A punk extortionist terrorizes a small business owner.

Approx 1,438 words

The Survivors, Chapter 6

©2004 by W. E. Lopez

Don was awakened by the familiar plinka-plinka-dribble of the coffee pot and the heavenly scent of freshly brewed coffee. He propped himself up on one elbow and tried to place his surroundings, in the motor home, of course. Last night, following the assault by the two convicts while he changed the tire, Maggie had blown one away using the shotgun and they had fled down the road before stopping for the night.

He appeared to be alone, where were Maggie and the kids? Then he heard the sound of children playing outside and felt Maggie’s tread upon the door step. The door opened with a clatter.

“Oh, you’re up,” Maggie said. “I hope we didn’t wake you. I’ve kept Doris and Mikey outside so you could get some rest, but I had to come in to check on the coffee. Are you ready for a cup?” She moved to the propane stove and turned off the flame beneath the stainless steel pot.

“Am I ever?” Don said. “Usually I’m not such a sound sleeper. How did you get the kids dressed and outside without waking me?”

“You must have been exhausted after changing that tire last night, Don. I just made shushing motions at the kids and they were very good. They’re discovering ants and beetles and desert plants just outside. They seem so happy, considering what’s happened.” She poured a steaming mug for him and set it into his outstretched hands. Don took a generous swallow before replying.

“The recuperative powers of the young are endless, Maggie, or they can’t comprehend the enormity of our calamity. One moment they fall on their butt and they are all yowls and tears; the next they are full of boisterous energy, laughs and giggles. Unlike adults, children are not given much to introspection.”

“Yes, thank goodness,” she said. “Say, we couldn’t see it in the dark last night, but there seems to be a house about half a mile from here. I wanted to walk over and investigate, but I was afraid it would be too far for the children.”

“You’re beginning to think like a mother already, Maggie. It becomes you.”

“I’ve had lots of practice taking care of a husband, Don. Perhaps you men don’t realize husbands have many of the same needs as children. Someone to cook for them and pick up after them, give them love and understanding when they have an emotional hurt, or apply a band-aid and a kiss if they bang their knee. It’s pretty much the same.”

“Well, given my own natural male superiority, I guess I’ve never looked at it that way.” He grinned at her with a lop-sided smile. Maggie replied by tossing a pillow from the kids bed at him and he spilled half his coffee.

“I surrender, Maggie! Don’t spank me!” He chuckled. Maggie picked up his shoes where they lay by the driver’s seat and handed them to him.

“When you’re dressed, I’ll fix breakfast and then we can go check out that house. I can’t tell you how anxious I am.”

“I wouldn’t be anxious at all! If anyone is left alive, we’re likely to get shot at, wouldn’t you think?”

“Oh, fiddle, Don! If you’re chicken, you and the kids can wait in the motor home and I’ll go ring the bell or knock on the door, or whatever.”

“Not on your life, kiddo, if there are any risks to be taken, I’ll take them.”

“That doesn’t sound like the same man I met yesterday, Don, the one who wanted to avoid the cities and crowds because of the possibility of riots or other violence.”

“I didn’t have you and the kids to worry about yesterday. I’m still not looking forward to encountering strangers, but we can’t forsake all contact with humanity, or what’s left of it.”

Maggie opened the fridge trying to decide what to make for breakfast. She had no idea if Doris and Mikey were picky eaters, but she didn’t think so. Still, a heavy breakfast of sausage and eggs seemed a little much and she thought perhaps some pancakes might be more appealing to them. Don had an adequate supply of both flour and cornmeal in the cupboards above the sink, there was canned cream in the little cubby which served as a pantry, and nearly a dozen eggs in the fridge. She pulled a large frying pan from the oven where Don kept his larger pans and a mixing bowl from an overhead cupboard. As she set about preparing the pancake batter she opened another conversation.

“If I’m not being too personal, Don, you seem to be living pretty much on your own since I met you. Have you been on the road long? Don’t you have any family? Are you very hungry?” she asked, startling Don with the way she jumped from topic to topic.

“Two will be plenty for me,” he said. “Yes, I used to be married, but perhaps I wasn’t the best husband in the world. Alyce and I were married while I was still in the Army, and frequently moved around the country. Then too, I spent two years in Viet Nam and she had a long time to get used to living without me.

“After I got out of the Army, I opened a small copy shop in Corona, that’s about fifty miles from Los Angeles. It used to be a small town, and starting a small business took a lot of hard work, but I put in endless hours and the business grew, at the expense of my marriage. As the town grew, so did the crime and violence. There was a young punk who thought he and his gang could make a great deal of money by terrorizing small business owners with a protection scam. It was extortion, pure and simple. Pay the gang a hundred a week and they wouldn’t break your windows or burn the place down.

“Call me stubborn, but I don’t like to be pushed. I refused to pay and after several broken windows and a burglary and vandalism, this punk came into my shop again and pulled a knife on me. He thought he was a man, but he sure didn’t know how to fight. I parried his knife with one hand and hit him in the throat with a power-fist. He hit the floor with a crushed larynx and drowned in his own blood.”

Maggie poured two pancakes into the frying pan, absent mindedly asking, “Power fist?”

“Oh, sorry, I spent quite a bit of time in a Ranger Company. Sort of like the Navy Seals, only our mission was more direct combat than clandestine operations. Hand-to-hand combat was a large part of our training.

“Most men use their fists to hammer and batter an oponent into submission. Not only is that a huge waste of energy, you can seriously injure your hands if you don’t do it right. A power-fist is a thrusting blow with the hand held flat and stiffened with the fingers bent at the second joint.” He held out his hand to demonstrate and smacked the hard edge of his knuckles against his left palm.

“The force of the blow is concentrated into a knife-like edge, instead of being spread out across six to eight square inches. The concentrated force is deadly, and instead of smashing into the jawbone or skull, you aim for flesh or muscle where the force will do the most damage. It’s like spiked high-heels on a woman’s shoes, a fashion that required the airlines to redesign the cabin floors in modern passenger liners.”

“You’re kidding! Why so?”

“Suppose a woman weighs only 100 pounds. Standing flat-footed on two feet, her weight might be spread out over twenty to thirty square inches, perhaps only three pounds per square inch. But that same 100 pounds, concentrated in the space of a spiked heel, only one-quarter by one-quarter inch, is equal to a force of 1,600 pounds per square inch. That’s the same physics which applies to a power-fist.

“So the punk died, but the district attorney declined to prosecute. It was obviously self-defense on my part and not worth the expense of a trial. That was how I learned about the horrors of civil litigation. The boy’s parents filed a wrongful death suit, alleging the boys actions were just youthful exuberance but my actions were that of a trained military killer. I beat the case, but it cost me thousands in attorney fees, I lost the business, my wife left with my 13 year-old daughter and I lost the house too. I won the battle, but I lost the war and my life was all but over.

“Still, I have some small talent as a word-smith and I found I could write salable articles as a free lance writer. I bought this motor home and took my life on the road, avoiding most unpleasant confrontations of modern society.”

“I’m sorry, Don, it sounds painful the way you tell it. I didn’t mean to pry.”

Don changed the subject. “Let me wash up and set up the dinette table. I’ll call the kids. Boy that smells wonderful, kiddo!”