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

by Hamilton, Grace

  His dad took a big bite of a biscuit—clearly trying to buy time. “I was thinking about it. Going to try a new area. Should have better luck.”

  “Great,” Darryl replied. He glanced at his mother, and she gave him a little nod and smile. She saw what he was going for. “I’ll join you. If we hunt together, we have a much better chance of bringing down a nice, big deer. What do you say? You can bring Horace’s SIG, and I’ll bring the Remington.”

  His dad chewed for a moment, still staring fixedly at the tabletop. Finally, he lifted his gaze, dared to look at Darryl for a second, and said, “No, that’s okay. Maybe next time. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of stuff to do around the ranch.”

  “No, not really,” Darryl said. “Since I finished the greenhouse, I’ve got a lot of free time.”

  “You don’t want to hang out with Justine today?” he said.

  “She just wants to take it easy and read this morning,” Darryl said. “I’ve got all kinds of free time.”

  His father continued to eat for a bit, then took a long sip of tea. In the awkward silence, Marion added, “It sounds like a good idea to me. I’m looking forward to a nice, juicy venison steak.”

  Finally, Greg harrumphed and set his cup down. “Well, let’s talk about it later, okay? I’ve got a few things to get done right after breakfast.”

  “Okay, later it is.” Darryl glanced at his mom, and they traded another smile. Oh no, Dad wasn’t going to worm his way out of this. Darryl was in too good of a mood today, and he had every intention of going with it.

  His father finished breakfast first, excused himself, gave his wife a kiss on the temple, then headed outside. Darryl still had a few bites of food left, but he pushed the plate back and finished his tea. Then he grabbed a couple of biscuits and wrapped them in a napkin.

  “Well, I think I’m full,” he said, pushing his chair back. “Going to check on Justine.”

  “Check on Justine?” Tabitha said. “Is she okay?”

  “Oh, she’s fine,” he said, hastily. “She’s just the slowest to recover from the cold.”

  He left the table then and headed upstairs. Justine was sitting in a chair beside her bed, flipping through a National Geographic. She’d opened the curtains to let the bright morning light stream into the room. When Darryl stepped through the door, she slowly closed the magazine and looked up.

  “Are you hungry at all?” he asked, holding up the napkin-wrapped biscuits.

  “Mostly sick to my stomach,” she replied, “and to be honest, I’m not the biggest fan of stuff made with acorn flour. For some reason, it really makes me nauseous now.”

  He set the napkin on the bed and unfolded it. “Are you sure? Grandma says they’re healthy.”

  “Those don’t look appetizing at all,” she said. “Like little circles of dirt. I’m sorry, that’s how I feel.”

  “Well, I’ll leave them here for now,” he said. “You might get hungry later.”

  She reached over and folded the napkin over again to hide the biscuits, then went back to flipping through her magazine.

  “Okay…” He shuffled his feet. “Anyway, I’ll probably be doing a few tasks this morning, so I might be busy for a while. I’ll stop by later and check on you.”

  And with that, he turned to leave. As he stepped through the door, she said, softly, “Thanks, Darryl. Maybe I’ll work up some appetite. Have fun.”

  It was enough. He headed back downstairs, picking up the Remington rifle from a shelf near the front door. He checked to make sure it was loaded then headed outside.

  Dad, we’re going hunting, he thought, whether you like it or not. I’ll drag you out there into the woods if I have to.

  He expected to find his father roaming around the property somewhere, trying to pretend he was busy. Instead, he found him sitting with the SIG Sauer on the porch, a second magazine balanced on the handrail beside him. He didn’t seem to notice Darryl at first. When he did, he was startled, grabbed at the second magazine, and knocked it onto the porch. With a grunt, he stooped down to retrieve it.

  “I’m ready to go out there and get our dinner,” Darryl said. “If we set out right now, we should be back in plenty of time. Come on.”

  “I’d rather you stayed here at the ranch and kept an eye on things,” Greg replied. “Grandma might need your help.”

  “Grandma’s fine,” Darryl replied. “The ranch is fine. Now that the greenhouse is done, I don’t have a lot to do. Emma and Mom milked the cows this morning and fed them. What else is there to do? I’d rather go with you and do some hunting. It’s still early. Let’s go.”

  Greg shoved the extra magazine into his coat pocket just a little harder than was necessary. Then he snagged the strap of the rifle and slung it over his shoulder as he rose.

  “All good?” Darryl said. He knew he was pushing, but he couldn’t help himself. “You’ve got enough ammo to take out an entire herd. We can’t possibly fail.”

  “I said no, and I meant it,” Greg snapped. It was the sharpest he’d spoken to Darryl since before the EMP, and it caused him to take a step back. “I’m going hunting by myself today, just like I told you, and that’s it. It’s too…it’s too dangerous.”

  And with that, he gestured for Darryl to get out of his way and stomped down the steps. Darryl moved to one side, stung by the sharpness. He knew he’d asked for it, but still, his father’s mood was getting ridiculous. Unsure of what to do next, Darryl stepped up to the handrail and watched as his father moved toward the gate.

  He didn’t realize his mother and grandmother had come out onto the porch until Tabitha spoke.

  “Hold up. Hold up,” she said. She was a small woman, shriveled and leathery as a sun-charred satchel, but she could speak with razor-sharpness when she wanted to. “Greg, get back here right now. What do you think you’re doing?” Not loud, but fierce enough that Darryl eased away from her, even though the words weren’t directed at him.

  Like a possum caught in headlights, Greg froze. Slowly, as if trying to fight his own instinct, he turned to face the porch. Tabitha and Marion were standing at the top of the steps, glaring down at him.

  “What’s going on?” he said. “Why are you yelling at me all of a sudden? I’m just heading out for a little while. Darryl’s going to stay here and do some tasks around the farm.”

  “No, he’s not,” Tabitha replied. Her voice could have sliced a brick wall in two. “He’s going hunting with you. Spend time with your son. You’re more likely to come back with something other than a headless pheasant.”

  Marion cut right to the chase. “Greg, you’ve been in a foul mood for days. I’m sure it has a lot to do with these wasted hunting trips. Take Darryl with you. There’s nothing else for him to work on today.”

  When Greg hesitated still, Tabitha added, “I’m not discussing it with you. This is not a debate. Quit being a brat and do what you’re told. Darryl, get down there and go have some quality time with my ornery son.”

  “Fine, fine,” Greg said, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, yes, I’ve been in a bad mood. I admit it. I’m sorry. Things have been frustrating lately. Darryl, come on. Let’s go.” He beckoned Darryl and headed for the gate.

  “Come back in a better mood,” Tabitha said, “because you’re getting on my last nerve. I don’t care if you’re forty years old, I’ll tan your hide like I did when you were ten.”

  And with that, she harrumphed loudly and stormed back into the house.

  “Have a good time,” Marion added. “Make it fun. Love you both.” And then she followed her mother-in-law.

  Greg reached the gate, unlatched it, and flung it open. Darryl saw the sliding track on top wobble, and he was tempted to say something but decided it wasn’t worth it. He followed his father through the gate. As soon as he was on the other side, he grabbed the gate before his dad could do it. As gently as possible, he slid the gate back in place and latched it. His father didn’t wait for him but went right on, trompin
g through the snow as he headed for the trees. Darryl hurried after him.

  I’m going to regret pushing this issue, he thought. Now I’m stuck out here in the wilderness with this grump.

  His dad was following a path he’d already created on previous hunting trips, as if he were going somewhere specific. Darryl managed to keep pace with him, but walking in the strange, tense silence was singularly unpleasant. As they worked their way through the snowy woods, Darryl spotted numerous tracks looping about, as if people had been walking circles all over the place. Had his father done this? Had he just been circling and circling looking for some animal to shoot?

  Is the old man losing his mind? This is weird, compulsive behavior.

  They headed into the woods, weaving through the trees until they came upon the clearing where the dirt road was still covered in snow. Numerous tracks went back and forth, as if the road was being regularly used.

  “Where are you thinking about heading, Dad? Should we find a place that hasn’t seen so much foot traffic?”

  His father grunted, and Darryl thought for a second that he wasn’t going to answer. However, his dad finally replied, “Oh, I’m not too sure where we’ll go.” He stopped suddenly. Darryl could tell by the lighter tone in his voice that he was trying to sound casual, less irritated. “I’ll tell you what, Darryl, my aim isn’t what it used to be. I don’t know if I’ve just gotten rusty, if it’s this new gun, the ammo, or what. What if we did some target practice for a while? I need to get better at hitting a distant, moving target.”

  It was more than his father had said all day, and it worked wonders at easing the tension. “Sounds good to me. What did you have in mind?”

  Greg pointed south down the road. “See that big spruce tree down there, the one with the bit of nylon rope hanging from it? Let’s set up a crude target there and practice our aim. I brought plenty of ammo for just this reason.”

  Well, that’s explains it, Darryl thought.

  It took a moment to spot the tree he was referring to. The old road went straight for about a hundred meters before veering slightly to the west. Just beyond the bend, there was a big tree set back a bit from the road. Indeed, a length of bright yellow nylon rope hung from one of the bigger branches. The ground around the tree seemed to have been heavily disturbed, as if animals had been moving about in the area.

  “We’re going to practice target shooting out here on the old road?” Darryl asked. “Is that safe?”

  “There’s a bend in the road here and no houses behind that tree,” Greg said. “Just woods all the way to the stream. I think it’s fine.”

  “If you say so…”

  In the end, they constructed a crude target by weaving together some thin branches. They had to pluck them off the trees so they were fresh and springy. Darryl was a bit more dexterous than his father, so he did much of the work, weaving the branches in crude, concentric circles, with a large, flat piece of bark in the center as the bullseye.

  It wasn’t pretty, but Darryl found the experience so much better than when he’d worked with his father on the greenhouse. Finally, Greg seemed invested and involved, not cranky or distracted. They worked together to find the best branches, discussed different ways to put the target together. When it was done, they hung it from the bit of nylon rope, adding a heavier stick at the bottom of the target as a counterweight to keep it from being blown around by the wind.

  “What do you think, son?” Greg said, stepping back from the target.

  “I think it’ll work,” Darryl said.

  “You think we can hit the bullseye from a hundred meters down the road?”

  “Horace once told me that when he was in the armed forces, he could hit a target at three hundred meters,” Darryl said, pulling the Remington off his shoulder.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Greg replied. “Forget the Remington. We’ll take turns with the SIG. It’s got the better scope. First to hit the bullseye wins.”

  “You got it, Dad.”

  They walked back from the target. Of course, they had no way to measure the distance precisely, but Greg counted off a hundred paces before coming to a stop. This put them far down the road and just off into the trees on the other side. When Darryl turned and looked at their target, it seemed so tiny. In reality, a hundred meters was a lot farther than he’d realized.

  “This rifle has an impressive range,” Greg said, pulling the SIG Sauer CROSS off his shoulder. Once again, Darryl marveled at what a wicked-looking gun it was. The barrel was surrounded by rows of vent holes, and the stock was practically skeletal. It was all black, and it had been topped with an enormous scope. “It’s designed for long-range shooting, but we’ll have to practice to get used to it. Otherwise, we’re not going to be able to pick off the right targets from a safe distance.”

  “What are we planning on shooting?” Darryl asked. “Bears? Bandits? Monsters?”

  “All of the above,” Greg replied.

  “Well, bear steaks might be interesting,” Darryl said. “I don’t think I’ve eaten bear before.” It was such a normal conversation, it almost seemed surreal.

  They used the crook of a forked tree as a place to position the gun and shoot. Greg went first, taking his sweet time balancing the gun, adjusting the scope, and peering at the target. His first shot missed not just the target but the entire tree. His second shot also missed. His third hit the tip of a branch above the target and sent it spiraling off into the distance. He managed to clip the crude target on his fifth shot, which caused it to spin lazily.

  “Okay, I’m getting better at it,” he said, rising. “It’s just a matter of concentration. I have to stay focused and not let emotion interfere. Let the rifle cool down, then you can try.”

  “That wasn’t bad, considering how far away the target is,” Darryl said. “I’m not sure I can do better.”

  Greg grunted, and when he spoke, Darryl sensed a bit of the surliness creeping back in, “Not close enough. I should be able to hit the bullseye. I need to.” He passed the rifle to Darryl. “There are a few bullets left in the magazine. They’re all yours. See if you can do better than your old man.”

  Darryl traded places with him, leaning against the trunk of the tree and positioning his right arm in the crook of it. He set his eye to the scope and turned until the target was directly in the crosshairs. He wasn’t used to the feel of the gun, and even the slightest movement caused the image in the scope to wobble wildly. Finally, Darryl had to hold his breath to steady his hands. He took aim at the bullseye and gently squeezed the trigger.

  He felt the jolt of the rifle and heard the satisfying crack. The small piece of wood they’d used for a bullseye shattered into a hundred little splinters, and the target bounced on the end of the nylon rope before coming apart and unraveling as it fell to the snow.

  “How in the hell did you manage that?” his father grumbled. “First shot. Bullseye.”

  “I don’t know,” Darryl said, rising. He felt heat radiating from the rifle. “I just took careful aim.”

  His father was scowling off in the direction of the target with narrowed eyes. He turned and snatched the rifle out of Darryl’s hand. “Oh, for God’s sake. Let’s just go hunt a deer.”

  And with that, he stormed off across the road.

  17

  They set off to the west, hopping over a narrow spot on the small stream near where the fish traps were set and aiming for the denser woods beyond the last of the houses in their rural community. There were a few other human tracks in the area, but not nearly as many. Still, Greg seemed to be following a specific path, moving for a while first one way, then turning for no discernible reason and heading another.

  “What are you thinking?” Darryl said, after a while. “Are you looking for a specific place?”

  “Just getting a lay of the land,” Greg replied. Indeed, he did seem to be scanning the ground as he walked. But they turned back and crossed the stream again, heading toward the road.

>   “Isn’t it better to keep heading the way we were going?” Darryl asked. “Beyond the stream? More likely to find animals farther from town, right?”

  Greg shushed him. “Keep it down. Don’t want to scare them away.”

  But as Darryl looked around, he didn’t see any evidence of animals in their vicinity. A few small tracks, maybe foxes, but that was it.

  “Maybe we should’ve set up a deer stand,” Darryl noted. “All this walking around certainly won’t help.”

  “We’ll try that next time,” his father said.

  Greg paused for a moment, as if getting his bearings. Darryl took the opportunity to choose their course, heading back toward the deeper woods. However, his father didn’t follow him, and when Darryl turned back, he saw Greg gazing off to the south.

  “Are we going, Dad?” Darryl said. “I thought if we went back this way…”

  He trailed off as his father beckoned. “We’re going this way. Come on.” With that, Greg set off in his own direction. “Keep up, son.”

  It was one confirmation after another, and Darryl wouldn’t ignore it any longer. His father had almost no interest in hunting, and it seemed clear now what that other purpose was. Still, Darryl wanted him to admit it, so he rushed to catch up with his dad.

  “You realize this direction takes us closer to town…” he said. “We’re not going to find any animals in that direction, and it’s probably not safe. Mayor Filmore’s people might still be lurking around.”

  “It’s fine,” Greg said. “Mayor Filmore is buried in the backyard.”

  “It’s fine, because…why?” Darryl persisted. “You didn’t refute my points, so you must be okay with it. Why are we headed toward town? You know, it’s okay to level with me, Dad. It’s not like I can’t tell you’ve been acting weird for days. Are you going to say it, or do I have to put the words in your mouth?”

  His father looked him in the eyes, and Darryl could tell by the pained expression that he felt chastened. Somehow, Darryl’s words had gotten to him. He sighed loudly and said, “Okay, here’s the deal, son. Remember those guys who knocked down our fence the other day?”