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The screech of the CB jarred Bridger awake.
“Good morning, everyone! LJ here. The semi is set to stop behind the Flying J. I’ve taken measures to make sure the CCTV will be shut down. Max crew, you’ll quickly switch to the van, and Carter Nash will take you to my sister’s house. She’s an angry old witch, but she can be trusted one hundred percent, and that’s what counts.”
At the Flying J, the boys piled out of the semi-truck. Ty jumped into Bridger’s arms. “Did you sleep?” he asked, squeezing his son until he squeaked.
“Yep. No dreams! Not even a glimmer!” the boy said.
“He was out like a light once we were through the checkpoint. They both were,” Gwen said.
Francis was trying to shadow box with Alan.
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Katelyn, sister of Little Joe, lived in an unassuming, beige house on Billings’s Southside near the tracks, two blocks away from where the ghettos merged into the towering behemoths of the BAT, the largest single refugee project in the United States of America.
She met them in the alley where the garage door was open for the van. She was an older woman, well into her seventies, with thin, porcelain skin and dark hair pulled into a tight bun. Her eyes were dark and intense, and her face set with heavy lines of worry.
“Kids?” was the first thing she said. “LJ never said anything about kids.”
“We got two boys with us, ma’am,” Alan said. The woman looked up into the morning gray sky and blinked away invisible tears.
“LJ!” she screamed. Everyone jumped. “Every time I get a little bit ahead, it’s another one of his… his… insane bullshits!” She was gritting her teeth, trying to withhold another outburst.
Bridger held Ty protectively in his arms, and Francis hid behind Alan.
The woman, as if suddenly getting a grip on her trauma, took a long, deep breath and let it all out slowly. “Well, maybe they can play with the animals,” she said.
A large brown tabby sat atop a barbecue and observed disdainfully the encroachment upon his property. The little yelping dog that resembled an old mop head more than a living animal shuffled around their feet, sniffed while emitting a continuous growl. A kick-me dog, his wife used to say, as they just begged to be booted into the next yard like a football.
“Sister,” Katelyn said to the Greta, “our Mother the Earth is in pain. I honor you.”
The Greta opened her hands, palms up, and made a short bow.
“Let me show you in. Only use the back, please. Never go out front. If anyone asks—which they won’t because everyone around here hates me—tell them you are family.”
They descended a narrow stair into a basement apartment.
“There are two bedrooms but only one bathroom. You’ll have to manage showers among yourselves. Please do not use the hot water between 10 and 11 AM. That’s when I bathe. I need my hot bath. Feel free to eat any of the food down here. LJ bought it for you. You shouldn’t need to go out unless it’s an emergency.”
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
She inspected Gwen. “You should change your hair color and maybe get extensions. You’re all going to need fake IDs. Unfortunately, that comes with the service.” Alan, she said, “You need to shave and sharpen up.” Finally, she told Nash, “There’s no help for you.”
Her eyes fell upon Francis. “There can be no enchantments here. Do you understand?”
Francis nodded gravely.
“Do you understand?” she repeated.
“Yes,” Francis choked out a whisper.
At that, she climbed the stairs, the door at the top slamming behind her.
They sat, the four adults, around the kitchen table. Above ground, out in the city of Billings, it was snowing and freezing.
Ty and Francis didn’t seem to mind the apocalyptic mood. They found some juice and cookies in the refrigerator and retired to the living room, where they started flipping through stations on the exceptionally large television for such a small apartment.
Bridger half-listened to the conversation around the table. It was a truncated version of the debrief Nash had given him in the van: Maji and hunters, the Veil, and enchantments.
He watched his son laughing with his new friend. Before, in North Carolina, when he hadn’t been screaming at night from the phantoms—during the day—Ty had been a listless husk of what a boy should be. He would sit for hours on the sofa in a haze of PTSD, where every little noise was a threat. Or he’d gaze out the window, waiting for the monsters to come with a look on his face that bordered on yearning.
“Daaaad, can me and Francis go outside and play?” he called from the living room. Things like that, things like going outside, would have been unheard of.
“Not today, buddy. Tomorrow,” he said back. They chided him with muffled giggles. They weren’t upset, only restless, the way boys cooped up should be.
“Shit, I told you,” Ty said to Francis.
“Shhh,” Francis hissed.
“What? Dad lets me swear.”
“But Deputy Wolf.”
“Okay, okay.”
The theme song from Eternal Love started to play.
Gwen squeezed his arm. “He’s doing great. He’s going to be okay.”
“Yeah, he is, isn’t he? I can’t believe it. Just two nights ago I was holding him as they came for him in his dreams, and that damn stigmata. He’s starting to heal already.” Bridger didn’t cry, but he wanted to. He stayed stoic and asked, “What do we do now?”
“There’s no going back,” Gwen said.
“I don’t want to go back, but I want Ty to have a future.”
“Bridger, Nash,” said Gwen, “Me, Francis, and Alan are on the lam, as they say. It’s not a situation for anyone.”
“I know,” said Bridger. “And I know Ty’s not going to leave Francis. So maybe the way out is the way through.”
“This is what I propose,” said Nash, “we lay low and figure out this concert thing. That means security and an exit strategy. We all know what can happen.”
“What does an exit strategy consist of?” asked Alan.
“The way I see it,” said Gwen, “there are two options, run or hide, and we should be prepared for both. If we’re going to hide, this house is the safest place for the simple fact that we’re here now. But we should have a second safe house at least.”
Nash spoke up, “We could find something in the BAT. Pay some hush money.”
“You need cash for that,” said Alan.
“Didn’t you hear? I got a magic power,” said Nash. “I can turn weeds into money.” He laughed and slapped his leg.
“I can’t believe I’m asking this,” Gwen said, “How much and how fast?”
“It’ll take a few days, but I have about one hundred and fifty grand, wholesale. If we need to move it faster, I can cut the price. Time is money, after all.”
“We’ll need to know where we’re going,” Gwen said.
Alan said, “I could find a way to reach out and listen to their demands.”
Bridger shook his head. “You need to consider that the hunters are working with the police. You’ve seen what they can do.”
“We need some guns,” Gwen said.
“I’m a pacifist,” said Nash.
“Well, I need a gun,” she said. “Anyone else know how to shoot?”
Bridger was tired of talking and listening. He went into the living room, picked his son up from where he was sprawled in front of the TV, and fell with him onto the sofa.
“I love you, boy,” he whispered in his ear.
The kid, not fully taking his attention off the show, said, “I love you too, Dad.”
They stayed awake all night playing games and watching shows, and in the morning they slept.