Read Online The Borrowed World: A Novel of Post-Apocalyptic Collapse by Franklin Horton - Free Book Online

a gun.
    When I turned thirteen, my grandfather, without my mother’s knowledge, began recounting to me the stories of the men he’d killed and wounded over his lifetime.  There were many and these experiences had made him a hard man, physically and mentally.  I still remember the stories of all those men and I remember him telling me that I had to be a hard man, too, because there were men in the world who needed killing – men you could not turn your back on.  Men you could not leave behind to ambush you when the odds were better in their favor.
    “There’s an exit,” Gary said. “A minor one with no hotels and no fast food.  Just what we’re looking for.  Probably fewer people stop because there’s not much there.”
    Gary took the exit.  A sign pointed right and told us that it was three and a half miles to the nearest gas station.  Gary turned in that direction.
    “You guys sure this is a good idea?” Rebecca asked.  “The interstate seems safer.”
    “No,” I said.  “I’m not sure it’s safe at all.  Do you have a better idea?”
    No one said anything for a moment.
    “Maybe we should have just gone as far as we could on the interstate,” Alice said.  “We could have stopped at an exit with a hotel and stayed there until we could get help.”
    “I’m not sure we’d be better off,” I said.  “I am afraid those exits will become dangerous as more and more people gather there and become desperate.  If no help comes, people will turn on each other.  The cops are all tied up and you can’t depend on them for help.”
    Rebecca had quit crying but was still absently wiping the side of her face, where the blood had been, as if some invisible remnant remained.  “We survived the 9/11 attacks and things didn’t get that bad then,” she said.  “People weren’t shooting at each other.”
    “Those attacks killed a lot of people, but we didn’t lose resources,” Gary said before I could answer.  “This attack has damaged concrete resources along with a significant loss of life.  It could take years to recover from this.  If those attacks destroyed enough transformers, it could take two years to replace them.  If power isn’t available to manufacture more, who knows how long it could be?”
    “I think you’re overreacting,” Alice said.  “There’s no need to scare people like that.”
    “We’ll see,” I said skeptically.  “I hope we are overreacting.”
    We drove less than a mile before the Impala rounded a corner and encountered a roadblock consisting of two sheriff’s department cruisers parked nose-to-nose blocking both lanes of traffic.  Gary slowed as we approached and a deputy with what looked like a Remington 870 shotgun moved from behind the barricade, eying us carefully.  When we came to a stop, the cop stared at our local government tags, the same type his cruiser carried.  The deputy approached cautiously.
    “What can I do for you folks?” he asked.
    “Just looking for some gas,” Gary said in his friendliest tone.  “We’re on our way back home from Richmond and are getting pretty low.”
    The deputy lowered his head a little and got a good look at each us, then lowered his gun, not perceiving us as a threat.
    “You might not have heard,” the deputy said, “but the Governor has locked down the gas supply.  All available gas is for official emergency response only.”
    I leaned over toward Gary, to where I could see the deputy’s face.  “Any chance of a tank out of professional courtesy?” I asked.  “We’re local government, too.”
    The deputy considered this.  “What branch?” he asked. “Where you guys from?”
    “Mental health,” Alice spoke up before I could answer him.  “Russell County.  Near Bristol.”
    I’d been prepared to say Emergency Services or county government on our way back from a conference.  Something that sounded more official –more critical –anything but mental health.  Cops didn’t give a