The Alaskan Chronicles: The Provider

Chapter 8

It never got completely dark in the summer here, and the fires had spread, turning the sky a deep red. The gunfire was almost continuous. I don't think anyone had managed much sleep. At four a.m. on Thursday the alarm went, and Dad got us up.

"I think we're making the right decision," he said as we loaded our last few bags onto the truck. We'll be safer out of here for a while. Looks like it's only parts of downtown burning at the moment, but if this weather keeps up, if the wind changes, the whole place could go up in flames." A few minutes later and Bob cranked up the engine and we were setting off down the drive. He had his Browning in the cab, and he'd given me a Ruger with the proviso – "Don't use it unless I say so, kiddo."

Mom had looked as if she was about to say something in protest, but kept quiet. She squashed up inside the truck with Mrs. Maclaren between her and Bob. Dad was up at the front, behind the cab, Bess and I were in a nest at the back. The windows were open, so we could hear each other.

"OK," said Bob. "Let's roll. No seat belts on this thing, but we won't be going fast."

The next few moments changed my life. Around the corner there was a dusty pickup blocking the road. Bob pulled to a halt. Four guys got out. I recognized Mrs. Maclaren's neighbor from Tuesday, and Joss, the guy who bullied me at school. They were carrying baseball bats. There was another guy I didn't know, with a long knife. And there was Joss's Dad, Mr. Trinker, a big man, must have been six and a half foot, huge beer gut, carrying a rifle.

"Out you get, people. We're taking this," he shouted. I don't think he noticed Bess and me low down in the back of the truck. I quietly loaded a cartridge into the rifle.

Dad stood up. "You can't do this. It's ours."

"Not any more it ain't. We're confiscating it." He laughed; the other guys were smirking. "It's our patriotic duty, as concerned citizens. You've forfeited your rights, you wimps, this belongs to us. Traitors, that's what you are." He spat. "Fucking Communists."

"But..."

"Not another word from you, mister, or you get it first. Joss, you make a start now," he waved the rifle at the truck.

Joss moved to the passenger door, jerking it open, and grabbed my mother by the arm. Mom fell out of the cab, hitting the ground hard. I saw Bob move down, I guessed to get his rifle. Mr. Trinker saw him do it and fired – the bullet went through the windscreen above Bob's head.

Time slowed. I remember thinking, do I do this? I picked up the Ruger and half-raised it. It was like I was outside myself, watching as I got to my feet, thumbed the safety catch off. I saw Joss's Dad swinging his rifle around towards me. My finger seemed to curl at snail's pace around the trigger as the barrel came up. I shot from the hip, the gun going off fractionally before his barrel centered on me. The crack sounded abnormally loud. A surprised look spread across his mug. All the everyday sounds seemed to fade from the world, giving way to an empty silence. Slowly, Mr. Trinker slumped, falling forwards, his face in the gravel. And sound came crashing back.