Peterson watched Raymond and when Raymond’s eyes met his, neither man spoke until Peterson said, “I’m going to get something to eat,” and he turned back to the stove on which he’d been heating some canned beans.
“Okay, everybody eat,” Raymond said to no one in particular. “Then let’s get the hell out of here.”
After breakfast, they assembled outside. LaCroix’s orders were to split whatever loot they got. But, as if the loot was cursed now, Raymond didn’t want any part of it. Besides, he had a more important task at hand: he still had to find Zachary Amaral and the girl…what was her name he asked himself?…oh, yeah, Danielle.
So he started ordering the men to “suit up” for the trip up river. He gave instructions saying, “Leave this shit here,” as he waved a hand at the booty in the snow. “We’ll come for it later.”
The men hesitated.
“Abby said we’re taking it, now” Mayfield said.
“The fuck we are. Get moving,” Raymond shouted.
“We’re burning it down,” Abby announced.
“The cabin? No, we’re not,” Raymond countered and got in her face. “We’re going to take what food we can carry so we don’t have to go back to the ranches yet. And we’re going to stow the rest so we can come back for it on our way back.”
“We’re burning it. I don’t want no one living here, again,” she said.
“I’m running this expedition,” Raymond yelled.
“Oh, listen,” Abby said with a contrasting calmness, “he uses a big word like ‘expedition,’ again, and thinks it makes him look smart.”
He lowered his voice. “Look here, Abby, I’m leading this hunt. If you don’t like my orders, go. Go home. Me, Brian, Jim, and Fred will continue on looking for this guy. We don’t need you; we don’t want you. Get out.”
“You’re not the boss of me,” Abby said. “We’re as much a part of this as you are. You go home if you want. We know where they live, now, and I’m here to make sure…” and her voice suddenly started getting louder, “…the people who laid my Sweetie in the cold ground, before his time, pay. They gotta pay. Everyone out here’s gotta pay!”
“If you’re staying with us,” Raymond said deliberately, “you will obey my orders.”
She said nothing.
“Shit,” Peterson gasped.
Raymond turned. Hank had used kerosene he’d found inside and he’d torched the cabin.
“Well, it looks like it’s settled,” Abby said.
“There’s food in there. We could’a used the solar panels!” Raymond yelled.
“Too late now,” Hank said with his smirk.
Raymond stood once more riveted to his spot and watched the flames engulf the cabin.
Δ Δ Δ
Thirty minutes later they started off across the field. Abby sat at the front of the sled because the back end of it was stacked with the sewing machine, the weapons, some other furniture, and boxes. When there was no more room to put anything on the sled, she made Ingram and Jerry Brady carry stuff. Jerry looked ridiculous carrying an antique chair in each arm and his rifle slung over his shoulder. Ingram was carrying a small oaken escritoire. Because he was a relative, she’d tried to bully Mayfield into carrying a small box with some fine china in it, but he knew he’d never be allowed back at the LaCroix ranch if he did, so he refused and Ingram had to carry that, too.
The loot now slowed the party, except for Hank who heckled the others whenever he had to stop and wait for them. Despite Abby and all the goodies she’d piled on the sled, he didn’t slow down even a step with his powerful strides.
Behind them the cabin still burned sending a plume of smoke off into the grey morning air. Yesterday’s sun had promised a new and better day but had failed to deliver. The grey clouds now coming from the west forebode of darker things to come.
Chapter 27
September 2
The second time Danielle woke that morning it was to the sounds of the canner hissing and Zach speaking in a low voice. She knew it had to be around noon.
She turned to look, and Zach was now at the counter with his back to her. He was putting more meat into jars. Whoops was propped up with blankets and pillows and he was explaining to her in a whisper how he was canning the meat and why he was doing what he did. Even if Whoops couldn’t understand a word of what he was saying, she enjoyed watching and listening to him.
Danielle got off the chair and stretched. She still felt groggy.
He glanced back and said, “Good morning,” for the second time that day. He didn’t say it in the sarcastic tone of voice her father used when she slept late. He said it sincerely.
“Mornin’,” she offered through a yawn as she approached the stove.
She looked up at strips of meat on a rack a few inches above the woodstove. Each strip was set about half-an-inch from its neighbor on the rack. If he was trying to cook it, it was too far from the heat.
“What are you doing with that?”
He looked to where she was looking, at the meat. “I’m dehydrating some of the meat to make jerky.”
“What’s that all over it?”
“Pepper, garlic powder, a little crushed rosemary…”
“Ooo! I haven’t had jerky since before…well, you know when.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t know you could make it. I thought it all came from stores. Can I try some?”
“There’s some finished in the jars on the shelf,” he said.
She took one of the jars down, opened it, and took some out.
“Why’s it in jars?”
“To make sure it stays dry…put the cover back on. Jerking meat preserves it because it reduces the amount of water in it, and bacteria and molds won’t form if the amount of water has been sufficiently reduced.”
There he was, she thought, lecturing again. But she liked it. She liked learning.
“But,” he continued, “the jerky starts to absorb water from the air as soon you’re done dehydrating it. If it absorbs enough, the bacteria and molds start to thrive, and the meat goes bad. The stuff drying up there on the rack will go into the jars as soon as it’s dry enough.”
“When it’s jerked?” she asked.
He smiled. “Yeah, I guess you could call meat that’s been dried ‘jerked’.”
“Is that a word?” she asked.
“If it wasn’t before, it is now.”
Although she hadn’t asked, he added, “I’m getting the jars warm so that they’ll have as little moisture in them as possible when I put the jerky in them, and when I put the lids on, as they cool they’ll form a partial vacuum.”
“You read that in a book?”
“Heating the jars? No, that’s one I figured out. I don’t know how effective it is, but I haven’t had any spoilage since I started doing this, five or six years ago.”
She began to eat a piece. “This is good stuff, you know?”
“No, I didn’t,” he said dryly.
She laughed. “Be nice to me and I’ll let you have some.”
“Really? Then I guess I’ll have to be nice to you.”
“Is Whoops helping?”
The baby glanced at her when she heard her name.
“Oh, yeah. She’s making sure I don’t do anything wrong.”
Danielle looked at the operation. “Why don’t you get everything closer to the stove so it’ll dry faster?”
“You don’t want it too close. The idea is to dry it out without cooking it.”
“You figured that out, too?”
“No, I read that in a book.”
She smiled. “I’ve got a lot to learn.”
He sighed, without realizing he had, because she wasn’t going to learn it from him; she was leaving. But he said, “Yes, you have.”
She thought about what she was eating. “What kind of meat is it? Did you and Whoopsie catch the bear?”
He smiled again. “It’s venison.”
“That’s what’s han
ging out in the shed, right?”
“That’s what was hanging in the shed,” he corrected her. “You’ve already helped me can most of it. The last batch is in the canner. I’m using the rest to make jerky.”
She looked at the pressure canner still hissing away.
“Why do you do both?”
“By canning it I can use it in meals; jerking it I can carry it when I go out, without weighing myself down unnecessarily. Also, I’m simmering the bones and anything else I won’t eat or tan and making stock that I can use later in soups and stews.”
She hefted a piece of the jerky. “Yeah, it’s pretty lightweight. Can I take some with me?”
He mumbled an answer.
She stepped closer, her right forearm against his left, and asked, “What did you say?”
In a voice louder than necessary he said, “When you leave, you can take anything and everything you can carry.” His enthusiasm had abated.
She ignored his mood change and asked, “May I help?”
He stopped, looked at her, then at what he was doing.
“Wash your hands, then start cutting strips.”
“That’s all I get to do, cut it into strips?”
“Oh, no. You said you want to learn. You’re going to do it all. And it’s easy.
“See how thin these are?” He was pointing to what he’d already cut. “Cut them that thin—that’s so they’ll dry out faster—then I’ll show you how to put a mixture of seasonings on it. After that, we’ll put them on another rack and start them dehydrating, too.”
“I’m glad you didn’t ‘do’ Stupid.”
She let her right arm brush against his left and he cut his finger.
“Damn!” he said, He washed the wound, squeezed out some of the blood, and reached for another Band-Aid.
She smiled to herself and began to cut the meat into strips.
After she’d cut enough of it, he showed her how to sprinkle the seasoning mixture over it. Without prompting he also explained how, someday, he’d be making his own garlic powder from what he grew and that he already grew his own rosemary and some other herbs which he dehydrated.
“I’m going to have to produce my own herbs and spices or eat everything bland, from here on out,” he said.
She liked his confidence.
“You’ve got quite an operation going here.”
“It pays off. It feeds me and, by staying busy, I don’t go crazy.”
He stopped and turned to face her. “Keep in mind, there’s not much else to do. There’s no TV anymore, not that I watched it before, but there’s no Internet anymore, no shopping malls, and no nights on the town. I’ve got just so many books to read—though I often find new ones when I go out scavenging—and there’s no one to talk with. All that’s left is to can, hunt, scavenge…” He brought his hands palms up to emphasize that that said it all. “Otherwise you stare at the walls and go crazy.”
“I can see,” she said in a tone that implied he already was crazy, and he eyed her critically.
“Now,” he said, “put what you’ve cut and seasoned on another rack and place it above the stove so they’ll dehydrate.”
She did. But when she finished she turned without a word and walked back to the middle of the living room.
He didn’t know what she was doing and after a few minutes he turned around. She was getting her stuff ready to go.
“I’m going to make room for some jars of jerky,” she said.
He mumbled something she couldn’t quite hear.
“What?” she asked.
“You won’t need jars,” he repeated. “I’ll put it in some plastic bags. They’re lighter and you can just toss the empty bags when you’re done with them.”
She returned to his side and, somehow, her right arm was against his left, again.
“How long’s this going to take?” she asked as she surveyed the project.
He didn’t answer.
“I want to learn to shoot my gun, now” she said, changing the subject.
He was quiet for a second. He took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said. “Let me finish this.”
“So, how long’s it going to take?”
He paused. “There’s a lot to do.”
“Go ahead. Finish what you’re doing. It’s just that I’m never going to get out of here at this rate.”
He didn’t say anything. He just kept working.
She stood and watched until she said, “Instead of me just killing time, show me more,” she said.
He was glad she wanted to learn more. He was glad she wanted to stand beside him.
He talked about other things he was doing, too. He explained how he was growing a few hot peppers and he digressed to explain how he saved seeds for everything he grew and why so-called heirloom vegetables were better for him to grow than the hybrids most people had grown before the ice age.
Chapter 28
September 2
In Washington, D.C., a sergeant in Air Force Intelligence read an alert on his computer that the most recent satellite observations showed a patch of infrared where an infrared signal shouldn’t be. Something was burning in the forest near the Oregon coast. It wasn’t a particularly significant piece of data. It was just one incident among many.
But he added it to his incident report and, four hours later, sent the intel to a superior. From there the report began its arduous rise through the bureaucratic chain of command until a captain brought it into the office of a Colonel Atkinson who leafed through all the incident reports, too tired and bored to read any of them.
“What have we got today?” the colonel asked.
“Movements, manhunts, fires, snow…”
“Manhunts?”
Atkinson didn’t know what to make of it. By itself, the information meant nothing. And it was just one of a pile of memos.
The captain was in charge of Intelligence in the two northern California counties, Humboldt and Del Norte, and the southernmost of Oregon’s coastal counties, Curry and Coos. Highway 101 ran through all four. Of the first memo he said, “We’ve intercepted messages between some groups of road pirates in the area. They’re looking for somebody named Zachary Amaral and a girl named Danielle—no last name with Danielle. It isn’t clear why they’re wanted.”
“Do you know if they had anything to do with this…” the colonel paused, “…fire? That’s all it is, isn’t it? A building or something burning down?”
“We can’t tell, Sir. There is a cabin at the location. That’s probably what’s burning.”
“Well,” Atkinson said dismissively, “as long as they leave the roads alone, we don’t care what they do to each other.”
The military had neither the resources nor the incentive to mediate local feuds. The memo would go no further unless there was something definitive that required intervention. Then it would be passed onto the Army’s Third Infantry Battalion.
Chapter 29
September 2
When they had the last of the venison either on racks or in jars she suddenly asked, “Are you done here?”
He didn’t reply.
“Show me how to shoot my gun,” she demanded.
“Tomorrow,” he whispered.
“No! Now!”
He paused. Then he said, “Okay.”
“Good. But this is going to take a minute,” she said and grabbed her sister and started wrapping her in some blankets. “I want Whoops to be warm.”
“Wait, I’ve got stuff,” he said and went to one of the closed-off bedrooms shutting the door behind himself to keep the heat in the main room.
When he was gone too long, she started wondering what the “stuff” was and she went to the door and opened it.
He had his back to her and he was going through boxes.
“I’ll be right out. Close the door so we can keep the heat in there,” he said, and she closed the door and returned to Whoops.
When he came back he had his hands behind him and he approached her
in her chair. But his eyes were on Whoops and, as he leaned toward her, he asked, “You know what I’ve got?”
Whoops watched him with her happy face.
He brought his hands out to reveal a little pink snowsuit.
“Ta-da! See if this fits her,” he said to Danielle.
She took it and tried it on her sister. “Look, Whoopsie, a new snowsnoot.
“It fits perfectly,” she said to Zach. “It’s even a little big. She’s got wiggle-room, so she can grow into it.”
“She can have it,” Zach said.
She thought a second and knew who must have worn it before. She stood and gave him a hug and said, “Thank you.”
Her hug lasted longer than it had to and he hugged her back. Her body felt good against him. And when they stopped hugging, they were both awkward.
But she regained her composure and stepped back and looked at the floor. She was almost hating to have to say what she was about to say: “Show me what you’ve got to show me, so I can go to the road.”
All she got back from him was, “Okay,” as he nodded exaggeratedly, but his heart was not in what he said.
“Oh! Wait!” He went back into the other room and returned with some women’s boots.
“These will probably fit you. They may be a little big and if they are, you can wear heavy socks with them.”
“Thank you,” she said as she took them.
“They were…um…”
“Sandra’s,” she said completing his sentence.
“Yes.”
Then he fished around with his arms in the air as if searching for words and finally said, “Let me show you how to shoot a few guns. I want to do that before you go.”
“A few? Why?” she asked.
“Well…” He was at a loss for words.
“Sounds like this could take all day,” she said.
He didn’t reply.
“Okay,” she said. “I’d actually like to see more than one gun.”
“Good,” he said, and he went to the closet and pulled out several long guns.
She shook her head and smiled as she watched him.
Danielle Kidnapped: A Novel of Survival in the Coming Ice Age Page 29
