“I would appreciate if you worked on your communication skills in English.”
The two Marines donned their helmets and walked outside while Boone still complained at Ramos.
Kinnick sat down at a square dining table and ran a hand through his hair, feeling the grease of not having washed it since being inside the Golden Triangle. A few minutes passed and Hunter joined him. The two men sat in silence.
It darkened outside the restaurant as the sun began to disappear, its fight to stay in the sky finally lost. Martha brought out a candle and set it on Kinnick’s table.
Smells of cooking food tickled the men’s noses, and Kinnick could hear the faint clank of pots and pans.
Hunter gestured with his eyebrow at the kitchen and Kinnick shook his head no. They had to trust their hosts with a fraction of faith or this experiment would never get off the ground.
“What you think they’re making?” Hunter said softly.
Kinnick stifled a laugh. “I don’t think it matters, does it?”
Hunter nodded as he eyed the kitchen. “Suppose not, but Martha has a look to her like she can make some serious food.”
“We can only hope.”
The candle flickered and the wick crackled. The Marines not on watch or patrol snoozed, helmets slid over their eyes, packs used as pillows. Hawkins sat near Gore, his eyes closed, but seemingly ready to jump in the fight or to save the man’s life at a moment’s notice.
Shadows emerged from the kitchen and they turned into Martha and Gary. They carried big serving dishes of food. Gary set one down and Martha followed with two more dishes of food.
Kinnick’s mouth instantly began to salivate. The aroma was a combination of ripe tomato and fresh garlic all combined together in a rich marinara sauce. A deep bowl of yellow spaghetti pasta was smothered in chunky red sauce and thick brown meatballs sat on top like robust craggy boulders. Steam lifted off a whole loaf of bread cut down into thick slices. The couple set a stack of plates, forks, and knives on the table.
Gary gave Kinnick a sorry smile. “Bread’s the frozen kind and a bit old, but we kept the freezer going as long as we could.”
Martha averted her eyes, inspecting the floor. Her hands were clasped in front of her and she nervously rubbed them together. “Not my best. We canned all the meat we could when the power went out.”
Kinnick dipped his chin in thanks. “You have my thanks, Martha. This looks wonderful.” He turned toward Volk’s dozing form. “Sergeant. Wake up.”
Volk shot up with a scowl on his face and his gun in hand. He stared at the Marines that were supposed to be standing watch near the front of the restaurant.
Hunter was already at the table filling up his plate. “I knew Martha was a good cook.” He gazed over at her. “Martha, my dear, if Gary hadn’t married you, I sure as hell would.” He shoved a whole piece of garlic bread in his mouth and spoke with his mouth full. “Hawk, I got you, bud.” He chewed loudly. Crumbs from the bread dropped into his beard. He dug a spoon and fork into the pasta and pulled it up high into the air. Thin strands of spaghetti struggled to hang onto his utensils and plopped on the plate. Volk stood behind him with a softer scowl than normal.
“We’ll rotate Duncan off the barricade, next.” He spoke loudly over his shoulder at the other Marines. “Leave some for them or you’re on barricade duty all night.”
Washington snatched up a plate. “Ramos and Boone are gonna be so pissed,” he laughed. He smiled, thinking about his fellow Marines missing out.
“Oh, man, home cooking!” exclaimed Whitehead. He rubbed his forehead with the back of his sleeve, his other hand holding his plate to his chest while he waited for a chance to get food.
Kinnick waited for all his men to rotate through the line before he ate. It took all of his fortitude to resist the food, but he’d served with fighting men long enough to know a leader always eats last. The food seemed to lift their spirits despite the darkness that hung over the group with Gore’s still, haggardly breathing body in the corner. Martha and Gary sat quietly, eating at a separate table.
Kinnick filled his plate and sat down next to Hunter. He spun his fork around in the pasta, collecting a wad of the starchy goodness on the edge of his fork. He hooked a chunk of meatball on the end and shoved it into his mouth. It hit his tastebuds and he couldn’t help but moan with a bit of gluttonous pleasure. He picked up his garlic bread and used it as a backstop to soak up the extra marinara sauce and give the pasta the extra support it needed to successfully transport the food to his mouth. Hunter looked up at him, nodding in enjoyment. Red sauce and bread crumbs nestled into his beard as if they were trying to hide.
“Best chow since I can remember. What do you think, Hawk?”
The quiet man gave a thumbs-up from next to Gore. His head neared his plate as he slurped up the strands of spaghetti.
“Do you want us on patrol tonight?”
Kinnick wiped his mouth. “Yes. I want everybody close and radios up.”
Hunter nodded. “I’ll make sure they know.” Hunter put his fork down and snatched up his radio. He walked away from the tables while he talked to Volk and the Marines.
Kinnick leaned back in his chair, his belly swollen with a carb-heavy meal. He forced himself up and went over to Gary and Martha. They both gave each other a quick glance when Kinnick walked up to their table.
Gary’s voice came out like a seasoned-saloon owner in the Wild West. “How can I help you, Colonel?”
“My men and I would like to bed down here tonight in the restaurant. That is, unless you have any issue hosting us?”
Gary wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Not at all, Colonel. Be a pleasure.” He glanced at Martha. “Can you bring them some extra blankets?”
Martha nodded timidly, stood, and left the table.
Gary grabbed their dishes and stood up. The old man’s eyes were tired. “I’m sorry for your man. If there was something I could do, I would do it.”
Kinnick weighed the other man’s words for a moment. Truth? Fiction? Half-truths? “Thank you, Gary. We’ll get to the bottom of this. I promise you.”
Gary nodded his understanding and took away the dishes. Kinnick watched the man’s boxy frame disappear into the kitchen. Can we even begin to trust these people? They are Americans, but somebody on this island shot one of my men.
Martha came from the upstairs apartment, her arms filled with old blankets. Kinnick helped her by taking some. He took the first one over to Hawk. Hawkins laid it over Gore and tucked it in around the Marine, trying to make him comfortable.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Volk said. His scowl had almost disappeared from his face. The Marines all said their thanks. “Duncan and Washington got first watch.”
“Hawk and I can take the second watch,” Hunter said. Hawk nodded his agreement. “We’ll let the colonel get his beauty sleep.” The Marines gave a chuckle, not sure if they should laugh at the informal joke made at Kinnick’s expense.
“Me and Whitehead take the third patrol,” Volk said.
Kinnick nodded. “Just let me know if anything is going on.”
Hunter gave him a wink. “I’ll wake you up if there’s a fire.”
Kinnick shook his head. “Thank you, Master Sergeant.”
Kinnick bedded down using a musty but soft blanket as a pillow. He settled in and fell asleep in a matter of minutes, falling deep and hard into the realm of dreams.
The next morning, Kinnick cracked his eyes, feeling refreshed and invigorated by his restful night’s sleep. He could hear whispering, and little tentacles of sunlight crept through the barricade of tables lined over the windows. He thought he could hear birds chirping followed by explosions of gunshots, shattering the peace of the rising eastern sun.
TESS
Steele’s Camp, IL
The sun rose in the East, assaulting the horizon with fiery gold. Tess sat up in the back of the truck bed. She stretched her arms over her head. Fires smoldered, gray smoke drifting from the
dead cinder. A few people moved here and there, stoking the fires back to life. Sentries stood along the edges near trucks. Tiny embers moved from mouths to their sides as they smoked. Guns were slung on their shoulders.
She hopped down from the back of Red Rhonda, wishing she was able to bring her camper instead of the small Ranger pickup. She slept in the open air with a pile of blankets around her like she was in a nest, only her head poking out.
Steele always slept nearby, but not too close, as the man was extra careful about confusing the situation. He treated it as if they were two friends on a campout, always placing himself on the other side of the fire. Sometimes she considered backing out on her deal with Gwen and jumping the man’s bones, even if it only got her a few minutes of mindless pleasure. Anything to break the hold of their lifeless world. Holding back wasn’t in her nature, but not rocking the boat kept her at arm’s length from the man.
He was gone now, a pile of blankets in his place. Her heart felt heavy as she remembered the last man to share a piece of her heart: Darren Pagan. He had been burned alive by the pastor and his disgusting followers. It was something she would never forgive nor forget.
She wrapped an old patchwork quilt around her shoulders and walked through the Sable Point volunteers’ camp. Someone coughed hoarsely in the early chill of morning. Another snored from a few tents over. She smelled the faint arousing fragrance of coffee brewing, but no food, no salty bacon, no creamy eggs. Steele had cut their rations so low that they would be without food in just two days. That’s when people will get ugly and that’s when mistakes will be made.
A beaten path led her through a thin set of maples, oaks and elms dotting the riverbank. At first, his form was faint. As she walked closer, the shadowed figure grew more into focus and a man emerged ahead of her.
His arm hung slightly bent at his side. His left arm moved fast as he worked his weapon handling skills. She stood back, watching him as he practiced. She leaned against a wide-leafed maple tree. Its remaining leaves were reddish-brown ready to fall at any moment.
He started with one hand in slightly above his belly button, his hand extended out like he was in the early stages of trying to keep someone away. His gun sat nestled in the front of his body in an appendix carry holster in such a fashion that she wondered how comfortable he was that he wouldn’t shoot himself in his privates. In fact, she wasn’t comfortable with the gun’s placement on his body at all.
He drove his hand down on the handle, his thick belt keeping the gun almost in place. Tucking his elbow tight to his body, he would rip the gun free in a fluid motion. The gun would rise up mere inches from his abdominals, and when it was level with the center of his chest, he would drive the weapon out away from his body. His arm extended, he would squeeze the trigger with his index finger until the gun would go with an audible click. Each time it would click instead of boom as he dry-fired his weapon. He did all this with his left hand while his right hand hung bent with his thumb lopped onto the front of his pants. He would holster his weapon and begin anew every few seconds. Click. Holster. Wait. Draw. Click.
He then pulled out a magazine and started to practice loading with one hand. Resting the gun in its holster, he would shove a magazine into the magazine well, pull the gun from the holster, and rack it downward off his belt. Then he would raise it up to his eye level, aiming.
After a few minutes of watching him, she spoke. “It’s fun to watch you work.”
He looked fiercely in her direction, gun in hand. “Jesus, Tess.” He shook his head. “Not a smart idea to sneak up on a guy working his gun.”
“You can say that again.” She strode down the small embankment.
He holstered up and ran a hand over his head scar. “How’d you sleep?”
“Not too bad considering I was in the back of an old pickup.”
“I’m assuming it wasn’t the first time.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “And I assure you, it won’t be the last.”
He smiled and flexed his right hand.
She inspected it with her eyes. “Does it hurt?”
He gave her a pained look. “Always. Over time you just become accustomed to the pain.” He scrutinized his damaged limb, willing it to work as he concentrated. “I feel naked with only one hand and downright useless. My left hand is slower than dirt and clumsier than a clown on skates.” He shook his head. “Not fast enough.”
“It will come around.” She glimpsed through the trees in an effort to make sure no one else was nearby. She took a step closer, not trusting that the trees that might have eyes and ears hidden among them.
She tightened her blanket around her, trying to stave off the coolness of the morning. “I took a walk through the pastor’s camp the other day.”
His smile faded. “Please tell me you didn’t do anything.”
“Who? Little old me? Never.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him. I’d have killed him given a chance.
“You thinking about joining up? You would be his greatest conversion yet.”
“No, but I did see something that I thought you should know.”
His thick blond beard with hints of brown moved in the wind. His eyes were a beaten steel blue. “And?”
“Your tall friend, the pastor, has been holding small conversion parties in that barn on the far side of the fields.”
“Conversion parties?”
She wrapped the blanket tighter around her body. Jesus, it’s cold. “Yes. He was recruiting new members to his church club.”
“So? If they want to join, who cares? They’re with us now.”
Tess frowned. “I care.”
“He’s welcome to do what he wants as long as he upholds his side of the bargain.” Steele turned away from her and did a quick draw of his gun, pointing it downrange. “It’s about economy of motion. That’s why I wear the appendix holster. The gun starts out almost entirely centered with the core of your body. I don’t have to bend my arm back to draw like you would if it was on your hip or even worse, along your back. Can’t do a backflip with a gun tucked on the backside, but up front you can.”
She smirked. “You gonna do a backflip?”
“Ha. No. All you have to do is draw up, point forward and aim in.”
“Thank you for the lesson, but what about the pastor?”
He put the gun back, looking down. “What about him?”
She took a step closer. “Steele, he had bikers in there.” She peeped over her shoulder. Wind ruffled the few remaining dead leaves still clinging to the trees. “I also saw one of ours.”
Steele gave her a sidelong glance. “I don’t want to know.” He shook his head no at her.
“Why?”
“Because. It’s not my job to police our people and their beliefs.”
Her words came out hurried. “You could have spies close to you. People that report back to the pastor or worse.”
He raised an eyebrow. His left eyebrow always rose higher than the right one because of the scar tissue running along his scalp. It was as if the eyebrow had to lift more than its partner to reach upward. “Worse?”
Her voice quieted. “You could have an assassin in your midst and not even know it.”
He stared at the ground, weighing her words.
He met her eyes. “That’s possible.” His words sounded distant and foreign as if it were a faraway idea for him.
“You aren’t going to do anything?” she exclaimed.
“Nope.” He drew his gun out again and the hammer sprung forward with a click.
“You’re an idiot.”
He snorted and turned to her, gesturing, his arm wide. “No, I’m just trying to hold this together. What do you want me to do? Execute the Chosen member? Call out the pastor? What does that get us?”
She narrowed her eyes. “One less psychopath and eliminates a threat among us.”
“I will not move on this information and that’s final. If they move first, I will deal with them, but so far, the pastor h
as upheld his word. I will not breach his trust and give him a reason to.”
She shook her head in disgust. “You’re going to get killed by one of these bastards and leave us here under their control.” This guy is a pig-headed imbecile.
“That’s a possibility.”
“Can you hear yourself? Why aren’t you doing anything? The threat is there.” She leaned closer to him and spoke at a whisper. “If you don’t do something, I have no problem silencing this prick.” Her eyes stared into his for a moment. She wanted to make sure he knew she meant it. She would kill the pastor and leave the Chosen leaderless. If a new person stepped into the fold, she would do the same to them.
His eyes grew angry like a blue tempest and his voice grew mean. “Goddamnit, Tess. You will not.” He brought himself under control and he whispered in harsh tones, “He’s our ally. Unless he makes an open declaration of hostile intent, we don’t do anything. Our peace is fragile.”
She pointed a finger at him. “You will regret not taking action now.”
“Then so be it.” He pointed at her. “But I forbid you from doing so.”
“Fine.” She agreed but her word was a lie.
She spun and walked back through the trees, her blanket flying up behind her as she walked.
“Stupid man, doesn’t know what’s best for him. If he’s too scared to see the truth, then I’ll do it for him.”
GWEN
Reynolds Farm, IA
Two more days had passed since the town dance debacle. She had isolated herself inside her grandparents’ farmhouse from everyone, including the Sable Pointers. Jake had even come calling one night, and she yelled at her grandfather to make him leave from her upstairs bedroom. At breakfast the next morning, she sat swirling little puffs of eggs on her plate.
As long as she could remember, her grandparents had kept a hen house that produced eggs on a regular basis. They were fresh and brown, but they were only eggs and she could only eat eggs for so many days in a row before the sight of them made her sick to her stomach. She choked them down anyway. Baby Steele needed all the nutrients she could supply him with, and if she had to eat one thing every day, eggs were far from the worst thing she could fuel her growing baby with.
The Departing (The End Time Saga Book 4) Page 23