Green Fields Series Box Set | Vol. 4 | Books 10-12

by Lecter, Adrienne

  “Six, I think,” Amos offered, mostly ignoring us in favor of following the cars driving ahead of ours.

  I knew I should have kept it at that but couldn’t stop myself. “Why go there? I mean, I get it. You’ve all told me repeatedly they treat you as guests. But you must realize what’s going on there.”

  I thought I caught a weary sigh from Amos, but Eden wasn’t so curt with her response. “Why don’t you get off your high horse, bitch?” she suggested, ignoring her friend’s warning glance when he briefly looked over to her. “It’s true! It’s so damn easy for her to be so fucking ignorant. After all, we’re not doing this because she has anyone’s best interest at heart other than her own.” Another warning glance went ignored, but when Eden fully turned back to face me, she’d calmed down a little.

  “Never said I was trying to make the world a better place,” I offered.

  “Not this time, you didn’t,” she admitted, frowning. “But rather than call us hypocrites, maybe check yourself first. We go there because it’s fun. Because it’s easy to ignore the shit that’s going on in favor of letting down our guard. It’s not like we can do that anywhere else. And if you have getting eaten by zombies or wolves as the alternative, you fucking learn to not see what else they get up to. They don’t even want much from us in return, just some junk we pick up on the road. They treat us much better than the settlements ever did, and they don’t sneer down at us like Dispatch does. So what if we want to party a little too hard? Who said this had to be fucking Puritania just because the world went to hell? I dig this way more than what I’ve been up to before.”

  “Which was?” I had a hard time gauging her. For all I knew, she could have been a software engineer or something boring like that.

  Eden looked surprised at the question but dutifully supplied an answer. “I was a woman of many trades. Guess I should say waitress because that’s the single one constant. I was the queen of side hustles. You name it, I tried it. Selling shit online, selling shit door-to-door, blogging, being an influencer, lots of temp work. Always tried to make it all look so great and free and glamorous. The reality was, I was neck-deep in student loan debt, nobody understood how many hours of work went into a fucking ten-minute video, and I didn’t even get health coverage. Now I can live life to the fullest and never give a shit about anyone’s fucking opinion of me. Tell me that’s not a million times better.”

  I hadn’t expected that response, and there wasn’t much in it that I could use, so I dropped it. “Never had any issues at the camp?” I asked instead. “Nobody disappearing? Particularly the girls?”

  Amos was quick to break his silence. “We take care of our own,” he told me in no uncertain terms. “And they know not to mess with us. They don’t need to, as is. They know we could mess them up good if they gave us a reason to. That’s why they like to play nice, and let us trade merch for Glimmer and other drugs. And it’s not just us they trade with, you know? Last year several settlements closed up and moved because they didn’t have enough food. No scavenger has gone hungry in a long, long time.”

  “You do know that the food they produce comes from slave labor,” I pointed out.

  “Is it really?” Amos shot back.

  “I’ve seen it myself. Pretty obvious. And you yourselves told us that the barracks where the workers live are lovingly called ‘sheep pens.’”

  He chuckled under his breath, as if I’d said something funny. I really didn’t get why. “You’ll see when you get there,” Amos promised.

  Probably not in the sense he likely thought I would. “Why help us, then? If you like it there so much?” I asked.

  Eden shrugged, her previous ire seeming to have dissipated completely. “We don’t mind some of their practices, but what they did to you and your husband was wrong. So we’ll do the right thing and help, easy as that.” The grin she sent me was a little too bright. “You’re not someone who easily forgets who helped her. Might come in handy down the line.”

  “You supposedly started a civil war because I cooperated with the enemy,” I stated, hard-pressed not to glance at Richards still dozing next to me.

  Eden’s smile took on an edge, but remained surprisingly real. “Or did we? It’s so hard to coordinate bullshit when it involves so many people and you never have any direct lines of communication. I’m not going to say some people weren’t out for your blood, but that’s the narrative he and his people want you to believe. It’s not ours.”

  “And what, pray tell, is yours?”

  Eden considered, but contrary to Amos before she didn’t leave it at a cryptic remark. “Let’s put it this way. I’m not sure I have a narrative. Sure, many people were angry because of the continuing divide, and famine didn’t help. I’m sure you know how cranky a person can get without enough food for weeks at a time. And you yourself were never happy with the settlements and how they treated us. Is it that much of a leap that when you take all that and add desperation and fear, that something eventually blows? You heard what that cunt from Dispatch told you—they don’t want anyone else but their own, exactly like the settlements. They used us that first year, before your crusade, so they’d become just another heap of maggots that burrow through enough bread to sustain them several lifetimes. As soon as shit started to get nasty, they slammed the doors shut in our faces. All of a sudden, we had nowhere to hide, nowhere to resupply. Something had to give. And it gave. Only now, we’re the assholes and they are the saints, which suits them just fine as they continue to gorge themselves while we need to watch out for ourselves.” She paused for a moment as if to weigh her words before she caught my gaze again and continued. “Just think about it. Would your people really cooperate with us if we were as bad as everyone says? Sure, they can’t do it openly because they still depend on Greene and his maggots, but they’d be the first to slay us rather than work with us if we really were the worst.”

  “But you still have Vegas, right?” At least I thought someone had mentioned the city, and since Harris was alive I presumed his base was still operational.

  Eden shrugged. “The old settlement, New Vegas, is no more, but we’ve rebuilt what we needed. But it’s mostly just a forward base, nothing sustainable.”

  “Why not build your own towns then?” I suggested. “Or is logging and farming beneath you?”

  My tone, more than my words, seemed to make her chuckle. “Me as a farm girl? Can’t say that sounds like fun, but I’d do it, if I wasn’t certain someone else would come and take it all away as soon as I had enough to make it worth it for them. There haven’t been any new settlements since the first year, and for good reasons.”

  “The camp is newer,” I mused. “At least from what little I’ve heard about it.”

  “Yeah, but they started out with a huge advantage,” she retorted. “They had a thousand people in their first summer, and four times that the next. We can’t get those numbers to cooperate and stay in one place without bashing each others’ heads in, so no can do for a rival operation, if that’s what you are getting at. None of that matters now. As long as you don’t stir up any shit there, you’ll have a good chance it never need concern you. After all, all you want is your husband back, right?” The way she said that, it sounded like she didn’t buy it, but I was too tired to protest now. Let her think whatever she wanted. None of that really was my business or concern.

  We stopped once more about thirty miles away from our destination for a last meal and to make sure that no incriminating shit could be found in any of the vehicles. The heat was making me drowsy but the storm clouds rolling in from the east lifted my spirits further—also because I knew I wouldn’t have to rough it in the rain but instead sleep inside a building tonight. That this kind of proved what Eden had explained right didn’t sit well with me, but it wasn’t like it had any impact on my life. I was an hour’s drive away from being inside the same walls as Nate once more, and, who knew? Maybe we’d manage to find and spring him before midnight. I’d seen myself that p
atrols outside the camp were tight, but from what the scavengers had told us, not so much inside. That made sense in a way—and was something I planned on exploiting. Problem was, I was already getting the jitters, and I didn’t want to waste that first evening coming down with the full impact of the withdrawal symptoms. I could always do that tomorrow to be sober the next day, should today turn out as a bust.

  I really didn’t care for Harris’s sly grin as he offered me another hit.

  I also didn’t know what to make of Richards appearing at my elbow to take the bong from me to get some himself. The look he gave me held a certain amount of challenge. Who was I to deny him his downfall?

  I hated how that fucked-up shit almost immediately screwed with my perception, but when we got back in the car and started on the last leg of our journey, I realized not all of that was negative. It certainly helped keep the latent anxiety—that was really different kinds of fear, but none of that I could admit—at bay. It could be a trap. Or it could not work. Or they could find us out ten minutes into the camp. I couldn’t really plan for any of that, and even less plot a contingency plan, so why bother?

  The storm clouds that had been gathering reached the camp about the time we topped a last rise and a familiar stretch of road led up to the checkpoint. My tree was farther back, to the north-west, the abandoned house where I’d slept to the south. It all felt kind of familiar but at the same time warped enough to leave me slightly disoriented. I idly wondered how many of the guards were under the influence of similar drugs. Maybe this wasn’t a suicide mission. Maybe it would even turn out to be a walk in the park?

  Yeah, right.

  But the first hour or so of it turned out to be boringly uneventful.

  It took us some time to make it to the checkpoint—which was a different one than where they offloaded their less-willing guests, I soon realized. There was another group ahead of us so we had to wait. Then came a variation of the usual check, although nobody seemed to care about potential bites and infections. Things sped up significantly after the guards took away two large sacks from the first vehicle, presumably the weapons and electronics that Harris had brought along as a bribe. I didn’t get more than a passingly curious look, same as the other three people in the car—and then we were through the checkpoint with directions where to park the cars and to get instructions from the quartermaster what building we could crash in, should we not find accommodations elsewhere.

  Nobody tried to drag me behind the next corner; nobody even gave me a weird look. Because of the gathering storm, few people were idling around but those that crossed the open yard did so without seeming hurried or intimidated, or ten kinds of skeevy. If my bias hadn’t been heavily skewed by what I’d experienced here before, I’d have actually found the camp quite okay. Sure, everything was a bit dirty and run-down, maybe more so than in most settlements, but there were obviously lots of people around which came with the usual issues of civilization. What I also noticed was that there weren’t children or animals freely roaming the streets, but considering the buildings around us looked either industrial or catering to visitors, it stood to reason that family dwellings were situated elsewhere.

  In short, I fucking hated it, and even more so because it didn’t look like the slaver camp I knew it really was.

  In planning, I’d been concerned how we would manage to sneak away, but I needn’t have worried. As soon as Harris had handed off the bribe and two of his people went to haggle with the guy designated the quartermaster over some other wares they had on board, the rest of the crowd slowly dispersed. Some wandered off toward the first tavern, right next to the parking area; others waltzed down the main street deeper into the camp; some went over to the other group to greet familiar faces or make new acquaintances, and the rest just milled around—no sneaking of any kind required. Already, I saw Santos and Clark head into the tavern, and Marleen was strolling toward one of the food vendors set off to the side. One of the Silo marines was gawking at everything but two of the scavengers quickly pulled him along to “give him the sightseeing tour,” quickly finding an excuse for his behavior. Scott and his men were already gone. About time I did the same.

  “Where do you wanna head first?” Richards asked from where he’d been standing next to me for the past couple minutes, surveilling our surroundings. “Chow and booze sound good?”

  I wasn’t hungry—ha, great surprise—and getting intoxicated on top of already feeling like everything was a little bit more hilarious than it had a right to be didn’t sound like a great idea, but I dutifully followed him when he set down the road most people were gravitating toward. Within the first hundred yards we—both, on our own or together—had received several offers for more private kinds of entertainment, but also to go see rat and dog fights or join the odd poker game. I’d never been to the seedier parts of any gambling town before the apocalypse, but this was pretty much how I pictured how that must have played out—at least in a Spielberg movie. Being high came with the advantage that I didn’t stare at every whore—male or female—in the face to try to discern whether they did this out of their own free will, and how drugged up they were themselves. To my slightly unreliable perception, it all looked pretty tame and consensual, maybe a little seedier than Dispatch but not remarkably worse. It didn’t bother me that much that, after the third catcall from someone looking for some freebies—Red reached across my lower back and pulled me closer, giving off unmistakable “my piece of ass” vibes. It was actually quite hilarious, even more so considering that Nate never would have done something like that. Glared at everyone in sight who might get any ideas, sure, but no public displays of affection. My heart gave a pang at that thought, and my longing for him about tripled, suddenly going from a low, latent, easily-ignored sentiment to glaringly bright drive that made me want to take off down the street and run around like a headless chicken in search of him.

  Up ahead, the road branched, and we ended up heading into the larger tavern that sat right there at the split. It was the size of a warehouse, the entire floor taken up by the serving part of the establishment, with private areas upstairs. Richards steered me toward one of the three bars that served the different parts of the floor, this one catering more to people who only seemed to drop by for a drink, it seemed. The scents of freshly cooked stew and grilled chicken made my mouth water, momentarily distracting me.

  I blindly accepted the jug of beer someone pushed at me and drank a good half of it in one long go, my throat parched from the heat of the day even though I didn’t exactly feel thirsty. A few unfamiliar male voices chuckled but looked away when I focused on them. I found Richards leaning against the bar next to me, too close to be mistaken for anything but my companion, which likely explained their behavior. Too bad; a good old bar brawl sounded very enticing right now.

  “Don’t even think about it,” the bartender behind us spoke up, making me turn around. He mutely nodded at a sign behind the bar, spelling out “you fight, you get kicked out,” in comically crooked letters. I gave him my sweetest smile and buried my face in the beer once more.

  Richards eyed me with amusement and ordered another two beers, his own already finished. “Know anywhere rules may be less strict?” he asked, deliberately slurring his words slightly. At least I hoped it was deliberate. The beer didn’t smell strong enough to affect someone half his size without increased metabolism, so he should have been fine.

  The bartender looked from him to me, and back, frowning slightly, but then his expression brightened. “Your first time here?”

  Red nodded while I gave the bartender another bright grin. “Heard a lot about this place,” I offered with what I hoped sounded like real enthusiasm. “And it beats getting eaten out on the road.”

  “Sure does,” Richards agreed, his arm back around my hips. I wondered if I should have discussed beforehand just how handsy I felt comfortable with him getting. Outside, I’d minded less as it helped get us from point A to point B quicker without any interr
uptions, but maybe him not sitting on top of me might let me snatch up some information.

  “What are you looking for?” the barkeep wanted to know. “If you want to participate, sooner or later a fight will break out on the streets, although the storm might put an end to that soon. We have the betting dens where you can either bet on a contender, or jump into the ring yourself. If you prefer some more moderate entertainment, they should show a movie or two once it gets dark over by the warehouse. And then there’s the arena, of course.”

  I wasn’t sure why but that last bit made me perk up. “Arena? Sounds nifty. Don’t tell me you’re doing horse races, or some shit like that.”

  The barkeeper’s lopsided grin grew, making me guess that it was a more sinister place than that. “Horses? Not exactly. Horses are useful and expensive. Nobody would be stupid enough to waste them like that.”

  My, didn’t that sound promising? And a lot more like what I’d expected.

  Red’s fingers digging into my side made me look up sharply at him, only to be confronted with a bright grin. “Betting sounds like fun, right?”

  “Sure does,” I lied, happy to get my hands on another beer. It didn’t, but since I couldn’t outright ask where they might be keeping prisoners or records about slave sales, it was a starting point. It was only then that it occurred to me that Nate might not even be here any longer. Shit.

  The barkeeper continued grinning with that not-quite benign sense of hospitality. “Don’t forget to drop by later to celebrate,” he reminded us before he turned to the next bunch of customers. I gave them a cursory once-over, but nothing remarkable about them. Most people here looked like somewhat run-down road warriors—all hard-hitting, hard-working folk. No farmers, from what I could tell. Nobody paid us any attention, the guys who’d previously tried to hit on me having found more interesting prospects elsewhere.

  Turning to Richards, I leaned in close enough to make sure my words were swallowed by the din of the tavern. “You can stop pawing me now. I think you’ve established your claim well enough.”