“Then he was seriously injured.”
“Or worse.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Apollo answered, wondering if Tuttle had set the fire on purpose. A man of Tuttle’s temperament and years might have been distraught after losing his wife. It wasn’t a stretch to think Tuttle might have hurt himself.
“We should go inside and find out,” Dick Dickens said, joining Rusty and the Sheriff in the gawk fest.
Apollo stopped his deputy from advancing with an outstretched hand. “Wait a second, Dicky,” he said after spotting the bumpers of two vehicles tucked behind the corner of the barn. The paint across the rear of the vehicles looked new, both a greenish color.
He pointed, leading Dicky’s eyes to the cars. “I don’t think those are Tuttle’s. They are too new and he’d never spend money on two of them, not after Helen died.”
“That doesn’t look right either,” Dicky said, aiming his enormous index finger at the window closest to their position. The glass was missing and so was its blind, the window next to it still intact and covered.
“The explosion?” Rusty asked in a leading manner.
“I’m not so sure,” Apollo said, pulling his weapon from its holster before addressing Dicky. “I need you to get everyone behind the rocks while I go check it out. I need you to keep an eye on the road, too. I’m pretty sure nobody followed us, but we better not take any chances.”
Apollo had planned to head to the front door of the home, but changed his mind when he heard a loud crash coming from Tuttle’s massive barn. The noise sounded like wood breaking.
When he heard a smattering of grunts, whacks, and a woman screech, he took off running for the double doors along the front of the barn. His mind ran through a dozen scenarios in search of an explanation for the scene they’d stumbled on, but nothing seemed to fit.
When he arrived at the structure, the noises inside were louder and more intense than before. He heard a few more crashes, then more grunts and a loud thud. A second later, he heard a painful scream.
Just then, the slats of the wall broke loose in front of him, showering him in a spray of splinters and planks. A body came flying out at the same time, tumbling backwards and rolling into a heap at his feet.
It was the body of a woman—a voluptuous woman whose hair was twisted around and hanging in clumps, covering her face from his vantage point. Her curves were prominent, drawing his eyes in an instant.
Apollo tore his gaze from her cleavage and aimed his sidearm at the hole in the building. He wondered if Tuttle had hurled this woman through the wall. Possibly for trespassing, the same thing he and his group were doing.
He was about to yell a series of commands at Tuttle, instructing him to come out slowly with his hands up, but the woman at his feet grabbed his ankle. Her moans were soft but her grip hard, her face still obstructed from view.
Apollo kept the gun trained on the hole in the barn as he knelt down and brushed the hair away from the woman’s face. When her eyes came into view, he recognized her. “Stephanie?”
“Hey Sheriff. Long time no see,” she quipped back, sounding as if her situation was normal and expected. Her upper lip was bleeding from a half-inch scrape along the side, and so too, were the middle knuckles on her right hand.
“What the hell is going on? Did Tuttle do this?”
“No, it wasn’t Tuttle,” another female’s voice said from in front of him, the tone and pattern familiar. “It was me.”
When Apollo looked up, he saw a bloody face staring back at him, peering out of the barn through the ragged hole. It was his number two in charge, Daisy Clark, the cut on her chin dripping blood in sets of two.
She smiled, showing her pearly whites, a stark contrast to her left eye, which was noticeably swollen. One of her teeth had a smear of red on it. It was faded and almost pink in color.
Stephanie King let go of Apollo’s ankle and crawled to her feet in an awkward stumble, nearly toppling over after her arms swung to one side.
Apollo put his gun away in a flash, then latched onto the shoulders of the unstable woman, using his brawn to keep her upright. “You okay?”
“I am now,” she said, laughing after she spun her head and spat out some blood in a pucker. She worked herself free from Apollo, then moved forward with deliberate feet and put her hand into the opening in the wall, thumb facing up. She held it still, only inches from Daisy’s position.
Daisy grabbed Stephanie’s palm, pulling herself through the gaping exit hole in the barn.
“That was some kick,” Stephanie told Daisy in a friendly tone after the two of them came together outside.
Daisy rubbed her chin, her fingers just missing the blood on one side. “Nice punch. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
Stephanie smiled and spoke again, her tone amplified. “Try living with the asshole I was married to and you’d understand why.”
“I hear you, Steph. Again, I’m sorry for everything that happened.”
“No, I’m sorry. Taking this all out on you was wrong. I know you just got caught off guard. You’re not the one I need to be mad at.”
Daisy didn’t respond, her face unsure.
Stephanie continued, “The way I see it, you did me a favor. A huge favor.”
“Then we’re good?”
“Yeah. We’re good,” Stephanie said, putting her arms around Daisy and pulling her in for an extended hug. “I’ve missed you.”
Daisy brought her hands up as well, finishing their embrace in a tangle of blood, hair, and arms. “I missed you, too. It was killing me inside.”
Apollo wasn’t sure what to say, so he kept his mouth shut, content to let this play out on its own.
Rusty slid in next to him, with Dicky on the far side. Both of them looked as dumbfounded as Apollo felt at the moment. These two women just beat the hell out of each other and now they were acting like nothing had happened.
Stephanie put an arm around Daisy’s shoulders as the two of them walked away, making a beeline for the front door of the house. Daisy’s arm was around Stephanie’s waist, the two of them laughing and chatting like schoolgirls.
“What was that?” Dicky asked, throwing his hands up in confusion.
Apollo shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me.”
“Women,” Rusty said in a sarcastic tone.
“You got that right, son. Obviously, there’s some history between them. Let’s just hope whatever that was is over,” Apollo answered, figuring Bill King was at the center of it. The man usually was, and the cryptic exchange between the women appeared to confirm that assumption.
Regardless of what had started it, Apollo was thankful he didn’t have to break up yet another fight between two women he knew.
He snickered after shaking his head.
One catfight per week was his new over/under limit, as he decided he needed to set quotas for all things unexpected and sheriff related.
Apollo waved a signal at Misty to bring the horse forward, then turned and locked eyes with his stout deputy. “Dicky, you and Rusty help her get Cowie inside. Find a couch or bed. Somewhere with decent light. Keep his head elevated.”
“You got it, chief.”
The Sheriff closed his eyes and let out a soft exhale, taking a few moments to let his mind catch up to the facts pouring in. A million questions formed instantly, coming at him all at once.
He wasn’t sure where to start. So much to cover. However, since Daisy was here at Tuttle’s, then maybe Bunker was as well.
“Yes, Bunker,” he mumbled, realizing he needed an impartial observer. Someone who wasn’t part of the town. Someone with the skills and experience to explain all the craziness, both with the people and with the events of the day.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Bunker slowed his pace as he neared the low-hanging, horizontal branch of the willow tree. So far, the bees hadn’t noticed him, allowing him to continue his advance unscathed. He wondered if their incredibly loud buzzing had kep
t the noise of his approach a secret. If the pitch was a little higher, he figured it would have sounded like a gas-powered weed whacker in action, mowing down the forest one clump of grass at a time.
He brought the torch up, moving it slowly from side to side to spread out the smoke, not knowing how much was needed to keep the bees calm. But regardless, he couldn’t dillydally.
There was a finite amount of burn remaining in the torch; plus, he still needed to be able to see what he was doing. Too much smoke would exceed both of those limits, so he decided to just go for it and hope he was close to deploying the proper amount.
After four more steps and a full waist bend, he put the torch underneath the swarming hive, leaning it against the base of the trunk. He waited as the smoke floated up to the target, gently surrounding the hive in a cloud of white.
He’d expected the smoke to slow the hive’s activity down, but that was not what happened. The instant it hit a tangle of bees, they took off in unison, zipping away with a much higher pitch to their wings than before.
Everywhere the smoke went, the bees abandoned their posts, retreating in formation for safer air. They must have thought a forest fire was headed their way.
He hunched and waited for them to attack, ready to run for cover. The bees were zipping about but apparently too busy avoiding the smoke to care about him.
Bunker let out the breath he was holding, then took out the cutting stone. He held it in his hand with the sharp edge leading the way, while a squadron of bees circled around the far side of the smoke cloud and doubled back.
They buzzed his head, neck, and shoulders in a swirling pattern, sending his blood pressure a level higher. He froze for a few moments, waiting to see if one of them would bring a stinger his way. Their flight paths were chaotic and near, but none of them seemed interested in testing the resistance of his skin.
It was hard to concentrate with non-stop fly-bys obstructing his vision, but he continued to the middle of the hive wall facing him. He gently pushed the cutting stone into the surface.
A runny yellow substance leaked out and landed on his hand, then oozed a trail to his wrist before sliding down his arm. He ignored the leakage, slicing deeper into the substrate until he found a firmer area inside.
Before his next blink, a bee swooped in and landed on the bridge of his nose.
Bunker drew in a short breath, seeing only a dark smear an inch or so from his eyes. He could the feel the drone’s tiny feet on his skin, moving down his nostrils before taking a sharp left and crawling onto his cheek.
He thought about shaking his head to send the bee into flight, but decided against it. Right now, the insect appeared to be calm, almost like it was curious, casually checking things out. If the drone changed its mind and stung him, the others would detect the release of threat pheromones and swarm.
The bee took off a moment later and joined the others, flying in random patterns to avoid the smoke cloud. He let go of the breath in his lungs and continued slicing until a one-foot-long chunk fell to the ground. He cut a second piece off as well, then picked up both pieces and made a hasty retreat.
After a quick jog back to the campfire, Bunker put his take on the ground, then checked his hair, shirt collar, and the rest of his clothing for unwanted guests.
All clear.
He’d done it.
No stings.
A smile erupted, his body energized with the thrill of victory. It took a minute for his heart rate to calm, then he sat down next to the fire to admire his score.
The first batch of honeycomb had a waxy covering. Beeswax, he figured, to seal in the honey. He wasn’t sure if that was the right term, but it didn’t matter.
Bunker scraped off a small amount of the wax with the cutting stone, giving him access to the golden nectar. He dipped his finger inside for a sample and tasted it.
“Wow, that’s frickin’ good,” he mumbled, savoring the sweetness on his tongue.
He couldn’t remember from his survival training if he could eat the honeycombs, too, but the hunger in his belly convinced him it was worth the risk.
Bunker scraped off more of the wax, then took a bite. His teeth worked through the fibrous texture, releasing a supernova of flavor that exploded on his tongue. It was fabulous, better than any store-bought honey he’d ever tasted.
He continued eating like a madman, until every ounce of the first cutoff was in his stomach. Damn, he was in heaven and wanted more, but he knew he had to stop. The rest of what he’d stolen was destined for the wound in his arm—a wound he needed to treat before it became infected.
Punctures are notoriously difficult to keep clean, especially in a woodsy, humid setting like this. Yet keeping his injury clean was the last step in the treatment process, one that could only start after he dealt with the bacteria lurking inside the damage path.
He removed the cap from the water bottle and stood the container a few inches away from the campfire by leaning it against one of the larger rocks.
It would take a few minutes to bring the water to a boil, so he used the time to clean off the wax on one side of the remaining honeycomb.
Once the water came to a boil, he used one of his socks as a glove to move the bottle away from the fire. He waited until the boiling stopped, then picked up the container again with the sock on his hand.
Bunker took a series of deep breaths to summon all his strength, then brought the underside of his forearm over the bottle’s opening. He made sure to align the plastic opening precisely with the wound.
The plan was to fold his wounded arm up with his hand next to his ear, then instantly shoot the water through his arm with the upside-down bottle. Pressurized hot water was the key to flushing out his injury. But it would come at a cost—pain. Level ten and excruciating, but it was necessary to rid the wound of bacteria.
It was now or never.
Bunker sucked in a deep breath and then, all in one motion, folded his arm up and squeezed the water bottle in one firm crush of his hand. A water jet shot into the hole in his forearm and out the other side.
“Yeeeeeeoooooowww,” he cried through clenched teeth, muffling the cry to keep the decibel level down.
He squeezed the bottle again, sending another flush of water through. The pain was just as intense the second time, but he was able to remain quiet, even though he was seeing a burst of stars in his vision.
After the two power flushes, the container had about fifteen percent of the water remaining. Probably enough for another go, he figured.
He thought about it for a second, but decided he’d had enough of the crush and flush, bringing his arm down and removing the plastic from his skin.
Bunker looked to his left to check the results of his work. The water had been forced through his arm as planned and landed on the neighboring rock, but it was no longer a clear liquid. It was more of a washed-out red color, with hunks of tissue mixed in.
“Looks like it worked,” he said, feeling relieved the process was over, despite the throb in his arm. Pain he could deal with, but microscopic bacteria and unrelenting sepsis was another matter. What he’d just put himself through was worth it, assuming it was enough.
Once the water cooled, he brought the opening of the bottle to his lips and chugged down what remained inside. The liquid quenched his thirst—a thirst that had been building ever since he’d woken up.
He got up and went to the creek to fill the container again, then returned to the fire, where he put it next to the same rock for another boil. His hydration levels were low, and he figured it was going to take several more rounds to properly replenish his fluids.
While he waited for the water to heat up again, Bunker decided to prep his wound for travel. He broke off a hunk of the second honeycomb loaf, then angled it to allow the honey to leak out and land on his arm. He used the honeycomb as a swab, pushing more and more of the anti-bacterial remedy inside the damage path.
Once he’d packed it tight, he flipped his arm up next to
his ear and did the same to the other side. The process was a sticky mess, but the bush remedy was necessary.
He finished by slicing a strip of cloth from his shirt and tying it around his arm as a bandage.
“That should do it.” He turned his eyes to the leftover honeycomb, licking his lips before tearing into the treat.
Ten minutes later, the sugar rush kicked in like a pressure wave. The newfound energy felt amazing, giving him a much-needed mental boost. He downed the last of the boiled water, then stood up, ready to head out.
From what Franklin Atwater had told him earlier, it was a long walk south to Clearwater. Bunker knew he could make the grueling trek, but after the last twenty-four hours of beatings, electrocutions, mortars, bullets, and impalement, he figured a shortcut was in order. A shortcut by the name of Tango.
Unfortunately, hitching a ride on the horse meant another fight with the saddle. He wasn’t looking forward to it, but it was better than trying to hump his weary ass back to town on foot. Just the act of breathing would become more difficult after his adrenaline waned, leaving him to argue with a snarl of injuries.
Guilt sprang up inside when he remembered the Russians unloading on the ridge. Bunker prayed the horse got away, sprinting into a full gallop when the firepower was unleashed. If Tango wasn’t able to pull himself free from the branch, then he was probably down. Possibly dead.
The thought of Tango lying on his side with his guts exposed tore at Bunker’s heart. He closed his eyes and shook his head, taking in a series of deep, slow breaths, trying to free his mind of the imagery. And the remorse.
The Clove Hitch he’d chosen was a sturdy knot, almost impossible to defeat. But maybe the clever steed managed to pull himself free, or chew through the reins.
He figured the Russians were long gone from the miner’s camp, but he still needed to take it slow in case his assumptions were wrong. They most certainly sent out search teams after he was blown off the cliff, scouring the ridge for clues after their barrage ended.
If they followed his tracks through the forest, they would have ended up where he’d taken his last step. Bunker hoped they decided to give up their pursuit, thinking he’d floated away with the current, while surrounded by a bloody run of body parts.
Bunker: Boxed Set (Books 1, 2, and 3) Page 44
