by AJ Powers
He pulled out one of the bottles and handed it over to Clay. “Should be full,” he said.
Clay was dumbstruck. Why would this man give up his own private stash for a complete stranger?
“Go on,” Shelton said, shaking the bottle slightly. The sound of the pills bouncing around the plastic container was a heavenly sound to Clay’s ears.
Clay took the bottle and saw it was Penicillin, another name he was familiar with. “Thank you,” Clay said with a weary voice. “Here,” he said as he started to pull his gun sling over his shoulder. “Take this.”
Shelton grabbed Clay’s hand and gently pushed his arm down, lowering the sling back over his shoulder. “That won’t be necessary. As you can see, I am quite situated with firearms,” he said as he waved his hand towards the open safe. “The good Lord has been kind to us during these bleak years. I wouldn’t feel right making you pay in your time of need.”
Clay was speechless. He noted the stark contrast between this man and Watson, who just yesterday was attempting to rake him over the coals. The thought of Watson made Clay want to be angry, but Shelton’s act of generosity quickly diluted the fury. Still unable to speak, Clay just looked at the man with glassy eyes and a smile.
“You’re welcome,” Shelton said, not needing to hear the words.
Clay gave Shelton the 25 pounds of venison he had planned on trading for the medicine. At first, Shelton declined. But once Clay explained that the meat would likely spoil before he returned home and he would rather it be put to some good use in Liberty, Shelton graciously accepted.
Clay walked out of the house and made his way to the front gates. He was tempted with Shelton’s offer to let him rest for a few hours before heading back home, but Clay couldn’t allow himself to rest. Not until he returned home with the medicine.
Hindsight is 20/20, though. The journey was taking considerably longer than he had planned. Even though his mind was racing, his body was beyond fatigued and night had ambushed him. Having checked his gear before departing Liberty, he knew that he didn’t have the means to face onslaught after onslaught like he did the night before. The best option—the only option—was to seek shelter. An apartment just above a small corner store about a half mile off the highway would do.
Clay was up at least every hour checking on the time, eager to get back on the move. Each time he woke up, his mind would terrorize him with images of Charlie lying in a pool of blood, crying for help. Inevitably, his train of thought led him back to Watson. How could he have done such a thing?
He sat up and arched his back, trying to stretch his muscles out. Though the bed was soft and comfortable, Clay had grown accustomed to sleeping on a hard mattress that was several years past its prime. He continued to work out some tightness for a few minutes before he got out of bed.
It was around 5:30 and still dark outside, but there was a glint of light pouring over the horizon that no doubt would evolve into a beautiful sunrise, even if diffused by an everlasting layer of ash suspended in the atmosphere.
He leaned over and hoisted his pack up onto the bed and began to unzip some pockets. He blindly felt around until he was able to find some food. It was stale and nearly devoid of all flavor, but it would provide him with some much needed fuel for the rest of his journey.
The food made his mouth feel dry, so he unscrewed the lid to a bottle of water and downed the remaining contents. He was about four hours from home, so dehydration wasn’t really a concern. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and tossed the disposable plastic bottle onto the bed. He slung his pack over his shoulders, grabbed his rifle, and was on his way.
It was just bright enough outside to see the body in the middle of the road. It was about a hundred feet away, and to the best of Clay’s recollection, it had not been there when he arrived the night before. The bedroom he stayed in was right next to the street. He hadn’t slept heavily and would have heard a commotion outside. Did this person just collapse and die in the middle of the road? Or was this one of the many tricks the Screamers used to lure unsuspecting victims into their web of brutality? Clay observed the body from a distance—from the looks of it, a middle aged woman—and determined she was dead. The urgency to get home overpowered his curiosity, and he walked the opposite direction keeping a tight grip on his rifle.
Shortly before noon, he could see home. Even though it was visible to everyone within several miles, it had always been a safe haven for the family. There were always the random scavengers poking and prodding, but the mere sight of a man holding a battle rifle sent any nosey strangers scurrying like cockroaches when a light turned on. Now. Clay thought, it’s over. The tower, a once cogent fortress, seemingly impenetrable by any opposing forces, had fallen.
Clay began to wrack his mind for reasons why Watson would attack. He still couldn’t even know for sure Watson did know. After all, he was something of a mayor of the town, but that didn’t mean people living there wouldn’t run off and do their own thing. Watson certainly had some unflattering qualities about him, but was he the type to send a group to attack a family just trying to survive? Despite his wishes, Clay couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Those thoughts led to a difficult question: how did those men know where they lived? It was possible it was just a coincidence; it wasn’t like they lived in an underground bunker in the middle of the desert. They were in an area that regularly had others coming through. Clay felt sick as he started to speculate.
Was Kelsey Involved?
He could come to terms with the idea of Watson sending a group of armed men to his house. What he couldn’t grasp was Kelsey telling Watson where they lived. There had to be another explanation, something he was missing. The more he dwelled on the thought, the more anxious Clay became. His stomach was in knots, and the mere thought of Kelsey’s betrayal wrenched his gut like a vice.
He quickened his pace as he turned onto his street. He made a beeline for the building—no use in the cloak and dagger games anymore—they wouldn’t be there much longer anyhow. He went in through the garage and made a mental note to secure the door later. The lock was damaged beyond repair, and he would need to find another one to replace it.
By the time he reached the top floor, he was gasping for air like a fish out of water. The physical and emotional toll that had been hammering his body over the last two days was nothing short of catastrophic. The fact he made it all the way up without stopping was impressive. Before he could knock, he heard the door creak open, a rifle muzzle the first thing coming through.
“Who goes there?” a young voice hissed from the other side.
“It’s Clay,” he said, gasping for air between each word.
The door slowly opened, and Blake was on the other side holding Charlie’s rifle; the bloodied stock still had a slight sheen to it. He did his best to hide his emotion, but he was never really good at acting.
“Is Megan with Charlie?” Clay asked, straight to the point.
“She’s in her room,” Blake replied then closed the door, immediately locking it up.
Clay walked briskly down the hall towards the lobby. He reached into his pack and pulled out the antibiotics, glancing at the label but unable to understand much of the text. Megan would know how to make the most of it. Or at least he hoped.
He walked up to her door and had already started to talk. “I got it!” he said excitedly. “It’s not what you said would be best, but it was the only…”
He saw Megan sitting in the bed with a tissue in her hand. She looked up at him with eyes that had no more tears to shed.
Clay immediately dropped to the floor. “No!”
Chapter 26
“You can’t keep avoiding this conversation, Jake.” Jeremy said sternly.
“I don’t see why you are so upset,” Watson replied. “The attack didn’t really concern you.”
“It doesn’t concern me?” Jeremy shot back angrily. “I am the head of security for this community. You don’t think something like this
is worth mentioning to me?”
Watson walked across the room and pulled a bottle of booze off a shelf behind his desk. He sat down in the chair and began to pour the whiskey into a glass that was already on his desk; he had several more off to the side. Watson tilted the bottle towards Jeremy in an effort to calm him down.
“No, thank you,” Jeremy said with an edge in his voice.
“Have a seat, Jeremy,” Watson said gesturing to a chair on the other side of the desk.
Jeremy reluctantly complied and took a few deep breaths while Watson pounded back his liquor. “Look,” Jeremy said with a much calmer tone, “you put me in charge of security here at the ranch. While my responsibility lies within the boundaries of your property, factors from the outside effect how I do my job.”
Watson didn’t debate his point. Instead he popped the top off the bottle and refilled his glass. “I’ve sent Silas and his men out on many raids in the past without saying anything to you. What’s got your panties in such a twist this time?”
Jeremy shook his head. “This is not like the other times. For starters, you’ve mostly gone after groups we’ve observed from afar, not people with a direct connection to our town, let alone someone we’ve traded with here at the ranch!” he raised his voice, but quickly calmed himself down before continuing. “And secondly, you’ve never gone after someone with the kind of firepower Clay has. Someone like him could inflict a lot of damage on our community if he ever had a reason to. And Jake, you just gave him a really good reason.”
“And you think he knows it was us?” Watson asked.
Jeremy was amazed at Watson’s naivety at times. “Well, the fact that he left without saying a word and without the medication he was willing to give up his rifle for,” he paused for a second to let things sink in. “Yeah, I’d say the chances are pretty good, Jake.”
Watson stood up, his imprint on the chair faded away as the cushion gasped through the worn leather. He walked over to a large bay window that stretched from floor to ceiling and looked out towards the gate. The sun was setting, casting a swath of dull colors across the sky. He sipped on his drink and stood in silence as he had made a habit to do each night.
“I didn’t tell you where Clay lived just so you could storm the palace and pillage anything of value,” Jeremy added.
“So why did you tell me?” Watson asked.
“It’s my job to report any pertinent information to you. Clay had,” he stopped to correct himself, “has the potential to be a security risk to the community. In the event he became aggressive, you would have the necessary information to retaliate. I just didn’t think we would be the aggressor.”
Watson downed the rest of his glass and returned to his desk to pour one last drink before putting the bottle next to the others on the shelf. It was the same bottle Clay had given to him as a peace offering. The irony was not lost on Watson.
“So, why did you follow them anyway?” Watson asked as he walked back to the window.
Jeremy knew Watson was just trying to make him uncomfortable and redirect the conversation. He remained silent.
“Was it because he stole your girl?” Watson said as he stared out the window. He could see Jeremy shift awkwardly in his chair in the reflection of the window. “Of all people, I didn’t expect you to be so upset about this. Heck, if Silas hadn’t been so incompetent, your competition would no longer be in the way.”
Watson had succeeded in making Jeremy uncomfortable…and angry. Despite the age difference, Jeremy did have feelings for Kelsey. Strong feelings. And it was true that he really didn’t like Clay all that much, if for no other reason than Kelsey seemed infatuated with him but that wouldn’t justify what had happened.
“Listen, Jeremy. I do apologize that I didn’t fill you in on this one. I really thought Silas and his men would handle things more…professionally.”
“Silas is an idiot!” Jeremy snapped.
Watson shrugged, “If you’re looking for an argument on that one, you’re gonna have to find someone else.”
“I mean, for crying out loud, he shot a kid!” Jeremy added.
“The kid shot one of his men, first,” Watson fired back.
“Any person with a shred of humanity would have retreated at that point. They were on that boy’s property, all of them armed. Wouldn’t you have shot too if you were in that kid’s shoes?”
Watson turned away from Jeremy and looked back out the window. Darkness had overtaken the colors in the sky as the sun became obscured by the horizon.
Jeremy wasn’t finished with the verbal lashing. “And Jay wasn’t the only one to die, was he? Because Silas doesn’t know when to back down, Taylor and Sullivan didn’t come back either, did they?”
As if Jeremy hadn’t spoken, Watson continued to gaze out the window in silence. He wasn’t happy that the situation had unraveled so chaotically. Silas wasn’t an idiot so much as he was a monster, he thought. Still, if what Jeremy was saying was true, Watson and the rest of the town could be at risk.
With a deep sigh, Watson gulped down the rest of his drink and turned back to look at Jeremy. “So, what do you suggest we do now?”
Jeremy’s solution would be to personally hand Watson over to Clay and let nature take its course. Obviously, that was not the type of advice Watson was seeking, so he just shrugged his shoulders. The only type of resolution Watson wanted to hear ended up with Clay on the losing end of a gunfight.
Jeremy did not like Clay, but his reasons were truly unfounded. The fact was, Clay was a decent man. Even when he threatened Watson, Jeremy didn’t really blame him. Watson is holding Kelsey and her daughter as prisoners in a sense. If he had been in Clay’s shoes, he probably would have done the same thing. In his position on the ranch, Jeremy could have helped Kelsey and Dakota escape numerous times but opted not to for his own selfish reasons. A sense of self-loathing flooded his mind at that moment.
“Well?” Watson asked.
“Pray he doesn’t retaliate.”
Numb. It was the only word that described Clay’s state of mind. Even he wasn’t sure if he was filled with anger or sorrow, rage or despair. His mind would abruptly trigger random memories for split seconds at a time, like a scene from a horror film designed to startle the viewer’s every sensation. It was terrifying, yet strangely calming, which added to the anxiety.
The ranch was already visible in the distance; sporadic candlelit windows in the twilight of the evening made the makeshift town easy to spot from afar, like metropolitan cities seen from earth’s orbit. The fading light in the sky gave Clay a sense of invisibility. He was further concealed by the nearly waist-high grass he was walking through. His eyes were fixed on the small town a few miles ahead, but his mind focused on just one individual.
He reached a small cluster of trees just off the dirt road leading to the ranch’s entrance. He was about 200 yards from the gate. He rested against the trunk of one of the trees and kept his eyes focused on Watson’s house. The windows were dark. Clay would wait. Wait all night, if he must.
As his breathing returned to normal from his hike, he searched for a prime position amongst the group of trees. It didn’t take long before he discovered a large split in a sapling at just the right height. He glanced through the scope and had a clear line of sight to Watson’s house, which at that point, was almost entirely veiled in darkness.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a box of cartridges. The bullets were some of the more expensive back in the day. Known for powder accuracy to one-tenth of a grain and hand-inspected bullets, the ammo was what both competitive shooters and law enforcement used. Long ago, Clay had decided not to use it until he ran out of reloads and lower quality factory ammo; it seemed like a shame to waste such precision on a hunt when his own loads did the trick just fine. However, Clay decided that should such a need arise, he would use them instead of the reloads. Now was the time.
Clay opened the bolt and slid the cartridge into the chamber. As quietly as he coul
d, he closed the bolt and was ready to fire. He really missed having a magazine, especially given his present situation. Even though he suspected he would only be able to get one shot off anyway, at least having the option to quickly cycle and make a follow-up would give him some peace of mind. With only one bullet and no time to chamber another, there would be no room for error. His aim must be true.
He rested the rifle in the splitting tree trunk and waited, staring at the silhouette of the old farmhouse contrasted against the dim sky.
A few minutes later, a large window on the second floor illuminated brightly, exposing Watson and Jeremy as they engaged in a heated discussion. Clay observed patiently as they bickered back and forth. Watson sat down and poured a drink. No surprise.
Seeing the old man again stirred a fury of emotions inside. Though he couldn’t be entirely certain that Watson authorized such aggression towards his family, Clay knew in his gut that he was involved. And that was all the evidence he needed.
Then, as if fate had tapped Clay on the shoulder and said “You’re welcome,” Watson stood up and walked over to the window, his body almost directly facing Clay. He stood there with a drink in his hand while Jeremy continued to vent. Even though the Scout’s scope had a low magnification, Clay was sure that he could not have been given an easier shot than what was presented right in front of him.
He estimated Watson’s house was another 100 yards past the gate, so he guessed it would be around a 300 yard shot. For a human sized, generously backlit target, Clay was confident he wouldn’t miss. He put the crosshairs towards the top of Watson’s chest, just below his neck, to account for slight bullet drop. He tightened his grip on the rifle and moved his finger to the trigger.
He froze.
Clay began to tremble as his body wrestled with his conscience to squeeze the trigger. Just do it, you coward! He deserves to die! Clay thought to himself. Yet, he was no closer to pulling the trigger than he was before, nor was he any further away. He was in a deadlocked game of moral tug of war.
