by Chris Pike
He was the law now.
Driving to the sheriff’s office in the rural town, Cole passed places which brought back long repressed memories, especially from high school. A wave of nostalgia hit him when he recalled the last football game he played. The people cheering him, high-fiving him, the adoring accolades the coaches bestowed on him. Then there was Holly, a freckle-faced seventeen year old.
The years and his lifestyle may have hardened Cole, but he didn’t let that get in his way of remembering Holly. She had always been too good for him, seeing that he was from the wrong side of the tracks.
In a brief moment of clarity, Cole realized he had screwed up royally, though the moment didn’t last long.
He could have never lived up to her standards.
And that kid she had? At the time Cole was too immature to admit the kid could be his and there was no way he was going to fork over child support. The years went by and the resemblance couldn’t be dismissed. Some unexplainable curiosity to keep up with the kid had consumed Cole and he had made it a point to make people let him know what was going on. He had pictures sent to him on the kid’s birthday, even knew what schools the kid attended.
Although he had blackmailed some of his small-town informants, others he paid off.
There were whispers about the kid’s real parents, and when the kid got old enough to understand, the adoptive parents whisked him away to a far corner of Texas.
Cole had eyes there too.
The kid was now grown, and Cole had made it a point to get within arm’s length of the kid one day in the French Quarter in New Orleans. However, when push came to shove, Cole chickened out and walked away. He had forked over a lot of Benjamins to his network of spies to keep tabs on the kid, making sure he was safe. Cole wasn’t going to let anything happen to the kid.
He had convinced Holly to take the case for trial. She had fallen for the threat hook, line, and sinker. If she had lost the case, Cole wouldn’t have followed through with his death threat, because he considered anyone who killed their offspring to be on the same level as child molesters.
The last time Cole saw the kid, a brief moment of pride captured him. He had the same long legs and wide shoulders as Cole, maybe not as tall, though, which he guessed came from Holly’s side. He had dark hair, which was thought to come from American Indian ancestry, according to family lore on Cole’s father’s side.
Cole knew there was an old couple in town who had pledged to the kid’s parents that if he was ever in trouble, the kid could count on them. The elderly couple, who kept mostly to themselves, had at one time been close friends with the kid’s adoptive parents.
The old man spent his time puttering around in the garage and doing yard work, while the old woman whiled away the time crocheting. The kid had never been back to the town of his birth after being whisked away to West Texas. It was just as well. Better to let sleeping dogs lie.
Taking his feet off of the desk, Cole went over to the window and peered outside, recalling how easy it had been to take over the sheriff’s office.
Two of the deputies had put up a feeble attempt to protect the integrity of the station, but after seeing Cole assassinate a deputy he had captured, they immediately gave up their arms and swore allegiance to Cole.
Peace officers in rural America weren’t used to the brutal methods Cole was willing to implement to take over and control the town. Cole had come into town like he knew the place, the people, and what they would or wouldn’t do.
He found deputies Jed and Cleve in a back office where they had barricaded themselves. Without the use of a radio or phone, they had been helpless to call for reinforcements.
He had told the deputies to give up or he would kill the secretary and her daughter, who had come to the office to deliver cookies they had baked using a generator to power their oven.
The mother had pleaded with Cole not to hurt her daughter, Kelsey, a pretty nineteen year old who went to the local community college in the next town. The pleas fell on deaf and uncaring ears.
“You have to the count of three!” Cole yelled to the deputies. He was standing on the other side of the door, holding the barrel of the Glock to the older woman’s temple.
“Please you don’t have to do this,” she begged. “I can give you whatever you want.”
“Shut up,” he said. “You don’t have anything I want. One! Two!” he yelled to the deputies in the locked office. “Three!”
There was the loud and sickening sound of a bullet obliterating the skull of Kelsey’s mother, and the thud of her lifeless body hitting the floor.
“Kelsey’s next!” Cole shouted. He roughly grabbed Kelsey by the arm. “You’d better come out with your hands where I can see them.”
“One, two—”
“We’re coming out!” one of the deputies said. “Don’t shoot!”
The deputies were dressed in their khaki uniforms complete with an ammo belt, baton, flashlight, and a now useless radio. Cole motioned for them to hand over their Glocks and extra ammo.
Kelsey had crumpled to the floor next to her dead mother. Jed took a step to console her.
“Did I say you could move?” Cole barked.
Jed stopped in his tracks. “You killed her mother.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” Cole said. He walked over to a desk, pushed off some papers, and sat down. He took the lid off the Tupperware container full of cookies and picked out the biggest one. “Homemade?”
No one responded.
“Are you people deaf?” Cole asked.
Still no answer.
“I said,” Cole raised his voice, “are these cookies homemade?”
Jed stole a peek at Cleve, who didn’t have a clue what to do or how to help. This was something Jed hadn’t counted on, not in a sleepy little town like this. He was only six months on the job, barely qualifying to be a deputy in the sheriff’s office after a string of unsatisfying and low-paying jobs. He was no hero, but he liked the feeling of authority when he put on his uniform. In fact, he stood taller. Plus the ladies that hadn’t bothered to notice him before did so now.
He was one to know where his bread was buttered and if this guy was the new butter churner, well, so be it. Jed would be the first to ask how much cream was needed.
After a long silence, Kelsey squeaked, “Yes, they’re homemade.”
Cole took a bite. “Chocolate chip. I like ‘em. You’re a good cook. You can live.”
Kelsey brought her knees up to her chin, wrapped her arms around her legs, and hung her head.
“You,” he said to Jed, “go get me a glass of water. Cookies make me thirsty.”
“On it,” Jed said.
Taking the glass of water Jed handed him, Cole gulped it down. “Kelsey, you can run along home now.”
Afraid to move, Kelsey peeked out over her folded arms, her eyes bouncing from Cole to Jed and Cleve.
“Boo!” Cole said.
Kelsey shot up and bolted out of the room. She ran out the front doors without looking back.
“Make sure she doesn’t come back,” Cole said.
“What do you want us to do?” Cleve asked.
“I’m sure you can think of something.” Cole wiped cookie crumbs from his chin. “We need to have a talk because I’m running the show now. You boys may not know it, but I’m from here, even went to high school here. I plan to make this my town and this here’s your chance to get in on the ground floor.”
“How do you plan to accomplish that?” Jed asked, his interest piqued.
“Good question,” Cole said. “I may keep you also.”
For the next half hour, Cole outlined his plan of closing the borders of the county by not letting in any outsiders unless they paid a toll. He’d need a posse of about ten men who weren’t squeamish about killing or carrying out orders. “You think we could round up men like that?”
Like a teacher’s pet, Jed was the first one to thrust his hand straight in the air.
Cole nodded
, giving Jed permission to speak.
“I got some buddies who’d be interested, but only if there’s something in it for them.”
“There’ll be plenty of something for them.”
“Like what?”
“Anything they want. Liquor, money, cigarettes. Most of all,” Cole said, lowering his voice, “they’ll have power. I need two lieutenants who’ll be my right hand men.” Cole got up from the chair and went over to the county map on the wall. Taking a black marks-a-lot, he drew a line straight down the center. “Jed, which side do you want?”
“East side.”
“What about you, Cleve? You with us, or do you want to end up like Kelsey’s mother?”
It didn’t take Cleve long to answer, especially seeing how quickly Jed had jumped on the bandwagon. Cole was in power now, and to do anything foolish at the moment would only get him a bullet to the head.
“You with me?” Cole asked. “I’m not asking again.”
“Yes, I’m with you,” Cleve said.
“Good. Now I want you boys to clean up this mess in here. I certainly have no need for dead people.”
Chapter 5
Dillon, Holly, and Buster left the comfort of Henri’s fish camp. Henri had packed them several days’ worth of provisions including deer jerky, two loaves of homemade bread, pickled beets, and peaches. Hidden in the pack was a flask of whiskey in case they needed to take the edge off of things. And if anybody needed to take the edge off, Dillon was the person.
Henri had never seen anyone so downtrodden by life and all its challenges. He supposed the man had a right to feel the way he did because he had failed to protect his family.
Dillon had always carefully chosen which battles to fight, because in the end it wasn’t winning the battle that mattered, it was winning the war.
He had failed miserably.
It was the victor who enjoyed the spoils, whether it was toasting a hard-fought win in the courtroom, or a kid dusting off dirt from a playground fight.
For Dillon, there were no toasts or sympathy ‘attaboy’ pats on the back reassuring him, ‘there’ll be another time, another chance’. No cheering section telling him, ‘it’s okay, you did your best’. No wife to go home to telling him, ‘I love you’.
His purpose in life had been to be a good husband and a good father, and didn’t a good man protect his family? Provide for them? Guide them? He had been helpless to protect Amy from the aneurism and her resulting death, and no amount of modern medicine could have saved her. Watching her take her last breath after he signed papers to have life support removed had been the hardest thing he had ever done. That was, until he thought about his daughter, Cassie.
He tortured himself thinking about the last moments of her life, replaying their last conversation over and over in his mind. She would only have had minutes left to live after their conversation. Damn whoever caused the EMP.
He only had his memories of failing and self-doubt about the choices he had made because he had lost what mattered to him most in life.
There had been numerous obstacles to overcome in his journey to find Cassie. Number one on the list had been Holly. If she hadn’t been injured…if he hadn’t taken her in…hadn’t, well, if he hadn’t fallen for her, maybe he could have found his daughter, or at least found her body.
If what the plane crash survivor had told Henri was true, her body could have fallen anywhere within a hundred miles of the crash site.
The horses plodded on, the pastures and trees segueing seamlessly from swampy land to woodland as Holly and Dillon journeyed to Holly’s ranch.
Wind brushed the horses and the steady rhythm of their gait lulled Dillon back to Henri’s house, to where he had recovered. He mentally replayed what Henri had said about the second survivor he had seen.
“This old boy came straggling in, barely alive. I was sittin’ on my porch here smokin’ a see-gar like I am now,” Henri had said, taking a puff. “I saw what I thought was a lost goat. Whoowhee!” Henri exclaimed, slapping his knee. “He was crawlin’ on all fours and was all beat up, clothes hangin’ in tatters, knees bloodied. I’ve never seen me a man in such bad shape.”
“What did he have to say?” Dillon had asked.
“He said he was on a plane that lost power. Somethin’ about the engines up and died, all of them at the same time.”
“It could have been any plane,” Dillon said.
“But it wasn’t,” Henri said solemnly. “The man could barely talk, him being so thirsty and all. I gave him a drink of water.” Henri glanced at Dillon. “You was still out like a light the whole time. It was Hollyberry who helped me.”
“You mean Holly.”
“Yes, sir. Hollyberry. You ever seen a holly tree?”
“I’m not sure,” Dillon said.
“They’re beautiful and hardy, like your Holly. But if you don’t handle them correctly, you’ll get pricked by spiky thorns. Nurture them and they’ll protect you, give you shade when you need it, protect you from cold and heat. Predators too. Like what your Holly did…killing that alligator who surely would’a had you for dinner, then let whatever was left of you to rot in the swamp.” Henri took another puff of the cigar. “You seem like a good man, Dillon, who’s worthy of a good woman. Holly’s one fine woman. Remember that.”
“I will. Tell me the rest of the story.”
“Holly helped me drag the man inside and we gave him water and food and let him rest. When he came to, he told us about surviving a plane crash. He said he was from Houston and was flying to Atlanta by way of NOLA. When he told her that Holly got all excited.” Henri took a puff of the cigar and blew out a smoke ring. “Apparently the man and your daughter were on the same flight. Holly showed him a picture of your daughter—the one you had in your wallet—and that’s when he got real sad. He said she was sittin’ two rows in front of him and he had even helped her with the overhead, overhead…” Henri searched for the right word.
“Bin.”
“Yes, overhead bin. He said she was real pretty and nice, and when he heard her name—”
“Calista.”
Henri’s gaze dropped to the ground. “I’m sorry about your daughter.”
“Thank you.”
“He said the only reason he remembered her name was because he has a daughter named Calista.” After a beat, Henri said, “It’s a beautiful name, just like she must have been. You want me to go on?”
“Was she with anyone?”
“He didn’t say. The plane was full and busy with all sorts of people. He said he remembered the plane coming apart and the seat your daughter was in was sucked out of the plane.”
“Did he say how high the plane was? Or how fast it was going? If he didn’t see her actually die, there could still be hope.”
“Nobody can survive being sucked out of a plane.”
Dillon reluctantly nodded.
“We didn’t ask him much more, he was too traumatized. He slept for fifteen straight hours and after that he said he had to get home to his wife and family.”
That was what Henri had told Dillon several days prior. Dillon surmised it would have been foolish to keep searching for Cassie after his near brush with death. Besides, he still didn’t feel one hundred percent, especially after lying comatose in bed for days. His arms felt like spaghetti, and at times his balance was off, however, with each day, he became stronger and started to feel a little more like his old self.
Henri accredited Dillon’s survival to bulldogged determination and the fact he was in good shape to begin with. A weaker man would have succumbed to the thrashing by the alligator and the near fatal drowning.
Henri was right about the woods not being forgiving. Any of the bodies that had fallen in the swamp would have been ravaged by heat and scavengers within days, leaving little to find.
Holly kept rhythm with her horse’s gait. She rode with an ease of only a seasoned rider; tall, elegant, regal, as if she shared the same purpose as the horse.
/> Dillon didn’t have much experience with horses, only having ridden them as a child at dude ranches. On this trip he had come to trust Cowboy. He was a stocky horse, meant more for pulling a hayride wagon than a cross-country journey.
If it was possible for a rider to convey an emotional state to a horse, Dillon swore Cowboy had picked up on his anxiety. Cowboy’s gait was steady and even, and when Dillon had approached the horse earlier, Cowboy had nudged him with his nose, offering comfort.
Chapter 6
A day after leaving Henri’s fish camp, the ragged threesome stayed to the lesser travelled roads, away from civilization, skirting the bigger cities of Lafayette and Lake Charles, which had digressed into chaotic lawlessness.
They had to stop often to let Buster rest. The journey was beginning to take its toll.
Dillon’s shoulders slumped and he held Cowboy’s reins tight in his hands. His hair was damp under his cap, and he smelled of the woods and fire, of being in the country.
The sun cast long shadows through the trees, reaching out to the man and woman on horseback, and to the dog trotting alongside them.
Swampy humidity lingered in the air, and a tinge of pale yellow from the setting sun brushed the topmost leaves of the trees, through which the wind whistled.
“Let’s make camp here,” Dillon suggested.
He gathered a few rocks, put them in a circle, and arranged the kindling for a fire. The meager dinner didn’t satiate the empty feeling in his stomach, and before he took the last bite of the rationed jerky, he gave it to Buster, hoping it would quell the dog’s hunger pangs.
During the night, the constant gunfire they heard in the distance confirmed Dillon’s suspicion of lawlessness in the larger cities.
Holly was snuggled into her bedroll, fully clothed, trying to ward off the night chill. Dillon was in the bedroll next to her, Buster lay curled near Dillon’s feet, head tucked to his belly.
“I never noticed how bright the stars are,” Holly remarked, unable to sleep.
