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

by Hamilton, Grace

  She’ll never trust me again, he thought, dragging a shoe through the gravel.

  23

  Greg couldn’t believe his eyes. Stacks of Canadian Armed Forces MREs in their light-brown packaging covered the shelf above the kitchen counter. Greg couldn’t help himself—he had to rifle through the packs to see what foods were available. Eustace and John guided Tuck to a padded chair in the corner and helped him prop his injured leg on a small plastic crate.

  The workers’ building at the way station was fairly cramped, a small space lit by a couple of oil lanterns. A single folding table with a few metal chairs around it dominated the center of the main room. A counter, a couple of cabinets, and a propane stove in the corner made up the kitchen area, and a small door led to a messy office that had just enough room for a small desk and computer.

  As Emma took a seat at the table, burying her face in the crook of her arm, Greg flipped through the MREs. Hoping to perk her up at least a little bit, he read them out loud.

  “Hungarian goulash, beef ravioli, beef chop suey, tarragon chicken, cheese tortellini, scalloped potatoes and ham, ham steak with mustard sauce.”

  “I’m not hungry,” she replied, her voice muffled by her sleeve.

  “You need to eat something,” he said, “so which one could you stomach?”

  Emma groaned. “Ham, I guess, but I’m scraping off the mustard sauce.”

  “Maybe the mustard comes in a separate pack,” he said, grabbing the MRE off the shelf and setting it in front of her. “Just eat as much as you can. We all need to get our strength back.”

  “Do we?” she muttered, but she pulled the MRE toward her.

  As his daughter ripped into the plastic pouch, Greg went over to Tuck. They’d rolled his pant leg back to reveal the blood- and pus-soaked bandage. John Bennett gagged and grabbed his stomach.

  “It’s rotten,” he said. “Look at that. His whole leg is rotten.”

  Eustace shushed him.

  “We used up all the bandages in our first aid kit,” Greg said. “I don’t suppose you’ve got first aid supplies around here?”

  “You might think so,” John said. “Nearest doctor’s a heck of a long way from here. But, no, we don’t have any kind of medical supplies in the way station.”

  “Really? That’s surprising,” Greg said. He turned and looked at John to make sure the guy wasn’t joking.

  “That’s the way it is,” John replied, his eyes flicking briefly to Eustace. “What can I say?” He started to smile, as if he were about to laugh, but he cleared his throat instead and turned away.

  It was such a weird moment that Greg wasn’t sure what to do about it. Was is possible John was lying about the first aid kit? Why the heck would he do that? What did he have to gain? Greg decided to ignore it for now and went to the shelf, grabbing an MRE—scalloped potatoes and ham—and bringing it to Tuck. The old man looked at him, glassy-eyed, and seemed confused for a second, as if he had no idea where he was.

  “It’s food, Dad,” Greg said. “Here.”

  He pulled out a pocketknife and cut open the MRE pouch, but when he handed it to Tuck, the old man overturned it and dumped all the little packets out onto his lap. In the absence of first aid supplies, Greg did his best to clean Tuck’s festering wound, using some antiseptic and a paper towel—not ideal, but better than nothing.

  Tuck managed to get the pouch of scalloped potatoes open, and he began scooping them out with a finger and eating them. Greg started to retrieve the little spork, but then he thought better of it. Tuck was in a delirious state. Better to let him do things his own way for now. At least he was eating.

  Once the wound was clean, he turned to discard the wadded paper towels. Emma was sitting at the table nibbling at the little slab of ham from her MRE. Eustace and John were standing beside each other near the front door, their shadows dancing on the wall beside them in the harsh lamplight.

  No, Greg didn’t like it here. Even though they were inside a building for the first time in what felt like forever, it seemed somehow less safe. He felt enclosed, and Eustace and John weren’t exactly the best company.

  “Grandpa needs a fresh bandage, Dad,” Emma said, after a while. “Cleaning it won’t do much good if you just put the filthy old bandage back on there.”

  “We’re out of bandages,” he replied, taking a seat at the table.

  “Well, I have an idea.” She pushed the rest of her MRE in front of him and rose from the table. “You eat this. I’ll take care of Grandpa.”

  As Greg worked his way through the various packets in the MRE, starting with the Snickers, his daughter got a bar of soap from beside the sink and went to Tuck’s side. He watched as she produced a pocketknife of her own, pulled a clean t-shirt out of her pack, and cut a long strip from the shirt. She then tossed away the old bandage and thoroughly scrubbed the wound, doing a much better, and rougher, job than Greg. He could tell his old man was trying not to wince or cry out.

  “The trick is to keep it really, really clean,” Emma said. “That’s our only chance to stop the infection.”

  She wrapped the long strip of cloth around the leg and tied it in place.

  “Thanks, sweetheart,” Tuck said, when she was done. “I’m awful glad you’re here.”

  “Take care of yourself, Grandpa,” she replied.

  Helping the old man seemed to have brought her out of her funk. That was one good thing, at least, in an otherwise deteriorating situation. When she finished, Emma washed up in the sink, using one of the many water bottles stocked in a cabinet in the kitchen area. Greg had eaten as much as he could stand, so he consolidated his trash inside the MRE pouch and moved his chair closer to Tuck.

  “How are you feeling now, Dad?” he asked.

  Tuck had finished his scalloped potatoes, and he didn’t seem interested in anything else from the MRE. Greg picked up all the packets and bags and set them on the table. As he did, his hand brushed Tuck’s arm, and he felt hot flesh. He pressed the back of his hand against the old man’s cheek.

  “I think you’re running a fever,” he said. He turned to Eustace and John, who were still standing beside the door, chatting quietly. “Hey, do you have a blanket in here somewhere?”

  John glanced at him, glanced at Eustace, then went to a closet door and pulled out a folded wool blanket. He tossed it to Greg, who caught it in the air.

  “You make your dad comfortable,” Eustace said. “I’ve got to look at a few things—business stuff, you know. Be right back.” And with that, he beckoned John and stepped outside.

  John followed him, and the door swung shut behind them with a bang. Greg tried to ignore their strange behavior. Maybe they were trying to hide something from him. Evidence, perhaps?

  I couldn’t care less about the case right now, Greg thought, but I guess ol’ Eustace doesn’t know that.

  He pulled the blanket over his dad, but as he did, he also grabbed the rifle out of his pack and slipped it under the blanket. It was more of an instinct than a plan.

  “I’m entrusting this to you,” he said to Tuck. “I don’t expect any trouble, but just in case…well, you’ll know what to do.”

  Tuck reached over and brushed the barrel of the gun through the sheet, then he grinned broadly. He looked up at Greg and nodded. Greg felt something strange then, a warm feeling he’d never felt before. As his father leaned back in the seat, Greg tucked in the blanket.

  Trust, he realized. We just trusted each other.

  That was it.

  “Emma, we’d better get some rest,” Greg said. “We’ve got another long day ahead of us, and we’ll want to set out early.”

  “Okay, Dad,” she replied. “I’m tired, but I don’t know how fast I’ll fall asleep.”

  He unrolled her sleeping bag along the wall beside the table, then unrolled his own sleeping bag near Tuck’s seat. The old man was already curled up under his blanket, his hands tucked behind his head and his eyes shut. Greg dimmed the lamps and took off his jacke
t, setting it on the ground nearby. Then he lay down on his sleeping bag.

  “Good night,” Emma said.

  “Good night,” he replied.

  “How much longer do you think we’ll have to walk?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Try not to think about it right now, okay?”

  To this, she sighed, crawling deep into her sleeping back until only the top of her head was visible. She was soon asleep, breathing loudly through her mouth. Though Eustace and John still weren’t back, Greg decided not to wait for them. He wasn’t gathering evidence against the company, not now, not when people were dying. That would wait.

  Though the floor was cold, hard, and uncomfortable, the sleeping bag too thin, and the air quite cold, he still found himself falling asleep within minutes. Just before he slipped away, he thought of his father’s words earlier that day. I wasn’t pushing you away. I was getting out of your way. For some reason, it struck him differently now, and his last feeling was a quiet sadness.

  And then he drifted into the dreamless dark.

  It didn’t last long. Soon, he had a sense of a great looming presence, and it dragged him back into the dim lamplight. When he opened his eyes, he saw a vast shadow above him and thought for a second that it was a bear. Somehow, it had gotten into the building. He thrashed in his sleeping bag, but then someone shushed him.

  Slowly, the shape came into focus, and he realized it was Eustace’s worker, John Bennett, still wearing his big green jacket and toque. He was bent over, as if he’d been studying Greg in his sleep. That alone was disturbing enough, but then Greg realized his right hand was thrust downward, and some object hovered near Greg’s face. Light glinted off a silver surface. A pistol, the barrel mere inches from his left temple. John raised his left hand and pressed it to his lips.

  24

  Tabitha swore in ways Darryl had never imagined, and as she paced furiously in the barn, he slunk back into a shadowy corner. It was Darryl’s own fault that she’d discovered the missing cows right away, as he’d accidentally left the front barn door ajar. However, thus far, she had not accused him. She peered into the stalls again, rooted around on the ground, then kicked some dirt and stomped her foot.

  You’re going to have to tell her the truth, Darryl thought. Get it over with, because the longer you wait, the worse it’s going to be when she finds out.

  His mother was standing in the open barn door, her hands in her jacket pockets. Darryl glanced at her, but she wasn’t paying attention to him. Mostly, she was just watching her mother throw a fit.

  “It’s the fence,” Tabitha said. “That unfinished fence. Someone or something got through and dragged them off. I was afraid this was going to happen again. That’s why I said we need to hurry up and build the stupid thing!”

  Darryl’s thoughts kept going back to Filmore and the gun, to the sudden change in the man’s demeanor. He’d seen the real person last night, and he still felt foolish that he hadn’t realized the kind of man he was dealing with.

  Leo Filmore is a crook, he thought. His men are crooks, too.

  More than that, they were dangerous. He knew that now. They’d cheated him right to his face, then threatened his life when he dared to complain.

  “It could have been someone from town,” Tabitha said. “One of those creepy little rednecks could’ve done it. They’d have no trouble getting in here, not without a tall fence to keep them out.”

  It’ll have to be a fence that can keep us safe from the mayor, Darryl thought. He thinks I’m an easy target now.

  He was still remembering the previous night’s events when he realized Tabitha was standing right in front of him. He blinked rapidly, clearing his mind, and met her gaze.

  “Yes, Grandma?”

  “How quickly can you finish the fence?” she asked. “It needs to surround the entire property—by that I mean the barn, the sheds, the root cellar, and the house.”

  “Now that the root cellar is done, I’ll make it my primary focus,” he replied.

  “Good,” she said. “The sooner the better. Now, show me this root cellar. Come on. We’ve got a lot of work to do today.” She snapped her fingers at him. Oh yes, Grandma was in a foul mood.

  Well, it’s your own fault, stupid, he chided himself, as he strode past his mother and through the barn door.

  Fortunately, Grandma had given him the perfect opportunity to change the subject, so he hurried away from the barn and past the house. The newly framed door for the root cellar didn’t look great in the morning sun. It was a little bit off-center, and the hinges were spaced unevenly. When he opened the door, the loud squeal made him flinch. Still, he led her down the steps and showed off his handiwork.

  “You feel how much cooler it is down here?” he said. “That’ll be great in the summer. We can store all of that salt-cured meat, milk, and anything else that needs to stay cool. What do you think?”

  Tabitha and Marion stood at the bottom step and looked around. Unlike the door, the interior was nice and orderly. The old barn boards that had become the walls looked quaint, and the shelves were all aligned nicely.

  “I’m impressed,” Tabitha said, after a moment. “This looks like a professional job. Good work.”

  “It’s great,” Marion added. “Looks like you made the walls sturdier than before”

  “Yep,” he replied. “Plus, I insulated them. Thought it would be cooler that way.”

  “Great work.”

  Under normal circumstances, Darryl would have felt proud of himself. It took a lot to impress Grandma and Mom. Both were competent and skilled individuals. Sadly, his mood was spoiled by his shady dealings with the mayor.

  I’ll make it up to them by keeping them safe, he thought. I’ll build the strongest, sturdiest fence ever.

  “Darryl, your mother and I will move the salted beef down here,” Tabitha said, turning to leave. “Please, get to work on that fence.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied, following her out of the root cellar.

  He retrieved his tools and a can of nails and headed toward the fence. As he did, he began to envision additional safety measures. He wasn’t just keeping out predators now, he was potentially keeping out corrupt and shady local officials. What if he made the fence so high, no one could climb it? What if he made it like a fortress wall, with platforms at the corners as lookout posts? What if he mounted sharp blades or spikes to the top of every post?

  He could see all of this in his mind, but he didn’t think he had the materials for it. What he really wanted to do was seal off the entire ranch from the outside world, but that just wasn’t feasible. He would have to settle for something far less. He considered the scrap wood and figured they had enough that he could add a few feet on top, and he could make the fence sturdier, harder to break through.

  He’d stacked up a bunch of the scrap wood in a wheelbarrow, and he added his tools now, pushing the wheelbarrow out into the pasture. Since he was the only one working on the fence, his plans were going to take a long time to realize, but he was determined to do it right. He owed that to his family. As he passed the barn, he ducked inside to retrieve some cow bells that he figured he could use for a makeshift alarm system, then added a few empty cans from a storage shelf.

  He spent the next couple of hours working on the fence, though he didn’t get far. He had to backtrack to areas he’d worked on previously in order to add the additional height. Using fishing line, he strung the bells and empty cans along the top. He’d been so anxious all morning that he’d forgotten all about the box of meds, but it came to him as he was working on the fence. He’d stashed it under the porch before going to bed, but he knew he needed a better hiding place. The root cellar seemed like the perfect location. He even had a spot in mind, a dark corner to the left of the door, where it would be hidden by a low shelf.

  When he saw his mother and grandmother headed to the barn with milking pails, he figured it was his best chance to get it done. He needed a break from the fence anyw
ay. He waited until they were inside the barn, then he set his tools down in the wheelbarrow, and scurried off toward the house. When he reached the porch, he checked over his shoulder to make sure they were still in the barn, then he thrust his hand deep underneath, rooting around behind a bush, until he felt the cardboard box. Pulling it out, he pressed it against his belly, wrapped his arms around it to hide it as best he could, and hurried toward the root cellar.

  You’re acting like a criminal, he said. Why don’t you just show her the meds?

  But he wasn’t ready for that. The timing was off—too close to the loss of the cows. If he showed her the meds now, she would ask questions, and she might connect the dots. Better to bring it up later. Once he reached the root cellar, he opened the door, winced as the hinges shrieked his presence to the whole ranch, then slipped down into the dimness.

  The smell of salt beef hung heavy in the air, and he saw the crate of meat lining the wall. He set the box in the back corner, but he realized it wasn’t entirely hidden from the door. Wanting to hide it completely, he went back up to his debris pile and got a few bricks. He used them to build a crude wall around the box until it was completely hidden. He took another minute to adjust the positions of the bricks, trying to create something that didn’t look deliberate. When he was satisfied, he rose, brushed off his hands, and turned.

  As he approached the stairs, a shadow cut through the beam of sunlight in the open door. His mother appeared on the top step.

  “What are you doing back down there?” she asked.

  Darryl immediately turned away so she wouldn’t see the shock on his face—it felt a little like getting caught stealing candy out of her purse when he was a boy. His gaze went to the tubs of salted beef.

  “Oh…uh, I was going to select one of the big cuts of meat,” he said, pointing at the nearest tub, “so I could take it over to the Carmichaels…you know, as part of our agreement when they gave us the curing salt.”