Reset

Alone he was useless. Knowing that each second was too much and too long, John backtracked, and ran back to the buggy. The only real way to help was to get the gun.

Their vehicle wasn’t too far from where they camped out. Down off the side of the road, where they always hid the buggy when they stopped. John was certain it was still there, there was no way those people would even begin to know how to drive it, and if they did, they couldn’t do it. Grant in his neurotic state hid the battery.

He made it to the buggy and as he expected it had been ransacked. The book bags that they had left behind were empty; there were no contents to be found. He supposed they did not know what the purifier bottles were, because they were off to the side. They obviously didn’t search under the seats either. John knew that was where Grant hid the gun. He lifted up the back seat to expose the hidden compartment with the extra supplies. His hands trembled as he hurriedly grabbed the pistol and clips. After shoving one clip in the back pocket of his pants, with a trembling hand he loaded another into the handgun. As he did so, he was grateful that Grant was as scared of problems as he was. Or else, if left up to John, all the items would have been taken. Weapon loaded John raced back on the highway.

Meredith wasn’t moving at least not from what John could see. His heart pounded even more, inside he screamed, “No!”

He was a good shot. Always had been. From the time he was a boy until the time he disappeared from the face of the earth, John could fire a weapon. He had 10 good shots in that clip and another load. But he had to be fast. He moved closer to get a good aim. It was dark and the human beings gone wild, didn’t even carry any flashlight, or fire.

They probably were adjusted to the dark.

Who to hit first was the question in John’s mind. He aimed at the three men having their way with the motionless Meredith. It was a semi-automatic handgun, chamber engaged, John took aim as best as he could in the darkness lit only by the moon.

Three consecutive shots were dead on, taking out two of the assailants, and the third was hit in the shoulder. At that point John had to hurry and shoot the others. He took down the two females off the side.

Three more to go and they started to scurry around. They weren’t an easy target now and John had to move closer to where Meredith was to get a good shot. Weapon in hand, he raged forward ready to fire, ready to take charge. He had counted eight people. Six men, two women.

He didn’t see the ninth. He never saw the ninth.

As he raced in, directly center of them, he hovered above Meredith, in a protective stance. One hand on Meredith, he extended his arm in an aim. Finger on the trigger, ready to depress, John only got to fire one shot.

He felt the excruciating slamming pain to the back of his shoulders and John, with the force of the hit, went down, landing on Meredith. Beneath him he could feel her breathing. She was still alive. The blood from her chest seeped through onto his shirt. He cocked his head, reached out his hand for the gun and when he did, he saw Grant. The young man was off to the side; his bloody and motionless body was curled in an unnatural position, as if a rag doll just tossed aside. That brief second of looking at Grant afforded his assailants the chance to take control again. Just as his fingers grazed the gun, a bare foot slammed down on his hand and his legs were grabbed. Suddenly, he was yanked backwards, and John was literally dragged from Meredith.

He was pulled with such of force, his chin and arms ground against the pavement. He could feel the skin scraping from him.

How far did they pull him? It seemed like a mile, but it wasn’t, Meredith was still in his peripheral vision. John was maybe twenty feet away from her when the three of them stood above him.

When they grabbed him and flipped him over, John’s head collided hard with the ground.

Immediately everything faded, his vision blurred and filled with specks of light until John’s eyes rolled to the back of his head and he passed out.

TWENTY-EIGHT – Healing

DAY FOUR AR

There were a lot of things in the medical bag that Malcolm found useful. Problem was, he should have used them earlier. When he woke in the morning, an hour later than he wanted to, his arm was swollen, and it was beet red. He opened the bag found the ibuprofen and took not just one, but downed a handful and washed them back with a pint of bourbon. He took the antibiotic ointment and lathered the wound then rewrapped it. After that he took some antibiotics. Malcolm held on with weakened confidence that it wasn’t that bad, his life depended on it.