A New World: Chaos Read online

  As I turn to leave the back door, I hear a faint scuffling sound and a very low growl. It is so low that I am not even sure I heard it but in the absolute silence of the world around me, it rings like a bell inside my head. So, if there is anything inside, it seems to be on the ground floor. At least for now. I follow my path back to the front porch.

  Before climbing back the porch, slowly and silently, I remove the shotgun shell from the chamber. I am going to have to break in the window panes and supporting slats with the butt of the shotgun. Not the best idea with a loaded gun, safety on or not. The business end will be pointed in entirely the wrong direction. Chamber open and ready for a shell yes, actual shell no.

  Silently, I walk back to the wall beside the front window. “Ok, well, I guess the stealth and silent approach isn’t going to work here. It’s going to get a bit noisy from here on out,” I breathe to myself. I was hoping to be able to find a stealthy way in and get the kids out without whatever is in there knowing but as I guessed and dreaded, that is just not going to happen.

  Break out one entire side of the panes, - Det cord would be especially handy right now but I seem to be fresh out - reverse the shotgun slamming home a shell, use the tip of the barrel of the shotgun to lift the curtain rods off or force them down on this end bringing light into the room, crouch away from the window on the porch covering the room, and see what I see. That is the entirety of plan A. I again think about playing ‘climb on the roof and check every window’ for a stealthier entry point but am also fairly certain that whatever is in there, if anything, already knows I am here. Plus, my knees again cast their vote for Plan A and seem to have the majority vote in this instance. I also have to keep care initially not to let the barrel poke inside after drawing the curtains down so that it can’t be grabbed from inside.

  Adrenaline has me pretty keyed up. That is good for reflexes, but if it is not kept under a semblance of control, it can lead to mistakes. My Arrid XXXtra Dry is getting a workout trying to keep pace.

  A deep breath, another one, and I feel my nerves settle into place. I step in front of the window with the butt aimed upward at the first cross intersection of slats on the side, hoping to take out several sections of slats both to the side and upward. These are generally only glued together so I figure three good shots, with each shot focused on the two slat intersections above the previous ones, should cave the entire side of the window in. Game on.

  Steeling myself back, I thrust forward and up with my arm and shoulders. The forward momentum of my shifting weight is focused entirely on the intersection of the two slats. A flash of a second before the butt meets my aim point, I shift my head down with my chin in my chest to protect my eyes and vulnerable parts of my neck from flying glass and wood. I feel the contact first with my forearms, then shoulders, and continue to drive forward. Go through the point of impact, I remind myself.

  The sheer volume of noise from the glass and slats breaking is enormous. Especially considering the silence I was engulfed with. It sounds like a glass bomb went off. Pulling back quickly, I refocus instantly on my next aim point and thrust forward in the same manner. The momentary glimpse I catch of the window, besides focusing on my next target, is of broken glass and slats either missing or turned up and in. Some of the glass is still falling, catching various prisms of light. More noise comes from the second blow but not as loud as the first. Finishing with the third blow, I step back momentarily, bring the pump action forward chambering a shell and fully expecting a tidal wave of action. Nothing. The window is completely demolished on the right and silence once again dominates the scene.

  A warm breeze picks up, reminiscent of those lazy summer days. The days when a breeze would carry the sounds and smells of summer; the sound of lawnmowers lazily chugging along leaving the sweet smell of cut grass; the smell of BBQ’s wafting from backyards; the sounds of kids playing; the ringing of a bike’s bell or the music of an ice cream truck as it makes its way through the neighborhood. Outside of the city, the breeze would bring the smell of trees, a feeling of peace, and the simple joy of just being outside in the sun. A part of my mind realizes those days of peace, joy, and warmth was not that long ago, but this breeze, although carrying the feeling of summer, also carries a slight, sharp, pungent odor along with it. Almost too faint to notice, but it’s there nonetheless. It stirs the curtains slightly but not enough to allow a view within other than to let me know that darkness reigns inside.

  I glance around momentarily to see if my festivities have drawn any attention. The only thing I see is a dog standing in the street a short distance away looking in my direction. Not directly at me towards me. Must be a neighborhood dog. Although hard to tell, it appears to be some sort of German Sheppard/Lab mix. That is another thing to think about down the road. The pets are most likely going to migrate to their wilder, more feral side as they integrate themselves back into the survival-based food chain. Another fleeting thought passes through wondering how, and if, they will be affected by what is going on? Will their DNA be susceptible to the change or will they have immunity? Apparently satisfying itself that all is right in the world around it, the dog continues across the street and disappears between two houses as I refocus on the window and task ahead.

  Rising, I step back toward the now open window. I am focused on any sound that might emanate from within and tense for anything that might erupt. My muscles are loose but the adrenaline is wrapped around me. With the light tan curtains still wafting slightly in the breeze, I raise the barrel of the shotgun to the curtain rod and give it a good push to lift it off its bracket. The rod and curtains lift up slightly and I feel the release of pressure against the barrel as the rod lifts and the curtains begin their fall to the ground. I step back into a semi-crouch to begin the final step of the Plan A entry - to see what I can see.

  The curtains land on the right side at an angle downward as the rod is still attached to the left bracket and light floods into the once darkened room. As it does, the silence is broken by a loud, high pitched shriek.

  “Holy shit!” I exclaim. The hair on my arms stands straight up and my neck hair comes to attention.

  I cannot immediately even think about what it sounds like except that it is bloody loud. A large, startled cat is the only thing that comes to mind within that flash of an instant. It also has a growl-like quality. The shriek is accompanied by the sound of footsteps moving at high speed - um, called running I believe. A flash of movement from my right to left vanishes past my line of sight. The movement didn’t seem to be to my immediate front and leaves the impression that it was further back in the room.

  I switch on the flashlight to get a better picture but can’t see what moved so hurriedly in the room just moments before. The light confirms my earlier assumption that this is the living room. Still holding the shotgun, I lean to the side to see all that I can around the angled, hanging curtains. The curtain rod is caught on what appears to be a console-style TV against the front window. I was wondering why the curtains didn’t fall all of the way down like they should have and still had a significant angle to them. The front door is to my right with some sort of contraption blocking it. However, the lighting is not good enough to identify what it is. Two couches sit facing each other and are piled high with clothes. One couch is a little in front of the door and the other against the wall to my left. Where in the world would you sit, I think and glance at the coffee table covered with glasses, plates, and what appear to be various magazines. Next to a lazy boy recliner, sitting in the far corner, stairs climb upwards to an intermediate landing before continuing up to the right.

  To the right and across from me, a hallway stretches towards the back of the house with a kitchen opening up to the right. I don’t know how far the hallway extends from my angle as the light can’t penetrate that far. Back to the living room, there doesn’t appear to be any place where something as large as the shadow I glimpsed previously could be hiding. I can, however, hear what appears to be a faint pant
ing coming from the direction of the stairs. I am actually beginning to wonder if perhaps there isn’t a mountain lion in there.

  I use the end of the barrel to remove the last bits of glass from the bottom of the window and hanging above. This noise creates a stirring and sound of something shifting gives me the impression that whatever is inside has gone upstairs or is possibly at the top of the stairs. I step into the room beside the TV to the sound of glass crunching beneath my boots. I lay my shotgun on the TV with the light on and angled toward the stairs as I want to keep that part illuminated full time. I slide my 9 mil out and pull the slide back slightly verifying a round is chambered. Given the confines of the house, I prefer to have my Beretta at hand for speed of movement.

  I withdraw the larger flashlight and flick it on, flashing the light around the room to verify once again that the room is clear. I yank the rest of the curtains down allowing more light to flood into the room. The panting is a little louder now that I am inside and I can locate it better. It’s definitely coming from upstairs.

  With the light from the shotgun focused on the stairs, I shine the flashlight I’m holding to the contraption by the door. A smile briefly crosses my face. Boards are wedged under the knob with more boards against those, everything terminating against the back of the couch. Something an architectural engineer might be proud of. Not so much from the aesthetics of it, but more from the structural stability. I was right not to try the front door. I would still be there working on it. Even if I used the shotgun to blow off the hinges, I am pretty sure that door would still be standing. In fact, I am sure that it could withstand the best that a cruise missile has to offer.

  I step to my right and crouch by the couch to get a better picture down the hallway. The light penetrates most of the way to the back of the house. I told you it was a monster. One of these 6 D cell battery jobs. If I missed with the Beretta and something was able to get close to me, I could probably melt its retinas with this light. It would also substitute as a bat should I find a pick-up game of ball. Nothing is moving nor can I see anything down the hall except a door ajar at the end of the hallway, but I can’t see inside whatever it leads to. There is a door to the left side of the hallway across from the kitchen which I assume leads to the basement. I get the impression that another door is about half way down the hall on the left. Perhaps a bathroom?

  I move at a crouch around the couch, keeping between it and the wall towards the front door, making sure to keep as far from the stairs as possible. My head again on a slow swivel with my light and gun following; barrel always in line with the eyes. At the front door, with my attention between the stairs and the hall, I try the light switches readying myself for an increase in light. A faint ‘snic’ as the switches fall into position is the only response, along with the realization that normal electricity is not flowing, at least not to here.

  I look at the mechanical engineering marvel and determine basically where to start taking it apart. At least I see which board to remove first. Setting the flashlight on the back of the couch, I balance it so that it casts its light down the hall. The stairs are still lit, although less brilliantly, from the shotgun light on the TV. I glance down long enough to get a grip on the board, and then my focus is back up and on the house. I tug and the board comes free. Setting the board down, I find the next one and in less than a minute, the door is free from its bonds.

  I release the multiple dead bolt locks from the door and open it so that it sits ajar, making sure it is not blocking any line of sight nor impeding any movement. The stairs are almost at a right angle to me and almost out of my line of sight. The panting from the stairs has not changed and I am not all that interested in finding out exactly what is causing it. Well, actually, I am but the kids come first. And, the ‘ol “be careful what you wish for” adage. My thinking is that, with whatever is here and seeing it’s upstairs, I should be able to get the kids out without having to engage it. A part of me thinks I should but the light from the windows is seemingly keeping it at bay and where it is. I like that idea equally well and just want to get the kids out safely.

  I step towards what I think is the basement door dislodging one of the boards from where I set it. It skitters across the wood floor. Damn, I must have lost my touch. That would have never happened before.

  The sound of the board moving triggers something. Another cat-like shriek from upstairs reverberates through the house followed by shuffling and growls coming from the top of the stairs. Something big is moving around up there. Based on the sounds and apparent size of whatever is up there, I have an idea of what it could be. The panting and growling and movement continue. Sure hasn’t improved your disposition much.

  I focus on the bottom of the stairs where they empty into the living room, ready for anything that may sweep into the room, setting my sights slightly to the left of where they would enter into the room. Pointing straight at the entry point will miss whatever target emerges. Instead, I point to the approximate position to where it will be if it enters into the room. “Sure wish I hadn’t kicked that board,” I mutter.

  Nothing emerges. I want to go to what I think is the basement door but if I do, I will lose visual with the stairs and I don’t really want that to happen. I move back by the front door, set the light once again on the back of the couch, and take out the cell phone from my back pocket. Still bars and service. Very cool! I press the green ‘send’ button twice and “Dialing Robert” appears.

  “Dad? Was that you?” He answers in a whisper.

  “Yeah,” I whisper back, “I’m inside. Is the basement door the one by the kitchen?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ok. You and the girls come up the stairs as quiet as you can, and I mean quiet. Open the door slowly. I’ll be almost right in front of you. Don’t just run out. Wait for me to wave you out. Then all of you come out and head right out the front door.”

  “Ok, Dad. We’re moving now. Shouldn’t we stay on the line until we get to the door?”

  “Good idea,” I breathe back to him.

  I hear sound coming from the basement door as the knob is slowly turned. The door creaks as it is pushed out a crack. There, through the crack in the door, I see my son’s eyes peeking out. He looks around taking in his surroundings to the extent he can see them. His eyes lock on mine. The sounds of movement and panting increases from upstairs but are changed to some degree. I swear footsteps are coming down the stairs only to stop and run back up. Whatever is there emits a growl each time it stops. There is an almost physical feeling of agitation in the air. I almost want it to come all of the way down the stairs just to end this tension one way or the other.

  Looking over to Robert, I wave him over. He opens the door; the hinges once again protesting their movement. The growling increases and the panting seems even louder making me want to look behind me as it feels like this thing is right next to me. I hang up the phone and grab the flashlight. Robert steps into the kitchen with Nic and Bri right behind him. The sounds of feet running up and down the stairs increase. The rise in agitation is obvious.

  Swinging the front door wide open, I yell firmly, “Out! Out now!” Whispering is moot at this point. Without pause, they run right behind me and out the front door. As they pass by, I tell them, “Get to the Jeep!”

  I back out of the room onto the front porch stowing the flashlight and take another look around to ensure we are alone. We appear to be. It seems safe enough for now but I wonder how long that will last. I am thinking we have just been moved down the food chain a notch and entering the survival-based food chain ourselves.

  I walk to the front window to retrieve the shotgun. The sounds of agitation still reach out to my ears but I don’t see anything. I turn and walk down the porch stairs holstering my handgun. Batteries, I think turning off the flashlight attached to the shotgun. That and so much more to think about in the very near future. Food, water, safety, Lynn, future.

  With a heavy sigh, I walk over to my kids standing at
the front of the Jeep, hand Robert the shotgun, and give them all the biggest hugs I have ever given. And that is saying something because I have given some pretty big hugs before. “I love you all so much,” I say into their ears. Well, not quite like that. Nic and Bri are both coming on par with me for height, and, well, to say anything into Robert’s ear, I have to tilt my head up.

  “I love you too, Dad,” they all reply.

  We step back from each other; Bri is there in her plaid blue flannel jam bottoms and an Abercrombie t-shirt. Her fine, golden hair hangs down close to the middle of her back and her blue eyes stare back at me. She doesn’t have to tilt her head far back as this year has given her quite the growth spurt. She has reached the five foot mark recently.

  Nicole’s thick, dark hair hangs down to her shoulder and her plain green jams accentuate her hazel eyes. Robert holds the shotgun and is wearing blue jeans with his black Navy JROTC sweatshirt. His close-cropped hair has turned a darker shade of blond over the years but his eyes retain that same blue intensity. The thought crosses my mind, as it sometimes does, of how neither Bri nor Robert has my dark hair or my hazel eyes. Ok, perhaps my hair is not so dark anymore. The years have replaced some of the black with gray. I like to keep my hair short and the barber I go to has a peculiar knack of only cutting the dark hairs. I have heard the word distinguished used but I am sure it is only them being courteous.

  Nic has her flips on but Robert and Bri are barefoot. I consider going back in to gather some of their clothes from the pile I saw on the couch but I have some at my house and we can gather other clothes for them later. Right now, I want to head back, try to wrap my mind around what has happened, and start putting a plan together for the future.

  “Okay guys, into the Jeep,” I tell them. They all climb in with Nic and Bri in the back and Robert in front. Robert has the barrel of the shotgun pointed toward the floor between his feet. Good job. My hand shakes from post adrenaline as I put the Jeep in gear.