The Coalition: Part II The Lord Of The Living (COALITON OF THE LIVING Book 2) by Robert Mathis Kurtz Page B
Authors: Robert Mathis Kurtz
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rain.
“Look,” he finally said. “I’ve been through worse than this up here.” He was lying, but it was a white one. He had to make them feel better. “We just need to sit tight and go about our business.” He smiled and pulled at the bag of leaves that Jean had brought with them from the streets. “The poke salad! You’re supposed to show us how to cook poke salad,” he reminded her.
“Yes, you’re right,” she sighed. “I’d better get busy, because you have to wash the heck out of it.”
“Why is that?” Oliver asked.
“Because if you don’t wash it and boil it right then , it’s poisonous.”
“Poison?” Ron and Oliver reacted in unison, and although she eventually set heaping spoonful’s of boiled poke salad on their plates, neither did more than pick at the stuff.
**
During the night, the storm continued. It roared at them, and even Ron was worried that the walls or roof might not hold up. The building he’d chosen was as solid as any, but it was exposed up there to the full force of those winds. Moreover, he was worried about the shed he’d put together where he poured his molten lead, made his bullets, and kept his gunpowder. What if it was pushed down? What if all of his propane, burners, and chemicals were tossed over, turned to trash and muck? If those things happened, then he’d be forced to find replacements for it all, and he didn’t want to think of what he’d have to go through to put that collection of tools back together.
As the hours passed , they all tossed and turned, sleeping together in one big bed on the floor of the main room. Jean had thought it best that they huddle together as long as that storm raged, and Ron figured she was right on that count. Oliver had almost regressed in many ways from the stoic, almost-adult he’d been when they’d brought him in, to something akin to a very young boy, now that he was safe among a pair of foster-parents. In the dim shadows, Ron would open his eyes occasionally to see Jean hugging the boy to her, or running her hands through his hair. He smiled.
And then, very early in the morning, when it seemed the storm had finally vented, the winds had become even more powerful. Ron had not thought that possible. But there it was, the sounds of the winds like a vast machine roaring all around them, like a monster gnawing at the fabric of the place, trying to consume all matter.
They were all sitting up. Ron almost reached for one of his guns, but realized that was a stupid gesture and did his best to get a grip on his emotions. “I think it’s a tornado,” he decided to tell the others, to face the truth. His words were almost muffled beneath the earthquake screaming of that wind. They could hear things being torn, being tossed. Heavy things were tossed solidly around, some of them striking the walls of the house, landing like heavy fists battering against those walls, trying to get in. Ron hoped that he was not losing his propane sources. It had taken him a long time and a lot of effort to scrounge those heavy bottles of liquefied gas. The stuff was precious to him and he wished he had been able to bring at least a few of them inside.
But, almost as quickly as those monstrous winds had appeared, they tapered off until there was nothing but a small patter of rain on the roof. The winds were gone.
“Oh, thank God,” Jean said. She turned to Ron and kissed him on the lips, then leaned and kissed the top of Oliver’s head. “Thank God,” she repeated.
“I’m glad that’s over,” Ron whispered, afraid that if he spoke too loud the wind might hear him and come back. “Now, let’s get some real sleep,” he told them.
Finally, they were able to close their eyes, and sleep and exhaustion met them in agreement and sent them into soft, cool dreams.
**
“Who wants country ham and pancakes?”
Ron opened his eyes and blinked the sleep from them. He sat up and peered around, seeing Oliver just stirring and rubbing at his
“Look,” he finally said. “I’ve been through worse than this up here.” He was lying, but it was a white one. He had to make them feel better. “We just need to sit tight and go about our business.” He smiled and pulled at the bag of leaves that Jean had brought with them from the streets. “The poke salad! You’re supposed to show us how to cook poke salad,” he reminded her.
“Yes, you’re right,” she sighed. “I’d better get busy, because you have to wash the heck out of it.”
“Why is that?” Oliver asked.
“Because if you don’t wash it and boil it right then , it’s poisonous.”
“Poison?” Ron and Oliver reacted in unison, and although she eventually set heaping spoonful’s of boiled poke salad on their plates, neither did more than pick at the stuff.
**
During the night, the storm continued. It roared at them, and even Ron was worried that the walls or roof might not hold up. The building he’d chosen was as solid as any, but it was exposed up there to the full force of those winds. Moreover, he was worried about the shed he’d put together where he poured his molten lead, made his bullets, and kept his gunpowder. What if it was pushed down? What if all of his propane, burners, and chemicals were tossed over, turned to trash and muck? If those things happened, then he’d be forced to find replacements for it all, and he didn’t want to think of what he’d have to go through to put that collection of tools back together.
As the hours passed , they all tossed and turned, sleeping together in one big bed on the floor of the main room. Jean had thought it best that they huddle together as long as that storm raged, and Ron figured she was right on that count. Oliver had almost regressed in many ways from the stoic, almost-adult he’d been when they’d brought him in, to something akin to a very young boy, now that he was safe among a pair of foster-parents. In the dim shadows, Ron would open his eyes occasionally to see Jean hugging the boy to her, or running her hands through his hair. He smiled.
And then, very early in the morning, when it seemed the storm had finally vented, the winds had become even more powerful. Ron had not thought that possible. But there it was, the sounds of the winds like a vast machine roaring all around them, like a monster gnawing at the fabric of the place, trying to consume all matter.
They were all sitting up. Ron almost reached for one of his guns, but realized that was a stupid gesture and did his best to get a grip on his emotions. “I think it’s a tornado,” he decided to tell the others, to face the truth. His words were almost muffled beneath the earthquake screaming of that wind. They could hear things being torn, being tossed. Heavy things were tossed solidly around, some of them striking the walls of the house, landing like heavy fists battering against those walls, trying to get in. Ron hoped that he was not losing his propane sources. It had taken him a long time and a lot of effort to scrounge those heavy bottles of liquefied gas. The stuff was precious to him and he wished he had been able to bring at least a few of them inside.
But, almost as quickly as those monstrous winds had appeared, they tapered off until there was nothing but a small patter of rain on the roof. The winds were gone.
“Oh, thank God,” Jean said. She turned to Ron and kissed him on the lips, then leaned and kissed the top of Oliver’s head. “Thank God,” she repeated.
“I’m glad that’s over,” Ron whispered, afraid that if he spoke too loud the wind might hear him and come back. “Now, let’s get some real sleep,” he told them.
Finally, they were able to close their eyes, and sleep and exhaustion met them in agreement and sent them into soft, cool dreams.
**
“Who wants country ham and pancakes?”
Ron opened his eyes and blinked the sleep from them. He sat up and peered around, seeing Oliver just stirring and rubbing at his
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