“What does that even mean?” I asked.
“A sniper.”
I laughed. “Good one. But seriously, do you really have some asshole hiding in the trees somewhere?”
“I was hiding,” a woman’s voice called out.
I turned to see her, about mid-thirties, dressed in camo. I recognized the face; I remember pretty much every woman in Cochrane who falls into a certain… uh, range.
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying not to laugh again.
“I know,” she said, “I look ridiculous.”
“No… you look pretty good, actually. I certainly didn’t notice you when we were coming in.”
She chuckled. “That’s because I was in the camper taking a piss.” She pulled off a glove and held out her hand. “I’m Katie,” she said. “Don’t worry… I washed my hands, more or less.”
I shook hands with her. “I’m Robert Jeanbaptiste,” I said with a smile. “Please don’t ever call me Bob.”
She laughed. “Don’t worry, Baptiste… I know who you are. There’s a photo of you on my father’s dartboard, right next to the Biebers.”
I glanced over to Livingston.
“Dave’s daughter,” he said.
“And to think I was starting to like her.”
She gave me a friendly shove.
“So where’s the rest of your team?” I asked her, glad to have someone other than Livingstone to ask.
“They’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“They’ve already started, haven’t they.”
She seemed to hesitate. “No…”
“We forgot to bring up some stuff for the camper,” Livingston said. “So we sent a truck back to grab it.”
I knew him well enough that I assumed he was lying. Fisher Livingston had once made a living doing just that. And for a while back then I’d put up with it, always pretending that I’d never noticed.
And as much as I didn’t want to, I decided to start pretending again, at least for the time being. I wanted to wait and see exactly how Livingston and the Walkers were screwing us.
The rest of the Walkers’ complement arrived within the half-hour, pulling up in their little electric van. We helped them unload some boxes of food and equipment for the camper.
I guess Livingston had been telling the truth; they came up the same way we’d come. Even a stopped clock is right twice a day, and Livingston’s still an asshole.
With the van emptied, one of the new arrivals, who looked like a younger Dave Walker, hopped in the grain truck with Livingston without giving us more than a glance, while the other, a tall native man with a long ponytail, joined up with us at the roadblock.
As the two scavenging trucks drove away, I offered the man my hand.
“Good to meet you, Baptiste,” he said.
“I think we’ve met before,” I said, trying to place him. My first thought was that I’d seen him around New Post. “So you live with the Walkers?”
“I work for the Walkers.”
“Like Livingston.”
He chuckled. “Yeah,” he said, “like Livingston.”
“So which one of you is dressing up in our extra gear?” Justin asked.
“I’m still planning on cowering in the trees if anyone comes,” Katie said. “So I guess that leaves Sky.”
“Sky?”
“That’s me,” the native man said. “I like to think it’s a badass name.”
“It’s pretty badass,” I said.
“So do we just stand around here waiting for something to happen?” Justin asked.
“We usually sit in the camper,” Sky said. “The kitchenette faces out to the road, so it’s not like we’ll miss someone coming.”
I turned to look at Katie.
She grinned. “I have no problem with staying warm,” she said.
“Well… I think I have a problem with it,” I said.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Justin said.
“If someone wanted to take out a roadblock, they’d either come at us full on with superior force, or they’d sneak up on us on foot. If I was going to do it, I’d go with an ambush.”
“And staring out at the road might not do us any good,” Katie said. “Mr. Baptiste, I’m glad you’re here.”
“I like you.”
“But we’ll take shifts, right?” Justin asked.
“Two shifts,” I said. “One Walker with one whatever the hell we call ourselves.” I looked over to Katie. “What do people call us?”
She laughed. “Did you want the polite version?”
“Let’s stick with that, yeah.”
“My father calls you guys ‘Baptiste’s crew’. Well, ‘F-ing Baptiste’, usually.”
“Are you serious?” Justin said. “That’s ridiculous. I’ve always called us ‘The Justin Porter Gang’.”
“Who’s Justin Porter?” Katie asked. I’m not sure she was joking.
Justin chuckled. “Ouch,” he said.
“Just kidding… I’ve seen you around. If you really want, we can all think you’re badass, too.”
“I am badass.”
“I believe you,” I said. “That’s why you and Sky should take the first shift.”
Katie made us some instant coffee and we sat down at the kitchenette in the musty camper. It was one of the older styles, bulky and fully furnished, from the days when people thought it made perfect sense to try and put a house on wheels. I’d never actually been in that kind of camper before; growing up we lived by my father’s rule that camping always had to involve a tent, and for whatever reason I’d kept the tradition alive with Cassy while Alanna stayed home with the indoor plumbing and frozen pizza.
“My father says some pretty strange things about you, Baptiste,” Katie said as she dumped several tons of sweetener into her mug.
“He thinks I’m an asshole. I think he’s right.”
“I like assholes… they’re the only people who know how to get things done.”
“So you’re an asshole, too?”
“Nah… I’m a treat. I just, like, admire you guys from afar.”
I laughed.
She smiled and gave me a look that I knew well enough. I guess there’s something alluring about men your father can’t stand.
“I’m a little surprised that you’re out here,” I said.
“Sorry… I didn’t realize shooting people was men’s work.”
“I guess that sounded bad… it’s more that you’re Dave Walker’s little girl.”
“His little girl, eh? Wow… facetious and flattering. You know that I’m like older than this camper, right?”
“And only half as musty.”
“Ha! Well, truth is my father doesn’t really like me being here. But my little brother Zach’s just gone up the road with Fisher, so it wouldn’t make sense to tell me I can’t help out. And let’s face it… my life is pretty damned boring. I basically just sit around all day.”
“Yeah, right. I’m sure there’s never any work to do.”
“You’d be surprised. I don’t like to get my hands dirty, or my fingernails scuffed…”
“But seriously… what are things like for you guys?”
“It was harder last winter. Especially since it went on until, like, June. And it was just the six of us trying to run a farm. When we first took it over I didn’t know which end of the chicken lays the eggs.”
“You guys have grown since then… how did you manage it?”
“Same way you guys have… people show up and ask to be a part of the group. Sometimes it feels like we’re not getting things quite right, but compared to most people we’re killing it.”
“What about indentures?”
She began to look uncomfortable. “What about them?” she asked.
“Do you have any?” I already knew the answer.