Spoilers! If you have not read book 1, yet, this will spoil things!
Enjoy the Prologue and Chapter 1 of Fourteen Days 'til Chaos: Echoes of the Just Book 2
Prologue
Republic, Washington
“I’m going home!” Kevin Richardson yelled. “You guys suck!” He was covered in dirty water, the recipient of the special water balloons that he’d been told were meant for his oldest brother, Kenny. The seven-year-old stomped back out of the pine forest on the hill to the west of his family homestead. He moved with rapid speed under the taunting of the two people he spent more time on Earth with than anyone else.
His other older brother, Keith, was about to turn twelve, and he was the little pack’s unofficial leader. The third member was Dallas Baker, in the same class as Kevin. The eight-year-old was a big kid, which ran in the Baker tribe’s genes, and had already flunked a grade once. Like many poor families living on remote country lanes, the Bakers and the Richardsons both placed a value on kids being outside playing for many long hours. Wasting their lives in front of a screen wasn’t an option for the lads.
“Awww, c’mon, Kev!” Keith yelled after. “Watch,” he said to Dallas. “He won’t look back the entire way. Wants us to beg.”
“These balloons are startin’ to smell like crap!” Dallas said, only he used the word little boys weren’t supposed to use. It was practically frowned upon for kids his age not to cuss at his own house. The balloons had been filled by the duo from the pond on his family’s property while Kevin had been raking the goat pens. The stinkiest of muds and amoeba-infested scum had been carefully funneled into the latex bombs. Kevin had been drawn to the fort up in the woods where the boys had old, weathered copies of Playboy and Hustler. Dallas’s half-brother Billy-Ray had handed them off once he’d gotten a license and a car, intent on going after the real thing. Other than the girly mags, some chewing gum and soda pop, and a few cans with remnants of Copenhagen, there wasn’t much else out in the plywood and pallet shack.
Keith and Dallas had enticed Kevin to the fort in lieu of finishing chores, with the promise of ambushing Kenny at some point later. The boy, who’d always been trusting and eager to please, had naïvely believed his brother and best friend—and the price for his daring and bravado at skipping the rest of his chores had been to receive the muddy, amoeba-water bombardment himself.
“Do you think he’ll tell?” Dallas asked. Mrs. Richardson had called his own mother more than once to rat him out. And when Marguerite got nagged by Kevin’s mom, Dallas’s father Brian—known as Big Dog to everyone in Ferry County and beyond—got nagged by her in return. And once BD was nagged, the fun and games began. Dallas really hated it when that happened. The last time he’d been caught misbehaving—spying on his older sister and her friends while they changed out of their swimsuits—his father had hit him so hard that he wound up with a headache that lasted three days.
“Naw,” Keith said, the Hubba Bubba chewing gum smacking loudly. “He may be a cry-baby, but he knows better than to snitch—especially when he would have to admit he snuck out of his chores.” He picked up the last nasty balloon and blasted the side of the leaky, tiny hut, then started strolling down the hill. The pudgy, tall blonde with a mullet followed suit. Like Kevin, they’d gone through a couple of gates on the small goat and sheep farm, access points for keeping the animals eating in the correct fields. “Gimme your gum!”
“What? Why?” Dallas asked. Even as he did, he was already pulling the wet glob from between his crooked teeth and handing it over to the older boy.
Keith mashed it together with his own. “Kevin has a hard time reaching the latch on this gate.” He giggled as he worked, pleased with his mastermind level of cunning and genius when it came to pranking his little bother. He stuffed the wad deep into the channel and worked to form a wall that kept the bar from falling into the slot. “He just lets it fall when the gate slams shut.”
“So?” Dallas said. He was always down with a prank, but only when they made sense.
“Tonight, some of the sheep will wind up pushing their way through this and get into the new alfalfa pasture my dad’s been trying to grow. Kevin’ll get his little whiny butt whipped!” He laughed again.
Dallas laughed, too. But in his mind, he wasn’t particularly impressed simply because he’d be home, probably receiving his own daily whipping, instead of there to see it. “Cool,” he said as flat as an Iowa cornfield.
“That’ll show him!” Keith announced, content with his work. He started moving down the fence line, the fact that he’d just cost himself three more minutes of needless walking lost on him. “That’ll teach him not to be such a baby. I mean—what’s the worst thing that can happen?”
Chapter 1
Camlann Medieval Village
“We can’t sit here forever,” Jamar said. “C’mon, Kev.” The AWOL correction officer tugged on his likewise State Guard friend, still kneeling in the wet grass by Keith’s grave. The Villagers had beautifully arranged the spot in one of the flower gardens, the dirt neatly crafted like a roof and sprinkled with flower seed. Rocks from the nearby creek bed had already been placed around the tomb’s perimeter. With fall’s start in full effect, the majority of the odd tribe’s winter grow efforts would be happening indoors. For the time being, the garden and its new occupant would stay put.
The rain had been hit and miss for the day and early afternoon, the sky the same gray as a battleship. The damp lawn had soaked Kevin’s filthy pants, already in bad need of a washing from wearing them most of the two weeks since he’d left home. He’d fallen to his knees by Keith’s grave, learning that his brother, who’d drowned a hero saving Jalen, had confessed something to Jamar earlier in the day. The drug addict had been fueled by his own guilt and demons, attempting to deal with the memory of a practical joke that had resulted in the death of their sister.
Shame had kept Keith from ever telling anyone but their father. Kendall Richardson knew he’d guide the entire family through the painful process of learning the truth when the time was right. Everyone knew Elizabeth already had a hair-trigger temper, but when one of her twin daughters had been killed by a cougar, she defined “unapproachable” on an entirely new level. As soon as he was done with high school, Keith had fled Republic and the painful truth waiting to be told. And then four years later, the family patriarch died, leaving him to carry the burden all alone. Only drugs had been able to ease the pain.
Kevin stood slowly, taking his friend’s hand for the assisted pull. His rain-soaked ball cap dripped off the bill as he looked down at the grave, wondering for what felt like the thousandth time if there was something else he could’ve done. They’re gonna need a lot more rocks, he thought as his focus shifted to the garden area around them. He doubted that, even after the big firefight with the white trash hooligans nearby, if they fully understood that this would be but the first of many burials. He noticed another of the many firewood piles under the small period-looking lean-to structures that matched the medieval décor of the facility. Maybe they’re planning on pyres.
“You need to grab a bite and get some sleep, brother,” Jamar said. His concern for his friend would’ve already been level ten out of ten on any other day. But they had a long way to travel still. He turned and passively led Kevin toward the large common dining room that had served as a weekend restaurant in the times before the hack.
Kevin said nothing. He followed Jamar inside, where a few dozen of the small community were seated at the two long tables, dining on wild rabbit stew. The offer had already been made for the “horsemen and horsewomen” to stay an additional night, eat and rest, and worry about their departure the next day. Candles dotted each table’s center, and a few candelabras were on stands and cases in the corners. Jamar and Kevin took seats near the end of a large bench, and Kevin’s tired mind focused on the flame reflections on the nearby suit of armor. A fire crackled in the large stone hearth. He missed hearing the woman standing at their back.
“Kev,” Jamar said, nudging him. Kevin looked and saw Jamar turning his head and eyes to direct his gaze.
“I said I’m so very sorry to hear about your brother,” the woman said. She was forty, give or take, and had the fret of an overly empathetic person etched on her face. She wore the garb of an inn wench, contradicted by her Green Day zip-up hoodie, septum piercing, and a variety of tattoos. “Can I get you some stew?”
Kevin shook his head, not to say no, but to ward off the exhaustion.
“We’ll both have some,” Jamar answered for his worn-out mate. He poured them a couple of wooden mugs of water from a clay pitcher. He threw out a half-joke. “And some Ambien for him.”
It went over her head. “Oh, I’m sorry! I could ask people…” She looked around, wondering if there was someone who might have brought some to give.
One of the other Village women seated nearby spoke up. “I’ve got just the trick.” She laughed in thought at some long-ago memory. “Or there’s weed. Surely someone around here has the right bud for sleeping!”
“What’s your remedy?” Jamar asked to keep her focused. The helpful woman standing behind left to go fetch them wooden bowls of the stew.
“Dandelion tea with some Valerian root powder mixed in. I mean—there’s always melatonin. Someone around here can probably find some in their car or whatever. But I can whip you guys up some tea in a few minutes. And your buddy looks like he could use the immune boost it’ll give him.”
“That’d be cool,” Jamar said. “Neither of us slept last night after the…thing.”
“I can only imagine,” the woman said. Though she didn’t feel right bringing up her own participation, she’d been there—one of the ones who voted against some of the leaders in favor of joining the prolonged fight. Like many others, she’d muddied her medieval dress helping Jamar and the massive American Belgian horses Duncan and Jazz pull the tanker out of the pond. She stood and stepped over the dining bench. “I’ll be back in a few.”
Kevin had his elbows up on the long table, face buried in his hands. He took in a breath like he was going to say something, held it, then blew it back out. The wench showed back up with the bowls. She handed one to Jamar and set the other down in front of Kevin. She wiped a tear away as she left the two in peace, the quiet murmur of several conversations in the long hall bouncing off the walls.
“They’re a little tight for sleeping space,” Jamar said, taking a sip. “Eat your soup.”
Kevin picked his head up and rubbed his palm heels on his eyes, trying to get the imaginary sand out of them. He managed to get the wood spoon into the bowl and stir the stew a bit before setting the handle down on the edge. “How’s Jalen?” he asked, forgetting he’d already asked Jamar the same question in the two hours since the funeral.
“He’ll be hobbling for a bit. But I bet his concussion will be a distant bad memory by tomorrow, knowing that twerp.” He faked a slight grin, trying and failing to trigger one out of Kevin. “You want me to set up your hammock for you?”
He shook his head. “I’ll find a spot to hang it near the horses. What about a security watch?”
“Lydia’s on it, and a couple of new guys from here. Nelson went to bed in the back of the ambulance after the funeral so he could pull the night duty with Chip.” Jamar became a bit emphatic. “We are all in agreement—you need your sleep!” Kevin nodded, too tired to argue. “Eat,” Jamar ordered once more.
Kevin picked up the soup spoon and blew on the hot liquid enough to take a sip under the hard stare of the prison guard next to him. His mind went back to zipping in a dozen directions, like the balls of a Pachinko machine under the irresistible pull of gravity. What did Keith mean, it was his fault? What is the next unplanned threat? How will I ever keep Missy safe? …Who is the next one to die?
