by AJ Powers
“I’m so sorry, Smith,” Clay said with heartfelt sincerity. “Two days after the quakes hit, my dad was one of the thousands of people who volunteered to fly out to the coast for relief efforts. Being a paramedic as well as fifteen years with the police, he felt convicted to go help out any way he could. He told us he’d be gone at least two weeks, maybe a month. But then he decided to stay an extra couple of weeks as things were just starting to settle down there.” Clay’s own eyes started to water up as he told his own depressing tale. “Yellowstone erupted a few days later and he, uh…”
Smith looked up at Clay and simply nodded. There was no need for further explanation.
An uncomfortable silence filled the room, which prompted Smith to stand from the bed. “Well,” he said as he walked toward Clay, sniffling away the last of his emotions, “let me set you up with a room for the night.”
Another night in the bathtub at the Screamer house sounded almost as appealing as the awful smelling concrete coffin Clay slept in last time. But much to Clay’s surprise, Smith turned right out of the door, heading away from the elevator. Clay followed him and they ended up in another bedroom like the one Smith stayed in.
“I imagine this will be a bit more comfortable than the piss-box downstairs,” he said with an unenthusiastic grin.
There was an actual bed, dry blankets, no chilly draft, and best of all, no toilet next to his head. Clay looked around and then over at Smith. “Yeah, this is great. Thanks.” Clay stepped inside and dropped his pack on the bed and sat down.
Smith turned around to leave, but came back to the door. “Please let yourself out in the morning. The code to open the gate is 513972.”
Clay was taken aback. “Why would you give that to me?” he asked, realizing Smith was making himself vulnerable by offering it to someone he barely knew.
Smith opened his mouth, but couldn’t speak. He tried again, but no success. Finally, he managed to spit out, “You earned it, Cowboy.”
“Thanks.”
“Thank you, Clay,” he said solemnly. “I, uh…” he trailed off for a moment then cleared his throat, changing the subject. “Uhm, anyway, if you come back toward the end of the month, I’ll have your firing pin ready. It would be sooner, but I have a lot of things to take care of before then.”
Nearly a month without his rifle did not sit well with Clay, but he wasn’t about to berate the man for the long turnaround time—especially after the thrashing he took tonight. Clay was just happy to have a solution to the problem. “All right, that sounds good. I’ll be back at the end of the month, then.”
Smith turned and walked away with Chip loyally following behind, and a few seconds later Smith’s whooshing steps and Chip’s clacking nails faded into silence. Clay fell back on the bed with his knees bent over the edge. He looked up at the peeling paint on the ceiling and wondered how life might have been different had his dad returned home when he said he would. Would they have still been forced out of their home? It seemed unlikely they would have ever ended up in the tower, and even less likely they would have ended up in Northfield. But the most curious thought of all was whether he would have ever met Kelsey. The answers to all his speculative questions was an obvious no. No, they wouldn’t have been forced from their home; his dad would have stood his ground. No, they wouldn’t have ended up in the tower or at Northfield. And no, Clay never would have met Kelsey. And as much as Clay’s heart ached from recounting the stories from his past—which forced him to remember all the losses he had experienced—he wondered if he would have changed anything. Kelsey was his wife and he loved her more than any other woman on earth—past, present, and future. So, he wasn’t surprised when he realized that, no, he wouldn’t have changed a thing about the past if it meant he would have never been around to hear Kelsey’s cries for help on that road three years ago.
Chapter 9
“I hope you have something for me, Arlo,” the well-dressed man said before striking a match and lighting up a cigar. Taking a seat on a bench just next to the back entrance of the office building he had temporarily claimed as his own, the man took a heavy drag on the tightly rolled tobacco, enjoying the temporary euphoric sensation as the smoke gently slipped back out of his mouth. “Because,” he continued, “we’re runnin’ short on time here.”
Arlo’s eyes locked to the cigar in the man’s hand; he wondered how he continued to acquire such luxuries so many years after society collapsed. It was both impressive and bothersome that he had the resources to waste on trivial things like bad habits, but such was the vanity of the man sitting in front of him. Suppressing his contempt, Arlo feigned a smile. “Yes, sir. I’ve had a team of scouts in the field for several weeks now collecting data on the location—everything is still looking good.”
“So why this town? From the sounds of it, it’s pretty well defended, and I imagine there are other places nearby that would put up less of a fight,” he said before placing the cigar back into his mouth to await Arlo’s reply.
“Liberty is an ideal location for our groups. It’s large enough to house our people, there is a well-established agricultural scene, and the perimeter is already fortified. It is considered ‘move-in ready’ in most regards, which is imperative this late in the year,” Arlo replied with a strong, confident voice.
“Hmmm,” the man said, clearly not sold on the idea just yet. “So, this has nothing to do with your history with the town?” he questioned with a sneer. “Don’t get me wrong, Arlo, I am always in the mood for a good ol’ fashioned revenge story, but I don’t typically offer up my own resources to settle someone else’s score.” His stone-like expression offered up more warning than any of his words.
“I assure you, my personal experience with the town has not, and will not, play a factor in this decision. I chose Liberty because it meets the necessary requirements for our people—more so, actually. If we play our cards right, this will be an incredible asset for our group.”
“Our group,” the man mocked. “You keep saying that as if somehow we’re equals. It would do you good to remember that this is my operation and I’ve been kind enough to let you tag along for the ride. Or have you forgotten that when you came knocking on my door you had just twenty-five men with you, most of whom were circling the drain from starvation.”
“No, sir, I have not forgotten your overwhelming generosity, which is why I am doing my best to find a place that is fitting for a man of your importance to call home,” Arlo replied. He wanted to vomit as soon as the words left his lips.
“Well, I am not denying that this place sounds like its worthy to be on a postcard, but that border you talked about, that’s going to complicate matters a fair bit.”
Arlo nodded. “Ordinarily, yes. But I know the leader of this town—quite well actually—and I am confident that after I make my opening statement as to why it would be in his and his town’s best interest to leave, he will comply. The structures within the town would be well preserved.”
“And you believe your ‘opening statement’,” the man said doing air quotes, his now-stubby cigar cradled between two of his fingers, “will be effective enough to persuade him that sticking around is a bad idea?”
“The men I sent out have been making detailed notes on everything from shift changes to traders who come and go from the town. We won’t have any problems, I assure you.”
The man took one final drag on the cigar before dropping it to the ground and smashing it with a twist of his foot. “And if your friend doesn’t leave?” he asked, now resting his folded hands on his hefty abdomen. “What then? I don’t imagine this town will be of much use to us if it’s destroyed in the process...”
“In the event the town decides to go to war with us, we will take great care to minimize the collateral damage. We will patiently, but strategically, wear their defenses down. We have numbers on our side,” Arlo said.
“Yeah,” the man said with an ironic chuckle, “it’s always easier when it’s someone else’s money be
ing spent. Arlo, you surely would have made a great politician back in the day.”
Arlo ignored the backhanded compliment and reassured the man of his plan. “That is all hypothetical. As I said, I am confident the town will quickly surrender and we will be fully relocated by the end of October.”
After a contemplative moment of silence, the man spoke again. “Okay. I’ll bite,” the man stood up off the bench, a throaty grunt coming out of his mouth. “If I were to agree to this plan, how many of my men would you need?” he asked, making it perfectly clear that Arlo’s men were automatically enlisted.
Arlo paused for a moment, he already knew the number, but he also knew what the response would be. “Two hundred.”
The man laughed. “Well, let me put this as politely as I can for ya. You’ve got two chances: slim and none, and I have a bit of bad news for ya—slim just left town.”
“What would you be willing to offer?”
The man immediately fired back with, “Seventy-five. That puts you close to a hundred with your men.”
“I implore you to reconsider. I am confident that they will leave, but only if our initial strike has the necessary impact. We need to hit them hard and hit them fast. We want them to know that this attack is just a taste of what’s to come if they decide to stay and fight.”
“And you can give me your word—regardless of whether or not this town fights back—that we will be ready to relocate by the end of October.”
Arlo looked into the man’s eyes, “It shouldn’t be a problem,” he said confidently.
The man weighed Arlo’s request. His current situation was not critical just yet, but they were fast approaching that cliff. Realizing that he would likely lose twice as many men as Arlo was asking for this coming winter, he started to lean in favor of taking over the town.
Smiling as a crisp breeze swept between the corporate office buildings, the man said, “Boy, it’s a gorgeous day today, isn’t it? Why couldn’t they all be like this?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
After a lengthy sigh, the man finally agreed. “All right, you have your two hundred men, Arlo. When will you be moving out?”
“I’ll be sending another scout team out in the morning to find us suitable housing during this campaign. Once that is decided, I expect it to take a week or two for us to get situated there. After that, I will draw up the final plans based on the most recent reports from the scouts. We will strike soon thereafter.”
The man was still skeptical, but he, too, knew Arlo well and knew that he was as cunning as he was determined. “Well, if you are half as good on the battlefield as you were in the courtroom…”
Arlo nodded. “I will not disappoint.”
“You better not,” the man shot back. “You know what I am capable of, Arlo. And disappointment is not something I tolerate.”
Arlo took a moment to revel in his victory. He often daydreamed about the fear on the man’s face as he begged for his life with a gun held to his head. That day would come eventually, but not now…Not until they were comfortably set up in their new village. Continuing his Oscar-worthy performance, Arlo gave a slight bow toward the man. “Yes, your honor.”
Chapter 10
Clay had come up with dozens of excuses for why he had been gone a week longer than he was supposed to, but he knew none would be good enough to get him out of the very deep hole he had dug. Kelsey was very understanding when it came to Clay’s absences in the past, but in the last year, she had grown more irritable by trips longer than a few days. Even though most times she would bite her tongue, the looks and cold shoulders she gave revealed more than any words she could have spoken. They were the same kind of looks Megan gave him back at the tower—almost as if Megan had passed that torch to Kelsey as a wedding gift.
The sun rose just as the farm came into sight. Clay felt a sense of relief even greater than he had felt when he returned home from Mesquite. Though the trip to Smith’s was not terribly long, the physical, mental, and emotional toll Clay had endured over the last week and a half had been nothing short of shattering.
Unlike last time, there wasn’t fanfare or screams of excitement when Clay arrived at the gate. Just a weary Geoff who had manned the gate all night, waiting for his shift to end.
“Welcome back,” Geoff said casually. “Was starting worry a bit.”
“That makes two of us,” Clay replied jokingly.
“Went that well, huh?”
“It was…exhausting,” was all Clay could say—he wasn’t in the mood to discuss all he had experienced.
Geoff quickly brought Clay up to speed on the happenings around the farm while he had been gone. Wasn’t much to report—just the way Clay liked it. The biggest news was that Michael and Levi had finished repairing the wagon and had started building a new one from scratch since they had found another set of wheels to salvage.
The rain started to fall just as Clay left the stables, making him even more thankful to be home. He hadn’t been caught outside in the rain since leaving Smith’s compound. It drizzled a bit after he left Liberty, but even then, it was barely enough to get the ground wet. It made for a more pleasant journey home than what he had prepared for.
Clay walked inside his home and dropped his pack on the floor. The house was eerily quiet and had Geoff not forewarned him about the stomach bug making its way around the children, he would have been worried about the lack of a joyous, childhood commotion. Before he crossed the living room, Lona descended the stairs.
“Oh!” she said, startled. “Hi, Clay,” She gave him a genuine smile—a sight that never got old. “Welcome home.”
“Thanks, Lona.”
The bags under her eyes and the medical kit slung over her shoulder spoke to the long night the medic-in-training endured. Having been inspired by Megan’s knowledge, Lona had gradually become Megan’s protégé and served as the community’s nurse. The extra help gave Megan some much needed respite from the day-to-day injuries and allowed her to be more readily prepared for the bigger mishaps—like when Tyler nearly lost his thumb playing with a hatchet he found in the toolshed. However, when mini-pandemics such as the flu or stomach viruses struck the farm, it meant little rest for either woman.
“How’s everyone doing?” Clay asked.
She stepped off the last stair and gave Clay a quick hug. “They’re all okay, I think, but Dakota is still having trouble keeping hydrated, so we need to keep an eye on that. Fortunately, her fever broke last night and it hasn’t come back; hopefully the worst is behind her and she’ll be back to normal in another day or two.” Exhaustion was thick in her voice.
Clay gave her a warm smile. “Thanks, Lona. You’re going to make a great doctor someday.”
She returned the smile as she headed for the door. Clay thought about his words while he quietly climbed the stairs. Lona demonstrated the knowledge, skill, and discipline to become a fantastic doctor, but would the world ever offer her a chance to formally earn that title in the future? Doubtful.
As he reached the top of the stairs, Clay heard soft murmurs coming from down the hall. He glanced in the first bedroom as he passed by. Empty. He went down to the next door and saw Charles conked out in his bed. After the last discussion he and Smith had had, Clay wanted to go scoop his son out of bed and squeeze him tightly. He resisted, though—for Charles’s sake. Clay looked on the other side of the room and saw Dakota’s bed was stripped down to the mattress. That’s not good, he thought.
He reached the end of the hall and walked into his own bedroom. Dakota was resting in the queen-sized bed and Kelsey stroked her hair as she read the little girl’s favorite book about animals wearing pajamas. Sitting on the bed was a small plastic bin within arm’s reach. Even though Dakota’s eyes were heavy, they opened wide when Clay walked in.
“Daddy,” she tried to exclaim, but could only manage an excited whisper.
Kelsey spun her head around and saw Clay standing at the door. She smiled at him and lowered her should
ers before turning back to finish reading Dakota the story with much greater enthusiasm than before. He walked over and sat down on the bed next to Dakota. Clay rubbed Dakota’s hand while Kelsey finished the final few pages of the book. Having managed to keep the water down for the past two hours and content with her parents flanking either side of her, Dakota’s exhaustion bested her and sleep overcame her.
“You hungry? Want some breakfast?” Kelsey asked as she and Clay made their way downstairs.
“Starving!” Clay quickly replied.
Kelsey fetched some eggs from the refrigerator before grabbing a cast iron pan from a cabinet. The wood burning stove was already lit to fight the frigid morning temperatures, so Kelsey removed one of the lids on the stovetop and placed the pan down. She cracked the eggs open and within seconds they sizzled over the intense heat.
Clay loved that stove—a beautifully crafted appliance that Ruth’s oldest brother, Peter, had purchased for a hundred dollars a year or two before the quakes. It was apparently in pretty rough shape when he bought it, but the skilled contractor was able to restore it perfectly. What was once used to offset heating costs during Texas’s mild winters was now a life-saving tool for Clay and his family. All the houses and cabins on the farm were equipped with such devices from before the ash fell, but none were as elegant or practical as the one currently cooking Clay’s breakfast.
“Where’s Blake?” Clay asked.