The Storm (9 page)

              “Yup, a thirty-thirty or thirty-something I think. Not that it matters. Yes, those are the rounds for this gun. We only have twenty.”

              “What’s the other gun?” She wasn’t excited outwardly, but her lips also were no longer curled up.
Maybe this would turn into a triple
, I optimistically calculated. Time to find out.

              The other gun was equally large but had a longer, more slender barrel. Underneath, it had a pump handle and was more ornately designed. The wooden stock that goes into the shooter’s shoulder was polished. If the other gun was made for cowboys, this was designed to be used by a prince of the suburbs. It had a nice scope on the top of it too but its materials and age showed. It was almost certainly a product that predated the Second World War.

              “This one, Stacy, is known as a 22. I used to shoot them a lot when I was kid. It’s good for small game like rabbits. My old friend you met at the wedding, Jonas, used to go out in the woods with me and we would take his father’s 22. I’d be pissed if our kids did that now, but we were country boys and it worked out okay. Anyway, we used to put pumpkins up against trees and shoot them up at two hundred yards. It gets hard at that range but I almost never missed when it was one hundred yards or shorter. Here, look at its bullets,” I said as I handed her a different cartridge filled with one hundred rounds.

              “They are so small,” she said curiously. Whatever rage she had directed at me a few minutes before was gone. Carefully she opened the plastic container and took one bullet out to hold close to her eye. It was less than an inch long and resembled what a dime would look like if one could roll it into a burrito. “Ok stud, we can keep these, but I have two rules.”

              “Okay. I’ll try Stacy but I can’t keep them in the attic where it’s impossible to get to them in an emergency.”

              She was nodding her head sideways as if to say “stop guessing, big boy.” “First, they have to be kept up high where the kids can’t get them, such as here in the closet.” She took a few steps to the closet and pointed at the rack above my dress shirts. Even I had to stand on my toes to get up there. “You also have to keep them unloaded. Kids die because they get into loaded guns.” Her arms crossed as she stood firm in front of me.

              “Okay, I agree. I need to show you how to . . .”

              She was nodding again and cut me off. “Listen. Second rule, you show me right now how to load them and use them in case what you said happens and we have to protect the kids.”

              Home run! We spent the next half hour going over gun basics. She wouldn’t be Mrs. Rambo, but hopefully everything I taught her would be remembered if or when the time came.

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

              After our bedroom shooting range lesson, we parked the guns up high in the closet as agreed. If I didn’t know any better, I’d have thought she was a little turned on by holding the guns. Like so much else in life, we swear we hate something until we try it. We start that way as kids and it continues to manifest itself all throughout our lives. Stacy was going to Puba’s house to retrieve the kids, and I was walking just up the street toward Tom’s house. The militia idea was back on the front of my brain and needed attention.

              Arriving quickly at his house, I noticed that the front door was open with just the screen blocking my entry. Before I could even knock or shout, Tom’s voice bellowed forth. “Hey, buddy. How you doing? Come on in.”

              “Sure thing,” I said to him as I reached forward to open the door. A quick tug revealed the screen door was locked. “Hey, Tom,” I said as I gave the customary tug to prove what I was saying, “It’s locked.”

              “Oh, sorry about that, Josh.”
BELCH
, came the sudden burp from Tom. Damn, he was drunk again or at least on his way. “Hey, want a beer?”

              With the slightest of hesitations, I caught myself. Except when at work, an invitation for a beer would merit an automatic yes. It’s the same programmed response in the brain that everyone gives when at a department store and someone walks up and asks if they can help you. (Except that is an immediate no).

              “Is it cold?” I queried Tom.

              “Nope.” He downed a big swig of beer and I probably could have counted to three or four while he did it. “You kinda get used to it after a few.”

              “I bet,” was my immediate reply.

              “Anyways, bud, what can I do for you?”

              “You hear about the dead lady on Plantation?”

              “Yeah, I did. I was walking across the neighborhood to check on my truck and landscaping equipment and heard from a couple of people. That’s some messed up shit, man.” Another swig of beer. It was obvious Tom was medicating himself to kill time. Bored men with nothing to do often turn to booze to pass the time. Tom reached down and grabbed the next to last beer from a six pack.

              “I saw the body, Tom. Not sure what you heard, but it was pretty bad. I’m really scared something like that is going to come into our neighborhood.”

              There are many stages of drunkenness one can go through. It’s usually assumed that alcohol immediately impairs cognitive functions, but ole Tom was at least thinking clearly enough to be on the same page as me. “Yeah, I pulled my shotgun out of the closet and loaded it. Those little bastards come messing with my house, it’ll be O.K. Corral time.”

              I couldn’t help but laugh. The more serious Tom tried to be, the more ridiculous he came across, even if he was genuine. “Okay, but we need to get some kind of neighborhood watch or something together. I spoke with a local cop, and he suggested we form a militia or something.”

              “I don’t know if we need a militia, Josh. That sounds like we’d be going into battle or being invaded or something.” He popped open the next beer and took the smallest sip yet. “I mean, yeah, we might have to fight or protect our homes, but I don’t think we need to go fight a mob or anything.” His voice turned from confident to a bit unsure as he asked, “You think it was probably just a couple of gang bangers or so, right?”

              Nodding my head just slightly and staring at the wall past Tom, I lacked the reassurance he was seeking. “No idea at all. The cop said they weren’t even going to investigate, and most of the officers don’t live around here and have taken off.” I started to reconsider his offer and thought maybe a warm beer wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

              Tom’s expression changed to the same look a child might have if given an algebra problem. “What do you mean taken off?”

              “I mean, they have families too. Most of them commute thirty miles or further, and they left to go take care of whoever is important to them. We don’t have 911 or anything, Tom. We’re on our own.”

              “Damn, Josh. It’s worse than I thought then. I kept thinking the National Guard would roll through, or we’d see cops on horseback or something. I guess I sorta knew but damn . . .” He paused a moment to reflect on this. “What are we going to do?”

              “First,” I answered confidently, “toss me that beer.” Popping the top and taking a big gulp, I felt the taste immediately invoke memories of being a teenager and stealing warm beer from my father’s supply in the closet. With electricity gone, so much was lost instantly of modern civilization, but cold beer was a luxury that I was determined I would forever cherish again when the power gets restored.

              “Second, we need to get the neighborhood together and come up with some kind of plan.”

              “Amen, man. We can’t just do it together.” Another belch popped up, followed immediately with a big sip of beer to wash it back down. His mustache was glistening with beer foam as he spoke. “We should talk about food and stuff too. I’m okay for a while, but what are we going to do if the power is out a few weeks?”

              “I have no idea.” I finally confessed it aloud to him before I had done so to myself. Secrets are hard to keep in life, especially the juicy ones. At times like these, I almost want to share that I have a huge amount of food and would probably help him out if I had to, but Stacy and I swore to keep it a secret. “Let’s just worry about what we can control for now and make defense the top priority, but I agree we need to start game planning. Can I ask you a favor?”

              “Sure, man.”

              “Are you able to go walk a few streets and help get the word out that we are going to have a neighborhood meeting at the pool house tomorrow at noon?”

              Another long several-second chug of beer and then while crumbling the can with his hand, he said, “I actually like that idea. Noon tomorrow at the pool house?”

              “Yup. I’ll go back and get the houses behind mine and work down the hill. You head down that way?” I asked as I pointed out the window at a neighboring street.

              “I might need to take a six pack with me. This is going to take a while to go knock on every door.”

              “Tell me about it. I suddenly have a newfound respect for door-to-door salesmen. At least we’ll get our exercise.”

              Tom stood up and stretched his back and legs whilst giving a drunken yawn. “Hey, Josh,” he said as he tossed the crumpled beer can into a large trash can that was nearing the top. “I don’t suppose garbage collection will be coming around soon either?”

              It hadn’t even crossed my mind. Trash collection always comes on Mondays and Thursdays. Even with regular pickup, it could pile up rapidly if a day was skipped due to a holiday. My mind began to wonder, and I started rubbing my temples. “Guess that’s another problem we can address tomorrow at the meeting. At least we’ll get something in place so we can all sleep in peace and feel safe at night.”

              Tom was standing there looking out the window at the street and the trees which showed early signs of cherry blossoms. His head was nodding, but he was dwelling on something and then he shared it. “Yeah, but what about tonight?”

              My eyes blinked a couple of times rapidly and I sat back with a sigh. “Let’s hope tonight isn’t a problem.”

              Again Tom pressed me. “Yeah, but what if it is?”

              “Okay, I am going to sleep on my couch and have the gun around. If something happens, you sneak behind my house and use a stick to tap on the windows and get my attention. Sound good?”

              “Sounds like a plan, Stan” chimed Tom. “And if you hear something or need help, the same thing applies. Just come around back and get me.”

              “Tom, you’re gonna be so drunk I could probably start shooting, and you would sleep through it.”

              Tom laughed. “Yeah, maybe. But if I’m not, we got us a plan.”

              “Agreed. Now let’s go get the word out about tomorrow and pray we get a good night’s sleep tonight.” Tom grabbed another six pack just as he had said, and we went out the front door with me leading the way. I probably took ten paces and stopped to take in my surroundings. It was still overcast and looked like it might rain, but otherwise it was just quiet outside. A strong hand patted me on the back unexpectedly.

              “Another beer for the road, Josh?” asked Tom.

              I paused and looked at him for moment. Here was a man drunk and going to plead for the common defense of the neighborhood. It wasn’t his drunkenness that struck me. It was the shotgun in his right hand. Tom wasn’t taking any chances. As I took the beer and walked in the opposite direction, it occurred to me that this was probably how Tombstone had been. Armed and drunk men walking around. It was only a wonder there weren’t more shootouts like the O.K. Corral.

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

              Another dream. Another serene setting that degenerated into pandemonium. A fuzzy dream with fuzzy images flashing and ever changing. Memories mixed with emotions, fears with passions, desires with dreadful things. It was as if a tornado had invaded my brain and scrambled everything at once. A day at the pool with the kids. Tabitha learning to swim with other kids jumping around her. Suddenly there were screams and people running. Tabitha joyously telling me she wants to hold her breath under water and diving down. As she descends under the waterline, I hear more screams and look left then right. Finally, I look down and can’t see her. The crystal clear water has turned blood red and she is submerged beneath it, even as my hands find her and pull her up. Her face is covered with her hair, but something isn’t right. Frantically my fingers brush aside her hair to see her sweet, innocent face. As the hair moves away and I can see it, all my most despotic emotions gush at once . . .

              Again I shot from a state of sleep onto my feet directly into a panicked but alert readiness. My breathing was shallow but rapid as I looked at my surroundings to ensure I was really alive and here in my home. My body was a heat pump, and sweat poured forth from every pore. If the temperature had been below freezing outside, I would have had steam coming from me. Slowly blinking my eyes, I collected myself and kept thinking it was only a dream. As I reassured myself, I couldn’t help looking down and noticing the gun was in my hand, trembling and making a clicking sound as it reverberated off the table.