EMP: Return of the Wild West Box Set | Books 1-3

by Hamilton, Grace

  It was perhaps the first time in his life he’d caught a glimpse of the real person named Marion Healy, and not just his mother. Nervous, unsure, needing reassurance.

  “I suppose they could last up there indefinitely,” he said, after a moment. “Plenty of fish, deer, edible plants. Even if they run out of ammo, they have fishing poles, tackle, and all sorts of game roaming about. Grandpa also knows how to trap small animals. I wouldn’t worry about them. Heck, they might be better off than us.”

  He watched in amazement as his words strengthened her smile

  “You’re right,” she said. “Of course, you are.”

  Had she ever confided in him like that? His mother was smart and highly educated, but she’d always come across as somewhat aloof, analytical, and practical. On the one hand, it made Darryl feel good that she’d confided in him, that she’d turned to him in a moment of flagging confidence like he was an adult. On the other hand, if the veneer of aloof practicality was falling away, maybe she knew things were worse than she was letting on.

  19

  They made camp in the early afternoon on a small, grassy hilltop in sight of the endless pipeline. Greg would have preferred to keep going—the way station was getting close—but poor Tommy was in a miserable state. The tables had turned, and now it was gnarled, old Tuck Healy constantly encouraging his friend to keep going, calling the rest of the group to slow down when the little guy started to lag.

  As Eustace and Greg cleared space, cutting or ripping out the tallest grass, Emma unrolled their small tents. Tuck and Tommy came trudging up the hill last, the smaller man bent over and panting loudly. He was drenched in sweat, and he’d unzipped his jacket despite the onset of colder air. His messy hair had wilted like rain-drenched wool.

  Greg moved close to Eustace and spoke softly. “How much farther to the way station? Our friend isn’t doing too well.”

  Eustace sighed and stabbed the machete into the ground. “It’s a heck of a lot farther when we’re just creeping along like this and stopping to camp in the middle of the day,” he said. He glanced over his shoulder at Tuck and Tommy, who were shuffling toward the tents. “I hate to say it, but it might be better if we just leave him.”

  Greg looked for some indication the man was joking, but he had an ugly scowl on his face. It didn’t help that his beard had grown wilder in the last few days, making him look increasingly savage.

  “We’re not leaving him behind,” Greg said, trying not to raise his voice. Nothing good would come from a shouting match with Eustace. “If it comes down to it, we’ll make a stretcher and carry him.”

  “Who’s going to carry him?” Eustace said. “You and your old man? Hardly. Look, I want as many people as possible to survive, that’s all I’m saying.” He gave Greg a long, hard look, eyebrows slowly descending like the shutting of gates.

  “Let’s just drop it,” Greg said. “Everyone’s tired and cranky. We’ll talk about it after we’re all rested.”

  And with that, he turned and walked toward his daughter, but he heard Eustace grumble, “I’m not cranky. I’m just honest. Maybe you don’t know the difference.”

  Emma had set up the three tents like the corners of a triangle, and now she was using a small entrenching tool to dig a firepit. Greg was alarmed, if not entirely surprised, by Eustace’s words. Would he really abandon a member of their party so easily?

  Don’t assume he wouldn’t, Greg told himself.

  The man was, after all, a reflection of his company, and his company clearly didn’t mind taking money under the table to let companies poison the groundwater in otherwise-pristine British Columbia wilderness. That took a degree of cutthroat detachment. Greg decided not to pursue it for the time being, as he sat down beside Emma and helped his daughter unpack their food. They didn’t have much left. A pouch of beef jerky, some stale biscuits in a resealable bag, and maybe one generous bite of dried fruit.

  We’ll have to stop somewhere and hunt, Greg thought. The food won’t last another day.

  He’d put it off thus far, hoping to reach the way station before Tommy’s condition got much worse, but there was still no sign of the place. Just endless gray pipe that seemed to be pointing into infinity. The other men slowly settled down around the firepit, where Emma was carefully piling up sticks and kindling. They had nothing to cook, but a little bit of light and heat would help when the evening chill settled in.

  Greg parceled out most of the remaining food, but when he went to hand Tommy a chunk of jerky, the man moaned and batted it aside. His eyes were glassy, and he was pouring sweat. When Tuck tried to grab his hand and give him the jerky, his moan became a gasp of pain, even though he’d only touched the uninjured left hand.

  “What was that? What was…that snapped at me just now?” Tommy asked, slurring his words.

  “It’s food,” Tuck said, speaking loudly. “Take it.”

  “No, I’m not hungry,” Tommy replied, waving him off. “My mouth tastes funny. Give it to Tuck. He needs his energy. That’s my buddy, y’know?”

  Tommy’s right arm was swollen and red, the flesh bulging against the edges of the bandage. There just wasn’t much else they could do for him at this point, not without access to antivenom. The poor guy huddled on one side of camp, his arm resting on his knees.

  “I think maybe I’ll go lie down,” he said finally. “I feel better when I’m lying down.”

  “Don’t you think you should eat first?” Greg said. “Force something down, just so your body has strength.”

  “No, I don’t have any appetite. I told you that.” He struggled to his feet, and finally Tuck had to get up and help him. “I feel sort of sick to my stomach, to be honest.”

  Tuck guided his friend toward his tent, where an unrolled sleeping bag was already waiting for him. But instead of crawling inside, Tommy dropped down onto the grass in front.

  “Give me a second,” he said. “I’ll go inside when I’m ready, Tuck. Go eat with the others.”

  He brushed a hand at Tuck, and finally the old man shuffled back over to the firepit. Greg’s dad was in bad enough shape himself, walking now in a perpetual stoop as if his back were slowly folding in on itself.

  What are we going to do with these two? Greg wondered. How the heck do we get them out of the wilderness alive?

  They mostly ate in silence, staring dully at the firepit as Emma worked to get it going. It was windy and a bit wet, so she had more trouble than usual. However, by shielding her pile of kindling with one hand and leaning close, blowing gently into first sparks, she finally managed to produce a small, smoking flame.

  Greg had just finished his small bit of a jerky and the last of the biscuits when he heard a loud crunch coming from somewhere in the trees just beyond the small campsite. It was the unmistakable sound of some very large foot stepping on twigs and dead leaves. Greg lifted his gaze from the fire, locked eyes with Eustace for a moment, then turned to look over his shoulder.

  Emma started to say something, but Eustace put a finger to his lips. They heard a second footfall, louder than the first, followed by a low chuffing sound, as of some enormous beast sniffing the air. Greg couldn’t tell which direction it was coming from, nor did he see the creature, but he stared at the trees beyond the clearing. Rising slowly, he beckoned the others to get up.

  Tuck rose and thrust his hiking staff out in front of him as if it were a weapon, but Greg went for his backpack, signaling for Emma to stay behind him. He pulled the Remington Model 700 out from under its strap, as Eustace went to his own pack to retrieve the Winchester.

  “Dad, there—”

  Emma had just started to speak, her voice a tiny squeak, when the creature burst out of the trees with a roar. It was an enormous grizzly bear, with a shoulder height roughly equal to her. It came from the south, angling toward the tents. Most of the people who had been around the firepit were now clustered together beside the packs, but poor Tommy was sitting on the ground by himself, much closer to the charging bea
r. He managed to turn and look at it before casting himself down onto the grass, as if he thought the ground might swallow and hide him.

  Greg couldn’t believe how fast the animal moved, and a desperate surge of fear swept through his whole body. With every fiber of his being, he wanted to run away as fast as he could, but he dropped to one knee, resisting the urge, and raised the Remington. Eustace was still fumbling with his own rifle, shaking so badly that he couldn’t get it free of its strap.

  As the massive bear closed in on Tommy, towering over him like a wall of fur, saliva, and teeth, Greg took aim and pulled the trigger. He felt the butt of the rifle kick against his shoulder, heard the loud crack of the gunshot. He even saw the bullet hit the bear on its left shoulder, a section of fur popping open as if the creature had ruptured.

  But it kept right on coming.

  “Tommy, play dead,” Tuck shouted, his voice cracking. “Play dead, for God’s sake!”

  Tommy pushed himself up with his left arm, as if he intended to crawl away, but the bear was on him. It clamped its enormous mouth on his right shoulder and swung its head to one side, yanking him off the ground. He shrieked, a piercing sound that scarcely seemed human, as the bear began to shake him back and forth.

  “Shoot it, Dad. Shoot it,” Emma cried. “Oh no, Dad! Hurry!”

  He took aim, but Tommy was in the way, so he shuffled to one side, trying to get a clear shot. Eustace finally had the Winchester free, and he moved the other way, circling around the bear on its left side. The bear continued to shake Tommy, as his shriek became a ragged, croaking sound.

  Greg reached the nearest tent, where he had a clear shot of the bear’s right flank. He dropped to his right knee, took aim, and opened fire. At the same time, Eustace fired the Winchester. The animal was a massive target, almost impossible to miss, and as Greg unloaded the magazine, he saw puffs of fur and smoke as the bullets hit.

  Tommy was like a ragdoll in its mouth, and as it swung him back and forth, his blood splashed on the grass, on the tent, on his end of his sleeping bag. He was no longer making any sound. Greg’s last shot hit the bear just behind the ear, and it finally flinched, drawing back. When it did, it let go of Tommy and he flew up and over his tent, landing in the grass on the far side and rolling a short distance, arms and legs flopping about like boneless bags.

  Both rifles were empty now, and for a second, the bear just stood there, its head turned to one side, giving out deep, wheezing breaths. Greg had the wild idea that it would charge again, and he turned the rifle, just in case he had to use it as a makeshift club. But then the bear backed up, its tongue lolling from the side of its mouth, gave a last gasp, and dropped.

  It settled down on its forepaws, laid its head on its side in the grass, and, as blood poured from its mouth, it let out a last, rattling breath. A terrible quiet fell over the campsite. Even the wind seemed to cease. Greg was frozen, shaking so violently that he finally had to set the rifle down beside him.

  “Dad, help him.” Emma spoke into the silence, and he could tell she was crying.

  That broke Greg out of the moment, and he rose. Tommy was crumpled on his side in the grass, his arms at strange angles. Greg rushed to his side, moving low, just in case the bear wasn’t actually dead. Emma caught up to him before he got there.

  “Don’t look,” he told her.

  But she ignored him and kept coming. The position of Tommy’s body left the wound entirely exposed. The bear had torn a large chunk of his neck and most of his left shoulder so that it hung by a small bit of skin and muscle. His collarbone and windpipe were exposed, jugular torn, which caused blood to pool quickly on the ground around him.

  Greg stumbled to a stop, feeling so nauseous and dizzy that he wasn’t sure if he would vomit or faint first. He thrust his left arm out to keep his daughter from getting any closer.

  “We have to help him,” she said, sobbing, as she tried to push past his arm.

  He took a deep breath, but it didn’t help. “There’s nothing we can do,” he said.

  “We…we have to stop the bleeding,” she said.

  Greg grabbed his daughter and pulled her into an embrace. “The bleeding has already stopped. Emma, he’s gone.”

  20

  The door to the root cellar was set at an angle against a low stone wall a few meters behind the house and looked like it hadn’t been opened in a very long time. When Darryl pulled on the rusted handle, the door resisted. He had to lean back, putting his full weight into it to get the weathered wood to finally snap loose from the hinges. He fell on his butt, dragging the door into his lap.

  I guess we’ll be installing a new door, he thought, casting the old brittle door aside.

  He peered down the steps into the dark cellar. The wall on at least one side had collapsed inward, creating a big pile of bricks and dirt. Darryl had anticipated this. His grandmother had told him that the root cellar had collapsed. Nevertheless, as he picked up his shovel and started down the steps, he realized just how much work remained to be done, and he groaned.

  It’s better than scraping fat off a mountain lion skin, he reminded himself, or sawing through a cow’s spine.

  There was no easier way to clear out the cellar than to just start shoveling, so that’s what he did. One shovelful at a time, he began working his way into the room. It soon became clear that the supporting framework of the crumbled wall was still intact. The whole wall hadn’t fallen, only the bricks that had filled in the gaps. That, at least, was good news.

  It was noticeably cooler below the ground, though somewhat musty. He soon fell into a comfortable rhythm: down the steps, shovel full of dirt, up the steps, dump the shovel, back down the steps. After an hour of work, he’d created a large pile of dirt, junk, scrap metal, and bricks in the field behind the house, and the root cellar was mostly cleared. A few shelves had even survived along the back wall.

  Though he managed to work fast, he had trouble keeping his mind on what he was doing. What his mother had said about his grandma’s health kept nagging at him. If anything happened to Grandma, they would be in real trouble, and it seemed she was neglecting her health. Still, what could he do about it?

  You know what you could do about it, he told himself. You know exactly what you could do. If Grandma won’t take care of herself, you’ll have to take care of her.

  Darryl set the shovel down and brushed his hands together. When he went to look for his mom and grandma, he found them in the barn. Marion was sitting on a stool in front of a large box, packing slabs of meat into salt. They’d opted to dry cure as much of the meat as possible, using large plastic tubs to store it. As she did that, Tabitha was in the back of the barn milking one of the cows. They both looked up as he entered the barn.

  “How’s that root cellar coming along?” Tabitha asked.

  “Just fine, so far,” he replied. “Actually, it’ll need a bit of structural work to shore up the walls. I…uh, I thought about maybe talking to Justine about it. I’m pretty sure the Carmichaels have a root cellar over there, and I could use a bit of advice. I could at least take a look and see what they’ve done.”

  “Oh.” His grandmother gave him a little smile. “Justine Carmichael. That’s who you want to talk to, is it?”

  “No, it’s not like that,” he replied, perhaps a bit too forcefully. He felt his face burning. “I just want to talk to her about the root cellar.”

  “I completely understand, believe me,” Tabitha said, and resumed her work. “You go right ahead and talk to that girl.”

  Darryl’s mom didn’t seem the find the situation amusing. Just the opposite, in fact. “If you’re going to the Carmichaels’ house, take the rifle with you,” she said. “I’m not worried about them, of course, but you’ll have to walk through the woods, and we’re not going to risk another animal attack. Don’t take too long.”

  “I won’t,” he replied, “and I’ll take the long way by road so nothing can leap out of the woods at me.”

  “Hurry b
ack,” Marion said. “I mean it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He gave her a little salute and headed out of the barn. As he started down the gravel driveway, he felt uneasy about lying to them. But he knew if he told them his real plan, neither would go along with it. Still, he had to deal with the situation as soon as possible, or it would continue to bother him. He swung by the shed where he’d left the rifle earlier and grabbed it off a shelf. The meat hooks hung overhead, still flecked with blood.

  Darryl checked to make sure the Winchester was loaded, swung it over his shoulder, and headed for the road. It was already late afternoon, but he thought he could run his errand and make it back home before nightfall. If his mother complained about how long it took, he could tell her that he’d gotten lost in conversation. When he reached the mailbox, he looked left and right at the empty road—then he turned toward town.

  He moved at a brisk pace, the rifle clanking against his shoulder. When he passed Horace’s mailbox, he made a mental note to check on the old guy later. He’d already stopped in a couple of times to make sure their neighbor still had enough food and clean water, but he felt bad for the guy. Horace lived all alone, and he couldn’t get around much.

  We should bring him some of that meat, Darryl thought. He has to be sick of canned vegetables by now.

  They had plenty of meat, and surely Grandma wouldn’t mind sharing with her closest neighbor.

  When he reached the outskirts of town, he was surprised to find the streets mostly empty. He’d expected to see people milling about outside, maybe sitting on their porches having little chats or strolling about. What else was there to do? The first people he spotted, however, were a couple of local citizens walking nearby. The stern cop from before was moving down Main Street on her horse, but the two men were pacing near the edge of town, both of them prominently displaying shotguns. They had the collars on their jackets pulled high, hats pulled low, so that they presented little more than unfriendly eyes.