“When’s the next time you’re heading out hunting?” Mike asked.
“Mornin’.”
“What time?”
“I’ll let you know when I get my ammo.”
“Look, Ken, if this is going to work we’re going to need a little trust. It’s not like I’m asking for your social security number.”
“You wanna know why the rest of the country’s gone to shit and I’m still alive? It’s because of that trust. Except my trust isn’t with other people it’s with me. I know how to stay alive. I know how to keep moving forward. It’s no skin off my back if no one else knows how to do that.”
There wasn’t any doubt in Mike’s mind that Ken was right about being able to survive, about not needing to depend on others to make it through, but Mike wondered if that’s what he would have to become. Would he have to push everything out of him except his own stubborn will to survive? And if he did, then what did that mean for his family?
“You’re pretty cynical for a man with all those crosses in your house,” Mike said.
“Ha! That’s all of the wife’s shit. She’s the one who dragged our boys to church every Sunday. The only thing I miss from before the power went out was having those Sunday mornings to myself while the rest of them were gone. What about you? Have you found solace in the fact that God will save us?”
The last sentence came out in a sarcastic plea. Mike listened to the stillness of the forest. It was midafternoon now, and there wasn’t even the rustle of leaves, just the sound of their boots crunching on the forest floor and the periodic spit of the man next to him.
“No. Whatever saving happens comes from us.”
Day 13 (Biker Gang)
The bags under Jake’s eyes told the story of his night. It told the story for most of his nights over the past few weeks. The cold concrete of the fountain he leaned against was uncomfortable, but he was too numb to move. The sky was gray, struggling to turn blue with the morning’s rising sun.
Jake took another swig of the nearly empty bottle of Jack Daniels and finally succumbed to the heaviness of his eyelids.
Find the bitches. Make them suffer. Kill them. Burn them.
He opened his eyes and saw the charred corpses on the ground and the woman tied to the pole. She was the mother of the three girls he believed killed one of his brothers. He ran his hand over the president’s patch on his cut, feeling the outline of the raised letters against the leather.
That patch was his life. The club was his life. Everything he did was for the prosperity of his brothers, the advancement of the club… the amelioration of his own survival.
He walked back to his room at the motel. He passed the open doors of his brothers asleep in their beds, snoring, slumbering from restless dreams.
When he made it to his room, he felt his body collapse onto the dirty sheets of his bed. They were stained with sweat and dirt from the past week. The room was starting to smell. He was starting to smell. The whole goddamn town reeked of death. It was a death that he brought, a death that he would always bring.
Jake tore the sheets off the bed, balled them up, and threw them in the trash. He picked up the pieces of garbage, collecting the empty wrappers and half-eaten sandwiches from the floor. As he bent over, he felt dizzy and collapsed.
The room was spinning. He looked at the whiskey still clutched in his hand. The brown liquid sloshed back and forth. He smiled, laughed.
Jake steadied himself, rose, then began chugging the rest of the bottle in defiance. He wouldn’t let anything stand in the way of him finishing the things he wanted, no matter what the cost.
The last few drops were drained from the bottle and he threw it against the wall violently. The bottle burst into jagged shards that rained to the carpet.
Jake fell onto the nightstand behind him. The lamp crashed to the bed and the blank clock slid into the space between the wall and the stand.
The edges of the smashed glass were sharp when he picked them up. The pieces dug into his skin, drawing blood as he pinched them between his fingers.
When the bottle was whole, the glass was harmless. He could run his fingers along the edges without hurting himself. The bottle only became a weapon when he made it one. The bottle only became dangerous because of him.
Jake liked that. He liked the violence in him. That violence propelled him to lead the storied Diablo Motorcycle Club. Everyone knew who he was back in Cleveland. Everyone feared him there, just as he had made everyone fear him here in Carrollton.
That fear gave him strength. It gave him purpose.
Kalen waited for her mother to head outside with the rest of the group to start work on the garden. They’d taken what they needed from the basement, but Kalen wanted to make sure she could get the other pistol out of the safe quickly, so she did a few practice runs.
The safe downstairs had been relocked. Kalen searched the boxes for the key but couldn’t find it. She figured her dad must have it. She knew he had a spare, but she wasn’t sure where he kept it.
When she came back up from the basement, her mom was coming back inside.
“Mom,” Kalen said.
“Yeah.”
“Do you know where the key to the gun safe is?”
“What?”
“I wanted to show Mary how to handle a weapon.”
“Kalen, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“We won’t be shooting. I just want to make sure she feels comfortable with it. She’s still pretty spooked about what happened to her parents. I think having some knowledge of how to protect herself will help her feel safer.”
There was some truth to that. Mary was still having trouble dealing with her parents. Kalen just chose to leave out her own motives.
“Okay,” Anne said.
Kalen followed her mom down to her bedroom. Anne pulled the key out of the top dresser drawer and dropped it into Kalen’s hand.
“Just put everything back when you’re done. And make sure the pistols aren’t loaded.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
Kalen rushed back downstairs to the basement. Some of the rifles were gone, since her dad left this morning, but there was still a large assortment to choose from.
The .223 Remington with a lever action, the 12-gauge shotguns, and a number of AR-15s were all organized in the safe. There were also 9mm and .45, .22, and .40-caliber pistols lining the inside of the safe.
Kalen grabbed two AR-15 rifles along with several boxes of ammunition and four spare magazines. She placed the rifles, ammunition, and magazines into a duffel bag. She also grabbed one of the 9mm Smith and Wesson pistols and tucked it behind her waistband.
When Kalen found Mary she was outside helping with the garden. She brought her around to the front of the house and pulled out the 9mm.
“It’s not loaded,” Kalen said. “See how it feels. You want it to be comfortable.”
“It’s heavy.”
Mary aimed at one of the trees, peering through the three-white-dot alignment sights. After a few moments, the gun began to shake in her hands. Mary’s face twitched, the corners of her mouth folded downward. Finally she lowered the gun.
“I can’t do this,” Mary said.
“What?”
“Whatever it is you think we can do, Kalen. We’re not soldiers. I don’t know how to fight.”
Mary extended the pistol back to Kalen. It lingered in the air between the two of them. Kalen finally placed her hands on top of Mary’s, stepped directly behind her, and guided the pistol’s sight back up to eye level.
“Those men down there will come for you again. They’ll make you hurt long before they decide to put a bullet in your brain and end you,” Kalen said.
Kalen kept Mary’s hand steady. She continued to whisper in her ear.