the generator from attracting unwanted attention. ‘That,” he thought
wryly, “would bring the ultimate discomfort - capture and an early death.
Bret needn’t have worried. The
rain intensified beyond anything he had expected.
By popular consensus
- Bret’s - the boy got the job of closing the main doors. He returned drenched.
Taking pity on him, Bret turned the heater up to high and paid for his
generosity by roasting all the way to the first stop. The agreed destination
was a small store off the beaten track that, hopefully, would not have
been completely looted.
At first, the
pickings had been easy, since the plague had struck like lightening and
most of the community died before the grocery shelves were completely empty.
What survivors there were had gravitated to cities, probably in hopes of
finding other survivors. Then overcrowding and disease sparked by the unsanitary
conditions had turned the cities into war zones. Bret had avoided these
settlements like the plague he felt they harboured. The courage to go it
alone had probably saved his life. Many people had died in these places,
victims of the after-sickness insanity, of the crazy gangs that destroyed
just because they could.
Though it had
been two years since the sickness, there was still a surprising number
of useful items to be found. All it took was a keen eye, caution, and a
little perseverance.
In just twenty
minutes they found their target. It was still intact and had been left
pretty much alone - from first impressions. Cautiously, Bret parked the
van at a distance, having learned long ago that everything is not what
it seems. They sat for a few moments watching the rain cascade down against
the windshield and waiting. The motor hummed softly, as if harmonizing
with the wiper’s repetitive rhythm. They watched for some sort of sign
that it was safe to proceed.
“What do you
think?” Bret peered through the curtain of rain.
“Seems okay...”
The Boy looked from the store to Bret and back. “Seems okay” wasn’t quite
good enough, and they continued to wait.
In the minutes
that followed nothing moved, so with his heart in his throat, Bret turned
the engine off. The following silence, rain included, was like the generator’s
roar - quite deafening.
“Let’s get this
over with.” Bret opened the van’s door, keen to finish the grocery shopping
that would either enable them to live another day or spell disaster.
They dashed
through the torrential down pour for the shop’s shelter, Bret armed with
an axe, the Boy with a hammer and bags. In a way Bret felt like a thief
in the night - except it wasn’t dark, nor was it stealing. To steal you
had to take something from someone, and the sad truth was, there weren’t
very many people left.
They made it
to the shop’s front door, where an overhang offered protection from the
rain, allowing them to contemplate their next move in relative dryness.
So far so good. The door was locked and boarded, however; and while breaching
it would be easy, they wouldn’t be able to help but make noise.
“I’d rather
leave this as a last resort.” Bret stated apologetically, looking bleakly
at the continued down pour.
The Boy nodded
his agreement, and so they continued, making a circumnavigation of the
building - becoming soaked for their trouble. The back was well fortified
with an armoured door and there were no windows in the solid concrete walls.
Options were running out. They made their way back to the front, slightly
wetter than they started.
Knowing the
danger of attracting unwanted attention, Bret stood poised before the shop’s
entrance and took a deep breath. Actually, pulling the boards from the
door was quieter than anticipated. Whoever had secured this building was
either in a hurry or not very experienced. Or perhaps this barrier was
more for show than to keep people out. The door behind it was locked, but
with a single axe blow, wood and glass flew in all directions. Four more
blows and the entrance was open. Passing through, the Boy gave the remains
a symbolic blow with his hammer - as if to christen the opening of the
supermarket.
“Nice touch.”
Bret commented, as the rest of the glass cascaded to the ground, with a
thousand tinklings.
The small supermarket
looked untouched. Entering it was like going back in a dream to a
time when things were always there, when all you needed was money to pay.
Today there were still things for the taking, but the method of payment
could be a little more severe and permanent. The eerie normalcy of the
rows of neatly stacked cans and packets evoked a wave of memories that
Bret had to shake off, lest he became trapped in the past.
“Jackpot!” he
whispered hoarsely.
“Look at all
the food!” The Boy looked like he had never seen such a thing. It had been
two years, after all, and he was young. Bret wondered how much of the old
life he remembered.
“Come on, come
on, get that bag open.” Bret roused the boy from his surprise and himself
from his nostalgia. They sprung into action, piling in supplies as if there
was no tomorrow. Despite their run of luck, Bret couldn’t shake the uneasy
feeling that had begun to lodge itself in his stomach the day before at
the garage. Things had just been falling into place too easily. He didn’t
trust it.
“This is too
slow. I’ll back the van up to the door.” Greed finally overcoming his sense
of caution. A van full of food would last months, which meant they wouldn’t
have to place themselves in the danger that foraging always entailed, well
not till they we more prepared.
Sprinting to
the van he made silent prayers to whatever nameless god might be listening.
“Just give us ten minutes more good luck, and I promise to be an angel
for the rest of my life. If,” he thought wryly, “I don’t become an angel
before my time.”
Jumping into
the van he turned the key - and nothing! His stomach lurched. “Oh
God not now! Please don’t give up on us now!” But no matter how hard he
tried, his efforts were met with nothing but a sickening click. Amidst
a sea of panic he lifted the seat to expose the engine bay. The battery
was there, but one of the leads wasn’t. Instinctively he ducked. Battery
leads didn’t just vanish. Shit, they were sitting ducks!
Bret’s heart
switched into overdrive, and he felt like he was struggling for breath.
Had his luck run out? “Shit, shit, shit,” was all he could think. “I’ll
get you for this God.” he began, but reconsidered.
The situation could still get worse - best he not tempt fate.
Feeling like
a large red target had been pinned to his back, Bret bolted from the van,
leaving the seat up, the motor exposed. He covered the distance back to
the supermarket in five seconds flat. Just as he reached the door there
was a crash of thunder so loud and close that he wondered for a moment
if he’d been shot... Reeling from the sound, he lost his footing on the
wet concrete. His leg and shoulder gave a sharp twinge of pain as he twisted
his body in an attempt to keep his balance - upsetting both his thoughts
and direction. Inside he met the Boy coming out - looking pale as a ghost.
“What’s the
matter?” The boy demanded rather than asked. “It’s not just the thunder,
is it?”
“No.” Bret replied
between gasps. “The van won’t start, and we’ve got company.” Then, feeling
another twinge in his shoulder, he reached up to soothe the pain, and his
hand came away wet and red with blood. “And of course I’ve been shot,”
he added for effect. Then without the sarcasm, “Shit, I thought it was
just the thunder.”
Sitting down
hard at this realisation, upon a crate of sugar, Bret felt the world to
be disintegrating around him. The boy on the other hand quickly located
gauze and tape and, as best he could, wrapped a bandage around Bret’s shoulder.
“They must have got me at the door, just when that roll of thunder came,”
Bret retraced his steps haltedly, still in a state of shock at this latest
development. All they could do was look at each other. Up to this point
they’d only been hounded, but now they were directly under fire. Bret wondered
had they gambled and lost? Could this be the end?
“At least they
only fired a warning shot.” the boy said in a shaky attempt at bravery.
It was something Bret hadn’t considered.
His mind had
been busy berating him: If only they hadn’t walked into this situation
as if it were a Sunday picnic, if only he had been ready and packing -
none of this would have happened. Now because of his carelessness, they
were facing death.
The boy’s observation
snapped Bret back into practical mode. “You’ve got a point. They can’t
mean to kill us - I mean if they wanted to they could have, right?
I was a sitting duck in the van.” Yes, this must have been a warning gone
wrong. If they’d have wanted him dead, he’d given them a golden opportunity.
He considered again how odd it was that they removed the battery lead,
but didn’t rifle the van further. “It’s almost like they want to capture
us....” Bret’s voice dwindled off into silence.
“Shit!” Then
in answer to the unasked question, “The back door!” Ignoring the throbbing
in his shoulder, Bret was on his feet like a shot.
“You take that
side, I’ll take the other.” He was back in control again, and began the
race to the shop’s rear, hoping against hope he wasn’t too late.
Bret’s longer
legs brought him to the rear of the building ahead of the boy. His heart
missing a beat when he saw that the door was already ajar. Someone
or something had unlocked it and was inside with them. He held his breath
and listened. He heard nothing, not even the boy’s advance. “Shit, shit,
triple shit.” Bret was beyond mere worry into something much more primal.
Moving slowly to the door he peeked out and saw a Land Rover, but he couldn’t
spot anybody near it - quadruple shit!
Fear was suddenly
replaced with anger. “I’ll get you.” he whispered, and this time he didn’t
mean God.
In almost a
single bound, Bret leapt to where the Land Rover stood, popped the bonnet
open, and with a smile, yanked out the high tension lead from between the
coil and distributor. Stuffing the lead in his pocket he closed the bonnet,
feeling the satisfaction that comes with evening a score.
Returning to
the shop, he locked the door behind him. With his heart racing out of control
and his pulse hammering in his ears, he stopped to listen for some sound
of life. Faint footsteps could be heard at the front of the shop. He set
out on a path of interception, no longer sure if he was cat or the mouse
in this deadly game of survival.
Again fate smiled.
The axe he had used to break down the door rested against a display of
canned soups. Retrieving it, Bret slowly crept towards the front of the
shop, hoping to be the ambusher this time. The sound of footsteps had vanished,
and all that could be heard was the patter of rain and an occasional rumble
of thunder off in the distance.
Upon reaching
the end of the row, he peeked around boxes of cake mix to, at last, get
a glimpse of his adversary. What he spied was intimidating - the barrel
of a rifle, probably the same one that had shot him earlier! Bret
took a deep breath and leaned out a bit more, hoping against hope not to
be seen.
The scene at
the front of the store was like his worst nightmare. The boy was tied and
gagged, but, Bret noted thankfully, looked otherwise unhurt. The armed
assailant stood to the left of him, dripping, gun at the ready, peering
intently out at the van as if expecting an attack from that quarter. Maybe
there was still an advantage here. Maybe he thought Bret was outside with
a bullet in him. If this was the case, he must be feeling confident. Oh
how Bret hoped he was cocky enough to be careless.
In a daring
move that momentarily exposed him, Bret moved a row nearer, a roll of thunder
covering his advance. Now the distance was more realistic - about nine
feet. Looking from the axe to the rifle, he mentally played out his options.
There weren’t many - strike once successfully or be finished off. Yes,
this was the moment of truth all right. Lifting the axe into position,
he readied himself to take the ultimate gamble.
Throwing an
axe is not easy. Pushing everything but his objective from his mind, Bret
swung the axe back and forth a few times to get used to the feel of it,
aimed, and with a gritty determination, lobbed it carefully at his target.
It was an awe inspiring sight that axe flying end over end through the
air. For one terrible instant Bret feared his aim was off; but the axe
completed its flight with a whiisssshhhhh and a satisfying thump. The gunman,
obviously sensing something, had started to turn, and as he did, the flat
of the axe caught him on the right side of the head.
Without bothering
to confirm the result of the impact, Bret launching himself forward. In
a leap and two strides the gap was gone, and with a single motion he grabbed
the rifle and prepared to use it viciously. There was little need - for
the game was over and he had won. The assailant was neutralized, and he
and the boy were still alive.
“Are you all
right!” Bret asked, grappling with tight bonds.
“I wasn’t. But
I am now.” Brave talk, but the boy was shaking like a leaf, and for a moment,
he clung to Bret like the child he was. Then, when he had regained his
composure: “You were awesome!”
The morning
was drawing in. Having somehow survived again, Bret was intent on getting
the hell out of there. The encounter had been beneficial in that it had
given his sense of invulnerability a good kick in the pants. In other times
such a close brush with death would have sent him to the pub, but such
indulgence was a thing of the past. Lesson learned, he turned his thoughts
to what the next step should be.
Bret turned
to the wet crumpled form, bleeding on the floor. “It serves you bloody
well right.” he aired to the lifeless body, without feeling even the slightest
remorse at his actions. With the butt of the rifle he prodded the body,
which showed no signs of life. He then handed the rifle, cocked and ready,
to the Boy, who puffed up like a blow fish at the responsibility given
him.
Slowly Bret turned the body over.
To his amazement, it was a young woman, hardly older than his young companion.
“Ya,” said the
boy, stone evident in his voice. “It was a girl. Now what?”
“That’s a good
question. I’d love to leave her to the buzzards, but she might prove useful.”
A frisking of
the comatose captive revealed she was a walking arsenal; but, best of all,
Bret recovered the missing battery lead. Standing up brought a wave of
dizziness, though, and he reached out to steady himself. Looking down with
horror, he realized the blood on the wet floor was not that of the vanquished
aggressor, but his own. The makeshift bandage had soaked through, and the
sleeve of his shirt was saturated.
“You all right?”
asked the boy, feeling a sudden clench of fear at Bret’s pallor.
“Gotta be,”
mumbled Bret. “I gotta get the van running. We gotta get outahere.”
The boy nodded,
then turned in a manner that was characteristic toward the aisle with the
first aid supplies.
His arm bound,
Bret left the Boy to stand guard over their captive while he staggered
to the van and, with some fumbling, refitted the battery lead, chiding
himself all the while for letting them get into this situation. The rain
was continuing in a steady downpour. In the ten minutes it took Bret to
get them mobile again, he was soaked. The chill helped him to stay conscious.
He then backed the van up to the shop’s front door. Resting his head momentarily
on the steering wheel, he summoned his will and climbed out.
“I’m all right,”
he said, noticing the concern in the boy’s eyes. “But I don’t know how
long I can hold it together, and we gotta get her in the van.” Together
they dragged the unconscious girl through the shattered glass and managed
to hoist her up into the back of the Toyota. Then Bret pulled himself around
to the driver’s side, got in, and allowed himself to rest while the boy
filled the remaining space with supplies.
A couple of
hours later than planned, they headed back to the warehouse. The trip took
twenty minutes. There had not been a sound from the back of the van, so
they left the unconscious girl where she was and went inside.
Throughout the
day, Bret had worried about the batteries becoming over charged and burning
out. He was grateful to see that the generator had run out of fuel, as
he’d prayed it would, and that the batteries had survived.
In spite
of the dizzying blood loss, the bullet in Bret’s arm wasn’t deeply lodged,
and he managed to flick it out with a knife. Disinfected, bandaged, and
in fresh dry clothes, Bret did what he could to help the boy unload the
truck. With luck, the haul would keep them well fed for at least a couple
of months.
The van being
emptied of supplies, they turned their attention to the limp form of the
girl. “Is she dead?” asked the boy, wide eyed.
“I don’t think
so,” smiled Bret, eyeing the hammer clutched like a weapon in the boy’s
right hand. “But if you use that on her she will be.”
The Boy smiled
menacingly at this, and made as if to aim the maul at her head. “Yeah,
keep that stance handy,” Bret joked.
“We wouldn’t
want her to wake up and get you.” The boy responded with an impudent flash
of tongue.
Then, for the
first time, Bret actually looked at his captive, and what he saw shocked
him. This once formidable character was revealed to be nothing but a scrawny
kid, suffering from a mild case of acne and obvious malnutrition. Despite
the mountains of food she guarded, it looked as if she hadn’t eaten well
for a long time.
Bret was puzzled.
“Don’t you think it’s kind of strange that she was there with all that
food, yet she looks as if she hasn’t had a proper feed for months?”
“For sure,”
said the boy. “I think I can smell a rat!”
Stopping to consider this, Bret
ran through the possibilities and came up blank. “The only way we’re going
to get an answer is by asking the one person who knows. Get me the some
water will you?”
Unstopping the
canteen the boy handed him, Bret took a deep breath. Looking down at the
vulnerable form, he felt something in him soften. For the first time, he
saw, not a dangerous assassin, but a young girl - way too young for the
life she’d been forced to live. He tilted her head back and poured a little
water into her mouth without response.
“Maybe I’m being
a little subtle.” He then tried slapping her lightly on the wrists and
face, again with no discernible effect. Still holding her, he was considering
his next step when the Boy short circuited his planning by grabbing the
canteen and pouring it over her, splashing Bret in the process.
“Shit!” was
all Bret managed to sputter before realizing the young woman was stirring.
She opened her
eyes enough to register her new surroundings, then froze as if she were
made of stone. At first she looked at her hands, then at Bret. Her eyes
registered shock as she realized someone was holding her. She reminded
Bret of a trapped animal.
“My name’s Bret,”
he offered, suddenly feeling inexplicably unsure of himself. “What’s your’s?”
Then: “You can relax. I’m not going to hurt you.”
This only seemed
to shock her further, but with trembling lips she forced out the one word
required: “Melissa.” She closed her eyes and winced.
“Bet you’ve
got one helluva headache,” Bret said lamely. She nodded her response.
The Boy moved
into view, and Bret saw recognition and fear flash across her face.
“You tried to
kill us,” the boy stated flatly. “Why?”
“I had too,”
she whispered. “It’s my job...”
“Can you sit
up?” Bret asked.
“I think so,”
came the reply. Slowly she pulled away from Bret and turned to face him,
her eyes filled with questions.
“You work for
a gang.” It was more of a statement than a question.
Melissa nodded.
“Didn’t have a choice. They’d have killed us otherwise.”
“Us?” asked
Bret.
“My sister and
me,” came the answer. “They send one of us out and hold the other hostage.
That way they’re sure we’ll come back.” She smiled wanly. “You’re lucky
you didn’t run into Jane. She’s a crack shot. She wouldn’t have missed.”
(So there you have it 48 pages of 675,
I hope you liked it - not the best book in the world, still...)