The wind shifts, bringing with it the scent of rain and a sharp chill. It’s the only warning we have before the deluge begins. We’re soaked within seconds as we scramble to protect our work. Materials and tools are shoved into the interiors of vehicles we have yet to gut, while those who have been lined with beds are properly sealed. Once finished, it’s a race of slipping and sliding bodies as everyone heads for the house. I, on the other hand, hang back to help Virginia maintain her balance on the suddenly slick ground.
“Thank you,” she says, clutching my arm. “When you get to be my age, taking a fall isn’t something you can just shake off.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “I’m not afraid of a little water.” As we reach the house, Richard and his crew catch up to us, each of them as drenched as we are.
“Damn the rain,” he says as he steps inside the kitchen. “We’re burning daylight.”
I may not agree with Richard on much, but I share his frustration in having our workday cut short. I’ve lived in Colorado all my life. I know how quickly autumn can turn to winter—how leaves of red and yellow might litter the ground one day, and be buried under a foot of snow the next. And we still have much to do before then.
“How’s the progress coming along behind the barn?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Slowly,” he grumbles. “We’re already short on men. We can’t afford to be short on time as well.” It’s all he says before following Virginia into the living room. I keep quiet, resisting the urge to bite back. His hints about Morgan and Leon wasting their time helping Felix is seriously annoying. If I didn’t think it so important to keep the peace, I’d have said something already.
“It’s really not that bad,” Vince assures me. I turn at his voice, finding him sitting atop the kitchen counter, sweeping wet strands of hair from his eyes and smiling at my surprise. I didn’t even notice him slip into the kitchen. “Uncle Dick has always tried his best to live up to his name. Best to take everything he says with a grain of salt.” His smile widens and I find my own mouth curl in amusement. Outside his parents, Morgan has told me more about Vince than anyone else in the family—his laid-back older cousin with a sharp mind and clever tongue—who made everything look effortless, and whose personality filled a room. They may be cousins, but he’s as much a brother to Morgan as Leon and Felix are.
“Noted,” I say, taking a seat opposite him. “How are things really coming along then?”
He shrugs. “As well as can be expected, I guess. Shouldn’t take too long to clear out the rest of the trees and brush. Then the real fun begins: boobie traps.” He laughs. “Gonna lay out some tricks that would make Macaulay Culkin proud.” There’s a gleam in his eye at the prospect of mischief.
“Macaulay Culkin?” I ask, confused.
His eyes narrow. “Yeah,” he says. “From Home Alone?” He must take my blank stare as an answer. “Seriously? You’ve never seen it? Kid gets left at home while his family is on vacation, and has to defend the house against two clueless crooks?”
“Sorry, not ringing any bells,” I say. “But don’t take it personally. I didn’t watch many movies growing up.”
He shakes his head. “All I’ll say is that you missed out. There was just something about older comedies that spoke to me. Things always seemed simpler back then. Purer, you know?” His stares at the kitchen floor with a far-away look in his eye, and a small smile on his face, undoubtedly lost in a montage of movies he loved and will never see again. “Then again, maybe I’m just nostalgic.”
“Maybe you just wish things could be simple and pure again,” I say.
He meets my eyes, the ever-present glint of amusement momentarily lost in his. “Yeah, you’re definitely right about that,” he says quietly. He averts his eyes for a moment, a subtle grin spreading from the corner of his mouth. The glint is back when he meets my eyes again. “But have you ever heard my Uncle Gene’s philosophy on wishing?”
The question makes me laugh. “About wishing in one hand, and shitting in the other?” I ask. He joins me in laughing.
“The very same,” he confirms, and though it’s not all that funny of a joke, it’s a long minute before either of us catches our breath. “We’re doing more than just wishing here, though,” he says, voice serious once more. “Seemed like that’s all we were doing for the longest time: wishing, just spinning our wheels trying to survive without actually getting anywhere. Then when things were at its darkest, there was Morgan: framed against the headlights like a POW about to be executed, and without even a flicker of fear on his face. It all felt like...I don’t know, fate or something—the timing of everything you know? Now being here, after everything we’ve been through...it has to mean something, right?”
I remember speaking of fate with Morgan once, the morning he left to seek medicine in Salida: how I convinced myself he would return, simply because fate had destined it to be so. Only now do I see how foolish those thoughts were, to think the universe, as vast and powerful as it is, had a plan for us. It’s all just chance. That’s what it all boils down to: the chances we’re given, and those we take. Morgan knew that even then. If I’m being honest with myself, I think at least part of me knew it too. But I suppose when you want something badly enough, your mind can make you believe just about anything. Who am I to take that away from Vince?
“It means everything,” I say.
He shares a quick smile before getting to his feet. “I better check on my better half,” he says. “She wasn’t feeling so good this morning.”
I make no move to follow him, instead, allowing myself the simple indulgence of an empty room. With so many of us, moments alone are hard to come by. I shift on the countertop, resting my back against the cabinet as I watch the storm rage through the rustic windows. The rain falls harder, it’s melodic drumming against the rooftop picking up in intensity as its mist sprays against the glass. Flashes of lightning dance across the sky, deep claps of thunder echoing in their wake. I haven’t seen a storm like this since the trail. I feel a shiver creep down my back at the memory of it: the numb, frozen fingers; the chill that reached down to the bones; wrapping Grace tightly in my arms beneath our damp and muddied sleeping bags, her body my only source of warmth. Now the winds have only grown more fierce, colder with the season. And Morgan and the guys are out there somewhere, facing the elements.
My stomach clenches on itself, that old familiar feeling of worry and anxiety coursing through me. I remind myself that they can handle themselves, but my mind has always had a tendency of running away with itself. What if they were ambushed? What if they were shot at as they approached a homestead? What if, what if, what if. The questions burn through me, and I have no way of answering them. Not for the first time, I wish I could join them in their search. In many ways, the danger wouldn’t be as bad as the waiting. But there are too many reasons why that can’t be. I need to do all I can to ensure Grace is kept safe—that means not taking any unnecessary risks. And as much as I love Felix, it’s not my place to be with him as he searches for his family. Even if more of us were willing to help search, Morgan and Leon would be the only two Felix allowed to join him. Like it or not, I’m stuck with my anxiety.
The sky grows steadily darker, the storm clouds swelling larger and more ominous. Out the corner of my eye, I catch a figure step onto the back porch, my hand reaching for my Glock out of instinct. It’s not until a flash of lightning paints his face that I recognize Morgan’s uncle, Mitch. A lit cigarette dangles between his lips, a look of relaxed contentment on his face as he takes a drag. He smokes it down to the filter before flicking it into the storm and enters through the kitchen door.
“Old habits, die hard?” I ask.
He starts at my voice. “Shit!!” he says, clutching at his chest. “I didn’t think anyone was in here.”
“Sorry,” I say, amused at his jumpiness. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
He looks around as if ensuring nobody else lingers in the shadows to s
urprise him. “No apology necessary,” he says. “Truth is, I am a little jumpy. Feel like a frickin’ teenager again, sneaking out back to light up a smoke. But if I don’t, I’ll have to hear my sisters bitch,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Better to avoid that nonsense if I can.”
“I guess,” I say, surprised at the bitterness in his voice.
“I mean, I’m forty-three years old,” he adds, continuing on his tirade. “That’s twenty-one, two times over. I should be able to light up a smoke without feeling like I’m doing something wrong, you know?” I make a noncommittal grunt, at a loss for anything else to add. He continues on all the same. “I get that they want what’s best for me,” he says, grudgingly it seems. Then he shakes his head. “But they don’t know everything. They think they do, but they don’t.”
I’m out of my element here. Mitch seems to have forgotten I’m in the room, his gaze drawn to the storm raging beyond the glass door. I want to say something, but I barely know him. For all I know, I’ll just set him off again. Suddenly he snaps out of it, a look of embarrassment on his face as he looks to me.
“Sorry,” he says. “You didn’t need to hear all that.”
“It’s alright,” I say. “We all need a good rant sometimes.”
He forces a smile. “Yeah,” he says. “Sometimes.” He tugs on the collar of his sweater nervously a moment. “I’d better see if there’s a fire going. Try and dry this out a little.” He nods goodbye and turns toward the living room, tugging his sweater off as he does so. Just as he reaches the door separating the two rooms, a white bottle falls from the sweater pocket and rolls the length of the floor towards me. I look to the bottle back to him, his face ashen, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights. I reach down and pick it up, the weight of it letting me know it’s full of pills.
“Tylenol,” he says. “Back’s been killing me lately.” He reaches for the bottle and I hand it back without raising an issue. He stuffs it firmly into his pant pocket, patting the denim outside securely. “Probably best we keep this to ourselves,” he says. “Wouldn’t want to make an issue over nothing.” I’m not sure if it’s a suggestion or a threat, his calm voice not matching his dark eyes.
The tread of running feet catches my attention. I turn in time to see Morgan run the length of the porch and fly into the kitchen, Leon and Felix behind him. They’re breathless, each of them soaked head toe. I look back toward Mitch only to find he has already disappeared into the living room. Spotting me, Morgan straightens up and quickly closes the distance between us while Leon and Felix enter the laundry room to towel off.
“You’re literally waiting by the door for my return?” he asks, grinning playfully. “How sweet.” His brow furrows and his eyes narrow, perhaps sensing my lingering unease. “Are you alright?” he asks.
I don’t know how to answer the question, unsure if I should mention his uncle’s pills. I meet his eyes, the concern they hold rooting me to the spot. So much weighs on his mind these days—so much worry and stress. He’s carried that weight since the beginning, and now, it’s beginning to take its toll. I can see it in the rings under his eyes—can hear it in the tiredness in his voice. Just last night I woke him from yet another nightmare, the paleness of his face and cold sweat streaming past his brow, standing out vividly in my mind. Do I really need to burden him with this? Do I really need to give him more to deal with, when I myself don’t know if there’s anything to worry about?
“Of course,” I say, forcing a smile. “I just find it funny how you say I’m waiting by the door when you’re the one practically breaking it down to get to me.”
A low chuckle escapes him. “They’ve yet to invent a door that could keep me from you, McCoy,” he says. He places a brief kiss atop my forehead before meeting my eyes again, erasing any lingering unease. Nothing else matters when he looks at me like this—not our worries, not our fears, not our doubts. In these quiet moments which are both infinite and fleeting all at once, nothing matters but the two of us.
Chapter 9: (Morgan)
It’s cold out this early morning hour, piercing winds howling in from the east where the sun still hides beyond the horizon. I put my hood up against the chill only to take it off almost immediately. It limits both my vision and my hearing, and I can’t afford to impair either. There are bands of thieves and roving gangs scattered about the area. We’ve learned of their exploits from those we’ve questioned while searching for Felix’s family. Hearing their stories has left me convinced that an attack on the farm isn’t a matter of if, but of when. We need to be prepared for it.
It kills me to leave the farm as often as I do, knowing how much work still needs to be done. But I have an obligation to Felix. He’s been my most loyal friend for as long as I can remember. Anytime I’ve ever needed him, he was there for me. No hesitation. No questions asked. Always, he’s had my back. So long as he holds hope of finding his family, I have to be there for him. I won’t abandon his side when I know he’d never abandon mine. Still, nearly three weeks of searching with nothing to show for it has been demoralizing, to say the least.
We started by checking in with their neighbors, and any family friends Felix knew of. Without any answers, we continue to widen our search, each place more unlikely than the next. Many of the homes have been abandoned, long since stripped of anything valuable. At others, only the decaying remains of their owners are left behind. Several times we’ve been deterred altogether, the sight of rifle barrels sticking out of open windows and the crack of warning shots keeping us from proceeding further.
On the occasions we have spoken with people, not a single person could recall seeing them since the collapse. “They’re dead, you fools.” “Stop wasting your time and focus on your own survival.” They don’t say as much, but I can see it in their pitying stares, can hear it in their fragile voices. I try my best to maintain hope, but it’s becoming more and more difficult to imagine this story has a happy ending.
Our pace is a mix of caution and haste: caution because of the threats around us, and haste because of our need for time. Today, we venture further out than we’ve dared so far, past Oxford, near the outskirts of Ignacio. It’s the reason we’re out so early. Based on Frank’s old road maps, we have a round trip of over twenty miles to cover. And with the days growing shorter and bad weather these past few evenings, we want to try and make it back well before dusk.
We pass Hwy 160 in silence. No matter how many times I see it, the wreckage that lines the road and ditches leaves me with a foul taste in my mouth. So many lives ended an instant, all for a cause only a few believed in. I wonder if those who did this ever regret their actions. Do they look at the chaos and destruction they created with pride? With a sense of victory? Is this the glorious rebirth they had envisioned for the world? One of violence, and brutality, and fear? Do they see the millions of deaths around the globe as noble sacrifices? The rapes, and starvation, and countless other depravities as necessary evils? I remember the euphoric glint that burned inside that terrorist’s eyes as he delivered the message that forever changed our lives. Is this what he saw?
My thoughts are interrupted as we reach the crest of a small hill, the day’s first blush drawing my eye as it spreads over the eastern horizon, a tide of orange and red splashing against the purple-tinged clouds. I pause, allowing myself a moment to soak in the sight of it—to relish the fact that there is still beauty to behold in this world. So much has gone wrong and yet the sun still rises. Life goes on. It’s on us to make that mean something. I breathe deep, the crisp mountain air flowing through my lungs helping to calm the anger. We’re going to be alright. So long as we have each other, we’ll find a way to make it through.
“Are you positive we’re heading in the right direction?” I ask a couple hours later.
“I think so,” Felix says. He unfolds the map from his back pocket to consult it. He traces his finger along the route we’ve taken. “I’ve only been to the place twice before, but I remember it wasn’t too far o
ff 172. There was two, maybe three turns from that Baptist Church...that would put it somewhere in this area.” He circles a small area with his finger. “Either way, this road intersects with the church eventually. From there it shouldn’t be too hard to find.”
“I still can’t believe we’re about to check Connor Sawyer’s ranch,” Leon says with an edge to his voice. “Never thought I’d see that prick again.”
I smile even though there is no love lost between Connor and myself. He’s an obnoxious loudmouth with an innate talent for pissing people off. He always managed to avoid a fight though, fast-talking and backpedaling his way out before it came to blows. Except once. It was our Junior year and Connor made the mistake of bragging about the things he would do to the ‘little sophomore slut’ he had been talking to moments before. It might have been better had it been me who overheard him talking about Emily. He would have still caught a beating, but I don’t know if he would have ended up in the emergency room. I should have realized then how much my sister meant to Leon.
Needless to say, there has been tension between them ever since. It’s something we can’t afford to let flare up today.
“Neither did I,” I say. “But we have to stay calm today. Don’t give them a reason to start anything. If we end up in a standoff, I doubt any of us walk out alive.” I’m repeating what we’ve already gone over, but it’s an important point. Leon has always been the most hot-headed of the three of us. I’ll bash the message over his head again and again if I think it might make a difference.
A Cruel and Violent Storm Page 9
