Right then, the walls began to shake with music blaring. The ruckus down the hall was now in full swing, with Frost and his men joining together in a lungs-deep rendition of their favorite song, We Are the Champions, by Queen. A curious choice indeed.
Lipton could hear the slurred words and tuneless notes. If he didn’t know better, he’d think he was in a college dorm, listening to room full of testosterone-filled meat sacks celebrating another round of final exams they’d just passed. Assuming any of these cretins could read.
When the music stopped, the chants began, filling his ears with a mix of bass and baritone. No topic was off-limits once the inebriation escalated, especially when it involved a man-to-man challenge over some twisted feat of strength.
He never understood any of it. Instead of trying to improve their lot in life with some late-night reading, they preferred to wash it all away with a few gallons of hooch. And puke, for that matter. It was all about hangovers and killing brain cells, not that they had any to spare.
In retrospect, maybe his idea to fabricate an old-fashioned still wasn’t a good one, not when alcohol had a propensity to turn violent men into something even worse. Men like Frost’s have very few filters to begin with. When you add booze to the mix, those filters disappear altogether.
However, there were times when the 190- proof swill provided him with a modicum of peace and quiet—after they all passed out, of course. But more importantly, he’d pick up some useful crosstalk occasionally, like recently, though he needed to decipher the drunk-speak to find the true meaning behind the words.
Their drunken overshares had provided Lipton with news about the recent failures of Horton’s team and some new treaty violations, meaning Frost and Fletcher would be hyper-focused on Dr. Edison at the Trading Post in the morning. Once their heads cleared.
That meeting and its timing gave him a singular opportunity, one he’d been waiting for ever since the refinery first came online—a refinery that had given Frost the upper hand in all things caveman.
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see this moment coming from a long distance off. Anytime a dullard gets their mitts on technology that provides them with a clear tactical advantage, it becomes an overwhelming addiction.
And like most addictions, Lipton knew they’d become dependent on that advantage—a point-of-no-return kind of dependency. And now that same reliance had morphed into a threat.
For Lipton, it had become a deadly threat since he couldn’t repair the homemade fuel processing plant. Not after it nearly burned to the ground due to his attempt to up the output, as demanded by Frost.
Lipton had spun the failure as something else, calling the needed repairs “upgrades.” Of course, Frost didn’t catch on. He was too busy planning his next expansion of fuel-consuming activities. War-like activities to spread his reign of control over a nearly dead city and break some long-standing traditions in the process.
Lipton smiled. His plan was set. His pack was ready. Nobody was aware. Now he just needed to get his feet moving, before the entire situation turned against him.
CHAPTER 22
Horton whipped his head to the side when he heard a rustling crunch behind him. He wanted to spin around, but couldn’t, not with the wooden pole pressing into his back and his hands and feet lashed into place.
He was alone, bleeding, and at the mercy of whomever or whatever came along. Plus, his vision was blurry, thanks to the cold, the beating, and the blood he’d lost. He knew this moment was a foregone conclusion, ever since Frost had set the pile of rags on fire, setting the flames free into the night sky.
Horton heard two more crunches, then a growl. Maybe it was an animal. A coyote, perhaps. They seemed to be the only creatures able to sustain themselves within the city limits, except for the Scabs.
The nose-less humans weren’t animals in the classic sense, but some might be able to argue that point, if their cannibalistic actions were taken into account. Then again, others might say that the Scabs were an afront to animals everywhere, eating their own in some twisted sense of moral superiority.
In truth, Horton believed that everyone has a right to survive, whether human, animal, or something in-between. With that said, eating your own kind had to be a red line in the sand. One you never crossed.
The vision in his eyes finally cleared as more sounds came to his ears. The noise was closer this time, sounding like pebbles being ground into the asphalt.
The growl had been replaced with heavy breathing, bolstered by the occasional grunt, much like a gorilla would make.
A shadow came out from his left, taking position in front of him in the moonlight. He expected to see a four-legged animal or possibly a gang of hungry Scabs. But that’s not what his eyes reported.
It was a scraggly-haired girl. Small in size. About fifteen years old. Maybe twenty. Maybe twelve. No way to know for sure.
The blonde was naked with long, curly, dirty hair covering her privates. The rest of her was a blanket of scars. Knife cuts, if he had to guess, plus a litany of bruises and other blemishes.
The tip of her nose was missing. That meant only one thing—frostbite, like the others. A Scab.
This was the first time he’d seen a female version of the meat eaters. All the others had been males and they all had clothes, tattered as they were.
He wasn’t sure why a female Scab would be running alone or be naked out here at night—or in the daytime, for that matter. She had to be freezing but wasn’t showing any signs. He figured her adrenaline was keeping her warm.
She took a step closer, her nose-less face in the air like a wild dog on high alert.
“Easy now. Let’s not do anything rash,” Horton said, keeping a close watch on her jagged teeth. It looked like she’d been chewing on a box of nails, honing the edges for months.
He didn’t know if Scabs could sniff without a nose, if that’s what she was doing. If she was, then it must still be possible with only a nasal cavity intact, though he couldn’t hear any sniffs. Perhaps she had evolved, or it was a special trait, limited to only the female version of the cannibals.
She circled around his back, sending a shower of choppy breaths across his shoulders. She was close—too close, able to take a bite out of him in a snap.
When she finished her circle, she stood in front of him once again, her eyelids held thinner than before, as if she were considering her options. Or she was curious; Horton couldn’t tell which.
He wondered if she could communicate. She was old enough to have been around since before The Event. Maybe she still understood English. “What’s your name?”
She grunted in response, her eyes now wide.
“My name’s Horton. I could really use your help,” he said, looking down at his feet, hoping she’d notice Frost’s blade in the dirt. “Do you think you could use that knife to cut the wires behind me?”
Her head tilted to the side, looking confused, her grunts continuing, though faster now. She looked left and then right in momentary flashes, alternating between the two, reminding him of a chipmunk keeping watch for predators.
The girl’s excitement was clear, yet he didn’t know if it was a bad thing or not. His gut was screaming at him that it was, but his gut had been wrong before. Mostly with that girl named Summer.
Horton waited until she locked eyes with him again. “I swear to God; I’m not going to hurt you. I just need your help.”
She peered down at the knife.
“Yes. The knife. Go ahead. Pick it up.”
She bent down and grabbed the lump of skin left behind by Sergeant Barkley and jammed it into her mouth, chewing with grunts mixed in.