“Nah, they’re going to be delayed.” Another man chuckled. His deep baritone was followed by a clang and hollow thud. “Someone forgot to fill his oxygen.”
David froze. Hallelujah! This was not the farming crew. Now he just had to wheedle a means to join them
“They can always come without it,” a third man piped up. His voice was reedy as if it hadn’t settled into his body.
Younger perhaps. With steady hands, David parted the drooping foliage of the immature cornstalks. A screen of green blocked his view. Damn.
“And risk lung cancer?” The baritone laughed. “I don’t think so.”
Looking up, David stared at the readout on the wall. Nine-thousand-two-hundred-forty-four. And climbing. And that was this hour’s radiation blitz of their little valley. Anyone exposed to that amount could count on lung cancer, bone cancer and several other cancers only the survivors of Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and Chernobyl had ever been subjected to.
If these men really had swapped full oxygen tanks with empty ones, the cocksuckers had just sentenced three people to a horrible, drawn-out death. Pushing the bottle against the side of the planter, David leaned forward. He wanted to see the bastards’ faces.
“Yeah, well, I don’t like waiting until the last minute for our harvesting.” Reedy squeaked. “We could get caught.”
David flattened his palms against the concrete. Cold leached into his hands. On all fours, he crawled toward the aisle between the planting beds.
“We’re not going to get caught.” Baritone tsked. “The bossman is smart.”
“So is the Doc.” The growler countered.
Mavis was smart. But so far she hadn’t stopped the thieves from stealing the fresh fruits and veggies from the communal gardens. David peered around the edge of the two-foot high planting beds. No one stood at the end of the twenty-five foot aisle. He scanned the center planting area. Metal tripods supported bush beans and pea vines. Through the leaves and stubby vegetables, he made out the white thighs of the newcomers. Although their hoods were pulled back, the excess material concealed much of their profiles.
Of course, he had enough video surveillance stationed around the greenhouse. Eventually, they would smile real pretty for the camera. Hell, maybe he could even capture one of the bastards picking his nose and put it on the most wanted poster.
“She’s not that smart.” Baritone smacked one of the bean heaps. The tripod holding it wobbled but didn’t fall thanks to the wires lashing it to the beams running the length of the greenhouse’s roof. The UV lamps overhead wobbled. “Besides, she has her hands full now that her lapdog has run away.”
David stiffened. Fuckin-A. Lapdog? Him? Rolling back on his heels, he smoothed his nuclear-biological-and-chemical suit. He was a United States Soldier. And a damn good one, too.
“You think the rumors are true then?” Reedy’s voice wavered over the muffled tap of their protective boots. “The Sergeant-Major has left her for good?”
What? David blinked. That’s not the story they’d cooked up. The rumors were supposed to have Mavis tossing him out on his fatigue-covered ass.
“I didn’t hear anything about it.” Grumble’s voice flattened as if the subject bored him.
He wouldn’t be bored when David hauled him before the judge. Besides, he needed to hear the gossip. It might pinpoint who else was involved with Ali Baba’s forty thieves. Through the beans, he watched his targets close in on the hydroponics baths on the other side of the greenhouse. Their white suits blocked the globes of ruby-red tomatoes.
“That’s because it’s all hush-hush.” Baritone snorted. The velvety green bush trembled and the ripped fruit disappeared into a pocket designed to hold a spare oxygen tank on their back. “But the Bossman knows. He said, the Bitch Doctor underestimated the lapdog’s loyalty to the service when she disbanded the military.”
Ignorant assholes. He vowed to protect the Constitution, not a uniform. His service to his country remained the same, it had just shifted into the civilian sector. With narrowed eyes, David peered through the foliage. A red ball shot up through the greenery. It fell and was caught by a hand with hairy knuckles. He’d bet his Purple Heart that was Baritone.
“Guess the Sergeant-Major has a pair of balls after all.” Baritone chuckled. The tomato flew up again. This time no hand caught it. “Oops!”
David winced at the watery splat. Maybe he should introduce the jackwagon to the balled up fingers at the end of his wrists. He’d oops the cretin’s teeth right out the back of his skull for wasting food.
“What if the breakup is a set up?” Reedy’s voice cracked over the last word.
David scuttled backward. Fuckfuckfuck. Who was the little prick that could think outside the box? Then again, Lister’s op was more night light than hundred watt strength.
Baritone pulled two green tomatoes off the vine and dropped them on the floor. “The Bossman has ears inside the Doc’s quarters. It’s not a setup.”
Flinching, David collapsed against the wall. A listening device in their room explained Reedy’s version. He’d find that damn bug and destroy it. Mavis deserved her privacy.
Baritone pivoted on his heel and closed in on the next bush. “Stop being a pussy, Quartermain.”
Quartermain. David’s muscles twitched. Holy shit! No wonder the voice sounded young. Justin Quartermain was just seventeen. And he was the grandson of Mavis’s late neighbor. This betrayal would hurt her.
“I’m not a pussy!” Tomato guts oozed between Justin’s fingers and leaked into the gloves suspended from his wrists. “The Sergeant-Major is a trained investigator. He could be undercover. He could be looking for us.”
David carefully adjusted the corn fronds, concealing him better but still giving him line of sight. Everyone who’d attended the psychopath’s trial knew he’d investigated murders. Yet, most people remembered him as a soldier giving their departed loved ones a little dignity when they’d been collected for mass burial or doling out food that helped them survive the flu pandemic.
So why did Justin only see him as an investigator?
And why did he doubt the official version of his and Mavis’s breakup?
Was there an insider leaking information to the kid?
“David Dawson is a grunt—cannon fodder.” Baritone snapped the main trunk of the tomato bush then moved on to the next one. “He’s not even a real officer.”
Justin shambled behind him. The biohazard fabric whispered where it rubbed together. “He brought down the preacher man—took him out to the desert and put a bullet through his brain.”
If only. David pressed his palms on the cold cement to keep them from rolling into fists. Trent Powers had deserved a bullet through the brain for caving in Private First Class Singleton’s head. Instead, the bastard had been eaten by coyotes. Not that Powers’ fate was common knowledge. Of course, that didn’t make the scumbucket any less dead.
Or dampen the military conspiracists enthusiasm.
Baritone grunted and continued to pick the next bush clean. “Dawson’s nothing. A nobody. He’s incapable of thought beyond yes sir and saluting.”
David rolled his shoulders against the soft fabric of his shirt. Nothing wrong with showing a little respect. Besides, the trio of tomato terrorists weren’t exactly pillars of leadership, otherwise why would they need a bossman?
Grumble swallowed his disagreement. “I’ve got the last of the tomatoes.”
Baritone plucked the plants out of their buckets. Blobs of vermiculite and a length of cord swung down causing dark liquid to dot his suit. He threw the plant on the ground and stomped on it. Twisting his lower body, he ground everything into the concrete. “Let’s get the potatoes.”
David’s muscles trembled from the inaction. If the bastard had been alone, he’d beat the shit out of him. But Baritone had company. And that bossman asshole would probably just send someone else to destroy the gardens. David would play this smart, give them enough rope to lynch themselves with. He inhale
d to a count of four then exhaled. His muscles slowly relaxed. He would find them again, in the dark caves.
Baritone and Grumble’s wet soles squeaked as they stomped toward the tire forest. Green leaves sprouted from the stacks of black rings. When Baritone reached the first set of five tires, he rammed it with his shoulder. The tower toppled, vomiting black loam and fist-sized potatoes.
David ground his teeth together. God dammit! Those potatoes were supposed to be French fries on his dinner plate. Now they would be used for God knew what. Well, he’d follow the bastards and get the vegetables back. Justin would be the easiest target. But why start doing things the easy way now?
He’d go after Baritone.
Justin picked up a plant, plucked the brown spuds from the hairy roots then stuffed them in his spare tank pocket. “Aren’t we saving any for the others?”
Baritone kicked the other potato beds over. “Hell, no. Bossman says we’re to take everything that’s edible.”
“Why?” Justin shook the plant in his hand. Dirt dusted his suit and the small potatoes swung in circles from their stems. “We’ve always left stuff behind.”
“Because the bossman said so.” Baritone shredded plants after he ripped off their fruit. “The sheep following the Bitch Doctor need to be taught a lesson.”
Grumble stared at the ruins lapping at his feet. “They could starve.”
“So?” Baritone whipped around on his heel and grabbed the front of Grumble’s suit. “Sheep are made for sacrifice.”
Grumble’s suit shrink-wrapped his scrawny frame when he wiggled. “I didn’t sign on to kill folks.”
Baritone shoved his face into the other man’s until their helmets tapped. “Either you believe we survived the apocalypse to remake humanity or you don’t. I’m sure the Bossman would want to know which side you’re on before he ascends to power.”
A chill snaked down David’s back. Son of a bitch. That bastard Trent Powers had said similar things when he’d traveled with them. Someone had been listening.
And that someone was still in the group.
After a moment, Baritone released the man with a shove.
Grumble slipped on the loose dirt before falling. The single oxygen tank on his back clanged when it hit the floor.
Baritone loomed over him. “Which side are you on?”
On all fours, Grumble scuttled backward. “Yours. Yours, of course.” About six feet away, he stopped, raked the plants into a pile before shoving them, stalks and all, into the pouch at his back.
Shaking his head, Baritone retreated. “You’re on the side of the righteous, those worthy of being saved. We will guide the sheep onto the path of grace.”
Christ! The man was a religious nut job. Mavis hadn’t gotten rid of Trent Powers fast enough. His poison was still here. Still spreading. But how? Most of the bastard’s minions had been killed with him. The answer illuminated David’s thoughts. Well, hell, two minions had survived: Dirk Benedict and Jake Turner.
David smiled. So much for his boring afternoon. Hell, if he were right, he wouldn’t even get to finish Lister’s brandy before nabbing the bad guys. With luck, he’d be back in Mavis’s bed by nightfall.
“We shouldn’t take it all.” Justin added more potatoes to his pack. “They’ll start looking for us.”
He dropped the smaller ones to the ground, still attached to their roots and leaves.
Well, damn. David licked his lips. Maybe he should start with the kid. Except that Justin viewed him as the bad guy, they might just have a common aim.
Baritone kicked at the soil, spraying it in the air. “They’ll be too busy in the week ahead to look for us. And the Bossman says we’ll need to lay in supplies because things are gonna get real ugly, real quick.”
Dirt showered David’s position. Fuck. Lister was right. The vegetable thieves were after more than fresh salads. Regime change was on their menu.
“What’s he want with all of this anyway?” Potatoes wobbled in Justin’s fists. “I know he’s fat, but he can’t possibly eat this much food.”
Fat meant Dirk Benedict. Jake Turner was medium build. Was it possible not everyone knew Bossman’s secret identity? Or had David gotten it wrong? Maybe Jake Turner wasn’t involved at all. Nah. David’s gut told him the wormy lawyer was up to his briefs in sabotage.
But he had to prove it.
“You want me to tell him you said that?” Baritone hurled a potato at Justin. “You’ll be at the bottom of the food chain when he rises to power with the rest of the murdering soldiers.”
Murdering soldiers? David filed away the information. Maybe it would provide the key to Baritone’s identity.
With a hollow thump, the spud hit Justin left of square in the chest. The kid raised his hands to catch it. The potato bounced from hand to hand before falling to the ground.
David chewed on his bottom lip. Interesting. Justin Quartermain had the reflexes of a hunting panther. So why had he fumbled the hot potato? Perhaps, the boy was involved in his own investigation. But at whose behest? Lister? Nah, the general wanted this kept in the military family.
The lights blinked off then on.
No. No. Not now. David glanced from the door to the thieves.
“What the fuck!” Grumble screeched. “I thought you said they’d be delayed.”
“They should have been.” Baritone sealed his pack. “Let’s get out of here before they come down the mountain.”
“Bossman will meet us at the secret entrance, right?” Grumble yanked out several plants before closing his bag.
“Of course.” Baritone zipped down his visor.
Secret entrance? These fuckers had a secret entrance? Christ, what if they didn’t seal it properly. The cave system could become irradiated and then where would they go? They had about twenty radiation suits among all the caves, and they could only pump half an hour’s worth of oxygen into each tank. David shuffled his priorities. First, he’d find the asshole’s secret entrance, arrange to have it sealed forever, then he’d have a little chat with Quartermain.
Fabric swishing, the trio jogged toward the vestibule. Red light strobed through the greenhouse. The light died, leaving only the buzzing UV light.
Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Ready or not, here I come. David peeked over the tops of the corn plants before straightening. Vertebra popped. Next stakeout, someone else could fold themselves into a pretzel. He picked up the brandy bottle, then collected the cameras stashed in the bean tripods in the center of the room. This one might give him a visual on their faces.
Striding to the front, he grabbed the camera wedged between the cornstalk and leaves. This one definitely would show him his enemy. He kissed the rectangular body then tucked it into his pocket.
Water gurgled through the pipes just as he set his hood on his head.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Either age was slowing him down or the workers were getting faster. So much for plan A. And getting caught would end his investigation just as he’d finally gotten a break. Avoiding the dirt scouring the floor, he raced to the back of the greenhouse. He parted the black flaps and slid inside the darkness.
Once it was safe to get away, he’d track the bastards and make them suffer.
Chapter Five
With his tongue caught between his teeth, Manny Saldana cut off one perfect round of tomato. One-quarter inch thick, not a sliver more or less. He whistled softly. It was good to be cooking again. Red juice oozed across the metal prep table before being absorbed by a towel. The overhead LED bulbs dimmed for a moment then brightened. The council meeting sprang to life on the TV monitor above the buffet area.
“I wish someone competent would take charge of the electrical grid.” Chef Bonnie Jardin glared at the Christmas lights strung across the silver-lined ceiling. Strands of black hair escaped her bun and fluttered in the purring table fan. “Now that we’re starting to receive fresh produce, I really must have reliable ovens.”
“We haven’t had an outage that lasted more than a fe
w minutes in nearly a month.” Using the side of his knife as a spatula, Manny scooped up the slices and added them to the colander. A white ramekin caught the juice and the seeds. Precious seeds. One white oval lay on the table. He poked it with his index finger until it stuck then scraped it into the shallow bowl.
Folding her arms over her bright-white chef’s jacket, Bonnie harrumphed. “We shouldn’t be having any at this point. Aren’t these people receiving training?”
“I’m sure they are.” He dusted his fingers on the damp washcloth. One thousand twenty-two slices of tomatoes. Everyone got one at dinner tonight. It was a good start, especially when coupled with the potatoes that would soon arrive. He licked his lips.
Bonnie’s rubber-soled shoes squeaked on the damp stone floor. She paused by his side and inspected the silver prep tray holding the remaining slices. “I suppose I can’t expect everyone to learn the basics as quickly as you, Emmanuel.”
Manny flinched at his proper name. He wished she stopped calling him that. It reminded him too much of his mother, too much of all he’d lost. He sniffed back his tears. Time to begin putting that behind him. Life was good in the caves. His parents, brothers, sisters and friends wouldn’t want him to dwell on the fact that he brought home the Redaction that had killed them. They’d want him to be happy.
And maybe… He cleaned the seeds out of the slices in the colander and added them to the prep bin. Maybe he deserved a little happiness. After all, he had saved his younger brother and sister and several neighbors.
That had to count for something.
Reaching to the metal shelves above his prep area, he retrieved the salt and pepper. Measuring out only a quarter-sized amount in his palm, he sprinkled it on the vegetables, making sure to get every grain off his hands.
“Nicely done. And not a bit wasted.”
No, nothing wasted. They couldn’t afford it. Not until the greenhouses started producing more. And speaking of gardens… “My basil is finally growing. I could harvest some and give the tomatoes a little extra flavor.”
Redaction: Dark Hope Part III Page 4