Feast (10 page)

13

“So, let me get this straight,” Anne said. “No one has tried to break out of these cells?”

“I think it’s generally assumed that escape would be worse than being caged,” Carrie said in dismay. “Besides, the gate is chain link.”

“And the floor is concrete.” Anne rolled her eyes. “I can see. I have eyes. But I’m starting to wonder if you guys need glasses. Or maybe new brains.”

She looked at old Willie, then Carrie and finally John. The first two seemed befuddled. John seemed almost uninterested, resigned to his fate at the end of the hangman’s noose, or whatever these people did to execute people.

A groan rose from Anne’s throat when Jakob seemed equally baffled.

“Seriously?” she said to her half-brother. “Have you learned nothing?”

“What?” he said. “No one knows what you’re talking about.”

And no one is taking me seriously, because I’m twelve.
“Ask a question. Observation. Hypothesis. Test. Repeat—if necessary. And when that’s all done, take action.”

Jakob sighed. He’d heard her modified version of the Scientific Method, which she called the Survival Method, more than once. She tried to teach him. Tried to make him memorize it and use it the same way Eddie Kenyon had taught her. He turned out to be a bad guy, but the method still made sense. Still worked. But Jakob resisted learning from his little sister. In the safety of
Beastmaster
, with her mother and father, it hadn’t bothered her much. But here and now, with their lives on the line, she wished he’d taken the lesson more seriously. Especially now that she had to convince a bunch of adults that she wasn’t a foolish child.

“Question,” she said, “Can we escape? Observation. One, the floor is concrete. We’re not digging out. Two, the gate is chain link, padlocked shut and screwed into a sturdy wooden beam. It’s not going anywhere. Three, the ceiling is made of corrugated metal held together by bolts.”

All eyes turned upward. The waves of metal siding, used for a slanted ceiling, were indeed held together by bolts.

“Holy...” Jakob reached up and tried to twist one.

“Observation,” Anne said. “They’re rusted. It’s humid as a fat man’s ass crack here.”

Jakob grunted, trying to twist the bolt. He hissed in pain, withdrawing his hand and shaking it.

“Hypothesis.” Anne raised a finger. “Humidity affects wood, too. Rots it. Especially when the lumber isn’t pressure treated.” She patted the wall behind her. “Like this wood. So, the cell’s weakest point is the exterior wooden walls.” She pointed to the front gate, the side wall behind Carrie and John, and the back wall behind Willie. “There, there and there.”

“How do you
know
all this?” Carrie asked.

Anne shrugged. “I read a lot.” It was true. Before her life in the wild began, she didn’t do much more than read and cause mischief in the ExoGen facility, pulling pranks and spying. But there were a lot of subjects Anne knew a lot about that she couldn’t remember learning. Like with pressure treated wood. Everything back in San Francisco was metal and glass, built to survive the end of the world.

“Continuing hypothesis,” Anne said, but was interrupted by Alia.

“The roof overhangs in the front and back, so those walls probably stayed drier during rainstorms.” Alia crawled across the cell, stopping short when she noticed the five-gallon bucket. She winced and reeled back.

“Found the shitter,” Willie said, leaning up. He took hold of the bucket’s handle and dragged the concentrated filth to the back of the small cell. “Might seem gross now, but sure beats soiling yourself.”

Alia just scrunched her nose and continued on her way, a little bit slower now, carefully picking the spots she put down her hands. “Hypothesis,” she said, upon reaching the side wall beside Carrie and John. “Of the three outside walls, this one will be the weakest.”

She reached out and pushed on one of the vertical planks. It bowed, but held strong. She moved down the line toward Willie, testing each plank.

“Not that way,” Anne said. “The other way. Specifically, behind him.” She pointed at John, who looked more annoyed than surprised.

Carrie shifted away and swatted John’s shoulder. “Move out of the way.”

John obeyed, but didn’t move far. Alia had to partially lean over his cross-legged knee to reach the wall. She probed the middle and then moved down. “This feels wet, still. I think—” Alia let out a yelp as the wooden plank folded outward at the bottom. Without the wall’s support, she fell forward, face-planting. “Oww!”

Alia reeled back from the impact, sliding back across the floor, hand to her face, into Jakob’s arms as he rushed to meet her.

“You all right?” Jakob asked, trying to look past the girl’s hand.

She took her hand away from her face to reveal a bloodied nose. “How bad is it?”

Anne leaned over the girl, reached out and squeezed her nose between her thumb and index finger.

“Oww!” Alia said, flinching back.

“What the hell was that for?” Jakob asked, glaring at Anne.

“She’s fine,” Anne said. “Just pinch it.”

Jakob motioned to Alia’s face. “Her nose could be broken.”

“If it were broken, she would have screamed instead of saying ‘oww.’” She took hold of Jakob’s arm and squeezed it hard. “And we have bigger problems.”

The intense pressure on his arm and Anne’s deep, threatening voice, which he had learned to never ignore, freed him from his mind-numbing concern for Alia. Jakob had overcome a lot of his weaknesses over the past few weeks, but his girlfriend had replaced them all. She distracted him. Put him in danger, and by extension, put the rest of them in danger.

“The hole in the wall?” Jakob asked.

Anne shook her head and sang, “One of these things is not like the others.”

Jakob looked confused. “Sesame Street?”

Anne shared his expression. “What?”

“That song is from Sesame Street,” he said.

“People on a street sing that song?”

“It was a TV show. For little kids.”

“I spent my ‘little kids’ days in a tube,” Anne said. “I’ve never seen—” But then she remembered it. The people. The strange fuzzy creatures.
What the hell?
“Tell me how to get to Sesame Street.”

“Exactly,” Jakob said.

“Brought to you by the letter H,” Anne said, her mind drifting, and then snapping back to reality. “H for hypothesis. One of these things is not like the others.” She left out the sing-song tune and looked at Carrie and John. Then turned to Willie. “How badly do you want your freedom? And I don’t mean just from this cage.”

The old man squinted at her. “What exactly are you asking me, kid?”

“Before we talk about getting out of here, and about who will help us once we’re free, and about how Mason and his pals can be...usurped, we need to make sure that only the right people hear the plan.”

“No one here but us,” Willie said. “And they only check on us twice a day with food and water.”

“What I’m asking you, Willie...” Anne said, leveling her most intense gaze into the man’s eyes. He was old enough to be her great grandfather, but was listening carefully. “...is this. To regain your freedom, for however few years you have left, are you willing to listen to me?”

“I’m listening now, aren’t I?”

“Are you willing to fight?” she asked.

“Much as an old man can.”

“Are you willing to kill?”

“Anne,” Jakob said.

“Same question goes for you, Jakey boy.” She turned to Carrie. “And you.”

Silence settled into the cell, squeezing her eardrums until John leaned forward and spoke. “And what about me?”

“I already know about you,” Anne said. She pointed at the ring on his finger. “School ring, top of the class, worn proud. Don’t recognize the school name, but you’re not stupid.” Her finger rose to his hair. “That haircut makes you look handsome to the ladies, but it was also done with a sharp pair of scissors, by someone else.”

Carrie leaned away from John, looking at his hair. It wasn’t exactly styled, but the cut was even, bordering on professional. Carrie’s scrunched up forehead said she hadn’t noticed the hair before, but she did find it odd now that it had been pointed out.

“Seriously?” John said. “You don’t like my hair?”

“I don’t like your face,” Anne said, “but that’s not really the problem.”

“Then what is?” John asked.

“The knife strapped to your right leg.”

All eyes shifted to John’s right leg, which was covered by dirty jeans. The fabric was wrinkled, but among the folds was the slight outline of a thin blade, easy to miss when someone was sitting cross-legged.

John leaned forward quickly, hiking up the pant leg and reaching for the now exposed blade. It was flat and black, the handle and blade all one piece of forged metal. It looked like a throwing knife to Anne, but that didn’t mean it had to be thrown to be deadly. In the tight confines of the cell, the young man, easily stronger than all his cellmates, could probably kill every one of them. But Anne had planned ahead for this moment.

Just as John slipped the knife from its sheath, a large booted foot collided with the side of his head. John flopped to the side, unconscious, the knife clattering to the concrete floor. Anne winced at the sound. If anyone was within earshot, it would undoubtedly attract attention. She scurried across the floor and snatched up the blade.

John groaned, dazed, but still conscious.

“Still dangerous,” she said, closing on the man, knife in hand.

“Anne,” Jakob said. “Don’t!”

“We can’t risk him living,” Anne said. “Even if we knock him unconscious, he’ll give us up the moment he wakes up.”

“It’s murder,” Jakob said.

“It’s a revolution,” Anne said.

“We just got here,” Jakob argued. “They might even agree to let us go!”

Anne held the knife above John’s heart, but kept her eyes on Jakob. “You know our parents. You’ve seen enough of this place. Do you really think they’re going to just sit back and do nothing? How long do you think it will be before someone comes for us? Before someone uses us for leverage?”

Jakob said nothing, but she could see he agreed.

Part of her wished he didn’t, that he’d talk her out of what she was about to do. But he couldn’t, and he wasn’t hard enough to do it himself, so...

She pulled her hand back, ready to thrust the blade into John’s chest. But before she could, John was lifted up by two gnarly hands, one under his chin, one supporting the back. With a quick jerk, John’s head snapped too far in one direction, the sound of snapping vertebrae opening his mouth in a silent scream. Then his head twisted in the opposite direction, again too far. The second crack made John’s body fall limp, leaning back into Willie’s arms.

“No way I’m going to sit back and watch a little kid kill a man for me,” the old man said, dragging John into the cell’s back corner and positioning his corpse so it looked like he was sleeping. When he turned back around, he grinned and said, “Viva la revolución. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

14

“That’s the Lot,” Boone whispered, lying in foot-deep muddy water, peering out between the ExoGenetic rice stalks that had claimed this portion of the swamp. A hundred feet ahead, on the far side of a paved road, was a combination gas and service station with a large, fenced-in parking lot for cars being worked on.

Peter took a deep breath through his nose, smelling earthy decay and something sweet that he thought must be the rice—most likely engineered to smell and taste like it had been dipped in maple syrup. He remembered hearing about this strain on the news when people first started eating the out-of-control crops. Boiling it and eating it plain was supposed to taste something like rice pudding, without the cinnamon and raisins. The thought made his stomach rumble loud enough for Boone to hear.

“When was the last time you ate something?” Boone asked. “Sounds like you got an angry coon in your gullet.”

“Early this morning. Bunch of leaves and mushrooms.” The displeasure in Peter’s voice was genuine. Eating vegetarian was hard enough. Eating foraged foods... It just wasn’t enough, especially split between four people. At least Anne could eat the ExoGenetic crops, but the rest of them were getting skinnier and weaker by the day.

Boone lifted himself part way out of the muck, unzipped a pouch on his chest and pulled out a Slim Jim. “We got a shit load of ’em. Old enough to eat. Enough preservatives to keep a zombie fresh.”

Peter accepted the dried meat snack with a nod. He peeled the wrapper open and devoured the food in three bites. It wasn’t much, but the simple act of kindness gave Peter a flicker of hope that Boone wasn’t as sinister as he appeared.
Of course,
he thought,
he could just be trying to keep my stomach from giving away our position.

“Why is there a gas station way out here?” Peter asked, looking at the place, which was surrounded on all sides by swamp. The sign by the road read: ‘Gas and Gears.’

“Nearest town is a few miles down that way,” Boone said, nodding his head to the right. “Next nearest town is a few more miles that-a-way. Fastest way ’tween here and there is this stretch of road. It’s a little out of the way, but most people pass by it eventually. Plus, Austin, the previous proprietor, kept his prices low. Course, he sometimes put saw dust in the gears, too, but that don’t matter none now. His corpse is rotting away in the swamp out behind the garage.”

“What’s his body doing out there?” Peter asked.

“It’s where I dropped him, after putting a bullet in his head.”

“He changed?”

“If that makes you feel better, sure.” Boone pushed the rice stalks further apart. “Ain’t nobody here.”

“Wait,” Peter said, but it was too late. Boone stepped out into the road, weapon ready, but totally exposed. If someone had been out there, or some
thing
, he’d be a dead man. But nothing happened. They were alone. And once again, Peter couldn’t tell if Boone was lucky or had an exceptional knack for being in tune with this environment.

Feeling vulnerable without a gun, Peter stepped from the water, dripping wet. He hurried up behind Boone.

Half way across the road, Boone’s foot fell just short of the yellow line, and he stopped. He looked like a runner, taking his mark. Then the rest of his body went rigid. “You smell that?”

The same mixture of sweet rice and decaying swamp filled Peter’s nose as he breathed deep. Then something else. He winced. “Smells like shit.”

“And a lot of it,” Boone added, starting across the road again, angling for the service station’s entrance.

The glass door, stenciled with the same Gas and Gears logo as the sign out front, opened without a sound.
Boone and the boys have been keeping the place up,
Peter thought,
probably treating the Lot like a home away from home, free from the authoritative gaze of Mason.
A piece of paper taped to the inside of the glass held a chicken-scratched message: No shirt, no shoes, you better have tits.

Peter smiled at the sign, but only because Boone was watching him.

“Me and the boys like to hang here on occasion. Not nearly as safe as Hellhole, but a good place to blow off steam.” Boone stopped Peter just outside the door. “You ain’t gonna be tellin’ Mason, are you?”

Peter could see that the countertop had been converted into a bar, complete with stools. The shelves behind it were covered in bottles of various liquors and wines, probably old enough to be safe. Maybe old enough to be spectacular. “You have bourbon?”

“Blanton’s,” Boone said, a grin creeping up one side of his face.

“Then your secret is safe with me.”

“Well, all right then.” Boone stepped inside, and Peter followed, letting the door close behind them.

The fecal smell disappeared.
Whatever it is,
Peter thought,
it’s not coming from in here.
The smell had him on edge, but the prospect of tasting Blanton’s bourbon again... “Mind if I get a glass now? You know, in case we die?”

“Now that’s a good toast if there ever was one.” Boone took two shot glasses from the shelf. They were smudged with fingerprints on the outside, no doubt used and reused multiple times without a wash. But the alcohol would kill whatever germs the previous users had left behind. Boone snatched a round Blanton’s bottle from the shelf, gripped the small horse and rider mounted atop the cap, and pulled the cork. Peter caught sight of the date written on the label. It was twelve years old and very safe to drink.

Boone poured two shots, right to the rim and slid one to Peter. They downed the alcohol in unison, neither man showing a reaction to the burn. Peter put his glass down and relaxed.

“One more for the road?” Boone asked, about to pour another shot. He stopped short when Peter put his hand over the glass.

“While there isn’t much more in the world I would like to have at this very moment, than a second shot of that liquid gold, it’s been a while since I had a drink. I can already feel it.”

Boone scoffed. “Wouldn’a figured you for a lightweight.” He refilled his own glass and downed it before Peter could remind him that something outside smelled like sundried shit.

“Gal dang,” Boone said. “At least you have good taste in drinks.” He put the bottle back on the shelf, carefully, almost reverently. To Boone and his good ol’ boy buddies, this was a sacred place: like ten-year-old boys with a fort in the woods with nudie mags hidden in a buried safe. “Now,” Boone said, “let’s ferret out the source of that smell. And let me tell you this, if it’s something my boys did, you’re going to see exactly how this fella—” He tapped an index finger against his own chest. “—keeps his men in line. I ain’t no stranger to the fine arts of corporal punishment.”

Peter gave a fervent nod, but stayed quiet. Boone was more of a lightweight than he thought, or wanted Peter to think. The alcohol had loosened him up, and fast. And while that might help Peter subdue the man if necessary, if things went sideways as they often did, he’d prefer the man fighting by his side to not be three sheets to the wind.

Boone led him through the office-turned-bar and into the garage, which had been converted into a real man-cave. There was a pool table, several dart boards and a collection of antique chairs. It actually looked like a place Peter would enjoy kicking back in for a few drinks with his friends. If his friends were still alive. And though Boone seemed a little more human now, it was unlikely.
When pigs fly,
Peter thought, and then he shook his head. It was fairly likely that a flying pig existed someplace in the world.

“Get the door, would’ja?” Boone lifted his AR-15 to his shoulder, ready to fire.

Peter unlatched the door and then yanked it up, the clank of metal wheels sliding through the guide bars making him wince.
Too loud,
he thought, wondering how this place had yet to be overrun by an Apex predator.

Boone paid the loud door no attention and stepped out into the paved lot, scanning back and forth with the weapon. There was an assortment of vehicles, mostly trucks and SUVs. There were also a few cargo vans, and at the back, a large moving truck. Between the vans and truck was
Beastmaster
, parked in line with the rest, but not in the same condition he’d last seen it in. The armored pickup truck had been shot up, beaten and abused over the past few months, but it had never been...violated.

This is personal.

Boone saw it, too, and he made his way toward the truck, aiming between the other parked vehicles as they passed. But they were alone. Whoever had defaced the car was long gone.

Boone stopped in front of
Beastmaster
, cocked his head to the side and read the message, written in shit, smeared on the windshield. He added his own inflections to the message, written in perfect English. “‘Peter, Peter, Kristen beater, gonna find yer girl and eat ’er.’ Am I reading this right? Kristen is yer wife. And yer girl is Anne? If my boys—”

“Your boys didn’t know our names.”

“Well then, ain’t this something.” Boone swiveled around, leveling the assault rifle at Peter’s chest. “Seems you haven’t been completely honest with me, have ye? Who’s with you?”

Peter ignored the weapon, focusing on the message instead. “Why would anyone with me threaten my family? Why would they expose themselves like this?”

“Then who is it?”

Peter’s mind raced for an answer, but before he could find one, a
thunk
from the back of the nearby moving truck made both men flinch.

“Someone’s in there,” Boone said, adjusting his aim toward the back of the truck.

Peter placed a finger to his lips and crept toward the large sliding door. He put one hand on the latch and counted down from three on the other, dropping one finger at a time. At zero, he unlatched the door and threw it up.

The sight inside the truck stumbled Peter back, as a wall of old-penny smell rolled over him. The inside of the truck was floor to ceiling gore. Bodies lay mangled and torn apart. It was hard to tell where one man ended and another began. But there was no blood outside the truck, meaning the men had been herded inside and then slaughtered. But who could do that? Or what? These men had been armed. But here in their secret fort, their guard might have been down. They might have been drinking. And whoever did this...they were good. And ruthless. And apparently, they had a grudge against Peter.

A man near the door shifted as the late day sun bathed him in light. He was missing both legs at the knees and pretty cut up.

It’s a miracle he’s still alive,
Peter thought.
Must have just regained consciousness.

Boone rushed over to the man. “Who did this, Ty? Tell me!”

The man named Ty, covered in blood and chunks of human meat that did not come from his own body, struggled to speak. “T-t-tweren’t h-human. Cept for one f-fella. Big b-big...hairy...” His eyes rolled back and he fell limp.

“Ty!” Boone shook the man. “Ty!” Then he dropped his friend back, and without checking for a pulse, declared, “He’s gone.”

All of Boone’s confident bravado drained from his body. His limbs went slack. He stumbled back until he bumped into the hood of a BMW and sat. Tears welled in his eyes. Boone, like everyone still living on Earth, had no doubt seen his fair share of death, gore and inhumanity, but these men—his men—might have been the last thing in the world that brought him any kind of joy. And he lost all of them at once.

He’s breaking,
Peter thought.
He’s no good to me broken.

“Ty was murdered.” Peter wasn’t sure if Ty was really dead or just unconscious, but it didn’t matter. He’d be dead soon, no matter what they did for him. And since the man was already unconscious, he’d pass in relative peace. What did matter was the description. A man among big, hairy non-human creatures. “Someone did this to him.”