“Speaking of old ladies…don’t be getting any ideas.”
DeVontay wasn’t sure what to make of the exchange, but he decided to keep his mouth shut. They walked past the house and then turned up a narrow gravel driveway that sloped up into the hills. DeVontay wondered how many other lookouts they’d passed along the way that he hadn’t noticed.
The driveway ran through a copse of pine trees that shielded most of the remaining daylight, and then the road expanded into a great circle of bare dirt, with tractors, rusty trucks on cinder blocks, and farm equipment stacked around in a haphazard array. The perimeter was ringed with chain-link fence, coils of rusted barb wire atop it.
Several industrial outbuildings stood in the clearing, dim lights flickering behind their glass windows. Flames from a series of torches bobbed and flapped on the compound’s perimeter, spewing oily diesel smoke. The shadow of a man sitting on a truck hood separated from the larger darkness and came toward them, carrying an oil lantern whose light played across DeVontay’s feet.
Then the radiance slashed into his face and burned there for a moment, blinding his one good eye.
“Better shape than the last one you brought in,” the man said. His voice was hoarse with age, but he spoke with an air of command. “So you finally figured out it was smarter to walk them in instead of breaking one of their legs first.”
“He was in the river,” Orange Cap said. “On one of them little pointy boats.”
“A kayak,” DeVontay said.
“Ooh, we got us a smarty-pants here,” said the man with the lantern. He stepped close enough that DeVontay could smell the booze and cigarette tar on his breath, along with a sicker, sweeter aroma as if something was fermenting inside him. “If you’re so smart, why were you out there all by your lonesome?”
“I was with some friends but…” He didn’t want to give this yokel the satisfaction of his pain. It wasn’t fair that Rachel and Stephen were dead and these assholes were getting by, apparently adapting to After and even enjoying it.
The man with the lantern gave a dismissive wave. “But they died. Big fucking deal. Everybody dies. That’s what we do. The point is to make others die first.”
“Is he a keeper?” said the man behind DeVontay, who was still wearing his sunglasses despite the twilight gloom.
“We’ll figure it out tomorrow. For now, put in him in the Block.”
“This way,” grunted Orange Cap, motioning DeVontay toward a large Quonset hut with curved metal sides. At least they weren’t jabbing him in the back with their rifle barrels.
The building’s wide doors were made of thick planks and reinforced with several steel plates. Kerosene lanterns hung along the wall near the entrance, glumly illuminating a midway. The floor was packed dirt and shredded straw, and the distinct tang of old manure and fur hung heavy in the dusty air. Mixed with the odor was a coppery stench that seemed embedded in the walls.
As DeVontay’s vision adjusted, he could see that the midway was lined on both sides with a series of wire-mesh enclosures featuring crude wooden frames. A massive hook rigged to a pulley-and-chain system descended from the beams of the roof, and DeVontay realized the place had once been a slaughterhouse.
At least there’s no fresh blood on the ground.
As the two men guided him deeper into the building, DeVontay forced away fantasies of a redneck cannibal cult, gleefully cranking out their own down-home brand of human sausage. Despite the collapse of the food distribution network, plenty of canned goods remained, as well as the bounty of abandoned gardens and fruit trees. Hell, there were enough Slim Jims in the world to keep them all going another hundred years.
Low voices trickled out from the darkness beyond the building’s entrance, and the two men stopped at the edge of the kerosene lamp’s reach. DeVontay stopped with them, straining to make out the words. Something bustled behind a sagging stretch of wire, and then a milky face appeared. Before DeVontay could really make sense of the shape, it was gone.
What the hell?
“Go on,” said Orange Cap.
DeVontay didn’t budge. “Who is in there?”
“You’ll find out.”
DeVontay took one scuffing step forward, but the men stayed where they were, as if reluctant to touch the darkness. Or allow it to touch them.
DeVontay didn’t have much choice. Even if he somehow knocked over the two men and made it outside the building—a pen; it’s a PEN—he was sure a dozen rifles would be trained on him before he could escape the compound.
Besides, whatever was back there couldn’t be much worse than the world beyond these walls.
“Don’t I get a lamp?” DeVontay asked.
“You don’t need one,” said the man with the sunglasses. “Trust me. You don’t want to see.”
He didn’t want to smell, either, but he couldn’t escape it; despite the drafty tunnel of the midway, the stink of death and disease crowded him, seeming to smother the insides of his lungs like a corrupt coat of paint.
Then another face pressed against the grid of thick wires, and another.
Small faces.
Children.
“Hello?” DeVontay said.
A giggle leaked out from the darkness, followed by a scurrying like that of a nest of oversize rats. DeVontay thought of the expression the lookout had used: “Fresh meat.”
No. It’s just some scared kids. At least their eyes aren’t glittering.
The men had retreated to the entrance and one of the kerosene lamps was extinguished, casting the cavernous space even deeper into darkness.
“Don’t let the bed bugs bite,” said Orange Cap. “Or anything else.”
The door banged shut behind him, and DeVontay was grateful for the one remaining lamp, even though its glow was already diminishing.
“Who’s there?” he asked.
Another giggle. The rattle and clatter of something hard, dry, and brittle, like bone.
No, like WOOD.
“I won’t hurt you,” DeVontay said.
The giggle rose by a notch into a gleeful cackle.
DeVontay thought about retreating back toward the lamp and huddling there until it sputtered away the last of its fuel. But if these men were holding others captive, there were likely beds, or least blankets. But why would they cage up a bunch of kids? Even in the best of times, kids were a burden, a drain on resources and a constant annoyance. Heartless men like these would have more readily killed the weakest instead of offering shelter, food, and compassion.
But how heartless are YOU, DeVontay? If they’re kids, they probably need some comfort and help.
DeVontay thought of Rachel. She wouldn’t hesitate. Even if it cost her life, she would offer everything she had to help the weak and innocent. “Hell with it,” he wheezed under his breath.
“Okay, guys,” he said, striding into the darkness toward the faces pressed against the mesh. “My name’s DeVontay, and it looks like we’re all getting to camp out tonight.”
“DeVontay?” came a small voice.
A familiar voice.
“Stephen?”
One of the little lesser shadows came out from the wire and sprinted toward him. “DeVontay!”
DeVontay’s heart soared despite the grim surroundings as he bent down and embraced the boy. “Hey, Little Man, I never thought I’d see you again!”
“What, did you your good eye get poked out, too?” the boy said.
DeVontay rubbed the boy’s greasy, matted hair. “Where’s your Panthers cap?”
“Lost it.”
“Where’s Rachel?”
“Lost her, too.”