After The Fires Went Out: Coyote atfwo-1

by Regan Wolfrom

  Justin made a choice when he awoke. Between two lives, one of grief and one of anger, he picked what came natural to him. He let the rage fill his head until it frightened everyone but me away.

  “I will kill every last one of them,” he said as he slammed his cold shovel against the frozen ground. “Those fucking indians are going to pay.”

  I was still setting up the portable stove. I’d decided against lighting a fire to warm the shovels.

  “You’ll help me, right?” he asked me.

  “I’m just getting the stove ready. We’ll heat the shovels ―”

  “You’re going to help me fuck them up.”

  “We’ll figure it out…”

  He stopped trying to break the soil. “No, that’s not what I’m asking, Baptiste. Those pieces of shit set my goddamn house on fire. We need to deal with that.”

  I didn’t want a fight. I couldn’t expect him to be reasonable.

  But I couldn’t make a promise he’d force me to keep.

  “Let’s put your family to rest,” I said.

  “To rest? Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “We need to get them buried, Justin. We need to get it done, right?”

  He just nodded.

  Then he stood and seethed as I finished setting up the stove.

  Today is Wednesday, January 23rd.

  Justin didn’t want any kind of funeral for them. Yesterday, once the bodies were buried, we went to where the Marchands had lived. I set up two rooms, and then we had a drink.

  And then Justin had five or six more.

  He was asleep before ten o’clock.

  Kayla dropped by a little while later.

  “He’s asleep?” she asked me as she gave me a hug.

  “Pretty much.”

  “How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine. Not sure what the hell we’re going to do with him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was hard enough to deal with when he had a family. Now he’s alone and angry and looking to hurt people.”

  “He wants to hurt us?”

  “He thinks New Post set the fire. To get back at him.”

  “That’s…there’s no way.”

  “There’s not much chance of it. But enough of a chance to drive him crazy.”

  “You don’t think that’s actually possible, do you? That they’d want to murder Justin’s family?”

  “No…you’re right. It’s not possible. But try telling him that.”

  “I don’t even know where to start.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “We just need to wait…wait and see…”

  “This isn’t going to end well. I don’t think he’ll let this go. It would have been better for him to die, too.”

  “Yeah,” Kayla said. “Better for all of us.”

  I nodded. “I’m not coming home tonight.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m here.”

  “We have plenty of booze.”

  “Yeah…but I think you need some of me. I just want to hold you, Baptiste. That’s all I want to do.”

  I led her to the bedroom and we laid together on the bed.

  And then I fell asleep.

  Justin wasn’t there when we woke up.

  Kayla went to check the grove where we’d buried his family.

  I checked for his car.

  He’d left McCartney Lake.

  And I didn’t have a way of finding him.

  If he’d gone to New Post, I wouldn’t get there in time to stop him.

  If he’d gone off to kill himself…I wouldn’t want to stop him.

  Kayla had gone to take care of the goats and chickens; I’d stayed behind at the Tremblays’ in case Justin came back.

  He came back just before sunset, right as I was starting to get hungry for dinner.

  “You pick up a pizza?” I asked as he came in.

  “Two walleyes,” he said. “I guess I can share.”

  “You went ice fishing?”

  “There are huts at the old ranger camp on Wade Lake. Just dragged one out and got it done.”

  “Okay…”

  “I’m feeling okay, Baptiste. Really.”

  “That’s good, man.”

  “Yeah…thanks. I think I’ll be alright here. You can head home.”

  “What about the fish?”

  He smiled. “I don’t actually want to share.”

  Something about his smile didn’t seem real to me.

  But I might just be passing how I feel onto him.

  I can’t tell him how to get better.

  Today is Thursday, January 24th.

  I’d given Justin back his phone when Kayla and I had gotten back from our trip through Aiguebelle.

  He came by after we’d finished breakfast to tell me he’d received a call.

  It wasn’t from Alain, or Lisa or Graham.

  He showed me a message from Fisher Livingston.

  Funny story. What was Sara’s nickname in high school?

  “I have no idea what it means,” Justin said.

  “He’s fucking with me.”

  “He calls me because he wants to fuck with you? By asking some obscure question about Sara?”

  “Vachon tampon, ” I said.

  “Tampon? What?”

  “It can mean a lot of things in French. But yeah…tampon.”

  “Fuck…French kids are messed up.”

  “Send it back to him,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Please, Justin. Just send it. I want to know what the hell he’s doing.”

  Justin typed out the response.

  “Signal’s weak,” he said.

  “Signal’s always weak.”

  Justin sat down on the couch in the living room.

  I took the recliner.

  We sat silently.

  I wanted to ask: “Hey, you still plotting revenge?”

  But I didn’t. I knew at least some part of him was.

  Justin’s phone chirped. He took a look.

  “He wrote back already,” he said.

  He handed the phone to me.

  Still at McCartney Lake?

  “Small talk?” Justin asked.

  “I don’t know…do you think he actually has Sara with him? I’m not sure I can believe that.”

  “Why wouldn’t he just come out and say it?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t trust you.”

  “Trust me ? You’re the one who threatens him as a hobby.”

  “I do that to everybody. Just tell him yes.”

  “You tell him. I’m sick of being the go-between. I think you two will make a lovely couple.”

  “I’m just going to come out and ask him.”

  I typed out a reply:

  At McCartney. Do you have Sara?

  “You guys have anything to eat?” Justin asked.

  “Oh yeah…I guess you don’t have much food at the Tremblays.”

  “They left a jar of wheat germ and a bag of raisins.”

  “I wouldn’t have left raisins behind. Just check the kitchen. Take whatever, as long as you keep track so I can update our numbers.”

  Justin nodded and took to the kitchen.

  Another chirp.

  LOL.

  “What the fuck?” I said.

  “What?”

  “He typed ‘LOL’.”

  “He is fucking with you.”

  I heard footsteps on the porch.

  Kayla stepped inside.

  “Take a look at this,” I said to her.

  She came over and took the phone.

  “He’s with her,” she said. “I think he’s trying to find a way to bring her home.”

  “Then why doesn’t he just say it?”

  “I don’t know…he’s nervous…he’s worried that someone’s tracking him somehow?”

  “I do think he’s with her,” I said. “He’s found his way to Kapuskasing or wherever Stems is really keeping her, and he’s decided to taunt me.” />
  “That’s not like him…you know that.”

  “Then what do I do with this?”

  “Nothing. Just trust him.”

  “I don’t trust him.”

  “Well you don’t have to trust him, then. But maybe if we’re lucky, Fisher Livingston’s about to help us out.”

  “Yeah…maybe.”

  I really did want to believe that.

  It was Friday, January 25th.

  Every day starts off pretty much the same. Maybe you wake up with a different girl in your bed, or with no one, but from most mornings you get about the same feeling.

  You don’t see what’s coming.

  That day I woke up and everything was the same. Same as it’s been since Sara was taken, anyway.

  But I found out before breakfast that everything was changing.

  Matt’s been handling the horses lately, which has worked out better than I’d expected. That morning he ran back in after just a couple of minutes outside.

  “The horses are gone,” he said.

  “You didn’t close the stall doors?” I asked.

  “The cart’s gone, too. Someone took it.”

  “Who could have done that?” Kayla said.

  I already knew.

  “He’s taken the cart,” I said. “So either he doesn’t think his car can handle where he’s headed, or he doesn’t want people to know it’s him.”

  “He’s going to New Post,” Kayla said.

  “That’s suicide,” Matt said.

  I walked over to the chest by the door.

  It was unlocked. And empty.

  “He took both sets,” I said.

  “So you couldn’t follow him,” Kayla said.

  I nodded. “Won’t stop me.”

  “I’ll come, too,” Matt said.

  “No one else is coming. People are going to be dying today. But none of my people. You two get over to Fiona’s. Take the Mossberg. Stay there until I get back.”

  “There’s no way he can get through,” Kayla said. “They’ll stop him at the gate.” It sounded like she was trying to convince herself more than anyone else.

  “He won’t get through on his own,” I said.

  “You’re not planning on helping him.”

  “No…but Justin isn’t stupid. I’m not sure he’s doing this on his own.”

  “Detour Lake?”

  “That’s the most likely possibility. I doubt he’d be able to convince Aiguebelle to come with him to shoot at old people and children.”

  “I don’t know, Baptiste,” Kayla said. “I think you should stay. You can’t go up against them. Not on your own.”

  “Don’t you see, Kayla? I have to try. If I don’t at least try…then Stems has no reason to believe that this wasn’t us. He’ll take it out on you…and Fiona…and I’m not willing to give him an excuse.”

  “But what if you don’t come back?” Matt asked. “What the hell are we supposed to do?”

  “Find a way into Aiguebelle,” I said. “Keep looking until you find someone’s who willing to help you. That’s the best I can do.”

  Kayla wrapped her arms around me. “I love you, Baptiste.”

  “I love you, Kayla. All the way.”

  I felt another set of arms clamping my waist. “What the hell, Matt?”

  “Thought it was a group hug,” he said.

  “I think you just made it one,” Kayla said.

  For my part, I didn’t push him away.

  That took some work.

  I had no riot suit, no vest, no helmet. And it didn’t take long for me to find out that Justin had known exactly where in the basement I kept the C12. Of course, it was more obvious now without the guitar case.

  He had me outgunned. I was leaving the Mossberg with Kayla and Matt. All I had was my SIG.

  I took one of the electric ATVs down toward New Post.

  I found the horses and the cart just outside the open gate.

  The horses were fine.

  Three men were dead on the ground.

  None of them were Justin.

  I saw two pickups just up the road, stopped right in the middle, facing the gate. Both windshields were shattered.

  I climbed off the ATV. With my SIG in my hands, I walked over to the trucks.

  I saw the blood in the snow before I saw the bodies.

  Four more.

  No Justin.

  I started walking along the treeline, down Archibald Road. I passed behind a couple of modular homes, looking for any sign of life and listening for any sounds of dead or dying.

  It was all very quiet.

  It felt like spring was coming early, but I didn’t see any children outside. I couldn’t even find any dogs.

  Maybe they’d heard the gunfire at the gate and they’d known to run. Maybe the people of New Post were safely across the river.

  I saw a dead dog. More blood in the snow. It looked like it had been running away from the shooting.

  Then I saw another man in the snow. Wearing a set of riot gear and armour, with yellow lettering: “OPP”.

  I approached slowly, in case he was still alive. But his helmet was a good two metres away, and his head was soaked in blood. They’d hit him in the delts to bring him down. Then they’d pulled off the helmet and made sure he was dead.

  It wasn’t Justin.

  He’d given a set to someone else.

  I grabbed the dead man by his feet and pulled him into the ditch. I pulled off the vest and the riot suit. I put them on. Then I climbed out and grabbed the helmet.

  And then I kept walking.

  I heard what was likely my C12. Multiple rounds. No pause, no discrimination, like he wasn’t even bothering to stop and take aim.

  It was coming from the west; I ran across a treeless yard toward the noise. I had no cover. But I had my armour.

  I dropped down into the ditch along the main road, trying to keep my head lower than the drifts.

  From the ditch I could see it all.

  Seven men in armour, all but one with painted combat helmets; I recognized my gear on the other, but he was holding a shotgun instead of my C12.

  The man who had the C12 wore a helmet I recognized. The coyote. Justin had given him my gun.

  There were a couple of deuce-and-a-half military cargo trucks parked right behind them, with canvas tops. They’d come from the northwest, over the old rail bridge and up the stretch of Takwata Road that New Post had built to meet it. Justin’s attack from the northeast had drawn the bulk of the defenders to the other gate.

  That wasn’t much different than the plan I’d made to get Sara back. But they weren’t there to rescue anyone.

  I saw a large group of children sitting terrified in the snow.

  At least twenty women on their knees.

  A line of a dozen men against the wall of a house, their hands on their heads.

  And at least a dozen men in front of them, lying dead in the snow.

  Coyote opened fire again.

  The line of men fell.

  I couldn’t take them out. Not all of them. At least not all at once.

  I had to wait.

  With the men of New Post shot and bleeding, the women were next.

  Twelve of them were pulled up by their hair and forced against the wall of the building, standing right over the bodies of their men.

  Coyote didn’t point my C12 at them.

  Instead, he walked forward and pulled one of the women off the line. One of the prettiest. He dragged her by her hair, away from the building, and pushed her down on her knees.

  A second man walked over to the line and took his pick. A little young and a little chubby, but he seemed happy.

  Four of the other men picked out their trophy.

  One man did not. He shook his head, his helmet painted with orange and black tiger stripes.

  Coyote took off his helmet.

  It was Justin.

  “We’re waiting,” Justin said to the man in the tiger striped helmet.


  “I don’t want one,” the man said.

  Justin laughed. “Whatever. We take shifts. You, you, and you…stay here and watch for the rest of ‘em. Don’t touch anything yet.”

  They were taking orders from him; there was no denying that.

  Justin had always been the coyote.

  He was the one who’d been so worried that Natalie and Tabitha would recognize him as he raped them. That’s probably why he’d made sure they wouldn’t get another chance to realize who he was, and tell us the truth about him; for all I knew, he’d snuck off to meet his real crew at the Girards, so he’d get a chance to torture those young girls himself.

  And he’d wanted me to know that I was to blame.

  And Justin Porter was the one who’d shot Ant. He’d killed Ant and then he’d tried to tell me it was Ryan Stems.

  He’d done his best to start a war.

  This was his last kick at the can.

  He and three of the men walked off to two of the houses to the left, pushing their chosen women in front of them. Justin took my C12 with him.

  The men who stayed behind were still in full gear, two armed with assault rifles, the other with the shotgun. Tiger stripe was one of them.

  I couldn’t take them out.

  Not like that.

  I crawled through the ditch, moving away from the gunmen and their captives.

  I reached a culvert at a driveway and I quickly darted up and over.

  Most good soldiers would have spotted me.

  Those guys didn’t.

  I kept moving back until I reached the end of the ditch, right next to the hockey arena.

  I ran along the south side of the building, covered from their view. I’d have to cross a field to get to the next bit of cover, a stand of trees behind the houses that Justin and his fellow Spirit Animals had commandeered.

  I took the risk.

  They didn’t see me.

  I reached the first house, where the two of the men had gone with their prisoners. The back door was unlocked; I opened it and stepped inside.

  I followed the sound of a man laughing. He hadn’t bothered to close the door.

  He was naked aside from his socks. He had the woman on the twin bed, still clothed, lying on top of an afghan with squares of playful moose and deer.

  He was trying to pull down her pants, and he seemed to be enjoying the fight.

  I reached for a stuffed bear sitting on a forest-green dresser.

  I stuffed the barrel of my SIG into the belly of the little brown bear. I shoved it against the back of the man’s head and fired.