*
Lucian was staring at him as they sat down, his brow furrowed into its signature pockmarked streak—a wrinkled, vertical canyon between his eyes. Norman averted his gaze, intent on quelling the ache in his belly before the day’s run of trouble began in earnest.
There were around three dozen people in the kitchen, all eating ravenously. Breakfast was eggs and toast, courtesy of their own chickens. Despite the menu’s bold claim, the disappointment wrought by the sight of what actually lay on each plate—half a boiled egg and a single wedge of bread from the Mill’s brittle loaves—pervaded the room.
The building was low and wide, with windows large enough to permit thick shafts of soft dawn light to splash down onto a patchwork of scavenged rugs. A hearty fire crackled in the inglenook at the far end, bathing the air in a woody punch.
But the environs did nothing for the mood. The summer morning was powerless against the grumblings of unsatisfied diners and the racket of empty stomachs.
Manning the cookers was a small group of acting chefs. The city’s more mundane tasks ran on a rota system. Everyone took their turn. Those on the morning shift today looked drawn and tired, discontent at having had to rise before dawn only to serve such a meagre meal.
Norman took a bite of mottled crust, tasted sawdust—Rayford Hubble, the miller, had been adding bulk to make the loaves go further—and turned his gaze upon Lucian. “What do you think?” he said.
Lucian swallowed the last of his ration without complaint and leant back from the table. “I’m not sure we should risk it. We don’t want anybody following us back here. We can’t afford the attention. People are stretched thin as it is.”
“I thought we needed the food,” Norman said.
“We do.” He shrugged. “Your decision. You’re the ‘future king’.”
Norman grimaced. “I hate that.”
Lucian’s face remained set, but his eyes flashed with brief amusement. “I’m not going to help you make every little decision forever. Sooner or later you’re going to have to do it all solo.”
Norman sighed and bent closer, feeling more childlike by the second. “Well, what do you think we should do?” he murmured.
Lucian shot him a glance laced with exasperation.
Norman rubbed his eyes, gritting his teeth. If there was one thing he hated above all else, it was being put on the spot. “We need the food, simple as that,” he said. “We’ll have to risk it.”
Lucian nodded. Norman thought the gorge between his eyes had become a little shallower, but it might have been the light. “Fine. But we need to go now, before it gets late. If we run into trouble, I don’t want to have to retreat in failing light.”
Norman cleared his plate, savouring the flavour for a moment. Eggs had been something he’d only recently begun to eat on a frequent basis before the famine. In his childhood they had been a rare treat. Now, they were once again a rarity.
Then he nodded, getting to his feet. “Have you heard from Allison?” he said.
“Not since last night.”
Norman’s gut rattled with disquiet at that. Lucian’s eyes told a similar story.
“Just how short on supplies are we?”
Lucian belched, stretching skyward as he got to his feet. Despite his stature—his extended fingertips didn’t reach much higher than Norman’s crown—people rarely noticed. His perpetual scowling countenance made him seem a far larger, more dangerous creature, a silver-haired wolverine.
He thought a moment longer. “Hard to say. There are still half a dozen other scavenging parties out there. No telling what they’ll bring back.” He grumbled for a moment. “To be safe, six bags. That’ll get us through the celebration.”
“We shouldn’t be gathering for the celebration this year. There just isn’t enough to go around.”
“Try telling Alex that.”
Norman grumbled, made a quick estimate in his head, and cursed. “It just isn’t going to stretch far enough. Birchington doesn’t have that much to spare. Not half of it would have germinated by now.”
“We could try Whitstable. And we should take Allison. She'll stir up a storm if we leave her here.”
“She’ll just slow us down. How many people could she talk to in a few hours?”
Lucian threw him a look.
Norman hesitated—
How many? The whole city, and the birds in the sky to boot.
—and then nodded. “Right. I’ll get her and meet you at the stables.” He left the hall and stepped out onto Main Street, holding up a hand to shield his eyes from the rising sun.
Beyond a rusted substation transformer from which wires spewed on all sides were three men dressed in blue overalls and hardhats, all looking up towards the top of a rusted pylon. For a moment Norman was nonplussed, until he saw the jagged silhouette of a bird’s nest amidst the cables.
They’d had problems with birds doing that for months. People were shooting and snaring every winged creature they laid eyes on. As the crops had vanished and the forests been picked clean, hungry eyes had turned upon ravens and songbirds alike. Flocks now sought refuge in any crevices they could find. Those atop the city’s electrical pylons had become a favourite.
Most people didn’t mind them. Their songs were a welcome reprieve from the unnatural silence that had set in over winter—set in and never departed. They had almost become public pets—to the point that, despite their hunger, the city folk had come to frown on eating them.
The only problem was that they got caught in the wires when they tried to take flight and got themselves electrocuted, shorting out the power in the process.
For the most part it had been chaffinches and magpies that had discovered the elevated havens. Today’s visitor, however, was unusual: a bird that Norman had never seen in the city before. The unmistakable profile of a pigeon bobbed upon the pylon before him, cocking its head and ruffling its feathers.
Norman waved to the overall-clad men as he approached. The rest of the street was empty, with most people either out in the fields or still eating breakfast. He had no trouble spotting Robert Strong, who stood as a giant beside his two young apprentices. As he drew closer, Robert appeared only larger by the second, until he began to blot out the building behind him.
His usual detail consisted of hauling ancient motor vehicles to the sides of the Old World roadways surrounding the city. Even with the aid of draught horses, it was tough work. To clear every road, even within a radius of a few miles, would take many more years yet.
“Morning,” Norman called.
They turned to him and returned the sentiment.
“Another squatter?”
Robert’s boulder-shaped head nodded, his gentle face—strikingly ursine—lost in the glare of the sun high above. The muscles beneath his overalls bulged, threatening to tear the fabric as he flexed his arm to shake Norman’s hand.
“Any blackouts while we were away?” Norman said.
“None. This guy showed up just this morning.”
“So what’s the plan?”
“Buckshot,” said one of the apprentices. “And then the oven.”
“With a bit of cranberry sauce,” said the other.
They were both grinning, but there was something lustful in their gazes that made Norman question whether their words were in jest.
Robert put his hands on his hips, and they fell silent. “We’ll figure it out.” He glanced at Norman. “You heading back out?” he said. His deep baritone voice resonated in the empty street, further adding to the impression of his great stature.
Norman nodded, continuing on towards the stables. “We’re still a few bags short.”
“Be home for pigeon pie,” Robert said, which earned him a snicker from the boys at his waist. He began to turn away, but then paused, his brows lowered. “Hey, Creek,” he called.
Norman, having almost passed out of earshot, stopped in his tracks. The sharpness in Robert’s voice sent a twinge of unease snaking through h
is loins. “Yes?” he said.
“I heard you ran into somebody yesterday. Is that true?” His eyes said the rest—that which the young men didn’t need to hear: How bad has it gotten out there?
Norman tried to keep his face level, but knew that his jaw had tightened despite his efforts. “Where did you hear that?”
Robert spread his arms, his face creased into an incredulous smirk. “Come on,” he said. “Do you really think that you can keep a secret with Allie Rutherford around? If she knows, everybody knows.”
Norman cursed inwardly. “It’s true, but nothing to worry about,” he said, more for the sake of the apprentices, whom he trusted no more than Allison.
The young had loose tongues these days, without enough crowds to teach them any better.
Robert drew away from his charges until Norman had to look straight up to make eye contact. His body now cut out the glare of the sun, allowing Norman an unmarred view of his face: small features set amidst vast tracts of forehead and pendulous cheeks, all of it weather-beaten, exuding a sense of frank pragmatism.
Despite his all-man appearance, his voice had fallen to a whisper that wasn’t much more than a sigh on the wind. “Listen, Norman, what’s going on? I mean, with all this?”
Norman blinked.
Robert watched him expectantly. “I mean, what’s the plan? Alex has filled you in, right?”
Norman’s stomach sank.
Robert was above playing sheep—was, in fact, one of the few who’d known Alexander since the Early Years—but in his eyes was the same look Norman had seen more and more often over the last year. Just like the others, Robert was fishing for guidance—as though Norman were privy to some deeper, hidden truth.
In that moment, he couldn’t have felt less divine. But the look in Robert’s eyes was too sincere, too trusting, to crush underfoot. He forced a smile onto his face. “I’ll keep you posted,” he said. “Listen, have you seen Allie this morning?”
Robert looked stricken. “Don’t tell on me. She meant no harm.”
“She’s coming out with us.”
Robert pointed down the street. “She was up at dawn. I stopped her before she could run her mouth too much. I left her with Sarah.” He winked. “Go easy on her.”
“No promises.” Norman made for the stables once more.
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