He would need to meet with them before day’s end. David and Jason would set the ground rules and interview for positions, including deputies, farmers, construction, food service, latrine duty, water and other sanitation, medical, mechanic, mediators, and teachers.
James didn’t know how long this situation would last and wasn’t about to guess. Still, it would turn out he would have a fair share of downtime as the new community mingled in with the townsfolk—slowly at first and almost like they had been here forever before the change, starting slowly like a hidden cancer and then as fast as a gunshot.
With James’ and Jason’s help, David looked for a suitable place closer to town for his family, including Tina, Veronica, Suzie, Mark and Beatrice.
The commute, it was decided, was more than anyone wanted, and with Beatrice assuming the role of Head Chef at the FEMA camp, it was a quick decision. Tina would volunteer to oversee the one-room schoolhouse and David would soon ask the Government for the funds to expand it fivefold.
Mel and Tammie would stay on Raton Pass and lead the small group of now Westoners through the winter.
Not every Westoner would survive the first winter, but those who did, including both David and Mel, started to forget what it was like to fight for what they had. As harsh as the first winter was, with sickness and discontent, it would become known even years down the road as the “soft winter.”
* * * * * * *
Chapter Thirty-one
Northern Colorado Chapter
of the US Coalition
Leaving the MacDonalds’ place, I felt good. I knew we were about to crest the hill where, ironically, Drake or his brother killed Mac’s best friend Jimmy not long ago, and Drake’s brother was killed in return. Now I had the safety of my entire family, not only in my hands but both of theirs. I had heard where it happened and knew these woods like the back of my hand, and even Jax knew something was off when we paused just over the crest of the hill.
“What’s going on?” he asked in his still innocent-sounding voice, only I knew better. I knew what he had seen—all of it—from the teenage girl named Samantha being stabbed in the stomach right in front of our suburban McKinney home, to the fire that scarred our children. He saw Mike stalk the man who hurt him with the snake and survived a kidnapping with his twin brother. He saw his dog Ringo ravaged by bloodthirsty animals and those left for dead by Baker and his men, strewn down the highway like mile markers. Jax and other children overheard stories the adults talked about in whispers, stories no child should hear. His sweet-sounding voice somehow kept a shred of innocence in a new and harsh world.
The plain white cross pounded into the mountain earth said it all as Mac dismounted, paying his respects to an old friend. I assumed Drake had one for his brother somewhere down in the trees, but I couldn’t see it.
“Almost halfway there,” Mac announced, getting back on his four-wheeler.
The old dirt fire road, with deep ruts that had been carved deeper every year, wound around—just as I had remembered it. My body shook right before we hit the cold spot, like I had a hundred times before. Crossing a small canyon, the temperature dropped “at least a thousand degrees,” we used to say as kids. It was probably only twenty, but all of us noticed.
“It’s cold, Daddy,” said Hudson, sitting in front of me on my four-wheeler.
“Just for a minute, son,” I replied, as we started over the other side and hit the warm air again.
“Is that place haunted?!” he yelled out.
“I don’t know,” I replied, “but I always got through that part as fast as I could in all my years coming up here.”
The last hill had the most extensive deep ruts and used to be a bear on two wheels, but on four wasn’t so bad.
“There it is!” called out Hudson, taking his hands off the steering wheel to point, just as I turned left to avoid a monster hole.
“No!” I yelled, watching him slip off the right side of the bike so fast. Catching the bit of shirt I could grab was a miracle indeed, with only a split second to decide my next move—and I would have done it a thousand times over the same way.
I held tight as he swung right and the machine left. The loud pop in my right shoulder would have been sickening if it were not for the pain.
Letting go of the handlebars with my left hand, we were both off the back in an instant, but I didn’t let go. Turning my body, I had his back on my chest when we hit the ground. My arm felt weird, dangling down as if it had been taken clean off—but it was still there, hanging.
“Daddy! Daddy! Are you okay?” Hudson was asking me.
“Can’t talk,” I choked out, trying hard to catch a breath.
I knew my arm was dislocated, but not sure if any worse. It was a first for me, and I had a flashback of all the movies I had seen where they put a shoe into the guy’s armpit and pulled as he screamed. On film, at least, it always looked too painful at first but ninety percent better after.
It was Mac who offered—insisted, I mean—to do the dirty work. “Did you hit your arm on anything?” he asked— “like the ground or the bike?”
“No, I don’t think so,” I replied.
“Because if it is broken anywhere, this is going to really hurt,” he added, palpating my arm from just below the shoulder to my wrist, squeezing and asking
