Oil Apocalypse Collection

by Lou Cadle

“It would be uncomfortable,” he said. “Have you ever camped or backpacked for two or three weeks?”

  “Never. Just overnight with friends a couple times.”

  “Hmm,” he said. And nothing more.

  “Mr.—Curt, I mean. Do you ever get lonely?” She really had no idea what had gotten into her, or why she thought he might answer such a personal question.

  He stared at her for a long time. She was on the verge of apologizing when he said, “Years ago, yes. I trained myself out of it.”

  “How?”

  “A person gets used to anything.” He raised his hand and looked at the back of it, as if the answer might be written there.

  “I’m lonely. I miss school and my friends. I know how it is to be lonely.”

  “You don’t know how it is—not how it was for me. You couldn’t.”

  There was no anger in what he’d said, so she wasn’t deterred from asking, “How was it for you?”

  “My face scares you, doesn’t it?”

  The bluntness of the question shocked her. But then, she’d been blunt with him, so she deserved it, didn’t she? “No,” she said.

  “You’re lying.”

  “It used to, when I was a kid.”

  “It scares most people. And my hands.” He held them out, and she noticed for the first time how strangely long and lumpy the fingers were.

  “Does it hurt?”

  He stared at her oddly. “It did.”

  “Did?”

  “When it happened.”

  “When what happened?”

  He slung his rifle back over his shoulder and dug in his pocket. He pulled out a worn, thin wallet. Then he reached in, plucked something out, and handed it to her.

  She took it. It was a photo. In the dim light, it was barely visible. She turned on her phone to shine a light on it. The photo was of a young man, laughing, his arm around a girl with hair blowing across her face, blue sky behind them. “Who are they?”

  “That’s me.”

  Her mouth dropped open in shock. It couldn’t be him. This guy was really good-looking. His face was normal. She glanced up at Curt and back down at the photo. Then she concentrated, knowing he wouldn’t be lying to her, and trying to see any similarity. Maybe the eyes. But the whole face, the shape of it, the mouth, the jaw, the forehead—everything else was different. “Who’s the girl?” she said, for she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “My fiancée. She tried to stick it out but couldn’t.”

  She handed him back the photo. “What happened?” she said softly, afraid she really was prying now, treading on tender territory.

  “A tumor, pituitary tumor, and no health insurance, and no money. That’s what happened.”

  “You mean they could have fixed it and didn’t?”

  “With surgery they could have stopped it before it got bad. But I had to work two jobs to save up enough money, and it took me three years, and so this is what happened.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. And she felt bad for all the years she’d been afraid of him. Though she realized she should feel bad anyway. It didn’t matter, did it, if he was born looking like that or it was some disease? Either way, it was hardly his fault, was it? “Really sorry. I guess you didn’t marry her?”

  “She did try. I’ll give her that. But part of what kept us a couple was physical attraction. And when that was gone, there wasn’t enough glue left to hold us together.”

  “That’s sad,” she said, imagining him being left alone, working so hard to save his money, getting uglier and more misshapen, not able to do anything about it.

  “I’ve been as afraid of you as you were of me.”

  “What? Why?”

  “You’re a pretty girl. I don’t mean anything personal by that—no reason to be afraid of me like you were of that guy in the barn. But you are, it’s a fact, and pretty girls are mean. To men who look like me, they are.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged. “The world is what it is, Sierra.”

  “I’m really and truly sorry. For me, and for all the girls who ever treated you badly.”

  “They usually didn’t let me close enough to treat me badly. Though you’d be surprised how much an automatic jerk back, or looking right through me when they were introduced, how much that kind of thing hurt at first.”

  “I formally apologize for all of us.”

  “You can’t do that. People have to apologize for themselves.”

  “If they knew you, they would too.”

  “Get on home now. I’m sure your father is starting to worry.”

  “Okay.” She stepped forward, returned the photo, and put her hand on his arm, resting it there for just a moment, wondering how long it had been since anyone touched him. Maybe not since the doctor or nurses. “Thank you for telling me. I won’t tell anyone else if you don’t want me to.”

  “It hardly matters either way.”

  “I think maybe it might.” She gave him a sad smile and turned away.

  She made her way home in the deepening gloom, thinking hard about what his life must have been like. Everything must have been normal for him, and then it was all torn away. She felt a little like that herself these past weeks since her graduation, though her situation wasn’t nearly as bad as his. Still, she’d gone from throwing her tasseled hat into the air and hugging her friends to blowing the head off a would-be rapist and burying her dog. All that had changed in just over a month.

  Life was funny in how it could change like that. One day everything is fine. And then it’s all messed up.

  She hadn’t wanted anyone to touch her since that night, but when she went in the back door and found her father looking relieved to see her, she walked up to him and pulled him into a long hug. They ended up swaying from side to side, almost a dance, and that made her laugh a little.

  When she pulled away, his eyes were brimming with tears.

  She said, “I’m sorry if I’ve been selfish these past few days. Are you doing okay?”

  Pilar nodded and wiped his eyes.

  “You must miss Bodhi.”

  “Of course. In more ways than one. But so do you.”

  “Have you heard from Lisette?”

  “Not in over two weeks. And now, with the cells out, with no internet, I guess I won’t. I hope she’s okay.”

  “Will she come back here, do you think? We could use the help. And it might be safer here, even with everything that’s happened.”

  “I doubt it. She wouldn’t come back for me. I hope she’s okay though.”

  “I hope so too. I hope she finds a way to survive.”

  He turned back to the stove. “You up for some ratatouille?”

  “Sounds good,” she said, though it didn’t. Nothing did. But she’d eat. “Let me plate it up. Go on, sit.”

  The familiar kitchen tasks soothed her. She brought them both plates heaped with the stew. She sat across from her father and said, “You know what?”

  “What?”

  “Being an adult sort of sucks, doesn’t it?”

  He gave her a half-smile. “Sometimes.”

  “I love you, you know. You’re the best dad ever.”

  She tucked into the stew, forcing it down past her lack of appetite. When she glanced up, her father’s head was bent. She realized he was crying again. “Pilar? What’s wrong?”

  “I love you, more than you could ever know. And I’m terrified I won’t be able to protect you.”

  “Maybe I should be protecting myself. And the house, and the hens, and the garden. And you,” she said.

  He wiped his eyes and nodded, then he bent to eat.

  They were sopping up the last of the juice with chunks of Pilar’s good fresh baguette when an alarm sounded in the distance. The silver whistle.

  Attack.

  Chapter 22

  Dev was helping his mother with dishes when the new shop door alarm went off. They all lunged for their weapons, and he and his mother bounc
ed off each other.

  “Sorry,” Dev said and reached for his rifle.

  Then the silver whistle sounded from the road. It meant not that the person on watch had heard the door alarm, but that there was a second point of attack.

  “Who’s on watch?” his mother said. “Not Sierra, I hope.”

  “Curt Henry,” his father said. “Toss me those extra magazines, son. You stay in here, Kelly.”

  “No, I’m coming with you.”

  “Then wear a vest,” he said.

  “You wear one,” she snapped.

  “Come along, Dev.”

  Dev surprised himself when he said, “No. You have Mom. I’ll go out the front and back up Mr. Henry.”

  “Do what I say.”

  “I am. I’m doing what you always said. What the books said too. There are two of you. I’ll help Mr. Henry. He’s alone and on the road, which is more vulnerable.”

  “Remember the danger of friendly fire,” his mother said, putting a hand on his father’s arm to stop him from saying anything more. “Signal. Don’t get shot, and don’t shoot one of us.”

  Dev checked through the front drapes, didn’t see any movement, and slipped out through the front door, giving it an extra tug to make sure it locked behind him. Night was almost here, but there was still enough light to see shapes and movement. He squatted down by the front steps and looked all around. He saw nothing, but he moved cautiously, staying low. He headed for a thick patch of pines.

  Whatever was happening at the shop, his parents would handle. But if Henry had trouble too, he’d need someone to watch his back.

  Dev spared a moment of concern for Mitch Morrow. Sierra and Mr. Crocker could work as a team, but if people got all the way through to the Morrows’, he’d be alone, trying to defend his house with one gun and a pair of aging eyes.

  His foot came down on a stick and cracked it. Dev dropped fast to his belly, in case the enemy had heard the noise. But no gunfire erupted, and he rose again, moving downhill, whistling the code to Mr. Henry as he approached to let him know it was someone friendly coming at him through the woods.

  An answering whistle came from so far ahead, Dev knew that Mr. Henry had retreated to the cover of the woods on the far side—the south side—of the road. He shifted to his right, in case the attackers understood that his whistle had been a human signal and not just a birdcall. He didn’t want to make himself an easy target.

  Here under the trees it was even darker, and he moved more slowly, scanning all around. Who was out there? How many?

  He heard a low voice but couldn’t catch the words. He turned his head and caught the sound again. Strangers. People were out on the main road, talking, and too loudly. Fools. Dev wanted to take no chance of hitting Mr. Henry. So he moved up to his right more, to the last patch of thick trees near the road, planning to shoot nearly directly up the private road. If these people didn’t have weapons themselves, if there were only a couple of them, maybe a shot over their heads would drive them off.

  But he saw the worst possible thing—several figures already moving up the private road, at least a dozen people. And there were more crawling over the downed tree just ahead of him and to his right.

  He saw a shotgun in one pair of hands, a handgun silhouetted against the sky as someone balanced with one leg on either side of the downed tree. Henry hadn’t fired a shot. Was he waiting until more came over? Not a good idea, in Dev’s opinion.

  He might have given the short whistle that said to attack, but he knew his first shot would tell the tale just as clearly.

  He lined up the guy on the tree and fired.

  A grunt. The man fell, and Dev moved to the one who had just cleared the tree and fired again. In his peripheral vision, he saw people scatter, panicked.

  Good. Between their actions and their too-loud voices it was clear that they had no training. A shout from one: “Get down!” Dev picked off another invader, and a fourth one. Then he hunkered down and moved eight yards to his right, nearer to the downed tree and the main road, thinking of Henry and where he might be, not wanting to accidentally shoot him.

  He aimed back up their road and saw two figures squatting next to some bushes. He shot for center mass of the left one. Before he could get the second one, it had risen, and its head was slammed back as if by a blow from a two-by-four, the sharp report of a rifle coming at the same time. Henry. He had shot that one in the head.

  Dev listened to five more shots from the woods opposite in quick succession. Henry seemed to be dealing with the ones on their gravel road. Dev turned back to the downed tree and checked to make sure no more were coming over. The first body he had shot was still splayed over the top of the tree. He thought briefly about collecting weapons—they didn’t seem to have a lot of them—but dismissed the thought. Not until the road was cleared.

  He could hear gunfire now from his house. He pushed the concern it caused him out of his mind. His folks had their jobs. He had his own.

  Then he heard a noise behind him, to his right. He turned to it. Getting dark fast now. He flicked on his night scope and spied two figures creeping through the woods from the main road. He edged around until he had a clear view and took them with two shots. One was down and out, but the other started screaming. A woman. The sound wasn’t terror or grief. He’d hit her but not killed her, and she was yelling with the pain.

  Well, too damned bad. Women, men, didn’t matter much. They were invading his property and trying to steal from him and his folks. They wouldn’t have triggered the alarm on the shop if that weren’t so. They’d have yelled, “Anyone home?” and come to the front door, and done it in the daytime if they were asking for help. These were bad people. They deserved a bad end.

  He moved as quietly as he could, circling around, hoping the screams from the woman would draw more of them to her. But after two minutes—though it was hard to judge time, with the adrenaline pumping through his system—no one had come to her aid, so he lined her up in his crosshairs and silenced her screams with another shot.

  He must be nearly out of ammo. He ejected the magazine and pushed a new one home, popping the single round left in the first magazine out. He pocketed both that and the empty magazine, and edged farther to his right, keeping outside the tripwire line. He didn’t want them flanking him and coming up from behind on his mom and dad. Every few steps he stopped to check through his scope. He saw something small and short—an animal like a raccoon, not a human—but nothing else.

  For ten minutes, he made his way through the woods until he came to a high spot about even with and due west of the rabbit hutches, a spot that he knew well. Another few feet over, and he could see the roadway.

  He looked out through his scope. And he saw a good deal—more than he had expected.

  There were four cars parked down the hill about three hundred yards, the engine blocks and exhausts still pumping out heat. They might not be the best fighters in the woods, but they’d been smart enough to wait until dusk to drive close, and smart enough to stop well short of the private road so they hadn’t given their approach away with noise. There were two people standing guard. And there were, he thought, several living people in the cars. Children, he guessed, from the height.

  He debated shooting into the cars. Maybe not, if those were kids. But the two standing guard, they were fair game. He got the first one in his sights, took a breath, let it half out, quieted his mind, and fired.

  The target dropped as Dev swung his rifle barrel toward the other. That one was moving, ducking behind the trunk of a car, but Dev still had a half-second to catch him. He fired faster than he’d have wanted to in ideal circumstances. A second later, he saw a hand come out from behind the truck. He aimed for where he thought the head might appear, but then he realized the arm was on the ground, moving without purpose. Flailing, pretty much.

  A kid in the car was screaming. Then it was hushed.

  He’d hit the second one too. Not killed him, but gotten him down. The
night target practice had fixed the errors he had made a week ago. He kept watching, and the arm kept moving like that. The person stayed down, probably hit badly, or it’d keep moving away to seek cover.

  For a moment he debated about shooting out the tires of the cars, but he thought it was wiser to conserve his ammunition.

  Would he want any of them who had gotten past Henry to run back to the cars, to get away? He knew what his father would say: Kill them all.

  But Dev wasn’t sure he wanted to line up a bunch of kids and shoot them at the end of this night. If someone did have second thoughts and got back here to drive the kids on up the hill, as far as Dev was concerned that was better for everyone. Realize you’d picked the wrong target, and get away while the getting was good, and I’ll let you leave.

  His father’s voice came to him from inside his own head. “Those kids will probably starve to death within a month anyway.”

  Maybe so. But that would be God’s decision. And Dev didn’t want to play God with a bunch of little kids’ lives.

  He went on another hundred yards, but saw nothing more. The second person he’d shot was still down, not moving at all now. Dead, or unconscious, or playing it safe.

  The whole time he’d been doing this, he had heard more shots, both from the road and from around his house, and from farther on as well, the Crockers’ or Morrows’ house. He hadn’t been focused on it because he had his own job to worry about, but now he attended to it, trying to place what was happening along their private road, and where.

  He heard a sound he thought was his mother’s rifle—if not hers, one very much like it. And he allowed himself a moment of relief that she was still alive and fighting.

  He backtracked toward the private road, hoping he hadn’t left Henry in a bad situation. He heard a rifle shot from that direction and wanted to hurry, but he made himself move slowly, cautiously, checking every few steps for hot shapes moving through the woods.

  He passed the two he had shot, not much cooler than when they were alive. By morning, they’d be dead cold through the scope, lumps just like fallen logs. May God forgive your thieving souls.

  As much of a prayer as he had time for. Another single shot from Henry.