Dissolution: The Wyoming Chronicles: Book One

by W. Michael Gear

  And there were delays from recent deadfall blocking the trail. There they would dismount; Brandon would pull the chainsaw from one of the panniards on a pack mule and cut away the fallen tree.

  “God, I love this!” Brandon chortled as he shut the saw off. “I mean, this is all wilderness area. We’d have had to cut this out with a handsaw. If the end of the world was good for anything, it’s that now I can use a motor.”

  “A handsaw?” Shanteel wondered. “To cut trees?”

  Breeze stood with hands on hips after wrestling a section of fir tree off the trail. She watched it tumble down to catch against the trunks just below. “They don’t call them idiot whips for nothing.”

  It helped Sam cope, all of it. Keeping busy—paying attention to his horse, gaping in wonder at the mountain splendor, and the hard labor of walking his horse up and down steep slopes—kept his mind from the grief and pain.

  Mostly.

  So many times, he longed to point at some new marvel and say, “Shyla, would you look at that?”

  But he kept it together. Somehow. Throwing himself into the moment, making himself live on the trail, concentrate on the horse, or the next task.

  “We’re not making very good time,” Amber noted when they took a break to rest and water the horses in a pool below a snowfield.

  “We’re doing fine,” Brandon told her. “Right here we’re at more than ten thousand feet. Nobody with sense pushes themselves, or their horses, in the high country. Not unless they’re idiots. Hurrying up here is a fast way to get yourself killed.”

  Sandwiches gulped down, water bottles full, the trek continued, and Sam was finally able to look back and recognize Penthouse ridge behind them in the distance.

  They were crossing an open patch of tundra when Danielle rode up and matched her pace to his. She kept looking in every direction except at him. Wind had tangled her long black hair in a mess that hung down the back of her jacket.

  “I figured you’d have stayed back at camp with Meggan, Jon, and Ashley,” Sam said.

  “I was going to. Then, I got to thinking about what if those men tried the trail again?”

  “Jon and Ashley are going to take turns keeping watch. You’d have been another set of eyes.”

  “I know.”

  “So, why’d you come?”

  She scowled, fidgeted. “So, like, you’re a New Yorker. I mean, we come from the same place. But you, like, get it, you know? I just feel...” She paused, searching for words. “Is it a guy thing?”

  “What?”

  She made a sweeping gesture from the saddle. “All this. The horses, the guns, the whole Western thing.”

  “God, no. Most of the time I feel like I’m a five-year-old dealing with a world that doesn’t make sense. It’s all alien. This is the hardest learning I’ve ever done. More so since, anymore, someone else’s life depends on it.”

  She waved at where Breeze, Brandon, and Shanteel rode three-abreast, talking and laughing on their horses. “I’ll never be like them. Even if I dedicated my life to trying to be a cowboy, that’s not who I am.”

  “So?”

  She shot him a brown-eyed look of disbelief. “Isn’t that the only thing that counts these days?”

  “No one expects you to be a cowboy or a soldier. No one expects that of Court or Jon. But Court’s making a difference in Cheyenne. Jon and Ashley are doing the physical labor that Meggan can’t. You just do what you can, and then do a little bit more.”

  “What about when we get to Clark Ranch?” She looked away. “I don’t think I could shoot a gun. Not at a person.”

  “Someone has to stay back and take care of the horses. You can do that, can’t you?”

  In a small voice, she said, “Horses scare me.”

  “Yeah? So you going to live like a mouse for the rest of your life?”

  “That’s just it. I can’t do these things.” Her face contorted. “This isn’t my world. I don’t belong here.”

  “You’re Jewish.”

  At that she flared, eyes going hot. “Where you going with that? Some anti-Semitic, racist, shit that—”

  “You got any Israeli friends?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “It’s got everything to do with it.” Sam narrowed an eye her way. “How do you think all those urban European Jews felt after the Second World War? There they were, survivors of the Holocaust, half-starved, haunted, and plopped down in the middle of Palestine surrounded by people who hated them. Cobblers, bankers, musicians, all trucked out to a kibbutz and handed a hoe before being told, ‘You’re going to work, or you’re going to starve.’ And a couple of years later, they whipped combined Arab armies to make a nation.”

  As she digested that, he said: “Jews. Relatives of yours. You wanted to know where I’m coming from as a New Yorker? My family’s dead. So’s yours. The collapse is our holocaust. You going to be an Israeli, or a statistic?”

  “Shyla was a fighter, and she’s dead.”

  “She’s not being gang-raped and humiliated by a bunch of thugs.” He jerked a head toward where Amber brought up the rear. “Go ask Amber if Shyla made the right choice.”

  Danielle shot a furtive glance back, then bit her lips, face flushing red. “What if I’m scared?”

  “The Jews in the Warsaw ghetto were scared. That’s in your blood, too, Danielle.”

  She took a deep breath, held it, gaze locked on the distant peaks. “I guess I never thought of it that way.”

  “Back in that world, we didn’t have to. You’re an anthropologist, figure it out.”

  “I wanted to be a museum curator like my uncle in the American Museum of Natural History.”

  “So you end up as a band-level hunter gatherer. Life’s full of little surprises.”

  To his relief, she laughed at that. “Nothing to fear but fear itself, huh?”

  “Yeah.” And loss, and defeat, and hunger, and endless grief.

  But he didn’t tell her that.

  Contemplation

  The fire crackles and spits. The temperature is in the forties. The archaeologists sit in a circle around the fire, faces lit by the flickering yellow light. They don’t talk much, huddled, hands in pockets or clasped before their knees.

  I am reminded of that old movie Red Dawn. The original with Patrick Swayze. Grandpa loves it. Has it on DVD. The archaeologists have that same expression on their faces, like they can’t believe what’s happening to them.

  Amber Sagan seems the most unfazed. She’s older, harder, and should be more of a leader for the rest, but she’s withdrawn. Locked inside herself, a distant reflection of hell in her eyes. I don’t know her story, but by instinct, I’m wary of her.

  Brandon and Shanteel amaze me. Talk about coming from two incompatible worlds? My red-neck Copenhagen-chewing brother and an intense social-activist black woman from the Philadelphia slums? Should be oil and water, yet there they sit, holding hands, leaning shoulder-to-shoulder, a halo of desperate intimacy around them. I’ve seen Brandon in lust. This is different. The two of them seem to mesh like gears.

  Willy sits back, apart. Not because he’s not one of us, but because, like me, he knows how this raid is likely to end. It’s a guess, but I think he’s preparing himself to be killed.

  Danielle comes across as a wide-eyed mouse, ready to freeze and cower at the first shot. I don’t know why she volunteered for this, being the most out-of-place of all of them. I suspect that when her moment comes, she’ll either crater into a weeping mess, or find herself. Call it fifty-fifty.

  And finally, there’s Sam. He’s the most complex of them all. City kid for sure, but the toughest of the newcomers. His problem is that half of him wants to break down and bawl, wallow in the grief that’s bubbling in his soul. The other half wants to rage as he stands over Edgewater’s body and rips the director’s guts out. But with Amber’s retreat into herself, he’s assumed responsibility for the archaeologists, so he can do neither.

 
; — Excerpt from Breeze Tappan’s Journal.

  Chapter Forty

  Brandon said the trails were in worse shape than he remembered. Not only did deadfall have to be cut where it blocked the path, sections of trail had to be built in places where it had washed away. They were running a day behind when they finally made camp in a hanging valley high on Boulder Ridge above the South Fork of the Shoshone River.

  More of a mountain than a “ridge”, the north-south trending mass of Boulder Ridge would be their last refuge. From where they had situated camp—hidden from sight by the shoulder of the mountain slope—Clark Ranch lay some five hundred feet below and a mile and a half down a steep slit-like canyon.

  Having grazed and watered the horses, Breeze and Danielle brushed them down. The animals rested, heads down and exhausted where they were tethered to a picket rope strung between two lodgepole pines.

  A low fire crackled as a pot filled with creek water, packages of freeze-dried macaroni-and-cheese mixed with a packet of Mediterranean-style fettuccini alfredo, and two rabbits, boiled. Willy had potted the bunnies with a .22. Whatever the meal lacked in culinary sophistication was rendered mute by the growling-and-empty stomachs around the fire.

  “Here’s what we’ve got,” Brandon said where he’d scuffed the duff and grass back to expose dark earth. “These two ridges”—he drew them on the damp dirt—“are the two you see leading off to the west.” He pointed into the sunset, indicating the high ground to either side of the intervening drainage.

  Brandon said, “Shanteel and I will take the ridge on the north, Willy the one to the south.” He fixed on Willy. “Our job is to find a position overlooking the ranch. You and me, we’re the best long-range shots. I’m good for a guaranteed cold-barrel first hit on a man-sized target out to about six hundred yards with the 6.5 284. I’ve seen you pot an antelope out to four hundred fifty with your .270.”

  “Yeah.” Willy was nodding. “I’ve got a box of twenty cartridges and another four in the gun. So let’s don’t make this a long, drawn-out affair.”

  Brandon looked at Shanteel. “We’ve got a box of fifty, so I can lay down a covering fire for longer, but, love of my life, I want you to spot with the binoculars and generally keep track of what’s going on. Breeze’s bunch will be moving, and I want you to monitor their location, so I know who’s on our side and who is an enemy.”

  “Got it,” Shanteel gave him a nod. “And I’ll hand you bullets as you run low. Just like last time.”

  Breeze took her stick, drawing a line between the ridges. “My party starts out a couple of hours before dawn, following the trail down the cut and into the valley. If some of these guys are ex-military, they might have laid traps along the trail. Maybe trip wires, or who knows what? So, we’ll take our time, sticking to the slopes as much as we can.”

  She fixed on Sam and Amber. “That’s us. Sam’s got a box of fifty rounds of .44 mag for the Marlin. Amber, you’ve got forty cartridges for the .30-30. I’ve got three mags for the M4, which is sixty rounds and another forty in loose rounds that I can use to top-up the magazines if I get the time.”

  She turned back to the contents of the boogie bag where they were spread out behind the fire. Among the bag’s myriad contents were two walkie talkies, one of which she gave to Brandon. “That’s our only communication. I’m turning it on low, but if we find ourselves in a situation where it could give us away, I’ll turn it off. That doesn’t mean you should panic if you don’t hear from me.”

  Brandon spared her a mischievous grin. “So, that’s about like normal, huh, Sis?”

  She flipped him the finger. “If I’ve got the radio off, it’s because bad guys are close and could hear it. If you can’t raise me, and it’s an emergency, fire two pistol shots. Just like when you have an elk down: Pop. Pop. I’ll turn the radio on if I can. Three shots. Pop. Pop. Pop. We’ll know that something’s going really wrong, and we have to get the hell back up the canyon.”

  “You got that, Willy?” Brandon asked his friend. “You’re the guy who doesn’t have a radio.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Willy lifted a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Something tells me I’ll know when the shooting’s done. That’ll be my clue to ghost my way back up to camp.”

  Breeze finished laying out the contents of the boogie-bag gear and kit she’d acquired during her days on the Line. The rest were looking on with definite interest.

  Brandon gave her the old familiar nod. “I gotta tell you, I’m really starting to like your friends down in Cheyenne.” He pointed. “Those real?”

  Sam picked up one of the three hand grenades and hefted it. “Yeah, they’re real. Never realized they’re so heavy.”

  “What’s the thing with the umbrella?” Amber asked, pointing.

  “Satellite phone with a directional antenna.” Breeze shrugged. “I’ve fiddled with it before, no one ever answered when I tried to make calls. So either I don’t know how to work it, or no one’s left on the other end.”

  “And the can things?” Willy asked, pointing.

  “Smoke grenades. If we get into a mess, I’ll pop one and toss it over my shoulder. Use it to screen a rapid retreat.”

  The four-goggled night vision set wouldn’t be necessary since they were hitting the place at dawn. The roll of cord she stuffed in her pack along with the flashlight. The tarp, slicker, and other gear would stay behind.

  “We need to set priorities,” Amber stated in clipped tones. “The captives have to come first.”

  “Agreed,” Sam rejoined.

  “No.” Breeze shot back. “The priority has to be Edgewater.”

  Amber leaned forward, face possessed of a new-found intensity. “Fine. You do your thing. I’ll do mine. There’s three of us, and two shooters. You go after Edgewater. I’m breaking the hostages out. And when I do, I’m getting them the hell out of there. If you don’t like it, you can shoot me now.”

  Breeze bit her lip, studied the woman. “All right.”

  Sam committed it to memory as Breeze drew the ranch layout in the dirt as she remembered it. “The stables are here, just to the left of the canyon mouth as we come out. We should encounter it first thing. If the rumors are true, that’s where the hostages are supposed to be.”

  She glanced around, drawing another square. “This is a big garage full of fancy cars just to the right as we leave the canyon. Storage for maybe twenty vehicles. It sits up against the hillside. Below it is a large lawn that slopes down to the main house. It’s a big place. Took ten to fifteen million to build, with a stone patio and plate-glass windows, so anyone inside is going to see us crossing the lawn.”

  Brandon pointed. “That’s the hard part. That yard. It’s wide open. Or it was. No cover. No way to cross it without being exposed.”

  Breeze flexed her fingers. “That’ll be something we have to solve when we get there.” She paused. “What about this attack that the governor wanted? If it came off yesterday like it was supposed to, maybe this is all a moot point?”

  “We can hope,” Sam said where he’d been crouched, hand to mouth, studying the drawing. “But I really want to kill that piece of shit.”

  “Stand in line,” Amber whispered, clutching her .30-30 as if it were a life preserver.

  “What about the hostages?” Willy asked as he stirred the potpourri stew.

  “I’ll lead them up the canyon,” Amber said, voice distant. “Don’t want them milling around where there is shooting. Getting in the way. Most will be willing to run. Some may just want to huddle into a ball and cry. I’ll get them back here, to camp.”

  Amber glanced at Danielle. “You’ll be here, keeping the fire going. Maybe have soup or something ready. Something hot, simple. It can make a huge difference. Like the first reassurance they have that it’s really over.”

  Sam watched Danielle bite back a shudder.

  But it was Amber that he worried about. That glassy-eyed fanaticism. The almost desperate and unbending dedication, as if there would be no f
ailure. Rigid insistence that everything be done just so.

  Yeah, I just hope she doesn’t break down at the first sign of trouble.

  Because surely, Amber Sagan had to know that if this went wrong, she was headed right back into hell.

  Sam tightened his grip on the unforgiving hand grenade he held. That’s the great thing about being male. They’ll just shoot me dead on the spot.

  The Die Is Cast

  In Colorado, down on the Line, things happened so fast. Most of what I did was react. The call would come in, OP Bravo Whiskey was taking fire and needed belt of ammo for Ma Duece. I’d slap a couple of belts of .50 caliber ammo into the saddle bags and maybe a case of bottled water and roar out along I-80 as fast as the BMW would run. Take the exit and fog it down the dirt roads to the OP.

  I never had time to think. Just do the job. Fast. Because our people’s lives depended upon it.

  Bullets tear through air, like a crack or snap. I’d be aware as I killed the bike, kicked the side-stand down, and started stripping supplies from the saddle bags and luggage rack. Same thing at the I-25 checkpoint that day. No time to think. Just act.

  Being thrown into action is really different than what I experienced descending that trail down the canyon. I had plenty of time to fill my head with what-ifs. And this time it wasn’t just me. There were other people at risk, like my brother, whom I loved. Nor could I trust Amber or Sam when the bullets started whacking past. Either might fold up on me.

  Here’s the thing: After everything that I’d survived, if Edgewater’s people hadn’t shot mom. If he hadn’t ordered the arrest of my family, I’d have turned around and walked right back out of that pre-dawn canyon.

  — Excerpt from Breeze Tappan’s Journal.