"You got a better view,” Pete said. The mountains on Charlie’s side rolled off into the distance for miles. From there, he spotted the power line clearing rolling over smaller ridges for quite a distance.
"A better optic would be helpful,” Charlie replied. “With a good scope you could see pretty far.”
“With a nice long-range rifle, you could hit for a good distance too."
Charlie stood and shook his head. "Stink Bug. That’s the last time I let you pick the call signs."
"What's that?" Pete was pointing at a distant ridge.
In the utility clearing, where it crossed a ridge several miles away, there were bright orange pieces of fabric that stood out from the snow.
"I don’t remember seeing that,” Charlie replied. “If it had been there the whole time, surely I would've spotted it.”
Pete raised his rifle and examined the orange shape through his rifle scope. Even at low magnification it was an improvement. "Those are tents. There are people moving around. It looks like they're setting up a camp."
"They’re camping in this snow?" Charlie asked.
“Yep. We need to keep an eye on them,” Pete said. “They could be headed this way.”
10
Jim's wife, Ellen, was at the kitchen table planting seeds in black plastic trays. She knew she’d have to get her seeds germinating early since she just couldn't go to the local Lowe's and buy starter plants this year. She planned on starting them in a nice warm spot by the wood stove. From there, they’d transition them to cold frames in the garden made from old windows. They also had a number of old wooden window sashes with the glass intact that would allow them to make more cold frames if they needed them. She was covering a tray with clear plastic wrap when she heard the radio crackle, then Jim's voice come across the airwaves. They must be on their way back, near the river crossing. Any further than that point and getting a clear signal was difficult.
She placed the seed tray on a shelf near the wood stove and picked up the radio. "I'm here Jim."
"We’re on our way back."
It was all he had to say. They’d known each other for so long were so accustomed to reading between the lines and reading each other's minds. They could finish each other's sentences and she could finish this one. She could feel the pain of loss in his voice even from a distance. They were coming home but they were not all coming home. Something bad had happened and someone had died.
"What is it, Jim? What happened?"
There was a pause. She understood Jim was trying to decide if this was something he should say on an open channel or not. Perhaps she shouldn't ask the question on the radio like that but she couldn't wait. She had to know. With the exception of Deputy Ford, whom she barely knew, the others were people she was close to. The loss of any of them…
"Buddy is dead." Jim’s voice was hollow, as if putting the reality of it into words pulled something out of him.
It was out there now. No warning or preamble. No effort to soften the blow because how could he? There was no way to make that news less painful. She felt it as a gut punch and her legs weakened. She sagged to a kitchen chair.
It was hard to believe their family had lived within a mile or two of this man for over a decade and had barely known he existed until the world fell apart. In that short time he had become integral to their community. He had become family. She assumed too that to some extent they became family to him. Though the loss of his daughter was too big a void for them to hope to fill, perhaps they had eased his pain a little. Perhaps they had given him something to care about during his darkest days.
Ellen keyed her mic, her voice breaking. "Buddy?" She needed the confirmation, the verification that she hadn’t simply misheard him.
Jim pressed his own mic and she could hear him breathing at the other end as he tried to find the words. "He wanted to spend time alone at the cemetery with his daughter. He said they had a lot to talk about."
Jim paused, his voice breaking, and he let his mic click off. When he keyed it again, he’d regained his composure. "I'll have to tell you the rest in person. We’re at the creek crossing. We’ll be home soon."
"Please be careful."
“I will,” came the flat reply.
Despite the intimacy of the conversation, that transmission was heard throughout the valley where Jim and Buddy lived. At Buddy's house, Lloyd heard the transmission. He shattered the closest thing at hand, a glass jar, against the wall. When it did nothing to ease the pain, he sagged to the floor in a sobbing heap. Buddy had become like a father to him. Lloyd had been able to make the stoic old man crack a smile, which was quite the accomplishment. As the old man opened up about everything he had been through in his life—about his daughter, about how he’d gone into the house of the man who’d let her die and burned him alive—Lloyd began to understand Buddy. He felt that in some small way he helped comfort the man. Buddy had opened his house to Lloyd and given him a place to live. Buddy had helped make him part of this community.
At the Wimmer house, old Mrs. Wimmer cried quietly at her kitchen table. Her family and Buddy were not close, but they were neighbors. In the country, being neighbors almost made them a degree of family. He was also closer to her generation than most of the others that remained there and his death made her even more aware that hers would be coming soon too.
At Gary's home, at the Weatherman home, at Mac Bird's house, people heard the transmission and were sharing the news. There was silence and prayer. There were gestures of respect. Among all the folks there was an overwhelming sense of awe that anything could bring down this old man that the world itself seemed unable to tear apart despite everything it threw at him.
Ellen remembered that Pete was still on the mountain and it was getting late. She hit the transmit button on her radio. “Pete?”
“Call signs, Mom,” he scolded. “I’m Wombat.”
She had no playfulness in her at this point, nor any way to soften the blow across the distance. “You need to come on home. Something bad has happened.”
The alarm in Pete’s voice was instant. “Is Dad okay?”
“Dad’s fine but Buddy was…killed.” She dropped her head at the words, still unable to believe it herself.
“We’re already on our way down,” Pete said. “It will probably take us about two hours.”
“That’s fine. Just be careful.”
Ellen laid her head on the table for a moment, contemplating the world in which they found themselves. She was sitting in a nearly powerless house communicating with her family over handheld radios. She was thinking of a dear family friend who’d likely died in some act of violence for which there would never be a conventional trial and punishment. Trials were instant now, punishment usually swift and final.
Pops was taking a nap. Nana and Ariel were playing in her room. Ellen gently placed the radio on the kitchen table in the silent house. She scooted from the table and walked across the tile floor of her kitchen. She needed to add wood to the fire and start dinner, but she had something else she needed to do first. She went down the hall and pushed open a door, finding Ariel and Nana both sitting on the floor playing a board game. They looked up at Ellen. Both saw the seriousness of her expression and knew that something was wrong.
Ellen looked at her daughter, remembering the special bond she had had with Mr. Buddy. Buddy had been seriously injured rescuing Ariel from a coyote attack. His act had profoundly moved the little girl who played a huge role in caring for Buddy afterward. The two had been bonded ever since. Ariel was not used to losing people. This was going to be difficult. Whatever degree of innocence her daughter had been able to maintain throughout this disaster was about to be shattered. The mere thought of it clawed a wound in Ellen’s soul.
“Ariel, sweetie,” Ellen said. “We need to talk.”
HUGH WAS SITTING at a folding table surrounded by radio gear, dialing his way through frequencies and making notes in a log when his alarm sounded. He checked his watch a
nd assumed it was Pete and Charlie returning from their hunting trip but Hugh never trusted his life to assumptions. He removed his headphones and picked up a nearby shotgun. It was a decent weapon for throwing off quick, hastily aimed shots in dense woods or poor light. The alarm that sounded was another of his battery-operated perimeter warnings. All of the notification tones were set differently so he would know which direction the intruder came from. This tone indicated that the approach was from the logging road to the back of his property, further confirming his assumption that it was the boys returning.
Hugh slipped out the front door, keeping the mobile home between him and whoever was approaching. Before he even got the corner he heard his name being called, the boys remembering his instruction to call out before approaching the house. Hugh stepped from around the corner and threw an arm up to the boys, just now exiting the woods. "Any luck?"
Charlie shook his head
"Buddy’s dead," Pete blurted out. “I got a call from my mom on the radio.”
Hugh had been so focused beneath the headphones that he’d missed that exchange. He didn’t know the older man well, having not been in the valley long enough. He knew, though, that the old man was a keystone of this small group. His friend Jim held tremendous respect for the older man. This loss would not sit easy with the folks of this valley.
"What happened?" Hugh asked.
"They were in town. I don't know the details. I guess they ran into trouble." Pete kept shaking his head. Despite being hardened by current circumstances, this death clearly bothered him.
"Well, you boys best get on home then. Your families are going to need you. Times like this, people need to be together."
Hugh caught the quick look in Charlie's eyes and regretted his words, remembering now that Charlie had no family anymore. Hugh dealt with the awkwardness of his comment head on. No brushing it under the table. No pretending he hadn’t said it. "You too, Charlie. You’re family now. Don’t forget that. These are your people."
Charlie nodded. “Oh, I almost forgot. Before we go, you need to know that there are men camping under the power lines."
Hugh raised an eyebrow, his usual gesture indicating that he required more information on the topic at hand.
"They were setting up camp a couple of ridges away. It looked like they just got there. They could be traveling in the clearing under the power lines or they could be hunters just camping there for the night. Just thought you should know."
That was indeed something Hugh wanted to know. If they were a couple of ridges away, they could potentially be standing in his backyard tomorrow or the next day. That was too close for comfort. Hugh’s wheels were already turning.
The boys knew he was lost in thought, processing this new information.
"We better get on home," Pete said.
Hugh patted each boy on the shoulder as they passed him, his mind on the strangers. He couldn't wait until they were closer to decide what to do about them. He needed intel. If these were men with bad intentions, best to just slit their throat where they slept tonight. If they came in this direction, they would soon smell the smoke of his fire, see the glow of his lanterns, or spot the reflection from his solar array. They would find him. Hugh preferred that encounter take place by his rules and not those of the strangers.
He climbed back up the front porch steps and kicked off his boots. When they were clear of snow, he went inside and began assembling his gear. He didn't have the money to buy dedicated snow camo but his low-cost option was several unopened packages of oversized Tyvek painter’s coveralls from Lowes. The tough but disposable suits were designed to pull over your clothes during a messy job and then dispose of afterward. Conveniently, they were white.
While Hugh had managed to snag several weapons and a decent supply of ammo in the superstore battle, now he grabbed his personal AR. It was his go-to weapon when the world went sideways. It was a generic rifle he’d assembled from components, including a Primary Arms 1x6 power optic. He knew it inside and out. It was nothing fancy but it did the job.
Hugh had a black tactical vest he had also commandeered from the superstore when he went back to get the radio equipment. He recalled seeing some spray paint in one of the outbuildings behind the mobile home so he went out there and retrieved a can of white. He sprayed some streaks and globs of white on the tac vest to simulate snow camo, then used the same spray paint to add some hasty stripes to a small backpack. The pack already contained food, water, a blowout kit, and a few survival items.
When Hugh had all his gear on, he began layering on the knives. He was from the silent but deadly school of weaponry. While he enjoyed shooting he really had a passion for edged weapons. He carried two folders—a Kershaw and a Zero Tolerance. The Zero Tolerance was an expensive knife. It was more expensive than he would pay full price for but he’d won this one in a dare overseas that he didn’t like to talk about.
He carried three fixed blade knives. One on the vest, one on his right hip behind his pistol holster, and one fastened crossways on the back of his belt. Finally were his homemade kiridashi, the small razor-sharp daggers that he made himself and carried in a forearm holster. He'd used those before to kill a man on the roof of the superstore and he remembered vividly that they sank into flesh like a knife into soft butter.
He regretted that he had no night vision equipment. There were several units floating around the valley and had he been closer to some of the other residents he would have looked into borrowing one but there was no time. With a decent moon and the highly-reflective snow, he should still be able to see his way around even without supplemental light.
Before leaving, he double checked his gear. Then he triple checked it. When he was certain he had everything he needed and everything was stowed where he could lay a hand on it without a second thought, he let out a deep breath. Any doubts, any concerns, any fear were pushed out and left behind.
He slipped out the door and into the woods.
11
Crossing the river and coming in the valley by the old farm road led Randi, Deputy Ford, and Jim to his house first. They were a somber and devastated group, having buried someone who had become family over the last several months. They’d barely crossed the gate to Jim's property before he noticed his family filing out onto the porch in the distance. They’d been waiting for him.
Apparently the sight of his group without Buddy was jarring, his absence a glaring reminder of what had transpired in town. Ariel pulled loose from her Nana's hand and came flying down the steps to the snow in her house slippers. She tore across the yard toward Jim. Her composure gone, she was now crying full-steam. Jim dismounted his horse and handed the reins to Randi.
He bent and caught his daughter, picking her up as she clung tightly to him. He was as aware as he'd ever been that there would not be too many years left of this. She was getting bigger and he was getting older. The relief she experienced in his embrace was not a permanent thing. There would come a time when it didn't have the same effect. That awareness crushed Jim, his heart already damaged from the events of the day, and soon he was crying along with her. He cried for Buddy, he cried for Ariel, and he cried for himself.
It was as if Ariel had pulled the plug on what little self-control still remained among the group. Nana, Pops, and Ellen sobbed on the porch. Deputy Ford was crying too. Only Randi, steadfast in her tempered determination to shed no more tears, would not her allow herself the relief of crying. In the absence of vengeance, it seemed that crying was the only solace for such pain and Randi would not grant herself that freedom. Each had to find her own way through this world and she had found hers. She understood the only way she could make it, the only way she could do this, was to bottle the rage and pain and use it to her advantage.
Jim saw movement from the corner of his eye. He spotted two man-sized figures walking down the driveway from the front gate. He immediately recognized the snow gear and the gait, knowing it was his son, with Charlie at his side. He gently s
et his daughter back on the ground, kissed her head, and held her hand.
He looked up at Randi. "Let's all go inside and warm up by the fire. We’ll have a cup of coffee and then we can go tell Lloyd.”
The group headed into the house and those who had been in the weather peeled off their bulky outer layers and shed their boots. Everyone found a seat wherever they could find one while Ellen made coffee. Jim had been generous with his coffee, continuing to share it, continuing to make it every day like he had before the world fell apart, but the supply was getting low. He had two 5-gallon buckets of green unroasted beans he had purchased and stored. That was what they were down to now, except for a few jars of instant and some stray packets of hotel coffee. Each day they roasted beans on the stove and ground them in an old-fashioned hand-cranked grinder. When the coffee was gone, Jim would still have a decent stash of tea left, having bought pounds of black leaf in bulk. Even though the caffeine would be welcome, it was just not coffee. Life would not be the same.
Buddy’s loss hung over the room like an oppressive cloud but no one dared broach the subject until Ariel asked the question everyone who had not been there wanted to know.
"What happened to Mr. Buddy?"
The innocence of her voice, the sincerity, broke Jim’s heart. He didn't want to go into too much detail with his daughter but at the same time felt it was important she understood the danger of the world so she would listen to his warnings and not wander off. One of his greatest fears was that someone might abduct her and try to use her to extort supplies from the family. While they had shielded her from the danger as best they could in order to try to preserve some remnant of her childhood, it was a delicate balance. He didn’t want her to fear the world but she had to respect its dangers.
Switched On: Book Six in The Borrowed World Series Page 11
