Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 With a Whimper By Oldmudrat Copyright 2005



   Chapter 3

   With a last look back, I climbed into the Ford F-250 four-wheel drive
pickup that I had 'liberated' off the dealer's lot and started the drive
home.

   My name is James Thomas Greer.  Thirty-five years old.  Six feet tall.
One-hundred-and-eighty pounds.  The soft life I had been living the last
several years had added those extra twenty pounds.  I figured I lost about
ten of them within the last month.  Black hair that I wore cut short,
because long hair is a nuisance in the operating room.  Pale blue eyes.

   I am...  was a doctor.  A failed doctor, because everyone I treated in
the last six months died.  While I never got the slightest sniffle.  I
watched my colleagues sicken with the Indian Flu and was unable to do
anything to save them.  Only ease their suffering a tiny bit.

   If I had the courage I would have blown my brains out with the Glock 9mm
that rested in the belt holster.  But I was a coward.  So I lived with the
nightmares and visions.

   Now, I turned the pickup truck onto the northbound Natchez Trace Parkway
and headed for the only home I really called my own.  My
great-grandfather's farm on the Tennessee River.  A ninety minute trip,
that I had made many times ignoring the speed limit and cruising at seventy
miles per hour.

   This time I was in no hurry and kept the speed down to about fifty
letting the hum of the tires on the pavement and the static from the radio
sing to me while my mind wondered what awaited me.  What would I do now? 
Were there others alive?  Would I meet anyone or were the survivors too
separated to get together?

   I never considered that I might be the only survivor.  Surely there were
others lucky enough to have lived.

   I saw one survivor for sure in the city as I was loading the pickup with
what supplies I thought I would need.  He, I could easily tell he was a
male even from the distance, was just coming out of a store a couple of
blocks from me when I pulled up gun shop.

   I yelled out and waved my hands over my head trying to get his
attention. He raised the rifle he was carrying and fire three shots in my
direction, all aimed high.  Then he got into a small SUV and drove off.

   I know when I'm not wanted, so I went into the gun shop only to find
that it had already been mostly looted.

   IF I met others, I only hoped they would be a bit more friendly.

   ----------------------------------------

   It was late afternoon when I drove down the main street of Iuka, only
ten miles from the farm.  This had been the county seat, population five
thousand.  I had to weave among cars and trucks that haphazardly blocked
the street.  All the store windows had been broken and the stores looked
looted.  The big chain grocery store was only a smoking ruin.

   I pulled into the QuickMark, where I usually got gas when I was in town.
Turned of the truck's engine and after making sure the Glock had a round
chambered and the short-barreled .357 was stuck in by belt under my jacket,
I got out.  I could see that the store had already been looted.  The large
glass front was shattered.  Stepping inside the store, the racks of foods,
drinks, snacks, and all the other products that the store owner kept neatly
arranged were turned over and very little of the original stock was left.
The lights were still on, so at least this little town still had
electricity.

   "Hank!" I called for the owner.  He and I had gotten fairly friendly
over the years that I had visited my great-grandfather Daniel.  "Hank! 
Anybody here?"

   Nobody here.

   I searched through what little the looters had left.  It wasn't much. 
And what there was had been opened in the aisles and trashed.

   I walked over behind the counter thinking maybe they missed a pack of
cigarettes or a couple of cigars.  Yeah, yeah, smoking is bad for your
health.  Maybe it would kill me.  I could only hope.

   It was then that I saw the body.

   Covered in dried blood and bruises.  Clothes torn off, only a ripped
blouse covered her.  Her blond hair now tinted red with dried blood.  I had
a hard time recognizing her.

   It was Susan, Hank's daughter.  I thought she was dead, until I notice a
slight rise and fall of her chest.

   "Susan!" I quickly kneeled beside her in the blood and trash.  She had a
strong carotid pulse.  Prying her eyes open showed that her pupils were
equal, so the possibility of brain damage was slight.

   I ran my hands over her body checking for other injuries.  Yeah, I
noticed that she still had a nice figure.  I'm a man after all.  Susan was
only three years older than myself.  No broken bones that I could tell.

   She was bleeding slowly from her vagina and it did not take a
professional to tell that she had been vaginally and anally raped. 
Probably by more than one guy.  Susan had been a strong woman and knew how
to take care of herself.

   "Awwww," Susan moaned as I tried to move her.

   Her eyes opened slowly, not really focusing.  Probably only seeing a
blurred image leaning over her.

   "NOOOOO!!!" she screamed and weakly tried to fight me off. 
"NOOOOO!!!!!"

   "Susan," I said gently grabbing her head and forcing her to look at me.
"Susan, it's o.k.  now.  It's over.  It's James.  James.  I'm here.  You're
safe.  Look at me, Susan.  Look at me."

   Her eyes passed over me and looked beyond searching for her attackers.
Finally she seemed to focus on my face.

   "James?" she whispered..

   "Yes.  James.  It's all over.  You're safe.  You're alive.  Hurt, but
alive."

   She passed out.

   Mercifully she stayed that way as I picked her up and loaded her in the
truck.  Taking her to the farm was the only thing I could think of.

   I had just closed the passenger door when I heard footsteps coming from
around the corner of the building.

   "Don't move," a voice said.  "I've got a twelve-gauge on ya.  It'll make
a awful big hole."

   "I'm not moving," I said.

   "Good.  Now turn around.  Slowly."

   I turned.  Slowly.

   A greasy-haired, bearded man stood about twenty feet away at the corner
of the building.  I got the impression that I knew him but the beard and
scrawny, almost wasted look of him confused me.

   "Well.  Well.  Well," he said taking a couple of steps closer.  "If it
ain't the famous doctor.  Come running back home have ya." His eyes were
rummy.  Faced covered with scabs and I could see where his hair had fallen
out in patches.  "Ya late, Doc.  Ain't nobody here needs ya now.  There's
just me and as you can see I'm doing fine and dandy.  Might say I the mayor
now.  Voted myself in.  No opposition.  Mayor Clyde Mason.  And as Mayor
I'm ah gonna take that truck.  And whatever ya got in it.  Town's been
picked clean.  Yes, suh.  Picked clean.  Whatcha got in there anyway?"

   "How are you doing, Clyde?  You don't look so good."

   "I'm alive.  That's more than can be said for everyone else.  I'm still
good enough to blow you away, Boy.  Don't make me and I just might let you
walk outa town." He brought the shotgun up to his shoulder aimed at my
head. "Now!  Whatcha got in there.  Boy!"

   I side stepped back to the rear of the truck.  "Not much.  Some food. 
Water.  Some medicines." By this time I had reached the rear and placed my
hand on the tailgate.  "Couple cases of Scotch."

   That made Clyde lick his dry lips.  Clyde did like his alcohol, in any
brand as long as there was plenty of it.  He lowered the shotgun but kept
it pointed at my belly as he stepped closer.

   "Mighty nice of you to bring that here, Doc," Clyde said.  "Yes, Sir. 
Might nice.  How much you got?"

   "Couple cases of Scotch.  Dozen cases of beer.  Three cases of Jack
Daniels Whiskey," I answered.  Lying my ass off.  "About all I had room
for. JD is your drink, isn't it, Clyde?  Want to see?"

   Well, now, that's where Clyde forgot where he was.  What's the purpose
of carrying a shotgun if you are going to get in close.  He should have
shot me from twenty feet away instead of getting within arm's reach.

   "Getting pretty low on stock myself," Clyde said as he approached.  The
barrel of the shotgun wandering from me to the truck and back.  "Open it
up. You walk outa here and leave that and everything will be square.  Yes,
Sir.  Open it up."

   Close enough.

   I grabbed the barrel of the shotgun with my left hand, pushing it
skyward as both barrel let go with a deafening roar.  A step forward and
with the heel of my right hand I busted Clyde's nose.  There was the
satisfying feel of bones crunching and a spurt of blood.

   I continued to push the shotgun up and back.  Clyde had to let go or get
his finger broke.  Besides both of his hands went to his busted nose as he
hollered.

   A swift kick, that would have made any NFL field goal kicker proud, to
his balls; and Clyde had a new place to cradle in his hands.  Standing
there clutching the family jewels, blood pouring down his face, and voicing
a shrill whine, Clyde had too many things demanding his attention to spare
any for me.

   Another kick to the inside of his right knee pushed it in a direction it
was never designed to go.  The bone popped and Clyde collapsed.

   I had the Glock out, pointing at his head, ready to pull the trigger. 
But I couldn't do it.  I just could not do it.  So I kicked him in the head
to shut him up.

   "Got to get over that," I said to myself.  "Pull the trigger on the
bastards when I get the chance or it could be me who gets shot."
   ...To Be Continued