After The Fires Went Out: Coyote atfwo-1

by Regan Wolfrom

  “That’s good…so what was going on with your friend Graham?”

  “He doesn’t trust you.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m sorry, Katie, but I don’t really trust you guys, either.”

  “My father told me that you once shot out one of his tires.”

  “He deserved it.”

  “No, honestly…like, fuck your pissing matches. The only thing that stands between where we are right now and where we ought to be is like every man in the district and their tiny little penises. First it was just that garbage between you and Fisher Livingston…and now it seems to be you versus everyone else.”

  “You seem to know me pretty well,” I said.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean it to come out like that. It’s not your fault…well, it’s not all your fault. It is what it is, I guess.”

  “It’s a bad situation.”

  “It doesn’t have to be like this. Why do you think my father asked for your guys’ help on this?”

  “I assumed we were working up to a bromance.”

  “It’s time to get things back on track. We need to work together.”

  That sounded strange, considering the dump Dave Walker had taken all over the Supply Partnership. Maybe I was just pissed that he was the first to kick it when it was down.

  I gave her a smile. “I’m willing to try,” I said.

  She smiled back. “I believe you.” She laughed. “See? Now there’s one Walker who’s starting to trust you.”

  “I want to trust you, too, Katie.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I just need you to tell me the truth.”

  “The truth?”

  “You know…did Livingston screw us over? Did he poach some of the supplies before we got here?”

  She turned her head towards the camper. “There’s no right way for me to answer that.”

  At least she wasn’t lying to me.

  I dropped the subject right there, and we spent the rest of the day talking about anything else, from my stories about Toronto and the glamour of being a community safety consultant, to her descriptions of what things were like in Cochrane before I got here. It’s funny how little I know about the way things used to be up here.

  I’ve never really talked about Cochrane with anyone, since I’ve always felt like it’s a first class ticket to a depressive episode. But Katie was different…she seemed detached as she talked. She didn’t seem the least bit emotional as she told me about her time waiting tables at the one and only fancy restaurant, or about how the first boy she ever kissed was the first man to be killed by marauders. It was like she was describing a movie to me, like it was all from a life that had happened to someone else.

  By the time the other two trucks came rolling up behind us, I was pretty sure I’d made a friend. That sounds pretty trite, but I don’t make a lot of new ones these days.

  Today is Wednesday, December 19th.

  This year’s snow finally came, starting last night just after dinner.

  It’s lasted all through the day today. By noon we were up to around twenty five centimeters, with no end in sight.

  It’s always like pulling teeth to get Graham and Matt outside when it’s cold or snowing, so Kayla, Lisa and I did the chores, with Lisa giving me a quick lesson in milking the goats, and Kayla running off the names and laying habits of each hen; I’m pretty sure she was rounding up the egg count in an attempt to keep some of the stragglers from finding their way into Fiona’s stewing pot.

  I went down to the Tremblays’ with Lisa to raise the Walkers on the UHF rig, and they made it clear that the snow would keep them away from Silver Queen for at least a day, since they’d have to make sure they had enough trucks to plow closer to home. I don’t see why they think that’s more important, but I knew we’d have trouble getting up there ourselves. We agreed to talk again tomorrow morning.

  We had a few days like this last winter, so I already have a good idea of just how long we can put up with each other in a confined space. Last March saw a spring blizzard that kept us inside for two days straight and resulted in no less than three physical altercations; the fact that all three were between Kayla and Fiona didn’t ease the tension as much as you’d think.

  This time around, Sara decided to use up the day in baking, which kept Fiona occupied as well. I sat in the kitchen with them for over an hour just after lunch, listening to their conversation and generally just enjoying the warmth of the oven and the smell of sugar and caramel.

  But I knew I couldn’t sit around all day; snow means that our little island has become less safe. The Abitibi isn’t frozen yet, but soon it will be, but even before that we’ll need to start worrying about snowmobiles.

  Snowmobiles.

  Starting today.

  Last winter there wasn’t much snow compared to most years, but there was still enough to make our original roadblock on Nelson Road (a wood fence with two rickety gates) pretty much useless. Anyone who had a snowmobile or a tracked ATV could come up on us from any direction.

  And they did.

  The first time was last December, before Ant had come along and long before the Porters or Tremblays, back when the seven of us were just getting used to working together.

  Lisa and Graham were stringing up a makeshift extension on the fencing around the goats, since the snow was already banking high enough that any of the more enterprising animals would be able to find their way out.

  The goat pen is across the driveway, probably about as far from the cottage as you can get and still consider yourself on the homestead. I guess that’ll change if we ever plant those crops.

  I heard the snowmobiles from right by the cottage, where I was splitting firewood with Matt. For a moment the sound didn’t even register as anything I needed to worry about.

  By the time I realized that I needed to check it out, I could see them coming, two machines heading up the unplowed driveway.

  They were moving toward our two people working on the fence; I guess they had it in their heads that they were dealing with a solitary couple.

  Lisa had noticed them, too, and as she hadn’t worried about bringing a rifle out with her, she hustled Graham toward the trees at the far end of the clearing.

  She was counting on me to take the heat.

  I grabbed my gun belt and strapped it on, and debated running into the cottage to grab my armour. I turned to Matt instead.

  “Go inside and put on the body armour,” I told him. “Helmet, too.”

  He nodded and started toward the front door.

  I grabbed his arm.

  “Other door,” I said.

  He went around back while I walked out onto the driveway.

  The snowmobiles slowed. If they were armed, they’d have little chance of getting a good shot off while moving. They were wearing balaclavas, but since one had a scarf on as well, I couldn’t be sure they were trying to hide their faces from anything other than the cold.

  “Private property,” I shouted.

  “Don’t shoot,” one of the snowmobilers said.

  He turned off his machine and climbed off, pulling up his balaclava to reveal his face.

  I didn’t know him.

  “You have any guns?” I asked.

  “Yes,” the man said. “Handgun in my saddlebags. My wife has a knife, but it’s none too hazardous.”

  I nodded to Graham.

  He and Lisa walked back and Graham checked both sets of bags. One pistol and one knife. No surprises.

  Lisa took the gun from him and checked it over.

  “I guess you can see this land is occupied,” I said. “I should tell you…next time you come to a homestead and find it’s not empty, you’d be better off just turning around. People have been shot for less.”

  “You’ve shot people for less?” the man asked. He seemed to be sizing me up.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Hibbing, Minnesota…originally. You know…Bob Dylan.
My family comes from Kapuskasing, though.” He stepped toward me.

  I let him.

  He held out his hand and I shook it.

  “I’m Ryan,” he said, “and this is my wife, Juliette.”

  She waved but didn’t come closer.

  “You’re headed the wrong way,” I said.

  He smiled. “I’m taking an inventory.”

  “There’s no way we’re telling you what we’ve got.”

  “Not supplies…people.”

  “Still not telling you.”

  He nodded. “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “I’m pretty sure you mean to,” Lisa said.

  “What’s your last name, Ryan?” I asked.

  “What’s the difference? For all you know I’m just making shit up.”

  “That’s what I was assuming. Thanks for clearing that up.”

  “It’s Stems. Of the Kapuskasing Stems. On Maple Drive.”

  “Clever,” Lisa said, “but we’re all filled up on douchebags right now.”

  “You been to New Post yet?” I asked him.

  “No…is that a town?”

  “It’s a bunch of people with guns and a big gate. Good bunch, though. I recommend you go visit them instead.”

  “You’re a tough crowd.”

  “You want it tougher?” Lisa asked.

  He chuckled. “I’m good. If you’re willing to put our weapons back in our bags we’ll be on our way.”

  I nodded to Lisa and she handed the handgun back to Graham, who repacked them in the saddlebags.

  Juliette waved again as they drove back up the driveway.

  It took almost a week for the news to reach us. Ryan Stems and his lovely “wife” had tried to rob the Lamarches at gunpoint.

  Juliette had been keeping a gun in her jacket.

  The Lamarche family lost both of their sons.

  Ryan Stems lost Juliette, who the Lamarches guessed was somewhere around fifteen years old.

  I should have searched them. And I shouldn’t have let them leave. It doesn’t matter what so-called good Ryan Stems thinks he’s doing for the Mushkegowuk Nation; he’ll always have the blood of those two Lamarche boys on his hands.

  The same goes for the blood of that teenage girl.

  Everyone else came up with a more liquid way of passing the time during the storm, and I’m pretty sure that all four of them were drunk before they’d finished lunch.

  Kayla and Lisa are surprisingly unfun when wasted, while Matt just gets stupider. The only one of them who is the least bit interesting as a boozer is Graham, who seems to turn his prissiness down a few notches.

  “You guys are the best,” I heard him shout from the living room.

  “I like him better as a drunk,” Sara said as she rolled the dough.

  “It’s like there’s this little fun-time Graham who’s only allowed out once a year,” Fiona said.

  “It’s for the best,” I said. “Lisa wouldn’t put up with him if he was happy all the time.”

  I heard the sound of broken glass, followed by a rousing cheer.

  “We’d better witness whatever this is,” Sara said.

  We walked out into the living room to see a pile of broken glass and Graham, standing over it with a bloodied hand.

  “What the hell happened?” I asked. “Did you cut yourself?”

  Graham held up his other hand. “I think maybe,” he said.

  “Someone ought to bandage that,” Lisa said. “Or at least cut up the other hand so it matches.”

  Kayla and Matt started to laugh, and Graham soon joined in even though it was clear that he was past understanding the joke. I turned to see that Sara was laughing, too. I didn’t get it.

  “That’s funny?” I asked her.

  She nodded. “Nothing wrong with a little bit of fun.”

  “Godammit,” I muttered. “Fiona, can you help me out here? Get me something to wrap up his hand?”

  Fiona rushed back to the kitchen.

  “I swear, Graham,” I said as I grabbed for his injured hand. “If I get blood on my clothes I’m going to open up a few more veins.”

  “Don’t worry so much,” Graham said. “You know…you worry too much, Bat-piste.”

  “Sounds like a bat taking a piss,” Matt said. “Bat piss! Bat piss!”

  “Yeah,” Kayla said. “How do you explain that, Baptiste? Why are you named after bat piss?”

  “This is getting out of hand,” I said, looking to Sara for some kind of assistance.

  “Fiona and I can bandage him up,” she said, putting her hand on my back.

  “What about the rest of these idiots?”

  “Who you calling an idiot?” Kayla asked. “Who’s the one named after bat piss again?”

  “Don’t let them get to you,” Sara said. She gave me a kiss, but it didn’t help to calm me down.

  “This is ridiculous. Every one of them is drunk off their ass.”

  “But it’s a fine, fine ass,” Kayla said. She stuck it out at me.

  “This can’t happen again,” I said as I made my way upstairs, leaving the noise behind.

  I think I was angrier at myself for letting it happen.

  “Your anger was disproportionate, Robert.”

  I’d had a therapist back in Toronto who’d told me that pretty much every time I’d talk about the latest thing that made me lose my temper.

  Guys like me…we’re great when the shit hits the fan, or at least we like to think we are, but when things are going so-so and something gets on our nerves…watch out.

  It doesn’t make sense for me to want to beat the life out of Matt, or to want to scream at Kayla. It’s disproportionate. It’s out of whack.

  So I had a bag of pills in my pocket, with the little maple leaf; I’d expected to need one yesterday, but I’d never gotten to it. For some reason, I needed it today.

  I sat down on my bed and I gently tossed a pill from one hand to the other.

  I knew that it was a bad idea, that I was the only person there who was sober and experienced enough to shoot a gun. If this pill took me out of commission for six or seven hours…

  Stems might have snowmobiles or he might just use snowshoes. He could come back to take us out once and for all. If he cared to. If he hadn’t really changed.

  Or…maybe some other, random guys could show up at any moment with no real purpose other than to totally fuck us up.

  That doesn’t sound any better.

  I couldn’t afford to take that pill.

  Fiona came to see me in my room a little while later.

  I was reading a book on my tablet, laying on my bed in my boxer shorts; she didn’t seem to care that I was somewhat close to naked.

  “Are you okay?” she asked as she planted herself on the bed beside me.

  “I’m fine…thanks.” I sat up and gave her a smile.

  She put her hand on my bare knee; I don’t think she meant anything by it.

  “I didn’t think it bothered you when people drank,” she said.

  “It usually doesn’t. But there’s a limit, you know? Things are a little out of control down there.”

  “There’s not much else to do around here today.”

  “See what’s happened? You hated people drinking when you got here.”

  “I was fourteen when I got here.”

  “Well, it’s not a good idea for more than half of us to be drunk. What if there was some kind of emergency?”

  She grinned. “Like what? Yeti attack?”

  I laughed at that. “Possible…or zombie snowmen?”

  I loved hearing her giggle.

  She arched her eyebrows. “Homicidal Christmas elves?”

  She gave me a funny look that made me crack up.

  “You’re awesome, Fiona. You really are. You remind me so much of my daughter…have I ever said that?”

  She seemed to be taken aback. “Um…Sara’s told me that before. That you think I’m a lot like Cassy.”

&nbs
p; “Well…you are.”

  She looked down for a moment. “Does that bother you at all?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. With me being here all the time…does it make you miss her that much more?”

  I realized then that she was crying. Forgetting my bare chest, I leaned in and wrapped my arms around her. “I miss her with everything I have, Fiona…but that’s not any worse because of you. If anything, you make it a little bit easier for me.”

  “I really want to meet her someday. I’m sure she’s a wonderful person.”

  “She was a wonderful person,” I said.

  “Sorry…I didn’t think…”

  “I can’t spend every day hoping. It’s too hard.”

  “Sorry…”

  “I love you, Fiona…so very much.”

  “I love you, Baptiste.”

  I gave her a squeeze and a kiss on the cheek.

  It didn’t feel like holding Cassy.

  “I found something,” Fiona said.

  I looked down at my crotch. Could she…?

  “That breadmaker that Marc said he found,” she said.

  “Where did he find it?”

  “He said it was from a house on the way to Gardiner or something.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Ant and Matt had checked every house on Kennedy Road back in the spring. They wouldn’t have missed something that important to Fiona.

  “I’m sure,” she said. “Anyway…that’s not the point. I found a recipe card in the instruction manual.”

  “He even had the manual?”

  “‘Grandma Lamarche’s Pain Québecois ’.”

  “Shit.”

  Marc had lied.

  And because some bald idiot had managed to kill him, the truth had died with him.

  Unless Justin knew.

  Not that he’d tell me. Not that I needed to hear it.

  He and Marc had gone back at it.

  “Marc took that breadmaker from the Lamarches,” Fiona said.

  “Looks like.”

  “The Lamarches are gone.”

  “I think so.”

  “Did Marc and Justin have something to do with them leaving?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I need time to think this through.”

  “Let me know what I can do to help.”