First Spring (Nuclear Winter Book 2)

by Nathan Jones

  A few minutes later Gutierrez arrived and, with mock formality, turned command of the defenders back over to him before starting his briefing on the week's events. Trev supposed that meant his honeymoon was officially over.

  Somewhat regretfully, he got back to work.

  Chapter Five

  Holiday Season

  Around the middle of December the full truth of what nuclear winter entailed reared its ugly head.

  Up to this point they'd been experiencing a very early winter, true. But even though the temperatures had been about what you'd expect for the coldest days of the year, only months too early, the winter hadn't really felt out of the ordinary. Just coming sooner than expected.

  But now that they were getting to the point where winter officially began the weather became more extreme. The weeks leading up to Christmas ushered the holiday in with temperatures that often reached below zero. The cold was so intense it drove away even the snowstorms, leaving the most recent snowfall light and powdery over a slick, hard crust, beneath a washed out sky with a sun that seemed to provide no heat and only a wan light.

  Where the snows stayed away the wind pulled double duty, however. It swirled with bitter intensity, driving the powdery snow into the air as thick as an actual storm. It also curled its way into the smallest cracks in the Smith cabin's walls, making it seem drafty as a barn in spite of their earlier meticulous efforts to plaster mud between every log. And it tore the breath from Trev's mouth every time he dared the outdoors to do chores or carry out his duties defending the town, driving a spike of cold into his lungs that made each breath a chore, even through the scarf he'd wrapped around his lower face. He wouldn't want to try taking off his ski goggles to see how his eyes handled the frigid, dry air, and was glad he had a pair.

  If anything people were even more hesitant to leave their homes in the cold than they were during the worst blizzard. At least then there were the ropes hung from place to place they could hold onto to get around. So although everyone did their best to foster a holiday spirit there wasn't much socializing done, and those who did brave the cold to visit friends and loved ones were eagerly greeted as if they'd come bearing gifts.

  The biggest hope most people felt was for snow. It was already a white Christmas, but people were hoping that a timely storm would bring with it warmer temperatures.

  In spite of that there were a few people determined enough to bundle up and go caroling. None of that standing outside the door bringing Christmas cheer, though: at the first sound of their approach the holiday revelers were quickly ushered inside and offered spots by stoves or fireplaces, and where families could spare it hot drinks as well. Once the carolers recovered from the cold they led the families in singing, and a few even made use of precious portable musical instruments.

  If nothing else, being trapped in by snow had given people plenty of time to improve their musical talent. Trev knew he was getting better on his harmonica playing now and then, although after about a half hour of practicing Deb would finally give him a look that suggested if he kept it up she was going to shove it up his nose.

  He supposed that was the fault of his own lack of skill, since his new wife was always happy to join in with Clair and Linda singing songs, and even hummed or sang to herself in their room on occasion. She always welcomed it when he joined in, although his singing voice wasn't much better than his harmonica playing.

  Still, they managed a few good duets, and he did a decent job harmonizing with her.

  After everything they'd experienced since the Gulf burned Trev could see why people made such a big deal out of the Holiday Season. With the days at their shortest and everyone trapped indoors with the cold and snow moods sank to their lowest and boredom was inescapable, as well as the growing tension of everyone being confined together. Any excuse to focus on something positive, look forward to an enjoyable event, was clutched at as a desperate lifeline.

  He'd definitely experienced that feeling in a big way last winter, up at the hideout with just Lewis as company. But now that he was in town surrounded by family and friends, and had Deb there with him, there was an escape from low spirits and he was able to lift his mood by being with loved ones. That made more difference than he could've ever expected, and often actually made the long winter hours enjoyable.

  Although there was one other thing that brightened up the winter days, which had nothing to do with any holiday or other special event. Aside from maybe the simple pleasure of enjoying something good with his family.

  Specifically, meals.

  Unhealthy as a lot of the six months of food provided by the military was, at least it had good variety, which Trev definitely couldn't complain about. And a decent amount of fat, which they were seriously lacking eating the preserved deer meat from hunting, the rabbit and goat meat from their animals, and the eggs from their chickens, which made up the bulk of the protein they'd gathered. All of those foods were so lean you could starve for fat from eating them exclusively for long enough, although Trev hadn't known that until his mom told him about it. The acorns helped with that, as did goat milk products and other foods.

  And the fat from store bought foods tended to go hand in hand with simple carbohydrates, which wasn't terrific.

  But even with the variety of food he always looked forward to a more solid meal, especially one cooked with meat. They all pitched in with the cooking, working around the few other duties they could take care of in the cold, but Clair Smith was definitely in charge there and planned the meals as well as doing a lot of the preparation.

  Her undisputed triumph was the chili she made, using frozen venison thawed and diced into small cubes, as well as black beans, onions, canned tomatoes or some sort of tomato-based sauce, and spices, in particular cayenne and turmeric from Lewis's stockpile. She spent several meals balancing the ingredients and spices until just the smell of it could get Trev's mouth watering from within the first moments she started.

  Maybe compared to the best meals he'd had before the Gulf burned there was plenty to criticize, but during those weeks leading up to Christmas Trev could honestly say it was the best food he'd ever had, and the rest of the family agreed. By the time the chili was done they were usually gathered around the stove, vulture-like, waiting with their bowls. Then came the equally agonizing wait for the chili to cool enough to not burn their mouths as they ravenously devoured it. Most of the time that involved separating a spoonful from the rest and blowing on it for what seemed like forever, then still managing to burn their tongues by eating it too soon.

  Luckily the family had plenty of the principle ingredients, so by popular demand his mom ended up making it for just about every dinner. And either she was subtly varying the flavors or the situation forgave the lack of variety, because Trev never came close to getting sick of it.

  Which was why he was shocked along with the rest of the family one night when Linda came home from a visit with the Halssons, took one sniff of the delicious cooking smells, and immediately flew into a temper.

  “This again?” she demanded.

  Clair blinked at her daughter's tone. “Since when do you not love my chili?”

  “Since forever!” Linda snapped, slamming the door behind her. “I hate black beans. I hate hate hate them! They taste awful and they make me sick and I don't want them anymore! I can't believe they're the only ones you got.”

  Trev shared everyone else's bewilderment. He hadn't really paid much attention to Linda's reception of the chili, but he'd never once heard her complain. Honestly he agreed black beans weren't the ideal choice for chili, and personally he would've preferred chili or kidney beans himself. But the rest of the town seemed to share Linda's opinion, so their family had been able to get the best portions of black beans and that had pretty much made the decision for them.

  Clair was getting over her surprise and swinging around towards annoyance. “If you hated them so much you could've been there with the rest of the family, picking out and bargainin
g for our six month supply and moving it into the house.”

  “I know!” Linda snapped. “You already nagged me to death about how lazy I was for that, and everything else apparently, which is why I haven't said anything before now. But I still hate them and I'm not going to eat your stupid chili anymore.”

  That seemed like an empty threat to Trev. Even if by some insanity his sister didn't like the chili it was still what was available, and on their rations they were all on the point of malnourishment. He just dreaded the fact that she was going to start complaining about it nonstop now.

  Talk about ruining the highlight of the family's day.

  “Well I can try to cook a bit more of a variety,” their mom said, trying to be reasonable. “I suppose I've cooked this a lot lately, mostly because everyone loves it so much.”

  Linda didn't respond, flouncing over to her bed to sulk alone. She actually lived up to her threat and didn't eat, which worried Trev. He'd heard that in survival situations some kids might have trouble with refusing to eat food that was bland or that they didn't like, even taking it to the point of starving themselves rather than eating what was offered. That could be a major problem when a better variety couldn't be managed and their only option was food they wouldn't eat.

  Trev had to admit he could see where his sister was coming from, even if he thought she should've been too old for that behavior and needed to accept reality. Most of the food he'd eaten since the Gulf burned was bland at best, nasty at worst. The tasty stuff they could hunt or gather themselves they usually had way too often, to the point they got so sick of it that eventually choking down each bite was a chore.

  Lewis's large store of prepared spices was an unbelievable help and at this point was probably worth its weight in gold. It made meals bearable and provided variety for the staple foods that otherwise would've become nearly unpalatable over time. Ditto for the olive oil his cousin still had left from his stores, and the vegetable oil they'd got from the military windfall. And honey. And eggs and goat milk and the things they could make from them.

  Even so, Trev sometimes zoned out into fantasies of a thick juicy medium rare steak, properly seasoned and with none of the fat trimmed off, and a mound of mashed potatoes swimming in garlic butter. Actually forget the steak and potatoes, sometimes he dreamed of those fat trimmings cooked to the point they melted in his mouth in a burst of flavor. He wasn't quite to the point of imagining eating a stick of butter on its own, but he was getting there.

  And if Trev was having that sort of trouble with the food, he could understand Linda's turmoil. At the same time the only alternative was starving, and he didn't think she was that detached from reality. Maybe she'd miss one meal, but when a sizable chunk of their food stores were black beans she wouldn't stick to her threat of not eating them.

  Would she? What would they do if she did?

  * * * * *

  A few days before Christmas, roughly a month after Thanksgiving, the cold broke and drove in one of the first storms for weeks. It wasn't an intense one, but the temperatures stayed fairly bitter and the snowfall was constant enough to encourage people to stay indoors. It also limited visibility to less than a hundred yards.

  And halfway through that night Gutierrez, out on patrol up along the western ridge of the valley, uncertainly reported in that he thought he'd seen dark shapes passing by in the distance, headed in the direction of town.

  The conditions were right with a storm after so long, and the potential timing was also right in that the attackers had probably run out of food and were coming for more. It was also close to a holiday, which might be a factor for them if they thought their victims were more likely to drop their guard at that time.

  Trev immediately sprang into action, mobilizing the defenders and getting them situated in hiding spots behind houses on the western end of town. In the middle of that flurry of activity Gutierrez radioed in again to confirm that he'd cautiously investigated the spot and could confirm tracks headed for Aspen Hill, several pairs of bootprints and at least one sled.

  The former soldier directed them to the most likely location the tracks were headed for, far from the Weavers' cabin and closer to the southwest end of town. Trev hurriedly redirected a dozen defenders there and went himself.

  Fear was worming its way deep in his gut, remembering what these butchers had done to a family of innocent people. If he couldn't cow them there would be violence, and if they could they'd kill more of Aspen Hill's people. But at the same time he felt that same nervous anticipation he had when the blockheads had come up his hillside south of Highway 31 in force, as he and Deb crouched behind a slash pile preparing to light the whole hillside on fire.

  The knowledge that the enemy was walking into a trap, and they'd finally face justice for everything they'd done.

  With his people well prepared they settled into position fast, and after that there was nothing to do but wait motionlessly so they wouldn't give their presence away. The seconds passed to minutes in a tense, seemingly endless fog, and Trev had the momentary worry that maybe the enemy wasn't coming. Or maybe they'd decided to circle around the southern end of town and hit somewhere else. He quietly radioed for the defenders positioned in the other parts of town to be extra vigilant, especially to the south.

  As he was speaking dark shapes materialized out of the gloom on the western hillside, moving swiftly and silently down towards the houses. Almost directly for where Trev knelt behind a woodpile.

  “Scratch that,” he said, interrupting himself mid-word. “I've got them. Stand by, defenders.”

  Now the nervous fear was roiling in his guts so badly it was almost nausea. This was like waiting at the top of the slope watching the blockheads charge them, wanting to drop the prepared rockslide on them but knowing that with each step closer the enemy got, the worse the trap would hit them when it was sprung.

  He slowly and carefully lifted the handheld floodlight to rest on top of the woodpile three feet to the left of him, doing his best to point it directly at the approaching group. He'd probably have to adjust it, which was why he kept it at arm's length even though it would probably draw fire. He'd just have to trust that his defenders would be faster, which he did.

  As the shapes resolved Trev could see there were five of them, probably all men by their size and proportions, dragging two makeshift sleds to cart away their haul. He couldn't see any visible weapons, but they had to have at least the knives they'd used to slit the sleeping Weavers' throats.

  And he was more and more confident these were the men who'd done it. While they were ragged and unkempt they didn't move or look as if they were starving, and their cold weather clothing matched the description of what had been taken from the Weavers.

  Which might not mean anything, since coats could look alike, but the fact that they were coming during a storm was a pretty big telltale.

  Finally he judged they were close enough. He flicked on the floodlight, made a slight adjustment so it shone on all five men, then raised his voice to the same bellow he'd used while training recruits during the fight against the blockheads.

  “Put your hands on your head and freeze!”

  He wished he could say he was surprised they didn't comply. The bandits sprang into action, two going for hidden pistols while their friends dove out of the light in all directions. Trev dropped flat in the snow behind the woodpile and covered his head, while around him he heard the sharp reports of gunshots. Most of that was from the defenders opening fire.

  The shooting went on for less than thirty seconds, which felt like an eternity to Trev in his protected position. He wanted to be there with the others shooting at the attackers, but when helping him draw up this plan Lewis had insisted that his role with the floodlight and the initial challenge was to draw attention and gunfire to him and away from the other ambushing defenders. Which meant he was the one person who shouldn't stick his head out unless it was absolutely necessary.

  Finally the gunfire ceased and def
enders began calling out the all clear, and just like that it was over.

  Trev pushed to his feet and cautiously panned the floodlight, luckily undamaged in the excitement, over the bodies, checking their condition. It looked as if one man was still alive, clutching his leg and whimpering as steaming blood flowed around his fingers. He was one of those who'd tried to escape the circle of light instead of opening fire, so Trev judged he didn't have a gun on him.

  Still, he had his defenders ready as he cautiously approached and checked the bodies. They were all dead or dying aside from the wounded man, who offered no resistance other than to beg for mercy in a pathetic voice as Trev roughly grabbed his arms and bound them behind his back.

  One of the animals who butchered children wanted mercy. He'd get justice.

  Which didn't mean Trev wanted him to bleed to death before he got some answers, or for that matter before the attacker stood trial for his crimes. So he unbuckled his gun belt, sliding everything off it, and used the length of leather as a tourniquet. Then he tore a few strips of cloth off one of the man's dead companions and used it to tightly bind the wound.

  By that point the defenders were at work disarming the other bandits, just to be safe, and spreading out to scour the area in case the bandits had left friends behind as backup. Gutierrez reported the all clear from up atop the ridge, but even so Trev wasn't taking chances.

  Rick had been one of the other ambushing defenders, and he helped Trev haul the surviving bandit to the clinic so Dr. Langstrom could look at him. Trev could tell his friend was pleased by how things had gone, and likely considered it some redemption for his failure to help the Weavers during his patrol on Thanksgiving night.