“A funny thing happened on the way to the __________.”

Survivors, Part 2

Approx 2,487 words

©2004 by W. E. Lopez

With the water tanks topped off and the propane tanks stowed in the luggage compartment (forbidden by law, but Don wasn’t worried about that just now), Don asked Maggie if there were anything else she wanted from the mini-mart before they left.

“Oohh, how about a carton of ciggs? Virginia Slim menthols, if they have them.”

“Sure thing, Maggie.” He went back to plundering the mini-mart but did not find Virginia Slims. Instead, he absconded with two cartons of Salem 100’s for Maggie. Should he stock up for himself? He decided to take two cartons of Marlboro’s, even if he didn’t smoke them they could become valuable material for barter before long. If the motor home weren’t so crammed with stolen loot at the moment, he would have taken more. Perhaps when he and Maggie settled in some where he would return and carry off as much as possible.

Starting the motor home again, Don eased onto Highway 160 and continued toward I-15 and Las Vegas. They crossed Rainbow and a mile or two further on they came to an indoor target range. The business catered to tourists, particularly those from countries where private ownership of firearms was illegal. For a few dollars, a tourist could strap on a .45 revolver of Wild West vintage and try his fast-draw technique while having pictures taken.

Others, addicts of action/adventure movies, could fire off a clip from an Uzi submachine gun, Ingram, Mini-Mac, or AK-47. It was all perfectly legal as the weapons were never allowed to leave the premises and were duly registered with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobbaco and Firearms.

What bothered Don was the open front door. He slowed, pulled to the right and stopped. “Do you see what I see, Maggie?”

The girl looked at a display of fiber glass swimming pools, another of land scape rock, and finally at the shooting range. “You mean that target range? What’s the problem?”

“The problem is the front door is open. I assume the place was closed last night when the…” he paused for the right word, “event occurred. The open door probably means someone has been here this morning. On the one hand, that means we can expect to find more survivors, but I’m more worried than before, Maggie.”

“Well, I don’t know why. We’ve just robbed a convenience store; why shouldn’t someone else rob a target range?”

“Because we were stocking up on survival supplies, Maggie, for our own preservation and meaning no harm to any other. The person who broke in here was obviously after weapons, ammunition, or both. He could still be in there, or he could be miles down the road, or just across the street taking aim at us now.”

“If you’re chicken to go across the road and see if we can get a rifle, Don, let me out and I’ll do it. We should at least have something to defend ourselves with, don’t you think?”

“I’ve already explained that I’m not a violent person, Maggie, but I’ll admit you’re probably right. We’re not planning to go out and rob or steal from other survivors, but we may have to protect ourselves from someone robbing us. Okay, you’re making sense. Stay here and I’ll be right back.”

“Like hell I will! Now I’ve got the heebie-jeebies too! I’m going with you!”

Don didn’t feel like arguing with Maggie so he settled for locking the doors to the motor home and hoped it would still be there when they returned.

As he figured, the shooting range had been plundered, but fortunately they were alone when they entered. The thief or thieves had fired several hundred rounds at the walls and display cabinets, but hadn’t totally trashed the place. Spent cartridges littered the concrete floor and they had to watch their step. It was like walking on a carpet of marbles. Apparently, whoever had broken in left with as much as they could carry, but there was plenty remaining for Don and Maggie.

Don immediately went to a rack where several 12 gauge ‘riot-guns’ were displayed and selected two, one each for himself and Maggie.

“A shotgun,” Maggie asked. “Why not one of those nice Uzi submachine guns?”

“Mostly because the motor home is already crammed with stuff, Maggie. An Uzi will go through several hundred rounds per second, and isn’t very accurate.”

“If I really need to shoot at someone,” Maggie said, “I just want to spray as many bullets as possible!”

“I once wrote an article on home defense, Maggie, and I researched it pretty well. There is no better weapon for putting lead on target than a shotgun. Just point it in the right direction and it’ll do the work.” He grabbed a box of #4 buckshot and held it up. “See this? Twenty-five rounds of 12 gauge ammo, and each round fires 27 one-quarter inch pellets. Any one could be fatal, but most likely several will hit the target.

“If you were firing an Uzi, you might get one or two nine millimeter slugs into the target, I emphasize might. With a shotgun, you’re more likely to hit what you’re aiming at. That’s why virtually all law enforcement agencies carry shotguns for crowd control. It’s politely referred to as an alley sweeper.”

Don set four boxes of shotgun shells on the counter and then selected two M-1 Garand rifles; the gun that won World War II.

“Now you’re choosing antiques? Why not one of the modern military weapons?”

“This thing has stopping power and range, Maggie. We’ll not be attacking anyone a thousand yards away; we’ll use the shotguns for close in defense since they have limited range. But with these, we can hope to keep any bad guys far enough away they will not be a threat to us.”

“For a guy who claims to be non-violent, Don, you sure seem to know a lot about guns!”

“When I was younger, Maggie, I spent two tours in Viet Nam. I know what works and what doesn’t. But I’m no wannabe hero either. I just want to keep the bad guys far enough away so they can’t hurt us.”

“Okay, Don. I’ll trust your judgement. Personally, I’ll take these…” she held up two .380 automatic pistols by Beretta.

“That’s a good choice for a woman, Maggie. The recoil won’t fracture your wrist, and you can easily conceal one in your purse.”

“My purse is somewhere miles behind us, Don, and I have no intention of going back for it.”

Don added two hundred rounds of thirty caliber ammo for the Garands, and a hundred rounds for each pistol. “I think that completes our shopping for the moment, Maggie. Let’s get the heck out of here.”

Maggie had the foresight to scavange a small backpack to lug the ammo in while Don carried the rifles. Together they left the shooting range and crossed the street to the motor home. Don leaned the rifles against the side of the vehicle while he unlocked the door, and then they stowed their new treasure aboard.

“Where to now, boss?”

“I’m not sure, Maggie. I’d like to head downtown and see if we can find anyone in authority at the police department or city hall. We should try and find a hospital for your arm also, but we still haven’t seen any other survivors. You’d think that shooting range would have been well equipped with burglar alarms, but we haven’t seen any police either. To tell you the truth, I’m a little afraid of heading into Vegas.”

Don continued to the Interstate and stopped the motor home atop the overpass where they had a good view in all directions. The sight threw a tremendous scare into him. He couldn’t count the number of burned and wrecked vehicles lining the Interstate. On the way from Pahrump, the number of vehicles hadn’t been significant, but the closer they got to Vegas, where the traffic was heavier, the more vehicles they found.

Don was appalled by the thick haze hanging over the Las Vegas Valley. Fires had started in many locations, several in the distant north where North Las Vegas lay, and several off to the south in the direction of Henderson. The cause may have been vehicles crashing when the event ocurred or it may have been electrical equipment left unattended, or even simpler, just someone’s dinner left on top of a stove. With no fire department personnel to quickly put out the blazes, they grew and spread to nearby structures until numerous columns of smoke rose into the sky.

Even worse, his nostrils were assailed by what writer’s often refer to as the smell of death. Bodies in and around the vehicles gave off the stench of charred flesh. Even those not burned were beginning to bloat under the desert sun and the smell was dreadful.

Don considered the wrecked vehicles scattered along the twin ribbons of Interstate highway and decided they could slowly pick their way into downtown Las Vegas if they drove carefully. He turned to mention something to Maggie when he heard a loud crack followed by the tinkle of breaking glass as the driver side mirror shattered and fragments of mirror fell to the pavement.

With instinct honed many years ago in a land far away, Don jumped behind the steering wheel and started the engine. He quickly pulled ahead and took the off-ramp down onto the Interstate but turned left against the flow of traffic and then steered onto the sand and gravel median between the two lanes where he could make more speed than trying to avoid the stalled vehicles.

“What the heck happened?” Maggie asked.

“Someone took a pot shot at us, Maggie. Lucky for me, they missed! I knew there was a reason I didn’t want to head into Vegas, but I wish we could have filled the tank before leaving Sin City. We have barely a quarter of a tank and the next gas is probably at Primm, thirty miles down the road.”

“Are we gonna get shot at when we get to Primm?”

“Who can say, Maggie? We haven’t yet seen any survivors, but we know there are others.” Both Don and Maggie were sobered by what had just happened and the drive across the desert to Primm was made in silence. Because of the wrecked vehicles everywhere, Don frequently had to slow down or even stop as he maneuvered the motor home around them. On a highway designed for speeds of seventy miles an hour, it took them nearly two hours before they pulled into the first filling station at the Primm turnoff.

Right away, Don spotted a sight that cheered him immensely. At the ARCO station a double-tanker was ready to deliver fuel into the underground storage tanks of the station. Don pulled the motor home close to the gasoline tanker and hopped out.

“Let’s get this beast filled up before some one takes a shot at us again, Maggie.” There were no lights or signs of electrical power at the filling station, but Don didn’t let that stop him. At first he was dismayed when he found the outlets of the gasoline tanker were only designed for thick delivery hoses and he wouldn’t be able to let gravity fill the gas tank of the motor home.

He went into the garage of the filling station and quickly returned with a plastic oil-change pan, a long funnel, and a plastic 5-gallon gas can. While Maggie went into the mini-mart, Don set the gas can down and stuck the funnel into the opening. Next he slid the oil-change pan under the tanker and cracked the valve slightly. He repositioned the oil pan but still spilled much of gasoline onto the pavement around the pan. When it was nearly full, he shut off the valve, poured the gas into the funnel and repeated the procedure. After four tries, he had the gasoline can full and headed to the motor home to pour into the tank.

“Don, help!” Maggie screamed. He let the gas can fall to the pavement and ran past the motor home to see what the danger was. Maggie was pointing to a little girl of about six approaching with an even younger boy in hand. Don breathed a sigh of relief.

“Lady, can you help us please? I can’t wake mommy and daddy and everyone else is sleeping all around the place. We’re hungry and it’s hot and there’s nobody to help us.”

Don knew immediately why the children could not wake their parents. Maggie quickly ran to the kids and wrapped her good arm around the girl.

“Of course we’ll help you,” Maggie said. “What’s your name? Where are you from?”

“I’m Doris and this is Mikey,” the girl said. “I’m from the hotel over there…” she turned and pointed a pudgy finger at the Colorado Belle.

“Well, hi there Doris, and you too, Mikey. My name is Maggie. Let’s go into that little store and we’ll get some bread and I’ll fix you and your brother some sandwiches in our motor home. Would you like that?”

“You mean picnic?” Mikey asked.

“Sure, Mikey. Would you like that?”

“Mommy said we’re not supposed to talk to strangers,” Mikey insisted.

“But I’m not a stranger. I just told you my name is Maggie, and I’d like to be your friend. Would that be alright with you?”

Mikey looked at his sister and when she nodded he said, “What kind of sandwiches? Peanut butter and jelly?”

“If you like,” Maggie promised. “Do you like the crunchy peanut butter or the smooth kind?”

Don decided Maggie had the situation under control, at least for the moment, and went back to gassing up the motor home. He was dismayed to find most the of the gas he had patiently poured into the plastic can had spilled all over the ground when he dropped the can, but decided they were in no hurry and started again.

Musingly, as he worked, he thought, “A funny thing happened to me on my way to the Sheriff’s Office this morning. The world changed and I’ve committed at least three felonies, I’ve got a good looking girl with a broken arm to look after, I’ve been shot at, and now it seems I’ve adopted two kids in the bargain.”

When Maggie returned with the kids carrying two small bags of groceries, he cautioned her, “No smoking, Maggie. There’s gas all around here. I couldn’t avoid spilling a lot of it.”

“Aye, aye, Captain Bligh! I’ll just fix some sandwiches for the kids. Would you like one too?”

“No, I’d like two or three, Maggie. I’d forgotten how hungry I am. We’ve been pretty busy since….”

“Yes,” she interrupted him. “It’s been a busy day. I’ll have something for you just as soon as I take care of the kids.

(Tune in next time for more exciting adventures with the Survivors!)