The term ‘appetizer’ was probably on everyone’s minds.
Stanley Fletcher finished his business in the shared bathroom of Frost’s compound, then tapped his unit twice before tucking everything away and closing the button on his fly. He zipped up with a single pull and turned for the sink.
He’d just finished what some might have considered a world-record-length piss. The ride back to camp had pushed the capacity of his bladder to the edge. The immense pressure had almost kept him from standing upright once he slid out of the truck and landed on the pavement.
Sure, he could have stopped along the way to spray a bush, but he was in a hurry, with his mind focused on other things, mainly the speech he had to give to the remaining troops.
He turned the faucet on and used the trickle of brown water from the tap to rinse his hands, all the while trying not to inhale too deeply. It was always hard to breathe in this room, the reek of week-old piss constantly present.
Plus, it was apparent someone had dropped a deuce recently, leaving the door closed after their evacuation had concluded.
Whoever it was needed to change their diet, or at least light a match in consideration. The hangtime of the fermenting odor was beyond anyone’s ability to measure, making him turn his head in disgust.
Now that he was in charge, he planned to have Lipton design a new private head, one that only he and Dice would have access to. He needed a place to sit and think in peace. A place unmarred by the bowels of his brethren.
He dried his hands on the faded towel, ready to deliver the news he carried. He figured that same news had already started germinating on its own, once the waiting members in camp realized Frost wasn’t part of the convoy’s return.
The words he would speak next needed to be not only accurate but specifically chosen not to raise doubt. He was the new boss and there was work to be done. Efficiency tends to disappear when questions linger. Or uneasiness arises. Neither of which he could afford at the moment.
He turned and stepped out of the head, taking a sharp left toward the main fabrication shop, where he expected the remaining members in camp to be waiting in attendance. That was assuming Dice had done his job and rallied the troops.
Fletcher had been on the other side of this process many times, waiting for Frost to make his appearance and begin one of his rants, usually about something insignificant or overblown. That wouldn’t be the case today, on more than one level.
When Fletcher cleared the connecting doorway, a throng of eyes met his. An instant later, backs straightened and chests filled with air, each man energized with anticipation.
Dice shook his head at Fletcher, telling him he hadn’t located Lipton. That meant the doc was AWOL, something Fletcher would have to deal with next.
Fletcher held out his hands, palms down. “At ease, guys. It’ll be hard enough for me to get through this as it is. In fact, why don’t all of you find a seat? There are things to discuss.”
“Where’s Frost?” one of the men asked from somewhere in the back of the group. His voice was threaded and gravelly, telling Fletcher who it was: Willie Boone, former Army—a six-year veteran of the infantry. A mountain of a man who’d taken shrapnel to the throat in one of Uncle Sam’s last skirmishes, only a year or so before The Event wiped out the world’s governments and their militaries.
“And the others?” a second member asked, drawing Fletcher’s attention a bit to the right. That was when he saw Boone standing in the back with his arms folded.
Next to him was a tiny man Fletcher assumed had asked the last question. One of the new recruits, someone who hadn’t had time to make an impression yet. Just another FNG that Frost had drafted off the street; he’d probably wandered into the Trading Post and demanded work.
The new guy was half the size of Boone, but just as irritating. His black goatee held spots of gray, giving him an older look.
Fletcher made eye contact with several of the men to the left, then said, “Just hold on. I’ll explain everything. But first I need everyone to plant their ass in a chair.”
None of them moved.
“You heard him!” Dice snapped, adding extra volume to his words. “Find a goddamned seat. That’s an order.”
Fletcher held out a hand, giving Dice the back off signal. He brought his eyes back to the group. “Look, the Trading Post was attacked.”
“Was it Edison? That fucking guy—” Boone said.
“No,” Fletcher answered, needing to stop the mounting anxiety. “Let me explain.”
“Everyone just shut the fuck up,” Dice said. “Let the man speak.”
Fletcher cleared his throat, wishing Dice would keep his mouth in check. He thought about reprimanding his second in command again, but decided to let it go and forge ahead. “The Scabs hit us. Hard.”
“What do you mean, hard?” another man asked, this time from the center of the group.
Fletcher redirected his eyes to find the guy raising concern. It was Sketch, the dark-skinned, thirty-nine-year-old former Army architect, usually the first man with a raunchy joke on his lips, or a drawing pad in his hand.
“He means all of them attacked. Thousands of them,” Dice added.
“Dice is right. Our position was overrun and we had to fall back. Unfortunately, Frost didn’t survive the second wave. But let me be the first to say our leader gave as good as he got before they got the better of him. Took a dozen of them out, like the true warrior he was.”
“Was it before or after the meet?” the goatee-wearing munchkin next to Boone asked.
“During, actually,” Fletcher answered, locking eyes on the little guy. “What’s your name again?”
“Pepper,” the man said. “TJ Pepper.”
“What about his body?” Sketch asked, with more urgency in his words than before. “We need a proper service.”
“I wish that were possible, but there wasn’t anything left,” Fletcher said, deciding to spin the truth a bit. It was time to deflect and push forward. “Trust me, we looked. High and low.”
“It was like a swarm of termites,” Dice said, using his hands to emphasize his words. “They were everywhere. We would’ve needed an army to stop them.”
Sketch didn’t hesitate with a response. “Then we mount up and go find those Scabs and take them out. Every last one of them. It’s payback time.”
“Damn right,” Boone added, his chest sucking in air to expand.
An instant later, a smattering of additional comments filled the air, most of them sharp and to the point—everything from “He’s right” to “Fuck yeah” and “Roger that, Fletch.”
Fletcher held up his hands, preacher-like, shooting a glance at Dice before he spoke again. “No, I’m not putting any more of you in harm’s way. Not until we figure out what’s going on. We need better intel.”
Two of men in the front row looked at each other for a beat, then stepped forward in tandem. “We’ll go, Fletch.”
Another man on their left joined them out front. “Me too.”
A sleeveless man in the middle of the group pushed forward, sliding between the other volunteers, his face covered in streaks of black grease, running at an angle. He wore a black headband, keeping his shoulder-length hair in check. “Count me in.”
CHAPTER 7
Rod Zimmer stood from the mess hall chair and moved to the open side of the table after Krista walked into the room.
Krista made eye contact, then changed course, heading his way in a slow walk with her shoulders slumped. Her face looked ten years older, her eyes withdrawn and weary. She’d obviously been through hell today.