Kevin Anderson - Ill Wind

Bobby yanked out his rifle and moved it from side to side. The men took a hurried step back. Bobby raised his voice over the man’s screaming. “Anyone else?” He flipped off the safety.

The men murmured and made an opening for them. Bobby pointed his rifle at a teenage boy nearest the road. “Help your friend—Kirtland hospital will do what they can. The rest of you listen up! What goes on up here is your business, but down in the city, you’re under martial law. That law extends to any military personnel traveling through this pass.” He held up his rifle. “Our weapons still work just fine. Remember that next time.”

Bobby motioned with his head for Sergeant Morris and the three wide-eyed scientists to follow at a fast trot. “Move it.”

They rode the horses through the opening made by the bandits. Behind them, the scavengers muttered in indecision, the wounded man screamed on the ground. Bobby and Sergeant Morris kept their weapons leveled.

They didn’t speak until they left the group far behind. Soon, the rustling of their horses moving along the dusty roadside was the only sound. After another ten minutes, they rounded a curve to where the steep mountain pass opened up to show the eastern valley spreading out in front of them. Bobby could see mountains on the horizon, eighty miles away. Below them, the skeletal interstate highway wound through foothills. He saw a small town off in the distance.

Sergeant Morris turned and spoke her first unsolicited words to him. “You handled that nicely, Lieutenant.”

Bobby felt his shoulders sag with the release of tension. He gulped, feeling a sour taste claw his throat. “Nice shot yourself.” He yanked back on the reins, pulling the horse to a stop. Leaning over, he vomited.

Sergeant Morris came around. “You all right, sir?”

Bobby heaved once more, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He struggled to sit upright in the saddle. “Now I am. Just getting prepped for the exciting part of this trip.”

The ranchhouse sat alone at the far end of a winding dirt driveway. Penned in by a barbed-wire fence, sheep grazed among the scrub around the house. Beside the house a 19th-century windmill stood motionless, waiting for a breeze so it could pump water from deep beneath the high desert.

Heather Dixon shifted the neon pink backpack on her shoulders. She brushed a hand across her forehead to wipe sweat and road dust away. The sun pounded down on them as she and Connor trudged up the long drive, leaving imprints from their hiking boots in the dirt.

Connor insisted that Heather take her own turn carrying the pack. He kept time on his watch, making sure that he didn’t do a minute more work than she did. Equality at its best , he called it. Heather wanted to carry her own weight, but he didn’t have to be so nit-picky about it. Instead of the pack, Connor carried the shotgun and the big hunting knife.

“We can get some water up there,” she said, “maybe some food.”

Connor’s face had been sunburned, but it didn’t seem to bother him. The ruddy change in his skin gave him a rugged appearance. He hadn’t shaved, but his beard was pale like his blond hair, making him look like a California beach bum. “I could use a shower too.” Connor winked at her. “Like to join me? I had fun the last time we took one.”

Heather answered him with a forced laugh, and turned away. Over the hard days of walking she had rapidly grown tired of Connor Brooks. She began to regret going with him at all, wandering on this aimless trek across the southwest, moving eastward with no destination in mind.

The sex had been good, one of the better parts of the whole experience. Lying under the stars, camping wherever they felt like, and totally free for the first time in her life—without a job to go back to, not caring about the social conventions that had tangled up her life. But lately even making love with Connor had become unpleasant, as if it was now expected of her, instead of being spontaneous.

Connor called them the “Bonnie and Clyde of the apocalypse,” and his goofy routine grated on her. The look in his eyes and the hidden focus of his thoughts scared her. She realized just how alone she was with him day after day.

Long before they reached the ranchhouse, Heather heard a dog start barking. She could see the big black mutt tied to the windmill frame by a long rope. The dog was shaggy, mostly sheepdog but with a dash of Labrador and German Shepherd. The dog barked and barked, but Heather detected no growling menace. After the petroplague, it probably saw few strangers.

Connor walked beside her carrying the shotgun as if he thought it made him invincible.

The front door opened, and a woman emerged; her open-mouthed smile was like a flower unfolding. She was in her late thirties with her hair tied in an unflattering ponytail. Her clothes had the worn broad-strokes appearance of homemade garments. The woman’s face lit up like a full moon, making her eyes seem small but bright. “Hello! Can we help you?”

Connor, playing his part of tough guy and asshole, stepped forward. He lowered his voice intentionally, like some kind of vigilante. “We came to take food and water.”

Heather shifted her pink backpack. She smiled at the woman. “Can you spare some?”

A second woman stepped out, looking wary. She had hovered just behind the other in the darkness of the house, watching and listening. This woman, perhaps a year or two older, wore similar clothes. Her face was gaunt, as if someone had nipped and tucked and tightened her expression over the years. She gave both Connor and Heather a wary look. “We’ve got a little.”

Connor craned his head, squinting to look through the shadows of the doorway. “So where’s the man of the house?”

The good-natured woman piped up, “He’s returning from temple in Salt Lake City.”

The gaunt woman answered simultaneously, “He’s out back.”

Connor snorted, ignoring the obvious lie. Turning to the good-natured woman, he said, “In Utah?” He pronounced it U- taw . “At temple? What are you, Aztecs or something?”

Heather glared at him and muttered, “They’re Mormons, stupid.”

“Mormons?” Connor straightened up and let out a guffaw. “So, these must be the guy’s two wives.” He laughed again.

The gaunt woman snapped, “Shelda’s my sister.”

“Hey,” Connor said looking to Heather with an expression of concentration on his face, “aren’t Mormons supposed to keep a year’s supply of everything? In case of emergencies. They must have plenty to share.”

The gaunt woman eased back toward the house, vanishing into the shadows. Heather knew she was going to go for a hidden weapon. Connor jerked up the shotgun in a frightening, smooth movement and pointed it toward the doorway.

The dog, its protective instincts suddenly ignited, went wild, barking and straining to the edge of its rope.

Connor pointed the shotgun at the animal as if extending a finger at a recalcitrant child and squeezed the trigger. The explosion echoed around the ranch yard and the dog flew backward into the air, its side ripped open by the scatter blast of the shotgun pellets. It tangled two legs into the rope as it somersaulted and lay in a bloodied heap in the dusty yard.

A smothering silence fell. Everyone stood transfixed. The old windmill, finally stirred by a breeze, creaked and turned twice then fell still.

Heather stared at Connor, not knowing what to say. The gun was so loud. This was the first time he had actually fired it, for all the threatening and blustering he had done over the past few days. It smelled foul and sulfurous.

Connor’s face took on a pinched, calculating look. “Maybe we should just stay, Heather. This place has everything we need, and I’m sick of hiking everywhere.” He laughed. “Go on ladies, get your tennis shoes on. You’ve got a lot of walking to do.”