by Tom Abrahams
“The woman,” said Uriel. “Not his. You know I don’t like that possessive crap. Plus, I wouldn’t say she’s his anything anyway. He left her here in this dump by herself.”
Zeke stepped toward Uriel and jabbed a finger at her. “Hey, this isn’t a dump. It’s my…it was my home. And I had my reasons for leaving her.”
“You tell yourself whatever helps you sleep at night,” said Uriel.
“Stop it,” said Phil. “We’re here to help him, not chastise or counsel. You know our roles, Uriel. Stick to them.”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine.”
Gabe motioned for them to leave the apartment. He led them all back into the hall and told Zeke to lead them back into the street. They needed to go to wherever he thought Li might be, assuming she was alive.
Zeke pushed past them and descended the stairs. He knew he’d never be back. This was the last time he’d ever step foot in the place where he’d made a home with the only woman he’d ever loved.
“There are only a few places she could be,” Zeke said over his shoulder as he reached the landing and turned back toward the first floor. “The Tic has dark sites the Overseers don’t know about.”
“Dark sites?” asked Phil.
They stepped from the building and into the light. Zeke squinted at the bright outdoors. He lowered the brim of his Stetson.
“Yeah,” he said. His boots crunched on the gravelly sand that coated the street. “There are plenty of Tic-owned or controlled businesses in the protectorate—all the protectorates. The Overseers know about them. They don’t do anything about them. Not really. But the Tic also has hidden places they don’t want the Overseers knowing about.”
“Sounds sophisticated,” said Phil.
“Beyond,” said Zeke. “The Tic has tentacles everywhere.”
“And you screwed them over,” said Phil. It was a statement and not a question.
“Pretty much,” said Zeke.
All of them were outside now. They marched together, side by side. To their left stood the gargoyle man who’d tipped off the Tic. He leaned against an open doorway now, pinching a cigarette between his fingers. Streams of smoke plumed from his nostrils. He stared at them.
They’d passed him and reached the end of Zeke’s street when Uriel handed Zeke her M27 and peeled away from the group. Phil and Gabe kept walking, ignoring her. Zeke stopped.
She moved toward the gargoyle, her hips swaying seductively. She stepped with a swagger born from immeasurable confidence, which struck Zeke as funny.
He admired Uriel, found her sarcasm endearing and biting, and he was impressed with her obvious physical skill. But he thought it all a little much. It was hiding something. It was an armor, a protection that masked an overwhelming insecurity.
Zeke squared his shoulders and put his hand on his weapon, touching it through the fabric of his untucked shirt. He readied himself to support her should she need it.
The gargoyle was unfazed by her approach. He took another drag, drawing in his cheeks and sucking on the cigarette like it was life-giving. He held the smoke in his lungs before blowing it out in a wide puff that swirled around Uriel as she stepped to him and stopped.
A breeze blew past Zeke, fluttering the brim of his hat and kicking up dust that drifted across his face. Uriel was speaking to the gargoyle, but Zeke couldn’t hear her. The man watched her with disinterest. His eyes wouldn’t meet hers, and instead they assessed the accouterment that attracted more attention. He lowered his arm to his side and flicked the ash onto her boot. Uriel lowered her head. Her fists tightened. Her shoulders squared. Her stance widened almost imperceptibly.
The man rubbed his chin. Before he could say a word, Uriel reeled back her arm and punched him across the jaw. The other side of his face slapped against the doorjamb, and he slumped to the ground. The cigarette was in his hand. His teeth were scattered onto the ground in front of him. His jaw was displaced and hung awkwardly as he lay there unconscious.
All of this happened in a split second. Uriel’s fists clenched as she stared down at him. She said something, then turned and tugged on her top.
She sauntered back to Zeke. She reached him and extended her hand for her M27, which Zeke didn’t dare not hand back.
“What did he say to draw that reaction?” he asked.
Uriel motioned toward Phil and Gabe, who were well ahead of them now and not slowing their pace. The two of them began walking double-time to catch up.
“It wasn’t so much what he said,” answered Uriel. “It was the ash on my boot that sent me over the edge.”
“The ash?”
“Yeah,” she said, giving him side-eye as she hustled. “Nobody messes with my boots. I was gonna give him a pass too.”
Zeke picked up his pace to stay even with her. They were jogging more than walking now. She carried the M27 in front of her in the manner of a skilled Marine in training.
“I told him I didn’t appreciate him being a rat,” she said. “I told him that if he said anything to anyone else, I’d come back and personally make it so he’d be sucking on cancer sticks through a hole in his throat.”
“He didn’t like that, I’m assuming,” said Zeke.
“Apparently not,” she said. “He ignored my warning and instead chose to be disrespectful. So I gave him a stronger warning than initially intended.”
Zeke noticed she was running with ease. She wasn’t breathing heavy or even seeming to exert herself. It was like she was superhuman. She’d knocked a grown man out with a single punch despite her slight stature. She’d squeezed a man to death with her thighs. She was deadly accurate with a rifle.
All of his new companions were deadly. All of them seemed otherworldly.
They caught up with Phil and Gabe at a three-way intersection and stopped. People were gathering at a ration station nearby. The line was twenty people deep even though the station hadn’t opened and no Overseers or TMF had shown up yet.
“What are you?” he asked his companions, looking to each of them. “Where did you come from? What is it you want here?”
“All good questions,” said Phil. He pulled back his hat and wiped his brow with a swipe of his shirtsleeve. “All good questions.”
“It won’t be long now,” said Gabe. “Not long now.”
Zeke scanned their expressions. None of them gave away anything.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “Those aren’t answers. None of you ever answer my questions.”
“That’s because you’ll answer them yourself when the time comes,” said Uriel. “And as Gabe just said, it won’t be long now.”
Chapter Fourteen
How’s the tenderloin?” asked Guilfoyle. “I hope it’s to your liking.”
He sat across his table from his nephew, Louis Donne. The question was unnecessary since Louis had devoured the engineered beef. He had the last cube at the end of his fork, which he was dragging across the juices that puddled on the china dish in front of him.
The portly lieutenant nodded dutifully and squirreled a bite into one cheek. “Yes, thank you, Commander. It’s delicious. What’s the marinade?”
Guilfoyle cut a bean into two pieces and stabbed at one with his fork. He shook his head. “I don’t know.” He called toward the kitchen, “Theo, come here, please.”
Theo appeared. His gray suit hung perfectly on his thin frame. His black shoes were polished to a high gloss, and his hair was impeccably coiffed. The glossy sheen of his engineered silk necktie was knotted perfectly in a double Windsor.
“Yes, sir?” He stood at attention, his shoulders back, his chin lifted high. “What do you need, Commander?”
The commander took a sip of wine and let the cabernet sit in his mouth for a moment. He stabbed another bean; then he gestured to the blood-red marinade on his own plate. “The au jus,” he said. “What’s the flavoring?”
Theo frowned. “Is something wrong, sir?”
Guilfoyle shoveled the bean into his maw and jabbed th
e empty fork at his nephew across the table. “No, Louis here asked about it. It’s delicious.”
Theo’s tight expression eased. “Ah, very good. I’m pleased you like it. The tenderloin is seasoned with a wonderful combination of rosemary, thyme, minced garlic, nutmeg, some allspice, a pinch of salt, and dried tarragon.”
“It’s fantastic,” said Louis. “My compliments.”
Theo bowed in appreciation. “Is there anything else, sir? I’m preparing a palate-cleansing sorbet, if that’s acceptable.”
“Wonderful,” said Commander Guilfoyle, dismissing Theo with a wave.
He took another healthy sip of the wine; then he dabbed the corners of his mouth with a cloth napkin and pushed himself back from the table. He stared out the window. It was morning, early in the day for a heavy meal. The ration lines had formed on the streets below even though none of them had opened for business.
“I’m happy you joined me for this unusual breakfast,” he said to Louis. “Given that neither of us slept last night and we skipped dinner to cope with emerging threats, I thought this might be a nice treat.”
“It truly is,” said Louis. He was using a chunk of heavy, dark bread to sop up the juice on his plate. “Thank you for the invitation.”
“It didn’t hurt that Theo had already prepared the meal,” added Guilfoyle, continuing without acknowledging what Louis had said. “And I didn’t want his work to go to waste. He’s so loyal.”
Louis chomped on the soggy bread, sucking on the heavy flavor of the juice.
“Loyalty is an important trait in someone,” said Guilfoyle. He looked through his nephew more than he looked at him. “It’s rare too. That’s what makes it so valuable. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes,” said Louis. “That’s my concern about some of your lieutenants. I’m uncertain they’re loyal to the protectorate as much as they are to their own interests.”
“You think so?”
“Yes,” said Louis. He swiped a napkin across his face and balled it up. “They seem to have each other’s backs. They work as a team, independently from the rest of us.”
“I’m not sure of that,” said Guilfoyle. “I believe there may be some insurrection afoot. While I don’t know if the Tic or the Badlanders have anything to do with it, I sense something is gnawing away at us, at our government.”
“Why are you so certain of that?” asked Louis. “There’s no hard evidence. There’s only the loose affiliation of separate attacks on other protectorates.”
“Did your mother ever explain to you how we came to power?”
Louis considered the question for a moment. Guilfoyle saw the gears turning in his mind. “Of course she did,” he said. “But I always appreciate your perspective, Uncle.”
Guilfoyle sighed. He stood and crossed the short distance to the window, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and surveyed the city. A transport lumbered along one of the streets near the Fascio next door. An old Dodge Charger rumbled along a parallel street on the other side of a monument to their forefathers. It was likely a bold Tic bootlegger thumbing his nose at authority. Dust waked behind the Dodge as it picked up speed.
“I was a child when it happened,” Guilfoyle said. “The population explosion of the late twentieth and early twenty-first century, coupled with the Dearth and aging infrastructure, made for a perfect storm. It happened fast. It took most by surprise, all around the world.”
Guilfoyle glanced at his nephew. Louis was seemingly entranced and hanging on every word. He knew this was symptomatic of his nephew’s sycophancy and that Louis was likely bored. It didn’t matter to him. He liked talking.
“There were groups, however, who knew better,” said Guilfoyle. “Organizations that knew the end was coming. Once the water runs out, you see, and the food becomes scarce, people riot. They destroy their own communities. They plunder. They kill. Survival is a funny thing. When it’s threatened, humanity wanes. It’s a fact. And when it’s threatened en masse, the masses reject civilized behavior.”
Theo entered with two small bowls of pale yellow sorbet. He hurriedly delivered the palate cleansers to their places on the table and disappeared back into the kitchen.
“Have you ever watched fire ants struggle to survive in a flood?” Guilfoyle continued. He corrected himself. “Of course not. What am I thinking? There’s no flooding. Suffice it to say that when their lives are threatened, the ants will cling to whatever they find to survive. They’ll bite, they’ll cluster, they’ll climb all over each other. Whatever it takes is what they’ll do. Humans are no different.”
Louis picked up his spoon and dipped it into the sorbet. He scooped some onto the silver and into his mouth. His cheeks puckered from the sour citric taste.
“Knowing this about human nature, and foreseeing what was inevitable,” said Guilfoyle, standing at the window, “we prepared. I say we, although it was our forefathers. Your mother and I were children, but we saw it happening. We listened to the adults’ conversations, saw the huddled meetings in living rooms, and overheard the hushed video chats over encrypted lines.
“We had hundreds of people, professionals in all areas, who understood what was happening. They joined forces. There were scientists, military leaders, titans of industry, agricultural barons, and even skilled politicians.”
Guilfoyle took in a deep breath and moved from the window. He went back to his chair and sat, leaned over the bowl of melting sorbet, and spooned a small portion onto his tongue. He winced. “Tart,” he said and then took another taste. “Delicious but tart.”
Louis scooped the last of the sorbet from his dish. The silver scraped against the china.
“They stockpiled supplies,” continued Guilfoyle, shifting back to the story of the protectorate’s genesis. “They hid large caches of weapons before the second amendment was repealed.”
“Second amendment to what?” Louis asked.
“The Constitution of the United States. It was the document that governed the nation. This was only seventy years ago, Louis. It was a facsimile of the Magna Carta. You’ve heard of that, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” said Louis. His cheeks reddened with embarrassment or frustration, or both. “And I’ve heard of the Constitution.”
“There were twenty-seven amendments,” said Guilfoyle. “The first ten comprised the Bill of Rights. As the thirsty country began to deteriorate into chaos, many of those rights were abridged. The first, second, and fourth amendments were the first to go. That only made things worse.
“Local and state governments dissolved; law enforcement disintegrated. It was anarchy. For years, there was steady decay. The already fragile infrastructure worsened. Small communities evaporated. Large cities imploded. The only constant was the supply of oil and gas. The government made certain they kept control of that. It was the main source of revenue. They sent the military to protect the pipelines and refineries. They spread themselves thin. We bided our time.”
“Until what?” asked Louis.
Theo reemerged with twin cups and saucers. The china rattled against itself as he glided across the room to deliver the drinks.
“Coffee,” he said, placing the first on the table in front of the commander. “Already made as you like it, sir, with engineered lactic-free milk and two lumps of synthetic sugar.”
“Black, please,” said Louis. “I like mine black.”
“Yes,” said Theo, delivering the coffee to Louis. “Black. If memory serves, you enjoy a splash of rum?”
Theo winked. Louis nodded in reply and thanked the servant for his hospitality and good memory.
“It’s my job,” said Theo. He cleared the plates and scurried, arms full, back to the kitchen.
“The coffee is made from filtered spring water,” said Guilfoyle. “It’s the only way to have it.”
He picked up the saucer with one hand and gripped the cup with his other. He blew the steam from the hot, saddle-colored liquid and gingerly sipped it. He nodded at his nephew, giving the cue
he too should take a drink. Louis obliged.
Guilfoyle took a second sip and lowered the saucer to the table. He ran his hand along the white linen cloth and brushed crumbs to the floor. Leaning forward, he laced his fingers together and eyed his nephew.
“You asked what spurred us into action,” he said. “Mind you, I was a young teen by this time, so I had a better handle of the machinations. I wasn’t privy to everything, but I knew enough. I saw what was happening. When the time was right, when the government was weak and the people were begging for authority and for protection from the riotous and untenable conditions, the protectorates were born.
“They were spread across the continent,” he said with a sweep of his hands before clasping them together again, “and each protectorate had its own authority. The provisions were divided equally, as were the experts in each of the necessary arenas. All protectorates came under the Overseers’ authority simultaneously.”
“They were military coups?” asked Louis. “You had help from what was then the United States military?”
“Yes,” said Guilfoyle, “and members of congress. Had it not been for their help from the inside, we’d never have been able to destabilize the already-weakened federal government to the point of disbanding it.”
“Then the protectorates became independent city-states?” said Louis. He sipped from his coffee, having let it cool.
“Correct, and the people welcomed it. They wanted the structure. They wanted someone in charge who would ferret out the malcontents and provide fairly for the obedient citizenry.”
“Obedient being the operative word,” said Louis.
“Yes,” said Guilfoyle. “Left to their own devices, people fail. They need firm leadership. They need authority dictating what they need and what they don’t. Even if they’re unaware of this need, it exists. Throughout history, we’ve seen that when people are free to determine their own futures, without the sage wisdom of firm leadership, they fail. The more liberal or accepting societies become, the less focused they are on their own preservation. They need strict enforcement of a basic codification.”