Chapter Text
“Okay, you got two options,” I point out darkly. “Either you sneak out the way you came in before Crazy Dog sees you, or I can hide you for a couple of days…”
When he doesn’t reply, I end up raising my hands, implying: What’s it gonna be, Troy?
Truth is, I’m not even sure he’d be able to give me a proper reply even if he knew the answer himself, considering the shape he’s in. Dusty clothes, dirty skin, messy hair – and a dull look in his eyes that really makes me question his sanity, aside from all the crazy bullshit he’s been driveling so far. He’s dehydrated and sleep-deprived. Whatever’s happened to him out there in the desert, it couldn’t have been good. All the more a miracle he’s still alive.
And of course, unsurprisingly, the only thing I get for an answer is a wicked smile. “There is a third way,” he informs me ominously, and the world goes upside down in an instant.
With a hasty gesture, the door is being shut in my face, the key turned around with a clicking sound.
My first impulse is to roll my eyes, like: Do you really wanna play that childish game now? But in the back of my head, I’m already aware that this moment might well be anything but a game, rather a dangerous twist of fate that might have severe implications, even without him spelling it out.
“In a few hours, this whole place is gonna be obliterated…”
He starts rambling something about him wanting me to get Jake to show him this beast he’s been babbling about, but I’m not even listening. My fingers locking around the door handle, I start rattling, struggling to get inside.
“Open up. Open the door, Troy,” I demand, voice deep and commanding, as I try to cover up the panic that’s slowly but surely starting to stir inside me, clouding my rational judgement.
Obliterated? By a beast? What the hell is he talking about? Has he gone nuts out there alone in the desert? And how am I supposed to fight a threat I don’t even have the slightest clue about on what it actually is?!
No use. The door won’t budge.
And Troy vanishes in the darkness.
Fuck this!
I’ve started heading for the backdoor before I even fully realize what’s happening. This is a moment of fate, a tipping point in all our lives – that’s the only thing I’m sure of. I mustn’t mess this up. If I do, we’ll pay for it dearly.
I’m just about to hoist myself over the rail of the porch, when all of a sudden I realize that messing up might be exactly what I’m about to do here. This is Troy Otto we’re talking about. He considers himself smart. Smarter than others. He analyses and predicts people. So if I want to take him on, I’ll have to stop thinking like myself. I’ll have to think like Troy Otto. And Troy Otto would anticipate what Nick Clark would do.
He would predict my next steps.
Letting out a short breath, I stop in the middle of my movement, and instead of swinging my legs over the rail, I lower myself back on the porch. It’s risky, I’m aware. I’m going for broke here and if I’m wrong, the consequences will be grave. But at the same time, a voice inside me tells me I’m right.
Softly, slowly, my bare feet silent on the wooden floor, I make my way back to the entrance, positioning myself right next to the locked door, pressing my back against the wall as closely as possible, to make sure he won’t spot me from any of the windows.
It’s ridiculous, I know. Chances are he’s vanished through the backdoor – now unguarded – and is already long gone, while I’m lying in wait here for a door that’s never gonna open, like the most pathetic secret agent in all of history.
Only, as it turns out, my intuition has been exactly right. Not even five seconds later, I hear a quiet rustling behind the door, then a key is turned.
I throw myself at Troy as soon as the door is opened, tackling him to the ground, and the next thing I know is we’re both lying on the floor in the foyer, me with a grip on his collar, holding him down.
Troy’s so perplexed at my predicting him, he’s unable to put up much of a fight at first, but it doesn’t take long until he’s regained his composure. No matter how beat and shocked and sleep-depraved he actually may be at that very moment, he still manages to crack one of his wicked smiles.
“Smart move, Nicky, very smart,” he hisses at me cynically. “I’m proud of you.”
“You’re not leaving until you’ve told me what all of this is about,” I growl at him darkly, tightening my grip on his shirt as if to stress my point.
“Oh, I’d love to stay, really,” he assures me quickly, “but I’m afraid duty calls… The shepherd needs to return to his herd – otherwise the flock will get lost…”
“What are you talking about?” I demand again. “That beast from the desert you’re talking about… A herd of sheep?!” None of it makes any sense.
As soon as I say this, however, there’s a flicker in Troy’s eyes, a tiny spark of joy, as he grins back at me. “Nah… no sheep…” is the last thing I hear, before I’m knocked back by a hard blow against my temple.
The impact hits me so hard the world starts spinning for a second and I feel Troy topple me over to break free from underneath me.
He’s back on his feet in an instant, this time actually hurrying for the backdoor.
I force myself to regain my balance, immediately taking up the chase. I nearly trip over the plant pot that must be what Troy hurled at my head seconds ago.
Under normal circumstances – with Troy in full command of his mental faculties – I’m sure there would have been no way for me to corner him a second time, but unstable as he is after God knows how many days of being awake nonstop, he’s agitated and jittery, and that gives me an advantage over him, despite my head thudding with pain.
I grab a handful of his shirt just as he’s about to reach the backdoor and try to wrestle him to the ground a second time, but this time – without any real element of surprise – he manages to keep his balance, trying to fight me off, but as he turns around to face me, I push him against the wall, right next to the open door of the laundry kitchen, hands on his arms to keep him from breaking free.
“There’s a herd of the undead coming this way,” I spell out what’s been going on in my mind ever since he made his last remark, “and you did nothing to stop it?!” I snarl at him, basically spitting the words in his face.
He doesn’t reply, just holds my eyes with that same crazy smile that’s been on his lips ever since he returned from the desert.
Holy shit… I think to myself, eyes widening as I suddenly realize the truth. He’s lost it. He’s totally lost it. This time for real.
The shepherd needs to return to his herd.
“You freaking led them–“ I don’t manage to finish that sentence, as the implications of it make my stomach turn. “How long, Troy?” I growl at him. “How long until they arrive here?!”
“Depends on how soon you let me go,” he counters, as if that was actually an option. “They aren’t sheep, but they aren’t much smarter either. They stop moving as soon as I stop guiding them – that’s why I couldn’t even take a short break to sleep.”
“You’re insane,” is all I manage to whisper, face now entirely pale. “You wanna get us all killed?!”
He gives me a helpless shrug. “I’m just getting back what is rightfully ours.” Then an encouraging nod. “Trust me, Nicky, you’re gonna thank me for it one day.”
This time, he doesn’t get me unprepared. I let go of him and pull back as soon as I realized he was about to knee me in the groin. Instead, I clench my fist and punch him in the face.
He curses and loses his balance for a moment, but spins round as soon as I come after him. His fist connects with my temple once again, the same spot that already had the pleasure of making the plant pot’s acquaintance, so for a moment, my vision blurs behind a veil of foggy stars. He’s merciless in taking advantage of my moment of weakness, as immediately it’s me, the one being thrown against the wall.
In the end, however, that was his critical mistake. The bottom of my shoe connects with the cold wall in my back, providing the perfect lever. Pushing myself off the wall with all my strength, I manage to shove him off me, my hands connecting with his shoulders to push, push him back, until he stumbles into the laundry kitchen, tripping backwards over cleaning buckets, clothes baskets and tins of detergent.
For me, it’s just a tiny flick of the wrist, removing the key from inside, pulling the door shut and locking the door from outside.
Then silence, and a sigh.
The shepherd won’t return to his herd anytime soon. Not on my watch.
***
The adrenaline still high in my blood, I find myself weak and shaky as I remain alone in the corridor, realizing with dread and relief that any immediate danger hopefully has been averted for now.
And yet. I can’t manage to wrap my head around everything that just happen, everything Troy’s just said, everything he’s done.
Maybe it’s all just a nightmare. Another one of my guilt-induced, tormenting horror visions that usually get me to startle out of my sleep, drenched with sweat, heart pounding.
But no. This is different. This is real. The throbbing pain in my head is proof.
Suddenly all beat and tired, I let myself slide down with my back against the laundry kitchen door, until I’m sitting there on the floor, forehead resting against my knees.
And Troy starts raging.
He’s throwing himself against the door time and again in an attempt to break free, each try an unsettling throb in my back that sends a little jolt through my body. He’s hammering against the door with his fist, cursing my name with a veritable gust of the crudest cusswords one could come up with.
He must have found something to (mis)use as a hammer, as eventually he rages so badly, I’m basically expecting him to break through the wall now anytime soon.
The outburst of fury lasts for about two minutes, then he must have exhausted his final energy reserves. I feel another thud against the door, this time however much softer, as if he was leaning against it as well, sliding down to sit there as my mirror image, us back to back, if it weren’t for the door.
“You done?” I ask eventually, once silence has settled over us.
There is no reply at first and I realize he’s startled to hear I’m still around. He must have assumed I’d left right after I’d turned the key.
“Nicky,” comes the reply, his voice now suddenly very, very tired. “Come on, let me out… The sheep need their shepherd, otherwise they’ll get lost…”
“Why would you do something like that?” is the only thing I ask. “Why would you risk killing everyone living here? All the ranchers, the people you’ve grown up with. Coop. Jake. You’re actually willing to lose everything.”
“I already have lost everything,” he replies after a while, voice now less shaky, but definitely darker. “My home, Madison, my brother… I have nothing to lose anymore.”
“In that order, I guess,” I murmur, suddenly frustrated.
“What?” He didn’t get that through the door.
“Nothing,” I whisper into the darkness. “Though for the record: You haven’t lost everything.” I don’t even know what prompted me to say it, but I do. Then I get up from the floor. And as if I could take a look at him through the door, I say over my shoulder: “You still got me.” A deep breath. “Not that I ever counted.”
With that, I turn around and leave my prisoner in the darkness and solitude of his makeshift prison cell.
I do return to the laundry room later, putting my ear against the door for a few minutes to listen, to make sure everything’s silent. He’s probably fast asleep, considering how sleep-depraved he was. Slowly, quietly, ready to be attacked at any second, I unlock the door, cursing the loud clicking sound that might have given me away. Opening the door slowly, I immediately spot him lying there curled up into a ball right in front of the door, breathing evenly, unaffected by my brief noise.
I can barely squeeze through the crack without the door touching him.
Then I drop him a cushion and a blanket, and set down two bottles of water next to him.
Dehydration can send you into some kind of frenzy. Or turn you into a living zombie. I remember that all too well. In the past, my grandma once drank too little, simply because she forgot about it (she was old). When we found her, she wasn’t even able to respond to our questions anymore and had gone into some kind of catatonic state. We brought her to the hospital and they gave her an infusion of pure water. After that, she went back to normal and everyone was happy again.
I hope it’s going to be as simple with Troy. I hope, once he’s slept and drank, he’ll come back to his senses. I hope then he can be reasoned with.
***
The next morning, I don’t even have to put my ear against the door to find out if Troy’s still asleep. There’s a clearly audible rustling going on inside and an even louder buzzing noise that sounds like… the washing machine running?!
I knock against the door. “Troy, you awake?”
The rustling immediately stops, then Troy’s voice can be heard through the door. “And so the dungeon master returns to check on his prisoner…”
“Don’t tell me you’re doing the laundry in there!” is all I reply, disbelieving.
“Well, it’s not like there’s much else to do,” he counters. “Besides, it’s good to change into a fresh set of clothes…”
Well, at least he sounds livelier than yesterday. Same effect the water had on my grandma. Which however also means I’ll have to be extra careful when letting him out…
I frown. “Uhm, you do realize the laundry in those baskets was still dirty?”
“Not compared to what I was wearing,” comes the reply.
No arguing that.
“It will do until my mission’s complete.”
And here I was, thinking he’d come back to his senses. “Jesus, Troy, cut the crap!” I counter. “There’s no mission! I won’t stand by doing nothing, and watch you raze our home to the ground.”
“It’s not really our home anymore,” Troy counters. “They took it from us – and now I’m gonna take it from them.”
I let out a hiss of frustration, pursing my lips as I growl: “So you’d rather have it destroyed than share it?” Shaking my head. “I once knew someone who had a really cool car, a Porsche. But instead of sharing it with his sister, he rather chose to wreck it.” And adding with a snort: “It was our little neighborhood boy – and he was four years old.”
For a short while, there’s silence on the other side of the door. Then Troy’s voice can be heard again. “We sacrificed so much to build this place. I’m not letting those assholes have it for free.”
I can’t help sighing. “I’d really hoped a few hours of sleep and two bottles of water would get your brain running again.”
“Oh, it’s running,” Troy replies nonchalantly. “I slept like a log – and I downed both bottles. Speaking of which. I really need to take a piss.”
“Why, it’s not like there’s a shortage of buckets in there,” I counter.
“Funny…”
“Whatcha gonna do once I let you out?” I ask then.
“Told you,” Troy replies. “Get back to my herd, naturally.”
That idiot… We’re going in circles, round and around again… It’s tiring. So with the next question I ask him outright: “What can I do to keep you from it?”
A chuckle this time. “Well, you can help me reclaim what’s rightfully ours… Then of course there won’t be no need to destroy this place anymore…”
He meant it as a joke, convinced I would never agree. But the cogs in my head have started turning.
“Okay,” I say bluntly, and silence returns to the laundry kitchen.
“Okay?” he eventually repeats, sounding truly taken aback.
“Okay,” I repeat. Turning around, I push one of the heavy wooden dressers in front of the door, just to make sure he won’t be able to shove the door in my face as soon as I unlock it.
So once I turn the key, the door opens a little and in the small crack his face appears. He does look better than yesterday, still beat and with dark circles around his eyes, but at least his eyes seem a little sharper today and the look on his face isn’t that of a complete madman anymore. He grins at me quickly, amused by my words.
“Nice try,” he comments.
“I’m serious,” I counter. “I’d rather chase a few people off the ranch than lose it all together. The militia will back us. They’ve been planning something like this all along.”
Now that gets him to prick his ears. “The militia?!” The grin vanishes from his face. “Tsk, who would have guessed. So they aren’t just a bunch of spineless cowards after all! I’m impressed.” Then his eyes lock back to mine. “So you’re serious about this, huh? You’ll actually help me? Chase the Indians off our land?”
“I’ll help you,” I lie, nodding at him with earnest eyes. All I want is to keep him in line for now. “But no more destructive missions or leading any herds of undead to the ranch.”
There it is again, the smirk. “No more prisoners in the laundry kitchen.”
“Deal,” I reply, holding his eyes for a moment, then I push the dresser back and the door swings open wide.
To my relief – even though I’d subconsciously taken a defensive position – I’m not attacked. Instead, Troy just steps out of the room and looks at me contently.
“So what’s the plan?” he wants to know.
I wriggle my nose as we’re suddenly standing so close. “How about I get us some breakfast and you head upstairs to take a shower? Unless your plan is to chase the Indians away with that stench of yours…”
***
One thing I like about the Otto house is that the kitchen window’s facing east. Whenever the sky’s clear and blue outside, the room’s bathed in a wonderful golden glow in the mornings.
I enjoy having breakfast here, the pleasant scent of coffee filling the room, while the first beams of sunlight touch my skin through the window and outside the ranch slowly starts to wake from its nightly slumber.
Considering the circumstances, the joy I take from my sacred morning ritual naturally feels a bit dampened today, but nevertheless, I appreciate this moment to take a little breather and think. With all the crazy events of last night and this morning, it’s been tricky to keep a clear head.
If what Troy said is correct and the herd he’s gathered indeed doesn’t move unless stimulated, I guess at least in that regard there is no immediate danger to the ranch. At least not as long as he’s here with me. So I guess until I come up with a better plan, my first and foremost priority has to be to keep him here, keep him hidden from everyone else’s eyes and keep him from doing anything stupid. Maybe then there is a chance that this whole mess will be getting some sort of happy ending after all.
“For the record…” It’s Troy’s voice that reaches me all of a sudden, bringing me back to reality.
Apparently, he’s finished with his shower. I notice his hair is still slightly damp, but the clothes he’s wearing now are actually fresh, as he joins me by the kitchen table, letting himself drop on the chair opposite me, before tossing me a bunch of bandages and gauze pads. “You do count,” he says, looking at me, and as if to prove his point, he puts his hand on the table, clenched to a fist at first, then he opens it.
I wince as I stare down at it: It’s swollen, reddened, blue almost, a nasty looking injury in the middle of his palm. The sight shocks me so much, I think I’m done with my breakfast already.
“Got this thanks to you,” Troy informs me, then nods at the dressing material on my lap, “so you’re gonna help me with the bandages now. It’s hard fixing it one-handed.”
Wordlessly, I reach for the disinfectant spray, then take his hand into mine and apply a few puffs. The sterile smell mixes with the scent of the freshly brewed coffee. The movement of my hand is stiff and awkward, as a tight lump in my throat makes it hard to breathe.
Yeah, I remember. Of course. His hand was injured when he deflected that knife coming at me the night of the shootout… But until now, I’d been convinced it had been nothing but a superficial cut. To think his hand was actually pierced…
I shudder as a shiver runs down my spine, then hastily press the gauze pad on it.
“What?” Troy asks, and I can feel his eyes on me. “Not too pretty, huh?”
“That’s not it,” I counter hastily. “I just don’t understand…” Shaking my head. “I mean…” Looking up at him and suddenly our eyes meet. “Why on earth would you do something so reckless?”
“Told you,” he replies with a shrug. “Because you count.”
For a moment, I’m unable to reply as I wrap the bandage around his hand, forcing myself to focus on my task, because I wouldn’t be able to look him in the eyes right now.
He’s crazy, he’s lost his mind in the desert – or possibly he’d already lost it way before that. He’s a twisted murderer, a cold-blooded killer.
And yet. In the past few weeks, he’s become my friend. And that friend had had his hand freaking impaled by a blade just to keep me from harm.
In all my life, no one has ever done anything even remotely comparable for me ever before. Never before did I have the impression I actually counted as much to anyone. And now, Troy of all people should be that person?
It feels weird, and unlikely. And yet.
For the first time ever since he showed up at the house with that ominous oracle of his, I don’t just wanna stop him anymore. I want to help him.
“Done,” I whisper absent-mindedly, letting go of his hand.
“Thanks,” Troy replies, clenching his fist and opening it again a few times, to check my work. “Feels much better.”
“Also looks much better,” I reply, and luckily that little joke does help a lot to lighten the mood for me again.
Troy reaches for the coffee pot, filling his mug, then starts buttering a slice of toast.
“So here’s the plan,” he eventually informs me. “As soon as we’re done here, you head out to get Coop and the others. We’ll gather them here and discuss our next steps to chase those intruders off our land.” A rapt smile starts curving his lips and he lets out a sigh. “Oh, I can’t wait to kick their asses back to their wigwams…”
I automatically clear my throat. “Well, I’m afraid that won’t be possible. We’ll have to wait a little. Coop and the militia are... out with Mom and Walker to search for water.” It’s a spontaneous idea, but it may not be the worst. What impresses me even more in that moment, however, is how easily that lie passes my lips. I’m getting good at this. Maybe too good…
Troy looks at me for a while, then frowns skeptically. “The entire militia?!”
I’m taking a huge bite off my own toast to cover my expression with extensive munching. “Yes.”
“Who’s protecting the ranch then?”
“Walker’s people.” I lie again. I swallow my bite, then look at him with an earnest face. “I’m sorry, Troy, but at the moment, we don’t have many allies here. I suggest we lay low for a few days, get back our strength, work on a plan. I’m sure they won’t be gone for too long. And as soon as they return…”
“Fine,” Troy says, to my surprise. “We’ll wait.”
***
Wait, of course, is a relative term. Naturally, it doesn’t take long until Troy starts roaming the house, getting impatient, itching for something to do, something to engage in, something to pass the time with while waiting for the big moment to happen.
Around eleven, I find him inspecting the damage caused by the shoot-out, the bullet holes and the cracked window panes, all the ways his own home had been harmed in his futile fight for the weapons.
Of course, Troy’s never been one to sit around much, doing nothing, so he’s quick to put his time to good use and start repairing the damage.
Whereas I generally approve of this (especially since him being busy will also give me more time to come up with a plan of my own), I’m soon forced to realize he might end up overdoing things if I don’t keep a close eye on him: Returning from a few chores in the afternoon, I’m shocked to spot him working on the front door, replacing the shattered glass panes, working calmly in (nearly) plain sight and (potentially) clearly visible to everyone who might have taken an accidental glance at the Otto house.
Of course, I’m quick to remind him of what’s going to happen if Crazy Dog spots him out here, how badly he will be compromising his own cause if he ends up being caught.
Naturally, a rather extensive discussion ensues (according to my suggestion eventually taking place inside instead of practically outside on the porch), after which he actually ends up displaying some kind of tentative understanding.
And I think the time has come for me to set some ground rules for our cute little residential community here: There will be no hammering, no drilling, no sawing nor any other noise producing activities whenever I am not at home. And while we’re at it: No lights or candles at night when I’m gone, no lurking around by the windows, no shutting or opening the blinds, no shutting, opening or tilting any windows with me gone and no exaggerated sneezing or coughing when I’m not around.
“But farting’s allowed?” he asks sarcastically. “Even with you gone?”
“Well,” I deadpan instantly, “if it’s not too loud…” Surprising myself with the quick-witted comeback.
We stare at each other for a few blinks, then I notice a tiny grin tugging at the corner of his lips. He’s impressed by my actually countering the joke instead of just shrugging it off. I scored points.
Chuckling quietly at the silliness of the exchange at first, we quickly find ourselves laughing like crazy, snorting and snickering until we’re both gasping for air – and hell, does that feel good. It’s been a while since the last time I laughed so hard I ended up wiping tears from my eyes. Actually, I can’t even remember it.
So eventually Troy moves on to fix the bullet holes in the walls upstairs instead, and for a few minutes I actually think we can make this work, when all of a sudden, the actual twist of the day ends up raining on my parade.
With Troy busy with his new task, I’ve just sat down in the living room, studying some of the plans of the ranch property in the hope of finding new clues on possible water sources, taking a relaxed drag from my cigarette, when all of a sudden, there’s a loud knock on the door.
Surprised, I get up from the couch and head to the foyer to open the door, just to find my sister standing there, face strangely stern and unreadable.
“Alicia,” I call her, not without a hint of worry. “What are you doing here?”
“Sorry to bother you, Nick,” she greets me, eyes not lighting up in any way.
“Not at all,” I shake my head hastily, inviting her inside to not draw any suspicion.
Of course, right at this moment, Troy has to proceed to some hammering, two loud thuds resounding throughout the house.
“So nice for you to visit, Alicia,” I reply, speaking as loud as possible, praying Troy’ll hear me and get the clue.
“What was that noise?” Alicia wants to know, stopping in the corridor and turning around to look at me.
“Just the wind,” I tell her, stammering slightly to cover up how unconvinced I am myself about this sorry excuse. “A few of the doors were ajar and I guess the wind slammed them shut.”
Luckily, Troy must have indeed heard my warning. The noise has stopped.
“Is everything alright, Nick? You seem nervous.” Shooting me a skeptical look. “I didn’t catch you in the middle of anything… inappropriate, did I?”
“Inappropriate?” I repeat, giving her an embarrassed laugh. “I never do anything inappropriate,” I tell her, cracking a grin to cover up my insecurity.
And right at that moment, Troy appears at the top of the stairs, in Alicia’s back, looking down at me with a questioning frown.
I wave my hand, beckoning him to hide.
Alicia stares at me wide-eyed.
“Fly,” I explain, chasing an invisible insect with sweeping gestures. And because I can’t help it: “Nasty fly snuck into the house last night and has been bugging me ever since…”
She frowns at me again, so I hastily change the subject.
“No need to worry,” I shrug. “What about you? What’s going on, Alicia? Whatcha doing here?”
Alicia immediately casts down her eyes and purses her lips as she lets out a sigh. “Jake and I had a huge fight this morning,” she tells me with a sad voice. “And I… I just can’t stand being around him for now.” Giving me a hopeful look. “I was hoping I could crash here for a few days…?”