No Time For Mourning: Book Four in The Borrowed World Series

by Franklin Horton

  Jim nodded. “I’m sorry you all had to see that.”

  “The little ones did see all of it. They were there. It’s pretty much a miracle they made it,” she said. “If they hadn’t hidden in the coal bin, they would be dead too.”

  “They weren’t with you?” Gary asked.

  Randi shrugged. “It was too long a walk. They should have been fine with Mom and Dad. They said Mom hid them in the coal bin and told them not to leave. She left to help my dad and got herself killed,” Randi said, letting that sink in.

  “Do you want us to help you take care of the people who killed your parents?” Jim asked. “I can’t speak for Gary, but I’d help.”

  “I appreciate that more than you can know,” Randi said. “I’m going to let Tommy deal with it for now. I feel like I need to be here for my kids. I can’t take a risk getting killed for revenge. Yet.”

  “That’s a wise decision,” Gary said. “Even if it’s not easy.”

  “I would like to find a place to stay over this way. You made an offer that I could hole up here if things got bad. That offer still good?”

  Gary looked at Jim, not feeling like he could extend an offer since he was a guest here too. He liked the idea of Randi staying. They could use a nurse. Beyond that, she was tough as nails.

  “Of course the offer is still good,” Jim said. “We’d be glad to have you. We can find you a house to stay in like we did for Gary. If the people who own the house come back, we can deal with that at the time.”

  “Thank you,” Randi said, taking Jim by the hand. “I would cry if I had any tears left.”

  Chapter 25

  Tommy

  Copperheads were the most common poisonous snake in this part of the Appalachian Mountains. Timber rattlers showed up, too, but they were more elusive. Anyone willing to comb the ridges and pull back a few rocks could easily find their nests, just as Tommy had done all day. For his efforts, he had a feed sack with a tangled mass of two dozen copperheads and another with seven timber rattlers.

  Back at the remains of his home, he put three of the copperheads in a five gallon bucket and securely fastened a lid on it. He took a nap, then ate a meal when he awoke. At dark, he headed out with his snakes, his guns, and a backpack with a few things he thought he might need.

  At the Cross home, he was greeted by the dogs who were pleased at his arrival. He fed and petted them, then made his way to the outhouse at the edge of the yard. Many of the homes in this area didn’t get public water until the 1970s, so quite a few outhouses were still standing. Like many of the families in coal country, they’d been unable to drill a well because mining had lowered the water table beyond the point where a private well was feasible. Until public water came through, the family hauled water each day from a spring down the road.

  Even when they got indoor plumbing, the family never rushed to tear down the outhouse. They weren’t the kind of people to take on any project they didn’t have to do. Since there was no incentive to tear down their outhouse it was still standing nearly forty years after it was rendered obsolete. With the failure of power and then of public water, the outhouse was suddenly back in style. Families who would have turned up their nose at outhouses months ago were now aspiring to build one. All the Crosses had to do was remove forty years’ worth of stored junk and it was ready to go. Its existence gave the Cross family an advantage that some other families didn’t have. They weren’t forced to squat in the woods like the folks who had torn down their outhouses in a rush to erase the memory of more primitive times.

  As much as the thought disgusted him, Tommy had to work in the outhouse by feel to be sure that no one would see a light. He slipped into the dark chamber and pulled the door shut behind him. It smelled of rot, compost, and fresh excrement. He felt for the seat, his hand dragging along a wet, slimy board. He found a soft spongy substance that he couldn’t immediately identify. It crumbled beneath his fingers. His mind raced to all of the nasty possibilities before he determined it was mushrooms growing within the rotting structure. A few inches further and he was pleased to find a modern plastic toilet seat complete with lid. It was also wet and slimy. He preferred not to think about how it got that way.

  Tommy picked up the five gallon bucket, raised the toilet seat, and lowered the bucket through the hole. He wrapped a thin rope around the bucket several times then tied it around the hinge of the toilet seat so that the bucket hung flush against the bottom of the seat. He pried off the bucket lid and quickly closed the toilet lid before any snakes could find their way out. Once the seat was raised, the snakes should be clear to strike at anything within reach. He smiled at the thought of one of the Crosses kicking his way out of the outhouse, a copperhead latched to his backside.

  Tommy backed out the door and eased into the woods like smoke on a windy night. He took a seat far from the house and waited for the lights to go out. He couldn’t tell if they were using lanterns or candles but eventually they were extinguished and the house went dark. There was no more talking and the sound of snoring cut through the otherwise peaceful night.

  It was still warm enough that people slept with their windows open. The Crosses were the type of people who didn’t have screens on their windows. That was because they were the type who often climbed in and out their windows or threw things from them. That could include pets, guests, and other family members.

  An hour passed. Maybe two. He wanted to be sure that no one was awake. He rose stiffly and crossed the damp yard to the house. The dogs followed and sniffed him for more treats, not making a sound. He petted them with his free hand, the one not holding the sacks. They sniffed at the sacks, recoiling at the smell. They knew that smell and wanted no part of it.

  The windowsill he chose was at head height. He held the two sacks over the sill and shook them until they were empty, then crept off into the blackness barely able to suppress a laugh. The family would never be sure of how many snakes there were. They would never know where the next one might show up. He hoped they’d all be bitten and die a miserable death, their skin swollen to the point of splitting, though he knew that was too much to hope for. This was only the first of the surprises he had in store for them. There would be more.

  Chapter 26

  The Valley

  Don sat on the porch of his trailer eating a can of room temperature Lima beans. He was pondering his next cattle delivery to Wallace County. He couldn’t deliver the cattle alone but he couldn’t forgive Hodge for the way he’d acted on their last trip. Talking shit was one thing, even making threats was forgivable. Bringing the gun into the equation was a deal breaker. Hodge was a full-time drunk completely dedicated to his profession. You couldn’t expect a lot of out of a drunk. Don knew that. Still, it was disappointing. They’d worked together for years, somehow finding a way to make it work.

  He thought of all the people he might bring into his cattle scheme, ruling out most of them for one reason or another. It took a certain mindset for this line of work. It had to be someone who didn’t question or dwell upon the morality of the situation. It took someone who was not as smart as he was. He didn’t want to bring in anyone who might get ideas about cutting him out of the deal. The more he explored his options, the fewer he realized he had. He hoped he didn’t end up having to go back to Hodge. That was truly a last resort.

  When the can of beans was empty, he pitched it into the yard, aiming for a trash pile he’d started a few weeks ago. He stood up and hitched his pants, surveying the countryside. His trailer sat on a narrow lot at the edge of Rockdell Farms. There had once been a tenant house on this property though it had burned down about a dozen years ago. The owner of Rockdell Farms had put a trailer there and let Don live in it. The rent was deducted from his check each month. As a senior employee, he got better accommodations than most. The house his friend …former friend… Hodge lived in was a pure tumble-down piece of shit.

  Don was pondering a trip to his outhouse. At least he called it his outhouse. He hadn’t
built the house part yet so the toilet simply consisted of a folding camping chair with a big hole cut out of the nylon seat. It wasn’t very private but he didn’t get many visitors. Besides, it was darn comfortable and the view was impressive.

  His pondering on his bowels was interrupted by the sound of approaching vehicles. He recognized diesel engines and it reminded Don of life before the terror attacks when convoys of semi trucks would show up to haul off hundreds of cattle en masse. There hadn’t been any cattle sales in a while. Other than, of course, the ones that Don had conducted under the table.

  He climbed down his porch steps and wandered down the grassy bank to the edge of the road, curiosity getting the best of him. In the distance, he could see a line of vehicles approaching. There was a tan Humvee with several green Humvees following tight behind it. Beyond that were a couple of dually trucks pulling gargantuan fifth wheel campers.

  “Son of a bitch,” Don said. “Somebody seems to think they’re coming to stay.” He started to go back to his trailer and get a gun but there wasn’t time. The vehicles would have passed by the time he got back. He walked out onto the center of the road and stood there, a human roadblock.

  The tan Humvee slowed. Don squinted and tried to make out the driver. A reflection on the flat glass windshield prevented it. He was relieved when the vehicle stopped about thirty feet away. The passenger door opened and a man stepped out, his tall form familiar. Don’s jaw nearly hit the ground.

  “What the fuck are you doing here, Baxter?” Don growled.

  The man in the safari jacket and Emergency Management Coordinator cap stared at Don. “The golf course has some vulnerabilities that will be difficult to overcome in the long term,” he said. “It’s too close to the interstate for one. It’s also surrounded by Have Nots who maintain a grudge against the Haves living so well in their midst. I thought it prudent to establish a bug out location, if you will. I’ll consider Glenwall to be a Forward Operating Base from here on out.”

  Don frowned. “Run that by me again in English. What kind of location are you establishing?”

  “A bug out location. A safe retreat from the world,” Baxter rephrased. “Is that clear enough?”

  Don stiffened. “If that means you think you’re moving in here then I’ve got some fucking news for you. That ain’t happening. I run this farm now. You want cattle you go through me. You want a place to live, you turn your happy ass around and find a spot somewhere else.” Don crossed his arms and stood defiantly.

  Baxter smiled and turned around to share his amused look with his entourage. “These country folks are stubborn, aren’t they?” he said. At the same time, he caught the eye of one of his security staff, formerly a Wallace County Deputy. Baxter nodded slightly at the man.

  The deputy popped out of the roof hatch of the green Humvee. He threw up a suppressed Sig MPX and stitched a short burst of full auto into Don’s chest before he could even uncross his arms. He staggered backward, high-stepping and jerking before collapsing onto the road. He was dead when he hit the ground, his blood volume dispersing among the falling leaves.

  Baxter gave the deputy a thumbs-up and returned to the tan Humvee.

  “Should I drag him out of the road?” the driver asked.

  “No,” Baxter replied after a moment of consideration. “They say hanging a dead coyote on your farm will keep the others away. Maybe his body will serve as a deterrent to anyone else coming through.”

  Chapter 27

  Wallace County

  There had been people begging at the gates of the golf course ever since resources began to get scarce. It was like the way that kids went trick-or-treating in nice neighborhoods because they thought they’d get more or better candy. Some people assumed that the folks at Glenwall were still enjoying prime rib with a nice wine from Vincent’s Vineyard. Truth was, without the combined efforts of Baxter and the board of directors, who’d used their connections to bring in additional resources, the folks at Glenwall might have been worse off than the general community. The folks there dined out a lot and didn’t keep large pantries for preparing dinner each night. They tended to shop for specific meals and consume most of what they purchased as part of that meal. They were a class with deep pockets and shallow pantries.

  Soon after the terror attacks occurred, when Baxter was having organizational meetings to plan the county’s disaster response, Valentine had offered his services to him. He’d approached Baxter after the meeting and explained that he was a security guard at the community college, and had a lot of experience with preparedness. Truthfully, his preparations were only focused on cool weapons and gear and not on the more practical concerns of food, water, and alternative energy sources. Valentine had the foresight to know he needed to pair himself with a group as soon as possible, one that had access to those things he’d overlooked.

  He knew that if he could become part of the official local government response he would have access to a steady supply of food. What he hadn’t counted on was Baxter selling out the county and pairing up with the Glenwall folks. He couldn’t blame the man. While Baxter came from a different background than Valentine, he could just as easily see the writing on the wall. For all of those FEMA and DHS workshops that Baxter had attended, none of the promised disaster relief seemed to be coming. It would be up to people to save themselves.

  After the attacks of 9/11, every agency at every level of the government prepared disaster plans and Continuity of Operations Plans, known as COOPs. They spelled out specific duties and who would carry them out. Those plans were adhered to for about three days then everything began to descend into chaos. It was around that fourth or fifth day that the folks from Glenwall approached Baxter and this plan fell into place.

  Valentine brought a few things to the table with him. He knew a man in the shipping and logistics business from back home. He had access to acres of shipping containers on a lot not far off the interstate. Using cash obtained from the folks at Glenwall, Valentine had procured a dozen forty foot containers. The container company used their rollback truck to arrange the containers around the perimeter of the clubhouse. While not completely bulletproof, the containers did provide both a way to store essential supplies and provide some additional ballistic protection. If they had to, the Glenwall folks could circle the wagons and pull everyone into the clubhouse if they fell under attack.

  While they hadn’t fallen under organized attack yet, they were constantly dealing with folks at the gate begging for food. Valentine had warned Baxter that the six-foot-tall decorative brick fence around the property provided no protection at all, but he’d yet to authorize Valentine to bolster their defenses. For now, folks showed up at the gate each day, begging that the wealthy do their part to help out.

  “Do I fucking look wealthy?” Valentine asked the folks.

  They would always look at him the same way. “Those folks in there got money. Look at those big houses. You know they got food in there,” was the usual response.

  “Get the hell out of here,” Valentine would tell them. “There’s nothing for you here.”

  If Baxter wasn’t around, Valentine might even get a little rough to discourage them from coming back the next day. Baxter didn’t like it.

  “If the women and kids that live here see that, there will be complaints,” he said. “We don’t need complaints. We don’t want to lose our meal ticket. Keep it civil.”

  Valentine agreed that they didn’t want to lose their meal ticket though he got tired of dealing with the same thing every day. He thought a show of force would be the best solution for dealing with the beggars. On this particular day, he was in a bad mood because he’d wanted to go on the run to Russell County with Baxter. They were going to establish a camp and Valentine thought he should have been part of that. Baxter didn’t know if they’d run into opposition over there and Valentine wanted to be in the fight if there was one.

  Baxter had assured Valentine that he was being left in charge because he could be
trusted to run things. Valentine didn’t like missing out on the action. So far this entire Glenwall job had been little different than providing security at the college campus. Most days he felt like nothing more than a babysitter to the pampered and coddled. That brought out the worst in him.

  The crowd outside the wall continued to grow despite Valentine’s menacing presence. Folks chanted and sang, and the repetition was becoming an irritant to Valentine. He couldn’t take it anymore. These folks needed to be discouraged.

  “I need a break,” he told the two other guards at the gate. “Can you guys handle this?”

  “Sure,” one of them said. “They know what that white line means.”

  The white line was literally the line in the sand. They’d told the protestors that if they crossed the line they’d be killed, and as of yet, no one had challenged that. They only sang and yelled, getting on Valentine’s nerves.

  Valentine hopped in a Humvee and drove to the house he’d been staying in with some of the other men. He’d stored a ton of his gear in the basement, hoping it would be safer than leaving it in his apartment. He shifted boxes around until he found the ones he was looking for. The label read Tannerite. The four boxes weighed ten pounds each, and it took him two trips to get them up the steps.

  He followed the instructions, mixing the catalyst with the material and pouring it back in the containers the material had come in. When all the containers were full, he went back to the basement and found a cooler. He took it upstairs and packed all the containers into the white marine cooler. He carried it back to the golf cart and placed it in the back seat, unable to suppress his grin.

  He zipped back to the main gate. Valentine waved at the other guards, urging them to get out of the way and let him through.