Regan Wolfrom - After The Fires Went Out - Coyote

Matt’s been handling the horses lately, which has worked out better than I’d expected. That morning he ran back in after just a couple of minutes outside.

“The horses are gone,” he said.

“You didn’t close the stall doors?” I asked.

“The cart’s gone, too. Someone took it.”

“Who could have done that?” Kayla said.

I already knew.

“He’s taken the cart,” I said. “So either he doesn’t think his car can handle where he’s headed, or he doesn’t want people to know it’s him.”

“He’s going to New Post,” Kayla said.

“That’s suicide,” Matt said.

I walked over to the chest by the door.

It was unlocked. And empty.

“He took both sets,” I said.

“So you couldn’t follow him,” Kayla said.

I nodded. “Won’t stop me.”

“I’ll come, too,” Matt said.

“No one else is coming. People are going to be dying today. But none of my people. You two get over to Fiona’s. Take the Mossberg. Stay there until I get back.”

“There’s no way he can get through,” Kayla said. “They’ll stop him at the gate.” It sounded like she was trying to convince herself more than anyone else.

“He won’t get through on his own,” I said.

“You’re not planning on helping him.”

“No…but Justin isn’t stupid. I’m not sure he’s doing this on his own.”

“Detour Lake?”

“That’s the most likely possibility. I doubt he’d be able to convince Aiguebelle to come with him to shoot at old people and children.”

“I don’t know, Baptiste,” Kayla said. “I think you should stay. You can’t go up against them. Not on your own.”

“Don’t you see, Kayla? I have to try. If I don’t at least try…then Stems has no reason to believe that this wasn’t us. He’ll take it out on you…and Fiona…and I’m not willing to give him an excuse.”

“But what if you don’t come back?” Matt asked. “What the hell are we supposed to do?”

“Find a way into Aiguebelle,” I said. “Keep looking until you find someone’s who willing to help you. That’s the best I can do.”

Kayla wrapped her arms around me. “I love you, Baptiste.”

“I love you, Kayla. All the way.”

I felt another set of arms clamping my waist. “What the hell, Matt?”

“Thought it was a group hug,” he said.

“I think you just made it one,” Kayla said.

For my part, I didn’t push him away.

That took some work.

I had no riot suit, no vest, no helmet. And it didn’t take long for me to find out that Justin had known exactly where in the basement I kept the C12. Of course, it was more obvious now without the guitar case.

He had me outgunned. I was leaving the Mossberg with Kayla and Matt. All I had was my SIG.

I took one of the electric ATVs down toward New Post.

I found the horses and the cart just outside the open gate.

The horses were fine.

Three men were dead on the ground.

None of them were Justin.

I saw two pickups just up the road, stopped right in the middle, facing the gate. Both windshields were shattered.

I climbed off the ATV. With my SIG in my hands, I walked over to the trucks.

I saw the blood in the snow before I saw the bodies.

Four more.

No Justin.

I started walking along the treeline, down Archibald Road. I passed behind a couple of modular homes, looking for any sign of life and listening for any sounds of dead or dying.

It was all very quiet.

It felt like spring was coming early, but I didn’t see any children outside. I couldn’t even find any dogs.

Maybe they’d heard the gunfire at the gate and they’d known to run. Maybe the people of New Post were safely across the river.

I saw a dead dog. More blood in the snow. It looked like it had been running away from the shooting.

Then I saw another man in the snow. Wearing a set of riot gear and armour, with yellow lettering: “OPP”.

I approached slowly, in case he was still alive. But his helmet was a good two metres away, and his head was soaked in blood. They’d hit him in the delts to bring him down. Then they’d pulled off the helmet and made sure he was dead.

It wasn’t Justin.

He’d given a set to someone else.

I grabbed the dead man by his feet and pulled him into the ditch. I pulled off the vest and the riot suit. I put them on. Then I climbed out and grabbed the helmet.

And then I kept walking.

I heard what was likely my C12. Multiple rounds. No pause, no discrimination, like he wasn’t even bothering to stop and take aim.

It was coming from the west; I ran across a treeless yard toward the noise. I had no cover. But I had my armour.

I dropped down into the ditch along the main road, trying to keep my head lower than the drifts.

From the ditch I could see it all.

Seven men in armour, all but one with painted combat helmets; I recognized my gear on the other, but he was holding a shotgun instead of my C12.

The man who had the C12 wore a helmet I recognized. The coyote. Justin had given him my gun.

There were a couple of deuce-and-a-half military cargo trucks parked right behind them, with canvas tops. They’d come from the northwest, over the old rail bridge and up the stretch of Takwata Road that New Post had built to meet it. Justin’s attack from the northeast had drawn the bulk of the defenders to the other gate.

That wasn’t much different than the plan I’d made to get Sara back. But they weren’t there to rescue anyone.

I saw a large group of children sitting terrified in the snow.

At least twenty women on their knees.

A line of a dozen men against the wall of a house, their hands on their heads.

And at least a dozen men in front of them, lying dead in the snow.

Coyote opened fire again.

The line of men fell.

I couldn’t take them out. Not all of them. At least not all at once.

I had to wait.

With the men of New Post shot and bleeding, the women were next.

Twelve of them were pulled up by their hair and forced against the wall of the building, standing right over the bodies of their men.

Coyote didn’t point my C12 at them.

Instead, he walked forward and pulled one of the women off the line. One of the prettiest. He dragged her by her hair, away from the building, and pushed her down on her knees.

A second man walked over to the line and took his pick. A little young and a little chubby, but he seemed happy.

Four of the other men picked out their trophy.

One man did not. He shook his head, his helmet painted with orange and black tiger stripes.

Coyote took off his helmet.

It was Justin.

“We’re waiting,” Justin said to the man in the tiger striped helmet.

“I don’t want one,” the man said.

Justin laughed. “Whatever. We take shifts. You, you, and you…stay here and watch for the rest of ‘em. Don’t touch anything yet.”

They were taking orders from him; there was no denying that.

Justin had always been the coyote.

He was the one who’d been so worried that Natalie and Tabitha would recognize him as he raped them. That’s probably why he’d made sure they wouldn’t get another chance to realize who he was, and tell us the truth about him; for all I knew, he’d snuck off to meet his real crew at the Girards, so he’d get a chance to torture those young girls himself.

And he’d wanted me to know that I was to blame.

And Justin Porter was the one who’d shot Ant. He’d killed Ant and then he’d tried to tell me it was Ryan Stems.

He’d done his best to start a war.

This was his last kick at the can.