Seven Days To Brooklyn: A Sara Robinson Adventure (21 page)

“How are you feeling?” Mac says as he holds her up.
 

“Not good. I’m dizzy,” Aren replies, having slipped in and out of consciousness throughout most of the escape.
 

“Sara will get you some clothes; then we will look for something to eat. You’ll feel a lot better after you eat.”
 

Walking back with a pair of jeans and a labeled T-shirt, Sara helps Aren slip into the clothing.
 

“Turn around.” Sara motions to Mac to turn his back while she disrobes Aren. Sara helps her put one leg then the other into the jeans. Slipping on the T-shirt, the label with the large embroidered letters falls across her chest. Aren reaches up and traces the letters with her right hand.
 

“A, F. What is AF?”
 

“Just a clothing brand that was real popular before . . .”
 

“Before what?”
 

“Before the end of the world. I can see you have a lot of catching up to do. Let’s worry about finding you some shoes; then we can fill you in on the last century or so . . .” Sara finishes helping her friend dress, searching the shop for a pair of shoes coming up empty handed. “Mac, can you find some size six shoes for Aren? We’ll wait here so she can rest.”
 

“No problem, you ladies wait here, and I’ll be right back. There has to be a shoe store in here somewhere.”

Searching the darkened casino mall, Mac scans the rows of stores, noticing a fine ladies shoe store a few spots down on his left. The interior of the casino shops and restaurants lie out in front of him as he strolls over to the rail overlooking the first floor. Mac finds the store in relatively great shape, in less disarray than the clothing store. Looking at all the rows of shoes and boots, he settles on a pair of leather dress boots that comes up just below the knee. Mac returns to the girls and helps Sara get Aren fitted into the boots, maybe the first shoes she has ever worn.
 

“Oh, these are great. I like them!” Aren walks around the store feeling the new boots.

“Great, now we can get something to eat,” Sara pipes up as she walks over to Aren and lends her a shoulder to lean on while they walk over to the escalators to go downstairs. Aren looks at the escalator in bewilderment but quickly figures out that it is just a shiny staircase. Walking down the non-moving escalator, Sara, Mac, and Aren work their way further into the casino restaurant area looking for some food. Around the shops, they stroll further until they finally settle on
 
the steakhouse.

 
“You ladies take a booth; I’ll go to the kitchen and see if there is anything left.”
 

“Cool, I’ll take a T-bone, and my new friend Aren, a hamburger.”
 

“No problem, ladies, coming right up.”

Mac leaves the dining room, exiting through a door at the back. Ten minutes later, he comes back out wielding a serving tray with three bowls on it. “Here.”
 

Handing out the bowls, Mac sits down on the opposite side of the booth facing the girls.
 

“What is it?” Aren asks.
 

“It’s food,” Sara tells her as she is already digging into the cold mystery soup. Aren picks up the spoon and slowly brings a spoonful up to her lips.
 

“Tastes like . . . chicken.”
 

“Yeah, found a huge can of chicken noodle soup; sorry it is cold. No electricity and no gas to cook with here.”
 

Mac is equally hungry and finishes off his bowl. Waiting for the ladies to finish, Mac has a deja’ vu’ moment looking into Arens eyes, he notices again that her features are hauntingly similar to Sara’s. Putting the thought out of his mind, he quickly moves on to the next task.
 

“We should get out of here quick. I’m pretty sure the facility will want to get Aren back and get rid of us.”
 

Milling Mac’s statement in her mind a few seconds, Sara stands up pulling Aren out of the booth with her. “We need to get across town and go to The Tactical Gun shop,” she says, helping Aren walk back out to the car. The Porsche sits waiting for its new owners to take it for another spin. Loading Aren into the backseat, Mac takes his turn at driving.
 

“Where is this place?”

 
“It is on Flamingo; Daddy took me there a couple times last year.”
 

“Gun store it is.” Mac throws the car from second to third, rolling out onto the strip.
 

“Make a U-turn at the light. I saw the sign for Flamingo Street on our way in. It’s about two blocks behind us.”
 

Sara is halfway through this statement when Mac spins the car around the island in the middle of the street before bringing the car back on course to Flamingo Street. The street comes up quickly.
 

“Right, turn here.”
 

Rays of the early dawn light glow ever brighter in the eastern sky, casting long shadows from the many high-rise casinos still lining the strip.

Before the downfall of society, Las Vegas, Nevada, was the Mecca of the United States of America. A spot where the wild to mild and ordinary citizens could live in luxury while gambling their life savings away in the casinos, with careless disregard for saving. Afterward, the city collapsed immediately after the economy disappeared. Based solely on tourism dollars, the city had no resources and no commodities to bargain with, except for the multiple pawnshops on the outer fringes of the town that traded the essential items needed to survive.
 

Driving south out of the city to the gun shop, Mac pushes the car up to fifty miles per hour but decides to keep it slow enough to be able to scan the businesses along the road. In the distance, they spot the sign for the firearms store.
 

“Wonder if anything is left?” Mac says as he pulls off the street and into the store parking lot.
 

“Not sure, but it is boarded up tighter than Fort Knox.”
 

 
Mac walks up to the boarded-up entrance of the block building, and peers inside the darkened building through a small hole in the plywood. Pushing on the plywood, he can tell it will not budge.
 

“State your business!” a male voice booms from the roofline above them.
 

Sara steps back to take a look at where the voice is coming from. Seeing an elderly man in his sixties sporting a goatee, she thinks of a reply to secure some weaponry. “We need guns,” Sara yells, trying to keep it as simple and direct as possible.
 

“No cash. Trade only. What do you have?”
 

The old man stares at Mac, then back at the car. Sara decides it is time to part company with the automobile. Better in her mind to be well outfitted and walk than to have a car and no defense.

“The car; it runs, it’s vintage, and it’s yours. What can we get for it?” She strains her neck to look up at the man on the roof.

“Step around the back, metal door; I’ll be right there.”
 

Mac and Sara help Aren get out of the car, and walk around to the back of the building and wait at the door. The sound of a metal bar sliding against the door tells them that the back door is just as fortified as the front. The squeaky door slowly opens, revealing the old man who is now pointing a riot shotgun at them.
 

“Come on inside. See what we can do.”
 

Helping Aren, they step inside as the old man closes the door, swinging the large, metal brace back in place, barricading the door behind them. The inside of the store is dimly lit by a couple of kerosene lamps that allow Mac and Sara a view of the stockpile of ammo, guns, clothing, and knives. The old man takes a look at the three of them, another ragtag group of survivors looking for defensive weapons on their travels through the wasteland.
 

“What’s her problem?” The old man points at Aren, who is now sitting in a chair next to the counter.
 

“Not sure; I think she is sick,” Sara says. The old man studies Aren a few seconds but goes back to servicing his new customers.
 

Walking behind the counter display, the old man holds an arm out to his side, palm up.
 

“What will it be?”
 

Stepping closer to the counter, Sara looks across the rows of 9mm pistols, .45s, and .357s before settling her gaze on the .38 revolver.

 
“I’ll take the Smith and Wesson .38 Special.”
 

“That is a good choice, young lady.” The old man pulls the .38 out of the case, placing it on the glass counter top.
 

“Ammunition, too.”
 

“Of course,” he says, setting three boxes of .38 rounds in front of her.

“Now, what else?”
 

Looking at the wall behind the display case, Sara scans the rows of assault rifles before locking onto her target.
 

“The Barret M98, .338 Lapua, I’ll take that.”
 

“That is a lot of gun for you,” the old man barks out in a gruff voice.
 

“Nah, it’s for my friend Mac.”
 

“Doesn’t matter who it’s for, just saying, lot a gun for a youngster.” The old man pulls out two boxes of ammo and places them next to the assault rifle. The rifle is one of the finest assault rifles for its time, complete with a bipod and 4 x 12 power scope. “Now, what would you like, my friend?”
 

“I don’t know; what do you think, Sara?”
 

Mac looks over at Sara. Before the end of the world, a dentist’s tools were drills and tooth extraction equipment. Now, those things seem less relevant, and he wishes he had been into guns.
 

“Go for the Ithaca Defense 12 gauge; holds eight rounds, simple, folding stock, and lots of knock down power.” Sara is pointing to the shotgun she just described. Walking over to the shotgun rack behind him, the store owner grabs the gun, placing it on the counter in front of him.
 

“I think that is a fair trade, don’t you?” he says while placing four boxes of twelve-gauge shotgun rounds on the display case.
 

“That’ll do it for the guns. But I need a backpack, a knife for me and Mac, and an iPod.”
 

She throws the iPod in for good measure but is sure he doesn’t have it.
 

“Okay, grab you a backpack. Knives are over there.” The old man points to a display case on the other side of the dark store. Walking over to the case following the gruff old man, Sara looks down at the rows and rows of knives.
 

“There,” she says pointing at a double bladed knife in front of her. “I’ll take two of those long spear knives. The ones with the fixed blade.” Sara looks back over her shoulder at Mac, who is fiddling with the shotgun trying to put the bullets in.
 

“Okay, two knives for you, and I’ll throw in a Ka-bar for your friend. He doesn’t have a clue about guns does he?”
 

The old man spits down into a spittoon on the floor as he speaks.
 

“Yeah, he is a bit lacking on the weapon knowledge, but a decent cook.”
 

“Your friend over there. Is she diabetic?” He spits into the spittoon again.

“I don’t know; do you have a blood glucose meter?” Sara is aware of diabetes, having asked her father about it years ago when a friend of hers was insulin dependent. Walking back over to a locker behind the main display case, the old man produces a blood glucose meter, handing it to Mac.
 

“Here, got no need for it now. Was my wife’s; she’s gone now. Give her a check; see what happens. Won’t hurt.”
 

Mac takes the meter and places a new strip into it. Taking Aren’s hand in his, he pushes it against a finger, drawing a drop of blood. Aren doesn’t even flinch from the painful skin prick of the needle.
 

“Not sure what these numbers say.”
 

“Yep, she has a problem.” Turning back around, the old man produces a sack full of tiny vials of insulin. “Here, take this. Give her a small dose of this insulin. See if it works.”
 

Sara walks back over and enters the conversation. “I’ll do it; my friend had diabetes, and I helped her before.” Grabbing a vial and syringe, Sara draws up the liquid, flicks the syringe once, then pushes the plunger to vent the air before pushing the medicine into Aren’s arm.
 

“There, see how you feel in a little bit, Aren.”
 

Gathering up the guns, ammo, backpacks, and knives, Sara and Mac follow the old man back to the rear door.
 

“Here, young lady.” The old man reaches into a pocket, pulling out an iPod.
 

“Don’t know if it works.”
 

“Thanks. I’ll get it to work. No problem.”

14

TURBOPROP JET ENGINES shatter the early morning silence outside the gun store.

“Damn, they just don’t give up, do they?” Mac says as he turns to look upward into the sky.
 

“Probably our friends from the facility,” Sara replies as she releases her grip on Aren’s arm, realizing that the insulin is taking hold, giving her more energy. “Let’s go.”
 

Sara starts moving down the street, prodding Aren to keep up with her. Mac is following behind them, still fumbling with the action of the shotgun.
 

“Give me that thing.” Grabbing the shotgun, Sara hands Mac the assault rifle to carry as she pushes eight rounds into the side of the shotgun, filling the tube-style magazine.
 

“Take it.” Sara hands it back to him, still walking back to the west, away from the airport where the C-130 is making an approach to the landing strip. Sara takes in her surroundings before formulating a plan. “They will be here soon; probably should get the layout inside this casino.”