Behind the Ruins (Stories of the Fall) (12 page)

“You
were fucking my wife? Pendejo. I should kill you for that on its own.”

“Someone
figured I’d be blamed and took advantage. Someone who knew I was leaving.”

“Jerry
or Trigger. Bobby?”

“Not
Bobby, he couldn’t make the connection. Besides he’s a good guy. He loved
Kirsten.”

Tomas
was quiet for a long time. Grey stared at a clump of moss on the ground in
front of him. It was as green as jade, and made of tiny star-shaped leaves. He
wondered how long moss lived.

“Did
my wife seduce you? Did you go after her?”

“It
wasn’t like that. She loved you. I was just a toy.”

“I
don’t know what to do,” Tomas said after a long pause. It sounded like he was
weeping. “I can’t do this, it’s too much.”

“I
can, if you’ll let me,” Grey said, still staring at the moss and feeling a
familiar cold weight in his gut. “Take my guns in. Tell them you killed me.
I’ll follow after dark.”

The
moss really was beautiful when you looked closely enough, he thought.

He
waited to see if he’d die.

Tomas
rode in before dark, carrying Grey’s guns. Grey followed him once it was fully
dark. The hands usually went to sleep early. He had shared the bunkhouse with
them and knew where they slept. Each man had an old footlocker, a short shelf
and a few personal items. He’d deal with that if he had to, but he didn’t think
he would.

Grey
had asked only one question of Tomas before they parted: Had there been blood?
There had been a lot of blood, Tomas said, his face ashen. Grey couldn’t make
himself ask if the girls had seen. He didn’t want to know.

He
circled the farm in the summer dark and sat his horse in the edge of the
woodlot, listening to the creak of crickets and the musical lowing of the
cattle in their pasture. From here he could see the spring box in its little
cleft behind the barn. The water welled out of the rock there, pooling in the
old concrete box before trickling down to be lost in the pasturage below. There
was a low-riding moon, and Grey watched it wester until it sat. In the full
dark that followed he dismounted and descended the hill, taking a seat in the
tall grass near the spring box.

He
was almost asleep when he heard the wooden lid of the box rattle. He sat up,
listening as someone stirred in the water. He heard sloshing, then pattering
noises, then more sloshing. He stood. Grey could just make out the back of a
figure hunched over the box, facing away, watching the farm down the hill.

The
sound of washing covered his footsteps. The figure stiffened but did not turn
when Grey cleared his throat.

“Put
the clothes down on the ground and step away,” Grey said. The figure didn’t
move. “Do it now.” There was a wet thump and the figure stood, stepped to the
side and turned. It was too dark to make out his features, but Grey knew him by
voice.

“Why’d
you come back? You weren’t supposed to come back. Tomas said he killed you,”
Trigger said. He sounded sad.

“Two
more steps to your right, keep your hands where I can see them.” Grey realized
his lips had pulled back from his teeth in a skull’s grin.

Trigger
shuffled right.

“How’d
you know where I’d be?”

“Takes
a lot of soaking to get blood out. The box made sense. You couldn’t put your
clothes in a pond where they could be found. You wouldn’t want to just bury the
clothes and then have to explain where they went.”

Crickets
called in falling staccato runs and a nightjar swooped past overhead, or maybe
a big bat chasing mosquitos. Trigger waited for more but Grey didn’t speak. At
last, Grey took three strides so the two men stood close, facing each other. He
could hear Trigger panting and smell his sweat. He couldn’t stop grinning his
horrible grin, and part of him didn’t want to.

“Don’t
you want to know why?” The question had a soft, greasy eagerness to it when it
finally came. The grinning part of him did want to know, at least a little, and
that made Grey angry.

“I
know why. You’re broken. I just wanted you clear of those clothes before I
killed you.”

The
knife went under and up behind Trigger’s ribs in three quick thrusts. He gave a
breathy moan with each strike. Grey stepped aside to avoid the blood as he
withdrew the blade, twisting it savagely after the last blow. The farmhand
swayed for a moment, then fell over backward and moved weakly in the dry grass,
making bubbling noises. Grey wiped his knife on Trigger’s pant leg, then sat
down and waited for him to die. It took a while.

He
washed his hands before he went to the farmhouse to collect his guns.

In
the morning Georgia and a tired-looking Grey on a borrowed quarterhorse rode
for an hour back into the hills. The weather was cold, a little breezy, and the
sky was streaked with thin clouds that threatened late snow. They climbed a
ridge, the trees opening out before them, and found themselves overlooking a
wide valley through which a stream wound in serpentine curves bordered by
snowcapped boulders and tangled logjams, some as high as thirty feet.

Grey
rode down the hill, counting paces. From one hundred yards to three hundred he
stopped at intervals and clambered off the horse. He set wrist-thick sticks of
firewood atop rocks and logs, eight in all, and then folded the bag he had used
to bring them. He rode back, the horse feeling its way through the snow, wary
of downed trees and buried rocks.

Georgia
had dismounted and unfolded a faded green tarp. She lay prone on it, the rifle
propped on its bipod, peering down into the valley.

Grey
dismounted and tethered his horse next to Geogia’s fjord pony.

“You
only brought eight?” Georgia asked as he took a seat on the tarp and readied
his binoculars.

“That’s
all that would fit in the bag. You need more?”

“No,
eight should do. Call them out when you’re ready.” Georgia worked the action of
the gun, chambering the first round, and dropped her cheek to the stock.

“Furthest
left,” Grey said.

The
rifle boomed, the empty shell case glittering as the weapon ejected it on a
spinning arc into the snow. The target, at one hundred and fifty yards, spun
end-over-end into the snow.

“Nearest.”
The log exploded into splinters.

“Middle
right.” Again.

“Farthest.”
Again.

“Next
farthest. Far right. Nearest. Last one.”

Echoes
rumbled and growled back and forth as the final piece of wood spun away. The
horses blew and snorted, but calmed rapidly. Georgia stood, stretching. Her
eyes were distant.

“So?”
she asked.

Grey
smiled thinly.

“I
assume there is a lot on my plate, then?”

“Yes.
Lots,” Grey said, eyeing the splintered wood scattered across the width of the
vale. “What’s your maximum range?”

“If
I take my time? With this, depending on the situation, six or seven hundred
yards. For fast shooting, about three hundred.”

Georgia
refused to follow Grey at a walking pace and loaned him the quarterhorse when
they set off the following day. The trail was slushy and muddy in parts, and it
was four days before they reached the Port. Grey shared what he knew as they
rode.

Georgia
spoke little and watched constantly. Her rifle stayed in its case, riding
across her bedroll behind her saddle, and she wore an old revolver belted over
her buckskin jacket. Grey rode with his rifle slung across his back.

As
they descended the long slope into Kelowna on the last day, Grey unslung the
rifle and rested it across the saddle before him. He saw fewer scavengers than
in past years, and never had the sense of being watched. A bare handful of
people muffled in rags and hides darted away at their approach, and smoke rose
from just a few of the semi-intact buildings that had once held dozens of
hungry-eyed survivors.

At
the Port, spikes lined much of the outside wall; jagged sections of steel
fencepost, rebar and other scrap had been welded in place near the barricade’s
top, angling down. Where the wall was cinderblock or brick incorporated from a
standing structure, sharpened wooden palings leaned out over the roofline.

The
bus gate was limited to foot traffic, so Georgia and Grey had to wait until the
guards winched open the creaking cart-gate. The port normally collected a toll
for opening the gate. Grey gave the porter a copper slug and then bartered for
change.

Early
spring meant the lake’s water was cold and the kokanee salmon and lake trout
ran shallow. The water was already dotted with boats running long lines and
netting. An early mule team had arrived from the south, trading grain for fish,
and Grey paused to study them where they milled in the tiled plaza near the
docks. Five drovers, all doubling as guards, attended the fourteen mules. Each
animal bore a wooden crosstree laden with sacks and bags. The mules stood with
their heads down and looked sleepy. One spoiled the illusion by snapping
viciously at a child that strayed too close, its big teeth clicking in the air
inches from the recoiling boy’s shoulder.

“You’ll
want to talk to them,” Georgia said.

“Yes.
But Josie first.”

With
the fishermen out on the water the bar was nearly empty. A few early townies
were nursing beers and Big Tom sat playing cards with three other men at the
billiard table. The rear wall panels were up, as they would be until warm
weather came, and the narrow room looked longer and darker than before.

Josie
grinned and emerged from behind the bar to hug her sister. They exchanged
greetings, and Josie gave Grey a hug and a kiss. She seated them down at a
corner table and gestured to Tom, who grimaced at his hand before folding his
cards. He rose and joined them.

“Grey,”
he said. “And this must be Georgia.” He offered his hand. Georgia took it
briefly.

“You
must be Tom,” she said. “Grey told me a little about you.”

“Nothing
too bad I trust. You noticed the walls, Grey?”

Grey
grunted an assent. “It’ll make climbing over a chore. How are people feeling
about the whole thing?”

Tom
see-sawed a big palm. Grey noted his nails were carefully trimmed and clean.

“Like
anything, there are those who have already forgotten. They figure it all blew
over, already. But there’s enough with brains to keep an eye out and work on
our defenses. Do you have your people together yet?”

“Some.
We’ll be ready. Clay has two who want to come. There’s Georgia and me, and
Tillingford’s oldest boy Harmon. And Doc, of course.”

“Only
seven?” Tom asked.

“We
won’t win with numbers,” Georgia said. “So don’t let that worry you.”

“But
if they get the drop on you?” Tom asked.

“They
won’t,” Grey said. “Or if they do, we’ll die. But it’s not likely. That’s why
we’re making them respond to us. It’s easier to attack than defend.” He sighed
and stretched, his back sore from the ride. “We’ve been over this, Tom, let’s
leave it. I’m more interested in news.” He looked at Josie.

“There
haven’t been many visitors from the south this winter. Not that that’s a
surprise after the weather,” Josie said. “One interesting item from the
teamsters here now, though. They came out of southern Washington. They get in
here once every few months; some of them I recognize. They say there are rumors
that an army is coming. Outlaws and drifters have been trickling through the
towns, and some have talked about that defense force thing. Some people call
then Greens. The word is that they’re based in Montana.”

“We
figured that much, what’s it have to do with our problem?” Grey asked.

“They
say there’s been friction between some of the drifters running west and the
local hard men. Firefights, a few towns burnt down. These guys stopped to trade
in Wenatchee and heard that some local boss was moving shop. The story is that
he had scouts headed north last year, so the Wenatchee people were worried,
because this guy’s supposed to have a lot of guns and an unhappy reputation. He
runs a lot of towns, a lot of scams.”

“So
he could be our guy? South of Wenatchee?” Grey asked.

“He
could be,” Josie said. “There is a lot of stuff on the move, but I doubt there
are many raiders with a hundred guns looking north.”

“Did
they know where this guy is based?”

“Not
for sure. The traders say they pack along the foot of the Cascades, and all the
rumors have this guy inland, maybe around Moses Lake or Ephrata or The
Potholes. He has garrisons all over the place though. The kicker is that one of
the teamsters thought their base was called ‘the castle’.”

“That’s
them,” Grey leaned forward. “They have a name?”