LeRoy Clary - Humanaty's Blight

Without another word, I went to the kitchen and found cupboards full of food. Past experience had taught me not to open the freezer or fridge because of rotting food since the power had gone out. I gathered items, including two can openers, the kind you twist a little handle to work, a wonderful find. No more stabbing cans with our knives.

A muffled cry of delight came from the bedroom. I ran down there and found a first aid kit on the bed, along with piles of aspirin, antiseptic, pain relievers, and dozens of other bottles and tubes. However, that was not what he was excited about.

Steve held a double-barreled shotgun.

The pump shotgun Sue had was better than the side-by-side one in his hand. His excitement didn’t transfer to me, until he pointed at four boxes of shotgun shells, and held up another. “Slugs.”

He’d found plenty of ammo, and while having a box of slugs instead of shot for Sue’s gun was nice, it didn’t account for his level of excitement. Then, I remembered his shooting at the hull of the cabin cruiser that had come after us and all the bullets he’d put into it. I also thought of the bullet holes in our hull. Considering what a slug the size of my thumb would do in contrast to an enemy boat, he had reason to be excited.

Steve put the shotgun aside and pulled a rifle out of the closet, then another. Both were large, deer rifles, probably. They had black plastic stocks, and after setting them on the bed, he reached up to a shelf and pulled down more boxes of shells. And more shells.

One thing about ammunition is that in any quantity; it’s heavy. We had pounds and pounds of it. Steve starting sorting through the various calibers, finding some that either it didn’t fit our weapons, or they were for the weapons in the house that we didn’t want to take with us. It was better to have plenty of nine-millimeter bullets, rifle shells, and those for the shotgun. We wouldn’t take any other weapons with us. He also must have realized the weight and the number of things we had already gathered. Using the kayaks would take many trips. He said, “There’s a shed behind the house. Go see if you can find a boat behind any of the houses.”

“Boat?”

“Like a rowboat. I thought I saw one back there when we sailed past here earlier. We can carry all this in one trip if you can find one.”

My feet took off. Before searching the shed, I found it, an aluminum boat about ten feet long with tall sides. No motor on it. The shed held the motor on a stand, but we didn’t need it. There were oars, lengths of rope, and tools. I also grabbed a sledgehammer, shovel, and ax. There were coils of rope and even two crab pots. I loaded it all inside the boat, then drug it down the bank to the edge of the water before loading it with the rest of our booty.

Dragging the aluminum boat sounded like dragging large tin cans across rocks, which was a fair description. I settled the boat with the stern in the water, checked to make sure the plug was in the bottom and tied the rope to a ring in the bow so we could tow the kayaks when we retrieved them. The other end went around a log twenty feet long that had washed up on the beach. I’d been silently readying the boat for a while, trying to tie a knot that wouldn’t come undone when we tugged on it. Each attempt required another until I made a series of overhand knots and called them good. The sound of a snapping branch and the huff of someone breathing hard stilled me. It was close.

“Where are they?” The hoarse whisper came from the trees not twenty feet in front of me.

I didn’t duck or stoop. Material brushing against material or a knee joint popping would alert them. Movement of any kind might reveal me. I eased my hand to my holster—and paused. The flap was held down with Velcro. The sound of it ripping open would have them looking this way.

Against the night sky, I saw their backs as they spread out and moved up the hill in the direction of the house, and an unaware Steve. If he came outside, they had him cold. If they went inside, the same. From their hunched postures, they were sneaking up on the house, their shoulders slumped forward, and although I couldn’t tell for sure, their postures suggested they were carrying guns.

I carefully opened the flap of my holster and hoped the sounds of the small waves covered the noise of the Velcro. Then I paused, pistol pointed in the air to fire a warning shot. Too many people would hear it.

They were close to the house and might discover Steve at any moment, or he might blunder into them. I had to warn him. Their backs were to me.

I peeled the tape off the end of the LED flashlight and pointed it at the house. From that distance, it didn’t illuminate anything more than five feet in front of me, but straight on, the light was intense. I waved it in my left hand at the house, ready to fire my nine-millimeter with my right.

Steve would be wondering where I was, and it would be natural for him to glance down at the beach. I waved it in wider arcs, and up and down. My mind raced. What else could I do?

I was about to charge up the hillside firing when a tiny spot of light flashed in a window, so quick and small, I briefly wondered if it was a reflection. But no, it was the pinhole light of the LED similar to mine. Steve had seen me.

I shut my light off and crept up behind them. They were concentrating on what lay ahead and none turned to look behind. It always struck me as odd that people sneaking up on others seldom look behind to see if anybody is sneaking up on them. I moved from the cover of one tree trunk to another as silent as the shadows I flitted between.

“I don’t see or hear anything,” a nasal voice complained.

“Three, maybe four of them in there,” another corrected, misjudging the number, but speaking as if he knew things the others didn’t.

“I don’t give a damn if it’s ten of them,” a third person said in an authoritative tone. “Billy Ray said to kill anybody, so we don’t get sick from them. He said, no excuses, and don’t get close enough to catch it. Too many friends already died.”

They were going to shoot on sight. It grew very quiet as if the night creatures knew more than me of what was to come. Maybe they all fled when they heard what was to happen. I moved to the shelter of a larger tree, a towering evergreen with a trunk so large I couldn’t wrap my arms around. The men were only fifty feet in front of me, crouched at the edge of the shed where I’d gotten the oars and rope.

Three of them. In the starlight, their silhouettes were clear. I controlled my breathing, so they didn’t hear me. It was hard not to pant with fear filling me, and I waited. It was not in me to fire first.

A wooden dining-room chair smashed through a window facing them, clattered across the wooden deck, and struck the railing with a bang. The sound shattered not only the window but the calm night.

All three fired at the same time. They raked the dining room with bullets, each of them firing ten or more times in a few seconds. Steve didn’t return fire.

The fastest of them inserted a new magazine and fired three more shots, trying to draw fire from anyone still alive in the house. Steve didn’t react or take the bait. He might be dead. Or wounded. My anger took control. They had given him no warning. They were there to kill us.

I centered my sights on the one to my left, since he was closest. I took one shot aimed at his chest. Before the bullet struck, my sights moved to the right a fraction of an inch to center on the next one and two more pulls of my finger happened before he could turn to face me. His arms were thrown wide upon impact, which assured me both bullets had struck him. I shifted my aim to the last man as he spun, his handgun already moving in my direction and I was exposed.