Feast (5 page)

When he lifted his empty hands again, Boone lowered his rifle. “You all seen some shit.”

“Shit’s seen us,” Anne said, and got a laugh out of the man.

“Well, all right then. If ya’ll wouldn’t mind stepping out, one at a time, I’ll take you to Bob and Lyn. Can’t say whether or not they’ll be happy to see you, but I’ll take you to ’em, just the same.”

Ten minutes later, they were completely unarmed and headed down the road on foot, while a few of the men stayed behind and rummaged through
Beastmaster
.

Anne glanced back at the men, taking stock of them, wondering which of them they might have to kill first. She wasn’t sure if her parents were buying into Boone’s Southern charms, but she doubted it. Boone, on the other hand, exuded confidence and an air of cockiness that made Anne want to kick him square in the nuts. But she’d hold back until the time was right. Until
Peter
said the time was right. And then she would kick, scratch, bite and stab her way to freedom. She hoped Boone wasn’t stupid enough to try to prevent them from leaving, but she had a strong hunch he was far stupider than that.

6

“Open up,” Boone shouted at the twenty foot tall gates that looked like something out of King Kong. The two massive doors had been constructed from tall tree trunks, sharpened at the top. The poles were bound by a mishmash of ropes, nailed planks and screws. Not the work of a master builder, but sturdy nonetheless.

Peter took note of the dark brown stains marring some of the sharpened tips. The wall had stood up to attacks from something large enough to impale itself atop the twenty-foot-tall spikes.

Several dull clunks sounded out as the doors were unlocked from the inside. They opened slowly, revealing two men and one woman. They were dressed in dirty shorts and T-shirts, lacking all of the military garb worn by the men outside. The only obvious feature they shared with Boone was a lack of hygiene and the weapons they carried. The woman held a hunting rifle and the two men carried AK-47s, the preferred weapon of terrorists, back when there was such a thing. The weapons had been legal in the United States when converted to semi-automatic. A quick glance at the weapons revealed a third pin hole, meaning these had either been purchased illegally, or converted after the world went to hell. Laws didn’t matter anymore, but the first option—illegal arms dealing—spoke to these people’s character, which was called into question the moment they threatened his family. He didn’t care how subtle or polite Boone was acting. The man wasn’t fooling anyone. They were in mortal danger, and walking deeper into a shit-storm with every step. The problem was that Peter hadn’t seen a way out of it without getting his family killed.

So he waited, and watched, taking in every sight, sound and smell that might provide him with the key to their salvation.

While Boone and the other good ol’ boys outside the gates were dressed like military, their swagger, grungy appearance and lack of discipline marked them as weekend warriors who got the chance to go full time when civilization came to an end. Peter suspected they might have even enjoyed the end of the world and the new status it brought them in this small community of survivors. It was impressive, to be sure, but Peter wasn’t sure if the horrors inside the fence would be any better than those outside it.

“Marcus, Stevie,” Boone said, pointing at the two men with the muzzle of his AR-15 assault rifle.

Definitely not military
, Peter thought.

“Lock up behind us, and quit gawking. These people are my guests.”

Marcus and Stevie both turned their eyes down to the ground. They hadn’t really been gawking, just taking in the newcomers with interest, maybe even a hint of hope.

Boone was either the leader here, or at least someone of authority. Perhaps they operated on some kind of caste system. Peter had a strong suspicion that life inside the gates was only slightly more tolerable for Marcus and Stevie, than life on the outside.

“Hey, baby,” Boone said to the woman, who was dressed in a dirty flannel shirt and short shorts. Peter guessed she was of Cuban descent. She looked like a too-tan Daisy Duke: a little too short, a little too chubby, and sporting a smile so phony it broke Peter’s heart. While some of the people here were having the time of their lives, it seemed that just as many lived in fear, despite the weapons in their hands.

“Hey there, Boone,” the woman said. Even her Southern accent sounded forced. “You make some friends while you were out?”

“Well,” Boone said, “that has yet to be determined, but they seem like nice folk. Don’t want no trouble.”

“No, sir,” Peter said with a nod and a fake grin that was far more convincing than the girl’s. He held his hand out to her and said, “Name’s Peter.”

There was momentary light in faux Daisy’s eyes. She started to lift her hand, saying, “Isabe—”

Boone cut her short by placing the rifle muzzle atop her hand and slowly easing it back down.

“Now, girl, don’t forget yourself.” Boone, a foot taller, stood over the girl, still acting casual, but exuding menace. Marcus and Stevie paid the scene no attention, closing the gates and sliding several long metal beams back in place across the seam. Peter gave them a second look, trying to find common ground between them and the girl, whose full name he guessed was Isabel. While her skin was deeply tanned, the two young men were almost pale white. Marcus had freckles and red hair. The other had flat brown hair.

Upon seeing Isabel, Peter thought the caste system might be racial, but the two gate guards were as white as white got.

“Sorry, Boone,” the girl said, deflating, eyes on the ground.

Boone hauled back and slapped Isabel’s backside. On the surface, it looked almost playful, but the impact drew a pained cry from the girl’s lips. Her smile became even more forced, as tears began to well.

Ella took a step forward, but Peter gripped her forearm, holding her back. If Boone attacked the girl with deadly force, they would act, but not until then. And hopefully not before fully understanding what they were up against.

“Go tell Mason we got visitors,” Boone said, not noticing Ella. “I’m gonna take ’em to see Bob and Lyn. Then we’ll be up.”

Isabel looked confused by this last bit, but scurried away with a nod. “Will do, Boone.”

Boone cupped a hand around his mouth and called after the girl. “And I reckon I’ll be callin’ on ya this evening. Finish what we started here, aight.”

The girl’s quick walk turned into a jog.

Boone flashed a smile at Peter and winked, clucking his tongue. “Girl is dumber than a sack of rocks, but rides my...” His eyes turned to Anne, then moved back to Peter. “Well, you know what I mean.”

“I think I do,” Peter said.

“Well, all right then.” Boone started walking backward deeper into the camp, extending his arms out to either side, “Welcome to Hellhole Bay, bastion outpost of humanity’s only surviving population. Well, until you all showed up. Been a while since anyone came a-callin’.”

Peter ignored Boone’s theatrics and scanned the area. The massive fence was really a wall stretched out in either direction as far as he could see. Just inside the fence was a twenty foot stretch of water, like a moat on the wrong side. The waterway narrowed as it cut across the path ahead, where a log bridge, just wide enough for a vehicle, but maybe not strong enough for one, allowed them passage. Peter looked down into the water as they crossed, half expecting to see alligators writhing about, ready to devour intruders. But the water was clear and fresh. A slight current moved toward the far end of the site.

“Water flows in on one side, from a crick,” Boone said, noting Peter’s attention. “Out the other side. Metal grates keep the critters out. Gives us fresh water for the crops.”

The word crops turned Peter’s attention forward. The outer fringe of the strange complex ahead of them was basically scorched earth. There were nubs of things that had grown and been burned. “You burn the crops that grow?”

“Yep,” Boone said. “Anything green outside the domes is toast.”

Domes,
Peter thought, looking beyond the scorched earth, confirming Boone’s use of the plural as accurate. Like all the biodomes Peter had seen, there was a farmhouse providing access. But extending from the backside of the glass biodome was a second, and a third. There were five biodomes in all, and what looked like a sixth under construction. These people had taken Ella’s design and duplicated it. With the Southern climate, sunny weather and a plentiful—and filtered—water source, they could grow enough food to support a village, which was precisely what they were doing.

A small town of ramshackle homes, constructed from sheets of stainless steel, PVC pipes and plastic siding, filled the space between them and the farmhouse. Each single-story structure looked just big enough for one or two people, and Peter suspected they were really just for sleeping. Most didn’t even have doors. Privacy would be hard to come by in a place like this. There were a few ragtag people milling about. An older woman swept trash from the grid of dirt paths between the homes. A few men carried supplies here and there. But most of the village’s residents were somewhere else.

“Where is everyone?” Jakob asked.

Peter flinched when his son spoke, but it was a harmless question.

“Either outside the wall doing what needs to be done, working on the new dome or serving inside with the others. Most people think tending the crops is the sweetest gig. Fresh air, fresh food. And yeah, they’re not supposed t’ eat that food. S’posed to get rations like the rest of us. But we all know they’re skimming. Who in their right mind wouldn’t? I mean, me and the boys maintain our musculatures by foraging what we can out in the swamp. We don’t share none, either. If yer lucky, and don’t fuck around, you two—” He pointed at Peter and Jakob. “—might find yerselves back outside the fence. Reunite you with that sweet ride. Goin’ on supply runs. Shootin’ up critters. Shit is a good time. I’m tellin’ you. I’m
tellin’
you.”

When Boone faced forward again, Peter felt a tug on his shirt. Anne walked behind him, swirling an index finger around her ear and rolling her eyes in the universal symbol for: ‘He’s nuts.’

Peter gave a subtle nod and faced forward again, taking in every nook and cranny of the strange amalgam of medieval and futuristic worlds. Is this what the future of humanity would look like, even if they could eat ExoGen crops?
Probably
, he decided, but hopefully without the kind of abuse he suspected was the norm at Hellhole Bay.

Boone led them through the maze of small shacks and then toward what looked like short lean-to stables. Maybe for goats. Unlike the small homes now behind him, the six units stretched out in a row, all had doors. Chain link doors. And concrete floors. As he got closer, he could see that some of the cells were occupied—by people.

“Now,” Boone said, turning around again, walking backward. Peter noticed the man’s index finger had slipped around his weapon’s trigger. Whatever they were about to see, Boone expected it would get a negative reaction out of them. “Ya’ll keep in mind that there are reasons for everything here. It’s like what Einstein said, equal and opposite reactions for every action. Aight?”

Peter slowly took Ella’s hand. She was trembling with rage, close to unleashing that savage fury that had kept her and Anne alive in the wild. But this was not the right place. If they were going to stay alive, they also needed to stay calm. To play along. He gave her a squeeze, and she responded with two of her own. She got it.

And she proved it by saying, “Not a problem.” She hadn’t spoken much at all, and she let a slight Southern drawl trickle from her lips. “We all like Einstein.”

Boone looked like he’d tasted something sour for just a moment. Peter thought he was trying to figure out if Ella was really on board or mocking him. But he apparently couldn’t figure out which was the truth. He shrugged his eyebrows and twisted his lips, turning back to the cages. Then he thrust his arms out like a conductor. “Welcome to the coop. It’s where all the Questionables go.”

“For how long?” Jakob asked.

Boone grinned. “’Til there ain’t no doubt about their loyalty. To Hellhole. Our way of life. And Mason. Really, it’s up to him.”

“This is where Bob and Lyn are?” Ella asked, working a little too hard to sound casual.

Boone stepped to the side, motioning to the next chain link gate. “In there.”

Ella took a step closer, and Boone stopped her with a raised hand. “Remember...”

“I remember,” Ella said with a nod. Then she and Peter looked through the chain link fence together. When Peter saw what was inside, he took Ella’s hand again. She squeezed hard, digging her nails into his palm, channeling her rage. He accepted the pain without flinching. He barely noticed it.

Inside the cage was an emaciated woman. She looked eighty years old, but Ella had said Lyn was forty-five. The woman’s blue eyes glanced in their direction, but she remained in place. Beside her lay her husband, Bob, whose white, withered eyes were motionless.

Bob was a corpse.