Shoot Like a Girl Read online

  Shoot Like a Girl

  Book 2 of The SHTF Series

  L.L. Akers

  Scorched Earth Publishing, LLC

  Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Epilogue

  The Shit (hit the fan) List

  THANK YOU!

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  WANT TO TALK PREPPING?

  “In restless dreams, I walked alone

  Narrow streets of cobblestone

  ‘Neath the halo of a street lamp

  I turned my collar to the cold and damp

  When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light

  That split the night,

  And touched the sound… of silence…”

  ~ Simon & Garfunkel

  1

  Grayson’s Group

  The blood drained from Grayson’s face, as he stared in horror at his daughter. “Show me, Graysie. Show me the man you shot.”

  Graysie took off at a run, her father following on her heels, with Jake limping behind him shining Gabby’s headlamp she’d thrust into his hands. Ozzie soon overtook them, the dog more than happy to lead his family back to the man on the ground.

  “There!” Graysie slid to a stop, pointing in terror at the young man writhing in the dirt, a dark stain beneath him.

  “Oh, no…” Grayson skidded to a stop. “Puck, it’s me, Grayson. You okay, buddy?”

  Puck wasn’t okay. A bullet had whizzed through his upper left arm. Moonlight bathed his face, showing a sheen of sweat and wide, pain-filled eyes. He grabbed for Grayson’s hand with his other arm. “Mr. GrayMan, please don’t leave me,” he pleaded in a weak voice. “I’m scared.”

  Ozzie whined in response, his tail tucked between his legs, and paced around Puck’s prone body.

  “Shhh,” Grayson answered, dropping to the dirt beside him. He ran his hand over Puck’s forehead, gently wiping away the sweat, and then examined the wound. “Shine the light right here, Jake.”

  Straight through.

  Grayson blew out his breath in relief. This was fixable. The bullet had gone in and out the underside of his arm. It looked much worse than it was. From all appearances, the placement of the shot looked to have missed anything vital. The boy was just scared half to death. He squeezed Puck’s hand. “I’m not going anywhere, son.”

  Pulling his hand out of Puck’s, he quickly took off his own T-shirt and ripped off a long strip. “Graysie, where’s your bug-out bag?”

  “You know him?” Graysie said in confusion, and then fumbled around, finding the bag in the weeds where she’d dropped it earlier. She rushed to hand it to her father.

  “Yeah. His name is Puck. That’s what he was trying to tell you. Not pup.” Grayson pushed the bag back toward her. “You can help. In your first aid kit, there’s a sandwich baggie of red powder. It’s cayenne pepper. Give it to me. Quick.”

  “I’m sorry Daddy!” Graysie bit her lip. She did as he asked, finding the first-aid kit quickly, unzipped it and pulled out the cayenne pepper, and handed it to her father.

  Grayson shook his head at his daughter. “Don’t be sorry. You didn’t know. If you ever think a man’s chasing you in the dark…you need to pull the trigger.” He squeezed Puck’s hand again. “This may sting a little, boy. But we need to get the bleeding stopped. It’s going to be a bumpy ride home.”

  He gripped half of the orangey-red powder through the bag, not wanting to dump it all on one side. “Help me, Jake. When I finish with this side, flip him over a bit so I can get the back.”

  Jake squatted down beside them.

  Grayson took a deep breath and dumped half of the powder over the bloody entry wound and tightly patted it in, then waited a second for Jake to turn the boy, and quickly dumped the rest of it on the exit wound.

  Puck screamed an animalistic howl, and nearly broke Grayson’s fingers, squeezing so hard. Ozzie whined, and Graysie threw a hand up, covering her mouth. The boy’s scream could wake the dead.

  Grayson and Jake both visibly grit their teeth, as though they too felt the pain. Grayson gave him a second to catch his breath, and then quickly wrapped his shirt around Puck’s arm, tying it in a knot. “Sorry, son. Just hang on. The burn only lasts a few minutes.”

  The tractor bumbled up next to the group, with Elmer driving. “Outta the way, dog!” he yelled.

  Ozzie scrambled away from the tractor while Elmer brought it close and came to a sudden stop, the big wheels spitting up dirt. Jake jumped onto the wagon and threw off the hay bales on the end, opening it wider to get Puck inside. He jumped down and together, he and Grayson loaded the boy up, gently setting him on the same blankets that had just carried their wives home.

  “There you go,” Grayson leaned down and whispered to him, as he settled in for the ride beside him. “You’re gonna be fine as wine soon, son.”

  “I don’t like wine,” Puck said, through clenched teeth. “Please don’t leave me, GrayMan.”

  Grayson’s heart clenched and he sucked in a quick breath, tapping down his emotions. “I’m not. I’m with you, kid. I’m right here with you.”

  “Please don’t leave me, GrayMan,” Puck repeated.

  His eyes fluttered and then closed.

  2

  Tullymore

  Tucker and Katie sat in camp chairs at one edge of the crowd at the Tullymore subdivision, tightly holding hands.

  Kenny—Tucker’s weird neighbor—sat to Tucker’s right. On the other side of him, his wife, Penny, huddled in her own chair, wringing her hands and staring at the ground. Her auburn hair hung in tendrils from a once-tight bun, and her thin frame trembled, despite the perfect temperature of spring.

  As Tucker listened in horror, he watched his four kids playing across the big yard, taking turns with the other older youth throwing a hatchet at a red ‘X’ marked on the side of a tree. His oldest boy was dead-on, too. How did he not know he could do that?

  What he was hearing seemed like a bad dream. What if this was the way it was going to be from now on? What future did his kids have? His girls, thirteen and fourteen, would need to be watched closely.

  Their older teenage brothers, who were sixteen and seventeen, would have to put aside all of their sibling rivalry and help him watch their sisters every moment; and keep an eye out for their mother, who was still youngish and attractive. All the women in his family were independent and heads
trong; they wouldn’t take kindly to having eyes on them every moment. But that was the new realty…especially after hearing Xander’s story.

  Xander was a dark-skinned, American-borne Haitian that had grown up with a silver spoon in his mouth, graduated from MIT at the age of twenty, immediately partnered into a dot com start up company, and by thirty had married, had two children and a paid-off mortgage in Tullymore. He was one of the youngest people to ever buy there, as it was unusual for someone his age to afford one of the houses in the subdivision, but Xander worked hard, earning the respect of all his neighbors. He also played hard, and lived a charmed life.

  He and his family had just arrived home after a long and terrifying journey back from a visit at his parents house in the mountains of Tennessee. He’d been lucky to have gas to get him home, and even still, rolled in on fumes with most of the glass of his wife’s brand-new Range Rover completely gone. It was missing the front bumper, and the body of the luxury vehicle pocked with dents, not to mention them both missing their watches, wedding rings and his children’s shoes.

  The trip home had taught him that in this new world, wealth didn’t matter. Money was no longer the currency out on the road. This event could turn out to be the biggest status equalizer in history, thus far.

  He and his family looked like third-world refugees, arriving with barely more than the dirty, torn clothes on their back. His wife sat beside him, adding to his story some, with her arms tightly wrapped around their two small children.

  They’d left with more—much more—after his mother and father had begged them to stay when the power grid went kaplunk, but ultimately gave in and packed them down with gas, food, blankets, water and other supplies to see them safely home—or so they’d hoped.

  If it hadn’t been for his father’s rifles that, even at this moment, were slung over their shoulders, and Xander’s constant companion, a Glock .45, they wouldn’t have made it past the first twenty miles. Luckily, Xander and his father were big hunters, so they were already familiar with their weapons.

  The road home was laden with looters, robbers, gangs, and just regular people who had become desperate enough to do more damage than the former. He’d wrestled his gun away from more than one thirsty soul, and he had fought off three different small crowds of men looking to do his family harm. More than one bullet had been planted into a man’s skull, as his wife drove the Rover like their ass was on fire.

  He’d foolishly thought he needed to come home to protect his assets. It wasn’t until they were halfway that he realized none of that would matter anymore: houses, cars, big-screen televisions, and all that used to define a successful life… All that mattered now was a safe shelter, food and water.

  All that really mattered now was family.

  And he’d nearly lost his.

  With haunted eyes, and slumped shoulders, they told their tale to the people of Tullymore.

  There was no food out there. No gas and no power at least as far back as Tennessee. Entire communities were razed to the ground. Fires were everywhere; houses, businesses, cars, and forests.

  Law enforcement had not been seen by them even once between there and here; gangs were forming, and groups moved like herds down the roads, looking for someplace with more abundant water, and other resources.

  People weren’t asking for help. They were taking it. And to say no was risking your life and the life of your family. Xander had ultimately given away everything they hadn’t eaten or drank themselves on their way home—and not always willingly.

  Other things were being taken, too. Things that couldn’t be discussed in front of innocent ears. He told parts of their story with shuttered eyes, slumped shoulders and innuendos to his neighbors. The road…or out there in general…was no place for women or girls. He and his family had seen things that would give them all nightmares for years to come, and he made it clear he wished he’d stayed in the mountains with his folks—it was much safer there.

  Xander was confirming what everyone else had heard; that there was no help coming, and the power grid was down…indefinitely…as far as anyone knew. The American people were on their own—fighting against each other—for every scrap of food and drop of water to be had.

  “Bottom line,” Xander said, finishing his tale, “Things are going to get worse. Eventually, the bad guys will come this way, too. We need to get organized. You have no idea how scary it is out there. They will come…and they will take everything we have.”

  One elderly neighbor stood up. “We’re almost out of water at my house. What’re we going to do about that?”

  Another spoke up. “Where is everyone going to the bathroom? My knees are killing me from squatting out in the back yard, and that latrine we built is not big enough for this crowd. We need separate ones for the ladies, too.”

  “—and toilet paper! Does anyone have some that I can have?”

  “What about cleanliness? When can we get more warm baths?” a female voice yelled across the crowd, “My kids are filthy and they don’t like cold water.”

  Suddenly, the crowd erupted in a cacophony of voices with questions and demands.

  “—what about that pool? How long can that last us?”

  “—does anyone have any salt? I can trade you something for it!”

  “—we need to borrow some propane for our grill.”

  “—my toddler needs diapers.”

  “—what about the pharmacy?”

  “—how can we wash more laundry?”

  “—gonna need help building my own outhouse soon.”

  “Stop!” Curt, the president of the homeowners’ association, stood up and paced in front of the noisy crowd, ready to plead his case once again with them all to heed to his superior organizational skills. “Listen to me, people. It’s been a week. Now is the time to rally. I’ll take the lead on this and I’ll be choosing a team from the existing home-owners association board. First, I’ll set up a security team to guard the entrance, and some roving guards for inside the neighborhood. Then, we’ll go door to door and collect all the food and supplies. We’re stronger together, so then when we—”

  “—wait a minute, Curt,” Katie interrupted. “With all due respect, you’re not in charge of this and we’re not giving you, or anyone, our food. Jake had some good suggestions when he came by. Let’s start with implementing some more of those. First, we need to nominate a leader and maybe a board to make decisions. Then we vote. I nominate my husband, Tucker.”

  Tucker gently jabbed his wife with his elbow. “Um… no. Thanks, honey, but not me,” he said and looked at Katie with wide open eyes, pleading with her to leave it alone. He knew the group as a whole wouldn’t want Curt to lead them. But he didn’t want the job either. However, asking them to nominate someone else would be like asking turkeys to vote for Thanksgiving. Right now he just wanted to keep his head down. He still had hopes they’d throw a better name up though.

  Curt yelled across the lawn, “Yeah. Shut up, Katie. No one asked you anything. Keep your noisy piehole shut unless spoken to.”

  Tucker’s head nearly exploded. He pounced to his feet and in three long strides, he cut the lawn between him and Curt. Without pause, he struck him in the nose with a quick jab, then stood back on the balls of his feet with his open hands up, ready for a fight. “You don’t speak to my wife—or anyone’s wife—like that, ever! Got it?”

  Nods of approval and murmurs of agreement passed through the crowd like a wave, as well as some of disapproval. Curt grabbed his nose, a river of blood running through his fingers, and looked up in shock at Tucker.

  “Jesus, Tucker!” he yelled in a nasally voice. “Temper much?” The shorter, stockier man backed away from his challenger, clearly having learned his lesson—again—in tangling with Tucker. Curt’s wife hurried over, handing him a cloth. He took it and rudely brushed her off, his face quickly coloring to match his nose.

  He shot Tucker a look that would scare the devil, but somehow, he held his tongue.r />
  Finally.

  Sheepishly, Tucker backed up, his eyes still on Curt, and took his seat beside his wife again. Curt was right…he needed to control his temper. He couldn’t be going all MMA on people. That wasn’t his style. He didn’t want to fight; he didn’t even like fighting. What the heck was wrong with him? He looked over the crowd, finally settling his eyes on Kenny. “If it’s all the same, I’d rather not be the leader. I nominate Kenny.”

  Kenny looked up and beamed, puffing his skinny chest out a bit, in spite of the snickers from several in the crowd.

  Curt glowered, unable to keep his mouth shut, he protested. “Hell, no. I’m not voting for Kenny—or Tucker. I nominate myself. Who’s with me?”

  Tucker stood up. He didn’t want to be leader, but he couldn’t let it go to Curt; at least not without another choice. “Let’s do it right, if we’re going to do it. Anyone second the nominations?”

  “I second Curt,” a voice called out. All eyes turned to Joe, a man so tall he caused a crick in the neck to look up at him. Skinny as a beanpole, he had a face that looked like thirty miles of bad road. He was new to the neighborhood, but Tucker was shocked to see him carrying water for Curt. He lived on the same street as Tucker and he’d thought they were friends.