Children of Wrath (Wrath Book 2)

Dedication

For the trees of great shade in my life. Mom and Dad, Nanny and Papa.

Acknowledgements

I have a long list of folks I need to thank. First, my wife for tolerating my insanity and believing in me. Next my children, for giving me a reason to write. My father, who spent many hours talking with me about ideas, characters, and plot development, is my hero. My mother, who will never stop praying for me. Greg, for the friendship and great ideas. Mark Seagle, Colonel Dan, and my MBC family, who fight to keep the darkness at bay. Thank you, Permuted authors, who graciously give your time and wisdom to help other writers like me who are still learning the ropes. Finally, the Permuted Press team. Jacob Kier, Michael Wilson, Anthony Ziccardi, and Felicia Sullivan, I am grateful and humbled.

Part One

"God demands obedience. Those who do not obey do not believe. Unbelievers, then, must be shown the way to seek Him through discipline. The old covenant is broken and a new covenant forged. If we do not compel obedience, we displease God and risk his wrath upon us again."

The Book of Gideon 1:5

Chapter One

Being a hero in the eyes of my children was far more important to me than the adulation I’ve received over the years for getting shot and stabbed and being any sort of a leader. The memories that keep me warm on snowy winter nights here in Yellowstone are of times when I was a real hero. I remember my son Ryder and his little sister Grace on Christmas morning, gazing with wide eyed wonder at the presents under the tree while a fire crackled and popped in a log cabin steeped to the roof in drifts. I hold those perfect moments close to me, those fleeting times that were really gifts my children gave to me. I can now open them like a book, and I turn back the years to see that look of amazement they rewarded me with when I lifted a heavy log, carved a bow, or brought home a wolf cub. I wrap myself in those precious memories like a warm bison blanket to keep the cold at bay and stave off the lingering chill of things I would rather forget.

The winter Ryder turned nine, Grace was six, and the cold was bitter and long. Maybe with the telling of it, these many years later, forgiveness will find me and I can draw close and smile.

The Fall had annihilated humanity about sixteen years before that season; the bombs and pestilence that followed pushed us to the brink of the abyss, but we managed to survive. In the nine years we had been in the west, the scattered groups of survivors inhabiting the region enjoyed relative peace and security. It was a time of rebirth and renewal, and my best memories live there still. The weaponized fungus we had come to call Tarantula still thrived in the warmer regions, but the cold of the north kept it at bay. We were full of hope, though we bore the wounds of the past. We believed we had made it through the worst of it.

I was then not yet thirty, and still very much in my prime, my hair dark and short, with not a hint of the white beard and long mane I now wear. You look like Noah, Crystal jokes these days. What happened to my sculpted David, my Greek hero? She laughs and there is no malice in it; the gray is earned and I wear it with the cantankerousness of an old grizzly baring his yellowed fangs over a kill, long of tooth and the gold fading, but still dangerous. I was much more dangerous then. I stood six feet four inches, was broad of shoulder and narrow of hip, and I was strong. Hazel eyes, still bright with hope then, before they were faded and dimmed by sadness, which still burned with a zest for life.

You're old beyond your years, I recall Crystal saying back then. Such an old soul. But really, I think that was all of us.

*

The day after Christmas, I decided to kill the tiger. This corner of Wyoming was the wildest part of the lower forty-eight before The Fall, and with mankind grievously depleted, the place was gloriously primal.

Ryder came to me at the woodshed in the late afternoon, a dam of self-control barely holding back a river of tears. Despite the fact that it was ten below zero, I was sweating underneath my heavy coat.

Daddy, he said tightly. I laid down my axe to focus on him. Daddy, his voice breaking, it took Blackie. It killed Grendel too, just for fun I think.

Oh no, I said. I’m sorry, son. I wrapped my arms around him and the dam broke. Ryder had nursed the wolf pup with a bottle, and sometimes it seemed they could talk to one another. Blackie grew into an impressive hundred fifty pound guardian of fang and fur, and I felt my son’s pain at losing his companion.

He was my best friend, he sobbed. Why him? Why doesn’t the tiger just stay up in the mountains?

It’s easier for the tiger to hunt down here. Grendel and Blackie probably stood their ground when the tiger went after a calf.

Over the last few months, we had been losing livestock. The wild wolves in the area stayed far away, making their presence known with their mournful nightly songs. I’d watched them hunt and raise their pups and I had a respect and admiration for them. Since our first winter in Lamar Valley, we seemed to have a mutual understanding with the local pack. We didn’t hunt in their favorite territory and they left us alone. The wolf packs and the tiger would be competing for food, and now that winter had frozen the land, the easy prey was down in the valley.

The tiger had become a threat. I worried that as the winter stretched out the beast would develop a taste for human flesh. I’d set traps to no avail, and some of the other men had set out to hunt it the last time the tiger took a sheep, but had lost the trail in the high country.

Let’s take a look. Show me.

Ryder led me down the gentle slope to the edge of the frozen river. Grendel, a beautiful Great Pyrenees, white as snow and almost two hundred pounds, lay in an icy pool of blood with his throat ripped out. On the far side of the river there was more blood amidst saucer sized tracks I knew the Bengal tiger left behind.

You gotta do something, Dad, Ryder said.

Sometimes I was struck by how much I could see my father, for whom my son was named, when I looked at Ryder. It might be a pensive sigh, or a certain way he would grin in delight, but it would catch me off guard and I would feel an instant connection across the years and generations to my Dad.

I’ll take Uncle Chilli tomorrow morning and we’ll hunt it down and kill it.

Promise?

I promise, I said, and gave him a squeeze.

Lord it’s cold, Chilli said.

He had grown his red hair long, and his beard was shot with gray. He looked like a Viking, but he wielded an M-4 assault rifle and a shotgun in lieu of a battle ax and shield. A former Special Forces officer and my brother in arms after The Fall, Chilli had been a mentor to me, and over the years, he had become my best friend. He was rugged and imposing, and his mind was even more dangerous than his skill with a sniper rifle. We both wore many layers of clothing, and bear skin coats lined with soft rabbit fur.

You think you’ll get used to it, but really you never do, I replied, but in truth I loved it. The sky was a perfect clear blue and the deep snow was pristine and almost blinding as it reflected the late morning sun. We had tracked the cat into the high country of the Absaroka Range, and abandoned our horses with slaps to their backsides to send them home. The going was slow and laborious. All around us, higher peaks and ridges looked down, rugged and rocky and unforgiving. Each breath unleashed a plume of smoke, and ice clung stiffly to the scarf over my mouth.

I hate snowshoes, Chilli remarked. You’d think we could come up with something better than this caveman stuff.

We came to a granite canyon that had been smashed overnight by an avalanche. Enormous lodge pole pines lay snapped and tossed like toothpicks by the force of the snow. We picked our way across, trying not to fall through the loose snow into the spaces between the downed trees. I winced at every step, aware that I could simply disappear through twenty feet of snow, where I would suffocate or freeze to death. The avalanche covered the tiger’s tracks, and we lost some time scouting around the edges of the gorge until we finally picked up the trail. It was headed up a mountain.

William, this thing is big, Chilli remarked. I’d say a good ten feet long. Maybe six hundred pounds or more.

It’ll make a nice rug for Crystal, I said.

A thing like that would make mincemeat out of a grizzly. What do you suppose he’s doing down by us?

Wounded, maybe.

That’s my guess, Chilli said. It wouldn’t bother with us unless it needed to, I’m thinking, which worries me.

I know, Chilli. I catch your drift. This thing is deadly. I’m on high alert.

You’re just not much of a hunter.

Thanks for that.

I’m just saying. Chilli chuckled. "I’ve heard the stories. Your stories."

When are you headed back to Jackson Hole?

I felt the need to change the subject. I hunted only when I had to, which was almost never. In Lamar Valley, hunting was something most men did on a regular basis every season. It was a way to escape family life and keep skilled with a rifle for many, and I did not begrudge them that in the least. I preferred to ride Caesar in the mountains, inhaling the majesty and grandeur, and letting that peace and joy be reason enough. I figured I’d done enough killing.

I’ll head over to The Hole again when things start to thaw out a bit, Chilli said. I found a lady over there who keeps a light on for me. Doesn’t mind my wandering ways. He laughed heartily at himself. Wandering in the sense of exploring and being gone, I mean.

Who is it? Do I know her?

Rather not say, Chilli said, and stopped abruptly. He held his left arm up at shoulder height, with his fist closed. Without thinking, I dropped to one knee in the wet snow and brought my weapon to bear on the ridge above us. Several paces ahead, Chilli did the same. We were at the foot of a frozen waterfall. It was silent and still now, but in the spring, when the snows melted, it would be a torrent. The air smelled of pine and the forest seemed to be waiting, holding onto some deep secret for just the right moment to impart it. Each breath was cold in my lungs.

Movement, Chilli whispered. Watch our six in case it tries to circle around and get tricky.

I felt an enhanced awareness of all my senses, and the world took on a new clarity. I heard a squirrel or marmot scuttling amongst rocks somewhere behind me, saw an eagle high in the air banking west, and became conscious of the reassuring weight of my SCAR assault rifle. I kept my finger on the trigger guard as I swept the area to our rear. Adrenaline coursed through my veins and I felt like I was in combat again.

Watch our six.

I hadn’t heard that in years, and those three words sent me back with jarring abruptness, unexpected and fierce in the way they jolted me.

Snow that was not snow exploded twenty feet above us as the white tiger sprang away from the top of the waterfall. It bounded once and was gone with blinding speed. Chilli cursed.

Well, we’re close, anyway, he said quietly. It’s gonna be a long night. The sun had already slid behind the western hills, and the temperature was dropping. Let’s go ahead and make the ridge and see about setting up camp.

*

Your watch, Chilli said quietly as he shook my shoulder lightly.

Ugh. What time is it? Any sign of our friend?

Midnight, and no. Chilli leaned against a tree with his weapon across his chest and started snoring.

The fire cast unfriendly shadows into the darkness, and I strained to listen. I could picture the tiger circling and stalking and this kept me very awake. I kept my back to the fire to lessen the impact of the light on my vision, but the forest did not yield its secrets and remained mysterious and aloof.

I thought about my father and my mother, and I wished they could meet their beautiful grandchildren. I turned from those sad thoughts and tried to focus on all that I had to be thankful for. I had lost my parents and many friends, yet I was blessed with a loving wife and two children and we were still breathing, still living and loving when most of the world was dead. I berated myself for my lack of gratitude and I prayed silently for a time. I was not one to dwell on heartache, but at times it could ambush me and surprise me with the strength of it. I felt my feet growing numb with the cold and I stamped around trying to improve the circulation in my toes before sitting down again next to my rock.

I was proud of the way Magnolia’s people had stuck together and thrived in the west since our exodus from Tennessee. Some elected to stay in Jackson Hole, where there was electricity, running water, and a sense of normality that rivaled that of the years prior to The Fall. They had DVD players and movies, computers, and doctors. The rail line between the refinery in Sinclair and Jackson Hole was cleared and secure, insuring a steady flow of fuel to the town.

Senator Moore was now the elected Governor of the Northwest Alliance, and he had done an able job as far as I could tell. He kept his nose out of people’s business for the most part and focused on logistics. A small standing army was fed and trained in Jackson Hole, commanded now by my old pilot friend, Hawk. The Governor managed to cobble together mutual protection treaties with the Pacific Northwest and much of southern Canada. The Shoshone and Arapaho at Wind River had close ties to Lamar Valley, and we also traded with the Sioux, Crow, and Cheyenne. The tribes had fared far better than most in the aftermath of The Fall. They had been geographically isolated, largely self-reliant, and the Tribal Councils maintained order.

When Crystal and I decided to settle far out in Lamar Valley, the majority of our people followed us, and our spread out town was home to about three thousand men, women, and children. I gladly walked away from any position of leadership and wanted nothing more than to live a quiet life, raising my family in peace.

Chilli sat up abruptly, awakened by his internal alarm clock. Catch some sleep, he said. I’ve got watch till dawn. Tomorrow we’re going to kill that son of a bitch.

*

Dawn came grudgingly and brought glowering, flinty clouds and the smell of snow on the way. We picked up the tiger’s trail and continued north and west. The temperature dropped further and the wind slashed and cut at us.

We’re in for a good blow, Chilli said. We might need to head back. What do you think?

I’d rather keep going, if we can. We’re close, and we’re going to lose the trail completely when it snows. We can dig in and ride it out if we have to.

Hmm. I don’t like the look of these clouds.

We wouldn’t make it back anyway, I reasoned. It’s going to be on us before dark, and we’re two days’ walk, if not more, from home.

True.

We’ll keep an eye on it. As soon as it starts coming down, we’ll find shelter.

We trudged along in silence for a time as the storm menaced. My breathing was loud in my ears and the snow crunched under my feet. Chilli was in the lead and I continually looked to the rear, which was awkward since my snow shoes impeded natural movement.

We crossed an area of exposed gray rock at a saddle between two higher peaks where the howling wind blew the snow clear to the cliff faces in heavy drifts. We stopped and scanned the higher elevations. We were above the tree line and the first flakes began to fall thick and swirling around us.

A white blur streaked toward us from behind car sized boulders. I had a moment to look into the tiger’s amber eyes, blazing with wild ferocity, hungry and intense, as the beast ate the distance between us with two fluid leaps.

Chilli fired his shotgun twice in rapid succession when the tiger made the final leap toward him. The creature was on him then, great paws at Chilli’s shoulders, claws extended and long fangs seeking warm flesh. I did not have a clear shot.

The weight and momentum took Chilli down backwards, and while he fought to bring out his knife I was able to fire a burst of hollow point rounds into the tiger. It rolled away from Chilli and with its final strength, attempted to rise, its legs quivering. Another three round burst from my weapon stilled it. I rushed forward to check on my friend.

Are you okay?

I’m checking, Chilli said to my relief. He was smiling and not bleeding from his throat. He pushed himself to his feet and patted his shoulders. There were rips in his coat but no blood.

That was close, he said nonchalantly. Those Shoshone make one heck of a coat. We walked over to the dead tiger and looked down at the beautiful animal where it lay sprawled on the cold rock, one forward paw extended as though reaching for something. Chilli cocked his head and crouched down.

Look at this, he said. I peered closer. A collar.

A silver choke chain was tight around the tiger’s neck, with a faded metal tag attached.

Chilli examined it. It says ‘Pahrump’, Big Cat Encounters, Nevada. I’ve heard of that place. It was somewhere near Vegas.

He’s a long way from home, I said.

Well, we’re not going to skin him and bring him home, Chilli said. We’d best find some shelter before we can’t see two feet ahead."

As if in reply, the mountain answered with a heavy groan. The air changed and I heard what sounded like gunshots and then things were upside down and white until they went dark, which was very quickly, and I did not have time to hurt.

"We must not grow weary in doing what is good. The wicked will perish in this world at the sword of the Lord."

The Book of Gideon 2:12

Chapter Two

I was warm in the embrace of darkness. I drifted back through time effortlessly, examining things at my leisure and in no particular order, hovering over the past and outside myself, pausing when it pleased me to look more closely, and then moving on. I watched the flash and mushroom cloud that had taken Gunny and destroyed Magnolia, relived the first time Crystal kissed me by a fire in Tennessee, held my tiny son in the hospital at Jackson Hole, watched Grace take her first gleeful, halting steps toward me on a golden hillside sprinkled with wildflowers in Lamar Valley.

I cheered as Abraham and Angela got married at the new log and stone church in Lamar, and listened to old Elijah preach about forgiveness and love. Then Elijah came and sat down on the pew next to me, his timeless dark face smiling at me with compassion. His beard was long and gray and his eyes shone with the kind of inner light that can only come with peace and great wisdom, earned through years of seeking, pain, and triumph.

You’re a good man, William, Elijah said. The church was now empty. Your Daddy and Momma would be real proud of who you have become.

Thank you, sir, I said.

It’s not time for you to see them just yet.

What do you mean?

You know what I mean, son. You know where they are. You still have a lot of work to do.

Where are we? Where am I?

God still has his hand on you. Always has, always will.

And then there was just the darkness and pain and cold. I opened my eyes, or tried to, and everything was still dark. I could not move. I became aware of something warm against my face and this gave me hope. I breathed through my mouth and expelled snow through my nose. I struggled and pushed with all of my limbs and something began to give. I pushed with my toes and then with my feet, and finally was able to use the strength of my legs, and gradually I inched ahead through the snow that entombed me. It occurred to me I might be going the wrong way. It did not matter; I had to move. Panic threatened to take me while I tried to calculate how long I had been unconscious and how much air I might have left.

My right arm was above my head and abruptly I felt my hand punch through the snow. Moments later I heard Chilli, his voice muffled but urgent, and then I was being pulled and dug out. Once my head emerged, I blinked, trying to understand what Chilli was saying, far away words that seemed to be in another language, and I was starting to not care. I was vaguely aware of the wind lashing my face and the wet flakes whipping my eyes. I breathed deeply and spat out tiger hair and snow. Slowly, Chilli’s words began to penetrate the fog in my mind.

….UP! he was saying.

William! You’ve got to help me here. Get to your feet. We’ve gotta make it off this ridge. That’s right, stay alert. Good. Stand. He was hauling me to my feet, but I could not get my legs to cooperate and they folded beneath me. Finally, Chilli picked me up over his shoulder with a grunt. I weighed over two hundred pounds, and I was impressed in a dazed and amused kind of way.

He carried me, staggering slowly through the blizzard, and found shelter on the lee side of the pass, between a small crevice in the sheer cliff face and a large boulder. Together, we made a snow shelter by digging into the drift against the cliff face to help shield us from the wind.