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

by Hamilton, Grace

  “I was hoping maybe you’d come up with a new idea for a project,” she said. “Oh well. If you do, let me know. I’m kind of bored right now.”

  “Will do, kiddo.”

  Feeling somewhat deflated, Greg headed upstairs to get some sleep. As he reached the landing, he saw the door at the very end of the hall was open. It was the guest room where Justine had been staying. However, at the moment, his son was sitting on the floor beside the bed all alone. He had his knees drawn up, his arms resting on top of them, and his head hanging down.

  Greg moved a little closer and realized he was alone in the room. Justine wasn’t there, and Darryl seemed oblivious to his father’s approach. Greg let his footsteps become a little louder than necessary, but still it didn’t draw attention.

  “Hey there, son,” he said finally.

  Darryl finally lifted his head, blinked a few times rapidly, and gave him a questioning look.

  “Where’s Justine?” Greg asked. “Is she around?”

  “Downstairs bathroom,” Darryl replied. And then, as if to explain, “Said she doesn’t like to use the upstairs one. It’s too cramped, and the window is really small, so it gets dark in there, even during the day.”

  “I see.” Darryl started to lower his head again, so Greg stepped through the door. “Hey, son, is…is everything okay?”

  Darryl opened his mouth, as if he were about to say something, then he stopped himself. With a grunt, he rose from the floor and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I’m fine,” he said, after a moment. “Actually, Dad, I’ve been meaning to ask you the same thing. Are you okay?”

  The question took Greg by surprise, and he couldn’t formulate an answer. Darryl was the last person he had expected to confront him about his strange mood lately. After all, he’d been the most preoccupied. It took a second of fumbling around before Greg could articulate an answer.

  “Everything is fine,” he said. “Just fine. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, you never caught the mountain lion or whatever took the cow, for one thing,” Darryl said. “I figured you’d be frustrated about that.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Greg said. “We can spare one cow, and, hey, it forced us to build a better, stronger fence. We’re ready if the thief comes back.”

  Darryl shrugged. “Well, besides that, you’ve just seemed like you’re in a weird mood lately. Are you sure you’re fine?”

  “Just fine,” Greg managed to say again, trying to force a smile. “Thanks for asking.”

  Darryl flopped back onto Justine’s bed, folding his hands on his stomach. “I’m fine. You’re fine. Everyone’s fine. So there you go. I enjoyed this little chat, Dad. Thanks.”

  Despite the obvious sarcasm, Greg decided to let it go. What else could he say, anyway? Darryl wasn’t going to open up, Greg didn’t want to open up, and that was that. This whole dynamic reminded Greg just a bit too much of the relationship he’d had with Tuck.

  “Well, I’d better go get a little sleep,” he said finally. “Been up since about two in the morning.”

  “Don’t let me hold you back,” Darryl said, shutting his eyes.

  Greg lingered a second longer, then turned and headed back down the hall to his bedroom. He pulled off his coat and snow pants and hung them on a hook on the back of the door. Then he pulled his winter boots off one by one and set them beside the bed, realizing that in his sleep-deprived state he must have left wet tracks all through the house. Finally, he flopped down on the covers, feeling a deep, warm exhaustion wash over him.

  You can’t keep the lie going indefinitely, he thought. Sooner or later, they’re all going to find out that Eustace is alive and that he’s put down roots in Glenvell. Then again, if you kill him before they find out, it’ll be less of a problem.

  Yes, he had to get it done soon. This thought was foremost in his mind as he drifted off to sleep.

  9

  Justine didn’t join Darryl for his watch after dinner that evening. She said she wasn’t feeling good and excused herself to go to bed. Of course, due to the tension, Darryl couldn’t help but worry that she was just trying to get away from him, but he didn’t dare ask. Her emotions were still so raw, he didn’t want to stir up trouble between them. They were united in purpose, but it felt like a tenuous unity, made fragile by fear.

  The watch was interminable and entirely uneventful. He spent most of the time up in the platform, gazing off toward the trees as a light snow fell. When he got bored, or too anxious to sit still, he climbed down and made a circuit of the property, looking for any signs of damage to the fence or animal tracks. Nothing. It was quiet and frigid, and try as he might, he couldn’t find any way to keep his mind from running in circles.

  Finally, when his watch ended, as the night had finally set in, his mother and grandmother came to take his place, and he trudged upstairs to get ready for bed. He considered checking on Justine, but her door was shut, and the small gap at the bottom of the door was utterly dark. Still, he lingered outside her door for a few seconds, debating with himself.

  Will she be upset if I intrude, or will she be upset if I don’t intrude?

  He didn’t blame her for the roller coaster of emotions, but he also didn’t always know what she wanted from him. Finally, with a quiet sigh, he went to his room and changed into a long-sleeved t-shirt and sweatpants. It was chilly in the room. With only a large fireplace downstairs in the living room to provide heat for the entire house, his only recourse against the cold was to double up on blankets.

  As he pulled the blankets back, he happened to glance at his desk, where the stack of college books sat, along with a notebook with abandoned notes from the days when college mattered, and his dead, dark cell phone. Some days, he was tempted to throw them all away, but he had an iota of hope left that the world would someday get back to normal.

  Man, if I had a working smartphone, all of this would be a thousand times better, he thought.

  “What the hell are we going to do?” he whispered into the darkness. “When are we going to break the news to everyone about Justine? We can’t hide it forever, but, God, everyone’s going to be mad at us.”

  He shuddered to think about how his grandmother would react. Pulling the many layers of blankets over him, he curled up deep beneath and tried to put his problems out of his mind. Unfortunately, his restless mind made it difficult to sleep, and he spent a good hour or more tossing and turning, as if he were wrestling with his own mind and body to get them to submit.

  Sleep. Sleep, stupid. Sleep! Don’t think about the pregnancy. Don’t worry about Justine. Don’t remember dead men in the front yard or Grandpa’s grave or the terrible, unseeable future. Just sleep!

  And then it happened, and he slept long and hard, buried beneath the blankets as snow continued to build on the windowsill outside his bedroom.

  He awoke to bright morning sunlight coming through the curtains. Sitting up, he pulled a curtain back and looked outside. The snow had ceased falling in the night, but it looked deeper in the yard. He wondered if it would just keep piling up and piling up until it buried the whole ranch.

  Darryl pulled on his socks and rose from his bed, stepping lightly across the room. It was almost midmorning, but when he poked his head into the hallway, the house seemed strangely quiet. All of the usual sounds—the clatter of dishes, voices speaking, stairs creaking—were absent. In the hall, every bedroom door was shut. No one slept late these days. No one. There was simply too much to be done on the ranch. Had anyone drawn water from the well? Fed and milked the cows? Started to prepare breakfast?

  He went down the hall to the stairs and listened. Downstairs was utterly silent. He went down to the living room and saw the Remington rifle sitting on its shelf. The front door was shut and bolted. The dining room and kitchen were empty.

  What the hell? Did everyone just up and leave?

  He went back upstairs and stood there for a moment. Finally, he heard what sounded like a soft groan coming from Justine’s
room, so he hurried to the door. He knocked lightly. She said something that he didn’t quite make out, but he dared to open the door just enough to speak through the crack.

  “Justine?” he whispered.

  “I said, ‘Come in,’” she replied. Her voice sounded rough.

  He poked his head through the door and saw her lying in bed, the sheet, blanket, and quilt folded down to her stomach. He went to her side and knelt down.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I feel like crap,” she replied. “My head hurts, my throat hurts, I have all kinds of weird aches and pains.”

  He laid the back of his hand against her cheek, then her neck, then her forehead. She didn’t seem to have a fever.

  “Is it something to do with the pregnancy?” he asked.

  “No, I think it’s a cold,” she replied. “Do we have any medicine? I feel awful.”

  “I’ll go ask Grandma,” he said.

  “Thank you. I appreciate it.” She rolled over in bed and pulled the covers up, and he helped tuck them in.

  Despite her illness, the brief, friendly interaction had a profound effect on his mood. A few gentle words made him feel like everything was better. He shut her door and went to Grandma’s room down the hall. His improved mood made him bold, and he knocked on her door repeatedly until he heard an angry croak from the other side.

  “Grandma?” He dared to open the door. “Are you in here? Justine needs some…”

  His words trailed off as he saw Tabitha still in bed. At this late hour? It was unthinkable. She had wrapped a heavy blanket around herself and had a couple of candles burning on a nightstand. Grandma’s room was filled with shelves covered in knickknacks, landscape paintings on the walls, and a big framed portrait of a relatively young Tuck and Tabitha standing together in some kind of professional photographer’s studio.

  “I didn’t realize it was so late,” Grandma said. Then she coughed and groaned. “I’m not feeling so hot this morning. Seems like I came down with a bit of a cold. Could you get me some medicine? We’ve got cold and flu syrup in the medicine chest.”

  “Sure, Grandma. I think Justine is sick, too.”

  “You’d better check on everyone else,” she said. “I think we’ve got something going around.”

  He did just that, going to his parents’ room, then to Emma’s room, and finally down to Horace Bouchard’s room, and he found that every single one of them was sick. The entire household had come down with the same severe cold.

  After finding a bottle of cold and flu medicine in the bathroom, he went from person to person, treating each of them like the household nurse. He started with Justine, of course.

  “Do you think it’s safe to drink this?” he asked, as he worked the lid off the bottle of medicine.

  “What does the label say?” she asked.

  He read the tiny print. “It says if you’re pregnant to consult a doctor before taking it.”

  “Damn,” she said with a sigh. “Just give me a little bit then. A half dose.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  She sniffed and nodded. “If the baby can’t handle a half dose of over-the-counter cough medicine, he’s not going to be tough enough for the world.”

  If she meant it as a joke, Darryl didn’t find it funny. Still, he doled out slightly less than a third of a dose, pouring it into the lid, and helping her sip it.

  “It tastes like grape,” she noted. “Thanks.”

  From there, Darryl worked his way from room to room, finishing with Horace. Everyone had the same symptoms: headache, sore throat, body aches.

  Of all the sick, his father was in the foulest mood. Whatever had been bothering him the last few days had been magnified by the sickness, so much so that Darryl’s mom seemed to be occupying herself by reading a novel rather than talking to him.

  “Maybe it was that damn pheasant we ate last night,” Greg grumbled. “Some kind of bird flu. Wouldn’t it be just my luck if it turned out I brought back a diseased bird for dinner?” If not for the fact that he rolled his eyes when he said it, Darryl might have thought he was being serious. “Son, you’ll have to take care of the chores on the ranch today. People need to stay in bed and get over this thing.”

  “Of course,” Darryl said. “I’ve got it covered. You just rest, Dad.”

  “No, I’ll handle my own tasks,” Greg added. “Don’t worry about that. But let everyone else rest. I’m not lying here in bed all day, no matter how bad I feel. I just need a few more minutes to rouse myself.”

  “Are you sure about that, Greg?” Marion asked.

  “Yeah, it’ll just put me in a worse mood if I stay here,” he said.

  Marion gave him a brief, unhappy look. “Well, nobody wants you lying around and grumbling. Just don’t push yourself too hard, or you’ll end up a whole lot sicker.”

  “I know,” he muttered.

  “Darryl, are you sure you don’t feel any symptoms?” Marion asked.

  “I’m fine, Mom.”

  Actually, Darryl not only didn’t feel sick, but he was in a pretty good mood now, for the first time since learning about the pregnancy, actually. He didn’t care to analyze too deeply how the sickness in the household had contributed to this. As he put on his coat and boots, he realized just how much work he had to do. Every member of the family had regular chores they did every day, in the barn, in the house, root cellar, around the property, everywhere. All of it was on him now. At least the prospect of filling every hour of the day with activity meant he would have fewer hours to sit with Justine and agonize about the future.

  He checked on Justine one last time, found her sleeping, then headed outside to take care of the daily chores, grabbing the Remington Model 700 in passing. He started with the cows, feeding them, milking them, making sure they were warm and comfortable. That, in itself, took almost two hours, and he was sore and exhausted by the end. He made tea and oatmeal for everyone—the best meal he could manage on his own—and served it to them one tray at a time in their bedrooms. Then he shoveled the common paths: from the porch to the barn, from the porch to the platform, from the shed to the barn. Then he checked the root cellar, walked the perimeter, climbed the platform, and did some other odd chores about the house.

  It was a strange, solitary experience. Despite his father’s earlier insistence, he never came downstairs. The old man remained in bed all day, and each time Darryl checked on him, he seemed to be quietly brooding—and coughing and sniffling—while Marion read her book beside him.

  By early afternoon, Darryl had finished almost every chore and found himself looking for something to do. He spent some time cleaning the rifles: the Remington Model 700, Horace’s SIG Sauer Cross, Tabitha’s .270 Winchester, the Bushmaster AR-15 they’d stolen from one of Mayor Filmore’s men. Then he rearranged some of the bookshelves and cupboards, though they didn’t need it.

  You’ve handled things pretty well, Darryl told himself, standing in the kitchen and admiring the perfect rows of plates, cups, and bowls in the cupboard. You took care of everything all by yourself. Heck, you might make a pretty good father after all. If you can pick up the slack for an entire household of people, you can certainly take care of Justine and the baby.

  It was the first time he’d dared to feel good about his unexpected, impending fatherhood. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, after all. This also made him want to keep busy. He remembered that his father had never gotten around to checking the traps in the stream, so he decided to take care of it. He made a final check on Justine and gave her a little more medicine. Then he grabbed the Remington rifle, took an empty wicker basket for the fish, and set off for the stream.

  The stream was located about two hundred meters east of the property fence, deep in the woods. It wasn’t the biggest stream in the world, but it was possible to catch various kinds of trout, carp, whitefish, even bass. Since the banks of the stream were steep and rocky, Greg preferred to set up nets and traps, rather than stand and fish. Plus
, the edges of the stream near the banks were still frozen solid.

  As Darryl passed through the gate and circled the property, he thought again about what a good day it had been, despite the sickness. It made him feel better about the future. He was bound and determined to hold on to that feeling as long as possible.

  He headed east, approaching the tree line. Along the way, he noted a set of small animal tracks circling through the snow. But no people, no mountain lions. It was cold, calm, and beautiful.

  10

  Emma still felt gross, her head still hurt, and her throat was scratchy, but she’d spent an entire day moping in her bedroom. By the next morning, she’d had enough of it. Even though she was doing only marginally better, she got dressed, brushed her teeth, put on some warm clothes, and made her way downstairs to get a few chores done. She hated being useless. There was too much work to do, and she had too many plans for the ranch.

  When she got downstairs, she found Tabitha grumbling as she prepared a fresh pot of tea. Greg was out on the porch, wrapped up so tightly in winter clothes that no part of him showed except his eyes. He was grilling some beef sausages for breakfast. Marion had been setting out plates and cups, by the look of it, and given up halfway through, plopping herself down at the dining room table. Horace was nowhere to be seen. Emma assumed he was still in bed. Due to his age, she imagined the illness might have hit him hardest.

  “Boy, everyone still looks half-dead,” Emma said, walking into the kitchen. “Winter colds are the worst.”

  Grandma was heating water on the antique wood stove in the corner. The old stove was seeing a lot of use now that the power was gone. As the kettle began to whistle, Emma grabbed a towel and picked it up.

  “Let me help, Grandma,” she said, carrying the kettle over to the counter. “I think I feel a little better than you.”

  “I think you do,” Grandma croaked in reply. “I feel like a mummy that just crawled out of its tomb. A fresh pot of tea will help though.”