Make Me King
(Mountain Man 5)
By
Keith C. Blackmore
Make Me King (Mountain Man 5)
by Keith C. Blackmore
Copyright 2019 Keith C. Blackmore
Edited by Peter Gaskin
Cover design by James T. Egan of Bookfly Design
Formatted by Polgarus Studio (Polgarusstudio.com)
Make Me King (Mountain Man 5)
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons—living or dead—actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Table of Contents
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Afterthoughts.
About the Author
1
A damp mid-March cold enveloped Big Tancook.
Wet snow fell in miserable clumps and clung to the window. Gus scowled as another ball of white shit spattered against the glass and slid to the sill. A frosty marina sparsely populated with ghost ships and skeletal spars lay beyond the picture window. A ceiling of gray clouds hung over the wintry harbor, vacillating on whether to disperse or become a monster. Gus didn’t want another storm. He’d barely been able to cope with this one, relying heavily on Scott and the others to clear the snow around his house when necessary. Gus walked with a limp these days, from where an unlucky shot separated the meat of his sole from his heel. Or a lucky shot, he supposed, depending on how you looked at it. The guy that tagged him probably thought it was a damn fine shot. A one-in-a-million shot. Not enough to kill, but, hell, it nagged the living shit out of Gus every damn day, and he considered that a win for the bastard. An ass-whooping stamp of approval, so to speak.
Then there was his ruined hand—the last two fingers had been blown off at the knuckles by ricocheting bullets. Maggie had worked Emergency Room magic on him, and he doubted he could ever repay the doctor enough. She got him functional again, but now it was up to him to live with an awkward grip and a buzzing in his foot for the rest of his life.
Wounds. He’d certainly gotten his share. And that was just the physical shit. The mental shit was just as bad. Or worse. Memories of Jerry still haunted him, tormented him at night. Ruined his sleep. Collie had advised him to forget about the warlord called Shovel, and to instead focus on the man before the apocalypse.
Easier said than done.
So very easy.
Clumps of snow continued to smack against the glass, melting as they slid down.
“She’s here,” someone said, and Gus turned away from the weather.
The conference room was a modest one, situated in the only hotel on the island. Tables and chairs were set up in a wide horseshoe around a small but ferocious wood stove that easily heated the whole interior. Nearly fifty islanders were milling about, their winter coats tucked away nearby. Some of them had brought their kids, who were now grouped together at the edges of the room, playing in hushed voices.
Scott and Amy were present, dressed in thick sweaters and jeans. Little Scottie was nearby, walking an invisible tightwire around them. Donny Buckle sat next to them, holding onto a cane and studying the weather outside with narrowed eyes. The Newfoundlander had warned them of Sheila’s Brush, the last big storm of the winter, which was bound to strike up any day now. It was long overdue this year, and those dark clouds might as well have been giant billboards advertising its arrival. The martial arts instructor, Vick, sat next to Donny. Vick had already adapted to life with one arm, politely telling anyone who asked him if he needed a hand to fuck off. Vick resembled a bear awakened too early from hibernation—a burly man with dark rings around his eyes and a permanent scowl on his face. Gus had heard the story of how both he and Donny had been brutalized by a pack of road savages calling themselves Norsemen. The pair had survived the encounter, however, and didn’t let their wounds slow them down.
Bruno was also there. He had stopped asking Gus if he needed any nudie books, but damn if the guy had gathered a sizeable collection. Bruno swore the magazines were purely for trade, but Gus didn’t think too many of them got traded. He recalled their first meeting on the outskirts of Halifax, where he’d given the man a couple boxes of Kraft Dinner, as well as some packages of ramen noodles. The memory summoned a little smile.
The others at the meeting were survivors from all over, making the best of what they had, and what they knew. The conference room had become an unofficial nexus, where the island’s sparse population met after the day’s work of hard labor had been completed. The color beige coated the entire chamber, as if a bomb had gone off and wiped out all semblance of décor. Not the curtains, however, which were a festive red. They had been up since Christmas, and no one had bothered to take them down. They were warm and cheerful, and Gus had no trouble with that. He would’ve hung Christmas lights throughout the place if they could spare the power, just for the relaxing vibe the lights provided. Regardless, the conference room had become a place where islanders could wander in and chat, perhaps gaze out over the harbor, or sit and enjoy a hand of cards. Cribbage was the most popular, but there were a few boardgames as well. Sadly, Scrabble was not among them. Gus dearly wanted to find a board and kick some ass.
Faces watched him, and he remembered names and professions. It was good to see everyone together, even though he knew they all possessed terrible histories—harrowing stories of escape, fleeing the rabid outbreak. Frightening tales of survival. Gus kept a brave face for them all, but inside, he pitied them still, and wondered how they dealt with their memories, especially at night, when the wind battered their windows and made the bones of their houses creak.
They managed those ghosts, somehow, in their own way. They all did. And town meetings like this one helped them to cope with their pasts, by instilling a greater sense of community in them all. By sharing their experiences. By focusing on the present. And the future.
Maggie appeared in the doorway, pulling a winter cap from her head and shaking out her gray hair. “Getting mighty blustery out there, people.”
“You slip and fall in the street?” Vick asked in that deep voice of his.
“Almost did in a few places. But I wasn’t worried. I had Kevin. Give him practice, if I did.”
A young man followed her into the conference room, smiling cheerfully while slipping out of his winter coat. Two weeks after Gus poured the Captain back into the Atlantic, he’d heard that Maggie had taken on a student. Wh
ich was a good thing. As the only resident doctor, her medical knowledge, skills, and experience were priceless in this new world. This knowledge had to be preserved, bottled, and passed on to future generations, for the betterment of their community. Kevin was average height, in his thirties, and originally from Boston. He’d moved up to Nova Scotia when he was in his twenties, chasing a woman whom he eventually married. His wife hadn’t survived the apocalypse, which was a common story. He was friendly enough, certainly smart enough, and willing to learn the medical arts.
“Still waiting for Sheila’s broom to show up,” Kevin said, shaking out his dark head of hair.
“Sheila’s brush,” Buckle corrected.
“Broom, brush, towel,” he said. “Whatever.”
“Last storm of the season,” Vick said. “That could be today.”
“It’ll be like any other spring,” Kevin said. “Snow right up until the last minute, and then boom. Spring. Before you know it, it’ll be heat like it was spraying out of a firehose. Where’s the coffee?”
He spotted the table with the snacks and coffee jars. The coffee was instant, the cookies simple sugar and flour.
“We starting this thing?” Vick asked, looking toward the woman who’d called the meeting to order.
Colleen Jones, otherwise known as Collie, stood at ease, her hands behind her back. She’d positioned herself at the front of the semi-circle, in full view of everyone. Black, thorny vines coiled up her right profile and encircled her eye. The special forces operator indicated they’d wait a moment longer until Maggie and Kevin had a chance to settle down.
“They’re not that important,” Bruno said with a sly smile. “Go on. Kevin won’t mind at all.”
Kevin was too busy pouring himself a coffee to bother with the town’s scavenger.
Collie scratched the back of her head. Her brown hair remained short, so everything was on fearsome display. She’d picked up some new scars since the battle of Whitecap, grooves that decorated her cheeks and drew the eye away from the missing tip of her nose. Other marks weren’t so noticeable, but still very deep. She still missed Wallace, her husband laid to rest four months earlier. She admitted that much to Gus when their conversations would tug loose a memory and the memory would become words. At those times, Gus would listen, be an understanding ear, and offer words he hoped sounded comforting.
For all of Collie’s ferocity, Wallace’s passing had broken a part of her.
All Gus could do was stay close and try to be a friend.
All while hiding his own growing feelings for her.
“They’re not that important, huh?” Collie directed at Bruno. “Think that’s wise? To talk shit about them while they’re in the same room? Even though you shovel out Maggie’s walkway every morning?”
Bruno lowered his head.
“Thought so,” Collie finished before silence stilled the room. She surveyed the group before her. “Thank you all for braving the elements and coming here today. Very much appreciated. I know there’s no designated leader here, but a word from Amy, Vick, and Buckle seem to go a long way. So, with their permission, I thought it best to address you all for your thoughts and opinions about the spring. When we can reconnect with the mainland—if we can reconnect.”
“That’s not a problem,” Buckle said. “We got sail power. And if we lose the sailboats, we can always row. If we have to.”
“You can row over there,” declared a woman named Shelly, a natural islander who once owned a convenience store on Tancook. “I’ll stay right here, thank you very much.”
No one challenged her. There were more than a few people who had no desire to leave the island. Tancook was safe, where no Moe, deadhead, or road crazy could reach. Not unless the crazies had a boat, and the means to power it. It was only two months ago when the islanders’ own engines refused to turn over, signaling the last of the gasoline.
Collie waited a few seconds before continuing. “I’ve already mentioned this to some of you while on the mend here. Now, you know I’m military. One look and you can tell I’ve been in a few rock fights. After Whitecap, my partner and I were working recon with the community of Pine Cove, just before the townsfolk there were forcibly abducted.”
She didn’t mention Shovel specifically, and for that, Gus was grateful.
“Besides playing the role of guardian angel for the town, we were charged with finding survivors and bringing them back to Pine Cove. For several reasons. One, there’s strength in numbers. Two, labor. We needed people to get shit done. Working the farms, managing livestock, fishing, harvesting, cutting wood. All the basic jobs to rebuild. The more people we have as resources, the easier life is for all of us. Three, we needed trained professionals. People to maintain and expand our skill base. Maggie’s the best example of this. There aren’t many doctors left alive these days, and I bet Maggie is one of the last. We can’t just head into a medical school and look shit up if we need to.”
Gus raised his hand. “I’ve done that.”
“You’ve done that,” Collie agreed. “You most certainly have. But you don’t have to do that anymore. Maggie’s with us now, and Kevin, God bless him, has volunteered to become her first official intern. But that’s just the beginning. We need more skilled professionals. Not only to make use of their abilities, but to have them educate and train others so those skills aren’t lost. Any functioning community knows that its greatest resource is her people. That’s especially true for us. That was true for Pine Cove. Just one survivor can be a potential gold mine for knowledge, skills, and labor. And genes, I might add.”
Amy cleared her throat. “We’ve been working towards that, but since we’ve come to the island here, our main concern has been food production. We’ve been sending Bruno out to scout for supplies and initiate contact with other communities.”
“Just Bruno, right?”
“Well, yes, because there’s just not enough of us to go around.”
“Which is exactly why we need to increase efforts in finding and recruiting others. How is food production right now?”
“We’re doing fine,” Amy said. “We’re on an island, so fishing isn’t a problem. There already were some local gardens so we expanded upon those where we could. We’ve also built greenhouses and made use of root cellars for storage.”
“How come you didn’t try and recruit me to help you out?” Gus asked Bruno. “Back when I first met you?”
“I was warming up to it,” the man admitted. “But you were on a mission. Looking for Maggie and the kids. I wasn’t about to get in the way of that. I had this place to think about. At the time, I didn’t know she was a doctor. All I knew was that you were going into some hard country. And probably meeting up with even harder company.”
The hardest, Gus thought, but he kept that to himself.
“All I’m saying,” Collie interrupted, “is sooner or later, we’ll have to return to the mainland to recruit more survivors. We screen them and, if they’re willing, bring them back. At the very least, we’ll need to make contact with other communities and access their skill base if they have one. In turn, they can access ours. But, before we do this, we’re going to need an enforcement arm, something to ensure we can handle ourselves during a potential threat. Buckle, you were a cop, and Vick, you and Amy have had some combat training. That’s a great basis for a local militia.”
This last bit was met with a resounding silence.
“You mean you want us to learn how to fight?” Shelly asked, leaning forward as if smelling a cracked septic line.
“No. Not all of you. But some. Eventually. To protect the rest. Here’s what I propose. I volunteer to go back out there. In the spring. To continue what Bruno was doing. He can come along, too, if he wants. Anyone who’s up for some exploring can come with me. We find other communities, make contact, determine if we’re likeminded, and go from there. With an eye on bringing them back here.”
“What if they don’t want to come back?” Gus asked quietly.
“That’s fine. We leave them alone. If they’ve already established a community, then perhaps we can discuss pooling resources. Open up lines of trade and services. Chances are, the smart ones will realize we’re all on the same banana boat here. They’ll be doing the very same thing.”
“What about the not so smart?” Gus asked.
“And the much more violent?” Buckle added.
“That all falls under screening,” Collie replied. “You leave that to me.”
No one spoke for moments, allowing the wind and snow to batter the windows.
“We’d be safer to stay here,” said Thomas, a cashier from Cape Breton who had recently become a farmer on the island.
“And watch our kids grow up,” added Olivia, who was once a tour bus guide in Halifax, but was currently monitoring the island’s root cellars and their stored provisions.
“Which will take years,” Collie stated with a nod. “That alone will require a huge amount of time and energy. And while I’m sure they’ll grow up fine, what about the generation after that? What about education? Sure, we can read a book, but we have to find that book first, absorb the material, and then try and apply it through trial and error. Much easier to have a skilled person on hand. We need new blood. Case in point, does anyone know how to replace brake pads?”
No reply.
Collie let all that sink in before continuing. “Think about it. We still have a month or so before spring. Then we’ll need to get ashore to do any of this. And we still haven’t considered the problem of transportation, seeing as our gasoline is finally flatlining.”
“Ethanol,” Buckle said. “We grow it then burn it.”
“You know how to do that?”
“We’ve been working on it,” Amy said. “And been successful, to a point. There’s a problem, however.”
“Let me guess,” Collie said. “You have to produce a crop first.”
“Well, yes. Food comes first. That’ll take up most of the farmland available. Until we reach a population where we have to transfer production back to the mainland. Until then, however, for safety’s sake, we stay here. And here we have to designate a portion of farmland for ethanol production, which is small. But there’s another issue.”
Mountain Man (Book 5): Make Me King Page 1