Winston smiled and handed her the empty glass, “I love you, too.”
May returned the smile, knowing that her husband was the most selfless man on planet earth, “how do you feel about all of this?”
“I pray ta God that we won’ need ta use this little room, but I’m sure glad I’m puttin’ the effort in. How’s it going inside?”
As May started to speak, Amadeus slinked into the barn, mewing through a dead chipmunk he clutched in his jaw. He plopped the floppy, headless rodent at Winston’s feet, and coiled around May’s legs, cooing and purring loudly. Winston bent down to pick him up, but the cat hissed at him and bolted out of the barn. Winston shook his head, scooped up the dead chipmunk, walked past May and into the main part of the barn, opened up the window, and tossed the corpse into the woods.
“Twelve years an’ I never been able ta touch that cat,” Winston said.
“Don’t take it too personal. I’ve gone through the supplies. We could use more canned vegetables. Maybe some fruit cups? We have enough water, if we conserve, for about two weeks. If we eat one can of food a day and a granola bar or some canned fruit, we might have enough to last three weeks. Do you think that’s enough?”
“It’ll have ta be. I need some supplies down ta Calef’s, anyway. I’ll see what George got left. If anything.”
“Be careful,” May said and headed back inside the house.
Winston spent the next hour building a rudimentary door for the opening with plywood and siding and several long piano hinges. The door opened up into the space and worked flawlessly. He found an old, heavy deadbolt from one of the sheds he tore down when he built the barn, and installed that inside the space. It wouldn’t stop a heavy foot smashed against it, but it would stop a leaner from pushing in on the door and discovering them. To the naked eye, the room was complete, though in reality, it was far from done. A worried look came about his face as he peered around the small room. A rudimentary septic system would be necessary — for even a week’s worth of two humans’ waste would be impossible to keep and store inside the barn — and would have to be dealt with meticulously. Winston wasn’t sure that May had thought about that aspect of life hidden inside the barn — she was always a very private person when it came to bathroom habits. It was getting late and he found himself anxious that Calef’s would run out of the required supplies. Plus, they needed more food. The sun was beginning its final descent into the earth as Winston carefully oiled his tools, hung them in their rightful places, and hopped into his trusty, ancient pickup truck, hopeful that Calef’s still stocked what he needed.
Calef’s
Calef’s General Store carried just about anything a rural country store could stock — row upon row of household goods and food, a lumber and general merchandise section for the locals’ home projects, and all the touristy treats and goodies one would expect from a roadside establishment: boiled peanuts, peaches, pecans, fireworks, and the like. If you needed a lawn chair, Calef’s had it. Bibs for that impromptu pig roast? Calef’s had it. Penny candy? Calef’s had it. The store did a bustling business and was the pride of Johnsonville, with enormous roadside billboards spread across fifty miles of the interstate in both the north and south directions — eight gasoline pumps, plus two for tractor-trailers, and an automatic car wash. Winston once regretfully splurged for the Platinum Full Service Wash (clear coat wax, triple foam polish, undercarriage wash, rust inhibitor, Wheel Brite, tire shine, and complete surface protectant) for $21.99 plus tax only to realize that he could have done a better job in his own driveway and saved the twenty-three bucks.
Today, Med Willis and a dozen local men guarded the store’s entrance from the diaspora of Floridians and South Georgians fervent to make their escape from the enemy invading from the south. Calef’s gasoline and rations were for locals only — no out-of-state interlopers were permitted. Med’s men were highly-organized, well-armed, and polite. Although there was a nearly constant stream of cars pouring off the highway, their terrified occupants desperate for food or gas, the Johnsonville men smiled and waved the cars back onto the highway, apologizing that the store had been cleaned out for days of its groceries and gas, and assuring them that there were provisions just five miles north in Morrow, which was a complete fabrication.
Winston realized that tomorrow was going to be a long day and that he didn’t have the luxury of time. He had never built a septic system and wasn’t quite sure if his plan would even work. Goddamned political egos, he thought, got them all into the mess they were in now. But he would be damned not to be a pacifist as the world around him crumbled and went to shit. His ride to Calef’s was surreal — the roads patrolled by the good citizens of Johnsonville — men, women, and children armed as well as any homegrown militia might be. They were well intentioned, these militants, if not downright involuntarily required to defend Johnsonville against their invaders, both foreign and domestic. Husbands and wives drove pickups with children and grandparents in the truck beds, patrolling the streets near the highway, attempting to keep the peace. Winston wondered if these were their final days — if these people were going to be the first victims of the hell that was slowly marching its way towards them, though he was moved by their spirit, eager to defend the honor of a country they dearly loved.
Winston rolled down his window. The pace to Calef’s was slow enough that he could carry a brief conversation with the drivers of the vehicles as they passed. Mostly, the passersby wished he and May luck with whatever fate was in store for them and he returned their well wishes. Winston was a well-known and respected resident of Johnsonville and was permitted to pass through to Calef’s without question. He stopped his truck when he saw Med Willis sitting on the roof of his Jeep Wrangler, sixties-era M-60 machine gun across his lap. The big gun seemed out of place in Med’s small hands, whose real name was Melvin. The Med moniker was given to him because he had spent three years as a pre-med student at UGA before dropping out altogether, the program too rigorous for his type-A personality. It wasn’t that he would have made a bad doctor — it was just that Med couldn’t handle the stress of being one. Winston kept his truck in drive as he spoke.
“Evenin’, Med,” Winston said.
“Evenin’, Mr. Sparrow.”
“I applaud what you all are doing here. Takes a lot a guts ta make a stand.”
“Way I see it, if we don’t, nobody will. Them sons a bitches are gonna storm through here one way or the other. Makes no sense to me in goin’ down like a coward.”
The comment wasn’t meant as an insult to any placatory agendas other Johnsonville residents may have taken, and Winston didn’t take it as such.
“What’s you and May got goin’ on?” Med asked.
“We gon’ hunker on down in the homestead. Hope for the best, and pray for a quick resolution.”
“Are you armed, Winston?”
“I got that ol’ pea-shooter Ruger twenny-two and a few boxes a ammo. Fraid I’m not launchin’ much in the way of an offensive.”
Winston laughed, but Med was dead serious as he hopped off the Jeep’s hood, handed the machine gun to a teenage boy propped up in the Jeep’s bed, who Winston recognized but couldn’t name, and retrieved something from under the Jeep’s driver seat.
“Here,” Med said, and handed Winston a worn Smith & Wesson .357 magnum, “there’s only six rounds, but it’ll blow a head clean off.”
Winston took the heavy, powerful, gun in his hands. He placed it behind the passenger seat, hidden out of view, not planning to use it.