Sam’s dad.
Will was fast onto the ladder. At the bottom in seconds. The hunter lunged at Sam’s dad with the bowie knife, but he got a pickax through his own shoulder instead. The hunter screamed and fell to the ground beside Sam’s father.
Will approached the hunter. The man was squirming in the dirt and trying to reach back to the pickax. He looked over to Sam’s dad, who was studying him with a skeptical face. A stream of profanity kept oozing out of the hunter’s mouth.
“Shut up,” Sam’s father told the man.
Sam’s dad winced in pain as he tried to stand, but his twisted ankle wouldn’t do him any favors.
Seeing the man this close, with no helmet, Will became acutely aware of what an awful thing he’d done. He’d forced this man and his wife to watch their son’s beheading. He must think I’m a monster.
“I didn’t kill your son,” Will blurted out.
The hatred in the man’s eyes frightened Will.
“I found him like that. I swear. I know I shouldn’t have pretended he was alive. I know that was messed up. But I just had to get out. I’m—sorry. I so —”
“It was the hog,” Sam’s dad said.
“What?”
“You don’t remember asking for a wild hog for a party?”
Of course Will did. He remembered the moment Gates had come up with the idea. He’d been so excited he’d thrown a champagne bottle against the wall in celebration.
“A kid that graduated yesterday … he told me he saw the hog attack Sam and rip his thr—” The man clamped his jaw shut, choking on emotion. He swallowed hard and continued. “I know it wasn’t you, but I still don’t like you or what you did. If you’re going to stay on this farm, you’re going to have to prove you’re someone worth trusting.”
Sam’s dad stood with a pained grunt and limped off.
Will shouted after him, “I will.”
“Hey,” David said. “Breakfast.”
Will opened his eyes and sat up on his cot. The smell of freshly tilled soil and manure, and trees and flowers, soothed the inside of his nostrils like the steam of a hot bath. The low whirr of summer crickets filled his ears. The day already felt warm, and sunlight had stretched its way to where he’d planted his toes in the grass below. He smiled and looked around. All the other cots under the tarp, in these emergency sleeping quarters, were empty.
“I guess I slept in.”
“We start early around here,” David said. “I just came from a security committee meeting about stepping up our security measures. Last night was a real wake-up call. Sam’s dad already has plans for how to strengthen our whole operation.”
He placed a wooden bowl in Will’s lap and handed him his daily meds with water in a tin camping cup.
“Thanks,” Will said. He swallowed his meds and set the cup aside.
“Normally I like to start the day with fresh scrambled eggs, but all the chickens are dead. We’ll find new ones though. Just one more thing on the list.”
“Morning, David,” a woman said as she walked by with a pitchfork. Her hands were calloused and respectably filthy.
“Morning, Carol.” When she was gone, David smiled at Will. “That’s Bobby Corning’s mom.”
Will twisted his face. “For real? Does she know her son calls himself Jackal?”
David grinned. “She’s the nicest lady. She makes those corn meal pancakes from scratch. Best thing you’ve ever had.”
Will looked down at the bowl in his lap. Three little yellow pancakes sat snuggled up with each other, glistening with a thin caramel glaze of syrup. His stomach tugged at him. He dug into the pancakes with a fork and began shoveling. Creamy sweetness coated his tongue.
“Oh my God,” Will said.
David arched his eyebrow. “Homemade butter.”
“This is the best thing I’ve ever had in my entire life. Ever in my whole, entire life. How could someone make something as great as this and as awful as Bobby?”
David laughed. Will kept chomping through his breakfast. It was only as he reached the last few bites that he began to soak in what was happening beyond the shadow of the tent. Parents were working diligently everywhere he looked. There weren’t many of them, maybe a couple more than he’d seen the night before, but it seemed like they’d already done the work of a hundred people. As Will’s eyes traveled across the golden expanse of the farm, he could already see the evidence of the previous night’s siege disappearing. Parts of the building had been damaged by grenade blasts. One of the massive steel plates that kept the school sealed up had been detached completely, but a group of fathers was already standing in front of it, trying to figure out how to reattach it. Plants had already been replanted where grenades had made craters. The small herd of cattle and goats, each in their own little pen, seemed content, leisurely chewing grass. The massive vegetable garden, where the parking lot had been torn up, looked unbothered.
“These people are machines,” Will said, licking his fork. He put the bowl aside.
“They care,” David said.
Will looked at his brother. He knew that serious face. It used to piss him off. He had always thought it was self-important and stupid, but that viewpoint seemed immature now. David was right. These parents wouldn’t have been here, risking getting killed like they had last night, busting their asses like they were now, if they didn’t care. He could see what he could never understand inside—they were regular people doing the best they possibly could under the shittiest circumstances. They’d occupied McKinley for half a year, but what they’d produced was impressive.
Near the parking lot garden, a team of moms was sorting through crates of fresh produce and cardboard boxes of supplies, making organized piles of cans in the grass. They distributed everything into battered plastic tubs that were on the crane pallet. They were prepping for a food drop. Two of the moms stepped away from their work to take a break. They shared a heartfelt hug.
“How often does this place get attacked?” Will said.
“That was the first time since I’ve been here. Pale Ridge hasn’t seen too many homesteaders yet. From the wall, we’ve spotted the occasional RV or truck passing through town. Those guys last night are the first to stick around in a long time.”