Regan Wolfrom - After The Fires Went Out - Coyote

“I think Ryan Stems killed him,” Fiona said. “That’s why he was so quick to head back to Kapuskasing. He isn’t worried anymore.”

“He was more worried about Detour Lake,” I said.

“You took out like a dozen of those guys single-handedly,” Kayla said. “They don’t look so scary these days.”

“Don’t ever start thinking like that. We won’t be safe as long as they’re out there and running out of food. Stems was right; they’ll either strike out to the West or to the East. They’ve tried the West…”

Kayla nodded. “So now they try the rest. Aiguebelle?”

“I hope so. Because we’re in no shape to fight them off right now.”

“I’m working on it. I’ve been out shooting a few times with Matt.”

“Learning to shoot from Matt? That’s like having me teach you how to tap dance.”

“And that would be…”

“Hilarious,” Fiona said.

“Well…I’m improving,” Kayla said. “Soon I’ll be able to hit the side of the barn.”

“Remind me to start wearing body armour around the house,” I said.

Fiona laughed. Kayla didn’t.

“I’d recommend that to you for a lot of reasons,” she said.

I’m not sure she was trying to be funny.

Kayla never came back to my bedroom.

She took over Lisa’s room, not bothering to ask Sara if she wanted her old bed; Fiona moved back into the room she’d shared with Kayla, while Gwyneth took Kayla’s spot.

Sara slept on the couch for a couple days, partly because she was barely conscious for most of it, but also because I don’t think she knew where she belonged.

She’d been away for almost three weeks and everything had changed. I know she had no doubt in her mind as to who had been sharing my bed.

But last night she knocked on my door just after ten; I was on my tablet, looking at my personal reserve, my hand down the front of my boxers.

Luckily I remembered to pull my hand out before I answered.

“Can I come in?” she asked.

“Of course. You’re always welcome here.”

I sat back down on my bed.

I’m sure she could see the bulge.

She walked inside but didn’t sit. She was fidgeting with her hands, gently wringing them together. “She’s not staying with you?”

“No.”

“Are you two…?”

“I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t.” What was I supposed to say? It’s not like you only ever love one person.

“I can’t do this if you’re going to hurt me. I need to know that you’re here…with me…”

“I’m here. With you, Sara. And that’s where I want to be.”

That was true. I wanted to be with her. And I wanted to be with Kayla, too.

“Okay,” she said.

I’d expected her to sit down beside me.

She didn’t.

“So…goodnight,” she said.

“You’re leaving?”

“For now…yeah…”

“Okay. Goodnight, Sara…I love you.”

“Okay.”

And that was it.

Today is Tuesday, January 29th.

Matt and I went down to New Post today.

We’d heard from Sergeant Mullen that the people had been relocated and that they didn’t have any intention of going back there, that for all intents and purposes the place was our problem to deal with.

To me that sounded like a prime scavenging opportunity. Say what you will about the patrols from the Mushkegowuk Nation, they certainly make it less likely that we’ll have any unwanted visitors at McCartney Lake. Well, aside from Stems’ soldiers themselves, but they’re usually too busy chatting up Kayla and Fiona to start being all menacing.

That left me willing to risk leaving Kayla with the Mossberg. I’d filled it with buckshot, in case she needs to hit something smaller than the wall of our barn. Livingston’s got a little mousegun, too, but there’s nothing intimidating about that.

We took the cart, since all the diesel we have for that deuce-and-a-half is what little’s left in the tank, and I doubt we’ll be making any trades with Detour Lake for some of their fuel. I let Matt drive; I’ve started running out of options.

Since we only have one set of gear left, I told Matt to wear it. If shit goes down, he’ll be the one who has to take my SIG and run toward the problem. I can’t run toward anything at the moment.

We found the gate wide open.

The houses were there, but there were no vehicles. We checked a few buildings and found a couple nice items in each: three-quarters-empty boxes of cereal here or the last few drops of peanut oil there. Good enough for us, at least.

We checked the band office, even though I didn’t expect there to be anything worth taking.

In Gerald Archibald’s cube, I found a laminate desk with a locked filing cabinet sitting underneath. I looked around for the key, but there was nothing.

It was possible that someone was messing with us, just locking things up after they’d cleaned them out.

“Shake it,” Matt said.

“You shake it.”

We did it together.

It made a happy little rattling noise.

“You can pick the lock?” Matt asked.

I didn’t feel like it. “Just bring me the crowbar.”

Once he had, I pulled the drawers open.

I pulled out three boxes of drugs.

All three were Laneradine.

“Gerald had a heart problem like yours?” Matt asked.

“These aren’t even open. He was hoarding them…waiting for me to die.”

“Joke’s on him. You’re still alive.”

“Yes, Matt. I know.”

I tossed the boxes into my canvas goody bag.

I’d be alive for a good while longer.

Once we’d finished gathering what supplies were left, we headed back toward the gate.

“Now Stems controls both bridges,” Matt said.

“He doesn’t need two,” I said.

And I knew Stems wasn’t stupid.

“Head up the rail bed,” I said.

Matt took us up the gravel trail, curving around to the Abitibi River.

The bridge had been destroyed. The piers demolished with charges.

“Better job than got done at Iroquois Falls,” I said.

“One less bridge to watch.”

“Yes, Matt…I know.”

He just laughed. I think he’s starting to like the way I treat him.

We were back to McCartney Lake before sunset, so a little too early for dinner.

“Let me off here,” I said as we reached the cottage.

“What about the horses?”

“You drove ‘em…you can stow them.”

He stopped the cart and I climbed out.

He continued on toward the barn.

I walked in hoping to get a chance to help Fiona with dinner. It’s definitely become a thing with me.

I saw Livingston on the floor.

There was blood.

Then I saw Justin Porter, sitting on the couch with his boots on the wicker coffee table, with Livingston’s little .380 lying next to his socked feet.

Sitting on the floor were all four girls, in a semicircle around the coffee table. They looked terrified, but they were okay.

I reached for my SIG.

“Put it on the floor,” Justin said.

“How ‘bout I just kill you?” I said. I pulled out the gun and pointed it at his head.

He didn’t reach for the .380. “Look under the coffee table.”

I saw one of Ant’s nail grenades. At least a hundred nails bundled together and ready to shred anything within its reach. And the fuse cord ran up to a plastic tip in Justin’s hand.