by Lou Cadle
“I’ve been out hunting with Dev a few times. Squirrel and rabbits. And he’s been teaching me about stuff. You know, like what you said. Fighting. Ambushes, and flanking, and all that. Making me shoot at running targets.”
Pilar didn’t know whether to be angry this had happened behind his back or relieved it had begun in time. In any case, his anger wasn’t directed at his daughter. “So how is it coming for you?”
“Okay, I think. I killed a rabbit. We did some practice with moving silently in the woods, but I totally screwed that up. I think it’d take years to learn to do that right. And he taught me how to shoot from two positions so that our fire overlapped but we didn’t accidentally shoot each other. Oh, and he gave me a book they had, on war theory. But it’s boring and I haven’t read much.”
“Wow, you have been busy.”
“Are you mad?”
“Not at all. Why’d you do it?”
She surprised him again. “I think we will have more trouble. I hope the tree we put by the road hides us, and I feel better for it being down, but you know, there are maps. People with maps—paper ones of the forest, electronic, satellite shots, whichever—will know there’s a road here. With the satellite view, they’d know exactly how many houses.”
“The map is not the territory,” he said.
“What’s that mean?”
“It means that there’s more to knowing the land, to moving through the trees, than a picture or map can tell you.”
“I don’t know about that. I think a satellite picture would help them out. I’d hope for electricity to go out entirely down there, and no one to have the internet anymore to have access to maps. But we have the internet here. So people must have it in the cities.”
“Sure. Of course.”
“What if Arch is right, and there are people in Phoenix right now, thinking, ‘I need to get my family out of the city?’ Brownouts on top of no gas. If they are on their last tank of gas, they’re looking right now at roads out of Phoenix. Do they go west or south? No, obviously not—just more hot desert. They go toward Prescott or Sedona or Flag, or maybe toward Payson or Williams. The smartest ones aren’t even considering landing in another city. They’ll understand that if it’s bad where they are, it will be in other places. It’ll be worst of all anyplace there are a lot of people living together, even just as many as live in Payson.”
“If they’re smart. As smart as you,” Pilar said. He was impressed—and a little shocked—that his daughter had been thinking that way. Dev’s influence? Or maybe they’d talked about this sort of thing in high school. He told her about the food riot. “If they aren’t worried now, if they stay there and this doesn’t get any better, they’ll be breaking into neighbors’ houses soon, looking for the last of the food. They’ll tear up gardens and eat whatever is ready. If they’re too poor—or planned too badly—to drive far out of town, they’ll have to walk. And they might not be like the guy Quinn shot the other day. Imagine a gang of them, twenty or thirty, with guns.”
“You’re scaring me even more than I was scaring me.”
He was scaring himself, and with every word he said, he was certain he had to do something that he’d been avoiding. “New plan. We have chores to do that can’t wait today—harvest what’s ripe, feed the chickens, get the pen for the new chicks set up. Feed Bodhi.” The dog was lying by the door and raised his head at his name. “But except for that, we’re going to do some self-defense training. Both of us. We’ll get some target practice in and I can see what Dev’s taught you. Finish eating, so we can start the day.”
“I’m done. Are you?” she said.
“Half a sec,” he said, and shoveled the last of the cooling oatmeal into his mouth before handing over his bowl. “Run water in the bowls, then run to the other houses and tell everyone that we’ll be shooting up in our woods later this morning. I don’t want them thinking it’s anything worse than that.”
“Okay. Just calm down, would you? You’re making me nervous.”
He wasn’t sure why it had hit him like this, but he was nervous. You’d think seeing the dead man on Quinn’s workshop floor would have been the trigger for him. Or the images of the riot police on the news feed from Phoenix this morning. But for some reason, it had taken until he was talking to Sierra about it for the fuse to burn all the way down.
That’s what it felt like. That a fuse had burned down the length of his throat and a fear bomb had detonated inside his chest.
When the bare minimum chores had been accomplished, they climbed all the way up to the edge of their property to shoot. She had gotten better, and was at least the marksman he was. When they were done, they sat together and cleaned the firearms. They had two rifles, three shotguns, and though he hadn’t brought it out, Pilar had a handgun locked in a small safe in his bedroom. Not for the first time, he wondered how big Quinn’s arsenal was. Man might have a rocket launcher over there for all he knew.
He hoped it wouldn’t come to that level of fighting.
But it might, he knew. Depending on how well the government responded to the food shortages in the city, it might.
Chapter 15
Arch Quinn did have quite the arsenal, and he was checking it over when Sierra Crocker—or Ash, or whatever her name was these days—came over to tell them they’d be firing weapons. She stood on the porch and spoke through the screen to Kelly while Devlin and Quinn continued systematically cleaning their weapons. “Pilar’s freaked out and wants us to do some target practice. He knows that I’ve been shooting with Dev and isn’t upset. Thought you’d want to know that too.”
“About time he came around,” he muttered to Kelly once the girl had left.
“At least it is in time. I’d hate to think what a gang from Phoenix might do to that pretty girl.”
“I wouldn’t let them,” Devlin said.
Arch threw him a look. “You’d be here defending your own home. They need to defend theirs. Including their own lives.”
Devlin didn’t answer. He dabbed a drop more gun oil on a rag and went back to his work.
“Don’t use any shortcuts. Do it right,” Arch said. “You want every one of these working right when you need it.”
* * *
Dev had heard it a thousand times before and resented hearing it again. He did his work. He wished his father would quit giving him orders like he was still eight years old.
And he would defend Sierra, no matter what his father said. And the Morrows. Or Curt Henry if the man needed his help. What was the point of those meetings and all the talk about working as a neighborhood and team if they weren’t actually going to? His father meant something else by it than what Dev himself did, but he couldn’t put a finger on exactly what it was his father was thinking. What he did know was that his own understanding of the term was the right one.
“We could cache some of these around the property,” his father said. “That way, no matter what we’re doing when it happens, we can get to a gun.”
His mother said, “Then so can they. You have the locked bunker hidden up in the woods, and the safe in the shop floor, and what’s here in the house. That’s enough. But I see what you’re saying, and I would say you should carry a rifle on you at all times. All three of us, in fact, should.”
His father grunted. “We need to train today too. We’ll practice going for the caches we have. We’ll deploy around the property, as we might be on any normal day. I’ll whistle the signal for us being attacked, and we’ll go for the nearest weapons cache, house or shop or woods. I want to make sure our timing is as good as we can get it.”
Dev thought the time would be better spent drilling with everyone in the neighborhood. He’d mention that to his mother later.
“And remember, if we need to we can fall back here, to the house, and lock it down. I want us to practice bringing down the shutters today too.”
The metal shutters over the windows were meant for attack, for cases when the glass was shot out. They ea
ch had firing ports. Dev doubted if the metal was thick enough to keep out most rounds. Maybe if someone was shooting at them with a varmint gun or squirrel shot. The real value to the shutters, he believed, was disguising who was in here, how many, and to keep people from climbing in after they’d shot up a window.
“Sounds like a busy day,” his mother said. “Don’t forget to leave me time to cook and clean.”
“Forget cleaning for a day,” his father said. “We’ll use paper plates. And turn on the radio to see if we can get better news out of Phoenix—if it’s possible to get a read on that situation from the news and they aren’t telling a prettier story than the truth. We need to know what’s coming, and when.”
* * *
Mitch Morrow held Sybil’s hand. “I hope it doesn’t come to it, my dear. Though it has already with Arch Quinn shooting that poor man. I told you about that? You should have seen that little girl. I know, you were never fond of small children, but she was such a waif. Straight out of Dickens. Would have melted the hardest heart around, which is hardly yours.”
He laid her hand back at her side and checked the oxygen flow. She needed it several times per day. She’d gotten worse this past six months, and he feared he’d lose her before the year was out. He had oxygen on hand for six months for her, but if things didn’t improve out there, he’d have no access to more after year’s end. And then she’d die.
If men like Arch Quinn were right, and civilization were about to collapse, it’d be awful, but he was almost glad she wasn’t compos mentis enough to know it. Sybil was a civilized woman. It would horrify her.
He changed her diaper and cleaned her up, powdered her, then lifted her head and fed her some formula with a syringe. She could still swallow and did whenever liquid was in her mouth. He was grateful she still had that, though chewing had left her around last Christmas.
Her eyes moved around the room. He had her degree certificates framed on the wall, along with two professional awards she had won. There was a photo of them in their early 30s, together on a ferry in New York, the Statue of Liberty in the background. It was hard to say how much of it she saw. Impossible to say how much of his Sybil was left in there.
Dabbing at a bit of formula that had dribbled out of the side of her mouth, he said, “I love you always. But I have chores to do. The garden is beautiful this year. You would have enjoyed it so much. And your dahlias are budding. So far, the deer haven’t jumped the fence to get to them.” They usually did, but sometimes there was a week of bloom first.
He worked in the yard alone all morning. In the distance, he could hear the sounds of gunfire from the Crocker place, as he’d been warned—target practice, not a battle. About eleven, it ended. He realized he’d been feeling tense only when he finally relaxed into the silence.
He gathered eggs and went inside to make himself a quiche. He opened one of the packs of bacon and fried some up. Not a lot of bacon left. Plenty of ham, though, some canned and on the shelves, some in the big freezer. Maybe he’d unfreeze one for their next neighborhood meeting, a big spiral ham, and let everyone eat ham sandwiches while they could.
“Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we may die,” he said, and having said it opened himself a bottle of Riesling. He wished Sybil could share it with him.
* * *
Curt Henry had listened to the gunfire too as he worked outside in the morning. The game might still be wary from the noise, so after a lunch of canned soup and biscuits from box mix, he geared up and walked through his property and into the National Park land, hunting for dinner. A bevy of quail served nicely and he took three with his blowgun. Nice and quiet, and the flock barely noticed until he went to gather the dead birds. On the way back, at his property line, he followed it around and checked his traps. He let loose a marten, which spit and fussed and tried to bite him the whole time. There was nothing else. Not a surprise. There was plenty to eat out in the world in June, so traps were most effective in winter, when the creatures were willing to take a risk for a meal.
The neighborhood was quiet when he returned home, as he preferred it. Peace and quiet and solitude were what he liked best. All these get-togethers were wearing on him. But he liked the idea of taking the tree down. The fewer people who could get to him, the better.
He hated the news, hated to know what the normal world was doing, but after he’d cleaned the birds he put on the police band radio to listen. He was able to stand it only for twenty minutes, but it sounded as if things were falling apart down there in town. A lot of petty skirmishes. Warning shots fired. Fighting over someone stealing food from a garden. A dog shot.
He looked around his cabin. He had everything he needed here to last out his life. He wanted to stay here. But if it came to it, he had a backpack ready, loaded up with tent, bag, and bow, and could take to the forest and survive...at least through autumn.
Winter would be tougher. Even with the warmer winters these days, it would still be freezing at any higher elevation. If he had to abandon the cabin to well-armed thieves, maybe in winter he could come back and retake it from whoever had driven him out. A bunch of city people didn’t have a thing on him when it came to moving quietly in the woods. He could pick them off one by one.
He was concerned about the way things were going, but he wouldn’t characterize his mood as afraid. Not yet. For now, he was worried only about Arch Quinn. He suspected the man had been too quick to shoot—not because he knew the details of the event, but because he knew men like Arch Quinn, quick to a fight.
One man could almost always be talked out of what he was doing, the food thief included.
But more than one? That was another story. When the time came, Curt was prepared to do whatever it took to stay alive.
Chapter 16
Pilar was asleep when it happened.
The past four days, he’d kept busy. Not only was there the normal load of summer chores, but he’d kept even more busy with training with Sierra for an hour every morning, and one long afternoon with the Quinns, including learning their system of communicating, which included about twenty whistles and clicks. He’d still been working in the garden at sundown last night, and sundown came late this time of year. He was sleeping hard.
Only Bodhi’s insistent bark saved him from a worse disaster.
He dragged himself out of bed, still groggy with exhaustion, and fumbled for his boots in the dark. “It’s okay, boy, it’s okay,” he said. He was trying to reassure himself more than the dog, the words a hopeful incantation. He threw a flannel shirt over his shorts, and was reaching for the bedroom door when it pushed open.
Sierra was there, fully dressed, her shape barely visible in the dark. She’d remembered to not turn on any lights—good. “I think there’s someone outside.”
“Okay. Call the neighbors if you can get a strong enough signal on the phone. If not, text. And stay inside, and keep the doors all locked. Get the shotgun.” He grabbed his rifle from where he’d left it loaded on his dresser, and pushed past her, the dog at his side, growling now.
“No, I’ll go with you.”
“I don’t want you hurt.”
“I don’t want you hurt,” she said. “Why’d you teach me to shoot better if you didn’t think I was ever going to need the skill?”
She had him there. “Damn it. Just stay close, would you?”
She nodded. “Hang on, let me text everyone.” It only took her twenty seconds. “Hope they went through.”
He eased open the back door, peering around the yard. A silvery light from a quarter moon shone on the clearing. Inky shadows cast by the pines might be hiding intruders. If someone was moving there, he couldn’t see them.
When he had opened the door six inches, Bodhi pushed it far enough to get through and ran hard for the chicken coop. Maybe it was just a fox, then. He hoped so.
He reached around and brought Sierra’s head close to his mouth. “Stay behind me,” he whispered, and he trotted after Bodhi, scanning the yard, look
ing for danger.
He saw movement by the henhouse. It wasn’t Bodhi. It wasn’t a fox, either.
It was a human. Two humans.
“Get back to the house,” he hissed at Sierra, and he ran for the henhouse. The hens were up and making noise, and Bodhi was growling, running around and trying to herd the intruders out. Pilar wished that Bodhi was a biter, but he simply wasn’t. Too civilized, unlike these thieves.
“Hands up,” he shouted, as he came to the range he thought he could actually shoot someone in the dark.
A shot rang out, and he dropped to the ground. “Sierra, run!” he said. Then he lifted the rifle and shot, aiming high, not wanting to hit Bodhi by accident, not really wanting to hit the people, just to scare them away. As he shot his fifth round, Bodhi went tearing by him, back toward the house.
Only one thing could make him abandon his responsibility for the chickens.
A flash and another shot from the henhouse made it impossible for him to turn back and see what was happening behind him. He was stuck here, fighting it out with these two. Sierra was on her own.
The thought made him physically ill. She wasn’t ready for this.
* * *
Sierra had turned to look toward the house, not to run, but to see if it needed defending. In a shaft of moonlight, she saw the barn door was wide open.
There could be someone else here. If so, they were probably in the barn.
Running on tiptoe, as quietly as she could, she made it to the back of the barn where there was a regular-sized door. She stopped and took a deep breath, trying to slow her racing heart.
Impossible. It kept beating triple-time. Okay, Sierra. Go for it. Surprise—one of Dev’s core principles of attack.
She twisted the latch that held the door closed, wincing when it gave off a little squeak. So much for surprise. She let go and backed away. The lay of the land made the weight of the door respond to gravity, slowly easing open, and she knew that, so she had her shotgun up and was ready as it gained speed. Inside the barn was nothing but blackness.