This is from Derrick's Perspective
With the eager assistance of the kids, I maneuvered the trailers to the garage door. Their little faces were scrunched up in concentration as they 'helped' me, their tiny hands gripping the edges of the trailers as they pushed while I pulled. The air was thick with the smell of smoke, and the kids complained about the number of people having campfires. I couldn't bring myself to correct them, to tell them the truth. Instead, I just smiled and thanked them for their help.
I was about to head inside to check on Mr. Allen when the door swung open, and he emerged with a few pieces of luggage. His face was a mask of determination. At least halfway, he was back to normal.
"Ready?" I asked, my gaze meeting his.
"I am," he replied, his voice steady. "And I'm sorry for earlier." His gaze held mine, a mix of regret and defiance dancing in his eyes.
I shrugged, a small smile playing on my lips. "It's all good," I said, dismissing his apology with a wave of my hand. He wasn't the one that needed to apologize.
Together, we began to load up the trailers, taking care to balance the weight. The kids would ride in one of the bike trailers, their excited chatter filling the air as they wore themselves out running circles around us. The other trailer was filled with my stuff, the kids' belongings, and half of Mr. Allen's things. I would be pulling these two.
Mr. Allen, on the other hand, would be in charge of the two red wagons. They were filled to the brim with the rest of his stuff and the tools and food I had managed to gather. Once we were done loading, he pulled to test whether he could or not, and the wheels turned with a bit of effort from him.
Just as we finished our final checks, a gunshot echoed through the air. The sound was sharp and clear, unmistakably coming from the direction of the gate. My heart pounded in my chest, a sudden rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins.
Michel, the youngest of the Allen kids, tapped on my leg, his small face scrunched up in confusion. "I thought it wasn't 4th of July yet," he said, his voice filled with a child's innocence.
I nodded, forcing a smile onto my face. "You're correct, little man," I said, my voice steady despite the excitement gnawing at my insides. "But not everyone follows the rules." I stopped myself before I could launch into a lecture about the virtues of rule-breaking. He wasn't my kid, and it wasn't my place to instill my values in him.
Across from me, Mr. Allen's face was a mask of worry and fear. Our eyes met, and I could see the fear clawing to come to the surface in his gaze. I subtly shook my head, a silent plea for him to stay quiet. Now was not the time to panic.
Michel and Emma didn't need to see their father break down.
Mrs. Allen decided to perform her version of a good deed for the day. With a dramatic flourish, she kicked the garage door open, making an entrance that was impossible to ignore, distracting Mr. Allen from the gunshot making him spin around to face her. She was dragging behind her two jumbo-sized suitcases, their wheels grating against the concrete floor.
"You are going to find a place for these!" she demanded, her voice echoing in the garage, wafting like poison to the outside where we stood. Sensing the tension, the kids quickly abandoned their game and huddled behind me.
Mr. Allen, ever the diplomat, trying to keep the peace, responded in a calm voice, "I'm sorry, dear, but the trailers are already full. You're going to have to pull these yourself."
Mrs. Bitch was not one to back down easily. "What are you talking about? There's an empty trailer right there," she retorted, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at the trailer we had set aside for the kids.
Mr. Allen's face hardened, shoulders stiffened, as he stood up straight and met her gaze. "That's for the kids, dear," he stated firmly.
Mrs. Bitch was quick to dismiss his argument. "They've got feet," she snapped back. I could feel the kids pressing into my legs tighter, their fear palpable.
Mr. Allen's patience seemed to snap for the second time today, setting a record since I've known this family. For a moment, he was silent, his face darkening with anger. It was as if a black aura was forming around his head, taking on the shape of horns. "You do, too, and look, your arms work as well," he retorted, his voice taking on a menacing tone that left no room for further discussion. "Use them," he added, ending the argument and turning to me.
"Wait here for a second. I'll go take a quick look around," I instructed Mr. Allen, my voice low and steady. "While I'm gone, get the kids in the trailer." I was impressed Mr. Allen used his backbone with his wife.
Finally.
Turning on my heels, I sidestepped the kids, leaving them huddled to each other, and moved swiftly towards the street, my long strides eating up the distance. I peeked around the privacy wall, my senses on high alert. I strained my ears, listening for any sounds out of the ordinary, my eyes scanning the area for any signs of movement. Everything seemed quiet for the moment but not quite right.
Sprinting back to the group, I relayed what I had observed. "It looks clear for now, but we must be as quiet as possible. That includes you, kids," I added, glancing down at the little ones. "We don't know if there are more..." I paused, searching for the right words, "...uninvited guests." I looked back up at Mr. and Mrs. Allen, my gaze serious. "We don't want to attract any attention, okay?"
Everyone nodded in response. We moved towards the edge of the driveway, and I paused one last time to look around to ensure the coast was still clear.
A nagging feeling in the back of my mind told me to hold off, to wait just a little longer. I stood there at the edge of the driveway. In my hand rested the makeshift handles of the trailers, my senses on high alert.
Mrs. Bitch was not one to appreciate silence or inaction. "What's going on?" she demanded, her voice grating on my nerves. I raised a finger to my lips, signaling for her to be quiet. She huffed in response, but thankfully, she said nothing else.
Just then, a group of thugs emerged from a house further down the street. They were carrying various items, their arms laden with stolen goods. They were moving away from us, thankfully. I watched as they disappeared into another house before I finally felt it was safe to move.
"Let's go," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. I started pulling the trailers towards the gates, setting a pace with Mr. Allen. Of course, and unfortunately, he had to slow down to accommodate his wife, who was struggling with her oversized luggage. But we were moving, and that was what mattered.
We hadn't covered much ground before Mrs. Bitch, began to falter. "Wait," she panted, her face flushed and sweaty as we rounded the second corner, about halfway to the gate. "I'm getting tired."
I didn't have the luxury of patience. "We can't stop. Not until we're out of this gated community," I told her, my voice firm. "You're a prime target here. Out there, we're just another group of looters bringing back our haul, not the rich folks people would want to rob."
She sniffled, her eyes welling up with tears. I didn't even feel a pang of something akin to pity. Her crocodile tears wouldn't get us out of here any faster.
Mr. Allen, ever the peacemaker, tried to soothe her. "We can take a break once we're out of here," he promised. "But we have a few miles to cover and can't afford to drag this out. We don't want to be walking in the dark."
I glanced over my shoulder, my gaze meeting hers. "That's not an option," I said, my tone leaving no room for argument. "If it looks like we're not going to make it before dark, I'll go ahead with the kids to ensure their safety and come back for you." I allowed a small, menacing smile to play on my lips. "But that means you'll be without your guard dog."
Mrs. Bitch shot me a look that was a potent mix of hatred and fear. But she didn't say a word in response. She just nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line, and we continued on our way.
I turned my head and went back to my scanning for threats.
Once we were outside the gates, the chaos of the world beyond our sheltered community enveloped us. In this chaos, we were just another group of people trying to get away with our loot, and no one paid us any mind. I took the opportunity to stop and look around, giving Mr. and Mrs. Allen a chance to catch their breath. I could feel the sweat trickling down my back, and my wound was starting to throb with a dull ache.
Emma's small voice from the trailer piped up, "Why do you have a red spot on your shirt?"
I glanced down, and sure enough, there was a fresh blotch of red staining my shirt. Thinking quickly, I replied, "I must have nicked myself on something while packing for this trip. Thank you for noticing, Emma. Good girl."
Michel, not wanting to be left out, quickly protested, "I noticed too, but I didn't want to say anything."
I smiled down at them, appreciating their concern. "You're a good boy, too, Michel."
Turning my attention back to the Allens, I said, "Break's over. Let's cover a mile, and then we can take another break." Mrs. Allen looked like she wanted to protest, but when Mr. Allen and I started walking again, she quickly fell into step behind us.
The remainder of our journey was a monotonous cycle of walking, pausing, and hydrating. We trudged along the streets, our small caravan crossing the chaos of the city. The kids, bless their tiny hearts, managed to sleep through most of it, oblivious to the grim reality around them. They were spared the sight of the lifeless bodies strewn across the streets and the rampant looting that was taking place along the way.
For the most part, we went unnoticed. We were unbothered Where we were noticed and didn't get more than a glance. I'd like to think my imposing stature had something to do with that. Standing at well over six feet tall and built like a brick shit house, I wasn't exactly the kind of guy people wanted to mess with.
My wound, however, was another story. It throbbed and bothered me with a persistent ache that was hard to ignore, but ignore it, I did. It wasn't until we were nearing the end of our journey that the pain began to intensify, a burning sensation that gnawed at my side. But with the sun setting and the darkness of the smokey day, it was getting even darker. Stopping wasn't an option.
The Allens, despite their initial reluctance, kept up with me. The fear of being left behind was a powerful motivator, it seemed. I didn't risk pushing them too hard, giving them breaks every mile as promised.
But our relatively smooth journey came to a halt when we reached the gate of Maria's apartment complex. The sight that greeted us was far from welcoming.
Northern hospitality left much to be desired.