She was still covered in dry sweat after burying Chrisman and Pete in the backyard not more than thirty minutes earlier. She and Greg, anyway. Emily had kept expecting the psychos to take the opportunity to attack, but with the deputies standing guard with their shotguns, they had kept their distance. Greg had done most of the digging, not wanting her to do too much work given her condition. She’d helped anyway because she didn’t want Savannah to have to do it. The poor kid had just lost her boyfriend—witnessed his brutal murder with her own eyes—and it would have probably killed her to have to dig his grave, too.
Emily was grateful she had gardening gloves to prevent blisters, but even so, her palms were sore from the physical labor. Greg’s were probably worse since she hadn’t been able to find any gloves big enough for him, but the contractor hadn’t complained even a little bit.
She looked away from her palms and focused on the three men gathered around the dining room table on the other side of the wall now. Troyer the closest, with Barton across the round oak furniture. Greg sat to the right, in front of the doorway that connected the dining room and the kitchen.
And there, the three duffel bags resting on the floor at their feet. Three, because Troyer had grabbed Chrisman’s and taken it out of the backroom before Emily had the chance to take a look at its contents. Either the two men knew she and Greg were eyeing those bags, or they weren’t taking any chances losing them. Probably a little of both.
So what exactly was in those bags besides guns and ammo? Why were they so protective of them?
“Where’s her husband?” Barton was asking.
“In the city,” Greg said.
“Then he’s dead,” Troyer said.
“She doesn’t think so.”
“Of course not. Every wife thinks her husband is Superman. Why should she be any different?”
“I don’t know,” Greg said, “but she’s very convinced he’s still out there and making his way here now.”
“He would have gotten here by now if he was,” Barton said. “Face facts. If just half the population turned wackadoo, that’s over a million people jammed into one place. Those are some seriously bad odds. We got lucky, being here at Bear Lake when it all went down. There’s a lot less people out here to deal with.”
“You said lucky?”
“Yeah. Lucky. Why?”
“Funny, that’s all.”
“What’s so funny about it?”
“I’ve never considered myself lucky.”
“Things change. Just look around you,” Troyer said.
“You should come with us,” Barton said. “There’s nothing for you here.”
“I can’t,” Greg said. “I promised her I’d stay.”
“Why? What exactly are you hoping to get by hanging around? You think she’ll forget about her husband all of a sudden?”
“That’s not it.”
“Then what is it?”
“Come with us,” Troyer said. “We got extra room now that Chrisman’s dead.”
“You don’t sound very beat up about it,” Greg said.
Troyer chuckled. “Hey, you know what they say. The only two certainties in life are death and taxes.”
“Used to be, anyway,” Barton said. “Now it’s death, taxes, and psychos.”
The two deputies laughed, but Greg didn’t join them.
Footsteps!
Emily turned around, tightening her grip on the SIG Sauer at her side, but it was only Savannah coming out of the back hallway. The teenager saw her reaction and froze in place. Emily lifted her forefinger to her lips and the girl nodded back.
In the dining room, Barton was still working on Greg: “You’re not in love with her, are you?”
Greg laughed.
Except Emily thought it was a little…What? Forced?
“You’re crazy,” Greg said. “I just don’t like the idea of leaving her and the girl behind.”
“The girl could come with us, too,” Troyer said.
“She doesn’t want to.”
“Maybe I won’t give her a choice.”
“What are you saying?”
This time, it was Troyer who laughed unconvincingly.
“He’s just fucking around,” Barton said. “Don’t mind him.”
Emily looked back at Savannah. The girl was leaning against the opposite wall, watching her back. Emily wasn’t sure if she’d heard the conversation—with her as the current central topic—or not because Savannah’s eyes were so focused on the gun in Emily’s hand.
“Yeah,” Troyer was saying. “I’m just fucking around. Don’t mind me.”
“About the Audi,” Greg said.
“What about it?”
“Maybe you can ask; it’s possible she’ll let you have it. It’s not like we’re going to be using it anytime soon. I know she’s not.”
“Don’t have to,” Barton said. “There are plenty of other cars around. Most of them still have gas in the tank. You said the dead kid’s car is still parked at the front gate?”
“Pete.”
“Yeah, him.”
“That’s what he told us.”
“Then it’s probably still there. Keys in the ignition?”
“That, I’m not sure of.”
“I guess it doesn’t matter. Like I said, plenty of cars sitting around, waiting for someone to drive them.”
“You know you’ll have to open the gate, right? Manually?”
“No problem,” Troyer said. “The same thing that makes these infected assholes smart is the same thing that’s going to keep them away from us.”
“Your guns.”
“Exact—” Barton was saying when Emily finally pushed off the wall and revealed herself.
Barton didn’t finish what he was about to say. He was sitting across the table from Troyer and saw her first. He’d shut up because the 1911 was in Emily’s hand, and she had it pointed at the back of Troyer’s head.
“The fuck?” Barton said instead.
Troyer began to turn around, when Emily said, “I wouldn’t, if I were you.”
The deputy didn’t finish his turn. Instead, he looked across the table at Barton, who shook his head.
“Well, shit,” Troyer said.
Emily quickly scanned the table now that she was out in the open and could see everything clearly.
Barton sat back in his seat, clearly full from his meal. There was a bottle of water halfway to his lips when he spotted her, and it was still there. His current pose allowed Emily to see both his hands—the right one holding the plastic bottle and the left resting on the tabletop. His pump-action shotgun lay in front of him, within easy reach. Unless, of course, someone was pointing a gun in your vicinity, and it wouldn’t have taken them much to redirect it at you.
“Keep those hands on the table,” Emily said.
Out of the corner of her right eye, she saw Greg jump up from his chair and move back, away from the table, just as they had discussed. He was moving clear of Emily’s line of fire.
Emily was focused on Barton across the table when Troyer, his back still turned to her, slowly slid one hand toward the shotgun lying very close to Barton’s—
She shot the saltshaker sitting in the middle of the table between the two men. Both deputies ducked reflexively as the glass container shattered and salt pelted them.
“Christ!” Barton shouted.
Emily sidestepped slightly to get a better look at Troyer’s front, at the same time still keeping Barton on one side and within view. As she did so, she caught the quick glance between the two men as they straightened back up in their chairs. They didn’t have to say a word for her to know what they were thinking: There were two of them and only one of her, and she could only shoot one of them at a time.
“The question is, which one of you wants to risk being shot?” she asked them.
That stopped them from acting on their unspoken plan.
“Hands back on the table,” she said.
Troyer add
ed his hands to the tabletop, Barton having never moved his left. His right was still holding the water bottle.
“Greg,” Emily said.
The big man rushed forward and snatched up both shotguns from the table. He stepped back and slung one over his back, before positioning the other one to take aim at Barton.
“Shoot him if he puts down that water bottle,” Emily said.
“What?” Barton said.
“You heard me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Greg said, lifting the pump-action to aim it at Barton’s chest.
Barton swallowed, and the water bottle wavered slightly in the air.
Emily moved toward Troyer and slid the handgun out of his hip holster, then hurried around the table and did the same to Barton. They were both carrying Glocks. She shoved the pistols into her front waistband and stepped back again.
“Savannah!” she shouted.
The girl appeared quickly, as if she had been waiting for the signal. Which wasn’t possible because Emily and Greg hadn’t told her about their plan, mostly because neither one of them were sure she was up to the task. Emily wouldn’t have blamed the teenager if she wasn’t, not after witnessing Pete’s grisly death at Chrisman’s hands.
“Secure the duffel bags,” Emily said.
Savannah had to crawl under the table to do that, but she came out dragging all three bags by their straps. They must have been heavier than Emily thought, because the girl had to pull them across the floor, straining the whole time.
“Big mistake,” Troyer said, his eyes fixed on Emily.
She ignored him and turned to Barton. “Stand up.”
“Why?” Barton asked.
She pointed the gun in his face. “Stand the fuck up.”
“What about this water bottle? My hand is getting a little unsteady.”
“Put it down.”
He did, lowering the bottle to the table before standing up as commanded. “Now what?”
“The wall. Assume the position.”
The deputy grunted, then turned around and walked to the wall and spread his legs, before interlacing his fingers behind his head without having to be told.
He’s done that before, Emily thought.
“Greg,” Emily said.
Greg swiveled his shotgun away from Barton and pointed it at Troyer, who hadn’t moved from his chair.
Emily walked over to Barton and patted him down. He had a switchblade in his back pocket and a smaller Glock in an ankle holster. She removed both.
“Anything else?” she asked.
“The ladies have been known to say I pack a cannon in my trousers,” Barton said.
Troyer, somewhere behind her, scoffed.
“Doubtful,” she said, stepping back. “Sit down.”
Barton did as instructed.
She nodded at Greg, who turned the shotgun back to Barton, leaving her to deal with Troyer.
“Your turn,” she said to the other deputy.
“Can I at least get dinner first?” Troyer said even as he stood up slowly from his chair.
“You already did.”
“Spam?”
“Food is food. Don’t be so picky.”
“This is a mistake,” Barton said. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing. We came here on good faith. This is not the way you treat friends.”
“You’re not our friends,” Emily said. “Friends wouldn’t leave us here with just one handgun to defend ourselves with.”
And four bullets in the magazine, she thought about adding, but decided they didn’t have to know she only had four bullets left after shooting Chrisman earlier, and just now, the saltshaker.
She expected Troyer to make a move, twist and try to grab her gun when she patted him down, but he didn’t. Instead, he assumed the position like Barton had earlier (They’ve definitely done this before.) and let her pat him down.
Emily found and removed an extra Glock in a back holster from Troyer.
When she had them disarmed, Emily gave Greg another nod, and the big man let out a sigh of relief. He lowered the shotgun, then took another step back until he was leaning against the wall for support. Emily guessed he was on the verge of passing out from all the stress and adrenaline.
She glanced over at Savannah, standing nearby with the duffel bags gathered around her feet. “Open one of them, Savannah. Let’s see what’s inside.”
Savannah nodded and crouched, then unzipped the closest bag before dragging it across the tiled floor toward a stream of fading sunlight coming through one of the barricaded windows to get a better look.
As Emily had guessed, there were weapons inside, including an M4 carbine and spare magazines taped up in bundles. The teenager reached in and pulled out a couple of spare handguns and boxes of ammo. Then she found something that, from the look on her face, caught her by surprise.
“What is it?” Emily asked.
Savannah didn’t answer. Instead, she pulled out a velvet black pouch.
“Open it,” Emily said.
Savannah did.
Diamonds, like glittering glass raindrops, pelted the dirt-caked floor and rolled everywhere.
Emily looked back at the two deputies sitting at the table. “What did you do, rob a jewelry store?”
“Maybe a whole jewelry chain of stores,” Greg said. He was crouched next to the bag and was pulling out two, three, four more of the black pouches. Each one looked full.
“Diamonds,” Emily said. “What were you going to do with them?”
“It’s not stealing if the previous owners are dead,” Barton said.
“You don’t know that,” Greg said.
“Don’t I? Look outside, buddy. This is not going to get better tomorrow. Or a week. Or a month from now. This is permanent. This is the We Are All Fucked times.”
“So why diamonds?” Emily asked.
“What do you mean?” Barton said.
“What exactly are diamonds worth if this is, like you said, the end times?”
Barton and Troyer exchanged a look.
They don’t know, she thought. They stole the diamonds, but they have absolutely no idea why or what they’ll do with them.
“You don’t know,” she said out loud.
“They’re diamonds,” Barton said as if that should explain everything.
They didn’t, but then she didn’t think the two deputies—if that was even what they really were—knew that.
“You’re thieves,” Emily said.
“Like Barton said, can’t be thieves if the owners are dead,” Troyer said.
“Is that your excuse?”
“You got a better one?”
“No. And right now, I don’t much care.”
“So, what?” Barton asked. “You gonna kill us?”
“Should I?”
“I don’t know. That’s up—” Barton started to say, when something heavy smashed into the dining room window behind them.
Glass shattered, and one of the doors they had barricaded the window with cracked in half and splinters flew across the room.
Emily ducked instinctively, spinning around toward the source.
Savannah screamed and Greg dropped the bags of diamonds and scrambled to pick the shotgun back up from the floor.
Emily stared at a pair of red eyes, glaring at her from the other side of the window. If she believed in monsters, this would be one of them. But she didn’t, and this wasn’t.
It was a man.
A hulking man wielding a massive object, and he wanted to come in.
Chapter 15
Everything happened all at once and too fast. Or it appeared too fast to her as her mind attempted to catch up to her eyes and ears. Through it all, she had to fight past the wild sensation of the hairs along both arms and the back of her neck spiking as the air was electrified with motion.
And danger. So much danger.
Before Bear Lake, before Cole, before this six-week-old baby growing inside her, Emily would have been able to
take it all in and flow with it. She wouldn’t have had to think. Wouldn’t have had to catch up. She would have just acted.
But those days were long gone. She was a housewife now. The old skills that had made her so employable after the Army had gone dormant. After all, what did a housewife need with the ability to instantly sift through a chaotic situation, process every little bit of detail, and compute a decisive plan of attack—all within the space of a few heartbeats?
She did that now—or tried to—as the house (her dream house) burst into chaos.
Greg, shouting from somewhere behind her: “Hey, stop! I said stop!”
(Who was he shouting at?)
The psycho, hammering the window barrier across the room. Bam-bam-bam!
(What the hell was he wielding? Some kind of sledgehammer?)
Barton, already on his feet, and making a run for it.
(Where did he think he was going? And did he really think he was going to make it?)
And Troyer—where was Troyer?
(Shit. Where the hell was Troyer?)
The house, along with her eardrums, were rocked by a loud explosion from nearby.
No, not an explosion.
A shotgun blast.
Emily twisted around. Greg had squeezed the trigger on the pump-action, the resulting boom so loud that Emily thought every one of the walls, along with the floor and ceiling, might have shook for a few seconds afterward.
(Is that possible? Probably not.)
When she followed the trajectory of Greg’s shotgun, she found Barton on the floor, lying facedown. There was a big black and red splatter on his back where the buckshot had landed. Greg, as far as she knew, had just shot his first man.
Emily wished she could have said she’d never seen someone die in front of her eyes before, but it would have been a lie. Instead of feeling remorse or shock by the obvious death of Barton, all Emily could think was, One down! One to go!
That other one was Troyer, who was, in her mind, the most dangerous of the trio.
And she couldn’t find him.
(Shit. Where did he go? Where’d that asshole go?)
A flash of motion as the man himself appeared from the other side of the oak table and made a run for the kitchen door.
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