It’s time to head home.
Balancing out my haul between my two arms, I move quickly through the abandoned streets of the town, heading for the old hiking trail that’s the shortest route to the cabin.
The faint sound of a voice jerks me to an abrupt halt. I listen until I locate the direction of the noise, and then I run into one of the empty houses nearby to get out of sight.
No one lives in town anymore. The only people who might be around are fellow scavengers or travelers passing through.
As far as I know, other than me, Zed, and Rina, there’s no one else settled permanently within thirty miles of the cabin.
Wanderers might be harmless, but there’s an equal chance they’re not.
I can’t see anything from the house I’ve taken shelter in, so I dart across the street to yet another one. The back section of the house is still secure, allowing me to look out a window.
Three men are camped out near the old local grocery store. There’s nothing left in the shop. It was cleaned out by looters even before the asteroid hit.
My first impression is that these men aren’t the kinds of ruffians who move in gangs or droves. Those are usually easy to recognize. These guys look like the good ole boys I used to see in town all the time—in their forties or fifties. They’ve actually got a small pickup truck. It’s old and rusty but must be working because the truck bed is filled with supplies and the vehicle definitely wasn’t here when I came to town two weeks ago.
I haven’t seen a working, fueled vehicle in more than a year. There are plenty of abandoned ones littered around the region, but none of them have any gas.
Intrigued and still wary, I keep watching. The men are lounging on the ground, drinking bottles of what I’m guessing is beer.
Beer.
Where the hell did they find it?
Where did they get the gas for the truck?
Why have they shown up here right now?
I can hear the murmur of their voices but not distinct words, so I take a major risk in moving to the other back bedroom where I know there’s a busted window.
I want to hear what they’re saying.
Listening through the window opening, my estimation of the quality of their personhood sinks dramatically.
They’re talking about a farmhouse they raided yesterday and how much loot they found there. That’s where the beer came from. And the jerky they’re gnawing. And a lot of the stuff in the back of the truck.
It’s not long before I understand that they assaulted and killed the people trying to survive in that farmhouse.
There might only be three of them, and they might not give off that criminal vibe I’ve learned to recognize. But they’re the same kind of monsters who used to join up with droves, mobs of people sometimes a thousand strong that used to roam from place to place, killing and destroying whatever they found.
The droves mostly broke up a couple of years ago, after the resources they plundered were depleted, but there are still plenty of gangs who come through from time to time.
These men might as well be a gang of three.
I’ve got to be careful.
If they find me here, they’ll assault and kill me too. The smartest play would be to slip away.
That’s what Zed would tell me to do. In fact, he’d insist on it. He’d clench his jaw and grit out muttered orders for me to slink away and stay safe.
But he’s not here right now, and maybe there’s a way I can get that truck.
I watch and listen for more than an hour. The men keep guzzling the beer, which is advantageous to me. They have a dog too, which I didn’t notice before. It’s skulking on the perimeter of their camp, gaunt and nervous and shaky.
Some sort of hound with woeful eyes and droopy ears.
The men entertain themselves by tossing their empty bottles at it. When they scare the dog, they laugh. When one of them hits the animal and makes it yelp, they cheer like they’ve scored a point.
Every toss of a bottle makes me angrier until I’m nearly shaking with indignation.
I’m getting that truck away from them.
They don’t deserve to keep it.
According to their conversation, they’re planning to leave later in the day and continue west in search of food and gas and more innocent people to kill and rape and plunder.
They’re not going to do it. Not if I can help it.
I’m a pretty good shot, thanks to my stepdad’s training, so there’s a reasonable chance I could aim and fire right now and kill all three before they could get up off the ground.
But they’ve survived this long in a hostile world, so that means they aren’t as incompetent as they might appear at the moment. If one can get a clear shot at me, I’ll be injured at the very least.
Even a minor injury can mean a death sentence. My sister fell down a steep incline two years after Impact. There were no doctors or hospitals left at that point, so she died a few months later of an infection we couldn’t treat.
I’m not going to risk getting shot. Not for a truck.
So I keep waiting. Another hour passes. The guys are still working on their haul of beer. Evidently they’re planning to drink everything they found in one afternoon.
If they get drunk enough, I won’t have to work very hard to get what I want from them.
Eventually one guy wanders off, mumbling about needing to take a shit. Another one is stretched out on his back with his eyes closed. Probably dozing.
The other one is still basically alert, teasing the dog by offering a piece of jerky to get it to come closer and then launching a bottle at it.
This is the last straw for me. That poor helpless dog.
I pick up the stuff I’ve scavenged and walk soundlessly through a side door of the house and then around so I’m as close to the truck as I can get without being seen.
Checking in the direction of the guy who went to take a dump and seeing no sign of him, I step around the corner of the house and aim my gun.
First I shoot the one sitting up just as he’s about to throw another bottle at the dog.
Then I shoot the dozing one immediately afterward.
I take off at a dead run for the truck, barreling toward the driver’s side and lunging in after yanking open the door.
I hear a voice calling out in outrage. The third guy must have heard the gunshots.
The passenger window is open, so I duck down as far as I can while still being able to see through it. When he’s in sight, waving a shotgun clumsily with his jeans halfway down his legs, I shoot him too.
All three were kill shots. None of their bodies are moving.
They’re all dead.
Finally taking a full breath, I check the ignition. There aren’t any keys. The guys must have been hot-wiring it. I manipulate the exposed wires to get the engine to turn over and am pleased to see half a tank of gas left on the gauge.
Keeping my gun in my hand, I leave the engine running and get out to collect the men’s weapons, the few remaining bottles of beer, and the supply of jerky they’ve been eating.
When I hear a whimper, I glance over and see the dog peeking out from behind an abandoned SUV.
I rip up a length of jerky and throw the pieces toward him.
He runs over and wolfs down the food.
Scanning the camp one more time, I make sure there’re no other useful supplies or provisions. Seeing nothing, I climb behind the wheel of the truck.
I’m about to close the door when the dog, having finished his bites, comes creeping toward me, eyeing me with the most pitiful kind of hope.