L Akers: Shoot Like a Girl

Bang

Another dog fell in a heap, still barking weakly at the trespassers.

Bang

A cat flew up into the air, not of its own accord.

“I tawt I taw a puddytat,” Backfire yelled.

“What the hell are you doing?” a man screamed and raced for his children. He scooped up the two toddlers and ran toward the house.

“Not taking any kids today, sir!” Trunk yelled back.

The man looked over his shoulder in terror as he ran.

They drove on and turned a corner, as children and adults scrambled in fear behind them.

Two dogs stood barking in the next yard, the hair on their backs standing at attention.

Bang

One dog fell. One ran.

Bang

The second dog slid to a bloody stop in the grass.

“Got a double!” Trunk yelled.

An air horn blasted three times and men ran out of houses like ants… armed with mostly make-shift weapons.

But it was too late.

Trunk and his guys skidded to a stop at the house next door to Curt, finding two boys playing basketball. Trunk jumped from the truck and stood between them, his tattooed arms slung lazily over both of their shoulders, a pistol hanging from one hand, while the boys stood nervous and still on each side of him.

Backfire stood with his legs apart, his gun in the air at ready, flashing it around for all to see.

Smalls kept the truck idling, but had one arm hanging out the window, pointed at the boys as well.

“Nobody fire,” Curt yelled needlessly to his people. The few that had guns held them as though they were afraid of them. Most of Curt’s group were anti-gun before the grid went down—probably rethinking that position about now—and instead were armed with an axe, or a pole removed from various yard tools, or a knife.

Curt walked over slowly from his own yard, his hands up and empty. He stopped before he reached Trunk. “You must have balls of brass coming in here and shooting at our animals.” He looked around. “You’re outnumbered ten to one, at least.”

Trunk smiled. “Yeah, but I got the kids. You people shoot me or my guys and these kids will look like that ball.” He pointed his gun at the basketball that had rolled away, and shot it.

The neighbors all flinched.

Curt’s hands shook. One of those kids was his own. “What do you want?”

“Which house does Jake live in?”

“You drove past it coming in. But he’s not home.”

Trunk tilted his head. “Might you know where he’s gone, then?”

Curt glanced nervously across the neighborhood. He could just barely see a corner of Tucker’s yard, where the men were yelling at the women and children, and pointing this way and that. The women were running around gathering their kids and animals and running for cover. A small group of men were heading their way through a stand of woods that separated the streets.

He knew more of them would be armed. They were a bunch of gun-loving nutballs. They’d sooner shoot first and talk later.

And his kid would be in the crossfire.

He shrugged his shoulders at Trunk, not yet sure if he wanted to say. Jake wasn’t his enemy, though he had seemed to choose sides with Tucker—at least it seemed that way. Still, he wished him no harm. But, Jake and Gabby didn’t have kids.

Curt did.

Trunk crooked a finger at him, calling him over. Backfire came to stand with the boys while the two men walked away and had a quick talk in private.

A minute later, Trunk and his crew were on their way out of Tullymore, leaving behind the terrified neighbors, and the grieving families of the bloody and broken dogs—and one cat—in their wake.

Gabby and Olivia sat in the kitchen staring at each other across the table. Like a matching set of bookends, they both had their chin in their hands, holding up sad faces; bored silly and missing their husbands. They were a mirror image of each other.

By the time the guys had come in, the night before, Grayson’s face had been a mask of pain; swollen from his bad tooth. He was short-tempered and all he wanted to do was eat, get a shower, and go straight to bed. He’d failed to mention to Olivia that he'd picked up a home-remedy from Neva, so while he bathed, she took it upon herself to find some medicine in his preps, break it up, and put it in a bowl of hot stew for him.

By the time he’d finished eating and taking a shower—blissfully singing and finally pain free—the medicine had hit him like a ton of bricks. She’d messed up the dosage and had doubled it, knocking him out for the rest of the night. He’d slept until morning, and had been sick to his stomach, and grouchy when he’d woken up. Soon, he’d gone back to bed where he’d stayed all day.

Now she remembered why they still had that medicine. Grayson had never done well with painkillers. He’d saved it in case someone else could use it, never intending on ever using it for himself.

Oops.

Jake had waited quietly for Grayson to finish his shower, and then did the same, not wanting to talk much, and later seemed even more upset about Olivia wasting the painkillers than Grayson was. Gabby had probed him, prompting him to tell her what was really wrong, or about their adventures at Tullymore, but he’d put her off, saying maybe tomorrow.

Now, it was tomorrow. He’d beaten Gabby out of bed, spent hours outside chopping wood and then came back in. Sweating profusely, and with a killer headache, he too had gone straight back to bed again—in broad daylight.

Something was still bugging Jake, but he kept denying it. Whatever it was seemed as much physical as it was mental, but other than the sweating and headaches, he didn’t have any other symptoms—al least none that he would admit to. He waved his wife off every time she tried to get to the bottom of it.

Gabby knew there was something there, and whatever it was had started before they left for Tullymore. But, she knew her husband well enough to know he’d talk about it when he was good and ready, and to push him would only result in a complete shut-down that would last longer; she’d just have to wait until he was ready to talk.

Tina and Tarra had made themselves scarce, too. They’d barely said two words to anyone the night before, insisting they wanted to sleep in the barn. Olivia hadn’t argued. She’d gladly handed them quilts and pillows and helped them on their way. At daybreak, they too got up with the sun, grabbed a quick breakfast, and disappeared, leaving a note hanging on the fridge that they were ‘scouting for meat,’ and would be gone most of the day.

Puck was in bed, suffering terribly from the pain in his arm, as well as the bee stings, with Ozzie curled up beside him.

Olivia had spent over an hour scraping stingers out of Puck the night before with credit cards. She’d pumped him full of Benadryl—and dosed Ozzie with some, too—and sent them back to Graysie’s room to sleep it off.

And sleep he did.

Like a rock, he slept through the night.

That morning, Olivia had cleaned and changed the bandage over Puck’s gunshot wound, and applied a fresh layer of baking soda paste onto his bee-stings. She made him breakfast in bed and he swallowed two more Benadryl. She’d tucked him in, kissing him on his swollen head, and he’d peacefully drifted off to sleep again, after asking for GrayMan a dozen times.

Puck had been sorely disappointed he hadn’t seen him since the men returned, and pouted like a child, begging to wake him. Olivia refused, knowing Grayson wasn’t good company right now, and soon Puck drifted back to sleep, pulled under by the antihistamine.