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

by Hamilton, Grace

  Drowning in the flooded river seemed a better fate than being eaten alive. Greg thought of Horace’s crutch and wished desperately that he had something like it. Even a crude hiking stick might help—he’d lost his own in the flood—but he hadn’t seen any sturdy enough branches to make one with.

  The worst pain was a sharp agony in his side from the broken rib that produced waves of nausea. He lay on the ground for a few minutes, waiting for it to pass. It never did. The pain was constant now. On top of this, now his lower back hurt, and he had a splitting headache.

  Well, are you going to just lie here and feel sorry for yourself? You can’t make the pain go away by crying, so you might as well accept it and press on.

  Finally, wiping away the tears, he managed to roll onto his stomach and push himself to his hands and knees. He crawled toward the trees and retrieved the Winchester, dusting it off and checking to make sure he hadn’t broken it. He would have taken another test shot, but he didn’t want to give away his position now. He reached out and grabbed a low tree branch with his free hand, using it as leverage to pull himself up. Once he was on his feet, he took a few deep breaths to calm himself, then he resumed walking down the trail, though he was limping badly now.

  The rain finally let up for a while, but he heard thunder in the distance and knew the storm had much more to offer. Though the pain of his broken rib continued to stab all the way through his body like a blade, Greg forced himself to keep moving. He was never going to catch up to any of them at this pace, and he knew it. The laziest cow moved faster than this. For a few minutes, as he limped along, he felt a desperate powerlessness. It seemed to tingle in his limbs. He couldn’t continue like this, knowing that his family was being stalked.

  The trail took another lazy curve, following the landscape, and came in sight of the river again. Greg stepped off the trail onto the riverbank and came to a stop. He could see a long way down the river. The banks on either side were rough and rocky, but relatively clear. Periodically, the trail curved up next to the river before swooping back into the woods to follow some easier course.

  There’s your answer right there, he thought. Make your own shortcut, and you’re more likely to catch up to them.

  Indeed, if he followed the river, he would avoid all of the twists and turns of the trail. He was bound to catch up them that way. The steep banks looked treacherous, and the uneven ground was covered in loose rocks and big muddy patches. It wouldn’t take much to stumble and fall, and he didn’t think he could handle another violent spill. Also, if he took the river, he might bypass his family without realizing it, especially if the trail veered far from the banks. But even then, he could simply arrive at the cabin first and get ready for their arrival, maybe set up some defenses in case the scavengers showed up. It seemed like the wisest course of action, but still he was wracked with indecision. The sharp pain in his side made it hard to think clearly.

  You’re in real trouble here, he told himself. You’re all busted up. Even if you catch up to the scavengers, who’s to say they won’t overpower you? Who’s to say they don’t already know you’re behind them? Maybe they passed you while you were unconscious on the ground and decided you weren’t worth their time.

  At the moment, these all seemed likely, yet he had no choice. For his family’s sake, he knew what he had to do, no matter how difficult. He began picking his way along the riverbank, trying to avoid loose rocks. In his current condition, it was like trying to navigate the world’s cruelest obstacle course, and he had to carefully consider every step. Still, even like this, it seemed like it would save time.

  He’d gone maybe a hundred meters without incident before he slipped on mud and dropped to his knees. Though he landed hard, he managed to maintain his grip on the rifle, drawing it close against his chest. However, the fall caused another sharp burst of pain in his side, and the world began to swim around him, as if everything had become liquid, and he fought to stay conscious. The sound of the river receded.

  Don’t pass out, you weakling. Fight it. Get up! Force yourself to rise no matter how much it hurts. You can take the pain. Do it for your family!

  Gritting his teeth, he dragged his right foot forward and set the sole of his boot against the ground. Darkness crept into the edges of his vision, so he reached over and pulled back his sleeve. Then he gave the skin on the back of his wrist a savage pinch. For some reason, this helped, so he did it again. This time, he pinched and twisted the flesh, and finally the darkness drew back. The world seemed to snap back into focus around him, the roar of the river suddenly loud in his ear.

  Greg pushed with his right foot and slowly rose, wincing at the pain in his side. Once he was standing, he took a deep breath and held it moment. The fresh air in his lungs cleared his mind a bit, and he let it out in a rush. Then he resumed walking, wiping away more tears of pain.

  Just ahead, he saw safer ground a few meters from the water’s edge, and he made his way toward it. Here, patches of snow lingered, grass poking through in many places, but there didn’t seem to be any rocks to stumble on. He stepped carefully but tried to pick up the pace.

  I’d kill for an ibuprofen right now, he thought. Heck, he’d kill for a shot of morphine, a puff on an opium pipe, or just about anything that dulled the sharpest edge of this pain.

  Had the medicine survived? He wasn’t sure. God, he hoped so. If they’d lost all of their medicine, they were in real trouble.

  No, Emma will know of some plant she can crush up or brew into a tea to dull the pain, he thought. But first, you have to get to her and make sure she’s okay.

  He’d just taken another look at the dark clouds overhead when he heard a distinctive snap somewhere in front of him. Greg stopped in his tracks, raising the Winchester and holding his breath. His finger slowly crept down to the trigger, lightly touching the edge. Except for the dull roar of water on his left, the world had gone quiet again. Nevertheless, he aimed into the trees in the general direction of the sound.

  Come on, whoever you are, he thought. Make another sound. Give away your position.

  After a few seconds, he heard it again. This time he could tell it was someone in a heavy boot stepping on a dry twig. Then he heard it a third time. Yes, someone was moving through the forest somewhere just ahead of him. He scanned the shadowy spaces between the trees, looking for any hint of movement, but he didn’t see anything. He briefly considered shouting at them, trying to startle them into giving away their position, but he was alert enough to realize this was a dumb idea. They might be armed, after all.

  Suddenly, there was a burst of shuffling footsteps and branches breaking, as if the stranger had taken off running. Greg listened to the footsteps fading deeper in the woods. He was pretty sure it was just one person. Had they split off from the other scavengers? Was it perhaps one of his family members? Greg didn’t know, but he was determined to find out.

  Daring a bit more speed, he hurried off down the riverbank, moving in the direction of the sound, every step painful and uncertain.

  18

  Someone was definitely sneaking around, and they weren’t doing a very good job of it. Greg was almost offended that they weren’t trying harder to go unnoticed. Although he never spotted the person, he kept hearing noises: the crunch of ice or sticks, an errant cough, the crackle of loose rocks. Anytime he came to a stop, the other person went silent, but once he resumed, he would inevitably hear them again.

  Greg was cutting a path across the meandering trail, which forced him from time to time to clamber over rough terrain or push through dense bushes. In doing so, he’d hoped to save time, so he could catch up to his family. Now, he wasn’t so sure that he’d saved any time at all. He’d tried to stick closer to the river, but the ground there was slick. The few times he slipped and went sliding toward the water was enough to dissuade him.

  Though the terrain had leveled out and become less treacherous, there were still plenty of trees and places for a person to hide. When Greg stopped
to rest for a while, as he often had to do, he stayed alert, clutching the gun just out of sight, in case his follower decided to make a move. However, the person seemed patient. They never showed themselves.

  Compounding the problem, Greg was so tired that he wasn’t making good time. The stiffness in his limbs just wouldn’t go away, and the sharp pain in his ribs was constant. Finally, as afternoon approached, he found himself sitting on a fallen log in a small clearing within sight of the river. A section of the trail was just visible off to his right, but it seemed to be curving away from the river again and headed up a slight rise.

  Greg kept the densest part of the forest directly in front of him, the gun held just out of sight behind his left thigh. As he sat there, trying to catch his breath, with lingering soreness in his shoulders, back, and legs, and the sharp pain in his side, he stared into the shifting shadows deep beneath the boughs.

  Show yourself, you coward, he thought. Just give me one glimpse, so I know what kind of person I’m dealing with.

  As if his follower had somehow sensed the thought, there came a distinct snap of a twig from the woods straight ahead. Instinctively, Greg raised the rifle and pointed it toward the trees, shutting one eye and looking for any unusual movement. He waited there, holding his breath, for almost a full minute. However, the woods were almost peacefully still, frost-flecked branches and needles unmoving in the windless afternoon air. Finally, he let his breath out in a long, frustrated sigh and lowered the gun.

  Branches break all the time, he reminded himself. And the woods are full of animals. It’s entirely possible that you’re just imagining your pursuer.

  But he didn’t buy it. The crawling unease that had settled in the base of his spine seemed like a prey response. No, something was watching him. He’d considered the possibility that it was an animal, maybe a mountain lion or a bear, but surely either of those would have pounced on him by now. What sort of wild animal would track a prey all day long without ever getting closer or showing itself? And anyway, bears would probably still be sleeping away the last of the winter weather.

  It seemed clear that this was a person. Maybe they’d started off stalking the family, but they were now following Greg. In his mind, Greg imagined some desperate man half-starved from the bitter winter, draped in animal pelts, lice-ridden and wild-eyed.

  Is it possible they don’t have evil intent? he wondered. Maybe they’re hoping I will lead them to some vestige of civilization.

  This would certainly explain why they hadn’t attacked or gotten closer. Greg finally rose and resumed his hike. He’d only walked for another minute or two before he heard a branch snap somewhere behind him. It was really beginning to infuriate him, and he was sorely tempted to turn and just start firing wildly into the forest. He restrained himself.

  Instead, as the afternoon edged toward evening, he began to formulate a different plan. The rain had stopped for the time being, which he considered a small mercy. He was so exhausted that he would have gladly set up camp right then and there and gone to sleep. Instead, he pressed on until it was fully dark, and he had only moonlight to guide him. He saw flecks of light dancing on the river to his left. He’d heard nothing from his family. If anything, they’d widened the gap. Maybe they’d reached the cabin by now. Greg could only hope so.

  Finally, when his steps became plodding and his thoughts began to mist over like cold glass on a chilly morning, he decided to stop for the night. He stumbled to a stop in another small clearing within sight of the river. Slinging his pack on the ground, he began gathering dry sticks for a fire. He wanted a large fire with plenty of light, so he looked for branches in a variety of sizes. It was a struggle. His fumbling fingers had trouble grasping anything, especially the larger sticks. Rooting through all of the rain-damp wood to find a few sticks that were relatively dry made it all the harder, but he eventually managed to gather a nice pile of wood. Then he laid a circle of stones for the firepit and stacked the smaller of the sticks into a rough pyramid shape.

  Before lighting the fire, however, he began to enact his plan. Using a flat stone with a sharp edge, he dug into the frost-hard ground, chipping away at the icy crust to reach softer soil beneath. The ache in his shoulders made this excruciating, but Greg pushed through the pain, digging and digging, carefully piling up dirt beside the hole. The work was brutal, the ground unyielding, but he made himself keep at it. If the post-EMP world had taught him anything, it had taught him how to keep going well past his breaking point.

  Once he was satisfied with the hole, he went back to the stack of wood and set about starting a fire. Fortunately, he still had a lighter, but it took time to get the flame to catch. He babied it for a few frustrating minutes until it was strong enough that it wouldn’t go out. At some point, he heard another footstep somewhere in the woods, but he could see even less of the woods now in the gloom. There were plenty of places for even the most incompetent tracker to hide.

  We’ll just see if we can’t tease you out into the open, you creep, he thought. We’re going to have a nice face-to-face encounter before the night is over, mark my words.

  Once the smaller sticks were burning brightly, he began adding the bigger ones, until he had a large, crackling campfire that flooded the clearing with warm, orange light. The heat was comforting and soothed his aching joints. For a few minutes, he just sat before the fire and soaked in it, but that made him sleepy. When he felt his thoughts turning fuzzy, he knew he had to rouse himself. He reached under his left sleeve, pinched a big meaty part of his arm just above his wrist, and gave it an almighty twist. The sharp pain was like a splash of cold water in the face. Suddenly, he was alert again.

  Greg looked back toward the river. He could see orange firelight dancing on the water and casting a broad arc on the far riverbank, revealing a rocky slope and more dense trees. In that moment, for reasons he could not have fully articulated, he felt a sharp pang of loneliness. It seemed, though he knew it wasn’t true, that he and his mysterious follower were the only humans left in the world.

  I’m going to have to pick up my pace tomorrow, he thought. I have to catch my family, no matter what. I have to make sure they’re okay.

  But right now, he had a trap to set. He crawled over to the hole he’d dug, sitting beside it with the fire at his back. He kept his gaze fixed on the dark trees. In his right hand, he held the rifle. His left hand reached over and touched the large pile of dirt beside the hole. Beyond the reach of his campfire, the world was getting darker and darker as clouds filled the sky and blocked the moon.

  Come on, buddy, he thought. He strained to hear anything unusual, but the world was quiet now, sleeping. Some lone insect chirped away, as if to defy the silence. Let’s get this over with.

  19

  Staying awake was his biggest struggle. The crackling fire and the dancing lights on the trees were hypnotic, and a few times, he found himself swooning, on the verge of drifting off. Each time, he gave himself a vicious pinch, and it helped rouse him yet again. Soon enough, his whole left forearm hurt.

  The fire sounded inordinately loud, the crackling of wood carrying out into the quiet night. Greg’s vision was fixed on the shadows beyond the fire, scanning between the trees for any strange movement at all. He was careful not to make any sound of his own, careful to keep his gaze fixed on the dark places.

  The long quiet stretched out, the minutes feeling interminable, and gradually his sleepiness was replaced with a mounting unease. The stalker was out there somewhere. He knew that. He’d heard another footstep while making the fire. Where was he now? How close had he come? Greg had the gun hidden behind his right leg and the fingers of his left hand sunk into the pile of dirt.

  Come on, you skulking coward, he thought. Show yourself. Do something.

  But the silence persisted. Another tense minute stretched by, and another. Greg tried to breathe as quietly as he could, waiting for some sound, any sound.

  And then it came. A single, loud click, which he reco
gnized as the cocking of a hammer. From the sound of it, he thought it was a single-action revolver, some old gun, maybe an antique. So that was it, then? He’d just wanted to get close enough to take a clear shot? The stranger hadn’t said anything, hadn’t made any demands, hadn’t shown his face. He didn’t want anything but to kill and loot. Now, it was clear, and Greg didn’t have to wonder any longer. He knew what needed to be done.

  His left hand was still sunk deep into the dirt pile, but he swung it back, flinging the dirt onto the fire. The flames were immediately dampened, if not entirely put out, and the clearing plunged into darkness. Immediately, Greg fell to one side, throwing himself into the shallow hole he’d dug. The guttering fire cast up a great cloud of smoke, further hiding him.

  Somewhere to his left, in the direction of the trail, Greg heard a muffled voice cursing. Since he’d been sitting with his back to the fire, his gaze on the shadows, he wasn’t fire-blinded. He could only hope the same was not true of his pursuer. Greg dared to raise his head, thrusting the rifle out in front of him as he looked in the direction of the voice. He soon spotted a shape there, moving behind the veil of smoke. It looked like the man was stepping to one side, as if trying to find a better approach to the camp. He seemed short and stocky, but otherwise Greg couldn’t make out anything about him.

  I’ve got you now, Greg thought.

  He rolled out of the pit toward the trees, as smoke continued to fill the clearing. Just this simple act caused a fresh burst of pain from his ribs. He groaned as he rose to his feet. Fighting through the discomfort, defying it by sheer willpower, he ran into the trees, circling to the left then coming at the shadow from the left. As he closed the gap, he saw a bearded face, a padded jacket, messy tangles of graying hair. The stranger was still staring toward the camp, holding an old revolver out in front of him but shifting it back and forth, as if trying to track an invisible target.