Barry shot her a confused look, his brow drawn tight. “How is that? You want to kill yourself?”
Kandy wiped the tears from her eyes with her thumbs. “No. I don’t want to die. That’s not my point.”
Brice tilted his head to one side. It reminded Mike of a curious dog. “Then what do you mean?”
“I mean,” said Kandy, “I get not having a purpose. I mean, who am I now? In a past life, I could identify myself in so many ways. I was a single woman. I was a television reporter. I was a homeowner. I was a big fan of the Orlando Magic and Epcot’s International Food & Wine Festival.”
Mike folded the letter. “You’re still those things. Just because—”
Kandy laughed. It was incredulous. “C’mon, Mike. You don’t believe that. I appreciate you trying to make me feel better, but seriously, I don’t have a home anymore. I might never see my house again. I’m not a television reporter anymore. There’s no television. And I bet Epcot isn’t planning another festival come September. They’d be light on visitors.”
“And the Magic haven’t been a basketball team since 2009,” said Brice. He grinned. The joke elicited a hint of a smile from Kandy before she turned serious again.
“There’s a demarcation,” she said. “A before and an after. Our old lives and our new. I don’t know yet who I am in the new life. I’m having trouble letting go of the old one.”
Barry huffed. “This is too deep for me. We should check her closets, that storage room downstairs she mentioned in the note and get out of here.”
“I’m not going through her closet,” said Mike.
Barry frowned. “What? Two minutes ago you were stuffing that pack on your back. Now you’ve gone all righteous?”
Mike put the note on the bedside table and slid it partially under the lamp. Then he adjusted it so it appeared as it had when he’d found it. He looked up at Barry. “It’s different. We know her now. Who she was. How she died. It’s not like we’re scavenging some random place. This is familiar now. It’s like stealing from a friend.”
Barry rolled his eyes. “Good lord, son, you are a real piece of work. Your shifting moral compass is too much for me. I’m going through the closet. If you don’t agree with it, leave. Whatever. I don’t care. Take your depressing friends with you too. I don’t have time for existential crises.”
Mike didn’t respond. There was no point. Barry moved to the closet and pulled open the sliding door. Mike exchanged glances with Brice and Kandy. The three of them left the bedroom and Grace.
The carpet no longer felt as soft under his boots. Or it was that he didn’t pay attention to it. He led the others along the hall, through the living room and out the door. They descended the stairs in silence. It wasn’t until they were on the street that any of them spoke.
“Dude,” said Brice, “what is with him? It’s like he gets angrier every day. He’s not the same Barry who let us on his boat.”
Mike stared up at the house at the spot where he imagined Barry was going through the dead woman’s closet. He adjusted his grip on the spear gun. “You’re right.”
“About Barry?” asked Brice.
Mike looked at Kandy. “Yeah. But I was talking about what Kandy said upstairs about the demarcation. There is a before and after, that point at which our lives changed irreversibly. With every day that goes by, I think there’s less and less of who we were before.”
“Is that good?” asked Brice. “I mean, I know Kandy thinks it’s bad, but—”
Kandy smirked. “I didn’t say it was bad. I’m just not sure who I am, who I’m going to be. It’s an adjustment.”
“You have Phil,” said Brice. “That’s nice. I don’t have anyone. I mean, I don’t have a girlfriend. But I didn’t have one before the Scourge. My life’s the same in that regard.”
Mike sighed. “I think it’s up to us as to whether it’s good or bad, Brice. It’s about adapting. It’s how we look at things. To your original point, it’s not good right now for Barry. He’s not adapting.”
“What do we do?” asked Kandy. “It’s like he’s a boiling pot ready to spill over and burn everything around him.”
Mike swallowed hard. “I agree. Something’s going to happen with him. It won’t be good. We have to be prepared for that.”
Kandy took the handgun from the small of her back and checked the magazine. “What does that mean? How do we prepare? Do we neutralize him now? Take his weapon? Tell him to go home?”
Brice protested. “We can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“He took us in when we needed help,” said Brice. “He kept us sheltered and fed. He hasn’t done anything to hurt us.”
“Not yet,” said Kandy.
Mike checked the stairs. No sign of Barry.
“Brice is right,” said Mike. “We can’t take preemptive action against him. I think the best thing we can do is keep the peace. I shouldn’t have gone against him up there. I’m going to apologize when he gets down here.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” said Kandy.
“That doesn’t matter,” said Mike. “Not right now. Remember, Phil and Miriam are back at the house. Last thing we need to do is send him back angry. That puts them in a bad position. Let’s get through this expedition and figure something out when we’re all together.”
Kandy twisted her pursed lips to one side. “Okay. I’ll go along for now. But I’m telling you, the old Barry is gone. And this new one is unpredictable. If it comes to it, I’ll do what I need to do.”
Mike offered a sympathetic smile. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
CHAPTER 14
MARCH 13, 2033
SCOURGE +163 DAYS
ATLANTA, GEORGIA
Colonel Whittenburg motioned to the other men in the room. One man was bald, not a strand of hair on his oblong head. The other one had so many wrinkles his face looked like a piece of paper tossed into the trash and then retrieved and flattened.
“I want you to meet Harvey Logan and Parrott Manuse.”
Rufus Buck extended a hand. The man named Harvey Logan took it and they shook. Logan applied more pressure than necessary. Buck reciprocated and the two stared at each other for a beat past what was comfortable. Neither let go of their grip.
“Children, come on. Stop measuring each other and let’s get on with it.”
Buck pulled away from Logan and shook Manuse’s hand. It was more cordial.
“What kind of a name is Parrott?” asked Buck.
Manuse smiled. “It was my mother’s second choice.”
“I’ll bite,” said Buck. “What was the first?”
“Rufus,” said Manuse. “But my father said it sounded impotent.”
Buck laughed and wagged a finger. “You’re funny.”
Colonel Whittenburg sighed with frustration. “Enough. Let’s sit and talk.”
Buck took stock of the office. While it was large and well lit, there was something sterile about it and Whittenburg had virtually nothing on his desk.
He took off his black hat, revealing his salt-and-pepper hair that was mostly salt. It hung to his shoulders and long bangs covered his eyes if he failed to sweep it back from his face. His beard was almost white. It ran from his ears and across his cheeks, extending beyond his chin and jawline onto his neck. It itched almost constantly, but Buck liked the way it looked.
The colonel motioned to the side where four chairs sat around a circular table. Each man took a seat. None of them spoke until Whittenburg started the dialogue by slapping his palms against the laminate wood surface.
“Okay. I’m sure all of you are wondering why I’ve summoned you here. Each of you thought you’d have a private audience with me. You weren’t expecting company.”
“Private audience?” Buck chuckled. “What? Are you the Pope now?”
Manuse frowned. “The Pope died in the early days of the Scourge. There’s nobody left to replace him.”
Buck rolled his eyes. “It was a
joke.”
“It wasn’t funny,” Logan chimed in.
The men erupted into a shouting match in which none of them likely understood what the other was saying. It wasn’t until Colonel Whittenburg pounded his fists on the desk the arguing stopped.
The colonel’s face was red. His jaw flexed; his eyes bulged. “I did not bring you here for this. If you can’t put away your egos for the length of this meeting, leave now.” Glowering at the men, the colonel pointed at the door.
None of them moved. None spoke. Manuse folded his arms across his chest. Logan rubbed the top of his bald head.
“Good. Now, I have a proposal for all of you. It will make you powerful men. It will make you rich. And I will be indebted to you.”
The colonel put his hand to his chest as a show of what might become heartfelt appreciation should they grant whatever favor it was he sought. Buck wondered if the gesture was to call attention to the impressive rows of campaign and service ribbons and medals that adorned the colonel’s chest.
He cleared his throat and began again. “Each of you is a talented soldier. You’ve distinguished yourself in battle. In Syria, in Afghanistan, in Ukraine.”
Buck eyed the other two men. He wondered which of them had served in Ukraine. As bad as Syria had been, he’d heard horror stories of the Crimean war and the untenable situations in which American forces repeatedly found themselves.
“My proposal is simply that the three of you work together to establish order in the territory of Texas,” said the colonel. “You’ll have free rein. Divide up the territory however you like. One of you takes Houston, another Dallas, a third San Antonio. Whatever you want to do, it’s up to you.”
There was a pause. The colonel’s gaze panned from one man to the next. When he said nothing, Buck spoke.
“For what purpose? To what end?”
The colonel narrowed his eyes. He studied Buck before he pushed back from the table and stood. He put his hands behind his back and began pacing in front of his audience. “There is a short game here and a long game. I’m interested in the short game at the moment.”
Logan leaned on his elbows. “Colonel, with all due respect, I think it would serve all of us for you to be specific.”
Manuse unfolded his arms. “Be direct, please.”
A broad grin spread across the colonel’s face. “I picked the right men. Straight to business, no foreplay. Good. I’ll be direct, then.”
Manuse folded his arms again. “Thank you.”
“Texas is a mess,” said Colonel Whittenburg. “The governor screwed the pooch by not deploying the National Guard when the former president requested it. He—”
Logan interrupted. “Former president?”
Whittenburg frowned in a failed effort to appear genuinely sad. “He died. Wasn’t immune to the disease. Caught it in the early days. Lasted a week.”
“Who’s running the country?” asked Logan.
“Hard to say exactly,” said Colonel Whittenburg. “It’s fair to say much of the power structure in DC is nonexistent now. There’s talk of moving the government to here in Atlanta, where the infrastructure is more secure. But let’s focus on Texas. You asked me to be direct.”
The colonel walked to his desk. He ran his fingers along the oak and adjusted a picture frame. Other than the computer monitors, a keyboard and a nameplate, it was the only thing on the desk. His eyes lingered on the photograph, which Buck couldn’t see from his seat.
“As much of a nuisance as the territory presents,” the colonel said, “it also gives us an opportunity. The current lack of order there has the government thinking big. We’re building a wall around it.”
Logan chuckled with disbelief. “Around Texas?”
Colonel Whittenburg didn’t smile. Hands behind his back again, he crossed the room and stopped in front of Logan. “Yes. Around Texas. The whole of it. From New Mexico to Oklahoma, Arkansas and Louisiana.”
Buck shrugged his shoulders. “Why?”
The colonel stood in place but rocked on his heels. “Containment. Rufus, you’ve been there. What did you see?”
“Lawlessness,” said Buck. “At first, in the early days, people stayed to themselves. They avoided contact with others if they could help it. That’s changed now. People are bold. Gangs are starting to take hold, stake out territories. There’s a black market, a drug trade. Good people live in fear.”
“It’s the same vacuum that always develops in a war zone,” Logan said. “The power structure collapses. The resourceful and ethically challenged find a way to fill the void. It’s an old story.”
“I saw it in Ukraine,” said Manuse. “When the Russians did their business, they destroyed so much of the infrastructure, people were desperate for anyone to step up. When the United States didn’t do it, oligarchs did. I think the situation there is worse now than in the middle of the Russian occupation.”
So it was Manuse who’d served in Ukraine. Buck immediately had more respect for the man. Logan was a toss-up. He wasn’t sure if the overly zealous hand shaker was the real deal or a poseur.
Manuse he could work with, no doubt now. Logan? That was undecided.
“If there are already people flexing their muscle,” asked Logan, “how do you expect us to choose territories and run them?”
It was the colonel’s turn to laugh. “I’m disappointed in your lack of self-confidence, Logan. Each of you has vast military experience. Each of you has done things most men won’t do. And let’s be honest here since we’re among friends, each of you left the military under questionable circumstances. You all have…baggage. Do what you do. Create an insurgency and take over. You become the cartel. You become the ethically challenged opportunity seizers. You are the oligarchs.”
Logan wasn’t convinced. “What do we know about running a cartel, about getting disparate groups to work together instead of against each other?”
“Speak for yourself,” said Manuse. “I know plenty about insurgency. I’ve facilitated…well…I’ve managed groups. ‘The enemy of my enemy’ and all that. It’s not difficult if you know what you’re doing.”
The colonel stood behind Logan now. He put a hand on his shoulder. “I understand you can be quite persuasive when you need to be. That was a problem in your past life. It’s not now. I’m giving you permission.”
Logan shifted in his seat. “Permission?”
The colonel patted Logan’s shoulder and stepped away. “To do what needs to be done. It’s a priority. If Texas is going to be the Wild West, I want to know what the desperados are doing. Also, there are refineries along the coast. We need to make sure our people have access to them. They cannot fall into the hands of those who might oppose our interests in Washington or here in Atlanta.”
It was silent for a beat. Buck broke the quiet. “I know the drug trade.”
The other men snapped their attention toward him. Both looked nonplussed.
Buck shrugged. “Man’s gotta eat.”
Logan frowned. “I’m in, I guess. What else have I got to do?”
“Me too,” said Manuse. “Sounds like fun.”
The colonel clapped his hands together. “Good. We have a deal. This is excellent.”
He moved to his desk and leaned down to open a drawer. When he stood, he set down a bottle of golden amber liquid. Then he fingered four shot glasses. They clinked as he placed them next to the bottle. With a wave, he motioned the men from their seats.
The three exchanged glances and stood in unison. Buck let the others go first and they stood opposite Whittenburg on the other side of his broad oak desk. He uncapped the bottle and lifted it.
“This is my last bottle. Don Julio Anejo. Bought it two days before the Scourge hit DC.”
The colonel tipped the bottle to the glasses and poured a healthy shot into each. No spill this time. He lifted the bottle toward the light and admired the dregs of what was left. He might be able to squeeze two more drinks from it. Or one good one.
“I always loved tequila,” he said. “You know, like champagne, you can’t call it tequila unless the agave is from that specific region in Mexico. The good stuff gets aged like wine. Oak barrels flavored with whatever.”
He held the bottle in his hand, gesturing with it as he spoke. The men took their shots but didn’t yet drink.
“I wonder what it’s like now,” he said. “The town of Tequila. It’s in the western part of the country at the foot of a volcano. Jalisco. At the edges of the town are fields of agave. Their blue fans dot the landscape, make it even more beautiful if that’s possible. But what’s come of it now? We know Mexico City has fallen. The oil production in Cantarell Field has stopped, Pemex is in shambles. But the tequila? Who knows what’s happened? I suspect that in the aftermath of an apocalypse, he who controls the tequila controls the world.”
Buck understood the metaphorical context of the colonel’s soliloquy. It was a charge, a mission. Control the flow of goods and they could have whatever they wanted.
He didn’t trust the government. Not after how they’d handled his homecoming post-Aleppo. As a result, he didn’t trust Colonel Whittenburg. There was something about this that didn’t make sense.
Why would a man empowered such as Whittenburg pick three dishonorably discharged vets to take control of a territory the United States wanted to wall off from the rest of what remained of society?
He considered this and slapped back his drink. He swallowed the shot in a gulp, not sipping it, as was the custom with aged tequila. Rufus Buck wasn’t the kind of man to sip.
He tasted the burn in his cheeks and down his throat and relished it. He didn’t wince. Real men handled the liquor. Buck set his glass on the desk with a clack and jutted his chin toward the colonel.
“How do we do this?”
Manuse set his glass on the table. He hadn’t winced either, nor had he sipped. “Good question. What’s the setup?”
The colonel narrowed his gaze. “What do you need?”
Manuse checked with Buck. Buck motioned for him to go ahead with his wish list. Neither man conferred with Logan, who was nursing the shot.
The Scourge (Book 2): Adrift Page 15
