me.
When Elaine and I had left on our brief getaway where I had been taken, there had been no armed outpost on the coast road. One that had been there during the wary months after our arrival in Bandon had been reactivated just before my return, along with others on the town’s perimeter, with roving patrols to fill in the gaps between. All eyes searching for threats.
By the sounds coming from the south, a threat had been found.
“Where’s our gear?”
Elaine knew what I was asking, and what I was suggesting, and that might have been why she didn’t answer me quickly enough to stop my agitated follow up.
“If there is a fight out there,” I began, “it could spill into town. Breaking quarantine will be the least of our—”
I stopped abruptly as her gaze shifted toward the hallway beyond the plastic barrier.
“You hear that?”
I listened for a moment, then nodded at her question.
“It’s quiet,” she said.
The shooting had stopped. But not all sound had. Quickened footsteps, just shy of all out running, came from the front room beyond the hall, and a moment later Bryson Hunt rushed in, his chest heaving and color flushed. The young man, just shy of his twenty-fifth birthday, had been assigned during daytime to keep watch over the entrance to the place of our quarantine. In the old world he was a fisherman, plying the sea with his father. In the new world, our world, his father was dead and he was playing babysitter to us, ready to respond to us if we called out to him.
“What’s going on out there?” Elaine asked.
Bryson took a few seconds to catch his breath, bending forward, hands on his knees, then he looked up to us with widened eyes.
“I don’t know,” the young man told us. “Sarge raced by in a Humvee and I ran after to find out what was happening, but I couldn’t catch up.”
“Go find out,” I said. “We’ll be okay here.”
He turned to leave, but only made it a few steps.
“Bryson,” Elaine called to him, drawing his attention. “On your way back, stop by our place and get our weapons and gear.”
Her request kept him from moving.
“You can’t—”
“I know,” Elaine said. “Just in case.”
“You can leave it in the front room out there,” I said.
After a moment’s consideration and a quick nod, Bryson Hunt was gone again, racing out into daylight.
I paced away from the barrier and rubbed at the still bandaged spot on the back of my right arm where I’d been cut open.
“I should be out there,” I said, frustrated.
The silence behind me reminded me I was nearing a line I’d once crossed. I looked back to see Elaine’s beautiful gaze turned harsh.
“I know, I know,” I said. “ We should be out there.”
She let my unintentional slight pass without saying anything. I’d made a far more overt and awkward attempt to shield her from harm on our trek north to Skagway, and doing so had almost cost me my life. It was her, my wife, certainly of the fairer sex, who’d saved me when I was staring down the barrel of an assault rifle wielded by a merciless Russian. She’d buried her knife into his brain with cold, silent precision. That necessary and terrible act had taught me one thing with crystal clarity—Elaine Morales Fletcher could not only take care of herself, she could take care of me.
I went to her and pulled her into a gentle hug. Our arms wrapped each other as we listened to the sounds beyond our quarantine. Vehicles speeding on nearby roads. Distant, muffled shouts. For twenty minutes that was all we could do.
Then Martin came to see us. His expression was beyond grim.
“The Hunt kid gave me your things,” Martin said, his face screwed tight, anger and regret working every muscle. “I left it in the front room.”
“Martin, what happened?” Elaine asked.
His gaze dipped a bit and his head shook slowly.
“Mike Riley and Sarah Fredericks are dead.”
Elaine’s hand gripped my left arm tight, shock rippling through her. And
When Elaine and I had left on our brief getaway where I had been taken, there had been no armed outpost on the coast road. One that had been there during the wary months after our arrival in Bandon had been reactivated just before my return, along with others on the town’s perimeter, with roving patrols to fill in the gaps between. All eyes searching for threats.
By the sounds coming from the south, a threat had been found.
“Where’s our gear?”
Elaine knew what I was asking, and what I was suggesting, and that might have been why she didn’t answer me quickly enough to stop my agitated follow up.
“If there is a fight out there,” I began, “it could spill into town. Breaking quarantine will be the least of our—”
I stopped abruptly as her gaze shifted toward the hallway beyond the plastic barrier.
“You hear that?”
I listened for a moment, then nodded at her question.
“It’s quiet,” she said.
The shooting had stopped. But not all sound had. Quickened footsteps, just shy of all out running, came from the front room beyond the hall, and a moment later Bryson Hunt rushed in, his chest heaving and color flushed. The young man, just shy of his twenty-fifth birthday, had been assigned during daytime to keep watch over the entrance to the place of our quarantine. In the old world he was a fisherman, plying the sea with his father. In the new world, our world, his father was dead and he was playing babysitter to us, ready to respond to us if we called out to him.
“What’s going on out there?” Elaine asked.
Bryson took a few seconds to catch his breath, bending forward, hands on his knees, then he looked up to us with widened eyes.
“I don’t know,” the young man told us. “Sarge raced by in a Humvee and I ran after to find out what was happening, but I couldn’t catch up.”
“Go find out,” I said. “We’ll be okay here.”
He turned to leave, but only made it a few steps.
“Bryson,” Elaine called to him, drawing his attention. “On your way back, stop by our place and get our weapons and gear.”
Her request kept him from moving.
“You can’t—”
“I know,” Elaine said. “Just in case.”
“You can leave it in the front room out there,” I said.
After a moment’s consideration and a quick nod, Bryson Hunt was gone again, racing out into daylight.
I paced away from the barrier and rubbed at the still bandaged spot on the back of my right arm where I’d been cut open.
“I should be out there,” I said, frustrated.
The silence behind me reminded me I was nearing a line I’d once crossed. I looked back to see Elaine’s beautiful gaze turned harsh.
“I know, I know,” I said. “ We should be out there.”
She let my unintentional slight pass without saying anything. I’d made a far more overt and awkward attempt to shield her from harm on our trek north to Skagway, and doing so had almost cost me my life. It was her, my wife, certainly of the fairer sex, who’d saved me when I was staring down the barrel of an assault rifle wielded by a merciless Russian. She’d buried her knife into his brain with cold, silent precision. That necessary and terrible act had taught me one thing with crystal clarity—Elaine Morales Fletcher could not only take care of herself, she could take care of me.
I went to her and pulled her into a gentle hug. Our arms wrapped each other as we listened to the sounds beyond our quarantine. Vehicles speeding on nearby roads. Distant, muffled shouts. For twenty minutes that was all we could do.
Then Martin came to see us. His expression was beyond grim.
“The Hunt kid gave me your things,” Martin said, his face screwed tight, anger and regret working every muscle. “I left it in the front room.”
“Martin, what happened?” Elaine asked.
His gaze dipped a bit and his head shook slowly.
“Mike Riley and Sarah Fredericks are dead.”
Elaine’s hand gripped my left arm tight, shock rippling through her. And
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