The world was strange outside. Thick gray clouds of smoke always blocked out the sun. Nobody ever told me where the smoke came from. Everything was dark, drab, and gray, weathered past its time.
Narrow two story houses lined our street, buildings which once served as apartments or condos. The front door of each home opened directly into the sidewalk. These buildings were old twenty years ago; now many of them were downright dilapidated, the white paint peeling off the wooden exteriors.
The air smelled of gunpowder, as it always did, mixed with a faint tinge of burning wood. The odor was so strong it almost had a flavor. Of course, I barely noticed it, having known nothing else for as long as I could remember.
Our street was quiet and empty, as always. We had made our home in an otherwise abandoned neighborhood, which was good because we received little attention.
The omnipresent sound of gunfire came from the distance, probably miles away. People were often shooting at random objects or into the sky if not at each other. I could make out the distinct sound of an AK rifle as well as another weapon or two I could not identify.
I sat on the front steps of our house, which faced east. There, I opened up my backpack and rummaged through it. Carefully, I withdrew my two 45 caliber Colts. After inspecting them to make certain they were loaded and the safeties were off, I tucked them into the front pockets of my pants. Then I zipped up the backpack, stood, pulled it on, and started on my way south.
At the end of the street, I stopped and waited. When I was certain no one was watching, I opened up the door of a house on the southeast corner of the street and walked inside.
The room I entered was barren, except for ancient bloodstains and bullet holes on some of the walls. There’d been a fight once, probably more than a decade ago.
I walked through the room and the door at the opposite end. This led into an empty hallway. I turned right and followed the hallway a few feet to the house’s stairs. After climbing these, I entered another small hallway. Finally, I went through the first door on the left.
Scattered throughout the medium-sized room lay many of my possessions: An Uzi, like my mothers; a broken M60 machine gun; a revolver, and a grenade. Along with this, several hundred rounds of ammunition sat in various boxes.
The ammunition I’d collected during scavenging runs. I’d searched dozens of homes, finding left behind ammunition here and there. Sometimes only a few dropped rounds or a magazine, but other times I would find boxes or ammo belts full of extra bullets.
The weapons came from people I’d killed, usually in self-defense. I traded most of the guns I collected, but I also kept some of them.
Most of my collection of weapons and ammo actually lay in another house more than a mile away from this one.
Gathering everything I had together had taken years. Somehow, through insane luck, I’d managed to travel around gathering things and still live. Many people who spent as much time outdoors ended up dead. The people who stayed hidden inside were often the ones who survived.
I gathered the extra .45 rounds I’d come to collect and placed them in a box in my backpack. Then I went back down the stairs and outside to continue on my way.
At the corner next to the house containing my stash, I turned left, taking me west. I traveled more than a block without encountering anyone.
When I reached the three-way intersection where I would turn right, a group of three young kids ran past me. One of them looked at me, his eyes wide with fear, and then he ran on. The trio disappeared into a decrepit one-story house.
Alerted by their flight of terror, I drew my right-hand Colt out of its pocket and held it at my side. Then I took the street running south, walking slowly to make less noise.
Not far down the street, I saw the source of the commotion. In the shadows of a two story home stood a little girl, perhaps nine or ten years old. A few feet away from her, a man with bloodshot eyes waved an Ingram MAC-11 menacingly.
“Yer comin’ with me, lil’ girl!” he slurred.
She wouldn’t have it. “No!” There was a blur of motion, and then she darted away, leaving the man with a switchblade in his gut.
Clutching his wound with one hand, the man staggered into the street. He noticed me and tried to raise his Ingram.
I pointed the 1911A1 at him. He mumbled something unintelligible and lowered his arm again, dropping the MAC to the ground. Then he stumbled away.
After putting the Colt away again, I walked over to the MAC, took off my backpack, and set it down, kneeling next to it. Then I unzipped it, picked up the Ingram, and tucked it inside. As I did so, I noticed that the submachine gun was a .45 variant. This meant it would have more recoil, but it shared ammunition with my Colts.
As I zipped the backpack closed, I heard a click from behind me. Someone had sneaked up on me.
“Shit.”
Footsteps neared, and stopped only a foot or two behind me. “Just hand me the gun,” commanded a male voice.
“Idiot,” I muttered.
“Wha…”
Before he could finish, I lunged backwards and drove my elbow into his groin. He groaned loudly and crumpled to the ground.
When I turned around, I found a young man, maybe in his twenties, curled up on the asphalt clutching his wounded area. A Beretta 92FS, or M9, lay on the ground next to him. I snatched the 9mm pistol, put it into my backpack as well, and then left.
I didn’t encounter anyone else on my way to ‘The Store’. The store was a large warehouse filled with hundreds of different commodities. To get something you wanted, you had to trade them something they wanted. That way, they always had a good supply of ‘merchandise’.
At the perimeter fence, I stopped and waited for a guard to come out and let me in. The fence stood ten feet tall, and the guards at the store sometimes electrified it to stop intruders, or animals. It was not uncommon to find smoking animal carcasses next to the fence. Those considered edible would quickly disappear.
Finally, a muscular man six inches taller than me came to the gate. He had no hair and carried no weapons. Everyone liked him.
“Hey, Tony.”
He nodded. “Hey, Kid.”
Everyone has always called me Kid. I may have had a different name, once, but Kid is all I remember.
“How’s business?” I asked casually.
“Shitty,” he muttered, and spat. He opened up the gate. “C’mon in.”
I nodded. “Thanks. What’s wrong with business?”
He gestured for me to follow him and began walking towards the warehouse door. “People want guns, and all we got is parts.”
This was good news for me. “I’m sorry, man.”
He passed a guard manning a Browning M2 .50. The guard nodded at me.
We’d reached the doors. He opened them and waved me in. “S’all right, Kid.” He pushed me inside.
The room was an office, not very large or comfortable. Waiting in a large chair behind a desk sat a black man who seemed rather fat. This appearance was actually because he wore enough body armor to stop an RPG. He smiled as he saw me. “Kid! What do you need?”
I stood in front of the desk. “Hey Clark. I need some gas, and a feed roller for an M60.”
“Gas I can get you… we’ve got enough of that for the next few years. But what do you need a feed roller for?” He was trying to jack the price.
I laughed. “My business.”
Although he looked suspicious, he snapped and a man appeared with a can of gas and the feed roller. “Now, as for payment…”
I took off my backpack, opened it up, and pulled out an old cardboard ammo box. After checking to make sure it hadn’t torn, I tossed it to Clark. “A box of .44 magnum rounds for the gas.”
He nodded. “Where the hell did you find this?”
Ignoring him, I pulled out the Beretta, holding it up for him to see. “And I’ll give you a military-condition Beretta for the feed roller and a favor.”
Expectedly, Clark tried to look uninterested. “Eh, I don’t need one.”
“Don’t lie to me, Clark.”
He caved. “All right. Name your favor.”
Now I had him. “You know the fifty-cal outside?”
His eyes went wide. “Oh, hell no!”
“Relax, I just want to borrow it…”
The concept obviously wasn’t appealing to him. He shook his head violently.
This was where I wanted him. He would do anything to get out of loaning me his precious fifty-cal. “If you won’t let me borrow the fifty, can I have some 7.62mm ammo belts? I don’t need the rounds, just the belts.”
Technically this was another purchase, not a favor, but he sprung at it. “Sure.” His assistant left and reappeared shortly with two empty ammo belts. “These’ll do?”
I tossed him the Beretta.
After giving the pistol a quick inspection, he nodded. “Looks good.” He nodded, and his assistant relinquished the gas, feed roller, and ammo belts.
As I put everything in my backpack, Clark leaned back and sighed. “If this pistol doesn’t work, it’s your ass.”
Finished, I zipped up the backpack and put it on. “When does anything I give you not work?”
He smiled.
“Thank you, Clark. Pleasure doing business with you.”
He nodded. “See ya around, Kid.”
“See you.” I opened up the door and left.
* * *
After leaving The Store’s perimeter, I decided to make a quick visit to my larger weapon stash. I traveled in a long loop to shake any followers, moving through abandoned buildings and hidden alleys.
Finally, I arrived at the place. In front of me stood an old wooden mansion, in all appearances about to collapse. The wood looked and smelled rotted out, covered here and there with the last traces of peeling faded paint. All the doors and windows were boarded up, leaving no visible entrance.
I walked around the side of the building, and squeezed through a bent opening in the fence that used to separate the house’s back yard from its front. This took me around to the rear of the house, where one of the back doors was not sealed.
I opened it up and stepped into a medium-sized room, poorly illuminated by the rays that pierced the cracks in the walls. The room contained no typical furniture, just several wooden boxes of various sizes. Dust filled the air, and a sour stench permeated the room. Rats and spiders occupied the rest of the building, although they left my room largely alone. I came in often enough to keep it clear of webs, and rats have no usage for guns or ammunition. Also, once one of them gets blown up chewing on a bullet, they learn to avoid things that smell of gunpowder.
Inside the boxes, of course, lay guns and ammunition. I’d left this stash here in case I happened to be stranded nearby and needed a weapon. I came in periodically to add or retrieve items from my collection.
I didn’t have much, but it was certainly more than I needed. An AK-style assault rifle – not in the best condition – a compact ten-gauge shotgun I had no ammo or use for, a few spare pistols, and ammunition of every type I could find.
The reason I’d come was that I specifically remembered stashing away a few magazines designed for the MAC11. Some people drop their empty clips when they reload. I collect those and keep them in case I ever need them.
After searching for a few minutes, I located a magazine for a .45 MAC. It was already full. I popped the current mag out of the small weapon to check it. It felt light, almost empty.
There’s no use going into a fight with five rounds in your gun. I opened up a cardboard box of .45 rounds and carefully inserted them into the near-empty clip, one at a time, until it was full.
Then I went to work carefully cleaning the open parts of the MAC with a cloth, to remove excess dirt and grime, which can cause jamming and numerous other problems. I also poked a narrow metal rod through the barrel to make sure it wasn’t clogged.
Satisfied, I reinserted the magazine into the Ingram. Prudence dictated that I should test fire it with both clips, but I didn’t want to make a commotion or blow holes in the walls. I would probably find out if it worked soon enough.
I deposited the now fully-loaded weapon into my backpack, along with the extra clip. After replacing the makeshift tools I’d used for cleaning the gun, I left to head back home.
As I walked home I debated whether to keep the Ingram with me or put it in my other stash. The inherent problems with keeping it with me were the extra weight, and the predictable nosiness from my parents. Not that they’d particularly care how or where I got it, or why I had it – nobody worries about that – but they’d pester me about it anyway.
Suddenly a voice from above me broke the relative silence. “Hey, kid!” it yelled, unintentionally referring to me by my name. The voice definitely belonged to a man. “Just stop there!”
Rather than comply, I accelerated into a run. Above and behind me, a loud shooting sound, distinctly that of an AK-47, began. I could hear bullets ricochet off the asphalt.
I dove onto the hood of a car abandoned in the middle of the road and slid across to fall on the other side. I landed in a crouch and pressed my back against the metal door.
“Aww, you little bastard!” came the aggravated yell.
“God damn asshole!” With the formalities concluded, I reached into my right pocket and pulled out a 1911.
Apparently, the shooter had not given up; bullets rained down against the car, clunking against the opposite side. Most of them snagged somewhere in the vehicle’s interior, but a few punched clear through. Luckily, none of them hit me.
The shooting stopped.
No point in waiting. I leapt to my feet and spun around. From a second story window of an apartment building, a grubby man aimed his AK at me. I raised my Colt.
He fired a burst, but nothing hit me. An AK is not particularly accurate when fired on automatic, and one that had not been maintained in more than a decade certainly would not be reliable.
I looked through the sight of my weapon and corrected my aim slightly. The foresight settled on his chest. Then I fired, two pulls of the trigger in quick succession. The Colt slammed back against my hand.
The first .45 round hit him in the arm. He yelled and dropped his rifle, which fell two stories and clattered against the sidewalk. The second shot achieved more luck, striking him in the chest. He stumbled backwards, and I fired two more shots as he fell.
I darted over to the AK and picked it up. The stock was cracked and the magazine bent. It hadn’t taken the fall well.
Just to make sure, I braced the Russian rifle against my shoulder and fired at the window where its previous owner had just stood. A single bullet came out, missing my aimpoint by several inches, and accompanied by a horrible screech from the rifle. It would not fire again. I discarded it.
After a short moment of sitting on the sidewalk and breathing heavily, I decided to go see what had become of my attacker. Not surprisingly, the front door to the building was locked. I kicked it hard with my left foot, and the hinges tore from the doorframe. The door fell noisily inward.
Beyond the door, a hallway led both left and right. Doors lined the hallway on both sides. On either end it ended in a staircase.
I walked right, up the stairs, and into an identical looking hallway on the second floor. Several of the doors on the street side – my left – were open.
I drew the other Colt, and stepped into the first open doorway. A few supplies were scattered across the room. The man who’d shot at me lay motionless in a puddle of blood. I looked over his supplies. An empty canteen, some half-eaten food, a few spare bullets… nothing I could use.
As I turned to leave, a voice from outside surprised me.
“Did you hear that?” asked a gruff voice.
Another voice, a deeper one, replied, “Yeah.”
Then came the sound of a rifle cocking.
“Aww, shit,” I muttered.
Suddenly there was an explosion of noise from outside. I stooped over and half ran from the window. Bullets ripped through the wall and whizzed by, filling the air with wood and plaster.
I darted into the first doorway I saw, which led me into the apartment’s bathroom. I scrambled into the bathtub and lay on my stomach.
A second later the shooting stopped. Dust, plaster, and splinters of wood slowly floated to the ground.
Footsteps began coming up the stairs. I could hear gruff voice and deep voice arguing about something as they approached. I lay motionless, painfully aware that I couldn’t defend myself while face down.
The footsteps burst into the room, and stomped around. “There he is. He’s dead,” remarked the gruff voice.
Slowly and as silently as possible, I lifted my head to peer over the side of the tub and into the other room. The two men stood over the man that I had killed. “There’s nothing on him,” continued the gruff voice, the taller of the two.
“Damn. Well, let’s go.”
The pair left. I inhaled slowly. They well armed, but stupid. Lucky me.
I sat in the shadows and refilled the magazine for my right-hand Colt.
Then I headed home.