He closed his eyes and let his mind sink into his memories, flashing back to his days in the casino.
Every morning he’d stop at Starbucks before clocking in for his shift. It was next to the high-end jewelry store and only a few steps from the security door that led into the inner depths of the hotel.
He missed the tantalizing aroma, the texture, and the instant energy. The Danish they served wasn’t bad either, providing a much-needed sugar boost in the morning.
Dice swung his focus to the right, checking the condition of the bar of soap next to the sink. The homemade soap was a dirty, crusty white, with half of its original size missing. Its diminished state and layers of filth were expected, since more than two dozen men used this same bathroom. But the black hair wasn’t.
He rolled his eyes. “You gotta be kidding me.”
The thick, curly strand was about four inches long and looked to be stuck to the bar as if someone had embedded it there on purpose. It wasn’t one of his, that’s for sure, his flaming red hair a good five times longer.
The hair could have been from someone’s head or possibly somewhere else on a man’s body, conjuring a visual that he didn’t want in his mind.
The mental image sparked a wave of nausea, making him bend over the sink just in case his system hurled some of the hooch back to its sender.
If he puked, he wouldn’t have been the only one. There were plenty of chunks on the floor in the head, only inches from the toilet. He imagined more than one of his fellow campers had been on their knees the night before, praying to the porcelain gods.
He’d seen it all before; however, last night’s celebration was off the hook. The strangulation tests were new, invented by a few of the deviants and ex-military types, all of them itching for a fight. Exactly the kind of men Frost loved.
Perhaps it had something to do with all the new weapons they’d been building. The fabrication teams had been working doubles to get them done before today’s scheduled meet with Edison’s group.
Dice figured the elderly professor and his sidekick Krista Carr had ordered a huge shipment of arms, but nobody knew for sure. Frost kept the details of each meet a secret.
The urge to vomit vanished a few moments later, allowing Dice to straighten up. It was then that he realized hangovers, hurling, and hair seemed to go together, a wicked combination that would make a billy goat sick.
Dice rubbed his hands together after deciding that friction should replace the need for a lather. There was no chance he was touching the bar of soap. Or the lid on the shitter, for that matter.
He planned to take a leak outside during his morning run. The cold weather would sting, but sometimes a man must make hard choices. More so in a shared bathroom where the disgusting always meets the nasty.
The world may have ended with The Event, but that didn’t mean a little consideration for your fellow man wasn’t still warranted. He didn’t understand why his friends couldn’t clean up after themselves. It only took a few seconds to do.
The yellow hand towel looked fresh, so he used it to dry his face and hands, then brought his fingers up to tighten the wrap he used to keep his ponytail in place.
It was time to go wake up Fletcher, a daily chore he despised. Even so, he’d never complain to the man dubbed by Frost as second-in-command. Every man in the compound had his duties. Duties that must be carried out without fail.
When Dice turned around, he found Fletcher standing in the hallway, just beyond the entrance, his face covered in a grimace. Probably from a headache, Dice figured.
Fletcher was known to partake a little too much, just like the rest of the men, usually announcing that his hangover was officially at DEFCON 1.
The chiseled black man didn’t wait for Dice to speak first, rubbing his bald head with his enormous right hand. “You seen Doc?”
“No. But he needs to fix the damn water. Out again.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. Got up to piss a little while ago and couldn’t flush. So I went to his bunk to remind him, you know, gentle like, but he wasn’t there.”
“What about his lab?”
Fletcher shook his head, his lips turning silent.
“Where the hell is he?” Dice asked.
“He’s AWOL.”
“You sure?”
“Just checked his desk. His notebooks are missing. So’s his favorite hat.”
“The fedora?”
“He never goes outside without it.”
“Shit. Frost will go ballistic,” Dice said. “We have to find him.”
“There isn’t time. I need everyone to cover the meet this morning. That’s priority one. We’ll find Doc later. That lump won’t get far on his own.”
“I can skip my run, if you need me to. I’m sure I can track him down.”
“No, I need you to go. They’re expecting you,” Fletcher said, handing him a folded piece of paper.
Its corners were torn at an angle and tucked under themselves, just like Fletcher did every day. It was his version of a safety seal, not that it was secure by any stretch. Anyone could open it, though Dice never did.
His job was simple: keep his eyes open and mouth shut. Arrive exactly when and where he was told, and never look at contents of the notes sent back and forth. “Where’s the meet today?”
“Drop Seven. Usual time. They’ll give you something to bring back. Keep it secure. Eyes only.”
“Not a problem, chief,” Dice answered, running a quick calculation in his mind. Drop Seven was the closest rendezvous point, meaning he could get there and back before the teams headed to the Trading Post. “Should be back in plenty of time.”
Fletcher put a hand on Dice’s shoulder. “I always know I can count on you. Always.”
“Just doing my job, boss.”
CHAPTER 27
“Hey ya, Summer,” a nice-looking young man said in a friendly tone as he approached her in the opposite direction along the outer ring of the silo bay. She didn’t recognize the stocky guy who wore blue coveralls and a t-shirt, but he seemed to know her.
“What’s up?” Summer said, faking it with a half-smile, hoping it would appear legit. Her plan was to cruise past him, but he slowed to block her path. She brought her feet to an abrupt halt, almost running into him.
He stood close—way too close—the top of his head only an inch taller than hers. What he lacked in height, he made up for in weight. It was muscular weight, not flab, his biceps in clear view.
His blonde hair was an amazing shade of gold, the middle of it pushed up into a twisted swirl down the middle—like a rooster—offsetting his porcelain white skin.
His eyes peered into hers, as if he knew something she didn’t. “You got a minute?”
“Well, uh, can’t. Meeting someone,” Summer answered, her tone unsteady.
She took a step back, looking past him, her heartbeat racing as a tingle rose up across her body. It came out of nowhere. So did the tremble in her hands. She stuffed them into her pockets, praying he didn’t notice.
His eyes turned toward the observation window on his right, giving her the impression he was trying to appear cool, almost detached.
So this is what it feels like, she thought to herself, memorizing every nuance of the boy’s face before following his eyes to the side.
A vegetable rack hung inside the former missile bay. It was loaded with overflowing greens, though a few of them looked black, almost dead, as if someone had taken a blow torch to them. She hadn’t seen that before and wondered if someone had neglected the plants in that particular rack.
The six-foot-long tray was suspended by wires running top to bottom, with a mirror installed next to it, directing sunlight deeper into the hydroponics chamber.