The thing about a really good single malt is that it tastes so bad to a beer drinker that they'd have no idea if you were to add a little something extra to the glass. That something was ipecac, and for those of you who aren't well-versed in inducing vomit, it made that feeling of “I need to puke” come to my brother much earlier and stronger than anyone would expect. It was so unexpected, in fact, that I was able to convince Eddie that we needed to get to the hospital. We took the Mustang... and I drove.
And for some odd reason, the trip was extra bumpy.
Eddie's car stank like nothing else for a good two months after that, and it's no surprise that I was never given a second chance to drive it.
But as my brother was kicking my ass the following evening, I could see in his eyes that he was proud of me. That's my favourite memory of him; not just because of how he looked at me, but because even eighteen hours after that very special single malt, he actually had to let go of my battered neck and run to the bathroom for one last puke.
That's a moment I'll never forget.
KAYLA
Ant's Cast of Characters:
Kayla is a little bit slutty... not in the bad sort of hand job for a dollar way, but in the good friends with benefits way, where she makes you feel desirable without wasting time trying to convince you that you're any sexier than all the other people she's slept with.
At least that's the impression I get; I am sexy, so I'm not part of her target demographic. She's talked about sleeping with me, I mean, hey, she is a woman, but I've never taken her up on it... not yet, anyway.
But why not, you may ask... well, first of all, gentle reader... just shut up and let me do this. And secondly...
I like the idea of unconventional sex, which doesn't only mean doing it in a hot air balloon or various activities involving whipped cream and mayonnaise... it also includes seducing women who haven't really given much thought to wild and casual sex, women who really do call it “making love” or “being intimate”... Kayla never calls it that, since she'd fuck you for hours without actually letting you get to know her.
I get to know her by watching her strike the arc on the welding table, or strip a bolt, or trip over her own feet. I love that girl, but I laugh every damned time she falls flat on that pretty face of hers.
I don't think Kayla feels much of a connection with any of us; I get the feeling that she shut down that part of her life years ago, that she decided that she was too self-sufficient to worry about friends or family. My father used to call that kind of self-loathing feminism, saying that it all started with the birth control pill and that women have been getting more mentally unstable ever since, that they are trying to be like men while still being women. I think my father's full of shit on that and all other subjects of any importance, but I do believe that Kayla's got some serious issues in that slutty little brain of hers.
I wouldn't be surprised if one day we wake up to find her lifeless body hanging from a rafter in the barn, with a handwritten note that says “I came, I came again, and now I'm bored”. People like Kayla don't usually live that long.
Today is Saturday, December 15th.
The Porters weren't happy with our plan to bring along one of the Tremblays, but they relented when I made it clear that it wasn't a suggestion.
They chose Alain, which didn’t surprise me, since I’m sure he’s less trouble than Marc.
The Porters left with their new helper early yesterday morning, while the sky was still dark. I saw them off before going back upstairs to sneak in a few more minutes of sleep.
Sara woke me up just after sunrise, and after a quick breakfast Graham and I hitched up the cart for the trip into town. We didn’t have a truck of our own anymore, and while we may decide to look for a new one, I didn’t want to do that just yet. We don’t really have enough fuel to run our own truck right now, anyway.
Marc arrived just as we were about to go looking for him.
“So I’m your new pet,” Marc said as he climbed onto the cart, a hunting rifle slung over his shoulder. “What happened to all the work I’m supposed to be doing around here?”
“This is more important,” I said. “We want to find and bring over an electric tractor before the roads get any worse. We may end up trying to tow it somehow.”
“You should have done it before winter, then.”
“We were too busy saving your life,” Graham said. “Maybe you should keep that in mind.”
“Maybe you should watch what you say, motormouth.”
“Maybe all of us should just shut up for a while,” I said. “The best way to find ourselves in some real bad shit is to get so wrapped up in bitch-slapping each other that we’re not keeping an eye out for trouble. As much as I hate the both of you, I hate the idea of dying with you idiots that much more.”
That got them quiet, either because they were both thinking of how much of an asshole I am or because they’d realized once again that we’re on the same goddamn team. If things go bad, and I know one day they will, we'll only have each other for backup. That's a pretty important thing to remember. People who forget that are the ones who don't make it back home.
The busy season for dead bodies is in the winter, and we were getting close enough to winter to make me nervous. The body count isn’t just from people freezing to death in minus forty, but from bad guys who start getting a whole lot more active once the leaves fall and the snow starts to fly. Back in Toronto crime season was summer, and if there was ever a time when you’d lock your doors and be a little more careful where you went after dark, it was June ‘til September. Around here those are the safer months.
Justin Porter told me once that marauders are a little like Vikings. He said that they’ll come to your home and kill you anyway they can, and they’ll gladly take your women if they get the chance, but that during the summers they act just like everyone else, growing vegetable gardens and mending fences. He said that you could work alongside a man for a whole summer and never suspect he’s a marauder until winter comes and he slits your throat while you sleep.
This may sound strange coming from me, but I think Justin may have a problem trusting people.
Graham drove while Marc and I kept our eyes open for movement; I was on the bench beside Graham while Marc kept to himself near the back of the cart. He’d brought a travel mug along, and I’d noticed him nipping more than a few times already; I knew enough about Marc Tremblay to know that he had more than coffee in there.
The Porters had left the gate on Nelson Road wide open, and not for the first time. I hopped down and closed it behind us and made a mental note to kick their asses.
When we arrived at the bridge over the Abitibi, Marc hopped down to unlock the West Gate. He held up his hands like they were a catcher’s glove and gave me his trademark smirk.
“I need the keys and dongle, boss,” he said. “If that’s okay with you.”
I threw the key ring down to him.
“And you’re a real pleasure to have along with us, Mr. Tremblay,” I said.
He shot me the finger before tackling the locks.
It pisses me off how some people are about the damned keys. Everyone wants their own copy, but everyone has a chance of losing them. So I keep all of the keys and alarm dongles, and parcel them out as needed, kind of like how a car dealership handles test drives; if one goes missing, I’ll know before the day is out, and I’ll head over to the gate and change out whichever locks are compromised. Just like the safes, it’s a pretty low tech solution, but like always those are the ones that work. Between the locks and the tripwire alarm we’ve controlled the bridge for well over a year; aside from the sanctioned trade runs between the Walkers and Detour Lake, no one from outside our team has crossed through that gate since Ant put it up.
Marc unlocked the gate and waited with a couple shots from his mug as Graham drove the cart through. He reattached all three locks and reactivated the alarm, then slowly climbed back up.
“Do you
really think this will stop anyone?” Marc said as we got underway again. “I mean there’s a dozen other ways to get across the river, especially once it’s frozen.”
“We can’t stop people from crossing the river,” I said, “but we can stop people from carrying much of anything across with them.”
“I’m sure they can carry over enough firepower to finish us off.”
“That’s not why we put the gates up.”
“Then what the hell are all these goddamn gates for?”
“If a bunch of marauders want to come over and try to kill us while we sleep, a gate isn’t going to stop them. But it does stop a bunch of assholes from backing their truck up to our cottages and cleaning everything out while we’re not home.”
Marc just laughed at that.
We kept riding for a few more minutes in silence, but I knew that he hadn’t really dropped it.
We passed by a stretch of scorched forest next to a small muddy pond; I remember the family that lived in the metal-roofed and fire-ravaged farmhouse beside it. They’d had four kids, two of them the funniest twin girls, about ten or eleven, who’d interrupt the town meetings and make a roomful of people laugh as they did it. That family had believed Fisher Livingston, when he said that there was a safe road that ran around the barricade, the one that Souls of Flesh had set up at Fletchers Lake to pick out indentures and kill the remainder, that if they followed him they could make it all the way to Temiskaming, where good people were waiting with open arms and more food and fuel than they knew what to do with. They were on that so-called safe road when the fires came.
They’d have been better off surrendering at the roadblock. I’m sure the father and his sons would have gotten dropped in the pit, but maybe the two girls and their mother could have survived.
I think of those twin girls every time we pass by that burnt-out house, and I think of those girls every time I see that smug bastard’s face. It still makes no sense to me that he could have survived when everyone who believed in him is dead.
I heard Marc give us a snort.
“So listen,” he said. “You’re telling me that we have no real protection against people trying to kill us?”
I didn’t really want to get into it, but I couldn’t exactly ignore him. “We have guns,” I said. “Until we can find a rocket launcher that’ll have to be enough.”
“This is just one big joke.”
“What the hell is your problem anyway?” Graham asked.
Marc’s gaze shot over to Graham. “I have a real big problem with you, asshole. Do you think I don’t know?”
“That everyone hates you?”
“You kissed my wife, you little shit. I should kill you for that.”
“Why don’t you guys kill each other later,” I said. “We have work to do, and these little whine sessions aren’t helping any.”
“You know what?” Marc said. “You assholes deserve whatever happens. I guess we’ll just keep building up a nice homestead for Stems to come and take over whenever he wants.”
“I don’t think you’ve done much building here,” Graham said. “All you seem to want to do is whine like a little baby.”
Marc’s eyes widened as he glared at Graham, his face turning red. He stood up, dropping his mug, and started clambering towards the front of the cart, tugging on his rifle with one hand.
I put down the shotgun and jumped over the bench to stop him.
“Sit down, Marc,” I said as Graham slowed the cart.
“You sit down,” Marc said. “I don’t think you have any kind of clue, you know that? You’re just some big city asshole who knows nothing about security. It’s no wonder your stupid Cochrane Protection Committee was a complete failure. And your goddamn Supply Partnership, too. A string of pathetic failures from a pathetic old man.”
“Sit down or I’ll sit you down.”
“I'm not going to sit down. Fuck you, Baptiste.”
I sighed. “Why does everyone keep saying that?” I said, trying to cut down the tension.
“Get out of my way.”
“You need to calm down. Take a seat in the back and relax, okay?”
Marc placed his second hand on his rifle, lifting it upwards. “I’m not going to take a seat. Not while you and that idiot there are putting my family’s life at risk. So we’ll just sit back and hope no one shows up with bigger guns than us... great strategy. Maybe when they come we can offer up our wives and kids so they’ll leave us alone... oh, yeah, that’s right... you don’t have a family to worry about. You don’t have to worry about anyone but yourself, eh, Baptiste? I guess that’s why you don’t give two shits about keeping the rest of us safe.”
“Don’t piss me off –-”
“So get out of my way, old man. You’re not in charge of anything. I’m going to go up there and crack your little groupie’s head open... and you’re just going to have to deal with that.”
He tried to push past me. I stopped him.
I don’t remember much about hitting Marc Tremblay; I can remember that I hit the butt of my shotgun against his temple at a bit of an angle, and that his body twisted as he fell, slamming against the cart, his rifle falling over the side and onto the gravel shoulder. And I remember seeing the blood, and staring into his frozen eyes, wondering if I’d really knocked him out or if he was just in some kind of shock.
I felt Graham nudge past me and I watched him kneel down beside Marc.
I kept looking into those eyes.
“Holy...” Graham said. “What did you do to him?”
“I think I fucked him up.” I didn’t really know what I’d done.
“This looks bad, Baptiste... I don’t think he’s going to make it. There’s a lot of blood here...”
I knelt down beside Graham to take a look. Marc’s chest was still rising and falling and I could see his breath in the cold air. “He’s still breathing,” I said. “That’s good.”
“There’s no way we can take him back home on this cart. The ride’ll kill him.”
“We don’t have a choice. We can’t just build a field hospital out of twigs and horse shit.”
“He’s going to die,” Graham said.
“Neither of us knows enough to make that call.”
“What do you think is going to happen here? What’s the best thing that can happen? One of us stays here in the middle of nowhere with him while the other goes home and turns the Porter’s little car into an ambulance? Then we drive him back to the cottage for treatment after he’s spent a couple of hours bleeding in the dirt?”
“We’ll just have to risk taking him back in the cart,” I said.
“He’s going to die.”
“Then we set up in one of those houses up the road. We can start some kind of fire to keep him warm.”
“Okay,” Graham said. “Let’s try that.”
I took some of the hay that was leftover from the hayride and tried to make a little bed. Graham and I moved Marc onto it and I knelt beside him as Graham regained the reins.
The horses didn’t know a slower gait, and in a way I was glad Marc wasn’t conscious as we bumped along the road. Graham stopped us in front of the nearest house and joined me alongside the bed of hay.
By then I had regained some of my senses and I knew what Graham had been trying to say. I reached down and placed my fingers against Marc’s neck. I waited for the pulse and it didn’t come.
“I think he’s dead,” I said. I buried my head in my hands and started to cry.
Graham and I arrived back at the cottage around lunchtime with our stories sorted out between us. We had Marc laid out on the hay, his eyes closed; we had nothing along with us to cover him, so it looked almost like he was just having a nap until you noticed the blood.
Sara came out to meet us.
“Marc's family isn't here, are they?” I asked.
“Lisa's helping them put up some storm windows at their place,” she said. “What happened?”
“H-he had an a
ccident,” Graham said, stuttering as he spoke.
“He's dead,” I said. “Tripped and hit his head on the side of the cart.”
“O mon dieu,” Sara said. She climbed onto the cart and knelt beside the body. She lowered her head and whispered a prayer in French, her words quiet and quick.
“It was my fault,” I said, unable to keep silent.
She wrapped her arms around me. “It's no one's fault.”
I held her close to me and shut my eyes. I wanted to believe her, that I wasn't to blame. I could try and think that he'd provoked me enough, that he'd truly threatened our lives, that somehow I was justified in taking a man's life.
I wanted to believe that I hadn't just taken away a woman's husband, that I hadn't just stolen the father from two teenage boys.
But I don't believe any of that.
My dad died when I was fifteen. He wasn't murdered and it wasn't a tragic accident or some terrible run of bad luck; he had a bad heart and he didn't listen to his doctor. They didn't have emergency defibrillators back then, at least not at the supermarket, and when he collapsed he pulled an entire display of mandarin oranges down with him. He died long before the ambulance could reach him through the mess of evening rush hour along Dundas Street.
He left me that bad heart of his, along with his temper, and I'm not sure which one has cost me more.
Graham and Sara went together to see the Tremblays; I didn't have the balls to go with them. I'm sure Sara gave a good reason for my absence, and I doubt me being there would have made it any easier.
I spent the rest of yesterday in my room, not reading, not sleeping... not really thinking that much about it, either.
I can't change what's happened.
I can't change what I've just become.
Kayla came to see me after the sun had set. I guess Sara hadn't gotten back from the Tremblays since she hadn't come up to check on me; I wondered if Alain had arrived home yet to hear the news about his brother.
After The Fires Went Out: Coyote (Book One of the Post-Apocalyptic Adventure Series) Page 15
