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  "Let's go up to my camp," he said. "It'll be safer there until things get back to normal." If they ever do.

  "I can't." Tears started to pool in Franny's eyes. "I can't leave Stosh, not in his condition."

  "What d'you mean?" Chris said. "Mom, Dad's dead."

  "No." Franny motioned toward the back door. "I just can't leave him here. Not like that."

  "Where is he, ma’am?" Taylor said.

  Franny moved stiffly to the back door and pointed outside. "There. There’s my Stosh.”

  The man on the ground had a gray face, a bloated stomach, and was missing the back of his head.

  Revulsion welled up in Taylor. "We'll give him a decent burial." He swallowed hard. "I'll get the shovel. I'll be right back." Dear merciful God, and this, too.

  #

  Chris and Taylor dug a grave that overlooked the Rocky River. As the hole grew deeper, Taylor silently cursed the tree roots they encountered. Three hours later, tired, sweaty and rain-soaked, they placed Stosh Kucinski’s body in a four-foot deep grave.

  Raindrops mixed with the tears that ran down Cathy's cheeks. "They hurt me, too, Daddy," she said in a small voice as she placed a bouquet of wild flowers and hemlock boughs on her father's body.

  Taylor offered up prayers vaguely remembered from his parents' funeral. In his mind, he said them for Vivian, too.

  Chris filled the grave, shoulders heaving between each shovel of dirt.

  Franny wept and said not a word.

  As Chris finished smoothing the top of the grave, a distant voice called, "Stosh, are you there, Stosh? It's me, Fred."

  Taylor grabbed his rifle.

  "Uncle Fred, over here." Chris waved at a group of people barely visible through the conifers.

  A heavily built man with black curly hair and a woman with long, dark hair approached. Two teenagers ran ahead to greet Chris and Cathy.

  "So, where's Stosh?" The man gestured with his thumb at Taylor. "Who's this guy?"

  "Um." Chris gulped and looked at the ground. "Dad's dead."

  "Huh? What did you say?"

  "Dad's dead." Chris' voice cracked.

  "Jesus Christ. What the hell happened?"

  No one spoke. Franny continued weeping.

  Chris pointed silently at the grave, eyes watering.

  "I'm Taylor MacPherson. I don't know the details, but these folks have been through a terrible experience."

  "I'm Fred Del Corso and this is my wife, Maria." His mouth tightened. "What did you say your name was?"

  "Taylor MacPherson. I'd like to help.”

  "Oh, yeah?" His frown deepened. "Like how?"

  "First, we’ve got to get away from here."

  "What's wrong with using this here Nature Center?"

  "It isn't safe - it's too close to the road. And..." Taylor took a deep breath. "It's got too many bad memories. Stosh was killed here. Franny saw it happen." He pointed toward the grave. "We just finished burying him."

  "My God." Fred's weather-beaten face went pale. "Stosh, poor Stosh. He was a good man, he was good to Franny.” His voice choked. “She's my sister," he said.

  "Let's go to my camp." Taylor pointed up the hill. "We can talk there.” He hesitated. “I need to eat something."

  "What about all the stuff Stosh said he’d bring?"

  "The van's gone," Chris said. "With everything in it."

  "Aw, no," Fred said. "I got robbed, too."

  Taylor felt weak and almost irritable. He knew he needed food. "Let's go. I’m sure you’re hungry and I haven’t eaten today," he said. "I've got meat thawing and I've got to cook it before it spoils."

  "All right," Fred said. "Let's go." He gestured to his family. "C'mon, Fran," he said softly. "Let's go." He slipped his hand into hers. "Freddy will take care of you."

  Chapter 6

  First Steps

  At the camp on top of the Hill, Taylor sent the teenagers to get plastic trashcans from the Park below. “Stay out of sight,” he said.

  In a large stew pot, he browned venison and onions for the meal. Once finished he looked up, eyes still watering from the onions, he saw Franny shivering. Her jeans and red cotton shirt were ripped and pinned together. He went to his Jeep and got jeans, a wool shirt and a sweater. "Here." Taylor handed them to her. "Put these on."

  Franny stared blankly at the clothing.

  Maria whispered in her ear and led her into the pine grove.

  The rain returned.

  Taylor got out a roll of clear plastic, and with Fred's help, erected an awning. While they worked, Taylor learned the Del Corso family had been robbed on Mastick Road while coming to join the Kucinskis at the Nature Center.

  As Taylor decided he’d cooked the meat enough to eat, the youngsters returned with two empty trashcans, which they scrubbed with water that ran off the plastic awning. They put the trashcans under the awning to catch water.

  Taylor ladled the venison stew into bowls. After the first bite, he realized the meat hadn't been cooked long enough, for it was still chewy and had a gamy taste. Nevertheless, after he’d eaten, all came back for more and emptied the pot.

  "Where're we gonna stay?" Fred waved his hand in the direction of the pine grove. "There ain't no place up here."

  "You put this together in less than an hour." Taylor pointed at the awning. "It's keeping us dry."

  Already condensation had formed on the inside of the plastic sheeting.

  "Let's get this stuff cleared away," Taylor said. "Then we'll figure out how to get comfortable."

  Fred nodded. "Say, where's the crapper? I gotta go."

  "There aren't any toilets up here. Here's a shovel." Taylor realized that sanitation had become more important with additional people. "When you get back, let's get a latrine dug. We don't want this area getting smelly."

  "Yeah, okay. Just gimme the damn shovel, I really gotta go." He grabbed the shovel and hurried into the trees.

  Before light faded, Taylor erected his pop-up tent and insisted Franny and Cathy use it to get some privacy. Fred and the teenagers spent the night under the awning.

  #

  By morning, the rain ceased. Under a sky the color of worn asphalt, silvery mist floated among the mossy-barked trees by the river. Birds sang their Springtime arias.

  Taylor watched his breath steam. Well, he thought. So much for the warm spell. He made coffee on the camp stove.

  "I want to get even with those punks on Mastick Road. They took my van and all our stuff." Fred waved his coffee cup, spilling a few drops. "If they didn't have guns, I'd have kicked the shit out of them.”

  "Let it go," Taylor said. "Wait until law and order is restored." He wasn’t sure when that would happen.

  "Bullshit," Fred said. "Just gimme a gun. I know you've got more than one. I want our stuff back."

  "Think about it," Taylor said. "You want to go up against men armed with Uzis, or whatever?"

  "Well, I don't intend to let punks rob me and get away with it. If you don't want to help me, I'll do it on my own. No one messes with Fred Del Corso an' gets away with it." He spat on the ground. "No one." He stared through thick black eyebrows as though challenging Taylor.

  Taylor looked around the camp. The last of the venison was simmering in a large pot. It no longer seemed like he’d brought all that much food. Eight mouths sure go through it fast, he thought. All of his spare clothing and bedding had gone to the Kucinskis and the Del Corsos. "Yeah, well, I guess it would get under your skin. How d'you figure on getting your stuff back?"

  Fred frowned. "Mebbe I'll go at night and surprise them."

  "Well, if you really want it back," Taylor said. "I've got an idea. Here's what I think we should do...”

  #

  "Are you sure this’s the house?" Taylor asked. "I can't make out any details." Not a light showed on Mastick Road. “There’s no lights in this neighborhood.”

  "Yeah, it’s like that in the city, too. Haven’t seen a thing that looks like a repair crew from the electric c
ompany, either.” Fred pointed, “See the chain across the road? And those funny-looking windows?" The pre-dawn light revealed the outline of a brick ranch-style house with an attached garage and shuttered windows. "I noticed them when they made me pull my van around back. Yeah, I'm sure." There was almost a growl in his voice.

  "Let's use those trees." Taylor pointed to a row of hemlock with low-hanging boughs in an adjacent driveway. "We can see both the front and the rear of the house from there. Now, it's up to young Chris to do his part."

  "She's a helluva kid," Fred said.

  "She? I thought Chris was a boy."

  "Yeah, well she's kind of a tomboy." Fred frowned. "You see, Stosh always wanted a son. He took Chris with him when he went hunting and stuff like that. Chris ain't..." He hesitated. "Well, she's kinda tall and not real well developed in a feminine way."

  They slid beneath the hemlock, each using a trunk for cover. "Does she have a medical problem?" Taylor felt like he was prying.

  "Naw," Fred said. "It's just that she looks like a beanpole compared to her sister, Cathy. She tries to make up for it by being good in sports. She's a tough kid.”

  As the sky brightened, Fred chambered a shell in the shotgun and sighted in on the front door. "Just like hunting deer from a blind," he said. "Except this is personal."

  Taylor checked his rifle. Is there going to be more bloodshed? Maybe. He found that the idea was not only acceptable, but also exciting. What's happening to me? He realized he had a reservoir of anger that was threatening to burst loose.

  The Jeep appeared and stopped at the chain stretched across the road. Chris got out of the Jeep and slammed its door. She crouched down behind the vehicle and pulled on the chain. It rattled. She jerked the chain again.

  Moments later, three men emerged from the house. "Hold it right there," one of the men called. He pointed a short, stubby, gun with a long magazine at the Jeep. "Don't move."

  "Freeze," Taylor yelled. "We've got you covered."

  "What the...?" The man with the assault weapon fired on full automatic. Holes stitched into the Jeep's side. Glass shattered. Chris was nowhere in sight.

  "You son-of-a-bitch." Fred pulled the trigger.

  The shotgun boomed.

  "Take that, you bastard."

  The man with the assault weapon stumbled and fell. The two other men turned, firing their handguns. Bark and branches splintered, showering Fred with debris.

  Taylor aimed at a man with a handgun and squeezed the trigger. The man dropped his gun, grabbed his leg and collapsed. The shotgun boomed again. The third man staggered backward, holding his arm as he sagged to the ground screaming.

  Taylor jumped up. "Fred, cover me. I'm going inside to see if there are any more." He remembered what happened to the intruders in his own home. If there's someone inside, it’s still dangerous. It took him ten minutes to go through every room in the house, entering each with the rifle ready. No one else was there. "It's all clear," Taylor called from the doorway.

  "See what they had?" Fred pointed at the assault weapon.

  "Sheez," Taylor said. "We were lucky." He put the MAC-10 assault rifle in the Jeep and beckoned Chris. "Keep an eye on these guys." He gave her a semi-automatic handgun. "If they give you any trouble, shoot them." He pointed at the three men. They looked up, each with the slack-faced look of shock, eyes wide with fear. They’d heard him.

  "Not a problem." Chris raised a handgun and pointed it.

  "Fred, let's see what else they've got."

  Behind the house, they found Fred’s van, which was still filled with his possessions. They discovered gasoline cans in the garage, from which they filled the tanks in both the Jeep and Fred's van.

  "Someone's coming," Chris called. She pointed to a group of people gathering across the street, none of whom had guns.

  After a few moments, a tall, gray-bearded man with a long-hooked nose stepped forward. He stopped a dozen paces from Fred.

  "What's going on?" the gray-bearded man said.

  "These guys robbed me yesterday. I came back and took what was mine," Fred called. "Who're you?"

  "John Wylie, I live down the street. Can we talk?"

  “Sure, come on over," Fred said. "We've got no quarrel with you. We're about done here." He kept his gun ready.

  "Can we have them?" Wylie pointed to the prisoners.

  "Sure," Taylor said. "We're done with them." He felt a sense of relief; the men needed medical attention, and soon.

  "Thanks, you did us a favor getting them off our backs." Wylie turned to the group at the street. "Hey, Colagrossi, you got the tool of justice?"

  "Sure." Colagrossi held a coil of rope with a noose.

  Taylor shivered in apprehension. Lord, he thought. Are they going to hang them? "Wylie, it's none of my business, but what're you going to do to these men?"

  Wylie crossed his arms. "What we're doing isn't much different from what you did." He scrunched up his face. "You got your stuff back without any of the legal niceties."

  "Well, yes, that's true," Taylor said. "What you're doing seems...” He struggled for the word. "Well, it’s barbaric."

  "Barbaric, eh?" Wylie's mouth tightened into a thin line. "These bastards killed two of my friends. They ran our neighborhood like it belonged to them. They took what they wanted, including our women." He wagged a finger at Taylor. "Believe me, hanging’s too good for them."

  "I see." At that moment, Taylor realized his earlier encounter with neighborhood toughs had not been unique.

  The first time a man bounced and struggled at the end of the rope, he felt queasy, almost like he'd become soiled, dirty. It gave him a feeling it was a lynching. When the memory came back about what had happened to his neighbor and his encounter with those who’d broken into his home, a cold hardness seized his heart. Screw ‘em, he thought. They deserve it.

  Wylie approached Taylor. “Where’re you from?" he asked.

  "We’re staying in the Metropark," Taylor said.

  "You in the Nature Center?"

  "We're camped on the top of Indian Hill.”

  "Really? Kinda exposed, isn't it?" Wylie cleared his throat. "Um, er, we need guns. To defend ourselves."

  "You want these?" Taylor pointed to the guns and ammunition they’d found in the hoodlums' house. He’d only taken the MAC-10 assault weapon and its ammo; the rest were stacked against the front steps.

  "Sure. Hey, one good turn deserves another. D’you want some building materials?" Wylie pointed to a burned out house down the street. "There's plywood out back. No one’s been there in a couple of months."

  "Thanks," Taylor said. "Hey, Fred," he called. "Wylie says there's some plywood over there. Can we use it?"

  "Yeah, sure can."

  "Thanks. Well, got to get moving," Taylor said.

  "Thanks for the guns," Wylie said.

  #

  The next day, Taylor finished sorting through his supplies. He pointed to the stack of cans and bags. "Fred, this’s all the food I've got. It’ll last a week or so." He’d figured that he’d brought enough food for at least a couple of months.

  "Well, JB’s has loads of food." Fred referred to a warehouse-style store that sold food and general merchandise.

  "Oh, sure. I wonder if they'll take my credit card?"

  "Y’think I'm being funny?" Fred said. "JB’s was full of stuff a week ago. Then a buncha hoodlums took it over."

  "Are you serious?"

  "Yeah." Fred nodded. "Thugs with guns chased me off last week when I tried to stop to get stuff. I didn't see them last time I drove by."

  "Want to do a little midnight shopping?"

  "What've you got in mind?" Fred’s eyebrows rose with a quick smile. “Something similar to our last excursion?”

  Taylor nodded, “Why not?”

  #

  Lights off, Fred drove his van slowly through deserted streets. A full moon peeked through scattered clouds. Not a house was lit up. "I hope you're right about this," Fred said, now nervous. "We
ain't exactly an army."

  "If it's guarded, we leave, okay?" Taylor said.

  "Yeah, you’ve got that right," Fred said as he pulled the van in behind the gas station at the far end of JB’s parking lot.

  “I don’t see anyone,” Chris said.

  The giant, windowless concrete building was dark. Moon shadows drifted over the parking lot.

  A half-hour later, they drove into the shadow of the building and stopped at a rear door. Taylor shielded the light with his body as he examined the steel roll-up door. Tire tracks ran under the door. "It's got a padlock," he said. "Fred, get the cutters."

  "Move your skinny ass outta my way," Fred said, wielding a set of bolt cutters. "This's man's work." He flexed the bolt cutter. The padlock’s hasp gave way with a dull crack.

  Taylor inched the door open. He lay down and peered under it. All was dark, silent. "Let's get the van in. Move it." As Fred drove the van into the warehouse, Taylor boosted Chris on top of an overflowing trash container.

  Lord, he thought, have we fallen from grace so fast? Or have we always been savages, never mind our technological brilliance and high fashion? He looked up at Chris sitting on trash, probably scared stiff. There was no one else to serve as lookout. He handed her a Colt rifle. He knew if she had to use it, its loud noise would penetrate even the walls of the building. "Chris, keep watch and be careful." Taylor worried about her being out here alone. "We'll be back in about an hour. Okay?" Dear Lord, keep her safe.

  "I hear you." Chris looked tensely over her shoulder.

  #

  Later, after Taylor and Fred had filled the van with food and supplies, Taylor slipped out the door adjacent to the overhead door. He saw a rifle pointing at him from the trash container. "It's me, Taylor," he said quietly.

  "There're men coming." Chris's voice was up an octave. "They're due here any time now." She pointed down the eastside of the building. "It sounds like they just came on duty."

  "We'll have to outwait them." Taylor clambered into the trash container to join Chris. “How many?” he whispered.

  "Two," Chris said in a low voice, holding up two fingers. "They don't know I'm here," she said. "They're just around the corner." She pointed to a corner a hundred yards distant.