Apache Dawn - - (classic fiction .TXT) 📗

After a supreme effort, he hauled himself up to the driver’s door and climbed in, tossing the bow and arrows onto the seat next to him before starting the truck. He could see, in his side mirrors, that the roof of the house was in flames now and soon the entire structure would be engulfed.

Using the fire as a screen, he started the truck and pulled straight away from the house in a cloud of pebbles and dust. He wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his arm and tried to aim toward the rear gate of his yard.

Denny skidded to a stop and was about to get out to unlatch the gate when a hole appeared in his windshield. He heard a loud crash and his passenger door window exploded in a puff of broken glass. The thought that someone was shooting at him wafted through his mind and urged him forward without restraint.

Denny shifted into 4-wheel drive and floored it. The truck dug deep and crashed through the gate. He careened over a small ditch and disappeared into the brush land dotted by stunted pines and a few cedars. About halfway to the summit of Morning Glory Peak, he pulled off the access road and parked.

Moving quickly, he slid out of the truck and found his hunting backpack among the gear in the bed. Pulling out his binoculars, a compact 8x12 set, he crept to the top of the hill and peeked through a small juniper bush at the maelstrom that an hour ago had been his house.

The pines next to his house were aflame, like giant candles. The deserted house next to Denny’s was now also aflame and broiling smoke. He could see that the roof on the Andertons’ house was on fire as well.

There in the street, he spotted a collection of trucks and cars, all pointed toward the burning houses. There were figures moving back and forth, some looking like they were carrying drinks—others clearly had guns. They were taking pot shots at the houses. The pops and cracks of their weapons echoed over the sound of the house fires.

He suddenly remembered his radio. Fishing it off his belt with shaking hands, he pulled it to his lips and said, “John, John, can you hear me?”

There was a moment of silence, then the radio broke squelch. “Yes,” the old man panted. “We’re here. We’re in the bunker, but that was a close thing, Denny.”

“Are you injured?”

“Ruth busted her ankle getting down the stairs…but she’s proud to say she saved the chili and brought it down, too.”

Denny laughed. “Good, I’m glad.”

“And you?”

“My house…it’s totally on fire now. I got some of my gear and escaped just…John, there’s people out there shooting at our houses. They shot my truck.”

“We thought we heard gunfire, but didn’t stick ‘round to find out. I have us sealed up tight now. I’m sorry, Denny.”

“John,” Denny said, panning his binoculars over his neighbor’s house. “Your house is on fire. The roof.”

John laughed. “Oh, don’t worry about that, it’s insured. We got a mess of filtered air intakes, remember? I’ve already closed off the house line and opened a few of the others. We’re getting nothing but clean fresh air down here.”

Denny put his face down in the dirt and coughed, happy. He looked up again, clearing his throat. “John,” he said. “I see at least six cars and trucks in the street. There must be twenty people down there. It looks like a party.”

“I suppose to them it is.” There was a pause, then he spoke again. “Denny, listen to me. Get away. Don’t wait till tomorrow. We’ll be fine. Really.”

Denny slid down the hill a ways and rolled over onto his back to cough some more. His lungs burned from smoke inhalation; his eyes were watery. His house, all his memories, everything he and Emily had built together, it was all dying right in front of him. And there was nothing he could do.

When he cleared his eyes and looked toward The Ridge, looming ahead of him in the gathering darkness, a gentle calmness washed over him like a warm shower. The summit of the ancient massif was still in twilight, the sun glinting off the remaining snow from the last storm. Farther down the slope, Morning Glory Peak and the town down in the wide Salmon River Valley were both bathed in the inky cloak of early night. He could see the pinpricks of light that proclaimed the death song of his house.

Denny raised the radio to his mouth. “Stay safe John. I’ll let you know when I make it to The Ridge.”

“Will do. Take care of yourself, m’wewa.”

Denny smiled. He clipped the radio to his belt and climbed back into the truck. He sat there a moment, the truck idling. The thugs back there had set fire to his house and tried to kill him. They had failed.

But they had killed all the last pieces of Emily. The Blue Flu had taken her body, but her pictures, her clothes, the perfumes she wore…all of that was still there in the house. Gone now, forever. He had only the memories of his wife in his heart.

When the tears came, he made no effort to stop them and let the wracking sobs flow through him. Bend like the tall grass in the wind, but never break, he could hear Grandfather say. The grief, anger, and pain he felt caused him to grip the steering wheel tight and close his eyes. It was like losing Emily all over again.

Soon enough, he was drying his eyes. The people back there—he was sure the Townsend family was behind this—thought they were the hunters, driving their prey to ground. They had destroyed his home, chased him off into the night, and shot up his truck.

Denny stared at the image of his burning house in his mind’s eye. They were wrong. He was going up into the mountains to lick his wounds, to rest, to gather his spirit about him like a suit of armor. Then he was going to come back.

And then he would be the hunter.