SurviRal (18 page)

“You need to soak in the bathtub a while,” Jenny said. “In hot water—as hot as you can stand it.”

Harold helped get him to the tub, then left to go downstairs. Jenny stayed behind to help him finish undressing and get the tub filled. That’s when the day’s first power outage occurred.

Jenny only laughed. “It’s kind of romantic. Hope Harold took the stairs. We still have hot water.”

“Why is it you always want to get romantic when I’m completely incapacitated?”

“I guess it’s just safer. You want me to fetch a flashlight?”

“No, don’t bother. There’s enough light coming through the window. Is it still raining?”

“Yes. Sure hope the Juergens don’t show up today, either. Doesn’t look like you can walk, much less ride.”

“In that case, I think you should go down and offer to help Celia. You know, see if you can work to earn our keep.”

Jenny stood up. “So much for romance.”

She left Clint alone after making him promise to stay in the tub a while. That was an easy promise to make. Clint wasn’t sure he could get out of it without help.

Bike riding. Maybe he shouldn’t have let so many years go by without touching his feet to pedals. This was going to be the most embarrassing day of his life, whatever the outcome. And Jenny was right. Biking to La Junta wasn’t on his immediate itinerary, regardless of how much willpower his brain directed to the task. The body could throw up restrictions as it saw fit.

Jenny returned in forty minutes with a breakfast plate, scrambled eggs and toast. Clint ate in the tub. Jenny then assisted him in getting out. The soaking helped enough to allow him to get back to the bed on only Jenny’s strength. This wasn’t good. But he sent Jenny back down to the kitchen to help with cleaning, or whatever else the Coles could find to use her for.

He didn’t see her again for six hours. Not because she didn’t come back to the room. Clint simply slept most of the day away. His body demanded restitution for yesterday. Twice when he woke he tried to call Jake from his cell phone, now fully recharged and getting a two-bar signal in the room. All Clint got were messages from the service provider that the system was overloaded.

Late in the afternoon, Jenny brought two buckets of ice up. Clint sat in the tub icing his legs for half an hour, then switched to the hot water again. The result was encouraging. He found he could make it downstairs, where he sat on the couch for a while. A local newspaper with today’s date was a welcome find there, even if it was riffled and mostly disassembled. Clint must have been the last person at the inn to attempt to read it.

No stories about bandits on the roads. Good. The rain was supposed to clear out later tonight. Sometimes you have to make do with any good news you can find.

“How you feeling, partner?”

Clint looked up from the comics section to find Stephen Cole looming above him.

“Not sure what’s hurts worse,” Clint said. “My pride or my legs.”

“Well, pride ain’t worth a dang, anyhow. You know your wife’s as handy as she is pretty. Celia might try to keep her here with us. Let me get you a glass of scotch. Been known to do wonders.”

“I’ll try anything, thanks.”

Dinner was served a short while later. Spaghetti again, this time with meat sauce. Jenny brought a plate to the couch for Clint, along with the good news that they could have the room for another night. Harold, who sat in the lounge and read his book most of the evening, came up to the room later with even better news. The Juergens never arrived, so they were letting him have the final room for the night. He took his bag and departed, providing Clint and Jenny with some much appreciated alone time.

The next day, Clint could walk better. He still had trepidation about riding, though. As it turned out, he didn’t have to. The Coles offered them at least one room again for the third night. If the Juergens failed to show again, they could have both.

The sun was out today. Clint strolled outside for a short walk. Needed to get those muscles loose again. This really was a nice part of town, out in the eastern suburbs. Spring flowers opened, birds sang.

Bird-chirping wasn’t the only noise. The unmistakable sound of gunshots popped from nearby. They weren’t ominous, though. Too continuous and methodical, like a firing range.

Clint wandered around the inn in the direction of the gunfire. A garage door was open on that side. Harold and Stephen stood talking inside the garage. Stephen held what appeared to be a shotgun. When he saw Clint he waved. Clint took that as invitation enough to join them.

“…owned this thing for ten years now and never fired it. Used to keep it behind the front counter for protection. But, since we’ve never even had a lick of trouble, it eventually got put in storage. I think time’s come to put it back on the duty roster.”

“You need to fire it,” Harold said, “and get comfortable with its operation. That’s a decent 12-gauge and should serve you well, if used properly.”

“What do you say to giving an old coot like me a lesson?”

Harold lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. “That would be my honor and privilege, sir. The least I can do, after all you’ve done for us.”

“Going to fire that here?” Clint asked.

Stephen shook his head. “No.” He pointed with his thumb in the direction of the gunfire. “Over at Parker’s place. He’s got himself a little shooting gallery set up on the six acres behind his house, against the Arkansas River. Nothing behind that gulch but rock, so don’t need to worry about the strays. Lots of town folk like me been going over there to get reacquainted with their firearms—weather permitting, of course. Pueblo has some of the more liberal discharge laws in our state.”

“What kind of shells do you have?” Harold asked.

“Just buckshot.”

“That will do nicely.”

“Let me grab a box and we can get going.” Stephen walked to a cabinet in the back of the garage.

Clint decided a five block walk might be pushing things, so he went back inside and sat in the lounge. CNN was on.

“Prisons,” the anchorwoman said. “This might not be something many of us have thought about. How are those incarcerated in our state and federal prisons coping with the national emergency? Better than many of our free citizens, it turns out. We take you now to our correspondent Michael Buckley, who’s visiting the state penitentiary in Lincoln, Nebraska.”

* * *

“I don’t like the yelling,” Tommy said. “Hurts my ears, and might be heard a ways off.”

Zane looked around the dirt yard before answering.

“Well there ain’t no neighbors. We cut the phone line, and there sure as hell isn’t a cell tower around here. We haven’t seen anyone for miles. This house is so far out in the sticks, they probably thought no one would ever find them. And I doubt your ears could get hurt through that thick hair. How is it the yelling bothers you, but not the gunshots?”

One of the residents shouted again. Seconds later, another shotgun blast came through the open window. It was too far away to worry about, obviously a desperate effort to scare them off. In reality, it had the opposite effect. A shotgun, with a corresponding supply of shells, was a desirable acquisition. As the residents were about to discover, having only one home defense weapon wasn’t enough to be able to defend the home defense weapon.

Zane signaled the two by the barn to circle around from behind. He gave the same signal to the three on the right side. They all did as his finger instructed. It felt weird for Zane to be directing things, but not too weird. He and Tommy were the ones with the best vantage point. Tommy didn’t seem to have any aspirations for being in charge, though—and someone needed to take the initiative.

“We’ll take the front,” Zane said.

“Of course.” Tommy laughed. “After you.”

The two of them carefully came up on either side of the full-length wooden porch. Zane watched the open window. Sure enough, the shotgun barrel peeked through again. Zane bolted for the side of the house. The shotgun fired. Zane’s calf stung as he jumped up on the porch from the far side. One of the pellets must have gotten him.

Tommy returned fire from the right. Only one shot, but a good one. The window pane broke. The shotgun barrel retreated amidst the falling glass. Tommy hopped up on the extreme opposite side of the porch.

Zane decided it was time to communicate.

“There’s two of us on the porch now,” he shouted. “We’re on opposite sides. If you stick that gun barrel anywhere near the window opening again, at least one of us will see you and shoot.”

“Why the hell did you tell them that?” Tommy said.

“See?” Zane continued. “He’s there, I’m here. Take your pick if you want another shot at us. But the other one will get you.”

After a short pause, someone answered.

“Go away, you bastards! We got nothing here!”

Now Zane was getting somewhere.

“We’re only interested in what’s in the barn,” he replied. “You’ve got it all locked up tight. Done a real good job at that, too. Tough lock. Don’t want to waste any bullets trying to shoot through it, ‘cause then the key might not work, either.”

“Nothing in the barn, either! Go away!”

Zane lowered his voice an octave. “Mister, you and I will get along a whole lot better if you’ll be truthful. All we want is someone to come out and open the barn. Then they can go back inside with you. Do that and we’ll be off your property within the hour.”

A long moment of silence ensued. Tommy opened his mouth once as if to say something, but Zane stopped him with a shushing motion. Finally, the voice inside responded.

“Here, dammit!”

A key ring flew out the window, bounced off the porch, and landed in the dirt beyond.

“That’s no good,” Zane said. “It landed right where you can shoot me if I try to get it.”

“I ain’t gonna shoot! Take what you will and leave!”

“Sorry, mister. Somebody’s got to come out and open the door for us. Otherwise, how do we know you won’t shoot the one with the key?”

Another minute passed.

“All right, dammit! My boy’s coming out. He’s unarmed. Just a boy! He’s gonna open the barn for you. But I want you off my porch first—both you bastards! Where I can see you! Then he’ll come out. Then I’m gonna stick my gun out the window again. I ain’t gonna shoot unless you try to hurt my boy. All right?”

Tommy shook his head at Zane. Zane nodded back at him. Tommy threw his hands in the air in exasperation.

“It’s a deal. We’re going to step off the porch now and walk back into view a little ways beyond it. You fire another shot and we’ll burn you alive in there, you understand?”

“Yeah, yeah, I understand. Let’s get this over with.”

Zane signaled Tommy and they both withdrew. They stayed out of direct view of the window until they were about thirty yards back and then came together in one spot and stood.

The front door creaked open. Just a crack. It held there a few seconds.

“Watch for a barrel coming out that crack,” Tommy said.

“Not gonna happen, Tommy. We got them.”

As predicted, the door widened and a boy of about twelve years old came out. He closed it behind him, came down the steps and started looking around on the ground. The shotgun barrel reappeared through the broken window. Zane could now see the white hair of a man behind it as well.

“Over here!” Zane yelled.

The boy looked up. He saw where Zane’s finger was pointing and followed it to the keys. Two minutes later, they all stood at the door of the barn—the boy, Zane, Tommy, and the two who had gone around the left side and now came back. That left three of Zane’s gang still back behind the house somewhere.

The boy was understandably nervous as he fiddled with the key. But the lock eventually opened. The boy turned to go back to the house. Zane’s hand on his shoulder stopped him.

The boy looked up. “Please, mister…”

“Give us a tour first,” Zane said.

The boy looked back to the house as Tommy removed the lock. Tommy and one of the others then opened the barn doors.

“You all right Jimmie?” the man yelled from the house.

“Yeah, pop. They’re not letting me come back right away.”

“Why not? I’ve got my gun aimed at you bastards. Did what you asked.”

“He’s just going to show us what’s inside,” Zane yelled. “Take a minute.”

Zane ignored the father’s resulting curses while leading Jimmie into the barn.

Jimmie pointed to the green Ford Explorer on the left. “That’s my pop’s car.”

“Nice,” Tommy said. “Any gas in it?”

“Probably. And those are our ATV’s.” He pointed to the right side. “I know both those have gas, ’cause I filled them myself the other day.”

“Where’s the gas can?”

“Over there.”

“What’s that big metal thing in the corner?” Zane asked.

Jimmie shrugged. “Only an old tank.”

“I know what this is,” one of Zane’s gang said. He was the tall skinny guy. Zane kept forgetting his name and just decided to think of him as Skinny.

“It’s a still,” Skinny said feeling the tank. “My cousin has one.”

Tommy laughed. “No wonder they live so far out in the woods. All right, Jimmie. Time to go back.” He looked to Zane for approval first. Zane nodded and left the barn with Tommy and Jimmie. The three of them headed back across the yard.

But the other three gang members were now standing flat against the wall of the house on the porch. One of them was inching his way towards the gun barrel in the window.

“Hey!” Jimmie said. He looked up at Zane.

“Quiet, Jimmie. Let me handle this.”

Zane was about to whistle and call the dogs off when Jimmie yelled.

“Pop! Watch out!”

The head with the white hair came further out the window, turned from side to side, then swung the barrel towards the closest intruder. But he was too slow. The intruder grabbed the shotgun by the barrel and held it in place. It fired in the air. Another gang member then stepped in front, aimed his pistol through the window, and fired twice.

“Pop!” Jimmie yelled.

A female voice screamed from inside the house. “You savages!”

The one holding the gun barrel went back into a struggle with it. The one who just fired the shots through the window then fired two more. No more struggle. The shotgun came completely out the window.