Shoot Like a Girl: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (The SHTF Series Book 2) Read online

  Tucker would soon find out he didn’t know Joe at all.

  “I third him,” another voice called out, followed by a chuckle.

  “I second Kenny,” Kenny’s wife declared defiantly.

  “I second Tucker,” a voice called out.

  “Third Tucker.”

  “Fourth Tucker.”

  “Fifth Tucker…”

  Tucker held his hands up, palms out. He sighed. He had an uneasy feeling where this was going. “Okay, that’s enough. We have three nominations. Let’s vote. Let’s see a show of hands for Kenny.”

  Tucker stood up and looked out over the crowd. Other than his own, only two hands were raised; Kenny’s and his wife’s. Tucker felt bad for him. Although Kenny was overall a good guy, he was a nerdy pencil pusher with an irritating personality and a whiney voice. His yard was not a good indicator of someone who had it together, either.

  Not leader material at all.

  He moved on. “Okay, let’s see a show of hands for Curt.”

  A slew of hands went up; they were the usual people he’d have expected, but only about half of those in attendance. Silently, he counted the hands. “I count twenty.”

  Katie stood up. “Let’s see a show of hands for Tucker!”

  All other hands in the crowd shot to the sky. Katie counted, while Tucker’s ears burned. “Twenty-seven. Tucker is our leader,” she said, smiling ear to ear in direct contrast to her husband, who scowled.

  This is going to be nothing but trouble…

  Curt stomped over to Tucker. “This is bullshit. Not everyone is even here. I don’t concede the vote to you.”

  Tucker took one step, closing in the already too-small gap between himself and Curt. Katie pulled firmly at his T-shirt, trying to pull him down into his chair.

  Curt backed away.

  The crowd erupted in loud voices and mutterings. The temperature went up lending a feeling of doom and anticipated chaos. Tucker looked over Curt’s shoulder to see neighbor stand up to neighbor, fingers pointing, heads shaking, tempers rising. He heard his name repeated multiple times.

  Tucker yelled, “Wait a damn minute!”

  As one, the crowd quieted and turned to him.

  “If y’all want Curt to lead you…go with him. No one is forcing you to be led by anyone—especially me. Hell, you don’t have to listen to either one of us.” He glared at the angry faces. “I didn’t ask to be leader. I really don’t want it…but if you want me in charge, I’ll do it. This isn’t forever. For all we know, the power could come back on tomorrow. But know this…I’m not collecting anyone’s food. It ain’t that bad yet. I’ll do the best I can in getting us organized like Jake talked about, but we’re all responsible for ourselves; no one is boss, as far as I’m concerned.”

  Curt stepped off to one side and thumped his chest. “I’ve been managing people in a billion-dollar company for twenty years. I know how to get stuff done. Anyone with me…come to this side.”

  The crowd that had voted for Curt stepped behind him.

  The rest of them stepped behind Tucker.

  Only two families remained; Kenny’s and Xander’s. Slowly, they stood up and ushered their own families behind Tucker, too.

  The two leaders, one willing and one reluctant, stared across the grass at each other. A line had been drawn, and before it was over, it would be crossed.

  3

  Grayson’s Group

  “Please don’t leave me, Mr. GrayMan!” Puck yelled, through an angry face.

  Grayson gently pulled his hand out of Puck’s tight grip. The boy was having himself a bit of a tantrum; the first that Grayson had seen from him. “Listen, kid. You’re going to have to man up. You’re going to be fine. I have to go check on Jenny now. She’s probably worried to death about you. I’ll get your things and see if I can persuade her to come over here—we’ll find room…” He looked around, realizing his house was quickly becoming crowded. “Somewhere. My daughter Graysie is going to sit with you.”

  Puck slid his gaze over to Graysie, who huddled against the doorway, guilt pinching her face.

  Grayson mouthed the word ‘smile’ at her.

  She attempted a weak smile.

  Grayson stood up. “You two are close in age. You’re going to be great friends,” he said, and then chuckled. His chuckle ended abruptly as he flinched at the pain of his sore tooth that had once again reared its ugly head.

  Puck poked his lip out. “She hurt me.”

  “Hey, I explained that to you already. She thought you were a bad guy. You need to forgive her… you are in her bed after all.”

  Puck looked silly cuddled up under a Bob Marley blanket beneath a rainbow of murals adorning the walls. At his feet at the end of the bed lay Ozzie, who’d barely left the boy’s side.

  “Look, kid. It’s only been one day. Give it another day or so and you’ll be up and about. When you’re feeling better, I’ll ask Graysie to show you Rickey’s treehouse. It’s huge! Nearly the size of this bedroom. You’ll love it. He won’t mind you using it while he gone. How’s that sound?”

  Finally, Puck’s eyes lit up a bit; he smiled weakly. “Okay.”

  Grayson turned to walk out, then abruptly stopped and turned back. “Is there anything else you want me to bring you from home? Besides clothes and your toothbrush?”

  Puck screwed his mouth up in thought and looked at the ceiling before answering, “My colored pencils and crayons. And my paper. Please?”

  “Done,” Grayson said. “But I’m going to have to take Ozzie for a bit. I need him with me. We’ll be back soon. Come on, Ozzie.”

  Reluctantly, Ozzie slithered off the bed and walked toward the door. In almost human fashion, he paused and looked over his shoulder. First at Puck, and then at Graysie. He whined, as though giving Graysie instructions to take care of his new boy, and then quickly loped off to join Grayson.

  Grayson and Jake hurriedly followed Ozzie down the dirt road, wanting to avoid the final tears that were sure to fall when the girls said goodbye to Elmer. The old man was leaving, and no amount of talk would change his mind. He couldn’t wait to get back to his bride, Edith, and would be gone by the time they returned.

  They entered the clearing where Puck lived with Mama Dee.

  Jake turned to Grayson with his eyebrows raised and gave a low whistle.

  “Yeah, it’s a shithole,” Grayson answered, knowing exactly what Jake was thinking.

  In the middle of the clearing was a shack of an old farmhouse; the small wooden porch leaned precariously to the right, struggling to stand. A rocking chair barely stood upright, missing one of the supportive rungs, it’s once-woven seat totally undone, leaving a hole big enough to fall through. The roof of the house was nearly bald, missing more shingles than it wore, and the glass of the few windows were foggy with age.

  The place looked uninhabitable.

  Grayson clenched his jaw in anger. These kids shouldn’t be living in a place like this; especially alone without Mama Dee. He’d have to persuade Jenny to come back with him. He wasn’t leaving her in this cesspool. He mumbled under his breath, “Tammy Faye Baker herself couldn’t put enough lipstick on this pig to make it look better.”

  Off to one side, there was a reasonably decent out-building. It was a small pre-fab, with a standard door and two windows in the front. But through the window he could see boxes and old furniture stacked to the gills. You probably couldn’t walk two feet into it. A hoarder’s dream closet.

  The yard was a disaster of junk and disarray. The garden was overgrown and filled with weeds. Two burn barrels barely stood up; light shone through the rust holes. A stack of bagged trash was piled beside them atop a mound of broken trash bags that had left a pile of stinking, rotting debris. The entire yard was littered with junk: broken bicycles, faded Coca-Cola crates, cracked and jagged flower pots, and enough bald tires to start a recycling center.

  The place reeked of rotten trash and chicken poop.

  They wrinkled their noses
at the smell, while Ozzie ran full throttle ahead with his own nose to the ground, sniffing in super-speed.

  The only thing worth something on the homestead was a pole-barn, standing off to the side, and that was being generous. Beside the barn stood a dilapidated pop-up camper that wasn’t fit for a dog. The torn canvas flapped in the breeze.

  Jake pointed at the camper. “The girls are gonna love that.”

  Grayson scoffed. “That fine specimen of wheel estate? Yeah… no. The girl’s wouldn’t step foot in that.”

  “They don’t have to. It’s the full water pressure they’re going to love. That camper probably has a freshwater pump that runs off a 12-volt battery. If it works, it’ll push water through the whole house. They can enjoy a real shower in your bathroom.”

  Grayson smiled. “Really? You can do that? Oh, yeah. They’ll be happy as a dog with two tails. We’re going home heroes, brutha. I’ve even got an Instant-On hot water heater stashed. Will it work with that?”

  Jake held up his fist. “Heck yeah it will. Hot water? Shoot!” He fist-bumped his brother-in-law.

  Suddenly, Ozzie stopped in his tracks directly in front of the porch, his hair standing at attention. He gave a low growl and tucked his head down, staring at the door.

  Grayson and Jake stopped walking, and Grayson reached for his gun, sliding it out of the holster that he now wore at all times…effective today. The stories that Olivia had told him of their trip home had prompted him to dig it out, as well as a few more which he passed to Jake, Gabby, and Graysie. They would all be armed now—all the time. Well, all but Olivia and Puck.

  “Ozzie, come,” Grayson instructed the dog.

  Ozzie hesitated, giving another low growl deep in his throat, and then circled to stand between Jake and Grayson, taking an aggressive stance.

  BANG!

  The loud sound sliced through the air and the guys dropped to a squat on the ground, Grayson pulling Ozzie down beside him.

  4

  Tullymore

  Tucker ran his fingers through his shaggy hair, wishing he’d got it cut before all hell had broken loose. He’d already been weeks beyond his normally scheduled appointment before ‘the event,’ and now it was a mess, hanging over his ears and running down his neck. If it got much longer, he’d have to band it up.

  His patience was running out; with more than just his hair.

  Curt, the president of Tullymore’s home owners’s association, was on his last nerve. But at this wife’s prompting, he’d tried to make nice with him, again. He’d come over, hat in hand, and offered to let them help out building latrines that the whole neighborhood could use. But the short fireplug of a man was bound and determined to keep a hot head and a divisive neighborhood.

  Tucker was done being nice.

  “You think your shit don’t stink?” he yelled at Curt.

  Curt stood on his porch, his hands on his hips in a defiant stance. He shrugged. “I think my shit—and the shit of my people—is none of your business.”

  Joe, his new sidekick, stood beside him looking all the world like a flagpole, and gave a firm yessir-wave of his head, as though Curt spoke the gospel.

  Tucker scoffed. “Look Curt, first of all, they’re not your people. We’re all our own people. I didn’t ask for this, but I got voted in anyway. If you don’t want to go with the results of a democratic vote…fine. Like I said before, no one has to listen to me. But, we can do this much together. Everybody shits. It’s the one big equalizer in life. Am I right?”

  He attempted a smile to soften his earlier scoff and rein in his temper and then stood waiting for a response. Curt leaned against his front door and stared back defiantly, not blinking an eye.

  “So, the silent treatment? What are you, twelve?”

  Curt ignored him again.

  Now totally at the end of his patience, Tucker snapped. “This affects all of us. You people can’t be crapping in your houses—and I’ve heard of a few who are doing it—or shitting and pissing on the ground all the time. Eventually, that is going to soak into the ground and many of you are uphill from your neighbors. If the power doesn’t come back on, we need the grounds to be clean for gardens. And if still don’t understand why you can’t use your toilets…well, you’re dumber than I thought.”

  Curt crossed his arms and glared at Jake. “Stick your shitters up yours, Tucker. You do whatever you want with your people. We’ll do whatever we want.”

  “You’re stupid, man. You’re such an asshole that you can’t get out of your own way. Look, you don’t have to do what we’re doing. When Jake talked to all of us, he offered up some great ideas for a simple latrine or outhouses. We’ve already built one of those simple latrines, but we need something bigger. Separate facilities for men and women, too. You can even use the old one if you want, hell it’s only a few days old. We’ll stop using it. But as of right now, we’re doing something new, something better. It just requires a bit more work.”

  Curt turned his head and spit over the rail and onto the ground. “Jake doesn’t know shit.”

  Tucker shook his head.

  This man would bite off his own nose to spite his face. Having words with him was like pouring water into a sieve.

  Useless waste of time.

  He’d made this trip over here with the best intentions. To try to bring the neighborhood together, and to offer the other side help. Several of his group had seen Curt’s group defecating directly on the ground, not even bothering to bury it—like a pack of dogs. And there were rumors some were still piling it up in their toilets.

  No one could see where a latrine had been dug, or even a single hole or two.

  Lazy.

  They’d all be stronger together, if only Curt could get out of his own way.

  Not to be.

  He nodded at Curt. “Okay, fine. Keep doing what you’re doing if that’s what you want. And just so you know, I’ve got guards set up. Two at the entrance all night—rotating shifts. We also have a few walking through checking the ‘hood throughout the day and night. They’re here for everyone. If anyone from your group wants to offer some time—and they have a gun—we’d love to have them. If there’s trouble, you’ll hear three short blasts from an air horn.”

  Tucker turned and walked away from Curt, meeting up with his guys at the road. Just like the seven dwarfs on their way to work, they swung their shovels, picks, tubes and pipes over their shoulders and in marching file, stepped into the woods and down a trail between two houses, where they’d picked a private clearing for their new latrines.

  5

  Grayson’s Group

  Jake frantically looked around. “What was that?”

  “I don’t know, but let’s move out of this open area.” Grayson snapped his fingers at Ozzie and jogged to the side of the house, with the dog and Jake on his heels. They leaned against the wall and waited, listening closely.

  Another loud bang shook the wall they stood against, startling them. Ozzie backed off the wall and barked at it long and loud…not stopping.

  “Ozzie, hush,” Grayson chided him, in a loud whisper. He stopped barking, but bristled at Grayson’s feet. “Let’s check it out, Jake.”

  Slowly, they crept onto the porch, moving to opposites sides of the door. “Your gun, Jake,” Grayson whispered.

  Jake looked down at his gun holstered to his side. “What about it?”

  “Pull it out and be ready, just in case.”

  Jake reluctantly pulled his gun out, handling it like it was dirty, pointing it down at the ground. Grayson rolled his eyes and knocked. The door opened with the force of his knock, giving him a small peek into the house.

  It was an awful sight.

  An old couch was standing sentry in the middle of the small room. The stuffing was ripped out of it, and spread over the floor. The lone chair in the room was tipped over on its side. A long table against the wall once held frames and knick-knacks that now lay on the floor, shattered. Newspapers were strewn everywhere, a
s though intended to cover the mess.

  It was bizarre. Who would want to break into this piece of crap?

  It could be the boys that’d chased Puck up a tree, maybe coming back looking for their gun, Grayson thought.

  “Hello?” Grayson yelled.

  There was no answer.

  “Jenny?” he yelled again. “I’m your neighbor. Puck’s been hurt. He’s at my house.”

  They waited.

  Still no answer.

  Slowly, Grayson pushed the door wide open with his elbow and stepped in, sweeping the room from left to right.

  No one seemed to be there, so they quietly crept into the next room—the kitchen.

  Against one wall stood an original retro chrome and Formica dinette set with two faded red and white chairs straight out of the fifties. The table was a mess of old food wrappers, hollow cereal boxes, empty bowls, and dirty spoons.

  The microwave door hung open to expose its grimy interior covered in layers of burnt-on food. The sides were yellowed from use and age. Empty Mason jars stood in a neat row along the kitchen cabinet. The sink was filled to the brim with dishes caked in old food—and in the middle of the kitchen floor was a big brown pile of reeking shit.

  Grayson backed up a step, bumping into Jake. “Holy shit!” he said. Who the hell takes a dump on the kitchen floor?

  Jake crept up to peek over his shoulder, and then gagged. “What is that?” He gagged again, this time his entire body convulsing as he backed away.

  Grayson chuckled at Jake’s weak stomach and shushed him, turning to search the bedrooms.

  Jake followed behind, trying to tap down the lurching in his stomach.