Survive the Fall (EMP: Return of the Wild West Book 1)

by Grace Hamilton

  “I don’t know that we have either the skill or tools to do that,” Greg said, “but let’s find the river first and discuss it when we get there.”

  He veered in the direction of the sound, moving down a slight slope. The trees seemed to thin out, and within a few minutes, they came in sight of a small but swift-flowing creek that was running in a southeasterly direction.

  “Well, we’re not going to be able to float a canoe on that,” Emma said. She sounded genuinely disappointed.

  “Maybe on the next camping trip,” Greg said.

  “On the next camping trip, let’s leave the sleazy corporate guy at home, Dad,” Emma said. “That’s all I care about.”

  “You got it.”

  There were just enough trees alongside the creek to provide a bit of cover, and the terrain was a lot easier. Tuck’s limp was barely noticeable now, though he still leaned heavily on the hiking staff. Emma had the lead, walking with the rifle pointed in front of her, as if she were marching into battle. She seemed to be right in her element now, despite the recent traumas, picking out the best path as they followed the course of the creek. They walked maybe another hour before Greg realized they were approaching some kind of clearing. The creek flowed out of the woods into an open, grassy field so vast that he couldn’t see trees on the other side. Emma gasped and picked up speed. When she reached a break in the trees, she turned back.

  “Dad, we made it,” she cried, tears springing into her eyes. “Civilization. Hurry. Come and see.”

  Greg rushed to her side, letting Tuck take his time. He stepped out of the trees and saw vast prairie land stretching out as far as the eye could see. In the distance, the creek dipped into a culvert and ran under a dirt road. There was even a small farmhouse off to their right, gleaming white in the middle of a sea of grass. Closer at hand, an old rusting pickup truck sat in the field like a marker welcoming them back to the world of human beings. After more than a week of trekking through hostile wilderness, it didn’t seem real. Like a dream image.

  Emma flung herself against him and hugged him tight. “Dad, we made it. We’re going to be home soon. We made it all the way down out of the mountains, and we’re safe now!”

  “I can’t believe it,” he said. “I never thought I’d be so excited to see a rusted-out junk vehicle.”

  He approached the pickup truck, reaching out to run his fingers along the dented hood. It was a 70s model pickup, so old and rotted that he wasn’t sure of the make. Perhaps it belonged to the distant farmer’s family. Tuck came shuffling out of the woods then and approached the truck.

  “To be honest, I wasn’t sure I’d make it this far,” he said, leaning against the hood. “Feels nice to be out of the woods. I’m sick of trees.”

  “I hear you, Dad.”

  Emma moved past the truck, gazing across the sea of grass to the farmhouse, lowering the rifle.

  “I think maybe I see someone there,” she said. “You think that might be the owner of the house? Maybe he can help Grandpa with his—”

  Greg heard a loud bang then, as if someone had smacked the truck with a hammer. Dust puffed off the left front fender. The gunshot followed a second later. He had just enough time to note the hole punched through the rusted metal when Emma uttered an ear-piercing shriek and collapsed in the high grass, as a second gunshot echoed out over the vast field.

  Greg glanced in the direction of the farmhouse and saw the flash of a muzzle as their distant attacker took a third shot. He grabbed Tuck by his jacket and pulled him down behind the truck, even as a fourth bullet shattered the cracked windshield and sent bits of glass raining down on top of them.

  28

  Though he’d dreamed of building lookout towers along the fence, the best Darryl had been able to do in his limited time was to mount a platform high in a tree near the back of the barn. Fortunately, he’d had just enough time to reinforce it a little so it could bear his weight, as well as add a low wall on the side facing the trees. He was sitting there now, the Winchester in his hands, but he was absolutely exhausted. Still, he couldn’t afford to take even a small break from his watch.

  He’d told his mother and grandmother everything about his experience at the Carmichaels, of course, and they’d both agreed about the most likely sequence of events. The mayor had come looking for the family’s stash of supplies, and when they’d refused to hand it over, the mayor and his police officer crony had killed them. Darryl had turned up while they were in the middle of trying to figure out where the family hid all of their stuff, but they’d only managed to find a stash of Heinz Beans in the pantry.

  I wish I hadn’t left the brisket sitting on the porch, he thought. I hate to think that I gave that sleazeball mayor anything else.

  It was only a matter of time before the mayor made some kind of move. How would it happen? Unfortunately, he had a lot of resources at his disposal, including local police and those volunteer guards, Ricky and Julian. This realization kept Darryl alert long after the exhaustion had seeped into every part of his body. Even so, he eventually dozed off.

  He only managed a shallow sleep, and soon, a strange creaking sound brought him out of it. He opened his eyes, smacked his cheeks, and rose from the platform. He stared into the nearby forest, looking for movement, but the forest was still. No wind. It was a calm afternoon.

  Did I dream that sound? he wondered.

  But then he heard it again, a soft creaking as of an unoiled axle. He began looking around, and turned his gaze toward the driveway. Finally, he spotted it, a strange shape coming out of the shadows at the end of the driveway. A small handcart, it looked like it had been cobbled together from scraps and garbage. A man sat in the cart, stacks of bags and boxes piled around him.

  Even from this distance, Darryl recognized him: mid-sixties, with gray hair and a deeply lined face, a fairly athletic build for a man of his age. Horace was dressed in a short-sleeved dress shirt and khaki pants, but the pant legs were rolled back to the knees, revealing the prosthetic legs. Darryl was surprised enough to see Horace creaking his way onto the ranch, but he was shocked to see his mother and grandmother pushing the cart. Grandma did not need to be exerting herself like that, not in her condition.

  Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, Darryl clambered down from the platform, picking his way along the largest branches. Then he ran along the fence and hopped one of the unfinished sections. He met them about halfway down the driveway.

  “Hello there, young man,” Horace Bouchard said. He looked ragged and weary, his hair grown wild and his beard approaching Santa Claus levels, but he greeted Darryl warmly. He seemed relatively upbeat. Had they told him about the seriousness of the situation?

  “Good afternoon, sir,” Darryl replied.

  A long metal pole had been bolted in place as a single crosswise handlebar on the back of the wagon, and Tabitha and Marion were both using it to keep the wagon moving. Horace seemed to have brought enough bags and boxes that it looked like he was going on an extended tour of the province.

  “Mom, Grandma, please let me do that,” he said, waving them aside. “You guys pushed that all the way from Mr. Bouchard’s house? You must be tired by now.”

  It didn’t take much persuading. Grandma, in particular, rarely admitted defeat, but in this case, she let out a long groan, let go of the handlebar, and motioned for Darryl to take her place. Mom gave way as well, dabbing her face with her sleeve.

  “I’m so sorry,” Horace said. “I tried to insist on walking here, but they only let me get to the end of my porch before they piled me in with the baggage.”

  “You’re in no condition to walk that far,” Marion said.

  Darryl leaned into the handlebar and began pushing. The axles were, indeed, quite rusty and only gave way with significant effort, but once he got the handcart moving, it became a lot easier to keep it going.

  “I’ve told Horace everything,” Grandma said. “He knows about the murder of the Carmichaels, and we told him that we’re
pretty sure we know who did it.”

  “I always knew Filmore was a snake,” Horace said. “I didn’t think he had it in him to kill a whole family like that, but these are desperate times. I guess he sees himself as some kind of new-world warlord or something. Can you imagine?”

  “Horace has his own supply of survival food,” Grandma said. “If Filmore is going door to door, killing and looting, that puts a target on Horace’s back. I won’t let anyone else get hurt, if I can help it, so he’s going to join us here at the ranch.”

  “Strength in numbers,” Horace said. He had what Darryl recognized as a large plastic rifle case, and he patted it now. “I brought my guns. If Leo thinks he’s going to come here and mess with us, he’ll have a fight on his hands.”

  “Darryl, we need to prepare,” Grandma said. “There’s a lot of work to be done, and we need to do it as soon as possible. Filmore will come against us sooner or later, don’t doubt that for a second, but he will coordinate something sneaky, I imagine. I don’t intend to wait around and see what he comes up with.”

  “What do you mean, Grandma?” he asked.

  “Your mother and I have already discussed this, and we’re on the same page,” she replied. “The only way to be safe, to really be safe,” she said, “is to make a preemptive strike. If we wait until he makes a move, he’ll have the advantage, but if we move against him, he might not expect it.”

  “We have to move fast and strike hard,” Marion said. “That’s our only chance.”

  Darryl was shocked to hear them speaking this way, yet at the same time, some deeper part of him felt a rush of excitement. He thought of poor, awkward Justine and realized he wanted revenge. Yes, he wanted it very badly.

  “You know, the mayor’s got a lot of people working for him,” he said. “The local police are on his side, and he’s got a number of guards roaming around town, all armed. It won’t be easy.”

  “It won’t be easy,” Grandma agreed. “For now, let’s get that fence done this afternoon, if we can. Darryl, I know you’ve got to be tired—we all are—but can you head that up? Tomorrow, we make our move.”

  Darryl nodded.

  Tomorrow? I guess we’re at war, he thought.

  29

  The last of the scrap lumber was in a small pile at the end of the current section of new fencing. All four of them were working together to get it done, but it was clear they would not have enough wood to finish. They’d made it across the driveway and the front of the house, but they needed enough wood to turn and build back toward the far corner of the house.

  Horace was seated on a box, hammering in a board. The man was a pro with a hammer and nail. Three strikes to drive a nail all the way in. Darryl found it fascinating, and soon became a bit embarrassed at how many nails he bent and ruined in his relatively mediocre efforts. Grandma and Mom followed along behind them, attaching the upper boards.

  They’d made good time. The fence was ugly as heck, but it was definitely functional. At least it would prevent snipers from taking potshots at the house from the woods. Darryl was already exhausted, but somehow, the impending encounter with Mayor Filmore kept him working. He had the rifle close at all times, and Horace had produced a strangely beautiful rifle called a SIG Sauer CROSS Rifle. It was sleek and black, with a bunch of holes and open spaces in the stock. Darryl had never seen anything like it, barely understood what he was looking at, and wondered if such a rifle was even legal.

  “Grandma, we’re going to need more wood to finish the fence,” Darryl said.

  “We’ve done enough for tonight,” she said. “The sun’s going down, and we won’t be able to work in the dark. Let’s pick up again early in the morning.” She shuffled over and sat down on the box beside Horace. “We’ll have to set rotating watches tonight. No telling when Filmore will make his move, so starting now, we must be ready to respond at all times.”

  “Come on, Mom,” Marion said, offering Tabitha her hand. “You need to go inside and rest. I’ll put together something for dinner.”

  They trudged back to the house, Horace leaning on Darryl, and Tabitha leaning on Marion. Dinner consisted of steak and mashed potatoes, and while Darryl was hungry, he was electric with anxiety. A terrible showdown was coming. He felt it looming on the horizon, and it made him want to keep the Winchester in his grip at all times.

  He slept with the gun beside his bed, and his watch seemed to come all too soon. He had volunteered to take the darkest hours of the night, and he sat on the porch, rifle in hands, listening to the familiar night sounds of the ranch. Though he had one of the oil lamps and a box of matches nearby, he didn’t dare make any light. Instead, he stared across the shadowy yard, saw the fence looming now on either side of the driveway, and listened.

  Any moment now, he thought. Filmore could make his move at any moment. What if he marches out here in the dead of night with all of his guards and that creepy cop? I guess I’d have to wake everyone up and start shooting.

  He kept thinking about Justine. Poor Justine. It made him heartsick to think of her, to remember her face, her voice. How could he do it? How could the mayor shoot her with no remorse? Taking the cows was one thing. Slaughtering a whole family, including the kids, was something else altogether, and Darryl could scarcely wrap his head around it. Had the mayor always been so depraved, or had the loss of accountability corrupted his mind somehow?

  We have to take him out, Darryl said. The community won’t be safe until he’s gone, and he deserves it. I don’t know if that’s part of Grandma’s plan, but it should be.

  When his shift was over, he crept back into the house to wake his mother. Horace had taken the downstairs guest room, and he heard the man snoring as he made his way to the stairs. He found his mother sound asleep in her room, and when he shook her awake, she snorted and thrashed on the bed.

  “Emma, go back to bed,” she growled. “It’s too early.”

  “Mom, it’s me,” Darryl said. “Your turn to watch.”

  She sat up with a groan, covering her face with her hands. “Oh God, where are they?” she said in a sleepy croak. “Darryl, where are Greg and Emma? What if they’re lost out there forever, walking in circles, slowly running out of food? How do we find them?” She seemed on the verge of tears, but she sat up straight suddenly, sucked in her breath, and swiped her hair out of her face. “No, no, not going to think about that. Get a hold of yourself. Concentrate on the task at hand.”

  His mother didn’t look well. She’d lost weight and was starting to seem too thin. Still, she rose from the bed, pulled on her slippers, and took the rifle from his hands without complaint.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” he said.

  “Nope, forget it,” she replied. “I just had a bad dream. Let’s not talk about it. Your father will do his best to get back to us. He can handle just about anything the wilderness throws at him. I believe that.”

  Did she believe it? He couldn’t tell. He wasn’t sure if he believed it, but mostly he tried not to think about it. They had enough to worry about in their immediate vicinity. Still, it was one more thing to keep him awake as he returned to his bedroom.

  It seemed he had just fallen asleep when his grandmother called his name from the hallway. Darryl opened his eyes and saw sunlight bleeding through the blinds. He was sprawled sideways on his bed, his feet on the floor, and he had a terrible headache. When he sat up, every limb cried out in protest. It couldn’t be helped.

  Today’s D-Day, he thought, trudging across the room. Today we make our move.

  When he got downstairs, he saw Tabitha, Marion, and Horace huddled around the table, deep in conversation. He joined them, as his grandmother handed him a hot cup of a tea.

  “I’ve got a mission for you this morning,” Tabitha said, sliding a small ceramic container of milk toward him. “It involves some risk, so I need you to be extra careful.”

  “If it’s sniping that piece of crap mayor through the window of the town hall, count me in,” he said, stirring
a splash of milk into his tea.

  “No, that comes a little later,” she said. “First, I need you to take the wheelbarrow and make your way back to the Carmichaels. They’ve got a scrap wood pile in the backyard. Load up as much as you can and bring it back.”

  Darryl cringed. He would have preferred to go just about anywhere but that house.

  “You should be safe,” Tabitha said. “It’s still quite early. But take the rifle anyway, and be extra careful. If you run into trouble…well, protect yourself by all possible means.”

  He raised the tea to his lips, felt the steam on his face, then set the cup down again. His stomach felt like it had been turned upside down. “Okay, I’ll get it over with then,” he said, pushing back his chair.

  “Please, be extra careful,” his mother said, as he crossed the living room.

  “Son, if you see that slimy mayor, you shoot him,” Horace called. “Don’t give him a second to act, talk, or breathe. The minute he shows his face, you take a shot and get out of there.”

  “Okay, sir. I’ll do my best.”

  “Aim for the torso,” Horace said. “That’s the biggest target. Don’t try no fancy head shot—leave that to the professionals—and don’t bother trying to wound him in the leg or some other nonsense. You put that rabid dog down.”

  “I…I will,” Darryl replied.

  The Winchester was propped in the corner beside the front door, and he grabbed it in passing. Yes, he thought he could do that if it came to it. He’d never harmed another person in his entire life, never even been in a fist fight, but if he had to shoot Filmore, he felt like he could do it. More than that, he sort of hoped he got the chance. For Justine.

  Despite this, pushing the wheelbarrow through the woods was a nerve-wracking experience. The stupid thing made so much noise, it seemed like it would announce his approach to anyone in the area. He put the rifle in the wheelbarrow because he thought he could grab it faster that way. It was loaded—he’d double-checked—and the safety was off.