by Noah Mann
I could have gone to her. I should have gone to her. But I didn’t. If I had, I might have given in to her and done what conventional thinking pointed to being the smart course of action.
None of this, though, was conventional. It was anything but. A man who’d honed his skills deceiving and killing for a living had interjected himself into our lives. He’d killed, and, if I was correct, he was going to kill again, by proxy, and in larger numbers. All to force me to give him something I could not. And if I were to tell him that, to come clean as to my ignorance about the location of BA-412, would he even believe me?
No. He would not.
If he was coopting Ansel and Moira, I had to have absolute proof of that. Something tangible that I could take to Schiavo. Only then would she feel justified in bringing the treachery to Dalton’s attention before it could manifest itself in ways both dangerous and deadly for the people of Remote, and the residents of Bandon.
I could expect Elaine to understand why I had to do what I was doing, but I knew she would not accept it. And there was no point in trying. She believed I was guided by the desire for vengeance. I was. But there was a larger component to my reason now. If Olin were to turn on me, I might end up dead. If Camas Valley turned against us, the bodies would end up being stacked like cordwood.
Thirty Four
‘By the two creeks.’
That was the extent of the directions to Olin’s former hideout I had, shared second hand by Rebecca. I knew the area. The exact spot, actually. On a patrol some time ago, before there was ever an idea of Remote as a settlement, we’d scouted the confluence of the creeks, which then flowed north into the Coquille River. Some suggestion that a distant hydro power station could be built there had taken place, with the long term plan of providing electricity for road maintenance crews who would have to overnight while performing repairs on bridges and roads. That plan hadn’t yet been moved from concept to action, but the location was prime. For many things.
Boulders had been naturally piled where the two creeks joined, placed by erosion and landslides that shaped the terrain over thousands of years. The massive slabs of rock reminded me of where Olin had holed up near Bandon, in the space between two giant knobs of granite. It didn’t surprise me that the man had, apparently, chosen a similar landscape to hide amongst in this area.
The creeks were brimming, high on runoff from the recent snows, and topped off by rain which fell almost daily in varying amounts. I crossed the first creek atop a fallen tree which was too thick to have rotted to the point of failing. The second stretch of racing water I leapt, jumping from a high point on one bank to a wide, low spot on the opposite side, slick ground causing me to momentarily lose my footing, sending me forward into a bulbous boulder. The impact knocked the wind out of me and I dropped to my knees, trying to gulp air quietly. I did not expect that Olin would be in or near a hideout he had apparently abandoned, but I also knew that his interest was in me.
I’d taken what precautions I could when setting out to locate where he’d hidden. After informing Nick that he’d be working alone for the day, I had him drop me two miles west on the side of the highway. From there I’d crossed to the south and angled my way toward the twin creeks, where I now knelt, gasping for air.
After a minute I’d regained enough composure to continue, weaving my way through the maze of boulders which lay next to and atop each other, creating a multi-level maze with dozens of hiding spaces. I searched every single one I could find, scouring the ground within and nearby, hoping to find a can, a wrapper, anything that would tie this spot to some supply from Camas Valley.
But there was nothing. Not a scrap of paper. Not a boot print in the muck. There was no evidence that would be useful in tying Olin to supplies from Camas Valley, and to Ansel and Moira.
Unless you’re wrong...
That errant bit of self-doubt surfaced as I continued through the warren of jumbled boulders. Except, I wasn’t wrong. Ansel and Moira were trusted aides to Dalton. This was obvious after seeing their interaction at our first meeting. Others we’d crossed paths with, Lo and Gina, for example, were, for lack of a better term, foot soldiers. They had not been in the inner sanctum as Dalton met with us.
Even if I was right, though, simply believing so was not justification enough to bring the matter to Schiavo, who might, just might, take it to Dalton. If there was true proof that Olin had been in contact with the man’s top people.
But that evidence proved entirely elusive as I searched the last hollows and overhangs created by the ancient fall of boulders. My journey here, in addition to putting a very real strain on my relationship with Elaine, had been pointless. There was no discovery to be made.
As I retraced my steps through the tangle of massive rocks, I did not berate myself for failing. I did, however, revisit one very certain thing concerning Olin—he was damn good at his craft. He’d kept me, and the leadership of Bandon, in the dark as to his true motives, while carefully readying himself to take out his colleague and my friend. He was ruthless and cunning, careful to a fault, physically fit and mentally sharp. He was a hard man with a disarming smile and a probing stare. He marked his enemies while they still saw him as friendly at best, and harmless at worst.
And all those things, that full package that was Tyler Olin, was as gone from his apparent hideout as he could be. The area had been sanitized. Not even a boot print remained.
I came around the final array of boulders, back to the space where I had landed when jumping across the second creek and stumbling. I would have to find a different way to the far bank, I knew, though doing so became suddenly unimportant as I saw what lay on the slippery ground.
Two small stones, arranged next to each other. Identical to what I’d seen in the storage building. And in Olin’s original hideout.
The man was here. Close.
“Olin!”
I called out to him, charging forward and bounding into the creek, high stepping through the waist-high water and scrambling up the opposite, muddy shore. My boots finally found purchase on the soggy earth and I ran through the trees, scanning left and right, my AR sweeping fast one direction, then the other. I’d been in the maze of boulders for fifteen minutes, plenty of time for the man to leave his calling card and fade away into the woods.
But he wouldn’t do that. He would want to see the result of his handiwork. Want to see my reaction.
“OLIN!”
I screamed his name as loud as I could, the volume half natural, and half manufactured. If the man wanted me to teeter toward some unhinged break, I was going to let him be witness to just that. Truthfully, though, I was enraged, at his presence, and at his ability to move ghost-like in and out of my life. Had Elaine not recognized his methods, the reaction I was partially feigning right now might have been coming from a more desperate place.
No response came from the dead woods. But he was out there. That I was certain of. I backed through the grey stands of trees, toward the creek I’d just forded. Once there I followed it north until I reached the first creek, using a series of wide stones to easily walk across it. With only the forest between me and the highway now, I stopped and looked back, expecting to see nothing. And no one. Olin might not be watching me anymore. Seeing me come upon what he’d left for me back at the boulders had likely been satisfying enough for him.
Still I stared out into the once lush landscape. We were trying to bring life to the land again. He was seeking that which could render the planet devoid of life for good. His reasons for wanting BA-412 mattered not at all to me. It was best that Neil had not entrusted its location to me. That meant Olin could use every trick he had, and I could still not lead him to it. And if I did know where it was...
I’d die trying to keep him from it.
Part Four
Showdown
Thirty Five
As I stood with Enderson at the counter in the garrison’s outpost, going over plans for minor street repairs in Remote, a sound, both
familiar and strange, rose in the near distance.
The corporal and I stepped outside of the repurposed general store and looked east, in the direction of the odd whining, a low rooster tail of dust spinning above a collection of vehicles coming our way. Motorcycles.
In Cheyenne, when Neil, Elaine, and I had been captured by Moto and his band of cannibal thugs, I’d been dragged to town behind a makeshift electric cycle powered by a beefy collection of car batteries. What approached us was nowhere near as crude.
Dalton was in the lead, two more bikes just behind, Gina and Moira riding the nearly silent two wheelers as the trio neared us and stopped, no final throaty cough of an internal combustion engine to signal that the motor had been turned off. Their mastery of battery technology and production, not to mention coupling those power sources to small and powerful motors, was impressive.
“Good morning,” Dalton said, dropping his bike’s kickstand and stepping off.
He wore goggles but no helmet, and slipped that eyewear off. Behind him, the two women dismounted their rides, hanging back, Gina’s Remington shotty slung across her back and Moira’s AK ready in front at the end of a single point sling. Dalton carried no long weapon. But in the front of his waistband, violating every rule of gun safety, a stainless steel revolver was tucked inside his belt. A .357 I thought after a quick glance. Big enough to take a foot, and anything north of that, off with one unintentional pull of the trigger.
“Good morning,” Enderson said, stepping forward and offering his hand. “We haven’t met. I’m Corporal—”
“Mo Enderson,” Dalton said. “Not Morris.”
Enderson smiled.
“And you must be Dalton,” he said.
“You’ll find introductions aren’t really necessary,” I told the corporal. “We’re a known quantity.”
Dalton gave me a look. Not angry, not appreciative. It was simply a cold, silent acknowledgment that I was there.
“We received the supplies,” Dalton said.
A week we’d been in Remote. The day before, a convoy of trucks, the same ones which had brought us to the new settlement, had rumbled past, heading east to Camas Valley. Martin was in the lead vehicle and offered a wave as the four trucks passed. A few hours later, on their return trip, the convoy stopped briefly to check on us and report on their contact with the Camas Valley community. All had gone as expected in the exchange, one of the trucks now carrying boxes of batteries for delivery to Bandon. This visit by Dalton and his rather small entourage was, I suspected, to confirm that their end of the agreement which formalized our alliance was being fulfilled.
“And we’ve scouted the areas north and south of you,” the man added.
Enderson nodded at the report.
“Anything we need to know?” I asked.
“Minor movement,” Dalton said. “A few hiders out and about. Nothing to be concerned with.”
“Didn’t some of these hiders ambush our people between here and Camas Valley?” Enderson asked, without expecting any reply. “I’d be concerned with those kind of people.”
“Those kind of people are all dead,” Dalton said, shifting his attention briefly to me. “Aren’t they?”
His people had saved Schiavo, Hart, and me from being overrun in an isolated spot, and had taken out every last attacker. People who Dorothy had fled from months before. Rebecca had kept her word and hadn’t shared anything which she’d told me. Nor had Elaine, though my asking her to remain silent about the revelations gleaned from Dorothy had brought a chill to our relationship.
“Dead and gone,” I concurred.
“We’re sweeping east and west of you right now,” Dalton continued. “But the hiders avoid the highway.”
“Except when they’re trying to kill you,” I interjected.
The man shook his head at that suggestion.
“They don’t try to kill us,” Dalton corrected. “They try to kill you.”
Enderson sensed the uncomfortable shift in the exchange. I was challenging the leader of Camas Valley, for no reason other than some attempt to get under his skin. But that tactic wasn’t without some purpose in mind.
“Right,” I said. “So, will any hiders out there who might be hostile see this settlement as an extension of you, or of Bandon?”
Dalton thought for a moment, realizing where I was going with my probing.
“You’re asking if Remote will enjoy safety by association,” the man said, pondering the possibility for a moment. “Mostly.”
“So there will still be threats out there,” Enderson said.
“There are always threats,” Dalton confirmed. “Everyone has a bullet with their name on it. Only question is whether you’re downrange when it’s fired.”
He looked back to Gina and nodded. She unstrapped a box from the back of her motorcycle and brought it forward, holding it out. Enderson took the package, its weight settling his grip downward until he compensated.
“Some batteries for your outpost,” Dalton said, and Gina retreated to her motorcycle.
“Thank you,” Enderson said. “We had someone come into the town the other night. A woman.”
Dalton accepted the report with a nod.
“Women alone don’t last long out there,” he said, tipping his head toward the dead woods.
“We didn’t get much out of her,” Enderson said, truthfully ignorant of what the woman had shared with Rebecca. “She could have been hooked up with a group of hiders.”
“I’d think that was a definite,” Dalton agreed. “What are you doing with her?”
“We sent her back to Bandon with the convoy,” Enderson explained.
That didn’t surprise Dalton, but it didn’t seem acceptable, either.
“We need to work out some arrangement where any arrivals can choose where to settle,” Dalton suggested, though the hint of determination in his words made the idea seem more than simply something which might come to pass. “Here, with us, or in Bandon.”
Enderson didn’t disagree with the proposal, but didn’t accept it, either. He couldn’t. And he knew that Dalton knew that.
“That sound like a reasonable proposal to be discussed,” the corporal said. “I’ll let Remote’s leaders and Bandon’s know your thoughts on the issue.”
Dalton was smart enough to not push the matter. But he was also savvy enough to realize that whatever insistence he hinted at would carry its own weight in any decision. Regardless, at the end of the day, anyone who found their way to any of our communities was free to choose where their long term home would be. Even in Camas Valley, where it might appear that Dalton ruled with an amply padded iron fist, someone wanting to leave would not be forced to stay, I knew. Unwilling and unhappy inhabitants of any group were an annoyance at best, and a liability at worst.
“Good,” Dalton said, reaching to the goggles he’d shifted to the top of his head.
“Quick question,” I said.
The man left his eye protection where it was and looked to me.
“What’s your range on those things?”
Dalton glanced to his motorcycle, smiling.
“You mean, could my people use these to quietly approach Bandon and scout it from the outskirts for months without being detected?”
He’d read the intent of where my probing was going.
“The answer is yes,” he said, then lowered his goggles and remounted his bike.
“The settlement’s leaders have asked about meeting you,” Enderson told the man. “Everybody over there would like to, I believe.”
Over there was just across the highway, in Remote proper. It was apropos, I had thought, that the representatives of the place they had separated from existed, at least temporarily, on the opposite side of a road. The man-made delineation point between the garrison’s outpost and the settlers had, oddly, served to keep relations cordial so far, it seemed to me. Had Enderson and Hart been billeted in a house amongst those whose suspicions toward government ran high, the linger
ing distrust could have festered. Or boiled over.
“We’ll oblige,” Dalton said.
He steered his cycle past us, Gina and Moira following, the pitch of the electric motors whining high as they cruised back to the highway and crossed over to meet their new neighbors.
“Did I pick up some vibe between you two?” Enderson asked when we were alone. “Because my orders are to keep Remote safe and to service the alliance. If you have some issue with him...”
“No issue,” I said. “No issue at all.”
He took my assurance at face value and turned back toward the outpost.
“Mo...”
Enderson looked back to me.
“Dalton knows more about us than we do about him,” I said. “Remember that when you’re servicing the alliance.”
It wasn’t a slap at the corporal, and he didn’t take it that way. He did, however, seem to mull what I’d just reminded him of, before giving me a quick nod and returning to the outpost.
Thirty Six
We continued to work, repairing and refitting houses, and streets, and plumbing, and power systems. In less than two weeks, most of Remote was almost ready to be branded a livable town.
Not everything, though, had been fixed. Nor could it be in so short a time.
Elaine and I had come to a point of existing with one another. We spoke, we ate, we cared for and played with our daughter. But something was missing. Something had evaporated from the life we’d known together. We still loved each other, but my insistence on dealing with Olin in ways as covert as his very nature had changed our dynamic. The spontaneous joy that had developed between us over time was now virtually non-existent.
For days there had been no sign of Olin, or his presence. No markers that would indicate any further attempt to play with my mind had been found. In a way, the absence of any hint of him being close was disquieting. One might think he had abandoned his efforts and departed, slipping away again, for good, or just relocating as he bided his time.