Across from them was the entourage that had purchased horses from his dad a few days earlier, led by the man named Wayne. He man nodded at Jason. “Morning.”
Jason nodded and mumbled a greeting.
“Morning. You’ll have to excuse Jason, there. His jaw is broken and he can’t do much talking,” Doc Marty spoke up. “I don’t think we’ve met. Folks call me Doc Marty.”
Wayne nodded in Doc’s direction. “I’m Wayne. You really a doctor?”
“He’s a dentist,” Jason said in a low voice, without thinking.
Doc Marty frowned and gave Jason a look. Was he actually having to go down that road again? He’d saved this guy’s father and he was still having to prove he knew what he was doing.
Perhaps Jason sensed he’d strayed into sensitive territory because he rushed to cover his tracks. “But he’s a good doctor anyway,” Jason added, struggling to speak loudly enough that Wayne could hear him. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like he wasn’t a real doctor or anything. He did a good job of patching me and my dad up.”
Doc Marty shook his head. When were people going to get over the whole dentist thing? He really was a doctor. Dentists were doctors.
“That’s why we’re here,” Wayne said. “I just wanted to check up on your dad. Make sure you were okay and see if there was anything we could do for you.”
That threw Jason off guard a bit. He’d thought the appearance of these men meant trouble, that perhaps when Wayne heard that Johnny and Jason were injured, he got the idea he could come steal the rest of their horses. That didn’t appear to be the case. “We appreciate that. It’s a hard time.”
“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but were you able to bury your mother?” Wayne asked. “We’d be glad to pitch in if you need help with a grave. I brought a few men with me.”
Jason was again taken aback. “Seriously, I appreciate that. We took care of it already.”
Wayne nodded. “Animals need fed? Any fences down? Anything we can do for you at all?”
Doc Marty was watching the whole thing with a skeptical eye. It required diplomacy to question a man’s motives without offending him, but sometimes it had to be done. “If you don’t mind me saying so, we expected the worst when we saw you guys coming. Visitors don’t always bring good news these days. I’m surprised you guys are so motivated to help out someone you barely know.”
As tactfully as possible, Doc had laid it out on the table. Although he wasn’t demanding an explanation, he’d created a situation where it would be difficult for them not to explain themselves. He looked at them expectantly, letting the silence pressure Wayne.
“We didn’t intend to stay over the winter,” Wayne said. “We planned to keep moving south until we reached our destination. We had to get out of the north but I don’t think we’re going to be able to get where we wanted to go. We talked about it and decided to winter here. The way I was raised, that means being a good neighbor to folks. Helping where help is needed.”
“I hope you’re sincere about that,” Doc Marty said, knowing that it rang a little harsh. “It’s better to have neighbors you can depend on.”
Jason had his hand pressed against his jaw, an indication he’d probably overdone it and couldn’t muster a response. Wayne picked up on it.
“We’ll be going then. Please let your dad know we’re praying for him. If there’s anything we can do, just send someone. We’re down at the fire hall. That crazy Irish bastard and his daughter know where to find us.”
Doc Marty couldn’t help but smile. If he had a nickel for every time someone referred to Conor in a similar fashion he’d be a millionaire.
Jason gave a wave and disappeared back in the house. Doc Marty stood on the porch while Wayne turned his group and headed back down the driveway. Only when the whole group had disappeared from sight did Doc Marty head inside.
“You think they’re telling the truth?” Ragus asked.
“No way to know yet,” Doc Marty replied.
“Maybe they planned on attacking but hesitated when they found us here,” Shannon said.
“That’s a possibility,” Doc Marty said. “Time will tell.”
“We still leaving?” Ragus asked.
Doc nodded. “You get my horse and we’ll head out.”
Ragus took off back to the barn to retrieve the horse a second time.
“Keep a close watch on your dad,” Doc Marty told Jason and Sam. “I’ll be back day after tomorrow, if not sooner. If for any reason you need me, I’ll be at Conor’s place.”
Jason nodded. Sam ran to the Doc and wrapped her arms around him. “Thank you!”
Doc Marty smiled. “You’re more than welcome.” He gathered the last of his gear and headed out the door.
31
When Bryan first awoke, face down in the dirt, he thought he was hung over. It was the only reference point he had for feeling so damn bad. He ached from head to toe. Then he recalled how he ended up this way. He had been abducted and beaten by this Mad Mick character and his psychotic daughter. He put his hands beneath him like he was doing a push-up, rolling himself over onto his back. There were so many various pains it was difficult to even isolate what might be injured. His mouth felt dry and…odd. He wondered if perhaps something had been beaten loose. Had they cut his tongue out and it was dried blood he was feeling? He opened his mouth, stuck his fingers inside, and found something thin and soggy. He pinched it between his fingers and pulled it out, raising it to his eyes.
It was a business card.
Bryan shaded his eyes and squinted at it, the late afternoon sun shooting daggers into his throbbing head. The card read Conor Maguire, Master Machinist and Fabricator, Jewell Ridge, Virginia. There was no street address and no phone number. That was kind of odd for a business card. Maybe it meant that everyone knew where this Conor Maguire lived. Maybe Jewell Ridge was so small that it wasn’t difficult to locate his shop. Either way, Bryan now had a name and a location for the man who had become the bane of his existence.
Bryan flipped the card over to make sure there was no further information on the back. What he found was a message scrawled in permanent marker: Turn around and go back if you know what's good for you.
Bryan frowned and tasted his now empty mouth. Perhaps whatever ink was in that permanent marker was responsible for the weird chemical taste and numbness in his mouth. How absurd it would be to survive this far into the apocalypse but perish from permanent marker poisoning.
He sat up and took stock of himself. His neck and face were sore and he felt like he had some bruises from rough treatment. Nothing permanent, if the marker ink didn't kill him. He got to his feet and brushed off. He shaded his eyes and looked around, searching for his men. He didn't see anyone but he could hear yelling in the distance.
It was his name being called. His men were looking for him.
Bryan tucked the business card into a shirt pocket and staggered off in the direction of the yelling. He didn't recognize where he was but it turned out that his attackers had not dragged him very far. In minutes he could see the church again and his men combing the area for any sign of him. He threw up a hand and called to them. His voice came out weaker than normal, a coarse croak that made him clear his throat and try again
On his second attempt they heard him. The men called to each other and came running in his direction.
"You okay?" Zach asked when he reached his side.
Bryan nodded, trying to pull himself together and look like a leader despite what had happened to him. "How long have I been gone?"
Zach looked to the other men for confirmation then back to Bryan. "Twenty, twenty-five minutes tops."
Bryan furrowed his brow. "Really?" It seemed longer. Like hours or even a day later.
Zach nodded. "What happened?"
"If he was being truthful, I ran into the Mad Mick."
The growing crowd of men murmured and looked at each other. This was unexpected. Bryan had met the Mad Mick and lived to
tell about it?
“My memory is a little hazy. They roughed me up pretty bad,” Bryan said. “I remember trying to mount my horse in the smoke and the chaos and I heard something behind me. I spun around and found two attackers. Not wanting to give them a chance to strike first, I pounced on them. I gave them a pretty good scrapping but in the end there were two of them and they overpowered me. They tied me up and dragged me off for a brutal interrogation. I was lucky to escape with my life. All I remember after that is waking up in the grass."
As he spoke, Bryan looked in the faces of the men surrounding him. They were engaged in his story but also bore strange looks on their faces. He caught some pointing at his face, who dropped their hands when his eyes met theirs.
Bryan waved Michael over to him with a crooked finger. Although Michael was not one of his closest associates, he was from the original Douthat Farms group, and the man had always been straight with him.
“What the fuck is going on?” he asked Michael with a low voice.
Michael hunched his shoulders. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“The men are not meeting my eyes. They’re looking at me funny. Am I bleeding?”
Michael looked terrified.
“Now you’re doing it too.”
Michael stuttered, trying to find a response but Bryan shoved him back into the crowd of men. “Zach!”
Zach was at the front of the crowed and stepped closer.
“What the hell is going on that everyone is looking at me like I’m biting the heads off chickens? Is there something wrong with me? Somebody better be telling me something.”
Zach didn’t react.
“Damnit, I’ll show him,” Carrie said, stepping out of the crowd. She dropped her daypack off her shoulder, fished out a hand mirror about the size of a pack of cigarettes, and held it up to Bryan’s face.
“What am I supposed to do with that?” he asked.
“Your face,” Carrie said.
Bryan leaned forward, his eyes going from Carrie’s down to the mirror. There was utter silence in the crowd. Bryan saw lettering on his forehead.
I wear pink panties.
He rubbed his sleeve furiously against his forehead. When he stopped, the letters were still there. This would take more than elbow grease. Then he noticed everyone watching him.
“Get the hell out of here!” he screamed, his eyes bulging and his face blushing as red as a tomato.
Carrie and Zach remained, Carrie still holding the mirror. "So the Mad Mick lives here?" Carrie asked.
"Some place called Jewell Ridge,” Bryan said, scrubbing at his forehead. “We need to find out where that is."
"How can you be so sure that’s where he lives?" Carrie asked.
Bryan reached into his pocket and withdrew the sodden business card. He handed it over to Zach, who shook it once or twice carefully reading it. He passed it to Carrie.
"He left a calling card? That's one cocky bastard,” Zach said.
"Or maybe it’s just one dumb bastard," Carrie remarked.
"I need a drink of water. See if there’s any alcohol wipes in a first aid kit somewhere. Maybe that will take off this marker," Bryan said. "You guys bang on some doors and see if you can find out where Jewell Ridge is."
Carrie gave Bryan a water bottle and offered him the mirror. Bryan took it, then found a bench on the sidewalk and planted himself there. By the time he'd finished the bottle, Zach was back at his side with the information he’d requested.
"Take Route 460 to a place called Claypool Hill. When you pass the McDonald's, you turn right and head in that direction. First town we come to, we stop and ask for further directions. Nobody could tell us the rest of the directions."
"Did you demonstrate our thanks?"
Zach nodded. “Of course. We looted their house but we left them alive."
"Good enough. Like proper gentlemen. Now let’s get out of this godforsaken town and find a place to camp for the night."
"Already on that," Zach said. "The county fairground is a couple miles away. It’s right beside the highway. We can camp there for the night and we’ll be ready to go in the morning.”
“Come across anything appetizing for dinner?” Bryan asked. “My ordeal has left me famished.”
“Six chickens and a pig,” Carrie said. “We found them while we were looking for you. They’re already lashed to a horse.”
“Where’s my horse?” Bryan asked.
“Tied up to a parking meter on Main Street,” Zach said.
Bryan stood, wavered unsteadily, and hands shot out to right him. “I think I need to get settled and take it easy for the evening. I’m feeling a little unsteady.”
“Nice plate of pork chops and ribs might take care of that,” Carrie said. “Let’s get you to that horse.”
Bryan raised his bangs and leaned toward Carrie and Zach. “Did I get it all? Is it gone?”
“You can’t even tell it was there,” Zach said.
Bryan handed the mirror back to Carrie and walked off.
Carrie shot Zach a look. “Liar.”
32
When the chain-link gate at Conor’s compound rolled open, Ragus shot awake and looked at his watch. It was a little after 4:30 AM. He’d spent the night by the stove in Conor’s living room, too anxious to lay down in his bed. Shannon and Doc Marty had hung around in the living room with him until nearly midnight, then headed off to their own quarters.
Ragus took his rifle from its hook, unbolted the door, and stepped out onto the porch, illuminating the area with a tactical spotlight to make certain of who was coming in the gate. He spotted Barb and Conor leading their horses across the compound. Both man and beast looked exhausted.
"Get that fecking light out of my face before I shove it down your pie-hole," Barb complained.
"What did you find out?" Ragus asked, leaving the spotlight on, but averting it from Barb and Conor.
"Give me a second to attend to these horses. We pushed them hard. Then we can talk about what we found."
The noise had reached the guest quarters and woke Shannon and Doc Marty. They came out dressed and wearing headlamps. "Anything we can do, Conor?" Doc Marty asked.
"Negative on that. Give me a second to help Barb with these horses and I'll be right in."
Barb waved him off. "I've got the horses, Dad. You better go in and tell them the scoop before they all wet their pants."
Ragus frowned at the condescending smugness. It was the thing that he liked least about Barb. On the other hand, the way she talked and acted was such an integral part of Barb that he couldn't imagine ever changing her. It only reaffirmed to him that his previous obsession with her had simply been a phase. Perhaps it was vulnerability motivated by his loss and desperation, yet after having met someone like Shannon, he was more certain than ever that the abrasive Barb was not what he wanted in a woman. Shannon made him feel capable, funny, and worthwhile. Barb made him feel like a bumbling nobody, and who wanted to feel like that?
Conor grabbed his pack from his horse so Barb wouldn't have to carry all the gear when she came inside. He trudged to his quarters, a weary and exhausted warrior. He handed his pack off to Ragus so he could clear his weapons before going inside. Ragus admired the proficiency with which he did so. It was smooth, polished, and practiced. Ragus could only hope that one day he could handle weapons with the same ease. It was a skill he wanted to have.
Ragus held the door open and Conor went to stow his gear, hanging his backpack in its proper place in the ready room. After some rest, Conor would go through it to replace any gear expended or damaged on the mission. The weapon he had taken was wiped down and stowed in its space on the rack. The battle belt was hung on its own hook. After his nap, when he restocked his pack, he would check the battle belt with the same thoroughness.
Everything had to be in its proper place. If they were attacked in the middle of the night or if some other situation took place that required grabbing gear in a hurry, C
onor wanted to be able to lay a hand on things in total darkness. He never wanted to have to search for critical gear. It should always be in the same place and ready to go when he picked it up. That was how he lived. That was how he survived.
"I’ve got to fix me a bite to eat," Conor said. “I can't think over top of this empty stomach. Every time I say something I hear an echo in that void that used to be me belly."
"I got that," Shannon said. "We had some leftovers. I’ll throw something together for you. You sit down."
Conor barely had the energy to muster an entertaining comment. He nodded appreciably in her direction. "Thank you." He sagged to the couch, exhausted.
"I'm assuming you rode all night?" Doc Marty asked.
Conor gave a nod that widened into a yawn. “We don't have a lot of time. There really is an army coming. I’d say we have a day or two at the most."
"Really?" Ragus asked. "An army?"
"An avenging army would be more accurate. It turns out those guys that stole Barb and the other women had a boss. He's pissed off because we killed all those men of his. I spoke to him in person and I don't think he's going to let bygones be bygones."
"You spoke to him?" Doc Marty asked.
Conor nodded, too tired to embellish the gesture with unnecessary words.
"How did you get him to sit down and talk?" Ragus asked. “How exactly did that come about?”
Doc Marty gave a knowing laugh. "Under duress, I would assume.”
"Exactly. We choked him out and zip tied him," Conor said.
Ragus had envisioned a meeting arranged in the middle of the street, like gunfighters in a western, or the two of them meeting face to face in the middle of a battlefield. The last thing he’d imagined was a kidnapping and interrogation. It showed him that he still had a lot to learn about the family sheltering him.
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