David stared, trying to gauge the man’s honesty. The farmhand didn’t waver, though. Well, it seemed, there was little to be done about it.
Move on. At least I wasn’t here to witness it, this time.
David let out a heavy breath. “Fine. How many were there?”
The farmhand scratched his head, and looked up at the sky. “Funny thing, that. There was maybe like a dozen who ran away, but my boys and girls only caught up to eight, here. They swear up and down that no one split off from the herd when they caught up, either. Who knows?”
Orien said, “They must have split off from the rest in between running from the farm and when they got caught.”
David gave the farmworker his handheld radio. Orien still had one. “Take this. I’m going to find the others. I’ll call you when I need backup, so keep it on.”
David shook the man’s hand, then headed back for the SUV. There were refugees around, still—people who knew about the goldmine of food in Weldona. He had to catch them. He only hoped he found the others before the posse did. Maybe with a uniformed cop to do the talking, a few lives could yet be saved.
47
Christine felt the afternoon heat, oppressive during what was the hottest part of the day. She felt like she was melting, and imagined herself looking like a wax statue in a fire, just a pair of sneakers and a puddle waddling down the road.
Town was small, though. She’d already stopped and chatted with two of the entry checkpoint crews, mostly to clear her head. The first, the south bridge, had been calm but alert, and had gently let her know they were busy keeping watch. Then, she had gone to the west bridge, and that one had just sent one guardsman out to intercept her and Wiley, rather than letting them approach. All was well there, too, for the moment.
So, they’d headed toward the northerly chokepoint. Along the way, Wiley had kept up a steady stream of conversation, nothing heavy, just light banter and pointing out different flowers, commenting which ones were edible and that sort of thing. Apparently, his helping Fran around the farm had sunk in, because he even recognized a couple that she hadn’t.
And, frankly, small talk was just what she had needed. Her spirits were lighter, though not light, and the outrage had faded. It had been nice of him to come along. He hadn’t had to do it, but he’d insisted. She had only known him a couple months, not even that really, but he was turning into a stalwart friend.
She smiled at the thought. Stalwart… That was a word her mother used a lot, and usually incorrectly.
After stopping by the north checkpoint, and spending a couple minutes chatting with the guards, she felt even better. The run-in with David was almost forgotten, the anger gone.
Almost like he’d read her thoughts, Wiley said, “So, you ready to head back to Fran’s, yet? You seem like you’re feeling better, and she’ll want some help getting supper ready, I’m sure. She usually does.”
“Yeah, I was about to say the same thing. Thanks for coming with me. I needed some air. I don’t really know why David ticked me off so much, but I’m better, now.”
Wiley smiled, and fell into step beside her as they shifted direction to head south again, back toward the town proper. “I know why. No one likes being told what to do, of course, but he’s a cop. They just got this attitude, like everyone took an oath to obey them or something. It’s not his fault, though. It just comes with the badge, I think.”
They made their way down County Road 10, steps raising little clouds of dust, toward where pavement began on creatively-named County Road Y. The only reason that had been paved was that it passed Weldon Valley School, though the little two-story elementary school was obscured by a big group of trees that marked a few houses clustered together. The smell of hay grew strong as they approached two long rows of bales, which had been stacked along the length of the road before a remote, yet in-town, farmhouse.
All the while, Wiley kept up a running banter about bees and mice, with some off-color humor thrown in, that kept Christine smiling.
“…and then, I don’t want to know what the mouse does with the stinger, but—” Wiley stopped, mid-joke.
As something hard stopped her in her tracks, Christine looked down, confused. Wiley had put out his arm, halting her. She looked up at him, still confused until she saw him staring hard at something. The look on his face bore no resemblance to the calm, friendly man she’d come to know. It was scary, even.
She followed his gaze, and then her heart skipped a beat. Two men were walking out from behind the hay bale row, where it ended just up ahead. One carried a bat. The other, a chunk of two-by-four lumber.
Scuffing behind her made her glance over her shoulder. Two more, unarmed, were approaching them from behind, from the tail end of the hay bale row. “Oh, crap.”
Wiley said, almost in a whisper, “Yup. Got ’em.” Then, on the arm he held across her shoulders, he gripped her shirtsleeve, and wrenched her back. He walked backward, pushing her back as well, until they reached the dirt road’s far side. As a result, he’d maneuvered them into a position where he stood between her and the four approaching men, with the unarmed ones to his right, the armed ones to his left.
Flanking him. Should I run?
She looked over her shoulder. Nothing but empty field stood behind her, and they’d surely run her down, if she tried. Dammit, why had she left Fran’s pistol in her bag, back at the house? Well, because she’d felt safe in town. And now because of that, she might never see her kids again. “Crap,” was the only thing she could think to say.
“I got ’em,” Wiley repeated, putting extra emphasis on the middle word. His tone was confident, his face never turning away from the four approaching strangers.
Louder, Wiley said, “This is a private conversation, gentlemen. Best you leave, I think.”
His tone sent a shudder down Christine’s arms. Something about the way he said it, his confidence—or was it resignation? Either way, he wasn’t backing down—and he wasn’t leaving her behind, though she felt pretty sure he could have outrun her, leaving her as the slower distraction for the four…
The four men didn’t reply, though the one with the baseball bat grinned. They continued approaching Wiley. She saw that bat-man had tattoos crawling up his neck, the tail of a snake or something even sticking out onto his left cheek a bit. Two wore jeans and t-shirts. The last, with the lumber chunk, wore slacks and a white button-down shirt, sans tie, with his sleeve cuffs rolled up.
Tattoo said, “You fuckers killed my cousin. You’re gonna pay in blood.” He pointed the bat tip at the house behind him. “Then, they gon’ pay, too. And when I tell the boss what you done, well, I just hope you ain’t got no family in town. If you do, you won’t for much longer.”
Wiley didn’t reply. He merely repositioned himself so that he more fully stood between Christine and Tattoo.
And as much as Christine begged, in her mind, for them to keep talking, no one said another word. They just kept coming.
48
Time slowed to a crawl. Wiley’s heart beat like a hammer, thumping inside his chest. A drop of sweat tickled his left temple, but it wouldn’t hit his eye, he was pretty sure. The sun, behind him, glinted off the aluminum bat carried by the idiot swinging it over his head like a damn lumberjack, not as if he could really see Wiley with the low evening sun right in his eyes—which was why Wiley had backed Christine where he had, of course.
And then, everything sped up. Wiley stepped into the bat’s arc and lunged; the bat guy could never hope to block anything while swinging the bat like that. It whistled harmlessly overhead, the man’s forearms colliding with Wiley’s shoulder.
Wiley thrust his palm heel into the man’s nose, leverage and body weight working for him, and the man’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as he staggered backward.
Wiley ripped the bat from his grasp as gravity pulled him away, and then his legs buckled and he hit the dirt road, hard, and didn’t move. That left Wiley facing three men, but he had t
he bat. He wanted to say something witty, like “Next,” but instead, he whipped the bat around in an arc, gaining speed as it passed overhead, and smashed it into the top of Mister Slacks’ head.
Slacks’ skull crumpled, and blood sprayed. Wiley felt wet, sticky droplets across his face and arms, but he kept the bat moving, slinging it across his body diagonally, in a figure-eight that ended with him bringing it flying into the right side of Slacks’ head; teeth flew, not that he’d miss them. The light had already left his eyes, but it gave Wiley the satisfaction of seeing the bastard’s blood and teeth arc over to splatter his nearby companions.
The other two men, unarmed, halted, staring at their two buddies.
Wiley spat. “Bitches.” Then, he lunged, jabbing the bat with both hands; the tip plunged hard onto the third man’s chest, and Wiley felt as much as heard the crack of ribs and sternum under the full force of impact.
The last man spun around and dug his shoe toe into the dirt to run. It was over. But, it really wasn’t—not until Wiley said it was. They would’ve had no mercy on him or Christine, he was certain, and he wasn’t giving them any chance to come back later.
He vaguely heard Christine screaming, behind him, but ignored it. She was safe enough, now. He flung the bat like a boomerang, side-armed, and it spun like a propeller into the running man’s legs, sending him crashing face-first into the dirt roadway.
Wiley took two running steps and jumped, landing on one knee directly on the other man’s back. The man had been trying to rise, but the weight and momentum sent him back down into the dirt with a really satisfying whoosh of air as the impact knocked the wind out of him.
With both hands, Wiley grabbed the man, left hand on the back of his head, right hand hooked under his jaw. With one mighty wrench, the sound of the man’s neck snapping penetrated even the hammering of Wiley’s heartbeat.
Wiley stood and turned to face Christine, and used a shirtsleeve to wipe blood off his face, courtesy of Jackass Number One. “You okay?”
Christine’s face went pale, and her mouth opened and closed, but only a squeak emerged.
49
Christine stared. Wiley stood with a grin, facing her, but it wasn’t a grin. More like the snarl of a bear after tearing apart a wolf-pack that thought themselves clever to corner a hibernating bear in its cave, only to learn far too late that the bear was anything but hibernating—and it was hungry.
She heard herself stammering, “You…you…you…”
He was trying to wipe blood from his face, but it only smeared the splatters, turning his visage even more frightening. Only his eyes showed any color but a dull red. “I…killed them? Yes. Perhaps you noticed they were going to murder us. I thought this way would work out better, at least for me and you. Guess I was right.”
But he said he was a mechanic.
That thought whisked through her mind, but what the hell kind of a mechanic could fight that dirty. Those hadn’t been the elegant moves of a martial artist, but brutal, efficient street fighting. And he wasn’t shaking, she noticed. A kernel formed in her belly, a gnawing doubt. No, not doubt.
Fear.
And yet, he could have left her there. He could have run, and no one would ever have blamed him, except maybe her kids and Fran. She knew with absolute certainty that Wiley had just spared her from death, and probably a very nasty, horrible one.
“I… Thank you, Wiley.” What else was there to say? Please don’t kill me, too? That would have sounded ungrateful.
That weird thought almost made her laugh, and she fought back against the hysteria surging inside her. “I need to go home.”
Wiley nodded. “Yes. You need to see your kids. They’re okay, you know. But you need to see that with your own eyes. Your stomach is churning, I imagine. I know how I felt the first time I saw something like this, at least.”
The first time? Who was this man?
Wiley said, “You’re afraid of me.” It wasn’t a question, yet he didn’t sound upset by it, either. “It’s okay, Christine. You’re okay, and you’re going to stay that way. You have my word.”
She nodded, once. His voice was so calm, so confident—she believed him, though she felt foolish for that. “I don’t know you at all, do I?”
“You know me better now than you did almost two months ago.” He merely leveled his gaze at her, but made no move to step closer.
And he was right. She’d let a stranger who could do something like this into her car. She’d slept within arms’ reach of him. He’d sat next to her kids…
Before she realized what she was saying, words came out. “Was David right about you? Should I trust his cop instincts?”
There. It was out, and she couldn’t take the words back.
Wiley flinched like she’d slapped him. “What? How could you ask that?”
Without taking her eyes off him, she raised her left hand to point at the man in the button-down shirt. His face was a mash barely recognizable as human, now.
Wiley’s lips flatlined. “You don’t know David any more than you know me, Chrissy. Why do you think he got rid of you at that mob scene?”
She paused, right before snapping at him. She was still afraid, and still out there alone with this man she really didn’t know at all. “What are you saying? He’s a cop. He was doing his job.”
Wiley shook his head, and his eyes grew sad. “You’re wrong. I would bet money that after we left, he killed more people today than I have.”
“Bandits—”
“Just like these. Only, those were people who were running, not these animals, who said they were going to murder you.”
“You don’t know that…” She wasn’t so sure, though. He sounded far more certain than she felt.
“Yes, I do. If he hasn’t killed them yet, he will. It’s what it takes to protect his pack, and in the end, that’s what any group of people is.”
“What are we, then?”
Wiley smiled at last. “Just a pack of animals. And we protect our pack, first. You’re my pack, Chrissy. I protect my pack.”
A weird expression crossed his face, then, and he got a faraway look for a second, staring into the distance, eyes unfocused. Then he seemed to snap back to the moment. “Come on. Let’s get you home, where it’s safe.”
Christine fell into step with him, heading south, but kept well out of arm’s reach. Where it’s safe…
She felt anything but safe as his words rang in her mind, over and over: Just a pack of animals.
50
Thursday, July 9th
The morning sun rising in the east told David just how long he’d been driving around. Orien, asleep in the passenger seat, had dozed off hours earlier. Since the prior afternoon, they’d gone back and forth between the choke-point guard posts, other defended locations, high-ground recon positions, and even many of the nearer outlying farms.
All in all, Weldona proper was as secure as it could be. Most of the township’s running vehicles had been gathered into a motorpool, centrally located at the town hall parking lot, and it was the rally point in the event of an attack. Defenders not at other posts—basically every able-bodied person old enough to shoot straight—would go there to receive instructions, and the vehicles would let them respond with a quickness David hoped would overwhelm any attackers, catching them off guard.
He’d even patrolled the parking lot half a dozen times. And while he told himself it was to ensure the town’s safety in the aftermath of the earlier failed smash-and-grab, even he knew the truth he hid from. The farmer’s death bothered him. He’d made a difference in that guy’s life, and now that life had been snuffed. Worse, a slaughter had happened as a result—a slaughter he could have prevented. Somehow. There must have been a way…
Those thoughts, which had been bouncing through his head all night, vanished as he pulled up to the south bridge chokepoint for at least the sixth time. He climbed out, closed the SUV door carefully to avoid waking Orien, and walked up to the two on-duty guard
ians. This time, they merely waved, and made no special effort to greet him, look alert, or any of that stuff. They were getting used to him being there—and that wasn’t necessarily a good thing, David realized, too late.
Whatever. He walked up to the two trucks parked across the bridge, and the two guardians. “Status report?”
“Same as last time,” one said. “All’s quiet.”
“Mm. Good.” David scanned the horizon, and enjoyed the chill of early morning air. It had grown a bit too hot, inside the SUV, as he’d kept the windows closed so Orien could sleep, except when he was cruising slowly through a parking lot or other vehicle patrol tasks.
A light appeared, a couple hundred meters away, rising up on the road as it crested the nearest hill.
David said, “Go alert the others, and radio dispatch to be on alert.”
The man handed his shotgun to David, nodded, and left him with the other guardian to go back to the makeshift guard shack.
David checked the chamber to make sure it was loaded, and flicked off the safety, keeping his finger far from the trigger and the barrel far from the other guardian.
It took only moments for the headlight to approach close enough for David to see it was a motorcycle. A familiar one, at that—it was a State Trooper’s bike.
What the hell, now?
He waited calmly between the two trucks, as the bike drew closer, slowed, then drifted to a stop only a few feet away. David didn’t recognize the man in the helmet, but the uniform looked proper, as did the bike. “Morning, officer.”
The motorcycle officer secured the bike on its kickstand and dismounted, removing his helmet. His eyes slid over David’s uniform for half a second. “Morning, Denver.”
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