L Akers - Shoot Like a Girl

She intended to make Elmer some of her home-made chicken salad biscuits before the last of his Duke’s Mayonnaise was too far gone to use. Hopefully he’d be home by supper-time.

A loud rap on the glass window of the door startled her. A glance that way told her nothing; the red-checked curtains were closed.

Blinking her eyes rapidly, she thought, Is it Wednesday already?

She wiped her fingertips on the tea-towel tucked into her apron and patted her head, making sure her loose bun was still in place, puttering her way to the door. She fully expected to see Rose, her neighbor, from a few miles down the road. She and Rose normally got together the same day of each week for their ‘book club.’ It only consisted of the two of them, as neither were keen on computers, and no other neighbors lived close enough to join in.

The book they were reading this month was The Goldfinch , a New York Times Bestseller, which was Rose’s pick. They were nearly three-fourths of the way through it now, and each discussion thus far ended with the two of them mad as wet hens. They fussed about everything from the plot to the chapter length to the style of clothes the characters wore.

Edith would be happy to finally get through it, and she’d make sure to be the one to pick next month’s read, too. For now, she was severely behind on reading, but maybe she could play it off.

She wasn’t surprised Rose would make her way here—even in an apocalyptic event—Rose took their little book club seriously. It was the only social time the elderly ladies had.

Edith straightened her apron and reached for the door knob. “I wasn’t expecting you yet, Rose!” she exclaimed as she pulled the door open wide.

When her mind caught up with her eyes, she gasped.

“Howdy, ma’am,” a tall, handsome man—in a bad-boy sort of way—said with a slow drawl and a big smile.

Edith took his measure. The dark-headed man leaned against the post on the porch wore faded jeans on his narrow hips, topped with a heavy black belt, and a leather vest covered in patches over a rippled tattoo-covered chest. His muscular arms were also covered in ink.

“Can I help you?” Edith asked, her head swayed with a slight tremor back and forth, as was usual for her at her age. She forced a nervous smile.

The man smiled back even wider at her. “You sure can , darling.” He tilted his head at her and winked.

Edith looked over his shoulder to see two more shady-looking men walking around the yard, one of them poking at things and being nosy, the other strolling behind a pig in a purple skirt, tied to a make-shift leash. The second man was huge; at least six-foot five, and probably three-hundred pounds. He looked ridiculous walking the little pig.

Trunk looked over his shoulder to see what had caught her eye, and laughed. “That’s Smalls walking our pig. Not so small, is he?”

In astonishment, she looked back at Trunk, blinked rapidly and asked, “Are you… is that…?”

Ignoring her unfinished questions, he said, “My, my, Grandma. What big eyes you have.”

He looked past her and sniffed loudly, sticking his nose into the air and slowly weaving his head back and forth, exaggerating the aroma. He stepped into the small farmhouse kitchen, gently pushing Edith aside. “Is that chicken and biscuits I smell?”

Giving her his back, he strutted over to the food she was lovingly preparing for Elmer. Using his bare, dirty hands, he shoved wads of shredded chicken into his mouth with one hand, between bites of the biscuit he held with the other.

A rather large handgun stuck out from the small of his back, tucked into his belt.

Edith stood back, mouth agape, at this man invading her kitchen and eating their food. Her eyes darted out the door to the backyard, noticing one of the men was no longer in sight.

She put her hand over her fluttering heart.

Mei’s grave was back there. She wasn’t sure how much trouble she and Elmer could get into for not reporting a death, and especially for handling the burial themselves, but they hadn’t had any choice. With no communication, they weren’t able to reach emergency services. What else were they to do?

She looked back to the man in her kitchen, and stood up straight—as straight as her turtling back allowed. “Pardon me, young man!”

He turned and gave her a wink. “Oh? Did you poot?”

Edith turned red. “No. I mean excuse me… that’s my husband’s supper you’re eating. Can I help you… er… I didn’t catch your name…”

He tapped a patch on his chest.

“ Trunk . Nice to meet you.”

He stepped over to stand directly in front of her. She could feel his breath on her face. Looking down his nose at her, her gave her a long stare, and then reached behind his back with one hand.

Edith’s heart skipped a beat and she grabbed the door for support. Her fingers gripped it tightly as her legs went weak, nearly toppling her onto the floor.

Truck reached out and firmly grabbed her arm. “Easy there, Grandma.”

When his other hand came into view, she nearly yelped. But it wasn’t a gun he pulled out. Instead, he slapped a folded map down on the counter. “Seen them?”

Edith looked at the picture paper-clipped to the map.

While the ruby-red colored Chevy truck wasn’t a bit familiar… the set of twins standing in front of it were.

Grayson angrily flung the notebook across the shipping container where it awkwardly fluttered to the floor. Around him were open totes and buckets, lids all askew. He’d gone through each one, checking and double-checking the contents against his notebook, looking for missing stuff.

Best he could figure, a good third of their preps weren’t here.

Just gone.

His blood boiled.

For years, he’d tried to the best of his ability not to push this prepping stuff down anyone’s throat. He’d spent countless hours in thought, trying to construct ways to prepare his family without coming across as an all-consumed far-right-winger or an overboard tinfoil hat-wearing conspiracy theorist. He’d tried to make it fun. Or adventurous. He’d tried to make it a family affair, instead of just putting his foot down and telling her they—she— had to do it.

He’d bitten his tongue so many times with his family, especially his wife. He loved her… He didn’t want to lose her. He didn’t want any fussing or fighting going on over his h obby —as she liked to call it.

When she’d finally agreed to learn to shoot a gun, he’d done his best to teach her. But it didn’t work. He couldn’t teach her. When she was with him, she was all thumbs. She couldn’t remember basic safety rules. Once, she’d nearly shot him! She limp-wristed the pistol and jammed up her firearms. She tried to put her bullets into the magazines backward. She forgot to put on her ears—and her eyes—at the range. She muzzled him and everyone else. She was actually a hazard at the range; at least with him there.

They just made each other too nervous. She’d given up and asked his little brother, Dusty, to teach her instead.

Grayson hadn’t said a word about it, even though it had stung a bit. He was just glad she’d get more training. But she hadn’t been serious about it. She didn’t practice. She didn’t want to shoot. She checked off the minimum number of boxes and said she was done . Now, she seemed even more scared of guns than she was before they’d spent valuable time teaching her.

She probably didn’t remember a damn thing.

And the gardening… he’d let her plant whatever she wanted. True, some of the stuff in her Herb Hills —as she called them—could be a benefit, but he could’ve used more help growing real food. If she’d given her efforts to the main garden they’d be in a lot better shape right now than they were. Especially with one-third of their food preps missing.