Free Defiance: A House Divided (The Defending Home Series Book 2) by William H. Weber Page A

with was strong, but in the face of blatant corruption, even that had its limits.
    The conversation soon turned to happier times, fond memories Brooke had about her mother. Julie had been a joker, something few people knew about the woman. Practical jokes were her specialty and she’d pulled them when Dale and Brooke least expected it. One time, in the tenth grade, Julie had packed her daughter a ‘special’ sandwich for lunch. Brooke seemed to be reliving the moment in disgust as she described biting into what she soon realized was a cow tongue sandwich. Not a word of a lie. A cow’s tongue, between two pieces of bread. A friend sitting next to her had nearly fainted. The others screamed.
    But eventually Brooke had gotten even. She wasn’t nearly as creative as her mother, and therefore decided that the old saran wrap over the toilet bowl was as good a gag as any. It was only after she’d heard her father cursing from the bathroom upstairs that she realized how her joke had backfired.
    Sandy and Brooke both broke into a chorus of laughter which continued in fits and starts for several minutes. Afterward, the muscles in Sandy’s stomach ached from the memory.
    They were having a fine time together. But what amazed Sandy most was that Brooke hadn’t said a word about Sandy’s past relationship with Dale, nor that those old feelings had started to rekindle. Perhaps it was because Brooke didn’t need to ask. Maybe she could already tell. Maybe she recognized the past was the past and the future was the only thing worth worrying about.
    Soon after, they reached the Keller farm and turned into the lane. Not long after the outbreak, Deputy Sandy had swung by to check up on the family, only to find that all four of them were dead—Frank Keller, his wife Diane and their young sons Derek and Paul. She’d donned a mask before going into the house that day, the floorboards creaking under her as she made the horrible discovery.
    She’d found the parents lying next to each other in their bedroom. Fifteen-year-old Derek was in the bathroom, slumped over the toilet. His younger brother, Paul, ten, maybe eleven, was downstairs on the couch, his legs curled under him. You didn’t need to be a CSI to know the youngest had been the last to die. The scene at the Keller house had stayed with her and probably would forever. But similar scenes had played out across the entire country, maybe even the entire world.
    Rather than leaving the truck out front where others might see it, Sandy parked it behind the barn. They stepped out, the hot Arizona sun baking the skin on their arms and the tops of their heads, before reaching the relative cool of the barn. In one corner were bags of fertilizer.
    “Let’s start by loading these into the truck,” Sandy said.
    Once they had finished, the two women searched for anything else of use.
    Brooke gasped.
    On instinct, Sandy drew her pistol. “What is it?” she asked, scanning the area without finding any threats.
    “I saw someone in the house,” Brooke said, her face ashen white, in spite of the searing heat.
    Skeletal fingers clambered up Sandy’s spine. “Everyone in that house is dead,” she told Brooke. Inside, she saw one of the curtains move. As a sheriff’s deputy such a sight would have been reason to go investigate. Now, it was reason to get going.
    They hurried back to the truck and were climbing inside when a male voice called out to them. He sounded friendly.
    “Come on,” Sandy said, sticking the keys in the ignition.
    The voice called out again, this time asking for Brooke by name. Both of them froze, fearful and perplexed. Sandy started the truck. If this person behind the voice turned out to be a threat, at least they could make a break for it.
    When Sandy backed up and straightened out, two males in their twenties came into view. Both were wearing desert camo pants and beige shirts. They removed the bandanas which hid their identities. Sandy and Brooke sat idling in