Z Children (Book 2): The Surge (25 page)

“Belt-style,
but it has a shoulder strap. Otherwise, I don’t think you could handle it.”
Grant lifted it up, motioning to the strap. He didn’t sound pompous, just like
he was trying to keep himself together, do what he had to do, not overthink the
fact that he might be poorly preparing his daughter to go into a warzone.

Sophie
was moving her spoon throughout her oatmeal, making little wave patterns and
then smashing the oats back down into one uniform surface. Marcel had already
taken a bite and Susan knew he had a raisin in his mouth by the way his tongue
was pushing around and extending his cheeks periodically. “Sophie, it’s food,
not art. Marcel, swallow the raisin. Just eat it, guys.” Neither kid protested;
at least, not vocally.

“While
they’re eating, let’s go outside, Susan.” Grant picked up the backpack and box.
He didn’t wait for Susan to respond and she watched him disappear, his
shoulders a stiff and straight line as he moved.

Stepping
back up into the brisk sea air, Susan found it hard to imagine that she was a
coin’s throw away from stepping into what was surely hell—a hell on Earth in
the place of where New Orleans once stood. Her dad’s face made her accept the
reality, though, made her imagine the terror she may soon face. And she was
scared. More scared than she had been to face life after divorce, more scared
than she had been to take care of two babies alone, more scared than she had
been when her mom was at death’s door.

Susan
couldn’t let her dad see the turmoil wreaking havoc on her insides.

“Let’s
get this adjusted first.” Grant Fields lifted the harness set up and threaded
it over his daughter’s head with about as much finesse as an oversized
weightlifter trying his hand at the delicate twists and turns of modern ballet.
Grant was doing it on purpose, of that Susan was sure—one sign from her that
she was unsure of her role as landlubber and they’d be back to square one with
him fighting to be the one to go on shore. Susan didn’t want the battle to
begin again so she mustered up every ounce of fortitude contained in her
relatively slight body.

“This
old Sam Brown belt has a shoulder strap to balance the load.” Grant shoved a
finger between Susan’s shoulder blade and the width of leather lying against.
“You want it firm, but not so firm it digs into your body. Antiquated by today’s
standards, but it’ll balance the load. Always served me well.”

Grant’s
hands were kinder now, almost tenderly moving the buckles and tightening the
waistband to fit Susan’s much-smaller frame. Susan wondered if he was
reminiscing in his head, remembering his time on the force and what…no,
who
…he
gave it all up for. She wondered if he ever regretted the sacrifice.

The
gear was heavier than Susan anticipated and she thought about how hard it would
be to tote the equipment around day in and day out. Perhaps it become more of a
second skin after a while, that comfort would be acquired, but as a person new
to the weight and worry of the straps against her skin, she could not imagine
that she would ever personally adjust to a job that involved such encumbering
items.

“It’s
not very comfortable.”

“No,
it won’t be. You’re not used to it. Been so long for me, I probably wouldn’t be
used to it either. Now pay attention,” Grant’s voice was gruff and it made
Susan realize how unimportant her personal comfort was in light of where they
were and what needed to be accomplished.

Pay
attention, Susan. This is all on you. You have to find what we need and then
get back here… back to your babies.
Beneath her mental pep talk, Susan
could hear the resonant hum of her father’s voice. He was still talking and she
wasn’t focusing.

“You
listening?” Grant stared at his daughter, appraising her with a wary glance.
“I’m not going to let you go in there if I’m not at least moderately sure you
know what the fuck you’re doing, Susan.”

I
can’t let her go. It shouldn’t be her. My daughter shouldn’t go into harm’s way
while I stay behind in safety. It isn’t right.
Grant balled his hands into
fists, dug his nails into his palm with such force that he felt a slight wetness
begin to form. He immediately released his grip, wiped the blood away on his
shorts, and hoped Susan hadn’t noticed.

Susan’s
eyes widened a fraction; her father rarely cursed and when he did…it meant
things were past serious and well into ‘
I’ve no idea if we’ll make it
.’

“Dad,
I’m listening. I promise. I’ll remember everything you say. I’ll survive. I’ll
come back.” Feeling like a small child, Susan clamped her mouth shut and kept
firm eye contact with her father until he began speaking again.

 “This
is a Colt Lawman, .357 magnum. It’ll knock a man down at close range. Only real
disadvantage is that it holds six rounds at a time and reloading takes some
skill. We’ve only got time to verse you in the basics, so pray that’ll do.”

Susan
nodded her head, acknowledging his words, but also letting him know that she
would indeed be praying… praying her ass off. The last thing she wanted was to
become an afternoon snack for a four-year-old.

“First
you hold the gun in your hand like this.” Susan watched as her father cupped
the gun around the middle. “Then you pull
not push
the latch with your
other thumb. This is not a Smith so you don’t push, you pull. Got it?” Grant
was emphatic, repeating the instructions. Susan, on the other hand was fighting
back a smile. The ‘push, not pull’ was taking her back to a convenience store,
a Z girl, a dead clerk, and her stupidly trying to walk in without paying
attention to how to operate the door. It wasn’t a smile-worthy memory. Not in
the slightest, but nervous energy was dicking with her common sense. That
didn’t bode well for her forthcoming venture into the city.

“Good.
Now using your middle two fingers, you push the cylinder out and rotate the gun
barrel up, then slap the ejector rod with your palm. Don’t be a sissy, pop that
thing like you mean it and blow the empty rounds out. Once the brass is clear,
point the barrel to the earth, and fill the holes. You understand?” Grant’s
hands touched the weapon with respect. His stoic attitude and physical
deliberateness sobered Susan, pushing any spark of humor out of her body. “I
can see in your face that you understand how far in the shit you’re about to
be. I’ll show you how to make loading easier. You can do this.” The last
sentence seemed to be said more for Grant’s benefit than his daughter’s.

She
watched her father even closer now; his technique was simple and fluid. Susan
had a feeling that it was going to take a lot of practice before she was as
adept. But she didn’t have time for that. This was a crash course; a Cliff’s
Notes version to keep her alive.

Thinking
of the time she didn’t have, Susan felt thirsty. If it wasn’t for the water
supply, she’d never take this chance—leaving her children, even under her
father’s protection. If they could even temporarily repair the reverse osmosis
machine, then they’d have some play room. They wouldn’t have to go racing into
the unknown out of desperation.

Desperation
.

Susan
would bet the last of the water that too many people have died while committing
an act of desperation.

No way
around it though. No other path to follow.

“Susan,
if I have to tell you to focus one more time, then I’m going into the city. And
you won’t argue.”

Grant
was right. Susan couldn’t argue this time; she couldn’t pretend she hadn’t
wandered off within her head again. Opening the bread loaf-sized box, Grant
began ticking off items, lying them side by side atop the cabin roof, which was
just tall enough that Susan had to lift onto her tiptoes to get a good view.

“Bottle
of powder, some primers, slugs, brass, an old Lee hand loader, and a flash
bang. I’ll show you what most of this is for when you get back. Right now, I
want you to take the empties and this device.” He handed Susan the six used
shells and the thing he’d called a hand loader.  

Through
Grant’s serious exterior, Susan saw the slightest hint of a smile. There was
something about what he was going to show her that brought back memories, or it
was something that he simply found satisfying.

“What
we have here is a speed loader. It’s designed to put all six rounds into the
empty chamber at one time and, with a quick twist of the fingers, release them.
It makes reloading a revolver faster, but it’s important that the barrel be
pointed down so they can fall into place. Ready?”

Grant
looked into his daughter’s eyes and saw intensity—the way her forehead was
scrunched reminded him of his late wife and that fact, more than anything yet,
made him want to throw her over his shoulder, lock her away in the belly of the
boat, and haul his own ass into hell. Shaking off the desire, Grant loaded the
Colt with the empty brass and put the speed loader into the pocket of his
shorts. Susan’s eyes were glued to the weapon, to her father’s hands. As her
father went through the reloading drill, her eyes widened—it was like magic. In
seconds empty shells were pinging against the deck and he was closing the
cylinder on an already-reloaded gun.

“Need
to see it again?” Grant was already taking out the live rounds to put them back
in the loading device.

“Yes.”
Susan didn’t say anything more. She just watched.

“No
problem. Watch this part too, so you know how to put rounds into the loader.”
Once the Lee was reloaded Grant had to demonstrate how to use it three more
times before Susan was ready to try.

And
her first try was…pathetic. Her second try was slightly less pathetic.

It
took several hours before Susan felt somewhat proficient. She kept practicing
while Grant fed the kids, read them a book (and then another book). She
practiced until the sun was past the noon position. And that was enough. She
didn’t want to push it so late that she had to stay in the city past dark. She
couldn’t imagine dealing with Z kids and Z adults in the dead of night.

“Dad,
it’s time.” Susan poked her head into the cabin where the twins were playing a
board game—Susan knew what it was just from seeing the little dome in the
center of the board. She’d always loved that game. For the twins though, it was
nothing but trouble. They always got into a fight over it. “Good luck with them
playing that. You’ll have an argument on your hands in no time.”

“We’ll
manage,” Grant’s voice caught in his throat a little, croaking out in a raspy
rush of air.

“And
I’ll manage too,” Susan’s voice was unconvincing. A little girl playing the
grown up.

Susan
retreated back out of the cabin doorway and her father followed after taking
one more item out of the brown box.

Grant
checked his daughter’s gear again; she’d kept the harness on the whole time
she’d been practicing, desensitizing her body to the weight and mild
constriction. “You’ve got the ability to reload four times.” He pointed at the
stiff pouches on the harness. “Make each round count, honey.” When he said
‘honey’, Grant pulled his only daughter into a firm hug. He held her there,
wanting to protect her, but knowing he could not. “Let’s get the backpack on.
Shouldn’t be too heavy now. I rearranged it, added some things, balanced the
weight out. You’ve got a large duffle rolled up in the bottom now—be good to
carry water if you find any. Flashlight in there now too, although I really
hope you get back before dark.”

“I
might not, Dad. It’s already past noon.”

“Try
to be back.” Grant helped Susan slip the pack on. She looked odd standing there
with so much gear obscuring her slight body.

“I’ll
be careful.” Susan shifted her body so that the pack sat slightly higher on her
back.

“I
know you will be.” Grant lifted what he was holding up so Susan could see it.
It was grenade-shaped and Susan found the sight of it unnerving. “This is a
flash bang and a last resort item. If you get in a place where you’ve got no
choices, you pull the pin, keep your hand on the lever until you’re ready to
throw it and then you get the hell away.” He slid the item into an unused
double loop in the holster. Susan just nodded, her mouth set in a firm line.

“Mom?”
Marcel’s voice sounded. He was standing in the doorway to the cabin, worry
painting his features pale. “I don’t want you to go.”

Sophia
joined him then, her dark curls catching light and showing a hint of bronze.
“Mom, you can’t go anywhere. You can’t leave.” Her worry was more intense;
Susan could see the way her small daughter’s body was vibrating with emotion.
“What if you don’t come back?”

Grant
and Susan had been talking around the kids about her going into the city, but
they hadn’t sat them down and explained what was happening. They probably
should have. The explanation would have helped them fully digest what was
happening.

“I
won’t be gone long. I promise. Grandpa is staying with you. I’m going to find
some water, but I’ll keep an eye out for the chocolate chips like I promised.
Okay?”

“I
don’t miss pancakes that much,” Marcel mumbled, taking his sister’s hand in
solidarity.

“It’s
going to be fine, babies, I promise.” The words felt like a lie falling from
Susan’s lips. She shouldn’t promise such things, there was never any guarantee.

Grant
moved the boat closer to shore—despite Susan’s protests—and his chest felt
tight and painful as he helped his only daughter lower the rowboat. He couldn’t
help but give Susan an outpouring of last-minute advice as she settled into the
dinghy and began rowing. When she was out of earshot, he retrieved his binoculars
so he could watch for danger along the shore.

It was
something he could do to protect his baby.

***