Without (3 page)

After the light storm and stimulating conversation, the rest
of the evening passed without incident. Everything I expected to happen didn’t.
I spent the rest of the night on my balcony watching the city burn like most
people watch a campfire. The silent night was occasionally disrupted when a
building downtown collapsed or something exploded. With smoke to the horizon,
the sunrise painted the morning sky bloody.
Red sky at night, sailor’s
delight. Red sky at morning, sailor’s warning.

It was time to go.

I had a plan; I had a place. It was a place the roaming
gangs of looters and opportunists in populated areas would be hard pressed to
select as a target. The distance was great, the terrain was rugged, and there
was only one access road which I could conceal from strangers. Every scenario I
prepared since the first blackout had one common link: get as far away from
people as possible.

Ever since I was thirteen, I had run wild on Bootleg
Mountain. It was where my parents built their last home in Northwest Georgia.
They died years ago, leaving me the property. I knew every inch of it like the
back of my hand. Carter Creek was full of fish, the woods were full of game,
and the house sat alone on thirty acres. It was the safe haven most in the city
would soon be dying to find.

As I laced up my boots, I thought about the long walk.
Bootleg Mountain was a hundred and twenty miles away. I figured it would take
me a week to get there moving at a brisk pace. I was in good shape and looking
forward to putting some distance between me and the trouble that was coming.

Being a short twenty-four hours into the event, I wasn’t
worried about finding food and water along the road north. I kept my backpack
light at forty pounds of gear so I could cover more distance with less effort.
Most of that weight was ammunition.

After the ice storm, I made modifications to my backpack so
I could conceal my weapons but still get to them in a hurry. I cut the shoulder
straps and then reconnected them with quick-release buckles. I then connected
both buckles to a ripcord-type lanyard. One tug on the cord dangling on my
chest and the backpack would fall away. Walking around town with a shotgun
slung over my shoulder and two pistols in a gun belt would attract immediate
attention. And attracting attention was what I didn’t want to do.

My shotgun was concealed inside a bedroll attached to the
bottom of my pack. Two holsters in the small of my back would be covered by the
roll as well. If things went bad, I could yank the shotgun and drop the pack,
giving me easy access to the Glocks. The side pockets of my cargo pants were
stuffed with shells and bullets. Everything I needed in a fight was attached to
my clothing. I wasn’t looking for one, but I knew
they
would be.

Leaving everything behind wasn’t a problem. I never
developed much of a connection with inanimate objects. All the things I
treasured were dead. I didn’t want that to be the case for the rest of my life,
but it would be until this mess was sorted out. Thinking about a future with
someone was the furthest thing from my mind. Surviving to have a future seemed
a better idea.

As I strapped on my backpack, I thought about the people
sitting in Frank’s apartment the night before. I knew none of them had a plan.
I knew they’d stay behind surrounded by the things they couldn’t leave. They
would stay behind, believing that the safest place on the planet was inside
their homes in the city. Maybe I should’ve told them to come with me to a place
where they truly would be safe, a place where they’d at least have a chance.

Adjusting my gear, I shook off the thought. Trying to take
care of other people who weren’t prepared would be a bad idea. I justified my
decision by thinking the power would probably be back in a few days anyway. I
imagined all of them sitting in their well-lit, air conditioned apartments safe
and sound as I was dragging my tired ass up Bootleg Mountain. Those thoughts
propelled me down the hall, through the garage, and out into the street. It was
dead quiet.

Broken glass shimmered like jewels in the morning sun. It
crunched under my boots as I made my way to the center of the street. Walking
between the abandoned cars, I was impressed to see most of them intact. I
thought by the end of the first night they’d be stripped down to the frames.

Considering the circumstances, I was in a good mood. I liked
the idea of having an entire week planned out ahead of me when most had no idea
what they were doing in the next hour. Somewhere there were people much smarter
than me working on the problem. I’d let them figure it out while I was pulling
trout from Carter Creek. It wasn’t like I was worried about losing my job for
taking a couple weeks off. (Besides, I hated that tiny, windowless cubicle.)

Looking down the street that would take me to the road
north, I saw a few people sitting in lawn chairs on the sidewalk, taking
advantage of the cool morning breeze. They didn’t look menacing, so I stayed on
the planned route. When I walked past, most of them smiled and said good
morning. I returned the greetings and pressed forward. Walking for half an
hour, I was thinking trouble was taking its time getting to Midtown. Every step
I took, I felt more confident I was getting farther away from it.

As I turned the corner between two tall buildings, trouble
came running straight at me. I didn’t know if it was a man or a woman. Whatever
it was, it was engulfed in flames.

It took my brain a few seconds to process what was going on
in front of me. For a moment I expected to see movie cameras rolling and other
stuntmen standing by with fire extinguishers. When nobody yelled “cut,” the
surreal became real.

The burning human wasn’t running at me. It was running away from
them. To avoid a collision I had to take two steps to the side. I watched as it
continued, running past me and then dropping to the sidewalk thirty yards away.
It never made a sound as it burned.

My stomach sank. It wasn’t the same feeling I had when the
yellow sundress slid across my hood. It wasn’t the feeling of being helpless to
save a life. No, this was different. This was the feeling of knowing I was
about to kill for the first time in my life – or be killed.

Seeing three more charred bodies in the street, I understood
that I had just walked into a nest of cowards. At the entrance to a parking
garage in the side of a large building, two men were doubled over laughing. One
was carrying a gas can. The other was holding a pistol.

As Gas Can raised up, taking a breath between howls of
delight, we made eye contact. It was too late for me to run or hide. I didn’t
make much of an effort to do either.

After hearing him yell out “fresh meat,” three more of them
emerged from the parking deck. All of them were smiling. Two of them had
revolvers pointed at me.

Pistol and Gas Can didn’t waste time walking toward me. The
two at the entrance picked up aluminum baseball bats before joining the parade.
I stood and waited.

Both men were holding their guns at arm’s length and
sideways. I was glad to see they received their firearms training from TV. I
needed them to come just a little bit closer.

Closing my eyes, I inhaled deeply and remembered the three
men running from the pub after they raped and killed Sam. When I opened them
again, those men were coming towards me. I knew it wasn’t the same three, but
it didn’t matter. They were all going to die for being what they were.

I wasn’t comfortable with my position. In a city full of
thousands of cars left frozen in place, there wasn’t one near me for cover. I
was
comfortable knowing the chances of them hitting me at that distance were low.
The common thug doesn’t spend his weekends at a shooting range.

In one fluid motion, I yanked the shotgun out of the bedroll
with my right hand and tugged at the ripcord with my left. One buckle released
as planned. One didn’t.

The weight of my shifting pack hanging over my right
shoulder caused me to overcompensate and fire the buckshot over their heads.
But it bought me enough time to drop to a knee, slap the buckle open, and pump
another shell into the chamber. As they fired wildly at me, my second blast
found its mark. So did the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth; it took me three
seconds to empty the shotgun.

Three of them were down in front of me, screaming in agony
from the countless lead balls I drilled into their bodies. The two men behind
them carrying bats weren’t immobilized so they turned, stumbling for the safety
of the garage.

Dropping the spent shotgun on the ground, I reached back and
drew the Glocks. Two of the three downed men were trying to crawl away on their
hands and knees. I walked up to the first and placed the barrel of my gun in
the small of his back. The large .40 caliber bullet severed his spine, dropping
him to the ground on his face. The second crawling man received the same gift.

Turning my attention to the two men running up the ramp in
the parking deck, I holstered the smaller handgun, went down to a knee, and
raised the more accurate weapon. The adrenaline coursing through my veins
caused my hand to tremble. Once again, I closed my eyes and thought of Sam.
When I opened them I could feel her holding my arm steady.

Gently squeezing the trigger, the bullet entered his back
between the shoulder blades. He fell without a sound. As the last man standing
approached the turn that would save his life, I squeezed again. A red cloud
formed in the air as the round entered his right ear.

With all the targets down and disabled, I remained on one
knee with my aim still inside the garage. I was hoping more would come out of
the nest. When none did, one by one, I checked each of the men who had been looking
to take from me.

Three were dead. Two were paralyzed but alive. One of the
two was begging me not to kill him. The other was too busy coughing up blood to
speak. I looked to my right and saw the gas can sitting on the ground.

Why not
?

I dragged the two men down the ramp by their ankles,
dropping them next to the others in the street. The man coughing up blood
finally found words. They were inadequate.

“I bet you thought things were going to turn out a little
different, huh?” I said, kneeling beside him. “Being shot in the back, dragged
by your ankles, and coughing up blood probably wasn’t part of the plan.”

“We were just messing with you, man. I swear to God we
weren’t gonna do nothin’ to you.”

“Just like you weren’t going to do anything to them?” I
said, pointing at the burned bodies. “No worries, partner. This won’t hurt for
long.”

“Please, God! Don’t do this, man! I got a baby!”

“Tell Sam you’re sorry.”

“What?”

“Tell Sam that you’re a coward and that you’re sorry for
hurting her. Scream it at the top of your fucking lungs so she can hear you. If
she does, then I’ll stop killing you.”

He did, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.

I emptied the gas can on them, lit one of their baseball
caps, and tossed it onto the pile of cowards.

I don’t remember walking under the interstate that circles
Atlanta. That point on my map was ten miles away from my front door. All I do
remember is walking as fast as I could. I was trying to get away from the smell
of burning flesh.

It was everywhere. It didn’t matter what I did, I couldn’t
get it off of me. A friend who was a firefighter told me it sticks to you as
the burning fat and fluids produce a greasy smoke. He said you could feel it as
if somebody had sprayed you with a thin mist of rancid Crisco. I thought he may
have been embellishing.

He wasn’t.

When my mind started to break through the trauma of killing
– burning – five people, I became more aware of my surroundings. Kennesaw
Mountain helped. The topography around metro-Atlanta is hilly but consistent.
The mountain was like a massive pimple on clear skin. It was also twenty miles
from my apartment. And two miles off of my planned route.

Leaving the asphalt I found myself walking on a trail
through the woods. I didn’t know why I was deviating from my route until I
reached the spot. She was sitting on a boulder with a beaming smile. My God,
she was beautiful.

“I’ll never get tired of this view,” said Sam. “Do you
remember the first time you brought me up here?”

“How could I forget?” I said, taking off my backpack and
sitting beside her. “It’s where I made my first move on you. Do you remember
what you did to me?”

“That, I’ll never forget,” said Sam, laughing. “I wish you
could’ve seen the look on your face when you leaned in all cocky and glowing.
It was priceless.”

“I wasn’t sure what to do after you told me it needed to be
the best kiss of your life, or it would be our last.” I said. “I wasn’t
expecting that.”

“It was the best kiss of my life, sweetheart,” said Sam,
reducing the laugh to a warm smile. “It really was.”

She reached over and took my hand in hers. As she turned
away from me to admire the view, I kept my eyes on her. She was flawless. She
was as bright, radiant, and real as I ever remembered. It was good to see her
after what I had to do earlier in the day.

“I did hear him,” said Sam, holding her stare outward.

“Hear who?”

“The man you were hurting,” said Sam, turning to look me in
the eyes. “I heard him apologize to me.”

I dropped my head. I felt ashamed for using that beautiful
face as the reason for ending their lives in such a horrific way.

“I’m sorry, baby,” I said. “I shouldn’t have used your
memory like that.”

“And I want you to use it every time,” said Sam, getting my
attention. “They killed three people like they killed me, probably more. They
were going to take from you, beat you, and then burn you. And they wouldn’t
have stopped unless we stopped them. Do you remember feeling me steady your
hands?”

“I do.”

“I will always steady your hands. I will always be with
you.”

“You’re okay with what I did?” I asked.

“I’m okay with anything you have to do to stay alive, to
keep you from getting hurt. Anything.”

“I miss you so much,” I said, unable to hold back tears. “I
wish you were with me. It’s like the entire world has stopped working. I’m
scared, Sam. I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

She reached up, pulling me into her. The smell of burnt
flesh disappeared as I inhaled her perfume. She ran her fingers through my hair
as she squeezed me tighter into her shoulder.

“It’s okay,” whispered Sam. “It’s okay to feel this way. Let
it out, sweet boy.”

I did. I can’t remember the last time I cried.

“Help her,” said Sam.

“Help who?”

A high pitched bark at my side caused me to turn away from
her. The tiny dog wasn’t much bigger than the shoe it was trying to bite. I
smiled and turned back to Sam.

I missed her the second she was gone.

“Easy big fella,” I said, reaching down and picking up the
yelping varmint. “Where did you come from?”

I stood and looked down the trail. I had to squint to see
the elderly woman leaning against a tree. Even at that distance I could tell
she was trying to stabilize herself. I grabbed my pack and made my way down
with Varmint.

“Oh, thank you, Jesus,” said the old woman. “I don’t know
what got into her. She just took off running.”

“I think she wanted my shoes,” I said, handing her the dog
with the leash dangling.

“You scared me to death, Scarlett. Thank you so much, young
man. My name is Emma.”

“You’re very welcome Ms. Emma,” I said. “You really
shouldn’t be out here by yourself.”

“Being by myself isn’t a choice,” said Emma. “My girlfriend
Gladys hasn’t come around in two days. She walks with me and Scarlett almost
every afternoon. She helps me with things, you know.”

“How does she get to your house?”

“She lives about five miles away, so she drives,” said Emma.
“That old goat scares me to death behind a wheel, but they keep renewing her
license.”

“She’s not driving anymore,” I said. “It’s not just the
power that’s out. Cars, busses, trains, anything with a motor has stopped
working.”

“Well, isn’t that peculiar,” said Emma. “When do you think
they’ll get ‘em going again?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m sure they’ll get everything working fine soon. They
always do. Thank you again for saving my Scarlett. At least
she’s
working.”

Emma strained to bend over and put Scarlett on the ground.
She strained again, holding the dog back from pulling her down the trail.

Help her
.

Okay, Sam. Okay
.

“Ms. Emma,” I said. “Would you allow me the pleasure of
walking you and Scarlet home?”

“Oh, no, young man,” said Emma. “I’m sure you have other
things to do besides walk an old woman home. It’s not far. We’ll be fine.”

“It would make my day, Ms. Emma. It really would.”

“Well, then. I’m all yours,” said Emma, not hesitating a
second time.

Emma offered me the leash, and I offered her my arm. Taking
care, stepping over the roots, we made our way back to the road.

“This is nice,” said Emma as we approached her house.

Nice
?
This old woman had no clue what’s happening
around her
.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve had an escort. And by such
a handsome young man. You know, I have a son about your age. Just as handsome,
too.”

“Does he live close?”

“Oh, I apologize,” said Emma, shaking her head. “Sometimes I
get a little jumbled up with my words. No, I lost my boy ten years ago. He got
very sick, you know. My poor angel.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Emma. Your kids should never go before you.”

“Ain’t that the truth? But I still have my other two angels,
Helen and Sophia. Both my girls are doing so good, and to think they have
babies of their own now. Where does the time go? Lord, but those tiny, little
faces make me smile. Oh, listen to me go on and on. Tell me about yourself. Do
you live near here?”

“I live in Midtown,” I answered as Emma patted my arm. “But
I’m heading for my parents’ house in the mountains. I plan on waiting this
thing out up there.”

“You’re walking all the way to the mountains?”

“Right now it’s the only way to get around.”

“Child, that’s a hundred miles away. How long is that gonna
take you?”

“Five or six days.”

Emma stopped walking.

“Where are you gonna stay tonight?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I put twenty miles under these
shoes today. I’m a little beat. I have plenty of supplies, so I may just borrow
your woods tonight if that’s okay.”

“No, sir, you won’t,” said Emma, furrowing her brow. “My
home is yours tonight. You’re going to let me cook you a nice hot meal, and I
have two spare rooms. No, sir, you’re staying right here.”

“Ms. Emma, you have to be careful with your generosity.
There are going to be people looking to take what you have. Do you understand?”

“I do, handsome. I’m old, but I didn’t survive eighty-three
years being a fool. I know something has gone terribly wrong with this world
and it won’t get better anytime soon. I can feel it in the air.”

“Then you do understand,” I said. “Most people won’t until
it’s too late.”

“Do you plan on taking what I have?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Good enough for me,” said Emma. “I’ll be more careful with
my generosity tomorrow. But you would be making an old woman feel very useful
today if you let me make you dinner and give you a place to rest. You can leave
in the morning after a good night’s sleep on a full stomach. How does that sound?”

“It sounds wonderful, Ms. Emma. Thank you.”

With the argument settled we left the road and entered the
house. The history of Emma’s life was everywhere. The afternoon sun fired beams
of light across countless picture frames. There were moments caught in black
and white, showing the faces and weird clothes of her childhood; faded colors
displayed the lives and experiences of her children; and the most brilliant colors
showed me the newest, little faces of her grandchildren who made her smile.

“Those are my babies,” said Emma, returning to the living
room with a glass of sweet tea.

“They look like a handful,” I said.

“Sweetie, I’ll take two handfuls of them all day,” said
Emma, pausing.

I knew where her thoughts were going. I knew she was worried
she’d never see them again. I was almost sure of it.

“Well, I offered you a hot meal,” said Emma, forcing herself
away from the painful thoughts. “But sometimes my head gets as jumbled as my
words. I have an electric stove.”

I smiled. “That’s not going to be a problem. What did you
have in mind to cook up?”

“Pork chops,” said Emma, gleaming. “I’ve got a yearning for
pork chops tonight. I have a grill out back and plenty of charcoal. What do you
say you and I have ourselves a proper barbeque?”

“Grilling pork chops happens to be my specialty,” I said,
telling her the truth.

I headed out back and Ms. Emma headed into the kitchen. Both
of us were wearing smiles. We knew the world was about to become a dark and
dangerous place to live. But for tonight we were both safe.

As the sun was setting, a campfire held back the darkness.
Pork chops were searing to perfection as Scarlett was losing her mind by the
grill. If anyone had walked into that backyard, it would’ve been difficult
explaining to them what we both knew was coming.

Ms. Emma brought out a red-and-white checkered cloth and set
a magnificent table. She lit a candelabrum, pouring warm light over our meal.
She returned to the house with purpose after adding more touches of home and
sincerity to our barbeque. When she returned I stood and pulled out her chair.
She was wearing her Sunday best. And she was radiant.

For hours we talked about our families, our lives, and our
loves before the event at 8:13. She carried most of the conversation, knowing I
didn’t mind the distraction. The evening sky was flawless and brilliant. The
lack of ambient light – and smog – gave us a view few have ever seen.

“We need to go inside now,” said Ms. Emma, ending her story.

“Are you okay?”

“It’s coming.”

“What’s coming?”

I was fixated on her as she scanned overhead. I turned my
gaze to follow hers. A few seconds later the green wave rolled across the sky,
turning night into day.