The riots had been a hard thing to live through—progressively so. The first weren’t so horrible to ride out; these had consisted mostly of thugs casing businesses for “stuff.” Electronics, computers, appliances; all the shit you sold later on when things were back under control when you popped your trunk and told disreputable passersby about all the great deals found within. Such turmoil was easy to avoid if you didn’t have to go out in the streets. Elton just holed up at home with his wife, Sandra, and the old .32 left to him by his father. The world stayed on its side of the door, they stayed on theirs, and things continued on more or less agreeably.
The food riots had been a different story. After martial law, after the local resources started drying up, and before the Army got planes up in the air again, Elton could recall harvesting fetid patches of slime-filled mud. He’d tried boiling off the moisture, using a little plastic umbrella to catch the vapor and direct the water down to small cups encircling the mud pot. What little he’d managed to collect—the portion that was not lost entirely to the atmosphere—left an oil-slick in their mouths when they sipped it down, and Sandra had been sick for three days after the attempt. Elton had never figured that one out. Having heated the liquid off to vapor, the result should have been safe to consume. His wife’s reaction wasn’t a put-on, though. That had been true, down-low sickness.
Then the Plague, and Sandra had passed on. Elton chose not to dwell on the matter any further. He recalled wandering like a ghost through a city of tents, and not much beyond.
But water was attainable again, and that was good. They awaited the return of their scouting parties (already referred to by his people as Rescue Teams One through Four), and that was also good. It was good when you could look forward to things. When you found ways to create new opportunities.
He swirled his hands in the bowl—a large, steel thing that reminded him of the old popcorn bowls he used to share with his dad on movie nights (Elton even remembered the cable station of the time: ONTV, channel twenty-two)—and watched as the dirt dislodged from the cracks of his fingers and turned in lazy, slow-motion spirals. He glanced over his shoulder at Danielle. She lay on the bed, turned toward the suite’s large picture window to watch the sunset; as the sun descended, the curve of her body dimmed and the details muddied. He could tell from her breathing that she was awake, which he supposed was a mild surprise. They’d all been doing a lot of sleeping lately.
“What is it?” she asked, perhaps sensing his eyes.
“How’d you know I was looking?”
Her head nodded gently toward the window. “Your reflection.”
He laughed softly. “Yeah. Smarter’n me every time…”
She sent a barefoot back and tapped his hip with the sole. “Don’t talk like that.”
He caught her ankle and held. “True, though.”
“You can’t get comfortable joking like that, hon. You don’t wanna say stuff like that where the others can hear.”
Elton turned and pulled a knee up on the mattress to see her better. “There’s nothing wrong with the truth, girl.”
She rolled over to look him in the eye. “One: we don’t know it’s true. You like to say it, but I suspect half the time you’re just trying to get into my pants…”
“Is it working?”
“…and two: not everyone is as modern as you, okay? There’s people out there who really don’t like the idea of this outfit being run by a woman. And that means either a woman calling the shots or a woman calling the shots through her man.”
Elton shook his head in disgust. “Ain’t got time for that shit.”
“You’d better make time,” she said. “You better dial your shithead detector up to full blast, babe. Those shitheads’ll find a way to worm themselves behind the wheel in more ways than you can imagine.”
He had nothing to say to this. He knew she was right.
“And you need to send someone you trust into the mountains,” she continued. “It’s been too long without any news. Sending the scouts was a great idea, but we can’t go silent for too long. They need to see that things are actively being done.”
He nodded. “Tomorrow.”
“Honey…”
“Tomorrow, Danielle. No more putting it off. I promise.”
She looked at him closely, eyes penetrating through the gloaming to the lines and planes of his face, and saw acceptance. She opened her mouth to say more; maybe that she loved him—she didn’t know for sure. She felt only that more needed to be said. That she believed in him; was proud of him; admired him. Loved him.
Loved him.
A knock issued from the door. Sighing, Elton crossed the room, cracked it, and she heard whispering as he spoke with whomever stood in the hall. Then he shut the door and moved quickly across the room to retrieve his shoes.
“What is it?” she asked, sitting up on the mattress.
“Something outside,” he grunted. He leaned over his knees to knot up laces. “Some sort of garbage or something. Probably jumpy guards. You go ahead and sleep; I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Right,” she snorted. Throwing her legs over the side of the bed, she said, “Do you actually think that’s going to work?”
She heard the smile in his voice as he responded. “Guess not.”
He stood by the door waiting for her. When she came to stand beside him, he handed her the Mini-14, grabbed his own rifle, and then pointed his chin at the couch where Cuate slept.
“What about him?”
“He’s fine. He’s out like a lightbulb.”
“What if he wakes up?”
She thought about that a moment, clicking her teeth together gently. Children certainly did complicate things, though.
“Go on ahead,” she said. “I’ll let him know what’s happening and meet you out front after.”
Elton nodded, kissed her, and left.
Gibs occupied the turret of the Humvee, right arm draped over the top of a reclaimed Ma Deuce while his left hand fidgeted idly with the fat belt of linked .50 BMG trailing out the side. They’d parked out on Snow King Avenue, far enough away that the handful of guards bivouacked in the resort’s parking lot wouldn’t be able to see them in the darkness (not that it mattered, the incompetent clowns); close enough that Gibs could sight the resort’s main structure. The façade of the building danced in the light of their fires, built either for food or warmth; he had no idea which. Nor did he care. The flames were enough to target by, and he was pleased to count his blessings in this regard. It would make it a lot easier to direct fire if fire was what it came to.
Jake was out in the distance somewhere, but Gibs couldn’t see him; standing by the oil drums, no doubt, at some point along an imaginary line between the Browning and the resort. Looking through the binos, Gibs had seen when the guards up at the resort finally clocked those drums—a goddamned sight later than they should have, the morons—and scrambled inside the hotel like the Three Stooges. He guessed Jake would wait around for them to come back out before flipping his Zippo. As much as he found the situation distasteful, Gibs had to admit the timing was well executed. Barrels set out early enough that they could still be seen yet late enough that by the time those invaders got all their shit together, there wouldn’t be enough light by which to wipe their own asses.
He heard a creak from the driver’s seat; figured Tom was getting jumpy. Gibs felt like talking it over with him, but he didn’t. He wasn’t sure how but he thought of such an act as cowardly as if he’d be passing along a burden.
And he didn’t want Tom, of all people, to carry it. Tom was too damned good for any of them.