Defiance (The Defending Home Series Book 1) (16 page)

The verse from the Gospel of John was his wife’s favorite and brought tears to her eyes whenever she heard it spoken aloud. Dale knew when his day finally came, he probably wouldn’t have the luxury of a tombstone. But if he did, he would want it to read:
So whoever knows the right thing to do and fails to do it, for him it is sin
.

That one belonged to James, not him, but if words could sum up how a man felt about life, then for Dale this was it. He always strove to do the right thing, first for his family and whenever possible for everyone else. 

“Hard to believe she’s down there,” Brooke said, “under all that dirt.”

“Not the part that matters most,” he told his daughter, plucking blades of dead grass and letting the wind take them. “You know I don’t like it when you say that sorta stuff.”

She didn’t look at him. “Sometimes I can’t help it, my mind just goes there. There are days when I imagine that she isn’t dead, just sleeping, and all we need to do is dig her up and she’ll be alive again.”

Dale said nothing, basking for a moment in memories of the life they’d once shared. How he and Julie had met in high school. How he’d struggled to land a date with her, only to be shot down time and time again. It wasn’t until years later when they were both home from university, he as a dropout and her nearing the end of her bachelor’s in sociology, that he’d spotted her crossing the street. She was wearing dress pants and a white blouse. She was breathtaking and the knot that formed in his belly had made it clear he was hopelessly in love.

He had stopped her before going in and reintroduced himself. Of course she remembered him, she had said. How could she forget? Words that sounded great to his naïve ears until he digested and dissected them later. She was about to apply for a job at the Bank of America, a job she would keep for the next twenty years. He asked if she’d be interested in grabbing a bite. She said sure, if he was willing to wait the thirty minutes it would take for her interview. Like a doofus, he waited and brought her to Sal’s Pizzeria down the street when she was done. The rest of the date was a blur, but he was in awe and would remain so for the next two decades.

After her passing Dale had started a journal where he wrote Julie letters, telling her about his life and wondering how she was doing. For months after, he swore he could hear her voice greeting him whenever he came home. He hated it when concerned friends and family told him that time healed. They didn’t know what they were talking about. Time didn’t heal a thing, it was only an amnesiac that helped you forget.

“How come you never dated after Mom’s passing?” Brooke asked, burrowing into his most guarded memories. He glanced over at her, stunned by her question. She recoiled, her hands filling the space between them, afraid she’d touched on something too personal. “I know you were seeing that woman Sandy for a while. Why did it end?”

Dale had never spoken with his daughter about his love life and the feeling of starting now left him feeling strange and somehow way too far behind the curve.

“Those lies Randy was spreading around town, that Sandy and I had been having an affair and that I had something to do with your mother’s death—I was worried what it might do to you.”

“Really?” Brooke said. “I was angry back then, but I was a dumb kid, trying to deal with what happened as best I could. I never cared about those stupid rumors, I knew they were lies.”

“You did?”

“Of course,” she said, as though the word ‘Duh’ was soon to follow. 

“Listen, Brooke, I cared deeply for your mother, you know that. And when I found myself developing similar feelings for Sandy I couldn’t help feeling a surge of confusion and guilt, like I was somehow being unfaithful. Then those rumors showed up and I was suddenly reeling all over again, but this time because I worried how you might react to having a new woman around. It just seemed like so much all at once.”

Brooke grew quiet for a moment, running her hand down Duke’s furry back before she said, “You remember that time you started choking on the cheese from that pizza we ordered and Mom came up behind you and gave you the Heimlich?”

Dale let out a deep laugh drawn from the very bottom of his abdomen. “How could I forget?” Happy tears were streaming down his cheeks. Duke ran over and started licking his face. He nudged the dog away, his demeanor turning serious. “Your mother saved my life,” he said. “In more ways than one.”

•••

T
he three of them arrived home shortly after that and discovered a handful of traders in the driveway. After Billy had come by, people had started showing up on their own with something to trade. Dale’s only suggestion was that they come between four and five. Since then they’d seen ever-growing lines of neighbors and townspeople looking to hawk anything useful for a few gallons of drinkable water. Having them arrive later in the day meant that any power drained from his battery bank while refilling the cistern would be replenished during the few hours of remaining sunlight.

Ann and Walter were busy filling buckets and making trades. A few trades were even occurring among those waiting to be served. It was a strange new economy he had stumbled onto, one no longer based on the strength of the US dollar nor the gold supposedly used to back it.

“I expected to see more,” Dale said with a tinge of disappointment. He was referring to the handful of people in front of him.

“More came by earlier, but mostly to complain.”

“Complain? What about?”

“Somehow they’ve gotten it into their heads that you’re holding this water hostage so you can control the town.”

Dale let out a sharp, threatening laugh. “I couldn’t give a rat’s behind about controlling Encendido. I’m just trying to make sure there’s enough for me and my family.”

“You don’t need to convince us,” Walter said. “We know exactly what your motivation is. But you know how these things go. One guy starts talking to another and before long some vague idea’s turned into an unshakable new reality.”

A scruffy-looking man in his early sixties nearby pushing a shopping cart filled with bags of topsoil spoke up. “Folks feel like they’re being used in some sort of power play between you and the sheriff’s department.”

Dale turned to the man. “I never asked anyone to come here and trade water for goods,” he told them. “People started showing up on their own. All I did was suggest they come by when it was most convenient for us. The truth is, I don’t really need to do this, especially if it starts doing more harm than good.”

“Don’t let it bother you,” Ann told him. “People are just hurting and feeling powerless to do anything about it.”

Dale looked around and saw that Brooke had already walked away to feed the chickens and check on the goats.

Colton and Nicole were still boarding up the windows on the first floor, which left Shane as the only one unaccounted for.

“Where’s my brother?” Dale asked.

“Not sure,” said Walter. “Went off to get some supplies, I believe.”

“I hope he was smart enough to take his gun,” Dale said.

“With the way things had been shaping up lately I can’t imagine that he wouldn’t.”

Just then they heard Brooke let out an ear-piercing shriek and come running toward them. Dale drew his pistol, scanning the brush behind her for a possible assailant. Duke was also on high alert, barking, his ears pitched forward.

“What is it, boy? Who’s there?” It was still daylight, but that didn’t mean someone couldn’t be stalking in the open terrain along the edge of their property.

Duke tore off past Brooke and into the brush.

When she arrived Dale grabbed her, asking her who she’d seen.

“It’s not that,” she told him, out of breath. “It’s the goats and most of the chickens. They’ve been poisoned.”

Zach

––––––––

Z
ach and his two companions were fifty miles east of Tucson heading south when they came to TJ’s Full-Throttle Roadhouse. Parked out front was a row of fifteen choppers.

From inside, it sounded like a raucous party was in progress.

That’s definitely one way to ring in the end of the world,
Zach thought to himself as he made a signal with his right arm and pulled off the road. In the end, their score from the Wells Fargo had netted a little over three hundred bucks. Not a great score, but surely enough to buy a few drinks before heading back on the interstate.

After they pulled to a stop and dismounted, Dannyboy immediately came for his shotgun in the cargo trailer.

Zach stopped him at once. “You’re not heading in there with that. Stick a pistol down the back of your pants. We’re aiming for discretion.”

Upon entering, the three men were hit at once by the smell of stale beer and dirty ashtrays. The bar was much larger than it had looked from the outside. Against the left wall was a long wooden bar. In the distance, a scantily clad woman on a stage was doing a bad job of karaoke, minus the music and the lighting. Providing the latter were a series of chandeliers hastily erected overhead. The rest of the floor space was taken up by tables presently occupied by burly men in black leather. Women were a far scarcer commodity.

Heads turned as they walked in. Dannyboy and Hawkeye were on the verge of dropping a load in their shorts.

“Take a deep breath, boys,” Zach said. “These are my kind of people. Just be cool and let me do the talking.”

They moseyed to the bar, dozens of eyes tracing their progress. The bartender wiped the patch of lacquered mahogany before them and set the wet cloth aside.

“We ain’t got no beer,” he said. “Only hard alcohol.” His smooth and round belly pressed against the edges of his Harley Davidson t-shirt. Poke him with a pin and he was liable to explode.

“We’ll take three shots of Jack,” Zach told him.

The bartender grabbed a bottle from the back wall, poured three drinks, but held them a few inches off the bar. “That’ll be three hundred.”

Zach had anticipated some kind of inflation, but those three drinks represented everything they’d come away with from the bank heist. He pulled out a small wad of cash and laid it on the table. The bartender scooped it up with his free hand and fingered through the bills. When he was satisfied, he set the drinks down.

Hawkeye glanced around nervously. “Looks like no one here is worried about catching the flu.”

He meant on account that none of the bikers were wearing a mask, but neither were they.

“I got hit already,” Zach said, “and managed to come out the other side just fine. You two did the same, which means we ain’t got nothing to worry about.” He held up his shot glass and the others did the same. “Cheers to freedom.” They drank, turned their glasses upside down and banged them on the bar.

“Where’s TJ?” Zach asked the bartender.

The fat man turned and regarded him strangely.

“This place is called TJ’s, isn’t it?” Zach asked. “So where is he?”

“Dead,” the man said with even less charm than he’d shown when serving their drinks. “Pig flu got him. I took over after he left.”

The woman on the stage was still singing and the sound of it was starting to really get on Zach’s nerves. “I guess things worked out all right for you then.”

The bartender scowled.

A man two seats down said, “Hey, Frank, this guy giving you trouble?”

Frank suddenly seemed worried. “No, Johnny. I’m sure he didn’t mean nothing by it. I don’t want no more fights in here. Last time the place nearly caught fire and burned to the ground.”

Johnny lit the tip of his cigarette and exhaled. “Maybe you three better find another watering hole. Doesn’t seem anyone here likes you.”

“We go wherever we like,” Zach said, without looking in Johnny’s direction. “Keep talking out of turn and you might get hurt.”

Johnny rose up and the girl stopped singing right away. In fact, the entire bar seemed to stop on a dime, drawn by Johnny’s clear signs of displeasure.

Frank, the bartender, looked more worried than Hawkeye, if that was even possible. “What you say I give you another drink, Johnny, and we forget the whole thing?”

A few of the other bikers rose from their seats.

“Maybe after I whoop this punk,” Johnny said.

Zach glanced around. “Looks like you got a lotta guys on your side. Won’t exactly be a fair fight.”

“If I give ’em the order, they won’t interfere.”

“What are you suggesting?”

Johnny grinned, revealing gaps where there should have been teeth. “I’m suggesting I teach you some manners.”

Zach stood up, removed the leather jacket he was wearing, along with the pistol from the waistband of his jeans, and handed them both to Dannyboy. He was lean, but powerfully muscled.

“I’m not much of a fighter,” Zach said, balling his hands into fists.

“Then I’ll kill you without breaking a sweat.”

Two bikers moved to block the exit.

“Oh, and if your two sissy friends try anything stupid, we’ll make sure they die real slow.”

Other bikers pushed tables and chairs out of the way to clear room for the fight.

Back in prison, Zach hadn’t had the strongest swing, although he could take a hell of a beating. Johnny slammed a fist into the palm of his hand. His arms were large and rippling with muscle. Clearly he was strong. But big muscles required a lot of oxygen, which meant he didn’t have a lot of stamina.

The two men had no sooner moved into the center of the bar than Johnny came out swinging. The first shot glanced off Zach’s cheek, but he stepped back quick enough to keep from absorbing most of the crushing impact. Cutting left, Zach feigned one to the face and landed two in Johnny’s sizeable gut. Johnny might not have been as bloated as the bartender, but he wasn’t far off. Johnny grunted and kept on coming, Zach using his superior agility to dodge and weave. He moved around the open space, daring Johnny to catch him. At one point, Zach came too close to a group of bikers, who grabbed and held him in place. Johnny pounced, swinging madly. The blows felt like strikes from a sledgehammer. Zach elbowed the bikers behind him, broke free and gave Johnny a straight jab to the nose before ducking out.