Rae Ann glanced at Maggie and beamed. “Okay.”
Nick motioned for Corey to join him, and they walked out toward where Owen was waiting by the gate.
“Okay, so we’ll start over there,” Owen said, pointing off to one side. “There are a bunch of trips we need to check there, and then we’ll make our way to the other side, over that way.” He motioned to the opposite side, where Nick was sure they hadn’t checked which traps had been set off during the attack.
He stepped along the perimeter fence and into the woods, finding the first tripwire the raiders had triggered. Someone had stepped into the line, causing the cotter pin to pull from the inert smoke grenade top that was nailed to a tree, a foot off the ground. Abram had said the resulting noise would sound much like a .22 pistol, and it would be loud enough to alert them to any intruders. It had worked, but by the time the raiders tripped these traps, they had already blown Kat’s face off and the attack was well underway. This was another reason they would have to continue setting traps further into the forest, away from the perimeter fence. It would buy them a few precious seconds—the difference between life and death, hard experience had shown them.
Crouching down, Nick called his son over for the lesson as he pulled a box of shotgun primers from his pocket. “Okay, so to reset this, we need to find the cotter pin that’s attached to the line.”
Corey peered around, then grabbed something off the ground. “Here it is.” He handed it to Nick.
Pulling the line taut with one hand, Nick brought the hammer back on the grenade top. “This re-cocks the hammer, and then we’ll just slide the pin back through here.”
Corey leaned close, observing what his father was doing.
“So, now that it’s re-cocked and we put the pin through, we can pop out the old primer and drop a new one in, like so.” Nick demonstrated as Corey watched him. “Now, you try the next one.”
They stepped toward another tripwire that had been triggered, about fifty or so yards away from the one they’d just reset.
Nick motioned to the ground. “Okay, so find the cotter pin attached to the line.”
Corey did as told, then without any further instructions, re-cocked the hammer, slid in the pin, popped out the old primer, and then looked at Nick expectantly.
“Here you go,” Nick said, handing Corey a new shotgun primer from the box.
Corey was careful dropping it in, and once done, nodded at his dad. “That was a cinch.”
“Two down, several dozen more to go. And once those are done, Abram wants us to set up new trips. That takes a few more steps, but it’s not difficult at all.”
Nick glanced off in the distance. Liam was still out beyond the area where he and Corey were working, so he felt confident that he and his boy would have plenty of warning if any intruders wandered onto Abram’s land. He turned back to Corey. “You go check traps over there,” he said pointing to the left, “and I’ll work on a few over here.”
“Okay, Dad.”
“Take this,” Nick said, handing Corey his extra box of shotgun primers. “Let me know if you have any issues. And stay within sight of me, you hear?”
“I will.”
Nick got to work on a nearby tripwire to his right, as Corey stepped off to the left. He scanned the ground, having difficulty finding the line—there was a lot of underbrush here, though he eventually found the cotter pin in a thicket. He reached in, scratching his arm slightly, but was able to untangle the line from the branches. He glanced over to where Corey was working, and the teen looked back at him, giving a thumbs up that he’d just set another trap.
“Keep going,” Nick called, then returned to his own trap. Pulling the line taut, he crouched down and went through the motions, then removed the spent primer. Reaching for a fresh primer, he fumbled, and it fell to the ground, a few inches away from the tree trunk.
“Dammit,” he muttered, searching for the primer. If he couldn’t find it in a few moments, he’d just use another one. “There it is.” He reached down and picked it up, then dropped it into the grenade top.
Before stepping off to work on another trap, he glanced over to where his son was working, and his eyes widened. Corey was nowhere in sight. Nick stood bolt upright, heedless of the spilling primers, head swiveling left and right in search. “Corey?” he shouted. And shouted again. There was no reply.
4
Gary stared at the man. Mr. Candybar stood on the porch of the house he’d just left, asking Gary to join him to go to a nearby town—together. Did he mean Fenton? No, that place was desolate, void of any men who might have been chomping at the bit for greater purpose. And anyway, it was in the opposite direction from where this man had pointed.
Regardless, Gary felt a spark of curiosity at the man’s invitation. In order to take back the fatally mismanaged compound, Gary would need competent people to help him, and this man was still alive out here, so that said something of his resourcefulness and skill. And then there was the fact that he had yet to break eye contact—he was confident, something that was sorely lacking in the world, since most of those who’d been cocky at the onset hadn’t had the skill to back it up—and they were all dead. Unlike Mr. Candybar. It was only with men like this that Gary knew he could take back the compound.
Of course, Gary wasn’t sure how many extra hands Abram had taken in, though he knew at least a few of those had to have known a thing or two because he remembered hearing hammers pounding. What were they building? Nothing had been in the works when Abram had stuffed him into a makeshift prison cell. Escaping that place during the battle, he hadn’t had a moment to spare to check, and he hadn’t been back since. More than likely, they’d lost the compound to bandits—that prudent assumption would mean he’d be up against a more skilled force than Abram’s merry band of losers had been.
Out here on the road, he hadn’t run into many people, and here was a person who seemed to want to join him, rather than flat-out attack him like that bastard whose body bled out in the house. If this man could earn Gary’s trust, perhaps he would be useful when Gary returned to the compound, intent on taking back what was rightfully his.
Gary scratched his stubble. “What town?”
“Not sure of the name of it, but like I said, it’s over that way.” The man motioned off to his right again.
“Where did you hear about this place?”
“From some others on the road. Word spreads fast about opportunities, these days.”
“And why are you telling me about this opportunity?”
“Why not? I figure it’s good for likeminded people to join up.”
“They already are. They’re called bandits.”
The man stepped off the porch, heading closer. Gary gripped his pistol tighter, though he didn’t raise it. Not yet. The man stopped; he must’ve caught the slight movement in Gary’s pistol hand.
“They aren’t well organized,” the stranger said. “These people, in that town over there, they aren’t bandits. They’re survivors, strong people who do what’s needful to carve out their own niche.”
Gary thought back to Abram—he was the opposite of what this man was describing. If only Abram had been more pragmatic in how he ran the compound, Gary—his best shot—wouldn’t have been locked up for a week. That imprisonment had been a result of him killing the owner of a grocery store in Fenton. The business owner could have easily killed him as he exited the store, and so Gary had struck first. Kill or be killed, that was the way a true survivor thought in this world. But Abram had been more concerned with how outsiders felt about it than he had been with Gary’s choice to survive…
Letting out a long breath, Gary studied the man. He seemed sincere. A veneer, perhaps? Did an ulterior motive lurk beneath? Only one way to find out. “So, you want to join them?”
“Seems like a good option. We could pool our resources.”
“You have supplies?”
“Only what’s on my back. But I have skills, and so do you. You
survived this long, haven’t you?”
The man stepped closer, and Gary didn’t budge. His trigger finger didn’t even itch, and for some reason, he didn’t feel like putting a bullet through this guy’s skull. The man seemed genuine, and hadn’t pounced when he very well could have. He could have killed Gary with ease when he was down, but the man hadn’t. He’d offered his assistance instead. Perhaps it was possible for a genuinely kind person to survive out here, doing what was needful, but focusing on finding other likeminded people instead of being a lone wolf.
If Gary said yes to joining this man, he’d have to keep alert, sleep with one eye open, and not let down his guard. Joining this stranger could pay dividends in the future, or it could end tragically for Gary. But the man had piqued his interest—what kind of resources and manpower could soon be at their disposal, working together?
Gary nodded. “Okay, let’s go check out this town then. Lead the way.”
The man came closer, keeping his hands out in the same non-threatening gesture. One hand turned, ready for a handshake, and the man smiled warmly. “What’s your name, cowboy?”
“You don’t need to know my name.”
The stranger’s smile didn’t waver. He kept his hand out, waiting for Gary to shake it, and when he didn’t, he calmly turned to his right and led the way, trusting that Gary wouldn’t put a bullet in his back.
Over his shoulder, the man regarded Gary. “I understand completely, but I’m not afraid to let my identity be known. Name’s Black.”
Corey Caulfield took another step toward the flashes of unusual color he’d seen in the underbrush in the distance. “Do you see that?” he asked his dad, but no reply came from behind him. There was little point bothering his dad, though, until he knew what it was, so, he continued toward the unusual color. Obviously, anything out of the ordinary should be investigated…
His eyes were fixed to the spot as he stepped closer, heart now pounding in his chest, faster with each step. Something wasn’t quite right. He had no reason to feel it, but he couldn’t shake it, either.
He glanced around—nobody in sight. Turning around, he didn’t see his father, either. Had he wandered farther than he’d thought?
He opened his lips to call out for his dad, but something inside stopped him. He’d get in trouble for wandering off, and perhaps his father hadn’t noticed him missing yet.
No—he’d simply go over to the spot of color that seemed wrong in the landscape of greens and browns, check it out, then return to his work as if nothing had ever happened. His father would never know he’d been gone.
At ten yards away, he finally realized what he had seen. His eyes grew wide and a knot formed in his stomach, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up on end.
He wanted to scream from the sight, but all he could get out were three words that escaped his mouth in a mere whisper.
“Oh my God…”
Heading toward the worksite with a tray of cold drinks, Abram’s daughter, Emma Patterson, flashed a smile at Tom Crogan. “Special delivery,” she said.
Tom, the compound’s resident carpenter, ran his fingers through his thick, gray hair, then reached for a glass of lemonade. “Thanks, Emma.”
Though it was an overcast day, and wasn’t particularly warm, the people on Tom’s work detail had been laboring all morning, and were sweating from their efforts.
Nearby, Dexter approached, pushing his thick-rimmed glasses up on his face. The radio operator didn’t appear to be much of a manual laborer, but he seemed to be working with gusto—since the raid, they’d all been doing their part in bolstering defenses for the next attack, whenever that would be.
Emma’s heart thumped in her chest. She could hear gunshots echoing in the back recesses of her mind and recalled her and Corey defending the house against the bandits. Nick running with poor Rae Ann in the midst of the attack. Corey and her killing several of the bastards who’d tried to take their home. Each night since, she’d had nightmares, and every time she thought back to the horrors that had occurred only a couple of days prior, she went into cold sweats.
Breathe, Emma. Breathe.
She took a drag of the damp air and let it out slowly. Her hands shook, and she was glad the tray was now empty.
Tom took a sip of his drink and smacked his lips together, sighing. “Now, that’s the ticket. What do you think, Dexter? Pretty good, huh?”
Dexter took a sip. “Yeah, can’t remember the last time I had lemonade.”
Emma forced a cheerful grin. “It’s from a powder mix—the hardest part is chilling it.”
“How do you do that?” Tom asked.
“Simple. Put it in a large plastic container, tie a rope around it, and let it sink to the bottom of the river for a couple hours. We have our next batch chilling there as we speak.”
Tom took another sip and, sated, smiled. “Smart.”
Emma nodded. It was smart—flowing water was hard to make warm, and the spot she’d found would be shaded if the sun ever peeked out from behind the canopy of clouds.
“So, how’s the new tower coming along?” she asked. From what she’d overheard, one of the new guard towers would be set up near the two they’d erected in haste before the bandit attack. One would be to the south, near the outbuildings, and one to the east, closer to the river. The pre-cut timbers were already on site, stacked in piles of same lengths for easy identification, and a copy of the plans was taped to the fence not far away.
“Coming along. Still have another one to do, probably tomorrow or the next day.”
“The one that’s going to be set near the swimming hole gate?”
“That’s the one.”
It would be interesting to see that guard tower once it was completed. That one would be different from the others in that it wouldn’t have a roof or a fire pit, as it would only be used when people were in the river. Tom had changed his design so that it was more like the others but would have a removable wall with a railing behind it. That way, whoever was on guard would be able to keep one eye on the horizon and one on the people in the river, so that no one would drown. To Emma, it seemed like it would be much like a lifeguard chair, though it would be fully enclosable in the winter. But where the other towers had ladders on the back side, that tower would be reached from the front and had not only a ladder but a pole to slide down for quick access to the water. Still, it hadn’t been clear to her at first why they’d need a tower over there anyway, since the river acted as a deterrent. But, of course, she hadn’t considered the fact that the river would freeze in the winter, making it easier for intruders to cross. That had been the deciding factor in planning that tower in the first place.
“Awesome,” she said. “Let me know if you need anything else. Just holler up to the house.”
Emma waved and made her way back with the empty tray, hearing the sound of hammering commence behind her.
There, at the outside picnic tables, were Aunt Maggie and Henry’s mom, Quinn. She reached them and hovered over the table, where they examined a sketched layout for a proposed permaculture project Maggie and Quinn had been planning.
“Want to help out?” Maggie asked. “We’re just ironing out the final details.”
Emma set down the tray. “Sure.”
“Okay,” Quinn said, “so we’d already figured out a lot of the site details based off topography, soil, areas of shade and sunshine, wind direction, water movement during rain, and a whole host of other aspects. We have most of the plants decided for each layer, as well. Keep in mind, this will take several years as we work with nature, instead of against her. We need to go from an immature ecosystem to a mature one.”
Emma cocked her head. “What do you mean, immature ecosystem?”
“Well, conventional gardens, like the ones you have here, are dominated by early-succession plants—pioneers. These imitate immature ecosystems, and then the weeds are eager to cover up the naked ground surrounding the crop plants. They also pull nutrients out
of the soil and set up the beginnings of a mature ecosystem. Not tilling and simply laying down mulch will block weed seeds from sprouting. So, what we’re trying to do is work with nature and accelerate succession to make a garden mature faster. Mature ecosystems are stable, tolerant of environment shifts like frost, and aren’t threatened by weeds or other pioneers the way gardens are.”
Emma nodded, trying to take in what Quinn was saying. She squinted as she peered down at the plans, then pointed. “What are these? ‘Vine, Ground Cover, and Root’?”
“Those are the bottom three layers.” Quinn pointed to a few lists beneath each header. Under the word “Vine,” Emma saw hops, melon, cucumber, and squash scrawled out, as well as a few others she couldn’t read due to the bad handwriting. Under the heading “Ground Cover” were unfamiliar names, such as creeping phlox, creeping thyme, miner’s lettuce, and thrift. And under “Root” were garlic and potatoes, along with carrots, onions, and more.
“Ah, so the root layer has things like root vegetables?”
“Exactly, like the potatoes you already grow here, but we’ll probably add some garlic to our plans, as you can see. We still have to procure some of the necessary seeds and starter wedges, though I have a few ideas for places we could go to get them.”
Emma was about to ask where they would find the seeds, when she caught motion off to her right. Corey and Nick were sprinting along the drive toward the house.
“Where’s Abram?” came Nick’s frantic voice.
Maggie was the first to reply. “In the house. Why?”
But neither Nick nor Corey said anything, instead both heading into the house.
A familiar sense of dread poured over Emma, and she was left with only an incessant pounding in her chest. Her clammy hands quaked. Something terrible was happening.
5
Abram stepped from his makeshift desk in the basement, his mind still reeling at what he’d learned. The bandits were becoming more organized and had started to become absorbed into a town somewhere near Nettletown. It was a good distance away, but still, the fact that a strongman had risen up didn’t settle well with Abram. Sooner or later, they would cause trouble for him and his people at the compound. Whatever level of security they could muster, it simply wouldn’t be good enough for an organized town of people eager to raid, plunder, and kill.
EMP Crisis Series (Book 3): Instant Mayhem Page 3
