He slowed to a crawl as he came in sight of the house. It looked exactly the same—a run-down old farmhouse surrounded by a trash-strewn and cluttered yard—yet he felt a heaviness as he approached. The weight of the crime lingered in the air. He made his way toward the backyard and parked the wheelbarrow, then peeked around a large tree to make sure the coast was clear.
He waited a few seconds to make sure the property was empty, then he pushed the wheelbarrow out into the open. The back door of the house was still wide open, as if Filmore hadn’t bothered to shut it after their incident the day before. Darryl was tempted to close it, but he kept going.
Just get some wood, and get the heck out of here, he told himself, parking the wheelbarrow beside the woodpile.
He slung the rifle over his shoulder and began picking the most intact boards out of the woodpile, stacking them in the bed of the wheelbarrow. Most of them appeared to be old boards from the barn, and only about one in ten were intact enough to be useful. Still, he picked through the pile for a few minutes, grabbing what he could.
He was in the process of dragging a board out of the middle of the pile when he heard the distinct sound of a footstep on a creaking stair. It came from behind him, and he almost shouted in panic. He just managed to bite his tongue as he grabbed the rifle. Spinning around, he fumbled with the rifle, fear making him awkward, as he aimed for the back door.
A small figure was standing on the top step, one hand clutching the doorframe. Her face was mostly hidden in the deep well of a gray hooded sweatshirt, but her long, black hair hung out on either side. In her right hand, she held a hammer, as if she’d intended to attack him, but she was frozen now, her eyes glinting from within the hood.
“Justine,” Darryl said, breathing the name. “You’re alive.”
30
He felt bits of shattered glass in his hair and heard it trickling down his back as he crawled through the high grass behind the truck. The shooter fired another round, which slammed into the rusty side of the truck and caused the whole frame to shudder. Tuck crawled up beside him, moving with surprising speed considering his injured leg. Emma was moaning, a shape writhing in the grass, almost hidden. As Tuck crawled toward her, he put his weight on the injured leg. It must have hurt like heck, but he didn’t show any pain.
“Shoot back, son,” he snarled at Greg. “Return fire. Get him!”
Greg’s instinct was to rush to his daughter, but he picked up the Remington rifle, checked to make sure it was loaded, and moved to the truck instead. He started to rise when he heard another shot, though the bullet didn’t hit the truck this time.
Aim fast and fire, he told himself. Don’t make yourself a target.
He glanced at Tuck and Emma. She was still just a lump in the grass, but Tuck was pulling off his belt, as if to fashion a tourniquet. Resting his finger against the trigger, Greg rose above the hood of the truck. He aimed in the direction where he’d seen the distant figure and fired. The rifle kicked against his shoulder, forcing him to take a step back in order to maintain his balance. The report of the rifle crackled across the field.
Only then did Greg realize the distant figure was gone. The farmhouse still stood there in the distance, but the shooter had vanished. Greg spun around, looking in all directions, fearing that somehow the shooter was trying to sneak around for a clear shot. However, he saw only end tracks of empty field on three sides and the dense wall of trees behind. Maybe the shooter had retreated back into the house.
Greg dropped back down and shuffled over to Tuck and Emma.
“Did you get him?” Tuck asked.
“No, he’s gone,” Greg replied.
“He’s not gone,” Tuck said. “He’s moved into hiding somewhere. Keep that gun handy, and the next time he pops out of his hole, blast him.”
Emma was on her back, her hands pressed to her face. Tuck had wrapped his belt around her thigh, and he was pulling it taut. The bullet had hit her just above and to the right of her knee. He saw a small ragged hole torn through her jeans, blood already seeping through.
“Dad, who did it?” she moaned. “Who shot me? Why?”
“I don’t know,” Greg replied. “Some lunatic off in the distance. Don’t worry, honey. We’ll get him.”
Emma tried to sit up, but Tuck put a hand against her shoulder and gently pushed her back down. As he did that, Greg dumped his pack on the ground, set the rifle aside, and unzipped a side pocket. He pulled out some of the medical supplies they lifted from the way station: a stack of bandages, some antibacterial ointment, a roll of gauze, and a small bottle of ibuprofen. He started to open one of the bandages when Tuck seized it from his hand.
“I’ll take care of this,” he said. “Keep an eye out for the shooter. Give me all of that stuff. You’ve got a job to do.” He snatched all of the first aid supplies out of Greg’s hand and jammed them into his coat pockets.
“Okay, fine,” Greg grumbled. “Emma, you’re going to be okay. Just lie still and let Tuck treat your wound.”
“I got shot,” she said, in a breathless voice. “I can’t believe I got shot. My whole leg feels like it’s on fire.”
Greg was teetering between terror and a violent rage. When he picked up the gun again, he felt heat from the barrel bleeding through the padded cloth. He rose again, peeking through the passenger side window of the rusted truck at the distant house.
When the shooter began shouting at them, it came from an unexpected direction. At first, he thought it was echoing off the trees, but then he realized that the stranger was speaking from somewhere in the woods. He turned, aiming the rifle in that direction, but he saw only shadows beneath the boughs. The woods opened up on either side of the creek, but nothing moved there except the burbling water.
“Hey. Hey!” The shooter’s voice, deep and thunderous. “I’m not going to shoot again if I don’t have to. Do you hear me? You can get out of this alive!”
I know that voice, Greg realized, and it made the rage flare up into a white-hot fire. He took a blind shot into the woods.
“Did you get him?” Tuck asked.
“I have no idea where he is,” Greg replied, “but I know who it is.”
“Of course,” Tuck said. “It’s that damned Eustace. I hear him. I’d recognize that dumb voice anywhere.”
Greg heard the rip of denim as Tuck split open Emma’s pant leg.
“I don’t know what you’re firing at,” Eustace shouted back, after a moment, “but you weren’t even close, my friend. Now, listen, you can waste your ammo and take potshots into the forest, or you can get out of here alive. Which do you prefer?”
Greg was still scanning for movement in the trees, looking for some hint of that big, red shape. He was so furious it took a massive force of will to stay where he was. His whole body cried out for him to charge like a wild animal into the woods, seeking his prey. He was clutching the rifle so tightly now that his hands ached.
“What do you want, Eustace?” he shouted.
“I want you to leave all of your supplies and your weapons,” he replied. “Set them on the ground there and walk away. You do that, and I’ll let you get out of this.”
“You shot my daughter!” Greg shouted.
“Sorry about that,” Eustace replied. “I was actually aiming for you. I guess my aim’s not as good as I thought. Now, I’m not playing a game here, Greg. Leave your stuff, all of your stuff, and walk away right now!”
“My daughter is injured,” Greg replied. “We have to treat her wound!”
A bullet hit the top of the truck and ricocheted off, making an almost melodic sound, like a descending note on a flute. But Greg was still staring at the trees, and he saw the brief flash of light from the barrel. It drew his gaze to a large boulder near the creek.
“I’ve got him,” Greg muttered. “I know where he’s hiding. Idiot just gave away his position.”
“Well, we can’t sit here and let him take shots at us,” Tuck said. “We’re close enough to civil
ization—we don’t need all of those MREs. If you can’t hit the guy, let’s give him the supplies and get out of here.”
“I don’t trust him to keep his end of the bargain,” Greg said. “Anyway, he doesn’t have unlimited ammo.”
“All he needs is a single good shot,” Tuck said. “Look, your daughter is bleeding badly here, son. We need to get her out of here.”
He looked back at Emma. Her face was scrunched up in pain, her hands locked together and twisting. Though Tuck had applied a makeshift tourniquet and bandaged the wound, her right pant leg was already soaked with blood.
“He’ll shoot us in the back,” Greg said. “Even if we leave all of our stuff. There’s no way Eustace is going to let us march back to town and report his villainy.”
He aimed in the direction of the boulder, but of course, he couldn’t see Eustace. The big man had found one of the few objects wide enough to hide behind. After a moment, Greg felt something pulling at the rifle, and he realized it was Tuck.
“The second he pokes his head out, I’ve got him,” Greg said.
“No, give me the rifle,” Tuck said. “He’s well hidden back there. You won’t see him until he takes another shot, and then it might be too late. Give me the gun.”
“I admit, you’re probably a better shot than me, Dad,” Greg said, relinquishing the rifle to the old man, “but we have more than one gun.”
“I’ll keep him pinned behind the boulder,” Tuck said. “You pick up Emma and get her out of here.”
“What?” He stared hard at the old man. Had Tuck lost his mind? “You’re not going to sit here and try to outgun Eustace while I make a run for it. We’re all getting out of here.”
“Even if we tried to make a run for it together, I wouldn’t be able to keep up,” Tuck said. “You know that. Son, my leg is worse than I let on. You think I’m getting better, but I just got better at hiding the pain. After all this crawling around, I’m not even sure I can stand on my own anymore. You’ll have to carry Emma, but I’ll keep Eustace busy until you’re out of range.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Dad, I’m not leaving—”
Tuck grabbed him by the shoulders. “Look, who cares about the damned supplies? We stole half of them from the way station anyway. Dump everything right now, pick up your daughter, and get out of here!”
“I don’t care about the supplies, old man,” Greg said. “I don’t want to leave you!”
He said it in anger, but as soon as the words were out, something hitched in his throat. He stared into the old man’s eyes as some great well of suppressed emotion rose inside of him, some feeling he hadn’t even realized was down there. Tuck’s face softened, and finally he shook his head.
“Son, you and I both know this rotting leg is going to be the end of me,” Tuck said, softly, prying the rifle out of Greg’s hands. “Don’t let Emma’s wound be the end of her. If I can protect my son and granddaughter and give them a chance to make it home, then that’s all I need. That would be a life well-lived. Okay?”
Greg stared at the worn, leathery face of his father, this man who had become practically a stranger to him over the years, and he thought of all the lost words, all the unsaid things that lingered between them. He felt the wasted time—so many years. It was all sort of piled up inside of him. And now they were out of time. It was never going to be more than this.
He leaned forward and gave the old man a hug, and it was still so damned awkward. Even then, knowing what was going to happen, it felt like hugging a stranger.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” he said.
“Sorry for what?” Tuck replied.
Greg didn’t have an answer for this. He wasn’t even sure why he’d apologized.
“Let’s not be sorry about things we can’t change,” Tuck said. “Let’s just get on with saving that wonderful child over there. We’re okay, son. You and me. We’re okay.”
Greg nodded, squeezed his father’s shoulder, and said, “Yeah, Dad. We’re okay.” So much weight in so few words, but he knew he could leave it at that. Crawling past Tuck, he went to Emma’s side.
“Okay, you’ve had some time to discuss the matter,” Eustace shouted from the distance. “Let’s have it, folks. What it’s going to be?”
Emma was on her back, rocking gently from side to side, as if to comfort herself. Greg slid his arms under her.
“We’re getting out of here,” he said, lifting her.
“I love you, Grandpa,” she said in a quavering voice, tears spilling down her face.
“I love you, too, kiddo,” he replied. “Take care of your old man. He’s a good guy.”
Greg marveled at how small Emma still felt. He cradled her in his arms as he rose. He glanced back at Tuck and saw the old man positioning himself against the side of the truck, bracing his left arm against the running board as he took aim toward the boulder.
“Now, Greg,” he said. “Go for it.”
As he said it, he opened fire, taking three quick shots into the woods. That got Greg moving. He tightened his grip on Emma and took off running across the open field, following the general path of the creek toward civilization. As he did, he heard Tuck shouting from behind him.
“There’s our answer, Eustace! How do you like it? Want to hear it again?”
Tuck took three more shots toward the boulder, and Greg heard Eustace cursing somewhere in the shadows.
31
On the way back through the woods, Darryl tried to broach the subject with her. Justine hadn’t said much, and as soon as he asked a question about her family, she just started crying. Her hooded sweatshirt was covered with dirt, as if she’d spent the night crawling around on the ground. Her face was red and blotchy, though she kept it mostly hidden behind her long black hair.
As they headed for the ranch, moving through the shadowy trees, she kept casting furtive glances over her shoulder, as if afraid she might be followed. There was so much he wanted to know. How had she survived? Was she injured? The mayor had said that she was dead in an upstairs bedroom. Had he lied, or had Justine somehow played dead?
Finally, he decided to try circling around the issue. “So, are you hungry or anything?” he asked. “We can fix you something to eat as soon as we get to the house.”
She didn’t respond for a few seconds, and he checked to make sure she wasn’t crying again. Finally, she said, “I don’t know if I’m hungry or not. I can’t really tell. My stomach doesn’t feel good, but I don’t know if it’s hunger or just feeling terrible about everything. I guess I should be hungry.”
“You haven’t eaten recently?” he asked.
“Everything is kind of a blur,” Justine replied cryptically. “I can’t remember what I did. Lost a few hours there. Or days, I dunno. I remember sleeping in the woods.”
She left it at that, and he decided not to press the issue. If she wasn’t ready to talk, she wasn’t ready to talk. So be it.
They finally stepped out of the trees onto the ranch, and he saw the big eyesore fence surrounding the property. Though it was quite ugly, with mismatched wood and hastily aligned boards, it made him feel better to see the house and barn enclosed like that. He even had a couple of lookout platforms at strategic corners. Seeing this, Justine gasped.
“Who built all of this?” she asked. “There’s so much more of it now.”
“We all did,” Darryl replied. “Well, I did quite a bit of it by myself.”
Justine made a soft whistling sound. “I guess you’ve never built a fence before.”
He decided not to let the comment hurt his feelings. “Actually, no, this was my first fence, and I was working kind of fast.”
“Doesn’t really matter what it looks like, I suppose,” she added. “Just as long as it keeps the bad people out.”
“Exactly.”
He’d built a large gate across the driveway, reinforcing the hinges so it couldn’t easily be forced open. As he pushed the wheelbarrow through, he pulled it shut behind him and set the crude
wooden brace in place to hold it shut. Tabitha was on the porch repairing a small wicker chair as they approached, and she rose to meet them.
“Justine Carmichael,” she said. “You poor thing. I’m so glad you’re alive.”
And then, to Darryl’s surprise, his grandmother rushed down the porch steps and crushed Justine in a big, motherly embrace. Justine melted and sobbed against her shoulder. Darryl stood beside them awkwardly for a few seconds, then made his way to the porch and sat down on the edge, placing the rifle beside him.
After a moment, his mother appeared, stepping outside with a big jug of tea. She set the tea and some cups on a nearby table. By then, Justine had pulled away from Tabitha, wiping her eyes furiously on the sleeve of her sweatshirt.
“Come, dear, have a seat,” Tabitha said, ushering her onto the porch. “You look like you’ve been through hell.”
“Have a nice cup of tea,” Marion added, pouring the first glass and handing it to Justine. “It always makes me feel better.”
“Thanks,” Justine said, holding the cup with both hands as she sat down, cross-legged, beside Darryl.
She took a long drink of her tea, coughed, wiped her mouth on her sleeve, then took another. Darryl felt a sudden urge to put an arm around her, to offer some kind of comfort, but it was just a bit too much. Instead, he just sat there staring off across the yard.
“Justine, dear, what happened?” Tabitha asked, speaking softly. For a crusty old rancher, she could sound really gentle and comforting when she wanted to. “I know it’s not easy to talk about, but there are things we need to know.”
“Well…” Justine took another sip, then set the half-empty cup on the porch between her and Darryl. “Mom and Dad had been fighting for days about her job. Before the event, she managed a warehouse in town. Actually, I think it’s a grocery distribution center for stores in the area.”
“I know the place,” Marion said. “I’ve seen the delivery truck at the gas station.”
EMP: Return of the Wild West | Book 1 | Survive The Fall Page 20
