EMP Aftermath Series (Book 3): Retribution

by John Winchester

  Garrett, her hotheaded child, took a deep breath, calming himself.

  Patty grabbed him by the shoulder, happy to see him control his emotions. "Outthink your adversaries, Son. Otherwise, you're playing on their terms. You can't outthink someone when you're seeing red."

  Garrett nodded and went back to work.

  The loss of a net was not worth confronting the other ship over, but it highlighted the larger problem that was brewing. Tweed had grown too big and treated the river as his own playground. Rules were out the window. It was a statement. He would do as he damned well pleased. It had to stop before people got hurt. She knew she would have to deal with it soon.

  "Tell the crew we're going to drop off the catch at the fishery then load up the freight. We're going to Huntington early. We've got business to attend to."

  Chapter 3

  Kenny looped a section of thick steel chain around the sawed-off stump of an enormous oak, cinching it tight. He'd felled all of the trees in the field last summer, and allowed the root systems to partially decompose, which made removing the stumps much easier. After anchoring a block and tackle winch onto the chain around the huge tree stump, he hooked the tow chain onto a much smaller tree trunk. The block and tackle system gave him a mechanical advantage, multiplying the force applied to the chain several times over.

  Wiping the sweat from his brow, Kenny hooked the block and tackle's rope to a chain, which led to a pair of mules twenty yards away. Danny, also covered in sweat, held the mule team's lead and waited for him to give the go ahead and urge the mules forward. "Go ahead Danny, we're hooked up."

  Kenny stepped back and found a safe place to stand behind the sturdy trunk of an elm tree. The rope and chains comprising the winch system would be under a lot of pressure once the mules began to pull. Kenny had learned long ago to respect the power the block and tackle generated. If a rope or chain broke, it could easily send the chain, or even worse, the heavy block and tackle flying in his direction, leaving him with a broken bone.

  Danny nodded his head in acknowledgment and led the mule team forward. The slack went out of the line as the block and tackle system became taut. The chains looped around the two tree stumps were drawn slowly together as the mules pulled. The sound of metal chains grinding against each other became louder as the chains tightened, and the smaller tree stump leaned heavily to the side. There were several loud snapping sounds, as the last of the tree roots broke off underneath the soil. With a final resounding crack, the tree stump gave way and was pulled out of the ground, leaving a sizable hole in the earth where the root ball had just been.

  Kenny stepped out from behind the safety of the elm tree and took up his shovel, knocking loose the dirt still clinging to the trunk's underside. The dirt fell away and he shoveled it back into the hole, leveling it out with the surrounding ground as much as he could. The rich black soil was worth its weight in gold and he didn't want to lose an ounce of it. It would provide ideal nutrients for the crops he planned to sow.

  Danny came around with the mule team, patting the neck of one of the muscular beasts, praising it for a job well done. He praised the second mule and then untied the rope connecting them to the block and tackle.

  "That's the last of them. Thanks for your help, Danny. It would have taken me all day to pull these stumps by myself. I appreciate you taking time from your other work to help me out. You'd better get back to the house and grab some lunch, it's getting hotter than hell out here," Kenny said.

  "Anytime, Kenny. That's what brothers are for," Danny said.

  Kenny waited for the punch line to his brother's joke, but when Danny said nothing and handed him the mule's lead, he turned to walk the thirsty animals down by the stream.

  Just as he turned his back, a clod of dirt hit him in the back. Kenny turned and shouted after Danny as he retreated quickly up the hill. "What's the matter with you?"

  Half way up the hill and safely out of his reach, Danny laughed and gave him an unfriendly salute.

  Kenny shook his head, suffering the insult in silence. It was hard to remember that Danny was fourteen and not a grown man. He did more than his fair share of work, so Kenny let the occasional prank slide.

  Danny ran up the steep slope, and then disappeared from view as he ran down the other side. As a muscular fourteen year old, he was unrecognizable as the same sickly boy that had nearly died three winters ago. With the help of the food their father had secured from the train, Danny had survived the illness and sprang back to health the following year. Since then he hadn't stopped growing, much to Kenny's irritation. He was tall for a fourteen year old, only two inches short of Kenny's six-foot height. He wasn't going to be the big brother for much longer, but Kenny was happy to relinquish the title. Danny had been through a lot and come out the other end a stronger person.

  From his vantage point under the shade of the tree, Kenny did a mental checklist of the remaining work for the day. All but the largest of the stumps were out of the ground, and what was left looked like a minefield with large holes where the stumps used to be. The field needed to be plowed, and he had to remove all of the stones that lay under the soil. Still, most of the hard work was done. A few more weeks and he would have the field in shape for planting next spring.

  Between Kenny, Danny, and their father, the three of them had made short work of felling the timber with a sharp two-man crosscut saw. The mule team hauled the logs to rest near the house, where the wood cured and waited to be split into firewood.

  After the trees were downed, Kenny and Danny put the family's new goats to work. All you had to do was tether them to a stake with a long steel wire, and they would eat nearly everything in sight, removing brush, unwanted ground cover, and even sapling trees. They were highly effective at clearing the land, but occasionally the goats would get loose and wander off on their own, requiring somebody to locate them and bring them home. The goats had left a short cropped field behind, ready to plow aside from the largest stumps.

  The ones that remained were too large for the mule team to pull out even with the help of the block and tackle system. Following the advice of an old-timer that lived next door, Kenny would simply plant around the stumps, leaving them in place where they would rot naturally over ten or more years. Besides, the larger stumps provided a good anchoring point for the block and tackle system, removing stress from the mule team.

  He tried to make the job as easy and safe as possible. Kenny worried about injuring the animals, a family member, or himself. There was no ambulance to pick him up and cart him to the emergency room. There was no emergency room for that matter, nor were there supplies, nurses, or doctors. Wheeler used to have a doctor, but he passed away the year before. The closest medical attention was several miles away in Long Branch. With no cell phones or way to get help quickly, a bad injury out here in the field was serious business.

  Kenny stood up and led the mule team over to the far end of the clearing where a weather-beaten old walking plow sat waiting to be hitched to the mule team. The plow's original red paint had almost entirely worn off, the long wooden handles worn smooth by years of weather and work. He attached the mule hitch to the plow, and then replaced the short walking lead Danny had used to pull stumps with a much longer lead that stretched all the way back to the plow.

  Tossing the lead over his shoulder, he wiped the sweat from his brow and then grabbed hold of the plow's handles. Kenny made a loud clicking noise with his mouth, and the mules surged forward. The plow's sharp edge bit down into the earth and turned the soil over, leaving a rich black ribbon of earth in its wake. In addition to the soil, tree roots, rocks, and larger fieldstones were visible in the upturned dirt.

  It was sweaty and hard work, but Kenny couldn't imagine anything else he'd rather be doing. Things had definitely improved since that first hard winter on the homestead. Dad had fixed the windmill powering the well, and it pumped cold clear water from deep underground. The pair of mules made tasks like pulling stumps and plowing fie
lds much easier than it used to be. Their horse, Britches, could pull a wagon, but the little horse couldn't hope to keep up with the sturdy mules. They weren't cheap, but they were invaluable. In fact, without the neighbors help they couldn't have afforded to buy them. All types of livestock were far more valuable than they had been before the EMP, and it took the combined buying power of several neighbors to purchase the mules.

  His parents didn't have to put up any money for the team. They didn't have any. They worked out a deal with their elderly neighbors; Kenny, Jack, and Danny would provide the labor required for cutting down trees, pulling stumps, and plowing the soil for planting all of their farms, and the neighbors would purchase the mules. It was a good arrangement for everyone involved. Wheeling and dealing and the barter system paid for nearly everything these days. It seemed strange to him that before things changed, he used to ask his mom for a ride to the mall, borrow her credit card, and buy whatever he wanted.

  It didn't work like that anymore. Gold and silver were among the few items that held their value after the EMP. It was the most common way to make a large purchase for livestock or land. Before Wyatt passed away he'd hammered home the lesson about hard currency. If modern civilization ever took off again and paper currency became the norm, Kenny would take his advice and keep a healthy amount of his wealth in gold or silver. Anybody would accept it. Gold and silver held universal value, even in a barter economy. It didn't rot like paper money did and you could bury it in the ground and hide it from looters. He didn't think he could ever put his faith in a stack of paper bills or a piece of plastic again.

  The plow scraped a large rock under the soil, making a grating noise like nails on a chalkboard. A few feet further along the plow jerked to a sudden halt and the mule team took it as their cue to stop pulling and take a break.

  Kenny set the lead on the plow's handles, knowing from experience that the plow wasn't going to go anywhere without intervention. He picked up a long pry bar resting on a log next to a shovel and a pickaxe, then returned to the stuck mule team. Kenny jabbed the steel bar down into the soil until he found the edge of the rock, then leveraged his body weight until the heavy rock surfaced. Another stone. It was exactly what he expected, but every time he hit a rock it piqued his interest and he hoped for something to surface that never did.

  With the stone out of the way, he took the lead and clicked his tongue against his cheek and the mule team moved forward, again cutting a neat line in the soil.

  Kenny gave a giggle at his excitement at hitting the fieldstone. It had been a devilishly cruel joke, an idea planted in his mind by Wyatt. During that long fall and winter, before he passed away, he used to tease to Danny and Kenny that there was treasure buried somewhere around the homestead. Now that Kenny was older he realized that Wyatt was just trying to keep their mind off of their growling stomachs, but once the idea had been planted, it stuck.

  On days like today when the plow seemed to catch on every large rock in the ground, his mind still jumped to the conclusion that he had just struck a metal safe full of gold coins buried under the ground.

  Wyatt had said that the real gold would be in this pasture, nestled in the valley. An adult now, Kenny took Wyatt's real meaning. The soil of the bottomland was dark and rich compared to the surrounding hills, full of nutrients. Once he turned the earth the site would be ideal for growing barley and corn, and the large creek running the length of the narrow valley would ensure his plants would be well watered.

  With any luck, the new planting would double the family's grain production, which he would give to the town distillery. His contribution would be distilled and sold as liquor, and the proceeds would allow him to buy the spread of land for Sarah and him to call home.

  A shadow of concern crept over his heart at the thought of Sarah. He was starting to worry. A month had passed and she was still somewhere out there on the road with the caravan. Hopefully they would be home soon. She might as well be on the far side of the moon. He missed her dearly. It sometimes felt like they were connected by an invisible link that no one else could see. He knew her thoughts and feelings without speaking a word, and she knew his. She must be going through the same agonizing heartache; they hadn't seen each other for weeks.

  Lost in his feelings about Sarah, Kenny pulled his arm back as a sudden a sharp pain came from his forearm. Kenny looked down and swatted at the yellow and black striped insect clinging to his forearm, insistent on stinging his arm yet again.

  He slapped at the wasp and drove it away, only to see dozens more swarming around him and the mules. The mules’ ears flattened, and they stomped their hooves nervously, chomping at their bits.

  Kenny swatted at the wasps swarming around his face and tried to turn the mule team to lead them to safety, but there was an even larger cloud of wasps in the air behind him, streaming out of a hole in the ground that he'd just plowed over.

  Before he could react, the mules spooked and took off across the field, driven by the painful stings, the plow still turning the soil behind them as they ran.

  Kenny ran to catch up to them, ignoring the stings to his face, hands, and neck, worried that the animals would injure themselves in their reckless flight. He grasped at the lead as he ran after them, but couldn't take hold of it and still defend his face from the stinging wasps.

  The plow struck a large rock underneath the soil and came to an immediate stop. The mules struggled and strained in their efforts to flee from the wasps, stomping at the ground, their cries ear-splitting.

  A scraping and squealing noise sent a shiver down Kenny's back. He caught up to the mules just in time to hear a loud crack as something broke off underneath the soil. The other half of the plow surfaced, no longer hung up on the boulder beneath the soil.

  Kenny watched in horror as the mule team fled, dragging the useless piece of plow behind them. Still racing after the mule team, his heart sank as watched them pull away. The plow's blade was split cleanly in half, torn asunder between the force of the mules and the immovable rock.

  Kenny swatted at the remaining wasps that had diligently chased him across the field. Sweat poured off of him, soaking his clothes as he tried to find the mules. If they went too far and he couldn't find them... The mules were irreplaceable; returning home without them was not an option.

  After an hour of searching he found them in a patch of woods far from the field. The plow had hung up on an old run of barbed wired fence that cut across the property. The wasps were long gone, having successfully defended their nest from the intruders.

  His face, neck, and arms were sore and swollen from several stings. He cautiously approached the mule team and surveyed the damage. It was bad. He couldn't fix the plow himself. It would take a forge and the right tools to join the two ruined sections of steel back together, even if he knew how to do it, which he didn't. He would have to take it into town to the blacksmith to have it repaired.

  With no money, he had no idea how he would get it repaired. His Dad was away fighting forest fires, meaning Danny and Mom were already doing more than their fair share of work while he was gone. Somehow he would have to keep up with his regular chores and find a way to fix the plow, or he wouldn't be able to raise the nest egg money. It would set him back a full year if he couldn't plant next spring. The idea of waiting another full year to be married was more painful than the wasp stings. He didn't have time for this, but what else could he do?

  Chapter 4

  A gust of wind blew across the road, carrying with it the sweet smell of wildflowers from a nearby field. The delicate aroma was a striking contrast to the sour smell of mash that still clung to his clothes, a parting gift from the town's distillery. Chief Howell had stopped in to the distillery warehouse early this morning to pick up a gift for the new warden of Olive State Penitentiary, Butch Metz. Gift... bribe... call it what you wanted, but he knew by reputation that the man accepted bribes from all sources. Though he found it distasteful, Howell knew that a little whiskey would go a
long way towards greasing the wheels and getting the crooked Warden to wag his tongue.

  The glass bottles clinked together in his saddlebags, and Howell reached down to reposition the two bottles of moonshine there, stuffing a shirt in between them. He also carried a crate of corn whiskey strapped to the saddle behind him, an increasingly popular liquor produced by the distillery. As the gust of wind died down, the sour smell of mash reached his nose once again. His thoughts turned back to the investigation he was about to start.

  The suspicious death of Warden Dodson was the natural place for him to start. When something stank, you headed right for the source of the odor if you wanted to find out what it was. One crooked warden replaced with another. It was curious, that much was for certain. Howell had met the new warden a few times before and disliked him instantly. He was one of those slimy political types that were more interested in what they could get out of the system than real law enforcement. Going over the possibilities, Howell was lost in thought as his horse trotted down the road, quickly putting miles between him and Wheeler.

  An hour later and another three miles down the road, a junction appeared on the horizon. The rural route he was on met up with two main highways. The right-hand path would lead him to Mount Olive State Penitentiary, and the left-hand path led to Huntington where Sheriff Sutherland was from.

  Chief Howell squinted his eyes as he drew closer to the intersection, straining to figure out what it was he saw in the distance. A man on a horse, doing something, but he couldn't quite make any details out.

  As he drew closer, the hackles on the back of his neck stood up. Instinct made him pull his horse up short and lead the mare into the bushes alongside the road. Howell tethered his horse to a tree and pulled his pistol out, then ran along the backside of the hedgerow growing at the side of the road. Fifty yards away now, he confirmed his suspicions.