The Hatching (The Hatching #1)(62)
Neither Gordo nor Shotgun objected, because they both realized the immediate truth: it was much more fabulous.
Gordo had to hand it to Fred. Shotgun was an engineer and about the straightest gay man Gordo had ever met, and almost as if in response, his husband, Fred, seemed to go as far as he could in the other direction. It was as if the only way Fred knew how to be gay was loudly and stereotypically. Which, frankly, was a lot of fun. And Fred and Amy fed off each other’s energy. Fred was entertaining even by himself, but with Amy, the two of them were like a superhero social-hour comedy team. While Gordo and Shotgun could spend hours in the garage gapping spark plugs and checking bearings, Fred and Amy could spend the same time in the kitchen, whipping up appetizers and cocktails. Gordo loved his wife, but fair was fair: Fred and Amy together made things better than good. They made them, well, okay, fabulous. It was going to take a little emotional energy to get used to, because Gordo had always thought the end of the world as we know it to be a rather gloomy proposition—ashes and fire and corpses and all that Cormac McCarthy stuff—but with Amy and Fred running the show, it was a really well-thought-out music playlist and artichoke dip in an underground shelter that looked more like an incredibly hip loft without windows than the sort of sad bomb-shelter bunkers that were the standard fare for survivalists.
“So much of this is just waiting around,” Amy said. She stepped over and gave Gordo a kiss. “I’d rather wait around with company than by ourselves. There’s only so much time I can spend watching television while you clean your guns and double-check the radiation seals on the shelter. I’m sorry, but it makes sense and you know it.”
“And we have the space,” Fred said. “Somebody, and I’m not going to name names, but we all know I’m talking about my husband, has us stocked to live out five lifetimes down here. I mean, come on. The man even has tampons in storage, for God’s sake. The only things we don’t have that you’ll need are clothing and dog food. Though, if Claymore doesn’t mind canned peaches,” Fred said, bending over to scratch behind the dog’s ear, “he’ll be fine.”
So Amy and Gordo went home to pack. Amy filled two suitcases with clothes while Gordo loaded up the back of his truck with forty-pound bags of dog food—if the shit really did hit the fan, Claymore could transition to human food, but Gordo knew from experience that it gave the Lab some pretty bad flatulence—and tried to decide what things he might need that Shotgun didn’t already have. By the time Amy was ready to go, Gordo had realized the genius of Amy and Fred’s plan was that there wasn’t anything other than dog food and their clothes that Shotgun and Fred did not have stocked. Ultimately, the only extra thing he took was his Cooper Arms Model 52 Western Classic rifle and a dozen boxes of twenty-round .30-06 ammunition. It wasn’t his most expensive rifle, but it was his favorite. He could cluster three rounds in a three-inch circle from five hundred yards with it. If it really came to it, Shotgun’s armory was loaded for bear with guns and a few other things that weren’t exactly guns and weren’t exactly legal, but the Cooper Arms 52, even if it had only a three-shot magazine, was a sort of security blanket. He wasn’t going to take on rampaging zombie hordes with it, but if he needed to take out one person from a distance, it was the rifle he’d choose.
They were back and unpacked in one of the spare bedrooms in less than two hours. By seven they were eating dinner, by eight they were pleasantly drunk and playing Scrabble, by ten Gordo and Amy were in bed, and by six the next morning Gordo was getting himself a cup of coffee and feeling good enough about the decision to move into Shotgun’s place that he was beginning to think maybe it had partly been his idea. Shotgun’s setup really was sweet, and they did have a better chance of surviving the end of the world if they were working together. Plus, even though Gordo hated admitting it, it really was sort of more exciting being prepared with Shotgun. Survival was great, but it was even cooler to have somebody to gloat with. What was the fun of surviving if you couldn’t take pleasure in being more prepared and smarter than everybody else? It was exciting to think that these years of getting ready, all this effort, were going to pay off.
Gordo poured some cream into his coffee, taking an extra moment to savor it. That would be the first thing to go: fresh dairy, fresh produce, fresh meat. Freeze-dried, frozen, shelf-stable. That’s what would come as soon as they had to bunker up. But in the meantime, there was fresh cream and no reason he couldn’t drink his coffee outside. Besides, Claymore was already dancing around his feet. He’d trained Claymore to do his business on a five-by-five piece of artificial turf, but it made sense to take the pup out for a run while he could. Gordo walked up the stairs, through the double set of blast and radiation doors, and into the shell house that stood over the shelter. As soon as he opened the front door Claymore darted out, down the porch stairs, and into the dirt yard. The chocolate Lab took a piss against a boulder and then started rolling around in the dust. He seemed pleased with himself. Gordo took a sip of his coffee and then turned at the sound of a scrape on the wood.
“Didn’t see you there,” Gordo said.
Shotgun nodded. He was sitting on the porch in a rocking chair, a cup of coffee on the small table next to him, a tablet in his hand. “Couldn’t sleep. Just wanted to catch up on the news.”
“And?”
“Nothing. Well, everything. Same as yesterday. I guess a little more news out of India. Giant spiders, supposedly. There are a ton of pictures, but I’ve got to be honest: it looks like somebody went to town with Photoshop. Hard to believe it’s not a hoax. That being said, the AP reported at least two really big explosions, and people are panicking. Evidently almost all communication systems in Delhi are overloaded. Clearly, something is going on.”