EMP: Return of the Wild West | Book 2 | Survive The Attack

by Hamilton, Grace

  “No, it slipped my mind. They probably need more time anyway.”

  As he came up the steps, she took the pheasant from him and examined it. It was just a common pheasant, a mottled brown hen, with perhaps three good bites of meat in total. Greg tried to hide his embarrassment as he stepped around Tabitha and embraced his wife.

  If they knew I’d spent most of that time tracking down and spying on Eustace, they would both give me hell, he thought. He hoped the guilt he felt didn’t show on his face.

  “You took Horace’s fancy sniper rifle to hunt deer?” Marion said with a little laugh. “The Remington wasn’t good enough? What exactly were you hoping to find out there?”

  “Horace offered it,” Greg said—not an untruth. “I didn’t want to say no. It’s a nice rifle. Feels sort of fancy lugging it around.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing we don’t depend on hunting for our food,” Tabitha said, heading inside with the bird. “We’d starve.”

  “We’re fine on supplies,” Greg replied as he followed her through the door. “If we had to depend on hunting, I’d try a lot harder. Maybe I was just distracted. Can’t a guy roam out in the wilderness for a couple of hours with his gun and his thoughts?”

  His mother turned and gave him a withering look. “Your gun and your thoughts, huh? Well, next time think about shooting a deer instead of blowing the head off a hen.”

  “You got it,” he replied with a sheepish shrug. “You want me to clean and dress it?”

  “Nope, I’d like to do it myself,” she replied. “I know I picked on you, but we haven’t had any sort of fowl meat in a while. I’m rather looking forward to it.”

  “Too bad you didn’t get a few of them,” Marion said. “It’d make a nice change from all that salted beef.”

  Marion followed Tabitha into the kitchen, which left Greg standing alone in the living room. He assumed Horace was in his room—they’d given him the master bedroom on the first floor behind the den, mostly so he didn’t have to worry about the stairs. Greg didn’t want to wake him, so he set the safety on the old man’s rifle and gently laid it on the mantel above the fireplace. He could feel the guilt at lying to his family crawling all over him, yet they seemed to have readily accepted the lie. If he’d said or done anything, or if there was anything weird in his expression, they didn’t seem to have noticed.

  His family’s acceptance of the lie made him feel just a little bit better about the whole situation. Yet he was still restless, ready to put it all behind him. He needed to make a move on Eustace, though he knew he had to create a plan and wait for the right time. Lost in thought, he happened to turn around and notice Emma sitting at the dining room table. She had a small notebook open in front of her, and it looked like she was in the middle of sketching some plans—another self-appointed project, perhaps. However, at the moment she was staring at him fixedly with narrowed eyes.

  Maybe I spoke too soon.

  “Hey there, kiddo,” he said. “What are you working on over there?”

  “Oh, just some ideas,” she replied, finally looking back at her notebook. “For stuff around the ranch.”

  “Great.”

  “Why are you just standing there like that?” she added, as she resumed scribbling in her notebook. “Is something wrong?”

  “I guess…I’m just disappointed I didn’t do better this morning,” he added.

  “Oh,” Emma said. “You looked weirdly excited about something for a second.”

  “Just thinking about future hunts,” he said.

  “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 so 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 fel
l. 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 b
ed 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.