by Schow, Ryan
He didn’t look at his brother because he knew Clay would be shaking his head, no.
“All in favor, raise your hand,” he said, hearing his brother beginning to object behind him. Everyone in town raised their hands, settling the matter. Turning to Clay, Boone smiled and said, “Congratulations, Sheriff Nichols.”
Clay’s face was red, his scar even more pronounced against the burning surface of his skin.
“Do I get a say in this?” he mumbled, smiling through the question.
“The people have spoken,” Boone said, shrugging his shoulders. Then, to the crowd, he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, this war hero is now your Sheriff.”
Everyone gave Clay a warm applause, but it was short-lived. His brother would be okay, though. He was a team player.
“So there’s this crotchety old bag of fart sauce a few of you know. Every so often, he decides to grace us with his presence, and as gruff and unsavory as he can be, this man is also a war hero, and a sniper. So unless anyone else can shoot like he can, or if they even own a sniper rifle, then Noah No Name will be handling border security.”
Noah stepped forward, his frown so hard the man looked constipated. He shook his head at Boone and Clay, then turned and read off a short list of names.
“You’re the cocksuckers who I’m told can shoot,” Noah barked, “so pony up or beat feet with the rest of the cowards slippin’ out the back door.”
That was Noah with no last name. Surprisingly, no one seemed to object to his bad attitude. Perhaps it was expected.
Boone and Noah coordinated the snipers and spotters on both ends of the freeway cutting through town while Clay was pulled into a crowd of people wanting to meet him. When Noah was satisfied with the task ahead, he said to Boone, “Now that I’ve got my first group of shooters, we’re going to head to the northern end of town. You guys can come blow a trench when you’re done futzing around on the southern end. You got my two-way?”
Clay managed to get free of the crowd, showing up at the tail end of the conversation. “What’d I miss?” he asked.
“I need a two-way, copper,” Noah said.
“Where’s Harper?” Clay asked, ignoring Noah.
“I’m not sure,” Boone said.
There were people everywhere. Noah sighed, then said, “Would it be easier if I just yell at you when I want to talk, Sheriff?”
“Keep it up Burnt Reynolds,” Clay turned and said.
This didn’t sit well with Noah. “What kind of a show are you two running here?” he asked.
“The best kind,” Miranda said, handing him an older two-way. “Don’t stroke out on us, Noah. Not yet.”
“You say when,” he smiled, the first time anyone had actually seen this. Boone wondered if the old man was being polite or flirting with his wife.
“Holy crap,” someone behind them said, “he’s got all his teeth.”
After Noah and his team took off to secure the far side of town, Boone joined a gathering of people around the convoy, pleased to see folks working together. He kept this to himself. There was no sense in saying anything, lest he go and jinx it. There were some things he was superstitious about, and being overtly grateful for something early on was one of them.
Ed had gone up to get his tractor and Gary left to get his tow truck. He joined the others in appraising the roasted mess.
“Anyone got a snow shovel to clean these bodies up with?” someone asked.
“Have some respect,” Sally Breen said.
One of the guys hocked up a loogie and spit in the ash of a former Chicom soldier. “Sorry, Sally,” another guy said, “but the only respect they will get is me not pissing on them. Who’s got a snow shovel?”
“We’ll scrape them away with the shovel on Ed’s tractor,” the spitter said. “But how the hell are we going to get these vehicles out of their melted tires?”
“Gary’s inventive,” Boone said. “Where’s Logan, Harper, Connor?”
He looked around, then he saw one of the Chicom Jeeps cruising up the hill. Apparently, the three of them were heading back home. He shook his head, tried to shrug it off. He was fascinated with Harper. But if she really was the head of the west coast Resistance, why was she leaving just then?
Over the next few hours, the folks in town worked together to get most of the vehicles off the road. Sally Breen threw a fit because the spitter had his back to everyone and was pissing on the ashes of the dead.
Clay intervened. To the spitter, he said, “You’re getting the toast wet,” and everyone laughed. Then he said, “You’d better put that wiener away before I arrest you for brandishing a small weapon in public.”
Everyone laughed even more and the pisser, who was once the spitter, now put his business away and turned around with a furnace red face.
“Your wife told us about your wiener,” someone said.
“But we appreciate your gusto,” Clay added. “You get to clean up the wet ashes there Baby Bladder.”
“It’s Tim,” he said, humbled.
“No,” Clay said. “It’s Baby Bladder.” To the onlookers, Clay said, “I’m sure he won’t be pulling his vagina out in public anymore.”
That’s when Sally said, “I think I’m going to like you, Sheriff Nichols.”
With that, Boone watched his brother grin. Miranda was by his side with Rowdy in the stroller. Together they watched Clay interacting with the public, almost like he never left in the first place, and this made Boone feel good.
“You got your brother back,” Miranda said.
“I did,” he replied.
“I’m going to take Rowdy home, get him a boob and a nap.”
“I want a boob and a nap,” he whispered under his breath.
“You still have work to do,” she said.
“I know.”
He leaned in and kissed her. She told him she loved him and he kissed her again before going to Rowdy and telling him to be a good little champion.
After Miranda left, Boone and Clay got on the quad and headed down to the blasted out section of freeway, Boone sitting forward, Clay facing backwards.
He was the one with the guns.
Up the hill, Connor, Logan and Harper wiped their feet on the mat, then walked into the house and filled Orbey, Stephani and Cooper in on the town’s plans for security.
“What about not starving to death?” Orbey asked.
“One thing at a time,” Logan replied.
She pressed her lips together. It wasn’t a great answer, but the situation wasn’t ideal.
“Clay Nichols is the new Sheriff,” Harper announced.
Stephani instantly got red.
“Wow,” Harper said, eyeing her, “I didn’t expect that.”
“He’s Boone’s brother,” Stephani said, as if that explained everything. “Plus his scar makes him seem, I don’t know, kind of sexy bad, like…I don’t know, mysterious and edgy.”
Connor and Orbey stared at her, jaws slack.
“Let me get the ham radio and the spare two-ways out of the Faraday cage,” Logan said. “You can take him one of the two-ways and a second set of batteries. And give him the right frequency.”
“Alright,” she said, too fast. “What are you guys going to do?”
“Set up the solar panels at the barn,” Harper replied. “I want to set up the space heaters and try to sleep out there tonight.”
Logan looked at her and said, “Looks like we’re snuggling tonight then.”
“And Cooper’s getting his bed back,” Orbey added. Reaching down to pet the dog, she said, “But I’m going to miss you sleeping with me.”
He stood and rubbed against her hand, appreciating the comment.
“What’s the range on that Uniden?” Orbey asked.
“Fifty miles,” Stephani replied. “And I’ll show Clay how to use the ham radio, if he doesn’t know.”
Orbey grinned and shook her head.
“It comes with an owner’s manual,” Connor said. “I’m pretty
sure he can read.”
“It’s not that,” the beekeeper said. “Clay and I need to establish our communications protocol.”
No one said anything. They just looked at her.
“What?”
Even Cooper somehow managed to frown.
Glancing down at him, disappointed, Stephani said, “I didn’t expect this of you.” Cooper looked away, laid his head on the floor. To everyone else, she said, “I’m not saying it was love at first sight, but I will tell you this, with Boone being married, or whatever—having a kid—this is a damn good alternative.”
“We should be down there with them,” Logan said, the more abrupt tone in his voice surprising them all. Whatever he was holding back, it was starting to come out. He’d call it a restlessness, maybe even an anxiousness to be in the mix of everything. “I’m going with Stephani to help Boone and Clay.”
“No you’re not,” Harper said.
“I can’t just sit here doing nothing,” he said, clearly manic. “I’m going stir crazy.”
“After we set up the solar panels,” Harper said. She went to him and pulled him close. “I know this is hard, but are you okay?”
“I just want to do my part. We’ve got the full might of the Chicom Army bearing down on us and I’m up here worried about solar panels and space heaters.”
“You’re also recovering,” Orbey said.
“I can recover all I want when the war is over,” he said. “I’m ready to go now.”
“Yeah? Well I’m not freezing my nuts off tonight,” Harper said, taking his face in her hand and pulling him close to her. “That means we’re setting up the solar panels, then you can go play with your friends.”
He looked at her in utter disbelief.
She wasn’t done.
“If you ever want to play with your girlfriend again,” she whispered, “you’ll think first of her and then of your friends.”
A smile broke over his face, the charged air around him settling.
“Do you really see us as that?” he asked.
She nodded, smiling.
“Okay then, girlfriend,” he said, “solar panels first, war second.”
“That’s a good boy,” she said, petting his head like he was Cooper. For good measure, he stuck out his tongue and started panting.
Chapter Eighteen
Ryker damn near froze to death in the Jeep, so he broke into a nearby home, crawled into someone’s abandoned bed and curled up in the blankets.
He didn’t think that one or two other people might have spent half their lives in that bed, cuddling, making love, making children. He just needed to not lay on his back because the burns were ferocious and his pains felt like they were getting worse.
By some miracle, he managed to fall asleep.
He slept good until he woke up and found there was something else sleeping right next to him. A little, purring black cat. He was curled into Ryker’s belly, his motor going steady.
Ryker was startled at first, but the furry ball of warmth—that little unexpected life nestled against him for heat, companionship, and maybe some food—brought him back to reality, gave him reason to question his own fall from humanity.
When he thought of everything happening, of the loss of his brother, Skylar, how he was now alone and heading to some unknown town, a perfect stranger, he wondered the point of it all. As he came fully into his body, he managed to shrug off the last of his sleep and wipe the sleep crusties from his eyes. Stroking the cat, he wondered if he should go out in a blaze of glory. Just end it all like a boss.
He could do it. No one would blame him.
Forget the life, America, the Chicoms, he thought. No one should have to live like this, in some third world hellhole being hunted by commie devils. The cities were gone. Soon they would be destroyed, their ruins abandoned. Those staying would die there, or be killed.
So why not go on a killing spree? Wasn’t that what Skylar said she and her Krav Maga buddies were going to do? Were they not training as a Chicom assassination squad?
In the distance, gunfire started up. Sporadic. Small arms. A few minutes later, it sounded like a helicopter flying overhead.
He moved the cat aside, the creature getting up, arching its back high in a stretch before jumping off the bed. Ryker followed him downstairs to an empty bowl, the bottom licked clean. Standing there, he looked up at Ryker and gave a low meow.
“Alright, let’s find you some food,” he said.
He rifled through the pantry doors, found some food he could take with him on the way out of town, then checked the laundry room where he located a bag of kibble.
He laid the bag on its side on the kitchen floor, the contents easy to get to, and then he said, “Well little fella, this is your last supper.”
He cracked a window open so the cat could get in and out, but then he sat there and watched the starved, emaciated little thing eat, its little tail swishing back and forth, its motor now louder than ever.
He looked around until he saw a carrying crate. He’d decided he couldn’t leave the thing there alone.
“You want to come with me?” he asked.
The cat started toward him, but when Ryker bent down to pick him up, he sprang up and turned around, meowing and looking back at him.
“Okay now, my back isn’t all that great, so don’t make this harder than it has to be,” he said, going after the cat again. Just as he was about to reach for it, the cat jumped again, took off toward the staircase, then paused to look at him. “I’m too old to be chasing pussy, so you’re either with me or you’re flying solo. What’s it going to be?”
The cat took off upstairs, the question answered.
He left the cat, the house and the bed, then got in the Jeep, his humanity intact. Trying to save a cat wasn’t something someone who was too far gone would do. But did he try hard enough?
Of course he did.
He made two valiant attempts.
“Still human,” he mumbled to himself as he started the Jeep and pulled out of there.
As he navigated through the nightmare that was San Francisco, the city looked like some sort of apocalyptic hell. When he was going slow, navigating around traffic, pushing things out of the way with the bumper on the sidewalks, or having to reroute because the streets were just too congested with a graveyard of cars, he smelled the air and it stunk. Feces and rot. The feces part he knew about. The big cities had long ago gone to the dogs due to the policies of a decade ago. The fecal stench was no surprise, but the rot was. That was what really got him. If the air smelled like dead people already—and there were well over one and a half million people living there before all this—how many corpses now occupied the city? It was not something he wanted to think about.
Then, to his revulsion, he saw someone crawl out of a window in an apartment tower and jump. They didn’t even think about it or hesitate. It was one desperate, fluid movement. He watched as the person sailed down through the air, maybe through fifteen stories of it, their bedclothes flapping in the wind.
He didn’t want to think about the moment when they hit, but his imagination was fertile enough to hurt his heart.
Before he left the city for the open interstate, he topped off the Jeep’s gas tank with the rest of the fuel in the emergency gas can attached to the back. He then siphoned gas where he could, not going overboard because the taste of the fuel was nauseating. That and he hated being exposed and stationary. The truth was, he had a long road ahead, one he knew he wouldn’t be able to travel on only one tank of gas.
When he reached the freeway on-ramp, he had anticipated a checkpoint. Instead, he found a gutted Chicom soldier and a burned guard shack.
He smiled, then merged onto the freeway, all roads ahead of him open. He stopped to fill the truck up much later in the day, grateful to be out of the Jeep. His lower back was stiff, the skin hurting from the burns. It was the stiffness he tried to work out of his legs and joints that mattered most.
He h
ad never felt so old, or so useless.
What the hell was he going to do in Five Falls? Resist suffering? Resist the Chicom oppression in peace?
The longer he drove, the more he realized he was a fighter, that he needed something to push against because it was the struggle that defined him. Struggle was growth, persistence, perseverance. Peace, harmony and tranquility was death. It was dying.
To him, in his bountiful imagination, he saw his will to exist atrophying, like a muscle that no longer served a purpose.
He needed purpose, but he realized he also needed people. His brother’s death haunted him. Then again, he died so that Ryker could live.
But what was living worth without those you care about most? He let the question marinate, not expecting the answer he’d get. Skylar.
God, he missed that bald nightmare.
Up ahead, he saw something that shook him from his reverie. There were two dark green Chicom vehicles. The first vehicle he encountered looked like a Chicom supply truck, while the second appeared to be a troop transport. The supply truck he wasn’t worried about, but the troop truck? That was hit or miss.
He’d give anything right then to have a grenade he could lob in the back of that thing. Alas, all he had was a stolen weapon and a couple mags that may or may not be stocked full.
The closer he got to the vehicles, the more obvious it became that they were together. They drove with little space between them, and their speed was constant. Were they preserving fuel? They could drive faster, but they weren’t.
Maybe he should slow down, conserve fuel.
He started to overtake them, saying a short prayer as he did so. When he passed the supply truck on the right side, he felt his blood pressure spike, the rapid beating in his heart obvious and uncomfortable.
He broke out in a light sweat.
When he passed by the cab, he pulled his Chicom hat low, then snuck in a look. The other driver was doing the same thing. They both gave the other a curt nod and that’s when he saw the troop transport. It was packed.
A bead of sweat rolled down his temple, fell onto his stolen green Chicom uniform. He could blend if not for the fact that he was white and beat to hell.
