Hungry Independents (Book 2) (4 page)

Scout’s eyes whipped up to Mark standing next
to the three unconscious kids with his arms crossed. “Billy, run
into the house and find some blankets.”

Billy nodded, shaded his eyes from Molly with
his left hand, and stumbled up the porch. The screen door slammed
shut after he went through. “Sorry,” he called from the dark
interior.

Luis bent over and wiped blood off Samuel’s
leg. Whatever wound had caused the mess was healed. He shook his
head. “Sometimes I wonder why I’m still studying medicine.”

“You’re still studying in case Catherine
isn’t here when we need a miracle,” Mark said.

Scout surveyed the yard. Five big shadowy
heaps lay scattered about the perimeter. Farther out, boys were
hanging around in their underwear, carrying baseball bats and
watching the fields. They talked in low, excited tones.

“So what’d I miss?” Scout asked.

Mark hooked a thumb in the waistband of his
striped boxers. He shouldered the thirty-four inch Easton aluminum
baseball bat that Scout had given him for his seventeenth birthday.
Blood spattered the end of the barrel. He smiled at Scout.

“And why is everybody naked?”

Mark’s smile grew bigger. He looked back and
caught Luis staring at his sister. “Luis! Samuel’s fine now. Come
over here with us until Billy gets back.”

Luis’s skinny body leapt up like he was
strapped to a rocket. “Sorry!” He hurried over, eyed Mark’s bloody
bat, and stood closer to Scout.

Mark shook his head. “Why couldn’t I have had
a twin brother?”

Scout inspected one of the dead heaps of fur
lying in the flowerbed. “This is a big animal. Are they dogs or
wolves?”

Mark came up beside him. “Whatever they were,
they killed all of the chickens and hogs. Alex and John woke me up
after they found all their animals dead, and I got everybody else
to start searching. I don’t know what Molly and Sam were doing out
here this early, but I barely arrived in time. Molly said that one
bit Samuel on the leg. It was a mess.”

“He died,” Luis said from the other side of
Scout. “He bled to death right in front of me. And then Catherine
was here.”

“Praise the Lord,” Scout said. He bowed his
head and prayed, thanking God for watching over them and bringing
Catherine into their lives.

Mark prodded the dog with his bat. The dead
animal smelled like rotten eggs. “We need to bury these carcasses
before the kids start waking up. They’re scared of enough things
without seeing the Big Bad Wolf.”

“This is the Big Bad,” Scout said, referring
to the world in which they lived. He and Mark shared a glance.
“I’ll start digging a hole to bury them. Are these all of
them?”

“Yes.”

Scout whistled, rubbing his hand over his
tight afro. “And you got every one?”

Mark shook his head and pointed. “I got that
one there.”

“Samuel must have put up a heck of a
fight.”

“No, Molly said he tripped and got knocked
out. She killed four of them with the shovel. I got here right
before that one ate her. She finished off the last one while I was
inside the house looking for stuff.”

Scout whistled again. “I didn’t know Molly
was such a badass.”

“She’s not when it comes to dogs. A Doberman
bit her arm when we were five. It was pretty bloody. She had twenty
stitches afterward. She’s been terrified of dogs ever since.”

“Not anymore from the looks of things,” Scout
said.

Mark shrugged.

Billy returned and the screen door slammed
again. “Sorry.” He looked over the bundle to where Molly lay
sprawled with her breasts exposed to the moonlight. He squeezed his
eyes shut.

“Just stay there, Billy,” Mark said. “I don’t
want you stumbling off the porch.” Mark hopped over the unconscious
group and retrieved the blankets. He covered his sister first. “All
clear everybody.”

“Can I make a comment?” Scout said.

Mark scowled, as if daring Scout to try.

Scout waved him off. “Forget it. I’ll go dig
that hole.”

“Great idea,” Mark said, and finished
covering Catherine and Samuel from the early morning chill. “Billy,
go tell those guys to take turns getting dressed before they catch
cold. Tell them to go in teams. I don’t want anyone wandering out
here alone.”

Scout picked up the shovel and noticed that
the spade was stained by greater quantities of blood than Mark’s
bat. He walked to the side of the house to find a good burial plot
that wouldn’t tear up Samuel’s front yard, but still close enough
so he didn’t have to drag around a bunch of heavy dog carcasses.
Scout scanned the darkness for a good digging spot. He considered
torching the dogs with gasoline because burying them might draw
other scavengers, but gasoline needed conserving. Deep holes were
easy to create with time and effort.

One of the boys from the rescue party walked
through the yard toward Scout, twirling his bat round and round.
Scout frowned when he recognized Dylan.

“Hey, Preach. You’re up kind of early. Too
bad you missed the fight, as usual.”

Scout stabbed the shovel into the ground.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Dylan leaned on his bat like a walking stick.
He wore a pair of red gym shorts. His ropey limbs were knotted with
muscles from hanging around the weight room that Hunter had set up
in one of the buildings on Main Street. Dylan smiled. “It’s
nothing. Why are you digging a hole?”

“I volunteered for burial duty. Want to
help?”

“Nah, I got to keep my eyes open in case
anymore doggies come around. Too bad they’re so skinny. We could
have made some wicked stew.”

“Is that what Brittany served the other day
for lunch? I thought it was chicken.”

“You’d know all about chicken, wouldn’t you,
Preach?”

Scout stepped forward. “What’s your problem,
Dylan? You’ve been on my back for three months.”

Dylan straightened and readjusted his grip on
the bat. “I don’t have just one problem with you. My biggest,
though, is that you went out and got Jimmy killed then you came
rolling back here like you’re some kind of holier-than-thou fucker.
I think you’re full of shit.”

Scout’s pulse raced and his jaw clenched. “I
went out there and risked my neck for Jimmy so he could rescue
Catherine. He’s the one that chose to die. I had nothing to do with
that. I tried to stop him.”

“That’s not the way I heard it. I heard you
jacked up the whole operation by going after your girl,
what’s-her-name.”

“What’s going on over there?” Mark called out
from the corner of the house. Billy stood beside him.

Dylan spoke so only Scout could hear. “Oh,
look. It’s big brother to the rescue. See you later, Preach, when
we can talk in private.” Dylan turned and waved. “Oh, hey Mark, we
were just talking about where Scout should dig his hole. I’ll keep
looking for dogs.”

Scout watched Dylan spinning his bat as he
walked away.

“Are you all right?” Mark asked, coming over.
“What’s got you all worked up?”

Scout looked past Mark to where Billy still
stood at the corner of the house. The deep pocket of night’s
shadows hid the little boy’s face. Billy turned and ran after
Dylan, who patted him on the back like they were old pals.

“Scout, what’s wrong?”

He shook his head. “It’s nothing. Where
should I dig this hole?”

By the time the second splinter tore into his
hand, Scout hated digging. He gave serious consideration again to
burning the dogs with gasoline. Forget saving gas—not at the
expense of his palms. Luckily, this splinter stuck out far enough
for him to pull it out with his teeth.

Every so often, raucous laughter carried in
the early morning darkness, setting Scout further on edge. Dylan
and the couple boys hanging around him were busy doing nothing
except talking. Scout couldn’t shake the feeling that the general
topic of their conversation involved him. How were rumors spreading
that he’d got Jimmy killed? Jimmy got Jimmy killed. Scout had just
been along for the ride.

The conversation with Dylan depressed him
more than he wanted to admit. Only the constant attention to the
hole he was digging allowed him to focus on something else, but
once he found a good rhythm with the shovel, he only thought about
one thing: Did he get Jimmy killed?

Scout stood at the bottom of a two foot hole
that was eight feet wide, and a lot of shoveling still needing to
be done. He wanted somebody to come over and help him, but after
Dylan’s accusation he didn’t know who to ask or who to trust.

He struck the blade into the ground and hit
something hard. His palms skidded down the worn handle and splinter
number three slid into his thumb.

“Damn it!”

Laughter followed from Dylan’s little huddle.
“Hear that, boys? I think Preach is working on his next sermon. It
sounds a little dismal. I might have to skip that one.”

Dylan’s pals hooted and slapped him on the
back, like he couldn’t get any funnier.

Scout sucked on the splinter in silent
embarrassment, mad at himself for letting the curse word slip. He
wanted to set an example of a godly life since he preached about it
every Sunday, but the change from the way he used to live took time
and obviously more attention.

“You should put these on.” Samuel held out a
pair of leatherwork gloves for Scout. He wore a pair himself and
another shovel rested in the crook of his arm. “You should always
wear gloves when you dig, especially if you’re going to use Jimmy’s
shovel. It’s tossed a lot of dirt.”

Scout took the gloves and continued gnawing
the splinter out of his thumb. Samuel dropped into the hole and got
to work, shoveling with a precision and speed that Scout found
amazing and could never possibly match. Smooth steady strokes came
one after another, and full scoops of dirt tumbled into piles
around the rim. Scout tore out the splinter and spat into the hole.
He pulled on the work gloves and took a side, negotiating out of
Samuel’s way.

Scout began again, working to match Samuel’s
productivity. It wasn’t happening, so he tried to make a good
showing.

Samuel tapped Scout on the shoulder. “How
’bout you sit the rest out? You got a good start. I’ll take us home
from here.”

“Are you sure, man? I mean you were a
little…” Scout wanted to be sensitive, but there really wasn’t any
way around the subject, “…dead about thirty minutes ago. Shouldn’t
you get some more rest?”

“Dude, I got to work or I’m going to go crazy
thinking about what happened. Plus, I feel awesome. I’ve never felt
this good.”

“All right. I’ll hang around for moral
support.” Scout stepped onto a pile and the dirt tumbled back into
the hole.

Samuel scooped it right out again. “Just
don’t knock over any more piles.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. But seriously, back up
two feet.” Samuel smiled and dug in.

It took about a minute for Dylan to notice
the change. “Nice going, Preach. You found a way to get out of work
again.”

Samuel stopped shoveling and looked at Scout.
Scout leaned on Jimmy’s useless shovel and inspected his shoes.

“See guys, I told you Preach was soft.”

“Hey, Dylan,” Samuel said. “Is it true what
they say about lifting weights?”

“What’s that?”

“Does it just make your dick smaller or does
it also affect your brains? See, cause if it was the other way
around, I might be into it.”

Dylan took a couple steps toward them,
slapping the barrel of his bat into his hand. “That’s not cool,
man.”

“What are you going to do about it?” Samuel
drove his shovel in the ground and climbed out of the hole.

“Dylan,” Mark called from the front of the
house. “I think we’re okay here. You guys can go on home and get
some sleep before breakfast.”

Dylan and Samuel glared at each other,
separated by twenty feet of grass. Samuel puckered and blew him a
kiss. Dylan squinted hard, trying to deduce what Samuel just did in
the darkness. Then he turned and stalked off, followed closely by
his posse. Samuel dropped into the hole, retrieved his shovel, and
got back to work.

Scout sighed. “You didn’t have to do that,
man.”

“Excuse my language, Scout, but that’s
bullshit. You don’t let a jackass like Dylan give you a bunch of
crap. If that starts then you might as well get ready for a heap of
trouble. Guys like Dylan don’t quit until you put your fist into
them.”

Scout stayed silent as a strange sense of
weariness seeped into him. It might have been a lot better if he
had stayed in bed instead of running into this mess. At least he
wouldn’t know what they were whispering behind his back. He leaned
harder on the shovel and closed his eyes.

“Dylan’s full of crap. Nobody believes you
had any part in Jimmy’s death.”

Scout’s knees shook, but he caught himself
before falling to the ground. Did everybody know the alternate
version of how Jimmy died? And how many
did
believe it?

“I knew Jimmy better than anyone,” Samuel
said. “If he had his mind made up about something, then nobody
could get him to change it.”

“I didn’t get him killed,” Scout said, just
to hear the words. Just to convince himself that he did everything
he could to keep Jimmy alive.

“I wouldn’t let you wear his gloves if I
thought you did.”

Scout looked at the leatherwork gloves
covering his hands. They were well used with permanent dirt stains
in every crease and stitch. He flexed his fingers. The gloves were
big for him but would have fit Jimmy perfectly.

Scout thought about the last words Jimmy had
spoken to him. “You’re in charge, Scout.” You don’t leave the
person who killed you in charge.

Tears filled his eyes, clouding his vision.
He wiped them away with the backs of Jimmy’s gloves, leaving dark
splotches on the tanned hide.