Regan Wolfrom: After The Fires Went Out: Coyote

We’d gotten the two horses and their cart by way of a good-hearted family a couple klicks east of Cochrane. They didn’t leave on the advice of that sack-of-shit Fisher Livingston…they waited it out for a couple months after The Fires, but eventually they packed it in. They’d known that Graham and Fiona and I had chosen to stay behind, and I guess they took pity on a couple of outsiders, so they gave us a quick lesson on hitching and driving before they hopped into their truck and hit the highway, never to be heard from again.

The horses make a good team, a mare and a gelding, both saddlebreds. The cart is built completely of wood, even the wheels, with railings and a bench; it’s a little clunky at times, but the horses are used to it and now we are, too.

We threw some bales onto the cart and then I hitched up the horses, the mare first as always. She backs into place on her own, always on the right, and all that’s left for me to do is connect the harness traces and the centre shaft. The gelding goes second, and he’s just as quick. I can do it all now in less than ten minutes; Graham can do it in under five.

I stood and watched Sara as she spread a little loose hay around the box. She was dressed pretty light for the weather, but I’m not complaining; I could watch her forever.

There’s something different about beauty up here, in the landscape and in the women…they’re all more striking, I’d call it. You’ll notice the flow of the lines, soft and hard, angled and rounded, gentleness mixed with tough. For Sara, it’s pale blue eyes and coffee-coloured curls, and her sexy clenched-lip smile that makes me forget pretty much everything else.

She noticed me watching her and I could see her blush a little.

“Oh, and make sure you let Graham drive,” she said, as if we were right in the middle of the discussion. It might have been something we talked about twenty minutes ago; Sara just picks up where she left off, and I’m left without any clue of what she’s saying.

“You have a problem with how I drive?” I asked, not really sure if I should act playful or offended.

“I want you on the cart so I can throw you off. Isn’t that the whole point of a hayride?” There was a cheery sound to her voice that I’d longed for over the past few days.

“There’s no way you’ll be able to lift me over the railing,” I said. “You have weak little girl arms.”

“They’re not that weak,” she said with a smile. “And besides, I’ll have plenty of help. I’m not the only person around here who fantasizes about seeing you face-down in the dirt.”

“I think most people want to see me face-down in the Abitibi River.”

She chuckled. “Yeah…that or a toilet bowl. Maybe when we get back I’ll see if my little girl arms can hold your head under the yellow water long enough to make all our dreams come true.”

I laughed at that.

The hay in place and the horses hitched, I started to load up the waggon with everything we’d need for the trip. I threw in a couple thermoses of water, my binoculars and headlamp, and of course my constant companion, the defibrillator, charged from our battery bank and ready to go. I’d recommend it for anyone over fifty, but obviously for me it’s pretty much required; the only two reasons I'm still here at all are my trusty defib and the six months of heart pills I still have left.

There’s nothing like heart disease to remind you every goddamn day that you’re not invincible anymore. And there’s nothing like slowly running out of pills to make sure you never forget what’s coming.

I grabbed the shotgun too, checking to make sure it was loaded but that the chamber was still empty. I know this twelve gauge Mossberg pretty well, but I’m not always the last one to have carried it and I really don’t like the idea of an accidental discharge taking a chunk out of someone’s ass.

I have my service pistol too; at least it’s mine now, a SIG Sauer issued by the Ontario Provincial Police and definitely not issued to me. I have it holstered as always, along with my handheld transmitter, in the belt that I only take off for sleeping, showering and screwing.

I may also want to take it off when I’m being thrown from a hayride…I’m not sure on the procedure for something like that.

I placed the shotgun in the cart, up by the horses where the spotter sits. Where they “ride shotgun”, I guess you could say.

“You’re not on lookout, either,” Sara said.

I sighed and nodded. She knew all my tricks by now.

Sara gave a loud shout and people started to wander outside. Graham and Lisa came out first, and together, which was usually a sign that they’d agreed to another ceasefire. Lisa was dressed lightly, like Sara, with a knit hat hiding most of her short and nearly spiky dark hair, and wearing what I’d term a spring jacket. But Graham had his parka on, and while it looked like Lisa had talked him out of a scarf for plus five, he had his black toque pulled down as far as it could go, right down to the upper fringe of his close-cropped hipster beard.

“You guys don’t match,” Sara said. “And you’re going to die of heat, Graham.”

“I’m not used to this,” Graham said. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this.”

“He’s a pussy,” Lisa said.

Sara scowled at the word.

Lisa laughed. “But he’s my pussy.”

Matt and Kayla came out next. Together they looked almost too perfect, Matt with his dark hair and broad smile, wearing a navy blue peacoat, and Kayla dressed about the same style but in a colour closer to robin’s egg blue, with a pink scarf and a matching pink toque, with tufts of her pretty blond hair spilling out.

“Who’s driving?” she asked.

“Why does it matter?” I said.

Kayla gave me a mischievous grin. “Your presence is required in the rear.”

We all waited for the joke to come, probably something about Kayla’s rear and just how many invites it sent out per annum. But Ant wasn’t there to make it.

It took a good ten seconds for all of us to recover.

“Sara’s already made it clear that you all hate me,” I said.

“She’s sort of our spokesperson,” Kayla said, still with the grin.

Graham took his place on the front bench and Lisa found a spot beside him, gripping the shotgun as it rested on her leg like she was itching to use it.

Our inside dogs hopped up front with them, little Juju nestling at Lisa’s feet while Des stood up on the bench, his thick tongue hanging out as he stared at the back of the horses.

I always wonder if big old Carcassonne is jealous when we leave him behind with the chickens and goats. Somehow I doubt it. Some dogs were bred to live with the livestock.

Everyone else took a place near the back of the cart, leaving a nice big hole in the middle, open just for me; it’s great to feel wanted, even as a target.

“Just waiting for Fiona,” I said, still standing beside the cart. I rapped a fist against the railing, trying to appear impatient. The truth is, I kind of like it when Fiona takes a little longer…I’m not sure why.

“Fiona makes us wait again,” Lisa said, tapping her left hand on the forestock of the shotgun. “Big surprise.”

“I don’t think she’s coming,” Matt said.

“She can’t stay here alone,” I said.

“Well you’re not staying behind,” Sara said to me. “We have plans for you, Baptiste. Evil plans.” She hopped down from the cart. “I’ll go grab her.”

“She went out for a walk,” Matt said.

“By herself?” I asked, already feeling my control slipping.

“Yeah…so?”

I glared at him. “What the fuck are you thinking?”

“Hey…I told her not to.”

“You told her not to? What the hell good is that?”