After The Fires Went Out: Coyote atfwo-1

by Regan Wolfrom

  “Someone’s trying to steal my job,” I said, giving my blessing to letting the tension drop. There was no point in yelling at Justin for being an idiot; that never makes people any smarter, or at least that’s what all of my time spent on Matt has taught me. “We do need to figure out who’s been doing this.”

  “I know who’s doing it,” Justin said.

  “And?”

  “Well…who else? Obviously it’s people from New Post.”

  “Why is that obvious, exactly?” Graham asked. “You said they came from the north…not the south.”

  “Look,” Justin said, “I don’t want to be prejudiced…”

  “Just say it,” I said.

  “They have a hundred and fifty people down there and we have no idea how they’re feeding themselves.”

  “That’s true.”

  He seemed surprised that I didn’t attack him. “So who else could it be?”

  “There could be dozens of people hiding out around here that we don’t know about,” Graham said. “You just don’t know for sure.”

  “We’ve got boxes of electronics from Silver Queen,” Justin said. “I’m sure there’s a camera in there somewhere.”

  “If only we had inventory lists,” Graham said.

  “I guess we’ll have those lists soon enough,” I said. “Right Justin?”

  “Right,” Justin said. “I’ll talk to Rihanna.”

  “Stop blaming someone else for your fuck up. You want to lead, don’t you? Then learn to be a goddamn leader.”

  Justin didn’t respond. For once I think he knew he had no leg to stand on. If only he’d realize that he was legless most days of the week.

  But I didn’t need to take shots at Justin Porter. I needed to do my job.

  “Let’s go take a look at this stove,” I said. “Lisa’s not the most patient woman on the planet.”

  No one argued with me on that.

  Today is Wednesday, January 2nd.

  Sara’s moved back into Lisa’s room. I guess that’s to be expected.

  So instead of Sara, I’ve taken Sara’s new inventory to bed with me two out of the past three nights (the middle night having been taken up babysitting new year’s drunks), and I haven’t figured out what to do.

  Some of her scenarios seem less inevitable now; New Post won’t be starting fights now that we have the Marchands on our side, and I don’t think Justin’s about to pack up and leave with half the supplies at McCartney Lake. But that leaves two scenarios, one that’s all “rainbows and unicorns” as Sara had called it, and one that was more possible and pretty bleak. She’d titled that other scenario “no crops possible”.

  No crops. If we didn’t find the right equipment. If we didn’t get more fuel. If we just couldn’t figure out how to do things properly. If we did everything else right and the weather sucked.

  There were too many paths that ended in no crops.

  And we’ve wasted so much time being shot at and almost blown up…

  Usually, when there’s a problem, Sara and I have a way to come up with a solution. We go for a walk together, or we sit on the porch together, or we lay in bed together until the wee hours of the morning.

  But Sara and I are broken.

  I told her at breakfast that we needed to come up with a plan for getting the farming on track. She told me I need to handle it myself.

  I’m in no position to get mad at her for that.

  So I took a walk up the road, but with Graham and Lisa instead. They held hands like high school sweethearts, and I held back the urge to vomit.

  I wish I knew how to fix things with Sara.

  “There’s equipment all over the place,” Lisa said. “Aren’t there farms along 652?”

  “Not really,” Graham said. “There’s very little on this side of the river, at least north of Twin Falls. And diesel or gas tractors won’t help us; we’re so low on fuel we’ll need electric. Even on the other side of the river, electric farm equipment isn’t that easy to find.”

  “We could go about this another way,” I said.

  “We could leave?” Lisa said with a smirk.

  “We could accept that we need to use diesel for now. I’m sure there must be a place around here that hasn’t been tapped for fuel yet.”

  “It’s not like we’re going to know where to look,” Graham said. “And even if we find the fuel, we still need a pull type combine, a cultivator…”

  “So let me ask you,” I said. “If we took the risk and went across the river, how long would it take us to find everything we need?”

  “It could take weeks.”

  “Weeks?”

  “Getting a tractor is easy enough, but everything else is tougher. We need homesteader equipment, not huge fuel-guzzling machines meant for ten-thousand-acre agribusinesses; they don’t have much of the little stuff around here.”

  “We’d be better off looking for a self-sustaining homestead,” Lisa said.

  “Or preppers,” Graham said. “I guess that’s Detour Lake.”

  “I don’t think they’d be willing to share any equipment,” I said.

  “They wouldn’t have much. It’s not like you can grow crops up there.”

  “So we need to find some prepper nutjobs, but not those prepper nutjobs…”

  “Good thing Kayla isn’t here,” Lisa said. “She’d kick you in the berries for that. She’d tell you, bub…preppers aren’t crazy, it’s everyone else who was crazy for not believing in creating a self-sustaining colony of blah, blah blah…”

  “That’s it,” I said. “I need to talk to Fiona.”

  I starting jogging back towards the cottage.

  I remembered Fiona’s dream, that by the time she was sixteen she’d be living off-the-grid with other artists.

  I remembered that she’d told me there were places like that right near us.

  Everyone had gathered in the dining room before Lisa and I had even gotten our boots off.

  “They call it Helena,” Fiona said, “It’s south of here, I think.” She pointed her finger to a blank spot on the map we’d spread out across the table. “Somewhere around here.”

  “There’s nothing around there,” Kayla said.

  “I don’t recognize the name,” Sara said. “Are you sure it’s called Helena?”

  “It’s named for a Finnish painter,” Fiona said. “She was the first female painter or something…apparently the area was settled by Finns. But they’d all moved away, and it was a ghost town up until a few years ago.”

  “Ahh…I think I know it,” Sara said. “Arpin…south of Norembega. One of the old farming communities that didn’t last.”

  “That’s probably it,” Fiona said. “I remember reading that the land was farmed once before. I think I still have it on my tablet. I’ll go get it.”

  She ran upstairs.

  “I’ll bet no one’s gone down that way,” Graham said.

  “New Post might have,” Lisa said.

  “Ant and I went down that way once,” I said. “Norembega was hit pretty badly by The Fires; there wasn’t much worth scavenging. I’ll bet the road south of there hasn’t been cleared.”

  “If they were really off the grid,” Sara said, “is it possible that someone’s still out there?”

  “It’s possible,” Lisa said. “And it’s also possible that Helena is just as burnt to a crisp as Norembega.”

  “Let’s be lucky this time,” I said. “I’d like a change of pace.”

  Fiona came running back down the stairs, holding her tablet up to her nose. I was surprised she didn’t trip halfway down.

  “This is the place,” she said. “They had over two dozen people living there. I used to chat with one of the guys who lived there.”

  “You did?” Matt asked, roused from his drooling stupor. “Who was this guy?”

  “I dunno…just some artsy guy. He’d have been cute if he’d washed and cut his hair.”

  “Good thing they’re a bunch of artists,” I
said. “I’d be more intimidated if it was a colony of survivalists.”

  “I’m sure they could be both,” Lisa said.

  “They’d have to be if they’re still out there,” Sara said.

  “So Graham and I should go,” I said. “We’ll take the cart up there to take a look. Once we know what that road looks like at Norembega, we can figure out if we can get a truck all the way down there.”

  “I want to go,” Fiona said.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “But if there’s people there I might be able to help talk to them.”

  “We can deal with them,” I said.

  “But if Rasheed is there…I can convince them to help us.”

  I could hear Sara chuckling. “You’d better go along, Fiona,” she said. “We don’t want Baptiste killing all your artist friends.”

  “Maybe I should go, too,” Matt said.

  “You’ve got work,” I said. “You promised the Porters that you’d help them with their monitoring.”

  “That can wait.”

  “No, it can’t. I need someone over there I can trust.” I couldn’t believe that I’d just said that.

  Matt’s face widened with a big grin. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.” He looked over to Fiona and smiled.

  She smiled back.

  I felt a tinge of jealousy…which was ridiculous. I took a deep breath.

  “Let’s get moving,” I said. “We’ll need to get that cart switched over to being a sled. And I’d like to be on the road before lunchtime.”

  “Then you’d better get your ass in the kitchen,” Fiona said. “We have sandwiches to make.”

  It didn’t take us long to switch the cart wheels for runners. We were on our way just about the same time we started getting hungry for the sandwiches.

  The road to Arpin was blocked just south of Norembega by a downed tamarack. Graham, Fiona and I couldn’t move it on our own, so Graham figured out a way to get the mare involved, detaching the center shaft and jimmying up a contraption that looked like a cross between a net and a plow. The whole operation took him less than half an hour, and it’s times like that when I realize just how much he brings to the team.

  We ran into a few more downed trees and other debris on the untravelled road, but there was nothing we couldn’t shove aside or pull around, and by late afternoon we reached a painted wood gate, a rather strange collection of red, gold, and white vertical planks with “Helena” slapped across it in blue.

  The gate was closed but unlocked, and the trail behind it was just as unmarked as the road from Norembega. It looked like no one had come or gone since the snow had first fallen back before Christmas.

  “Looks pretty empty,” I said to Fiona. “You may be wasting your time out here.”

  “I’m still glad I’m getting a chance to see it,” she said. “Even if it’s long forgotten.”

  We travelled for another few minutes up the driveway before we arrived at the homestead, a collection of rough-hewn log buildings next to a small array of solar panels. The snow had drifted across the yard with the wind, with no sign of anyone having shovelled.

  Graham was the first to notice the smoke coming from the chimney.

  “Someone’s in that building,” he said, pointing to the largest cabin.

  No one had to make a suggestion; the three of us put on our vests and helmets without a moment’s pause. It reminded me of old times, when it was just the three of us, travelling from lake to lake looking for the right place to live.

  “They must know we’re here by now,” I said quietly.

  “Then I’ll say hello,” Fiona said.

  “Just wait…”

  Fiona hopped off of the cart, landing in the deep snow. She pulled off her helmet. “Hello there!” she called out. “We’re looking for Rasheed.”

  She walked up to the front porch.

  “Fiona,” I said. “Just wait, okay?”

  She went up the stairs and opened the screen door. “Hello? Rasheed?”

  “Who are you?” a voice called out from inside the cabin.

  “Oh, hello,” Fiona said. “My name is Fiona Rees…from Cochrane.”

  “Fiona Rees?”

  “Yup.”

  The door swung open. A young and thin Persian-looking man, probably mid twenties with greasy and disheveled hair, stepped out and smiled.

  “I’m Rasheed,” he said. “It’s so great to meet you, Fiona.” He reached out and gave her a hug. “You’re dressed like a cop. You’re too young to be a cop.” He looked over to us, and his smile disappeared.

  “Are you the only one here?” Fiona asked.

  “Who are those guys?”

  “They’re my friends, Rasheed.”

  I pulled off my helmet and tried out my best non-threatening smile. Graham did the same, to more success.

  “We didn’t think anyone still lived here,” Fiona said.

  “No one does,” Rasheed said. “There’s just the six of us sitting around and waiting to starve to death.”

  “That doesn’t sound very optimistic.”

  He smiled. “Things were getting pretty dark. Until you showed up, at least.”

  I wasn’t looking forward to more refugees. I left my shotgun on the cart and hopped down. I still had my belt and holster, and the vest, of course; I wasn’t about to walk up to a stranger without a way to defend myself.

  “Good to meet you, Rasheed,” I said. “I’m Robert Jeanbaptiste. Call me Baptiste.”

  “You’re not here to hurt us, are you, Mr. Baptiste?”

  “We’re the good guys…we don’t hurt people.”

  Rasheed flashed me a nervous smile. “I guess we won’t know if you’re telling the truth until it’s far too late for us to do anything about it.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Be nice, Baptiste,” Fiona said. “Rasheed is a friend of mine.”

  “Why are you here?” Rasheed asked.

  “We’re looking for farm equipment,” I said. “We figured that you guys might have just what we need.”

  “We might. So you’re just here to take our stuff?”

  “You should come back with us,” Fiona said.

  Rasheed frowned. “I can’t leave my friends.”

  “Your friends aren’t bolted to the floor, are they? They can come, too.”

  “I don’t think you understand. Maybe you should all come inside.”

  I nodded to Graham, and he climbed down to join us, bringing the shotgun with him.

  “I’d rather you left all of your guns out here on the porch,” Rasheed said.

  “That’s not possible,” I said.

  He just nodded and opened the door for us.

  We all went aside.

  The living room looked more like a storeroom, with boxes and bags of food in piles along the walls, but on top of every surface was one or more scented candles, all lit and casting their signature stench into the muddle. The combined result was overpowering, but underneath it all I felt like I could almost smell rot.

  In the center of the room were two single mattresses next to a wood stove. A young ginger-haired woman was lying on one, apparently asleep, with a sheet over all of her body aside from her freckled face. She seemed thin and pale, much thinner than Rasheed, who himself was close to underweight.

  “She doesn’t look well,” Fiona said. “I don’t understand…you still have some food, don’t you?”

  “She hasn’t eaten in a while,” Rasheed said. “I think she’s sad.”

  “Are you going to wake her up?”

  “Just let her sleep…she’s tired.”

  “Where’s everyone else?” I asked. It didn’t feel right.

  “In the kitchen,” Rasheed said.

  I glanced over to Graham; he seemed to understand that something was off.

  “You two wait here,” I said.

  Fiona looked like she was about to question me, but then she seemed to get the message.
>
  Rasheed walked towards the kitchen door and I followed a few steps behind. He unlatched the door and pushed it open; I could feel the cool air pushing in towards us.

  He’d closed off the kitchen; there was no heat in there.

  But there was a smell that I recognized.

  The smell of a corpse, that terrible odour of death that can’t be covered up no matter how many scented candles you try to burn.

  I followed him inside.

  There was a fridge, a stove, and a large chest freezer. I didn’t think any of them were running. I didn’t think there was any electricity.

  Just the cold. And the smell.

  “Where are your friends, Rasheed?” I asked.

  “In the freezer,” he said.

  “Did you kill them?”

  “There wasn’t enough food.”

  “Open the freezer for me, would you?”

  He flipped up the lid and the rest of the smell came; it was far worse than the bodies in Cochrane, where the sunlight had done its job. In the freezer was a soup of turgid corpses, so rotten and putrefied that I couldn’t be sure how many there were.

  “The power went out last summer,” he said. “I wasn’t able to get it working again.”

  “Close the goddamned lid,” I said.

  He closed the lid and gave me another nervous smile.

  “I don’t know what to do, Rasheed,” I said.

  “Just leave me be, Mr. Baptiste. Take what you want and go.”

  I heard Fiona cry out from the next room. “Oh my god!” she screamed.

  I ran out to the living room to see Fiona stooped down over the sleeping girl. She’d pulled off the sheet; the naked girl underneath had her wrists pinned to her side and her ankles bound, all with layer upon layer of fishing line.

  “I think she’s dead,” Fiona said.

  “She’s sleeping,” Rasheed said.

  I dropped down beside Fiona. “She’s still breathing,” I said.

  Graham pulled out his pocketknife and slowly began cutting the fishing line.

  I stood back up and walked over to Rasheed.

  “Take what you want and go,” he said. His demeanor hadn’t changed.

  “Do you know what you did here?” I asked.

  He nodded. “There wasn’t enough food.”

  I punched him in the mouth. He fell to his knees.