EMP Aftermath Series (Book 3): Retribution

by John Winchester

  A large mass was suspended from a tree. Originally he thought it might be a piece of deadfall from higher up in the tree, dropped by a recent storm and hung up in the lower branches. Now, though, he realized his mistake. That was no deadfall. It was a man, hanged by the neck, his feet three feet off of the ground, his limp body swaying back and forth in the breeze.

  The man on the horse had just hung another man from a tree at the fork in the road.

  Panting with exertion from running, Chief Howell tried to slow his breath down as he crept up on the killer. Eyes wide with shock, he forced himself to keep moving as he watched the killer reach up from his perch atop his horse and gruesomely carve the hanged man's tongue out. Blood spilled from his mouth, dripping down the front of his shirt. The killer took something from his pocket and pinned it to the man's shirt.

  Howell was ten yards away now and quietly pushed aside the undergrowth hiding him from the killer's view. Pistol leveled on the killer, he stepped out of the bushes. "Drop that knife and put your hands up. Get down from that horse, Mister."

  The man on the horse flinched in surprise. He dropped the knife and held his hands up, fingers spread wide. "I can't rightly get off the horse without using my hands."

  "Figure it out. If you drop those hands, I'll blow a hole in you," Howell growled.

  The man hesitated, and then slipped his right leg over the saddle and slid down from the horse, facing the Chief. The man's horse backed away a few feet, ears flattened. The killer wore a nondescript t-shirt tucked into a pair of blue jeans, a pistol still in the holster on his belt. His dark brown eyes revealed no emotion, nor did his face.

  "Who are you? Why did you kill that man?" Howell asked.

  The killer said nothing for a moment but simply stared at Howell, sizing him up. He then looked down at the gun Howell pointed at him, and his lips began to move. "You're in over your head, Chief Howell. Just walk away."

  "Who the hell are you? How do you know my name?" Howell demanded. "Answer my questions."

  The killer laughed. "Sutherland asked you to investigate something, didn't he? You've got no idea who you're dealing with."

  Howell's eyes flicked over to the body hanging from the tree. The hanged man's face was blood covered and too distorted to identify him.

  The killer made a clucking sound with his mouth, and before Howell could react, the man's horse began to walk forward, blocking Howell's line of fire.

  Chief Howell skirted the horse to get a clear shot, but as he rounded the horse the killer opened fire, sending him diving for cover. As he landed on the hard pavement, pain exploded in his hip.

  The killer swiftly pulled himself into his saddle and spurred his horse on, then turned in the saddle, firing two wild shots behind him as he fled.

  Chief Howell, still lying on the hot asphalt, brought his gun up and carefully aimed at the killer's back. He fired off three shots, then watched the man fall from the saddle and collapse onto the highway, unmoving.

  Grunting with pain, Howell pushed himself up off of the road and rubbed his hip. He walked over to the killer, kicked the man's gun several feet away, and then rolled him over. Dead. Two of his shots had caught the man in the center of his back, ending him.

  He searched through the man's pockets, finding nothing but a few bits of silver. The man's saddlebags contained little else, just a few implements for survival anybody would carry: flint and steel, a rolled up bundle of dry tinder, food, a container of water, and extra ammunition. The man carried nothing that Howell could use to place the man's origins or identify him.

  Howell walked back over to the tree where the man had been hanged. The body was still swinging as the wind pushed it around. Blood from the man's mouth covered the front of his shirt, staining and partially concealing the golden star pinned on his front shirt pocket so that Howell didn't notice it right away. A note was pinned to his shirt. It simply read "Big mouth." There was no mistaking the golden sheriff's star, confirming his suspicions. Sheriff Sutherland. Jerry.

  Howell cut the rope suspending his old friend and let him gently down to the ground. He was shocked to see him in such a condition. Less than twelve hours ago he'd talked to Jerry, and yet here he was, as dead as a doornail. Kneeling over the body, Howell removed the noose from around Jerry's neck, and then ripped the killer's note off of his shirt and tossed it aside.

  His nostrils flared and the cords on his neck stood up. Nobody deserved to die like this, especially Jerry Sutherland. This murder wasn't a coincidence. Victor Tweed had sent a message. Stay out of my affairs. Whatever it cost him, he would find a way to make Tweed pay for this, and pay with blood.

  Chapter 5

  At the edge of town, Kenny stopped his wagon in the shade of a tall oak tree growing next to the smithy. He lashed his horse to a hitching post next to a trough filled with water so the animal could drink and cool itself. The July sun beat down relentlessly, the sun's glare making the stifling heat unbearable for both horse and man.

  The blacksmith, Ray Thomas, looked up from his work and nodded at Kenny, giving the piece of steel he was shaping a final few blows before he set it back into the bed of red hot coals next to his anvil. The shop wasn't his primary workshop, but a smaller and simpler setup that he used to escape the hottest months of the year. While his workshop, adjacent to Pastor Eisenbach's church near the town square was much larger, the brick building was a literal oven during the summer if the forge was fired up. The small summer workshop consisted of a forge, bellows, anvil, and other paraphernalia of the trade housed underneath an open pavilion. The pavilion was open walled and provided shade, letting the wind blow through when they were lucky enough to have it. Ray walked the short distance over to the wagon and gave Kenny a firm handshake.

  "Hot enough for you, Kenny?" Ray asked.

  "It's a real scorcher today," Kenny said. "I don't know how you can work around that forge in this heat."

  Ray pushed his gray hair out of the way and wiped the sweat from his forehead, chuckling. "You know, this is hard to believe, but before everything went to hell, I used to wear a sweater to the office in the middle of July because my coworkers kept the air conditioner set to sixty-four degrees. Can you imagine that?”

  "I don't mind the heat. You get used to it after a while, and it's not so bad as long as you stay hydrated. Besides, at my age, the heat is easier to handle than the cold. I pity you guys that go out hunting and foraging on a cold winter day while I'm snug and warm working by my forge. To each their own I guess. But let's get down to business. How can I help you, Kenny?" Ray asked.

  "My plow broke. Split clean in half earlier today. Can you take a look at it and see if you can fix it?"

  The blacksmith walked around to the back of the wagon and looked over the plow, running his finger along the seam of the torn metal. "Wow. This is a really old plow. An antique by far. That blade was a solid piece of steel. How did you manage to do that?"

  "I plowed through a hornet’s nest in the ground. I got stung and then the wasps stung the mules. When they ran away the plow got caught on a rock and sheared in half."

  Ray leaned in close to the plow blade, squinting as he inspected the metal. "That shouldn't have happened, but I see the problem. Most of the metal is solid, but there is a rust line running down the center of the blade. You can see the weak spot if you look closely, a hairline fracture down the blade. This old plow must have sat in a barn somewhere and a crack in the roof allowed water to drip down on the same spot over a long period of time. I can fix it, but it will take some time to pull the plow apart and forge weld it back together.

  "Great! How much will it cost though? I'm a little short of money right now," Kenny said.

  Ray gave a wide smile. "I can't remember the last time anybody paid me in cold hard cash. I just shoed a horse for Old Man Elliot, and he paid me with a sack of tobacco twists. Barter is fine, as long as it's not turnips. I hate turnips. What do you have to trade?"

  "Honestly I don't have much. If I hav
e to pay for something, I usually trade work. I'm too busy right now to offer to trade labor though. I really need to have this plow back so I can finish turning over a new section of pasture. Work is stacking up and I've got too many commitments. I can't wait any longer to start felling timber for firewood or it won't be seasoned before winter. It's not just for me either, I've got three elderly couples that helped us buy the mule team that I still have to fell and split wood for. After that, the harvest will be here and I won't have any free time until winter," Kenny said.

  "I understand your problem. Too much work and too little time. Tell you what. My house needs a new roof, but it can wait until next summer. It's a lot of work hauling wooden shingles up and tacking them down. If you can help me out with that, I'll take care of this plow for you. Fair enough?" Ray asked.

  "I owe you a big one, Ray. Thanks a billion. I won't forget it," Kenny said.

  "You're stretching yourself too thin, Kenny, but I guess we all are these days, aren't we? Come back around dusk, I should have it done by then."

  "Thanks again," Kenny said.

  A loud whistle sounded a short distance away, interrupting their conversation. A set of railroad tracks ran through the east end of town, and he spotted a billowing cloud of steam rising into the air above the buildings, approaching quickly. As the steam-powered locomotive drew close, the noise from the powerful engine was nearly ear-splitting. Although it only pulled ten or so boxcars behind it, it was still an impressive sight. A reminder that things weren't always going to be the way they were now. Eventually the world would catch back up to where it had been.

  "Dang it all, of course they come today. Kenny, can you go down and see what they have for sale? I'm always on the lookout for new tools. See if they have any punches, tongs, metal clamps, that sort of thing."

  "Sure thing, Ray, I'll take a look."

  Kenny strolled over to the train station where men were busy unpacking crates and boxes from the train. Two men in Martin Hale Security Company uniforms gave him a menacing look as he walked past. The security men were a recent addition to the weekly train crew, brought on board by the railroad company's new owner. Traders busily laid out their wares onto large pieces of cloth on the ground.

  A few feet from the traders, a dentist unfolded a metal deck chair that now served as his dentist’s chair. A large circular mirror was attached to the chair by a telescoping arm. It reflected sunlight into the patient's mouth for the dentist to work by. The dentist produces a mask connected to a small bottle of nitrous oxide, a rare commodity that was sure to get him some work if anyone could afford the gas. Painkillers were in short supply these days, and everyone feared the dentist’s chair. A shiver ran down Kenny's spine as he eyed the leather straps on the arms of the chair, used to keep patients who couldn't afford the gas still during dental procedures. He made a mental note to put extra effort into brushing his teeth when he got home.

  Kenny passed by the dentist, a tinker, and an Appalachian Express Railroad worker selling bulk items like salt and flour. The man yelled out and hawked his goods. The items were priced well beyond what anyone around here was willing to pay for them. Kenny looked around, but didn't see any metalworking tools, and stopped in front of a man in dirty overalls selling trays of different seedlings and crops to hear what he had to offer.

  "Listen, folks, I've got sweet potatoes, rhubarb starters, and raspberry rhizomes. All sorts of edible and useful plants. Come take a look. Get them while you can! I've got seeds and sprouts of nearly every kind of plant this side of the Mississippi--"

  Just then, shouting erupted and a scuffle broke out a few feet away. A man wearing a convict's striped outfit, his face covered in soot, was trying to pull himself away from the guards.

  "Let me go! I didn't do anything--"

  "Get back on the train, you piece of trash. We'll take you back to where you belong," one of the men said, twisting the convict's arm behind his back.

  "Help! Somebody help me. I didn't do anything," the convict yelled.

  One of the Martin Hale men punched the convict in the face, and then drove his knee into the man's belly, sending him to the ground heaving for air.

  As the convict rolled on the ground grasping at his belly, he made eye contact with Kenny and reached his hand out. "Kenny! Please! Help me," the convict yelled.

  Confused, Kenny did a double take, trying to picture what the man would look like without the soot covering his face. He thought he recognized the voice. It sounded like his soon to be brother-in-law, Sarah's brother. "Andrew?" Kenny surged forward.

  One of the Martin Hale men turned and pushed him away roughly. "Get back. This is none of your business. He's an escaped convict. A stowaway."

  The second Martin Hale guard kicked the man in the ribs, eliciting a groan of pain.

  "Andrew?" Kenny asked, stepping closer so that he could get a better look. The man's skin was covered in soot. He looked like he'd been to hell and back. There was no mistaking those eyes though. It was Sarah's brother. But what was he doing here? He was supposed to be with the caravan. And why was he wearing a prisoner's outfit? Why was he hiding on the train? None of this made any sense.

  "Andrew, where is Sarah?" Kenny asked.

  The Martin Hale guard pushed Kenny back again and raised his fist. "I won't warn you again. Back off and mind your own business or you'll find yourself in chains just like him. Or worse."

  "Now that wasn't very friendly. It almost sounded like a threat," a voice said behind Kenny.

  Kenny turned, relieved to see Dutch Jansen. The Joker's Hangmen second in command was approaching with two of the club members in tow. Strutting up confidently, the three men looked rough and tough in their motorcycle jackets and the attitude written all over their faces. Dutch moved to stand next to Kenny, and put his arm around him in a friendly manner while his two underlings pushed past the Martin Hale security man and wrestled with the other guard to pull Andrew from his grasp.

  "Biker trash. This isn't any of your business either. Get out of here before we get the law involved," the Martin Hale guard said.

  Dutch gave a gruff laugh and held the breast of his leather jacket up, showing off the deputies' star pinned just above the wings and skull of a motorcycle manufacturer's patch. "Well I've got some bad news for you. We are the law here, and you just threatened one of our citizens. Now what is this all about? Who’s that man you've got there?"

  "An escaped convict. He must have got on board and stowed away at the prison. We're going to take him back--"

  "Dutch it's me, Andrew Young. Don't let them take me back there! I didn't do anything. They put me in a camp and gave me--"

  "Shut up, you, or I'll shut you up for good," the Martin Hale guard snarled. He backed up a few feet to stand beside the other guard and slid his hand down to rest on the pistol in a holster at his hip. The other guard did the same.

  "Son, you don't want to pull that pistol on me. Trust me. Now I want to hear what your prisoner has to say. He's one of our people, so you've got some explaining to do if you want to convince me to let you take him. What was he convicted of? By whose authority? When?" Dutch asked, incredulity in his voice.

  "White trash biker, you don't know who you're fooling with." The guard flipped the leather catch off of his holster.

  "I won't warn you again. You do not want to pull that pistol out in my town. Andrew, go ahead and tell us what happened." Dutch said.

  Andrew got to his feet, his hands shaking, unsteady on his feet. He seemed confused and terrified.

  "What happened to you? How did you get here?" Kenny asked.

  "I hid in the coal bin. They drugged me. I have to get--"

  "Andrew, why aren't you with the caravan?" Dutch asked.

  Andrew looked up at Dutch and then to Kenny. His mouth hung open, his lower lip quivering, and then he seemed to gather himself. "The caravan was attacked. They killed my Mom and Dad. They--

  "Sarah! Is she alive?" Kenny yelled. His hands went clammy all of a s
udden, and his vision narrowed as if he were in a tunnel.

  "She's--"

  "He's a liar and a murderer, and he's coming with us!" The Martin Hale man yelled. "He killed everyone in that caravan. We dropped him off at the prison a few stops back. You can't believe anything he says. Now we're taking him back with us and there is not a damn thing you can do to stop us." With that, the railroad man pulled his pistol out, leveling it at Dutch. The other security man followed suit.

  No sooner had their pistols left the holsters than two shots rang out from the rooftop of a nearby building. The Martin Hale guards dropped to the ground, dead.

  "Stupid. I told you not to pull that pistol," Dutch said. "You should have listened to me." He turned and waved his hand at the three bikers concealed on the rooftop a short distance away, giving them the all clear.

  Staring speechlessly at the dead Martin Hale guards on the ground, Kenny felt his tunnel vision close to an even tighter field of vision in front of him. A feeling of disbelief took hold of him. This couldn't be happening. There had to be some kind of mistake. He'd felt this same feeling of anxiety and dislocation when the EMP hit. He had to get a grip on himself and deal with the situation, but things were happening too fast, he couldn't process it all. Where was Sarah? Was she still alive?

  Chapter 6

  Andrew was in a frantic state. His fists were clenched into tight balls and his eyes darted about nervously as if he expected the Martin Hale security men to rise from the dead and seize him. Andrew stammered, unable to get a complete sentence out. It was hard to believe this was the same strong, dependable young man that left Wheeler with the caravan weeks ago. He was a complete wreck.

  "Whoa. Take a deep breath. Slow down and start from the beginning," Dutch said, setting his hand on Andrew's shoulder.

  Dutch led him to a shady spot beneath a tree and shooed away the crowd that had gathered, encouraging Andrew to continue with his story. "You're all right now, Andrew. We won't let them take you. You're safe. Go ahead and tell us what happened."