Page 31 of South of Nowhere

“Add that to our evac playbook. Next brush fire, maybe we should start some rumors that God’s pissed off. Where do you need me?”

He pointed to a neighborhood. “Nobody’s been there yet.”

She returned to her SUV and drove to the blocks he’d indicated.

She slowed at a cluster of residents standing on a corner, talking, four women and two men, early to late middle age. Most held coffee mugs or cardboard cups. They must have appreciated the risk—their faces were troubled—but they weren’t moving.

“You have to leave,” she shouted. “Hanover College! Now!”

Two of the half dozen looked her way and walked off, to grab their belongings and leave, Dorion hoped. The others remained where they were.

She called, “You can be fined or arrested!”

A woman in her forties snapped, “The government has no right to tell us what to do.”

Other than telling us to pay taxes, register cars, get a driver’s license, not to commit crimes, build according to code, how we can buy alcohol and guns…

But she didn’t engage, only drove on to urge more cooperative souls to save themselves.

13.

As he rolled to the ground, out of the path of the short shovel, a host of his father’s rules came to Colter Shaw’s mind.

Never strike with your fist if there’s a risk of hitting bone; use your palm, elbows and knees.

Never back yourself into a corner.

And of course the most important rule of them all:

Never fight unless you have no other choice.

His present situation was a prime example of the last rule. Not fighting wasn’t an option; for some reason the assailant—big and ruddy and bearded, with soupy hazel eyes—was clearly dedicated to stoving in Shaw’s skull. The man’s facial and head hair were red and unkempt. He was dressed in a quilted camo outdoors vest and a green plaid shirt, which was stretched taut at the belly by a roll of flesh. Jeans and ankle boots made up the rest of the recluse/mountain man look.

“What are you doing?” Shaw asked impatiently.

Another lunge.

Shaw dodged. He foresaw a possible move from the man, but chose not to engage. It would have been risky, given the man’s bearlike bulk and strength.

The assailant muttered: “Son of a bitch.”

Another chance—a takedown tackle. But again Shaw waited.

Never act prematurely when you’re being attacked. Assess.

He did this now, noting that while the man might have had other weapons, none were visible—and therefore could not be easily accessed.

Then, scanning the ground. No vines or rocks or branches to trip over.

And no one else seemed to be present.

Never assume assailants are acting alone.

Part of assessment in combat was always to determine why one was being attacked. That could decide the response. But as to this question: no damn idea. He called again. “Who are you? What’s this about?”

“Shut up, asshole.”

All right. Time to move things along. There was a family to save.

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