couldn’t cross the alley again without giving away my position.
You’re screwed.
The man tried to approach quietly, but didn’t do a very good job of it. I slipped around to the other side of the garage and picked up a long, skinny piece of metal pipe leaning against the garage. I gripped it, holding it straight up, like a walking stick. The pole was about the size of a broom handle, awkward to swing, but it was all I had to work with.
I pressed my back against the corner of the garage nearest the alley, listened to the crunching vegetation, and got my mind ready for what I was about to do.
Instead of swinging it, I jabbed the pole into the man’s shocked face as he came around the corner. I heard his nose crack. Blood went everywhere. He went down to his knees, losing his grip on the shotgun at the same time, and held his face with both hands.
“Shit,” he said. It sounded muffled through the broken bones and web of his fingers.
I took a step back, grabbed one end of the pole with both hands and swung it down over my head, onto the back of his.
It laid him out. He collapsed to the ground, not dead but not moving, either.
I tossed the pole away and grabbed the shotgun. As I looked around, trying to figure out what direction to go in, I heard shouting. Looters. They were in the street, pointing and yelling in my direction. They ran at me, still shouting. One took a wild shot at me with a pistol and I heard the bullet
whiz
by me, striking the vegetation in the alleyway with the crack of breaking wood.
I ran along the fence line, parallel to the alley. The suit was light, but bulky, and it sounded like I was crumpling up wax paper as my legs scissored back and forth. By the time I reached the far back corner of the yard, they were already coming around the corner of the house. Another shot went by my head and I jumped the fence, ducking into the cover of the overgrown alley. The shrubs pulled on my suit, but I pushed through to the other side. I came out right on top of a group of chickens that squawked in protest as I ran through them. I didn’t stop. Kept on running. This time, I headed for the house next door to Carmenita Jaramillo’s.
I turned and saw three of them entering the yard. Before they could get a shot off I fired the shotgun at them. They were far enough away that there was little danger of the shot doing anything but peppering their skin, but the noise was enough to cause them to duck for cover. I used the opportunity to duck into the gap between the house and the garage. My plan was to run around the front and try to double back on them, maybe come at them from the opposite corner of the house. But as soon as I entered the gap, I realized that wasn’t going to happen. There was a 12 ft high brick wall in front of me, sealing me into a dead end.
I was frantic. I went down on one knee, hugging the wall of the house, shotgun up and ready, waiting for the end. I heard the looters laughing in the backyard, calling out to me. They’d figured out I was a woman. I got the sense of what they were saying, and it didn’t sound like they wanted to kill me. At least that wasn’t the first thing they were going to do.
But then, suddenly, their laughing turned to surprised, angry shouts, and one of them even let out a girlish squeak of a scream before the sound was cut off by a sickening crunch.
I held my position for at least a minute, waiting to see who came around the corner. When no one did, I inched forward.
I stopped at the corner and took a deep breath, then edged around the corner with the shotgun ready to go.
My mouth fell open inside my gas mask. I lowered the shotgun.
There, standing in the middle of three kneeling looters, their hands clasped over their heads, was Chunk, a rather serious looking shotgun in his hands. One of the looters was down. He looked dead.
“How you doing?” he asked.
The cavalry was a SWAT team divided up into four two-man units, all of them in full biohazard
You’re screwed.
The man tried to approach quietly, but didn’t do a very good job of it. I slipped around to the other side of the garage and picked up a long, skinny piece of metal pipe leaning against the garage. I gripped it, holding it straight up, like a walking stick. The pole was about the size of a broom handle, awkward to swing, but it was all I had to work with.
I pressed my back against the corner of the garage nearest the alley, listened to the crunching vegetation, and got my mind ready for what I was about to do.
Instead of swinging it, I jabbed the pole into the man’s shocked face as he came around the corner. I heard his nose crack. Blood went everywhere. He went down to his knees, losing his grip on the shotgun at the same time, and held his face with both hands.
“Shit,” he said. It sounded muffled through the broken bones and web of his fingers.
I took a step back, grabbed one end of the pole with both hands and swung it down over my head, onto the back of his.
It laid him out. He collapsed to the ground, not dead but not moving, either.
I tossed the pole away and grabbed the shotgun. As I looked around, trying to figure out what direction to go in, I heard shouting. Looters. They were in the street, pointing and yelling in my direction. They ran at me, still shouting. One took a wild shot at me with a pistol and I heard the bullet
whiz
by me, striking the vegetation in the alleyway with the crack of breaking wood.
I ran along the fence line, parallel to the alley. The suit was light, but bulky, and it sounded like I was crumpling up wax paper as my legs scissored back and forth. By the time I reached the far back corner of the yard, they were already coming around the corner of the house. Another shot went by my head and I jumped the fence, ducking into the cover of the overgrown alley. The shrubs pulled on my suit, but I pushed through to the other side. I came out right on top of a group of chickens that squawked in protest as I ran through them. I didn’t stop. Kept on running. This time, I headed for the house next door to Carmenita Jaramillo’s.
I turned and saw three of them entering the yard. Before they could get a shot off I fired the shotgun at them. They were far enough away that there was little danger of the shot doing anything but peppering their skin, but the noise was enough to cause them to duck for cover. I used the opportunity to duck into the gap between the house and the garage. My plan was to run around the front and try to double back on them, maybe come at them from the opposite corner of the house. But as soon as I entered the gap, I realized that wasn’t going to happen. There was a 12 ft high brick wall in front of me, sealing me into a dead end.
I was frantic. I went down on one knee, hugging the wall of the house, shotgun up and ready, waiting for the end. I heard the looters laughing in the backyard, calling out to me. They’d figured out I was a woman. I got the sense of what they were saying, and it didn’t sound like they wanted to kill me. At least that wasn’t the first thing they were going to do.
But then, suddenly, their laughing turned to surprised, angry shouts, and one of them even let out a girlish squeak of a scream before the sound was cut off by a sickening crunch.
I held my position for at least a minute, waiting to see who came around the corner. When no one did, I inched forward.
I stopped at the corner and took a deep breath, then edged around the corner with the shotgun ready to go.
My mouth fell open inside my gas mask. I lowered the shotgun.
There, standing in the middle of three kneeling looters, their hands clasped over their heads, was Chunk, a rather serious looking shotgun in his hands. One of the looters was down. He looked dead.
“How you doing?” he asked.
The cavalry was a SWAT team divided up into four two-man units, all of them in full biohazard
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