After The Fires Went Out: Coyote (Book One of the Post-Apocalyptic Adventure Series) (24 page)

“I think he’s dead,” I said. I buried my head in my hands and started to cry.

Graham and I arrived back at the cottage around lunchtime with our stories sorted out between us. We had Marc laid out on the hay, his eyes closed; we had nothing along with us to cover him, so it looked almost like he was just having a nap until you noticed the blood.

Sara came out to meet us.

“Marc's family isn't here, are they?” I asked.

“Lisa's helping them put up some storm windows at their place,” she said. “What happened?”

“H-he had an accident,” Graham said, stuttering as he spoke.

“He's dead,” I said. “Tripped and hit his head on the side of the cart.”

“
O mon dieu,
” Sara said. She climbed onto the cart and knelt beside the body. She lowered her head and whispered a prayer in French, her words quiet and quick.

“It was my fault,” I said, unable to keep silent.

She wrapped her arms around me. “It's no one's fault.”

I held her close to me and shut my eyes. I wanted to believe her, that I wasn't to blame. I could try and think that he'd provoked me enough, that he'd truly threatened our lives, that somehow I was justified in taking a man's life.

I wanted to believe that I hadn't just taken away a woman's husband, that I hadn't just stolen the father from two teenage boys.

But I don't believe any of that.

My dad died when I was fifteen. He wasn't murdered and it wasn't a tragic accident or some terrible run of bad luck; he had a bad heart and he didn't listen to his doctor. They didn't have emergency defibrillators back then, at least not at the supermarket, and when he collapsed he pulled an entire display of mandarin oranges down with him. He died long before the ambulance could reach him through the mess of evening rush hour along Dundas Street.

He left me that bad heart of his, along with his temper, and I'm not sure which one has cost me more.

Graham and Sara went together to see the Tremblays; I didn't have the balls to go with them. I'm sure Sara gave a good reason for my absence, and I doubt me being there would have made it any easier.

I spent the rest of yesterday in my room, not reading, not sleeping... not really thinking that much about it, either.

I can't change what's happened.

I can't change what I've just become.

Kayla came to see me after the sun had set. I guess Sara hadn't gotten back from the Tremblays since she hadn't come up to check on me; I wondered if Alain had arrived home yet to hear the news about his brother.

Kayla knocked on the door but she came in before I had a chance to answer. I hadn't bothered to turn on my lamp, and I think she was surprised to find me sitting on the bed, fully awake. I turned on the light to let her know she was welcome.

“I brought you some food,” she said. She spoke slowly and gently, in a tone I'd never heard from her before. She put a plate down on the nightstand, with two slices of untoasted bread covered in dark red jam. “Home-baked bread and raspberry jam... it's always been my version of comfort food.” She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a small silver flask bearing the inlaid outline of an eagle. “And some comfort drink,” she said with a slender smile.

“Thanks.”

“Fiona made it with her new breadmaker. The one Graham got from Marc.” She sighed. “It was nice of Marc to find that for her.”

I nodded. I hadn’t heard any of that before, and I didn’t want to hear it then.

She sat down beside me, putting her hand on my knee. “You’re a good guy, Baptiste.”

“That’s what they tell me.” But I didn’t believe a word of it.

“I haven’t been the same old Kayla lately... I’m sorry for that.”

“I don’t know why you’d need to be sorry.”

“I... I just feel like I haven’t been able to add much to the group.”

“Don’t ever doubt how much you do for us, Kayla. Or how much you mean to us.”

She leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Thank you,” she said. She took a deep breath and squeezed my knee. “I've never told you about my older brother.”

“No, you haven't.”

“He died when I was seventeen... around five years ago. He rolled his car on Highway 101 just outside of Timmins. He wasn't drunk or anything... it was just icy and he lost control...” Her words trailed away as she took another breath, tears starting down her face. “That's who the tattoo is for.”

“What tattoo?” I asked, not that I didn't know about it.

She pulled her shirt down off her left shoulder, showing it to me: a bald eagle clutching a rose, under a banner that read “My Heart, Undone”.

“I like it,” I said. “I always have.”

“It was icy. He was tired, too; we both were. He'd driven me down to Timmins to pick up Mom's car... first time I'd taken it out of town and I'd had to leave it there when the battery went. We were driving back home and I was following right behind him...”

She dropped her head into her hands, her whole body shaking as she started to cry.

“You don't have to tell me,” I said.

“I couldn't bring myself to get out of the car. I just pulled over and sat there. I didn't call for help or nothing... I just stared at his license plate, reading those upside-down letters over and over again. He was already dead, but I didn't know that.”

“I'm sorry... I’m not sure why you're telling me this.”

“I don't know... I just thought it might help you to hear it.”

I put my arm around her shoulder. “It does help,” I said. “Thank you.”

“I've never wanted to be that girl who lost her brother. Maybe I try too hard to be someone else... I don't know. I know it's not the same for you, since you didn't know Marc that well... but I just... I don't want you to carry it.”

“I don't have a choice. Every time we lose someone I'm going to carry it. But I'll be okay... really.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm sure. I was just an accident.”

It had been an accident. I had just wanted to stop him; I hadn't meant to lose my temper, to hit him so hard...

She leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. “Take care of yourself, Baptiste.”

“You, too.”

She smiled once more as she left the room.

I didn't feel like eating, but after all she'd shared I felt like I couldn't risk her thinking I didn't appreciate what she'd done. Once I'd finished the bread and jam, I started in on whatever was in the flask. I think it was rye, and it wasn't very good. But as I fell asleep, I was grateful that Kayla had trusted me enough to be herself with me, if only for a few minutes.

Today is Monday, December 17th.

Yesterday I decided to ride up to Silver Queen Lake with the Porters. I didn’t want to be anywhere near McCartney Lake and the mourning Tremblay family.

I remember Justin and his wife Rihanna from before the fires, when they would come to the town meetings at Tim Horton Centre and sit near the back. I hadn’t known more than their faces, since they’d never raised their hands to speak and they’d always left right when the meeting adjourned, ducking outside before most people had even stood up from their chairs.

I think the first time I’d spoken to either of them was on the morning they’d come to the gate asking for our help. I didn’t even know that Justin had served in the Forces, and I certainly had no idea what he was capable of. Back then I didn’t even know about the things he and Marc Tremblay had done.

It’s over an hour and a half to Silver Queen Lake, and the route the Porters took was on gravel that was in pretty bad shape. We skipped Cochrane entirely, but we didn’t have the same option for Clute; there’s only one road to Silver Queen Lake and it goes through Clute and whatever roadblock that might be there. It’s the same road Matt and Ant were taking on their way to bring eggs to the Smiths, the same road where Ant was killed and the man with the tiger striped helmet laughed his head off.

I don’t miss that truck.

The Tremblays’ truck also had only the front bench, so it was pretty tight up there with all three of us, especially since we all wore riot suits and I insisted on keeping all three helmets and vests up front along with my shotgun and their hunting rifle.

We were ready to suit up and run through whatever opposition or barricades we found.

But Clute was quiet, and we continued on.

We listened to Green Day of all things on the way up, with Rihanna quietly starting to sing along every once in awhile as she drove, before she’d catch herself and glance over to me with a slightly embarrassed look in her eyes.

We didn’t really talk at all, and I was okay with that. The truth is, I know full well that Justin and I would still get along if I wasn’t careful, that I’d start forgetting how much I wanted to stay angry with him. I remember how much I hated them both before, when all I knew of the Porters was that they’d turned Sara away when she’d begged them for help.

Justin hadn’t even made the offer to take her somewhere else, to trade her for diesel or a box of condoms. I still wonder why he hadn’t. Maybe he’d thought Sara wasn’t worth anything. Maybe he’d known enough about Lisa to stay clear of the whole bunch.

I know Sara’s done her best to let the past go, not that it doesn’t flicker back from time to time. At first I’d hated them as much as humanly possible, like I was hating them double because Sara didn’t. But it didn’t take long for Justin to start acting like a friend, and after a little while I guess we were friends.