Darryl and Justine were dragging the last body, a guard who had been shot right through the heart. The poor man looked almost peaceful, eyes close, mouth fixed in what might have been mistaken for a smile. As they positioned the body next to the mayor, Greg adjusted the men’s hands and legs so they weren’t sprawled out.
“I just talked to this weirdo the other day,” Darryl said, gesturing at the mayor. “It’s hard to believe he’s dead now.”
Greg, Darryl, and Justine stood over the bodies for a few seconds.
“Well, he had it coming anyway,” Justine said, finally. “Good riddance.”
As if her words were some kind of closing prayer at a funeral, they dispersed then, but Greg knew he would have to come back later and dig graves for them. Otherwise, they might attract predators.
Although, maybe that would be a fitting end for Filmore, he thought. The man preyed on his own townsfolk, after all.
Tabitha, Marion, and Horace were inside, where they’d turned the dining room table into a makeshift surgical bed. Marion was doing most of the work. She’d removed Emma’s jeans, along with the tourniquet and bandage, and she was currently cleaning the wound. The others sat in the corner and handed her various medical supplies as she asked for them.
It was clear that Tabitha had been crying, from the glistening on her wrinkled cheeks, but Greg could tell she was making a massive effort to compose herself. He’d told her about Tuck, of course, though he wondered if perhaps he should have waited. She hadn’t said much, just nodded and walked away.
“The bullet is still lodged in here,” Marion said. Emma was drugged, but she moaned in pain. “I think I can get it out. It’s not in a bad spot.”
Greg mostly felt in the way, so he took a seat on the living room couch. Darryl and Justine joined him. After a moment, he felt himself drifting off into a restless sleep, so tired that his whole body just wanted to crumble.
“It’s out,” Marion said. Greg heard the plink of the bullet landing on the table. “Let’s stitch this leg up. Tabitha, hand me the needle and thread. Are they still too hot to handle?”
“I think they’re fine now,” Tabitha replied. “I took them out of the boiling water a few minutes ago.”
At some point, Greg fell asleep, though he was not out long. He awoke to someone shaking him, and when he opened his eyes, he saw his mother looming over him. Everyone else was gone, but he heard movement upstairs.
“Emma?” he croaked.
“She’ll be fine,” Tabitha replied. His mother looked old, so old her face seemed to have come loose from her skull. “They’re putting her to bed right now. I’ve given her some yarrow to fight infection and help her heal.”
“That’s good,” Greg replied, rubbing his face. He was sunburned, and it hurt to touch his cheeks.
“You need rest, too,” Tabitha said. “You’re going out there tomorrow to get Tuck. Take the horse. It’ll be faster that way. I won’t leave him in some farmer’s field. We’ll bury him properly right here on the ranch, where he belongs.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Greg said.
As soon as she let go of his shoulders, he sank back into the couch and fell asleep again.
The cart looked like it had been cobbled together from garbage, but it was at least functional, and they had managed to attach it to the horse’s harness. Greg rode in the saddle, while Horace accompanied him in the cart, and of course, they were both armed. Greg took the nice sniper rifle that he’d looted off the guard, while Horace seemed to prefer his Sig Sauer. Fortunately, the horse had been watered and well fed and had enjoyed a nice rest in the barn near the cattle.
As they set off down the road, headed back the way they’d come, Greg felt the anger building within him again. He kept his eyes wide open, looking for any sign of trouble along the way, but part of him hoped they would run into Eustace.
“It was all so senseless,” he said. “There was no reason for it. We could have walked out of there together. It’s not like I would have pursued the case against Eustace’s company, not with the whole country on hold.”
He didn’t realize he was thinking out loud until Horace responded. “You’re referring to that gas man? Let’s hope your dad got him. I think he did. Sounds like he was an old hunter, probably a good shot.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know,” Greg muttered, trying to stave off the hateful feelings. It had been easier for him when he’d been exhausted. Now that he was awake and alert, he felt the absolute waste of it all, and it was dredging up something dangerous within him.
He had a few hours to dwell on this as he rode back the way he’d come, spotting the familiar split-rail fence, the vast weedy field, and eventually, the rusted-out truck sitting near the creek. Here he found the body of Tuck Healy, his father. He was on his back, his arms curled over his body, his face turned to one side. The gun and packs were still with him.
Eustace didn’t loot him, at least, Greg thought. Maybe that means he’s dead, too.
He picked up his father, felt the smallness of the man, and carried him to the cart. There were three bullet wounds in his chest and belly.
I hope it was quick, Greg thought.
Though there was sadness, he mostly felt anger, burning and seething in every thought.
“Sorry it turned out this way,” Horace said, helping him load the stiff body onto the bed of hay they’d put in the cart.
“He gave his life to save me and Emma,” Greg noted. “It never should have come to this. If Eustace is lucky, he’s a corpse out there in the woods somewhere. It’ll be the worst day of his life if we ever cross paths again, I swear to God.” He slammed the cart latch shut, pounded it with his fist harder than he needed to, and walked away.
37
Greg was confident that the funeral was what Tuck would have wanted: his loved ones and neighbors gathered together in a quiet spot on the ranch, remembering him with softly spoken memories. He’d never been much for big displays of emotion or grand events, though there were a few tears. Still, Greg mostly found himself daydreaming about revenge. These thoughts had lodged in his mind, and he couldn’t seem to shake them.
After the funeral, he excused himself and went to the porch, sitting in one of the rocking chairs and brooding darkly, his hands gripping the armrests. He saw Darryl and Justine walking together near the fence, chatting about something. Marion went upstairs to check on Emma, which gave him a few quiet minutes to himself.
At some point in the midst of his brooding, he realized that his mother was standing beside his chair. He looked up and met her gaze. She was still wearing the black jacket and slacks that she’d put on for the funeral. However, she had a smile on her face now for some reason.
“Mom?” he asked. “What is it?”
She thrust something at him. “I found this in his toolshed when looking for the other shovels. I hadn’t noticed it before. It’s dusty, so it must’ve been out there a long time.”
He realized she was holding a small photo album, and he took it from her hands. The cover was a sepia image of a house with the word FAMILY embossed in gold lettering. He began flipping through it. Page after page of old, color-faded photographs of a young Greg. Three years old, five years old, ten years old. Waving a Canucks hockey pennant, running in the yard, swinging on a swing set, blowing out the candles on a birthday cake, riding on a pony with his father beside him.
When he reached the end of the photo album, Greg flipped back to the cover, looking on the inside to see if there was any date or information written there. Instead, he found two words scribbled in blue ballpoint pen in his father’s distinctive looping script: My son.
It was the thing that finally broke through the great wall of anger and the hate that so filled his mind. He ran his fingers back and forth over the words his father had written and felt tears tracing their way down his stubbly cheeks.
We’re okay, Dad.
When he finally looked up again, he realized Darryl and Justine were on the porch now
, quietly staring at him, at the photo album. He brushed the tears away and nodded at his son.
“Sorry, Dad,” Darryl said. “Sorry for what happened to Grandpa.”
“I’ll be fine,” he replied.
“Good,” Darryl said. He started to move toward the house but paused, then he said, “I’m really glad you made it back out of the wilderness. It’s good to have you home.”
“Thanks, Son. It’s really good to be here.”
“I like it better when you’re home,” Darryl said, opening the front door.
The days seemed to have passed quickly since returning home. Greg stood on the porch on a chilly Saturday morning and gazed out at the blanket of snow that now covered the yard and balanced on the tips of the fence posts. The town was clear. They’d ridden in like a posse only to find that all of Filmore’s guards were gone. A few townsfolk remained, and some of the local families had taken responsibility for distributing all the food and supplies that had been stockpiled in the town hall.
Greg was content to leave them to it. He just wanted to stay on the ranch for now. It was quiet here, and everyone had settled in. He had a cup of hot apple cider in his hand, and he felt the warmth through his glove as he raised it to his mouth.
“She’s become a member of the family,” Marion noted. She was standing at the porch railing beside him.
Justine and Darryl were shoveling a path from the barn to the house, and from time to time, he heard them laugh, as if they were having the most amusing conversation.
“It’s good for Darryl,” Greg said, “and I’m glad she has a home. She’s certainly been a big help. Always pitches in.”
Seeing everything clean and white, it felt like a fresh start. This new world was going to be hard. Surviving the winter would create plenty of challenges, but he was ready to face them. They all were. As he sipped his tea, he leaned against the handrail, feeling a rough edge where a bullet had clipped it. Marion took his hand and held it.
“We’ll carry on,” he said. “We have no choice.”
“I know,” she replied. “I’m not afraid of the future, not anymore.”
Epilogue
The warehouse was well hidden, tucked behind a tall fence and well back from the road, and the driveway had no sign indicating the purpose of the strange, windowless building. A small sign above the door had the company name—P&C Food Distributors—but you had to be pretty close to notice it. Of course, an observant person would have noticed that the driveway was extra wide, providing plenty of room for trucks, and parking lots surrounded the building on three sides. There were also a couple of loading bays near the back.
The building itself was tall but not particularly impressive, maybe three times the size of the town hall. Still, the thought of all it contained was almost more than he could stand. As he approached the door, he raised the Winchester rifle again. The lock was blasted out of the door. He could see the twisted metal where it had been. The door was partially open as well, revealing a dim interior.
Aiming the gun into the gap, he ducked behind the small guard shack a few feet before the door and hunkered down. After a moment, he sensed movement inside the building. They’d come back for a second round.
“You’re not getting in here, whoever you are,” the voice said. Sounded like a woman, but a deep-voiced woman, someone tough and experienced, he thought. “Do you hear me? You’re just one man, and you’re not getting in here. We can wait you out. Hours, days, weeks, however long it takes.”
“I already blasted open the front door,” he shouted back. “I’m coming through.”
“We’ll bar the door,” she replied.
“Then I’ll blast my way through the back door, through the ceiling, through wall. Whatever it takes.” He raised the gunsight to his eye, aiming for the narrow gap in the door.
“The second you step inside, we’ll kill you,” the woman shouted back.
“I’m armed, and you aren’t,” he replied.
This caused a moment of silence. He had them now.
“You don’t know that,” the woman said, finally. “You don’t know if we’re armed or not.”
“Well, you haven’t returned fire,” he said. “I find that a bit odd, but if I’m wrong, prove it. Take just one shot at me. Just one. Go on.”
Again, there was no immediate response. He heard people moving inside the building and saw shadows in the darkness.
“How about this?” he said. “How about we don’t kill each other? I’ve got nothing against any of you. If you agree to follow my lead, I’ll not only let all of you live, I’ll share the spoils with you. It’s the best offer you’re going to get from anyone these days. You’ve got a few seconds to decide before I force my way in.”
He rose and stepped out from behind the guard station. Slowly, the warehouse door swung open, and a woman stepped forward. She had close-cropped black hair and rather severe, sharply angled face. However, as she emerged from the gloom, she raised both hands in a gesture of surrender.
“Don’t shoot,” she said. “We’re not your enemies. We’re just trying to survive.”
“I know,” he replied. “I heard your story in town. Ambushed, half your people gunned down by a crazed family of ranchers.” Behind her, he saw two or three others, men bundled up in heavy coats. As he approached them, his boots crunched on the fresh snow. “I’ll tell you what, friends, if you’ll follow my lead, you won’t have to worry about those rascally Healys or any other townsfolk. In fact, I’ll make sure you don’t have any more problems from anyone. How does that sound?”
“Sounds good,” the woman said, giving way as he approached the door. He saw the other men behind her nodding. They looked scared, desperate, like wounded dogs. They were not only unarmed but fearful, broken.
“You can be the leader,” one of the men said. “But…who are you? What’s your name?”
“The name’s Eustace,” he said, as he passed through the door. In the distance, he saw boxes and bags stacked on shelves all the way to the ceiling. Cans of beans, vegetables, fruit, meat, more than he’d hoped for. “But you can call me, the boss.”
End of Survive the Fall
EMP: Return of the Wild West Book One
Survive the Fall, December 9th, 2020
Survive the Attack, January 13th, 2021
Survive the Journey, February 10th, 2021
PS: Do you love EMP survival fiction? Then keep reading for exclusive extracts from Survive the Attack and Crumbling World.
Thank you!
Thank you for purchasing ‘Survive the Fall’
(EMP: Return of the Wild West Book One)
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About Grace Hamilton
Grace Hamilton is the prepper pen-name for a bad-ass, survivalist momma-bear of four kids, and wife to a wonderful husband. After being stuck in a mountain cabin for six days following a flash flood, she decided she never wanted to feel so powerless or have to send her kids to bed hungry again. Now she lives the prepper lifestyle and knows that if SHTF or TEOTWAWKI happens, she’ll be ready to help protect and provide for her family.
Combine this survivalist mentality with a vivid imagination (as well as a slightly unhealthy day dreaming habit) and you get a prepper fiction author. Grace spends her days thinking about the worst possible survival situations that a person could be thrown into, then throwing her characters into these nightmares while trying to figure out "What SHOULD you do in this situation?"
You will find Grace on:
BLURB
They’ll face an impossible choice in this new post-apocalyptic reality.
Winter has arrived on the Healys’ Montana ranch. After discovering evidence of the cold-hearted execution of his father, Greg Healy has become consumed with a burning desire for revenge. While he hides his true purpose of scoping out the murderous enemy behind fr
uitless hunting trips, further responsibility is thrust upon Greg’s teenage son, Darryl. The ranch has become a hollow shell without the calm assurance and steady hand his father once provided, stability Darryl needs more than ever with the shocking secret he keeps.
The fractures in the family only grow as each side becomes entrenched behind resentments that threaten to shatter an increasingly uncertain future. But as the Healy family drifts farther apart, the enemy has been anything but idle. Eustace has amassed a new and lethal force with a single goal: Take the Healys’ ranch by any means necessary and make them pay for permanently disabling him.
And when Eustace kidnaps one of their own, the Healys will face the most difficult choice of all: Sacrifice the ranch or risk the destruction of their family.
Prepper survivalist author Grace Hamilton invites you to step into a post-apocalyptic, EMP-ravaged world filled with strong, resourceful characters, survivalist knowledge, and edge-of-your seat action.
Get your copy of Survive the Attack
Available January 13th, 2021
www.GraceHamiltonBooks.com
EXCERPT
Chapter One
It wasn’t the most beautiful, or technically precise, birthday cake he’d ever seen. Unlike the sheet cakes he was used to getting from Loblaw’s, this one was a bit crooked, sort of wilted on a couple of corners, and the icing was a bit lumpy. Still, it was a real, live birthday cake, made without any prepackaged grocery store ingredients, and that made it glorious.
Survive the Fall (EMP: Return of the Wild West Book 1) Page 24
