To have come this far only to be hung, he couldn’t believe this was happening. His life with Amy and his boys flashed before his eyes. His heart pounded in his chest and his mind raced, looking for a way out of the situation.
Shane walked forward and grabbed the reins of Jack's horse, leading the horse away.
"You know, Jack, I'm glad I didn't shoot you. I like the look on your face right now. This is the first time I've heard you shut that trap of yours. Got nothing to say, huh? Oh, and by the way. Your friend, Wyatt? I shot him. Right in the guts. He's not too smart, that one," Shane said.
Shane led Jack's horse further away and the saddle slipped out from underneath of his feet.
He hung from the neck, his body weight cinching the noose tight.
Stars appeared in his vision.
He spluttered. Choked. Kicked and thrashed about wildly. Jerked his arms about behind his back, but the ropes held.
His lungs felt like they would burst, desperate for air, burning like there were red hot coals stuffed inside his chest.
Air!
Air!
He kicked his legs out with all his might, madly running in place in midair.
And then, darkness.
Chapter 15
The stone walls of the church were ablaze with orange and red light as the sunset beamed through the undamaged sections of stained glass window. The colors playing on the wall resembled flames and lent a hellish appearance to the church. Blood spatter on the pews, a dead body on the floor, and the clouds of cigarette smoke that hung in the air completed the illusion that the church had descended to the lowest levels of the underworld.
A cigarette hung from Roy's mouth and he exhaled a large cloud of smoke into the air. The usual tension was gone, and well as his well-practiced bitter expression. He looked down on Wyatt with something that resembled concern.
It wasn't an expression Chief Howell had ever seen on Roy's face. It seemed that even the lowest of the low had some sympathy left, if only for their own kin.
"You can't smoke that in here. This is the house of God," the pastor said, outraged.
Roy blew a stream of smoke in the pastor's direction. "I'll take it outside and smoke it if you like, but only if you come with me. Is that what you want to do, preacher man?" Roy asked.
"Roy. Get that cigarette out of my face. It stinks like hell," Wyatt said, waving his hand in front of his face.
"Do you want one?" Roy asked.
Wyatt gave a quiet chuckle. "I quit smoking."
Roy squinted his eyes and leaned his head forward in disbelief. "No, seriously?"
Wyatt raised his eyebrows and said nothing.
"What the-- Wyatt, you quit smoking? Is that why you've been such an asshole since you got back in town? When did you quit?" Roy asked.
Wyatt coughed. "I quit after Momma passed."
"I'll be damned," Roy said. "I knew there was something different about you."
Roy lifted Wyatt's shirt and looked at the wound in his side, grimacing. "Sure you don't want one, Wyatt? It’ll probably take the edge off."
Wyatt grunted at him.
Roy waved an unlit cigarette in front of Wyatt's face, dragging it right under his nose. "What's the matter? Afraid of lung cancer?"
Wyatt coughed, unable to suppress a laugh. Wincing from the pain, he snatched the cigarette out of Roy's hand and stuck it in between his lips. "Give me a lighter, you asshole."
Roy held the flame underneath the tip of Wyatt's cigarette, and the cherry glowed bright red as Wyatt inhaled.
After a long draw, he blew out a large cloud of smoke, followed by a deep cough. "Oh God that's good."
"Bud," Wyatt said, lifting himself up onto an elbow. "Come over here. I've got something to say to the both of you."
Howell got up and moved quickly past the stained glass window, ducking down behind a stone column next to Wyatt. He sat as far away from Roy as he could manage without exposing himself to gunfire from the windows. Now that he was closer, Wyatt looked as pale as a ghost, and his lips were tinged blue. The wound had nearly bled him dry.
"How are you holding up, Wyatt?" he asked.
"That doesn't matter now. I'm won't be walking out of here no matter what happens. I am under no illusions about that." Wyatt looked over at Roy, then back at him, a serious look on his face.
"I've got something important to say that needs to be said. I don't want either one of you to interrupt me. It's my dying wish. There is a lot of history between the three of us, a lot of hate. A long time ago a terrible thing happened and it tore this town apart. I lost a son. Chief Howell... Bud, you were my best friend in the world and you killed my son. And my son killed Buddy, your son. Roy, your boy went to state prison, but you can't be certain he's dead. Hell, locked away safe behind the concrete walls of a prison might have been one of the best places to be after the EMP hit. I have a feeling he is still alive.
"Roy, we've got to own up to what happened. Our boys were doing something they shouldn't have been doing. You can't act blameless in this. It was through you that the boys were introduced to a life of drugs and crime. That's on you.
"Chief Howell, your son died doing his job. It’s a risk every lawman takes when he puts on that badge and walks out the door. He was a brave young man, and I'm sorry he's gone.
"I forgive both of you. I forgive you, Chief, for killing my son. I forgive you, Roy, for leading my son down the path that led to his and your own son's destruction," Wyatt said.
Wyatt flicked the long ash off of his cigarette and took one last puff, grinding the butt out on the stone wall of the church. His eyes rolled up and his head dipped forward for a moment. With a shake of his head he seemed to recover.
"Here's my last wish. I want you both to take a look around you. There are people in this room that need your help. Innocent people that don't deserve to die. You two have the power to let go of the past and deal with the present. Help each other. The world has gone to shit. We can't afford to pick and choose who we work with any more. This is about survival - your survival and the survival of all the people in this room, and all the people in this town. If you continue to work alone each of you is going to get killed.
"Chief, I hate to break it to you, but there are far worse people out there than Roy. Roy, as much as you may hate Chief Howell you have to admit he is committed to this town. There are people out there right now that want to kill the both of you. What's that saying? The devil you know is better than the devil you don't. Right? You have to work together to overcome this problem. Now I've said my peace. Let go of your anger and resentment of each other and save this town. Do me the respect of not arguing about it until I'm dead. Give me the illusion of hope," Wyatt said.
Chief Howell looked away, unable to hide the tears welling up in his eyes. What Wyatt was asking of him was impossible. The thought disgusted him. These bikers were animals, especially Roy. It was Roy's influence that led to the incident that cost each of them their sons in the first place. Roy corrupted his son, who in turn corrupted Wyatt's son, which lead to the shooting of his own son. Roy turned the boys into one of his own kind, feeding their minds with his bad attitude and their bodies with drugs. Three lives destroyed, just by him.
He had to do something to get them out of this situation, but working with Roy just wasn't on the table. He got up and stalked across the room, snatched the sniper rifle off the floor and moving behind a stone pillar. He checked the magazine. Not many rounds left.
He could do this his damn self. He didn't need Roy's help or the help of his gang.
Laying down flat on the floor, he crawled over to the window and brought the rifle up to the lip of the window, slowly getting up onto his knees in a shooting position. He peered through the scope, eyeballing the rooftop of the department store where the snipers were perched but was unable to locate their positions.
Hot fire tore through the meaty part of his upper arm just below the shoulder. He dropped down to the ground and put his back to the stone wall. The
three snipers were well concealed. There was no way he could get the drop on them. They had overwhelming firepower and a superior position. It was impossible to escape. He couldn't do this alone.
Wyatt slumped to the side suddenly and lay unmoving on the floor.
"Wyatt! Wyatt!" Roy yelled, pulling at his brother. Roy rolled him over and grabbed him by the shirt, shaking him vigorously in a vain attempt to wake him. Wyatt remained still. Roy then leaned down and put his face into his brother's chest, openly weeping.
The church was silent except for the sounds of Roy's grief as he clung to his dead brother.
All of the eyes in the church were on him, some of them sympathetic, others fearful. It was an understandable reaction. Roy was unpredictable, hostile, and aggressive even at the best of times.
Several moments passed and Roy lifted his head, sat up, and lit a cigarette. He turned his scowl to the people in the room and his gaze ended up on Chief Howell.
"Well, Chief," he said. "Wyatt's dead. I guess I can speak my mind now. I'd sooner burn in hell than help you."
He returned Roy's scowl with a hard look of his own. "At least we can agree on something."
"I know you two have your differences. But Wyatt was right. We need to work together to help each other. This is our time of need," the pastor said.
The only need he had was the need for a drink. It was an irresistible pull. He pulled the flask out of his pocket and tilted it up, sinking when nothing came out. His hands shook badly and he fumbled with the cap as he tried to return the flask to his pocket.
"Boy, Chief. Look at those hands shake. You really are a hard drinking man, aren't you?" Roy asked, sneering.
The expressions the pastor and townspeople in the room wore showed their obvious disgust at his weakness.
"Do you think this is the best time to be drinking, Chief?" the pastor asked.
"To hell with all of you. What do I care what you think? I've given this town everything, my son's life included. I'm past caring what any of you think. Besides, me having a drink is the least of your problems right now, don't you think?" he asked.
Dutch, the grey haired biker, stood up and angrily flicked his cigarette butt across the room. "That's enough out of both of you," he said, switching his glare back and forth between Roy and the Chief. "You two keep going like this and we'll all die here. Roy, you're a good friend, but I've listened to you whine and bellyache about Chief Howell for too long. As for you, Chief Howell, what's the matter with you? You're supposed to protect these people. Do what you've got to do and get it done. This isn't the time to ride your high horse. Do you see that woman over there?" he asked, pointing at one of the people sitting in the pews.
He looked over at the frightened elderly lady. She clasped her shirt and looked nervously between him and Dutch.
"She's a mother of one of our guys. He's across the street right now probably worried sick about her. Whether you like it or not the motorcycle club is part of this town. It always has been. We've got family here and we care what happens to the people that live here. So help us do something about it. Both of you,” Dutch implored. At the end of his lecture he threw his hands up in the air, unable to contain his apparent frustration.
"Even if we wanted to help him, we couldn't. What kind of weapons do we have in the club? We've got handguns and a couple of shotguns. Nothing that will help us against those guys out there. They've got some serious firepower up on that roof," Roy said.
"Is it rifles you need? Surely you have rifles in the police station, Chief? Why can't we get those?" Father Eisenbach asked.
"Look at where the police station is and then take a look down the street at where those snipers are. We would be cut down in an instant if we tried to get them. Besides, even if we had the rifles I don't have anybody left to shoot them. They killed my deputies," he said.
"What about them?" the pastor asked, gesturing towards the bikers.
He stared at the pastor long and hard, just to let him know how foolish his question was. "You want me to put rifles into the hands of these animals?"
Roy threw his head back and laughed.
Dutch shook his head angrily and tossed his cigarette to the floor, stomped it out under the heel of his boot.
"You know what? To hell with both of you. I'll go get us some guns if you two aren't going to do anything but sit here and bitch about each other." Dutch grabbed one of the younger bikers sitting next to him by the arm, pulling him to his feet. "Come on. We can make a run for the MC and get some guns."
"Grab us a bottle while you're over there. The Chief looks like he needs a drink. I sure as hell could use one," Roy said.
"Oh, damn it. Don't go out there yet. Wait a minute and I'll cover you," Chief Howell said, taking up a position behind the pews. He couldn't get a clean shot at the snipers but he could make them keep their heads down while Dutch and the young biker ran across the street to the motorcycle club.
"Ready?" Dutch asked.
"Go." He lined his sights up with the rooftop where the snipers were and let loose a round. He waited a few seconds and then took another shot.
A bullet tore into the pew next to him sending a shower of splinters into the air. He ducked down and rolled away down the aisle. Through the broken window he could see that Dutch and the young biker had made it across the street.
The elderly woman in the pews looked across the street, a mixture of concern and fear on her face.
The mother of one of the bikers. How it had escaped him that some of the people here might have sons and daughters that were part of the club. Had he been blind this whole time? He had an obligation to save these people, but at the same time, how could he work with Roy? The man who directly contributed to the death of his son? Would putting guns in the hands of the bikers be the solution to their problems or the beginning of a new set of problems? It was a hard decision, and a decision he couldn't make lightly.
Chapter 16
A distant and faraway voice filtered down to him through the darkness, rousing him out of the deepest depths of sleep. The voice said something to him, something he knew he should understand but couldn't quite grasp. Nothing made sense. He went towards the voice, surprised at the sensation of pain that grew as he drew nearer to the voice. He passed the point of no return, pulled towards the light and away from the dreamy depths.
"Dad! Dad! Wake up," the voice called.
Dad. That was him. Or at least he thought so. The pain grew stronger and he felt something resisting him, something stopping him from reaching full awareness. He fought against the desire for rest and sleep and became aware of the force around his neck. It was like a python around his neck, tightly coiled and squeezing the life out of him, resisting his attempts to draw a breath.
"Dad! Come on. Wake up, we have to get out of here," the voice said urgently.
He sucked in a deep breath and gave a raw, dry cough. The breath pained him and yet scratched the itch he couldn't place. He smashed his eyelids shut against the harsh sunlight beyond.
He knew the name of the voice calling him, shaking him, and pulling him from the darkness. Kenny!
Jack struggled to open his eyes, fighting against his own body that seemed to rebel against every action. As he opened his eyes the light sent searing pain straight into his brain. The bright white light blinded him. His neck was in pain and didn't feel like it was in the right place, somehow, disjointed and strained. A ring of fire burned around his throat, the flesh within bruised and tender.
Jack tried to speak, but nothing came out but a dry whisper and more pain as he swallowed.
"Dad! You're alive!" Kenny said.
"Water," he said in a raspy voice.
Memories came flooding back into his mind. Hanging from the tree. His legs kicking of their own volition, strangled and choking as he dangled with the rough cord around his neck. A shiver went down his spine at the memory of being hung from the tree and he pushed himself up so he could look around, fearful that his hangman was
still near. The thought of being strung up a second time terrified him and left him shaking with fear.
"Dad, are you ok? Here, drink this," Kenny said, lifting a bottle of water to his lips.
The water was cold and soothed his angry, raw throat. The inside of his mouth was beyond dry. It felt like he'd swallowed a cup of hot lava.
"Shane. Where... Shane?" he asked.
"He's right there. Out cold. I hit him in the back of the head with a rock. We have to go, Dad. He's still alive," Kenny said.
"How did you find me? How did you know I was here?" Jack asked.
"When they took you into town I watched from the woods. I followed where the lantern light went. They took you right back to the same schoolhouse they had me in. I was going to sneak back in and break you out. I figured they would never expect anyone to sneak into town and try to break someone out twice in the same night. So I snuck back in but they had two men in the room with you the whole time. I couldn't get you out. Before dawn I snuck back out of town. In the morning they took you to the courthouse. After you didn't come out for a while, I was about to leave and get help, but then I saw those two men taking you away. I didn't know what they were going to do to you so I followed them. I don't know where Shane came from. He must have already been here waiting for you to pass by. I heard him shoot the two guards and then I snuck up behind him while he was busy hanging you and hit him over the head with a rock."
"Thank you, Kenny. You've saved my life, but please don't risk your life again to save mine."
Kenny nodded and smiled.
He knew that Kenny would do the same thing again no matter what he promises he tried to hold him to. He couldn't scold his son for having a strong moral compass.
He sipped down more of the cold water through his swollen throat and got back on his feet. With a good deal of effort he walked over to Ed's body and took the rifle from his hands, and then walked over to where Shane lay next to an oak tree.
Jack kept his rifle aimed at Shane's limp body and rolled him over onto his back to see if he was still alive. He poked at Shane's closed eyelid with the end of the barrel, but got no reaction. The man's chest rose and fell slightly, meaning he was alive but unconscious.
EMP Aftermath Series (Book 2): Desperate Measures Page 10
