by Nathan Jones
The volunteer glared. “That's sinus congestion, you SOB. Runs in the family.”
“Yeah, well maybe your mouth breathing mom and pop should've taught you not to offer perfect setups for insults when you're already acting like a doofus.”
“Screw you, Gerry!” Ray stomped away, leaving his fire and stuff behind.
Tom sighed, looking after him. Spats like that weren't going to be good for morale; he needed better from his friend. He probably should've intervened, but he honestly hadn't expected Brandon to take it that far.
He joined the young man by the laid fire, speaking in a low voice so the curious onlookers around them wouldn't overhear. “What are you doing, Brandon?”
His friend gave him a sullen look. “I've had a bad day. Don't you start on me.”
“Yeah, only you're picking fights with guys you're going to depend on to watch your back the next time Sangue comes knocking. Should probably think that through a little more carefully.” The sullenness turned into a glare, and he sighed again. “What's eating you? Let's hear it.”
“Hear what? That today was almost a disaster in spite of having a major advantage, then instead of properly communicating afterwards we all ran around like chickens with our heads cut off, meaning we wouldn't have been able to respond to a potential opportunity or problem in time if one had come? Not to mention that on top of it all, I had to run myself ragged chasing after you while you bolted for safety.”
His friend cut off the head of steam he was building to look around them, as if aware this wasn't the sort of discussion the other volunteers wanted to overhear. Then he stalked away, not seeming to care if Tom followed. When Tom did, the young man kept going on his rant. “How about the fact that we're surrounded on all sides here, and better people than us have tried to stand their ground against the bloodies and got crushed under their tires? Even Grand Junction couldn't hold them off forever.”
Tom frowned, seeing where this was going and not sure he liked it. “You think we should leave?”
Brandon looked away, and it was several tense seconds before he grudgingly replied. “Fi wants to. Has ever since I got back two weeks ago. She doesn't feel safe.” The young man found a tree to kick in frustration, then slumped back against it. “Then again, she hasn't felt safe since Newpost, and I can't blame her. Especially since Bob and Vicky left. She thinks maybe they had the right idea.”
Hard to fault her for that, Tom supposed. “I guess the Hendricksons bolting north was pretty strong encouragement.” His friend didn't reply, and he cleared his throat. “What do you think?”
His friend cursed and tilted his head back, staring up at the twilit sky. “I think it's too late for that now. Might've been too late even when Bob and Vicky skedaddled, although for their sake I certainly hope not.” Tom grunted his agreement as Brandon continued dourly. “Besides, if we left it'd be us against the world. At least here that “us” is hundreds of people. Safety in numbers, right?”
Or a juicier target. But he wasn't about to spout that sort of pessimism, especially when the young man was already down in the dumps. “I won't blame you whichever way you choose. You've got to do right by your family.”
Brandon shook his head and sighed, most of his belligerence seeming to have faded. “I just wish I knew what that was.”
Yeah, no good choices these days. Just do the best they could and hope it was enough.
A long silence settled. Tom was itching to get back and set up his tent, see what the volunteers were cooking and maybe get a pot of herb tea going. Before he could finally decide to suggest it, the young man spoke again in a calmer tone. Back to business, it seemed. “So now we've got two large forces of Sangue soldiers, both wiped out when they came in our direction. At this point, they're going to know there's someone up here. Someone who deserves more attention than a few search parties.”
Hard to argue that point. “We've got the new recruits back in Camptown, but we'll have to talk to the Sheriff about recruiting and training more even more. We'll also have to physically and mentally prepare ourselves for more fights, and for a wary enemy that's harder to ambush.”
“Right,” his friend agreed. “For a start.” At his questioning look, Brandon continued. “Sangue's already pissed off and coming at us, right? So what exactly is the downside to heading up to 29 and knocking it out wherever we can? We'll slow their movement through the area, which can only help us and might also ease some of the pressure on folks fighting in other places nearby.”
Tom blinked, genuinely shocked. That was exactly the task he'd been going to approach Brandon about, before the young man started talking about leaving.
Still, now that the subject was raised it couldn't hurt to play the devil's advocate, let Brandon present his case and see what insights he had to offer; Tom had a feeling he'd been relying too much on himself so far, which he supposed was a failing of his solitary mountain man nature. Since the evidence was piling up that he wasn't infallible, it was time to change his thinking; he didn't want anything he overlooked to get good people killed.
“Might be a gamble, sending folks up there that we need to defend Camptown,” he said, rubbing his chin as if thinking the idea over. “If Sangue attacks from the direction of Emery next time, or circles around anyone we sent up to the highway, we could be in for a hard time.”
“So give me a few volunteers and I'll take care of it,” the young man offered.
Tom bit back a smile. Always better to have someone volunteer than to have to tell, or even ask, them to do it. “Actually, I was kind of thinking Highway 29 would be a good target to hit myself,” he agreed. “But take enough people you can do the job properly, and as many axes, saws, shovels, and other tools as you need. Also take Pine and any of the explosives we've still got, even if it's just some of the grenades.”
Pine was their explosives expert, although by his own admission he was more of an explosives acquaintance; the extent of his experience was assisting real experts with handling explosives for mining. On the upside, as an added bonus that meant he had a pretty good idea of what sort of effect explosions had on rock and dirt walls. That had already come in handy once, when Tom helped him drop a cliff across I-70 a while back.
Hopefully, the man could help Brandon do the same, although probably on a less spectacular scale, along Highway 29. Ideally in multiple spots.
The young man grimaced. “Great, that probably means lugging volatile explosives. Remember how much fun you had driving that wagon? Except we won't even have one of those . . . this better not end with my horse getting blown sky high.”
Tom grinned; driving the wagon certainly hadn't been fun, but it had all turned out okay. Old Pine had even insisted, with more than a little confidence, that the explosives they were toting weren't even the type that got dangerously unstable with age. “So I guess we'll head back to Camptown with the volunteers who won't be scouting, and you can get ready to head out.”
“Sounds good.” Brandon glanced back at the camp. “Being gone blowing up a road might give Ray a chance to cool off, after the way I got on his case like that.”
Tom gave him a pointed look. “You were going to apologize, right?”
“Yeah, yeah.” His friend smiled wryly. “The second I get back from taking out Highway 29.”
* * * * *
Skyler paused a hundred yards from the shooting range, feeling a weary sense of resignation wash over him; in spite of the fact that he'd come early, he saw several recruits had already arrived.
Including some less than welcome faces.
Please let today be better. Doesn't have to be great, doesn't even have to be tolerable . . . if it's not a complete ball of suck that would be just fine.
Unfortunately, it was already shaping up to a bad start; a few of the volunteers already had their weapons out and, in spite of Trapper's strict orders about not using the range unsupervised, were setting up some targets to shoot.
One of them was Coby Fredricks, the bigge
st festering pustule in Camptown, and the other two were the guy's friends Bret Easton and Lucy Wyland. All around eighteen, and all very careful to make sure Skyler was well aware of it.
They were pretty much the sum total of all his fears about being left in charge of training the recruits: resentful of having someone younger telling them what to do, they not only ignored him most of the time but went out of their way to disrupt his lessons and distract the other recruits. Coby had also tried to pick a fight with him more than once, and while Skyler wasn't afraid of the bigger, older teenager, not after going toe to toe with a bear of a man like Rich Bradshaw, he still knew better than to let himself be goaded into throwing a punch.
Some leadership lessons didn't exactly need a manual.
The fact that Coby and his pals were some of the only people there, and they were pretty much guaranteed to cause trouble, made him want to turn around and leave until more volunteers showed up. Turning tail and running wouldn't exactly impress any of the recruits he'd been put in charge of, but at the moment he wasn't sure he cared.
Unfortunately, when he glanced over his shoulder towards the sanctuary of the retreat he saw Jenny Samson and Meredith, or Mer, Ellison, two of the women he'd saved, not too far behind him. They were approaching from the direction of the cabin that had been built for Lisa's family, but which had been given to the new guests when the Hendricksons left.
After the fight with Sangue in Gerry's Ravine, Mitchells had talked another thirty or so people into volunteering, and lit a fire under the less experienced volunteers to work harder to be ready in case they had to fight. It had come as a surprise to everyone when Jenny and Mer had shown up to volunteer with the other new recruits; after what they'd suffered at the hands of the bloodies, he wouldn't have blamed them for doing everything they could to stay far from the enemy.
On the other hand, he'd already seen how ferocious Mer could be, since she was the girl who'd killed the Sangue guard with nothing but a rock as they were escaping the enemy camp at Joes Valley. And Jenny, who'd informally taken charge of the group of freed women, had thrown herself into training like no one else.
The two women were determined to bring justice to Sangue for the loved ones they'd lost and the horrors they'd experienced, and Trapper seemed to think that it might help their recovery to learn how to defend themselves in the future. So they'd joined the recruits, putting the others to shame with their hard work.
On the one hand, the fact that they were there meant Skyler would have at least a few friends with him at the shooting range as they waited for the rest of the recruits to show up. It also meant he didn't have to look like a coward by walking away from an unpleasant encounter.
The bad news was, it also meant he'd have to keep going and endure the presence of Coby and his buddies for longer. But if it couldn't be avoided, best to just suck it up and get it over with.
If there was one small plus, it was that the three older teenagers weren't getting ready to use the range when they weren't supposed to after all. Skyler hadn't considered the fact that they, like most of the recruits, were using rifles borrowed from the town's stores. Actually, his family's rifles, to be precise, although Trapper had loaned them to the displaced Emery residents to defend themselves against Sangue.
The ammo was also borrowed, and while Brady gave him as much as he needed for training every day, they used it all up at that time. So Coby, Lucy, and Bret weren't actually shooting, they were just practicing sighting at targets using their weapons and going through the motions.
Hard to complain about that, Skyler supposed; you could never have too much dry fire practice. In fact, it was something he should be encouraging people to do in their spare time.
Unfortunately, the moment the older teenagers spotted him coming Coby made a beeline for him. “Hey, kid! Can we get some bullets to practice with?”
Skyler did his best to bite back his irritation. “Sure,” as the older teenager started to brighten in surprise, he continued firmly. “Once we're ready to get started on target practice.”
Coby sneered at him. “Should've expected you'd be like that. Don't know why Brady lets you decide what to do with the ammo, anyway.”
“Maybe because he's in charge?” Jenny replied as she arrived, moving to stand next to Skyler and glaring at Coby. And nobody gave the stink eye like Jenny Samson.
Coby scowled, but didn't say anything. He may not have liked the fact that Jenny and Mer supported Skyler leading the training, but he wasn't a monster and showed proper sympathy for what the young women had suffered. He mostly left them alone, even when Jenny got on his case for disrupting training.
With no ammo forthcoming, the teenager headed back to his friends to practice their sighting on distant targets. Skyler left them to it, glad they were at least doing something useful; usually the moment he opened his mouth to try to teach the recruits anything the three instantly began goofing off.
So predictably, in fact, that it was obviously deliberate. Bad enough they couldn't respect his experience or the fact that Trapper had put him in charge, but they seemed determined to make sure no one else learned anything, either.
It took twice as long for all the recruits to arrive as it usually did for the volunteers. Skyler didn't know if that was because of him, or if they were less disciplined, or what, but his leadership position was tenuous enough that trying to get on their case for being late was probably a bad idea.
As if to rub salt in the wound, even Brady Everett, who'd been left in charge of Camptown in Sheriff Mitchells's absence, was late with the ammo and other materials they needed for training. Although to be fair, that was because his new responsibilities had him running himself ragged, and he was apologetic about it.
“Sorry for the delay,” he said, starting to unload the packsaddle off the horse he'd brought to haul the supplies.
“You're fine, a few of the recruits were running late,” Skyler replied, loudly enough that the recruits could hear and hopefully get the hint. He heard Coby snickering somewhere in the crowd, and felt his face reddening as he hastily continued. “Are you trying to do all this by yourself? That's what delegation is for.”
The former trader grimaced. “Yeah, that's what Betty keeps telling me.” He sighed and clapped Skyler on the shoulder. “Well, better get back to it. Best of luck with the training, Mr. Graham.”
On the one hand, it was nice to be addressed as an adult, and sincerely. On the other hand, Skyler had pretty much never heard anyone but his dad called that, and that had been half a decade ago before he died.
Fighting a sudden surge of sadness at the reminder of his dad, he hauled the packsaddle over his shoulder and headed up to the front of the recruits. Once there, he climbed onto the bench of the shooting perch where Trapper usually stood to address the trainees.
“Most of our combat with the bloodies is probably going to be ambushes,” he began without preamble. “That means we'll be shooting from a distance, probably with obstructions blocking our line of sight. Today I'd like to practice precision distance shooting, and the techniques for determining important information like which direction the wind is blowing and how hard, not just where you are but also all the way along the bullet's path to your target.”
Skyler could already see the eyes of some of the recruits glazing over, although he couldn't see why when this information was incredibly interesting and useful. And of course, in the middle of the crowd Coby was joking around with his buddies, all of them being way too loud to be genuine.
He grit his teeth and raised his voice to talk over them, describing the motion of grass and leaves and even a target's hair and clothes as clues to how the wind was blowing. In spite of the borderline inattentiveness of his recruits he was enjoying talking about the subject, and after a few minutes was getting a good momentum going.
In fact, he'd already had Jenny and Mer pass out ammo so everyone could get their weapons loaded. He planned to suggest a practical demonstration before they se
t up targets at two hundred yards, an excuse to display his shooting skills and maybe show everyone why they should listen to him.
And that was when it all fell apart.
It was Coby, of course. The older teenager was wrestling with Derrick Nowak, a man in his twenties who was usually pretty easygoing; from the looks of it, Coby was either trying to steal the guy's gun, or trying to keep his own from being stolen. They were both cursing and screaming insults, and looked on the verge of tackling each other to the ground at any moment to continue the fight there. Meanwhile, the crowd around them naturally formed a circle as people backed up to watch the show.
Skyler jumped off the bench and bolted through the crowd, mostly dodging around people but pushing through where necessary. As he got closer to the two fighting men, Bret tried to get in his way and prevent him from intervening, but Skyler ducked around the bigger kid and kept going. Coby's friend shoved at his back as he passed, but he ignored it, his complete focus on the fight in front of him that threatened to spiral out of control.
Although Skyler wasn't as big as either of the older men, he was no stranger to hard work and knew how to use his strength and what weight he did have to best effect. He got between the two, physically separating them and knocking the rifle spinning off to one side.
Coby tossed a wild swing his way, either by accident in the heat of the scuffle or, a less pleasant thought, taking advantage of the chance to hit him and plead innocence.
Well, either way demanded the same result. Skyler ducked in under the blow and slammed his elbow into the older teenager's gut, knocking him wheezing onto his backside. Then he turned to Derrick to see if he was going to be trouble, relaxing slightly when he saw the guy had already stepped back, lowering his hands. “What the blazes is going on?” he demanded.
Glaring murder, Coby opened his mouth to respond, but Derrick beat him to it. “This nutjob pointed a gun at me!” he snarled. “Laughed and told me to relax because the chamber wasn't loaded, but what kind of freak points a gun at someone for any reason?”
