In a fit of panic, Greg tossed his rifle over the fence, leapt up onto the center crossbeam, and pulled himself up. He rolled over the tops of the fenceposts and fell into the backyard. On the way down, he hit some plastic surface, felt it buckle under his weight, then he slammed into the ground. He picked himself up and cast about for the rifle.
He’d fallen on a small, plastic playground slide, knocking it down in the process. The rifle had fallen a few feet away. He scrambled for it on his hands and knees and picked it up. As he rose, he glanced toward the back of the house at a sliding glass door and saw someone standing in a gap between the vertical blinds. An old, white-haired woman in a purple housedress, she gaped at him like he was an alien that had fallen out of the sky.
He waved her away and tried to mouth the words, “Hide. Get down,” though he was sure she didn’t understand him. She didn’t react. Feeling pain in his side from landing on the slide, Greg ran for the gate in the fence on the east side, pushed it open, and slipped through. Then he took off running again into the deepest and most overgrown part of the woods. Here, at least, the snow was not as deep, blocked by the dense canopy of evergreen boughs overhead. This enabled him to sprint full-out, the rifle tucked against his chest and belly. Out of breath, his blood rushing in his head, he cut a zigzagging path—east then north, then east, then north—as he gradually worked his way around the outskirts of Glenvell.
Soon, he caught a glimpse of the town hall far to his left. This gave him enough of an indication of his location that he was able to adjust course. He heard a third gunshot, but it sounded farther away. Where the bullet hit, he had no idea. Out of breath, in pain, his legs on fire, he forced himself to keep moving as fast as his body would carry him, eventually reaching the back road that cut through the neighborhood. He saw his own tracks crossing the road here, and he followed them, hoping to somehow confuse his pursuers.
Finally, after perhaps another thirty minutes of running full-out, he felt his legs buckle, and he stumbled to a stop, catching himself against a small pine tree. Gasping for breath, his lungs burning and his legs on fire, he planted the butt of the rifle against his shoulder and turned, aiming back behind him. In between breaths, he heard sounds of his pursuers, but they seemed very far away now. He waited a minute, but they didn’t seem to get any closer.
Finally, when he’d caught his breath, he resumed moving. He wanted to head back to the hanging deer carcass and drag the thing home, but he knew he couldn’t do that. He had to confuse his pursuers somehow, so he began walking in strange looping patterns through the woods, creating crisscrossing tracks that seemed to go in every direction. At one point, he came in sight of the rural highway, and he created a set of tracks leading right into the ditch, heading south for a while before cutting back into the woods.
After almost an hour of this, he paused again and listened for his pursuers. He didn’t hear them at all. He didn’t hear anything. The snowy woods had grown deathly quiet, but he stood there for a bit, aiming the rifle into the distance and waiting. When the silence endured for a few more minutes, he finally started back toward home. Along the way, he passed through the backyard of the old Carmichael place and saw the rotting barn and old, empty house sitting in the snow like a forgotten grave.
From there, he was able to adjust course and head for the deer carcass. He had a pretty good idea of where he’d left it, hanging from the sturdy limb of a spruce tree a few meters north of the back road. Along the way, he saw other tracks, which could have been his. He wasn’t sure. He’d left many paths in the woods that day.
Finally, he spotted blood in the snow ahead of him and knew it was the place where he’d buried the guts. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and ran toward it. However, when he came in sight of the spruce tree, he saw only a length of nylon rope, still tied to the branch and hanging down but severed. The deer was gone, and among the many footprints in the area, there was a distinct drag mark heading south.
They got my deer, he thought, muttering every profanity in the book. Eustace’s people got my deer!
He raised the gun and aimed in the direction of the drag mark, but whoever had taken it was long gone. He was utterly alone in the cold, quiet woods. And Greg realized that part of him wanted to go after them, to gun them down and wrest back the deer that was rightfully his. It was a dark realization, and he felt suddenly as if he were on the verge of crossing a terrible line. Shooting someone to defend his family was one thing, killing someone for stealing meat was something else altogether, but the feeling was there. He couldn’t deny it.
Keep it together, Healy, he scolded himself. Forget about the deer.
The light had changed overhead, and he realized he’d wasted so much time on this complete failure of a mission that the afternoon was edging toward early evening. He’d left the house hours ago.
Even so, he waited a bit longer, standing there beneath the length of severed nylon rope until the shadows grew long and evening settled in. Only then, in the relative safety of the dimming light, did he dare to trudge back home. Clearly, Eustace knew he was spying on them, which only made him angrier and more determined to kill the man.
At the same time, he was coming home empty-handed after wasting hours in the woods. Could he still keep the lie going? He dreaded the idea of telling his family—especially his wife and his mother—the full truth about what he’d been up to, but maybe it was time.
Worry about that later, he told himself. For now, just get home.
The behavior of Eustace’s little ragtag band was embarrassing. They wore their emotions so close to the surface. Even the former cop, Pam Grasier—normally so stoic—stormed through the warehouse door, ripped her hat off and flung it to the ground, and yanked the scarf from around her neck, wadded it up, and threw it. The others stomped in like children that had just lost a youth hockey game.
Must I be associated with these people? James Teagan thought. These untrained yokels have never heard of professional detachment.
He’d dragged the field-dressed deer all the way back by himself. Couldn’t they see how calm he was? Didn’t they see what it was like to maintain control? Little children pretending to be tough guys, that’s what they were. It sickened him.
He was in the process of hoisting the carcass using a pulley and chain that hung from the ceiling of the warehouse when Eustace strode up, scowling at everyone. At least their target had done them the favor of preparing the animal. It was already gutted and bled out. That was the nastiest part of the work, and it was done.
“That guy’s a lot faster than I expected,” Pam Grasier said, stooping down to pick up the broad-brimmed hat she’d tossed on the ground. “He’s not a small guy, but it was like chasing a rabbit through the snow. I just couldn’t catch up to him. I don’t know why.”
“He knew what he was doing. The guy’s no amateur.” A wannabe villain with a round baby face, Donald was perhaps the most annoying of all Eustace’s cronies. James avoided talking to the man as much as possible. He was dressed all in black, except for the big shiny silver belt buckle, which gleamed as soon as he unzipped his padded jacket and tossed it onto a nearby chair. He also had a squeaky little voice that made him sound like a kid. He’d served as a local cop alongside Pam for years, apparently.
“He’s just a local rancher,” said the third guy. An employee of Eustace’s company, Benny was a class above the others—or below, depending on the point of view. He had rough skin, deep-set black eyes, and a flinty little stare. He was carrying an old SKS rifle that looked like it had sat in someone’s closet for twenty years. He propped it against the wall as he entered the room. “Don’t give him too much credit. If a man is scared enough, he’ll run like a rabbit.”
Pam, Donald, and Benny passed James, all of them avoiding looking in his direction as they headed deeper into the warehouse. That was fine. James didn’t want to be friends with these people. He wanted them to be anxious and quick to do what they were told.
“Close
that damn door,” James said, gesturing at the side door of the warehouse, which that deep-eyed cretin Benny had left ajar.
Of the three, Donald rushed back at his command and promptly shut the door, setting the deadbolt. James took note of this. He didn’t bother to thank the man. Thanks were for favors, not orders. Instead, James drew the enormous buck knife from its sheath under his coat and went to work skinning the deer.
The warehouse had been a grocery distribution business at one time, which meant originally much of it had been refrigerated. Now, it was just a big, dim room with no windows and a bunch of tall shelves running in long rows from front to back. They’d managed to fuel up one of the generators, which provided just enough power to get the lights working, but the other generator was fried—a consequence of the capricious nature of the EMP. That meant they didn’t have enough power to run the cold storage. Unfortunate, but they would make do. Already, the shelves were beginning to fill with the growing stacks of “acquired” supplies.
For a few minutes, James heard the cronies grumbling and complaining as they moved through the warehouse, but he tuned it all out and made short work of the deer. He had just finished removing the hide and was draping it over the back of some chairs that he’d lined up when he heard familiar unhealthy breathing coming from behind him. Eustace came waddling up. Because it was insulated, the interior of the warehouse was quite a bit warmer than the outside air, so Eustace had removed his flannel coat, hat, and gloves. Underneath, he had a sweat-soaked, long-sleeve t-shirt. His red beard and hair were sticking out in a comical way, but he had an angry glint in his eyes.
That anger better not be directed at me, James thought. None of this is my fault.
James decided to nip it in the bud.
“You’ve got to whip these people into shape,” he said. He’d learned that it was best to set the agenda in any conversation with Eustace Simpson. It put him off balance just enough to make it easier to deal with him. “They’re bungling fools, and they show their emotions too easily.”
“I sent you to chase after a spy, and instead of bringing back the spy, alive or dead, you brought back a deer carcass,” Eustace said, with a bitter laugh. “How does that work? Did you wind up chasing the wrong animal?”
“Let’s call it a consolation prize,” James said, wiping his hands on an old rag he’d taken from the employee break room. “We can cure the meat and add it to your supplies. At least we didn’t come back empty-handed.”
“I don’t care about that,” Eustace said, with a swipe of his big hands. He had fingers as thick as sausage rolls. James found himself wondering if the man had ever strangled anyone to death. He had the right hands for it. “What did you find? Was someone spying on us?”
“Yeah, he was watching the warehouse for sure,” James replied, using the rag to clean the blade of his knife. “He got pretty close, too, so I’m sure he now has some idea of what’s going on here.”
Eustace balled up his fists. “Damn. It was one guy! How did you manage to lose him?”
James shrugged, opening his coat and sliding his knife into the sheath. “He had a head start, and he’s fast even in the snow. Plus, the woods are fairly overgrown, and the snow made it hard to catch up. What do you want me to say, Eustace?” The big man’s outburst could’ve made him furious, dangerously so, if he let it, but James chose to ignore him. He could do that when necessary, just let offenses roll off his back, by simply disconnecting himself from the moment. A useful skill that had served him well in his career, especially when he’d worked for Eustace and his company. The man was prone to outbursts, and he fed off negative responses. James had seen it plenty of times, but it didn’t work with him.
Eustace seemed to collect himself, tucking his thumbs under his belt, and he stepped past James. He gave a long, throaty growl. Much of his anger seemed to go with it. “It was Greg Healy,” he said, after a moment. “I just know it. He followed us back here after we took the cow. I should’ve dealt with him a long time ago. I had plenty of opportunities, and I didn’t take them. What is he up to?”
James needed to go and get a much larger knife, ideally a big sturdy cleaver, so he could begin butchering the deer, but he figured he should finish dealing with Eustace first. He preferred to butcher carcasses in peace. “Look, there’s no way to know for sure who it was or what he wants right now. Next time he comes around, we’ll catch him and ask a few questions. Okay? So quit throwing a fit about it.”
“Forget trying to catch him,” Eustace said, with a swipe of his hands. “I want him dead. Him and his whole family.”
James sighed. Emotional overreactions and vengeance only caused unnecessary problems. Didn’t this big idiot realize that? “We don’t need him dead,” James replied. “We definitely don’t need to kill his entire family. Come on, man. Think rationally. If we play this right, we might be able to convince that family to join up with us, or at least stay out of our way. It’s to their advantage, and to ours. This family seems to be thriving over there on the ranch. They clearly know how to live off the land.”
“You’re delusional,” Eustace said. “You can’t convince those damned Healys to do anything they don’t want to do. They are a truly obnoxious tribe. You don’t know them like I do.”
“You’re right. I don’t,” James replied, “but maybe it’s time I get to know them.”
15
Rarely in his life had Darryl worked so hard on something and achieved such an impressive-looking end result. Of course, he’d spent days, hours on end, building the fence, but the end result had looked exactly like a fence built by a modestly skilled sixteen-year-old. The greenhouse was a different story altogether. His father had contributed a bit, and Emma had helped out a lot, but Darryl felt like he’d largely redeemed himself from the shoddy work he’d done on the fence. The greenhouse was really starting to look nice, and more than that, it already seemed functional on the inside. At least, it was warm enough.
On the second day of work, as he finished up preparing the ground inside the greenhouse, scouring it of debris and rocks, he had to pause and marvel at the place. Yes, seven glass panes were missing, replaced with tarps, but all the others were firmly back in place, and he’d even managed to repair some of the weak spots in the framework.
I think it may be time for a grand unveiling, he thought, leaning his rake against the wall. This is the best thing I’ve done around here since the root cellar.
He’d even reframed the wooden door, so it opened and closed smoothly now. The door itself would need to be replaced at some point. It was slightly warped from age, but it would work for now. He stepped outside and pushed the door shut, then headed back toward the house.
Of course, his pride wasn’t just about the quality of the repair work. Far more importantly, it was proof that he would be able to care for Justine and the baby. If he could show her, if she could see proof that he was getting everything ready, maybe she would worry a bit less about the future, maybe she could climb out of the funk she’d fallen into.
Darryl followed the fence back to the gate. He’d worn a nice path along the way now. At some point, before he planted anything in the greenhouse, he would need to extend the fence to surround it. No reason to leave it out in the open where thieves could steal his crops. However, to do that, he would need to find more scrap wood.
I have plenty of time, he thought. It’ll all be done long before the baby arrives.
When he stepped through the gate, he saw his father sitting on the porch. Horace’s rifle was resting on the handrail beside him, as if he’d been out hunting again. Greg seemed to have taken a liking to the SIG. Darryl assumed it was because of the big scope. Still, it hadn’t done him much good. After days of hunting, he’d still only brought back the single pheasant.
“Hey, Dad,” Darryl said, approaching the fence. “No luck again today?”
His father stirred slowly, as if struggling to get out of his own head. “No, I didn’t get anything. Another bad day
of hunting.” Oh yeah, by the sharp tone, Darryl could tell he was in a foul mood. “Maybe tomorrow. I’ll keep trying. I’m persistent when I need to be.” He wouldn’t even look at Darryl.
“Maybe tomorrow,” Darryl agreed. “Hey, I was going to round everyone up and show them the greenhouse. All the work is done. It looks pretty good. Want to see it?”
“Yeah, right, sure,” Greg replied, then reached up to pull his toque down lower.
Darryl decided to leave it at that and made his way inside. Maybe Dad needed to take up a new hobby, or maybe there was something else going on out there in the woods that he didn’t want to talk about.
Darryl found Grandma, Mom, and Emma in the dining room. It looked like they were in the process of repairing the fishing traps—a task that normally would have fallen to Greg. Horace Bouchard was in the den. He was finally up and about, feeling good enough to leave his bed, but still quite weak. The books in the den were keeping him busy. Still, just to make him feel welcome, Darryl invited him to come. He politely declined and went back to flipping through the pages of an outdated world atlas.
The others at least came willingly. Emma had contributed to the work, and she made sure to point this out a few times as they all headed back outside.
“Some of the work definitely took two people,” she said, as they passed through the gate. “The ground was really uneven, so someone basically had to prop up the ladder and bear the full weight of it while Darryl replaced the windows.”
“Yeah, it helped a lot,” Darryl replied. “I’m glad you showed up when you did.”
Greg came with them, but he lagged behind. When Marion tried to engage him in conversation, he barely responded. Mom was generally pretty patient, but Darryl knew she would eventually reach her limit with his moping. Then things would get really exciting around the house.
Great, he thought sourly, then Justine will be more determined than ever not to say anything about the pregnancy.
EMP: Return of the Wild West | Book 2 | Survive The Attack Page 11