The people here looked healthier as well. Instead of rags, most of them wore simple homespun clothing that, while not especially fashionable, was at least functional. No one was visibly starving. Children ran and played between buildings, laughing and shouting. Adults worked and talked and traded goods in stalls along the market areas. Most of the streets were still unpaved, and I did not see much electrical lighting, but overall, it seemed that life had improved for the people living out here. Perhaps the most telling development was the policemen in simple blue uniforms patrolling the streets. I got the impression life here was not exactly easy, but some semblance of law and order, not to mention economic prosperity, had been restored.
The second thing that became apparent was that crime must be getting bad within the city. There were several checkpoints on the road to the eastern gate. At each checkpoint, people were randomly stopped and searched. Individuals and families hauling wagons and carts had to wait for a uniformed official to inspect their cargo and obtain a stamped permit before proceeding to the city. All this occurred under the watchful eye of heavily armed soldiers in full combat regalia.
Thankfully, traffic into the Springs was divided into two sections. The first section was for pedestrians, riders on horseback, and people with small carts or wagons. The other section was for caravans, two of which waited ahead of us. Neither one was comprised of more than ten wagons. When the inspectors finished with them, a soldier standing guard outside a row of concrete barriers motioned for Folston to advance.
The process took an hour. A soldier, who could not have been a day over twenty but had the suspicious eyes of a much older man, stopped by my wagon and politely but firmly guided me through the inspection procedure. He started by taking out a tape measure and carefully checking the dimensions of my wagon, no doubt looking for hidden compartments. Then he crawled underneath and spent a few minutes thrashing around on his back, looking for anything hidden on the underside of the cargo area, buckboard, axles, and wheels. He even checked the team of oxen and their yokes and traces. That done, I had to open all my bags, boxes, and other containers and allow him to view the contents.
Last, he gave me, Allison, and even Little Gabe a pat down. With Allison he was professional and detached and apologized for the inconvenience. And in classic Allison fashion, she just smiled and told him that’s okay. You’re just doing your job.
The stony mien finally broke when he searched my son, who giggled and told the soldier hey, you’re tickling me. The young man broke a smile and promised to be more careful. When he was done, he held up his hand for a high-five, which Gabe happily provided.
“Okay, we’re all done here,” the soldier said. His name tag read Brown and his rank insignia denoted him as a private first class. “Please stay with your wagon and wait for the customs officer to wave you through.”
I pointed westward. “Would that be the old fellow up there in the gray coveralls? Face like he just smelled shit?”
Private Brown’s mouth twitched. “Yes sir, that’s him.”
I looked westward and studied the customs officer. “You’d swear there’s a little invisible guy waving a turd under his nose.”
Brown snorted and rubbed at his mouth. I grinned at him. A few seconds later, better composed, he said, “It shouldn’t take too much longer. Have a nice day.”
“I’ll do my best.”
The soldier walked back to the inspection station.
“Why do you always have to do that?” Allison said.
“What?”
“Try to make people to break character.”
I shrugged. “Just wanted to make sure there was a real person in there.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re hopeless.”
Little Gabe saved me from further criticism by demanding his mother give him a horsey ride. The horsey ride consisted of Allison holding his sides, bouncing him on her knee, and making alarmingly accurate equine noises. Gabe cackled and held on to her leg with his small, pink hands. The festivities continued unabated while the wagon train moved forward.
At the wall, Folston clambered down from his wagon, showed his permit to the watch captain, and was waved inside. While I waited for the caravan to get moving again, I looked westward and marveled at the beauty of the Rocky Mountains towering serenely over the city. It was something that had always baffled me about this part of Colorado. Miles and miles of flat nothing to the east, and then BAM, an endless landscape of gigantic, craggy mountains with majestic snow-capped peaks.
The wagon in front of me started moving, so I grasped the reins, gave them a snap, and rolled into the bustling city of Colorado Springs.
*****
I signed off on the paperwork to have my goods and wagons warehoused, paid the caravan workers, and told Great Hawk, Holland, Cole, and Thompson I would see them tomorrow and not to have too much fun. Then I gave a kid from a nearby livery a pint jug of incredibly expensive maple syrup and told him to make arrangements for my livestock and see that they were well tended. He took down my name and the address of my hotel and said his boss would have the paperwork delivered there. I told him there would be a generous bonus for all parties involved if my oxen and horses were in better shape when I picked them up than when I dropped them off. His eyes glowed, his arm tightened around the jug of syrup, and he promised me I would not be disappointed.
My next stop was the currency exchange down the street from the warehouse. I’d had an account with them for several years and had enough federal credits on deposit to purchase several houses in any of the city’s richest neighborhoods. After signing a letter of credit, they gave me a stack of pink, newly minted federal notes in various denominations. They also gave me several rolls of coins, and when I protested, calmly assured me I would need them. Especially the fifty-cent pieces. When I asked them why, one of the men at the counter, obviously the manager, beckoned me to lean forward and spoke quietly.
“Most establishments with public restrooms charge fifty cents to use their facilities.”
“Oh. Good to know.”
I thanked him, divided the coins and bills between my pockets and the leather messenger bag I always carry, and wished them a good day.
That done, I hailed a carriage, helped the driver load our luggage into the back, and watched my son stare out the window at the people passing on the streets. Allison and I sat next to each other, her right hand on my leg and her left lying flat over her stomach. I put an arm around her shoulders and settled back on the bench.
“You decide on a name yet?”
Allison looked at me. “I’ve narrowed it down to a few finalists.”
“Care to divulge?”
“You’ll find out when she’s born.”
I slumped down in my seat, sighed, and frowned. “Unbelievable.”
“What?”
“I pay a small fortune for a sonogram to find out the sex, and you won’t even tell me my little girl’s name.”
Allison kissed my jaw, patted me on the cheek, and said, “Nice try.”
Crap. Foiled again.
After a short journey, the carriage stopped, and the driver rapped on the door.
“We’re here, Mr. Riordan.”
I opened the door and stepped down. Allison followed, and I held her hands while she carefully navigated the fold-out steps. Little Gabe stood in the doorway and said, “Ready, Dada?”
I bent my knees and held up my hands. “Ready.”
He leapt out like a wee howler monkey and I caught him under the arms. Before setting him down, I spun him around a few times. His feet flew outward and he laughed with the pure, unfiltered glee that only small children are capable of. It was a sound that never ceased to put a smile on my face.
Paying the carriage driver with paper money felt strange. Most of the country still operated on the barter system, but in Colorado Springs, a wad of cash was just as good. I told the driver to keep the change. He tipped his hat, thanked me, and trundled away.
Befo
re us stood the Western Estates Hotel, built post-Outbreak, and by all accounts, as fine an establishment as had ever been built anywhere. Having stayed in several of the world’s grandest pre-Outbreak hotels, including the Waldorf Astoria, Raffles Singapore, Hotel del Coronado, and Ritz Paris, I could not find grounds to disagree. The place was like a palace. Several of the city’s wealthiest residents had permanent homes here. The main building towered above the other structures along the street, flags flew from a massive balcony above the entrance, uniformed attendants stood at attention in front of the doors, and bright lights burned through the windows.
Running beneath it all, pulling at me like an ocean current, was the low buzz of electricity. Before the Outbreak, I would not have noticed. But over seven years of living in a world where electricity was rare had made me hyper-sensitive to its presence.
“Wow.” Allison said.
“No kidding.”
“How did they build this place so quickly?”
“Probably had something to do with an abundant supply of cheap labor.”
“Yeah. Good point.”
A teenager in a red uniform with neatly clipped hair and white gloves hustled over to us, pulling a luggage dolly.
“Good afternoon, sir. Can I take your bags?”
“Please.”
My instinct was to help him, but I knew in a place like this it would have been considered a massive faux pas. The kid would have been mortified, so I let him do his job. I picked up Little Gabe and we followed the attendant inside. When I gave my name at the counter, the gentleman addressing us, an older fellow with a trace of a South African accent, stood up straight.
“Mr. Riordan, we’ve been expecting you. It’s wonderful to finally have you staying with us.”
I smiled. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
He blinked at me. “Sir?”
“Could you please tell us which room we’re in?” Allison said, shooting me a brief glare. “We’ve been on the road for weeks, and I’m very tired.”
The attendant, whose nametag read Lars, glanced down at her stomach and immediately picked up a key.
“Of course, ma’am. Your reservation has been ready since early this morning. Number three-forty-two, one of our family suites. An excellent choice. I have no doubt you’ll be very pleased.”
Her expression softened as she took the key and gave me a meaningful glance.
“I can take your luggage up now, if you like,” the attendant said.
“That would be great,” Allison said. “Thank you.”
I followed the attendant to the elevator, a sight which gave me pause considering I had not seen one that actually worked since the Outbreak.
“Not sure what the etiquette is, but here.” I handed the attendant a fifty dollar note. He offered a genuine smile and made the fifty disappear.
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Riordan. I’ll get these up to your room right away.”
The elevator door opened, and the kid disappeared with our bags. I was still carrying Little Gabe, who was gazing around in open-mouthed wonder at the extravagance of our surroundings. It was a stark contrast to our modest home in Tennessee.
“It’s big here,” Gabe said, eyes wide.
“Yes, it is, son. Very big.”
Allison met us in the borderland between the lobby and the hotel bar. “I’m hungry.”
“Well, it just so happens we’re right next to one of the best restaurants in the city,” I said. “Let’s get some lunch.”
Allison stretched her back. “And then a nap.”
“And a bath.”
“God yes.”
We approached the hotel restaurant. The maître d´ took a long breath and pasted a fake plastic smile on his face when he saw us coming.
“Good afternoon, and welcome to Sunset Promenade. Do you have a reservation?”
I glanced past him. The dining room was less than half full. When I looked back at the maître d´, he was staring pointedly at my clothes. I was wearing travel attire. Durable and well made, but stained, rumpled, and not at all like the expensive suits and sleek dresses worn by the hotel’s other patrons. Considering our appearance, I could understand the head waiter’s reluctance. If it had just been me, I would have gone up to my room, bathed, changed, and come back down in something more appropriate. But my wife was hungry, and you just don’t turn away pregnant women.
“Sure,” I said. “Should be under Riordan.”
The waiter began running his finger down a piece of paper, then stopped. I detected a slight uptick in his respiration. “Would that be Mr. Eric Riordan?”
I gave a short bow. “The one and only.”
He stepped out from behind his lectern. “Right this way, sir.”
We followed him as he made his way into the restaurant. Allison stepped close to me and took one of my arms.
“You don’t have a reservation, do you?” she said quietly.
“Nope.”
“Does it feel good throwing your name around like that?”
I shrugged. “Got us a table, didn’t it?”
The waiter stopped and pulled out a chair for Allison. She sat down and thanked him. I sat down as well. Little Gabe’s head was on my shoulder, and I could feel his arms clinging to my coat.
“You hungry, son?”
He sat up and nodded.
“Pancakes?”
“Pancakes!”
A server came over and poured some water. Allison drained hers in one long, thirsty gulp.
“You okay, babe?”
She nodded. “Just thirsty is all.”
I watched her. I knew from her previous pregnancy that being eight months along is no fun at all. And getting to that point while spending your days riding in a wagon and your nights sleeping in a tent does not make the experience any more enjoyable.
“You know what I miss?” Allison said, looking at a gigantic flower arrangement in front of an equally gigantic bay window.
“What?”
“Pickles and peanut butter.”
“You craved those a lot when you were pregnant with Gabe.”
“We could get them in Tennessee. Think we can get them here?”
“We can. Probably ice cream as well.”
“Do they serve that here at the hotel?”
“I can ask. If not, I’ll send someone out to buy it.”
Allison smiled at me and put her hand over mine. I closed my fingers around hers and gently squeezed.
“Anything you want, honey,” I said. “Anything at all.”
Her lower lip trembled, and her eyes began to well up. “You’re so good to me.”
I tried to hold it in. I really did. But when the tears fell, I started laughing.
“Shit,” she said, wiping her eyes and laughing at the same time.
“Hormones, honey. It’s just hormones. You only get like this when you’re pregnant.”
She laughed and cried harder. “This is so annoying.”
“I can understand why you’re laughing. I mean, I’m delightful. But why are you crying? Because I offered you pickles and peanut butter?”
“And ice cream.”
“Right. That would probably make me cry too.”
I heard the maître d´ speaking behind me. The voice registered, and then went into the background with the dull hum of conversation around me. But then I heard another voice, this one distinct and unmistakable. It was deep, gravelly, and seemed to start somewhere far underground before rattling and clanking its way to the surface. The Kentucky accent had faded but was still noticeable. I set the little guy down next to his mother and looked behind me.
Gabriel Garrett and his daughter, Sabrina, stood at the entrance.
CHAPTER SIX
Eric,
Western Estates Hotel, Colorado Springs
Gabe was clean-shaven, his hair clipped short and styled with some kind of product. His suit had been expertly tailored from pre-Outbreak fabric, emphasizing his powerful fra
me without straining the seams. The gray at his temples had conquered more territory than I remembered, but it looked good on him, made him appear less savage and more distinguished.
That said, life in the Springs did not seem to have softened him. If anything, he looked leaner and stronger, the raw energy of his presence undiminished. The suit only served to highlight the contrast between his inner nature and the thin veneer he had adopted to better blend into the city. At least that was what I saw. Someone who did not know him as well may have gotten a different impression. Either way, his broad shoulders and six-foot-five frame—slightly heightened by his shiny black dress shoes—was enough to briefly command the attention of passersby.
But, as imposing as Gabriel was, his daughter was by far the more striking of the two. I had last seen her two years and seven months ago when she had been a skinny fourteen-year-old still a long way from growing into her body. But two and a half years can make a hell of a difference.
She was seventeen now, and the five-foot-ten I remembered had stretched out to six feet. The skinny, awkward adolescent body was now anything but. Her legs looked powerful enough to kick a hole in a brick wall, and her form-fitting shirt showed off high, rounded breasts and a few ripples of abdominal muscle. Her arms looked stronger and more defined than most men’s. She had cut her hair short, the sides and back shaved close to her scalp, the top longer and combed to one side. A few errant black strands dangled over her forehead, emphasizing the pale gray eyes she had inherited from her father.
I would not go so far as to call her beautiful—the hard angles of her face and severe expression prevented that—but she was attractive, and there was an undeniable energy about her. Between that, her height, and her physique, she turned a lot of heads. I hoped for the sake of anyone admiring her that they kept their thoughts to themselves. The Sabrina I knew did not take kindly to rude comments, nor did she suffer idiots gently. Not to mention the giant of a father standing next to her.
Surviving The Dead | Book 9 | War Without End Page 4
