“I’d like to see what medical supplies you have. Maybe take an inventory.”
“No, you can’t do that. No one accesses the supply depot but the quartermaster. We can’t have people grabbing what they want willy-nilly. You can make a request and they’ll pull it for you. There’s no cost for the supplies. We believe in giving our people the necessities—clothes, toiletries, food.”
“That’s amazing.” Vera’s worn-out clothing indicated differently.
“But it has to be a sincere need,” Vera clarified. “You can’t requisition new boots because yours developed a hole. Patch it. Figure it out yourself before you burden others with your demands. There’s no room for selfishness here. We reuse everything until it falls apart and is beyond repair. For example, a ripped and worn-out shirt can be cut up and made into other articles of clothing.”
“That’s how I was raised,” Mercy said quietly, thinking of her prepper upbringing. “My parents lived off the land. We relied on no one for anything. It was important that we were self-sufficient.”
“You were raised right,” Vera said in a pleased tone. “Don’t see a lot of that anymore.”
“People think everything is disposable these days. What else do you supply?” Mercy asked respectfully. “There were items that even my parents had to purchase. Cooking equipment, certain spices, automotive parts, some medications.”
Vera snorted. “Spices? Totally unnecessary. I already told you our policy on medications, so of course we don’t supply those.”
“Not even Advil or Tylenol?”
“A little pain never hurt anyone.”
“What about treating fevers?”
“Fevers just need to run their course. The human body is made to battle such things.” She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head, her intense stare looking Mercy up and down. “I don’t know if you’re the right person to handle our medical issues. We do things differently here. I’ll have to talk to Pete about it.” She gestured for Mercy to follow her out of the bunk room. “I’ll show you where to get lunch.”
Anger flashed in Mercy’s vision. Stone Age medical care.
A split second before Mercy stepped out of the room, something moved in a dark corner, and a slim, blonde figure darted behind a bunk, leaving Mercy with an impression of wide blue eyes in a young face.
Someone avoiding duty?
With only eleven women on-site, no doubt it’d be obvious who hadn’t shown up for her work. Mercy kept her mouth shut.
Becoming a rat wasn’t a good way to make a first impression.
Or maybe it was in America’s Preserve.
EIGHT
For the number of people in the mess hall, it was oddly quiet. Scents of coffee and baking bread assaulted Mercy as she stepped in the door, and her stomach growled. Most of the people sitting at the dozen long tables glanced up to see who had entered. The curious stares created a physical sensation that poked Mercy in the gut and weighed on her shoulders. She felt as if a dozen targets were spread across her body, and she fought a desire to glare down some of the stares.
Jessica is a sweet woman.
Instead Mercy gave tentative smiles and avoided direct eye contact. She followed Vera toward the short line of men at the rear of the hall, where residents waited for their food. Lunch was served cafeteria style. Women behind a counter scooped food onto plates as people patiently waited with trays. She spotted Chad in line and tension drained from her body, surprising her with its sudden relief.
This morning has been rather stressful.
Vera stopped at the end of the line, but Mercy passed her by and tapped Chad’s arm. He turned, and his eyes lit up as he spotted her.
“Hey, babe.” He hugged her, and her muscles relaxed at his touch. The friendly face meant more to her than she had expected. A quick kiss on her lips followed. “Getting settled in?”
“Yes. Vera—”
“Back of the line,” said a gruff voice to her left. Mercy turned and was chilled by the anger in the man’s icy-blue eyes.
“I will in just a second.”
“Don’t want to watch that lovey shit while I eat,” was his reply. His knuckles whitened on the tray that rested against his large stomach. He was big, with a thick beard. The men behind him shifted, positioning themselves to get a better view of her and Chad.
“Back off, Beckett,” ordered Chad. “We’re just saying hello. No one will keep you from getting your lunch.”
Beckett glowered.
His face was heavily lined, and his graying hair needed a trim. He was dressed like the other men. Jeans, boots, heavy coat. All faded into the same indistinct color from countless washings. And in dire need of another.
Mercy stepped away from Chad, worried she’d affected his reputation with the other men. “Sorry,” she said to Beckett. “We haven’t seen each other in a long time.”
“Don’t fuckin’ care.”
She exchanged a look with Chad. His eyes offered no solution, and she decided it was best to leave. Don’t rock the boat. “Save me a seat.”
Beckett scoffed.
Keeping her gaze on the floor, she rejoined Vera. “Ignore Beckett,” the other woman whispered. “He’s an asshole to everyone.”
“Pete allows it?”
“They go back a long ways.”
Mercy drew a breath through her nose, making a mental note to avoid Beckett.
“Your man knows better than to call Beckett out for being a dick or to walk away from the scene with you. Don’t take it personally. He needs to save face with the other men.”
“That’s okay.”
The line moved quickly, and Mercy set her tray on the stainless steel counter where Cindy and three other women were serving the food. Cindy was sweating heavily, strain showing on her face, but she gave Mercy a half smile and placed a plate with a piece of homemade bread on her tray. The woman next to her dumped a ladle of gravy with some sort of ground meat on top of the bread and slid Mercy’s tray to the next woman, who gave her a skimpy scoop of canned green beans. Mercy thanked them and received a few surprised glances in return.
She gripped her tray and searched the crowded tables for Chad.
“We’ll sit over there,” Vera instructed, pointing at a table near a row of garbage cans. A few women sat in a tight group.
“I was going to talk with Chad.”
“The women sit at that table,” Vera said firmly.
Mercy nearly dropped her tray. She trailed after Vera in shock.
Four women looked up as they approached.
This feels like high school.
She took a seat by Vera, who ran through quick introductions. Mercy nodded at each woman in turn as her mind tried to comprehend why the men and women were separated.
Do they separate married couples?
Where are the children?
Eyeing the thick, unattractive gravy that’d been dumped on her bread, Mercy took a cautious bite, and flavor exploded in her mouth. The sausage gravy was amazing. “This is incredible,” she uttered in shock as she dived in for another bite.
“Food’s usually pretty good,” said the woman sitting across from Mercy, her focus on her own tray. The rest of the women ate silently. Mercy pegged Vera as the oldest at the table, and the youngest appeared to be in her early twenties. None of them wore makeup. Hair was worn straight down or pulled back, and all of their clothing had seen better days. They looked content and ate heartily. No one moped or picked at her food.
Mercy had nearly finished her delicious gravy and bread when a piercing siren sounded outside. The mess hall exploded into action. People leaped up from their seats, and the men poured out of the mess hall, boots pounding, leaving their lunches on the table.
What is happening?
Mercy’s stomach churned in panic, and she stood, her right hand automatically touching her side, where she had no weapon. Vera and another woman ran to open a cabinet and yanked gas masks off the shelves.
We’re under a
ttack.
Terror bombarded her as the siren continued its wail of warning. Someone shoved a gas mask in her hands, and Vera hauled her down and under one of the tables. “What is going on?” Mercy hissed as she fumbled with the mask. Her parents had never stocked gas masks, unlike some of their survivalist acquaintances.
“Drill.” Vera slipped on her own mask and tightened the straps.
Relief made Mercy’s hands go limp. Vera grabbed Mercy’s mask and shoved it on her face as the other women huddled under the tables. The hideous black masks on the women, with their built-in respirators and eye protection, made her feel as if she were hiding with a group of huge bugs.
This is insane.
“Where are the men going?” she asked.
“To fortify the perimeter and gates.”
The door to the mess hall opened, and from under the table Mercy watched a pair of heavy boots and camo pants enter. The man closed the door and stood in front of it, his feet planted. Mercy leaned forward to see more of him and saw a rifle held ready.
To keep us in or keep attackers out?
“The drill won’t last much longer,” Vera whispered, her voice muffled through the mask.
“How did you know it was a drill?” Mercy asked as she kept an eye on the figure blocking the door.
“The siren was steady. If this had been the real thing, the sound would have pulsated.”
“Who do you expect to attack this camp?”
“Get your mask right or you’ll get a strike,” Vera told her, ignoring her question. “You’re of no use to the group if you’re dead from poisonous air.”
Mercy adjusted the straps until they fit smoothly around her head. It smelled strongly of rubber. “What’s a strike?”
“Pete didn’t tell you about strikes?”
“No.”
“Three strikes and you’re punished. Strikes are given for missing work or missing the drills. You can also get one at a lieutenant’s discretion for insubordination or just being messy.”
“Who are the lieutenants?” Carleen had briefed Mercy on the group’s simple command structure. Pete delegated to four lieutenants.
Vera jerked her head toward the door. “That’s one right there. He’s in charge of the women during drills.”
“Wouldn’t it make more sense to have you in charge of the women?” Vera seemed very competent.
Vera’s eyes widened behind her mask’s eye protection, and she slowly shook her head. “You have a lot to learn.”
“I’m trying.”
The siren abruptly stopped, and from the direction of the lieutenant Mercy heard the crackle of an inaudible question over a radio.
“Mess hall secure,” answered the man at the door. He raised his voice. “Line up!”
The women scrambled out from under the table, and Mercy joined them in a straight line before the lieutenant. He was dressed from head to toe in camo and had slung his AR-15 over his shoulder. He didn’t wear a gas mask but walked the line of women and inspected theirs. He tugged on a strap here and there but didn’t issue any strikes.
I think he used to be a cop.
Mercy recognized it in the way his balance was always forward and by the movement of his hands—always up front and ready—and the continuous visual assessment of his surroundings. She wondered what had happened to make him leave the world behind and join this compound. Pete’s group was firmly anti–law enforcement at all levels.
He got to Mercy and stopped, scanning her from boots to mask, and she hoped her mask was adjusted correctly. He was in his midtwenties and reminded her of a blond actor whose name was on the tip of her tongue—she could see him in her mind but couldn’t come up with the name. The lieutenant was a younger version of the actor.
He moved on. No strike.
“As you were.”
The women pulled off the masks and finger combed their hair, talking quietly among themselves. Mercy fumbled to loosen the straps she couldn’t see, taking a deep breath once she was free. The lieutenant briefly met her gaze.
“Polk!” he said loudly.
A split second passed before Mercy realized he’d called her last name.
“Yes, sir?”
“Report to the command center in five minutes.” He adjusted the strap of his rifle and left the mess hall.
The other women stopped to stare at her.
“Did I screw up? What does Pete want?” Dread filled her chest as the other women all looked away. “Vera?” she asked. “Do you know why?”
Vera shrugged and took Mercy’s mask from her hands to return it to the cabinet. “Probably nothing. Maybe Pete realized he forgot to cover something in your introduction—like strikes.” Her throat moved as she swallowed, and she didn’t meet Mercy’s eyes.
Shit.
Mercy sat back down at the table and considered what was left of her now-cold gravy, bread, and beans. She had five minutes to finish, but it didn’t matter.
Her appetite was long gone.
NINE
Mercy hesitated at the outer door of the command center. Do I knock? She squared her shoulders, turned the handle, and walked into the waiting area to find Chad and Ed. Chad was pacing the small room, his back stiff and his hands restless. Ed leaned against a table, his arms crossed on his chest. The air was thick with tension.
Pete figured us out.
“What’s wrong?” asked Mercy.
“Pete has some questions about some of the stuff from your bag,” Chad answered as he walked over and took both her hands. He held eye contact, and Mercy felt reassurance flow from him. She took a deep breath.
“I didn’t pack anything you told me not to.”
“That’s not quite right,” Ed stated. He hadn’t budged from his position at the table.
“What shouldn’t I have packed?” She ran through a mental list of her belongings and froze on Advil.
Vera’s comments about analgesics.
The commander’s door opened, and Pete appeared. “Polk. Inside.”
Mercy glanced at Chad and Ed. Both were silent. Chad’s gaze was sympathetic and Ed’s emotionless. Inside Pete’s office she spotted her plastic bag of medical supplies on his desk. She’d thrown several pieces from her vehicle’s medical kit into a large ziplock bag. Advil, a tiny bottle of epinephrine, syringes, bandages, topical antibiotic cream, a curved needle, and sterile sutures. Beside the plastic bag lay her favorite Leatherman tool and the XStat syringes.
The syringes that the ATF agent had casually tossed aside while sorting her medical supplies, and Mercy had grabbed back. Eddie’s lifesavers.
Pete moved behind his desk and stood silently watching her. Her heart pounding, Mercy surveyed the items and then met his gaze.
“I’ve learned from Vera that Advil is frowned upon,” she stated. “Is that the problem?”
Pete lowered his gaze to the items on his desk. “I see a lot of problems here.”
Mercy tilted her head. “I guess it could look that way to you. To me these are smart items to always have on hand.” She paused. “Is the Leatherman considered a weapon?”
She’d known there were strict rules about weapons, but she’d never mentally classified the tool as a weapon.
“It has two sharp blades, so yes.”
“I can see how it looks that way. I backpack a lot,” she lied. “It’s an important tool for me, but I guess I won’t have much use for it here.”
Pete picked up the sealed XStat packet. “I’ve heard of these but never seen them before. I find it odd that someone would carry them, even if you are a nurse.”
Mercy would never be without one. A small quiver shot up her spine, and she fought to calm her breathing. Keep the lie as close to the truth as possible.
She looked away from Pete and gnawed on her lower lip. “I came across a hunting accident while backpacking one time. I didn’t know the man—but I could have saved his life if I’d had one of those with me.” She raised her eyes to meet Pete’s gaze. “I told myself
I’d never be caught without one again.” She sucked in a quivering breath.
Pete stared at her for a long moment. “Are you often in the position where the people around you are shot?”
Yes. “No—but carrying this makes me feel as if I have my bases covered. I’m a nurse, and I wasn’t adequately prepared.”
“You can’t save everyone.”
“I do my best to try.”
He studied the XStat package. “I’ll add it to our medical supplies, so it will be available. Same with your other medical items. The Leatherman will be confiscated.”
“Understood.”
He moved her collection to the top of a bookcase behind him, and a sense of loss swamped Mercy. She wanted her things. She needed to physically touch them. She frequently inventoried her GOOD bag and medical kit, knowing full well they were completely stocked; the action of touching and seeing her supplies calmed her.
Now she felt twitchy.
“Sir, I’d like to view your medical supplies. It would help to know what the camp has on hand.”
“Only the quartermaster is allowed in the supply depot.”
Mercy tried again. “Don’t you think the medical supplies should be more readily accessible to a professional? You suggested I might oversee health care here. The first thing I would recommend is making those supplies available to the person who knows how to use them.”
Pete was silent.
“If I have a person going into anaphylaxis because he was stung by a bee, there won’t be time to requisition a dose of epi from the quartermaster before the victim’s throat closes up—and that’s assuming the epi on hand hasn’t expired.”
“Are you always this aggressive?” His voice was tight and controlled.
A loaded question.
She had seen how women were perceived in Pete’s camp. A smart person would duck her head and keep her mouth shut. Mercy didn’t feel accommodating.
“A man with an accidental gunshot died in front of me. I wasn’t prepared. I can help make your emergency care the best it can be. Accidents happen in rustic locations like yours. To me, being prepared for them is worth fighting for.”
The silence in the room was suffocating.
A Merciful Promise Page 7
