Snippet #1996397

Slam. One hit. The axe rebounded from the door with no discernible effect. Mike looked annoyed briefly, and looked at the place he had hit the door. There was a wedge-shaped dent in it, but other than that, a whole lotta nothing. So he lifted his axe again.

Slam. This time, there came the more satisfying sound of wood splintering, and a long crack appeared in the door's face. Mike smiled. "That's more like it," he grunted softly to himself, pushing against the cracked door and feeling it give a little under his weight. "One more swing oughtta do it." And so he lifted the axe again, hefting its weight. He hoisted it over one shoulder and gave another swing.

Slam. And the axe was through, taking a melon-sized hunk of door with it before holding fast. Mike grinned. He could feel the possibility of good loot on the other side. Whatever was in there, he couldn't see it--the light was out inside, and outside there wasn't enough sunlight filtering in through the hall, but deep down inside he hoped against hope that, against all odds, there would be something worth breaking down a door for. He was about to give the door a mighty heave and bring it down when voices came from outside. His heart sank and his face fell.

"No," he intoned softly. "No, no no, nonononono. No, not here, not now, you can't be serious God, you just can't." He looked to Scout, his face deadly serious as he hoisted his axe to his shoulder and slipped back through the broken window. He held the axe in an iron grip, looking around the yard for what he expected to see. Bandits, other looters, armed raiders. Any and every possible thing that could go wrong. He practically vaulted over the porch and took off at a dead run across the yard, heading for the barn. The voice (or voices) had come from that way. Still whispering a machine-gun rattle of no no no under his breath, Mike rounded the barn.

He had expected guns, Kevlar, bandanas and a motley assortment of ne'er-do-wells roving the countryside, thriving on the bones of the survivors they left behind them, baking in the sun.

He had not expected a younger red-headed girl. Mike nevertheless kept his grip on the axe, casting a steely eye in her direction. He'd been baited like this once before, when he and a couple other guys were holed up in the old firehouse. Except this one had been about fifteen, brown haired and skinny, teetering right on the edge of death by starvation. Two guys had left with a few cans of food, but as soon as the firehouse door had come open, no less than a dozen bandits hauled out of the woodwork and swarmed in behind them. They took everything Mike had worked so hard to gather and most of what had been in the firehouse before. Mike had been so disheartened at that point that he had just given up for a little while and waited to die.

Then he'd found Pete and Martha, and Scout came later. His new group. His new family. His new life.

There was no way he was going to let that happen.

"Hands up." Mike said firmly, raising the axe head slightly. "Three steps forward, away from the edge of the barn." He looked at the corner where she was standing and raised his voice, shouting: "Anybody else out there, step forward. Right now. Or god help me I'll set this barn on fire and burn you out."