Bleeding (Oil Apocalypse Book 2)

by Lou Cadle

  “You think we should take a weapon for Rudy?” Dev asked.

  “No experience. He’d be as likely to shoot one of us,” his father said. “Let’s move.”

  As they ran down the driveway to the road, Sierra and Curt looked up, startled. They’d been sitting and chatting while Curt ate. Curt jumped up, spilling what was left on his plate to the ground.

  “Bringing the car,” Dev’s father said, and he turned to get it.

  They had time for only a quick explanation before his father zoomed down the driveway in the electric.

  As they cranked the car over the log with the come-along, Dev’s mom explained what was going on.

  “That’s risky, depending on what you’re getting into,” said Curt.

  “We don’t know what we’re getting into. Can’t know until we get there,” she said.

  “Should I come?” Sierra asked.

  Dev said, “Dad wants you and Curt and your dad to protect the neighborhood. If anyone comes, be careful. Use the spider holes and stay behind cover, okay?”

  “We’ll do our best,” she said.

  Joan came trotting up. “I’m ready.”

  “Seriously, Sierra. If there are only two of you who can shoot well, this is not the time to pull one of your reckless stunts.”

  “I don’t pull stunts.”

  “Sorry. Bad choice of words. I’m tense.”

  She threw a look at him and turned to help Curt haul the car battery over the log.

  As he climbed over the log, he looked back at Sierra one more time. “Remember, there are two little girls counting on you now.”

  She pursed her lips but nodded.

  Curt said, “Be careful, all of you.”

  Dev said to him, “You too.”

  As Dev slid over the log and, with his mother, hauled the battery to the car, he heard Curt tell Sierra to take to the woods up by their place. That’s where most of the spider holes were dug, one-man bunkers to fire from. And there were still tripwires up, anything to give her that slight advantage that might be the difference between surviving and not. It made him feel fractionally better to hear Curt’s words.

  As the car sped off down the hill, Dev glanced back. Then he told himself to quit worrying about her, about all of them back there. He had enough to concentrate on himself once they arrived at the other neighborhood.

  “You know,” his father said, “there’s a possibility nothing at all is wrong down there.”

  “Why’d they send a text then?” Joan asked.

  “Maybe to lure us there.”

  Dev hadn’t thought of that. Concern for Sierra faded away. He had plenty to focus on himself in the next few minutes.

  Chapter 16

  “I doubt it, Arch,” his mother said. “They seem like good enough kids.”

  “You’ve taken them bread and herbs and whatnot. Maybe they’d started thinking about that, about where we are and what we might have. And how to go about getting it. Divide and conquer might be what they’re thinking.”

  “I’ll bet you a dollar that’s not what’s happening,” she said.

  Dev wasn’t sure, now that his father had planted that idea in his head. Rudy, no way would he come up with that on his own. But Oliver? He was smarter and had an edge. He might. With the Colt alone, he couldn’t win against them. But maybe he had friends, friends who had followed him.

  Either way, if the text was a truth or a lie, there was trouble ahead. Dev checked his rifle again and patted his right-hand pocket to make sure the extra magazines were there. The small ritual calmed him.

  “I’m stopping short of the road, on the last curve before it,” his father said. “Get ready to jump out and run.”

  “We’re leaving it here?” Dev said.

  “Easier. If we get separated, it’s a place to meet. But be careful if that’s the case. Keep to the woods and approach the car with caution.”

  “Check,” Dev said.

  “Ready?” his father said. “Kelly?”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Okay. Here we go.” He steered the car to the shoulder and jammed on the brakes. They all three hopped out, and all three left their doors unlatched, not risking making any noise by slamming them. They ran down the hill to the curve at the side of the shoulder, where the duff of the forest muffled their footsteps. At the curve, his father gave signals. He wanted Dev and his mom to circle around the burned houses and come up from the other direction. His dad was going straight down to the road, taking Joan.

  Dev would have split them up differently, with one good shooter on each team. But his father probably wanted to keep an eye on Joan himself. Dev could have done that, or his mom, giving her direction as needed. But, as usual, his father liked being in control.

  So do you, a voice inside his head told him. Sierra had frustrated the hell out of him in Payson. Wasn’t that because he wanted to control the battle plan? Forget about it, he told the voice. He should focus on what was happening right now.

  The woods were still as they approached the outermost house on the street. It wasn’t their passage that had quieted the birds. They had already been startled into silence before he and his mom arrived.

  He signaled to go around into the woods at the end of the road. That way, they’d approach the house that the guys were staying in from the densest cover. Whether it was a trap, or an attack, or even a false alarm, that was safest.

  His mother nodded. But she hadn’t taken two steps before gunfire erupted at the end of the road nearest the main road, several firearms discharging from where his father and Joan were. It wasn’t just the shooting of two people.

  His mother stopped, looked at him, and signaled to head for that.

  Dev agreed. The house across the way was quiet. No action there. Head for the trouble.

  They took to the back yards of the burned-out houses, a faster route, but one that still gave them cover from any unfriendly eyes on the neighborhood road. They passed the last house and hit the woods again, taking an angle toward the gunfire. It was sporadic now, not the fusillade it had been. Dev slowed as they approached and touched his mother’s arm, wanting her to slow as well. He could feel the tension in her muscles and knew she was worried for his father, still healing, not up to his usual skill, and only backed up by Joan.

  No more worried than he was.

  He pointed to his right and signaled her to stay low. He veered to the left and used the pines for cover. He came around a fat trunk and saw his father on his knees, bracing his right arm with his left. He fired the Glock. Then he ejected a magazine, let it fall to the ground, and tried to push in another. Dev gave a quiet whistle that said he was friendly, and approached his father’s position. His father turned his head and frowned at him, and Dev knew he’d hear about it later.

  When he was close enough, Dev said, “How many?”

  He held up two fingers.

  Dev saw his father still hadn’t gotten the magazine in. He reached his father’s side, held his hand out and his father handed over the gun. Dev pushed the magazine home and handed back the Glock.

  He leaned around the tree to see what was up just as Joan fired. She missed, high. He had been looking for the miss because he had seen her do it before when she got flustered when shooting at targets and his father started yelling. Now that there were four of them, her firing still kept the enemy pinned down, so Dev and his family could take care of the rest.

  “Oliver? Rudy?” Dev said to his father. No reason to stay to hand signals now. The enemy knew his father was here.

  “No. Strangers. Four, originally.”

  “Have you seen Oliver and Rudy?”

  “Not a sign of them.”

  Dev knew it was possible neither had survived. Two boys with one Colt against four or more armed attackers? Not good odds.

  “Keep watch behind us, just in case,” his father said.

  “It’d be a better job for you,” Dev said, knowing he would hear about this later too. But he was r
ight.

  “Joan!” his father called. “Go back twenty yards and cover our rear. Keep your gun pointed away from us. Make sure we don’t get ambushed.”

  “Okay,” she said, her voice sounding shaky. Dev was sorry she wasn’t doing better under fire, but he understood. Until two or three weeks ago, she’d never handled a firearm. Until two or three months ago, she was a small town priest with no worse crime to worry about than somebody filching from the collection plate.

  She scrambled back on her knees. He heard her get to her feet and count paces under her breath. Then the sound of his mother’s rifle came from his right.

  “Okay, let’s finish this,” his father said.

  Dev wished he knew who he was shooting at, but the days when that mattered a lot were behind him. He pushed the thought from his mind and started firing single rounds at whoever it was.

  “Good job,” his father said, as a rifle spun out of someone’s hands.

  “Did I get him?” Dev said. He had been waiting for someone to lean out from cover, and he’d shot the instant he saw movement, not really catching sight of a face.

  “Yeah.”

  There was one more shot from across the road, and his mother returned fire. And then there was only silence.

  “Did she get him?” Dev said.

  “Don’t think so,” said his father. Another long interval passed with no more rounds being fired. “I think he ran.”

  “I’ll circle around if you want and check.”

  “Give it five minutes, son. Kelly,” he said, raising his voice, “you okay?”

  “Right as rain,” she said. “I’m going to circle back to the house and check on the boys.”

  “Son, go with her.”

  “You sure?”

  “Sure. I think that last one ran for the hills. I’ll wait here five minutes and make sure. Then meet you at the boys’ house.”

  “Okay. Mom, I’m coming over there,” Dev said. As he left, he heard his father say something to Joan.

  Again they scooted through the back yards, but instead of looping around through the woods to cross the road, they took the chance of running straight across the road.

  No one shot at them. They took care when moving along the side of the house, in case there was someone lying in wait. The backyard was empty. Across in the woods downhill, a dove called, a sign—though not a certain one, for doves were pretty tolerant of human presence—that no one was over there. Dev pointed at himself and the house. She pointed to the shed.

  They split up and Dev ran for the back door, moving fast. You couldn’t outrun a bullet or a skilled marksman, but there was no reason to dawdle. The door was locked but the pane was still missing, and he unlocked, yanked the door open, and dove for the refrigerator, the most solid protection against bullets in here. Nothing happened. He took two long, deep breaths, calming himself, and then got low and looked into the living room beyond. Nothing. Nobody.

  Time to clear the house again. He moved fast through the rooms, looking for people, for trouble. For Rudy and Oliver.

  He found Rudy by the sound of the boy whimpering inside the master bedroom closet. He yanked open the door, and Rudy cringed back. “Don’t shoot me!”

  “It’s me,” he said. “Dev. Where’s Ol—” But before he could get the name out, Rudy launched himself up and threw his arms around Dev.

  “They had guns!” And he burst into tears.

  Dev had a hard enough time getting the rifle out from between them and the safety on again. He’d been lucky he hadn’t accidentally shot one or the other when Rudy threw himself onto him. “Shhh,” he said. “It’s okay. We’re here now.”

  But Rudy was lost in hysterics. Dev walked for the bed, half dragging the kid along with him. Rudy had never seemed—or looked—so young. “Shh. Sit. I have to keep watch.”

  Rudy sat. Then he turned and buried his face in the sheets, sobbing still.

  Dev moved back through the house, checking outside at every window. But no one else was out there except his mother. She must have been moving low through the garden, between the plants. She stood as he watched, using her scope while she scanned the woods. Dev whistled his location. She finished her job before she gave him a signal back. All clear.

  Dev patted Rudy on the shoulder and then checked the house again, this time looking for signs that anything had been disturbed. But except for sloppiness, which he suspected was only bad housekeeping by the boys, there was nothing amiss. He left through the back door, whistling again so his mother knew it was him, and approached her. She was still watching the woods.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “They shot Oliver. And must have taken the Colt, because I don’t see it lying here. Nor do I see Rudy.”

  “He’s inside, crying.”

  “Poor kid.”

  “I guess he saw Oliver get shot.”

  “Probably so.”

  “And then he ran into the house. And they didn’t follow him? Why?”

  His mother shrugged. “Maybe they thought he was going for bigger weapons. Maybe they came for food and grabbed it and ran. Or maybe they were clearing the neighborhood when we got here and planned to get back to him.”

  “How long did it take us to get here after the text?”

  “Twenty minutes, I think. What does Rudy say?”

  “I couldn’t get much out of him.”

  “You watch. I’ll talk with Rudy.” She turned for the house.

  Dev had felt uncomfortable at the kid’s excessive emotional display, and he was happy to not have to deal with it. His mother was better at that sort of thing anyway.

  More and more birds began to sing as he stood watch. He tried to stay on edge, but the thing was, you couldn’t keep it up. In an attack, the adrenaline of the highest level of action always waned, and his was waning now. It was, in part, an automatic response to the birds’ singing. He thought about that as he scanned around, looking for possible trouble. It was the same with hunting. A long morning in a blind, saying and hearing no words, and you began to feel more like an animal yourself, in a good way, like you were settling in to become the true thing you actually were, and all the rest of it—clothes and meaningless talk and cell phones and so on—was a lie that disguised the truth of your nature. The birds singing again was a signal from one animal to another: all is clear.

  A whistle alerted him to the approach of his father. When he approached, he said, “I’m seeing nothing out there. I think it’s over.”

  “Oliver’s dead,” Dev said, pointing.

  “The other one?”

  “Inside with Mom.”

  His father walked to Oliver’s body and squatted down. “Poor kid.” He combed through the dry grass. “At least he got off a few rounds.”

  Must have found shell casings. “No other bodies though. So he didn’t kill anyone.”

  “No, but we did.”

  “Did you check IDs of the dead ones?”

  “Yeah. Chandler.”

  Joan had said that as far as she knew, all the invaders in Payson were from Phoenix itself. So this must be a different group, people late in leaving the Phoenix area. “At least it wasn’t the people from the neighborhood down the hill. Did they have the same last names?”

  “I honestly didn’t pay attention to names,” his father said. “Good shooting back there.”

  It was rare praise. “Lucky.”

  “No such thing.” Another one of his father’s pieces of philosophy. You make your own luck. The harder you work, the luckier you get. He had a dozen of such quotes about the topic.

  On the other hand, if Dev had said, “Thanks. I know I can shoot pretty well,” then he would have heard a lecture about overconfidence. “What do we do now?” he said.

  “Go home.”

  “I mean, what do we do with Rudy?”

  “Ah, shit. Right.” His father sighed. “I guess we have to take him in.”

  “It might not be too bad. He’s okay. Too young to be a t
hreat. Too timid to take us all on.”

  “Yeah, that means he’s also not much help.”

  “He’s anxious to please. I think that’s a good thing. He’ll work hard for you, learning to shoot, learning to tend the animals. And with your arm still on the mend, we can use another set of hands around the place. Make it easier on Mom.”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t know much about much.”

  “He survived here. He’ll learn more,” Dev said. “It’d be nice to get him up to speed on guard duty, even without a gun. Eyes and the whistle would be enough. That’d make eight of us. One three-hour shift per day.”

  “Or night.”

  “Where’s Joan?”

  “I left her on watch.”

  “She didn’t hit anyone?”

  “No, but she wasn’t missing on purpose. She did better than I thought. I figured, what with her being a minister and all, she’d balk when it came to killing. But she didn’t. She was willing to kill, but not trained enough to succeed.”

  “Sierra said she wouldn’t be a problem. Said she’d do anything to protect her girls.”

  “Any parent would. Any parent worth the name.”

  Dev glanced sidelong at his father. That was about as emotional as he ever got. “And I appreciate it.”

  “It’s my job,” his father said in dismissal, then: “I’m going to go hurry your mother along. I guess you should start on a grave for this one. The others, I’m inclined to leave where they lay.”

  “Yes, sir.” He went to find a shovel.

  His mom took her turn with it, and Rudy helped, and they buried Oliver, with Joan conducting an official burial service while Rudy wept.

  At home, Dev and his mother tore apart his bed. It converted into bunk beds, and so they set up one half over the other. Rudy offered to help, but Dev’s mom said they could do it faster without him, but he could make his own bed. Dev’s mom talked to Rudy as he sat in a chair and watched, telling him what the house rules were.

  “Top or bottom?” Dev said, when she had delivered the new bed linens and left the room.

  “I don’t care.”

  “If you have a preference, go on and tell me. I can do either.”

  “Bottom, I guess.”