As he entered the woods he caught sight of Chief Howell, mounted on his horse and shooting at their pursuers.
Jack pedaled along the trail in the woods which led back to the railroad track several hundred yards up the mountain. He kept going until it felt like his heart would burst in his chest from the exertion.
Chief Howell came up the slope at a gallop, a cloud of dust raised in the horses' wake. "Here, grab on," he said, tossing one of the tow lines to Jack.
Jack took the line and hooked it onto the bike frame, letting the mountain bike free wheel as the horse pulled it up the slope. Finally able to catch his breath, the weight of what he had just done hit him like a ton of bricks. That young man was barely older than Kenny. Really, he was just a boy.
Chapter 5
Shane Fowler's muscles flexed under his flannel shirt as he worked the forge bellows, pumping the oversized accordion-like device with long pulls of his arms. The bellows forced a steady stream of air up through a bed of coal, making the black rocks glow brightly in the dimly lit workshop. Lifting a piece of curved steel out of the bed of coals with a pair of iron tongs, he checked the color of the metal. The hot glow was just between yellow and orange, exactly the hue he was looking for. It was critical to get the steel to the right temperature before you tried to work it. Too hot and you would ruin the metal. Too cool and the metal stiffened making you work ten times harder to pound it into the desired shape.
He put the piece of steel onto the heavy anvil in the center of the shop and selected a substantial hammer from the wall. With a firm grip on the hammer, he struck the steel repeatedly, the clash of steel on steel resounding with a steady tempo. A horseshoe took shape under his skilled hands and after a few minutes of hammering the metal cooled to an orange black color. He put the horseshoe back into the forge and began to pump the billows again.
It was hard work and he was still learning as he went, but his skill level was light years from where he had started, especially since he had never had formal training as a blacksmith. Before the EMP he'd worked for the railroads replacing sections of track, and later as a lineman for the electric company. It was his railroad work that gave him a basic knowledge of working with steel, though the techniques he used here were primitive compared to the high tech methods of his former job. Pumping a bellows and feeding a coke fire was a long way away from using thermite to join two sections of track.
The work was vital, and with the way things were now, you took whatever job you could get. Never in a million years did he imagine he would be a blacksmith, but here he was. In the beginning he could barely join two pieces of steel together but he kept at it and learned the ins and outs by trial and error. Coal was plentiful in the surrounding hills, and to find scrap iron and steel you didn't have to look any further than the useless vehicles parked throughout town.
A simple enough construction, the forge and workshop had taken only a few weeks to assemble. The anvil he found in a machine workshop. The tools were the real deal, originals used by real blacksmiths from the 1800's that he found hanging on the walls inside one of the town's wealthier resident's home as mere decorations.
When the horseshoe recovered the bright orange-yellow glow he stopped working the bellows and removed it from the fire, then moved the piece back to the anvil. He selected a different hammer, one that he would use to make finer adjustments to the shape of the piece. The hammer rang out with a comforting tone. The work was hard and demanded concentration and every ounce of strength he had. You had to feel the metal out, know its characteristics, and understand how it felt between the hammer and anvil.
It was the only thing that could take his mind off his Angie. Even if it was only for a few moments, it was a relief from the constant dull ache in his heart. After she died something changed inside of him. Something had nearly snapped.
With a long pull, he pumped the bellows again, trying to exercise the memory of his dead wife from his mind with the demanding physical labor.
She was sick with the flu when they left Ohio. Everybody came down with it this year. After the EMP hit nobody was vaccinated. It was a real bad flu, too, not one of the milder strains that usually went around. High fever, chills, dehydration, body aches, and a cough that never seemed to stop. The worst of it was the congestion. People coughed and coughed, but couldn't seem to clear their chest of it. Angie had been malnourished and weak even before she got sick. Her body didn't have enough energy to kick the virus and her congestion turned into pneumonia. With no food left in their Ohio home, they made the difficult journey to her parent's home here in West Virginia.
By the time they finally arrived she was on death's doorstep. Her parents were overwhelmed with relief to see their daughter, but the joy was short lived. They too became ill. Their malnourished, elderly bodies were weak and unable to fight off the virus. He had been helpless to do anything for them. Within a week both Angie and her parents were dead.
Shane quenched the completed horseshoe in a bucket of water and set it aside with the one he made earlier in the day. Rummaging through his scrap pile, he looked for a long piece of scrap that was the right thickness to make another shoe. As he moved the metal around, a piece of iron slammed down on his knuckle, smashing his finger and drawing blood.
"Damn it!" he yelled, flinging the piece of metal across the small shop. His rage still burning hot he picked up his large smiths hammer and hurled it against the wall, knocking down the steel clamps and tongs that hung there.
The pain in his finger abated, and with it his temper. He took a deep breath and put his tools back in place on the wall, then retrieved the piece of scrap metal and shoved it into the bed of coals.
Two more horseshoes and then he would be finished with the set. Four new shoes for some lucky horse that had found useful work and kept itself out of a stewpot. After the horseshoes were done he could move on to more profitable work. Axe heads, mauls, and wedges. People who didn't have them before the EMP were now willing to trade nearly anything to get them.
A man burst through the door of his workshop, red faced and out of breath. He recognized the man as Ben Stevens, the leader of the scavenger team his son worked for. Sweat poured from his brow as he tried to slow his breathing.
"Shane, come quick. It's Todd," Ben said.
His hammer slipped from his hand and fell to the ground and his stomach rose up into his throat. He followed Ben outside as he ran across the field to a group of approaching men leading horses. Shane looked among their faces, desperate to see his Todd's face. Todd wasn't among the group of scavengers.
It was then that he noticed a body slung across the back of a horse. It was his son, Todd. Shane moved the last few steps and lifted his son out of the saddle. He sunk to the ground next to Todd and brushed his hair out of his face. Dead. How could he be dead? A black pit of despair threatened to overwhelm him. The same place he'd nearly went when his Angie passed. He couldn't go back to that place. He stood up and turned away, unable to look at his son any longer.
"What happened?" Shane asked.
Blank faces met his question and other members of the scavenging team turned their heads or looked at the ground, pretending they didn't hear him. Ben grabbed one of the men by his shoulder and shook him roughly.
"Speak, damn you!"
"We were on a scavenging run, following the railroad tracks out by Green Branch River. We found a train but ran into another group that got there first. Somebody on our crew got jumpy and started shooting. Todd was out front checking the rail cars, and he tried to stop one of the men from the other group. The man shot him and then ran off."
"Did you get them? Did you kill the one that shot Todd?" Shane asked.
"No. We caught one of them though. Judge Ramsey is meeting with some other people to decide what they should do with him."
Shane looked down at his son, etching Todd's last expression into his mind. As he looked at his lifeless eyes, something inside of him snapped. An uncontrollable rage took hold of him
. A burning need to do something about his son's death. An itch inside of him to grab hold of his son's killer and tear him to pieces.
"Where’s the man you caught?" Shane asked.
"Locked up in the old schoolhouse. David from our crew is watching him until the meeting with Judge Ramsey is over. Shane, I don't think it’s a good idea for you to--" Ben said.
Shane pushed past Ben, knocking him to the ground as he stormed off across the field heading straight for the old schoolhouse. The bitter, cold wind was unable to extinguish the fire inside him. Only the death and destruction of his son's killer would soothe this rage.
Dave sat on the steps of the old schoolhouse and looked up guiltily as he approached.
"I'm sorry about your--"
"Move. Now," Shane ordered.
Dave stood up, halfheartedly preventing him from entering the schoolhouse. "I'm not supposed to let anybody--"
Shane pulled his arm back and let loose with a haymaker. The powerful punch sent Dave tumbling down the steps.
Shane threw the double wooden doors open and then slammed them both closed behind him. He set the wooden bar into place, locking it from the inside. He looked around the dim old schoolhouse and spotted what he had come for.
A teenage boy, not much younger than Todd, was tied to a chair in the middle of the room. His mop of brown hair was dirty and tousled as if he'd been in a struggle. His chest heaved with each breath he drew, and his eyes grew wide at Shane's approach.
"Are you the one who shot my son?" Shane asked, leaning down into the boy's face. The boy reeked of fear, fueling his anger. His guilt was obvious. What did he have to hide?
"I already told the other guy. I didn't shoot anybody. I don't know anything about a shooting. I was--"
Shane raised his hand, poised to strike the boy across the face for his lies. "Don't lie to me, boy. Who shot my son? Where did you come from? Who was with you?"
The teenager sat there with his mouth hanging open. He seemed about to say something and then sealed his lips. "I'll tell you who I am and nothing else. My name is Kenny. I've already told the other man everything I have to say. Talk to him."
Shane grabbed the ropes securing Kenny to the chair and lifted both him and the chair high into the air, bringing him up to eye level.
"You're going to tell me where you came from and who shot my son. You're going to tell me right now or I'll kill you," Shane said.
Someone outside attempted to break down the doors and force their way in. They bowed inwards, creaking loudly in protest. The bar across the doors jostled slightly but stayed in place.
"Open the door right now, Shane! This isn't the way to do this," a voice said through the door.
Shane glared at Kenny and dropped him to the floor. The chair legs gave way as it impacted the floor, sending them flying across the room and Kenny into a heap on the floor. Shane crossed the room and picked up one of the broken chair legs. Whoever this boy was protecting, he'd beat it out of him.
"I don't know what happened to your son, but my dad is going to come get me. If you hurt me, he'll kill you. He's killed people before," Kenny said.
"Your father's a killer, huh? Did he do it? Is he the one that killed my son?" Shane asked.
The doors burst inward suddenly and three men poured into the room: David and Ben from the scavenging crew along with Judge Ramsey.
"What is going on here? Put that stick down," Judge Ramsey said, a scowl on her face.
"Who the hell are you to tell me what to do? That boy is one of the people that killed my son. I'm going to find out who did it and--"
"--Take the boy to the courtroom. I am ready to hear him," Judge Ramsey said.
David and Ben untied the ropes securing the young man to what was left of the chair and led him away.
Judge Ramsey turned to Shane, her face softening. "Shane, I'm sorry about your son. It is a terrible tragedy. I understand how you’re feeling right now. None of this should be happening. Things weren't supposed to turn out this way. Todd should be in school right now, playing--"
"--Are you done? Are you crazy? Telling me what my dead son should be doing?" he asked.
"Shane, I'm sorry. That's all I can say. I know it doesn't make any difference to you, but beating that boy wouldn't change a thing. Besides, I already know who he is and who the other members of his party were. Ben just described the group to me and I think I know who it was that he saw. Chief Howell, the police chief over in Wheeler is one of them. His description and gait are rather hard to mistake. The other man was Jack Miller, the father of the boy that was captured. He’s staying on the Ferguson farm with his family. As soon as Ben mentioned that one of them was missing two fingers on his left hand, I realized who it was. I met the man a couple of months ago in Wheeler while I was in town trading for some-- Well, never mind that," Judge Ramsey said.
"Where’s the Ferguson farm? I'm going to need men to go get him," Shane said.
"Shane, I'm going to ask you to stay calm and let us handle this. Jack Miller and his family are good people--"
"Good people! Good people? You're telling me good people killed my son," Shane yelled, unable to contain his rage.
He considered pushing past her and taking the captured boy, but knew it would only hold him back from what he had to do. He glared at Judge Ramsey for a moment longer, letting her feel the heat of his gaze, and then turned to head home. He needed guns, ammo, and supplies before he set out.
As he marched off, Ben and David ran up along side of him.
"Shane, wait for us. We've got your back. We're coming with you. A lot of us feel the same way," Ben said.
"Get the men together. Take only what you need. Guns, ammo, food, and horses. Be here in fifteen minutes or I'm going alone," Shane said.
"Ok. What are you going to do?" Ben asked.
Shane didn't respond, but he knew what he was going to do. His mind was bent on one task. Find Jack Miller and kill him.
Chapter 6
The homestead lay on gentle grassy slope a hundred yards ahead on the hillside. Amy was out in the back yard fetching firewood for the stove. He wasn't ready to face her yet. His heart was heavy with guilt, still torn about having to shoot the man earlier at the train. He'd killed a young man in the prime of his life over a backpack full of food meant for Danny. He knew he had to do it, but he couldn't stop the flood of emotions. He stopped his bike and pulled alongside Chief Howell.
"Did I do the right thing? I tried to get him to put the gun down but he wouldn't listen. He just stood there, scared out of his mind. Why would they send someone that young in? Why would they give him a gun and send him in after me? It’s not right to shoot someone that young. I just couldn't--"
Chief Howell held up his hand and interrupted.
"Jack, in the heat of the moment there are no grey areas. There is only black and white, right or wrong, kill or be killed. You did what you had to do. It was what anybody would have done in your situation. Think about this Jack: what if you hadn't shot him? What then? He would have shot you, and then Danny wouldn't have this backpack of food. You would die and then Danny would die. Two dead instead of one. Do you think Amy would prefer that over what happened? You have to look out for your own. You aren't responsible for that young man pointing the gun at you. You gave him a choice and he made his choice," Chief Howell said.
"I know. I understand all that. Its just that... he was so young. He was only a few years older than Kenny. He had his whole life ahead of him and it all went away with that one decision. He could have laid down his gun and let me walk away, but he did what he thought he had to do, what he thought was right. I keep thinking, what if he had been my son? What if my son were in his spot? What if he was just doing what he was told to do? What if--"
"Jack, you can't keep going over this asking yourself 'what if'. That won’t lead you to a good place. Listen to me when I tell you that I understand what you’re feeling right now. I get it, I really do. It’s a hard thing to kill a man. P
eople don't understand the weight of it until they experience it, not really."
"I've killed men who deserved it before. They were hardened criminals who left me for dead in Baltimore. I killed again when thugs tried to burn my wife and sons out of our home. I have a clear conscience about all of that. This boy was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It shouldn't have happened," Jack said.
Chief Howell bumped him on the shoulder and handed him a silver flask.
Jack tilted the flask back, savoring the burn of alcohol in his throat as it went down. A small price to pay if it would help to ease the remorse he felt.
"Have you ever had to kill someone that young?" Jack asked.
Chief Howell went silent, as if the wind had been knocked out of him. He snatched the flask of whiskey out of Jack's hand and gulped the liquid down. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and passed the flask back.
"I'm not exactly sure what Wyatt told you about his life in Wheeler before he left town and started long haul trucking. He's been gone so long I don't feel like I know him any longer. I'm not sure if I should be the one to tell you this, or if I should even speak about it at all." Chief Howell looked up at the sky, as if searching for an answer, and then shook his head sadly.
"I know what it feels like to lose a son. My boy Bud Jr., or Buddy as everybody called him, was killed when he was twenty three years old. I used to be the county Sheriff and he was one of my deputies. It was the same day that... that I shot and killed Wyatt's son," he said.
Jack did a double take, stunned beyond belief. How could this be true? Wyatt never even told him he had a son.
Chief Howell went on to tell him about the raid on the drug house and how the two former best friends came to lose their sons on the same day. He also told Jack about Roy's son, Seth, sent away to prison for distribution of narcotics and had gone missing since the EMP, and how Roy blamed the Chief for all of their family troubles. When he was done relating the story, he emptied what remained in the flask of whiskey.
EMP Aftermath Series (Book 2): Desperate Measures Page 4
