Well Fed - 05 (40 page)

In the pit, three people struggled, up to their knees in biting heads, thrashing against the nightmarish sludge. They pushed, but they might as well have tried to shove back quicksand. One guy, perhaps the first one she had kicked in, bled from a number of bites that revealed cheekbones and scalp.

The woman looked up at Collie with red-rimmed eyes, shaking fingers nipped between a skull’s teeth. “Help us!”

Collie considered it and decided to grant her wish.

She shot the woman and one man with the shotgun before the weapon emptied. She used her pistol on the last.

It didn’t surprise her that he choked out a
thank-you
before he died.

And sank below the heads.

The survivors descended to the first floor to a large common area designated as the gang’s mess hall. A connected room was surprisingly well stocked with foodstuffs. Half of the food appeared to have come from the RVs, but neither Collie nor Gus mentioned that. Collie, still unmasked, told the famished ex-captives to get whatever they wanted from the larder and eat their fill. With that kind of freedom, Gus wasn’t sure what he was about to see, but he was surprised that the men and women sat quietly at two rectangular tables, displaying subdued table manners.

“In shock,” Collie said out of the corner of her mouth, watching them from a doorway. “Probably don’t know what we’re going to do either but mostly in shock.”

“What
are
we going to do?” Gus asked.

She shrugged. “Feed them. See what’s left in the tanks, and head back to Pine Cove. That’s our little town. I’ll ask them if they want to come along and start over once they’re finished eating. Maybe we’ll even stay here for the night. If they want.”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“Bad memories.” Collie eyed the ceiling as if it might collapse. “But anyway, we’ll have to go back. Sorry, Gus, but the search for Maggie and the kids will have to be delayed for a bit. Much as I hate to, after this banquet, we’ll need to replenish our own supplies before we can head out again.”

Gus studied each of their faces. “This all of them?”

“Yep. Don’t see your doctor and kids?”

“No… How far away is Pine Cove?”

“About a day and a bit. A steady drive if we don’t have any distractions. It’s on Chaleur Bay. New Brunswick. An hour away from Bathurst.”

The one called Jimbo––Jim––eased past, and Collie caught him by the arm. She indicated Gus should speak to him.

“Uh, you guys didn’t happen to have an older lady named Maggie here? And a couple of kids named Becky and Chad?”

“No,” Jim answered quickly, as if he’d been bad somehow. Collie released him and nodded thanks. Jim went to the table and sat down beside Phil. The older man hunkered over a plate and a portion of cured meat that might have been deer while dipping into a Mason jar filled with purple beets. As he chewed, he stared off into space.

“Come on.” Collie pulled away from the mess hall. “Let’s check on Ollie. Then the RVs.”

Phil stood then, quieting an already reflective crowd of a little over a dozen people. Faces regarded him as he cleared his throat. He eyed Collie, who paused in the doorway, and gave an appreciative dip of his square jaw.

He addressed Collie. “You saved us this day. For months on end, we’ve lived… under the whim of those butchers you executed. Have no remorse for any of them. They tortured, tormented, played with and abused, raped, and killed at leisure. There were over forty people in this town before they came along. Forty. This”—he gestured toward the sitting people—“is all that’s left. On their behalf, thank you. For this.”

Collie smiled, her scars and ruined nose oddly appealing in the dim light of the hall, and Gus had to tell himself once again she was a married woman.

“You feel like sleeping in here tonight?”

Phil didn’t answer right away, and for a moment, a sensation of solemnity descended upon the room.

“If it’s all the same to you, miss… some of us might very well return to our homes. Unless there’s a danger in that?”

“None that I know of,” Collie said, “except the chance of another gang coming through here like before. If you do, be careful. Lock your doors. Keep any firearms loaded.”

Phil became pensive.

“In the morning,” Collie continued softly, “we’ll talk about what you folks want to do. We’re from a little community in New Brunswick. There’s food, water, and homes. Bunch of people living off the land like the old, old days. It’s safe and a gathering place for any who want to carry on… the best way possible.”

The older man listened but showed no indication of approval or disapproval. Gus supposed trust was a rare commodity around there, considering what Phil and the other people had lived through. It might take a while for them to trust folks, even after being saved. He could understand that.

“If it’s all the same to you, give us a little time, and we’ll consider your offer,” Phil finally answered.

Collie and Gus left them.

“You think they’ll come along?” he asked as they walked to the lobby.

“Who knows? This is their town, they said. Let’s see where Ollie is. And our machines.”

They exited the building and approached the RVs. At a glance, the vehicles appeared in fine shape. A few seconds later, Collie broke into a relieved smile and pointed.

There, sauntering up the road like a geriatric gunslinger, was Wallace.

“He doesn’t look good,” Gus muttered.

“He can read lips.”

That mortified him. “What? Shit.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said and yelled, “You got your swagger back.”

Wallace took his time in replying. “You should see me from behind.”

Collie smirked.

The afflicted soldier walked toward them, missing the metallic groans and squeaks that sprang to mind. The smell hanging around Wallace preceded him, making Gus screw up his nose and shake his head. Wallace’s condition usually just freaked him out, but seeing the soldier walk along as if someone had nailed spikes into every joint made it difficult not to feel sorry for the dying man.

“You made it.” Wallace stopped and inspected his companions. “Any trouble?”

“Only bad luck,” Collie reported.

“The civvie backed you up?”

Collie’s smile broke out again. “About that. Why’d you send a civvie to back me up?”

“Look at me. I wasn’t getting there anytime soon. I’m not much good for anything these days, Collie, so I sent the next handiest thing.”

“Don’t do it again.”

“The civvie do something?”

“Hey,” Gus interrupted. “I’m getting a little tired of being called a fuckin’
civvie
all the time. If you’re going to give me a nickname, call me Uncle Jack.”

“That’s a shitty nickname,” Collie pointed out.

“And you don’t get to choose your fuckin’ name,” Wallace added curtly.

“The civvie didn’t do anything,” Collie said, drawing a betrayed look from Gus.

“Then what’s he bawling about?”

“Hey,” Gus stepped in, “both of you, but especially you, meat stick. Let’s be clear. I got by perfectly well on my own for
years
before either of you showed up.”

“You were lucky we did show up,” Wallace said.

“Well, yeah… I’m talking about
before
then.”

Wallace regarded Collie. “So what happened? Do I get a report?”

She wasn’t smiling anymore. “About a dozen bad guys. All taken down. Holding another dozen or so locals here, against their will. Same story as usual. Savages move in, set themselves up as kings and queens, and make life miserable for the rest. Bad guys were the standard dickheads—all bad intentions but no training.”

Wallace noticed the back of her singed combat fatigues. “You’re going to need a new dress.”

“I have spares.”

“Good to see you made it.”

“You too,” Collie said with a barely detectable twinge in her voice that Gus couldn’t identify.

“You give these survivors the speech yet?”

“Yeah. They’ll think about it.”

The visor didn’t waver as he absorbed that information, then he regarded the pair of motor homes. “Let’s check these puppies out.”

Surprisingly, the motor homes remained the same after having been stolen. The interiors, while smelling of spilled alcohol, had hardly been touched. The food stores had been depleted, but Collie and Gus knew where it had all gone. A lot of the alcohol was missing as well, but nothing had been damaged, and nothing was grotesquely out of place. Even the pickup truck and portable motor had been left alone.

“They had plans for these rigs,” Collie said when they reconvened in front of one motor home’s silver grill.

“I’m surprised, to tell the truth,” Wallace added, studying the motel and the boarded-up windows on the first floor. “Not a bad setup.”

“You said something about that when you got me out of trouble,” Gus said.

“I did.”

“Well, you want to elaborate some? Cause right now, you sound like you’re admiring them or something.”

“He’s right,” Collie added. “You’re sounding like a dick.”

Wallace became reflective. “You have to admire these folks. Say what you will about them, they’re survivors, doing whatever they can with whatever they got. For us, we’ve had extreme environment training. We can survive for days in the Arctic Circle. A forest is a banquet compared to what we’ve experienced. The apocalypse isn’t such a great jump for us since all the material is still around, albeit growing older by the day. These people didn’t have any training, probably very little preparation, and here they are, doing what they could in the most favorable places and surviving—until they were attacked and subjugated by a superior force. If that hadn’t happened, they could’ve gone right on living, with effort. That river behind us provides fresh water. Barricade the motel’s lower level, set up watches on the roof, and be mindful of your supplies until you’re able to grow your own. This far north, plenty of game. Good job. Very good job.”

“Until the savages came along,” Gus said.

“Yeah.” Wallace turned the visor on him. “That’s the law of the land. I don’t condone it. I deal with it… with deadly force. Out here, we’re judge and jury. Sometimes, the cases are straightforward and easy to pass judgment on. We haven’t come across any yet in a gray area, and I hope we don’t.”

The conversation died then, and Gus thought about what Wallace had just said. He’d heard a similar story from Adam, of all people, back when Gus was the appointed sheriff for the farm.

“We having drinks tonight?” Wallace asked.

“I think so,” Collie said.

“Drinks?” Gus asked.

“Drinks.” She unleashed the full, frightening power of her blue eyes upon him. “Tonight. You, me, and him.”

“I––”

“No
I
’s tonight. Only us. And we drink to celebrate the successful completion of an operation. I think the area’s secure enough. Ollie?”

“I’ll take first watch, anyway.”

“You never did this when you rescued me,” Gus pointed out.

“Sure we did. You were passed out, is all. So you’re in.”

A drink
. Or possibly even drinks. He shouldn’t. Lord knew what Maggie and the kids were being subjected to. But after the events of the day, hell, the
week
, it was a wonder he wasn’t already tits up in a bottle.

Jesus, was he really considering it? After so long?

Then he remembered Ricky and Dwight, and his resistance crumbled. He’d been a good boy up until that one traumatic episode.

One night. A few drinks. Just to take the edge off… just a little.

“Yeah. I’m in.”

Night closed in around the little community, and the motel became a monstrous black mausoleum keeping its secrets tight to its heart. Gus lugged out a table and three chairs from the motel and plunked them down at the side of Collie’s motor home, near the rear so they’d have a good view of the bridge and the highway leading off into the hills. Collie went inside and brought out two bottles of a whiskey blend called Nikka, a brand Gus wasn’t familiar with. Coffee mugs got set up on the table, before each drinker. Lit candles stuck into beer bottles gently fended off the dark and were reflected eerily in Wallace’s visor, pushed back on his helmet. Gus tried not to stare at the man, thankful for the dimness. Wallace’s face appeared as if he’d slept on a block of ice.

The sound of pouring whiskey diverted his attention. Collie allowed three fingers into each mug before setting the Nikka bottle on the table.

Gus took the mug, eyeing the contents as if he could foresee the future. He sniffed it, inhaling the rich scent as if Bacchus himself had brewed the drink.

The last twenty months or so of alcoholic abstinence seemed to hit him all at once. Gus supposed he’d had a good run. He could probably excuse himself, set the whiskey down, and explain how he’d once drunk to armor his senses, to stay sane, and in the end, to kill himself. But, in the end, Gus knew he wasn’t an alcoholic—not anymore. He also knew he could use a shot of whiskey right then, even if it meant throwing away all that accumulated sobriety.

Even if it felt like jumping blindfolded into a pit.

Go on
, a voice whispered.
You need it. Earned it
.

Wasn’t that the truth?

Gus held the mug and noted that the others hadn’t drunk theirs yet. They were waiting for him. Nikka whiskey. It wasn’t Uncle Jack, but it would do.

“You okay?” Collie asked.

“Yeah.”

“Mud in yer eye,” she toasted.

“Shit in yer boot,” Gus replied without thinking, drawing a look of wrinkled puzzlement from the dead man on his right.

They drank.

The Nikka made Gus gasp. A rye-blended comet shot down his throat and crash-landed in his belly. Heat rippled outward, awakening his body like a bear being poked awake from a midwinter hibernation. Gus didn’t wince at the taste, didn’t hitch, but laid the drink back down on the table and looked around.

“Good,” he whispered. And it was. Too damn good.

He glanced around, fearful of having downed the whiskey too fast, and spotted a few people leaving the motel.

Collie followed his eyes. “Going back home, I guess.”