Summer Storm
By Jack Hance
Near Leesburg, Georgia
Wednesday, June 18, 8:00AM
Summer Byrne stood in the dim quiet of the barn, trying to control her breathing. That morning, trying to make peace with Hamza’s mother, she got to the kitchen early and started to prepare breakfast. She was making everything the way the older women did daily, making the fried bread and eggs the men seemed to love in the morning. First, she made the paratha, kneading it carefully before folding in minced meat and frying it in a griddle. Then she moved to the anda, or eggs, scrambled and mixed with tomatoes, onions and chiles. Halfway through, Summer looked up and saw Hazeema Raza in the doorway.
“Good morning, Mrs. Raza,” Summer had said. “I wanted to help with breakfast.”
She wasn’t sure what reaction she expected, but certainly not high-pitched screaming and being bodily thrown from the kitchen, then bombarded with the paratha she’d piled on a plate next to the stove. It was so depressing, no matter what Summer did, the woman hated her. When she told Hamza’s Muslim parents that she wasn’t really Christian, since she’d never been to a church, Hazeema scoffed, and in the stream of Pakistani that followed, Summer was pretty sure she heard ‘godless hussy.’
She sat on a hay bale with a heavy sigh, then began to cry quietly. Summer felt a nudge at her shoulder, and heard a soft, chuffing sound.
“Not now, Seabiscuit,” she said. “I’m having a pity party here.”
She reached back and began to stroke the soft muzzle and cheek of her favorite horse. This was the animal that Summer and Hamza had ridden when they came to the farm nearly two months earlier, desperate after their disastrous trip from central Florida. The beautiful chestnut mare was one of dozens of stock animals kept there, and Summer had been allowed to adopt and name her. The horse continued to nudge at the red-haired girl, and finally Summer stood and hugged the mare.
“I can’t sulk with you around, girl,” Summer said. “I don’t have an apple for you, though.”
She heard footsteps behind her, and when she turned, she found Hamza, looking miserable.
“I’m sorry, Summer,” he said.
“What am I supposed to do, Hammy?” Summer said. “I’m not a good Pakistani girl, and I never will be, that’s all she cares about.”
“You must understand,” Hamza said. “My mother was always protective, I never dated, even before we came to the United States.”
It likely didn’t help that Summer was pale with flaming red hair, and at five-eight was almost an inch taller than Hamza.
“All I did was keep you alive coming here,” Summer said. “And besides, it’s not like we’re dating, really.”
Three months earlier, and before the EMP attack that destroyed their world, Hamza wouldn’t have been remotely the type of guy Summer noticed, instead favoring loud, good-looking, tall jerks who treated her poorly. During their nearly three-week trek from Hudson, Florida, Hamza had been badly wounded and the struggle for survival created a bond that neither anticipated. That closeness had been given no chance to blossom into romance with the constant, hovering presence of Mrs. Raza.
“No, but my parents know that I am liking you,” Hamza said. “I have told them.”
“Hammy! What are you doing?” Summer said. “You’re going to get me thrown out of here, and I’ve got nowhere else to go, I can’t go back to Becca’s place.”
Summer and Hamza had been rescued by Becca Walsh and her father, Levi, from a ruined school where a gang of abusive thugs held them. The Walshes armed and trained them, and for a time, they all lived together in the aftermath of the apocalypse. The neighborhood had become increasingly violent and dangerous, and when Summer decided to accompany Hamza on his quest to find his family, it was clear that Becca and Levi would have to move on as well.
“This will not happen,” Hamza said. “Uncle Fazli would not allow it, you ride and shoot better than most of his men, so you are needed, in case the rustlers are coming back.”
Fazli was the owner of the ranch, and not really Hamza’s uncle. He and Hamza’s father had been friends since they were children.
“Do we think they will?” Summer said. “We buried three of them in the south pasture.”
“The horses are a big prize,” Hamza said. “So, you must stay.”
“Tell that to your mother,” Summer said. “She was trying to kill me.”
“You must understand,” Hamza said. “She is also protective of her kitchen, especially, uh…”
“With blaspheming, red-haired harpies,” Summer said. “Who are trying seduce her son with their bosoms?”
Hamza’s face blazed bright red with embarrassment.
“She has only mentioned this once,” he said. “Recently.”
When Summer and Hamza arrived at the ranch, staring down six rifles, she was riding bareback, and he was gripping her chest with both hands to stay on, a fact Mrs. Hamza noticed before she saw the bloody bandages on her son’s leg.
“You know I was just trying to keep you on the freaking horse,” Summer said. “Anyway, I have work to do. I promised Tadeen I would ride the perimeter this morning.”
She led Seabiscuit from her stall and out into the yard. She fussed with the horse’s mane, redoing the loop she braided there, and finally Hamza appeared with his horse, fully saddled. Summer smiled.
“Took you long enough,” she said. “You okay getting on, with your hip?”
Hamza mounted his horse, grimacing only a little.
“Sure, Dad says it is nearly healed,” he said. “Just stiff, so the stretching out is good.”
Summer adjusted her rifle strap and grabbed Seabiscuit’s mane, then jumped smoothly onto her back. She preferred bareback and so did the horse, who was skittish with a saddle.
The ranch was huge, and after the disaster it had grown, as several neighboring properties were abandoned. Half an hour later, Summer and Hamza had ridden less than a quarter of the perimeter. They’d been slowed down when they discovered a young colt that was trapped in some thick brambles and needed to be cut free. As they continued, Summer marveled at how beautiful the rolling country was, so lush and green. This life would be nearly perfect, but for the feud with Mrs. Hamza.
They had seen at least two dozen horses grazing so far, and there were a dozen more corralled at the ranch complex. With everything collapsing back to 1800’s conditions, horses were extremely valuable. Hamza’s Uncle Fazli, who wasn’t really related to him, had recently traded a two-year-old stallion for six hogs and a good-sized stash of ammunition. Summer stopped her horse in the shade of a large cottonwood tree, and when Hamza stopped next to her, she reached out a hand.
“Sorry I was mad earlier, Hammy,” she said. “That breakfast thing was stupid.”
"You were trying,” he said. “She should have given you a chance.”
He linked fingers with the girl and squeezed lightly.
“I just need to back off,” Summer said. “Life here is good…”
She stopped talking and listened. The faint sound of gunfire, popping noises in the distance, came from the west, and both riders were instantly alert. Summer pointed to the nearby hilltop.
“There, we can see from that hill,” she said, then kicked Seabiscuit into action. “C’mon Hammy, it’s from the ranch.”
Summer reached the hilltop first and then gasped. Smoke was coming from an outbuilding used to store equipment, and four older-model trucks were parked in a ragged line in the yard that faced the large farmhouse. The gunfire was clearer here, and muzzle flashes were coming from the house porch, the upper level of the barn and the corral, responding to shots from men sheltered behind the four trucks.
“My parents!” Hamza said. “It is a full-scale attack!” Summer nodded.
Previously, the rustlers had relied on stealth, sneaking onto the ranch trying to steal a handful of horses. It appeared they now wanted everything.
“Trade rifles with me,” Summer said, holding out her bolt-action Savage.
“But, why?” Hamza said.
“Your AR has a way bigger magazine,” Summer said. “Do you have any spares?”
Hamza shook his head and then passed her his rifle. She gave him her Savage, with an extra four-round magazine.
“Twenty rounds here,” she said. “Six in my revolver and another fifteen in my gun belt. It will have to be enough.”
“What are you going to do?” Hamza said.
“I ride faster than you do,” she said. “I’ll swing wide and get behind them. You go right and try to get to the house, protect your parents.”
“Summer, there are many of them,” Hamza said. “I… can’t lose you. Let me help you.”
“You’re a terrible shot, Hammy,” Summer said. “I’d be too worried about you to do what needs doing. Just go, please!”
With that, Summer took off on Seabiscuit, leaning low over the horse’s neck as they galloped toward the ranch, her long hair flowing like a fiery plume. Hamza said a quick prayer, then prodded his horse to the right.
As Summer got closer to the ranch complex, the situation there became clearer. The attackers were clustered behind the parked trucks, but several had also moved to a large watering trough where they were flanking the defenders fighting from the corral area. Summer could see two bodies on the ground there, and several others were effectively pinned down. In the yard itself, a body lay prone and unmoving, and Summer could only hope it was an attacker and not one of her friends. Initially looking to attack the group behind the trucks, she shifted to the right, seeing the rustlers flanking the corral as the more immediate threat.
Summer was still riding at a full gallop, and was less than two hundred yards away, but none of the attackers had taken notice. She slowed Seabiscuit slightly and leaned to the right, keeping her left leg hooked around the horse’s back and holding tight to the loop braided into her mane. Summer brought her rifle up one handed and sighted on one of the men attacking the corral. She fired two quick rounds, and while only one hit its mark, it was enough to drop the rustler, who was clawing at a wound in his lower back. The other two were still oblivious, focused on the men trapped in the corral. Now less than fifty feet away, Summer swung herself from her horse and slapped Seabiscuit on the hindquarters to send her away from the gunfire.
Remembering what Becca Walsh taught her about the value of staying low, Summer dove to the ground and into an unsupported prone position, with her firing elbow out and her left hand under the handguard at the base of the barrel of her rifle. She knew she was badly exposed to the main rustler force behind the trucks and needed to act quickly. The man on the right at the watering trough was wearing a jacket, which could hide body armor, so Summer aimed and put a round into the base of his skull, below his ballcap. She immediately shimmied her hips to bring her aim left, where the other man was turning in shock toward his two dead friends. Just as he realized that she was behind him, Summer fired again, hitting him between the rear shoulder straps of his tank top. Before he hit the ground, she was already up, running toward the watering station, and relative cover from the other rustlers.
The last man Summer shot was still moving, laying on his back and pawing at his belt, which held a semiautomatic pistol in a clip-on holster. Summer reached it first, chambered a round and put it into the side of the rustler’s head. She dropped the magazine and grinned. It was nearly full, at least fifteen rounds. The other two men had fallen more or less on top of one another, so Summer rolled over them to use their bodies for cover, then peeked at the trucks in the yard. She could see movement, especially below the vehicles, but no one seemed focused on her. Summer turned her attention to the corral.
“Hey, you in the corral,” she called out. “This is Summer, don’t freaking shoot me.”
A man’s head rose up over the middle rail of the corral fencing. It was Raoul, one of the non-Pakistani stock hands.
“Summer?” he replied. “What are you doing over there?”
“Killing these assholes who were shooting at you,” Summer said. “Quick, get your butts into the barn. Then get high, try to put some fire on those trucks.”
Raoul and two other men jumped up and ran through the side entrance to the barn.
Hamza’s approach took longer, both because he was a weak rider with a bad hip, and because he needed to detour around the rear, fenced pasture to get the back of the farmhouse. Nearly continuous gunfire was coming from beyond the house and barn, and while he worried about his parents and the others, all he could think about was Summer. He left his horse tethered to a railing and ran to the back entrance and found it locked. He pounded on the door and waited a moment, and then the owner of the ranch, Fazli peeked out.
“Zami, where have you been?” he said. “Your parents are beside themselves.”
“Summer and I were riding the perimeter,” Hamza said. “Until we heard the shooting. She is in front somewhere.” Fazli nodded.
“That’s who it was, then,” he said. “Someone took out the rustlers by the watering station a minute ago.”
“Is she all right?” Hamza asked. “Where is she now?”
"It’s hard to say,” Fazli said. “We can’t see much from in here.”
Another flurry of gunfire came from the yard in front of the house, answered by several shots from somewhere above them.
“Where are Mom and Dad?”
“In one of the back bedrooms,” Fazli said. “You should go there.”
“I can’t,” Hamza said. “I must help Summer. What is everyone else doing?”
“Some of the men are in the front bedrooms,” Fazli said. “I came down to let Raoul in; He’s upstairs and I’m going back up there now.”
Hamza followed him up the stairs, then down the hallway. A breeze was blowing from the two front bedrooms, one of them Fazli’s, and when Hamza looked in, he could see that the window glass was broken out. The furniture had been moved against that wall, with men sheltering behind it as they popped up to fire out. Hamza crawled over to where his cousin Hassan was crouched. He was two years older than Hamza and he looked terrified, clutching a rifle but making no effort to fire.
“What is going on?” Hamza asked.
“I don’t know,” Hassan said. “Don’t look out, you’ll get shot. But Raoul was just out there.”
Hamza looked over just as the stock hand edged to the side of his window and fired two shots, then ducked back down.
“You were out front?” Hamza said.
“In the corral,” Raoul said, easing up again to peek outside. “We were pretty screwed until your girlfriend showed up.”
“Summer?” Hamza gasped. “You saw her?”
“These three guys were behind the watering trough,” Raoul said. “They shot Jake and had three of us pinned down. Summer rode up and shot all three of them, so we ran. I came up here and the others went to the loft in the barn.”
“Where is she now?”
“Still by the trough, I guess,” Raoul said. “She told us to get some fire on the trucks from high up, I think she was going to hit them from where she was.”
“What? By herself?” Hamza said. “They could rush her. I must go out there.”
“Hey, you take one step out that front door,” Raoul said. “You’re a dead man. Take over at the other window. When I yell out, put some rounds into those trucks to keep those assholes’ heads down, that’ll help Summer more.”
Summer was watching the rustlers sheltering behind the four trucks, which were parked close together thirty yards from the front of the farmhouse. She had no clear idea how many attackers there were, but there seemed to be several behind each of the trucks, all firing periodically at the house. The windows in the upper rooms of the house were broken, and the wall and window frames were pockmarked with bullet holes. Every minute or so someone would fire from the windows, but Summer didn’t see anyone she could identify.
None of the rustlers seemed to be paying attention to Summer, but she knew that sooner or later one of them would realize that their friends at the watering station had gone silent. She waited until a man moved near the end of the closest truck, with his legs visible below the bed, then she fired at his calf. His leg buckled, dropping him onto his side in clear view, as he screamed and thrashed about. Almost immediately another man moved over to check on him, and he dropped to a knee just beyond the truck tire. Summer fired again, and the knee exploded. The second man fell, hidden behind the tire, so Summer put a round into the chest of the first man, silencing his screams.
The remaining rustlers were now focused on Summer, and rounds began to slam into the sides of the watering trough and the bodies of the dead men shielding her. Summer had good cover, and with fifty feet separating her from the closest truck, was confident she could keep them from overrunning her position. She dropped the magazine on Hamza’s AR rifle and found she still had fourteen rounds. She heard a shout from within the house, and suddenly at least three defenders began to fire rapidly into the sidewalls and cabs of the parked trucks. Loud cursing erupted from the men hiding there. Asked later what she was thinking, Summer could only manage that she really wasn’t. With the cover provided by her friends inside, Summer popped up and ran toward the end of the nearest truck, a one-ton flatbed with oversized, humped wheel covers on the fenders.
Once she was crouched there, she pulled the captured pistol from her belt, a Beretta, made sure a round was chambered, then tucked it into her waistband in the front. She unsnapped the leather retention on her holster and made sure her revolver would pull freely. Summer’s heart was pounding; she had moved without a plan but now she was committed. She eased to the rear corner of the truck, then peered out. The rustler she shot was still sprawled there, clearly dead. Further on she could see the man with the knee wound, leaning awkwardly against the side of the truck while blindly firing a pistol at the house over the truck bed. Beyond him, she was surprised to see only six other rustlers, plus another who was on the ground, dead or wounded.
The gunshots from the house were letting up, but most of the rustlers were firing and the noise was deafening. Summer leaned out and put a round into the neck of the man with the bad knee, then put a double tap into the next one. Both fell to the ground, drawing the attention of the two men sheltered at the next truck. A round pinged off the fender next to Summer as the two rustlers dropped to a knee, as close to their truck as possible.
“Son of a bitch!” one yelled. “Some asshole is down at the end, we got three guys down.”
“Well, get them, for fuck’s sake,” a voice further down called. “It’s just some raghead sodbuster. Kill them!”
Summer dropped as low as she could, sitting with her legs extended, while shouldering her rifle on its strap. She pulled her revolver, a Smith & Wesson .38 Special with an extended, three-inch barrel. It held only six rounds, but Summer was more comfortable firing it than the Beretta. Plus, Becca always told her not to trust a gun unless she’d cleaned it herself. She held the revolver with both hands, pointing up at the rear edge of the truck bed. She heard low murmuring, then quiet, and finally the sound of boots pounding toward her. The first man burst past the truck, spinning and firing wildly over Summer’s head. She fired twice, and the powerful rounds blasted into the man’s gut from just two feet away. He doubled over, his mouth gaping like a dying fish, then a second man appeared over his back, skidding and losing his balance as he tried to stop. On a knee, he swung his arm around and fired his pistol. Summer fired at the same time, then she felt a blaze of pain in her right arm as her revolver fell from her grasp. She reached for the Beretta with her left hand, but her aim had been good, hitting the rustler in the neck, finishing him.
Summer gasped with pain, then scuttled back on her rear end, pushing with her feet. She got to the right, rear fender of the truck giving her some protection, but if any other rustlers charged her, she was dead. She looked at her right forearm and saw blood and a flap of loose skin hanging, and the whole arm was going numb. Summer tried to keep the Beretta aimed, but she was a terrible shot left-handed, even when she wasn’t badly wounded and dizzy.
When Hamza realized that Summer was no longer by the watering station and heard the rustler yell that someone was attacking them from the end of the row of trucks, he panicked.
“Raoul, we must do something,” he said. “Summer ran to those trucks, she’s right there with them!”
“She’s crazy,” Raoul said. “But she’ll give us some cover, let’s go.”
He led Hamza down the upper hallway, collected Fazli from the next bedroom, then rushed down the stairs to a side room. He pulled up the sash window and looked out.
“There’s movement behind the trucks,” he said. “But no one is looking. When we get out, charge for the last truck on the right. We can surprise them.”
“Raoul, we don’t even know…” Fazli began, but his hired hand was already out the window and sprinting forward, with Hamza close behind. Cursing, Fazli followed. Surprised to reach the front of the first truck unscathed, Raoul and Hamza surged forward without a plan. Rounding the bumper first, Raoul was surprised to see only three attackers, clustered together fifteen feet away. All three were staring toward the last truck, and at a pile of bodies. Still reacting, not thinking, Raoul brought his rifle up and began to shoot, then Hamza opened fire as well. Two of the rustlers flew back, blood and some brain matter spraying onto the rear fender of a truck. The last man took off running down the entrance lane of the ranch in a full-on panic, hoping to escape. Fazli arrived, then calmly put a round into the spine of the fleeing attacker.
Hamza looked at the pile of bodies sixty feet away, legs and arms protruding at odd angles. Thinking only of Summer, he ran. Getting closer, he studied the carnage, looking for parts of the girl he loved, but saw only dead, rough-looking men.
“Summer!” he called out. “Are you here?”
A moment later, a weak voice answered.
“I’m behind the truck, Hammy,” Summer said. “Took you long enough. Come help, I’m effing bleeding here.”
When Summer awoke, coming out of the anesthetic administered by Hamza’s father, it took a minute to figure out where she was. She saw a window with unbroken glass and frilly curtains, dated floral wallpaper and an ornate, brass bed frame at her feet. Her right arm was throbbing, but tolerable, and Summer guessed she was still on painkillers. That forearm was heavily bandaged from the elbow to the wrist. She heard a noise, a throat being cleared, and looked to the side of the bed, then recoiled, seeing Hamza’s mother.
“Mrs. Raza!” Summer said, finding her voice an unfamiliar dry croak.
“Here, drink,” Hazeema Raza said, holding out a glass with a straw.
Summer drank deeply, before the glass was pulled away.
“Not too much,” Hazeema said. “You could get sick, your stomach is unsettled.”
“Um, why are you here?” Summer said, remembering the same woman heaving sections of paratha bread at her. “What happened?”
“The ranch is safe,” Hazeema said. “Thanks to you, of course.”
“Me?”
“Fazli and the others cannot stop talking about it,” Hazeema said. “We were all facing death, then an avenging angel saved us. He says you killed all but four of those terrible men.”
“How did I get here?” Summer asked.
“When Zami found you,” Hazeema said. “You passed out. You were carried to the surgery, and Yafir, my husband, operated on your arm. He says you will recover fully, Allah be praised.”
“Hamza, is he all right?” Summer asked. Hazeema smiled.
“He was terrified,” she said. “For you. Yafir had to give him a sedative, he couldn’t be still. My son… he cares a great deal for you.” The older woman looked away for a moment.
“Do you… care for him, dear?” she asked.
“Yes. Very much, Mrs. Raza,” Summer said. “We’ve grown close, Hamza and I, um, romantically.”
Hazeema held the edge of her apron, twisting it nervously.
“I was wrong about you,” she finally said. “So wrong. I thought the terrible things of you, Summer, because you were an unbeliever and so beautiful, not what I planned for my Zami.”
“It’s okay,” Summer said. “I brought Hamza to you, all shot up.”
“No, you saved him then, too,” Hazeema said. “But I was too foolish to listen. Now I see your goodness, how you care for us all, and your bravery.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Raza.”
“Please, call me Hazeema,” she said. “This is now settled. You and my son will court one another, with my blessing.”
“What, really?"
“And I will teach you to cook, properly,” Hazeema said. “When you are feeling up to it. Now I had better go and get my Zami, he is so worried.”
The older woman walked from the room looking tired, and a minute later Hamza rushed in. He saw Summer, then he smiled.
“You are okay,” he said. “You were here with my mother.”
“It was fine, we talked,” Summer said. “I think we’re friends now.”
“What? My mother?” Hamza said. “A short woman wearing an apron?” Summer laughed.
“Yes, that one,” Summer said. “She said she’s going to teach me to cook.”
Hamza reached out and tentatively took her left hand.
“Is that allowed?” Summer said. “For a boy and girl who are courting?”
Hamza looked around.
“Well, we have no chaperone,” he said. “But I think it is permitted, for a hero like you.”
“Your mom made a big deal about it,” Summer said. “I really didn’t do much.”
“You were amazing,” Hamza said. “Raoul and the others, they were out there, like the CSI, figuring out how it happened.”
“Well, I was trained by the best, Hamza,” Summer said. “Levi and Becca would have done better, but we survived.” She sighed.
“We lost two men, and have two others injured,” Hamza said. “Both will be fine.”
“Anyway, the rustlers are dead,” Summer said. “Maybe now things will be peaceful.”
“That must be the painkillers talking,” Hamza said. “But perhaps, things will be better.”
“Whatever, Hammy,” Summer said. “We’ll face it together.”
The End
Jack Hance, Copyright © 2025.
