Survive the Journey (EMP

by Grace Hamilton

  And then she passed by the spot where Darryl was crouched and kept going. Not coming for him, he realized. Heading for the trail, for his family. In the distance, his baby son was crying again, as if he knew what was coming. As she passed, she took another wild shot into the bushes. The bullet passed somewhere above him and ricocheted off a tree. Darryl dropped flat against the ground, but he heard her moving off to his right now, heading for the trail.

  You’re just going to have to stop her, he told himself. By any possible means.

  Nearby, a rather large tree branch lay on the ground. He thought it was the branch he’d broken when he’d tumbled from his perch. He grabbed it, stripping a few stray needles, and held it like a club. Then he rose.

  “I’ll take care of them, Dad,” he whispered. “I promise. Our family is going to be safe. We protected them today, you and me.”

  He felt the sting of tears, but he fought against the grief. Now was the time for cold purpose. Clutching his crude club, he pushed back through the underbrush, poking his head out just enough to see on the other side. When he turned to his right, he spotted Sasha. She was running full tilt in the direction of the trail, toward the sound of Darryl’s crying son. She still had the Beretta in her hand.

  Seeing no other choice, Darryl stepped out into the open and started after her. To aim the gun at him, she would have to slow down and turn. He figured that would buy him at least one good second to dive back into cover. However, he tried to run as quietly as possible, moving lightly as he took long strides.

  It wasn’t enough. Sasha was clearly athletic, and she had a head start. The distance between them was growing. If she reached his family, it was over. He wouldn’t be able to stop her. Desperate, Darryl knew he had to get her attention somehow.

  “Coward,” he shouted, “get back here!” A dumb thing to say, but what did it matter?

  She raised the gun and tried to point it behind her without looking. Having no other option, Darryl heaved the branch at her, using the same exact throwing technique that she’d use to chuck the rifle at him. She fired the Beretta, but since she wasn’t looking, her aim was way off. Still, it was close, too close, and Darryl lunged to one side.

  The branch went spinning toward her. She must have heard it coming, for she turned back and looked. Seeing the branch flying at her, she raised both arms to deflect it, but her feet got tangled up. Falling, she landed hard on her belly and slid into a tree with a loud huff. The branch hit the ground beside her and tumbled away.

  Darryl seized the opportunity, racing toward her. Sasha pushed herself up with her forearms and looked back over her shoulder. They locked eyes, but the gap was closing fast. Her weight was on her arms, but she still had the gun in her right hand. He saw the gun pivot, as she turned it toward him.

  He leapt at her, just as she fired. Blood rushing his ears, breath ragged in his lungs, he felt only burning adrenaline in his body at that moment. He had no idea if the bullet had hit him. His leap closed the final few feet. Sasha, realizing he was going to land on top of her, rolled onto her side, bringing the gun up. She wasn’t fast enough.

  Darryl crashed down on top of her. He had his arms up in front of him, bent at the elbows, and they crashed into her belly. Then the rest of him came down, slamming on top of her hips and legs. It knocked his breath out, and when his face bounced off his own arms, he saw stars. She fired another shot then, so close it made his ears ring. He didn’t dare take a moment to recover. Immediately, he began clawing at her, trying to get the gun.

  “Get off me, you scum,” she snarled. “You redneck. You rube!”

  With her free hand, she clawed at his face. He felt her fingernails ripping at his skin, but he focused on getting the gun. He managed to grab her right arm, pinning it against the ground, though she took another wild shot back toward the ravine.

  “You will not hurt my family,” he said, his voice cracking. “You will not take anything else from them.”

  “I said get off me,” she shouted. She balled up her fist and punched him in the face. He felt a burst of pain in his lips and tasted blood on his tongue. “Do what you’re told, you nobody.”

  She continued punching him in the face, but he focused on wresting the gun from her grip. Punches hit his lips, his nose, his cheeks, his eye, his throat. And she was surprisingly strong. He felt blood running down his cheek from a fresh cut above his eye.

  And then he had it. The gun popped out of her gloved hand, and he rose, pushing away from her. He fumbled with the Beretta for a second to get a good grip, then he pointed it at her. She bared her teeth at him, snarling like a cornered cat, reaching for the gun with both hands. He pulled the trigger.

  It clicked.

  You’ve got to be kidding me, he thought. Are there any bullets left in the world?

  She sat up then, lunging for him. It startled him enough that he dropped the gun, and she managed to get her hands around his throat.

  “These mountains belong to me,” she said. “I’ve claimed them. Do you hear me? They’re all mine!”

  Her grip around his throat was fierce, and he found himself unable to take a breath. Still, he had her lower legs pinned beneath him. That, at least, restricted her movement somewhat. As the edges of his vision turned red, the words of his sister came to mind.

  It’s not that hard to beat someone to death. If you have to use your bare hands, just apply blunt force trauma to the throat.

  He clenched his fist, reached around her arms, and punched her. The first blow was aimed at her throat, but he hit her in the chin instead. Her head rocked back on her shoulders, but somehow, she managed to tighten her grip around his throat. A weird gurgling sound was coming out of his mouth, though he wasn’t making it intentionally. His vision was quickly dimming.

  His second punch hit her right in the neck. For a split second, he thought he felt the small bone in her throat against his knuckles. A horrible raspy sound came out of her then, and she released her grip on him. As she fell back, she grabbed the Beretta. He punched her a third time, just as she swung the gun at him. The corner of the metal grip hit him in the temple, and his fist hit her in the right eye.

  A burst of pain went through his skull, and he fell backward. He had a sense of her falling the other way, but then he landed on his back and lost sight of her.

  “I’m going to kill that shrieking infant,” Sasha said in a raspy voice. “You hear me? It’s the least you deserve.”

  She managed to wriggle out from under him. Darryl flopped onto his side and spotted the large branch beside him. He grabbed it in both hands and rose to his feet. Sasha managed to rise at the same time, holding her throat and struggling to take a breath. She sneered at Darryl and turned toward the trail. She managed to take a single step before he brought the branch down. Swinging with all his might, putting every ounce of force into the blow, even as his aching shoulders cried out, he drove the branch into the top of her skull.

  His vision was swimming in and out, but he felt the violent jolt go through his whole body at the moment of impact. It started in his wrists, shot up his arms, and went all the way down his spine and through the soles of his feet. Sasha made an awful wet sound as she crumbled to the ground, her now strengthless limbs folding up beneath her.

  Darryl stumbled backward and tossed the branch aside. He rubbed his eyes, but the pain in his face made him cry out. When his vision cleared, he looked down and saw Sasha at his feet. She was bleeding freely from the nose and mouth, from her ear, and from the hideous gash caused by the branch. As he watched, the light left her half-lidded eyes. Still, he waited a few seconds before squatting down and pressing fingers the side of her neck.

  No pulse. No breathing.

  Realizing this, Darryl felt a moment of stomach-churning disgust at what he’d done. But his son was still crying off in the distance.

  I did what I had to do, he reminded himself. What Dad would have done.

  Licking blood from his lower lip, he stepped over Sasha and
headed for the trail and the sound of his son.

  35

  The cabin was halfway up a slope, on a grassy shelf overlooking the forest. A split-log fence marked the property line—roughly two acres of weedy ground set in a clearing. The mountain trail passed right beside the gate, as if it had been blazed specifically to bring the Healys to their new home. By the time Darryl rounded the last bend and came in sight of the cabin, the sun was setting behind the great mountain peaks west of the cabin, bathing the whole area in a warm light. It couldn’t have been more inviting if an artist had planned that first glimpse.

  Still, Darryl was hurting, and he had to stop for a second, catching himself against a tree by the side of the overgrown trail. Sasha had battered him thoroughly. He had a fat lower lip, a couple of good welts on his face, and a deep ache around his right eye that he was sure would turn black in another day or so. Beyond that, he had taken the time to walk all the way back up the ravine, so he could check on each bandit and his father. He’d found no survivors among the scattered bodies in and above the ravine. Every bandit was accounted for. The long process of making sure meant he was thoroughly exhausted, and he needed a minute to catch his breath.

  His family had gathered in the big yard in front of the cabin, and the cows were milling around the gate, chomping grass. There was his son, still whimpering but much calmer now. That was a good sign. He pushed off the tree and approached the fence.

  As for the cabin itself, it was clear that it hadn’t been used in a long time. The wilderness was pushing in against the walls, wild grass growing up against the wood. However, the structure itself seemed intact. No broken windows. The roof was solid. A big red-brick chimney rose from one end, making him dream of a crackling fire, warm rooms, comfortable beds.

  I did it, Dad, he thought again, reaching up to touch his swollen lip. Did you see me, Dad? Did you watch from somewhere? Our family is safe now. We’re home.

  He allowed a few tears to fall, quickly brushing them away. Four cows left, but Darryl figured he could head out in a day or two and try to round up the others. He might find some of their lost supplies as well, along with more guns and supplies belonging to the bandits. Plus, he intended to bring his father home. Greg Healy would rest here at the cabin with the family he’d died to save.

  Darryl had his work cut out for him, but he didn’t mind. This was his purpose.

  As he neared the gate, two of the cows turned and looked up at him. In so doing, however, it was a bit like curtains parting. He saw his family gathered around the porch. It looked like Marion and Emma were unloading supplies from the travois and setting them by the front door. Justine was seated on a bench, feeding the baby, and Horace was sitting in a corner, his back to the porch railing. The travois had already been unfastened from the horse, and the big draft horses had joined the cows to feast upon the overgrown front yard.

  Darryl passed through the gate, pushing it shut behind him, and stepped between the cows. Nobody had noticed him yet, but he could tell by the looks on their faces that they were in a miserable state. Grimacing, red-eyed, downcast.

  They’re afraid I died, he realized.

  He cleared his throat and said, “It’s done.”

  His mother whipped around, dropping the medicine box which she’d been lugging. It hit the porch steps and popped open, Tabitha’s smaller box tumbling out. Emma gasped and looked up from the travois, and Justine broke into a big—and very rare—grin.

  “Darryl,” Marion cried. “What happened?”

  “They’re dead,” he replied. He held up the Beretta, as if to show them evidence. Then he stuffed it into his pocket. “All of them. It’s done.”

  As Marion and Emma continued to stare in amazement, Justine rose and came down the porch steps.

  “We heard Sasha screaming,” she said, pushing past Emma. She still had the baby in her arms, though she’d wrapped him in a blanket. “A bunch of gunshots. More screaming. But then there was nothing for, like, thirty minutes, and we kept debating whether or not we should go and check on you.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, giving her a big hug that encompassed the baby. “I had to make sure the bandits were all dead. It’s such a mess out there.”

  “How did you manage to kill the last of them?” Emma asked, coming down the steps.

  “I took your advice,” he replied, making a fist and holding it up.

  But she was close enough now to see the bumps and bruises on his face, and she gasped. “What did you do?” she said, in a soft voice—full of awe and fear.

  “What I had to,” he replied.

  His mother came down the steps then as well, and he saw that she was crying again. Tears had cut tracks through the dust and dirt on her face. “You don’t have to tell me. I already know, but…you went back and checked on him didn’t you…on your father?”

  He nodded as his mother approached. Embracing him, she wept against his shoulder. “He died to save us. He died twice, in a way. I can’t believe it.”

  “I would have done the same,” Darryl said.

  “It was his way,” Marion said, pulling out of the embrace and furiously wiping her cheeks. “Come on. We’d better finish unloading and put the animals in the barn out back. It’ll be night soon.” Sniffing, she settled her face, jaw clenched. Then she turned and went back to the travois, pulling Emma along with her.

  Darryl started to follow, but Justine stepped in the way again. Pulling back a fold of the blanket, she revealed the baby’s face. He was sleeping now, looking so peaceful with his fat pink cheeks and little nub of a chin.

  “I have a name for him now,” Justine said. “It’s a bit old-fashioned, but it suits him.”

  “Oh, yeah, what’s that?” Darryl replied.

  “Now, look.” Justine gave him a serious look, eyebrows up, mouth tightening. “I’ve thought about this a lot, so don’t just dismiss it right away. I’m really fixed on this one.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” he said. “What is it?”

  Justine averted her gaze, bit her lip, and said, “Greg. I think his name should be Greg Healy. After the man who died to save us.”

  Marion and Emma had just been about to start unloading again, but they came stumbling back, bursting into tears again. Darryl joined them this time, and they all met in a big embrace, encircling the tiny sleeping baby. As Darryl looked past Justine, he saw Horace standing at the porch railing, smiling and nodding.

  “Are you okay with it?” Justine asked.

  “Absolutely,” Darryl replied.

  When he looked down at the baby again, he saw that his son’s eyes were open, and he was currently jamming his stubby fingers into his mouth. Darryl stroked a fat cheek with his gloved finger.

  “Hello, Greg Healy,” he said. “Welcome home.”

  “Hello, Greg,” Marion said. “You’re going to have a safe and happy life. I promise. It’s what your grandfather wanted for you.”

  “It’s what he gave you,” Justine added.

  36

  Six Years Later

  The front yard was full of lazing cows, as usual. Sometimes, Darryl or Emma took them down the trail to graze in a clearing, or up the slope to a grassy place above the property line. However, they seemed to like the yard best. On beautiful afternoons like this, Horace liked to sit on his rocking chair in a corner of the porch and watch them. It was warmer now, but his frail body was cold most of the time anyway, so he always put on his heavy coat, gloves, and boots. However, they were in the heat of summer now, and he felt bold enough to remove his gloves and set them aside.

  “It’s twenty-five, twenty-six degrees, I’ll wager,” he muttered, though he was the only one on the porch at the moment.

  He slept quite a bit these days, but the Healys were always accommodating. Even now, as he began to drift toward sleep, he heard the front door open. Emma stepped outside. Unlike him, she wore only a long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans. He was amazed all over again at how much she’d grown in the last six yea
rs. Sometimes, he got confused and thought she was her mother.

  “I brought you some hot tea, sir,” she said.

  As she approached, he noticed the steaming enamelware cup in her hands. She set it on the small table beside his chair, and he reached for it.

  “That’s awfully nice of you,” he said.

  “Do you need anything else?”

  “Oh, no,” he replied. He took a sip of tea, but it was just a bit too hot at the moment. “I’m perfectly fine to sit here and enjoy myself. I was thinking about taking me a little nap, but I’ll stay up for the tea.”

  “Okay, but you just call for one of us if you need anything,” she said.

  Emma went down the steps into the yard. A moment later, Horace heard the squeals of a tiny voice, and suddenly little Greg burst through the open door and went capering down the steps after his aunt. He was a little past six years old, and he was a bundle of energy. Horace could already see a lot of the grandfather in him. Same blond hair, blue eyes, same smile.

  All of his clothes were handmade, of course. There were precious few stores in the wilderness of British Columbia. Indeed, at the moment, he was wearing a long shirt and pants that looked like they’d been made from a bedsheet. His shoes were crude moccasins. Horace had helped Emma make them.

  “Papa, Papa, look at me,” Greg said, spinning circles in the yard.

  “Oh, I see you,” Horace replied. “You’ll make yourself dizzy like that.”

  “I know. It’s fun!” And then he stopped and cast himself onto the grass, arms and legs spread wide. “Whoa, the whole world is spinning and spinning!”

  Horace often marveled at the amazing view they had from the porch. Because the cabin was set partway up a slope, they had an expansive view all the way to the vast gray mountains crowning the horizon. Of course, they’d done a lot of work on the cabin and grounds over the years, and it looked better than ever. Repairs had been made, and they’d cleared a bit more ground around them so they had some breathing room.