Surviving the Dead (Book 4): Fire In Winter

by James Cook

  I took a moment to assess the situation. The dining room was spacious, lined wall to wall with tables. At this time of day, customers occupied every available seat including the bar. Tom would not have much room to maneuver, which would work in Cranston’s favor. What would not work in Cranston’s favor was the tool-belt draped over the back of Tom’s chair, and the twenty-three ounce, long-handled framing hammer less than an inch from Tom’s fingers. Tom’s forearms were nearly as big as most men’s biceps, and I knew he could swing that hammer as if it weighed no more than a twig.

  “First off, Roy, your son is a bullying shit, just like you. If he got his ass beat, he probably deserved it. Second, if Brian did it, I’ll be the one to punish him and not you. Third, you had best take a step back and get your stinking liquor breath out of my face before something bad happens. You might scare these other folks around here, but I been around the block, son. You don’t impress me.”

  Cranston’s face went red. He lifted a hand, finger outstretched, intent on poking it into Tom’s chest. Tom caught his hand halfway there, calloused fingers squeezing. Roy winced and tried to pull away, but Tom’s iron grip held him in place. Even though I was standing eight feet away, I could hear Cranston’s knuckles pop.

  “That’s the last time you try to lay a hand on me, Cranston. Now do the smart thing and walk away.”

  Of course, he did not do the smart thing. He lifted a fist and swung it at Tom’s face. I stepped forward to intervene, but it was a waste of effort. Tom released Roy’s hand, ducked the punch, and fired an uppercut into Roy’s groin. The big man gasped and hunched over, mouth open, face drained of color, eyes bulging. Tom moved again, pushed Roy’s head to one side, and slammed a hammerfist into his brachial nerve. Roy’s legs went limp.

  I reached Cranston’s prone body at the same time as the owner of Stall’s tavern, my good friend Mike Stall. The lanky old cowboy pushed his hat back, hooked his thumbs in his broad leather belt, and stared down with a disgusted look on his face.

  “I tell you, Cranston, you ain’t got the brains God gave a turnip,” Mike said. “You’re about as useless as bird shit on a saddle. Gabe, help me throw this idiot out of here, will ya?”

  I helped Mike haul the half-conscious man to the door, feet dragging the ground behind us. Once outside, we took him around the back of the building and propped him against a wall. Mike placed a hand on his chest to keep him from toppling over.

  Just to be on the safe side, I bent one of his arms into the crook of my elbow and applied a wristlock. If he struggled, all it would take was a little squeeze, and Roy would be standing on tiptoe begging for mercy. When Roy’s eyes cleared enough to understand what was happening, Mike slapped him. Hard.

  “Hey, you listening?” he said.

  “Let go of me.” Roy started trying to push away from me, so I applied a little pressure to his wrist, drawing a hiss of pain. He stopped struggling.

  “Now listen here, Cranston,” Mike said. “You can’t just go storming into my place and startin’ trouble with folks. Stall’s Tavern is a family establishment, and I will not have people brawling on the dining room floor. You got that?”

  Cranston glared angrily. “That bastard’s son beat up my boy. You expect me to let that go?”

  “First of all, Tom Glover is a good man and a friend of mine, and I don’t ever want to hear you speak ill of him again. As for your unending litany of grievances with damn near everybody in town, I don’t give a rat’s ass what you do, Roy. But if you got a problem with somebody, you ain’t gonna handle it in my tavern. If somebody hurt your boy, you go take it up with the sheriff. Don’t bring that foolishness around here. Understood?”

  Cranston looked down and nodded.

  “This will not happen again, Roy. If it does, I will ban you for life. Are we clear?”

  “Yeah. We’re clear.”

  “Good. Now get on out of here, and don’t come back for a week.”

  I released Cranston and watched him stalk away on unsteady feet until was out of sight. Mike turned and looked at me.

  “I hate to say it, but he got what he deserved.”

  “Things like that have been happening a lot lately,” I replied.

  “Yes they have. I tell you, Gabe, everybody is gettin’ a little too damned comfortable around here. All the unity has about gone out of this place. Folks ain’t pulling together like they used to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You weren’t here during the Outbreak. You didn’t see how it was, then. Folks were scared to death. The end of the world was a big-ol’ shitstorm, and it was headed straight for us. People started panicking. Fights broke out. Folks started stealing from each other. It was bad. Real bad. Then the mayor called a town hall meeting and laid out her plan, and everything changed.”

  My curiosity was piqued. Elizabeth had never talked about what happened in Hollow Rock during the Outbreak, and I had never asked. I got the feeling it was a touchy subject.

  “What plan was that?”

  He held his arms out as though giving a speech. “Build a wall. Defend your homes. Stand and fight. Hold the line. That was what it boiled down to, those four slogans. She even put up signs and posters all over town, like war propaganda. I’ll be damned if it didn’t work. Got everybody all riled up about stopping the infected. That’s what holds people together in times like that, you know? Distract them, get them moving, give them something to do other than worry. It was brutal hard work building that wall, but she was out there with us every day, sweating in the sun and working herself half to death. Surprised a lot of folks when she did that. She was a big woman back then. Bet you didn’t know that, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t. She’s always seemed so fit.”

  “Hasn’t always been that way. She was what my granddaddy would have called a ‘big healthy girl’. But like I said, building that wall was damned hard work. She must have lost forty pounds in two months. Folks started worrying about her, thought she was pushing herself too hard. Didn’t stop her, though. Ain’t no quit in that woman. It’s why everybody likes her so much.”

  “Wow. I didn’t know that.”

  “She never told you?”

  “I get the impression it’s not her favorite subject.”

  Mike chuckled. “I suppose not. Those were hard times. We lost a lot of folks that first winter.”

  His smile faded, eyes growing distant. “But we’re doing better now. Got you and Eric to thank for that. I don’t believe I’ve ever said it, but you boys did a hell of a thing for this town last year.”

  I waved off the compliment. “Ah hell, it was as much self-preservation as anything else. But if really want to show your gratitude, you can clear my bar tab.”

  The old cowboy grinned and started walking toward the front of the building. “I’m grateful, Mr. Garrett, but I ain’t that grateful.”

  *****

  Back in the tavern, Tom had resumed his seat and was finishing his lunch. I stopped at his table and nodded to him. One of his employees, a brick mason named Gilroy, tossed his napkin on his plate, stood up, and motioned to his chair.

  “Go ahead and take my seat, Gabe. I got to head on back to work anyway.” I thanked him and sat down.

  “Let the guys know I’ll be along in a little while, Gil,” Tom said. “Gotta stop by the sheriff’s office and give my side of the story.”

  “Take your time,” Gilroy said, grinning. “Nice work by the way. You just did what everybody around here has wanted to do for years.”

  Tom waved him away and focused on his meal. A waitress stopped by to take Gilroy’s plate and ask if I wanted anything. I told her I would like a cup of Mike’s famous herbal tea, and no, I would not be ordering lunch. She smiled and headed for the kitchen.

  “Gilroy’s right, you know,” I said. “You handled that asshole pretty well.”

  Tom shrugged. “Cranston’s an idiot. I don’t care for fighting, but I don’t abide bullies either.”

  Altho
ugh he was trying to hide it, I could see the tremor in his hands. Not from fear, just the adrenaline dump that comes after a fight. “You okay?” I asked.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “I’ve handled worse things than Roy Cranston.”

  A memory flashed by of a stretch of highway not far from Hollow Rock, and twenty-three armed men ambushing us, disabling our vehicle, and forcing us to retreat into the woods. I remembered Tom’s face as he huddled behind a fallen log, rifle in hand, fighting for his life shoulder to shoulder with his son. By comparison, Cranston didn’t seem like too big of a deal.

  “I suppose you have.”

  He pushed a few potatoes around on his plate, mouth turning down at the corners. “I just hate it had to happen here, you know? Word will be all over town before I finish my lunch.”

  “You’re probably right. I should go with you to the sheriff’s office and give a witness statement. Make sure Roy doesn’t try to say you attacked him or something like that.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  I drank my tea while he finished his lunch, then we stopped by the bar on our way out. Mike was polishing glasses while keeping a close watch over the crowd. He knew very well how excited people get in the wake of physical violence, and sometimes that excitement can result in additional altercations. I felt sorry for the offenders if they decided to get stupid. There was a leather sap just inches from Mike’s able hands, and he had no qualms about using it.

  Tom slid his heavy tool belt across the bar. “Hey Mike, you mind holding onto this for me? I gotta go by the sheriff’s office. I’ll pick it up on my way back to work.”

  “Not a problem, my friend.” He made a small gesture, and Tom leaned closer. “I hate to ask you this, but you think you could steer clear for a few days? It might help keep the peace if you let things settle down a bit. Do you mind?”

  Tom looked sad, but shook his head. “Of course not, Mike. And I’m real sorry about all this.”

  Mike took the tool belt and stashed it under the bar. “It ain’t your fault, Tom. I appreciate you being understanding.”

  “Is it okay if I send my guys over for carry out?”

  “That’d be fine.”

  “Thanks. I’ll see you later, Mike.”

  Word had already spread to the sheriff’s office by the time we got there. I can’t say I was surprised; gossip is a favorite pastime in Hollow Rock. Sarah waited for us in the foyer, her face hard with anger.

  “Are you all right, sweetie?” she said, wrapping her arms around her husband.

  “I’m fine. You should see the other guy.”

  “Oh, believe me, I’ll be seeing him very soon. I’ve just about had it with that son of a bitch. He’ll be spending the next few days in lockup on half rations.”

  “Come on now, honey, there ain’t no need for all that. I beat him down in front of about a hundred people. I’d say he’s been punished enough.”

  Sarah didn’t looked convinced. “He’s a damn nuisance, Tom. He doesn’t appreciate how good he has it here. There are a few people around town who think the rules don’t apply to them, and Cranston is one of them. They’re about to learn the hard way what happens when you ignore the law in Hollow Rock.”

  Tom smiled and kissed his wife on the cheek. “I feel sorry for those people. I really do. You hear this woman, Gabe? This is why I stay on the straight and narrow.”

  Sarah’s eyes softened, and she punched him on the arm. “Go give the sheriff your statement, butthead. I have a citation to issue.”

  “Yes Officer Glover.”

  She broke a smile. “That’s Deputy Glover. Get it right.”

  “My apologies.”

  The sheriff took both our statements and assured Tom he’d be having a very personal, very one-sided conversation with both Roy Cranston and his son in the not too distant future.

  “What about Brian?” Sheriff Elliott asked. “Did he really get into it with Uriah?”

  Tom held up his hands. “Honestly, I don’t know. I’ll find out though, you can count on that.”

  I grimaced and held up a hand like a schoolboy. The cat was out of the bag, so there wasn’t much point in staying silent. “Actually, it’s true.”

  Both men looked at me.

  “I saw them out behind Benny’s Barbershop. Brian worked him over pretty good.”

  Tom glared. I didn’t meet his eyes. “When exactly did you plan on telling me about that?”

  “I’m sorry, Tom. I told him I wouldn’t say anything.”

  “Gabe, I know you don’t have kids, but come on. You know better than to keep something like that from me. I’m his father for Christ’s sake.”

  “I may not have kids, but I remember being a kid. I remember if you dragged grownups into a dispute, you’d never hear the end of it. Brian stood up for himself against a notorious bully. He’s a tough, brave kid, and I’m not trying to make things any harder for him than they need to be. Besides, you know how he is. He’d be eaten up with guilt for a few days over not telling you, then he would confess. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  Tom stared for another moment, then looked away. “I guess you’re right. Still, though, you can’t keep things like that from me, Gabe. I’m his father, and I have a right to know what’s going on with my son.”

  “All right, it won’t happen again. I give you my word.”

  He nodded once. “Fair enough.”

  We stopped to say goodbye to Sarah and parted ways. I sensed Tom was still unhappy with me, but didn’t try to explain myself any further. Tom isn’t one to hold a grudge for long, so I figured I would give him a few days before trying to patch things up.

  As I walked home, I thought about Allison, and Brian, and the Cranstons, and the thousand other little dramas playing out between the citizens of Hollow Rock. I thought about life in the city before the Outbreak, and how isolated it had been. When a man could live within a square mile of a hundred-thousand people, and feel completely alone.

  Most people kept to themselves, content with their computers, iPads, cellphones and the filtered, touch-free cybersphere that had replaced the simple arts of introduction and conversation. No one wanted to talk to you, and you were expected to not want to talk to them. At least not outside the social constructs set aside for such purposes.

  Even then, in bars and organized social gatherings, there was an established protocol. For example, one did not simply go to a bar alone. To do so was to incite pity, and mark oneself as socially destitute. If you wanted to attract members of the opposite sex, you had to have a minimum of one other person in your party, preferably two or more. Four seemed to be the optimum number for both men and women. If you had three wingmen, and spotted an alpha female with three pack members in tow, your chances of catching their attention were exponentially greater than attempting such a feat with any other number.

  But try to meet people outside of a bar, or a dinner party, or church, or a dating website, and people branded you with contemptible adjectives such as ‘weird’ and ‘creepy’. As though attempting to connect with another human being was a crime punishable by social excommunication. I can’t remember how many times I would walk into a coffee shop, or a restaurant, or a café, and see people, couples, even families, sitting together at tables, all of them staring at some sort of a screen, faces blank, complete silence hanging between them. I would fight the urge to stand on a table and scream, ‘For crying out loud, why don’t you just TALK to each other?’

  I always wondered what could be so interesting on those little devices it distracted people from their tragically short lives, from the thousand touches and shared moments it takes to build a marriage, or that their kids were growing up and they were missing it.

  The world was different, now. No cell phones, and very limited computer and internet access. No signs in windows emphatically declaring FREE WI-FI. People had to interact verbally, in person. When they got together at Stall’s Tavern, or the VFW hall, or a town meeting, they actually carried on conve
rsations. People who had been neighbors for years, but had never spoken, suddenly started learning about each other. Sometimes it was wonderful and exciting, and other times it bred conflict. But it always created a new relationship, for good or ill.

  The problem was, you never knew which way things were going to go.

  TWELVE

  I had the shop to myself the next morning.

  It was Miranda’s day off, and Eric was off his feet for the foreseeable future, leaving me as the only person to mind the store. Which meant instead of working out, or training with the militia, or teaching a martial arts class at the VFW hall, I got to spend the day haggling and arguing with the general public.

  I really needed to hire more help.

  As always, the store was neat and tidy when I arrived, the shelves stocked with the day’s merchandise, and the inventory logs updated. There was nothing for me to do but unlock the door, flip the sign, and wait. I had enough time to plant my butt on the stool behind the counter before the chime over the door rang, announcing the first customer of the day. Not surprisingly, it was Federal Facilitator extraordinaire, Jutaro Ishimura.

  Ishimura bounced into the store with his usual bright-eyed, smiling enthusiasm. He was quite possibly the most energetic individual I had ever met. Not in a bad way, not annoying or anything, he just always seemed to be in motion.

  “Morning, Gabe. I heard you brought in some new inventory,” he said.

  “That I did, my friend. Got some desktop computers you might want to look at. Not sure if they’re functional.”

  “That’s okay. At the very least, there’s copper wire in the fan motors. Let’s take a look.”

  I stood up and walked toward the storeroom. Ishimura was one of a very few customers I allowed back there. We proceeded to the appropriate shelf, stacked nearly to the ceiling with PC towers.

  “Holy crap,” Ishimura said. “That’s a lot of computers. Where did you find them?”

  “Come on now, Jutaro. You know I don’t divulge that kind of information. Got to protect my business interests.”