The Fractured Earth (7 page)

—————

Erin

The first block to the marina was anti-climactic after the … experience … at home. I struggled with the awkward backpack-bag combination, shifting the bag around a couple of times until it wasn't flopping around. I kept my baton in my right hand.

Passing the first block, I came across an actual policeman, standing in the road as though to direct traffic. 

No traffic, dingus. Move along.

I tried to skirt around behind him.

Didn't work.

"Miss, stop please," he called out, then started walking toward me. I pretended not to hear him. Maybe I could pretend not to speak English? 

Probably not—I wasn't tan enough. 

"Miss, I need you to stop and tell me where you're going."

I stopped. I doubted I could get away with a hairy knuckles comment and just walk off like I did at the school.

"Yes, officer?" I said in my best Valley Girl ditzy voice. The cop looked at me askance. I don't think my act fooled him, since very few Valley Girls walked around with batons in their hands and machetes on a tool belt. 

Unless they were Buffy.

I put the baton in my belt and kept my hands slightly up so he could see I was unarmed.

What a stupid word, "unarmed." It was the one-armed man, claimed Dr. Kimble!

He stopped an arms' length from me, his hand on top of his gun. That was a bit scary, but I think it was at least still clipped.

"You look decked out for a riot, or a camping trip in Sarajevo," he said. "Why are you sporting a baton and a machete, and where are you going?"

Should I tell him the truth? That I was attacked in my home by a zombie mom, and in my yard by Bubba Lecter? Probably not. I'd spend a night or two in a psych ward.

Think fast.

"I'm on my way home, officer, from school. My last period was a drama class, but when the power went out, we were told we could go home. I tried to call my mom, but the phone didn't work and the buses aren't running. I live near the marina, so it's only a few blocks. I figured I could walk it."

Geez, what a lame story. Even Mr. Airhead wouldn't believe that one. 

"Alright, Miss, just keep those props on your belt and take care, I've seen a few crazy-looking people walking around, so watch yourself."

Holy smokes! I can't believe that worked.
I thought cops could always tell when you were lying. Either I was good at it, which I knew I wasn't, or I gave him plausible deniability, which seemed more likely.

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir. I will."

He was either really nice or a total doofus.

I walked down the street and around a corner. As soon as I was out of sight, I pulled out the baton again. No way was I going to walk around unarmed.

Or one armed.

Less than six blocks to go. Maybe seven. I turned the corner after the cop encounter and was going down a street I rarely, if ever, went down. I wanted to get out of his sight, and it would have been two more blocks before that happened if I'd kept on my normal route.

Talk about redneck alley! No wonder I never came this way—it was all cars on blocks and rusting washing machines. I looked for a toilet sporting flowers in the bowl. Bubba Lecter must have walked over to my slightly less rundown neighborhood from this one.

I thought about turning back, but it was just one extra block, then I could turn left again toward the ocean.

As I neared one house, I could see a couple of guys in wife beaters on a porch, probably kicking back some Bud and watching the apocalypse unfold. One of them got up and went inside the house, but the other wolf whistled at me. 

How he even knew I was a girl was beyond me. Maybe the stupid
Frozen
backpack. That thing was gonna get me killed.

"Hey, Buffy, headed for a campout? You're welcome to stay in our backyard!" He laughed loudly at his own joke. Stupid, but not dangerous.

And apparently watched teen dramas when he was a kid.

Then he stood up. "Come on, let's see whatcha got in the bag, honey!" He laughed loudly again. I walked faster. He didn't move off the porch, but I kept the side of my eye on him and tried to pick up the pace. Fortunately, it didn't look like he was going to come and chase me.

He didn't. He didn't need to. He was the distraction. His buddy grabbed my bag from behind and pulled me. He'd snuck around while the other guy kept my attention.

I stumbled off balance, but managed to whip the baton around and grazed the guy's arm, but it didn't really hurt him. Then the other guy got to me and grabbed my right arm. I kicked with all my strength at his groin, and yelled for help, but the flab in his thighs softened the blow and he put his foul hand over my mouth and wrenched the baton from my grasp.

DON'T TOUCH ME!
my mind screamed.

These guys are gonna pay.

"None of that now, Buffy," he grunted, his breath smelling of beer, chips and salsa. "We're just gonna have us a little looksie to see whatcha got for us."

I struggled, but the two of them frog-marched me up to their porch and inside their house. It was as bad as I'd believed. There were dishes on almost every surface, and boxes of old clothing. A big old chow sat on the couch, and some other kind of hound must have left gray hairs everywhere—or maybe some big tomcat. The place smelled of unwashed bodies and stale food.

"Now I'm gonna take my hand from your mouth, and you're gonna be real quiet. Otherwise maybe I'll grab some undies from that pile and wad it up in your mouth with tape." He chuckled at his own joke.

I looked at Mr. Chuckles and nodded, as much as I was able with his hand pressed hard against my face. He chuckled again and removed his hand.

I spat on his couch.

He frowned for a second, then shrugged and laughed again. "Heh, there's worse stuff on that couch than a little girl's spit." He chuckled again.

I shuddered.

The bag was pulled off my back, along with the backpack. The other guy fumbled at the tool belt. I knocked his hands away and removed it myself. When I handed it to him, he wouldn't meet my eyes. He took the belt, but kept looking at my waist where the belt had been tied. 

He licked his lips.

Crap. Must be a graduate of the Creep Squad.

"Get a zip tie," said Mr. Chuckles. The creep didn't move. "Hey!" he said, popping the back of the guy's head. "Wake up! There's plenty of time for that—just get something to tie her hands!" He looked at me and lifted my baton. "You! Sit!"

I sat.

This was going south real fast, but I couldn't do anything with Mr. Chuckles holding my baton and slapping it against his meaty paw.

Mr. Creeps finally woke up and looked around stupidly, then picked up a piece of nylon cord. 

"Tie it tight," said Mr. Chuckles. "I like it tight." He guffawed at that joke. A real comedian, this guy.

I held out my hands with tight fists, knowing this was my best chance at getting these guys complacent. Mr. Creeps sure enough didn't know what the hell he was doing. As he wrapped the rope around, I pushed against it with my closed and clenched fists, making it as loose as I could. Mr. Creeps tied it as tight as he could, but it was plenty loose for me whenever I relaxed my hands.

I tried to look frightened and worried. Well, really I didn't have to try too hard—I was frightened and worried.

Mr. Chuckles put down my baton and picked up the backpack, while Mr. Creeps just backed away and stared at my chest, licking his lips.

I tried to breathe slowly. I tried to count down from twenty.

When I reached zero, I started again at nineteen. 

My breathing calmed. I looked away from Mr. Creeps, who was still staring at me, and looked at Mr. Chuckles. "Nothing in there but clothes," I said. "Food is in the other bag."

Mr. Chuckles looked at me, then continued riffling in the backpack. But Mr. Creeps looked away toward the bag and turned to walk over to it.

Just as I'd hoped. 

I slipped the rope and pushed out from the couch with all my strength, coiling both legs and striking Mr. Creeps sideways on his knee. It snapped and buckled and he cried out. Mr. Chuckles jumped up and reached for me, but I was already on the floor, rolling away toward my tool belt. I picked it up and swung it into his knees, then continued rolling away. He grunted and stopped reaching for me for just a second. I stood up and pulled at the machete in the belt. It stuck for a second—too long. I swung the belt again at Mr. Chuckles' reaching paws and connected, then backed away some more.

He yelped, and stopped. He laughed, and said, "Very nice, Buffy. Now give me the belt. You be nice and we might let you go in a few days, after we've had a little while to get to know each other."

I stood up straight and put the belt behind my back. "You'll let me go?" I asked innocently. My fingers fumbled blindly at the machete, but I found the zipper to the sheath and quietly pulled it open. "You can have my stuff," I said with a tremor. "Just let me go home."

"Heh, sure, right, Cal?" he asked the guy on the floor. I guess that was the name of Mr. Creeps.

He just moaned and clutched his knee. "I think she busted my knee, man," he said.

"Oh well, we'll definitely have to take that tool belt as recompense for that."

Who knew a dumb tub like this guy could grasp the proper meaning of a three syllable word?

"Here," I said, and tossed the belt to him. He caught it easily, but sure didn't expect me to jump at him after it. I swung the machete at him across my body, aiming for his thick neck, but he put up his arms in time and the blade chunked into his meaty forearm and he bellowed in rage. I held it with my left hand as I turned my body backwards, bringing my right hand up in a solid chop at his neck.

I'd broken four boards doing that in class.

Didn't really seem to hurt him much, unfortunately, but my momentum carried me and helped me pull the machete from his bones. I continued the swing, and in a single motion embedded it in the back of his neck.

He went down like a sack of potatoes. 

Or a whole pallet of them.

I’d been yelling and screaming the whole time, but that fact barely registered.

My shaking hand released the stuck machete, and I walked over to the table where he’d laid my baton. I picked it up, slapped it against my hand, imitating the earlier motions of Mr. Chuckles—aka Mr. Sporting A New Necklace. I kicked Mr. Creeps in his broken knee and he screamed, then silenced him with a blow from the baton.

Make that two blows.

My chest and breath rumbled with adrenaline and fear, and I closed my eyes for a moment against the sensation.

Then I heard a deep rumbling voice from the front door. I pulled the baton to my forearm. Standing there was huge black guy decked out in camouflage and a vest full of other various Army-looking gear. He was holding a rifle pointed down at the floor.

"Holy ... damn, girl, that was good!"

—————

Joe

I let go of my gun and let it dangle, and held up my hands. "It's alright," I said, "I'm not with this trash." I gestured at the mess she'd left on the floor. One guy was definitely dead, a damn tree trimming machete in his neck. The and other guy had blood pooling around his head. 

Probably dead, too.

"I saw them take you in and I was coming to help … though clearly you didn't need any."

Five minutes ago, I was coming out of my house after having dressed in my ACU’s and utility vest. I packed up an ALICE and opened my gun safe, getting my SCAR and loading up on ammo.

I knew we'd been hit by an EMP. With this one they’d even call up the reserves, I figured, so I should try to make it to the recruit depot at San Diego Bay and see if they had anything for an old dope on a rope.

I didn't figure on witnessing an assault right on my own street.

I'd seen the girl go by as I was about to head out, though I didn't know it was a girl at the time. I just saw the back of her go by, and hey, who am I to judge if a guy wears a
Frozen
backpack?

I saw the two rednecks down the block march her into their dilapidated house though.

Already it was starting to get crazy.

"So I snuck down, keeping out of sight of their windows, and worked my way to opening the door when I heard the yelling." Again, I gestured to the scene. "And here you are, not needing any help at all."

She stood without moving, like a cobra about to strike. No, she was small—more like a fer-de-lance, tiny and deadly. She didn't weigh in at more than a hundred pounds or so.

"My name is Joe,” I added. Slowly, and with exacting movements, she bent down and picked up a tool belt and snapped it on, then put the baton in a holder. She bent over the big one on the floor and pulled out the machete, making a crackling sound. She wiped it on the dead guy's shirt, never taking her eyes off of me. Then she stood up.

"Erin," she said simply. "And thank you."

"Hellfire, girl, I didn't do squat. I don't know that I could have taken down those guys." 

I could have taken them, but I couldn't help trying to charm the little girl a bit, try to make myself less threatening.

"Yeah right, Mr. Camo," she said, clearly not believing me.

I gave a low chuckle, and she looked up sharply at me. 

"Don't do that," she said seriously. She nodded her head toward the hacked-up guy. "Mr. Chuckles here did that a lot."

"You bet."

I stood there watching her as she geared up again, putting back the contents of her pack and getting ready to lift the other bag.

"Listen," I said, "I have plenty of good backpacks without crappy movies on them. You can have one of them."

She smiled at me, and it was like the sun shining in a dark cave. "You don't like
Frozen
either?"

"Took my nieces to see it," he said. "How many fu—freakin' songs about ... freakin' snow and ice are there, anyway? I wanted to shove Milk Duds in my ears."

Another big smile. "Yeah, it was the worst ever." She looked thoughtful. "Sure, but I have one rule."

I smiled, wondering what I was getting myself into. "Okay?"

Her smile disappeared, and she suddenly kicked the smaller guy on the floor right in the face. "Don't ever touch me."

Holy...

"Uh…" I said intelligently. "Uh, you got it, miss ... sorry, what was your name again? I'm lousy with names."

A small smile. "It's Erin. It means 'protection.’"

"Protection, huh?" I said as I opened the door to the house for her. "Like you need protection, or others need it from you?" I winked at her for my own joke, but remembered not to chuckle.

"That part you get to guess." She stopped before going out the door. "You first."

"Okay." We walked down the steps of the house, but she stayed a little behind me. "So what are you doing wandering the mean streets?" Once we were down the steps, she moved up beside me, an arm’s length and a half away.

She looked at me but didn't say anything.
I get it, don't trust the big old black guy yet
. Thinking about the last five minutes or so, I couldn't blame her.

"I'm thinking of heading to San Diego Bay," I said.
That
got a response from her, a quick look, but it told me a lot. She was heading there too. "There's a Marine base there, and of course the Navy base, and I thought I might be of use in this crisis." I looked sideways at her as we neared my home. "What do you think happened?"

"EMP," she answered immediately, to my great surprise. "Or a solar mass ejection, a big one." Stunner number two.

I tried to keep the "Holy bleep you're a genius kid or something" out of my voice, "Yeah…" My voice crackled. "Me too."

I turned on my sidewalk and went up to the door. I hadn't locked it since I figured what the heck, it'll just get broken into if I don't. Might as well leave the light on, metaphorically speaking.

No more Motel 6 commercials for a long time
, I thought sadly.
Oh well, Super 8 was two better than Motel 6.

Yeah, my nieces never laughed at that joke either, not even when I used my best Yakov Smirnoff voice.

Erin stood at the bottom step as I held open the door. "Come on in," I said, then belatedly saw that she didn't want to come in. "You can stay out here if you want. It'll probably be safe for a while." I emphasized the "probably.”

She looked down the street and up the street, and I leaned out and looked as well. There were people shambling about, and at least one guy running pell mell down an intersection.

She walked up the steps and took out her baton at the same time. "Alright," she said, then gestured toward the open door. "You first."

I smiled and did as she asked, walking in and away from the door. I unclipped my rifle and set it on the countertop, then shrugged out of my ALICE pack, leaving on the vest. I could have kept my rifle with me, but I figured it might put her more at ease if I just left it on the counter.

"I'll go get a medium ALICE pack for you," I said, then walked toward the hallway leading to my two bedrooms. I opened the extra room and pulled out a pack and a frame, then walked back into the living area. She was standing right next to my rifle, watching me. 

Smart girl.

I sat on the sofa and started assembling the pack. The frame was separate on an ALICE pack, and this one had been configured for shoulder carry without a frame. It was just a matter of unclipping and running straps and clipping them back again.

"Nice place you have, Camo Joe," she said. "Looks like you live alone."

I could tell she was just making small talk, and it wasn't something she normally did, but damned if I didn't like the nickname she’d just given me. I smiled big.

"Yes, ma'am," I said, "it's just me. The pictures are my nieces, but they're all grown up now, mostly. I had a wife, but she died."

"I'm sorry," said Erin, clearly uncomfortable with this turn in the conversation.

"It was a long time ago, but as they say, truly love once and you'll never love again."

Her smile brightened again. "Who says that?"

"Oh, I don't know," I laughed. "You know, greeting card writers probably."

She laughed, a deep, throaty laugh so very unlike her petite form. "I think you're right," she said.

"Here you go," I said, holding out the bag. "One ALICE bag, Merry Apocalypse." She just looked at me with a bit of a glare and took the bag without saying anything.

Clearly there was more to her story than what I knew, and it didn't seem like it would be "merry" at all.

She opened her awkward sack and began pulling out cans and containers of food, putting them in the new backpack.

"Hold up," I said, "I have something else." I went back to my storeroom and grabbed some MRE’s. Taste like crap, but a lot more nutritious than those cans, and a whole lot lighter. I went back in the living room and handed her a dozen.

"What's this?" she asked.

"Meals ready to eat," I said. "Not the greatest tasting things in the world, but very nutritious, calorie rich and lightweight.”

"Okay, thanks," she said, and started to add them to the bag.

"No no," I said, "take out those cans. They are too heavy. And remove all the contents of the MREs and put them in the inner pouches in the pack. They are lighter and take up less space that way."

She looked at me for a second. "Makes sense," she said, then pulled out the cans and started disassembling the MRE’s. She put in the MRE’s, and added back some of the cans anyway. Then she pulled out a knife from her backpack. 

"Could I see that?" I asked. 

"Sure, I just found it in my foster dad's garage as I was packing up to head out," she said.

It was a decent knife, like a small hunting knife. "Let me get you something a little better," I said, and headed back to my storeroom. I had a brand new KA-BAR that would do nicely. It had a sheath and came with a whetstone. I also had a little Mora knife that was probably the sharpest blade I owned. It was a little small for my tastes, and had a gaudy orange sheath and handle, but it also had a fire stick built in. I went back to the living room where Erin had spread out her gear on the floor, including her clothes. I stopped as she looked up at me.

"See anything else you can replace or supply?" she asked.

Damn ... smart girl.

I think she was starting to trust me, at least a little.

I gave her the knives. "The big one is a KA-BAR. Funny story, the knife maker got a letter from an old mountain man who told them he 'killed a b’ar' with it, but the only thing legible was the 'K' and the 'bar,’ and the name stuck. That's a combat knife. Put it within easy reach. I have some paracord you can use to tie it to your thigh so that it doesn't bump around."

"Okay," she said, putting down the knife. Then she held up the bright orange Mora. "And this one is for slicing up Skittles?"

I laughed. I really liked this girl. "And anything else that needs a really sharp knife. That one has a full tang, even though the handle is plastic, and is sharper than Robin William's wit."

She looked at me strangely. Yeah, before her time.

"Anyway, it's without a doubt the sharpest knife I have. Mora is Swedish steel, the best, and it stays really sharp after a lot of use. Damn fine knife for thirty bucks. It has a fire steel in the handle. Scrape the back of the knife, or any carbon steel knife, on the fire steel and you'll get a spark."

She pulled out the fire steel and held it against her leg, then struck the knife down it. Nothing happened, except she looked at me with a question.

"There's usually some kind of coating on them that you have to scrape off. Just do it a few more times," I said.

She swiped it again and a slew of sparks bounced off her bare leg, but she didn't even wince.

Speaking of bare legs... "I have some clothes that might fit you. They're old BDU style uniforms that my nieces liked to wear when we went camping. They might be a bit musty, but they're real BDU’s."

"What's a BDU?"