“You’re robbing us?” Greg said. “Why? What’s the point?”
“The point is, the world has gone to hell,” John said. “We’re all stuck out here in the middle of nowhere. Nobody’s coming to rescue us, so we’re going to need everything we can get our hands on to survive. It’s Darwinism, pal, survival of the fittest.”
“That’s about the size of it,” Eustace said, turning his cold gaze on Greg. By the dark glint in his eyes, Greg knew the man was capable of just about anything. Yes, these were the eyes of a ruthless and soulless man. “Plus, I don’t much like you, lawyer. I don’t care for the work you do. Why should I put my life and livelihood at risk to help a man like you? What, I’m supposed to march you out of here just so you can take me to court over some foolish idealism?”
Tuck made a strange snorting sound then. At first, Greg thought he was snoring, but then he realized it was a sound of derision. The old man was awake and shifting on his seat.
Don’t let them know you’ve got the gun, Greg thought. Keep it hidden, Dad.
“Well, you’re a fine piece of work, Eustace Simpson,” Tuck said. “We’re better off sticking together. If you had any brains at all, you’d realize that.”
“I’m just being realistic,” Eustace said. “With fewer people, supplies will last longer. Things could’ve been a whole lot worse. I could have shot you in your sleep. Just remember that.”
“Wait,” Greg said, trying to buy time so his groggy mind could think. “If we give you our stuff willingly, does that mean you’ll you let us live?”
“Well,” John said, rising from the table, “we’re going to start by taking your rifle, then we’re going to take your packs, then we might just toss you outside and let you fend for yourselves. If you play nice, that’s as bad as it’ll be.” He stretched out a hand toward Greg. “Eustace says you have a nice, new Remington rifle. I didn’t see it lying around. Maybe you’ve got it tucked underneath you? Hand it over.”
“I don’t have it,” Greg replied, showing the man his empty hands.
“He’s lying,” Eustace said. “Look under the sleeping bag. He’s got it hidden somewhere close.”
Greg slowly reached over, trying not to make any sudden movement, and pulled the corner of his sleeping bag back, revealing that it was empty underneath. “See? I don’t have it. Look, there’s my pack.” He nodded in the direction of his pack, which was lying on the floor at the foot of the sleeping bag. “You can see it’s not there either. I don’t have the gun. I lost it somewhere along the way.”
John and Eustace glanced at each other, then Eustace rose from the table with a great heave of air.
“You’re lying,” he said, as he came around the table. “There’s no way you lost that rifle. John, anybody does anything weird, you shoot. Got it?”
“Got it,” John replied.
Greg had put all of their packs in the same corner, piling them so that they leaned against each other. Eustace began digging through them, turning the packs over, opening pouches and zippers, as if somehow the rifle might be hidden inside. He was muttering curses under his breath. Greg dared a glance in his father’s direction.
Tuck was wide awake and sitting up straight in his chair, but the blanket was still pulled all the way to his shoulders. Still, Greg saw movement under the blanket near his left hip and knew the old man was clutching the rifle. When he made eye contact with his father, Greg slowly shook his head.
Don’t do anything rash, he thought, trying to send his words to Tuck somehow. Wait for the right moment, or we’re all dead.
Enraged, Eustace picked up Greg’s pack and flung it across the room. It hit the far edge of the table and went spinning into the wall, gushing all of its contents onto the floor. The red of Eustace’s cheeks and forehead was so bright now that it matched his fiery hair. He rose and turned toward Greg, fury in his eyes, as if he intended to kill him then and there.
“I don’t know what you’ve done with your rifle,” he said. He swiped Greg’s jacket off the floor and shook it out, as if the gun might fall out of a pocket. Then he tossed the jacket aside. When he did, a small glass object fell onto the floor nearby. Greg spotted it, but the others didn’t seem to notice. “There’s no way in heck you lost that rifle. Where is it? Where did you put it?”
“I told you, I lost it,” Greg said, though the lie was feeling increasingly flimsy. “I think maybe I set it down the last time we were boiling water and forgot to pick it up again. I’ll walk back to that spot with you and find it, if you want.” He glanced at the glass object. It was the polluted water sample, and it had rolled to a stop close to the heel of Eustace’s right foot.
“I’ve had just about enough of you,” Eustace snarled, then heaved Emma’s pack across the room.
For a moment, Eustace’s back was turned, and John glanced in the direction of the flying pack. Greg used the opportunity to kick the vial of water, sending it rolling across the room. It went under the table and came out near the kitchen counter.
“He hid it somewhere,” Eustace raged, pounding a fist against the table. “He hid that gun somewhere, and I’m going to find it? You hear me? I’m going to find it.” He kicked one of the folded chairs and sent it flying.
“You want me to shoot him, boss?” John said.
“No, I want you to find that goddamn rifle first,” Eustace shouted, kicking a second chair. “He hid it around here somewhere.”
Greg glanced at his father, made eye contact with him, and raised his eyebrows. He meant it as a signal—Be ready, Dad—but he couldn’t tell if the old man understood him. Tuck was just sitting there with a sour expression on his face.
“Shoot the kid,” John said. “That’ll make him talk. You don’t even have to kill her. Shoot her in the leg or something.”
Greg felt a stab of fear as Eustace looked from him to Emma. His daughter was still curled up in her sleeping bag, as if she thought hiding would keep her safe.
“Maybe you have a point,” Eustace said. “Heck, let’s just shoot them all. We’ll find the damn rifle once they’re dead. I’ve had enough of this.”
He started back around the table, raising the rifle. John uttered a weird little laugh and waved his pistol in Greg’s face.
“Goodbye, lawyer scumbag,” he said.
As he rounded the end of the table, however, Eustace’s big boot came down on the glass vial, and it popped. The sound was surprisingly loud, like the pop of a small firecracker. Emma screamed, as if she thought it was a gunshot, and Eustace stumbled to one side, looking down to see what he’d stepped on. Startled, John wheeled around.
And in that moment, as a confused Eustace looked at the little bits of glass on the carpet, Tuck made his move. With his right hand, he swept his blanket aside. With his left hand, he raised the Remington Model 700, the butt planted against the armrest of the couch.
John never saw it coming. When Tuck pulled the trigger, a bright flash filled the dim room, and the thunderous boom seemed to shake the entire building. It was so loud that Greg went instantly deaf, even as the top of John’s head exploded like a soft melon. Blood splashed on the ceiling, on the far wall, on the table, as the company man slumped to one side. He hit the edge of the table and rolled onto the floor, his hand releasing the pistol in the process.
A shriek Greg initially thought was Emma actually came from Eustace, who was flailing his arms and backing away from the dead man. Greg started crawling toward John, intending to grab the handgun, but his hands slipped on the bloody carpet. Eustace turned and fled, headed for the door. He pulled it open, just as Tuck fired a second time. Greg saw the thin wall split open inches from Eustace’s back, but then he was through the door and racing out into the bitter night. Frigid wind blasted into the room.
Rising, Greg grabbed the handgun in passing and hopped over the corpse. He reached the front door and kicked it shut. He had a last glimpse of Eustace running full-steam into the night, following the pipeline. Greg set the deadbolt and stood
there a moment, out of breath and shaking badly. Finally, he turned. Emma was sitting up, crying and covering her mouth with her hands. Tuck had slumped back into his seat, grimacing as he laid the rifle across his knees.
“Dad, that was an amazing shot,” he said. “I think you just saved our lives.”
“Missed the second one, though,” Tuck said sourly. “He was the one I really wanted to shoot. Never liked that guy. Only tolerated him because he was Tommy’s friend.”
“Is he gone?” Emma asked, staring with wide-eyed horror at the body on the floor. “Will he come back?”
“I don’t know,” Greg said.
“He won’t come back, not anytime soon,” Tuck said. He held the rifle up and gestured for Greg to come and take it. “That boy ran out of here like a kicked cat. Did you hear him? You were right not to trust him, son, and smart to give me the gun.”
Greg walked over and took the rifle from his hands, setting it on the table. The room stank of gunpowder and blood, a potent mix that turned Greg’s stomach. He grabbed the crumpled blanket from beside Tuck and draped it over the body.
Emma was up now, wiping her eyes. She’d stopped crying, and Greg saw a marked change in her demeanor. The terror was gone, replaced with that steely eyed look she got when preparing to deal with a problem. She sniffed, shook her head as if to clear her thoughts, and approached the table.
“Honey, are you okay?” Greg asked.
“I’m fine, Dad,” she said. “It all just happened so suddenly. I sort of suspected that Eustace was a creep, but I didn’t expect to wake up and find him pointing a gun at me. I hope a bear eats him out there.”
“If we’re lucky,” Greg said.
“We have to get the dead body out of here,” she said, pointing at the lump under the blanket. “It’s so disgusting, and it smells awful.”
“I’ll handle it,” he said.
Emma shook her head. “No, I want to help, Dad. I have to be useful if we’re going to get out of here. I’m okay now, I promise.”
“Okay, put your jacket on first,” Greg said.
While Emma put her big, puffy jacket on and zipped it up, Greg wrapped the blanket around the body and tied the corners. It was a nasty, unpleasant business. The damage to John’s head was both surprising and sickening. The bullet seemed to have entered at his right temple, angled upward, and come out near the top of his skull. A massive amount of blood—along with various chunks—was splattered across the wall, cabinet, and carpet.
“If you give me a second, I’ll get up and help you drag him outside,” Tuck said.
“Just rest, Dad,” Greg said. “You did your part tonight. Emma and I will carry him away from the building, but we won’t go far. It’s dark and frigid out there, and Eustace could be lurking somewhere nearby.”
He grabbed the knotted blanket nearest John’s head and began dragging him toward the door, picking up the Remington in passing. Emma came up behind him, bundled up tight, and grabbed the knot near John’s ankles. She lifted his legs and helped carry him to the door.
Greg had to set the body down for a second to unlock and open the door. When he did, a bitter cold swirled into the room, biting deeply. Greg’s flannel shirt did little to keep out the brutal wind. Pointing the rifle out into the dark, he resumed dragging the body outside.
The dim lamplight from inside the building didn’t reach far, and there was only a sliver of moon winking through a gap in the clouds. Greg saw the massive pipeline fading into the blackness, and not much else, but he listened for a moment, holding his breath. If Eustace was nearby, he would make a sound. The man couldn’t breathe without shaking the ground beneath him.
Greg waited a few seconds, straining to hear into the night, but it was still and quiet. Finally, he resumed carrying the body outside, turning his face away from the bitter wind.
“If he appears, rush back inside the building,” Greg told his daughter.
“I think he’s running away,” Emma said. “He seems like a coward.”
They dragged the body to one side of the door, out into the open so it wasn’t right beside the building in case some wild animal decided to have a snack. There were a lot of loose leaves, needles, and debris here, so he spent a few seconds piling them on the body, but it soon became clear that there wasn’t enough to fully cover him. Giving his daughter a final, grave look, he started back toward the building.
I wish she’d never had to see such awful things, he thought. I hope she’ll be okay.
26
The Carmichaels lived in an enormous, two-story farmhouse that was about as ugly and run-down as any inhabited building Darryl had ever seen. The formerly white wood siding had turned an ugly gray-brown, as it was coated in dust, dirt, cobwebs, and unidentifiable stains. One side of the porch was partially collapsed, and it looked like the other side was being propped up by a stack of cinder blocks. The curtains in the front windows were mismatched, and some of them appeared to be old blankets that had simply been tacked into place.
The strangest thing about the house, however, was the sheer number of bean cans. The Carmichaels seemed to absolutely love Heinz beans, and the turquoise cans were dumped all over the porch, as if they’d looted a Heinz warehouse. It was so weird and distracting that Darryl didn’t notice the front door was ajar until he’d mounted the creaking steps. He was lugging a large brisket wrapped in butcher paper in a pillowcase, but he set it on a small wicker stool as he reached the front door.
“Hello?” he said. “Excuse me? Is anyone home? Sorry to bother you.”
He knocked on the door, which made it swing open. Just beyond the door, there was a tiny entryway with a peeling linoleum floor and a stack of dirty clothes in the corner. Darryl could see part of the dim living room beyond, and it looked like an absolute dump. A cardboard box tipped on its side, a dirty dinner plate sitting on a shelf, shoes in no particular order, a wad of paper towels. It was all random filth.
Who the heck are these people? Darryl wondered. Justine is a strange girl, but I didn’t know they lived like this.
The Carmichaels were their closest neighbors, but the property couldn’t have been more different than Tabitha’s ranch. As he moved toward the living room, he smelled the place, a nostril-searing mix of garbage, maybe rotting food, and some kind of metallic smell.
“Hello?” he said again. His voice sounded too loud in the quiet house. “It’s Darryl Healy. I’ve brought some meat, you know, for our deal.”
He poked his head into the living room. The Carmichaels had a battered brown couch against the wall beneath the living room window, a strange coffee table made of a big piece of polished stone, and a small flat-screen TV on a wheeled cart against the opposite wall. Trash was everywhere. It looked like a giant had picked up the house, given it a good shake, and turned it upside down before setting it down again.
They can’t actually live like this, can they? he wondered.
When he’d picked up the curing salt from them, they’d insisted on meeting him off property, pushing the bags of salt in a wheelbarrow. Now, he understood why. The smell in the living room was twice as bad.
Just leave the brisket on the coffee table and get out of here, he told himself. This place is a cesspool.
He started to turn back toward the front door, intending to grab the bag of meat from the porch, but something caught his eye. Another shoe, he thought, tipped on its side just beyond the coffee table, but then he saw a rolled sock, the blue end of a denim pant leg.
“Hello?” he said a third time, a plaintive sound. He could scarcely believe it came from his own throat.
Darryl eased deeper into the living room, moving toward the far wall. As he did, he saw the other foot, then the legs folded at uncomfortable angles, and finally the body. The woman lay on her stomach, twisted at the hips as if she’d gone down hard while trying to turn around. Her arms were stretched out, hands curled against the baseboard, and her gray hair was spread out on the floor around her head. A large amount
of blood had soaked through the back of her shirt, and he saw three distinct holes punched through the fabric—entry wounds from large-caliber bullets. The blood had darkened enough that he knew she had been dead for at least a few hours.
Justine’s mom. He recognized her, even though he barely knew her, and she’d been shot in the back. Darryl felt suddenly terrible exposed. Though the house was dead quiet, every shadow and every pile of trash seemed to be hiding a threat. He turned to leave. When he did, he spotted the second body. The man was folded up in a narrow space between the couch and the corner. It looked like he’d fallen backward and slid down the wall, leaving a streak of blood on the dusty plaster. His chin was pressed against his chest, one hand raised as if he’d tried to block the shot, but most of his face was a mask of blood from the hole on the left side of his forehead.
Mr. Carmichael. Darryl found himself unable to move and was just standing there staring at that mask of blood, when he realized he was hearing noises coming from upstairs. It sounded like at least two people, and they were moving fast, as if they’d burst suddenly out of hiding. Darryl staggered toward the front door, kicking the corner of the coffee table in passing. The burst of pain in his shin made him stumble, but he caught himself against the wall and launched himself at the open door.
“Wait. Wait.” The voice was right behind him, at the bottom of the stairs beside the television. “Darryl Healy, don’t run. Please.”
He knew that voice, and it only made him want to run that much more. But they came fast, two people, one moving around in front to block off his escape. Mayor Filmore, wearing the same oversized sweater and toque from the night before—he looked disheveled and pale.
“Can you believe this?” he said. “It’s shocking. Such a nice family.”
Darryl turned to head for the kitchen, but the second person was standing in his way. It was the police officer with the short black hair. She wore a long black coat and black jeans.
EMP: Return of the Wild West | Book 1 | Survive The Fall Page 17