299 Days: The Collapse

Chapter 48 “Because this is my first gunfight.” (May 5)

By the time he arrived home, Grant had calmed down from his near encounter with the police. To say he was thankful to have made it back home alive and not arrested was an understatement.

He pulled off onto a side street by the entrance to the Cedars. It was dark and deserted. He transferred his AR from the passenger seat into the trunk. He didn’t need Lisa or a cop seeing that. He took off his pistol belt and put that in the trunk, too. He noticed that here, near his neighborhood, the sirens were much quieter because it was a few miles farther from the capitol than the gun store. In fact, inside the houses in his neighborhood, he imagined his neighbors couldn’t even hear the sirens. That might explain why most people in this area really didn’t think much was going on.

Grant headed into his neighborhood. When he got near his house, he hit the garage door opener. What an evening. And it was only getting started.

“How was Len’s?” Lisa asked when Grant walked in. Thank goodness she reminded him of the excuse he had used.

“Fine,” Grant said. “We’re fine tuning our patrol ideas. Are the kids OK?”

Lisa nodded. “Cole wants ‘Dad to tuck,’” she said, referring to Cole’s word for tucking in.

“Will do,” Grant said. “It’s the best part of my day. Are you OK?”

“Yeah,” Lisa said. “Why?”

“There’s a lot of scary stuff going on,” Grant said, “and I want to make sure you’re OK. I love you, Lisa.”

“Love you too, hon,” she said with a smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. I think the neighborhood patrol and police probably have this temporary situation under control, don’t you?” She had heard the faint siren sounds and that made her nervous. She was fishing to get his real thoughts.

“Oh, yeah,” Grant said, “I think things are fine. Hey, I should get tucking.” He didn’t want to tell her what he really thought. It would just be another argument.

Grant went upstairs and tucked in Cole. He loved that kid so much. He was so innocent. All he wanted in life was his dad to tuck him in. That’s really all Grant wanted, too. But you can’t have tucks when bad people are breaking down your door. So Grant would have to go out and keep the bad people away.

After tucking, Grant had to decide if this was the time to try to convince Lisa to go to the cabin. He wanted to get out there right away. Each hour that went by might mean it was too late to get out there safely.

Wait, the outside thought said.

OK, then. Grant would wait.

Grant remembered that his shift for the neighborhood patrol was starting at midnight, which was soon. He changed into his 5.11 pants and hillbilly slippers, went downstairs, kissed Lisa, and said, “It’s my patrol shift now. Bye. Love you.”

“Love you, too,” she said. Grant sure was kind of emotional, she thought. Telling her he loved her so many times like… he didn’t think he’d get a chance to tell her that ever again. It was a little frightening.

*****

In the garage, Grant popped the trunk to double check he had everything he’d need. In the trunk was his pistol belt and pistol, along with his AR and shoulder mag bag. They were on top of the food in the trunk that he needed to unload later. He took the AR and mag bag from the trunk and put them on the passenger seat of his car. This way he would have them handy if he needed them on patrol. He put on his pistol belt. It felt so good on his hip. So reassuring.

Grant would be patrolling with Ron. Good. He trusted Ron’s gun skills. That night on patrol, they talked over things, traded information about the Olympia protests, the bombings, and the power outage. Grant didn’t talk about the inventory evacuation at the gun store, of course. His attention turned to the power outage.

“I don’t want to freak you out, Ron,” Grant said, “but if someone is able to crash the electrical grid periodically, things are… going to get rough.” Grant was trying not to sound alarmist.

“Yep,” Ron said. “Let’s hope that’s not it. Let’s hope that some bird flew into a power line or something.”

Grant didn’t want to continue talking about simultaneous terrorist attacks and the power grid crashing. He would have said something that would alert Ron to Grant being a “survivalist.” Grant decided to focus on the task at hand: a neighborhood patrol.

“We might go through quite a bit of gas driving all night, even at slow speeds,” Grant said. “You got a full tank?”

“Yep,” Ron said.

“Me, too,” Grant said.

“Let’s do it,” Ron said with a smile.

They went to opposite ends of the subdivision and started going up and down each street and cul-de-sac. They could hear the sirens, but only faintly. They looked for anyone who didn’t seem to belong. They were listening to the news on the radio. It was unbelievable all the things that were happening. It was bigger than the 9/11 attacks, especially, as some were speculating, if terrorists could take down the electrical grid.

Suddenly he heard Ron’s horn. It sounded like it was coming from the entrance to the subdivision. Grant raced toward that direction. He came around the corner and was horrified. He was hit with so much adrenaline that he became numb and tingly.

At the entrance to the subdivision was a crowd of about a dozen young men. They were walking into the Cedars, whooping and hollering. Waving their arms and yelling. Some had sticks, or something. A few had rifles. Hunting rifles or shotguns. They were right under the street light.

Dumbasses, Grant thought. Silhouetting yourselves in the street light. Grant was thinking clearly and was terrified at the same time. Instinct and training took over.

There was Ron’s car about 100 yards inside the subdivision. Grant couldn’t see him, but could see that his driver’s side door was open. Ron blasted the horn again and then came flying out the driver’s side with his shotgun. The punks started yelling, which was immediately followed by the sound of gunfire.

They were shooting at Ron. Actual shots! Grant couldn’t believe it.

Grant drove straight toward Ron’s car. He was more afraid of getting in a car wreck than he was of the shooting from the men. He felt a surge of confidence as he remembered Ted telling him that most bad guys are shitty shots. Grant punched the gas pedal and raced toward the gunfire.

Ron used his car door for cover and started firing into the air above their heads. Damn! That shotgun was loud. Lights started coming in on the surrounding houses. Ron shot five or six rounds at them. Grant wasn’t sure how many; he was concentrating on getting in between Ron and the crowd with his car. Ron would need to reload soon, and that took a while with a shotgun. Probably too long for Ron.

When Ron stopped shooting to reload, the pack of men started to run toward Ron. They were about seventy yards from his car, still silhouetted by the street lights.

Grant’s foot was all the way down on the gas pedal. He was driving straight into the crowd. He didn’t really have a plan. He just kept thinking he needed to get between the crowd and Ron.

Grant flew past Ron and slammed on the brakes. He was about to plow into the crowd of men. He skidded and stopped about ten yards in front of Ron’s car. Grant prayed that Ron didn’t shoot him as he zoomed in front Ron, who had reloaded and was blazing away with a shotgun. The hours of training with the Team made it so that Grant wasn’t bothered by the shooting happening all around him.

Grant could see and hear the crowd as it approached his car. They were about twenty-five yards away. Grant opened his door, jumped out of the driver’s side, got behind the door, smoothly drew his pistol, and got in the kneeling position, using the car door for cover. The closest people in the crowd were now about ten yards away. Grant could see their faces. They were running full speed at him. So many of them. To Grant, they were just like a bunch of steel targets when he was at the range with the Team. Just pick one and then another and keep going. No big deal.

Grant put his front sight on the closest bad guy. The glow-in-the-dark three-dot sights told him exactly where the shot would go and the street light lit up the target, who was right on him. Grant got a good grip and pressed the trigger. He felt the recoil but didn’t really hear the shot. The guy was hit, but kept coming. Grant put a quick second one in him; right in his chest. The bad guy stopped cold right in front of him, but his forward momentum kept him flying toward Grant. The others in the crowd were further behind the first guy, but close and getting closer.

Grant flashed back to his training with the Team. Shooting at those human-shaped steel targets was paying off. The men were moving, but they were just targets to hit. Grant shot them one right after another. Efficiently. It didn’t feel like shooting a person; it felt like shooting steel target. After he hit a few of the targets, they quit charging him and started to turn around.

He felt someone come up behind him, and swung around, prepared to shoot whoever was attacking him from behind. It was Ron. Grant turned back around toward the crowd, and realized he had used the cover of his car door for quite a few shots so it was time to find new cover. He looked around for any close-in threats. He looked behind him and Ron. He remembered Ted telling him that bad guys have a tendency to be where you least expect them, so search and assess after you shoot. Constantly look for threats.

There weren’t any. By this time, Ron was up against Grant’s car door for cover. Ron didn’t have his shotgun, but he had his pistol in his hand.

“Stay here!” Grant yelled. Then he yelled, “Moving!” like he had with the Team. Ron looked at him funny. Grant suddenly remembered that Ron didn’t know those commands. Ron looked at Grant as if to say, “OK, move if you want.”

Grant ran to the rear of the car, around the back from the driver’s side to the passenger side, and—now he was scared—popped up and fired toward the crowd. He didn’t have a target; he was just shooting to keep their heads down.

There was no one there. They seemed to be gone. Grant fired fast until his pistol magazine was empty. Without even thinking, he yelled “check” ejected the magazine, and slammed in a new one. He racked his pistol and started scanning the area for additional bad guys, but he didn’t see any.

“Get in the car and let’s go!” Grant yelled to Ron. Ron got in the driver’s seat and threw the car into reverse once Grant was in the passenger seat.

Ron had moved Grant’s AR out of the passenger seat so Grant wouldn’t smash into it. They backed out of the area quickly; Ron tried not to hit his own car in the process.

Ron quickly backed the car into the intersection of two streets about 150 yards from the entrance and turned around so he was now driving forward. He was driving toward his house when Grant said, “We have to go back to make sure they don’t come back.” Ron abruptly turned the car around, and they flew back to Ron’s car stopped in the middle of the street. They stopped and jumped out of Grant’s car. Grant saw his AR in the back seat. He grabbed it and used the roof of his car as a rest to aim the rifle, which was pointed toward the entrance to the subdivision. Grant wondered why he hadn’t used his rifle in the first place. Why had he engaged targets with this pistol instead of his rifle, which would have been better? Because this is my first gunfight, Grant thought to himself.

A car came flying down the street from their left, and Grant swung around. That red dot and circle of his rifle sight was perfectly clear. He aimed at the driver and clicked off the safety.

It was Len’s car. Grant went back to pointing his AR at the entrance toward where the men had been. Grant was more afraid of Len hitting him with his car than getting shot.

He was fully alive right now. Every sense—hearing, sight, touch, even smell—was on overdrive. He felt like Superman. Not that he was enjoying this; he just felt invincible.

There were no bad guys around and Grant had Ron and Len covering him. He started to relax. Then he remembered a story Ted told him about guys getting shot when they relaxed after what seemed to be the end of a gunfight. God, Grant was thinking so clearly. He couldn’t believe it.

Once Grant knew where Ron and Len were, and that they had cover, Grant started scanning 360 degrees with his AR. He didn’t want some piece of shit to run up behind him or to his side. He was determined not to get jumped. That would be embarrassing. I could never face the Team if I got jumped instead of searching and assessing like I knew I should be doing, he thought.

Grant started moving to various cover points on his car and then Len’s as he made his sweeps. He was in a zone. He was acting out the training, only this was for real.

Grant saw some things in the street ahead of him. He couldn’t tell what they were. There were about five of them, and some of them were moving. He didn’t know what they were, but they weren’t trying to hurt him.

Ron and Len were talking to him, but Grant couldn’t hear them. His ears were ringing, and his hands were starting to hurt from gripping the AR so tightly.

Grant had to block the entrance. They would be back, and quickly.

“Move the cars across the street so no one can come back at us!” Grant yelled. Ron and Len looked at each other.

“Damn it!” Grant yelled. “Go! Now! Block this entrance. Go!”

They jumped into their cars and moved them so one car blocked each side of the street. No car could get through. Grant used Len’s hood as a rest for his AR and he kept scanning the entrance area with the red dot and circle. He could start to hear people talking to him.

“Hurt. They’re hurt,” Grant heard Len say. What? Who was hurt?

Len pointed to the slow moving things at the entrance.

Oh, God, Grant had shot people. Oh, God. He had hurt people. For the first time, Grant realized that he had shot people, instead of just hitting targets.

Now it made sense. The things in the street were dead and the things moving were—now that his hearing was coming back—screaming… those were people. Oh, God.

Grant just stared at the entrance. The screaming. He did that. He hurt them.

He went into his trunk and got his first aid kit. He thought it was odd that he was compelled to try to save the lives of people who, just a few seconds ago, were trying to kill him. But he was a sheepdog, and this is what sheepdogs do.

He grabbed his first aid kit, threw it to Ron, and said, “I’ll go up to them and cover you while you go see if any need first aid.” Grant didn’t want to walk up to the people he’d shot. He didn’t want to see their faces. Not that he felt guilty; they were trying to kill him and Ron. He just didn’t want to look at their faces. He was terrified of their faces.

Grant went first, sweeping the entrance with his AR. Ron was behind him with the first aid kit. The first guy wasn’t moving. It was obvious he was dead. Ted had a story about that too, where a guy thought a Taliban was dead only to find he wasn’t. Grant kicked the body. Nothing. Grant kicked him a second time. Hard. Nothing. OK. That one wasn’t a threat.

They did the same with two others. Same thing.

Two moving blobs were heading into the woods outside the entrance. In the street light, Grant could see a wide blood trail from where they went to the woods. It was the weirdest shade of crimson he had ever seen. It was horrifying. There was some screaming in the woods. It sounded like two different screams. Grant didn’t want to go into the woods, but he wanted the screams to stop. He didn’t know what to do.

“We can’t help them,” Ron said. He motioned for them to go back. Grant covered Ron while Ron went back. The farther away they were from the gun fight, the more and more silly it seemed to be keep sweeping for bad guys. It was pretty obvious they had left, or were dead.

Grant didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want anyone to see him with an AR, so he put it back in his car.

He had to leave. He just had to leave.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” Grant said.

“What? You can’t just leave,” Len said.

“I have to go,” was all Grant could say. He got in his car and drove the two blocks home. He got one block before he had to stop, open his door, and throw up. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and went home.

Grant hit the garage door opener. How many times had he hit that garage door opener and come home to pretend with Lisa that things were alright when they weren’t.

Well, that was over. He was a killer.

Killer.

That word kept running through his head.

How could he explain this to Lisa?