The driver’s face was bright red when he reached us. “What the hell is wrong with you two? There’s infected all over the place.”
“Relax,” Tyrel said. “If they were close enough to be a problem, they’d have heard your wagon. You hear any moans?”
The driver’s anger dimmed somewhat. “No. I guess I don’t.”
“Then why don’t you hop down and help us with the bags?”
“I ain’t no goddam porter,” the man said. “Move your own cargo.”
“You just used a double negative,” I replied. “Which means you are, in fact, a porter. Now if you want any more business from us in the future, my friend, you’ll hop your ass down here and get to work. You might be cheap, but you’re not the only game in town.”
He looked confused for a moment, shook his head, said something unpleasant, and set the brake.
When we had left Woodland Park, we knew our bags of salvage were too heavy to carry more than a few hundred yards. We also knew it would not be long before the infected thawed out, so after retrieving our gear from where we had cached it in the hills, we liberated a tarp from an abandoned house and used sticks and paracord to improvise a sled. What followed was a long, difficult hike, and we were both exhausted by the time we reached the rendezvous.
Overhead, clouds began to gather. Low, dark, gunmetal gray clouds born along on a high, speeding wind. On the slopes above us, snow blew down in swirling plumes, scattering on the surrounding pines and cedars. The wind funneled down into the valley, and by the time we finished loading the salvage, we had to cover our eyes against the stinging ice and lean forward to keep our footing.
“We need to move,” the driver shouted over the howling noise. “Bad weather coming in.”
No shit, detective. “Let’s go then,” I said.
As we hurried back toward town, the horses tossed their heads and whinnied at the storm. The driver leaned over to Tyrel and asked, “Where’s that Mexican fella that was with you?”
Tyrel set his jaw and shook his head.
“What happened?”
“None of your goddam business.”
The driver looked offended. He started to say something else, but Tyrel turned his flat black-eyed glare toward him, and the driver snapped his mouth shut.
The wind blew strong and cold on the way back to the Springs.
*****
The headquarters for the Colorado Springs Volunteer Militia Corps occupied the gutted remains of what had once been a big-box retail store.
Outside was an empty parking lot, the cars abandoned there long since hauled away for scrap. On the inside, shelves and display stands had been cleared out and replaced with rows of desks, file cabinets, and locked storage containers. The containers covered two-thirds of the floor space and were where the militias kept the majority of their after-tax wealth.
After putting our salvage in storage on the west side of town, Tyrel and I hired a carriage to drive us to headquarters to deliver the bad news about Rojas. When we arrived, LaGrange was at his desk, as usual. Sometimes I wondered if the man ever left the building when not on a mission. Maybe he slept and took his meals there and only went outside to use the latrine.
He looked up when he heard us coming, his face its usual mask of barely concealed irritation. His eyes flicked back and forth between us.
“I don’t like the looks on your fool-ass faces,” he said.
Tyrel and I sat down in two of the three chairs facing him. He put down his pen and stared at us. “Well? What is it?”
I looked at Tyrel, who nodded to me. “We ran into some trouble in Woodland Park,” I said, not meeting LaGrange’s eyes. “Rojas … he didn’t make it.”
The irritation left LaGrange’s face. His cheeks sagged and the lines around his eyes seemed to deepen. “Shit. What happened, infected get him?”
I shook my head. “No. Salvage hunters. Rogue group, never seen them before.”
The sagging cheeks began to darken. “Where are they now?”
“Dead,” Tyrel said. “We killed them.”
“All of them?”
Ty nodded.
LaGrange heaved a sigh. “Any indication of where they came from?”
“No,” Tyrel said. “We searched, but all they had were clothes and weapons. That was it.”
No one spoke for a stretch, the noise of the other militias doing business around us a low din of voices and chairs scraping over concrete. LaGrange opened a desk drawer, removed two forms from a binder, and held them out to us. We took them, and he shoved a cup full of pens in our direction.
He said, “Start from the beginning.”
I spent the next hour describing what happened, leaving out the incriminating parts and omitting certain items of salvage we recovered, such as a dozen grenades. Tyrel and I had gotten our story straight on the way over, so I knew his account would match up with mine with no discrepancies. When we were finished, LaGrange read both our reports and nodded in satisfaction.
“I’ll turn this in to the police in the morning. Shouldn’t be any trouble for you two. Looks like a clear-cut case of self-defense. Regardless, it’s not like the other guys are around to tell their side.” He set the papers down. “You ever find the sniper that got Rojas?”
Tyrel said, “Officially? No.”
A slight smile creased LaGrange’s face. “Unofficially?”
“I took care of it.”
“Good.” LaGrange sat back in his desk and rubbed his hands over his tired face. “Damn shame about Rojas. He was a good man. He’ll be missed.” Our platoon leader stood up and stretched and picked up a stack of papers. “I’ll let the rest of the men know what happened. We’ll put together a memorial service. Think there’s any chance of recovering the body?”
“Maybe,” Tyrel said. “If it stays cold and the infected don’t get to him we might be able to send a few guys. If so, I’ll go with them.”
“Me too,” I said.
“I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, you two go home and get some rest. You look like shit.”
The two of us nodded and stood up to leave. LaGrange began to walk away, then stopped in his tracks and turned around. “Wait, Hicks, I almost forgot.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a letter in a sealed envelope. “This came for you yesterday morning. Courier said it was urgent.”
I took the envelope. “He say anything else?”
“Nope. Try reading the letter.” With that, he left.
I stared at it for a few seconds, brows close together. There was nothing written on the outside, no indication of who it came from. I opened it and took out a small scrap of paper. It read:
Caleb,
Sophia went into labor last night. She’s at the hospital. The doctors said there’s something wrong. Come to the maternity ward as soon as you get this letter. Ask for doctor Caligan.
It was signed by one of Sophia’s old co-workers. I stared at it for several long seconds willing the words to change, hoping if I wished hard enough the letters would rearrange themselves and tell me everything was all right. Tyrel broke the trance by putting a hand on my arm.
“Hey, kid, you all right? What does the letter say?”
I handed it to him and sprinted for the door.
*****
Dr. Caligan was a short red-haired woman in her late forties. She stepped into the waiting room and stood in front of me under fluorescent lights. The hospital was one of the few facilities in the Springs with electricity, powered by fuel brought in from some strategic reserve or another. She introduced herself and asked me to have a seat.
I said, “Where’s Sophia?”
“Sir, please don’t shout.”
I ground my teeth, took a breath, and said, “Please, doctor.”
“Would you take a seat?”
I didn’t move. A grinding sound reached my ears, and I felt a terrible pressure behind my eyes. The doctor looked down, wiped her mouth, and said, “Last night, your wife went into labor. There were complications.”