How Do You Solve a Problem Like Grandpa?
MICHAEL Z. WILLIAMSON
Andy Thompson was tense. Going to see his grandpa shouldn’t be a meeting. It should be a visit.
This was a meeting.
The house was a nice brick split, well-maintained. The grass and trees were trimmed and pruned, but there was no other landscaping. It was plain, and clean.
Grandpa Thompson had always liked guns, hunting, the outdoors. His collection of knives and guns had been amazing. Now it was full-on hoarder. The man had crates of MREs, racks of cans, drums of water, god knows how many military rifles. He’d blown through most of his income and savings, keeping just enough to pay the bills.
The man did pay his bills, and his food, and his taxes, but there wasn’t much left over, and the next progression in behavior would be past that point.
If they could resolve it now, he wouldn’t have to try to put Grandpa in a home. Although, with Grandma gone, that still might be something to discuss later.
James C. Merritt, his attorney, was graciously coming along on a very modest fee, and Dr. Gleeson was along to gently advise. Grandpa was as areligious as Andy, so there was no point to a clergyman.
Grandpa met them at the door.
“What’s wrong, Andy? A lawyer?” Grandpa said after a glance. He was still sharp. “And who’s this other gentleman? Come in, sit, please.”
“Grandpa, Dr. Gleeson’s been mine and Lisa’s marriage counselor. Good man. He’s along for support.”
“I hope no one’s died. Is Andy Junior in hospital?”
“No, everyone’s fine, Grandpa. This…” he looked at Gleeson, who nodded. “This is about your spending, and the guns.”
The cabinet here in the living room contained high-end hunting rifles, behind armored glass to protect them while showing them. That case had cost a couple of thousand dollars. It was also the wrong background for this discussion, because those were valuable and personal.
“What’s the issue? Everything that needs to be papered is. I have a lot of them in trust for you and the great grandkids. I don’t spend more than I have. I’m pretty sure my debt’s less than yours.”
The old man didn’t seem to be angry, but he was certainly alert.
“Grandpa, it was fine when you had a dozen, or even a couple of dozen, but you’ve got what now, a hundred?”
Grandpa leaned back in mock relaxation. He was tense.
“Since you ask that way, none of your goddam business. Andy, I don’t want trouble with you or anyone, but how I spend my pension and my wealth is really not your concern. You’ve seen the trust and the will, and even if I was cutting into those, which I’m not, that would be my choice while alive. But I’m not. You don’t have some notion of trying to declare me incompetent, do you? I have lawyers, too, and probably better ones, with no disrespect intended to you, sir,” he added to Merritt.
This was not going well. Andy nodded to Merritt.
Merritt said, “Sir, my client is concerned about your assets, and has asked that I act in advisory capacity. While I assume you are completely within the law, your collection has been mentioned at the city council and elsewhere. They’ve got concerns.”
“Mentioned by whom? I don’t generally advertise.” Grandpa’s gaze wasn’t getting any more relaxed.
It had been Andy’s younger brother Sam, who meant well, but wasn’t very good at these things. He’d gotten a bug up his ass, decided the government would know what to do, and gone to see the mayor. It was a small town. Word got around. They all knew the old man needed to stop “collecting,” but that hadn’t helped. Although, that had gotten the action they had here, if it worked.
Merritt was good. He answered the old man’s inquiry with, “You’ve been seen at various gun shows, stores, swap meets. Someone took an interest and started following you.”
“Stalking me, you mean.”
“Legally it has not reached that level. They are free to observe, as you are free to buy.”
“And everything I have is legal. If the cops show up with a warrant, they’ll find exactly that.”
Merritt said, “I’m quite sure, sir. But if the police do show up, they’ll confiscate everything on at least a temporary basis, and then there will be articles in the news. You know how they paint gun owners.”
He followed with, “Sir, I’m on your side. I’ve got a safe full of ARs, an early Russian SKS, an FAL—”
“Metric or Inch?”
“Metric. Imbel. Imported back before you had to chop barrels and sub parts.”
“Nice. Do you know the Empire ones can take metric mags as well as their own?”
Merritt nodded. “I’d heard that.”
Grandpa twisted his mouth and shook his head. “So you’re saying some asshole is pitching a fit about me being a collector, and if I don’t want my collection ruined, I need to divest.”
“There’s more nuance than that, but that is the rough summary, yes, sir.”
“Goddamit.”
Grandpa sat staring from man to man for about three minutes. Andy said nothing.
“And what will convince the concerned idiots I’m not some sort of deranged Nazi or whatever?”
“I don’t think there’s any specific number on it. But some of the racks of MREs and such, and ammo, and the scarier guns. One AR is not an issue. Five different ones, I can make the case that they’re for different target shooting, or collectible. Once you get to a dozen, people start to freak out.”
It was another three minutes before Grandpa said, “I’ll think about it.”
* * *
Andy felt like crap. Grandpa had taught him to shoot, and he’d enjoyed it. He just never got into it the way the old man did, almost an obsession. If Grandpa had fifty cars, it would have been the same, or if he’d been binge buying collectibles on eBay. Even if he wanted to be safe against disaster, four or five guns was enough. He had taken that one trip to Africa, and a couple of the hunting rifles were really gorgeous.
But adding in all that food…it was hoarding, and it had to stop.
Dr. Gleeson was soothing, and feigned interest in the details, or maybe he was interested, but he kept the discussion moving about liquid assets that could be accessed in case of illness. That tack seemed to help.
While everyone was busy in the living room, Andy took a surreptitious look in the garage, at the rafters above it. MREs, canned goods, toilet paper, plywood, pallets of something. Down in what had been bedrooms were a couple of racks of rifles, three gun vaults, another pallet with boxes stacked on it, and some footlockers. The closets had various camouflage clothing and a lot of things like parkas. They were mostly different, but there were dozens of them.
Maybe they should try to coax the old man into a retirement home. Otherwise, he could open his own surplus store.
The other bedroom contained more varieties of knives, machetes, axes and clubs than he’d ever known existed. Some were on racks and stands for display, which was either awesome or creepy, depending on the presentation.
At least the front room was a perfectly normal office, with computer, filing cabinet and bookshelves, until he realized the books were all about gunsmithing, emergency medicine, and survival, with military manuals and a bunch of woodworking and craft books. At least the latter was normal.
He knew that a lot of people raised in the Depression hoarded stuff out of habit. Grandpa had been born after WWII, though, and had a middle class upbringing, then had worked as an engineer after Vietnam.
It could be something war related, or maybe he was just old and obsessive.
Andy wanted to help the man live to a healthy, normal old age.
* * *
Reggie Thompson looked around his living room and sighed.
He’d reached a deal with these pansies that involved selling his collection slowly. As long as his numbers were going down, the limpwristed little shits felt better.
He really didn’t care how they felt, but the world being the world, they’d make life hell on him. If he had a choice, he’d just move fifty miles out and tell them to go piss up a rope. He needed to be near the hospital, though, in case of another problem with his lungs. No good to live in the boonies and die from something treatable. He also suspected as soon as he was in hospital, stuff would start disappearing. Even if he had a spreadsheet for reference, he’d be told he was crazy and steered toward a home.
This was how his grandkids repaid him for all those hikes, fishing weekends and range trips.
He thought about calling John and his wife but his son was out in Oregon, and they’d had some words over that idiotic election. That was partly Reggie’s fault. He was a blunt, unrelenting son of a bitch, and he knew it.
He looked around. It really was a collection, not just prep. He’d had one of every pattern of AR, from the original Armalite AR15, to the first USAF issue, first Army issue Model 602, that he’d carried in ’Nam in ’65. Then he had the A1 he didn’t care much for, the A2 that was better, A3 and A4, several M4gery variants including the Air Force’s. He’d paid to have the proper markings on them, even if they were semi-only civilian guns.
One of the buyers had about gone apeshit at the “BURST” markings. The next had taken a quick look at the internals, saw they were all legal, and grinned. He’d paid a decent price.
So now he had five. The old school, the functional civilian modern one, and three carbines.
Those didn’t hurt so much. They could be bought anywhere. He’d been willing to take a few hundred dollar loss overall. He’d probably have to. Which one did he really need? One of the carbines would have to do.
But they wanted to thin out his Mausers and Lee Enfields. Those things were appreciating in value, fast, and were both pension and his grandkids’ inheritance, though he got the idea that little bastard Sam was the whiner about it, or at least one of the whiners.
Those would have to wait a while, as would the H&Ks. He didn’t care for them much, but their fan club sure did. Okay, so those before the classics.
He really hadn’t made a big deal about them, but he did sometimes load a dozen gun cases into the van to go to the range. This area was increasingly young liberals moving into older homes for the atmosphere. What were they called? Hipsters, that was it. He thought about the irony that these days there was no one under thirty you could trust.
He had a month’s worth of food now, the rest donated to charity, sold cheap to the Scouts for camping, and most of the MREs sold on Craigslist.
He’d sold the suppressors, but still had the M60. That was worth a damned fortune, and more all the time unless they reopened the Registry. With .308 running what it did, the Pig cost two hundred dollars a minute to shoot, but that really wasn’t a bad price for an orgasm.
Fuckers.
That would be near the end. He could milk out this sale for a year or more. Hell, he might be dead by then.
When the last of the AR rack sold on Gunbroker, he had some AKs to start listing. And then all the mags.
He’d still have the tents and winter gear.
He was almost certain Sammy had been the problem. The boy had never really got into guns. He’d been a video gamer from the ’80s on. Not shooting games, either. Then there was his wife, who’d constantly talked about, “Endangering the children.”
“I’d hoped to leave some of the antiques to you and the great grandkids,” he hinted.
Sammy seemed to be choosing words very carefully when he said, “That’s a kind gesture, but we wouldn’t really know what to do with them.”
Andy didn’t have kids, and his interest in guns stopped with a Remington 870 he’d last used, as far as Reggie knew, a decade before.
Dammit, there was culture here, and craftsmanship, and collectible value, and they just didn’t care. They were the same kind of people as Maxwell’s kids, who had no interest in his classic ’64 1/2 Mustang and ’69 Cuda. He’d watched his friend sell them at auction. He got good money, but they were gone and he’d never see them again. The man had slumped as he handed over the keys.
This was his estate, his life, his heritage, and they just didn’t care.
That was the unkindest thing he could imagine.
What always pissed him off in these arguments, first online, now here, was that the hunting rifles in that case packed two to three times the power of the so-called “assault rifles.” Hell, if they knew what the Merkel .375 double rifle put out, they’d need Depends. You could use that on charging rhino. 5.56mm wouldn’t even puncture the skin on one.
But the lawyer and the counselor had been correct. If he tried to fight this, the little bastards would just dial up the press, the soccer mommies, and the panty-wetters until someone came along and took everything for “examination” and tossed him into a don’t-care facility.
His plans didn’t allow for that. They did, very reluctantly, allow for this.
But he still hated the ungrateful, nosy little bastards.
* * *
Andy sat with Sam in Chili’s, drinking margaritas and waiting for fajitas.
“That spreadsheet was impressive,” he said.
“It was creepy,” Sam replied.
“Yeah, but it listed everything.”
“That’s what’s creepy about it,” Sam said as he licked salt and took a drink. “Guns, magazines, cases, slings, cleaning tools, every goddam screw that might go on a rifle. And hell, he had more stuff than the local police.”
Sam probably didn’t know what the police actually had, but there had been a lot.
“Well, I got him into a good mutual fund. It’s near a hundred thousand now.”
“It’s obscene. A hundred thousand dollars on guns. How rich would he be if he’d put it into something useful?”
“It wasn’t all guns.”
“Right. I forgot. Enough food for a year, like he’s a Mormon or something. Even they don’t do that anymore.”
“Well, he’s smart enough. I think it’s partly our fault.”
“Huh? How?”
“Dad lives in Oregon now. We should have been visiting a lot more often, especially after Grams died. He needs company. I doubt there’s much of a dating scene for seventy-five-year-old widowers.”
Sam frowned. “Oh, there probably is, but I doubt he cares. He did love her a lot, and he does miss her I’m sure. But you’re probably right. We should visit at least once a month, maybe even swap off.”
“And take the kids.”
Sam said, “Monica isn’t comfortable around him. You know how she voted. Grandpa is loud about it, even online. She feels he’s angry enough to be scary.”
“I hate being critical of your wife, Sam, but she needs to remember she joined this family. We visit hers, she needs to return it.”
“It’s not that easy.”
It probably wasn’t. Sam had never been the strong one. He read a lot of books, sat in the corner, and even now, he sat in an office writing corporate reports. Andy actually traveled and looked at the sites he was insuring, ladders, hoists, the works.
He hated to think his little brother was a wuss, but in many ways, he was.
* * *
The screen showed a dozen people, naked and vacant-eyed, suddenly turning angry and charging toward the camera. Then there were rubber bullets, then tasers, and cops wrestling with angry, snarling, biting people.
Reggie wasn’t sure what to make of the video. It could be drugs, like Krokodil or bath salts, but it was a lot of people. It had to be some sort of disease. So he’d need to start quarantine protocols. He’d also need to make sure he had plenty of diesel for the generator.
He pinged his friend Kevin in the State Department, for any info he might have, and Ted, who was a neuroscientist. Both had private emails that didn’t go through official servers.
Ted didn’t reply. Kevin’s response was very short. “It’s real. Global. Duck and cover.”
He stared at the screen for a few moments, then composed a new message.
“My place is available. Ping if you’re inbound.” He addressed it to six people and pressed send.
He felt bad that none of them were family.
He slammed the locks into the doorframes, and he was glad the kids had never seen those. Steel doors with internal crossbars were proof against a lot of things, and they were Kevlar lined with light ceramic backing.
The windows, though, on the ground floor especially, were going to be tough. He had the sandbags. He needed to fill them. There were a lot of them, and the fill pile was at the bottom of the yard, nicknamed “goat mountain.”
The video from the cities got worse over the summer. There were rampaging mobs of naked, insane people, and someone used the “Z” word. Zombies. Whatever it was was communicable and nasty. He was going to have to secure things as best he could.
The food, more than the guns, would be useful now. He had a well out back, and there was a seep from the cornfield that he could filter. It might contain a few fertilizers he couldn’t neutralize, but that was less important than not going near anyone communicable.
He took to ordering all his food online, and having it delivered to the garage. It was all packaged, and he ran them under the UV light, spritzed them with bleach, then rinsed them off with the hose. Then he put on his paint respirator and used tongs and gloves to shelve stuff. After several days, he dated each item with a Sharpie, then placed them into regular storage. They’d still need to be rinsed again, though. He’d need to be rinsed, actually, and it was hot enough a shower was a pleasure.
At his computer, he ordered a lot more bleach, soap and respirator filters.
He also realized that he might have to triage his own grandkids, if there was a risk they were contaminated.
As he was thinking that, he heard a car out front. He stretched to look out the window. It was Andy, pulling into the driveway, still doing about thirty. His wife was with him.
He sprinted and strained up the stairs to the door, before they were out of the car.
Andy called, “Grandpa! I called in sick at work. Do you have room?”
“For what?”
“Have you seen the news?”
Yup. That was it. “Yes. Why did you come here?”
Andy spread his hands and said, “Because you have all that food and gear.”
Oh, he was going to make them sweat.
“I see. So now that you actually need help, you want me to take care of you. After you already told me I didn’t know what I was doing and made me get rid of most of it.”
Andy looked ashamed and embarrassed. “Dammit, I’m sorry, Grandpa. We couldn’t know.”
“And what are you bringing?”
“Uh?”
“What do you have that’s useful? Skills? Food? Ammo?”
“Uh…”
“Did you even bring your shotgun?”
“No.”
Reggie gave the young man The Look. It was the look all old timers kept on hand for these occasions. Tommy Lee Jones did it perfectly. Reggie had practiced while watching him.
“Grandpa…please.”
He tilted his head. “Go out back. I’ll send out a tent, and it even has a heater. Park it down the street and walk back slowly so you don’t scare people.”
“Tent?”
“Quarantine, for a week. Then you can come in.”
Andy gaped. “Are you serious?”
Reggie was serious, and had to make them believe it. Besides, he owed payback on Andy helping Sammy cut back his preps.
With The Look, he said, “Don’t make me shoot you. Park, then ’round back.”
The man did so.
So, was Sammy going to come running up with his brats? Reggie had been gentle with John; John had been downright wimpy with Andy and Sammy. And once it got to Sammy’s boys…
Andy parked, but he walked back awful briskly. It was obvious he was tense. Reggie noticed he didn’t bring anything from the car. Not even sunglasses.
Meanwhile he called his neighbor Wendell.
“Hello?”
“Hey, old man, seen the news?”
“Only a bit. Some drug gang or something?”
“That’s what I thought, but it’s worse. Quarantine is in effect.”
“Crap. You’re serious?”
“Yeah, my friends in State and elsewhere say it’s depopulating large chunks of Africa and Asia already.”
“I ain’t got more than a couple of weeks of groceries.”
“I still have you covered.”
“Thanks.”
“Any time, brother. But when did you last go out?”
“Two days ago.”
“So you stay there five days, and don’t answer the door or get close to anyone. Then you come here on Saturday.”
“Will do.”
Wendell had far less preps, but the man had skills. He’d volunteered for a second tour before Reggie was drafted, and had real decorations from it. He still knew how to shoot, too.
Andy squealed and sprinted as he reached the driveway.
“I saw one!” he said.
Reggie looked up the street. Yeah, that was a naked old man, soggy and flabby, who seemed aware enough to track Andy and follow him.
Reggie reached inside the door, grabbed the rifle he had there, and took two shots. The second one dropped the man.
“It’s started,” he said.
There were eyes at curtains and windows around the neighborhood, and he saw Davis across the street in his front porch, holding a rifle. Davis had been Navy during the Cold War, but he knew how to shoot.
Andy set up the tent with difficulty, but managed. They had an airbed, blankets, an electric heater for night, extension cord for laptop, and his wireless. He put food outside the French window every meal, and they took it. He handed out a box of bleach wipes, and they dug a slit behind the hedges. Reggie wished he’d stocked lime. If they were contaminated…
* * *
Sammy arrived the next day, with Monica and kids. He pulled into the driveway and parked, fussed around, then got out.
“Move it down the street,” Reggie said.
“That’s not safe.”
“It’s in the way there.”
“Why? You’re in the garage.”
He sighed.
“Anyone getting close can hide behind it. It needs to be moved away from the house.”
“But the—”
Reggie sighed because he already was responding to what the boy was starting to say.
“Leave the others here, and move it.”
Monica tried to run for the house.
He pointed his M4 at her.
She just stared, then started screaming at him.
“I knew you were an all-out right-wing gun nut! You—”
“Shut it, woman.”
She gawped and stared.
“Now listen closely, because your life depends on it. I’ve got a second tent. You will take it to the bottom of the back, a hundred yards from Andy. You will camp there for a week. You will not touch, get close, or even move near Andy and his wife, or they have to wait as long as you do. I’ll put food out. You’ll have heat and Internet. Or, I lock this door right now, and shoot you if you try to go near them. Whatever this disease is, it’s a killer, and I’m not taking chances. Otherwise, I wish you luck, you can have a shotgun, a box of shells and a crate of MREs, and you go elsewhere.”
Sammy didn’t argue. They stared each other down for several minutes, in silence, and the boy said, “Okay.” He turned and let the kids out of the car, spoke carefully, and pointed around back.
Reggie said, “I’ll do dinner in an hour.”
“Ya got macaroni n cheese?” Jaden asked. He was five. He looked scared because the adults were arguing.
“Sure do.” He looked at Monica. “I can make that for them? And just soup and sandwiches for the rest of you.”
Sammy barely parked past the property line, and sprinted across the yard. Reggie sighed. It would have to do.
Up the street were several more wandering naked bodies. They went to the first house and started breaking in the front windows. The widow Mrs. Lee’s house.
To Sammy, he said, “I took you shooting when you were young. Did you ever stay with it?”
“Uh, no.”
Reggie stood another rifle outside the door.
“Then you learn again now, and fast. Keep that in your tent. Wait until I’m inside to pick it up.”
He looked back to Mrs. Lee’s house, where the three might-as-well-be-zombies were still breaking in the glass. He raised the rifle, aimed carefully, and squeezed off a shot. He hit, but not solidly. Again. Torso, and the man started to slump. The second one took three bullets.
Because he couldn’t leave Mrs. Lee like that, he dropped the last of the three, but knew he couldn’t waste ammo like that again. The distance wasn’t impossible, but moving targets made things a lot tougher, and he didn’t have enough ammo.
He pointed at the rifle for Sammy, then went inside and latched the door bolts.
He didn’t have her number in his phone. He called Wendell.
“Wendell, can we get Mrs. Lee?”
Wendell said, “I dunno. Maybe Davis can help. Anyone else coming?”
“Yeah, my friends, but I don’t know when. I’ll check.”
“Okay. I’ll tell Davis to check on her. Anything else?”
He thought for a moment and replied, “Yeah, if they can move out to the country, they should. Much as I’d like to form a neighborhood watch, people want to vote on things, then they vote for what they want, not what they need. Imagine that in ’Nam.”
“No thanks. I’ll tell them. I’m not sure they’ll do it.”
“No, but we have to try.”
* * *
During the days, he fastened barricades inside the windows, and bars outside, drilling into the masonry. He ducked inside when the mailman came past, and waved off some salesman or other. They got lots of them around here.
Wendell came over after six days. On day seven Reggie let Andy and Lisa in. He was going to make Sammy’s family wait an extra day plus, just to make sure. He thought the car had moved slightly and the boy had made a late night burger run or something. He couldn’t entirely blame him. The five-year-old and three-year-old were bored and angry.
Every major city was now reporting outbreaks. Once the infection took, people got violent and vicious within a few hours.
Things started falling apart.
Lots of people were trying to quarantine, few had enough supplies.
Andy and Lisa came in, and he pointed to the bathrooms.
“You should shower. We have hot water for now. The food won’t hold out for long with all of us here,” he said. “It would have, but…and you know what I’m going to say, right?”
* * *
Andy felt a burn and said, “You told us so. But how the fuck could we predict zombies?”
“Zombies, commies, Nazis, angry native tribes, aliens, mutant bikers, something, sometime, will require the use of guns and food. Remember that, you little shit.” He wanted to smack the boy.
“Yes, Grandpa. I’m sorry.”
Grandpa turned and said, “Wendell, I think it’s time we started stacking stuff.”
Wendell said “Roger that,” as he walked into the room.
Andy blurted out, “You’re black.”
“And?” the man replied. He was about Grandpa’s age, carrying that civilian variant of the M14 with a scope on top. He looked pretty damned fit and lean for someone near seventy.
“Nothing.” He had no idea why that had come out. Inadvertent racism? This was a bad time to even discuss that.
Wendell jogged upstairs and went into the garage.
Grandpa said, “I have friends coming. They’re bringing more stuff. Then we’re going to see about moving farther out, where there’s less people and more food.”
“Farming?”
“Maybe. Farming takes fuel and effort. Depends on how many people die. If it’s enough, we just hunt and plant a truck garden.”
That was a frightening thought.
From upstairs, Wendell shouted, “And we have another bunch, up the street.”
“Okay, after this, we get out the backup supply. Andy, Sammy, grab the rifles.” Grandpa snapped his fingers and pointed. Andy did so. Sam hesitated, but he did as well.
“Outside, on the porch.”
Andy asked, “Shouldn’t we fight from in here?”
Wendell said, “No, we fight where we can see and maneuver, and lock up later. Those gooks aren’t even visible from the house.”
It was scary to be outside, but Grandpa made sense, and there were four of them with rifles.
He stood on the porch, which now had a couple of planters and some sandbags around it. The old men had been busy. Up the street was a nightmare.
Four filthy, naked, raging men were beating on a car, trying to break into it, and the passengers inside.
They were people, and they were sick, but they’d kill him if they could. He lined up sights and shot, and missed. Sammy went through five shots before he hit one, a creepy-looking guy with a beer belly, who drooled. The shot was into the leg and tore a hole that just seemed to make him madder.
Behind him, Grandpa said, “It’s always tough the first time you shoot a man, but you need to get over it fast, because we’re not getting any resupply.”
“Sorry,” he said. He took two more shots to hit one, who clutched and screamed and thrashed around on the ground before stopping. Dying.
He shot at another shambling body. There were a lot of fat people around here, it seemed.
Then Grandpa and Wendell started shooting, and that hurt his ears.
As he winced and cringed, Grandpa said, “Yeah, hurts, doesn’t it? You little fuckers made me sell the two cans for the rifles. I guess you get to deal with the noise. It’s not like my ears matter anymore.”
The rifles cracked, and bodies fell.
Come on, he thought. What were the odds?
He shot. Another went down. Then he froze, because the next was a pretty young girl, under the stains of blood, dirt and waste. But he couldn’t do anything to save her, and she was trying to kill the people in the car, who seemed to be young girls, too.
Behind him, Grandpa said, “Better reload and save the partial mag.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He swapped out for a full clip, fumbling with it.
Honking sounded down the street, and a black Toyota Land Cruiser with bars and racks raced through the moving obstacles. It stopped on the pavement, the doors flew open, and two thirtyish men rolled out, followed by a red-headed woman. They had black web gear, pouches, handguns, and were holding AR carbines. The woman wore stockings and a miniskirt with combat boots under a tailored web vest. It would have been hot under other circumstances. That, and when she got closer, she appeared to be a well-kept fifty.
“Reggie, sorry we’re late!”
“Glad you could make it.”
The two men charged up the steps onto the porch, pivoted, and took positions at each corner. The woman dragged a bag behind her. Once she was up, the men took turns grabbing more gear.
“Where’s the heavy stuff?” one asked. “Yes, we’ve been in Q all week.”
Grandpa said, “Yeah, there was a personal issue that got in the way. This is it until I can fix things.” He fixed Andy with another gaze. The old man wasn’t going to let him forget it.
“Crap. Well, there’s a shit ton of zeds moving this way. We left ahead of them, so you’ve got a while, but they’re probably closing.”
“I was afraid of that. But it’s looking light for now.”
There were perhaps a dozen wandering bodies, though one suddenly started jogging and sloshing toward them.
One of the newcomers put a bullet right through the figure’s head.
“Nice shot, Trebor.”
“Thanks. Is it okay to be excited?” The man smiled faintly. He had a very high-end looking AR15, and an Uzi slung behind his gear. It had Israeli markings.
“Sure. Trebor, Kyle, Kristan, this is my grandson Andy, and that’s Sammy. You know Wendell.”
“Hey, Andy, Sammy.” “Hi.” “Sup.”
“Boys, these gentlemen and lady are card-carrying members of Zombie Squad.”
Kyle pointed to the ID badge on his web gear. “We are America’s elite ambulatory cadaver suppression task force.” He faced back around with his rifle, a perfectly respectable bolt action with muzzle brake and folding bipod.
Andy said, “You’re kidding, right?”
Trebor said, “We were kidding. It was all metaphor for disaster prep and fundraising. But here we are.”
“Yeah.” He kept twitching over that. Zombies. Guns. But Grandpa really had been overdoing it. Except…
Grandpa said, “Wendell, you got it?”
“I do, Reg.”
“Good. Boys, Wendell’s in charge. He’ll tell you when to shoot, what to shoot at, and where to place yourselves. Got it?”
“Uh, yes.”
“Uh huh.”
“Kristan, Andy,” he said, with a jerk of his thumb. “Come with me.”
Andy followed Grandpa inside the house, and felt a ripple as the old man locked the door and twisted a second lever. Something clanked like a vault.
“Just in case,” he said. “We are going to come back.”
Kristan was smoking a cigarette. Grandpa didn’t like smoking, but he didn’t say anything so Andy didn’t. Monica, in the kitchen, looked like she was going to, but stopped. The kids were watching TV and looked very agitated. Lisa was upstairs cleaning. He couldn’t see her.
They went down the stairs and into the office in the front. Those windows were exposed at ground level outside, even if they were high up here. They had bars now, but…
“Once we get upstairs, there’s sandbags out back. But for now, I’ve got plywood. The back windows have to be done.”
Grandpa pulled the closest door, reached in, and grabbed a tool chest. He dragged that out, popped the top and fumbled with both hands.
“Screw gun,” he said, handing it over. He grabbed three pre-cut sheets of three quarter inch marine grade plywood.
“Now we do the back windows and the garage. You know what to do?”
The boards had holes for the screws, which were more like small bolts.
Andy said, “I see. Smart.” Damn, the crazy old man really had thought everything through.
“First, help with this stuff.”
He started grabbing boxes while Grandpa unpacked the closet. He handed stuff to Kristan, Kristan carried everything through.
Clothing came out, some of it old fashions. Winter clothing came out. Boxes came out. Another tool chest.
“C’mere,” the old man said with a wave.
He stepped closer to the closet.
Outside, there were bangs of gunfire, some of them very loud. That must be Wendell’s rifle.
Grandpa said, “Christ, we need to hurry.”
But he continued moving methodically.
One side of the closet had an inset door. With the shelves and clothes out, that opened. The closet continued under the stairs.
There were more boxes, some of them ammo crates.
“Oh, good.” Andy sighed in relief.
“Yeah, it would be, if it wasn’t two hundred and sixty troy ounces of silver each. Ammo crates are the only thing strong enough.”
Jesus. What did the old man have stuffed down here? He’d unloaded an easy hundred grand in weapons, and still had bullion?
He took the crate and lugged it through to the rear room.
When he came back, Grandpa was down like a ferret, pulling more stuff. He took that, too, and came back.
What the hell is under here? he wondered as the closet kept going.
There was a hole.
So, into the office, into the closet under the stairs, to the left and under the landing, then a short door to the left. He shimmied into it behind the old man.
We’re under the porch, he thought. Gunfire directly above, muffled through the slab, proved it. It was a concrete block vault with LED lighting and a dehumidifier, under the porch.
More guns. Under here, where no one would ever have seen, Grandpa had more guns.
“I never told you goddamn punks how much I really had,” the old man said. “You’d have shit yourselves. There are two spreadsheets.”
There was another entire rack of AR15s. Next to that, some old military rifles in red lacquered wood stocks. A rack of those. There was a shelf of Glock pistols. There were crates of ammo. Four sets of body armor and helmet hung on a rail.
“Well, grab stuff and start passing it out.”
In short order, Grandpa, the two brothers and Lisa were in armor, though they all felt very uncomfortable. It was like wearing a fridge. Wendell and the zombie hunters were already armored up.
He was really glad of that, because there were a lot of running bodies out there now.
Back out on the porch, there was a low wall of sandbags. In between surges, the men stacked more while Kristan and Sam kept eyes out. She really was in good shape, and a pretty damned good shot.
“More!” she called, leaned across the railing, and shot.
Kyle leapt back up, squinted through his scope and fired. Wendell stood alongside and fired, his rounds ejecting and tinging off the house.
The defense was layered. They had big bore rifles, smaller rifles and carbines, and if it got close enough, Trebor’s Uzi and the shotgun leaned against the doorframe.
Andy hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
This was nothing like the movies, either. With all the firing he’d done, he thought he’d hit three. Moving targets weren’t easy, he didn’t like shooting at people, and they didn’t want to let them get close.
Not at all. Several of them bashed through the bay window of a house down the street, then poured into it, scrambling over the frame and each other.
* * *
Reggie watched them swarm into the Erdmans’ house, and knew there was nothing he could do. If he had some kind of artillery, or could set it on fire, he would. But the poor couple and their baby were either dead, or soon to be worse than dead.
A dozen more followed the first gaggle, and he started shooting into the mass. He winged one, caught a leg, blew chunks of flesh from another, and put one down with two torso hits. They ran on even when shot, like a combination of PCP user and meth head.
That just stirred up several others, who rumbled their way, limbs and skin flapping.
“I count twenty,” Kristan said, sounding remarkably calm.
Trebor said, “I’m getting low here.”
Andy stuttered, “Oh, y-yeah. Last clip.”
“We need more mags!” he shouted and banged on the door.
The mail slot, that hadn’t been used in years, opened, and a single mag slid out. It bounced off the ground and a round popped loose.
“Open the goddamn door!” he shouted to Monica.
There was a loud clack of the bolts latching.
Oh, shit.
He sprinted off the porch, around the garage, and went in the back. The plan for that was a two by four into metal slots, and she hadn’t got to that yet.
But she had locked the door to the garage. He had his keys, quietly unlatched the knob first, turned it with one hand, then unlocked the deadbolt fast and threw his shoulder into it.
She was standing at the bottom of the stairs shrieking, screaming and flapping her arms.
He slapped her hard enough to stagger her off the wall.
“You are an adult woman, get a hold of yourself and act like one.”
She stared at him in complete shock.
“Domestic violence!” she whimpered.
“There is no domestic relationship between us and never will be. Now, you can either do as you are told, or I will throw you the fuck outside with the zombies. And Sammy? That goes for you, too. I realize being a man is alien to you, but you need to learn right now. Your sons need the example.”
He turned, took the stairs in three steps, panting in exertion. Dammit, he was old. He unlocked the door and stepped back out. He left the front door open, jammed a bolt into the lockplate, and got ready to shoot. Things had quieted down again.
Over his shoulder he said, “Fill the goddamn mags.”
Yeah, it was ugly out here. There had to be a finite number of them, but they could get very numerous very quickly before that slowed down. There were near a million people in the city, most of them either unaware or useless.
Sammy joined them, hiding just inside the door. It wasn’t as if they wouldn’t have warning, but his grandson was a pussy.
Andy, at least, was shooting like a man who was protecting his family. Maybe Sammy would come around.
“How do I use the clip loader thingy?”
The boy didn’t know the difference between a charger clip and a magazine.
Reggie reached over and showed him. “This is a clip.” He held up the ten round stripper. “This is a loading spoon. This is a magazine. Clip goes here, and press.” He showed, and ten rounds slid into the magazine. He pulled the clip loose, dropped it and grabbed another.
“Work on that stack.”
“Hey, these clips jam at five rounds.”
He glanced over, and saw Sammy trying to press the rounds down.
Shit, those mags.
“Crap! Bring ’em back in!”
He ran for the garage. Bench, where was the drill index? There. Eighth inch. Downstairs, swap driver bit for twist drill.
“See this rivet? It blocks them at five rounds. Drill that out on each. Bring ’em up.”
“What happened?”
“Got ’em cheap out of New York. All you have to do to make them work is drill out a stud. Worthless gun control law, but now we’re stuck with goddamn zombies because of some…never mind, just drill.”
He’d erased chunks of the spreadsheet as they went through his collection. He had a backup copy in the vault, under a false name, but he’d completely forgotten about these. They’d been bought online through a gift card, and delivered to a friend in Ohio who’d reshipped them as “used tools.”
Drilling each rivet took about ten seconds. Stuffing in ten rounds took another five, and those mags went right up to Wendell and crew. Once there was a small stack, they could start putting two clips in each magazine, then three.
He looked around.
They had the windows reinforced, and wire set. The boys had completely missed the loops of concertina he’d stowed in the garage rafters during their intervention. Sandbags, plywood, those he’d called “Storm supplies.”
He’d never understand the mindset that being prepared was somehow immoral or dangerous. He hoped, going forward, to not have to do that again.
He stood on the landing where he could give instructions up, down, and out.
“Okay, tomorrow we toughen things up. More wire and traps, barricades around the property. We have to worry about people who didn’t prep who’ll be hungry.”
“We’re not turning away starving people,” Monica said.
He gave her The Look.
“We don’t have enough for everyone. We’ll be charitable, within reason, and these are my supplies. You’re welcome to leave if you don’t agree.”
She wrung her hands and went back to the kitchen.
He figured she’d come around. She wasn’t stupid, she was compassionate, she’d just had a very easy life. She was learning.
“Okay, we’re secure enough unless they start using prybars, which might happen. We have bars and plywood on all the lower windows, nothing they can climb on, and not much they can hide behind. It’s heading toward dark. We need to move inside and bed down. Wendell, can you take the office?”
“Sure.”
“Z Squad, how are you splitting?”
Kristan said, “I trust the boys. Will the room with the gun vaults work?”
“Just what I was thinking.”
Trebor said, “Yeah, I don’t think my wife is gonna make it. I hope so, but she was on business on the West Coast.”
“Sorry, man. Good luck.”
“Thanks. We can hope.”
“Yeah. Kyle, you’re a bachelor, right?”
“Since two years ago, yes.”
“Then we all bunker down for now. We’ll take turns on watch and be ready to respond. Keep a loaded gun with you. Sammy, your boys need to learn the Four Rules of Firearm Safety right now. Bring ’em over.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, and Sam?”
“Yes, Grandpa?”
“Go make us some coffee. It could be a long night.”
He figured the boy was at least good for that.
He looked over their new, small stronghold and started thinking about long-term supplies. Water wasn’t a problem, but food and waste would be. They’d need to get on those fast.
Once there was an opportunity, they needed to move out to Russell’s farm. He’d take Andy and Wendell. The ZS people were in, he was sure. As for the others, he’d have to make sure they were up for the task. Regardless of anything, they were family. He couldn’t leave them. He figured they needed to leave in about a week.
He was going to miss this place. He’d had it set up just how he liked, and Russell’s place was a converted corn crib. They’d be tight in there. It was a lot more secluded and defensible, though, and this might go on for a long time.
* * *
Andy sat behind his rifle, twitchy and nervous. They were going to need to have someone on watch around the clock. He hoped he wasn’t going to get the middle of the night alone in the dark with animal noises shift.
Grandpa said, “We’re going to take turns packing stuff, and it’ll be a lot of food and ammo. As soon as this wave of idiots dies down, we’ll move out to the country where we can hold them off better.”
He said, “I guess that means I’m quitting my job.”
Grandpa looked very serious and calm as he said, “If they’re going to miss you, yes. Unless you want to hang around in a large city waiting to get infected. The outbreaks are getting bigger, and I expect they’re going to get worse. When this current panic is over, I’m going to have to restock. Delivery is going to be a pain. You’re paying for any shortages in the market. I expect prices are going to be high.”
“Yes. Yes, sir.” He flushed again. Really, the whole idea was ridiculous, but it had happened. They were still alive because Grandpa was a devious son of a bitch.
“So you need to close any accounts you’ve got, cash in stocks while you can, and figure on taking the tax penalty on your IRAs, if there’s even an IRS to worry about them by year’s end. But right now, lay those last ten sandbags. Then you can have an MRE. Do a good job and I won’t make you eat the Tuna with Noodles.”
Grandpa was still a crazy old coot.
He was very glad of that.