Page 17 of Wilde's End
I have more than enough money for both, but I try to avoid spending it on everyday supplies where I can. That money is for emergencies, and I hate touching a cent of it.
If these brothers wanted to live here and follow our way oflife, we’d have no issue with welcoming them to our neighborhood. But as one year bleeds into the next, I’ve learned to read people, and those guys are trouble. They’ve got plans, and I highly doubt their plans match up with what we want for Wilde’s End.
It’s not even about me.
I didn’t make this town. I didn’t claim it. I was welcomed here, same as everyone else, and it gave me a new start, which is why I renamed myself after it.
I’ve been here for so long now that most people forget the town came first.
I need to do whatever I can, whatever I have to, in order to protect our home.
At least one of the brothers leaves every day around eight, and if I want that road blocked before he’s back, I don’t have time to waste.
The first person I hunt down is Rooney, who joins me without question before we head down to the doctor’s place together. It doubles as a med clinic and surgery space and we jokingly call this place the chop shop because Dr. Booker has an off-putting fascination with blood.
“This is a pretty sight,” Booker says when we pull up. He’s about the same height as Rooney and has messy brown hair and brown eyes that always have a sadistic spark to them. He turns those eyes on me. “Who’s injured?”
“No one, but I’m sure you’ve heard by now about the brothers in Old End?”
“I have. Been thinking about paying them a visit.”
This is exactly what I don’t want. Wilde’s End is reasonably cut off from the rest of the world, and some of the people who live here, like Booker and Lynx, never venture out into civilization. I only do when I strictly have to. Because of that avoidance,they’re … different. We understand it around here, but guys from the city wouldn’t, and the last thing we need is for rumors to get out about the town and the people who live here.
We’re left alone. Allowed to exist.
That’s literally all we want in life.
“No need,” I say, cutting that thought off before it can form. “I did last night. Told them to get out of our town, and from the looks of it, they’re not going to take my warning. So we’re going down there to barricade the road.”
I can feel Rooney’s gaze on my face because I hadn’t told him that part yet.
“We have Peril next week,” Rooney points out. “How will people get here if they can’t use the road?”
“The brothers won’t last that long. Once they’re gone, we’ll remove the barricade again.” My mind flashes back to the man’s answer this morning. “Otherwise, Booker will have to get the word out that we’ll be using Hobby Straight this time.”
“You want people driving that road in the dark?”
“We don’t have a lot of other options.”
Booker’s face is delighted. He’s got chubby pink cheeks and this childlike air of innocence about him, which is at complete odds with the way I’ve seen him cut through skin like it’s butter. “If anyone goes off Hobby Straight, you know I’m happy to help.”
“Oh, we know.” I point to the truck. “Get in. Between the boulders by the hill and those two trees the Pickards brought down the other day, we should be able to cut off access from that road completely.”
“You know how I feel about manual labor,” Booker says, but he climbs up into my truck anyway. Rooney follows him, and once I get back in on the driver’s side, we’re off.
It takes us an hour to fill up the back of my truck, and I worrythat it’s dangerously overweight, but it holds out as we make our way to the lookout. The car is gone from Old End like I knew it would be, but missing is the sound of people hard at work, echoing up the hill. Did they all go? I strain for any sign of life, but there’s nothing.
I get back onto the dirt road that leads to the sealed one and drive through the old town, taking note of how everything is shut up tight. I’d almost think that they’d come to their senses if it wasn’t for the three camping chairs, sitting vacant around the foldout table cluttered with a cooktop and a range of utensils.
I stop the car suddenly and unclip my seat belt. “Hold on a second,” I tell the others before climbing out.
No one confronts me, so I walk straight over to their things, grab the cooktop, and toss it into the passenger-side footwell. I’d like to see them wanting to stay with no way to cook their food.
“You good?” Rooney asks, voice suppressing a laugh.
“That’s mine now.”
“Glad to see you’re not taking this personally.”
