The Indiana Apocalypse Series

by E A Lake

  “Hello, Quinn,” a deep male voice said. “It’s been a while.”

  Uh oh. I knew that voice. And I knew I didn’t even have to turn around to figure out who it was.

  “Hello, Quinn,” a softer feminine voice added as I slowly turned. “It’s nice to see you again.”

  I felt like puking as Tony Shaklin and Wife Three, Carla — my ex — stood there smiling at me. Of all the people I could have expected to see that day, those two were way down on the list.

  I nodded cautiously and frowned. “Tony, Carla; what brings you to Pimento?”

  Shaklin approached, extending his broad hand. Reluctantly, I rose and shook it. Carla came around the desk and kissed my cheek. I didn’t bother returning that greeting.

  “How ya been, Quinn?” Shaklin asked, almost sounding as if he cared.

  “He’s lost his memory at the time,” Art announced proudly, as if that helped.

  Both Shaklin and his wife faked a concerned expression. What little I knew of them told me they didn’t give a shit about my health in any way.

  “What brings you to Pimento, I asked?” Perhaps if I repeated the question, we could get to the heart of the matter.

  “How’d you get hurt, buddy?” Shaklin asked, not taking the hint. “Some kind of gunfight? Like the ones you’re so famous for?”

  “He jacked his head on a rock,” Art answered. Why he thought joining a conversation, one I didn’t want to be having, was a good idea was making my head hurt.

  Shaklin nodded sadly. “Well that’s too bad. Must be awful having a scrambled head. Though I hear you’re still very capable of killing people.” He crossed his arms and nodded at Carla. “Speaking of people, I’m missing some. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you Quinn? They’re quite in debt to me.”

  I opened my mouth to answer but immediately remembered Morgan would be back any second. I needed to get rid of Mr. and Mrs. — Three — Shaklin so I could tell a little lie and not have to eat it.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I replied casually. “But I’m kind of busy today. So maybe we could take this up at some other time.” Never was my preference.

  Just then, a shadow appeared outside the front door. So much for timing.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SEVEN

  I quickly looked behind me to see if there was a back door out of the office. That’s when I remembered there was, but it was boarded shut. When I glanced back at my guests, their faces were contorted in the same confused looks as mine.

  Morgan entered, proudly extending some forks and colorful napkins to me. “Here they are, just like I…”

  When both Shaklins turned, Morgan’s face fell, along with the forks and napkins she was holding.

  “Well, well, well,” Shaklin uttered. “If it isn’t my old friend Morgan. Can’t really say I’m too surprised to find you here. I figured it was Quinn who’d come and gotten his girlfriend and her friends.”

  “Don’t you mean his whore,” Carla spewed. “I would have thought you’d forgotten all about her, Quinn. Maybe even found a decent woman here in Pimento. Not some piece of gutter trash like her.”

  For once, Morgan didn’t have a snappy response. She just stood there, frozen in place. Even Art was strangely mute.

  Shaklin turned and faced me. “What you got to say for yourself, Quinn? Stealing from another man is something I never thought you’d lower yourself to.”

  I signaled Morgan to come join me as I stood a little taller. “You have slaves, Tony. These aren’t people who freely give their time to you, like they have some sort of choice in the deal.”

  His face reddened. “I feed them, I clothe them, I even provide housing and protection for all of them!” His closed fist pounded against my desk.

  “And you make sure they never leave,” I countered calmly. “Once there, always there. The only way they can leave is in a pine box, right?”

  “They’re my property!” he shouted, tossing his cowboy hat on the floor. “They belong to me and me alone. Only I get to decide who comes and goes. Nobody else, Quinn. Not you, not some judge, not some family member whining for them to come home. Me!” He poked himself in his barrel chest several times to emphasize the point.

  “And yet,” I replied, taking Morgan’s hand, “this one is no longer yours.”

  “Bull shit!” Carla shouted. “And don’t bother to feed me full of shit about not knowing where the other four are. We all know they’re right here in Pimento.”

  “All that matters now,” I replied, refusing to raise my voice, “is that they’re not chained to one of your cabins any more. They’re free, and they’re going to stay that way.”

  Shaklin moved closer, even madder than before. “You stole from me.”

  I chuckled slightly. “Tony, from what I’ve been told, you stole from me. Twice. I won’t say this makes us even, but when I remember things better, I’m going to have a good laugh about it. Now, why don’t you and the former Mrs. Reynolds get on your horses and head back down to Hymera, empty-handed.”

  “I want to file a complaint,” Shaklin answered in a calmer tone. “I want to leave it here with you and you need to give it to the judge the next time he comes through here.”

  It was my turn to invade his personal space. “We aren’t going to waste the words or paper on whatever load of crap you want to spew. Unless you come back here with an army, those women are never going back.”

  Carla tried to insert herself in the middle of us, but Tony calmed her.

  “I don’t want to have to resort to violence, Quinn,” he said in a way that made me believe he thought he was actually sincere.

  I grinned at him and then Carla. “No, of course not. You hire people to do that.”

  He glanced at the floor, his lips twisting circle after circle. “Come on, Carla. We’re done here. We’ll have to settle this some other way. Some way that the sheriff will see the error of the path he’s chosen.”

  The pair walked away and just as they hit the door, Morgan just had to have her digs.

  “Oh, Carla,” she said sweetly.

  When Carla turned to look, Morgan flipped her off.

  Carla simply shook her head. “You’re a classy one, Morgan Kessel.”

  “Well,” she replied coyly. “It’s better than being a bitch.”

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED EIGHT

  We called a family meeting after dinner that night. Actually, Morgan called the meeting and decided to label it a family meeting. Since only Sara and Sasha were related, I was thoroughly confused.

  The reactions were as expected. Charolette and Sasha lost their minds. Instantly. One was convinced they should return to Shaklin’s farm immediately. The other wanted to disappear deep inside the bowels of Terre Haute, as if hiding in a cesspool like that city was a decent option.

  Sara looked to Liv for support and received the same unrealistic optimism that was the younger woman’s outlook on life. Things will be fine, she claimed. Quinn will protect us; nothing bad will happen. As long as she didn’t consider a long line of gunmen coming for us – me more specifically – I guess everything was going to be fine.

  “Everyone needs to pull their heads out of their butts,” Morgan chided after a half hour of hysterical speculation. “Let’s stick to the facts.”

  “He knows we’re here,” Sasha replied in a voice two octaves higher than normal. “It’s only a matter of time before he sends someone to kill Quinn and hauls us back there.”

  Charolette nodded enthusiastically; Morgan rolled her eyes. I felt a little sick.

  “After he killed those two the other day?” Sara added. “I think Quinn can protect us.”

  That made me feel better.

  “I think we probably need to leave as soon as possible though,” she added. “You know, just in case.” She shot me a sad smile. So much for making me feel better.

  “Do you think Mr. Shaklin will send more men?” Sasha asked, wringing her hands.

  That
was a question I’d given plenty of thought to throughout the day. I didn’t think he’d send anymore of his people, per se. However, there were other options open to a rich and powerful person.

  “I think he’ll put a bounty out on the return of his ‘property’, as he calls it,” I replied. “Part of that may be putting a contract on my head. If nothing, he seems to be plenty ruthless when it comes to dealing with problems.”

  “So, more guns?” Charolette asked. “I don’t like all this shooting. It makes me…” She glanced around the room. “Well, it upsets my stomach and when that happens, we all know what happens.”

  If “we” included “me”, then we didn’t know what happened when an overly hyper-vigilante woman got upset. I stared at Morgan blankly.

  “She gets diarrhea, for God’s sake,” Morgan replied. “Get with the program. Quit worrying about Charolette’s bowels and concentrate here.”

  “And what exactly are we supposed to be concentrating on at this point?” I asked, hoping she’d pick up on my being lost.

  “Our next move, you idiot,” she said, slapping my shoulder. “Shaklin has thrown down the gauntlet. How are we going to reply? And why the hell don’t you seem upset about any of this?”

  I grinned and noticed no one else had the same expression. Little did they know.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED NINE

  A man without a memory is a gifted man. He doesn’t remember what makes him sad, what makes him mad, and more importantly, what he fears. With no preconceived notions of what I was afraid of, I found I had no fears.

  A massive man had tried to break me in half, but I wasn’t afraid of him, or dying for that matter. Two gunmen tried their hands at taking my life and I faced them with no emotion. Even when Tony Shaklin stood before me, I didn’t have a single pang of trepidation inside my being.

  I’m sure I was afraid of something. Whenever my memory came back, I’d find that out. But even a full day after our family meeting, nothing had come to me yet.

  “Do you have a proactive plan?” Morgan asked the next day at the office. Art gave her a look like he didn’t know the meaning of proactive.

  “For the next shooter that comes to town?” I replied, shaking my head. “I’ll just deal with whatever shows up. It’s worked so far.”

  Morgan took three quick steps and leaned against the desk, pressing her palms to the surface. Some of her long hair hung between us, hiding what I’m sure was a nasty look.

  “How about Shaklin?” she asked harshly. “Are you just going to sit here and wait for his next move? Or do you plan on doing something about that little problem?”

  I leaned back and the chair let out a long, low moan. “I got some ideas. Nothing solid yet, but there’s a couple things I can do.”

  She plopped her rear onto the desk, practically in front of me. “Such as?”

  “I’m thinking of making him a deal,” I began, being sure not to sound overly excited, since I knew she wasn’t going to be either. “He’ll leave me alone and I’ll do the same for him.”

  Morgan’s lips tightened. “And what about the other seven women you promised to get out of there? You can’t just leave them there, Quinn.”

  I frowned and looked somewhere other than her disappointed face. “Yeah, that’s the part I haven’t figured out yet. Need to get the others.”

  “And what then?” Morgan chirped. “You gonna let him grab 12 others to take our places? That doesn’t seem right; not to me at least. And I speak with the voice of years of experience at Shaklin’s farm.”

  I stared at her with indifference. How far did she think I’d go with the fight against abolishing modern-day slavery?

  “You can’t expect me to fight him, can you?” I asked, hoping she’d see the obvious light.

  “You have to do something,” she replied, though her tone had become more subdued. “It just isn’t right.”

  I leaned and looked around Morgan. “Art; who wins in a war between us and Shaklin?”

  He didn’t look up, he didn’t clear his throat, he never even gave it more than a second’s thought.

  “Shaklin every time, Sheriff,” he replied plainly. “If you had all your wits about you, you’d know that, too.”

  I looked at Morgan sadly and shook my head. “We need a good plan if we’re going to be able to pull off whatever needs pulling off. At this point, he’s way ahead of us.”

  I know she wanted to argue; however, she remained quiet. All she did was hop off the desk, take a chair on the far wall and sigh loudly. It seemed she wasn’t particularly full of ideas either.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TEN

  Mid-day of the following day, Cooley sauntered into the office and paused by Art’s wobbly table. I would have called it a desk, but it was really more of a half-door propped up on two saw horses. Leaning close to Art, the odd fellow began to whisper.

  “What is it, Cooley?” I asked sharply. “No need to have secrets. This isn’t a big enough place for them.”

  “He says the sheriff from Farmersburg is here to see you,” Art replied.

  My focus darted between the pair. “Is that a problem?”

  “Since you ain’t gonna remember him,” Art continued, staring my direction. “Maybe I should go warn him first, just in case he ain’t heard about your condition.”

  I shrugged. It didn’t matter one way or another to me. “Whatever you think is best, Art.”

  The pair trotted outside like they still had a secret between them. I questioned myself if leaving something — anything — to Art’s discretion was a good idea. Something in the glances they shot to each other as they cleared the doorway told me I wouldn’t have to wait long to get an answer to that question.

  Sheriff Lucas Cotter was an interesting man. Like many others, he’d taken on the appearance of someone from the old west in the apocalypse. That included two holstered six-shooters, spurs, chaps, a cowboy hat and an old-fashioned Marshall’s star. I would learn later that he’d worn a cowboy hat most of his adult life. So that had nothing to do with the end of the world as we knew it.

  His deep voice and dark goatee added more mystique to a man who must’ve stood at least seven feet tall. I swear Art could have stood on the seat of a chair and still not have been as tall as Lucas.

  “So, you don’t remember me at all,” he stated in a way that sounded more understanding than he probably felt. “And you don’t remember any of this shit that has become our way of living?” He sighed and shot me a half-grin. “I don’t know if I pity you or envy you, Quinn.”

  God, he was a handsome man. I found myself hoping Morgan wouldn’t pop in anytime soon. She might forget about me on the spot and take up with Lucas.

  “No offense, Sheriff Cotter,” Art inserted. “But no, he don’t remember anything as far as I can tell.”

  “Quinn can speak for himself, Arthur,” he retorted. “Unless he’s lost his voice as well.”

  I shook my head. “I’d like to think I’d remember a man of your stature, Sheriff Cotter—”

  He raised a hand swiftly. “Lucas; you’ve always called me Lucas.”

  I nodded. “Okay…Lucas. But I’m sorry, I don’t have any memory of you, nor much of anything else.”

  “But it’ll come back?” he asked, seemingly concerned.

  “We sure hope so,” Art answered, blushing when he recognized he’d spoken out of turn again.

  “Shaklin is pissed at you,” Lucas went on, pointing directly at me. “He stopped by the other day, all hot and bothered that you stole his slaves. I told him there wasn’t anything I could do about it, but he and Carla must have gone on for a half hour about the situation.”

  I sat up. “You know Carla?”

  Lucas laughed slightly, pulling a chair alongside my desk and taking a seat. “Your ex? Sure, I know her. I know she’s a money-grubbing bitch, too…no offense meant.”

  Well, that seemed to be everyone’s opinion of her, including mine.

  “He’s still got seven other wom
en down there I’d like to get out,” I continued, knowing I didn’t have a plan. Maybe my old buddy Lucas would help me with that problem.

  “Good luck with that,” he replied easily. “You won’t find much help in that battle. Not around here at least.”

  “So, you won’t help me take on Shaklin?” I asked. I wasn’t sure if he couldn’t or wouldn’t at that point.

  He tapped the desk several times. “Get comfortable, Quinn. Let me fill you in on just how things work here in southern Indiana, since you can’t remember.”

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED ELEVEN

  By the time Lucas finished his tale some 20 minutes later, my head was spinning. How had I survived so long in such a mad world? And why had I ever agreed to become the enforcer for an area that had a propensity for flight over fight?

  I held my hands out to slow down my old friend Sheriff Cotter. “So, what you’re saying is that Shaklin can raise an army anytime he wants?”

  He shrugged as if it were common knowledge, which it might have been if I could remember anything.

  “One hundred fifty to 200 fighters,” he replied, snapping to make the point. “Right now. Men, women, hell even some younger teens. Ten pounds of beef or pork goes along way with most people.”

  “And we have what; a thousand people at our disposal?” I countered.

  “Half of those are children,” Lucas answered. “They won’t do you no good. And most the other people don’t have a dog in the fight. Unless you’re planning on passing out steak dinners, you’re gonna have a problem rounding up more than 50 or 60 people.”

  I sat back and let out a low whistle. “We’d be slaughtered.”

  “Amen, brother,” Lucas replied, as though it was a foregone conclusion. “I’d never join a fight unless I had almost certain odds of coming out alive. No way, no how. And this is one of those fights I plan on sitting out if you’re foolish enough to take on a man like him so woefully under-staffed.”