The Man with the Big Gun

Chapter 1: Rescue “You okay, honey?” The words were the first he ever spoke to me, when he pulled me out of the rubble. I was only semi-conscious, but the gentle, concerned tone, in a voice that was nevertheless deep and virile, reached into me and made my heart melt. He was pulling me free with his hands around my ankles, and I was on my stomach, covered with concrete bits and powder. Then, once freed, gentle but strong hands reached down and turned me over. I heard the intake of breath. This was followed by the words, “Oh! You’re a dude.” These were spoken with definite disappointment. On the one hand, that was okay. I mean, I am a dude, as he put it—more or less, though I dislike being constrained by such a label. On the other hand I felt the loss of that momentary sense of being—well, cared for, cared about. I had never felt that before from such a virile man, who pretty obviously must be straight. It was nice. The new tone, disappointment, while a let-down for me, wasn’t hostile, which was good. But still, the initial question, the attitude conveyed by it, still haunted me. I found myself wanting it again. As I came to full consciousness, however, I thought of the word, “honey.” That, certainly, wasn’t an appropriate word to address a woman, unless that woman was the guy’s girlfriend or something, and possibly not even then. This realization made me start to dislike this man. The term “sexist oaf,” floated through my mind. Then it occurred to me that he’d thought I was a kid, a girl. That was better. I am, after all, rather slight of build. I began to forgive the guy in my mind and thought again—of that tone. I shivered at the remembrance and made to sit up. The guy had removed his hands, and I felt a sense of loss over that. They had felt so reassuring. Even as I struggled onto my elbows, I thought about how I might induce another action like that on his part. I groaned. Nothing. The light was limited, but I looked up at the ceiling first thing when I opened my eyes. “It’s safe.” I nodded and groaned when this hurt my head. “Uh, you need help?” I tightened my lips. There was hesitation in this offer, reluctance. That I was used to. I looked at the guy kneeling over me—and did a double take. He was lit from the side—a lantern that sat on a piece of concrete to one side was the only illumination—and this threw his face into high contrast. But I could see enough to be impressed. He was good enough looking, strong jaw-line, broad, kindly face, and blond hair in a short cut. I also saw that he appeared to be wearing some kind of blue-shirted uniform. I groaned again and nodded. The hands came around again, still strong and capable, still reassuring and kind, but more reserved. I used his strength and my own will to sit up fully. Then I let out my breath. “Wow!” I murmured. I had, in the process of this movement, gotten a look at the guy’s figure generally. He was built—so much so that my heart actually fluttered. “What?” he said. I looked at him. His eyes, I decided might be blue—probably were blue. “Oh,” I said. “Sorry!” I raised a stiff arm slowly up and felt my head. “Painful.” “Yeah,” he said. “Lucky you weren’t killed, though. You were just at the edge of the fall. I saw you in the distance when it happened. Lucky for you that the two big pieces fell over you and not onto you.” I turned around stiffly and looked. I saw what he meant. Then I turned back and looked at him. “Really?” “What?” I shook my head and winced at the pain. “Would have been better if they had fallen on me.” The man’s face tightened, though he did nod. But then he shook his head. “That’s no way to talk. You’re alive, right?” I stared at him and shrugged. “You want some water?” “You have water?” He nodded and proffered an actual canteen. He opened the top and held it up for me to drink. More importantly, he also held the back of my head. It felt nice. After I’d drunk, I said, “Well, you’re prepared.” He chuckled. “Yeah. As it happens. A friend of mine and I, we’re members of a survival group that meets near here. We had the stuff in our lockers for the meeting. It was going to be tomorrow.” His voice trailed off, and I felt a sense of sadness. “Your friend?” I asked. He shook his head. “He didn’t make it.” “I’m sorry.” “Thanks.” Suddenly I found myself wanting to comfort this massive man, and not just to use it as an excuse to cop a feel of some sort. But as I moved, I gave a small cry as pain lanced through my side. “You in pain?” he said. There was concern in the guy’s voice, but not that gentle, attentive concern that had been there in the man’s initial words. Being aware of this made me irritable. “Of course!” I snapped. In the aftermath of this remark, I felt a kind of chill from the guy. Then, frightened of him leaving me alone, I reached out and clutched the man’s arm. “I’m sorry!” I said. “It’s just—well, yes, I am in pain. A lot of pain actually.” He regarded me expressionlessly, and then nodded slowly. Finally he turned and rummaged in a pack that was behind him. When he turned back he was holding a pill-box. “I visited a pharmacy,” he said, “in the underground here. Take one of these. They might help.” “What are they?” “Demerol.” “What’s that?” “Like codeine, a narcotic. Takes away pain.” “Oh,” said. “Thanks!” I took one from him, and with his help washed it down with more water from his canteen. “Now, let’s sit for a while, while it takes effect.” “It won’t knock me out?” He shook his head. “It numbs pain. It might make you a little stupid.” I barely bit back the comment, Like you? And I felt a sense of mortification. Where had that come from? I considered, and decided it must be the pain, and perhaps the fact that this guy was so obviously superior to me in so many ways—except perhaps in intelligence. I chided myself. Quite apart from a question of manners, there was the realization that this guy was a resource. As we sat and waited, we talked. “Do you know what happened?” I asked, opening the conversation. He shook his head. “Not all of it. But some. What about you?” I shook my head. “Naw, I was working overtime tonight, in one of the office towers. Then the power went out. I saw the lights go out all across the city. Then came the earthquake. I went down the stairs and had just got to the underground passages when the second quake struck. Then I got hit by the falling concrete.” My companion nodded. “What about you?” “Me? Oh,” he said and pointed to his uniform crest. “I’m security. I was on my beat when it struck. I came down to the passages as well. I hit one or two of the stores: the pharmacy and—” “Looting?” I interrupted. “A security guard?” The man’s face tightened and he looked at me quizzically. “Don’t you know?” “Know what?” “Why the power went off.” I shrugged. “Something to do with the power station. It’s happened before.” The man gave a bitter laugh and shook his head. “Naw. I heard on the company radio, emergency channel—when the internet and phones went down. We were hit.” “Hit?” “You didn’t see? There was a big explosion east of the city. A big explosion. Lasted quite a few minutes, but it must have been miles away.” “You saw that?” “Yeah. So did that friend of mine.” The man shook his head sadly. “What was it? A blow-up at the power plant?” The man gave an incredulous laugh. “We were hit, man! Nuclear warheads.” “What?” He nodded and then shrugged. “What else? And the power grid went out then. Everything’s gone, all power, all communication.” I stared at him while he continued to nod significantly. “Armageddon, my friend.” “Oh—my God!” I whispered. The man looked at me. “I don’t get it,” he said. “You said you wished you’d been killed. How could you have said that if you didn’t know?” I massaged my temples and considered. “I—I’m not sure. I guess I must have—well—I’m not sure.” It touched my head gingerly at the back. “Concussion, maybe.” The man nodded. “Better check and see if there are any breaks or deep cuts. I don’t see anything obvious—but I have medical supplies—from looting the pharmacy as you put it.” Strangely, what struck me most in this utterance was the idea that this guy had checked me over to the extent of discovering whether I was obviously injured. It was something, I thought, and it felt nice. I began to move my limbs, even, with the help of his strong hand, got to my feet—though that made my head swim for a minute or so, so that I clutched onto him a bit. There did not seem to be anything broken, no limb that would not move. He checked the back of my head, feeling with gentle fingers. “A bump or two here,” he said, “but no breaks.” Don’t stop! I wanted to say, but didn’t. Now that we were standing, I was again struck by how massive this guy was. I was impressed, to the extent that I could feel his presence as a kind of throbbing warmth. It made me feel a bit silly. I looked him up and down appreciatively. Then I heard myself say, “How did you know my name?” The man stared at me. “Uh—what?” “You addressed me by my name.” I felt a rising sense of both danger and excitement, but found it impossible to stop. He scratched his head. “What? What name?” “Honey. That’s my name—or at least my nickname. You can call me that if you like. I don’t mind.” I smiled at him. At this the guy took a step back from me. “What?” he said again, and this time he sounded—well, not friendly, though what else I couldn’t quite tell. Cautious? I blinked at him, vaguely aware that it must be the Demerol that was giving me my current sense of immunity from prudence, but more aware of a realization that as a conversationalist my companion was probably not likely to display what might be called rapier wit. Still, I thought, big and stupid has its own attractions, and there are other ways to communicate than with words… He was still staring at me. The positive concern was entirely gone, even the absence of judgment was gone. He was looking at me with a negative, I’ve got your number, kind of look now. It wasn’t exactly nasty, or hateful; and it wasn’t disgust—not quite. And that, for some reason, gave me a distinct feeling of hope. I smiled at him sympathetically. “I’m guessing,” I said, pointing at him playfully, “that you’re wondering if I’m—” “Uh—gay?” he said, swallowing. I shook my head. “Oh, no.” At this he seemed to relax slightly—with relief, perhaps? Or was it disappointment? That got me wondering, thought thinking on it I thought it likely to be wishful thinking. “Actually,” I continued confidentially, “I hate that word. I mean, what does it mean, exactly? Gay! Happy? Carefree? And who is that, really? I mean—and especially in the current situation. Am I right?” He was looking at me intently, and now gave an uneasy chuckle, and then shrugged. I reached out and touched his forearm with my fingertips. “The word I prefer is ‘faggot,’” I said, and smiled at him again. The guy did a double take then, and, though the lighting was minimal, seemed to blush. His mouth even hung slightly open. I found myself looking at him and thinking how sexy he was even when apparently stupefied. I had begun to wonder how this current moment of crisis would end when, to my great relief, the guy grinned. “The drugs have kicked in, then?” he said. I laughed. “Oh, yes!” Still grinning, he said, “Maybe I gave you too high a dosage. Can you walk?” I took an explorative step, turned, and took another. “Yes,” I said. “I can walk.” “Then why don’t we get going?” “Certainly.” He hoisted his pack and offered me the lantern. I stared at it while my companion shouldered other items. “This is—what? An oil lamp?” “That’s right.” I considered. My brain wasn’t working very well, and it took a while. “Why this—why an oil lamp?” He looked at me. “Oh, you don’t know that?” “Don’t know what?” “All the electronics—fried.” “What?” I shook my head and groaned quietly. “What?” “I think it’s the EMP—electromagnetic pulse. I’ve read about that sort of thing, comes from an atomic blast—fries all electronic circuits. Nothing electronic works—at least, that’s what I think. I’ve looked at some items.” I stared. “Wow!” He nodded. “We are f****d,” I murmured. My companion shrugged and nodded to one side. “This way.”