CHAPTER TWENTY

  Max returned to his rig in Kleymeyer Park, but it had already been looted—even by the next morning. His gun was stolen and so was his favorite pair of sunglasses, yet another item he had left behind while focusing on Linda’s bad attitude. Within twenty-four hours, everything he considered valuable had been taken. Even the mattress from the sleeper cab was gone.

  After that jolt of reality, he developed a sense of urgency regarding resources. He had lagged behind the looters and was now a scavenger himself—without a weapon and with barely food and water.

  Over the next several days, he journeyed out each morning in a different direction, seeking anyone who could help direct them to a shelter or place Betty could have taken his family. He learned nothing by visiting Memorial High School, and the college had proven a dead end as well. There were no signs of life in either location, although he did suspect someone—a great many people—had recently camped in the high school and moved on. Empty cans, wrappers, and water bottles littered the gymnasium, evidence that hundreds had sheltered there for some time but had been moved. He would have to venture further from his home if he hoped to catch up with the migrating herd of refugees.

  The snow had recently been falling harder than before, and he wrinkled his nose at how the dirty ash clung to the icy flakes. The city was a mess, and the deserted streets were getting harder to see underneath the piles. They drifted several feet high in many places, making it harder to get into the doors of the shops he searched on his walks.

  On this day he ventured west, passing the police department. In the lot he noticed several abandoned cruisers, each vandalized and burned. Someone had attacked the building, bashing in doors and burning the building from the inside, leaving only hollowed out remains of the city’s response force. Graffiti on a standing wall revealed the culprits, with the letters GMG written beside CRIP. The entire several blocks south of the station had burned in the fire, spreading like a fan the way the wind had blown. The peaceful protests of my parents’ and grandparents’ Dr. King are gone, replaced by destruction and terror, he thought, guessing the fire raged until meeting the swollen river then slowly burning itself out.

  A few blocks further, he passed Deaconess Hospital and marveled at the abandoned structures of the complex. He was slightly surprised that building hadn’t been used to house thousands of the missing citizens. It’s as if the city leaders didn’t even try to maintain unity after the police station fell, he marveled.

  Each day he wandered, Max sought survival. Sometimes, he found the occasional can of beans or vegetables, usually rolled under or behind shelving and left behind in a convenience store or supermarket. Other days, he came away with nothing but exhaustion from the effort. On one particular day, he came away with more than he bargained and less than he wanted.

  He had been rummaging in corners of Wesselman’s Supermarket, crawling along the floor and feeling under rows of what had once held canned goods. So far, he’d found bean dip, three cans of tuna—the albacore kind, much to his delight—dented but not broken, and two packages of teddy bear graham crackers, the pouches unopened but removed from their box. Probably they were left by an impatient mother who once tried to pacify her screaming child. No doubt the little shit had promptly cast them over the side of the cart in a tantrum. Max wasn’t as picky as the child, and these would go great with boiled water when he returned home to Linda.

  He rounded the corner to search for soup powders for the broth, when he nearly collided with a teen wearing tactical fatigues. The boy raised the muzzle of his rifle, an AR-15 with every imaginable gadget adorning its picatinny rails. Max raised his hands calmly, staring down at the weapon.

  This fool, he thought, probably never even test fired that weapon. The boy poked it at his chest, backing him slowly.

  “Give me your bag, dude!”

  Max held it aloft, shaking it slightly to rattle the meager contents. “It’s not a lot, friend, but it’s yours. Here.” He stretched it out and the boy reached for it. He had to turn his body slightly to the right in order to take the sack with his left, and when he did Max caught a glimpse of the selector switch. It was in line with the barrel, indicating the safety was on.

  He moved in a flash, the Marine no longer lurking within dark shadows of his mind. Sergeant Rankin returned in a surge, taking over Max’s hands and feet as he attacked with instinct. The satchel fell to the floor and the teen, shocked by the sudden movement, slammed into the shelves. The gun was knocked aside and Max made a decision to kick, sending the boy crashing hard into shelves a second time. With a crack, the boy’s head struck the edge and fell limp to the side, neck broken cleanly with a bit of vertebrae protruding from the skin.

  Shit, he thought as clarity returned. He had meant to overcome the boy, not kill him. He heard commotion from across the store, shouting and loud footsteps closing in. With no time to think, he scooped up the rifle and grabbed ahold of another shelf. He pulled it downward to the ground.

  “Aisle nine,” a voice called, “come quickly!”

  Max lay prone beside the metal rack, pointing the muzzle toward the approaching attackers. With the flip of his thumb, the selector went hot, ready to send bullets down range. A slight tug at the charging handle, not enough to eject a round, confirmed a round was chambered. Thank God for that, he thought, and released his held breath.

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  Two figures emerged from around the aisle with guns raised and muzzles trained. These teens were dressed exactly as their friend, wearing black tactical shirts and pants. One clumsily wore a full backpack which caused him to lose balance when he fired. His shot missed wildly, but came close enough Max could hear the popping as it passed by. Sergeant Rankin pulled the trigger and adjusted aim, pulling a second time. Both young men fell, dropped center mast.

  As soon as he fired, he spun to the other side of the shelving, waiting for the owner of the voice who had earlier shouted. The man leaned cautiously around the aisle, more seasoned than the boys and most likely trained on his weapon.

  He called out as he sneaked a glance, “Spike, Mole! Can you hear me?”

  One of the boys groaned from behind Max and the Marine whirled, just in time to see the boy’s weapon raise shakily toward him. A third pull of the trigger punched a hole in the boy’s forehead. Spinning to face the newcomer again, he ducked, just as three rounds narrowly missed. One pierced the shelving, letting him know how little it provided protection.

  “I didn’t want to kill them,” Max called to the man. “But the boy tried to rob me. Let me go in peace and you’ll never see me again!”

  “You made a mistake and started a war just now. Only one of us is leaving and it won’t be you.”

  The man leaned and fired but Max was ready, pulling his own trigger and striking him in the chest. Fortunately for the attacker he wore body armor, and the bullet merely knocked him backward—staggering breathlessly. One more twitch of the index finger sent another round toward the man’s head, striking him in the side of the face. He went down hard and the gun slid out of reach.

  Max leapt to his feet, sprinting down the aisle to retrieve the weapon. He arrived just in time before a bloody hand grabbed the stock. Stepping on the rifle he warned the injured man, “Don’t do it. I killed enough in Fallujah, and I’m tired of it. Let me go.”

  The man laughed hysterically at that. “What outfit,” he asked, groaning while holding his hand against his forehead. Thankfully for him, the bullet had only grazed.

  “Inchon,” Max replied, “First Marines.”

  The man managed a weak laugh. “Thundering Third, here. Sergeant Shayde Walters. Don’t forget that name. If you leave me here, I’m coming for you.”

  “Thanks for the mortars, Devil Dog, but that thanks don’t give you the right to take my life on our own soil. I’m walking out of here.”

  “Our own soil?” The man looked up with angry eyes. “The United States is dead, mate. Gone in a blink. All that matters now is the Regiment.”

  “What regiment?”

  “Ohio River Regiment One. Militia.”

  Max shook his head. Militias were illegal in all states, but especially Indiana. “Let me go peacefully, Devil Dog, and I won’t give the Regiment further trouble. I’m just trying to stay alive, just like you.”

  The man chuckled again, pulling his hand away from his bleeding head and placing it on a Ka-bar knife on his belt.

  “Let go of the blade,” Max warned. “I will shoot you, Marine or not.”

  The man released his grip.

  “Good, now take off that belt and the body armor.” With a grunt the man complied, sliding it over to Max. A pair of flexicuffs dangled from a D-ring. “Roll over and place your hands behind your back.” The man did, and Rankin slipped on the cuffs, cinching them tight and ensuring this man would not follow.

  With him tightly secured, Max slipped into the body armor, also buckling the belt and knife around his waist. He picked up the second rifle and hurried to the other bodies, taking anything useful he could find. He stuffed the satchel of food into the backpack, pausing for only a moment to marvel at the cache of food, water, and ammo within. Jackpot, he thought.

  He strapped the other two rifles to his pack and hurried from the store, looking both ways for watchers in the street. Seeing none, he ventured carefully, eyeing rooftops for snipers. Mindful of the footprints he left in the snow, Max hurried home.

*****

  Linda eyed the footlocker, desperate for the food inside but hindered by the lock. She knew Max wanted to ration, but she was so hungry she couldn’t think straight. Besides, she had a reason to eat. She placed two hands on her belly, knowing it would be too soon to feel the child since she was only four weeks late.

  She and Bryan hadn’t planned on another child so late in life, so this had come as a surprise. Since they hadn’t made love since the week before they took their Yellowstone trip, she figured on being six or seven weeks along at best. Or, her cycle could have simply paused due to the recent stress—but deep down as a mother, she knew. She would bring a child into a hell into which none should be born.

  She was afraid to tell Max, worried he’d resent her for bringing a life into a dying world. He was a nice man, but his focus was on finding his family and providing for his and her immediate needs. Learning there was more to feed may cause him to leave her behind to fend for herself and her unborn child. No, she wouldn’t reveal her secret until she could no longer hide it.

  She shook the large jug in which they stored their water, realizing they would need more. A glance out the window let her know evening was near—hard to tell with the orange sky and cloud cover, but she was used to the different hues by now. She glanced at the large jug in her hand and the two empties in the corner. Well, she thought, there’s no way in hell I’m fetching it this late in the day. He’ll have to do it when he returns. Besides, the river’s only a mile or so to the south, and he isn’t pregnant.

  The front door suddenly swung open and Max ran inside, slamming it shut and breathlessly unable to speak. He must have run all the way back to the house. Then she noticed his gear. When he had left, he was dressed in his usual—jeans, boots, and a flannel. Now, on top of his shirt he wore a tactical vest and carried a backpack on his shoulders. In his hands was a pack bulging with several military style rifles.

  “We have a problem,” he said.

  “No shit,” Linda agreed, suddenly thankful for the man barring the door, and simultaneously hoping he wasn’t so stupid as to have been followed.