Seven Days To Brooklyn: A Sara Robinson Adventure (6 page)

“Let’s go; we’re clear now. Come on.”

 
“Okay, I was just wondering if you were going to need my help, but clearly I see you’ve got it handled.” Mac wonders what other surprises she has.
 

Sara walks out of the tunnel and into the waning sunlight where the tunnel opens up to the highway they were just on minutes earlier. Large city buildings are visible to the north. Sara pulls out a pair of binoculars and looks down the road. The buildings are two to three story brick and mortar, with overhanging storefronts that cover the sidewalks. The town appears to be deserted, but it is hard to tell because of the hazy post-dusk conditions and the heat of the roadway shimmering up in front of her, distorting the image in her binoculars. She estimates that they are only a mile or so away and starts running toward the buildings.

“Hey, wait up.” Mac exits the tunnel and sees her running to the buildings. “Damn, this kid has a mind of her own.” He starts running to catch up with her and is quickly alongside, jogging at her pace. “What’s the hurry?”

“Sundown, they come out more at night, and I’m not going to spend it outside if we can stay inside.”
 

Sara does not even break pace nor has her breathing changed. She is in top physical condition, akin to an Olympic athlete. Mac’s breathing increases as he begins to sweat from the exertion.
 

Upon reaching the first building, Sara moves over to the side of the road and slows her pace to a walk. Looking down the deserted street, she sees a burned-out car on the left side, and trash is littered everywhere. She walks down the left sidewalk and up to the first store entrance. Reaching for the doorknob, she turns it, but with no luck.

“Is it locked?”

“Not for long.” Sara drops her pack off her shoulder and pulls out a small makeup case that has her name embroidered in pink across its black fabric. Unzipping the case and sorting through the contents, she pulls out two lock picks and steps up to the lock. She inserts the two picks, her small hands working the lock back and forth for a few seconds before the door pops open.

“Done. You first; I took point last time.”
 

 
Mac steps inside the dimly lighted building and strains his eyes to see in the pre-dusk darkness that has encompassed the room. The windows are all boarded up as well as the door, resulting from the looting that must have happened right after the solar flare. Sara steps in after him and closes the door behind her, locking it. Turning on her headlamp, she peers around the room and recognizes it was once a ladies clothing store. Most racks are empty, except for a few mannequins that still stand partially clothed in negligees and suggestively styled corsets. Sara sees a panel of light switches and goes over to switch them on. Moving the switches one by one, she looks around to see whether any of the lights work.

“Power is out here, too.”
 

“Looks as though we are in the dark again. I’ll check the back room. Got another light?”

Sara reaches into her backpack and pulls out a hybrid flashlight. “Here, crank on this for a minute or two.”
 

She throws the light at him, and Mac gives it a minute of cranking before walking off into the back room. Minutes later he returns and looks around the room for Sara. He finally notices her off to the right, where she is curled up inside one of the half-empty shirt display shelves. She’s fast asleep.
 

Not wanting to disturb his newly-found, pint-sized bodyguard/assassin, Mac quietly sits down a few feet away from her and leans up against a pile of discarded clothing. Pulling his hands up behind his head, he closes his eyes to shut out the remainder of the day, dreaming of times past, the way things were before the event. His dreams come as flashes, little tidbits here and there: an evening at home with his fiancé or one of the frequent weekend 5k fun runs he competed in regularly. But mostly they go back to a simpler time when he was in the prime of his life, living, laughing, and loving his gal and hanging out with their small group of friends every Friday night at the pub on the river walk in San Antonio. His dreams fade to darkness as he starts snoring.

2:00 a.m
.

The streams of light from a full moon shoot through multiple cracks in the boarded up windows, giving the room an eerie glow. Not enough light to read with, but just enough to make out objects.
 

With a snort and rumble, Mac stirs from his sleep and looks over at Sara. An empty display case where she was sleeping is all he sees. Her backpack is still pushed up into the case. Swinging his head around, he barely makes out her small frame silhouetted against the window. He can’t make out what she is doing and questions if she is a sleepwalker, like many young kids her age.
 

“Sara.” he calls out to her while standing up.

“Quiet!”
 

Mac walks over to see what she is up to and realizes she is looking through one of the cracks in the plywood that is covering a broken window. Standing nearly three feet taller than she, he can look out at the street just above her. His eyes are still blurry from deep sleep but are able to make out a pair of figures standing in the middle of the street. The two of them are talking in a low voice that he cannot comprehend.
 

“What are they saying?”
 

Sara looks up at Mac and whispers back, “I’m not sure, but there is another man down the street to the right, and he is dragging someone with him. Pretty sure they are survivors. Pretty sure they are unfriendly.”

Her instinct is spot on. Maybe it is the roughneck motorcycle rider look complete with long beards and leather jackets. Or she has keyed in on their combat boots. Not necessarily a sign of a military forces, but an early warning sign that these guys are probably part of one of the many para-military, wanna-be, gun slinging, doomsday preppers, the kind of guys who spent their whole life waiting for the end of the world. These are the kind of guys who are living their dreams terrorizing the last remnants of civilized society. Her dad had prepared her for people like this, without telling her what he was preparing her for. The countless hours of karate lessons, shooting lessons, and mixed-martial arts training had honed her into a lethal weapon of epic proportions in a twelve-year-old body, giving her a skill set she would be able to utilize to defend herself the rest of her life.
 

Without a word, Sara starts to reach over to her right side for the door handle, to open it. Grabbing her hand, Mac swings his head from side to side mouthing the word no.

“It’s okay. I just want to get closer to see what they are saying. There is a shadow in the entrance to the store, and they can’t see me.”
 

Sara looks up at him and pushes his hand away. Her words were forceful, even at a whisper, and it has done the trick. Mac steps aside and lets her slip out the door and into the entrance. The darkness of the entrance engulfs Sara’s figure as she strains to listen to the thugs in the street.

“What was that?” the taller man says to his partner.

“I didn’t hear anything; probably just Jerry pulling that insolent bitch up the street,” says his fat buddy.
 

The taller man is not convinced and peers into the darkened doorway where Sara is standing.

“No, I heard something coming from that building over there! There is someone or something over there.” Just then he starts to take a step toward Sara but stops in his tracks as she steps out of the shadows and into the moonlight on the street.
 

“Well, who do we have here?”
 

“Where is your mommy, little girl?”

Sara steps forward a few steps at a time, slowly closing the distance to her target without saying a word. The tall man thinks she is scared and extremely timid, so he just stands there, waiting for her to approach. Seconds later she has maneuvered herself to within ten feet of the two guys and just off their right side. Out of her peripheral vision, she can see the third guy has stopped some forty to fifty yards away and has shoved his captive to the ground.
 

Surveying her opponents, she quickly inventories their array of crude but effective weapons. The tall man is outfitted with the latest in post-apocalyptic armor, crudely fashioned body armor protecting his chest, made out of a once fashionable but broken chest protector that moto-cross riders wore when racing. She looks at the crack in the middle while scanning up to his face and back down to his right side. Gripping a crude-looking machete in his right hand, his dirty, unkempt fingernails wrap around the piece in a fashion that states, I mean business. The other man, the fat one, as she sees it, is the lesser of two evils and does not pose an immediate threat. He has no weapons that are visual to her, and she knows his reaction time will be delayed.
 

“She’s dead, as you will be, too, in about thirty seconds.”
 

She prepares herself for the incoming attack.

The tall man starts laughing as he turns to his friend.
 

“So, you will take us out, huh? Little girl, you should be polite to strangers. I think you will be coming with us.”
 

The tall man steps forward, walking to Sara, but before he can take another step, Sara reels back, baseball pitcher style, revealing the bowie knife she is carrying, and throws it straight at the tall guy. It meets his chest right in the center where the chest protector is cracked and sinks in up to the hilt with a big thump. He slumps to the ground, dropping the machete, and is kneeling, gasping for breath. It doesn’t take much longer for the fat man to spring into action, producing a chrome handgun that Sara sees flashing in the moonlight. She is lightning fast and runs over to the tall man, putting him between her and the fat man. The fat man pulls the trigger three times. The first shot narrowly misses her and ricochets of a light pole in the distance. His second shot would have made contact with her head, but is stopped by the tall guy’s shoulder, knocking him to the ground. The third shot is dead on, catching her in the chest and taking her off her feet and onto the ground.
 

“Ha ha. Take that, you little shit!”
 

Standing over her body, he hesitates as he prepares to finish her off.

Sara reaches into her belt and pulls the .38 revolver out. With a crack, the revolver comes to life, sending the lead slug up and into her assailant’s head. He falls off to her right as she struggles to get up.
 

“Damn, that frigging hurt,” Sara blurts out as she comes up on one knee. Reaching inside her coat, she pulls the lead slug out of the bulletproof vest, tossing it to the ground just as Mac reaches her. He is horrified by the whole scene but really happy that she is alive.
 

“Are you okay?” Mac reaches over and grabs her by the arm, helping her stand up.

“Yeah, I’m good.” She looks up at him, then down the street at the last thug. “What should we do with him?”
 

Mac looks at the last thug and his captive who is still on the ground. He can’t tell exactly if the captive is a man or woman but knows that if they do nothing, that person is probably tomorrow’s dinner. “Let’s go have a chat with him. Maybe he is a reasonable guy.”

“Sure.”

Walking down the street, but not before retrieving her knife and new pistol, Mac and Sara slowly make their way toward this seemingly calm man. Within thirty feet, he shouts out, “That’s far enough,” while pointing a baseball bat at them. “Don’t want no trouble; just let me be.”
 

The woman at his feet regains consciousness and shakes her head. Through blurred vision, she sees the shadows of the two unlikely heroes standing in front of her. She can clearly tell that it is a man and his young child. Knowing her fate is not good, she musters the courage to blurt out a distress call, “Help me.”
 

The side of the thug’s hand comes down hard against her face, and she is knocked out again. “I told you two to stay back; go mind your business elsewhere.”
 

Mac and Sara are undeterred and continue to walk to him, closing the distance by half again within seconds.
 

“Hey, friend, we just want to check on your lady, see if she’s okay.”
 

Mac knows he is just buying time and it will come down to a fight soon enough. Sara spins the revolver drum and puts another cartridge in the empty chamber. Pulling the hammer back on the revolver resonates a cocking sound down the street and into the ears of the thug. He is more bark than bite and drops the bat as he turns running down the street and into the darkness of the night.

7

BY THE TIME Sara took out the two thugs and scared off the third, it is nearly two o’clock in the morning. Looking over at the crumpled pile of hair and tattered clothing, Sara reaches into her coat pocket to pull out the golf scorecard. Fumbling for the funny, short pencil with no eraser, she starts to wonder how many people she has dispatched since she last took score. “Hmm, was it three or four? Can’t really remember, so I am going with three; don’t want to put down what I haven’t hit yet. And that makes zero again for you, Mac.” Sara writes his name in the next open box under hers on the scorecard. “Let’s see, we will give you a handicap of twelve; yep, that should about do it to get you started off.”

“Twelve, huh? Is that what you think of me?”

“Well, haven’t seen you dispatch anyone yet; just stood in the doorway gathering flies in your mouth while I took care of business. No wonder you wanted to team up with me. You’re not really a man of action are you?”
 

“Yes, it is true. I’m not that skilled with this kind of work.”
 

“What did you do before?”

Mac looks over at her and thinks about it for a minute. He is planning on making something up other than his real profession but knows she probably will not believe it anyway.