Regan Wolfrom - Coyote

That hit him hard, and I knew I’d been a little harsh.

I tried to soften my tone. “I shouldn’t have let you and Ant go without me. That’s my fault.”

“That’s not what this is about, Baptiste. You’ll ride the cart with Graham but never with me. Why?”

“You’re a terrible shot and you’re bad with horses.”

“Come on,” Matt said.

“I’m not kidding. You’re not an asset when it comes to scavenging. That might change someday… but that’s how it is right now.”

“Justin doesn’t agree with you.”

“Then you can ride with him. Why am I supposed to care?”

“But it’s more than that. You don’t really want to do anything with me. It’s like you wish I didn’t exist.”

I shook my head. “Do you really want to do this? Do you really want me to tell you what I think?”

Matt nodded. He reminded me of a child now, a little boy who probably wouldn’t even understand what I’m trying to say.

“You’re a screw-up,” I said. “You sit around and you make fun of me and Sara and everyone else, but when someone tries something on you…”

“Yeah, I get that.”

“You need to grow up, Matt. Seriously… that’s the best advice I can give you. Grow the fuck up.”

“You say that, but that’s not your problem with me. It’s not about maturity at all. Half of Ant’s jokes were about farting, but you didn’t have a problem with him.”

“Ant busted his ass. He only fucked around when the job was done… not before… not during… when it was done. You couldn’t even hammer in a few nails today without almost taking some woman’s arm off.”

“Then give me a chance.”

“I’ve given you a hundred chances. So far you’re 0-for-100.”

“And I guess Ant never messed up.”

“Goddammit, Matt. You know he messed up… he’s dead because of it. So tell me… if the guy who was way less of a screw-up than you are is buried out by the creek, what chance do you have?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Talk to Ant about that one. Ask him what’s fair. But seriously, Matt… you know you can’t just be some kind of replacement for him, right?”

“I’m not trying to be Ant,” he said. “I just don’t get why he was so important to you. You loved him like a son.”

“What the fuck do you know?”

“That’s how it is with everyone else, too. Fiona’s like your long lost daughter, and you treat Graham like he can do no wrong. And since you’re banging Sara we all know how you feel about her…”

“God, Matt… I need you to understand something here. I’m not your father, okay?”

“Screw you, Baptiste. That’s not what I’m saying.”

“That is what you’re saying, asshole. And I’ll tell you… I don’t owe you some kind of fatherly affection. I’m not going to play catch with you out in the backyard, or teach you how to manscape your pubes. I don’t owe you shit. If you can’t contribute to the team, we’re better off without you.”

“Too bad Ant’s dead and I’m still alive.”

“Yeah, you know what? That is too bad. You’re damn right about that.”

I didn’t bother to wait for Matt to find his comeback; I did want to make it home before next week. I turned the engine back on and drove on a couple hundred meters. And then I stopped to wait. I couldn’t leave him out there no matter how I felt about him.

I couldn’t leave that piece of total uselessness behind. Fuck.

I had to wait a few minutes before he finally started up again.

We didn’t say anything else to each other for the rest of the trip, and when we arrived at the cottage I decided to make my way over to the amber rum. Fiona was close to having dinner ready, so that saved me from having to tell anyone about my day. I made it all the way to dinner without talking and when we all sat down I listened quietly to Graham as he talked about the goats, as he does most days if you don’t tell him to shut up. Matt was quiet, too, and because of our combined silence Graham was at least ten minutes into it before Lisa finally closed down the topic with a cheery “I fucking hate those goddamn goats.”

Then it was mostly silence.

Today is Wednesday, December 12th.

The supply meeting this month was being hosted by the Marchands, so Justin Porter and Alain Tremblay joined Sara and I in our grain truck for the trip to the airport.

Cochrane’s airport is pretty much the opposite of Pearson in Toronto, one single strip of runway and a terminal building that kind of looks like a small town radio station.

They used that airstrip mostly for the fire crews, the water bombers and the helicopters that would take the FireRangers to forward bases to fight the forest fires that would flare up every spring and summer. Last year when the whole district was on fire or about to be, Graham and I came up here with a pile of other people, trying to keep one of the wildfires from reaching the airport by turning the concession road into a proper firebreak. Somehow we managed to save it, or rather Graham and the rest of them did, after I got cut off and surrounded with the lake at my back. In the end, there wasn’t much point to saving the airport since nothing’s taken off or landed there since. We should have spend our time working to protect the town of Cochrane itself.

We only have three sets of protective gear, but that didn’t cause any arguments since Sara almost always refuses to wear it. If she hadn’t been chosen to chair the meeting I’d have told her to stay home.

In the truck it’s not that bad; we don’t usually bother with the helmets in the cab, and I make sure we stuff Sara in the middle, with Alain driving and Justin on her right. I took a place in the back with the Mossberg, fully armoured and sitting in pretty much the same spot Ant had been sitting when those three bullets landed in his unprotected chest.

We got to the Marchands’ roadblock around forty minutes early, which was just what I wanted. The two Marchand boys waved us through without bothering to ask any questions; I guess they know us well enough by now.

The parking lot was almost empty when we pulled in; I could see the Walker’s white van and a couple of trucks. I knew Dave Walker was going to be a huge pain in the ass, and for some reason I was almost looking forward to it.

I hopped out of the box with the Mossberg, motioning for the others to stay in the cab.

I found Fisher Livingston standing by the door beside a tall, skinny kid with a hunting rifle. Livingston wasn’t armed, which didn’t surprise me; I’d never seen him shoot off anything other than his big mouth.

“You can’t bring your guns inside,” Livingston said.

“Fuck you, Livingston,” I said.

“He’s right,” the skinny kid said; I don’t think he was older than sixteen. “No guns allowed inside, Mr. Jeanbaptiste. Same as always.”

“I brought them in with me last time,” I said. “And every time.”

“They shouldn’t have allowed that.”

I sighed. I knew the rules and I’d never followed them. No one had ever called me on it before. “Well, I’m not comfortable leaving my guns outside.”

“Then you can’t come in,” Livingston said.

I was about to tell Livingston once more to fuck himself when Sara joined us by the door.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“They won’t let me in.”

“It’s the shotgun,” the skinny kid said. “It’s not allowed.”

“Or the handgun,” Livingston said.

“So leave them in the truck,” Sara said.