A Powerless World | Book 3 | Defend The Homestead

by Hunt, Jack

  “Stay there. Give me a minute.”

  He ventured in and looked in the kitchen and found the first body, a woman, shot in the back twice. But that wasn’t what had caused the massive loss of blood. He squinted, noticing a small mass of brown on the counter. When he got closer, that’s when he realized what it was. His stomach churned as he crouched down and saw that the woman had been scalped. The brown mass on the counter was hair and skin.

  He backed out, continuing to sweep each of the rooms.

  It only got worse.

  Another body, this time male, his large frame slumped over a table. He’d been scalped as well. That’s when he heard a gasp. Jessie turned fast to find Chloe standing in the doorway of the kitchen, a hand over her mouth. “You…” Before he could say anything more, she looked in the dining room and saw the male.

  There was another moment of shock before she hurried down the corridor.

  “Chloe,” Jessie said, trying to save her from the horror of it all.

  “Oh, God. No, please,” she said approaching a closed-door. She turned the knob and pushed it wide then let out a gut-wrenching cry. Chloe collapsed to her knees.

  Matthew came rushing into the house, rifle up. “Mom?” He saw her and darted over. Before he dropped down beside her, he glanced into the room, then turned his head away. Jessie crossed the space, expecting to see another person scalped. Sure enough, it was another victim, except this one was a child — a boy, no older than eight at a rough guess.

  “Take her out of here,” Jessie said to Matt.

  He nodded and helped her to her feet.

  Jessie took a sheet and covered the child.

  After clearing the house, he exited and took a deep breath, steadying himself against the brick exterior. His gag reflex kicked in and he tasted bile in his mouth. He’d seen a lot of nasty shit in his time but that was on another level. All of the victims had been scalped, whether they were alive when it happened was unknown. He hoped not. Matt was comforting his mother who looked beside herself.

  It was one thing to loot, even to shoot someone. Scalping was just sick. That kind of behavior hadn’t been seen since the 1800s and early 1900s at the time of the Plains Wars. Jessie made his way over to the truck. Chloe was crouched, breathing hard, tears still streaming down her cheeks. “Hey, doc.”

  At first, she didn’t respond.

  As much as he didn’t want to be insensitive to the moment, he had Lincoln to think about. “Chloe, whose home is this?”

  It took her a second to gather herself. “Doctor Bud Hamilton. He worked in Weaverville at the hospital but helped out from time to time at the clinic.”

  “And the blood?”

  The very mention of blood made her look at the trail going into the home. She nodded and rose to her feet. “You okay, Mom?” Matt asked, keeping a firm hold on her. She nodded and walked toward the house. Jessie followed. Before she entered, Jessie went in and covered all of the bodies in the house with sheets to save her the shock of seeing them again.

  “After multiple attacks in Weaverville, and some of the surrounding towns, Bud thought it was best to hold most of the medical supplies at his home,” she said, leading him through to the back of the house, where there were several small freezers and refrigerators. They had been powered by a solar generator. She opened the first to find it empty. The next was the same deal. “No, no,” Chloe said, crouching and opening the cupboards, one after the other, only to find them picked clean.

  All Jessie could think of was what this meant for Lincoln. “Ron Whiteman. You didn’t seem shocked by his reaction when I told you he attacked my brother. Why not?”

  She looked at him then placed both hands on her knees. “Two weeks ago we began to hear about residential home invasions in neighboring towns. My mother-in-law lives in Junction City, north of here, just west of Weaverville.”

  “Is that why you were in that storm cellar?”

  She nodded, not looking at him. Matt stood by the door, silent, his finger near the trigger of his rifle, looking back into the corridor just in case whoever had done this returned. “My husband went to make sure she was okay. He found her dead, her scalp removed.” She paused for a second or two. “We headed into Weaverville to tell Trinity County Sheriff’s Office but they had their hands full dealing with their own issues. A lack of transportation, cops who quit, and a surge of home invasions. They had us fill out some paperwork but that was two weeks ago.”

  “Where’s your husband now?”

  Jessie’s gaze bounced between her and her son. “Dead.”

  “The same?”

  “After finding his mother, he spiraled down, decided he wanted to find out who was doing this. He took a hunting buddy of his, some rifles, and headed to Junction City, thinking the same people would return. After a week, Matt and I headed up there, and…” she trailed off. It was clearly difficult to talk about. “We found him and his friend. I mean, we found what remained of them. Two bodies inside a charred home. Unrecognizable.”

  “How did you know it was him?”

  She reached into her shirt and pulled out a chain with a gold ring attached to it. “It belonged to him. When we got our wedding bands, we had them engraved. I found it on one of the charred bodies.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  She ran a hand over her face. “I don’t know. Maybe they were helping someone who crossed them. Maybe they ran into the same people.” She shook her head, unable to deal with it. Matt walked over and placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “It’s okay, Mom.”

  She touched his hand and kissed it. Jessie had never really seen that kind of love from his mother. The few times she’d acted as if she cared, it was usually because she wanted something in return. And usually, it was illegal.

  “Is that why we aren’t seeing anyone in town?”

  “People are scared. Most left the county. Others headed into Weaverville where there was more law and order. The rest, I’m not sure about. We hadn’t seen a lot of home invasions here but whoever is doing this must have been working their way through each of the towns in Trinity County.” She looked at him. “Where are you from?”

  “Humboldt. Garberville.”

  “And you haven’t seen this?”

  “Not so far. I mean, we’ve had looting and a few home invasions but nothing like this,” he replied.

  She sighed.

  “Would the Weaverville hospital have blood?”

  “Not after a month. Like I said. The situation has gotten dire. The number of people who need blood because of gunshot wounds has gone up. I didn’t even know if we had blood for your brother. I was just going to check with Bud but…” She brought a hand up over her eyes and shook her head.

  “This is so messed up,” Jessie said, bringing a closed fist to his mouth. “Shit.”

  “You applied a tourniquet and cauterized the wound. He may still live.”

  “May?”

  “Survival rates depend on the extent of an injury, the speed you get treatment, and what that treatment offers. He’s lost a lot of blood. He may go into hypovolemic shock.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s when you lose more than 20 percent of your blood. It can lead to organ failure. He needs medical treatment, blood, fluids, and a surgeon. Fast. If you don’t get him looked at fast, the infection could lead to other complications. Doesn’t Humboldt have a hospital?”

  “They do but the situation isn’t much better than here. Our supplies were destroyed. The militia have been bringing in supplies from delivery trucks throughout the county and further afield but it’s not enough.”

  “Further afield?” she asked.

  Jessie stared back at her, a thought dawning on him.

  “You think they did this?” she asked.

  “Hey, I don’t trust them but I hardly think they are the type to go scalping people. Shoot someone, yeah, but scalping? That sounds like…” He stopped short of saying it. Many of the counti
es in California had Native Americans. There were at least five tribes in Humboldt, good people, friendly, peaceful. They certainly would not have behaved like this.

  “Look, I have some ATVs you can use. I can give your brother a ride back to Humboldt in our truck. We’ll follow you. Maybe it’s time the different counties in the area pooled their resources together.”

  “I wouldn’t hold your breath on that,” Jessie replied. He walked out of the room and headed back to the truck.

  “What is the situation like there?”

  She now sounded genuinely interested.

  “I hate to say it but it’s better than here but if you’re expecting some handouts, you might find yourself being turned away.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not in charge. They have set up roadblocks to turn away refugees, you know, folks from other towns.” Jessie stopped at the truck. “As you can appreciate, they have a lot of mouths to feed and there is rationing, people have to help. I mean, FEMA has emergency camps north and south of the town but it’s miles from here.”

  “Jump in. If he has any hope of surviving we need to get back fast.”

  They didn’t waste another second. No bodies were buried. There was no time for that. Jessie gritted his teeth as he rode in the back, his mind circling between his brother and what he’d witnessed. Could the militia be responsible? The men he’d seen on the roof of the mall looked organized. Showing up with supplies after the fire seemed too convenient. And really? How many delivery trucks were on the back roads that hadn’t already been cleaned out? Something about it didn’t add up. If anyone would know more about it, it would be Colby. His connections with the Wiyot Tribe were strong, at least they were ten years ago.

  On the way back, Jessie spoke to Chloe. “You can bring your family into Humboldt. I’ll vouch for you.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “If you’re willing to move. You tried to help. That goes a long way with our family.”

  “Is there a place to stay?’

  “Do you see abandoned homes here?”

  She gave a nod.

  “It’s the same in Humboldt.”

  The few outsiders that they’d allowed in, those who needed medical treatment, or had expertise were given the home of a family that had died or moved to a FEMA camp.

  In a little over a month, they had seen a huge shift of people leaving the county. It was to be expected. Relying on militia and the scraps they handed out wasn’t good. Of course, his family and the likes of the Stricklands would fare well because they had hunted in the hills for years, long before it was required.

  Chloe swerved into the driveway across from the clinic.

  “Matt, get Tina, grab the bags, and toss them in the back. I’ll be right back.”

  “Mom. Are you sure?

  “Just do it.”

  The fear of Jessie had subsided as she hauled ass across the street toward the clinic. When they entered, Jessie called out to Dylan and Zeke. “Get Lincoln ready to go. We’re heading back to Humboldt.”

  They didn’t reply.

  He soon saw why when he entered the room.

  Dylan had his head in his hands, and Zeke was holding Lincoln’s hand.

  Lincoln’s face was deathly pale. Gray even. There was no movement. No writhing in pain. The world slowed at that moment as Jessie crossed the room and Zeke looked up at him. “He’s gone, Jessie. He’s dead.”

  Chapter Four

  Humboldt County, California

  It was less an official meeting and more like a bar brawl. Strangely, the Rikers and the Stricklands weren’t at the center of it. “You sonofabitch!” A fist blindsided Dan, knocking him to the ground before more officers surged forward into a mosh pit of angry locals. The world flashed then snapped back into focus. Dan’s jaw throbbed as he looked up at the wild crowd thrashing around him. Cursing. Pulling at jackets. Among the many fists flying, two hands reached down and hauled him up. On one side it was Martha Riker, on the other, Hank Strickland.

  “You okay, Dan?” Martha asked, a grin forming. “This is wild.”

  “I got him,” Hank said, pulling him away from her, a scowl forming.

  Dan shrugged off both of them and wiped the blood from his split lip.

  “Did anyone see who did that?” he asked.

  “No.”

  By that point, everyone was involved.

  The commotion was out of control. Chairs were being thrown, officers shoved, and locals dragged out of the room by the collar. Dan removed his service weapon and fired a single round into the air. Pop. The crack was loud, almost deafening in such a small room, but it was effective. All eyes turned.

  “I will not have this kind of behavior. It stops right now. You hear me?”

  Silence fell. Many retook their seats, others walked out to cool off, the rest were removed by force. What had started as an orderly meeting to discuss the changes in the county had turned into a heated exchange with locals shouting and making demands as feedback from the community rolled in.

  In two weeks since the burning down of the mall, many of the residents had left, leaving behind homes, personal belongings, everything that was of no use. If he had to put a number on it, at least 50 percent had upped and moved out, choosing to head to the FEMA camps in Portland to the north and San Francisco and Sacramento to the south. This mass exodus had been both a blessing and a curse. It meant fewer mouths to feed and fewer people to watch over, but it also meant fewer people to help man the five checkpoints set up throughout the county.

  His eyes roamed, searching for Captain Benjamin Evans or Lieutenant Elijah Hale. Both had said they would be there to address issues related to the militia. Neither of them had shown up. If he wasn’t mistaken, he might have thought they wanted him to drown. “You can handle this. You’re the head of the spear. They trust you. We’re just here to back you up.” Their words weeks earlier sounded great as did their idea to protect and provide for the town, but he had to wonder if it was nothing more than a means of riling up the locals. His skepticism was shining through even though he realized without them the town might have turned on the council two weeks ago.

  “I want to know about the slew of murder-suicides,” Joe Winthorpe said. Winthorpe was the CEO of a graphic design company in town before the world went belly up. “My sister wouldn’t have taken her own life.”

  “I understand, Joe.”

  “Do you? Because I haven’t heard one ounce of empathy from your department since they were found. What’s being done?”

  “It’s being handled.”

  “I keep hearing that word. Handled. How?”

  Others joined in, demanding to know.

  His gaze drifted around, staring at faces, red, hot, and angry. They wanted answers but he couldn’t give them. Instead, he decided to be forthright, to open up and share something that had deeply affected him, something that might bridge the gap. “Most of you here have seen or know my wife, Lily. Two weeks ago she attempted to take her own life.” Angry faces morphed. Did they believe him? “Like many of you, I came home to find her on the brink of death. Pills everywhere. I didn’t want to believe it. Never once did she talk about taking her life. I don’t confess to know why she did it. Other than this past month has been tremendously stressful for all of us. Some of us can cope, others can’t. But it tells us that we all need to have our eyes and ears open. As I told you two weeks ago, we cannot do this alone. If you are expecting to rely on us, I would highly recommend you don’t. We are no different than you. We need to sleep. We need to eat. We are trying to cope with what we are seeing. Many of my officers are finding these times as troubling as you. That has an impact on their mental health.”

  “But my sister didn’t take pills. She was hung. And your wife is still alive.”

  “And some people took their lives with a gun. I’m not here to discuss how people choose to go or why my wife is alive still. I’m here to answer the best that I can questions you have and explain why we ha
ve set up roadblocks, implemented a curfew, and recently requested that those of you who live farther out, move into town.”

  Joe shrugged. “And live where?”

  “Many have gone. We will make arrangements.”

  “Why?” a woman shouted out. “I don’t want to live in someone else’s house. I don’t want to move into the city.” She looked to all the others. “I’m sure everyone would agree. We don’t want to do that.”

  “Because, Janice, when half of the community left to go to FEMA camps, a good portion of those that went with them were police officers. Okay? As our ability to serve this community diminishes, so the expectation upon people who choose to stay will rise. No one is telling you to remain but if you do, and you expect to be fed from the supplies, or receive help from law enforcement because your neighborhood has been targeted by looters, then you’ll need to move into town.”

  “I still don’t think you have addressed the suicide issue,” Joe said. “Sure, I can buy that a few people would take their lives but not my sister.”

  Dan groaned. He was done trying to convince these people. “You know what, Joe, I don’t give a rat’s ass what you can’t comprehend. I’m telling you what is. And right now, the curfew will stay in effect. You can leave the county to go to a FEMA camp, but for those who stay, we are placing a restriction on supplies and who can leave their homes after a certain time at night.”

  “So we’re prisoners?” Ted Bailey barked.

  “You are free to go any time you choose, Ted. But those are the rules of this community.”

  Someone laughed. “If we want to leave, who’s going to stop us? You, sheriff?”

  “The militia.”

  “Oh. So that’s how it’s going to be. Blockades, curfews, rationing, the need to move into town, I imagine next you’ll be calling for our guns.”

  “Actually,” Dan said, swallowing hard.

  There was a pause for a few seconds as people registered his reaction. They knew what was coming next.