by Lou Cadle
He debated whistling another signal to Sierra: Possible danger. Wait. But she already knew there was possible danger, and she was supposed to wait. So he didn’t risk making the sound, as he’d be conveying no new information and would risk warning anyone around of his approach.
The back of the house had a garden, unburned but torn up. Probably the work of looters or thieves, or of the homeowners themselves as they hurried to harvest before the fire reached the garden. Food was that precious these days, that you’d risk standing next to the heat of a house fire to pick whatever you could. Behind the garden, a gate to a henhouse stood open. He checked inside it, but there were no hens.
Moving even more cautiously, he took to the woods to approach the next house.
It was also burned. This one had burned right down to the foundation. The signs of water used to put it out were there in old muddy patches, now dried and cracked, where flower or herb beds had been. He squatted and touched the soil to thrust a finger into it—or he tried to, but it didn’t yield. At least a couple of days since this had happened. He was impressed they’d put out this big of a fire with only their own water. Must be they’d once had a cistern that helped deliver a lot of water at once, or some other way of pumping out ground water fast.
He moved to the third house, and it too was burned, though not as completely as the first two. Was the whole neighborhood like this? He leaned against the front corner of the house and brought his rifle scope to his eye. Couldn’t see through the trees to across the road where the other houses were supposed to be.
He avoided the driveway and moved forward through the trees, very cautiously. If they’d been attacked a few days back, attacked with fire, the survivors would be damned quick to shoot. He crossed the private road without incident, but his neck crawled with fear for the seconds he was exposed. Two of the driveways on the downhill side of the road were visible. Left or right? Left was nearer to the main road, to Sierra, the car, and a quick escape. So he crossed onto that property, again avoiding the driveway, and cut up directly to where the house would most likely be.
This house still stood, undamaged. He watched through the scope, but saw no sign of movement. For ten minutes he stood still and watched.
Sierra would be getting restless. He could almost feel it, feel her pacing, hear her thinking about coming and finding him. He backtracked until he was in the back yard of the most burned house and then jogged through the back yards until he hit the road again.
Sierra’s face was tense. “Trouble?”
He explained.
“Those poor people. I wonder if it was one of the groups who got to us who did it?”
“Or the new group that took over Payson, like your friend said.”
“I hope not them. That means we could be next on their list.”
“No way of knowing. Not unless there are people here to tell us, and so far I see no one.”
“I’m thinking if they were burned out on one side of the road we shouldn’t walk up the other side and knock on a door.”
“No. Let’s approach those other houses from the rear. If they’re here, one of the three is probably working in a garden.”
They crossed the road slid into the woods again, walked a half mile parallel to the main road, and then turned right.
“I’ll do it this time,” Sierra said. “Go up close.”
“Let’s do it together. If we need to lay down covering fire for the other....”
“Got it. You lead if you want.”
He did want. The hill was steeper on this side, and the footing less secure, with more rocks underfoot. He was glad to have the extra pair of eyes watching for a human threat, for he needed to watch his feet to keep from tripping.
The first house was close to the main road. They kneeled in the woods, him watching through his scope, her using binoculars. There was a large shed in the back of the house with a chicken coop attached. No chickens were out pecking in the dirt. No one was in the garden, which seemed normal to him. The house looked a little less nice than his own or Sierra’s. It needed a coat of paint.
Sierra moved on her knees to his side. She whispered, “The garden has been harvested recently.”
So they’d simply left? He motioned for her to stay where she was, and he ran up behind the shed. He unlatched the door to the chicken coop and looked inside. Not a hen, not an egg. Hmm.
He approached the nearest window to the shed and took a quick look inside, snatching his head back fast, in case someone was in there. No gunfire erupted, so he looked again, waiting until his eyes adjusted to the dimness, shading them from the sunlight. No one was in there. Rakes and hoes and shovels leaned against a wall, and there were hoses and a tool bench and tools still on a pegboard, and a number of metal cabinets. But no people. He waved Sierra forward.
She was fast and lithe, moving like an athlete, reaching his side without being the least bit out of breath. Her expression asked a question.
He shrugged in answer. Then he held up a finger while he considered their options. He’d have to risk going to the house. He thought it was likely—four chances in five—that no one was there. But it could also be that someone had stolen all the hens, and the people were locked in the house with rifles pointed at him. Could also be someone was injured in there. Or dead.
With signals, he told her to stop at the corner of the shed and cover him. Then he sprinted hard for the corner of the dingy white house. He made it and slammed himself against the wall.
But there hadn’t been a sound or any hint of people being here. Not a shot, not a voice, nothing. Okay. At some point, he was going to have to try this, so may as well do it right quick. He ran for the back door and grabbed the doorknob. It gave to his touch. He debated for a second and then waved Sierra over. She was at his side in two seconds flat, pressed close to the wall by the door.
Letting go of the doorknob for a second, he showed her three fingers, then two. Then he grabbed the doorknob again and turned it, shoving it back fast and dropping to his knees, raising his rifle at the same time.
No one. No movement. Not a sound. And the refrigerator door was hanging open. A second later, he noticed it was pulled out from the wall six inches and unplugged.
“I think they’re gone,” he said softly.
Sierra slipped inside, closed the door behind them, and said, just as quietly, “Yeah.”
No sound at all came from the house, not even a tiny electric motor running anywhere. And the smell—something about the smell. He tried to identify it. Dust and the lack of fresh cooking smells, plus something else indefinable. The smell said the house was empty. He leaned to speak in Sierra’s ear. “Let’s clear it,” he said.
“How?”
“You always take the left, I’ll take the right. Look left, aim left. Move close to the walls.”
She nodded her understanding.
They moved quickly through the house, which had only one level and a sprawling floor plan. They finished in the master bathroom, where many drawers were open and empty.
“Think they left? Think they died?” Sierra said.
“Someone put out those fires. I’m guessing the neighborhood residents together.”
“Fire department maybe?”
“I doubt it. For one thing, how would you call them to get them here? We can check for big tire tracks.” He thought again about what he’d seen on the other side of the road and shook his head. “Nah, I think they did it themselves. We owe them for that.”
“Should we scavenge?”
“If there’s no one in those other houses, we can do that on the way back up the hill from town, or return here after we report back home.”
Their mission was twofold. One, check the two rural neighborhoods between them and the outskirts of Payson. This one was the smallest, much like their own. The other was on the opposite side of the highway—on another entire hill, in fact—and was larger. They were looking for allies, trade, and news.
“But withou
t getting yourself hurt,” his mother had said. “Nothing on our wish list is worth having either of you hurt.”
It had been an extensive—and occasionally loud—debate that had lasted several days. It was the final mission that was most important, and that made the risk worth it. Fleeing town, Sierra’s friend Mia had told her twelve days back about Payson being invaded by a group of aggressive, well-armed people from Phoenix. They had killed some Paysonites, cowed others, and had taken over the town.
Dev and Sierra’s families and their neighbor Curt had needed to know more, much more than that bare outline. So they were going to spy on Payson, see what was up and, most important, try to estimate the numbers of invaders.
And see if they looked to be preparing to come up the hill and attack them next.
That fear was how he and Sierra had convinced their folks to let them go on this mission. It hadn’t been easy. Had his father been well, he would have been here instead, but his right arm was weak and might never be entirely healed, since an attacker had shot him in the shoulder. Dev’s mom said it’d be two months of sometimes painful rehab before they’d know for sure if he would be able to use the arm normally again.
That left Pilar Crocker and Curt Henry and Dev’s mom as the only adults who could go on the mission. But there were four gardens at the peak of the season, three henhouses, and extensive rabbit hutches to tend, and no other sources of food now than what they made themselves. There was the neighborhood itself to protect, and guard shifts to stand. Only Pilar knew how to work his wind turbines, though Sierra was learning from her dad when he had time to show her. Dev’s mom was doing double duty, nursing his father and doing everything else around their house. Curt Henry had his own place and the Morrow hens and garden to tend to. They were stretched thin.
Dev had been the one logical person to send. His parents had trained him for this day. He had hunting experience, he knew how to move in the woods, he had drilled in battle techniques, and he was a decent runner.
He still wasn’t sure how Sierra had cajoled her father into letting her go along. For Dev’s part, he was glad of her company. She had attended carefully to his father’s lectures as they prepared themselves for the trip. But he saw how her own father looked at her when her eyes weren’t on him. His face told the story, that if he could snatch her back and lock her in her room to keep her safe forever, he would.
All Pilar had said to Dev, though, was, “Take care of yourself. Don’t let her do anything foolish.”
“I’ll try.”
And she wasn’t doing anything foolish. That was good, for Dev was pretty sure he couldn’t control her once her mind was set on action.
Next they looked at the bedroom closets. They were half empty. Some clothes remained, but others had obviously been taken. It had been a fast exodus, from the look of it. A few clothes had been yanked off hangers and were still on the floor.
“Let’s check the other two houses,” he said.
“I want to look closer at this garden first. Maybe I can guess how long it has been since they’ve been here.”
“Okay.”
They went back outside, making sure the door was unlocked behind them. He wondered why the owners hadn’t locked it. Maybe just forgot, getting out quickly. Or maybe they hoped if someone could get in easily to loot, they wouldn’t break windows or locks instead, and the owners might be able to return one day. Impossible to guess at their plans.
He stood guard while Sierra checked out the garden. “There’s still stuff coming in,” she said, “but I think they harvested everything big and ripe. Tomatoes aren’t soft, but there are quite a few ripe. So a week to ten days since they’ve left?”
“About the same time we last fought.”
She nodded. “There’ll be sweetcorn soon if we leave it.”
“And if it rains. And if no one finds it first.”
“Okay, I’m ready to go.” She carefully shut the garden gate. Otherwise, deer or cottontails would get in and eat the garden down to stubble.
They checked out the last two houses. The final garden had not been harvested, and there was broccoli going to seed and zucchini the size of watermelon. Both houses were empty, in the same way, as if people had packed, logically but quickly, and taken off, but the last house was locked up. They found an unlocked window to gain access. There were no cars in any driveway or garage.
“Want to stay here overnight?” Sierra asked.
“No, we should get going.” It wasn’t even 11 a.m., but he wanted to be in place outside Payson long before dark.
“I’ll pick some of this produce that’s ready. Hate to see the tomatoes go to waste.”
“Fifteen minutes, okay? Do what you can in that time.”
While she did that, he hunted for something to carry the food in and wondered where the people had gone. To relatives elsewhere? Captured by the Payson gang? Up the hill with more of a hope than a plan? There was no way of knowing.
And he couldn’t go by what he’d do because he knew his father would stay in their house. He wouldn’t give it up, and he’d die fighting rather than leave it.
As they were loading up an empty feed sack with the harvest, he caught sight of a dog at the edge of the woods. “Look,” he said, pointing.
“What?” She was reaching for her rifle, which was propped against the fence of the garden.
“Nothing’s wrong, sorry. Just a dog.”
She shaded her eyes. “Can’t see him.”
“He ducked back into the woods. Shy. Feral maybe.”
“We should try and get him.”
“Wish I had my pack. There’s peanut butter in there.” They’d left their packs in the car for now, locked in the trunk.
But another ten minutes of soft whistling to the dog and hunting for him yielded no result. They moved on.
Chapter 2
They had taken Mitch’s electric car down the hill, hiding it a quarter mile distant, and hiking down the highway to the burned-out neighborhood. They returned to the car and got ready to drive to their second stop.
The second neighborhood they were to visit was lower, closer to Payson, and built more than a mile down a national forest road and then up a private road to a much bigger neighborhood than their own, three streets branching off the private road, with at least twenty houses. Pilar Crocker had once dated a woman in there, but he admitted it was many years ago and he might not be remembering clearly. “Or it could have expanded since I was there. Figure at least forty people.”
Probably most with rifles or shotguns.
Sierra drove the car slowly so they could keep an eye out for danger—it was the only vehicle that had been on the road in two weeks, so they could dawdle or drive on the wrong side or park in the middle of the highway or whatever they wanted. “Is that it? I thought it was lower.”
“No, that one looks like it isn’t used much. Stop.” He craned his head to look at the little brown sign with the national road designation and read it off to her.
“Pilar said he wasn’t sure about the number he gave us.”
“No way is that a road that gets twenty or more people driving in and out on it every day. I mean, of course not the past month, but before that. It wouldn’t be so narrow.”
She drove on. Ten minutes later, she pulled onto the shoulder. “I think this is the right curve up ahead. He said it was at one of the sharper curves to the left, and then a half-mile beyond that.”
“Drive up to the curve and let me out. I’ll run ahead and see if the road is there.”
“Why not drive right up there?”
“If it were me, I’d have a lookout on the forest road, near to the highway, and have a system for alerting the neighborhood that someone was coming. We need to assume they’ve done that, and I don’t want you to get shot.”
“You’d rather get shot yourself?”
“I’ll be careful. Not like I’m going to trot down the middle of the road singing.”
“I should go wi
th you.”
Dev thought he’d be able to function better alone for such a quick look. “What you could do at the same time is look for a place to stash the car out of sight, in case this is the right place.”
She bit on her lower lip as she thought about it. “Okay, but don’t get in trouble without me. If you need to, fire once, and I’ll come running. Or driving.”
If he fired his weapon, it would likely be at someone, not for communication. But he agreed.
Soon after the curve, he did see a dirt road off to the left, so this had to be the place. In the distance, he could just see Payson. Largely hidden among the pines, it showed an occasional cell tower or church steeple, and he could see the line of the highways that crossed at right angles in the center of town, obscured by pines mostly but occasionally visible as gray threads.
Staying well back from the side road, he checked out the area around it through his scope. The wear at the turn in the road suggested that many vehicles had once driven in and out of there. This was the place. He debated with himself the best way to approach it as he made his way back to Sierra.
She had found a spot for the car, apparently, for it wasn’t visible from the road. She stood on the shoulder of the highway. He memorized the view in both directions, marking exactly where she stood, how far it was back to the curve, and made his way to her.
When he approached she asked, “You see any sign of trouble?”
“No. But think about it. We were attacked twice. That other place was attacked, and with a worse result. So these people must have had trouble too, and it may have been more trouble, them being closer to town. When a few people from town were out trying to steal food, they must have had more of that. They’re going to be on their guard.”
“Or it’s burned out and gone, like the last place.”
“I’m worried. I don’t know if it’s safe to approach at all.”
“We have to try, don’t we? That’s why we’re here.”
It had been the consensus of everyone that yes, they did have to try. A bigger neighborhood, a good defensive organization? Sierra had argued most enthusiastically that other scattered people could become friends, a source of trade or information or mutual defense, and not even his father had denied that it would be good, if they could manage to connect with someone else who was in similar circumstances. The debate had been more about the likelihood that they’d want to make friends. Maybe there was even a family who’d be interested in moving into the Morrow house now that it was empty.
