Defiance: A House Divided (The Defending Home Series Book 2) (8 page)

“Two men?”

Natalie appeared worried, as though she’d said something wrong.

“Had you seen them before?” he asked, wondering who they were.

“Never,” she replied. “But the lighting in here isn’t exactly top-notch. Speaking of that, I’ve submitted several requests to refuel the generator out back and haven’t heard a thing.”

“You’re sure about the two men?” Randy asked again, ignoring everything else Natalie had said.

“Positive.”

The problem, as far as Randy saw it, was that Betty didn’t have any family left. So who would have come for her? Randy wasn’t liking this one bit. “Where’s Betty’s office?”

Natalie sighed. “I’m really rather busy.”

“This is important,” he said, maybe a little too forcefully. Some of the other nurses around him stopped what they were doing and stared. “Go back to work, will you?” Reluctantly, they returned to their patients. “I need access to Dr. Peterson’s office as well.”

He could tell Natalie was thinking about how many laws Randy was in the process of breaking, a relic of the old days where the rule of law still meant something. But this new world had rules too. Eat or be eaten. And Randy had no interest in being someone else’s lunch.

He spent the next several minutes searching both offices and coming up empty. If Dr. Peterson’s medical reports on the men and women Randy had taken care of weren’t here, it meant Betty must have taken them with her. He remembered finding Sandy and Betty speaking over the shortwave. Could his former deputy have something to do with this? Maybe, maybe not. But one thing was certain: the old nurse had the goods on Randy and he’d failed to come down hard when he had the chance. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. He needed to find the identity of those two men and, more importantly, where they had taken her.

Sandy

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S
andy started the pickup and was about to leave the property when Dale stopped her.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

She threw him a sharp look which made it clear she wasn’t required to answer that question.

“I’m not being like that,” he said defensively. “You know after what happened, the cartel will be looking for any chance to get even.”

Sandy lifted the pistol off the seat next to her. “I’ve got backup. But if you must know, we need fertilizer. Back when I was running patrols, I remember finding the Keller farm abandoned. I figured they might have what we need.”

“That’s ten to fifteen miles away,” Dale objected.

“Fifteen miles north of Encendido, which means it’ll be safer. Listen, Dale, I got along just fine before I came to live here. You seem to forget I was once a sheriff’s deputy.”

A faint smile formed on his lips.

Brooke came through the garage toward them. “Hey, where you going?”

Sandy laughed. “Not you too.”

“Lemme come.”

“It’s fine with me,” Sandy said, looking at Dale, who didn’t look happy.

“Dad, I’ve been cooped up for weeks,” his daughter protested. She tapped the holster on her hip and the pistol inside it. “We’ll be fine.”

“Take this with you,” Dale said, disappearing into the house and returning with Walter’s AR-15 and a walkie-talkie.

Brooke rolled her eyes.

Sandy was just as exasperated. Some things never changed. Six months ago, Dale was after his daughter about wearing her seatbelt. Now he was making sure they had adequate firepower.

“Be back in an hour,” Sandy assured him.

“If you see Zach while you’re out there, tell him to get his butt back here.”

Brooke shook her head. “I don’t think that would go over very well with Uncle Zach.”

Dale seemed to consider that before tapping the hood and wishing them a safe trip.

During the drive, the two women spoke. Brooke wanted to know about Sandy’s time as a deputy and whether she missed it. The question wasn’t easy to answer. Of course Sandy missed doing what she could to help maintain order in the community, but after the death of Sheriff Wilcox, all that had changed. Little by little, the role of the deputies had become helping to further Randy and Hugh’s personal agendas. The loyalty she felt to the force and the folks she’d worked with was strong, but in the face of blatant corruption, even that had its limits.

The conversation soon turned to happier times, fond memories Brooke had about her mother. Julie had been a joker, something few people knew about the woman. Practical jokes were her specialty and she’d pulled them when Dale and Brooke least expected it. One time, in the tenth grade, Julie had packed her daughter a ‘special’ sandwich for lunch. Brooke seemed to be reliving the moment in disgust as she described biting into what she soon realized was a cow tongue sandwich. Not a word of a lie. A cow’s tongue, between two pieces of bread. A friend sitting next to her had nearly fainted. The others screamed.

But eventually Brooke had gotten even. She wasn’t nearly as creative as her mother, and therefore decided that the old saran wrap over the toilet bowl was as good a gag as any. It was only after she’d heard her father cursing from the bathroom upstairs that she realized how her joke had backfired.

Sandy and Brooke both broke into a chorus of laughter which continued in fits and starts for several minutes. Afterward, the muscles in Sandy’s stomach ached from the memory.

They were having a fine time together. But what amazed Sandy most was that Brooke hadn’t said a word about Sandy’s past relationship with Dale, nor that those old feelings had started to rekindle. Perhaps it was because Brooke didn’t need to ask. Maybe she could already tell. Maybe she recognized the past was the past and the future was the only thing worth worrying about.

Soon after, they reached the Keller farm and turned into the lane. Not long after the outbreak, Deputy Sandy had swung by to check up on the family, only to find that all four of them were dead—Frank Keller, his wife Diane and their young sons Derek and Paul. She’d donned a mask before going into the house that day, the floorboards creaking under her as she made the horrible discovery.

She’d found the parents lying next to each other in their bedroom. Fifteen-year-old Derek was in the bathroom, slumped over the toilet. His younger brother, Paul, ten, maybe eleven, was downstairs on the couch, his legs curled under him. You didn’t need to be a CSI to know the youngest had been the last to die. The scene at the Keller house had stayed with her and probably would forever. But similar scenes had played out across the entire country, maybe even the entire world.

Rather than leaving the truck out front where others might see it, Sandy parked it behind the barn. They stepped out, the hot Arizona sun baking the skin on their arms and the tops of their heads, before reaching the relative cool of the barn. In one corner were bags of fertilizer.

“Let’s start by loading these into the truck,” Sandy said.

Once they had finished, the two women searched for anything else of use.

Brooke gasped.

On instinct, Sandy drew her pistol. “What is it?” she asked, scanning the area without finding any threats.

“I saw someone in the house,” Brooke said, her face ashen white, in spite of the searing heat.

Skeletal fingers clambered up Sandy’s spine. “Everyone in that house is dead,” she told Brooke. Inside, she saw one of the curtains move. As a sheriff’s deputy such a sight would have been reason to go investigate. Now, it was reason to get going.

They hurried back to the truck and were climbing inside when a male voice called out to them. He sounded friendly.

“Come on,” Sandy said, sticking the keys in the ignition.

The voice called out again, this time asking for Brooke by name. Both of them froze, fearful and perplexed. Sandy started the truck. If this person behind the voice turned out to be a threat, at least they could make a break for it.

When Sandy backed up and straightened out, two males in their twenties came into view. Both were wearing desert camo pants and beige shirts. They removed the bandanas which hid their identities. Sandy and Brooke sat idling in the car, wondering where this was going. They had called Brooke by name and Sandy caught the faint air of recognition on the girl’s face.

They raised their hands to show they weren’t armed, although Sandy could see they were carrying pistols in leg holsters and rifles slung across their backs.

“Looks like they wanna talk,” Sandy said, still wary.

Brooke’s window was already down and she called out to them. “First put your weapons on the ground.”

They looked at each other before complying.

“Don’t you remember me?” the young man on the right asked. He had dirty blond hair and a tall, lean build. He looked like someone more at home on a surfboard than in the Arizona desert.

“Caleb?” Brooke said, uncertain. “He was a friend from high school who moved to Utah right before the eleventh grade,” she told Sandy. Her gaze returned to her old acquaintance. “You still have your dimples.”

He and his friend began to head over when Sandy ordered them to stay where they were.

“We’re not the bad guys,” Caleb assured them.

“I hope you’ll understand if we decide for ourselves,” Sandy replied.

Caleb nodded and introduced his friend. “This is Parker, but everyone calls him Parks.”

“What were you doing inside that house?” Brooke asked, getting out of the truck before Sandy could stop her. Sandy then did the same, her hand ready to grab her pistol in case things turned ugly.

Caleb held a hand up to block the sun. “Same thing you were doing in that barn, I suppose. Looking for supplies or anything else of value.”

“I didn’t know you were in town.”

“We moved back about a year ago,” he explained. “Decided to stay with my parents while I saved up for school. Guess it was the right decision. I hear things are really bad in Tucson right now.”

“You staying at your parents’ place?”

Caleb shook his head. “They passed when the virus showed up. Might have been some of the first to go. Made me wonder why not me. Why I was spared.”

“We could use an extra pair of hands around our place,” Brooke said. “Maybe two if Parks is interested.”

“At Fortress Hardy?” Caleb said, grinning. “Don’t look so surprised. We know all about what you and your father have done. More than a few people in town think your dad’s a hero. Maybe because to others, he’s a villain.”

“Fortress Hardy,” Sandy said, amused. “Guess it makes sense. But who’s the ‘we’ you were talking about? Are you part of a larger group?”

“We are,” Caleb told her. “There are close to thirty of us, with new members joining every day or so.”

Brooke’s face squished up. “New members?”

Caleb straightened his shoulders. “We’re part of a resistance movement, Brooke,” he said. “Our leader, Nobel, decided to rise up when Sheriff Gaines’ men started stealing people’s properties. Now with the cartel in charge of Encendido, I expect our numbers will start to grow. Our symbol is the letter V surrounded by a circle. It represents victory through unity.”

Sandy recalled the spray-painted image on Dale’s pumphouse. “We’ve seen some of your artwork,” she said. “You two might have been shot for sneaking onto our land.”

Caleb shook his head. “That wasn’t us.”

“Maybe not, but no one back at what you’re calling Fortress Hardy appreciated you trying to lay claim to our water supply.”

“That wasn’t why they left it,” Parks said, his voice that of a boy in his late teens. “It was meant to tell you one of our agents was reaching out. Consider it a calling card.”

“Something tells me we aren’t meeting by chance,” Sandy said. “Is that what this was meant to be? The follow-up?”

Caleb nodded. “Let’s just say we share the same goals.”

“Don’t be so sure about that,” Sandy said curtly. “We just want to be left alone.” She saw that Brooke was ready to object, but a subtle squeeze to the arm was enough to silence her. Caleb noticed the move.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Caleb said.

Sandy’s left hand was on her hip. “Oh, do you?”

“You’re thinking that sooner or later, we’ll be no better than the cartel.”

“That’s how things tend to play out. At the beginning you stand for something honorable, but inch by inch circumstances force you to ignore your idealistic roots in order to deal with the real world. It’s a slippery slope and you wouldn’t be the first to take a slide.”

Caleb’s blue-eyed gaze settled on Brooke. “If you folks only want to be left alone, we’ll respect that.”

“I hope so,” Sandy said, getting back into the truck. She leaned her head out the window. “Brooke, let’s go.”

A few seconds later, they drove past the two young men, Brooke watching from the window as they pulled away. The rest of the drive home was quiet. Sandy was intrigued to learn that a resistance movement had taken root in Encendido, although not entirely surprised. Caleb and Parks had mentioned they were led by someone who called himself Nobel—a name perhaps borrowed from Alfred Nobel, the inventor of dynamite and founder of the famed peace prize. Whatever its source, something told Sandy she’d be hearing the name more and more in the coming days.

Nobel

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V
ickie Meeks, who went by the code name Nobel, stared up at Encendido Community College (ECC)—a handsome late-nineteenth-century building with a red tile roof and a white cupola. She was admiring the place that close to thirty men, women and children under her care now called home. And home it would stay until the movement she had started succeeded in removing Encendido from the grasp of wicked men and returning it to its rightful custodian. The people.

If someone had told her two months ago she’d be living in the basement of the local college, bunking with over two dozen strangers and running a resistance movement, she would have assumed the person was barking mad. Not so long ago she had taught American history in some of these very classrooms. Those long hours spent preparing lessons and grading papers were little more than a memory now. Set against a world where every scrap of food, every sip of water was a small miracle, the memories felt distant and trivial. And yet she also knew that she needed to pass along the stories she herself had been taught. About the founding of the country and the two great wars which had forged over centuries with blood and strife what had been undone in mere weeks by a microscopic germ. She knew it was easy for folks seeking safety for their loved ones to let lofty ideals like freedom and the liberties afforded to them by the constitution fall by the wayside. Who cared about a piece of yellowing paper when your stomach ached for something to eat? And that was part of the challenge she faced. Overcoming it would start with regaining control of the town and reinstating honestly elected leadership. When bellies were full and the people’s desperate thirst had been quenched, Vickie could begin the work of helping them remember what so many had died to protect.