Linda Andrews - Extinction Level Event

“Sunnie!” Mavis hoisted herself to her feet. Her stomach cramped. So what if she’d just made herself a target again? She had to make sure the shooter didn’t target her niece. “Get inside the car!”

“Aunt Mavis.” Sunnie spun around. Her lips parted in a large smile and light blazed from her eyes. “You’re okay.”

Okay was a prognosis she might have in a week.

“I’m not shot if that’s what you mean.” Her niece might not say the same thing if she didn’t find cover soon. Hobbling around the car, Mavis approached Sunnie.

“Oh, you’re hurt.” The girl stepped closer to Mavis, away from the door, away from safety. Her attention swooped down to the ground before soaring back to Mavis’s face. “And you’ve lost a loafer.”

“I don’t care about the stupid shoe.” Gritting her teeth, Mavis toddled to a stop, placing herself between Sunnie and their sniper. “Just get into the car; I’m sure the shooter has reloaded by now.”

Sunnie crossed her arms and planted her feet hip’s width apart. “Obviously, Mr. Quartermain didn’t recognize us when he fired.”

Mavis swore, repeating the curse words in five languages.

“We should report him to the authorities, or at least, take away his bow.” Sunnie gathered her hair into a ponytail and corralled it with her purple scrunchie. “Old people have very poor eyesight.”

Great, now the inside of Mavis’s head hurt, too. She reached for the handle and yanked open the car door. “Get. In. Side.”

Proper elocution did not require moving her jaw.

Sunnie frowned at the Civic’s butter cream interior. “Why is he firing at us anyway?”

Could teenagers do anything on a sane timetable? With the flat of her palm, Mavis spun her around and pushed her toward the open door.

Pausing with her hands on the roof of the car, Sunnie twisted at the waist and rose up on her toes. “We live in this neighborhood, you douche bag. Stop shooting at us!”

“Did it ever occur to you that Mr. Quartermain isn’t the one firing arrows?” Mavis grabbed the back of her niece’s jacket and tugged her down before shoving her face first into the car. “Stay inside and stay down.”

“Of course, it is. No one else would use such a stupid weapon.” Using her feet, Sunnie stopped the door before it could close. “He can’t do this to us, Aunt Mavis.”

“Well, he did.” Blades of yellow light cut across the dark street. Mavis checked her watch. Six-twenty. Curfew was officially in effect. She glanced toward the main intersection.

The cherry on her day would be if the Marines went patrolling in their tanks.

She didn’t want to be blown up any more than she wanted to be shot with an arrow.

Should they abandon the car and walk home? By cutting through the park, they could be home in five minutes. But they’d be unprotected, out in the open. She could think of five places where a sniper could ambush them from the safety of the bushes. And then there was the fence hemming in part of the park.

No walking. No splitting up. They’d take the car, together. But first, she had to get through that lock.

“You work for the government.” Sunnie jerked forward when Mavis reopened her door. “Tell him.”

“In case you missed it, the government isn’t exactly in charge. It was people like Mr. Quartermain who kept the looters, rapists and other undesirables out.” Had the power made him nuts? Mavis doubted it. Despots, dictators and tyrants gave glimmers of the sickening hunger long before they seized absolute power.

Someone else pulled that bow string.

Her skin tightened over her skeleton. She hated unknowns. They had a tendency to blow up in her face. She stroked the white scar following her jaw line. Sometimes literally. Crouching behind the door, she swept her niece’s legs inside then reached under the seat.

“But it’s not right.”

Had she ever been that naive, believed the Hollywood fairytale that good would triumph over evil? Mavis’s fingers brushed smooth duct tape before encountering cold metal.

“People didn’t conform to that rule before the Rattling Death.” Wrapping her hand around the hard edges, she pulled. The ripping sound echoed around the car.

“Well, they should have. We live here. We’re just trying to…” Sunnie jumped on her seat before hugging her knees to her chest. “What are you doing?”

“Surviving.” Mavis rocked back on her heels and inspected the gun. Her tongue felt overly large in her mouth. Stars twinkled in front of her eyes before she deepened her breathing.

Yanking the silver duct tape off the Sig-Sauer, she checked the chamber. A shiny brass casing winked back at her. She ejected the magazine. Full. Good. She might need all thirteen rounds. With shaking hands, she shoved the clip home, spun about and scanned the area.

Not even a lizard stirred in the skeletal remains of the hedge. As for the dumpsters and burned out cars… Mavis dismissed them. The arrow had come from high ground. She focused on the trees. Although two stories tall, the scraggly pines couldn’t conceal the fading pink rays of daylight.

Nowhere to hide there.

“Where did you get that gun?”

“Under the seat.” Refraining from throwing a duh at her niece, Mavis eyed the eucalyptus. Hanging branches and a profusion of silvery leaves provided a possible hunter’s blind in the middle of the third tree and the sixth tree. Could there be more than one shooter?

Wind gusted through the eucalyptus, stirring the round leaves. Red played peek-a-boo in the waving branches of the sixth tree. There. A child’s fort hidden behind the trees. A perfect place for the sniper to pick off his target. She thumbed off the safety and settled her finger on the trigger.

Leaning forward, Sunnie whispered, “Do you know how to use it?”

“I’m the wife of a Marine.”

“Yeah, but…”

“A Marine doesn’t pull his weapon, unless he is prepared to use it.” To kill. “And that’s the way he teaches his wife.” Cupping the bottom of the Sig Sauer, Mavis aimed for the thickest portion of the sixth tree and noted the curling, brown-tipped leaves. Someone had cut a branch for concealment, and the vegetation was slowly dying.

“Have you ever shot someone?”

Mavis shrugged. In all the years she’d been licensed to carry, she’d never shot anyone. Her husband, Jack, had made certain she’d never needed to.

She might need to now.

“I don’t want to shoot anyone.” That wouldn’t be neighborly. Falling back on her training, she emptied her mind, focused on believing the gun was an extension of her hand. Standing, she kept a bead on the target. “But we need to get home. Mr. Quartermain? It’s Mavis, Mavis Spanner, Jack’s wife.”

“I know who you are.” The voice that answered rose then cracked. A male definitely, but not Mr. Quartermain. This was a kid still in the throes of puberty.

Mavis’s eye twitched. His age might make him reckless, more inclined to shoot. But who was he? She scrolled through a mental index file of all the teenage boys in her neighborhood.

“You’re not welcome here anymore, Mrs. Spanner. You’re infected.”

Mavis’s lips twitched. Mrs. Spanner. There was only one person old fashioned enough to insist his grandson address married ladies properly—Mr. Quartermain. God forbid, she should shoot her neighbor’s only surviving grandchild. But what was his name? Kevin, no. Not a K, but a J sound.

“I can assure you that I’m not infected.”

“You went out in public.” Branches stirred in the breeze, except the ones attached to the fort. “You could be sick.”

“Get in the back seat, Sunnie. Keep low to the floor and away from the windows.” Mavis stepped out from behind the car door and pushed it shut with her hip. Aches rolled through her like the rumble of distant thunder. “The public gathering ban has been lifted. There have been no new influenza infections in months. Look at me. I’m not flushed, feverish, coughing or sneezing. I’m healthy.”