The Storm (8 page)

              “Yes, sir!” Murphy and I turned and started to walk. Stacy would scream if I let him into the house like this. At least the water still worked, and I could hose him down. The thought almost made me throw up again, but then I refocused on what the officer had said. He was right. We did need to come together as a neighborhood. It’s only been a couple of nights, and already a house was burned close by and a person shot. Who knew what a week or month would bring. A militia to protect ourselves didn’t seem like that bad of an idea. It was also time to take Adam Greenleaf up on his offer on those guns. Stacy might object, but a gun would be better than a baseball bat.

              I looked again at Murphy as we walked. His face was disgusting, but it kept reminding me that blood was already spilled. Adam’s words again came back. “Desperate people do desperate things.” He was right about everything so far. A militia there would be.

Chapter 6

Time to Get Serious

              It was still early morning as I returned to the house. The image of that lady and the smoldering house was seared into my brain. It wasn’t the first time I had seen a body before. There have been several occasions over the years when they were on display at funerals and wakes. Sometimes it has been family, and it’s never easy or anything short of eerie to see someone you’ve known and loved lying there dead with makeup on to give the appearance of something a little short of death. This, however, was an entirely new experience. A dead stranger murdered, and close to home. For all the feelings it should provoke, what persisted within me was mostly a sense of despair that I had heard the commotion and been powerless to act.
A militia might make a difference and prevent this from happening in our neighborhood
, I optimistically believed.

              Returning home, I entered the backyard through the gate to hide Murphy. His tail was wagging, and he seemed a bit perturbed our walk hadn’t covered as much ground as he wanted. It was with that in mind and his whimpering that I looked at him and said, “Your fault, buddy. I can’t believe you were licking that. Let’s get you cleaned up before Mommy sees you.”

              He almost answered me by licking his lips and staring straight back. That could have been dog talk for screw off but it didn’t matter now. I quickly got him cleaned up and returned in the house. It was time to tell Stacy what had happened and spend some time with the kids.

              A few hours passed with the kids running wild around us, and I decided it was time to head down to Adam’s house to collect the rifles he had mentioned and poke around for any supplies. The kids were eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for an early lunch and had given us an easy morning. Kids have an amazing ability to whine incessantly when the TV is first turned off, but they rapidly make do with what toys are around and adjust to the lack of One Direction entertainment. Kids survived for at least a hundred thousand years playing with sticks and rocks; mine at least had little choo-choo trains and dolls to go with a plethora of books. After a day of no TV, they weren’t even asking for it.

              The day was becoming a bit overcast and looked like it might rain as I walked toward Adam’s house with an empty duffle bag in hand. April showers would be here soon, and it set my mind loose thinking about gardening. If the power doesn’t come back for a long time, we might have to plant crops or lots of veggies. While a halfway decent gardener, I wouldn’t know where to start with real farming. Better save those apple seeds when we finish off the apples. Who knows if we would need them?

              Adam Greenleaf’s house was a townhouse as well, as were all homes in Blennington Estates. He had put some major money into renovating it, and it was easily distinguishable from the two houses that flanked it on each side. Most environmentalists complain about saving the earth, but few follow up their creed with a matching lifestyle. Adam appeared to live as he believed. The solar panels were on the south-facing part of the roof, and he had ultra-energy-efficient windows and siding put on the house. While half the homes have some renovations around here, the other half still scream early 1970s. His color palettes even matched his eco sense, dusty brown roof with eco green siding. All the windows had their blinds pulled, and the house gave no appearance of anyone being present or not.

              I assumed he was already gone, but it was best to make sure. Approaching the front entrance, I naturally pushed the doorbell. It was a couple of seconds before I felt stupid and remembered I might as well have waved at the door. Before giving a loud knock, my head turned left and right and covered a good 180 degrees of the neighborhood. Nobody was visible outside or around. He had told me I could come in, but it wasn’t clear if other neighbors would believe that or see me as a trespasser. Given the events the night before, they could easily assume the worst. Yes, I would proceed discreetly.
KNOCK KNOCK
.

              Nothing. I tried to count to thirty but was going fast and made it to forty-five just to make sure I’d let a half minute pass. I knocked with the side of my closed fist. Again, nothing. Breaking into a house is something that is easy to fantasize about and seems easy enough, especially when professionals who do it all the time make it look that way. I had my courage built up and had come with a burglar’s intent, but again three decades of societal reinforcement of staying within the bounds of the law made me think twice. I executed another head check of the surrounding area with a small sweat breaking out above my temples. As before, the coast was clear.

             
Should I kick it in or go to the back and jimmy it?
I wondered. The back would probably be more discreet, but maybe I should come at dark? “No,” I answered myself loudly. That would make me look guilty of something bad if someone did see me. I can’t be that guy.
Stupid thought, Josh
. It was then that I paused and had a brief epiphany. Wouldn’t it be great if he just left it unlocked for me? I reached forward and turned the knob. It opened.

              With a deep grin and a sense of relief that I didn’t have to cross a vague moral line that at the minimum would be discomforting, I entered into his house and closed the door behind me. It was a bit dark with all the blinds pulled, and I paused, waiting for my eyes to adjust. “Adam!” I yelled out. Better make sure he’s not present. “Hey, buddy, you here?” Silence was the only reply.

              **********************************

              Walking home at double my usual pace with a duffle bag filled up probably made me look a bit silly. First, I used two hands to hold it, then I shifted and rotated every few seconds between arms. It was next on my back, then on my shoulder like a bag of cement. It was worse than carrying luggage while running through the airport. I dared not stop and stand around, lest anyone should see me and grow suspicious. Onward I went with a rapidly escalating breathing rate and a quickening heartbeat. Usually a burning sensation in my arms like this would mean I’d just had a great workout and could brag to Stacy that I would be the next Governator. This time, it just hurt.

              On the final approach to our house at the end of our little cul-de-sac, I noticed Stacy had pulled a lot of the blinds down. “Damn,” I said aloud while panting and walking. “The sunlight won’t get in there now and warm the house naturally,” I muttered, even though today there was no sunlight to be found. She had a long history of doing things like this. Periodically, she would even run the air conditioner with a few windows still open. “Grrrrr,” I moaned as I pushed forward. Probably just feeling tired from carrying the one-hundred-pound bag, I was letting it make me pissed off at her. Lucky for both of us, I realized this and settled down as I opened the front door. “Water, please!” I shouted with a quick breath snuck in between the words.

              “Upstairs,” came the soft reply.

              The kids weren’t around, so I didn’t want to yell again. It was probably story time or they were napping. “Okay,” I mutedly answered. The bag plopped on the ground a bit louder than I intended, and I immediately turned into the kitchen. Quickly I filled a large glass with nice cold water and drank it fast. “Ahhhhh.” I let my breath out in a way that I usually do only after sex. My arms burned as I stretched them back and forth, up and down, all around to try and get the kinks out. I gulped a second glass and was finally catching my breath when Stacy spoke again from the top of the steps.

              “I’m waiting!” she said with a sense of urgency but total lack of emergency.

              A big smile filled my face. I knew what she was up to. “Coming!”

              It was a bit dark at the top of the stairs, but the glow of candles emanating from our bedroom was jumping out at me. This was exactly what I hoped it was. “What have you been up to while I’ve been out getting supplies?”

              “You’ll see in a second,” she said with a tone of distinct naughtiness.

              As I entered the bedroom, she was strategically placed on the center of the bed, with candles on both adjoining chest of drawers. “Damn, baby, you are looking good,” was all I could think to say as I ogled and stared at my lovely wife. She was usually a quiet and reserved “good wife,” although sometimes she liked to play dirty. She lay there in a tight-fitting miniskirt with stockings and four-inch-heeled pumps. Her top was equally revealing as her eyes stared straight at mine then worked their way down.

              “Come spend some time with your naughty wifey, baby!” she said with a tone that was sure to provoke my most base instincts.

              I ran the few steps and almost tackled her on the bed, kissing and holding her. Twenty minutes later, I was contentedly lying in her arms, starting to dose off. “Love you, babe.”

              “I love you too,” she said while running her fingers through my hair.

              My last thought before sleep returned to parental duty and the kids. “Kids napping?”

              “No, they are with Puba.” She started to chuckle. “I bribed her with a couple of cans of lentil soup to watch them for the afternoon.” Stacy was almost proud of herself, as a normal babysitter could be costly.

              “Okay.” I drowsily replied as sleep started to take hold of me. My brain at some level realized that something was wrong with what she just said, but it surrendered to the drowsiness that rapidly sent me into a deep slumber.

**************************

              It was afternoon now as a few hours had passed. Reality came back slowly as my brain was struggling to wake up. Dreams of Stacy in a miniskirt mixed with images of canned soup went from bliss to something less comforting. Somewhere, the memory of those commercials raising money for starving kids in Africa popped into my mind, only it was an ad for my kids. They were standing over a hole in the ground, skinny with ribs showing whilst flies buzzed around their heads. They look at me and beg for food, but I say nothing. Only tears answer their plea. A cold sweat formed on my forehead and my lips began to utter something only a mouse could hear. Suddenly I snapped up in bed, fully terrified into an alert state of readiness.

              Stacy was changing her clothes at the foot of the bed and was sliding back into something she could wear outside, boring jeans with a sweater. My sudden spring action movement from a sound sleep startled her. “Hey!” she said as she reacted to my sitting up. “I was going to let you sleep a while longer.”

              Though awake and alert, the dream was already fading from my thoughts into a distant memory. Within moments, it would be relegated to the world of suppressed emotions and memories that collectively builds in the back of the mind. Although I could rapidly dump the image of what I had seen, the feeling of hopelessness it left me with was still making my hands shake. It took me a few seconds to reply to Stacy as she stared. “Yeah, I’m . . . Uh . . . I just had a bad dream is all. Kids back yet?”

              “No, I was about to go get them. I hope Puba didn’t mind too much. Really, you can lie back down and sleep if you want. You stayed up most of last night.”

              We can hide or fake most of our thoughts and emotions with other people, but sleep deprivation is solved only by copious amounts of coffee, and my face was betraying how I felt. Someone once said that some sleep is better than no sleep. They were wrong. I would have been better taking a walk than waking like this. A headache was coming, but it would have to be ignored. Terror is something rarely felt by individuals in modern society, but it clarifies the mind and gives focus. Within seconds of waking, I had a mental list of things to do immediately. “No, Stace. No more sleep for me now.” Pulling on my pants and shaking my head side to side, I looked over at her. “Hey, there is something you need to see before the kids get back. Sit right here. This is important.”

              I walked downstairs and grabbed the big green duffle bag. If it felt heavy earlier, it was twice as bad now. The muscles in my arms were already stiff and sore before they even began to flex. At least this time it only had to be moved upstairs. Stacy wouldn’t like this. She’s always been pretty adamant about not having guns in the house. If I pray for anything today, it’s for her understanding. One step at a time, I climbed with the big green beast.

              Entering the room, I plopped the bag on the bed and its contents made a crunching pop sound, the same kind you’d hear in a factory with metal parts clanging around. Before I could open it or speak, Stacy laughed. “What the hell is that? Did you steal some poor soldier’s life belongings?”

              Chuckling back but aware she already could see this was the type of bag soldiers used, I responded. “Not really. Not unless you count old Adam Greenleaf as a jarhead. He’s one tough dude,” I said acrimoniously and received a sharp laugh from her.

              “I’m not sure he could intimidate a cat, let alone a soldier. So what’s in the bag?”

              “Well . . .” There was a pause from me. “A few things. Before you get upset, I need you to realize that these aren’t normal times, hunie.”

              She cut me off swiftly. “Did you bring a gun into this house?” Her lips had shrunk to half their normal size as she spoke. Yup, this was the reaction I had expected.

              “Yes, two of them.”

              “Oh, I guess you can’t shoot enough people with one so you had to go and get two! Great.” She was speaking really fast now and her lips were pressed tightly together so they were merely one fourth their normal size. “One for you to go out and play soldier with, and one for the kids to get into. I’m not happy with you right now.”

             
It suddenly occurred to me that I now understood how a baseball player feels when he’s at the plate and suddenly has two strikes against him. He’s not finished, but it’s an ugly feeling to be close to striking out. What I needed was a hit, no bunts or further strikes.

              “I had to get them, Stacy.” An urgency was in my voice, a tone that I seldom use at home. It’s a tone that screams “listen to me” and it’s usually saved for my banking team at work. “What if whoever shot that woman on Plantation Road decided to come here next? What the hell am I supposed to do? Maybe I can throw some kitchen knives at them? I can make a tartar de invader? Should I go and practice in the backyard?”

              “You know I don’t allow guns in the house!”

              “I know, and we have two in here now.” I started to unzip the bag. “Here’s the good news. They aren’t handguns. I’ve got two rifles here, and those would be much harder for the kids to get into trouble with.”

              Still in denial and shaking her head, though knowing she had tossed a couple of balls at me, “What are they? Machine guns? How are we going to ensure the kids don’t touch them?”

              I felt like the count was even now, and a hit or double would be coming. Baseball players call it being in the zone. You just feel it and know. She was giving some ground. “Not machine guns, babe. Let’s not forget, this is Adam Greenleaf we are talking about. I’m actually shocked he had guns too, but I bet they were family antiques and were handed down to him. Look at these.”

              Pulling the first one out of the bag, it was a gun nearly any American would recognize. Most call it a cowboy gun, but better known as a Winchester. “This one here is like what they used in the old west. It’s in pretty good condition too.” A big smile came to my face and I reflected that this is probably how most men feel when holding a large weapon. That feeling of power that comes with having a gun in your hand makes one feel somehow larger and stronger than a mere man. Growing up in Kentucky, everyone learns how to shoot guns before they can write their name with a pencil. It had been a while, but it’s like riding a bike.

              “Okay . . . That doesn’t look too bad,” she hesitantly said. “Are those the bullets?” she asked as she pointed to a small cartridge.