“Jimmy’s kitchen is nearly empty,” I said. “We’re basically out of food, and we have to fit everyone plus weapons into a single pickup. We still have others on the list. Why go back for someone we already checked on?”
Luckily for me, Jimmy agreed with my logic.
“If we have enough time,” he said, “we can think about Mitch. But we’ve got to be quick about this. If we’re not in that Walmart place by tomorrow night, all of us are going to be hungry. So let’s get some rest and be ready for tomorrow. Gonna be a big day.”
The “couples” were given bedrooms, while our three new recruits crowded on the sectional sofa. Keri wandered into our room and collapsed on the bed. I went into the kitchen for a bottle of water, but by now they were all gone. When I tried filling a cup from the faucet, there was almost no pressure.
I expected Keri to be out cold when I returned, but as soon as I climbed into bed, her arm slithered over me and her hand went straight between my legs. Unlike our previous hazy encounters, I was fully sober for this one and instantly, violently turned on. Keri loved my newfound intensity and matched it with her own. I knew everyone in the house could hear us and didn’t care. Something inside me had hardened, had evolved, and I used it to tear into Keri while slick Ed was forced to listen from the living room. Tomorrow I would use the same hardness to move against the Walmart warehouse, and if Bart was still giving me shit by then, maybe he would inadvertently take a round to the face. The way Mitch had taken one to the face. As Keri clutched my shoulders and cried my name loud enough for everyone to hear, I remembered the stricken faces of my victims, the fear in their eyes, their terrible pleas for mercy, and when I pulled myself from Keri, I aimed it at her face. The gun kicked in my hand, and suddenly blood was everywhere, in the grass and in the sheets and splashed across her lips while I towered above her, a commanding figure, freshly emergent in my wet new skin.
EIGHTEEN
When I opened my eyes it was already light outside. Keri’s head was still buried under a pillow, so I climbed out of bed and put on a shirt and shorts. I was already hungry and hoped to find something to eat before the others were up.
But when I reached the kitchen, I could see it was too late. Everyone but Keri and Chelsea was already there.
“There’s the big man,” said Jimmy. “You put on quite a show last night.”
Bart and Aaron laughed.
“She still alive?” asked Ed.
“She’s fine.”
I glanced around the room, indifferently, hoping to spot a snack that had been overlooked.
“Food’s gone,” said Bart. “Early bird gets the stale Cheetos.”
“So what’s our plan?” I asked Jimmy.
“Leave in an hour or so. Take only what we can easily carry: our guns, bottles of water, lighters, a few candles. It’s about three miles to Ed’s place. The more I think about it, the more I think we don’t need more guys. We have six now, not counting the women, and Nick’s buddy makes seven. If he really can supply heavy weapons, I don’t think we need more personnel. And like you said, how do we fit them all in the truck?”
“A smaller force means our eventual defense will be limited,” said Bart. “Look,” Jimmy said. “This whole thing may be a long shot, but it’s also the best idea out there. Play it right and it might work. Except it’s time to stop talking and start doing.”
It was easy to see why Jimmy was successful. When you looked around the room, you could see belief in every pair of eyes. We were a gang of nobodies, with no special skills, but somehow we would make this work.
And I planned to play a vital role.
When we walked out the front door, Jimmy didn’t even bother to lock it. Judging by the wistful smile on his face and the way he kept looking over his shoulder, I think he was afraid he might never be back.
We were nine, six men and three women, walking in a crooked line through an upscale suburban neighborhood. The wind, if anything, was stronger than the day before, and above the horizon of rooftops, leaning plumes of smoke were visible in nearly every direction.
On the main road, foot traffic was heavier than the day before. We saw people in pairs and in large groups and everything in between. Some were carrying weapons openly and others were not. Several people on bicycles went by, heads down, pedaling furiously. Only twice did I see a woman walking by herself, each of them overweight.
The sound was a constant hubbub, like what you might hear at the county fair… minus the music and periodic rush of roller coasters. Communication between the various groups was sporadic, but within them it was constant. Emotions ranged from fear to freedom. I wondered how many people saw this event as a break from the monotony, as escape from their dead-end jobs. I wondered how many realized the world was over.
Keri took my hand as we grew closer to one of the looming plumes of smoke. The windows of a Shell station had been broken and were exhaling smoke in an anemic way that made me think the fire had been worse earlier.
“Look at that,” Jimmy said, pointing. “Someone tried to steal gasoline.”
Because of the smoke I hadn’t noticed, but when I looked more closely I could see three steel discs—covers for the underground fuel tanks—had been removed and cast aside.
Beyond the immediate intersection stood a small shopping center anchored by an urgent care clinic. As you would expect, the doors of the clinic were hanging by their hinges and several windows had been broken—obviously because of whatever pharmaceuticals and supplies had been present there.
You have to remember it was Sunday, only forty-eight hours since the EMP. It remained difficult to believe people had already been looting. But unlike a blizzard or the aftermath of a tornado, when you could already see a recovery coming, in this case there was no information at all. And fear had rushed to fill that vacuum.
We walked another mile, through the next major intersection, and then turned south into Ed’s neighborhood. By that point an hour had passed, I would guess, and a little while later we stood in his garage, marveling at the pickup.
It wasn’t much to look at, this old Ford, its black paint peeling in armies of paper-thin curls. There was a dent in the rear fender and the tailgate was warped. Three of us could fit in the cab and the rest would ride in the bed. All the weapons and ammunition were meant to fit back there as well, which meant it would be a tight fit to say the least.
“Your buddy lives south of Denton,” said Jimmy to Nick. “Which means we’ve got an hour drive to his place and then another hour to his gun shop?”
“At least,” said Nick.
“So let’s stop wasting time and get on it.”
We were all hungry and thirsty, you remember, so Ed grabbed anything we might eat or drink. The nine of us shared three bottles of red Gatorade, a box of Triscuits, five stale chocolate chip cookies, and the debris at the bottom of a box of Corn Flakes. Dessert was a quarter bag of white powdered doughnuts.
After that we climbed into the truck: Ed in the driver’s seat, Jimmy shotgun, and Amy squeezed between them. I wasn’t thrilled to be stuck in the back with the other common yahoos. I was a winner, a leader, and they were all low-energy losers.
Finally, Ed turned the key, and the revving, mechanical sound was nothing short of surreal. It felt like months since I’d been in a running car. When the engine caught and roared to life, I was overcome with optimism so profound I nearly cried out. Keri threw her arms into the air and let out a pleased screech.
As soon as Ed pulled out of the garage, though, the engine hiccupped and almost quit. At the same time I noticed a man walking toward us. He was a few houses away, his hand raised into the sky. I saw Jimmy confer with Ed and then turn back toward the man.