Daisy hesitated for a moment, the kid’s reading catching her off guard. “You can read longhand? I didn’t think they taught that in school anymore?”
“They don’t. But my mom teaches me at home. Well, actually, my tutor did before Mom kicked Dad out of the house. Now she does it.”
“Well, good for her,” Daisy said, finding a new appreciation for her former best friend.
Stephanie King may have been royally pissed off at Daisy, and the rest of the world for that matter, but her motherly skills and devotion to her son were clear and evident. Even the most unstable person has something in their life that they excel at, even if it’s only one thing.
Jeffrey was a pleasant, happy boy, his manners honed and politeness always on display. Easily a win on any mother’s résumé.
Even though Daisy didn’t have any children, she knew that pride in one’s offspring was hard-earned, just like respect, requiring time, dedication, and patience.
Kudos, Stephanie, she thought, her heart skipping a beat.
Daisy figured she’d never get a chance to be a mother since her taste in men was a bigger disaster than the federal deficit. However, if she was ever lucky enough to find someone worthy, she hoped she could be half the mother Stephanie was—without the hysterics thrown in, of course.
Before her next breath, a loud, forceful voice came tearing at Daisy’s ears from the right. “Jeffrey Thomas King! You get over here right now!”
Jeffrey looked up in a flash of panic, the color in his cute, freckled face drying up in an instant.
“I’m not going to say it again,” Stephanie King demanded, her lips pinched and her hands on her hips.
Jeffrey took off running to his mother’s position. When he arrived, his quick feet stopped with simultaneous plops, his head hanging low. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
“It’s okay. He was being good,” Daisy said in a matter-of-fact way, wondering why Steph was so upset—over nothing. After all, Stephanie had sent the kids in here to get them out of the way while Allison, Martha, and she tended to Franklin’s injuries. Daisy didn’t understand the problem.
Stephanie put her hands on her son’s shoulders. “I need you to take Megan inside. Mr. Atwater is awake now and wants to see her.”
“But Mom, we just found—”
“Right now, young man. Megan needs your help. Go, do what I said. Mommy needs to have a little talk with the deputy.”
“Okay,” Jeffrey answered, walking to Megan. He picked up her crutches and gave them to her. The two of them left a short minute later.
Daisy felt the heat in Stephanie’s eyes when the curvy pile of fury turned her way.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
When Bunker found the location where he’d woken up, he put the materials he’d scavenged in a pile along the bank, then followed the incredibly loud buzzing sound. It led him west, into the forest, where he found the hive a few yards beyond the first stand of trees.
It was huge, at least ten feet long, dangling its succulent nectar under a low-hanging willow branch that ran left to right. It was shaped like a pregnant panda bear, holding on for dear life against the pull of gravity.
The white area near the middle was the only section not covered with worker bees. That would be his entry point. However, he’d need a few things first.
First up, a makeshift knife—something he could use to gently slice into the honey reserve and harvest its sweetness without pissing off the residents. If he wasn’t careful, he’d jostle their home and ignite their pheromones, sending them into an all-out attack.
There had to be at least a hundred thousand bees, possibly a lot more, each one carrying a painful stinger with his name on it. His mind flashed a vision of him running blind through the forest with a black cloud of tiny drones swarming around his head.
He returned to the creek and walked along the shoreline until he found a bed of exposed rock with hundreds of stones scattered about. The search took a few minutes, but he located a flat stone made of what he assumed was shale. The dark gray rock was about the size of his palm and had a polished, smooth surface. Its oblong shape was perfect, giving him two opposing ends to work with.
Two feet away was a semi-flat stone about the size of a dinner plate, though it wasn’t round. It was shaped more like a kidney, with a noticeable divot in the middle. It would serve as the anvil base for the bipolar percussion process.
All he needed to complete his knife-making kit was a heavy striker rock, one about the size of his hand and made of a denser material than the shale. It took a bit of foraging, but he found a potential hammer stone.
He tested its hardness on another piece of shale, striking it multiple times until it broke in half. The force needed was more than he expected, but he knew it would do the job.
Now it was time to make the knife. He took the target stone and adjusted its oblong shape between his fingers. Its two opposing ends were now standing vertical, with the lower point sitting in the divot of the anvil stone.
He moved his hand out of harm’s way with a loose two-finger grip before grabbing the cantaloupe-sized striker rock. The stone filled his grip as he hit the top of the shale rock repetitively, using more force with each strike.
The pressure waves eventually worked their magic, shearing off a piece that jettisoned to the right. He picked up the shale offspring and examined it. Its fine edge was razor sharp to the touch, traversing one side of it from end to end. Its size was roughly fifty percent of the original rock—almost a perfect slice, its shape just like the parent, only thinner.
Bunker had planned to fashion a handle for it out of a piece of driftwood, but the size of the cutting stone looked to be large enough to hold on to as he cut into the honeycomb. Skipping the handle would save time and energy, so that was what he decided to do. However, before the beehive could be penetrated, he needed to make sure the bees would remain docile and unthreatened by his activity.
Since there wasn’t a beekeeper’s suit handy, he’d need an alternative. Smoke was the only answer and would keep the insects oblivious and calm, letting him cut into their hive and extract what he needed.
He went back into the forest and gathered up a generous bundle of dry sticks for kindling. He snatched some brown grass, too, before returning to the flat spot by the creek where he’d left the Red Bull can and the other objects. He cleared off an area of river rock to expose the dirt underneath, making a four-foot-wide circle.
Bunker took the Kleenex out of his pocket and put it in the center of the campfire ring. Next, he stacked the dry grass over the tissue, fluffing the stalks to create air gaps. He finished by building a pyramid of sticks around the pile, leaving one side open for direct access to the Kleenex.
Now he needed an ignition source.
Bunker had several choices, one of which could have been the condom in the camper’s trash pile. Had it not been soiled, he would’ve turned the latex into a water balloon, then used it to focus the sunlight into a single point, acting like a magnifying glass. It would’ve taken a bit of finagling, trying different angles and finger pressures, but it would’ve worked on a sunny day like today. He could have done the same with the bottle of water, but it too would have taken trial and error.
The Bic lighter was a faster, better choice.
He took it out of his pocket and held up it up for close examination. It had been a while since he’d done what came next, but he still remembered the basic process.
Even though the camper had thrown the lighter away when it ran out of gas, Bunker knew there was at least one more flame hiding inside.
First, he’d have to use the lighter’s fork assembly to open the jet port all the way. That would allow the last bit of gas to find its way to the striker. The fork was positioned just under the spark wheel and was flat by design to fit a person’s thumb. However, it was protected by the hood guard, which he pried off with his fingernail.
Once the fork assembly was exposed, he loosened it with his thumb, popping it
free from its seated position. He moved it to the side, allowing the jet port to be pushed up a notch by its spring, then he brought the fork back to its starting position. He repeated the same process one more time, exposing more of the jet port to maximize the potential gas flow.
He held the lighter close to the Kleenex and engaged the spark wheel, spinning it against the flint. A brilliant, two-inch flame shot out from the end of the lighter and lit the Kleenex on fire, spreading quickly to the mound of grass.
Bunker watched the fire work its way up to the kindling he’d arranged. Once the sticks were fully engulfed, he carefully stacked more wood on top until he had a roaring fire. Now he just had to locate the remaining items needed to make a torch.
He found a stand of pine trees about fifty yards east of the beehive. The second tree on the right had what he needed—tree resin—gobs of it, smothering an area along its bark approximately six inches in diameter.
The resin was part of the tree’s natural defense system to protect it against invading insects, acting as an impenetrable bandage after one of its lower arms had been sheared off. Probably from high winds, Bunker decided, stepping over a fallen branch whose thickest end appeared to match the damaged area on the tree.
So far, so good, he told himself, knowing the resin was only part of the equation. He needed a pinecone and a live branch, too, both of which he could salvage from this location.
He chose one of the smaller branches on the tree, just to the right of the resin glob, breaking it at the spot where it attached to the trunk. The limb was about an inch in diameter and still alive, just as Bunker needed. It took effort to bend it back and forth, but he was able to work it free, ending with a twist.
He took the sharp stone he’d made earlier and sawed a split into one end of the live branch, stopping after cutting down about five inches. He tested his progress, prying the split end apart and stuffing the pinecone inside. “Perfect,” he said, storing the cutting rock inside his pocket.
He put the branch aside, then leaned his chest against the base of the tree. He had to stand on his tiptoes in order to reach the resin, but his fingers were able to tear off a hunk about the size of a baseball. It felt sticky, smearing across his fingers like an invading swarm of Gorilla Glue.
The campfire was still roaring when he returned with the items he’d found. As planned, the unmodified end of the torch slipped into the pour spout of the aluminum can, making it simple to pry its wide-mouth lid open. He worked the stick around until he had clear access to the bottom of the aluminum container.
Bunker put the resin inside, then placed it near the campfire, leaving an air gap so the resin would melt slowly and not catch fire. He stirred the contents with the handle of the torch until it had a runny consistency that resembled sticky paste.
Bunker freed the pinecone from the end of the torch he’d made, then dipped it into the resin and swirled it around inside the can. The substance transferred as expected, coating the pinecone.
“Time for a little honey,” he mumbled, jamming the resin-covered pinecone back into the end of the torch. He put it aside and went to the creek, where he dipped his fingers into the cool water and rubbed them together until the tackiness went away.
Bunker dried his fingers on his pants, then returned to the fire. He held the torch over the flame until the resin smothering the pinecone caught fire. Smoke billowed from the improvised torch, filling the air above him in puffs of white. He figured he’d have about ten minutes of burn time. Maybe fifteen.
“Drum roll, please,” he announced to the forest, taking in a long breath and letting it out. He spun on the balls of his feet before heading uphill.
His destination—the beehive. His goal—the honey.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
“Rusty, get the gate,” Sheriff Apollo said, waving a hurried hand signal at the Mayor’s grandson when they approached Tuttle’s homestead. The kid hopped off his mountain bike, right on cue.
Apollo wondered if the angry relic who owned the place was watching with his shotgun at the ready. The man’s reputation as an eccentric recluse was legendary and well-earned. Even though it was imperative to get everyone off the road in case they were followed, Apollo needed to take it slow.
So far, he hadn’t seen any sign of the owner and that, by itself, was a good thing. His badge and gun were probably a good deterrent, he figured, despite what Daisy had told him about Tuttle’s propensity to shoot first and ask questions later.
Tuttle may have been living on edge and fighting reality on a daily basis, but the old codger wasn’t crazy enough to shoot at the Sheriff and a bunch of innocent people from town. Was he?
Not likely, Apollo decided. Act like nothing is wrong and Tuttle will behave himself.
Rusty worked the latch free on the gate and pushed the barrier open. Apollo stood guard as each member of the group made their way inside, passing next to him.
First, newly appointed Deputy Dick Dickens went through, the former football star who took point on his own. Then Misty and Cowie entered on their horse, the man’s head hanging low and bobbing from left to right, matching the stride of the great steed.
Rusty went in last, pushing his bike along with caution, keeping a three-foot distance from the hind legs of the mammal in front of him.
The look on everyone’s faces told Apollo the same thing—they were exhausted from the trip. He couldn’t blame them. They’d covered a lot of distance on foot, plus he was sure everyone was worried about Angus Cowie, the Australian man who never regained consciousness before they’d arrived on Old Mill Road.
The trip had been stressful ever since the foreigner’s rescue from the river. They stopped occasionally to let Misty Tuttle’s arms rest and for Apollo to check for pursuers, the upstream gunshots fresh in his thoughts.
Misty had been holding the wounded man upright in the saddle ever since she’d climbed onboard and took position behind her fiancé. Her selfless dedication to her man’s every need was impressive, her attention and hands never wavering. Not for an instant.
There’s love there, Apollo decided, his soul absorbing the words as he thought them. Their love was the kind of love he wished he’d find for his sorry old ass.
Apollo’s eyes drifted across the dirt road on their own, lingering for a few seconds as a daydream about Allison Rainey began playing on the video screen in the back of his mind.
Right now, across the street was the one woman in the world who might fill what he was missing in his life—someone to love and care for, and maybe provide the same in return.
He couldn’t stop thinking about the middle-aged goddess—the waitress with the heart of gold, her face dominating his every thought. She was a mere two-hundred yards away and off duty for a change.
He sighed, letting the torment of the moment sink in. Asking her out sounded easy in theory, but he knew better. Every time he tried, his backbone would crumble, leaving his desires orphaned and alone, rendering him some kind of dumb mute. But not just any mute. An overweight, balding mute with little in the bank to show for his life’s work.
It had been the same excuse over and over—wait for a better opportunity—wait for the perfect opening. That’s what he needed. The perfect opening. Then he’d surely get her to notice him on a more meaningful level. God knows he needed it, because their current waitress / patron basis wasn’t cutting it. Not by a long shot. He needed more.
If he could somehow pull it off, then he’d have a chance at a full, meaningful existence on this rock. It wasn’t like being town sheriff didn’t have its rewards, but in the end, they meant nothing. Not compared to the rewards of having somebody to share your triumphs with, or someone soft and warm to lean on when your mistakes reared up and took a painful chunk out of your sagging backside.
The barbed thoughts swirling in his head were basically a rerun of his entire life, cutting and burrowing their way from his brain down to his heart.
Enough already, Apollo scolded himself quietl
y, deciding it was time to stop the adolescent fantasy. Your life is what you make it, and so far, he’d taken the easy way out. Nobody to blame but himself. It only took a second to wipe the romantic scene from his mind and turn his focus back to his sheriff duties.
Cowie’s bleeding was slow but relentless, releasing his life-force one droplet at time. The horse he and his girl were riding didn’t seem to mind the blood, its redness painting a random montage of gravity-fed stripes down the beast’s side.
Franklin Atwater had trained the powerful horse well. Its calm temperament was on full display, despite the strangers on its back and the tension in the air.
Apollo wasn’t an expert when it came to training equines, but he was almost certain this animal was a cut above the rest, something that only a proud, steadfast man like Franklin could achieve.
Once they were all inside the gate, Rusty shut it behind the group. Apollo led the way around the first two stacks of rocks in the old man’s driveway, but stopped when he noticed something to his right. Something out of place—a black circle in the weeds. Flat. Charred. Distinct.
But that wasn’t all.
Just beyond the scorch mark was the twisted hull of an old Ford truck. Its grille resembled the two Ford pickups that were parked nearby, facing him.
Rusty caught up a few seconds later with the handlebars of the off-road bike in his grip. He tapped Apollo on the elbow and pointed at the same pile of steel. “Is that a truck?”
“What’s left of it.”
“What happened?”
“Looks like Mr. Tuttle had himself a little bonfire recently, and it must’ve gotten out of control. I’m guessing that old truck was sitting where the charred area is, and then boom. The tank exploded.”
“Should have used some rocks around it.”
Apollo nodded, never taking his eyes from the burn mark. “A little attention to safety would’ve helped contain the fire.”
“I just hope the old dude is okay. If he was standing close to it—”
Bunker: Boxed Set (Books 1, 2, and 3) Page 43
