Run Like the Wind: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (The SHTF Series Book 3) Page 3

  He was glad now that they had.

  “But how?” Grayson asked.

  “Shoot a beam of sunlight through it onto that glass over the oven and it just works, man. Imagine a light saber from Star Wars,” he explained. “You don’t even need a lighter. As long as you have sun, you have fire.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “Yeah, man. You help me take apart that TV, give me some wood and screws to use for a frame, and we’ll have one built in an hour—two tops. That is, if you can stand me tearing up your TV.”

  Grayson perked up. Nothing better than playing with fire… “Pfft. That tv ain’t nothing more than a boat anchor at this point…and I’ll do you one better. I’ll tear it up myself. Let’s go take a look at it. Here, hold my beer,” he said to Olivia, handing her a wet dish-towel. “Let’s git ‘er done.”

  He and Jake hurried away, with Olivia rolling her eyes behind them, cringing at the sweaty towel she held up between two fingers.

  4

  Tullymore

  The morning sun filtered into Tucker’s bedroom, and he opened his eyes to find his arm slung over his wife’s side. She was burning up and it wouldn’t be long before she pushed it off. He watched the bedsheet—no longer damp—hang lifelessly in the open window, and prayed for a breeze. They’d hung it there to cool off the room.

  Katie was still sleeping, a sheen of sweat on her face. If he wanted to make her really happy, he could get up, dip the sheet into the pool again and re-hang it, just in case a tiny wind blew through. If it didn’t, she’d still appreciate his trying. But that would be wasting their rations of water, and with four teenagers, two dogs and themselves, they didn’t have it to waste. Soon, they’d be up and working outside. In this heat, they’d need the water worse while working, than they would while sleeping.

  Or so he thought.

  It was possible Katie would disagree—she hated the heat. Summer without air conditioning in the South was truly an apocalyptic event all its own…not even taking into consideration everything else that was all wrong.

  The country was in shambles, and Tullymore, the subdivision where Tucker and Katie lived with their four children, was running low on supplies. Tucker urged calm and took a proactive approach as their food stores dwindled lower and lower each day. For the half of the neighborhood that had voted him as leader, he assigned teams and tasks, such as foraging, gathering, and hunting, trying to stave off the panic.

  Mostly his own.

  Nearly everybody was just learning, but luckily, they had Neva, the neighborhood weird woman, who was instrumental in teaching them what plants and berries were edible around them, and how to harvest and cook it. They did their best to subsidize their food stores with what they could find in nature, and sent a team out to hunt each morning, but other than one rabbit, they’d yet to take down any meat bigger than a squirrel.

  But they would, eventually.

  Curt, who was the other leader in charge at Tullymore, led his group with a more lackadaisical approach. They ate when they wanted, and gorged on what was still in their pantries when the lights went off, with no regards for rationing, and no efforts to replenish it. They had finally started filtering the water in his own pool, after most of his group took ill, but the water level was nearing the bottom because they didn’t ration; and it was still thick with sludge. They had no plan, and lived dangerously, day to day. More and more of that crowd had hungrily wandered over to Tucker’s side, begging to be let in to his group.

  He didn’t deny a single one.

  Instead, the soup was made thinner, the meat cut smaller, and the water stretched farther. He couldn’t let anyone go hungry…but soon, he wouldn’t have a choice.

  He rolled over, already drifting back to sleep, hoping to prolong his reluctant duties of leader for just a few more moments.

  As the sun continued to peek over the horizon, sending rays of sunlight down the quiet street lined with Dogwood trees, a small convoy of military trucks crept into the Tullymore subdivision, startling the crickets and the frogs into silence. The loud procession was led by a Humvee, and followed by two cargo trucks, their backs covered in green tarps.

  A security team of four men posted at the entrance—shocked and surprised to see the trucks arrive—directed the convoy to Tucker’s house. It was Xander’s turn on watch, and he ran behind them as they crawled down the road, eyeballing the homes. He took a short-cut across the yards, beating them to Tucker’s door, and hurried to get him as they parked, under careful scrutiny of sleepy-headed men stumbling to their porches, and women and children who were rousted from their beds by the unfamiliar sound of roaring turbo diesel engines rumbling in their ‘hood once again.

  Xander beat on the door with his fist. “Tucker! The army’s here!”

  Tucker emerged, still wiping the sleep from his eyes. “What?”

  A stout man with an unfriendly face in fatigues walked up Tucker’s driveway, meeting him with a stiff greeting. “You in charge here?” he asked. He squinted at Tucker past a scar that ran down his forehead, over one eye and halfway down his cheek.

  Tucker blinked rapidly, looking past him to the handful of camouflaged-dressed men jumping out of the trucks with rifles slung over their shoulders. They met at the back of the middle vehicle, where they flipped the tarp up and stood silently on guard, the neighbors already gathering around them in curiosity.

  “Yeah, I guess,” Tucker answered, suddenly jolting awake, and peppering them with questions. “What is this? Are you National Guard? Are you here to help? What’s going on? Do you have news of the grid? Is the power coming back on soon?”

  The man with the scar held up his hand. A patch on his shirt announced his name as Cutter. “One question at a time please.” He looked around at the waiting faces and leaned into Tucker, speaking low, “Can I come in, so we can speak in private?”

  Tucker eyes slid down to Cutter’s gun belt. He pulled his front door closed and stepped off the porch. “We can talk out here. Everybody will want to hear what you have to say.”

  The crowd quieted in anticipation.

  Cutter’s eyes narrowed, obviously not expecting or appreciating Tucker’s refusal, and he and Tucker measured each other a moment.

  Tucker straightened to his full height and waved the neighbors in closer.

  Cutter took off his hat. “Okay. Fine. I’m with the Federal Emergency Management Agency. There’s no news about the grid yet. But we brought food and water supplies.”

  The small crowd roared happily, but as Tucker looked closer at the trucks, he wished he’d paid more attention to the television newscasts after disasters. He couldn’t remember what sort of trucks FEMA drove, but found it odd there were no identifying decals at all on the vehicles.

  However, supplies were supplies.

  They needed anything they could get. They’d been running very low on food and water, still having been unable to find a nearby water source and not comfortable travelling on foot too far from home.

  “Thank you. We appreciate the help. But when will we know something—anything? Can you at least tell us what happened? Who turned out the lights? Was it Russia? North Korea? Terrorists? Is it just here the power went out, or everywhere?”

  “That’s still classified. My orders are only to bring food and supplies, and trade them out. Any other intel won’t be coming from us.”

  Tucker raised his eyebrows. “Wait. Trade? Trade for what?”

  “Guns.” Cutter shrugged. “I’ve been given authority to trade one box of food supplies for every gun, and a gallon of water for every full box of ammunition. It’s standard re-appropriation and distribution. The good guys need those guns.”

  5

  Tullymore

  Tucker couldn’t believe his ears. “We are the good guys.”

  Cutter scoffed. “I’m sure you mean well, but it’ll be the men in uniform that brings civility back to the states.”

  “And you don’t already have guns of your own?”
>
  “Not enough, sir.”

  “So, this is a gun grab?”

  “It’s not a gun grab yet. Consider it a Buy Back. It’s voluntary. You have no need for guns, sir. The government has this under control. You’re safe out here, and we’re making our way to every corner, from town to farmland. If nobody has a gun…well, other than us…then everybody is safer.”

  “Have you been here? Have you been to the city? I was nearly shot down by a gang of thugs in the grocery store. I’ve seen people killed—real people. Right before my eyes.” A stab of fear knotted inside Tucker. What would these guys say if he admitted it was them that had done the killing? Were people now being brought up on charges? He still had nightmares about that gang standing behind him while he was on his knees in the deserted grocery store, a gun to his head. The memory of their lifeless eyes as they lay in puddles of their own lifeblood haunted him every night. It was kill or be killed, they’d had to do it…but would the authorities see it that way?

  He hurried on, hoping to avoid any questions. “I haven’t seen the government or a cop since the day the power went out. Or military—until you. And I don’t imagine you’re gonna stick around. It’s the wild west out here and if the grid is not up soon, it’s going to get worse.”

  “We’re doing our best to secure your safety, sir.”

  Tucker scoffed, and looked carefully at his friends and neighbors—the crowd having tripled in the past moment as more came out to investigate and make their way over. He silently counted his blessings that he’d put off the conversation of always having your gun on your side that he’d been planning to have with the group.

  There wasn’t a gun to be seen on a civilian. So far, their little piece of earth had been mostly safe and unmolested. However, he was sure some of the men were carrying, but baggy T-shirts covered them well. He looked at his friends’ faces, noting the smiles of relief now sliding away, and the small shake of their heads. They were in agreement with his thoughts.

  Until the lights went back on and law was reestablished, they wouldn’t relinquish their guns. They might be hungry and nearing desperation, but they weren’t stupid.

  He conspiratorially smiled at Cutter. “I understand.” He held out empty hands. “Well, other than the few you saw with the security team up front, we don’t have any guns here. We all lost them in a freak boating accident before the grid went down. Was hoping to replace them, when all of a sudden, all hell broke loose,” he lied.

  The man studied Tucker with a hard look. “Then you don’t need food or water?”

  “No, we do need it. Are you telling me you won’t help us if we don’t turn in some guns?”

  The man nodded firmly. “That’s my orders, sir.”

  The crowd bucked, turning back toward the men at the trucks.

  “Give us some of that food!” a man roared.

  “Please! My children need more to eat. They’re hungry!” a bedraggled woman called out.

  “Give us some clean water, at least!” Penny, the wife of Kenny, yelled.

  The men jumped up on the back of the truck, sliding their rifles from their shoulders and pointing them at the crowd that was closing in on them. “Stay back!” one of the men yelled.

  Tucker and Cutter rushed to the trucks, both yelling for everyone to calm down. Cutter pushed his way through the crowd and climbed up to speak. One of the other men handed him a mega phone and he spoke over the heads of the crowd, trying to reach the other people in the neighborhood, too.

  “Attention! This is the Federal Emergency Management Agency. We’re here to help. If you have a gun or ammo you’d like to trade for food or water, then bring it now. We’ll stay here one hour.”

  Xander pushed his way to the front. “Respectfully, sir, we don’t have what you’re asking for, but we’ve paid our taxes. FEMA is supposed to be there for all who are affected in an emergency. We’re affected. We’re here, and we’re hungry. You need to pass out some of that food and water.”

  Cutter ignored Xander and spoke again. “FEMA has appropriated a shelter in King’s Mountain. It’s a short drive and we’ve brought trucks for transport, with shade from the sun.” He pointed at the tarps. “Food, water, medical care, shelter, and protection will be given for as long as needed, or until the power comes back on. Pack up any supplies you have, and load up within the hour.”

  “Where?” Tucker yelled over the crowd. “Where exactly in King’s Mountain?”

  Cutter put down the mega phone and answered Tucker, “It’s a kid’s summer camp. There’s cabins, bathrooms, and everything anyone would need. Out on highway 321. Everyone welcome. Sir, we strongly encourage you to come with your group. We have plenty of food. We can protect you from these thugs you mentioned.”

  Tucker looked out over everyone. Something didn’t feel right about this. He ran his hand through his shaggy hair. “I think I’ll take my chances here, but I’ll keep it in mind if things get too tough.”

  A murmur of agreement passed through the crowd and as one, they backed off the trucks, moving to stand behind Tucker, who wasn’t the only one getting a bad vibe from this crew.

  Cutter looked up to the sky, and breathed in deeply, letting it out in a heavy breath. He spoke to the whole crowd. “If you men aren’t willing to come, we highly recommend you at least send your women and children…teenagers too. We do have guns. A lot of guns. We can protect them.” He looked out over the crowd and laid eyes on the small group of teenagers that were standing together, including Tucker’s four kids. “And for the older kids, who need more food, we’ve got everything from Pop Tarts to Doritos, to frozen pizzas.”

  Tucker’s spine prickled at the man’s obvious bribe.

  “We’ve still got food, and we can protect our own,” he answered for the crowd, receiving a tidal wave of heavy nods from everyone—other than the teenagers who looked at Tucker with disappointment etched on their faces. “I think it’s best we all stick together.”

  Cutter met Tucker’s eyes and held a long stare, his lips squeezed into a thin line. “You’re making a mistake. Bad things are coming. That’s all I can say,” he growled.

  “Can’t be worse than what’s already came,” Tucker replied evenly.

  “You’d be surprised,” he answered.

  Tucker held his stare, not bothering to answer. The man jumped down. “Then we’ve got nothing else to say here. We’ll make our rounds and be back through here in a week or so. I feel sure you’ll change your mind by then. Good luck.”

  6

  The Farm

  Bright and early the next day, Grayson and Jake were ready to tackle a new project.

  Jake grabbed the front of the flat-screen TV, and eased it off, more than happy to see that on this one, the plastic protective cover that most people thought was the actual screen was only held on with Velcro. They wouldn’t have to tear it apart. That would make it easier, and quicker. He quickly stripped that off and laid it against the wall, and then worked on removing the plastic sheet behind it.

  First, he removed a mirror, carefully handing it to Grayson for safe-keeping, knowing Grayson liked to keep everything packed away in his barn or his container. Many times before, he’d thought of his brother-in-law as a packrat, or Sanford the junk-man, but he was seeing now that less wasn’t in fact more when the stores were no longer open. More was more. They’d been using all manners of Grayson’s junk since the lights went out, for all sorts of projects.

  “Let’s go,” Jake said, carefully removing the Fresnel screen. It was a 32” TV, with the lens the same size. “See, it just looks like a big sheet of shiny, flimsy plexi-glass, but you have to be careful not to scratch it. It won’t work right if you do—maybe not at all.”

  He duck-walked sideways up the steep wooden staircase, tightly gripping it in both hands, but not before taking a quick glance at the shelves holding a few dozen dusty Mason jars of food, four cases of bottled water, a porta potty, two plastic tote-containers marked ‘sprinkler heads,’ and �
�patio cushions,’ and another full shelf of toilet paper, paper towels and paper plates and cups. Another shelf held the few long-term food buckets he and Gabby had contributed, several blow-up mattresses deflated in their boxes were scattered around the floor, with a stack of bedding and pillows shrink-wrapped flat in plastic. On the very bottom shelf, there was a roll of plastic sheeting on top of a crate marked ‘bio-haz.’

  Grayson followed him up and answered his unspoken question. “Yes, that’s more preps, but not a lot. And no, Olivia doesn’t know they’re here. She’s refused to come down here since she moved in, for fear of spiders and snakes and stuff, and since she can lose more stuff than a leper on a pogo stick, I kept it to myself,” he said and laughed. “Those plastic totes have some supplies in them. I just have them marked wrong in case anyone came snooping around.”

  “Any—”

  “—no coffee,” Grayson interrupted. “Sorry, pal.”

  The men moved to the barn, where they quickly made a frame for the plastic sheet, using wood cut down to one and a half inch by one and a half inch. They used three-inch nails for some overlap to secure it.

  Once they had one side done, Jake put down two blocks of wood on the workbench in the middle of the frame and then lay the lens down on top of them, fitting it snug inside the frame.

  Grayson watched. “What’s the blocks of wood for?”

  “That’s just to stabilize it while we frame in the other side. We don’t want the lens to bow up on us. It needs to lay perfectly flat,” he explained.

  They repeated the process for the other side and then cut a lip with same measurements, but smaller, going with quarter inch by quarter inch cedar. They mounted that to the frame, securing the lens flush in place.

  They sat the lens aside, careful again not to scratch it, and then built a stand with eyebolts that they mounted it to. Jake tested it. It rotated perfectly.