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

by Hamilton, Grace

  “That wasn’t what I meant,” Tuck said, after a moment. “I know you’re capable of taking care of me.” And then, to Greg’s astonishment, he added, “You’re capable of anything you put your mind to.”

  The compliment was unexpected, and Greg was so stunned he didn’t know how to respond. He felt two distinct emotions clashing within—one gentle, the other sharp—and he was afraid of what he might say if the harsher emotion won out. In the end, they both had their way.

  “If you really feel that way, then why are you so rude all the time? Why do you always push me away? Even now, when I’m helping you walk to safety, you seem resentful.”

  Tuck shook his head. “Boy, I was never pushing you away. I don’t know why you don’t get that.”

  “Okay, Dad,” Greg said. “Whatever you say.”

  They were shuffling slowly in the direction of Eustace, but he was already a little red speck fading into the distance.

  “No, not whatever I say,” Tuck replied. “You always thought I was pushing you away, but I was actually getting out of your way. There’s a difference.”

  It was the most the old man had ever spoken of their broken, distant relationship, and Greg didn’t know what to make of it. Was Tuck really trying to have a little family counseling session a day after his friend was killed by a wild bear? Maybe talking helped him keep his mind off the pain.

  “Ever since you were young,” Tuck continued, “I knew you’d grow up to do great things. You didn’t need some old rancher like me interfering with your plans, mucking it all up.”

  Years of neglect had given Greg a hard shell, particularly where the old man was concerned, so the words didn’t quite sink in. Still, he found them odd, and not entirely believable. His father had always been cold to him. Was he now trying to claim that it had somehow been meant to help his son succeed in life?

  I don’t even know how to respond to that, Greg thought. Neglect your son so he succeeds in life? What an absurd notion.

  He was still trying to figure out how to respond when Emma spoke up, sparing him the awkwardness.

  “I think Mom and Grandma would be happy to see you guys talking like this,” she said. “You barely ever talk to each other. It’s a shame it took getting hurt to make you do it.”

  “It’s not always so easy to say what you want to say,” Tuck replied.

  Greg was supporting his father’s weight, but it soon became clear that Emma was doing most of the work of guiding him. She’d taken the hiking staff out of his hand, and she now held his arm and directed him as he limped forward.

  “It’s fine, Dad,” Greg finally managed to say. It’s fine? What’s fine? My entire lonely childhood? Did I really just tell this old geezer it was fine? Greg decided to leave it at that. “Just go easy on that leg. We’re not in a hurry here. Eustace will bring back help.”

  “I know it,” he replied. “I’m doing what I can.”

  After this, he seemed to fall back into his usual silence, as they made very slow progress, staying close to the pipeline. Tuck’s unexpected comments lingered in Greg’s mind as they walked. He tried not to think about it, but it brought back a lot of unpleasant feelings, mostly from his teenage years. The distant, cold, uninvolved old man roaming the ranch—his father.

  Just getting out of my way, Greg thought, bitterly. And yet. At least he’d said something. At least he’d offered some kind of explanation. So you didn’t hate me, then. That’s good to know.

  Within an hour or so, Tuck had slowed even more, and he could barely put any pressure at all on the injured leg. Greg was bearing most of his weight and trying not to lose his balance in the process. They managed to keep moving forward, inch by inch, Emma guiding Tuck by the arm. Eventually, as the sun sank down and rested upon the mountaintops to the west, they paused to take a break. They sat at the base of a small hill, the pipeline veering slightly to the left to cut through a gulley. Tuck seemed to be struggling to catch his breath, and he drank almost half of a canteen.

  As they rested, Emma insisted on changing his bandage. Tuck tried to refuse, but he didn’t have the strength to stop her. A clean bandage and some antiseptic probably wouldn’t make much difference, but perhaps Emma felt better doing something.

  “I just want to go home,” she said, as she packed away the first aid kit.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” Greg said. “I wish there was a faster way out of here. Let’s just hope Eustace gets help.”

  “What if he doesn’t come back?” she said. “What if he leaves us?”

  “He wouldn’t do that,” Greg said. Would he?

  Tuck finally lay down on his side, propping his head on his hand. Greg decided to give him a few more minutes before trying to drag him to his feet again. He set the canteen within the old man’s reach and rose, surveying the land around them. Not much to see, but the setting sun seemed ominous. Should they camp or keep going?

  “How close are we?” Emma asked, walking up beside him.

  “Not sure,” he replied. “Maybe we should hike up the hill there and take a look.”

  He headed up the slope, but Emma raced past him. She had the most energy of the group, for sure, even after days of hiking. Greg didn’t bother trying to keep up with her. When she reached the crest of the hill, she shaded her eyes from the setting sun and took a panoramic view of their surroundings. When she was facing southwest, she stopped, gave a little whoop, and began pointing.

  “I see it, Dad. I see it!”

  When he got there, he looked in the direction she was pointing, tracing the gray line of the gas pipe into the distance. The way station was a small fenced area with a couple metal buildings and a small lookout tower. There wasn’t much to it.

  Movement caught his eye and drew his gaze to a couple of small figures in the distance, one bright red and one green—Christmas colors.

  “Eustace,” Greg noted. “He’s on his way back.”

  He went back down the hill to Tuck, where he found his father sprawled in the grass, his eyes half-lidded. The old man was breathing heavily. Greg knelt down and pulled him into a seated position.

  “Dad, Eustace is on the way,” he said. “Looks like he’s got help with him.”

  “Where’d that water go?” Tuck mumbled, feeling around on the ground nearby.

  Greg put the canteen in his hand, and he managed to unscrew the lid, finishing off the rest of the water. Then he tossed the canteen back onto the ground.

  “Who’s coming?” he said.

  “Eustace.”

  “Oh. That guy. He was a never more than an acquaintance, anyway. Tommy was my best friend.”

  “I hear you, Dad,” Greg said. “Just take it easy.”

  Tuck started to lie down again, but Greg kept an arm around his shoulders. Emma stayed on the hilltop, occasionally waving her hands over her head. A few minutes later, Greg heard Eustace’s deep voice coming to them like a rumbling echo from a strange dream. Not long after, he appeared on the hilltop like a Viking king returning in triumph, a broad wall of a man dwarfing the hiking pack on his back. Another person walked with him, a rough-looking fellow with a scruffy beard, beady eyes, and a big wrinkly face. His padded jacket and toque were slightly different shades of bright green, his gloves a mismatched shade of orange.

  “The rescue party is here, buddy,” Eustace said, coming down the hill, Emma trailing after him. Seeing Tuck’s condition, he added, “Well, I guess we’ll be lugging him along, eh?”

  “Seems like it,” the man in green said.

  Eustace pointed at his companion, then pointed at Greg. “This is John Bennett, one of my workers. John, this is Greg Healy—not a bad guy, even though he’s a sleazy lawyer.” He laughed, as if he meant it as a joke, but Greg noted a little unfriendly glint in his eye.

  Greg and John shook hands. The man had a firm handshake, and he lingered a second too long. Greg finally pulled his hand free.

  “John, let’s pick this fellow up,” Eustace said, gesturing at Tuck. “Let’s
see if we can’t save his life.”

  22

  With a pile of bricks balanced in his arms, Darryl took a moment to admire his work in the root cellar before heading for the stairs. He’d cleaned the place up nicely, shoveled out all of the loose dirt, tidied up the shelves, and now he just had to remove a bit more of the collapsed wall. He mounted the stairs and approached the giant mound of loose dirt and debris, dumping the bricks.

  Turning back, he saw his mother watching him from the back corner of the house. She clapped for him.

  “It’s not a performance, Mom,” he said.

  “Take a break,” she said. “The sun is going down.”

  He glanced to the west, where the sun had just begun to settle on the treetops, casting long shadows across the ranch.

  “I’d rather keep working,” he said. “A couple more hours, and I’ll be done. I’ve got the oil lamp on a shelf down there. I’m fine.”

  “Don’t you want some dinner?” she asked. “Grandma is going to cook some of the steaks.”

  “I’ll eat better when I know the job is done,” he replied. “Save me a steak. I don’t mind eating it cold.”

  In truth, of course, he’d mostly been avoiding his mother and grandmother, afraid that he might do or say something to give himself away. They’d always been able to read him when he was little, especially when he’d been up to no good.

  “The cellar is all cleared out,” he explained. “I just have to insulate and reinforce the walls. After that, I’ll come in.”

  “If you insist,” his mother said with a shrug. “Don’t stay up all night. Keep the gun handy.” She gestured at the Winchester, which was propped against the back wall of the house.

  “I’ll be okay,” he said, heading back down the steps.

  As he returned to the cellar, he heard his mom walking away. It didn’t take long for the cellar to become too dark, so he lit the oil lamp on the shelf and went back to work. He’d brought straw from the barn to use as insulation, boards from the shed to reinforce the walls and ceiling. Darryl wasn’t entirely sure if he was doing this exactly right. After all, he couldn’t search the internet for root cellar plans. However, it made sense in his mind. The insulation should help to keep the heat out once spring and summer rolled around, especially if he packed it in tight against the walls.

  He went to work, nailing boards against the surviving framework, filling in the spaces behind the walls with straw. As the sun set outside, he worked his way around the cellar. In the end, it didn’t look particularly nice, but it was functional. He stood at the bottom step and admired his handiwork.

  But it was more than admiration for a job well done. Staring at the root cellar, he felt proud of himself. He was taking care of things. The newly dead world hadn’t defeated him. More than that, he was taking care of business, providing for the family.

  I’m pretty good at this kind of stuff, he thought. I can kill and skin a mountain lion, butcher a cow, barter in town for medicine, and build a root cellar. Who would have thought I was so well-suited for this new way of life? The joke’s on you, ANPRIM, you Luddite scumbags.

  The final step to complete the root cellar was replacing the door. He’d found an old but sturdy door among the junk in Grandma’s shed, but he had to do some repair work on the frame. Though it was now full-on dark, his only light coming from the flickering lamp, he decided to finish the task. He took his time. After all, once he was done with the root cellar, he had a final task before he turned in for the night.

  His work on the door wasn’t amazing. It fit in the frame, and the hinges worked. However, the door had some resistance when he pulled on it, and the hinges squeaked terribly. It was functional, though, and he decided to call it complete. He grabbed the lamp, stashed his tools in the cellar, and headed to the barn.

  Just get this done as fast as possible, he thought. Grandma won’t like it, but you’re doing her a favor. She needs the medicine, and she has too many cows to take care of. She’ll understand…eventually.

  He extinguished the lamp as he moved around in front of the house, and he noted that the windows were all dark. Perhaps it was even later than he realized. Mom and Grandma were hopefully sound asleep. He waited a moment there beside the porch, just in case someone had spotted the lamp. Finally, confident he was alone, he went to the barn and slipped inside.

  The cows were mere shapes in their stalls, but Darryl knew his way around. He’d also made his selection. While working on the cellar, he’d considered the best candidates for the trade, and he’d settled on two young cows. He went to their stalls now, opened the gates, and gently woke them. They seemed confused, their big brown eyes looking about, but were otherwise passive as he put halters in place and attached lead lines.

  “Don’t worry, girls,” he said softly, leading them out of their stalls. “You’re not becoming meat. You’re just going to serve the community. People need milk for their breakfast cereal, after all. You can begrudge them that.”

  He led them out of the barn and down the driveway, fingers crossed that they wouldn’t decide to moo. Fortunately, they were still sleepy, and they followed him dutifully away from the barn and the house. Still, it was slow-going, and Darryl’s nerves were on edge.

  When Grandma sees the box of meds, she’ll be glad I did this, he told himself.

  He almost believed it. Once he had moved into the trees, out of sight of the house, he felt safer. He reached the road and stopped beside the mailbox. The dark and quiet were ominous, and he huddled between the cows, as if they might somehow protect him.

  Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait long. Soon, he heard footsteps on the road, and he saw a light shifting back and forth. Three men appeared in the distance, one of them carrying a small flashlight to show the way. He recognized the man in front: a tall, lanky fellow in an oversized sweater. Mayor Filmore shifted the flashlight beam to catch Darryl and the cows. The men behind him were bundled up tight, their faces mostly hidden by the high collars of their jackets. Both men carried shotguns, and one of them had a satchel slung over his shoulder.

  “Right on time,” Filmore said, once he was close. “This young man stays on top of things, doesn’t he?”

  He extended a gloved hand to Darryl, and Darryl stepped out from between the cows to accept the handshake.

  “You’ve got the meds?” he asked.

  “Of course,” the mayor replied, snapping his fingers at the man with the satchel. “I didn’t walk all the way here just to kill time.”

  While that man rooted around in the satchel, the other man stepped forward and took the lead lines from Darryl. The two men were familiar—the same two who had escorted him into the town hall earlier. He didn’t know their names, but in his mind, he gave them the nicknames Ricky and Julian just because they were two big-bellied weirdos.

  Ricky, the man with the satchel, produced a surprisingly small cardboard box, which he passed to Mayor Filmore, who then handed it to Darryl.

  “This is it?” Darryl asked, opening the lid. There were a few small pill bottles inside, none of which were more than half full. “This is six months’ worth of diabetes meds?”

  Mayor Filmore gave a brief, weird laugh, as if embarrassed. “Well, probably more like two months, but doses vary, so I’m sure you can find a way to make it last.”

  After all he had risked, not to mention how tired and sore he was from working all day, Darryl felt instantly furious, and he had to struggle for a moment to get control of himself. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from saying anything rude.

  “That wasn’t the deal,” he said, finally. “Two months wasn’t the deal.”

  The mayor shrugged. Already Julian was leading the cows away, headed back down the road. Darryl was tempted to rush after him and snatch the leads out of his hand. Instead, he just stood there, clutching the box, and shaking with anger.

  “We don’t have that much to go around at the moment,” the mayor said. “You’ll get the rest of the meds eventua
lly. Hey, kid, be happy with what you got. Meds of any kind are scarce, but diabetes meds are scarcer than gold. Besides, aren’t we doing you a favor taking these cows off your hands? You guys don’t have proper fencing in place yet, so predators are a problem. You don’t have workers to help take care of the cows. Seems to me you’re in pretty serious trouble.”

  Unable to contain himself, Darryl started after Julian, intending to grab at least one of the cows. However, the mayor stepped in his way and planted a hand against his chest, pushing him backward. Then he reached into his jacket and produced a handgun.

  “You need some perspective here, kid,” he said, pointing the gun at Darryl.

  Darryl froze.

  “You have any idea how easy it would be to shoot you right now and get away with it?” the mayor said. “No one would ever know or suspect it was me. That’s assuming anyone found your body before the coyotes turned you into a meal.” He let the words linger for a second, before adding, “You did the right thing. Let’s not ruin the moment. Turn around and walk back home.”

  But Darryl couldn’t move, caught between hate and horror, clenching his hands so tightly they ached.

  “You’re a crook,” he said. “I should have known. At least the Carmichaels stick to their agreements and don’t rip people off. I’ll barter with them in the future. I’m done with you.”

  That just made the mayor laugh, and he waved off Darryl as he turned to leave. Ricky lowered his shotgun at Darryl and held it there. Finally, Darryl turned and headed back home, seething all the way up the driveway. He felt stupid. The mayor had played him.

  Big, smart man taking care of business, he thought, bitterly. You’re just a dumb kid who fell for an easy scam.

  Still, he’d gotten some meds, which was better than nothing. He shook the box and listened to the pills rattling around, trying to comfort himself, but it didn’t work. The meds wouldn’t cover the cost of two cows, and in the morning, when Grandma saw they were missing, she was going to be pissed. Especially when she saw how little he’d gotten in return.