by Lou Cadle
Bleeding
Oil Apocalypse 2
Lou Cadle
Copyright © 2017 by Cadle-Sparks Books
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Thank you and notes
Also by Lou Cadle
Chapter 1
The neighborhood ahead was the size of their own, though Dev had no idea what had happened here in the past few months, if these people had been fighting off raids and would shoot at them, or if they would welcome a visit.
“Be careful,” he said as he caught sight of the side road. It was a gravel road less than a mile long, according to his father, with six houses rather than their own four. He and Sierra were trying to make contact if they could do it safely. They needed information, they needed allies, and if the people here happened to have puppies, they needed one of those. They’d trade hens, a pair of rabbits, this year’s seeds, cash, even gold for a puppy.
Anything might be traded but firearms and ammunition.
Dev’s next message to Sierra was via hand signal. She was to wait here, and he’d slide into the woods, coming up from behind the houses. His father had said that there were three spread out on the downhill side, and three closer together on the uphill side, this side.
They’d approach from the front, walk up like the friendly neighbors they were—but only if he first saw it was safe to. For now, he held onto his rifle and prepared for the worst.
His feet made shushing noises in the layer of pine needles. Sticking to what cover there was, he made his way closer to where the homes should be. But as he drew nearer, he thought it was odd he wasn’t seeing any roofline, not the glint of a solar panel, not a chimney.
He smelled it before he saw it. Charcoal. Burned wood. The remains of a house appeared, burned badly. One corner still stood, but the rest had collapsed. Other smells hit him as he approached, burned plastic the strongest. From the looks of the dried mud, it seemed that water had been used to douse the fire.
Good thing. If these dry woods would have caught fire, a wildfire would have burned straight up the hill to them and taken their homes.
Had the people died in the fire too?
No, not all of them. Someone had to have put out the flames.
He debated whistling another signal to Sierra: Possible danger. Wait. But she already knew there was possible danger, and she was supposed to wait. So he didn’t risk making the sound, as he’d be conveying no new information and would risk warning anyone around of his approach.
The back of the house had a garden, unburned but torn up. Probably the work of looters or thieves, or of the homeowners themselves as they hurried to harvest before the fire reached the garden. Food was that precious these days, that you’d risk standing next to the heat of a house fire to pick whatever you could. Behind the garden, a gate to a henhouse stood open. He checked inside it, but there were no hens.
Moving even more cautiously, he took to the woods to approach the next house.
It was also burned. This one had burned right down to the foundation. The signs of water used to put it out were there in old muddy patches, now dried and cracked, where flower or herb beds had been. He squatted and touched the soil to thrust a finger into it—or he tried to, but it didn’t yield. At least a couple of days since this had happened. He was impressed they’d put out this big of a fire with only their own water. Must be they’d once had a cistern that helped deliver a lot of water at once, or some other way of pumping out ground water fast.
He moved to the third house, and it too was burned, though not as completely as the first two. Was the whole neighborhood like this? He leaned against the front corner of the house and brought his rifle scope to his eye. Couldn’t see through the trees to across the road where the other houses were supposed to be.
He avoided the driveway and moved forward through the trees, very cautiously. If they’d been attacked a few days back, attacked with fire, the survivors would be damned quick to shoot. He crossed the private road without incident, but his neck crawled with fear for the seconds he was exposed. Two of the driveways on the downhill side of the road were visible. Left or right? Left was nearer to the main road, to Sierra, the car, and a quick escape. So he crossed onto that property, again avoiding the driveway, and cut up directly to where the house would most likely be.
This house still stood, undamaged. He watched through the scope, but saw no sign of movement. For ten minutes he stood still and watched.
Sierra would be getting restless. He could almost feel it, feel her pacing, hear her thinking about coming and finding him. He backtracked until he was in the back yard of the most burned house and then jogged through the back yards until he hit the road again.
Sierra’s face was tense. “Trouble?”
He explained.
“Those poor people. I wonder if it was one of the groups who got to us who did it?”
“Or the new group that took over Payson, like your friend said.”
“I hope not them. That means we could be next on their list.”
“No way of knowing. Not unless there are people here to tell us, and so far I see no one.”
“I’m thinking if they were burned out on one side of the road we shouldn’t walk up the other side and knock on a door.”
“No. Let’s approach those other houses from the rear. If they’re here, one of the three is probably working in a garden.”
They crossed the road slid into the woods again, walked a half mile parallel to the main road, and then turned right.
“I’ll do it this time,” Sierra said. “Go up close.”
“Let’s do it together. If we need to lay down covering fire for the other....”
“Got it. You lead if you want.”
He did want. The hill was steeper on this side, and the footing less secure, with more rocks underfoot. He was glad to have the extra pair of eyes watching for a human threat, for he needed to watch his feet to keep from tripping.
The first house was close to the main road. They kneeled in the woods, him watching through his scope, her using binoculars. There was a large shed in the back of the house with a chicken coop attached. No chickens were out pecking in the dirt. No one was in the garden, which seemed normal to him. The house looked a little less nice than his own or Sierra’s. It needed a coat of paint.
Sierra moved on her knees to his side. She whispered, “The garden has been harvested recently.”
So they’d simply left? He motioned for her to stay where she was, and he ran up behind the shed. He unlatched the door to the chicken coop and looked inside. Not a hen, not an egg. Hmm.
He approached the nearest window to the shed and took a quick look inside, snatching his head back fast, in case someone was in there. No gunfire erupted, so he looked again, waiting until his eyes adjusted to the dimness, shading them from the sunlight. No one was in t
here. Rakes and hoes and shovels leaned against a wall, and there were hoses and a tool bench and tools still on a pegboard, and a number of metal cabinets. But no people. He waved Sierra forward.
She was fast and lithe, moving like an athlete, reaching his side without being the least bit out of breath. Her expression asked a question.
He shrugged in answer. Then he held up a finger while he considered their options. He’d have to risk going to the house. He thought it was likely—four chances in five—that no one was there. But it could also be that someone had stolen all the hens, and the people were locked in the house with rifles pointed at him. Could also be someone was injured in there. Or dead.
With signals, he told her to stop at the corner of the shed and cover him. Then he sprinted hard for the corner of the dingy white house. He made it and slammed himself against the wall.
But there hadn’t been a sound or any hint of people being here. Not a shot, not a voice, nothing. Okay. At some point, he was going to have to try this, so may as well do it right quick. He ran for the back door and grabbed the doorknob. It gave to his touch. He debated for a second and then waved Sierra over. She was at his side in two seconds flat, pressed close to the wall by the door.
Letting go of the doorknob for a second, he showed her three fingers, then two. Then he grabbed the doorknob again and turned it, shoving it back fast and dropping to his knees, raising his rifle at the same time.
No one. No movement. Not a sound. And the refrigerator door was hanging open. A second later, he noticed it was pulled out from the wall six inches and unplugged.
“I think they’re gone,” he said softly.
Sierra slipped inside, closed the door behind them, and said, just as quietly, “Yeah.”
No sound at all came from the house, not even a tiny electric motor running anywhere. And the smell—something about the smell. He tried to identify it. Dust and the lack of fresh cooking smells, plus something else indefinable. The smell said the house was empty. He leaned to speak in Sierra’s ear. “Let’s clear it,” he said.
“How?”
“You always take the left, I’ll take the right. Look left, aim left. Move close to the walls.”
She nodded her understanding.
They moved quickly through the house, which had only one level and a sprawling floor plan. They finished in the master bathroom, where many drawers were open and empty.
“Think they left? Think they died?” Sierra said.
“Someone put out those fires. I’m guessing the neighborhood residents together.”
“Fire department maybe?”
“I doubt it. For one thing, how would you call them to get them here? We can check for big tire tracks.” He thought again about what he’d seen on the other side of the road and shook his head. “Nah, I think they did it themselves. We owe them for that.”
“Should we scavenge?”
“If there’s no one in those other houses, we can do that on the way back up the hill from town, or return here after we report back home.”
Their mission was twofold. One, check the two rural neighborhoods between them and the outskirts of Payson. This one was the smallest, much like their own. The other was on the opposite side of the highway—on another entire hill, in fact—and was larger. They were looking for allies, trade, and news.
“But without getting yourself hurt,” his mother had said. “Nothing on our wish list is worth having either of you hurt.”
It had been an extensive—and occasionally loud—debate that had lasted several days. It was the final mission that was most important, and that made the risk worth it. Fleeing town, Sierra’s friend Mia had told her twelve days back about Payson being invaded by a group of aggressive, well-armed people from Phoenix. They had killed some Paysonites, cowed others, and had taken over the town.
Dev and Sierra’s families and their neighbor Curt had needed to know more, much more than that bare outline. So they were going to spy on Payson, see what was up and, most important, try to estimate the numbers of invaders.
And see if they looked to be preparing to come up the hill and attack them next.
That fear was how he and Sierra had convinced their folks to let them go on this mission. It hadn’t been easy. Had his father been well, he would have been here instead, but his right arm was weak and might never be entirely healed, since an attacker had shot him in the shoulder. Dev’s mom said it’d be two months of sometimes painful rehab before they’d know for sure if he would be able to use the arm normally again.
That left Pilar Crocker and Curt Henry and Dev’s mom as the only adults who could go on the mission. But there were four gardens at the peak of the season, three henhouses, and extensive rabbit hutches to tend, and no other sources of food now than what they made themselves. There was the neighborhood itself to protect, and guard shifts to stand. Only Pilar knew how to work his wind turbines, though Sierra was learning from her dad when he had time to show her. Dev’s mom was doing double duty, nursing his father and doing everything else around their house. Curt Henry had his own place and the Morrow hens and garden to tend to. They were stretched thin.
Dev had been the one logical person to send. His parents had trained him for this day. He had hunting experience, he knew how to move in the woods, he had drilled in battle techniques, and he was a decent runner.
He still wasn’t sure how Sierra had cajoled her father into letting her go along. For Dev’s part, he was glad of her company. She had attended carefully to his father’s lectures as they prepared themselves for the trip. But he saw how her own father looked at her when her eyes weren’t on him. His face told the story, that if he could snatch her back and lock her in her room to keep her safe forever, he would.
All Pilar had said to Dev, though, was, “Take care of yourself. Don’t let her do anything foolish.”
“I’ll try.”
And she wasn’t doing anything foolish. That was good, for Dev was pretty sure he couldn’t control her once her mind was set on action.
Next they looked at the bedroom closets. They were half empty. Some clothes remained, but others had obviously been taken. It had been a fast exodus, from the look of it. A few clothes had been yanked off hangers and were still on the floor.
“Let’s check the other two houses,” he said.
“I want to look closer at this garden first. Maybe I can guess how long it has been since they’ve been here.”
“Okay.”
They went back outside, making sure the door was unlocked behind them. He wondered why the owners hadn’t locked it. Maybe just forgot, getting out quickly. Or maybe they hoped if someone could get in easily to loot, they wouldn’t break windows or locks instead, and the owners might be able to return one day. Impossible to guess at their plans.
He stood guard while Sierra checked out the garden. “There’s still stuff coming in,” she said, “but I think they harvested everything big and ripe. Tomatoes aren’t soft, but there are quite a few ripe. So a week to ten days since they’ve left?”
“About the same time we last fought.”
She nodded. “There’ll be sweetcorn soon if we leave it.”
“And if it rains. And if no one finds it first.”
“Okay, I’m ready to go.” She carefully shut the garden gate. Otherwise, deer or cottontails would get in and eat the garden down to stubble.
They checked out the last two houses. The final garden had not been harvested, and there was broccoli going to seed and zucchini the size of watermelon. Both houses were empty, in the same way, as if people had packed, logically but quickly, and taken off, but the last house was locked up. They found an unlocked window to gain access. There were no cars in any driveway or garage.
“Want to stay here overnight?” Sierra asked.
“No, we should get going.” It wasn’t even 11 a.m., but he wanted to be in place outside Payson long before dark.
“I’ll pick some of this produce that’s ready. Hate to see th
e tomatoes go to waste.”
“Fifteen minutes, okay? Do what you can in that time.”
While she did that, he hunted for something to carry the food in and wondered where the people had gone. To relatives elsewhere? Captured by the Payson gang? Up the hill with more of a hope than a plan? There was no way of knowing.
And he couldn’t go by what he’d do because he knew his father would stay in their house. He wouldn’t give it up, and he’d die fighting rather than leave it.
As they were loading up an empty feed sack with the harvest, he caught sight of a dog at the edge of the woods. “Look,” he said, pointing.
“What?” She was reaching for her rifle, which was propped against the fence of the garden.
“Nothing’s wrong, sorry. Just a dog.”
She shaded her eyes. “Can’t see him.”
“He ducked back into the woods. Shy. Feral maybe.”
“We should try and get him.”
“Wish I had my pack. There’s peanut butter in there.” They’d left their packs in the car for now, locked in the trunk.
But another ten minutes of soft whistling to the dog and hunting for him yielded no result. They moved on.
Chapter 2
They had taken Mitch’s electric car down the hill, hiding it a quarter mile distant, and hiking down the highway to the burned-out neighborhood. They returned to the car and got ready to drive to their second stop.
The second neighborhood they were to visit was lower, closer to Payson, and built more than a mile down a national forest road and then up a private road to a much bigger neighborhood than their own, three streets branching off the private road, with at least twenty houses. Pilar Crocker had once dated a woman in there, but he admitted it was many years ago and he might not be remembering clearly. “Or it could have expanded since I was there. Figure at least forty people.”
Probably most with rifles or shotguns.
Sierra drove the car slowly so they could keep an eye out for danger—it was the only vehicle that had been on the road in two weeks, so they could dawdle or drive on the wrong side or park in the middle of the highway or whatever they wanted. “Is that it? I thought it was lower.”
