by Chris Pike
Dillon eyed him curiously. “So you don’t want the reward?”
“Take money from that piece of shit Cole Cassel?” Chandler shook his head. “No way. While Frank was salivating over Holly I put myself in a position where I could get a better shot. I wasn’t about to let Frank take you in and collect the bounty you and Holly have on your heads.”
“Why not?”
“Plenty of reasons. One being I don’t like that bastard Cole Cassel. Plus I knew what was in store for Holly, and I couldn’t let that happen. The town has descended into lawless chaos, and I think the boss is letting things get out of hand, then when the time is right, he’ll swoop in and save everyone.”
“Interesting strategy.”
“One that will probably work,” Chandler said.
“Weren’t you part of their group?” Dillon said.
“I was for a little while. I thought they were going to honestly patrol the county boundary. After they robbed and stole from several groups of people, I bided my time until I had a reason to get rid of them.”
“Some might think that’s cold-blooded murder.”
“Do you?”
“No, times are different now.” Dillon shook his head. “So, Chandler what’s your story?”
Chapter 11
Chandler’s gaze dropped to the ground and he pulled out a thread on his pants. “My story is pretty simple. He balled the thread and flicked it away. “I had my life all planned out. Enlist, serve a few tours, save my money, come home, get a job, get married, have kids, and live happily ever after.”
“Then reality intervened,” Holly said riding up to them.
“That and the fact I caught my girlfriend sleeping with my best friend.”
“That couldn’t have ended well,” Dillon said.
“Cost me two nights in jail. Then the EMP struck and a few days later I heard there was a new sheriff who needed help keeping the county borders secure. That’s how I met Cole. I didn’t realize he was a murderous SOB.”
“Thanks for getting my horse, Holly,” Dillon said.
Holly acknowledged the thanks with a nod, dismounted her horse, and handed Cowboy’s reins to Dillon. Sighting the dead men, bile rose up and burned her throat. Flies had already congregated around their glassy eyes. “Should we bury them?”
Dillon waited for Chandler’s reaction.
“Nah,” Chandler said. He observed the fast current and the muddy water of the river. “Let’s throw them in the river and let nature dispose of them. The catfish will be eating good for a long while.”
“Remind me not to go fishing anytime soon,” Holly said ruefully.
While Holly held the horses, Chandler and Dillon stripped the dead men of their weapons and ammo. Checking their pockets, Dillon found a pack of cigarettes, matches, and a few coins.
“You smoke?” Chandler asked when he saw Dillon put the cigarettes in his pocket.
“No. Keeping these as barter.”
“Good idea.”
Flipping open a wallet, Dillon briefly checked the driver’s license, taking note of the name. He thumbed through the rest of the contents. An insurance card, card key for an office building, various membership cards, useless tokens of the world after the EMP struck. There were three twenties, which he knew were useless now, then decided what the heck, he’d keep them. He pulled out his own wallet and stuffed the twenties inside. He didn’t notice when one of his membership cards, one with his picture and name on it, tumbled out and fell to the ground.
One by one, Dillon and Chandler tossed the dead men into the river without so much as a second thought. The new order of the times required a more practical approach to getting things done, and burying a body would expend too much energy.
“So,” Chandler said, “mind if I tag along to wherever you are going?”
Chapter 12
Dillon wasn’t sure if he wanted Chandler to accompany them because he still questioned the guy’s motives.
“I figured you’d be going back to town,” Dillon said.
“There’s nothing there for me,” Chandler said. “My friends are gone, and I’m not about to let my former girlfriend worm her way back into my life. My parents live in Central Texas, so there’s not one reason to go back to town. Everything I own is in my backpack. Besides, there’d be too many questions about what happened to Frank and the other guys.”
“True,” Dillon agreed.
“Like I said, I don’t lie. I wouldn’t make a good liar. Truth is the best policy because you always remember the truth. Lies are too hard to keep track of or who you told what. As a prosecutor, you should know that.”
“You’re right about that. Liars can’t keep their lies straight,” Dillon said. “I’ve caught too many defendants red-handed on the stand.”
“So is it okay if I tag along?”
“It’s not really my place to say you can or can’t. It’s Holly’s place we’re going back to.”
“Ma’am,” Chandler said, “what do you think? I grew up hunting and fishing, and working my grandpa’s garden. I know how to grow vegetables, till the soil. I can shoot, and it would be a pleasure to work for you.”
“I can’t pay you,” Holly stated.
“I don’t need to get paid, ma’am. I’ll do an honest day’s work if you feed me and let me hang my hat somewhere. I’ll even sleep in the barn.”
Holly sensed his sincerity and his need to belong. In this new world without friends or family, a loner wouldn’t last long.
“Okay, on one condition,” Holly said. “You can stop calling me ma’am.” She sighed. “It makes me feel old.”
“Anything you say. Want me to call you Mrs. Hudson?”
“Well, you do have manners, I’ll give you credit for that much. I’m not married, and calling me ‘Mrs. Hudson’ is nearly as bad as ‘ma’am’. My mother was ‘Mrs. Hudson’ not me. Holly will be fine.”
Dillon stifled a laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Holly demanded, shooting him that look.
“Nothing,” Dillon said, scratching his forehead. “Nothing at all.”
“Thank you, Holly,” Chandler said. He looped his backpack over his arms then slung his rifle over his shoulder. “I’m ready if you are. Which way is home?”
“Across the bridge then head south for about thirty miles,” Holly said.
“If you walk while we ride, you’ll only slow us down,” Dillon said. “We’re trying to get home before nightfall. Holly can ride with me and you can ride her horse.”
“I think that’ll work,” Holly said. “Cowboy is the stronger horse, and he’ll be able to carry our combined weight. I’m guessing we have about a few hours’ ride to my ranch. Cowboy will be okay for that length of time.” Holly dismounted her horse and gave the reins to Chandler.
“I appreciate that,” Chandler said. “What’s the horse’s name?”
“Yeah,” Dillon said. “You’ve never told me your horse’s name either.”
“Indian.”
“Seriously?” Dillon asked.
“Seriously.”
“As in Cowboys and Indians?”
Holly nodded.
“Why?”
Holly shrugged and reached up for Dillon’s hand. He clasped his hand around her forearm and she put a foot in the stirrup. With a heave, she hoisted the other leg over the saddle, put her arms around Dillon’s waist, leaned into him, and whispered, “I thought it was cute.”
As Dillon was about to say the magic phrase to coax Cowboy into a trot, he realized he hadn’t seen Buster in a while. “Hey, has anyone seen Buster?”
“That’s your dog, right?” Chandler asked.
“Yes.”
“Last I saw of him was right before I started shooting,” Chandler said.
“You didn’t hit him did you?”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t shoot a dog. What kind of guy do you think I am?” Chandler was incredulous Dillon would even ask such a boneheaded question.
“Sorr
y,” Dillon said. “I’m worried about Buster. He normally stays so close he’s like my shadow.”
“I think he took off running behind the horses when Chandler started firing,” Holly said. “He was right next to us when you told us to get down. That’s the last I saw of him.”
“We need to find him,” Dillon stated. “He must be close by somewhere. Let’s split up. Chandler, you check by the river. Holly and I will check the road. Meet back here in ten minutes.”
* * *
It was late afternoon.
The wind had picked up with a cool burst of air, and low clouds rimmed the horizon, bringing with it the peculiar smell of incoming rain.
The riders called for Buster among the wayward trails of pines and thickets, of silent dens where animals lay curled, safe from predators and protected from the elements. Anxious voices echoed loud along the languid river, quietly fading into the vast expanse of the East Texas tall pines and stately oaks.
The silence was deafening.
A mockingbird sitting on a low branch sent out a curious call, falling silent until a similar melody answered. A rabbit scurried in the underbrush, rustling leaves.
Dillon and Holly scanned the road, calling for Buster, waiting for him to emerge from the brush. There was no sound or sign of him, perhaps a whimper or a paw print, and it was like he had vanished into the tangle of pines and oaks.
“Where could he be?” Dillon asked. A deep furrow lined his forehead.
“He’s got to be close by,” Holly reassured him. She tried to sound as reassuring as she could, but even Holly was beginning to worry.
Five long minutes passed.
Then five more.
The low clouds darkened, and somewhere in the distance thunder rumbled.
“I think it’s time we head back to the bridge,” Holly said. “Maybe Chandler has found him.”
Coming back to the bridge, Chandler was already waiting for them. Dillon scanned in every direction hoping against hope that Buster had been found. That slobbery tongue and smelly breath Dillon avoided would be welcome and once he found Buster he’d let his dog lick him all over. He’d give him an extra pat and food, and tell him he was a good boy.
From Chandler’s expressionless face and slumped shoulders Dillon knew Buster hadn’t been found.
“I looked everywhere,” Chandler said. “I’m sorry.” His eyes went to the low clouds rolling across the countryside. A crack of lightning illuminated the dark clouds. The horses tossed their heads and stamped their hooves at the ominous sounds, their instincts alerting them to the fast-moving storm.
“We can’t leave him here,” Dillon said, his voice cracking.
Holly put a hand on his shoulder. “Dillon, we need to find shelter. This is going to get bad, and it’s going to be dark soon. We don’t want to be caught out in the open.”
“You and Chandler go. I’ll stay here and wait for Buster.”
“No, Dillon. We all have to go. We can always come back when the weather is better. Our supplies are running low. You know that.”
Dillon hung his head. “I can’t lose him, too. He’s the only connection I have to Cassie.”
“Buster will be okay. He’s a big dog and he can take care of himself.” Holly inhaled a big breath and let it out slowly. “Dillon, we have to go now.”
“Holly’s right,” Chandler said. “Let’s go now, while there is still light, and when we get to Holly’s ranch, we’ll get more supplies, and I’ll come back here with you. Deal?”
“I guess so,” Dillon said.
The three travelers headed southwest, away from the dead men floating face down in the river, away from the lost dog. If Dillon had been alone, he would have stayed regardless if he had any food or supplies. He’d find a way to survive in the unforgiving environment. He’d carve a dugout somewhere and hole up until the storm passed. It pained him to leave Buster. It was like he was losing Cassie all over again, and a hollow feeling swallowed him as if he had been sucked into a black hole.
Silence was thick with melancholy hovering over them like storm clouds as they rode, casting a dull pall. The rhythmic sounds of hooves on blacktop and of creaking saddle leather were their only companions on the monotonous ride.
Onward the three went with their shoulders hunched and as Dillon studied the sky he thought of Buster, his buddy, the dog his daughter had given him.
Dillon had failed his daughter, and his dog was lost. What else could go wrong?
Chapter 13
Buster lay hidden in the thick brush, panting heavily and shivering from the unexpected thunder and lightning tendrils illuminating the dark sky.
It was silent for a few moments until another loud clap of thunder rolled over the countryside. Buster shivered at the thunderous noise. His tongue hung to the side and long strings of drool dripped from his mouth.
A cold burst of air was forced down from the thundercloud, dropping the temperature twenty degrees in a matter of a few minutes.
The wind and rain lashed the trees, bending them, cracking the weakest branches and sending them crashing to the ground.
Buster flinched at the noise.
As a hunting dog, he was accustomed to guns and the metallic clicking and pinging sounds they made, and was used to the storms of the Texas Gulf Coast.
He had many times observed his owner deftly handling pistols and rifles, racking slides back or taking them apart to clean them. The pungent odor of Hoppe’s number 9 solvent was like perfume to Buster and he waited patiently by Dillon’s side as he cleaned the firearms. The chemicals tickled his nose, but it wasn’t an unpleasant odor, only one to associate with firearms and his owner.
Buster’s keen association with firearms and comradery changed when Dillon was attacked and nearly killed by the alligator. Buster—the protector, lookout, guard, and companion—had miserably failed his owner. When he caught the fresh scent of the solvent on Chandler, Buster’s demeanor changed. The stranger had approached his pack, and like a protector, Buster should have stepped in between his pack and this unknown man. Yet when it was time for Buster to do his duty, his legs quivered and he stayed back, behind Dillon where he felt safe from harm.
His eyes followed Chandler’s hands to the rife he carried and he took in the unique smell of the rifle.
It had been recently cleaned, and the odor brought back unwanted memories of the helplessness of the situation when Dillon was being thrashed by the alligator in the bowels of the Atchafalaya Basin. Buster’s mind took him to the blast of the AK when Holly picked it up, shooting.
The dark water had been dangerous with a strange scent, and though Buster couldn’t identify the danger, his instinct had guided him to stay back where it was safe.
When the water exploded and his owner became overpowered, Buster was frozen with fear and indecision. His canine mind struggled with the decision to fight or flee, so he acted as he only knew to do. He barked, loud and raucous to sound an alarm to warn the woodland animals of the impending danger.
When Holly emerged from the woods, Buster felt a sense of relief as well as incompetence from not being able to help his owner.
In the chaotic situation, Holly had shouldered the AK, firing twice—once a practice shot, the other the fatal shot.
Buster associated the blasts from the AK to his failure as part of the pack, to protect it from harm regardless if it was manmade or if it came from the wild.
Holly had dragged Dillon to land and Buster cautiously approached his lifeless owner, whining and licking his hand and face, willing him to breathe. When Holly told him he was a good dog, the intonation was lost on her breathless words and the seriousness of her tone, for Buster understood life was draining from his pack leader.
Miraculously, Dillon had survived, fighting for days to regain consciousness. During that time Buster had not left his side. If he couldn’t protect his owner from harm, he could at least offer comfort.
Though Buster couldn’t understand the meaning of Post Traumat
ic Stress Syndrome, he was exhibiting the same symptoms as a soldier would, so when he heard the first rifle crack, he froze.
The flight or fight response captured him at the first rifle shot and the second one had only solidified Buster’s instinct to flee, to retreat as quickly as possible from the sounds that assaulted his ears, reverberating along his body. He ran faster than the horses did, ran further down the winding road, past looming trees and dark grasses. His legs gobbled up distance until his chest and lungs hurt. When there was no more reason to run he stopped, expecting Holly and her horse to be behind him.
Confusion gripped Buster as he apprehensively checked the area around him. His nostrils flared at the smells of the new environment. A raccoon had scurried along the curve of the road, an armadillo had burrowed under a fallen tree, a bird whistled a strange melody. Something rustled the leaves and Buster twitched nervously at the sounds, actions unbecoming a dog of his stature.
The rain came, pelting him with silver dollar droplets of cold rain, soaking his coat. Buster shivered in the waning light until darkness fell and the storm rolled past.
During the long and cold night, he slept fitfully on the damp leaves, smelling of the woodland rain and creatures who had slept there before him.
At daybreak, he rose and stretched, his stomach growling from hunger and thirst. Instinct guided him to drink muddy water from a ditch, lapping it until his belly was full.
He tucked his tail and trotted slowly at first along the road, then faster as he ran past abandoned trucks and pastures of cows. The scent of the river gradually lessoned until it was only a fleeting memory, and when Buster stopped he found himself lost in the woods, away from his pack, away from safety.
Chapter 14
Garrett was standing next to the truck they had taken out of the garage.
“Hey, Ryan, get James and Cassie, and let’s head into town before this truck quits on us. There’s a store on the town square that has equipment that you’ll need.”
