“This isn’t that hard,” said Cynthia, as she pointed her revolver at an old empty can of beans they’d set up on a rock.
“Don’t get cocky yet,” said John. “You still haven’t shot anything.”
Cynthia winked at him before turning back to the can. She stood with her legs apart and the gun in front of her. She was smart enough not to try anything fancy or unrealistic, like the heroes in action movies sometimes did, holding the gun sideways.
She squeezed the trigger.
Nothing happened.
“Safety,” said John.
Cynthia cursed. She flipped the safety, and she was ready.
She aimed the gun, and pulled the trigger.
She missed.
John’s ears rang. The shot was much louder than he’d expected.
“Shit,” said Cynthia, speaking very loudly. Even so, he could barely hear her. “This thing kicks like crazy.”
“I didn’t realize it’d be so loud,” said John.
“What’s that?” shouted Cynthia.
“Loud,” shouted John.
They’d need something to protect their ears if they were going to practice more.
John had a vague idea that some guns were louder than others, but he didn’t know which ones were which.
Later, the ringing in his ears had died down enough to not have to shout.
“I’m going to head out today,” said John. “Start off small. Just explore what’s immediately around here.”
“Don’t think you’re going alone,” said Cynthia.
“It might be dangerous.”
Cynthia shrugged. “It’s dangerous staying here alone. So far, we’ve just gotten by on the good luck that no one else has showed up. If someone comes when you’re gone, well…”
“Not sure how much help I’d be if I were here,” said John.
He didn’t feel confident in his abilities to defend himself. But he knew that he’d try. He’d done it before, using only a knife. So long as he learned a little more about how to use a firearm, he’d be even better prepared than before.
At least he had the willpower. And the desire. He’d already proven that.
“Fine,” said John. “You’re coming with me then. We’ll take a small backpack each, with food and water. Extra ammo. The first aid kit.”
“Why bother with all that stuff?” said Cynthia.
“Who knows,” said John. “We might find ourselves in a situation where we can’t get back to the farmhouse.”
“Let’s hope not,” said Cynthia. “It’s already starting to feel like home.”
John knew what she meant, but he didn’t think about it quite like that. If anything, the house should have had more sentimental value to him than Cynthia. After all, it was his family’s, and he’d been there as a kid. But John had never been a sentimental person. Maybe it ran in his family. They were practical people, usually. It was just that John’s practicality had, for most of his adult life, run him in the direction of earning a lot of money. And that money wasn’t going to do him any good now. It was gone, nothing more than the memory of numbers on a computer screen.
To John, the farmhouse meant a practical structure, away from the city and the suburbs. It was a place where they might be able to forge new lives. But he knew they’d need some help. More people were bound to show up, and John and Cynthia didn’t even know how to shoot yet.
“What are we going to do if we come across someone?” said Cynthia. “Someone who wants to hurt us?”
“Point and pull the trigger,” said John. “And hope for the best.”
3
Max used the butt of his pocketknife to shatter a glass window of the basement. It was one of those houses built on a hill, so that the basement was above ground and exposed on the rear end of the house.
“What’s the plan?” said Georgia. “What if someone’s inside?”
“It’s a risk,” said Max. He left it at that.
Max used his elbow to knock out the glass that remained in the pane. He shined his flashlight—which he tried to rarely use because of the battery—into the dark basement.
“I don’t see anyone,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean much. They’d have heard the glass shattering, obviously. I’ll go first.”
Georgia seemed to know better than to argue with Max.
Max was badly bruised from the fight. Everything hurt. The best way for him to keep his mind off the pain was to keep active. Both his body and his mind. That’d always been the way he was. He’d felt so frustrated at his job, before the EMP, partly because all the work was directionless. Pointless. Now he had a purpose. A real one.
Gun in hand, Max squeezed his way through the narrow window.
“Looks clear,” said Max.
He kept his eyes glued to the staircase as Georgia worked her way through the window.
“Musty,” she said, curling up her nose and sneezing. “It has that feel of a house that no one’s lived in.”
“Well, we can’t go by that,” said Max.
Georgia gave a stiff nod.
The basement was sparsely furnished. A set of free weights and a bench sat in one corner, looking like it’d been collecting dust for a long time. A door led to the garage, which was built into the basement.
Max motioned for Georgia to cover him, threw open the door, and moved into the garage swiftly, leading with his Glock.
His flashlight illuminated the pitch-black garage. There was a car. That was good. But before celebrating, Max checked the other side of the car, as well as underneath it.
It was clear.
“Good news,” said Max. “But stay out there, in case someone comes down the stairs.”
Max knew that the house was most likely completely abandoned. But there wasn’t any sense in taking chances when they didn’t have to.
“Does it run?”
“I’ll check.”
This was a car that had spent the majority of its life in the garage. There didn’t seem to be a scratch on it. It wasn’t exactly Max’s style, not that that was important in the least.
It was a Honda Civic, souped up. The muffler was huge, and when Max, finding the keys on a hook, cranked the engine, the sound was almost deafening. The owner had likely removed the catalytic converter for better airflow. The sound of unfiltered exhaust began to fill the garage.
Max checked the gas gauge before quickly killing the engine. After all, the garage door was still closed.
There was gas.
“Looks like we have our second car,” Max said.
“Should we check the rest of the house for provisions?” said Georgia.
Max agreed, and together they moved swiftly through the rest of the house, clearing each room. It wasn’t a large house, and it didn’t take long.
Only after assuring themselves that there was no one hiding under a bed or in a closet somewhere, waiting to attack them, did they start looking through the house for things that could be useful to them.
“Aside from the car,” said Georgia. “This is a bust.”
“Yeah,” said Max, looking through the kitchen cupboards. “Looks like whoever lived here took just about everything useful you could think of.”
“Let’s head out. Think they’ll be excited to see the new ride?”
“James will. He loves those types of cars.”
Max laughed, and it made his face hurt. The huge guy he’d fought had hurt him bad. But Max had hurt him worse. And that was what was important.
Whoever was still alive was the winner.
Back in the garage, Max threw open the door. Light poured in, shocking their darkness-adjusted eyes.
Max put the Honda into reverse. It had a short, stubby aftermarket shifter, as well as all sorts of extra dials on the dashboard.
“You think this thing’ll be reliable?” said Georgia. “Sometimes these are great for going fast, and not so good at not breaking down.”