Tim Washburn - Powerless

Greg stirs awake sometime later, the last of the sun’s brightness fading, the clouds a pink and purple smudge on the on the orange horizon. He turns to stare at his still-sleeping wife, a mixture of emotions stirring his mind. After lightly kissing her forehead, he slips from beneath the covers and pads into the bathroom, relieving himself in the bucket. He puts on his clothing and grabs an extra pair of jeans and a shirt and folds them into the backpack Lara had already started packing.

Quietly, he exits the bedroom and walks to the kitchen, where he opens the junk drawer and begins pulling out items: two flashlights, extra batteries, scissors, a roll of duct tape, and a small knife. Meager supplies for a potentially dangerous overland trek. From another drawer he pulls out two of the largest chef’s knives they own. One he puts on the counter with the other supplies, the other he slips under his belt.

“What else do we need?” he mutters as he stands back to take stock of the items he’s already accumulated. The cell phones on the counter are useless, but he moves one to the pile along with a charger, in case the miraculous happens. Soft footsteps sound and he glances up to see his wife, still nude from their lovemaking.

“Thank you for that, Greg,” she says softly as she steps across the room and wraps her arms around him.

Lara’s a tall, slender woman, and Greg winces as he runs his hands along the ribs now pressing against her skin. Her once-lustrous hair cascades over her narrow shoulders in clumps.

He leans down and kisses her. “I think we both needed that.” He sniffs the air. “You put on perfume?”

“Hey, if I can’t take a shower, the least I can do is mask the odor.” Her hot breath warms Greg’s chest. She looks up into his face, a trace of fear in her eyes, but a much more contented, maybe resigned, look on her face.

He gives her bare ass a light tap. “You better put some clothes on before you catch a cold.”

She releases him and turns back for the bedroom. Over her shoulder she says, “I think a cold would be the least of our problems.”

He tries to lighten her suddenly serious mood. “Hey, have I told you lately how perfect your little ass is?”

She stops and turns, brushing away a stray strand of hair. “You used my two favorite words—little and perfect,” she says with a smile before turning back for the bedroom.

Greg walks to the coat closet and retrieves their warmest coats and an additional shoulder bag for the items on the counter. It’s not cold enough now to justify the heavy coats, but it will be soon. He also grabs a couple of lighter jackets they’ll need now. “How the hell are we going to carry all of this stuff?” he mutters as he lays the items on the sofa.

Now dressed, Lara enters from the bedroom, the backpack slung over her shoulder. “I packed the toothbrushes and toothpaste.”

“Good. Can’t let our teeth go to seed. You pack what few meds we had left?”

She nods and places the backpack next to the coats. “I sure wish we had some type of weapon.”

Greg points to the knife tucked in his belt.

“I meant something that shoots, Captain Hook… or maybe you’re an older Johnny Depp. But your hair is a little shorter and a lot grayer.”

“I don’t have access to a Hollywood stylist at the moment.” He pulls the knife from his belt and brandishes it like a sword. “As for weapon, this is it. Maybe we’ll run across one out on the streets.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of, Greg. And most likely it’ll be pointed in our direction.”

“We’ll just have to be careful, stay out of sight as best as we can,” he says, walking to the counter and pushing the supplies off into the bag. “Ready?”

“No. But I guess that doesn’t matter,” Lara says, shrugging into her jacket.

They gather up their items and descend the six flights of stairs, pausing for a moment in the lobby. Lara puts her nose to the lobby window and swivels her head from left to right.

“See anything?” Greg says.

“Nothing, but it’s too dark to see very far.”

“Exactly,” Greg says, pushing the lobby door open, Lara following closely behind.

Texas

Off to the west a line of angry clouds is riding low on the horizon as Zeke repositions himself in the saddle, trying to spare at least one ass cheek. The wind had shifted to the north and now has a bite. He tugs his jacket from the saddlebag and tries to put it on while maintaining his grasp on the reins. He and the horses are weary from a full day of riding. Pulling on Murphy’s reins, he brings the parade to a stop so he can slide on his jacket. He takes the map from his back pocket and spreads it across the saddle horn.

He glances at the approaching clouds before turning to the horizon in front of him. A small cluster of buildings is jammed up close to the road a good ways in the distance. The landscape is as flat as one of his tabletops, allowing him to see for miles. He figures the distance to the small community to be about five miles. He checks the map and finds that Celina, Texas, is the next town—about eight miles north of Frisco. Still too damn far from his sister’s home. He clucks his tongue to get Murphy started as he begins scanning the sides of the road in search of shelter.

The wind increases and the first splatters of rain start to fall. The next house up is a large home with an elaborate gated entrance, but they pass by. The home doesn’t feel right to Zeke. But his options are dwindling with each step down the road. He spies a group of willows huddled up next to a dry creek and thinks about seeking shelter there, but the cold rain urges him forward.

As they turn a bend in the road Zeke spots an old farmhouse with a large barn set off to the side a little ways ahead. Most likely a family farm that had supported the same family for several generations, he thinks. Two large green tractors sit idle next to the home. The rain drips from the brim of his hat as he dismounts Murphy and leads the three horses up the gravel drive. The house is a one-level rancher dressed in white clapboards in need of a paint job. A low-slung roof hangs over a wide-plank wood-floor porch.

The heavy rain masks his approach, but he doesn’t spot any flickering candles through the dusty windows. A faint odor of wood smoke hangs in the air. He ties Murphy’s reins around a low limb of an old oak tree and unzips his jacket for easy access to the Glock. He slowly works his way toward the front door, hoping that if someone is watching from inside his movements won’t be perceived as threatening. He steps onto the porch out of the rain and removes his hat, shaking the water off before knocking on the screen door.

No answer, so he steps over to the front window for a peek inside. No movement. But the darkened skies don’t allow for much light to penetrate the interior. He reaches back over and gives the screen door a more determined knock. Nothing. Desperate for shelter, he walks back to the horses and unties Murphy’s reins. He puts his foot in the stirrup and pauses before pulling himself back into the saddle. “Screw it,” he mutters, removing his foot and grabbing up the reins again. He leads the horses toward a gate fronting a ramshackle barn in need of much more than paint. The tin roof is rusted through in spots and one corner sags several inches below the rest of the structure. But it promises some relief from the rain. As his hand reaches for the chain securing the gate someone shouts from behind him.

He whirls around to see a rifle barrel pointed in his direction. No shotgun this time, but a high-powered rifle held by an extraordinarily beautiful woman with wet hair plastered to her skull. A long, dark slicker shrouds her body and she has a determined grip on the rifle. Zeke reaches for the sky, Murphy’s reins still in his hand.