Regan Wolfrom - After The Fires Went Out - Coyote

But as my brother was kicking my ass the following evening, I could see in his eyes that he was proud of me. That's my favourite memory of him; not just because of how he looked at me, but because even eighteen hours after that very special single malt, he actually had to let go of my battered neck and run to the bathroom for one last puke.

That's a moment I'll never forget.

KAYLA

Ant's Cast of Characters:

Kayla is a little bit slutty…not in the bad sort of hand job for a dollar way, but in the good friends with benefits way, where she makes you feel desirable without wasting time trying to convince you that you're any sexier than all the other people she's slept with.

At least that's the impression I get; I am sexy, so I'm not part of her target demographic. She's talked about sleeping with me, I mean, hey, she is a woman, but I've never taken her up on it…not yet, anyway.

But why not, you may ask…well, first of all, gentle reader…just shut up and let me do this. And secondly…

I like the idea of unconventional sex, which doesn't only mean doing it in a hot air balloon or various activities involving whipped cream and mayonnaise…it also includes seducing women who haven't really given much thought to wild and casual sex, women who really do call it “making love” or “being intimate”…Kayla never calls it that, since she'd fuck you for hours without actually letting you get to know her.

I get to know her by watching her strike the arc on the welding table, or strip a bolt, or trip over her own feet. I love that girl, but I laugh every damned time she falls flat on that pretty face of hers.

I don't think Kayla feels much of a connection with any of us; I get the feeling that she shut down that part of her life years ago, that she decided that she was too self-sufficient to worry about friends or family. My father used to call that kind of self-loathing feminism, saying that it all started with the birth control pill and that women have been getting more mentally unstable ever since, that they are trying to be like men while still being women. I think my father's full of shit on that and all other subjects of any importance, but I do believe that Kayla's got some serious issues in that slutty little brain of hers.

I wouldn't be surprised if one day we wake up to find her lifeless body hanging from a rafter in the barn, with a handwritten note that says “I came, I came again, and now I'm bored”. People like Kayla don't usually live that long.

Today is Saturday, December 15th.

The Porters weren't happy with our plan to bring along one of the Tremblays, but they relented when I made it clear that it wasn't a suggestion.

They chose Alain, which didn’t surprise me, since I’m sure he’s less trouble than Marc.

The Porters left with their new helper early yesterday morning, while the sky was still dark. I saw them off before going back upstairs to sneak in a few more minutes of sleep.

Sara woke me up just after sunrise, and after a quick breakfast Graham and I hitched up the cart for the trip into town. We didn’t have a truck of our own anymore, and while we may decide to look for a new one, I didn’t want to do that just yet. We don’t really have enough fuel to run our own truck right now, anyway.

Marc arrived just as we were about to go looking for him.

“So I’m your new pet,” Marc said as he climbed onto the cart, a hunting rifle slung over his shoulder. “What happened to all the work I’m supposed to be doing around here?”

“This is more important,” I said. “We want to find and bring over an electric tractor before the roads get any worse. We may end up trying to tow it somehow.”

“You should have done it before winter, then.”

“We were too busy saving your life,” Graham said. “Maybe you should keep that in mind.”

“Maybe you should watch what you say, motormouth.”

“Maybe all of us should just shut up for a while,” I said. “The best way to find ourselves in some real bad shit is to get so wrapped up in bitch-slapping each other that we’re not keeping an eye out for trouble. As much as I hate the both of you, I hate the idea of dying with you idiots that much more.”

That got them quiet, either because they were both thinking of how much of an asshole I am or because they’d realized once again that we’re on the same goddamn team. If things go bad, and I know one day they will, we'll only have each other for backup. That's a pretty important thing to remember. People who forget that are the ones who don't make it back home.

The busy season for dead bodies is in the winter, and we were getting close enough to winter to make me nervous. The body count isn’t just from people freezing to death in minus forty, but from bad guys who start getting a whole lot more active once the leaves fall and the snow starts to fly. Back in Toronto crime season was summer, and if there was ever a time when you’d lock your doors and be a little more careful where you went after dark, it was June ‘til September. Around here those are the safer months.

Justin Porter told me once that marauders are a little like Vikings. He said that they’ll come to your home and kill you anyway they can, and they’ll gladly take your women if they get the chance, but that during the summers they act just like everyone else, growing vegetable gardens and mending fences. He said that you could work alongside a man for a whole summer and never suspect he’s a marauder until winter comes and he slits your throat while you sleep.

This may sound strange coming from me, but I think Justin may have a problem trusting people.

Graham drove while Marc and I kept our eyes open for movement; I was on the bench beside Graham while Marc kept to himself near the back of the cart. He’d brought a travel mug along, and I’d noticed him nipping more than a few times already; I knew enough about Marc Tremblay to know that he had more than coffee in there.

The Porters had left the gate on Nelson Road wide open, and not for the first time. I hopped down and closed it behind us and made a mental note to kick their asses.

When we arrived at the bridge over the Abitibi, Marc hopped down to unlock the West Gate. He held up his hands like they were a catcher’s glove and gave me his trademark smirk.

“I need the keys and dongle, boss,” he said. “If that’s okay with you.”

I threw the key ring down to him.

“And you’re a real pleasure to have along with us, Mr. Tremblay,” I said.

He shot me the finger before tackling the locks.

It pisses me off how some people are about the damned keys. Everyone wants their own copy, but everyone has a chance of losing them. So I keep all of the keys and alarm dongles, and parcel them out as needed, kind of like how a car dealership handles test drives; if one goes missing, I’ll know before the day is out, and I’ll head over to the gate and change out whichever locks are compromised. Just like the safes, it’s a pretty low tech solution, but like always those are the ones that work. Between the locks and the tripwire alarm we’ve controlled the bridge for well over a year; aside from the sanctioned trade runs between the Walkers and Detour Lake, no one from outside our team has crossed through that gate since Ant put it up.