A Thing or Two
KACEY EZELL
Ryan Hudson straightened up, stretching his back. He leaned on his shovel and swiped his sleeve across his face. It kept the beading sweat from dripping into his eyes, but didn’t do a damn thing for the muggy heat that wrapped around him like a sodden blanket. He reached down and pulled his dad’s old U.S. Army canteen from its holder strapped to his belt and twisted the cap off. He inhaled deeply, listening to the sound of the leaves rustling overhead in a breeze that somehow never made its way to cool his face.
At seventeen, Ryan knew very well that life wasn’t fair . . . but this was just adding insult to injury. He lifted the canteen and drained the last of the tepid, plastic-y water from its depths and lowered it just as the sound of hoofbeats and a low whistle warned him of his brother’s approach.
“Well, look at this. Baby Brother, goofing off on the job like always.”
Jacob Hudson brought his gelding to a stop and grinned down at his younger brother. Ryan rolled his eyes and flipped the middle finger of his free hand skyward. Jacob laughed in response.
“What are you doing out here?” Ryan asked. “I thought Mom had you sitting with that mare that’s trying to foal today.”
“Foaled,” Jacob said, grinning widely as he reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a forty-ounce black Hydro Flask bottle. “Slick as you please. None of the problems Mom was so worried about, even if it was the mare’s first time.”
He tossed the bottle down to the ground at Ryan’s feet. “Looks like you’re empty, bro. Gotta stay hydrated.”
“Thanks,” Ryan said, meaning it. He put his empty canteen back into its holder and bent to retrieve the bottle. It was cool to the touch. “Oh man,” he said as he flipped open the top and took a swig. “I take back everything I ever said about you, Jake. You’re a good brother.”
“Damn straight I am,” Jacob—who would only ever allow Ryan to call him Jake—said. “Anyway, now the mare’s foaled, I’ve come to spell you here. Dad wants you for a run into town.”
Ryan lowered the bottle, his eyes going way too hard for a young man of seventeen. “Trouble?” he asked, his voice flat.
Jacob shrugged. “Nothing so bad he thought he should bring us both,” he said, his tone taking on a soothing note. “He just said he needed to make a run for some supplies and asked me to send you in.”
“Why didn’t he just take you?”
“Because he’s seen my ugly mug all morning, Ry, and he probably wants you to practice driving.” Jacob leaned forward in the saddle and dismounted, then looped his gelding’s reins over a nearby branch.
Ryan felt excitement kick through him. “Seriously?”
“That’s what he said. He wants to take the Challenger out, now that we got the engine all tweaked to run on Mom’s ’shine. I said I’d come finish up here so you could go.” Jacob reached out for the shovel.
“Nice!” Ryan said, and handed the implement over. “Thanks! That’s really nice of you.”
“Yeah, well, Dad’s right. I learned to drive before the Fall. It’s your turn,” Jacob said. “You can make it up to me later.” His sly grin promised that Ryan would, indeed, make it up to him, but Ryan didn’t care.
“You got it! See you later!” he called out as he turned and half-ran along the path that wound back up the hill toward his family’s home. Even running, though, he stepped carefully, making sure that he noted the covert blazes and indicators on the trees that marked the correct trail.
Before long, the upward slope tapered off and the trees opened up to reveal a large clearing. As usual, people moved to and fro between the orderly ring of buildings. Not for the first time, Ryan was struck by how much the community itself resembled the carefully tended beehives that his mother kept behind his family’s farmhouse, the largest of the buildings in the compound.
When they’d first arrived here, the farmhouse had been nothing more than a mostly ruined shack lurking in the overgrown clearing. It had been a terrifying time for Ryan and his family. When the initial H3N7 outbreak hit, he’d been a high-school kid like any other, with nothing on his mind but girls and motocross. Then the quarantine order had gone into effect, and his parents had made the decision to break the law and save them all.
They’d packed him and his brother up into The Beast, as his dad’s old F-250 was called. They’d grabbed the go-bags and loaded up the back with weapons and all the ammo they could carry. They’d paused long enough to make some coordinating phone calls to members of their Heathen kindred, and then they’d run.
Ryan didn’t much like remembering that crazy journey here, but some part of him knew he couldn’t just forget. His childhood had ended on that trip, and he’d had to make the kind of choices that haunted one forever.
A little girl from their kindred had become infected. She’d attacked him. He’d killed her. He saved his own life and the lives of the rest of the community . . . but some nights, he still saw her clear blue eyes and beautiful, softly curling golden hair in his nightmares.
There were other incidents like that one. Other deaths. None bothered him so much as Kelsey’s. He kept her name close to his heart like a talisman and hoped and prayed that her ancestors had received her with love.
“Ryan!”
Chuck Hudson’s gravelly voice rang out across the clearing, and Ryan shook himself from his woolgathering to see his father striding across the ground. Chuck wasn’t a particularly tall man, but he carried himself with the muscular authority of a warrior born and raised. Before the Fall, he’d begun to acquire a layer of softening fat, but there was no trace of that now. From the hard blue eyes behind the tinted sunglasses to the neatly trimmed white beard, to the Thor’s Hammer pendant on his chest, to the tips of his steel-toed work boots, Chuck Hudson looked like what he was: a modern day Heathen leader, fighting to keep his family and community alive and thriving, come what may.
“Hi, Dad,” Ryan said, straightening his spine as his father approached. “Jake said you wanted me.”
“You finish that trench yet?”
“No, sir. Not quite. Jake’s going to keep working on it. It’s about three-quarters of the way there.”
“Good,” Chuck said, reaching out to sling his arm around his son’s shoulders. “Your mother will be happy to hear it. She’s impatient to move forward with improving the defenses on that slope.”
Ryan smiled a little. “And we don’t want to make Mom unhappy,” he said, and it came out with a little more teenaged snark than he’d intended. Chuck reached up and smacked the back of his head lightly.
“Damn straight we don’t. I fear no man or God, but only the wrath of my beloved wife. And don’t pretend you’re any different, boy.”
Ryan raised his hands in surrender and shook his hair back out of his eyes. “I’m not! I know. I was just playing around.”
“Well, if you’re finished playing around, I’ve got an errand to run. I want you to drive me in to town.”
Excitement skittered down Ryan’s nerves. “Right now?” he asked.
“You got something better to do?”
“No, sir.”
“Then no reason to wait. Go get your rifle, since we’re leaving the property.”
“Yes, sir!” Without really knowing why he did so, Ryan wrapped his arms around his Dad’s torso for a brief, tight hug before letting go and loping off toward the house, where he kept his stash of personal weapons. Not that he’d been totally unarmed, of course. Even on the property, one had a responsibility for one’s own safety. It had been a long time since they’d seen infected in any great numbers, but every once in a while a crazy, naked, animalistic wreck that had once been human would come charging through the woods. Thus, his mom’s plans and the community policy that everyone leaving the clearing be armed with at least a pistol. Even the kids sent out in pairs to forage carried simple revolvers. It just made sense, even on the safety of the property.
Off the property, all bets were off. Even in friendly territory, Chuck didn’t believe in leaving such things to chance. And Ryan fully agreed.
“Mom?” Ryan called as he pushed open the kitchen door of the house. When she didn’t answer right away, he stepped inside and headed back to his room. After a few short moments of deliberation, he decided to bring not just his Mini-14, but also a 12-gauge shotgun. Not for the first time, he thanked the Gods and all his ancestors that his parents had raised him and his brother around firearms. The shotgun had been a twelfth birthday present. He’d gotten the Mini-14 for Yule the year before the Fall. Same with the body armor he shrugged over his head and fastened around his waist. He was just loading up his pouches with magazines when his mother leaned in to the doorway.
“Going to town with your dad?” Christine Hudson asked, her voice calm. Ryan turned to her with a smile.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Jake says he’s going to let me drive.”
“You be careful,” she said, shaking her dark blonde hair back from her face. “With the engine modifications on the Challenger, it’s got a lot of kick. Take it slow and listen to your dad.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ryan said again. “I promise.”
“Good kid. And if I catch you tracking through my house in muddy boots again, it will be your ass, understand?”
Ryan felt his stomach sink and his face flush as he looked down. Sure enough, a trail of mud prints showed clearly against the restored hardwood of the farmhouse floor.
“Mom, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t even think—”
“I know,” she said, a ghost of a smile playing about her lips. “You’re just excited and impatient. I’ll take care of it. But you’re taking care of my bees for the next two weeks in return.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re forgiven. Now finish arming up and go meet your dad. I’d like you both back before dark.”
Ryan nodded, and ducked his head as Christine leaned in to drop a quick kiss on his cheek. Then she turned and walked back down the hallway, leaving the scent of honey and herbs in her wake.
“What happened to you?” Chuck asked when Ryan rejoined him outside on the edge of the clearing. “You look pissed.”
“I forgot about my muddy boots and tracked mud inside on Mom’s floor,” Ryan said, hating the fact that he couldn’t seem to keep from mumbling as he spoke. Chuck laughed.
“That was a damned stupid thing to do,” Chuck said. “She’s gonna make you pay for that.”
“Bees for two weeks,” Ryan said. “But she didn’t say I couldn’t come with you.”
“Well, let’s just get gone before she changes her mind, shall we?” Chuck clapped his son on his shoulder and urged him toward a building half-hidden under the trees near the edge of the clearing.
The barn was the only building besides the farmhouse that predated the Fall. When they’d first arrived, they’d actually taken shelter in the barn, because it had been in far better condition. The property had been in Christine’s family for generations, and while the old farmhouse had obviously not been used for several years, it soon became clear that the barn had. Deep in the back, among the piles of rusting farm implements and broken-down furniture, they’d found a treasure shrouded in dusty canvas: a vintage 1970 Dodge Challenger. Ryan remembered that his dad had been awestruck as he breathlessly opened up the hood and found the 440 Magnum engine with the six pack intake. Chuck had run his fingers along the fender with a reverence usually reserved for touching his wife.
They had no way of knowing how long the car had been stored there. It didn’t start at first, but Ryan’s mom had tinkered with it, and she and one of the other mechanics in the kindred had eventually gotten it to run. More importantly, they’d adapted the engine to run on the product of the other major treasure they’d found in the barn: the still.
“Dad,” Ryan said as they opened up the now-clean barn and walked toward the Challenger in its stall. “Did you ever figure out how long this property’s been in Mom’s family?”
“She doesn’t know for sure,” Chuck answered. He grabbed hold of the new cover that shrouded the car and whipped it back. Underneath, the chrome bumper gleamed dully in the midmorning light that streamed in from the door. “Her daddy brought her up here when she was little, and said his great-grandaddy had run liquor down from this mountain during Prohibition. She did say that the still was in operation when she was born. They didn’t tear it down and store the parts in here until sometime in the seventies.”
“And we put it back together,” Ryan finished as he helped pull the cover off and fold it up. “And now we’re back running liquor all over the mountains.”
“Yep. We got real lucky that your mom comes from a long line of bootleggers. Liquor is the perfect trade commodity in these times. It’s fuel, antiseptic, medicine—”
“And a good time,” Ryan said with a grin. His dad’s teeth flashed in the dimness as he grinned back.
“That too, though I’d rather drink your mother’s mead. I’m too old for the still’s rotgut.”
Ryan snorted and opened the car door. That was a lie. His father enjoyed all kinds of liquor, and could hold his own against any man in the kindred when drinking. Chuck laughed and got in on the driver’s side. He turned the key and the motor turned over with its characteristic growl and they pulled forward out of the barn in good spirits.
It wasn’t far to the town as the crow flew, but the gravel road they followed off the mountain was long and twisty. Chuck kept up a running stream of commentary as he cut the wheel back and forth, navigating the treacherous switchbacks that carried them down the slope toward the valley below. Before the Fall, the valley had been mostly farmland dotted with homesteads here and there and the occasional suburban bedroom community for those willing to trade a long commute to the city for a quiet, pretty neighborhood.
Now, as Ryan looked out over the vista that stretched below, most of the farmland lay fallow and neglected, and only a tight huddle of buildings at a turn in the nearby river gave any sign of human habitation. Unlike the abandoned farm buildings that had begun to disappear under aggressive kudzu and other plants, the town and the wall that encircled it were solid and in good repair. A thin twist of smoke spiraled upward from a building in the center of town and Ryan imagined that he could catch the distant scent of wood smoke.
As the gravel of their road emptied out onto the cracked blacktop that had once been the state highway, Chuck pulled the Challenger over to the side and cut the engine. Then he looked over at his younger son with a knowing smile.
“Ready?” he asked.
Ryan didn’t bother answering with words. He grabbed the handle and threw his door open, barely remembering to safely stow his shotgun before practically leaping out of the passenger side of the car. His dad’s chuckles followed him around the car as they swapped places.
“Go ahead and adjust the seat, get settled first,” Chuck said as he took hold of Ryan’s shotgun and lowered himself down to the passenger seat. His advice wasn’t, strictly speaking, necessary, since Ryan was already doing just that.
“I have driven before, Dad,” Ryan reminded his father.
“Watch your mouth, boy,” Chuck growled. “You may have driven the Beast, and you’re real good on that motorbike you boys fixed up, but this beauty is something else. There’s a reason your mother’s people stashed this car away. You’ll treat her with respect or she’ll bite your ass but good. Trust me.”
“Yes, sir,” Ryan said, carefully keeping his eyes from rolling.
“Now, you remember how to use the clutch . . . ?”
It took far longer than he would have liked, but as they roared down the old state highway toward town, Ryan flexed his hands on the Challenger’s wheel and privately admitted that his dad was right. She really was something else. He could feel the powerful torque of her modded-out engine thrumming under his feet and hands. It shivered through his body in an almost sexual way. No wonder men gave their cars women’s names and treated them like queens.
Once they got going again, it didn’t take but about another half-hour to reach the town’s gate.
“Huh,” Chuck said as they approached. “Slow down a bit, Ry, this looks weird.”
Ryan concentrated on coordinating his feet and hands to downshift as smoothly as possible, then turned his focus outward. His dad’s tone held a warning.
“The gates are closed,” Chuck said slowly as they rounded the last bend and caught sight of the main entrance to the town. Sure enough, a solid, massive metal barrier easily two stories high stretched from one end of the town wall to the other across the highway’s blacktop. “They haven’t done that during the daytime since we’ve been trading with them. Go ahead and stop, but don’t cut the engine.”
“Yes, sir,” Ryan said. He successfully brought the car to a stop and held it, idling, while Chuck opened the door and stood just behind its partial shelter.
“Hello the Town!” Chuck called out, using the voice that Ryan knew had once shouted instructions and details to U.S. Army MEDEVAC crews over the sounds of turning helicopter rotors. “Chuck and Ryan Hudson from up on the Mountain!”
A long pause, then a small window opened high in the massive gate.
“Wait there!” a voice, high and tight with fear, ordered.
Chuck gave an exaggerated shrug. “Okay,” he called back. Ryan noticed that his father casually rested his hand on the grip of the rifle slung across his chest. He fought not to shift uncomfortably in his seat.
A loud thunk sounded from somewhere behind the wall, and a piercing squeal heralded the opening of a ground-level, pedestrian-sized door in the huge gate. A dark-skinned woman with short steel gray hair in braided cornrows stepped out. Like them, she wore body armor and carried a weapon with the ease of one who had long years of training and familiarity.
“Hey Robin,” Chuck called out as she approached. “What’s going on?”
“Chuck,” Robin said, flashing him a quick smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Sorry about the chilly reception. We’ve had a little trouble recently. I’m glad you came; we’re getting low on our medical stock.”
“We’re happy to trade,” Chuck said, his shoulders easing slightly. “Brought a load down just for you. Want us to pull in?”
“Gate stays locked for the next little while, Chuck, sorry. Gotta do the trade here.”
Chuck nodded, then looked over at Ryan and repeated the gesture. Ryan took that to mean that he could relax, so he cut the engine and pulled the keys from the ignition. He stepped out, tossed the keys to his dad, who caught them and unlocked the trunk, opening it with an expansive gesture before handing the keys back to Ryan.
“Twenty-five gallons, 180 proof. Christine’s guarantee of purity. Should help with your medical supplies some. You got wounded?”
“A few,” Robin said, her dark eyes flicking a warning to Chuck. Ryan understood her nonverbal meaning: a community handled its own problems, until it couldn’t . . . then the community typically wasn’t long for the world. Harsh, perhaps, but it was the way things were since the Fall. “How much?”
“Got any copper pipe?”
Robin pursed her lips, then nodded. “A couple feet . . . say eight or so.”
Chuck turned to look at his son, then turned back to Robin and nodded. “Throw in about four/five yeast starters from within your community and you’ve got a deal.” Chuck said. Ryan inhaled slowly, fighting to keep the incredulity off of his face. Those were incredibly generous terms his father was offering.
Robin blinked, and some of the tension cleared from her face, smoothing out her brow and widening her big, dark eyes. She really was a beautiful woman, Ryan suddenly realized, despite the fact that she was his father’s age.
“Chuck, I—”
“Copper’s hard to get these days,” Chuck said, cutting off her low-voiced protest. “And I need it if we’re going to keep up with demand. Take the deal or leave it, Robin. I don’t have all day to stand out here wrangling in the open with you.”
“We’ll take it,” Robin said, sounding once again like the decisive leader Ryan knew she was. She whistled and waved a hand, and four relatively burly men stepped through the door in the gate. Robin rattled off instructions to the first in line, who nodded and went back inside while the other three slung their weapons and stepped back toward the trunk of the Challenger. The fourth man returned while they were loading up the jugs of ’shine, and he carried an open-top crate with a pile of assorted copper pipe fittings inside. A young kid, maybe twelve, followed him, holding a tray of what looked like plastic cups.
“We had the yeast samples ready,” Robin said with a slight smile. “You’re always looking for new stock.”
“So we are,” Chuck said. He glanced in at the copper and nodded, and the man set the crate into the open trunk, where the jugs had just been. Ryan got back into the car and watched in the rear-view mirror as his father shut the trunk, and then stuck out his hand. Robin took it, and the two of them shook in the ancient gesture of a deal sealed and done. It looked like Chuck was about to step back, but Ryan saw Robin pull him close and speak low words into his ear. Chuck’s face never wavered, but he gave her a slight nod and spoke as well. Robin smiled a grim little smile and shook her head, then she stepped back and raised a hand in farewell. Chuck touched his fingers to the frame of his sunglasses and walked back to the passenger side of the car.
Without saying anything, Ryan turned the key, listening to the Challenger’s engine roar to life. Then he looked over to see his father staring straight ahead.
“Let’s go, son,” Chuck said, without looking. Ryan waited for a moment, then put the car in gear and pulled away.
They drove in silence for a few miles, with only the engine’s purr and the whirring of the tires on the broken blacktop to accompany them. Finally, Ryan couldn’t stand it anymore and spoke up.
“So, you want to tell me what that was all about?” he asked, careful to keep his tone mostly respectful.
“What was that all about?” Chuck asked without moving from his half-reclining slump against the passenger-side window. Ryan could hear the fatigue in the words. For some reason he couldn’t name, it made Ryan angry to hear his father sounding so tired and beaten down. Chuck Hudson was a warrior’s warrior! He didn’t get tired . . .
“That!” Ryan said, and some of his rage and incredulity jacked the volume and intensity of his voice up a bit higher than he would have liked. Still, he’d started. Might as well finish. “You practically gave that woman our liquor! For what? A box of verdigris-covered junk and some yeast starters? That’s not a good trade, Dad! Mom’s gonna be pissed!”
Chuck finally sat up and glowered at his youngest child through his dark-tinted sunglasses.
“Your mother won’t mind one bit,” he said, keeping his tone mild, though steel underlaid every word. “Robin is good people, and so are most of the folks in her community. They needed our liquor for their hospital, and they won’t take charity. And we do need the copper to start that new still, and more yeast cultures are always useful to keep our stock healthy.”
“But we should have asked for five times that amount of copper!” Ryan said.
“They didn’t have it to give, son,” Chuck said lowly. “Like she said, they’ve had a bit of trouble. That’s what she told me when we said goodbye—”
Chuck broke off, and when Ryan glanced over at his dad, he found him staring into the rearview mirror, his eyes squinting slightly behind the dark lenses. Ryan looked back as well, but all he could see was a mostly empty highway, with only a single truck turning off a side road behind them . . .
Oh. Shit.
“Who do you think that is?” Ryan asked, all of his fire and frustration gone in an instant as he forced his mind to the clear, calm place where he could act.
“We’re about to find out,” Chuck said. “Be cool for a moment, but slowly accelerate. We don’t want to give away all of our advantages.”
Ryan did as he was told, gently increasing the pressure of his right foot on the gas pedal. The Challenger responded like a thoroughbred eager for the race to begin. The truck steadily gained ground behind them, getting so close that Ryan could only see the front grille in the rear-view mirror.
“Dad—” he said.
“Easy, son,” Chuck said, his voice empty. “This is what I thought. Robin said they’d finally kicked these assholes out of the town. She warned us that they might try to tail us home. But don’t worry, we’ll lose ’em. Listen very carefully to me, all right? When I tell you, I want you to smoothly and slowly give the car about half of its full gas. Don’t floor it, you’ll flood the engine and break the back end loose. Just put the pedal down about halfway, until you feel the front end get light and the back end get heavy. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Ryan said, cutting his eyes from the rearview to the road in front of him, and then to the side mirror when the truck abruptly pulled into the left lane.
“You gotta be real strong and steady on the wheel, Ryan,” Chuck said. “Otherwise you’ll lose control, okay?”
The truck zoomed forward, bringing the front grill even with their back tires. Ryan glanced down and saw that they were doing about eighty.
“Now Ryan. About half gas!”
Ryan took a deep breath and pushed the pedal down about halfway to the floor. He felt the rumble of the engine increase in pitch, the vibration spreading through the frame and into his body. Almost as if she were an extension of himself, he could feel how the Challenger squatted back on her back tires, letting the weight off of her front end. Time seemed to slow as his connection to the machine grew.
Behind them, the truck swerved sharply to the right, coming within inches of their back fender. Despite himself, Ryan flinched, his hands tensing on the wheel just enough. The back end broke loose, lurching to the right. Some instinct from his motocross days kicked in, and while his father yelled for him to hold the damn thing still, Ryan locked the wheel in place and refused to let it move while they rode out the slide.
“Downshift and go! Nice and steady on the gas!” Chuck shouted, and as soon as Ryan felt the wheels bite into the pavement again, he danced his feet on the clutch and the gas, and threw the pistol-grip shifter forward into third gear. He picked the gas back up, and just as his dad had instructed, he steadily increased the gas from fifty percent to sixty . . . seventy . . . eighty . . .
Like a great hunting cat, the Challenger roared as she leapt from her crouch, front tires grabbing the pavement once again as the back tires threw her forward. The RPM needle zoomed from three thousand to eight thousand, hovering near the red line, while the speedometer climbed steadily past eighty, ninety, one hundred . . .
Chuck let out a whoop of exhilaration and pushed himself up through the open passenger side window. Ryan heard his father’s rifle blast twice before Chuck lowered himself down into the seat again, his face flushed red from the wind and the excitement.
“Damn fine driving son! Damn fine!” he said, slapping his son on the back as he removed his magazine and replaced it with a full one. “Keep that speed up until we turn off onto the mountain road.”
“They’ll see our dust trail and be able to follow,” Ryan said, as the worrying thought occurred to him. “We’re leading them straight home, Dad.”
“That’s what I’m hoping for, son.”
Ryan glanced at his dad. “What?”
Chuck grinned. “Like the old song says, boy. ‘I learned a thing or two from Charlie, don’t you know?’ Just keep driving. We gotta get back in time to warn your mother.”
Ryan fought to let his breath out slowly and evenly while his heart rate slowed. He didn’t want to let the exhalation rustle the leaves that hung inches from his face. He’d spent enough time in hunting stands to know how to move and breathe without spooking his quarry, though as he sighted down the length of his Mini-14, he realized that this particular target wasn’t likely to pay attention. Even if the hammering of Ryan’s heart really was as externally loud as it sounded in his ears.
Which was good, because after more than an hour of “go, go, go” it really was hard to be still, no matter how much hunting experience he had.
They’d hauled ass all the way to the turnoff to the mountain and up onto the gravel road that started up the slope. But instead of continuing onto the cliff road they’d taken earlier, Chuck had instructed Ryan to turn off onto a path that was little more than a game trail. Ryan barely had time to wonder about whether they had the undercarriage clearance needed before the track dead ended in a tiny clearing with a deadfall against the rock face at the far end. They’d eased up to the deadfall. Even though he knew it was false, Ryan couldn’t see the cavern behind it until he’d come to a stop right in front of the cleverly disguised door. They’d hidden the Challenger behind the door, in the shallow cave beyond, then Chuck had sent Ryan back down another one of the “game trails” that crisscrossed the entirety of his mother’s property. Chuck had stayed behind to light a fire in the cavern’s natural chimney. The smoke would signal the kindred that intruders were inbound, and would tell them to block the cliff road at its narrowest point, right after it turned back away from the edge and into the forest.
That would force the intruders to take the turn that would lead them gradually down the slope and away from the summit. The kindred, Ryan included, had spent years developing the funneling features that would eventually bog down the most souped-up of vehicles and force attackers to continue on foot if they didn’t turn back.
As, it appeared, they hadn’t.
Ryan bent his head and sighted along his barrel again as the sound of arguing and cursing drifted up from the forest floor toward him. He watched two men come slowly into view, neither of them moving well. He focused on the ruddy sheen of their faces, they both looked as if the hike had been a struggle so far. Ryan inhaled slowly, waiting to see if any more men followed as the pair trudged up the trail over the small rise a few hundred yards away.
No one did, yet. Better and better.
He held himself motionless for another second, letting them both make their way through the dense undergrowth until they were almost directly below his tree. He raised his head. They had no idea he was there. This wasn’t going to be finished with guns.
Fine with him. He reached his right leg back and kicked the lever that rested just below his boot. It stuck, and a cascade of leaves and twigs slithered down the tree branch behind him.
“What was that?” one of the men below asked, stopping suddenly and causing his buddy to bump into him from behind. Ryan gritted his teeth. If he took the rifle shot from here, he’d likely miss due to the awkward angle. Plus, there was no way he was going to get both of them with a single shot. He drew in a deep breath and kicked down on the damned lever with all of his weight. The steel cable that ran down along the tree and under the forest debris squealed as it moved, but it did move. Finally.
The bottom of the path fell open beneath the intruders’ feet. Ryan heard them scream as they fell. He grabbed his rifle and slid down the branch, hitting solid ground about the same time as he heard the wet squelch sound of sharpened steel sliding into flesh.
The screaming took on a howling quality. Ryan shook his head and wiped the sweat off of his brow, then looked up to see his father materialize out of the tree line on the other side of the path.
“Got ’em, son?” Chuck asked, his voice calm and untroubled by the horrific noises coming from the pit yawning between them.
“Yes, sir,” Ryan said.
“Good. Let’s see what we’ve got,” Chuck said. He pulled his favorite Glock out of his holster and approached the edge. Ryan raised his rifle up and did the same.
Below them, two men sprawled brokenly over the mass of rebar that bristled from the floor of the pit. The taller of the two lay with his neck bent at an awkward angle and a single spike through his lower skull, knocking his jaw completely askew. He wasn’t moving.
The other man was.
“Fuck you, you fucking hillbillies!” The man spat, pain creasing his face. He’d managed to fall just about perfectly, Ryan realized. Most of his body slumped between the wall of the pit and the stakes, with only one tall spike spearing through his right upper thigh. “Psycho sons of bitches! When I get out of here—”
“You’ll be mindless and naked, and we’ll put you down like we do all the rabid animals,” Chuck said, his voice insouciant and bored-sounding.
“Wh-what?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Chuck said. “That was rude of me. You just got here, after all. You probably haven’t had a chance to look around and realize what you’ve stumbled upon here. This is one of our old infected traps, modified for use by more . . . sentient invaders. Nominally, anyway.”
“What you mean, ‘sen-shent’?”
Chuck sighed. “Never mind. If you look around, you’ll notice the tips of the rebar are stained with blood. Aside from yours and your boyfriend’s, that is.”
“Hey, I ain’t no fa—!”
Chuck held up his hands. “Hey, man, love is love. I’m not going to cast aspersions on your relationship status.”
“Apsertions—?”
“Dad,” Ryan said, his voice empty.
Chuck let out a sigh. “Yer right kid, I shouldn’t play with him. It’s not sporting at this point. All right, asshole, here’s the deal. That spike that pierced your leg? It was covered in infected blood. Now it may be dormant by now, it may not be. That’s the gamble you’re taking. So if you can get yourself off the spike and out of this twenty-foot-deep pit before you bleed out, you might be okay. Or you might be a naked fiend running around trying to eat anything in sight. It’s in the hands of the fates at this point. Either way, you should have learned your lesson when Robin kicked you out of the town. It’s not polite to show up uninvited. Bad things happen that way.”
The injured man in the pit gaped up at Chuck, his mouth dropping open as reality set in . . . and likely pain too, Ryan realized. Sometimes the body was kind and delayed the response a little. But it always caught up to itself. Always.
“So you’re . . . just going to . . . leave me?” the man asked, his face growing paler by the moment. Ryan could see a slightly darker puddle spreading on the dirt floor of the pit.
“Yep,” Chuck said. “Uninvited guests don’t make it down from this mountain. You ready, son?”
“Yes sir,” Ryan said, looking unflinchingly at the man he’d just sentenced to a very painful death.
“All right, let’s get back before your mother starts to worry.”
The man in the pit started to scream, but Chuck turned his back and stepped away, and after a moment, Ryan followed suit. Together, they hiked back up the barely visible path that would lead them to the settlement. The screams followed them for a little ways, but eventually, they faded under the natural sounds of the mountain’s forest.
“How long do you think he’ll last?” Ryan asked after a while.
“He won’t make it through the night,” Chuck said, confidently. “If he tries to pull off that stake, he’ll tear his femoral and bleed out in seconds. And there are still infected hiding in these woods. They’re the scared kind who won’t approach a fully armed human, but one helpless, staked to the ground . . . they’ll get to him eventually.”
Ryan nodded. They’d all occasionally seen that type of infected during their work duties. It was another one of the reasons everyone went armed.
One of many.
Chuck reached out and clapped his son on the shoulder. Up ahead, the lights of the settlement twinkled through the trees, beckoning them home. “You did good, kid,” Chuck said. “It’s not an easy thing.”
“Maybe not,” Ryan said. “But it’s necessary, isn’t it? We gotta protect our own.”
“Damn straight, kid. Damn straight.”