Regan Wolfrom - Coyote

“I don’t know,” I said. “A lot of bad news and not much good, I guess.” I turned to Kayla. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Whatever.”

“It’s not too late to do this right,” Justin said. “We team up with Detour Lake and send Walker packing.”

“We’re not starting a war,” I said. “We team up with the Walkers and we go from there.”

“I’d rather be the one who starts the war than the poor bastard who’s caught by surprise.”

“There won’t be any surprises. I don’t trust the Walkers any more than I trust the guys at Detour Lake. We get in and get the supplies and we get out. No one’s getting married here.”

Kayla stood up from the table. “We might as well be marrying them,” she said. “They’ve already got us on our back with our legs in the air.”

As she walked out, Justin smiled at her.

She nodded, but didn’t smile back.

That was still more than I wanted to see between them.

Since our smaller grain truck was still in a heap at the airport, we needed to find a second truck in order to carry our half of the haul we were expecting. The nice thing about being the last few stragglers in what was once a half-decent community is that there are still quite a few trucks left behind.

Graham and the Porters and I piled into the Tremblay’s truck and headed up 652. We picked up a gravel truck at a yard just outside Cochrane, the first truck we saw, actually.

It felt strange taking two trucks up there, not just because we had to siphon our scant diesel from the Tremblays’ grain truck to the new one, but because our homes at McCartney Lake would be down four people at a time when we’re not feeling particularly safe.

With Graham and I gone, Lisa’s the only one at our place who has the know-how to use a shotgun; we left both of the big guns at home, but Matt’s still working on holding them properly. There are a surprising number of Tremblays who know how to shoot, so I wasn’t worried about them, but the Porters’ kids had to come up to our place since we certainly couldn’t leave them all alone. That leaves one cottage completely empty, but since there’s probably ten times more supplies at Silver Queen Lake than we have at the Porters’, I decided that it was worth the risk.

We reached Silver Queen Lake by late morning, and I was glad to see that the Walkers were there waiting for us, with a large open-top grain truck.

“We figured we’d start along the north shore,” Livingston said as I climbed out of the truck and started to suit up.

“You’re in charge of the scavenging?” I asked.

“Pretty much.”

“And the divvying up, too, I’ll bet.”

Livingston nodded to Graham as he joined us. “Your man will be there too,” he said. “Everything’s 50/50, Baptiste… as best as we can make it. And just to be sure you know there’s no hard feelings, I’ll make sure you guys get first pick.”

“How nice,” I said.

“Look… I know you still have a problem with me. I get that. But for the time being, it would be a lot simpler if we just try to get along.”

I nodded; that was about all I was willing to give him.

I turned to Graham. “I think you know what we need most,” I said.

“Don’t worry,” Graham replied. “I’ve got us covered.”

“Good man… and if there’s anything you’re not sure about, just give me a push on the handheld. I aim to please.”

He smiled. “Will do, boss.”

Justin and Rihanna walked over to us, each carrying a riot suit, vest and helmet.

“You need to actually put that on,” I said to Justin. I turned to Livingston. “We’ve got a set for you guys, too. You’ll have to pick who gets to wear it.”

Rihanna held out the gear; Livingston took them and held the vest close to his face, as though he were evaluating the fabric of a fine suit.

And people wonder why I hate him.

He placed the gear down in the near-frozen muck. I let it slide; I wasn’t the one who’d have to deal with how cold that riot suit would be.

“Where are your people, anyway?” Justin asked Livingston.

“We’ve got one shooter in position,” Livingston said. It sounded like he was trying to impress me.

“What does that even mean?” I asked.

“A sniper.”

I laughed. “Good one. But seriously, do you really have some asshole hiding in the trees somewhere?”

“I was hiding,” a woman’s voice called out.

I turned to see her, about mid-thirties, dressed in camo. I recognized the face; I remember pretty much every woman in Cochrane who falls into a certain… uh, range.

“I’m sorry,” I said, trying not to laugh again.

“I know,” she said, “I look ridiculous.”

“No… you look pretty good, actually. I certainly didn’t notice you when we were coming in.”

She chuckled. “That’s because I was in the camper taking a piss.” She pulled off a glove and held out her hand. “I’m Katie,” she said. “Don’t worry… I washed my hands, more or less.”

I shook hands with her. “I’m Robert Jeanbaptiste,” I said with a smile. “Please don’t ever call me Bob.”

She laughed. “Don’t worry, Baptiste… I know who you are. There’s a photo of you on my father’s dartboard, right next to the Biebers.”

I glanced over to Livingston.

“Dave’s daughter,” he said.

“And to think I was starting to like her.”

She gave me a friendly shove.

“So where’s the rest of your team?” I asked her, glad to have someone other than Livingstone to ask.

“They’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“They’ve already started, haven’t they.”

She seemed to hesitate. “No…”

“We forgot to bring up some stuff for the camper,” Livingston said. “So we sent a truck back to grab it.”

I knew him well enough that I assumed he was lying. Fisher Livingston had once made a living doing just that. And for a while back then I’d put up with it, always pretending that I’d never noticed.

And as much as I didn’t want to, I decided to start pretending again, at least for the time being. I wanted to wait and see exactly how Livingston and the Walkers were screwing us.

The rest of the Walkers’ complement arrived within the half-hour, pulling up in their little electric van. We helped them unload some boxes of food and equipment for the camper.

I guess Livingston had been telling the truth; they came up the same way we’d come. Even a stopped clock is right twice a day, and Livingston’s still an asshole.

With the van emptied, one of the new arrivals, who looked like a younger Dave Walker, hopped in the grain truck with Livingston without giving us more than a glance, while the other, a tall native man with a long ponytail, joined up with us at the roadblock.

As the two scavenging trucks drove away, I offered the man my hand.

“Good to meet you, Baptiste,” he said.

“I think we’ve met before,” I said, trying to place him. My first thought was that I’d seen him around New Post. “So you live with the Walkers?”

“I work for the Walkers.”

“Like Livingston.”

He chuckled. “Yeah,” he said, “like Livingston.”

“So which one of you is dressing up in our extra gear?” Justin asked.

“I’m still planning on cowering in the trees if anyone comes,” Katie said. “So I guess that leaves Sky.”

“Sky?”

“That’s me,” the native man said. “I like to think it’s a badass name.”