Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set

by Rebecca Belliston

  “Just remember,” CJ called, “safety first, people. Safety first!”

  The group scattered as people ran home in hopes of saving the last of their belongings.

  “What about Carrie?” May Trenton cried over the sudden chaos. “She doesn’t have a man to help her! Who’s going to help Carrie?”

  Carrie? Oliver spun. What about Carrie?

  It took him all of two seconds to forego thoughts of career, laws, and social inequalities. Carrie Ashworth was coming with him. He’d take her and whatever stuff he could fit in his patrol car far away. He’d just keep driving. Or take her to his house. That would be easier. And less dramatic. Her siblings, too, of course. Even Amber. Anything to keep Carrie—all of them—safe.

  “I’ll be fine, May,” Carrie said. “We don’t have that much left.”

  “Carrie’s mine, Grandma,” Greg interrupted. “Just go.”

  Carrie started to protest, but Greg grabbed her arm and turned her toward home. “You don’t have time,” Greg said. “Go. I’ll be there in a second.”

  As Carrie took off, Greg twisted back to Oliver. “Anything else?”

  Oliver looked from a disappearing Carrie, to Greg, and then back again. Already? Greg had only been in the clan a few weeks, and he’d already made a move? Then again, Greg saw Carrie every day, possibly every hour. As awful as that was, Oliver knew Carrie should stay in the clan. She belonged there. Not with Oliver—though not with that cocky punk either.

  “Anything else?” Greg asked again.

  Oliver sighed. “No. I better get back before they wonder where I went. I’ll let you know when it’s safe for everyone to come back.”

  Greg followed Oliver’s gaze which somehow was still on Carrie’s retreating form. Greg stepped forward and shook Oliver’s hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure she’s safe. For you.”

  Then Greg took off running after her.

  * * * * *

  By the time Greg made it to the Ashworth’s, Carrie and her siblings were racing around the house in a blur. Greg dumped their folding table and chairs on the front lawn. Then he called up the stairs. “Zach, help me get this couch out!”

  “Don’t worry about the couch,” Carrie said, clearing out the kitchen cupboards like a madwoman. “They won’t touch it.”

  “Okay. I’ll grab your mattresses.”

  “No need. Already stolen.”

  Greg turned full circle. The only things left were two half-full laundry baskets. The house looked deserted, which it was supposed to, but that was awfully fast.

  Amber ran downstairs and dumped an armful into a basket. “That’s it. Let’s go. We need to get out of here. Come on, Carrie.” Amber tugged on her sleeve. “We have to go!”

  “She’s right,” Greg said. “Y’all take off, and I’ll get your stuff into the woods.”

  “No. There’s still time.” Carrie dropped five semi-broken containers of dirt into the basket. “Amber, I’ll help Greg move our table and chairs into the woods, you go around and make sure all the doors are unlocked so they don’t break them down.”

  Carrie ran outside. Greg followed.

  Woodland Drive looked like an anthill. Furniture and boxes moved in fast lines up and down the street, hiding the people underneath. Greg hoisted Carrie’s small card table over his head.

  “Give me the chairs,” he said before he noticed Carrie already held two. “Here. Hand me the last one.”

  “No, no. I got it,” she said, managing to wrap her fingers through the holes of the third folding chair.

  “Then hand me that basket.”

  She did, and they followed the line down behind the Ziegler’s home to a path through the woods worn down by Terrell’s supply runs. About ten yards into the brush, everybody made a sharp turn into a patch of shrubs and pines thick as molasses. It was a brilliant move to throw their stuff back there, but it made for difficult maneuvering. Had it already been summer, it would have been impossible to navigate. As it was, thorns and branches slapped Greg as he pushed into the mess.

  He reached a small clearing where stuff was already stacked six and seven feet high. There was no time to organize or group by household. He threw the Ashworth’s table and basket onto the rest.

  “I’ll grab your last basket,” Greg told Carrie. “Just get Amber and Zach behind the pond.”

  She flashed her large smile. “Okay. Thanks, Greg. That was very nice of you to help us. You didn’t have to.”

  “Just go!” he growled.

  She took off, disappearing in seconds.

  Once he took care of their stuff—and hopefully appeasing Oliver—Greg questioned those coming and going. It sounded like the homes were basically empty, which left his grandparents’ three-car garage. A huge task.

  For the next twenty minutes—or twenty hours for all he knew—Greg and the men passed boxes up and down the road like a huge assembly line. It was easier than running each load themselves, but it still wasn’t fast enough.

  Greg glanced down at his wrist, an old habit. A working watch would have been a lifesaver at a time like this. He stopped Terrell.

  “It’s time to get the men with their families. I’ll finish up. Y’all take off.”

  “You sure?” Terrell asked. “The garage is still half full, and I need every bit of that junk to trade in the future.”

  Greg wiped his face with the corner of his UNC shirt. “As long as I’m not spotted on government property, they can’t detain me too long, right?”

  “They can do whatever they want, so don’t be stupid.”

  “Fat chance of that.”

  Terrell laughed but took off to round up the last of the men.

  The neighborhood grew quiet. After double-checking he had his new citizenship card in his pocket, Greg grabbed two large boxes from the garage and ran down the street, feeling every inch of the quarter-mile round trip. With everybody cleared out, he made good time. His first trip was boxes, the second, wagons. The third he went for more boxes, pushing his arms’ capacity as he stacked them three high.

  Greg couldn’t see where he was going, and as such, never expected to run into somebody as he started into the woods. They collided. His foot caught on a branch and he and the boxes went sprawling.

  His hand shot out to catch himself, taking the brunt of his fall. Searing pain sliced up his palm. Greg yelped and grabbed his hand. Blood oozed out of a gaping wound. A tree root had carved a gash in his palm an inch long. It was bleeding like a sieve.

  “Oh, no!” somebody said, trying to help him up. “Sorry, sorry, sorry!”

  Greg caught sight of the honey-colored hair and exploded. “Carrie? What are you doin’ here?” He pressed his hand to his shirt and felt the blood seep onto his stomach. “I told you to get behind that pond. They could be here any second!”

  She knelt next to him and shoved the stuff back into the boxes. “I had to come. Jeff didn’t get everything out of their house.”

  “That’s not your problem! Get outta here, now!”

  “No. There’s still time.”

  She picked up a box and took off for the clearing.

  “You don’t know that!” he shouted after her, but she was already long gone, swallowed up in the thick brush. Swearing, Greg scooped up the last two boxes and stumbled after her.

  Just as he reached the clearing, she flew past him again, nearly knocking him over a second time. He caught her with his good hand and spun her around.

  “Where do you think you’re goin’?”

  “Jenna’s pregnant,” Carrie huffed. “She just threw up. Jeff had to take the little boys and didn’t have time to get their stuff out. They’re going to lose everything, and they’ve already lost so much because of me. And with the baby, I have to salvage what I can. You’re wasting my time, so please…” She peeled his fingers off. “Just one more load.”

  “No. You get behind that pond before—”

  Turning, she took off like a jackrabbit.

  Greg let out a growl t
hat echoed through the trees. If he could only catch her and hold on to her for more than a second, he’d skin her like a jackrabbit. Instead, he did the next logical thing.

  He followed her.

  Luckily, the Kovachs lived next to the path which wound into the woods. It was a short trip. Inside Jeff’s house, Greg went into a tirade. “Why don’t you ever listen? You’re gonna get us both killed!” Yet like Carrie, he found himself rummaging through cupboards, bedrooms, and closets for anything and everything. Bottles. Carrots. Kids’ clothes. There weren’t boxes to throw the stuff into, and they scooped up what they could.

  When Greg couldn’t hold another thing, he said, “That’s enough. Let’s go.”

  Had Carrie fought him in that moment, he would have tackled her. His head was pounding, his hand was dripping blood through the house, but she nodded.

  Once they dumped the load, Greg blocked the path back to Jeff’s house. “Nothin’ back there is worth riskin’ your life. Now get behind that pond or so help me, I’ll shoot you myself.”

  “Okay.” Carrie smiled in between breaths. “Thanks, Greg.”

  nineteen

  GREG WAS STILL CURSING Carrie when the knock came ten minutes later. He’d managed two more loads before his grandpa forced him to stop. They hadn’t even been full loads thanks to his new handicap. Now he had no idea what they were going to lose. With the emergency laws in place, patrolmen could confiscate anything, anywhere, for any reason, even from legals like his grandparents. Not to mention, finding a huge stash like the one in the garage made it look like his grandparents were working the black market—which they were. Add to it that they were harboring thirty squatters and two North Carolina fugitives, and then what? Arrest? Work camps for the elderly?

  How long could Oliver realistically keep them safe with a whole squad breathing down his throat? Or would Oliver even try if he thought Greg was chasing Carrie?

  Greg wasn’t stupid. He knew the look Oliver had shot him earlier. So maybe there wasn’t some secret relationship going on, and maybe Carrie wasn’t interested in the older, awkward patrolman. But in those two seconds, Oliver confirmed what Greg had suspected all along: Oliver Simmons was in this Logan Pond deal for one reason and one reason only. So where did that leave them? What happened when Oliver woke up and realized that Carrie didn’t return his feelings?

  Greg continued spinning circles around each new question, but every time he ended up at the same place:

  Carrie.

  His grandma had the audacity to thank him for helping Carrie—an untimely statement considering his mom was bandaging his still-bleeding hand. But now it was his job to look calm, relaxed, and surprised by the visit from the six patrolmen.

  He was none of the above.

  “Good morning, Mr. Trenton,” Oliver said at the front door.

  “Gracious,” his mom whispered. “Is it still mornin’?”

  She wound the cloth around Greg’s hand one last time and tucked the end under to secure it. Greg closed his fist over the bandage. His palm throbbed with pain, but he followed her to the doorway.

  Even knowing they were coming, Greg tensed at the sight of six patrolmen on his grandparents’ porch, gun belts full and ready. Even without the uniforms, Greg could spot a patrolman a mile away. It wasn’t their short hair or lack of beards either. Something in the way they stood, in their eyes, erect shoulders, and slight bulge to their stomachs that said they still owned the world. Life hadn’t broken them—or their bodies.

  Seeing their collective power had Greg’s blood pumping, especially when the tall blond, David Jamansky, stepped forward and spotted him. Jamansky’s eyes turned to murder, and his hand rested on his gun. Greg wasn’t the tiniest bit interested in You-can-just-call-me-Ashlee, yet her brother looked ready for war.

  Oliver’s bloodshot eyes rested on Greg as well, flashing the same jealous-ridden expression as before. Greg didn’t have many friends in that group. If he hadn’t been strung so tightly, he would’ve laughed. Even as Oliver played the dutiful officer, he was an open book. He wanted to know if Carrie was safe.

  Greg acknowledged Oliver with a slight nod. She’s safe, he tried to say. I just about killed her, but she’s safe. Don’t worry about her.

  Or me.

  A look passed, an understanding before Oliver spoke again.

  “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Trenton,” Oliver said, “but we have a few questions for you.”

  Greg’s grandma lifted a hand to her wrinkled lips. “Oh, dear,” she said. “Is something wrong, officers?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Oliver said. “You might have heard the skirmish in the area last night. We need to—”

  Jamansky shoved past Oliver. “Enough niceties, Simmons. We have a warrant to search your house. Step aside.”

  Greg’s grandparents did, and Jamansky started barking orders.

  “Simmons, you’re with me. Nielsen, take three guys and start on the other houses. Giordano, question these four people. I don’t want them moving an inch until we’re done. Especially that one,” he added, pointing at Greg. “He’s trouble.”

  A football-player-sized officer pushed Greg and his family into a corner.

  “Cards!” he demanded.

  Greg and the others handed over their yellow cards as Jamansky and Oliver stormed through the house. Officer Giordano took his time, double-checking their pictures against their faces. Then he swiped their cards through a handheld device and waited for the light to turn green to make sure they were legitimate.

  When he got to Greg’s, he studied it closely. “When did you get this?”

  “Seventeen days ago,” Greg said.

  The patrolman’s eyes flashed. “Are you getting smart with me?”

  Greg swallowed. “No, sir.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. The guy’s face reddened. “Where’s your birth certificate? Where are your papers—all your papers? I want to see the deed to this home and every tax receipt back to Adam!”

  Greg clenched his fist over his cloth bandage. Their cards implied all that, but none of them argued. His grandpa went to the cupboard and grabbed a stack of paperwork.

  It took the huge officer five minutes before he was convinced. Then the barrage of questions started. With each question, his voice rose.

  “Have you seen any activity in the area? Have you seen people coming and going from the houses? What about the woods? Do you report all suspicious activity? Are you sympathetic to any organizations in direct rebellion to the United States government?”

  Greg’s grandpa kept his answers short and to the point. A smart move. Greg, his mom, and his grandma said nothing. An even smarter move.

  When Giordano ran out of questions, he stood guard in front of them, arms crossed over his barrel-sized chest. They were still backed in the corner of the living room while Oliver and Jamansky zipped in and out of bedrooms, bathrooms, closets, and the basement. Jamansky even went up in the attic. But the search didn’t stop there. When they finished inside, they went out the back door, taking Greg’s eyes with them.

  Jamansky circled the large garden twice. It took up half of Greg’s grandparents’ massive backyard. The other half was taken up by chickens and goats.

  Jamansky stopped in front of the overflowing chicken pen. Greg could practically see him doing the calculations: half-acre garden, two goats, and two dozen chickens for four people. It was a blessing Greg and his mom had shown up when they had, but still, any intelligent person knew excess when they saw it.

  Jamansky grabbed out his gun and fired off a shot, taking down a chicken.

  Greg’s grandma cried out.

  Giordano whipped around. “Silence!”

  His grandma obeyed but flinched with every shot Jamansky took after that. BAM. BAM. BAM. Greg couldn’t see for sure, but he hoped Jamansky was taking his wrath out on the chickens and not on the goats. Chickens were ten times easier to replace. Whatever animals they were, Jamansky didn’t stop.

  Greg’s mom grabb
ed his good hand, her lips tight and trembling.

  “It’s fine,” Greg whispered. “It’s probably just—”

  “I said no talking!” Giordano whirled, his nightstick swinging high. Greg tried to dodge but wasn’t fast enough. The blow caught his shoulder. He dropped, slamming his bad hand against the floor. He screamed. Hand, shoulder. Both burned with mind-numbing pain.

  His mom started crying. His grandma, too.

  “Silence or prison!” Giordano yelled.

  Greg’s family threw their arms over their mouths to quiet their sobs.

  Swallowing back the pain, Greg rose to his feet. He rotated his shoulder, pleased he could. But fresh blood spread across his bandage. He clenched his fist tight, veins pulsing with rage.

  His mom’s tears escalated. Greg shook his head in firm warning. He was fine. He’d deflected most of the blow. A little bruise on his shoulder—or a big one—was better than the slaughter happening outside with the chickens. At least, he hoped it was the chickens.

  He couldn’t see Oliver anywhere. What if Jamansky had turned his wrath on his coworker? For all the times Oliver broke the law, it was possible. But then Oliver came back into view, his own gun raised. Oliver shot the next helpless animal. And the next. After that, Greg stopped counting.

  At the very least, his grandpa was getting a whopping fine. At most…immediate arrest.

  Oliver and Jamansky disappeared from sight again, heading toward the garage. Still backed against a wall, Greg exchanged a nervous look with his grandpa. He could hear the list of charges mounting: excess provisions, harboring fugitives, working the black market.

  Not good. Not good!

  His mom had never worked at that chicken factory in Raleigh that he had. It had been horrible, but this would be worse. Prison would break his family. They’d never survive a day, let alone a week.

  Tears streamed down his mom’s face—his grandma’s, too—and his grandpa seemed to shrink by the second. They looked defeated already.

  Greg’s thoughts went to the teen at the barn, finally knowing what he would have done in his shoes. Fight. Just like the boy had. Just like Greg would now, because there was no way he’d let those patrolmen arrest his family. Not on his watch.