I hadn’t, but her ears were probably better than mine. An online site I had frequented said that most adults begin losing their hearing at about age sixteen and there were high-pitched apps for cell phone ringers that supposedly adults over thirty couldn’t hear. All that didn’t really count, but it flashed through my mind because what can be learned online was infinite. I missed it almost as much as having food delivered.
What counted was that Sue had heard voices. There were people nearby, friends or enemies. There was no way to discriminate. We moved at the pace of an injured snail. Through the trees, near the river’s bank, we saw movement. It was on the other side of the river, which was a surprise. The river was running low, the riverbed covered with rocks, but it was cold water, water that had been snow or ice hours earlier.
We moved closer and perched behind a huge cedar stump. That three had probably been cut for lumber a century ago.
Five men wearing black leather jackets covered with patches stood over three prone bodies. Beyond, at the side of the road were motorcycles. Big ones. Probably Harleys or those made by other companies trying to imitate them. At least two of the motorcycles had rifle scabbards attached, and all five men held cans of what I assumed were beer in their left hands, keeping their right hands free for their guns.
One biker held three scoped rifles by their barrels in his left hand, the butts dragging on the ground when he moved. Probably all three belonged to the men who had been hunting us at the mouth of the tunnel earlier. They seemed unconcerned about the three bodies. One laughed and pounded the shoulder of another. The third searched the dead men and came up empty, from what I saw.
After tossing the empty beer cans aside, they went to their bikes, fired them up and rode away. The noise was a deep growl that vibrated the nearby ground, or so it seemed. The engine noise didn’t carry in the thick forest like the crack of a rifle shot did. From now on, we’d have to be aware of the low growl, and the men on the motorcycles.
When they were gone, Sue said, “We need to see if they left anything for us.”
“The river is just above freezing.”
“And only knee-deep. We can build a fire and put on dry socks when we get back to the mine. Those three won’t be returning and the bikers, if they heard the shotgun, probably think those men were responsible for waking them last night with their rifles. If there are other survivors in the area, they are probably hiding from the bikers right now, so it’s as safe as it gets these days.”
Sue was a master at combining facts and coming to instant conclusions. And she was right. With a last look around to make sure the way was clear, we rushed across the fifty-foot expanse of cold, knee-deep water. Ignoring the stinging pain in our feet and ankles, we pulled to a stop on the far bank near the first dead man.
Darkening blood showed where the bullet had entered the man’s chest. I recognized him and his camouflage clothing, now that we were close enough to see details. It was one of the three who had searched for our tunnel.
“Stand back,” I ordered as my hands patted his pockets and waist. Sue didn’t need to be exposed to seeing death any more than she had been, and there was always the threat of contamination or infection of the flu. Touching a person might transmit it to me. Breathing the air near him might. I held my breath and searched quickly.
I didn’t believe he was infected, or he would look sick. When I found nothing, I looked up into her unemotional brown face and shrugged before moving on to the next. AT first, there was nothing of interest, but when I started to stand to move to the last body, a bulge near his ankle caught my attention.
I pulled his pants leg up and found a small Guardian 32 ACP pistol in a holster, one meant to be a hideaway gun, or for a small woman to use. It was a thirty-two caliber, I assumed from the 32 ACP stamped on the side of the barrel. Slightly larger diameter shells than my twenty-two, but not by too much. The short barrel told me it was probably accurate for twenty feet, but I was not familiar with many guns and could be wrong.
When I looked up, Sue had the same expression my old dog had worn when I forgot to feed him. I tossed the Guardian semi-automatic to her while I searched the last man. He had a roll of hundreds in his front pocket, probably three or four thousand dollars. I put them back. Even the bikers hadn’t wanted the money. It was useless in our post-pandemic world.
I supposed they would have been good to use to start kindling burning for our fires. The thought of the dead man stealing the money that was now worthless seemed almost funny. Three weeks ago, it made sense. Today it was a cruel joke. Could the dead man have been so stupid? A single can of beef stew was worth more than all those bills in the post-flu world. It firmly indicated that not only the smart survived. At least, to date. I suspected that would soon change when instead of fighting the flu, people fought each other.
To her credit, Sue examined the handgun and kept her finger well away from the trigger. My brief examination hadn’t revealed a safety. Like many similar handguns, it didn’t have one. The shooter simply pulled the trigger back until it fired. That was both good and bad in my opinion. I always worried about accidental firings, which are rare but do happen. I also worried about needing to pull and shoot a gun quickly to save my life and couldn’t do it. Fumbling for a safety when an instantaneous shot was required could cost a life. Mine.
The third man had a nine-millimeter Glock in the kind of nylon holster used by law enforcement. I pulled the Velcro opening for the belt with the sound of plastic ripping and worked it free from his limp body. The left side held a smaller holster with a pair of extra clips.
My little twenty-two was good for low noise. It wouldn’t stop a charging man, or even slow some down who were intent on killing me unless I made a headshot. Against my better judgment, I strapped the semiautomatic on and adjusted it as I reconsidered my choices. What I wanted was a light weapon that fit easily into a holster. One that made no noise but could take down a moose. Oh, yes, it also needed a scope because I hadn’t fired more than three guns in my life. Any idiot could place crosshairs on a target and pull the trigger, so that’s what I needed. My hand touched the exposed handle of the gun I now wore, and my mind cursed because it lacked my perceived needs.
His pocket held a jackknife. We had plenty of knives. I tossed it aside. In the end, we left the bodies lying there for the scavengers to eat. They had come to kill us, and I had no regrets in walking away. I followed Sue back across the river and into the trees, retracing our footsteps and feeling safer than at any time after the shotgun blast. Both of us were armed. The three searching for us were dead—and we hadn’t killed them.
We moved slowly, keeping watch ahead, using the same footprints we’d made coming the other way when possible and hoping for either more snow or another warm day to melt them away. As it was, the trail we left was like a giant arrow pointing to us. Additional vigilance for a day or two would be needed.
At the tunnel, we ate a southwestern flavored soup that was almost too spicy. Instead of remaining in what we called our “living room” I chose to remain near the entrance of the mine, watching the clearing, just in case.
Sue joined me. She said, “I never thought my life would come to this.”
Not knowing exactly what she meant by the statement, I hesitantly asked, “Come to what?”
“Living in a hole like a friggin rabbit.”
“A rabbit?”
“We’re in a rabbit hole. We will dart outside and grab a little food, then hop back into our hole again, while hoping a hawk does not swoop down and attack when we’re outside. I know we’re safer here than most people and all that stuff you’re about to tell me, but we may as well have cottontails on our butts.”