When Lauren reached the bottom of the staircase, she scoured the main level of the farmhouse, finding it was now vacant. All those heard scurrying around minutes before had seemingly made their exits. On her way into the kitchen, the door leading down into the cellar opened several inches, and she stopped before passing it by.
Ruth peeked through the cracked-open doorway, what color the elderly woman’s face retained having dissolved. She breathed heavily, and strands of silver and white hair swayed over her eyes. “Heavens to Betsy, Lauren! You startled me,” she said, putting a hand to her chest. “I didn’t think anyone was up here.” She looked Lauren over and ran her fingers through the teen’s sweat-moistened bangs. “My, you’re all whitish and sweaty, looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Lauren jumped slightly at the sound of more gunshots rattling off outside. “I’m okay, Ruth, but what’s going on? What’s with all the shooting?”
Ruth looked away, urgency building on her face. “Another skirmish, I imagine.”
“A skirmish?” Lauren moved past the woman, closer to the front door. “You’re awfully passive about it.” Approaching the window, she split the drapes apart to get a view of the driveway. “Does this happen often around here?”
Ruth tiptoed over and closed the gap between them. “Seldom. Most times it’s the Sons just doing their thing…but the bullets are usually going in the other direction.”
“Sons? Oh…the Sons of the Second, you mean. The militia.”
“Mm-hmm,” Ruth hummed. “We’re blessed to have them boys around. We’ve had a good thing going with them for many a year. They protect the farm and keep us up to our ears in wild game; lots of elk in these hills. But all the good they afford doesn’t come without a random measure of not so good.”
Another flurry of gunshots went off, and areas of compacted snow erupted and spun into the air as errant bullets collided. “The shots are getting closer. What about the kids? They’re sitting ducks out there.”
Ruth patted Lauren’s shoulder. “Easy, dear. Calm down. They’re fine, all safe down in the cellar. We’d never let a thing happen to them, trust me. They mean the world to us, same as you.”
Lauren exhaled a sigh of relief, but this skirmish thing was hitting a little too close to home. “Have you seen Dave this morning? Or any of his crew?”
Ruth chuckled slightly under her breath. “Afraid I haven’t. He doesn’t grace us with his presence unless there’s a plate of food waiting for him on the table. Even then, there’s no guarantee. I’d wager he’s right smack-dab in the middle of all that back-and-forth. He’s tried hard to help keep the peace whenever he comes around, but most of the boys from these parts are pretty darn hardheaded. If this old woman’s intuition hasn’t failed her yet, I’m starting to get the feeling his patience is waning.”
“I didn’t think Dave had any patience.” Lauren snickered, spotting motion through the window. Bernie had exited the barn with an armload of freshly split firewood and looked oblivious to the danger surrounding him. “What does Bernie think he’s doing?”
Ruth put her nose to the window. “Oh my stars, that man is forever losing his marbles.” She wiped her hands on her apron and fiddled with her hair. “Don’t worry with him, Lauren. I’ll go fetch him.”
“No, you won’t,” Lauren said, holding onto Ruth’s arm. “I’ll go. You stay here and watch the kids.” Without another word, she exited and ran down the porch steps to the shoveled walkway, into the snowy yard. It had hardened somewhat since it had fallen, and a sheet of ice sheltered the top, making a chomping sound with each step.
Bernie smiled and crinkled his nose when he noticed her approach. “Young lady, what on earth are you doing? Coming out here like that with no jacket on? You’re gonna catch a cold.” He grunted under the wood’s weight. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you young people these days.”
Lauren turned slightly, ducking at another rattle of gunshots in the distance. “I’ll be fine. I don’t plan to be out here any longer than I have to.” She slung the AK over her shoulder and offered to carry some of the wood. “I only came out to get you.”
Bernie looked confused. “You did, did you? Somebody’s got to get this firewood in the house, and I don’t see no one else doing it. If that old house gets cold, it’ll take forever and a day to warm her back up.” Three impressively loud gunshots rang out, having zero effect on the old man. “But since you’re out here, why don’t you grab another armload from the barn and bring it inside for me? I’d be much obliged.”
Lauren reached for his forearm, her resolve mounting. “I will—I’ll do that. But you really need to head inside. I think Ruth needs you for something.”
“Ruthie? She say what she wants this time?”
“She…didn’t specify.”
“I see—probably somethin’ I forgot. My better half’s honey-do list is about a hundred miles long—but don’t tell her I said that. If she hears me complainin’, she’ll only add more to it.” A toothy grin slid across Bernie’s face and he gestured to the house. “Oh well, go on then. We’d better go see what she wants. Knowing her, it’s probably important. Important to her, at any rate.”
Lauren smiled at him, and the two walked side by side back to the porch. She escorted Bernie inside and handed him off to Ruth, then rotated and headed back.
“Lauren,” Ruth rattled, “dear, where are you going?”
“To find Dave. And put an end to this.”
Ruth instructed Bernie to stay put and gave chase. “Dear, listen to me, please…don’t go back out there.” She clung gently to Lauren’s arm. “There are enough angry men, danger and guns outside already. You don’t need to be getting yourself involved in that mess.”
Lauren turned to face the old woman, her unfettered hair falling into elegant layers along and over her shoulder. “I’m already involved.” She offered a firm, reassuring smile, a visible indication of the strength of character she’d attained in recent months.
For Lauren, being who she was now, it wasn’t a conscious choice or a voluntary option; it had become a calling. “It’s okay. Keep everyone inside, especially that mischievous husband of yours. I’ll be back shortly. I promise.”
Chapter 3
The cabin
Trout Run Valley
Saturday, January 1st. Present day
The look on his face was smug, to say the least. There was simply no other way to describe it. Richie Rich, as he’d been baptized by those who’d known him the longest, was the walking, chattering epitome of sanctimonious. A whole melting pot of it, reaching the point of damn near boiling over and spilling whatever surplus he retained onto Grace’s freshly mopped hardwood floors. One of his eyebrows was arched ever so slightly, and his lips were scarcely curled into a smirk, as if he were using only the absolute bare minimum effort to implement the gestures.
With her chin resting in her palms, her elbows on the table, and a scorching stare capable of setting anything remotely flammable in the room ablaze, Grace inspected the young man sitting across from her. The air of arrogance he gave off was causing her to develop nausea beyond any level experienced thus far in the final month of her first trimester. With every subsequent pompous word he uttered, every insensitive syllable that spewed from the orifice of lips, gums and teeth that fashioned his stupid mouth, Grace didn’t just want to hurt him; she wanted to wound him, murder him, tear the skin from his face and chew on it like licorice, all the while clawing his goddamn eyes out.
The young soldier had impulsively joined Grace and Christian for breakfast this morning on a whim and without invitation, and was now helping himself to a serving of waffles that Grace had made specifically for herself, Christian, and the handful of others living in the cabin. And everyone who lived there, especially now that she was consuming sustenance for a sum of two, knew how much Grace relished her waffles.
As Richie tilted a glass of water to his lips, Grace reached forward, to his astonishment, and intercepted it. She r
elieved him of it following a trivial tugging match and placed it firmly onto the table. “Richie, stop a second. Wait. Refrain from taking another bite or sip and kindly reiterate what you just said…only, do so sans the attitude. And when I say ‘sans the attitude,’ I mean without it. You know, shorn of it. Completely deficient thereof—as in lacking said attitude entirely. As in leave it at the fucking doormat where you should’ve left those crusty boots when you barged into my home unannounced.”
Richie’s eyebrows shot up. “Um…o-kay.”
Grace held up her index finger. “Halt. Don’t speak. Not yet,” she purred. “Cherry-pick the words you’re about to use wisely—and I mean very wisely. Keep in mind the person about whom you’re gushing off at the mouth just so happens to be my sister. And I love my sister.”
“I know that,” Richie replied. “And I always choose my words wisely. And what attitude, by the way? I don’t think I hav—”
Grace snapped her fingers, her eyes slamming shut. “Yes, you do. You do, in fact, possess an attitude. A particularly shitty one. And if you keep brandishing it while speaking to me in this house, I swear before God the father himself, I will become aggressive, perhaps excessively so.”
Richie sniggered and fell back into the chair. “Aggressive? Really?”
Grace elevated her brows. “Mm-hmm. I’m sure by now it’s highly likely you’ve heard that I’m…with child. To be accurate, I’m nearing the final stages of my first trimester—my first one ever. I’m insanely hyperemotional, sick to my stomach every goddamn minute of every goddamn day, and for some unearthly reason, I retch every morsel of food I put down like some pitiful bulimic on an extended masochistic binge-purge cycle. Consequently, my tolerance level for bullshit has arrived at an all-time low, as in taking a head-first plummet into some foreign, unexplored gestationally fabricated abyss.” Her glare went sour. “That all being said, I swear as sure as we’re all sitting here, if you don’t mislay that…childish arrogance of yours and address me with some…measure of courtesy, I will cut you.”
Richie turned to Christian. “Um, dude? Is your girl for real?”
Christian glanced at his love, pursed his lips and sent a single nod. “Yeah, dude. I believe her to be just that.” He watched Grace’s hand disappear from the table and reappear with a Victorinox Swiss Army knife.
Grace overturned her hand, presented the knife for all to see, then brought it close to her chest and sent Christian a set of googly eyes. “Gosh, do you see why I love this man so? This knife was the first gift he ever gave me, I’m sorry…I mean, aside from his colossal, exquisite heart. He’s such the loverboy, always doing the sweetest little things for me, always when I least expect it.” Now on the verge of tears, Grace set the knife down and affixed her gaze to Richie again, chin landing in her palms. “Sorry—got caught up in the moment. Where were we? You were saying?”
Richie set down his fork and eyed Grace’s knife. “Okay, okay. I can pretty much see where this is headed. The only reason I even chose to come here and say anything about this was because I assumed it would help us get to know each other a little better…maybe even ease the tension.”
Christian folded his arms. “The only tension I’m aware of is the tension you created on the day we came here, and I’m over it. But since we’re on the topic, let me hand you off a little advice. What you say is nowhere near as important as how you choose to say it. You strolled in here this morning, unannounced and uninvited, with an agenda of some kind knowing full well what, or more to the point, who you’d encounter. This is Lauren’s house. Her family lives here.”
“A lot of people live here, and not all of them are family,” the young soldier said with a slight eye roll. “At least, from what I’ve…gathered.”
“Exsqueeze me?” Grace barked.
Christian intervened with a hand. “Yes, that’s correct. It’s a full house. I live here now, and Norman and his sons are close family friends who’ve been living here since the beginning.”
“Close family friends.” Richie sniggered. “The blond guy…the one who doesn’t talk a lot. That’s Lauren’s boyfriend, correct?”
Grace’s nostrils flared.
Christian hesitated before responding, at a loss for where this was going. “Correct.”
Richie jutted his chin out. “Yeah. I gathered that, too.” A pause. “So, do they sleep in separate rooms?”
“I beg your pardon?” Grace asked, her eyes darkening.
“Sorry, I mean…well…what I’m asking is—”
Grace snapped her fingers again. “Don’t, Richie. No. You stop right there. Don’t you dare ask that.”
“Huh? Why not? How do you know what I was planning to ask?”
“Because I’m telepathic, stupid,” Grace fizzed. “The preliminary stages of motherhood have generously enriched all six of my senses. That’s right, six. And you…you were about to touch on whether my sister and her man are…occupying the same bed—nightly. Right?”
Richie shrugged. “Well, yeah. I guess. But—”
“And the resolution to that…brazen, tremendously inconsiderate question would be none of your goddamn business. I guess,” Grace said, mocking both his answer and tone. “Now, finalize your train of thought—for good, if you even have one, then kindly remove your ass from that chair and yourself from this house directly thereafter. We, meaning those living beneath this roof, have lots of…things to do today.”
Richie sighed. He shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Fine. Whatever. I just don’t understand…makes no sense to me why your sister’s never mentioned us before—to anyone. It’s confusing. That’s all.”
“That’s all?” Grace queried. “Are you sure that’s all, Richie?”
Richie shrugged again. “Yeah, I mean, I guess there’s a little more to it than that. I mean…she was seriously head over heels infatuated with me.”
Grace grabbed the Swiss Army knife and shot a glance to Christian. “That’s it. I’m cutting him.” She rose, knocking the chair away behind her.
Richie jumped from his seat and backed away, his right hand moving instinctively to his holstered sidearm.
Christian held Grace at bay by the arm and pointed at Richie. “Easy, bud. Hand away from the backstrap,” he ordered, then looked to Grace. “And you…sit down and relax.” A pause. “Please?”
“I’ll back down when she does,” Richie squawked. “Jesus…what the hell’s her problem anyway?”
Grace’s retort was instant. “My problem?” She chuckled maniacally. “My problem? Well, kind sir, my…problem happens to be you and your stupid…face and…words. Lauren has never been infatuated with anything or anyone, for that matter. Especially some self-important, urchin dickwad like you.”
“Oh really?” Richie said. “Well, I beg to differ. You weren’t there. Neither of you were. And your sister was downright crazy for me. We spent an incredible evening together, but in the end, I knew it wouldn’t work out for us. We were way too…different. And I knew it was up to me to make the adult decision. I had to let her down easy.”
“Asshole! Let go of me, Christian!” Grace yanked away, rounded the table and used its leverage to slingshot herself at Richie.
The young soldier dodged her advance with ease. He slid out of the danger zone and went on the defensive.
The situation looking to spiral beyond frenetic, Christian grabbed the table and slid it behind him, then jumped between the arrogant soldier and the highly agitated mother of his child. He stuck a hand in Richie’s face while struggling with Grace, barely able to prevent her from gaining ground. “That’s it, this is done! Through! Over! Richie, get out, now. While you still can.”
Richie smirked. “Heh. No problem. I’ll just be on my way,” he said, and turned. “I guess sometimes the truth really does hurt, doesn’t it?”
“You motherfucker!” Grace yelped. “I’ll show you hurt! I’ll show you oodles of fucking hurt, you spineless, hopeless, dickless, donkey-molesting shit feeder! I’m g
onna—”
Stopping her mid-thought and mid-sentence, the front door suddenly flung open before Richie could reach for the handle. Junior Brady stepped inside accompanied by his brother Ricky, their boots caked with snow. Their eyes fell immediately upon Grace, who was in the process of opening several of the Swiss Army knife’s accessories, including the knife blade, the saw and the fish scaler, while she battled Christian’s grasp.
Junior Brady spoke first. “Might we be…interrupting somethin’?”
Christian forced a smile. “No, not at all. Just a little…family business. Got a hair out of hand, but everything’s under control now.”
“Yeah, looks like it,” Junior said, wide-eyed and unconvinced.
“Out of hand hasn’t quite arrived yet,” Grace spat. She muscled open the scissors, bottle opener and Phillips screwdriver on the knife. “Oh, wait, there it is. There’s out of hand, right on time. And now you’re all about to witness something extraordinary. First-degree homicide, right before your very eyes.”
Richie scoffed. “You’re full of it. You couldn’t kill a mosquito with that kid knife.”
“Maybe not. But I could castrate one.”
“Maybe…we should come back later,” Junior said, his expression signaling nervousness. “When you actually do have things under control.”
“Nonsense,” said Christian. He passed cold stares and verbally admonished Richie and Grace under his breath while judging the newest arrivals’ overall demeanor. As a rule, they were known for knocking and awaiting a response before making entry. Something was up. “What can we help you with?”
Indivisible Page 4
