by Chris Pike
“Yes. There’s a gate leading to a pasture road, and—”
“Shhh, listen.” Dillon lowered his rifle a smidgen and cocked his head in the direction of the sound. “I think it’s a car engine turning over.”
“I thought you said cars don’t work.”
“They don’t, except for older models.”
“They wouldn’t be so foolish to drive past us would they?” Holly asked.
“I don’t think so. Is there a back way out of here?”
“Yes. The dirt road on the side of the house leads to the back of the property. A gate there takes you to a farm-to-market road that goes in both directions.”
“Come on,” Dillon said. “Let’s go. Stay behind me.”
Dillon moved swiftly toward the house, keeping a firm grip on his AK, dodging brush and taking cover where he could find it. He sprinted to one tree then another until he was up to the house. He crouched, taking cover behind the steps leading to the porch.
The sound of tires on gravel echoed in the distance. The wind rustled the leaves and a setting sun cast long shadows on the land.
Holly kept up as best she could and when she came to her house, she looked left and right then ducked in the shade of a leafy overgrown ligustrum.
Keeping his head down, Dillon sprinted to the edge of the house. He leveled his AK and swung around as an old light-colored truck sped in the distance along the dusty road. Flashes of the red taillights glowed through the billowing dust kicked up as the truck fishtailed around a corner, disappearing behind the tree line.
Dillon thought about firing a warning shot until common sense dictated otherwise. He’d save the bullet for when he had a good shot.
Frustrated, he turned to Holly. “Does that Clyde Higgins neighbor own a truck?”
“I haven’t seen him in years, so I don’t know.”
“It must be someone you know or some local because they knew about the back road out of here.”
“Some of my parents’ old friends, but nobody I know who would try to…” Holly trailed off, the realization sinking in regarding what had happened. “It’s only been a few days since the EMP and people are already trying to kill each other.”
“I told you it would get bad.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“You just witnessed it. Sit here while I go in and clear the house.”
Holly sat on the lowest step on the front porch while Dillon searched the house.
It was quiet.
The lonely hand of the wind touched the trees and grass. Low clouds floated in the waning light, a crow cawed, and buzzards circled the adjoining pasture. Something rustled the bushes adjacent to the house.
Startled, Holly gripped the 1911 semi-automatic and brought it up, pointing it in the direction of the sound. Her heart beat harder and she held the gun tight.
A dark form burst through the bushes and Holly flinched. She remembered what Dillon had said: Keep your finger off the trigger guard until you’re ready to shoot. Then you shoot to kill.
She really didn’t need to go over that. She already knew it.
Old muscle memory took over at that point, and the times her dad had taken her hunting and target practicing paid off now. Rarely advertising her knowledge or skills of firearms, it was best she kept it to herself. Her eyes narrowed and she squeezed shut her right eye, keeping the focus on the front sight. She forgot about her wounded arm.
She’d kill if she had to, regardless who it was, the circumstances, or the reasons. This was her land, and if someone brought the fight to her, she’d give it right back. The bushes came alive.
Holly pressed her index finger to the trigger, ready to dispatch whoever it was.
Buster barreled out of the bushes and relief washed over her. She released the tension in her shoulders, dropping them, lowered the 1911, and whistled for Buster.
The big dog came sauntering up to her, wiggling enthusiastically, tail thumping, blissfully unaware he had been in the crosshairs of her gun. He was panting and droplets of slobber flung off of his tongue.
“Oh my God,” Holly said in exasperation. “You scared me half to death. Come here, you big lug.”
Buster sidled up to her, wiggling and favoring his right front paw. She took a handful of fur and ran her hands along his back checking for any wounds. His underbelly was muddy and wet, and Holly scrunched her nose at his pungent smell. She felt the pads of his toes and recognized why Buster was limping. After pulling out several stickers, Holly said, “What have you been doing? Chasing a rabbit or something? What are we going to do with you?”
Rummaging around in her backpack, Holly found a water bottle and took a swallow. Buster watched her with an eager eye. Taking his cue, Holly poured water in her hand and encouraged Buster to drink.
Sweat beaded on her forehead, and she put her hand to it. With her adrenaline dump waning, she became aware of her throbbing arm, which kept pace with every heartbeat.
Tentatively, she pulled back the bandage and inspected the wound. The skin around where the shrapnel had sliced her arm looked angry and red, but it wasn’t that she was worried about. It was the red streaks slithering up her arm like a deadly anaconda searching for prey.
Chapter 26
“All clear!” Dillon yelled from inside the house. “You can come in now.”
Rising from the steps, Holly opened the screen door and walked inside, Buster behind her. She stood in the foyer. The front door was heavy and tended to shut by itself so Holly took an old metal iron and propped it against the door.
The house looked like it always did. Framed pictures decorated the end tables in the formal living room. A watercolor painting from a bygone era hung in the entryway, while other framed pictures decorated the living room and connecting dining room. This front part of the house was rarely used, a throwback to more formal times.
The den area was quite comfortable with a sofa and matching La-Z-Boy recliner. A big screen TV sat upon a credenza, something Holly had bought her parents because they liked to watch TV. Now it would be collecting dust.
“Any sign of Hector?” Holly asked.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Dillon said. “I’ll check the pasture in a few minutes. Did you see the buzzards in the tree?”
“I did.”
“They sit there until their meal gets ripe.” Dillon cleared his throat. “If you know what I mean.”
Holly gasped. “Hector?”
Dillon nodded. “Whoever was here probably killed Hector.”
There was a lull in conversation at the somber thought. Dillon and Holly turned their attention to Buster, who was oblivious to the situation. He was sniffing the new dwelling, running his nose all along the floor, taking his time to inspect the house.
“This is your home now, Buster,” Holly said, “at least for the time being.” She walked over to the recliner, slung her backpack off her shoulder, and slumped in the chair.
Dillon was already in the kitchen perusing the pantry, taking stock of the contents. His backpack was on the kitchen table. “The food is still here, so I don’t know what that guy was doing here. Does anything look out of place? Or missing?”
Holly glanced at the corner of the room where screws had been placed in each hardwood plank running parallel to the wall. It didn’t appear those had been removed or tampered with. “Don’t think so. My parents didn’t buy much in the form of valuables. One of their main pastimes was checking their bank and stock accounts, watching their money grow. They were extremely frugal. Not cheap,” Holly emphasized, “frugal. There’s a difference.”
“I’m not sure money or stocks will do us much good anymore,” Dillon said. He crunched on a few saltine crackers, followed by a big gulp of water. Buster came up to him wanting a cracker. He thumped his tail. Dillon slipped him a cracker, which Buster inhaled. “Hey, do you mind going back to where the bikes are and bringing them up here? The bugout bags too?”
“Okay.” Holly rose and when she did
, stars appeared in front of her eyes. Trying to steady herself, she held onto the arm of the recliner. Teetering on wobbly legs, she said, “I think I’m going to…”
Dillon turned as Holly slumped into the plush chair. He rushed over to her.
“Holly! Holly, what’s wrong? Can you hear me?” He tapped her cheek.
There was no response. Taking her wrist, he took her pulse. It was weak. Her skin was clammy and had taken on the color of old milk, and a sour odor emanated from her wounded arm. Her face felt hot. He carefully peeled back the bandage, and when he did, he made a face.
“Shit. This is bad.” He stared at the red streaks feathering up her arm toward her shoulder. “Blood poisoning,” he said quietly.
Out of all the medications he had stocked up on, antibiotics was not one of them. Too bad they didn’t have the Russian system of walking into a drugstore and buying antibiotics without a prescription. Doctors were too stingy with those, afraid the overuse would result in strain-resistant germs. Besides, the pharmaceutical industry paid dearly for lobbyists to protect their holdings.
Not anymore, Dillon thought.
The old ways would go the way of the buggy whip, providing new opportunities and a different way of life. Let the lobbyists and the lawmakers who’d created this mess go to Hell.
Dillon retrieved a hand towel from the kitchen, poured a little water on it, folded it, and placed it on Holly’s forehead. She needed help cooling down. He opened the windows in the room to let in a cross breeze.
While Holly was passed out, Dillon searched the house for any unused antibiotics. He checked the usual places: bathroom vanity, sock drawers, kitchen cabinets, and even looked under the kitchen sink. No luck, only the standard over-the-counter drugs. What he needed was some good old fashioned penicillin, and for that he would have to make a quick trip into town.
“What happened?” Holly asked groggily. She swung a leg off of the recliner and struggled to get up.
“Whoa,” Dillon said. “You need to stay still. You passed out a few minutes ago. Why didn’t you tell me your arm was infected?”
“I was hoping it would go away.”
“Hope isn’t a strategy, Holly. Don’t let these things get out of hand. If you’re ever injured again, let me know, even something simple like a scratch or a sore tooth.” He paced the length of the room. “You need antibiotics immediately. Where’s the nearest pharmacy?”
“There’s one in town. It’ll take you about ten minutes to get there. Well, if you had a car.”
“Which we don’t.”
“Take one of the horses,” Holly said. “You can ride can’t you?”
“Once you learn you never forget. Kinda like learning to ride a bike.” Dillon’s voice and forehead wrinkles rose with each unsure word.
“You’ve never ridden before, have you?”
“Not since I was a kid.”
“Hmm. We have three horses to choose from. Let me think which horse will be best for you.” For a few moments, Holly silently made a list of the best attributes of each horse. “Cowboy will be the best one for you. He’s dependable, can run like the wind, and he’s been trained so nobody can steal him.”
“Really? Is there a secret passcode or something?”
“Actually, yes.” Holly laughed. “You have to say ‘Ride ‘em, Cowboy’ in a loud voice for him to even take one step. That, plus a good swift kick and he’ll take off, so be sure to hang on.”
“That’s impressive.”
Holly paused and put a hand on his arm. “In case something happens to me, I want—”
“Nothing’s going to happen to you.”
“If it does, I want you to know where we keep the secret stash of guns.”
Well, that piqued Dillon’s interest. “Oh. I like secret stashes of guns.”
“You’ll need a Phillips screwdriver. There’s one in the drawer to the left of the sink in the kitchen.”
Dillon came back with the screwdriver, and Holly instructed him to remove the hardwood planks abutting the wall. “There’s a space under the floor. Remove the last board then take up two more. You should see the guns.”
Dillon removed the floorboards and carefully set them aside in the order he removed them. When he needed to return them to their original sequence, he’d have an easier job. Peering in the dark space, he spied a Smith & Wesson model 686-7 four inch barreled revolver. He picked it up and checked the seven rounds of .357 magnum ammo in the stainless steel cylinder.
This was better than the buried treasure Mel Fisher found in the shipwrecked Nuestra Senora de Atocha and Santa Margarita, Spanish galleons sunk off the coast of the Florida Keys during a hurricane in 1722. Dillon carefully placed the Smith & Wesson on the floor.
Tucked away further under the floor, Dillon found a Marlin .357 Magnum Cowboy lever action rifle with an 18-inch barrel. The tubular magazine held nine rounds, and the blue steel rifle had been fitted with a sling.
Not to be disappointed, because a rifle without ammo is like a swimming pool without water, he found twenty boxes each holding fifty rounds of Winchester 145 grain silvertip hollow points. Somebody knew their business. This type of ammo fed flawlessly in lever action guns and packed a good punch. A .357 magnum bullet out of a rifle had more foot pounds of energy than a .44 magnum revolver had at the muzzle.
Dillon noted the actions of the lever guns and the revolver were smooth from lots of use. They were clean and well cared for, with unscratched muzzles indicating that they would still be accurate. He picked up the Marlin and cranked the lever. Visions of Chuck Connors as the Rifleman flashed through his mind and a knowing smile came to his face.
Dillon fiddled with the guns some more, admiring them for what they were: perfectly crafted instruments that only a firearms enthusiast could understand.
“I think I know now what that guy was looking for,” Dillon said.
“He didn’t find it, did he?”
“Fortunately for us, he didn’t. Who knew your parents had a stash of guns?” Holly let out a big breath. “Only close friends and…”
“And who?”
“Cole Cassel.”
“How does he know?”
“Him and my dad used to talk guns and go target practicing. I’m guessing Cole never forgot about that.”
“Asshole,” Dillon said. He paced the floor. “He didn’t waste any time. How did he beat us back here?” he wondered out loud.
“I don’t know,” Holly said. “When he was shooting at you, do you think he knew who you were?”
Dillon thought about that. “Probably not. I doubt he could see my face clearly from where he was.”
“But he did see us together in the courthouse garage.”
“Did you tell him anything about our professional relationship or talk to him about me?”
“No.”
“Then he wouldn’t know that we are together.”
“But he does know that I’m back,” Holly said.
“And that won’t make it safe here for you.”
“I’m not letting Cole or anybody push me around.”
Holly instructed Dillon to retrieve Cowboy from the pasture and to bring him up to the house. She told him the saddle and the other equipment were in the barn.
“Can you saddle a horse?”
“I’ll figure it out. How do I know which one is Cowboy?”
“Use the magic phrase. He’ll come to you. I told you he’s smart.” As Holly watched him leave, there was a minor detail she left out concerning Cowboy. Better let Dillon figure that out on his own, or better yet, experience it. Holly couldn’t help but laugh.
After Cowboy had been saddled, with Holly’s help, she stood on the front porch with Buster by her side, telling Dillon which roads to take, the landmarks to be on the watch for, and about how long it would take him to reach the town.
Sitting atop Cowboy, Dillon told Holly to rest while he was gone, not do any work, and be sure she stayed hydrated. And to keep Buster inside since
he might try to follow him.
“And don’t lift anything or raise your bad arm over your head.”
“I promise, I won’t,” Holly said.
Dillon clumsily held the reins in his hands, trying to encourage Cowboy in the right direction. Cowboy neighed and shook his head. After several frustrating moments, Dillon asked, “What do I need to do to get him to move?”
“The magic phrase. Remember?”
“Oh, right,” Dillon said. “Ride ‘em, Cowboy!”
With that instruction Cowboy did what horses do best, he ran. Long legs galloped along the road, dust kicking up behind him, running until he and Dillon were out of Holly’s sight.
The speed and ease with which Cowboy ran surprised Dillon and he held on to the reins for dear life. Soon, he would be doing something else to keep his life.
Chapter 27
Cowboy ran for a while then slowed to a steady trot. Holly had told Dillon not to run him for too long since the horse wasn’t used to running for long distances. They passed pastures full of cattle, abandoned cars and trucks, windmills, stock tanks, and pristine land that hadn’t succumbed to the scalpel of civilization.
As Dillon rode it gave him ample time to think about his daughter Cassie, hoping against hope that she was still alive. Having a daughter that needed him gave him purpose in life, knowing he had to go find her. As soon as he returned with the antibiotics for Holly, he’d pack a bag and start the search for his daughter. A father should protect his daughter regardless of how old she was or where she was, and Dillon would search for her until his dying breath.
The sound of another galloping horse interrupted Dillon’s thoughts, and he kept a watchful eye on the approaching rider. Dillon held his position as the rider came closer, thinking someone must be in a hurry to ride that fast.
“Hi, neighbor,” the man said. He hocked a mouthful of spit. “That’s a fine horse you have.” He licked his parched lips, and picked at something in his scalp.
Dillon noted the nervous movements and stunted speech, suspiciously eyeing the side holster holding a gun that bulged under the man’s light jacket.