Stewart rubbed at his beard, ‘It means two things. The first is that you’ve got to get going.’
I knew I should have stood up but I felt frozen to the chair. ‘And what’s the second meaning of that call?’
Stewart looked right at me. ‘It means a militia unit is heading right here, right now.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Stewart got up and I followed him as he raced down the stairs. He talked over his shoulder at me as we went into the living room. ‘Because of who my daughter married, I’ve been on a list. Big deal. Half the county is on a list of some sort, especially those of us who fed or hid refugees from the cities when the shooting started. But we tend to know each other and we try to keep track of what’s going on. And part of keeping track is giving out a warning when the militias are on the move. Jerry.’
The boy looked up from the television. He didn’t say a word.
Stewart said, ‘Red alert, son. Take the dog and go down into the cellar. All right? You know the drill.’
Jerry nodded and said, ‘Tucker.’ The English springer spaniel leaped up and followed him out of the room. I heard the noise of feet and paws slapping on wooden stairs.
Stewart said, ‘Poor guy’s seen more crap in his nine years than some people have during their entire lives.’
‘I’m sure,’ I said.
‘And I’m sure of one other thing, and that’s that we’ve got to get you out of here,’ he said. ‘C’mon, not much time to waste.’
We went into the kitchen and Stewart filled my water bottle, which he passed over to me. I put on my coat and slung my blanket roll over my shoulders. He said, ‘Sorry it can’t be dusk. OK. Here’s the directions. Back past the bam, go over the electric fence. Don’t worry, it’s not turned on. By the fence is an old bathtub. Used it for a while as a watering trough. From there, head up the hill. You’ll see the path. Get up the hill, keep on going straight. The trail will widen some. When you start coming down the opposite slope, you’ll spot the highway in the distance. Maybe ten, fifteen minutes away. Just try to keep moving in a straight line. You can’t miss it.’
I held out my hand. ‘Thanks. I owe you a lot, Stewart, a hell of a lot.’
He ignored my outstretched hand. ‘Remember we’re out here, OK? See if you can’t do something about that. And one more thing.’
Stewart brushed past me, went to a closet beside the door leading outside. He opened the closet door, reached up and pulled something down off an upper shelf. Then he brought it out and presented it to me.
A scoped rifle with a leather sling.
I shook my head. ‘I’m UN. I’m not supposed to carry—’
‘Yeah, and our Declaration of Independence promised us life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, and see where we are now. Look, you said this morning that you didn’t want to go back to the militias. Fine. But for God’s sake, man, take something so you can defend yourself.’
It took about a second for me to make up my mind, a second filled with memories of the Aussie television crew and Sanjay and the dead German pilot and Gary, the executed schoolteacher. ‘OK. You’ve convinced me.’
‘Fine,’ Stewart said. ‘Listen up, ‘cause we don’t have much time. This is a Remington .22 semi-auto.’ In his other hand he held a small box of ammunition, which he now popped open. He undid a screw assembly under the barrel and said, ‘Simple way of loading. Tube magazine, here beneath the barrel. Takes twelve rounds. Load them in like this, sliding in, one right after another. Then replace the tube.’
Which he did before handing the rifle over to me, along with the cardboard box in which the cartridges rolled around like tiny marbles. I put the box in a coat pocket and continued listening. ‘Little knob there by the trigger guard, that’s the safety. If you see red, it means the safety is off. Action there on the right. Snap it back once and you’re ready to go. Then just keep on pulling the trigger. Savvy?’
I shouldered the rifle and went outside to the gray-green and muddy lawn. I felt someone tap me on my shoulder. Stewart was smiling and now his hand was extended.
‘OK. Now that you’re on your way, good luck,’ he said.
I squeezed his hand, feeling the roughness of his skin. ‘Thanks again. And I certainly won’t forget you. Not for a moment.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘Now get your ass in gear before the bad guys show up.’
He went back inside and closed the door. I moved as quickly as I could, slipping my way through the mud. I went past the barn and reached the wire fence. I hesitated to touch the wire, seeing how it was secured to each post by an electric insulator. If it was on, it sure could give me a tingle, I thought.
Too late to doubt Stewart now. I grasped the fence, felt nothing except the coldness of the metal strands, and I climbed over. Nearby was the old rusty bathtub, just like Stewart had described, and there was the path, leading up to a hill, a hill nearly covered by pine trees and a few oaks. I started up the path and began huffing with exertion, the rifle bouncing on my back, the rolled-up blankets tugging me a bit off-balance, the spare cartridges rolling around in the little cardboard box. I puffed some more and then the path leveled out. Almost there, the top of the hill. And what had Stewart said? From the hill, on the other side, the highway would be in view. And from that point, about ten or fifteen minutes to reach the road. Ten to fifteen minutes away from being picked up by a convoy, from being saved and having a good meal and a hot shower, and being able to tell somebody, anybody, what I had seen and what I had done, and to get a world of hurt to descend upon the traitorous Peter Brown—
I stopped and moved to the left, past some low brush, which I pulled aside. I heard the sound of engines. I dumped my blankets, pulled the rifle off my shoulder and, remembering again what Stewart had said, snapped back the bolt. And then I checked the safety. No red showing. Safe, then. I placed my arm through the leather sling and brought the scope up to my eye, and the house and buildings and muddy field below me came into close-up. A pickup truck and minivan with every window busted out were parked by the house. I breathed in and out, watching what was going on through the small rifle scope, the black cross-hairs sight superimposing itself over everything I watched.
Five guys in fatigues and carrying weapons were milling around the yard, and one of them started pounding repeatedly at the kitchen door from which I had exited just a few minutes ago. Stewart appeared soon. I could see that they were talking back and forth and Stewart was shaking his head. He stepped out into the yard, talking some more. Two of the guys were leaning against the fender of their pickup truck, ignoring the discussion going on between Stewart and the man I guessed was the leader. The rifle scope shook some as I recognized the guy. One of my escorts, back at the militia camp. Swell.
The door to the house opened again and Stewart turned round, his face screwed up with anger as Tucker barreled out of the house, followed shortly by Jerry. Stewart pointed to the house but Jerry ignored him and went over to the militia guy, tipped his head back and said something to him. For some reason, the fellow looked embarrassed. Tucker the dog went over to the two guys resting against the pickup-truck fender. One of them bent down, picked up the spaniel’s tennis ball and tossed it down the driveway. The dog went after the bouncing ball with joyful enthusiasm.
‘Careful, Tucker,’ I whispered. ‘You’re playing with the enemy.’
The militia leader seemed now to be talking louder to Stewart, jabbing his finger at Stewart’s chest, and Jerry was beside him as well, tugging at the militia leader’s coat. My mouth got dry and I thought of the water bottle that I had inside my coat. But I dared not move, not while I was watching what was going on. Now the militia guy was poking Stewart hard, forcing the older man to step back.