Jack worked his way through the small pile of logs he had cut to length, his frustration fueling every swing of his axe. It was hard to watch Danny lying in bed for weeks, not getting any better despite everything they had done for him. What more could he do? There just wasn't much game left in the area, and what animals were out there had grown extremely wary of humans. An amateur hunter like himself little chance of bringing down an animal. Despite all of his best intentions, hunting and trapping seemed to be beyond his capability to master. Kenny and Wyatt were the experts, and both of them were out in the field now doing what could be done.
He was needed here where he could do far more good chopping wood for the stove. The squat little iron stove went through an enormous amount of fuel. Especially since they kept it burning twenty four hours a day. They used it for cooking food, boiling drinking water, heating the house, and wash water.
There hadn't been any seasoned wood waiting for them when they arrived, so Jack had to go into the woods to find and cut down standing dead wood. It was far more work than simply cutting down live trees closer to the house and letting them cure for a few months, but they didn't have time to let the wood dry naturally. They needed it right now.
Jack set a larger piece of wood on the base and angrily put his back into the swing. It was hard not to feel frustrated at the unfairness of their situation when your child's life at stake. He was giving it everything he had and it wasn't enough. What else could he do?
Jack continued to split the rest of the firewood, working himself into a frenzy. It was maddening. Danny was half dead. Fighting off tears, he set a large log up on the base and swung the axe with as much force as he could muster. The blade split the piece clean in two and sent the two halves of firewood flying. The blade kept going, powered by his anger, and sunk deep into the hard heart wood of the large log underneath.
Jack tugged at the axe, but it was firmly lodged in the hard seasoned wood of the splitting base. He stood up on the base and lifted the handle up with all of his strength. The axe suddenly came loose from the log and went flying forward. Jack tumbled over backwards, landing hard on the muddy ground.
He lay there on his back, panting for breath and feeling stupid for letting himself get so worked up. His breath turned into little puffs of icy frost. He stared up at the cold, grey sky above him, ignoring the stinging pain in his back.
A pair of boots crunched across the icy ground, slowing as they neared him. Wyatt appeared and extended his hand to help him up from the ground.
"Lying down on the job again, Jack?" Wyatt asked.
Jack took Wyatt's hand and pulled himself to his feet, brushing his jacket off. "It's Danny. I'm worried sick about him."
"I know, Jack. I'm sorry. Has Kenny made it back yet?" Wyatt asked.
"No, not yet. He usually pushes it pretty close to dark. I don't expect him for a while. Did you have any luck?"
Wyatt frowned. The expression looked foreign on his face even in the worst of times. "No. I was going to wait until Kenny got back to tell you. I set out a trap line early yesterday morning, and when I came back for them today the traps were all gone. Somebody must have been following me while I set the line up. I found a set of footprints next to one of the traps and followed it through the snow for a while. Not too far up the trail somebody fired a warning shot and I turned back. They took fourteen of my leg traps. That's half of all the traps. Gone."
"Damn. As long as you’re ok, that's the most important thing. Where’s Kenny working today?" Jack asked.
"Don't worry about him. I went up north to a new section of woods yesterday. Kenny is working the woods southeast of here. We've been to that area plenty of times any never had any trouble."
"Thanks, Wyatt. I'm sorry you lost all your traps," Jack said.
"Forget it, traps are easy to come by. Come help me hitch up the horse and wagon. I'm going to ride into town. I need to see somebody that I haven't spoken to in a long time, call in a favor. While I'm there I'll let Chief Howell know that you want him to ride along with you on the supply run tomorrow," Wyatt said.
"Who are you going to see?" Jack asked.
Wyatt averted his eyes, a distant look on his face. "It's hard to explain."
Perplexed, Jack picked up his splitting axe, wedge, and maul up from the wood pile and followed Wyatt to the barn. These simple hand tools were some of his most important possessions. They had taken the place of his computer and cell phone, and along with a gun and a knife were among the primary means of survival for his family. If he lost or damaged any of them they would freeze to death, unable to heat the farmhouse. This new world was an unforgiving one, and some mistakes you paid for with your life.
He hung his tools above the wooden bench in the barn and pulled down the cart tack from the tack room to get the horse and wagon ready for Wyatt, who was nervous around horses. Jack opened the stall and led their horse, Britches, out into the barn's bay to get her ready to pull the cart.
Shortly after they arrived at the homestead, Jack and Wyatt had realized that they needed something to help them carry large loads of supplies and goods to and from the nearby town. Hauling things around on a makeshift bicycle trailer just wasn’t going to cut it once the snow came. Jack trekked to a nearby farm with Wyatt, hoping to make a deal for one of their horses. In luck, the farmer and his wife were alone and getting along in years, so a trade for a horse was made in exchange for several large bags of acorn flour and Kenny’s help with chopping enough wood to prepare them for the cold winter to come.
Britches was a beautiful animal with a black mane and a shiny brown coat. Her attitude left more to be desired, though, and she picked up on Wyatt's unease around her. She was a schoolyard bully who would nip at Wyatt and push him against the side of the stall if the opportunity presented itself.
Jack wasn't raised around horses, but after a couple of days of lessons at the farm he understood their behavior well enough. They were herd animals and the first thing they did was to fit into their hierarchy. Before taking Britches home from the farm, she had nipped at him to see how he would react. Jack followed the advice of the rancher and spent three hours with her in a round pen. He walked her around with a lead, lifted her feet, and made her perform various tasks, gently but firmly showing her who the boss was.
With no tractor or trucks around she was a vital part of the family workforce. Britches hauled logs out of the woods and pulled the small wagon into town, allowing Wyatt to trade for supplies. She ate well considering how bad the food situation was for the family. Hay was plentiful and she didn't require much supplemental food. Just a bit of barley to give her diet some variety.
After tacking Britches, Jack led her outside and hitched her up to the wagon. He scratched her withers and praised her for being compliant during the process. You couldn't just turn the key and go, horses were a lot of work.
"I'll be back as soon as I can." Wyatt tugged the reins and the wagon slowly waddled down the gravel road.
Jack watched the cart amble away until it was far down the gravel road and out of sight.
He headed back towards the house to get a loaf of acorn bread before he went to the upper fields to do some work, but stopped when he noticed a figure off in the distance.
At the far edge of the field, Kenny emerged from the woods, his long strides recognizable even from this distance. He stopped every few feet, rebalancing a sack he carried over his shoulder, which was obviously a heavy load.
Jack let out a deep sigh of relief. Kenny had never failed to come through with food for his younger brother. A full sack of wild game meant that Danny had a few more days to keep fighting. He closed his eyes and whispered a silent prayer. He was thankful for the food and for another day that saw his family alive and still together.
When he finished his thanks and opened his eyes, Kenny was nearly at the house.
Concern for Kenny immediately filled him once the dark circles under Kenny's eyes came into view. Exhaustion was plainly written
on his face. He had probably worked through the night again, setting snares and resetting traps. Processing the animals into meat and hide was hard work, especially in the bitter cold.
"Kenny, thank God. I'm glad you're home. Wyatt just left. He said someone stole his traps and took a shot at him. I was worried about you, Son."
Kenny gave a tired smile. "I'm all right, Dad. Hey, look! I found another bear skeleton. Four more teeth."
"Is that right? Very neat," Jack said.
Kenny had collected several large incisors from black bear skeletons he ran across during his trapping expeditions. He had amassed quite a collection of them, some of which were strung on a necklace he wore underneath his shirt.
Jack took the heavy sack of meat and hide from his son, shouldering the load. "Come on, let's get you inside and get warmed up."
Kenny tripped while heading up the steps, but quickly got back on his feet, trying to act as if nothing had happened. He grabbed at the doorknob, but fumbled. His hands were no longer nimble enough to grasp the knob and open the door.
Jack grabbed Kenny's hand and felt his ice cold fingers. His hands were pale while and trembled wildly, his fingertips bright red.
"Kenny! You’re freezing to death. Pale, reddened skin and ice cold hands are the beginning of frostbite," Jack said.
"I'm fine, just cold," he countered stubbornly.
"Let's get you inside, Son," Jack said.
Kenny would let himself freeze to death before he came home empty handed and let his brother go hungry. Jack was going to lose his both of his sons this winter if he let Kenny’s brazenness continue. He couldn't let Kenny keep pushing himself this far, going on these long trapping runs in the bitter cold. Yet someone had to find food for Danny, or he wouldn't have enough energy to fight off his sickness. Something had to give.
Everything was pinned on the supply run tomorrow with Chief Howell. Jack had to find more food to spare his sons.
Chapter 3
Chief Bud Howell leaned back in his office chair with his feet propped up on his desk. He wore a heavy wool overcoat thrown over his body in a futile attempt to keep warm. The pot belly stove in the middle of the Police Station produced more smoke than heat, or at least it seemed so. Maybe he was just getting sensitive to the cold weather in his old age. He couldn't remember a winter this cold. Ever. There was only one thing that would warm him up on a morning like this. He needed a drink.
He opened his desk drawer and took a long swig from a pint of whiskey hidden behind some hanging file folders and then slid the drawer closed again, just in time for his office door to swing open.
'"Chief, you'd better come outside and see this," Chuck said.
Chuck was a good man who had been working for him for ages but he wasn't much use as a law enforcement officer these days. At best he could be counted on to relay simple information, which is why Bud had him permanently parked at a desk in the station answering phones before the EMP. Lately, though, even relaying the basic facts seemed beyond his capability. From his elaborate description, 'this' could be just about anything from an alien invasion to the second coming of Christ. He'd have to get up and find out for himself.
Chief Howell had already been listening to the commotion outside. More accurately, he'd been trying to ignore it for the last five minutes, without much success. Whoever and whatever it was they were yelling about, their angry shouts carried right through the plate glass windows of the Police Station. He was willing to bet dollars to donuts that he knew the identity of one of the parties. Hell, a disturbance in front of the police station was nearly a daily occurrence around here.
He shrugged off the overcoat and followed his deputy outside, shivering in spite of himself as an icy wind blew his unbuttoned jacket open. Just a couple of feet outside of the office he desperately regretted leaving the overcoat behind as the cold air sucked every trace of warmth from him.
Three long haired and heavily tattooed bikers stood in front of the motorcycle club across the street smoking cigarettes and drinking whiskey. The local biker gang, The Joker's Hangmen, had established its headquarters directly across the street from the Police Station. It was a pointed gesture from the MC's long time president, Roy. A reminder that he wasn't going away anytime soon. Just another attempt by Roy to get under his skin.
The sweet smell of tobacco carried a long way on the frigid wind. A lot of people in this town would give damn near anything for one of those cigarettes, and the gang knew it. They flaunted their ill gotten 'wealth' in front of the town, letting the smell float on the breeze for others to yearn after. There were plenty of people in town who would trade their last bit of food to feed their nicotine addiction. And trade they did.
He knew where the biker gang got the cache of tobacco and whiskey they were sitting on. Soon after the EMP, an alcohol distributor's warehouse had been picked clean. It was a safe bet that the Joker's Hangmen had enough hard alcohol, beer, and cigarettes to see themselves through to the next century. The booze and cigarettes made them rich by post EMP standards. Without the need to work for their own bread, the parasitic bikers had nothing better to do than hang around their club all day and get wasted. Just like they did before the EMP. The world hadn't changed for them at all, still profiting from other people's misery.
One of the bikers stood in the middle of the street, having a heated conversation with another man.
"Just listen to me a damn minute. Give me a chance to talk. Yes, I asked for his help. And I'm asking for your --"
"How can you even talk to that man, Wyatt? How can you look that man in the face and ask for his help? What the hell is wrong with you? You've been gone for fifteen years and maybe you've forgotten what happened. Maybe you've let it go. I haven't. I've been right here. Right here all along," the biker said.
A strong gust of icy wind blew and Chief Howell grabbed on to the top of his hat to keep it from blowing away. He kept his head down as he walked over to the two men facing off in the town square. He had to break this up before it escalated into something larger.
Across the street, the surly looking bikers did their best to convey hateful looks in his direction. He wasn't impressed. He'd seen plenty worse than this lot during his time in law enforcement and he'd put a lot of them behind bars. A hard look didn't mean squat to him. He could take it all day long.
"Roy, I need your help. All I'm asking you for is a few days of your time. Everybody in this town is desperate for supplies. Jack's son is sick. You and the club are in a position to help. You've got running motorcycles and your men are healthy. You've got more experience looting than anybody else, you guys been doing it back before the EMP when it was still a crime. Hell, even if you had Dutch show us how he fixed the motorcycles. Fix a couple of bikes for Chief Howell and his deputies. That would give us a way to go a lot farther than we can on bicycles and horse. It would open up new areas for us to scavenge," Wyatt said.
"Are you listening to yourself? You want me to give the cops, who've busted our balls for our entire lives, running bikes so they can harass us again? I've heard all I need to hear from you, Wyatt. You left your home. You don't get to come back and tell the rest of us who stayed here how to live. Don't lecture me about helping people out. The people around here have looked down on us for as long as we've been in this town," Roy said.
"That’s all in the past. Everything has changed now. Why can't you see it? Chief Howell is going to help--"
"Nothing has changed, Wyatt. Nothing. The world is the same place it always has been. The only difference is now some of these pencil-necked cowards living in this town see the world for what it really is. You're going to ask the Chief for help? You disgust me, Wyatt. How can you beg the man who killed your son for help?"
Wyatt went silent and stared at the ground.
Roy gave Wyatt a dismissive look, shouldering into him as he shoved his way past. Roy's long salt and pepper hair whipped about in the wind, stirred up as if it was a visible indicator of his anger. The two
brothers looked so alike that they could have been twins. Roy was two years older than Wyatt and both had the same tall, lanky body and weather-beaten, tanned skin. Their faces were creased by age and sorrow.
It was the eyes that set them apart, though. Roy's eyes were an intense green. A predator's deep empty pits that held nothing but anger, searching for signs of weakness. Scary to some people but not to him. Howell had seen hundreds of criminals with the same predatory look in their eyes. It took more to shake him.
For all the differences in attitude and appearance between the two men, it was Wyatt's eyes that unsettled him. That particular shade of pale, watery blue penetrated his soul, seeing right through his tough exterior and laying bare the pain in his soul. Uncovering the pain he couldn't seem to drown with all the whiskey in the world. Eyes just like those had pulled the trigger and stripped him of his only son so long ago.
When Wyatt first came back to town, Howell hadn't known what to think of it. Wyatt was a good man and had been one of his oldest friends, going all the way back to his childhood. They grew up together, went to school together, and played on the same baseball team. They had even been the best man in each other's weddings.
The day they lost their sons all that had all fallen apart. Forever. Things were complicated now. It was too painful for them to be around each other. He held Wyatt blameless. He bore no responsibility for the crimes of his son. The apple sometimes fell very far from the tree indeed. He just couldn't bear to look his old friend in the eyes.
Roy stormed over in his direction with his usual defiant swagger.
"Well look who it is. Just who we were talking about. Sheriff Howell. Oh wait a minute. I'm sorry. It's not Sheriff anymore is it? Look at this. A big happy reunion. All three of us back together again. Except, wait a minute. We're missing a few people for this to be a real get together, aren't we? Who are we missing Chief? Who is not here with us today?" Roy asked, his sarcastic tone dripping with venom.
Desperate Measures: An EMP Survival Story (EMP Aftermath Series Book 2) Page 2