Compass Call: Survival & Awakening (The Gatekeeper Book 3) (10 page)

John put his foot on the rolled up ball of plastic and pressed it down. He looked at Jenna and said, “I love you, Jenna. I couldn’t ask for a better wife, partner, and friend.” He looked to the kitchen and turned back at Jenna. The sound of running water filling the clothes washer provided a good sound blanket, so John grabbed Jenna’s hand and led her into the mudroom.

They sat on the bench, close together, and John cleared his throat, but Jenna was the first to speak, “I know you want to leave. I heard Pete and Bonnie talking about it this morning when you were with the boys.” John lowered his head and Jenna added, “They didn’t know I could hear them whispering, but I did, so please don’t get mad at them for saying anything.”

John nodded and looked away. He studied the picture hanging on the opposite wall and wondered where the day had gone when such a piece of art was actually important to them. “I’m sorry you had to hear it from them first,” said John. “I wanted to talk to you about it, but I was afraid you’d be upset with the idea . . . I was afraid you wouldn’t want to leave with me.”

“I’m not happy about leaving, but I know you love the house too, and that you wouldn’t leave if it wasn’t absolutely necessary,” replied Jenna. She lifted her feet up and onto the bench, and then pulled her knees to her chest. She leaned on John’s shoulder and said, “Besides, I trust you and we’re a family. We’re sticking together.”

“You’re really amazing, you know that? I thought this would be a lot harder for you,” said John.

“It’s not easy, but after what you did to my laundry room walls, and the entryway floor, I figure it’s time to look for a new house.”

John chuckled and turned to kiss her forehead. “I love you, Jenna. And thank God for bringing us together.” They sat together silently, enjoying each other’s closeness, neither willing to interrupt the silent interlude with words, or willing to walk away from a moment of comfortable intimacy.

Eventually, Jenna dropped her feet to the floor and asked, “What do you need me to do to get ready? I know there’s more to leaving than talking about it.”

“You’re right about that. We have a lot to do. I was hoping you’d be willing to head up the food preparation effort. We can only take what we can carry in our three vehicles, but it needs to be broken down so if we lose one or more vehicles we can still survive.”

“But that’s not all, is it?” asked Jenna.

“Not exactly. We need to take an additional step. We need the food to be broken down into small portions . . . small enough that each of us can carry them if we end up walking. Those big five-gallon buckets can’t be carried far,” said John.

“Walking?” asked Jenna, surprised, but without a twitch. She returned her head to his shoulder and said, “Where do you think we’ll end up?”

That was a question he wasn’t prepared to answer, at least not at the moment. He had yet to receive any guidance about his destination, but he didn’t want to sound indecisive or uncertain. John knew he had to give her something to go on, so he said, “We’re heading north . . . towards Colorado.”

“Why north? Why Colorado?” asked Jenna. “I thought we’d go further away from the eruption, and not closer to it.”

“I think we’ll be surprised at what we find up north. Everyone is thinking like you right now. South is not the direction to go, not unless you want to end up in a government controlled refugee camp. I’m also not interested in competing for resources with millions of other displaced persons. I’d rather stay here and take our chances than go south.” He squeezed her hand and added, “A lot of people went south when the ash started to fall, but now that the storm washed some of it away, I’m sure they’ll start coming back. If we move now, or as soon as possible, I think we can stay ahead of the refugee front. All I do know is that leaving is the right thing to do . . . and that if we stay here . . . it will be the end of us.” John turned and looked into Jenna’s eyes. “It’s funny, really,” he said.

“What’s funny?”

“I never thought our preparations would make us more vulnerable.”

“Our preparations didn’t make us more vulnerable,” said Jenna, “we’re still better off than most people. Besides, nobody knows what we have other than a pool of water. And we’re certainly not defenseless.”

“True, but something’s coming that will justify our departure. I don’t know what it is, but leaving is the only way we can survive,” said John.

“I’m convinced if you’re convinced. I’ll rally the ladies and we’ll get to work on the food, but I’ll need some stuff from the shelter, like a bucket or two of beans, rice, wheat, and such. Do you have anything planned for today?” asked Jenna.

“My first order of business is to reinforce the alcove with sandbags, but I’m going to give that mission to the boys,” said John. “Oh, and the neighborhood meeting at 15:30. Do you want to go with me?”

“I don’t think so. Nothing good will come of that meeting. I don’t know how I know that, I just do,” said Jenna.

“I feel the same way, but I have to go. I need to know what they’re up to. I’ll bring in the food as soon as we’re done here, and get the boys started on the alcove. I . . .” John wanted to tell her that he visited her spiritually but he felt restrained and said nothing. Despite the fact that they were sharing an intimate moment together, discussing spiritual matters seemed inappropriate or ill-timed. He vowed to make more time to talk with Jenna when they retired for the night, but for now he simply said, “I love you more than you know.”

“I love you more than you know, too,” replied Jenna with a smile.

John found Pete organizing his supplies in the garage, and asked if he was willing to oversee the building of the alcove bunker with the boys. Pete eagerly agreed, seeming happy to have a project that would keep him busy, and left to find scratch paper and a pencil so he could draft up his construction plans. John acknowledged Paul as he stepped into the garage.

“Hey, John. Can I have my shotgun now?” asked Paul, as he stuffed his hands into his pockets. John could tell he was uncomfortable with the request, but it was his shotgun, and he was a capable adult.

“Sure. That’s why I came out here.” John opened the gun safe and heard Paul’s unmistakable intake of breath when he saw John’s collection of weapons.

“That’s some collection you have,” said Paul.

“It’s a hobby, of sorts,” said John. “I compete in pistol and three-gun shooting events, but I do like guns,” he added.

“I can see that. Wow, what’s that?” asked Paul, pointing to a sword sheathed in a black Kydex case.

“It’s something I bought a few years ago,” answered John. “It’s a functional sword. I like combat knives and swords too.”

“Can I see it?” asked Paul. John nodded and handed the sheathed sword to Paul. Paul removed the dark metal blade from the sheath. The acid-washed finish of the blade gleamed under a thin coat of oil. He appraised the weapon closely, inspecting the leather-wrapped handle, and feeling the weight in his hand. “This is no cheap knock-off sword . . . it’s the real-deal. It’s got a nice edge to it as well. Where’d you get it?”

“I ordered it from a company called Zombie Tools. The blade is called the Hellion. It’s made of 5160 spring steel. Do you like the acid-washed finish?”

“I do, it’s wicked,” replied Paul, in total awe of the blade. He completely ignored the shotgun John was holding out to him.

John lowered the shotgun, to give Paul more time with the sword, and said, “They offer . . . well, offered, several different designs and styles, but I liked this one as my first,” said John.

“First?”

“Yeah. I was going to buy another, a bigger model, like the ‘Diphos,’ but I never got around to it. I actually liked several of their blades though,” said John.

“I didn’t take you as a sword guy,” replied Paul, as he stepped back and rolled his wrist with the sword in hand. “What’s it weigh, about two pounds?”

“Something like that,” answered John.

“The blade length has got to be close to two feet.”

“Twenty-six inches overall,” replied John, as he walked over and placed the shotgun on the work table.

Paul glanced around to verify his clearance, and proceeded to swing the sword in slow, easy arcs. Satisfied with the feel of the weapon in his hands, he repeated the moves, but this time with more power and grace. Paul stepped and turned as he thrust and chopped with the heavy blade, as if attacking invisible opponents. The sword looked light in Paul’s hands, and the sound of it slicing the air raised a chill on John’s neck.

“I’ve always liked the Kopis or Falcata design,” said Paul. “The down-turned tip and bellied cutting edge produces an awesome transfer of energy. And it’s very fast.”

“I can see you’re familiar with swords,” said John.

“Only if you consider reenacting experience. When I was in college I joined a group called the Society for Creative Anachronisms, or SCA. They dress up in period costumes and all, but it was the sword fighting I loved.”

“You fought each other with real swords?” asked John, surprised.

“What? No, we fought with rattan swords. A few of us took real steel classes, but we always sparred and competed with rattan. But let me tell you, you could dent a steel helmet with rattan.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“It was fun. And not to boast or anything, but I was pretty good. I usually always placed in tournaments, beating guys much more experienced than me,” said Paul.

“I admit, you do look experienced.”

With that, Paul transitioned the sword to a back handed grip and displayed another impressive set of moves. His body posture was balanced and optimal for attack or defense in any direction. John saw that Paul was indeed proficient with the long blade, and that gave him an idea.

Paul paused and said, “My rattan sword was of a saber-like design. It was about three feet long with a designated cutting edge on one side.
It was really good at transferring energy. In this one fight, I sheared off three inches of the corner of some guy’s three-quarter inch plywood shield. He was not happy. That’s an impressive feat with a rattan sword by the way,” added Paul.

“How’s that if it’s only plywood,” said John.

“Oh no, those shields are much more than just plywood. This guy cut in after the French style called a ‘heater’, then he wrapped the edges with a slit garden hose, and laced it to the shield with heavy copper wire. After painting it with several layers of color and varnish, and adding an elaborate crest, as well as hand and arm grips, building such a shield represented weeks of hard work. I ruined his shield in less than a minute.”

“I see your point,” said John.

“Some of those SCA guys take their medieval play-acting very seriously,” said Paul. “My shield was a bit larger, but it was cruder. Designed only to protect me, not look pretty. I was known as a medieval nonconformists, in that I didn’t really like using traditional heraldry.”

“Huh?”

“You know, thee and thou, me thinks, and that kind of talk,” said Paul.

“You know what,” said John, “why don’t you take the sword. You obviously know how to use it, and I’m not planning on carrying it around with me, so consider it yours.”

“What? I couldn’t do that. I bet it cost you a bundle,” said Paul, as he studied the blade with new eyes.

“A little under four-hundred bucks,” said John, “but if you won’t accept it as a gift . . . then you can certainly borrow it if that makes you feel better.”

“Wow. Really?” Paul looked at John and then back at the blade. “Thanks, John. I promise to take good care of it.”

“As for your shotgun, you’ll need a sling for it. And you’ll have to keep it with you at all times, especially around the kids,” said John, as he handed the shotgun to Paul.

Paul sheathed the sword and slipped it under his arm. He accepted the shotgun and said, “I was thinking about cutting off the barrel right here . . . down to the ammo tube,” said Paul.

“You can if you want, but I wouldn’t recommend it. It’s already a short barrel, and the difference in spread wouldn’t be an advantage to you tactically. You’re better off leaving it unaltered,” said John.

“OK. Do you have a sling I can borrow?”

“I do,” said John, as he walked over to close and lock the gun safe. He then walked over to a large black storage box and unlocked it. John produced three slings, and Paul selected the bandolier style. He told John he liked the bandolier sling because he wouldn’t have to carry ammunition around in his pockets. John almost replied that it was his least favorite sling for that reason alone, because when it was loaded with shells it became heavy and unbalanced, but he didn’t want to dampen Paul’s spirit. His tactical likes and dislikes were personal, and they didn’t apply to Paul. It wasn’t that big a deal anyway. If anything, it would probably be the least dangerous decision Paul would make regarding the shotgun.

From a different storage box, John produced a twenty-round box of number-four shot, and two five-round boxes of double-ought loads. John handed the boxes to Paul while saying, “These are two different shot loads. The double-ought are man-killers . . . very effective up to mid-range, but they require more control and discipline. The big box is filled with number-four shot loads. The pellets in the number fours are about the size of standard BB’s, so they’re very lethal up close. I recommend using those for now,” finished John.