But still Alexander struggled with it. There had to be a better way. That wasn’t how the old world had worked. The United States had made what it needed and traded with other countries. They could do the same thing.
Alexander lingered by the entrance as Jorge, the head chef of the Haven, barked orders at the half dozen assistants tasked to kitchen duty. He was in his early fifties, of Puerto Rican and Cuban descent. Many of their meals had a decidedly Latin flair to them. The kitchen, which Jorge had spent years upgrading to his tastes, occupied the first floor of this building. He had even constructed a brick oven in the back. The cooking instruments ran on propane, one of the key raw materials the Haven sought to secure. For now, his father had reached a deal with a supplier up north near Fredericksburg. An enterprising sort who had figured out how to bottle propane even in the absence of electricity. It was tricky and complex work. The Haven kept a strong security presence in residence at the propane facility.
“Hey, kid,” Jorge called out. “I see you over there.”
Alexander waved timidly.
“Come taste this,” he said, stirring the contents of a large cauldron. He ladled out a portion into a small bowl and popped a spoon into it.
Alexander crossed the room, drawn to the oven by the heavenly smells from Jorge’s pot. He lifted a spoonful of the steaming mixture from the bowl, blew on it, and took a bite. It was some kind of bean stew. Probably something his mother had made for him. He’d learned how to cook from his mother.
It was spicy and delicious.
“Really good, Jorge.”
The man beamed. He poured his heart into his work. Alexander hoped he could find something equally rewarding in his future. He just didn’t know what that would be. Would he just spend his years working in the smithy? Or in here, as a sous-chef? Maybe he’d end up in waste management, the horrifying job of disposing of the vast amount of human excrement the Haven generated each day.
“Jorge, did you always want to be a chef?”
He nodded as he stirred the stew. Then he turned and barked at one of the assistants working at the large counter in the center of the room. The man was chopping vegetables on a large cutting board.
“Smaller pieces, Daniel!” he yelled. “You’ll choke a horse with pepper chunks that big!”
He muttered something in Spanish before turning his attention back to Alexander.
“Since I was a little boy, I loved to cook. Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know what I want to do.”
Jorge chuckled.
“No need to worry about that.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Oh, your dad has big plans for you.”
“What do you mean?”
Jorge laughed again.
“What, you think you’re gonna be making tools the rest of your life?”
Alexander was confused.
“Look kid, I’ve known your dad a long time, and there aren’t many people he trusts,” he said. “He wants people he can trust around him. Who better than you?”
Alexander stood dumbfounded while Jorge attended to some chore. His father wanted him to help run this place? He knew Jorge was trying to make him feel better, but now he felt more depressed than ever. He didn’t even know what he wanted to do with his life, but his father had already decided that for him?
Jorge returned carrying a tray of food. A small bowl of the stew, the steam curling out of it, and a piece of bread. Then, to Alexander’s surprise, he worked up a loogie and fired it into the bowl. He stirred it in with a thick finger.
“Do me a solid, Big A, take this down to the prisoner.”
Alexander carried the tray to the cell, Jorge’s salivary deposit not far from his mind. The man needed to eat. Throwing it out wasn’t an option. Besides, the man probably suspected they adulterated his meals in some way. It happened all the time. Once, he’d read a comedian’s autobiography in which the man had recounted a friend’s tale of masturbating into the soup of the British prime minister while working for a catering company serving a state dinner.
The guard on duty nodded as he opened the exterior door to the prisoner’s cell. He locked the door behind Alexander, who was familiar with the protocols of serving meal trays to prisoners. The man, who’d been lying on his bedroll, heard Alexander approach and swung up to a sitting position.
“Hey, kid,” he said.
Kid.
Why did everyone call him kid?
“Dinner time,” Alexander said. “You know the drill.”
This was the fourth or fifth time he’d delivered this prisoner his meal tray. Today was the first time he’d said a word. The prisoner stood up and moved to the back of the cell. Alexander removed the bowl and bread from the tray and set them on the floor just inside the bars.
“Smells good,” he said. “What is it?”
“Some kind of bean stew.”
He wasn’t supposed to talk to the prisoner.
“Any special additions from the chef?” he said with a hint of sarcasm.
“Uhhh,” Alexander replied.
“Don’t sweat it, kid,” he said. “I’m sure the heat killed the snotrocket or whatever he spiced it with. Beggars can’t be choosers, after all.”
“Okay.”
“Have a seat.”
“I’m not really supposed to.”
“I get the feeling no one’s gonna give you too much grief on this,” he said.
He dunked a piece of the bread into the stew and took a bite. He was clearly starving, and the prospect of a foreign substance in his food didn’t dissuade him in the slightest. The man’s comment intrigued him.
“What do you mean?”
“You look like your old man,” he said.
Alexander did not reply.
“Am I right?”
Alexander dropped to his bottom and pushed up against the far wall.
“What’s your name?”
“Alexander.”
“Nice to meet you,” he said. “I’m Jack.”
Alexander’s heart was racing. He felt guilty and exhilarated at the same time. His father would be furious if he caught him shooting the breeze with their prisoner, and that made him want to do it even more.
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“Almost a man.”
“My dad doesn’t think so.”
Jack guffawed and scratched the days-old stubble on his face.
“You’ve got to remember, parents always see their kids as kids. No matter how old they get. I had a friend, almost fifty years old, his mom calls him one night, and he happens to be at the office catching up on paperwork. His mom freaks out that he’s by himself. Six feet tall, two hundred fifty pounds, and his momma thinks he’s gonna get kidnapped or something.”
Alexander hadn’t looked at it that way. That said, he wasn’t sure he agreed with the man. Simon was many things, but sentimental was not one of them. He didn’t have a loving bone in his body. Fear and control were the most oft-used tools in his parenting toolbox. It was how he ran the Haven.
“Maybe.”
They sat in silence while Jack finished his meal. He cleaned the bowl out with the last bit of stale bread and then set it back near the bars.
“So what’s it like around here for a kid like you?”
The man was obviously pumping him for information, but Alexander found himself not caring. He was easy to talk to, and he seemed to listen. Hell, that bit about how parents looked at their kids was more insight into his relationship with his father than Simon himself had provided in the last decade. So he was getting something out of it too.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I guess. We have it good here.”
Alexander danced around this issue carefully; he often felt guilty about their bounty. He knew he was eating off the backs of others. The bodies of others. But what could he do? Starve himself to death?
“I miss school though.”
A surprised chuckle emanated
from deep inside Jack’s throat.
“Really?”
Alexander nodded and braced for the mockery. The others at the Haven teased him for his bookish ways. But he didn’t care. He loved to learn. He made weekly trips there, exchanging one backpack full of books for another. His father did not always approve of his book choices, but he gave him wide discretion as long as he read the books his father chose for him. Recently, he had read The Prince by Machiavelli and The Art of War by Sun Tzu.
“That’s good,” Jack said. “Can’t say I would’ve felt the same if I were in your shoes, but this world’s gonna need smart people if we’re gonna make it.”
“You don’t think we’ll make it?”
The corner of Jack’s mouth turned upward in a sad half-smile.
“I guess I don’t have a lot of faith in people anymore,” he said. “Can’t say I ever did.”
If only you knew the truth, Alexander thought. You wouldn’t have any faith at all. His father had been the architect of many atrocities these last few years, and the people here just went right along with it. He didn’t understand.
“So, you got a girlfriend?”
An embarrassed smile spread across his face, which Jack noticed immediately.
“You dog,” Jack said. His tone was teasing but warm. He wasn’t poking fun.
“I don’t know if she’s my girlfriend.”
“Hey, it’s okay, bud,” Jack said. “You love her?”
A slight nod of the head.
“Good for you,” he said. “You hang on to that if you can.”
Jack stood up and approached the bars, looking left and right conspiratorially.
“You know about safe sex right?”
Now his whole face flushed with embarrassment. Alexander did know. They had just started teaching it in school when the power went out. He’d been intrigued, of course, as all boys of twelve would have been, and he finally found a good book about it in those early days. Indeed, he knew all there was to know and then some. At least in theory. His father sure as hell hadn’t taught him a damn thing. In fifteen minutes, Jack had imparted two important life lessons in him, which put him two ahead of Simon over the last decade.
Alexander and Norah had not had sex; he wanted to, very badly, but he had no idea how to broach the subject with her. He was afraid to do anything to scare her off.
“Does she live here too?” Jack asked. “Must be convenient.”
Alexander’s face fell as he thought about Norah. He was starting to worry he would never see her again. They always arranged the next meetup at each of their rendezvous, but since she had missed it, he didn’t know how to get in touch with her. He’d just have to hope she showed up at the next Market day.
“No,” he said. “She lives in one of the other communities. I don’t know where it is.”
“What’s her name?”
“Norah.”
Jack’s face went blank.
“Norah, you said?”
“Yeah.”
“Black girl, about your height?”
Heat shot up Alexander’s back. Did this man know Norah? Were they from the same community? Terrified and hopeful all at the same time.
“Yes,” he said. “Short hair.”
Jack clicked his tongue as he took in Alexander, as though he was really checking him out for the first time.
“You know her?” Alexander asked hopefully.
“She’s my niece.”
27
Alexander could not sleep. It was late, probably closer to dawn than midnight, but he had been lying on his back, his hand under his pillow, cradling his head just so. He’d been staring at the ceiling, thinking about Norah, Norah, Norah. He and Jack had not spoken much longer, but long enough to confirm it was the same girl. A connection! A way to see her. Excitement rippled through him.
But how?
Then he remembered that he did not ask Jack where Norah lived.
He laughed.
How could he be so dumb?
He should have asked.
He could be on his way there the next day.
Then something else occurred to him.
The prisoner wasn’t going to part with that information. It was valuable information. Of course, Simon and his top advisers knew the locations of all the settlements under their thumb, but that information was closely guarded. He had even asked his father later that evening, but when Simon had become suspicious about his motivation for asking, Alexander had abandoned the line of inquiry. He could not risk his father knowing about his relationship with Norah. That wouldn’t be good for anyone, least of all him.
He slipped out of bed and pulled on a pair of pants and a jacket. He cracked open the door to his room, looked up one end of the dimly lit hallway and then down the other. As he stepped into the hallway, the door to his room closed behind him and latched shut quietly. Candles flickered in the sconces mounted near the crown molding. A single guard was perched at the door to the stairwell leading up to his father’s suite.
His footfalls along the carpet were silent, and he reached the main staircase without incident. Lanterns at each landing illuminated his trip down. At the first floor, he casually walked past the two guards on duty. They paid him no mind. He was known to wander the grounds at night, and besides, he was the big man’s son, even if he was a bookish little prick. They would give him no trouble. Although he was free to roam the Haven, getting access to the prisoner would be a different matter. It was one thing to deliver his evening meal to him. This was something else entirely.
The cellblock was housed in the basement of the golf cart garage. Alexander looped behind the clubhouse, crossing past the first tee box, the staging area for a tricky par four. It was one of the three holes on the course in use. They had converted the other fifteen into farmland. Alexander had always hated golf; he never understood the purpose of wasting so much prime real estate on such a ridiculous sport. But even he had to admit, the three-hole course was a welcome diversion for the troops.
He paused at the corner of the pro shop, giving him a direct line of sight toward the garage. One guard on duty tonight, a guy named Bill. He was a weird dude, kept to himself mostly. The garage featured a small basement that they had retrofitted into the detention area.
What was he doing?
He had already made it this far without a conscious idea what he was planning to do.
Or did he?
If he were being honest with himself, the plan had been formed the moment he’d learned Jack knew where Norah lived. That was all the motivation he needed. And now he had something the man would want. He had leverage. For the first time in his short life, he had leverage.
Bill was lounging in an old beach chair, smoking a homemade cigarette. Its smoke was pungent, its acrid tang reaching Alexander’s nose from fifty yards away. His father probably would not have approved of such a casual approach to prisoner security. He looked around for inspiration.
There.
A series of golf bags lined the porch fronting the pro shop.
He crept onto the porch and selected a driver from the bag closest to him. It sported a massive, oversized head, the ones designed to forgive even the most amateur golfer’s horrific golf swing. He took a few practice swings, relishing the swoosh as the driver cut through the air. He flipped the club upside down and pressed the head against his lips.
He was really doing this.
His whole life, it felt like he’d been waiting for something. Like he was marking time for something important. Especially since the Pulse. Especially since he had seen what kind of man his father really was. It wasn’t right, what they did at the Haven. Taking from others. It would be one thing if he tried to lead these people, to encourage them all to work together. But he didn’t. He was a taker. He’d been a taker for Alexander’s whole life, and of course, for much longer than that. He would free Jack. Jack would take him back to their community. He could live there. He and Norah could be together.
&n
bsp; Alexander did not want to be a taker. He did not want Jack to die.
He wanted to see Norah again.
Keeping the club close to his body, he stepped off the porch and edged closer to Bill. His back was to Alexander. He obviously was expecting no trouble.
A twig snapped underfoot, and Alexander froze, holding his breath. He waited for the big man’s head to pop up, to process the signal that he was in danger. But the sentinel did not move. He sat, smoking his cigarette. Alexander was no more than ten yards away now, just a few more steps.
He could call it off.
He could stop right now and go back to bed.
No one had seen him.
He would find Norah another way. If she felt about him the way he felt about her, then she would look for him too. It was the way love worked, the way it was supposed to work. And if she didn’t feel that way, then all this was for nothing. His body quaked with fear. Fear of making the wrong choice.
But which choice was the wrong one?
If he woke up in his own bed tomorrow, the driver back in its bag on the pro shop porch, would he regret having done nothing? He could be with Norah by this time tomorrow. His heart soared at the prospect. She wanted to see him too. Her mother had stopped her from seeing him. He recalled the incident at their picnic.
And the truth was, he didn’t begrudge her those feelings. She wanted to keep Norah safe, and she had every reason to believe that there was danger out there. How could you not respect someone like that? He wished he had someone that cared about him like Norah’s mother cared about her.
His own mother had loved him like that. How much he missed her. He never understood how she’d ended up with a man like his father. Perhaps she saw the broken things inside him and believed that she could fix them.
This was about more than just seeing Norah.
It was about starting a new life and living a life like his mother had.
His grip on the club tightened as he drew closer to Bill, a snake ready to strike. Just a few more steps, and he would be within range. Then he was there. He drew back the club, exhaling ever so softly as he did so.
American Midnight | Book 2 | Nightfall Page 20