Tim Washburn - Powerless

Zeke pulls on the reins to bring Murphy to a stop a good distance away and scans the area in the dying light. No obvious threats, but he loosens the Glock nonetheless. He takes advantage of the stoppage to study the map before the light fades. By his estimation it’s about six miles to Ruth’s house—a couple of hours of riding, three at the most, and they will be in her neighborhood. He tucks the map into one of the saddlebags and gives a little nudge with his heels to get Murphy going again. He swivels in the saddle to check on Ruby and Tilly. Both mares are trudging along but their shaggy heads are hanging a little closer to the ground.

He turns back to the front and catches sight of movement in the distance. The number of cars along this stretch of road is light compared to some of the other streets, but ample hiding space is available. He delivers another light kick to Murphy’s ribs and the pace picks up. Zeke scans the grayness for more movement. His senses are now on high alert. The hairs are standing at the nape of his neck and the gloom is suddenly swirling with unseen menace.

More movement on the left side. He reaches his hand to the holster and pulls out the Glock, slowly bringing the gun around front. Now shielded behind the saddle horn, the pistol is grasped firmly in his hand. He doesn’t need to look to know a round is chambered. Zeke always carries hot. As the horses approach a car parked parallel to the road, he slows Murphy to concentrate on the foreground.

About ten yards away from an old beater Malibu parked crossways in the street, four heads suddenly pop up in the clear. Zeke pulls on the reins and the small caravan comes to a dead stop. The four young men slink around the front of the dead car.

“I like your horses,” one of them says. They’re late teens, maybe early twenties, full of themselves by the way they walk. All four are smiling.

“Thanks,” Zeke says, shifting in the saddle to allow more freedom of movement.

All of them are armed, their guns tucked in their waistbands, gangster style. Zeke sweeps his vision from one to the other, taking in their heavily tatted arms, their mangy hair, their leering looks of toughness. A quick glance to the side reveals a group of people edging closer. Not good.

“I’d like to have ’em,” the one in front says.

The leader, Zeke decides, because he occupies the center. “They’re good horses, but they’re not for sale,” Zeke says, his gaze boring in on the tough in front. They’re bunched up in a group instead of being spread out, a tactical error on their part. He sorts out the order—his progression if he needs to fire. His one concern is how Murphy will react if he fires his weapon from the saddle.

“I ain’t saying I’m going to buy ’em.” The other three laugh.

Zeke glances to the right to track the progress of the other group. Closer. No time.

“Look, I don’t want any trouble. I’d like to be on my way.”

“Hear that, fellas? He don’t want no trouble.” With a large toothy smile the leader glances at his buddies.

Zeke sighs and grabs another handful of rein. “Let’s all go on about our business.”

“Or what?” the leader says.

“You best move along because you’re not getting the goddamn horses.”

The leader’s smile turns to a frown as he reaches for the gun at his waist. Without hesitation, and with no remorse, Zeke raises his pistol and fires a single round from the Glock, punching a small hole in the man’s forehead. He collapses to the ground as if his strings had been suddenly cut. Murphy bucks and stomps but Zeke wrestles for control and immediately switches his focus to the other three. The one on the right reaches for his gun but it hasn’t even cleared his waistband when Zeke’s second bullet punches a hole in almost the exact same spot as his friend’s.

Off to his right, hands are grabbing for weapons. Zeke buries his heels into Murphy’s side and the horse, skittish from the noise and the scent of blood in the air, breaks into a full gallop, plowing through the other two men. He glances back to make sure the mares are keeping up. Other gunshots bark in the night. Zeke leans forward and hugs Murphy’s neck, hoping like hell none of the bullets hit the horses.

Four blocks later, Zeke pulls gently on the reins to slow their progress. Murphy slows to a walk and Zeke removes a full mag from his pocket and reloads the Glock. He holsters the gun, hoping like hell he won’t need to pull it out again. He stops the horses and climbs down from the saddle. He looks back to make sure there is no pursuit and spends a few moments checking the health of the three horses. No obvious blood. He whispers to the horses as he runs his hands across their lathered shoulders. Murphy is quivering and he spends a little more time stroking his soft muzzle and talking in a low, soothing voice. Once the horses are calmed, he climbs back aboard and loosens the reins so Murphy can set his own pace.

His own nerves are rattled from the gunplay. He inhales a series of deep breaths, but he doesn’t dwell on the outcome. Those guys made a choice. Unfortunately, they made the wrong one. He scans for other threats as he vanquishes what happened from his mind. Army training.

He can’t make out the street sign at the next intersection because full dark has descended on the lightless city. As they draw closer he sees the wording on the sign: WALNUT HILL LANE. From his recollection they are about two miles from Ruth’s house. The day’s hard riding and the sudden adrenaline dump leave Zeke with a stress hangover, and he slumps in the saddle.

They plug along until he starts noticing familiar sights—places he’s visited. Restaurants where their family’s eaten. His spirits lift as he focuses on the street signs. They pass Hanover, Purdue, and Stanford and he steers Murphy left onto Amherst Avenue. Ruth’s house is in the middle of the block but he can’t yet see it. Damn, he wants off this horse. He wills Murphy to go faster until they are abreast the home Carl and his sister had spent a full year remodeling. He climbs wearily from the saddle and leads the three horses into the front yard, tying off Murphy’s reins on the front porch railing.

Zeke limps up the steps and knocks on the front door. No answer. He knocks again and peers through the side window to see candles flickering in the darkness. Zeke has no idea what time it is. He knocks again and is rewarded by approaching footfalls.

His sister’s voice drifts through the closed door. “Who is it?”

“It’s me, sis,” he says, suddenly overcome with emotion.

She throws the front door open, lunges through the storm door and into his arms. “Oh, Zeke,” she moans into his chest. “I knew you’d come.”

Zeke looks up to see two small heads peeking around the wall of the living room.

“Uncle Zeke,” they shout in unison, charging across the empty space. They spill out onto the front porch and surround their mother and uncle, hugging Zeke’s waist, his legs, any part of his body that they can reach. He breaks from the embrace and takes a step back. They’ve lost weight. Emma and Noah are skin and bones. His heart stutters.

“Where’s Carl?” he says.

Ruth shakes her head as fresh tears begin. “He went to find water. But he’s been gone for over five hours.”

Zeke wipes the tears from her cheeks with his dirty thumb. “I’ll go find him, sis. Give me a minute to get situated.”

Ruth nods and gives her brother another hug.

Zeke kneels and embraces his niece and nephew and peppers their gaunt faces with kisses. “How do you like it with no Internet?”

“It sucks, Uncle Zeke,” Noah says.

“Oh yeah? Your mother and I didn’t have Internet until we got to be old,” he says, giving each another kiss. He stands and walks back to the horses, which they spot for the first time. They race down the steps and run to Murphy, raking their little hands across his soft nose.