The Journal: Fault Line (The Journal Book 5) (30 page)

“Stay here, please,” Trevor whispered to
Christine as they neared the house, and she stopped. John stood
behind her.

“Max,” Marty called out to the boy. “Where’d
you get that rifle?”

“Oh, I got it from my daddy, before he left
us. He taught me to shoot when I was real young and I’ve been
hunting most of my life, Chief,” Max said, his voice turning into a
snarl. “You want to see it? Up. Close?” He stood and began raising
the rifle in Marty’s direction.

Trevor had slowly inched his way toward the
porch and now lunged at Max from ten feet away, hoping to save his
friend.

Max saw the movement from the corner of his
now bloodshot eyes and turned.

Christine, with years of gun knowledge, saw
the slight turn of the barrel and sprinted to push Trevor out of
the way, putting herself between them. John ran after his daughter,
shoving her to the ground as Max pulled the trigger.

The pain was intense and John’s arm burned as
the 308 passed through the soft muscle tissue. Missing all the
bones in his forearm, the high power bullet continued its path and
struck Christine.

Without hesitation, Marty pulled the trigger
on his service weapon, permanently stopping Max.

John was momentarily stunned, and then he
exploded in rage. He reached Max’s body before Marty and wrapped
his strong hands around the boy’s neck, choking the already dead
shooter.

“John! John!” Marty yelled. “He’s dead
already. Go take care of Christine,” he said with a sob. John
dropped the body and turned toward his daughter.

He sank to his knees and lifted her body,
cradling it to his own. “Oh, my baby girl,” he sobbed, holding her
tight and rocking her in his arms, ignoring his own blood that now
dripped onto Christine’s shirt.

Her eyes fluttered open. “Daddy, stop, you’re
hurting me!” John pulled back and stared into her pain filled blue
eyes and blood streaked face.

“Oh, baby, I thought I had lost you!”

“Where’s Trevor?” she asked, struggling to
sit up.

John looked behind his daughter to see the
crumpled form of her husband and Doc Adams hovering over him.

***

“That was a nasty blow to Trevor’s head, but
he’ll be fine. It’s only a slight concussion from hitting that damn
lawn ornament. Who knew pink flamingos were that solid?” Doc Adams
shook his head. “And
you
two were damn lucky! That bullet
passed through your arm and struck Christine in the thigh; neither
wound is critical.”

“What was all the blood I saw on Christine?”
John asked, still confused.

“That was
your
blood, John, not hers,”
Doc informed him. “As the two of you went down, you were still
shielding her and she was splattered.”

***

John sat at the kitchen table with a water
glass of bourbon. The coroner’s wagon had taken away Janis and Seth
first, then returned for Max and Dot.

“How much of that have you had to drink,
John?” Doc Adams asked.

“Not enough.”

“Well, I can’t give you any painkillers if
you keep drinking.”

“I don’t want any.” John was still wracked
with guilt over the seriousness of Christine’s injury and he felt
he deserved the pain. The bullet wound itself wasn’t severe,
although the lingering injury might be.

***

Two weeks later, John returned to the house
after visiting his mother and sister in Kentucky. The ash cloud was
drifting over the Atlantic, although the sky remained a muddy gray,
much like John’s thoughts and mood. It was time to think about
leaving.

***

“I’m quite serious, Marty,” John said. “I
think you and Marion should stay here if you want to. From what
Marion said, she can’t have a garden at your place and this one is
half hers anyway. Gardens are more important now than ever and
Christine still can’t get around with that bullet hole in her
thigh. Besides, this house is bigger than yours and someone needs
to take care of Holly.” The dog rested her chin on John’s knee,
feeling his fluctuating emotions of guilt and anger.

“Thank you, John,” Marty said. “That’s very
generous of you. We can continue to stay in the basement, which is
really nice by the way, at least until Trevor and Christine are on
their feet again.” He paused, watching the warring emotions on
John’s face. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going home, back to Moose Creek.”

John parked the little
green Subaru in the attached garage of his house in Ft. Wayne. A
moving company had already dropped off his bigger SUV and it sat in
the third berth of the over-sized garage.

He dropped his duffle bag on the floor in his
bedroom and silently wandered through the house. When he came to
the room that had once been Christine’s, he reached out for the
doorknob and pulled the door closed. His jaw clenched and his eyes
burned with tears. The anger inside of him threatened to explode
and he couldn’t let that happen. Control. He had to maintain
control. He knew logically that he had saved her, yet he was also
responsible for her serious injuries. The torn muscles in her leg
may leave her with a permanent limp, and that was
his
fault.

John went back into the garage and took the
box of mixed canned goods out of the hatch. Marion had insisted he
take some of the food Trevor had stored, and he understood her
reasoning: it might be days before he could get to a grocery store,
and he still had to eat, even if he didn’t feel like it. They also
insisted he take the liquor, of that he was inwardly grateful.

During the three hour drive from Greenwood to
Ft. Wayne, he had time to think, too much time. He felt adrift.
Wherever Christine lived was always his home, although he was
rarely there. She was his anchor, even when he was living with
Allexa in Moose Creek. Now she truly belonged to someone else and
he had to face that. He’d made the decision he would stay in Ft.
Wayne for a week while the turmoil settled down. His personal
turmoil, and the country’s, and then he would head back to Allexa.
He had disappointed her so many times in the past year he didn’t
know if she would take him back yet again, but he had to try, just
not yet. He couldn’t go to her in the state he was in.

Like with the house in Greenwood, the cozy
ranch-style house in Ft. Wayne was on auto-pay for everything. With
everything shut off or turned down, the electric bill was minimal,
as were the gas and water bills. The cable was still on, without
all the pay channels he usually enjoyed, and the silent fifty-inch
flat screen TV had a coating of dust on it.

The next few hours he occupied himself with
dusting and vacuuming. He put clean sheets on his bed and put his
few clothes in the closet, and then he took a long, hot shower,
followed by a nap.

When he woke, it was late afternoon. John
fixed himself a strong drink and thought about calling the cable
company to have his channels reinstated. If he was going to stay
for a week, he would need some mindless entertainment. With a large
bowl of macaroni and cheese, he settled on the loveseat to watch
the news. His new programming could wait.

“
The ash fall from Mt. Yellowstone has
barely subsided and the actual toll is just coming to light. It
would appear that in areas, the losses are heavy, upwards of eighty
percent. This is just unbelievable,”
the newscaster read from
the teleprompter
. “And now with the quakes a few days ago along
the Continental Divide causing massive rifts and instability, the
exodus of the population is overwhelming the local resources on
this side. The government is urging the population to stay where
they are, and someone will be along to help them soon.”

John sat there, stunned. He’d missed a great
deal of news during his withdrawal while he nursed his guilt. The
world was shaking apart.

***

The morning sky was still a dirty gray,
filled with high clouds heavy with ash. The only redeeming part was
masks were no longer needed.

John backed his SUV out of the garage to do
some shopping. Of the massive amount of cash he still had, he left
most of it in his hidden safe in the house. He split the rest of
the cash in half, putting some in the glove box of the Subaru, and
the rest in his pockets. How much food would cost now, he had no
idea. He tucked the Beretta into the back of his worn jeans as
usual, covered by his heavy jacket. The weather had taken a major
drop in temperature once he got to Ft. Wayne.

***

Outside of the multiplex shopping center,
John saw several canvas covered military transport trucks. He
passed by those parking spaces and found a spot near the grocery
outlet. As soon as he stepped out of the SUV, a Humvee pulled in
front of him and two soldiers jumped out.

“Identification, please,” the first one said,
holding out his hand. When John reached for his wallet, the other
soldier saw his gun and spun him around.

“Hands on the car where we can see them!”
John complied while they frisked him. They quickly found the
Beretta. “We are in a state of Martial Law, mister, and that means
the public are not allowed to have firearms,” he said, removing the
gun from John’s jeans, handing it to the other soldier. He
continued to search John’s pockets. “And what do we have here?
Looks to be about two thousand dollars. Where did you get this much
money?”

“I withdrew it from my savings account while
I still could,” John replied. “I just came to buy groceries, that’s
all. I had the gun because it’s dangerous out here.”

“Well, you won’t have to worry about danger
now. We’re relocating you to an internment camp, where you will be
housed, fed, and kept safe.” The first soldier produced a modified
zip-tie long enough to serve as handcuffs.

***

With his hands cuffed in front of him, John
was able to hoist himself into the back of the transport truck,
where he saw it was half full of glum looking men and boys. John
wasn’t glum, he was angry. He stood and, ignoring the constant pain
in his forearm, brought his muscular arms down across his
mid-section with enough force to break the plastic cuffs and then
he turned and jumped back out of the truck.

“I’m not going to no damn FEMA camp!” John
shouted at the stunned soldiers. They had never seen anyone break
the cuffs before and with the ease he did it made them question
their reliability.

One quick thinking corporal brought up his
canister of pepper spray, and John rushed him. His anger was guilt
fed and it was devouring him. They both went down as a Taser hit
John in the back of his leg.

***

John woke on the floor of the transport, his
muscles still twitching from the electrical shock. He lay still for
a few moments, getting his bearings. The truck was moving, bumping
along a dirt and gravel road. He tried sitting up only to find he
was now cuffed to the metal bench. The other men had moved away
from him.

“How did you do that?” one of the younger men
asked. “Break those cuffs I mean.”

John glared at him at first, and then
realized this guy could be an ally. “I saw a YouTube on it once, a
long time ago. Never had the need to try it before.” He
straightened out his legs and flexed the cramps out. “Where are we
going?”

“I heard them say the camp is outside of
Muncie,” the young man frowned. “We’re almost there.”

“What did you do to get picked up?”

“I was out after curfew, by only a few
minutes! My wife has no idea where I am now. She’s going to be so
worried,” the young man said. “By the way, I’m Austin.”

“John.”

“Andrew,” another voice said.

“Frank.”

“Carl.”

The names kept coming. A total of ten men sat
in the back of the truck, waiting for their destiny.

***

The ten men were escorted from the truck to a
processing room, where they gave their name and address and were
given a single blanket and assigned a bunk. John had thought it
prudent to not give his Ft. Wayne address. If they knew where he
lived and knew he wasn’t there, what would stop someone from
ransacking the place? Military or not, every organization had its
bad apples. He gave them the Greenwood address. Once through the
processing, their handcuffs were removed, all except for
John’s.

“Now that you’re here, there’s no getting
out. All of the exits are well guarded… John. If you promise to
behave yourself, I’ll take the cuffs off,” the sergeant in charge
said. John gave the slightest nod of his head and crawled into the
bunk above Austin. Although Austin, being younger, had offered John
the lower bunk, John had declined. He preferred having a bird’s eye
view of his surroundings. He closed his eyes and slept.

***

Over the next few days, John wandered around
the massive complex in which they were being held.

“Austin, this looks like it used to be a
store, like a Walstroms,” John said to his new friend.

“It does, but no Walstroms I’ve been to had
ten foot high chain linked fences topped with razor wire and guard
dogs that look like they want to eat you!” Jake replied. “And no
Walstroms has ever smelled this bad.”

John chuckled. They had ventured out into the
exercise yard after the meager lunch of watery soup and a slice of
dry bread, mainly to get away from the stench of unwashed bodies
and rotting food. “What else have you noticed?”

“It seems like most of the area is for the
prisoners. Almost equal areas for sleeping and the common room,
with less for eating, but that’s logical since we’re eating in
shifts.”