Chapter 1
Saturday, Day 24
Bakerville, Wyoming
June Mitchellini
“What’d you call this rice dish, Mommy?” my eight-year-old daughter asks.
“I think it’s a version of jambalaya. Miss Sally-Ann said it’s a copycat of a dish she loved while growing up in Louisiana.”
“Yeah,” Oliver, my eight-year-old son and twin to Abigail, says. “But I heard someone else say Miss Sally-Ann is out of her mind if she thinks Vienna sausage are like . . . whatever type of sausage is supposed to be in this. And it’s supposed to have shrimp or something in it.”
“That wasn’t very nice Wil—I mean, Oliver,” Abigail says.
I pat Abigail’s leg before turning to Oliver. “She used crawdads, or what are often called crayfish. They live wild in the streams and ditches here. But she could only harvest a few, in order to not deplete them. They’re really just for flavoring.”
“She gave me a shell.” Abigail holds up a small pincer.
“Me too.” Oliver swipes at his sister with his. She holds hers up like a sword as they move into combat.
I smile at their antics before saying, “Finish your meal.”
“Will we have supper?” Abigail asks. “Or is this all for today?”
“We’ll have a snack later,” I say, trying to make our meal rationing appear normal. Even though the life we now lead is anything but normal.
“Mommy,” Abigail whispers, “do you think you can call me Chloe yet? And call him Willie?” She motions to her brother. “Are we safe now that the lights have gone out for good?”
I touch my daughter on the nose. I want to tell her yes, that the bad people we’ve been hiding from can’t find us now. And I want to believe this is the truth. After the high-altitude nuke—and rumors of detonations on the east and west coasts—surely we’re safe. Surely the people who killed our friends have other things to be concerned about. Things more important than searching for us.
Things like survival.
None of us have it easy now. Day-to-day living is all we strive for. And living isn’t a guarantee.
Today, we buried a friend. Tammy was a wonderful lady, murdered by someone she was trying to help.
“Hi, Dr. June, mind if we sit with you?” Laurie Esplin asks, balancing a ceramic plate in one hand and a plastic glass in the other. Paper plates and cups are a thing of the past. While some of us may still have a small stash, they’re hoarded for special occasions. For our community meals, we bring our own reusable plates and glasses. Dirties are rinsed off at the community pump or taken home to be washed with our own water. Water is a rare commodity for some and is abundant for others.
The EMP took out most of the water well pumps. Several people are constructing bailer buckets out of PVC pipe to haul water out of their well a gallon or so at a time. Most houses are also being equipped with a gutter system to capture rainwater, and many have reworked their outgoing gray water pipes to capture—and clean—this water for reuse. We’re also fortunate to have creeks, irrigation ditches, a few reservoirs, and a large river running through Bakerville.
“Please, we’d love for you to join us.” I nod to Laurie and her fiancé Aaron as they sit on the grass next to us. In two weeks, they, along with two other couples, will be getting married. A triple wedding!
The entire community is looking forward to it. A reason to celebrate is something we haven’t had for weeks. I know as Christians we’re supposed to celebrate when a brother or sister in Christ goes home to the Lord, but it’s so hard. So hard with a senseless murder such as Tammy’s.
We visit over our meal. Like us, Aaron and Laurie, along with their friend Bill Shane, are new to the community of Bakerville. They arrived from nearby Wesley on the day of the EMP. They, too, fled their home in fear of their lives.
While their circumstances were different than ours, the need for self-preservation was the same. Laurie had a hard time those last few days in Wesley and her first few days here. Self-preservation wasn’t what she wanted for herself, but Aaron made sure she was safe and cared for during her darkest time. Now, she too is sad over the loss of our friend, but she’s no longer in the pit of despair.
“Will you be at tomorrow’s service?” Laurie asks. “Did you know Lydia?”
“Not well,” I say. “I treated her a couple of times, but Sam usually cared for her. He and Kelley along with Belinda and Tammy, of course.”
“I just can’t believe Lydia was so ill she killed Tammy and hurt Belinda so badly.”
“Mental illness,” I say with a shake of my head. “We don’t always know what someone’s capable of. I know Kelley and Sam had no idea Lydia was so . . . ” I search for a word that’ll say what I want to say. Coming up blank, I just shake my head again. “Then, for her to kill herself, it’s so sad. Will Lydia’s children stay at the Caldwell farm?”
Laurie gives a small smile. “They will. Sarah and Tate are adopting them. But we’ll all still help care for them.”
“Oh? They’re adopting all three?”
“Sort of, yes. Not officially or anything. The children were already staying with them in their camp trailer, so it makes sense for them to continue being their main caregivers.”
“Speaking of camp trailers, where will you two stay after your wedding?” I ask.
“We, uh . . . we’re getting our own small trailer.” Laurie’s cheeks take on a lovely blush.
“From the neighbors down the road,” Aaron adds. “Ones that were gone visiting their children. It’s only about fifteen feet long, but it’ll be fine for us. And it’s light enough Jake can pull it back to the homestead with his Jeep.”
“So you’ll be staying with the Caldwells?”
“For now,” Laurie says. “It’s a good place for us. We’re all able to work together. With the garden, animals, construction, and guard duty, we’re stretched pretty thin.”
The rumble of an ATV catches our attention.
“Is that the sheriff’s car?” Abigail asks, pointing at the ATV with a star painted on each fender. We’re on the ball field, quite a distance from the driveway, and I squint to try and make out the vehicles.
“Looks like one of their ATVs,” Oliver says. “But the truck and old car following him, they don’t belong here.”
“I’m sure it’s fine. Otherwise, the deputy wouldn’t have brought them to the community center.” I peer at the old Ford pickup and even older car. I know I’ve seen cars like that before, but it’s been so long I can’t place the make or model. The car has definitely seen better days, but at least it’s still running. Unlike the new cars. Those of us with anything newer than an early-80’s car or truck are using alternate methods of transportation.
“Right. They shouldn’t be here,” Oliver says. “Isn’t there a rule saying only people who live in Bakerville can be here now?”
“Or people that have a relative here or know someone here,” Laurie says, as we watch the vehicles come to a stop. Almost instantly, a twentysomething woman jumps out from the bed of the truck. She takes a look around and runs toward one of the groups.
I follow the path she’ll take with my gaze. Our neighbors Kelley and Phil Hudson are gesturing and moving toward her. A second, nearly identical woman is right on the first woman’s heels. Kelley has been praying her daughters would make it here from their home in Arizona. As the woman launches herself into Kelley’s arms, my eyes fill with tears. Her daughters have made it home.
There are squeals of excitement as the family greets each other. Doris Snyder is also hugging a new arrival. The woman she’s hugging is very tall and much too skinny, and even from this distance, it’s obvious she’s ill.
“I guess they do know people,” Oliver says.
We watch as several more unload from the truck and car. The happy families continue to hug and hold on to each other.
Taking Aaron’s hand, Laurie says, “It’s wonderful.”
In that instant, people start to scatter, and the squeals of delight turn to screams as they quickly move away from the area.
“What’s happening?” Laurie asks.
Aaron’s hand goes to his sidearm. “I think Doris is holding someone at gunpoint.”
Chapter 2
Saturday, Day 24
Bakerville, Wyoming
Mollie Caldwell
“What’s going on here?” Evan demands in a fierce yet calm voice—his cop voice.
“Mom? What are you doing?” Lindsey’s tone matches Evan’s; she was a law enforcement officer in her old life.
“Don’t trust her. She’s—she’s a traitor.” Doris keeps her pistol leveled on the blond woman.
There’s shuffling all around us as people move, quickly scrambling for safety. I’m sitting near Doris—way too close to the line of fire if things go bad. She’s so jumpy. Will me trying to get out of the way have undesired consequences? Could my movement startle her and cause her to fire?
My husband, Jake, is standing next to Evan. To his right, my oldest daughter, Sarah, is part of the crowd rapidly moving away. I catch her eye. She gives me a nod as she opens her arms to encompass the young children now part of our family. My other children, and most of the adults staying at our place, are also in the pack of people moving toward safety.
“Now, Albatross,” the woman says in a soothing voice.
“Shush. You just shush. The only reason you aren’t in prison is ‘the deal.’ You had something they wanted.”
“I don’t know why you can’t understand it was a mistake, an accident.”
“You got people killed! People who— ” Doris takes a deep breath. “Good people died because of you.”
“I understand you’re still angry, hurting,” the man who arrived with the woman being held at gunpoint says in a calm, British voice.
“Reynard. I can’t believe you’re with this . . . this traitor.”
“Now, Meagan,” the woman says.
I glance around. Who’s Meagan?
The British man continues, “I lost someone I cared about that day too. Many of us did. She did, too, you know.”
“It was her fault!” Doris moves her gun up slightly.
“Doris,” Evan says calmly, his hand on the butt of his own still-holstered firearm. A quick glance around shows the few people in the immediate vicinity have adopted a stance similar to Evan’s. Except the group of travelers. Most of them look confused and nervous, especially the three blond children.
“Doris?” the woman asks. “Is that what you call yourself these days?”
Lindsey is standing strong, hand on her sidearm. “Mom, I have no idea what’s happening here. We met Kim, Rey, and their children in Meeteetse. They’ve been traveling with Sabrina and Sylvia—your friend Kelley Hudson’s daughters.”
“That’s right,” Sabrina says. “We met them at the campground outside of Shoshoni.”
“Boysen State Park,” the young boy, who looks almost identical to Reynard, says. “Dad? Mom? What’s going on?”
“We’re okay,” Reynard says. “Just a misunderstanding.”
“Why are you talking in your real voice?” the youngest child, a girl of around five, asks. “I thought Mommy said it wasn’t safe.” Then she looks at Sabrina. “Sorry, Breen and Sylvie. We didn’t mean to lie to you, but Mommy said that until they knew who was behind the attacks, we should pretend to be regular Denver people and Daddy should talk like the rest of us.”
“Way to go, dork,” the boy stage whispers.
The oldest blond child, a teenage girl, pulls the little girl close. There’s another teenage girl and three very large older boys with the group—I peg them to be late teens to early twenties, based on their stature alone—along with five more women. Other than Kim and Rey, no one seems to have a clue what’s happening.
“Doris,” Evan says, “how about I cuff them? Then you can relax.”
“Doubt it’d do any good,” Doris scoffs. “She can get out of them. Him too.”
“We won’t cause you any trouble,” Rey says. “We’re just trying to find a safe place for our children. We can just be on our way.”
“On your way? I don’t think so. I let you leave, and she comes back. Comes back to finish the job she couldn’t complete fifteen years ago.”
“Meagan, it was a mistake,” Rey says. “No one was supposed to get hurt.”
“Oh really? Tell that to the others. Oh, wait, you can’t. They’re dead. Go ahead and frisk them, Evan. Then use your zip ties, for all of the good it’ll do.”
Rey keeps his hands visible. “I have a pistol on my hip and a knife at my ankle.”
“Kim isn’t armed,” Sylvia says.
“Oh, Kimba is most certainly armed,” Doris says with a huff.
Rey sighs. “She’s armed. One on the ankle and one in the small of her back.”
Sabrina and Sylvia both have shocked looks, one also shared by the couple’s children.
“You . . . you gave us a hard time. You called us names! And you had weapons on you this entire time?” Sylvia cries, while Evan and newly appointed Bakerville Deputy Clark Thomas remove the weapons, check for others, and zip tie their hands.
“I’m truly sorry for the ruse, Sylvia, Sabrina,” Rey says. “You two have been very good to us. We have much to thank you for. Can I impose on you once again to look after our children while we sort this out? I’m confident that, once we explain, Meagan will allow us to be on our way.”
“Why do you keep calling my mom Meagan?” Lindsey asks. “Her name is Doris.”
“Don’t worry about it, honey.” Doris slightly adjusts herself in her wheelchair, without allowing her pistol to waiver. “I’ll explain later.”
Sabrina looks to her mom, Kelley, who gives a slight nod. “We’ll keep the children, Rey.”
“Take them to the jail?” Clark asks.
“To my house,” Doris says. “For now, at least.”
Clark looks at Evan for confirmation. Evan, usually completely assured and decisive, hesitates before saying, “Whatever Doris wants.”
“All right. Give me a minute, then I’ll help you take them to your truck.”
Lindsey steps to Doris, leans forward, and whispers, “You can put your gun away, Mom.”
Doris nods and slides her pistol into the custom holster attached to her wheelchair.
“What’s going on, Mom? I don’t understand what’s happening.”
“You will. I’ll explain. As much as I can, anyway.” She reaches for Lindsey’s hand. “You’re here. I’m so glad you’re here.”
Lindsey bends for an embrace. “I’m here. But Logan . . . my husband’s dead.”
I turn away to allow them time for their grief. Taking a quick look around, I spot my second born, Angela, holding her son, Gavin, at the far end of the baseball field.
“Mollie?”
“Yes? Oh. Of course. I almost forgot,” I say to Clark.
“Are you ready to deal with the gentleman at the check station?”
“He’s no gentleman,” I mutter.
“Is it going to be fireworks like this?” Clark asks.
I search the crowd. Jake’s standing next to Evan. They’re watching zip-tied Kim and Rey. Evan, eyes glued to the bound couple, says something to Jake, who answers with a shake of his head and a shrug.
“No fireworks. I don’t . . . I haven’t seen him for over thirty years. I don’t even . . . ” I shake my head. “I don’t know why he’s here. Now especially.”
My eyes travel back to the baseball field. Not only are Angela and my grandson there, but two of my three daughters and my young son are also. Calley, my middle child, is on duty with our newly formed militia. I search for my sons-in-law. In doing so, I catch Leo’s eye. While not one of my sons by marriage yet, he will be in two weeks when he marries my youngest daughter, Katie.
He signals okay and motions to the baseball field, making sure I see the others. I nod and gesture, asking Leo to join me.
“Give me a minute, Clark. Then I’ll go to the check station and see what he wants.”
“Are you bringing Jake?”
I bite my lip. I’d really rather handle this on my own and keep Jake out of it. But it’s time. It’s time to come clean.
“Mollie?” Leo asks. “Everything okay now?”
I glance at Doris. She’s watching as Evan and Jake walk the prisoners to Evan’s old, mostly restored 1959 pickup.
“Leo, I’m sure Jake will want to help Evan with . . . with whatever they have planned. But I need Jake with me. Can you make sure Evan has the assistance he needs? And get our group home?”
“You okay?” he asks.
“I need to take care of something.” We start walking toward the pickup. “Jake?” I call out with a wave. “I need your help with something.”
“Okay. Will it be quick? Evan could use a hand getting to his place.”
The couple doesn’t seem at all concerned about being bound. They’re chatting and smiling with each other. Their children, now with Kelley and her family, are walking toward the old Ford truck in which they recently arrived. I watch as the littlest girl gives her mom and dad a wave. The rest of the new arrivals have started to load up, except for Lindsey, who’s still with Doris
“Can Leo help Evan? This might take a while.”
“That’s fine,” Evan answers.
“We can help too,” my son-in-law Tate says, motioning to Tim and Mike, also husbands of my daughters.
Evan nods and then motions to the prisoners. “They’ll ride in the back. Leo, you and I will ride in the bed with them. Tate, why don’t you drive? Tim or Mike, one of you take shotgun position. The other one, make sure Lindsey and Doris have a ride home. Can you do that for me?”
“I’ll take care of getting your family home,” Tim says. “Mike can ride with you and . . . ” He motions toward the prisoners.
Kim gives him a brilliant smile, the kind that’ll turn any man into putty. From the look on Tim’s face and his sudden inability to finish a sentence, it worked. She’s a beautiful woman. Skinny, but beautiful.
And according to Doris, dangerous.
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