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

by Hamilton, Grace

  “They’ve got a lookout with binoculars at the back door,” Darryl said. “I don’t think she saw me.”

  “I doubt she’ll spot us here,” Greg said. “Keep an eye on her.”

  Darryl eased slowly out from behind the tree and put his eye to the scope again. Officer Grasier was still scanning her surroundings with the binoculars, but she was turned away from him now. She’d stepped through the door to get a clear view. As she did, he noticed something strange in her other hand. It took a moment to realize it was a paper plate with some scraps of food on it. A crust of a sandwich, some potato chips—her meal or the remnants of food they’d fed their hostage?

  He looked through the open door. The interior of the warehouse was dim, though he saw some hints of faint light coming from deeper inside. He could just make out a second door a couple of meters beyond the outer door. It had a narrow window to the right of the door knob, but the room beyond was even darker. Still, as he studied the distant window, he thought he saw some kind of dim, shadowy shape on the other side. He was studying it, trying to make sense of it, when the door swung shut again and blocked his view.

  “She went back inside,” he said softly. “I think you’re right, Dad. I think they’re holding Emma somewhere near the back door. There’s a little room of some kind on the other side. Do you think we can get inside?”

  “If we can slip past the guards?” his father replied. “Absolutely. I brought all the tools we need.”

  Darryl heard a sound then, coming from somewhere in the forest, and he began scanning for the source. It was strange metallic sound he couldn’t quite identify. He scanned all the way to the side door and then out along a well-worn path across the warehouse parking lot. Finally, he saw it: another one of Eustace’s men in a black coat and hat, and he was pushing a wheeled cart out of the forest from the direction of town. A large metal drum sat on top of the cart.

  “You see that?” Greg said.

  “Yeah, another one of his guys,” Darryl said. “He’s pushing a barrel. What in the world could it be?”

  “I’ve been watching Eustace and his men bringing barrels just like that to the warehouse for days,” Greg said.

  As the guard approached the side door, it opened, and another guard held it. For a second, Darryl saw electric lights shining on the ceiling. They were dim and flickering, but they were clearly working.

  “How are they powering the lights in the warehouse?” Darryl wondered aloud.

  “Well, you’ve made the connection,” Greg said. “I believe the barrels are full of fuel, probably diesel. I think they’re stockpiling it, using it to power a generator to keep the lights working in the warehouse.”

  Darryl saw the metal drums lined up beside the door, blue paint flaking off. Darryl knew from experience that diesel was much less flammable than gasoline, but once it was burning, it could make a nice big fire. His own grandfather had loved to toss a little diesel onto a campfire to make it flare up—though he’d always done so with a mischievous grin.

  What would it take to set off the barrels? Darryl didn’t know, but he thought it would be worth finding out.

  Let it burn. Let his whole little empire burn.

  28

  Darryl watched as they rolled the barrel up beside the door and added it to the row already sitting there. The men spent a few moments adjusting the row of barrels, and one of them seemed to be making marks in a small notebook which he produced from his coat pocket.

  “Why don’t they take the diesel inside?” Darryl wondered aloud. “Seems like it would be safer that way.”

  “Not sure,” Greg replied, “but they might be afraid to stockpile it inside the building because of the fumes. If I had to guess, I’d say the generator isn’t producing enough power to run the ventilation system inside the warehouse. I mean, they’ve got a heck of a lot of it sitting there. Each of those drums is probably two hundred liters, and I count eight barrels.”

  As Greg was talking, Darryl watched the first guard step outside again. He caught a hint of the man’s face. He had big round cheeks and large eyes, bad skin, and curly black hair. He also had an AR-15 rifle in his arms, and once he was outside, he proceeded to walk the perimeter of the parking lot. Darryl watched him as he circled the entire warehouse property.

  “Well, they’ve got a guard strolling the parking lot now,” he noted. “This is getting more complicated. We have to make a move soon, Dad. The longer we sit here, the more time they have to prepare for us.”

  He heard a soft sound and looked over to see his father removing his backpack and setting it on the ground. Unzipping the big pocket, Greg rooted around inside.

  “Keep an eye on the warehouse,” he said to Darryl. “Make sure the guard is following a consistent pattern.”

  Darryl looked back through the scope and soon spotted the big-cheeked guard. Indeed, he seemed to be walking a regular circle around the entire property, making the circuit approximately every twelve minutes. When he reached the side door, he would pause in front of the barrels, turn in the direction of town, and aim the rifle for a few seconds, before resuming.

  As Darryl watched, he heard the soft sound of towel-wrapped tools. After a minute, he heard the backpack being zipped up again.

  “Okay, look, son,” Greg said, “there’s no way to do this without taking a big risk.”

  “I realize that,” Darryl said. “The bigger risk is letting them continue to hold Emma hostage, so I’m ready to do whatever it takes to get her out of there.”

  “Good. Take this.”

  Darryl turned to his father. He was holding a small tool out to him. Darryl recognized it as an awl, with a bulb-shaped wooden handle that seemed about fifty years old, a long shank of dark metal, and a tip that seemed like it had been routinely sharpened over the years. When Darryl took it, his father then offered him a small mallet. He tucked both tools in his coat pockets.

  “Puncture a hole in the side of one of those metal drums,” Greg said. “Let the diesel flow out onto the ground, then light it.” He next handed his son a plastic cigarette lighter. “It’ll take a while to get it burning, so hang in there. Diesel doesn’t combust like gasoline. But once it’s burning really good, get away from the flames.”

  Darryl tucked the lighter in beside the awl. “Got it.”

  “Don’t be afraid to make a big scene,” Greg added. “In fact, that’s what we want. We want them to rush to the fire. In the immediate confusion, I’ll break in and snatch Emma, and then we’ll run like hell. The timing is going to be important, and we’ll have to act fast.”

  Darryl’s heart was pounding. He could feel it in his throat, in his temples, in the tips of his fingers. This was about to happen. Somehow, it hadn’t seemed entirely real until this moment. He retrieved the Remington, checking it again to make sure it was loaded, that the safety was off. It had become somehow familiar and reassuring. He also reached into his coat pocket, pushing past the awl to find the extra magazine.

  Not handy enough, he thought. He moved the awl to the other pocket and readjusted the magazine so he could grab it quickly.

  “You don’t want the SIG?” his father asked.

  “I’m more comfortable with the Remington,” he replied, “especially if the people are close.”

  Greg had taken the SIG, but he reached out and grabbed Darryl’s arm. “Remember: Don’t be afraid to make a big scene. I need you to draw them all to the north side of the warehouse. A big fire will do it. Maybe some noise and chaos, as well. Try to avoid a firefight, if you can, but if someone finds you before you start the fire…” He cocked his head to one side. “You know what you have to do.”

  Darryl nodded. It wasn’t the first time, of course. Indeed, this all felt rather familiar, though the last time he’d been caught in the middle of an actual gun battle, he’d been crawling along the ground trying to avoid the bullets.

  “Do you think you’re going to be able to handle this?” his father asked.

  He wants to
know if I can kill a person, Darryl realized. It was a fair question. Greg had been close but not actually present during the fight with Mayor Filmore and his guards. Then again, Darryl hadn’t actually shot anyone then. He considered his father’s question.

  “Yes, I think I can,” he replied, after a moment. “If it comes down to it and I have to shoot some of these people, I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”

  At least, I hope it won’t, he thought.

  His father nodded and clapped him on the back. “Okay, let me take a look and see where the perimeter guard is located.” He raised the SIG and peered through the scope. “As soon as he heads around the corner, I’ll give you the signal. Move fast. Don’t let them know you’re coming, but move fast.”

  “Got it.”

  Darryl stepped around the trunk of the tree, crouching slightly so he could take off at a sprint. He saw the corner of the warehouse between the trees in the distance. With the naked eye, it seemed so far away. He tightened his grip on the rifle and took deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself.

  “Now,” his dad said. A single word, soft as a whisper, and filled with so much dread.

  Darryl let the breath out in a rush and took off at a sprint, trying to step as lightly as possible as he weaved his way toward the distant gap. From behind him, he heard his dad moving in a different direction, but he couldn’t look back now. They were each on their own.

  As he drew near the parking lot, he slowed down and diverted his course, aiming for the well-worn path that Eustace and his guards used to travel to town. He turned in the direction of the side door, realizing now just how visible he would be to anyone who opened the door at that moment. Not much he could do about it. He raised the gun and aimed it at the door, his finger sliding down to the trigger.

  It seemed strange that his father had simply trusted him with this dangerous task and sent him on his way. The risk was extreme, but it was perhaps the first time in Darryl’s life that his father had treated him as an equal, like a competent man who could handle a dangerous task all by himself. More than that, his father trusted him enough that the whole rescue of Emma hinged on this task. If Darryl failed to draw the guards to the side door, Greg might not be able to get inside.

  I won’t let him down, Darryl thought. No matter what.

  29

  Being tied to the chair in such an awkward position, with her hands behind her back, induced full-body panic. Emma’s whole body was shaking violently. Finally, she was able to calm herself enough to begin tugging at the restraints, twisting them back and forth. She was afraid to scream, afraid to draw the guards into the room. If they realized she was trying to escape, they might add additional restraints and make it even worse. Still, she pulled and twisted her arms as much as she could, trying to break out of the zip ties. It proved futile. How could little plastic straps be so damned sturdy?

  She kept it up until her wrists hurt so much that she cried out in pain. Only then did she slump in her seat and let her shoulders sag so the zip ties were no longer pulling against her wrists. That helped, but only a little bit. It felt like she’d cut herself. She blinked back tears. Breaking free was clearly not going to be an option, but she wouldn’t resign herself to her fate. These creeps wanted to use her somehow against her family, and Emma refused to be a pawn in their game. Somehow, she had to find a way to get out of here. She racked her brain trying to think of something, anything.

  Some time had passed, maybe an hour or two, when she saw shadows moving in the flickering light beyond the narrow window. She heard a voice and knew it was that damned Eustace Simpson. The sound of him was like dragging fingernails across rusty aluminum. What a despicable creature.

  Suddenly, the door to the little office flew open. Surprisingly, it was Pam Grasier standing there, the female police officer. Her broad-brimmed hat was pushed up to reveal her face. She had the unfriendliest features Emma had ever seen, like a face chipped out of coarse concrete. Always scowling, her dark eyes practically smothered by her lowered eyebrows. Still, as she stepped into the room, Emma noticed she was carrying a paper plate with a sandwich and potato chips on it.

  She crossed the small space and set the plate on the desk in front of Emma.

  “If I untie your hands so you can eat, do you promise you’ll behave,” Pam said. A flat voice, emotionless as a robot. “I’d hate to have to break both arms, but I’ll do it.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Emma replied. She was terrified, but somehow, this only made her more willful. “You can eat the sandwich yourself. Someone probably spit in it anyway.”

  Pam stood in front of the desk, gazing down at Emma with what seemed like absolute clinical detachment.

  “Fine with me,” she said, after a moment. She picked up the sandwich and took a big bite, tossing the rest of it back onto the plate. Then she spoke through a mouthful of food. “Don’t complain later about being hungry. I did you a small act of kindness, and you refused it. Point taken.”

  “If you want to do an act of kindness, let me go home,” Emma replied, fighting tears. “I’m just a kid. I shouldn’t be here.”

  “No, you’re not going anywhere. Accept it. Don’t bother trying to play on my sympathies, kid. I don’t care about anyone. Never did. There’s a word for it. Misanthrope. That’s what I am. That’s what I’ve always been. Got it?”

  “I know what misanthrope means,” Emma said.

  “Good.”

  And with that, Pam picked up the plate of food, ate a potato chip, and walked out of the office. She started to kick the door shut behind her, but a fat arm reached around the corner and caught it. Eustace stepped into the doorway then. He looked redder and sweatier than ever, and with his toque removed, his hair was tangled and damp as rain-soaked grass. As he shuffled into the room, she realized he was holding a rectangular bottle in his right hand. Booze of some kind, though she couldn’t read the label.

  He took a few unsteady steps toward the desk and came to a stop, glaring down at her. Red cheeks, red eyes, red hair, the man looked like an ember plucked from a campfire. His sidekick followed almost immediately. Unlike Eustace, who was mostly disgusting and strange, James was clearly a real tough guy. He had a severe face, narrow eyes, a nose that had probably been broken a few times over the years, a black beard, and a prominent scar cutting across his lips.

  “So you’re going to refuse food, is that it?” Eustace said. His regular speaking voice was far louder than was necessary. Emma made sure to play up her annoyance, twisting her facial features for maximum effect. They could hold her hostage, but they couldn’t stop her from expressing her contempt and disgust.

  “Yes, sir, I’m refusing food,” Emma replied. “I can’t trust that lady cop not to spit in my food. She’s a misanthrope. Haven’t you heard?”

  “The kid’s got a point,” James said, with a small smile.

  “Oh, shut up, James,” Eustace replied. He spun the cap off the bottle and took a swig. Then he set the bottle on a corner of the desk. Now, she could see the label: Canadian Club 100% Rye. About half the bottle was gone, though he didn’t seem drunk. “Now look, Emma, I would love to reunite you with your family when this is all over, assuming they decide to work with me here, so let’s play nice. Eat your food and behave, and things will go better for you, okay?”

  Emma averted her gaze. She couldn’t look at him. He was hideous in every way. “And what if I don’t?”

  “Then I’ll do what your daddy should have done and smack you around a little bit,” Eustace said, his eyes going wide. He raised one of his meaty paws.

  “Oh, stop it,” James said to him. “What does it matter? Come on. Leave the kid here and let’s go.” He reached out and grabbed a fold of Eustace’s coat, tugging at it. “What does it matter if she doesn’t want to eat?”

  Eustace angrily shook off the man’s hand. “Stay out of this, James. I’ve had enough of this kid. I’ve had enough of this whole family!” He picked up the bottle, seemed to debate with himself
for a moment, then screwed the cap back on. “I don’t know why I’m putting up with any of this, quite frankly. This kid should already be buried out in the woods somewhere.”

  His words went through her like ice, but for some reason it only made her even more defiant. Clearly, these two men didn’t like each other.

  What happens if I keep pushing? she wondered.

  “Did he just threaten to kill me?” she said. “Do you kill actually kill children? Is that the kind of people you are?”

  At this, James sniffed loudly and said to Eustace, “You need get ahold of yourself.” He grabbed Eustace’s coat again, and this time, he managed to pull him back a step. “Come on. Leave the kid here, and let’s go.”

  “You’re a hired man,” Eustace replied, angrily, shaking off his hand once again. “Don’t forget that, James. I’ve had enough of your feedback. Your damned constructive criticism. Quite frankly, if we just killed the girl, it would force Greg to do what we want. Why are we treating this family with kid gloves? What’s it getting us?” His voice was getting louder, deeper, becoming a bellow that stabbed into Emma’s ears.

  “I’m not going to participate in killing a kid,” James said. “Can we talk about this outside somewhere?”

  “No, damn you,” Eustace shouted. He slammed the bottle onto the table and rounded on James. “Stop telling me what to do. I’m sick of dealing with this family. Why are we prolonging this situation? Let’s be done with it.”

  “We will be done with it, soon enough.” James sounded remarkably calm, despite Eustace’s outburst. “And we’ll do it the right way, the smart way. There’s no point in resorting to barbarism if it doesn’t get us closer to the goal. Come on. Let’s go. Leave the kid alone.”

  He beckoned Eustace and took a step toward the door, but Eustace held his ground. When he reached for the bottle again, his sleeve pulled back, and Emma noticed the edge of a bandage wrapped around his forearm.