“More of the rioters?” she asked as she turned away from him.
“They are not rioters; just be quiet… please. They’ll hear us.”
The sound of the mob slowly dissipated, and Jacob worked up the courage to return to the window. When he looked out, the mob and the bare-chested man were gone but his neighbor’s home was in shambles. Windows were shattered, the door was gone, the walls splintered, and much of the front porch had collapsed.
With no sign of anyone, the area was once again quiet. The previous mayhem on the street had retreated into the shadows with the mob, leaving Smitty’s once quaint and well-maintained home destroyed. Jacob searched the neighboring properties and found many in the same condition. Nearly every other house showed signs of attack.
How long before they come for us? Jacob thought.
He moved to the foot of the bed and sat on the floor. The rifle that leaned against the wooden bed frame near his head wasn’t much; a squirrel gun, his dad called it. It was a .22LR—magazine fed and reliable, but not much stopping power. He should have bought a larger rifle when he'd had a chance, and he'd had plenty, stopping to look at them on trips to the outdoor stores and admiring the stealthy look of the exotic assault rifles. He always wanted one, but Jacob wasn't a hunter and he didn't spend weekends at the range, so how would he have justified the purchase?
An inherited handgun passed down from his father for home defense and the rifle he kept from his childhood seemed to be plenty enough at the time.
A nearby gunshot shocked him back into the present. He resisted the temptation to go to the window this time. There was no reason to look; he wouldn’t be going to anyone’s aid. There would be no opportunity for escape. If anything, he would reveal himself and those things—those monsters—would make their way into his home. If they came for his family, he wouldn’t be able to stop them. No, he wouldn't look. Instead, he sat at the edge of the bed listening to the screams and praying that the weather siren would come back on.
Jacob took another sip of the water, careful to ration it. He’d filled the bathtub of the adjoining master bathroom while the water was still running, just like the news people advised. He knew he could use it to refill the bottles, but it hadn’t come to that yet. More gunshots rang out, even closer now; he heard his daughter whimper at the sound of each noise. He could hear yelling now, followed by footfalls in the streets. A man was running, but Jacob still refused to go to the window. He wouldn’t get involved and put his family at risk.
“What are we doing? Do we just wait for them to come for us too?” his wife whispered. “Wait for them to kill us or take us away… one at a time?”
“We can’t go out there on the street? You know what happened last time,” he said, pointing at the window.
“I feel like we have to do something… anything, Jacob. I just can’t stay here anymore. Not like this. Katy’s sick; I think she needs a doctor,” she whispered.
Katy hadn’t spoken since the attack on the street. He thought it was shock, but she refused to eat or drink and now she had a fever. Jacob got to his feet and walked along the side of the bed. “Wait till morning; we’ll figure out a way. We will get out of here,” he whispered.
Jacob turned away from her and walked into the attached bathroom. A small window positioned high on the wall at the end of the room that, days earlier, Jacob had covered with a piece of cardboard. He carefully peeled back the material and investigated the backyard. Dark, quiet, and no movement, but in the distance, he could see the yellows and oranges of a new day beginning.
He moved and took a seat on a stool near the bathroom vanity. He smiled, thinking how he’d walked past this stool thousands of times, but never sat on it. He had put it in here for his daughter; his wife would brush her hair here every morning. Jacob had never bothered to admire the stool and how high it sat… nor how uncomfortable it was. Now it was the only chair in this part of the house.
Looking in the mirror at the bruise on his face from the airbag and the purple swelling under his eyes, he thought back to the previous day—the day of the accident… the look of hate on their faces… the dark, soulless eyes of the attackers…
Laura whispering to Katy in the bedroom brought him out of his trance. He looked up from the stool and deep into his reflection in the vanity mirror. His face was stubbled. His hair was matted. Three days of holding out in the upstairs of their home, with no showers and using a bucket as a toilet, told him they would have to make plans soon. They couldn’t stay here indefinitely.
After 9/11, Jacob researched and studied survival. Although he didn’t become a prepper or do anything drastic, he wanted to be educated. Shelter in place, food and water for three days, hold out and help will come was the common mantra. Jacob did his part, but help wasn’t here. Where were they? Why hadn't the police knocked on their doors or the Red Cross arrived with food and water? He feared they would never come.
Jacob moved back to the bedroom. His wife was opening a package of crackers to feed their daughter. She looked up at him.
“What?” he said.
“We can’t stay here,” she said. “This is the last of the crackers. Then what?”
“I don’t know. After the
