EMP: Return of the Wild West Box Set | Books 1-3

by Hamilton, Grace

  As Darryl approached, one of the men—the larger of the two—moved to intercept him, pointing the shotgun at the ground near his feet. He reached up with his free hand and pulled the collar of his jacket down, exposing a thick black beard.

  “Hey there, young man, are you a local?” he asked. “What’s your business in town?”

  Darryl was tempted to ignore both questions. His grandmother certainly would have. Actually, she would have given the men some sarcastic remark before walking past them. Darryl decided not to provoke them, especially since they were both armed.

  “Yeah, I’m local,” he said. “Our house is just down the street. I just need to talk to Mayor Filmore for a minute. Is he around?”

  The man glanced at the Winchester, frowned, then finally said, “Yeah, he’s in his office. We’ll take you there.” He turned and motioned at the other guy, then he waved Darryl past him. “Is he expecting you?”

  “No, sir,” Darryl replied, “but I won’t take up too much of his time, I promise.”

  “Good, because he’s a busy man.”

  They walked on either side of him as he headed toward the town hall. When he stepped inside the building, Darryl saw that the chairs had all been folded and stacked against the walls, leaving the main room empty except for a single white plastic table in the middle. One of the doors on the far side of the room was open, revealing a small, cluttered office.

  “Leave your gun on that table there, if you don’t mind,” the bearded escort said. When Darryl hesitated, he added, “It’s just a precaution, kid. Conversations with the mayor can get heated. We don’t want anything to get out of control.”

  “I’m not here to argue with him,” Darryl said, placing the Winchester on the table. “This is a friendly meeting.”

  “That’s what they all say,” the guard replied.

  They waved him on. As he approached the open office door, he saw Mayor Leo Filmore seated at his desk, scribbling away on a notepad. He looked as gaunt as ever, his eyes perhaps more sunken than usual. He was wearing a gaudy multicolored sweater as he worked. When Darryl stepped through the door, the mayor looked up from his work, quickly turning a wary scowl into a faint smile. His hair was wildly messy, as if he’d just recently taken off a hat.

  “Oh, you’re Tabitha’s grandson, right?” he said. “Darryl, I believe? I’m so bad with names.”

  “Yes, sir,” Darryl replied, taking a seat in a small plastic chair—the only other chair in the room.

  “What can I help you with today?”

  “Well, sir, I tried to talk to you about this at the town meeting last week, but it didn’t go so well. You mentioned that you’ve got a storehouse of medication. I’d like to cut some kind of deal for diabetes meds. It’s for my grandma, you see.”

  The mayor’s smile changed, took on a weird edge, and for a second, Darryl didn’t like it. “Yes, I seem to recall. Well, you’ve come to the right place, son. Of course, we have diabetes meds—plenty, in fact. How much did you have in mind?”

  “As much as you can spare,” he replied. “She’s been trying to treat her diabetes through diet alone, but I don’t know how long that’s going to be effective, and the thing is, we really need her to stay healthy. We can’t run the ranch without her.”

  Mayor Filmore nodded gravely, drummed his nice silver pen on the desktop for a second, then said, “I sympathize with your situation, and we can definitely work out a deal that is mutually beneficial. Let me know if this sounds fair to you. I’ll give you six months’ worth of diabetes meds in exchange for, let’s say, two dairy cows.”

  Two cows? That was a steeper price than he’d expected. Darryl had planned to trade some meat or milk, but two whole cows? He felt queasy, and he almost excused himself and left the room.

  “Here’s the thing, the community could really use the milk,” the mayor continued, “so you’d be doing a service for all of these desperate people. Plus, it’s a good deal. I happen to have glyburide here. Do you have any idea how much six months’ worth of that stuff is going to be worth in the upcoming days? That’s like gold bars, son.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” Darryl said. Even so, he started to rise, then sat back down. What was the point of going home empty-handed? Anyway, they had more milk on the ranch than they could even use. Cows were being slaughtered to keep them from dying of mastitis. Losing two of them might, in a sense, be a good thing. “I guess it’s a fair trade.”

  “Good,” the mayor said. “I’m glad you agree.”

  “But I’ll need to see those meds first,” Darryl said. “Just to be sure, you know…not that I don’t trust you.”

  Mayor Filmore laughed and leaned back in his chair. When he did, Darryl saw the butt of a large black pistol sticking out of a holster at his belt. He couldn’t identify the make and model, but it was a beast of a revolver.

  “Kid, do you think I’m an idiot?” the mayor said. “You came to me with this deal. I didn’t come to you. If you don’t trust me to keep my end of the bargain, you shouldn’t have wasted my time. If you want those meds, you bring me two dairy cows. Heck, I’ll make it easy on you. Walk those cows to the end of your driveway, and I’ll meet you there with a box of meds. After sunset, when it’s fully dark. Now, if that doesn’t work for you, then move along. I’ve got work to do.”

  Darryl tried his best not to scowl at the man, but he couldn’t quite help himself. For a man who often seemed so wimpy and waffling, Filmore had a rude edge when he wanted to.

  It’s this deal or nothing, Darryl reminded himself. At least you won’t have to butcher those cows.

  “Okay, fine,” he said. “That’s fair, I guess.”

  The mayor’s smile returned full force then. He rose from his chair and stepped around the desk, headed toward the office door. Darryl took this as his hint to leave.

  “Young man, I have to compliment you,” the mayor said, grasping Darryl’s hand. “You’re becoming the man of the family, doing what needs to be done to take care of your grandma and the town. Most people your age are just thinking about themselves.”

  Shaking hands with him was like grasping a warm, moist slab of salmon, so Darryl quickly pulled his hand out of the mayor’s grasp.

  “Thank you, sir,” he replied. “Right after sunset at the end of our driveway. I’ll be there with the cows.”

  “Your meds will be waiting,” the mayor replied, then made a sweeping gesture, as if to brush him out of the office. “Have a nice day.”

  Darryl left without another word. The escorts were waiting for him in the big room. As soon as he picked up the Winchester, they fell in beside him and accompanied him back outside and across town. Once they reached the road, the men veered off, and Darryl continued walking home alone.

  Was it a mistake? he wondered. Maybe, but I don’t have a choice. I have to take care of Grandma, and this is the only option. She’ll probably be mad at me, especially since she doesn’t seem to like the mayor, but I’m trying to save her life.

  Still, he felt guilty for going behind Tabitha’s back, and the guilt only got worse the closer he got to home. When he finally slunk back onto the ranch, he avoided his mother and grandmother and went straight to the root cellar.

  They’ll understand once I have the meds, he thought, as he picked up the shovel and started down the steps.

  21

  A shallow grave at the base of a large spruce tree, a mound of dirt covered in rocks and leaves—that was the only burial they could provide for poor Tommy Riedel. They stood at the foot of the grave together for a few minutes, but no one said anything. Emma cried again, and Tuck brushed away a tear. Greg thought his father might say a word or two, but he didn’t. As for Greg, he felt only a low, awful weight. He couldn’t bring himself to speak or pray. Poor Tommy deserved better, but there was nothing to be done about it now. The gloomy feeling was so thick, he was practically wading through it.

  Eustace finally stooped down, picked up a loose rock, and placed it on the center of the
grave. Then he rose, nodded at Greg, and started away. Apparently, that was the signal that it was time to move on. Greg hugged his daughter. She’d never faced death before. He was worried about the long-term effects the trauma of the incident would give her, but what could be done about it?

  They trudged back across the campground, passing the vast bloody carcass of the bear, and proceeded to pick up their gear and pack.

  “Should we butcher it for meat?” he said, gesturing at the bear.

  “It’s full of lead,” Eustace noted.

  “We can cut around the bullets,” Greg said. “We’re practically out of food.”

  Eustace glanced at him, at the bear, at Tuck. “Nah, I don’t think so. We’re really close now, and the way station will have plenty of food. I think we’ve seen enough blood and meat for one day. You do what you want, Greg, but I’m moving on.”

  “Leave it be,” Tuck said. “I’ll pick some edible plants later today. Sorry, I just can’t bring myself to do anything right now. Either you understand or you don’t.”

  And with that, Tuck walked away. Greg understood the sentiment, though it still seemed foolish.

  “So be it,” he said, finally.

  The tents had already been taken down, and Tommy’s bedroll remained sitting on the grass. No reason to carry it now.

  Poor guy, Greg thought. Nobody should have to go through that.

  It was a somber group that marched out of the campsite and headed down the hill toward the pipeline. Eustace had traded the machete for the rifle, which he now carried at his side, as if he expected other bears to come seeking revenge.

  “I just don’t understand why it attacked,” Tuck said. He was the first to break the silence since leaving camp, but he sounded rough. “We didn’t do anything to provoke that damn bear. We were all minding our business, and Tommy was just sitting there. He wasn’t a threat.”

  “It was a female,” Eustace said. “Probably had a cub in the area.”

  “We didn’t see a cub, though,” Tuck replied.

  “Well, maybe it ran off. Or maybe there wasn’t a cub. Maybe the bear just smelled our food. I’m sorry it didn’t explain itself. We just have to be more careful from now on.”

  Eustace was trying to set a quick pace, but Greg knew his father would be a problem. Already, the old man was beginning to lag. Greg thought about saying something, maybe even offering to carry the guy somehow, but he knew his father wouldn’t appreciate it.

  They reached the edge of the clearing beside the pipeline and turned south. Greg could feel the mood of the group getting worse, the somber feeling curdling into despair. It seemed like a dangerous turn. A hopeless group would make unwise decisions—already had, in fact. Finally, wanting to somehow lighten the mood, he cleared his throat and spoke.

  “Well, guys, you have to admit,” he said, “if there’s any way Tommy would have wanted to go…I mean, it was his favorite animal, right?”

  “That’s not funny, Dad,” Emma said.

  Eustace gave him a brief, disapproving look. When Greg turned to gauge his father’s reaction, he saw that Tuck was about ten feet back. He signaled for the others to slow down so he could catch up again. Instead of slowing down for Tuck to catch up, Eustace pointing at a small stream that spilled out of the woods nearby.

  “We’ll take a brief water break,” he said. “Let’s boil plenty of water and fill up all the canteens. That’ll give some of us plenty of time to rest. No more jokes about Tommy, okay?”

  “Sorry.”

  Eustace moved close to the stream, set his rifle down, and dumped his pack on the ground. When the others got there, Emma went to work digging out a small firepit, but she didn’t say a word. She wouldn’t look at Greg either. He started to give her a hug, then he decided to leave her alone for now. Tuck came stumbling into camp last, limping badly and leaning heavily on the hiking staff. He stopped, grimacing, then slowly, achingly sat down near the firepit.

  “Are you okay?” Greg asked, unclipping his canteen.

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” he said.

  “You’re limping pretty badly,” Greg said.

  “I know it,” Tuck replied. “Better go get the water. It’ll take time to boil.”

  Hopefully, it won’t taste like chemical waste this time, Greg thought.

  Greg grabbed their enamel cooking pot and carried it to the stream. As he was kneeling beside the water and filling it, Eustace moved in front of him, gave him a questioning look, and nodded in the direction of Greg’s father.

  “Something’s wrong with the old guy,” Eustace said. He was trying to speak softly, but his rumbling voice carried. Fortunately, Tuck’s hearing wasn’t very good. “More than just being tired or old as the hills. Do you see the way he’s walking?”

  “Yeah, I noticed,” Greg said. “His right leg has been bothering him.”

  Greg brought the pots of water back to Emma, as she got a small fire going. They had a folding metal framework that went over the fire. He placed the pots on top.

  It took a few minutes to get the water boiling, and everyone waited in silence, the weight of Tommy’s death hanging heavy over them all. Greg stared dull-eyed into the pots, watching bubbles slowly form and rise to the top. He let them boil for a while, then took them off the fire and set them aside. After that, they had another long, quiet wait for the water too cool down enough to funnel into the canteens. Still, no one said a word.

  Emma smothered the fire with dirt and stomped out the embers, as Eustace stood to one side and gazed at his majestic pipeline. Tuck was idly massaging his right leg just above the knee. Greg tasted the water once it was cool enough and found that it, thankfully, had no bad taste. Once he had refilled the canteens, he packed up their gear again, shouldered his pack, and picked up the Remington.

  “Okay, that’ll do for now,” he said finally.

  He helped his daughter to her feet, then he turned to his father. Tuck got his left leg under him, jabbed the hiking staff into the ground, then started to stand. He made it about halfway before crying out in pain and grabbing his right leg, collapsing in the grass.

  “Okay, Dad, what’s going on?” Greg asked. “You’ve been limping on that leg all day. What are you hiding?”

  “I’m not hiding anything,” Tuck replied, through clenched teeth as he sat up.

  “Show me,” Greg replied.

  Tuck hesitated a moment, his face twisted in agony, before grabbing the hem of his pant leg and slowly rolling it back, uncovering a nasty, hastily bandaged wound. When he peeled back the bandage, he revealed a deep gash that started on the outside of his shin about halfway between his ankle and knee and ran back around to his calf. The bandage was soaked with blood and pus, and the wound itself was oozing. The entire lower half of his leg was red and inflamed.

  Emma gasped loudly, but Greg went instantly cold. Eustace walked up behind them and muttered, “Oh, for God’s sake. The man’s leg is rotting off.”

  “How long have you had that wound?” Greg asked.

  “A while,” Tuck replied. “Injured it when I fell on our walk back from the crash site.” He started to roll the pant leg back down, but the old bandage got caught. He pressed the filthy bandage back in place. “It wasn’t bothering me all that much until today, but the leg still works. I’m not crippled.”

  “You should have told us about this,” Greg said, fighting the rising tide of anger. It was a classic Tuck move, of course—ignore a problem until it became everyone’s problem. “You kept falling behind, and nobody had any idea why.”

  “What difference would it have made?” Tuck said sourly, rolling his pant leg back into place. “You couldn’t have done anything about it anyway. I figured it was best to keep on going as long as I can.”

  Eustace gave a dramatic sigh and dragged his fingers through this thick, red beard. “Well, this isn’t going to work. The man can’t walk. He can’t even stand up. What are we supposed to do? Tie a rope around his shoulders and drag him?”
r />   “Give me a minute,” Tuck said. “I’ll get up.”

  “Don’t bother,” Eustace replied, slinging the rifle over his shoulder. “Listen, we’re not that far from the way station now. Heck, we’d be there already if we’d kept up our pace and hadn’t run into trouble. Why don’t I go on ahead and try to get help? I’ll move a heck of a lot faster on my own. You two stay here and try to care for the old man. If you can, follow at your own pace. Just keep following the pipeline. Sound good?”

  He stared hard at Greg for a second, clearly waiting for a response. Greg’s first instinct was to argue with him, but he didn’t have a better plan. Tuck was in sorry shape.

  “Okay, so be it,” Greg said finally. “I guess it’s all we can do at this point.”

  “Exactly,” Eustace said. “Tuck, you hang in there. I’ll move as fast as I can.”

  And with that, he tipped them a little salute, turned, and walked away. Greg watched him head south down a slight slope, his shadow cast long by the late sun. At his side, Emma was breathing fast, and when he glanced at her, he saw that she was gnawing the heck out of her thumbnail.

  “We’ll be fine,” he said, giving her a brief hug. Then he turned to his father.

  Tuck was trying to get to his feet again, baring his teeth as he leaned on the staff. Greg put an arm around him to help and felt his father’s wiry frame—all skin and muscle—through his jacket. Emma moved to the other side and took his arm, adding to the combined effort, and they were finally able to get him to his feet. They maintained their hold on him as he took a couple of stumbling steps forward, but Greg felt him tense up.

  “Can’t believe you have to help me like this,” he grumbled.

  It was the same dry, unhappy tone that his father used with almost everything he said, but under the circumstances, it got deep under Greg’s skin.

  “Oh, gee, Dad, I’m sorry you have to endure my help for once,” he snapped.

  Emma made a soft disapproving sound, but Tuck said nothing for a second. He just kept stumbling forward.