by Chris Pike
Chapter 35
Sitting on the café roof, Chandler became concerned. Seven minutes, no shots from Dorothy, no targets for him, a muffled pop, then four obvious gunshots. Had his plan really gone that bad?
Action was required.
Chandler popped the rear pin of his carbine and broke it open like a shotgun. He removed the bolt carrier group and pocketed it.
He shut the OBR, pressed the rear pin back in place, and shut the dust cover, concealing the absence of the bolt carrier group which made the carbine inoperable. He left the OBR on its grip-pod under the sniper cape.
Breaking into a jog, he jumped to the next lower roof, swung himself over the last rail, and slid down to the street. He drew his Glock 17 and using an isosceles stance he headed to the front entrance of the jail.
“Throw down your gun or you’re dead.” Chandler stopped in mid-stride. He held his gun pointed down as he slowly turned toward the voice. The morning sun that was his friend a few moments ago now made it difficult for him to see his elevated target. What he could see was not good. Jed was in a kneeling position with the semi-automatic OBR Chandler had left on the roof.
“Drop it,” Jed ordered.
Chandler tossed the Glock 17 to the pavement.
Jed stood up, still pointing the OBR directly at Chandler. “Looks like you’re going to die by your own rifle. Or should I say, my new rifle.” Jed laughed at his own cleverness.
Chandler smiled, but without mirth. “It looks like one of us is in for a big surprise.”
Jed pulled the trigger, but the OBR did not fire. He dropped the rifle and frantically swung his slung AK around to the front.
Chandler pulled open his shirt to reveal a shoulder holster containing the 8 3/8 inch Smith & Wesson Model 29 he had borrowed from the floorboard collection at Holly’s house. A fifty yard shot would be difficult for some, but not for him, and especially not for this revolver.
Jed’s eyes bounced from Chandler to his AK. His hand started to sweep the safety down.
Working quickly, Chandler cocked the hammer for single action and let a 240 grain pill loose.
The impact of Chandler shot’s hit Jed square on the chest.
Jed’s grip on the AK loosened and it slipped downward toward the roof. He swayed, trying to take a breath, but all he got was a mouthful of blood. His eyes fluttered and he looked like a man out of breath, except for the maroon stain on his shirt just above his heart.
Chandler’s dad had taught him that even a dead rattlesnake can still bite, so Chandler took solid aim and pulled the trigger double action. The second shot rang out and Jed’s head jerked back. There was no doubt of a solid hit, even in the bright sunlight.
All surprise was now gone.
Chandler quickly reloaded the .44 Magnum and checked that the Glock 17 was still in good order. He entered the sheriff’s office and slowly crept forward.
* * *
Hearing the muffled gunshots, Cole smirked. “Two shots. Well I guess Jed has done his job, which means the cavalry isn’t coming.” Cole picked up Dillon’s pistol and pointed it at Cassie. His other gun was alternately pointing at Holly, then Dillon, then back to Holly. Cole’s amusement was obvious. “Who wants to go fir—”
A shot rang out and Cole stumbled backwards, stunned by the blow. His breathing became difficult and a red stain appeared on the lower part of his neck, just above the area covered by the vest. Holly and Dillon hadn’t moved, and when Cole figured it out that Ryan had shot him, he pointed both guns at Ryan.
Holly screamed.
Dillon pulled his remaining pistol with his injured right hand and jerked the trigger the moment the sights landed on target.
Cole’s cheekbone exploded, and he stumbled, reflexively pulling the triggers on both guns, firing wildly into the ceiling.
Dillon used the moment to place the second shot where it needed to go.
Cole slumped to the floor, a gaping hole appearing between his eyes. He took a hard breath, his body stiffened once, then he exhaled his last breath.
The door from the office swung open.
Dillon swiveled his gun in the direction.
“Did I miss the party?” Chandler asked, careful not to stick his head through the open door. His sense of humor and timing left something to be desired.
Everyone held their fire.
Dillon took a quick sweep of the room. “Is everyone alright?” He didn’t hear the mumbled words of we’re okay, I think so, or I am. All he could think of was to go to Cassie. He put his hands on her shoulders, looked at her lovingly, then pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her.
“I told you I’d come for you if anything happened,” he said. “You’re safe now. We’re all safe.”
Epilogue
In the days after the shooting, Holly explained as much as she knew about Cole and the reasons why he had become such a cold-blooded killer.
“You’re nothing like him,” she repeatedly emphasized to Ryan. “If Cole hadn’t witnessed his mother dying and finding his father with his head blown off, I’m sure things would have been different. He used to be different; he used to be kind and thoughtful. He would give the shirt off of his back to you if you needed it. The Cole I knew, the one who fathered you, was a lot like you are now, Ryan. Don’t let this other Cole affect you or destroy you. You can’t.”
* * *
With the help of some of the store owners on the town square, Cole and the two deputies were buried in unmarked graves in the wooded area behind the sheriff’s office.
Holly invited Cassie and Ryan to group at her ranch house until they got on their feet and recovered from the ordeal.
Dillon drove Dorothy and her daughter Anna back to their house, using Cole’s stolen truck.
Physically, the scars and scrapes disappeared, and Cassie and Ryan put back on weight they had lost.
Psychologically, it was a different story, and Ryan struggled with the newfound knowledge that Cole was his father. But as Dillon had once told Holly, there were equal sets of genes, and the good genes would override the bad ones. Holly told Ryan to hold on to that knowledge.
For a while, the tight-knit group shared in rebuilding Holly’s ranch, getting the garden in shape, canning what vegetables they could find, hunting, and preparing for the winter.
Chandler and Amanda had become close and would seek quiet moments among the busy days.
Ryan and Cassie were never far apart, having bonded over their harrowing brush with death from the airplane crash, subsequent trek through the swamp, and Cole’s imprisonment.
* * *
One day when the sun was low in the sky and the treetops swayed in the wind, Cassie spoke to her dad.
“I need to go back.”
“Go back where?” Dillon asked.
“Home, to Houston.”
“Cassie, your home is here with us, and Ryan can stay as long as he wants to. You know that.”
“You don’t understand,” Cassie said, “I have to go back.”
“Why?” Dillon asked.
“I need something of Mom’s, something that I can hold on to, that’s part of her. It would be proof that she lived. I need to hold it in my hands, something tangible she would have wanted me to have.”
“It would be suicide to go back into the city now. Gangs will have formed, turf wars have probably broken out, grocery stores will be empty. People are laying dead in the streets.”
“Dad, you can’t talk me out of going back. I have to have something of hers.”
“Cassie,” Holly said, walking up to her, “I have something of your mother’s.” She reached behind her neck, fiddled with something, then lifted a gold chain holding an opal. “I forgot I had it on until now.”
“It was my mother’s favorite,” Cassie said. “Where…how?” Cassie’s eyes brimmed with tears.
“When I was at your parents’ house that first night,” Holly said, glancing at Dillon, “I was looking in your mom’s closet for something to w
ear. I didn’t mean to snoop or pry, but there was a wooden box that I was drawn to. I opened it and found this necklace. It was so beautiful I couldn’t resist putting it on. I didn’t mean any disrespect by it. I want you to know that. I never intended to keep it.”
Cassie nodded.
“Take it,” Holly said. “Your mother would have wanted you to have it. I only borrowed it for a little while, for safekeeping, for when it was needed. I know now why I was drawn to it. You were meant to have it.”
“Thank you,” Cassie said. A lump formed in her throat and hot tears flowed down her cheeks. She put on the necklace, swallowed once, and swiped under both eyes, blinking fast. She looked in the mirror.
Dillon was dumbstruck at how much she resembled her mother. The same heart-shaped face, round eyes, even similar eyebrows. But she wasn’t her mother, she was her own person, with her own dreams and hopes for the future.
Dillon’s life was here, right now, with Holly. They would build a life together and face their own trials and tribulations, living as their forefathers had done, working the land, being a family—it was what life was about.
* * *
The day came for Dillon to say goodbye to Chandler and Amanda. It was a clear day, the sky a crystalline blue with wispy clouds laying low on the horizon. There was a chill in the air and golden leaves fell upon the ground.
The pair was well fortified with food to last them a week, camping equipment, and extra ammo. Amanda had insisted on taking Nipper, having made a special carrier which was attached to the saddle.
Earlier, everyone had said their goodbyes and there had been tears and hugs, so it was Dillon alone who bid them safe travels.
Chandler and Amanda rode double on Cowboy, and while it pained Dillon to give the reins to someone else, Chandler had promised to return Cowboy one day.
Amanda was ready to rejoin her family in Central Texas, and since Chandler had promised Amanda he would escort her to her great aunt’s ranch, Dillon bid them Godspeed on their trip.
It was bittersweet seeing them leave. Chandler had become Dillon’s right hand man, helping him with everything from repairing fences to the more mundane work of pulling weeds in the garden.
The town of Hemphill was slowly returning to normal, yet it would be a new normal with new ways.
The county hospital was now open a few hours a day to treat minor injuries, but with only a couple of doctors and nurses, the wait time could be a day or two. A local doctor had treated Dillon’s injuries, given him a tetanus shot, and told him how lucky he was to have full use of his hands.
Some of the neighboring ranch owners formed a cooperative, trading goods and services.
There had been scant news on what had caused the EMP, although some ham radio operators were picking up Russian chatter leading to speculation it was the Russians who detonated the EMP bomb. There had also been rumors of foreign troops infiltrating the bigger cities where whole neighborhoods had been destroyed, burned to the ground, entire families wiped out.
Dillon looked skyward across the treetops tinged with the glow of the morning sun. His family had survived by sheer will and fierce determination. They were together and that was what counted.
Chandler and Amanda would forge their way into the unknown, and Dillon wondered if he would ever see them again. Although Chandler had promised to return Cowboy, some promises were made to keep, some only for a while, a reality which Dillon reluctantly accepted.
Cowboy seemed to sense the change too, because when Chandler said the magic phrase, Cowboy hesitated. It took some coaxing to get the horse walking, but when he finally did, he snorted, shook his head, and proudly walked on.
Dillon waited on the road until Chandler and Amanda disappeared beyond the tree line, then headed back to the house where a woman waited with open arms, and where his daughter was with her own companion, one who Dillon hoped would be her husband one day.
Together they would forge ahead and build a new life, here, right now in this new place.
He had his family, and that was all that mattered.
He walked into the house where Buster waited.
“Come on, boy. We’ve got work to do.”
The End
The Hunted
(a bonus scene)
The East Texas woods were too silent, unnerving Dillon on this gray and cold December evening. He sat perfectly still on a canvas stool, hidden in a dense thicket of young saplings dripping with vines. He had the muzzle of his .30-06 deer rifle pointing down, ready to lift it at a moment’s notice if the prized buck passed through his line of vision. There was something inherently satisfying about going on a hunt to put meat on the table. The problem was he didn’t realize he was the one being hunted.
An hour earlier, Dillon was getting ready. Cassie and Ryan had gone to a neighbor’s house to trade goods.
Sitting on a kitchen chair at the ranch house, he pulled on the laces of his hunting boots, wrapped them around the back, then the front, tugging them tight. He had on two wool shirts, along with an undershirt, and long johns under his jeans. His hunting knife was secured in the scabbard he wore on his thick leather belt.
The fireplace in the den crackled, logs shifted, sending sparks flying.
Dillon went over and added another log to the fire, knowing they would need the additional heat for the cold night. Without TV or radio and a reliable forecast, he could only guess how low the temperature would get. Maybe 25 degrees.
Holly was busy at the kitchen sink cutting vegetables by the waning afternoon light, saving the kerosene lamp for when it became dark. Rationing was a way of life.
“Holly, I’m heading out to go hunting.”
“Be careful.” She kissed him on the cheek. “How long will you be gone?”
“About two hours. Several times around dusk I’ve seen a big buck walking in the back pasture along the fence line near the branch. I’m guessing the water still left in the branch is attracting the buck. I need to get settled in the blind before the sun sets.”
“Good luck,” she said. “We could use fresh meat. I’ll have something hot for you to eat when you come back. Cassie and Ryan promised to be back before dark so we can all eat together. Do you have everything you need?”
“I think so,” Dillon said apprehensively. He thought about gearing up to take a Glock, but if he wasted any more time, he’d lose his window of opportunity.
Anytime Dillon suited up for a hunt, Buster paced the hardwood floor, his nails clicking and clattering. Standing eagerly at the door, Buster whined and wiggled from side to side anticipating the door to crack open so he could make an escape to go on the hunt. This time it was different, for it wasn’t the hunt he was interested in.
Buster had studied Dillon’s every move for the past hour and when Dillon’s hand reached for the doorknob, Buster knew that was the signal the door was about to open.
“Sorry,” Dillon said. He patted Buster on the head. “Not this time, boy.”
With determined eyes, Buster squeezed closer to the door, mindful he was not being obedient. He rarely went against the wishes of his owner, but the dog sensed something wasn’t right in the woods. The noises that the animals made at night foraging for food had been silent, and those that were active in the day stayed close to cover.
Birds flitted nervously from treetop to treetop. The scurrying animals quickened their steps, nervous eyes flicking to the dark shadows of the woods.
Hours earlier, Buster had accompanied Dillon while he chopped wood. Standing like a sentry, Buster had caught an unusual scent of deadly power and male domination carried by a fleeting wind current. His mind searched for the meaning. A long buried herding instinct to protect his pack came to Buster, and he had tried to nose Dillon away from the danger.
Dillon said, “Good dog! Wanna play?” Buster had only cocked his head in confusion because this was no time to play a game of ‘fetch the stick’ or bark like his owner encouraged him to.
Buster squeezed closer
to the door.
“No,” Dillon said, his tone forceful. He nudged the uncooperative dog away with a gentle push of his boot, making direct eye contact with Buster. “Leave!” With a quick movement, Dillon thrust out an arm, pointing his index finger at the corner of the room. Buster understood the command and the need to acquiesce to his owner’s instructions.
Tucking his tail, Buster slunk away and padded over to his dog bed in the corner of the room. He scratched at his bedding then pillowed into it. His slack posture and sad eyes indicated he knew he would have to wait for his owner’s return.
“What about the cats?” Dillon asked. “Is it too early to let them in?”
Holly put down the paring knife and walked over to where Dillon stood. “I’m worried about Tiger. I haven’t seen him in a couple of days. If you see Princess let her in. She’s been acting strange lately.”
“I hope Tiger is okay,” Dillon said. He had come to an understanding with Tiger, a gray and white stripped male tabby cat that was quickly becoming his cat. When nobody was looking, Dillon slipped Tiger an extra piece of meat and petted him on the head, saying “Good kitty.” He had always considered himself a dog person, not a cat person. However, times were different now, and if anyone questioned his masculinity or the fact he liked cats, he’d tell them to go pound sand. Princess, a calico, was more Holly’s cat, who meowed incessantly and liked to rub all over her legs.
On their way home from the unsuccessful trip to find Dillon’s daughter, they had found the cats at the house, skinny, scrawny, and crying for food. Dillon had suggested shooting them and eating them to which Holly replied, “We aren’t starving, they are.” Ever since Holly had fed them that first night, the cats stayed.
“Come to think of it,” Dillon said, “I haven’t seen Tiger either.”
“I can’t quite put my finger on it,” Holly said as she straightened Dillon’s coat collar. “Princess is so skittish that any little noise sends her running.”
