The Borrowed World: A Novel of Post-Apocalyptic Collapse by Franklin Horton Page B

pointed out.  “The bushes aren’t really even leafed out fully yet.”
    “Great,” she sighed.
    “Is the kitchen serving anything?” Gary asked.
    The lady nodded.  “Bar open, kitchen open.  Cash only.”
    “Of course,” Alice muttered.  “Cash only.”
    We made our way up to the third floor in a stairwell that was dimly lit by small windows spaced throughout.  When we entered the third floor hallway, we found a scene much like the one we left behind this morning – a dim hallway, strangely silent.  Without the HVAC system working its miracle, the hallway was musty.  It was also clear from the smell of the hallway that not everyone was utilizing the bushes.  The hallways stank of unflushed toilets and urine.  Our room was equally musty but was well-lit and had opening windows that allowed us to bring in a little fresh air.  It was also clean, apparently unused since the disaster.
    We crowded into the small room with two double beds, standing around awkwardly.  All of us wanted to sit down on the nearest bed but we didn’t have a protocol for this.  It was way too awkward.
    “I’m sure it’s fine with Jim and I if you guys take the beds.  We’ll sleep on the floor.  Work for you, Jim?”
    I nodded.  “Not a problem.”
    “Are you going back after those older folks?” Alice asked me.  “Who all is going?”
    “I don’t think we all need to go,” I said.  “I think if Gary and I went, and the church sends someone, that should be enough.”
    “If you’re sure,” Alice said.  “I don’t mind going.”
    “It should be fine,” I said.  “I just need to shift a few things in my pack.”
    I tried to decide if I was going to take my pack with me on this little errand or leave it in the hotel room.  As much as I was ready to have the heavy, sweaty thing off my back, I was also afraid to leave it.  What if I didn’t make it back here for some reason?  What if it was stolen?  The idea of making it through this crisis without my gear was not encouraging.  I’d put too much planning into this Get Home Bag to step out of this room without it. 
    I also wanted to switch pistols.  While the Ruger LCP was my primary carry pistol due to its light weight and the fact that it was easily concealable, I carried a larger pistol in my Get Home Bag.  It was Beretta 92 9mm with fixed sights.  Although it was not the first gun I’d ever owned, it was the first gun I ever went out and bought with my own money.  I had just gotten my first full-time job and wanted a handgun.  Concealed Carry Permits were difficult to obtain at the time.  You had to go before a judge and present a damn good reason for needing one.  My reason for needing one, I felt, was that I travelled a lot at odd hours on lonely highways and didn’t want to be caught unprepared.  For twenty years, that gun had been my constant travel companion.  It didn’t have an accessory rail, or tritium sights, or a laser, but it was dependable and comfortable in my hand.  I knew it intimately and it was the pistol I wanted in my belt.
    I took a flashlight from my pack and disappeared into the bathroom.  I shifted a few things around, tucking away some extra water bottles I’d brought from the church tent.  I also removed my other pistol from the pack. When my adjustments were complete, I had the heavier Beretta concealed in a Fobus paddle holster under my un-tucked shirt.  I also had two spare magazines for the pistol in a magazine holster on my left hip.  Everything was hidden but easily accessible. 
    When I exited the bathroom, I had the Ruger LCP in my hand.  Rebecca stared at it.
    I looked at Randi.  “You ever shoot one of these?” I asked, holding up the LCP.
    She smiled.  “Oh, hell yeah.  I’ve shot guns my entire life.”
    “Keep this in your pocket until we get back,” I instructed her.  “If there’s an emergency, use it.  I just reloaded it.  There’s no safety so when you pull it out, just point