Scott Williams - The Pulse

“We need to get out of here before more of this starts, Jessica.”

At this, Joey turned away from Jessica and charged through the doorway, pushing Grant so hard that he fell over the porch railing into the hedges planted on the other side. “No, you need to get out of here, asshole, and stay the fuck out of our business!”

Grant was caught by surprise, but unhurt by the fall, and quickly scrambled to his feet, expecting to have to defend himself as Joey came outside to follow up. But before Joey could come down the steps to the lawn where he waited, Jessica slapped him in the center of the back, causing him to turn around to face her, which opened him up perfectly to catch her other open hand right across the side of his face. “I’m done with you, you bastard!” Jessica yelled. “You’re the asshole, and I’m not going to be with anyone who treats my friends like this and cares more about their stupid stuff than my safety. You can sit here with it from now on. I’m leaving!”

Jessica grabbed her bike and pulled it away from the railing to get on it. “Let’s go, Grant.”

Grant half expected Joey to try to grab her or attack him again, but as they rode out of the driveway, all he did was vent his anger at her by yelling and kicking the wooden porch rail so hard that it broke: “Fuck you, you fuckin’ little bitch! You’ll wish you hadn’t left when all this shit is over and the lights come back on and you try to come running back to me. I’ll find someone who deserves me!”

As she pedaled away with Grant, “I hope not—for her sake!” was the last thing Jessica ever said to Joey.

Grant was nervous as they made their way out of Joey’s neighborhood at a much slower pace than he would have if he had been traveling alone. It was all Jessica could do to manage 10 miles per hour on her heavy Wal-Mart bike. Grant felt vulnerable on the mostly deserted avenue they were following. His worst fear became reality when two young men in their late teens stepped into the street from the sidewalk to intercept them before they could think about turning around or making a detour.

“Give us those bikes, man!” the first one demanded. He was lean and athletic, dressed in baggy shorts and a tank top that revealed sleeves of unintelligible gang tattoos that left little of his white skin showing. His black partner wore a Nike sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his head, despite the heat. They clearly were outsiders to the neighborhood on the prowl for targets of opportunity. Grant knew that, with Jessica holding him back, any escape would be impossible. They would catch her even if he could elude them, and there was no question that they were serious about taking the bikes. Grant knew that if they gave up their only means of transportation, getting replacement bikes would be impossible, and walking out of the city to his parent’s place would take days, if not an entire week.

But fighting back was out of the question too. Grant was no fighter, even though he was aerobically fit from constant bike riding. The idea of tangling with even one of these guys, much less both of them, was not something he relished. Though they were younger, they had the look of experienced street fighters, and probably wouldn’t hesitate to pound him into the pavement or even kill him, leaving Jessica at their mercy. He had to buy a few seconds to get the gun out—it was his only chance. He locked up both brakes before he rode into the leader’s reach and quickly dismounted, pulling his bike to the side of the road. Jessica didn’t know what to do and couldn’t react quickly enough. She was still on her bike when the guy in the sweatshirt reached her handlebars and pulled her to a stop. Jessica screamed and struggled but the tattooed guy came to his buddy’s assistance and grabbed her from behind in a bear hug, pinning her arms and pulling her away from the bike. This distraction gave Grant just enough time to unholster the Ruger pistol inside his handlebar bag and draw the slide back to chamber a round. He wished now he had test-fired the gun at least once to make sure it would function properly, but he had no choice but to trust it now. The attackers had made the mistake of discounting him as a threat and probably assumed he would either run and leave his bike behind, or make a hopeless attempt to help his female companion empty-handed, giving them the opportunity to work him over. They thought they were looking at clueless college students whose bikes were easy pickings. What they didn’t expect was to face a gun. The last thing Grant wanted to do was kill someone over a couple of bikes, but he was determined not lose them.

“LET HER GO AND BACK OFF!” he yelled as he leveled the long target barrel of the .22 at the head of the one holding Jessica’s bike.

Both of them turned to look in his direction, the leader quickly pushing Jessica aside and turning to face him, with no intention of backing down. Grant raised his point of aim ever so slightly and pulled the trigger, sending a bullet whizzing right over the hooded guy’s head to strike the side of a brick-walled house across the street, where it ricocheted skyward with a high-pitched whine.

“I won’t miss next time; that was your warning! NOW BACK OFF!

The attackers didn’t argue. Grant figured that if they had been carrying weapons, it must have been only knives rather than handguns, as neither made a move to reach for anything. Seeing that Grant was willing to use his weapon gave them reason enough to move on to easier prey. They both backed away with their hands up while still facing him, and Jessica picked up her fallen bike and rolled it behind Grant to where he’d dropped his on the curb. He covered the two retreating assailants with the pistol until they reached the other side of the street and turned to walk quickly out of sight.

“Are you all right?” he asked Jessica.

She was shaking and had started to cry. “I wasn’t expecting anything like this,” she said as Grant put his free arm around her, still holding the pistol in his right hand. “Why are some people so mean?”

“It’s just human nature, I’m afraid. Something like this often brings out the worst in some people. That’s why I’ve been saying it’s better to get away from the majority of people as much as possible. No crowded city anywhere will be safe as long as the power remains off.”

“I can see that now,” Jessica said. “I can’t believe you have a gun, though. Why didn’t you say something about it? Where did you learn how to shoot guns?”

“I didn’t have it until this morning. It belongs to Casey’s dad. I got it out of his car when I rode my bike to the airport to leave her note in it.”

“I didn’t know he had guns either. Casey never said anything about her dad owning guns.”

“Maybe she didn’t even know herself. Anyway, it’s just a target pistol, and only a .22 at that, but still, it may save our lives—and maybe it already has. I don’t think he’ll mind that I borrowed it. I’m going to tell Casey about it when we get back to my place.”

“But won’t it get us in trouble with the police if they find out we have it?”

“It could, but I’d rather take my chances than not have a weapon. Where were the police just now? They obviously have their hands full, and they can’t be everywhere all the time. After Katrina, they confiscated all the guns they could find in New Orleans from citizens who had them, but this is so much bigger than a hurricane, I think they have a lot more to worry about than going around door to door collecting guns. And when we get north of the city, there will be even fewer police. I’ll keep it hidden unless we need it.” Grant put the pistol back in his handlebar bag before they remounted the bikes, but this time he kept the zipper partly open for quick access and left the weapon ready to fire, with a round still chambered in the barrel and the safety on.