Olivia sighed with relief and gave Kayla a quick smile. "Thank you, ma'am. I'll be in my office if you need anything else."
As she approached the door, Kayla called out her. "Olivia? Have each team leader publicly execute one person for complaining about our weapon supply. That should put an end to the carping."
20
* * *
Twenty-four one-way smoked glass panels fit together to form the east wall of her office. No one could see in, but Kayla could see out. It was vital nobody outside a select few aids ever caught a glimpse of her office. To the masses toiling outside her window, she was their pastor and their leader. If word got out that she spent her day in opulence while her subjects labored for sixteen hours and got by on a sustenance-level diet, her leadership would be short-lived.
Her eyes roamed the men working below. She took in the livestock crew, who tended to the beef and poultry penned and living out their last days. She examined the agricultural crew, scurrying around the farm equipment and getting it ready for the move. Her gaze drifted to the men on the fence who worked twelve-hour shifts roaming the ten-foot-high barrier that ran the width of her compound, destroying the demons drawn by the noise and retrieving the bodies for burning. A unit of soldiers ran through a series of drills under her watchful eye. She observed those subjects and a hundred others, unable to find what she wanted.
Kayla had an itch she couldn't scratch.
A week had passed since she sent Coy home to break the news to his people- they had fourteen days to vacate the quarry. If they didn't, on the fourteenth day she would lead an Army ten times their size to kill whoever it found. Since he left she found herself spending too much time at the window and not enough time working. She watched out the window for a specific person. A young man, still in his teens, tall and wiry with piercing green eyes. Eyes with long lashes that pried into her soul. Big, rough hands with long, delicate fingers- hard hands that knew how to be gentle.
But no one in her mass of peons came close to fitting that bill. And so her inch remained unscratched.
She fantasized one afternoon that a demon wandered to the fence, a freshly turned demon that had not begun to stink or rot. Upon her order the peons brought it inside, its mouth covered and its hands tied to its sides. She assessed her reflection in a mirror off to the side and smoothed the fabric of her white bandage dress that stopped at the middle of her thighs. Turning this way and that, she took in her figure, her blonde hair and blue eyes, and her ample cleavage. She looked at the blue belt around her waist and the rise of her firm ass. She still turned heads, even at forty-eight; and she had no doubt that most of her single male subjects went to sleep at night with theirs spunk drying on their bellies and visions of their pastor running through their heads. Penises that hadn’t been erect in years came to life for her- some in her hands, some in her mouth, and some just by her walking naked into a room. She'd give it a try on the right demon if she thought doing so might scratch this infernal itch.
Frowning, she turned from the window and crossed the massive office back to her desk. She'd kicked off her heels and loved the way the lush carpet felt it against her bare feet.
At her desk, she pulled a two-way radio from one of its many drawers. She placed its flat back on the desktop and spun it in circles with her finger. She considered using the radio to contact Magnus- another itch she didn't dare scratch.
Magnus and Coy, Coy and Magnus. One itch she was afraid to scratch, lest it lead to her doom. As for the other- well, she was a week away from killing everyone he cared about. In a fit of frustration she threw the radio against the nearest wall, cracking its case and scattering the batteries.
Her intercom buzzed and conveyed Olivia's disembodied voice. "Are you all right ma'am? I heard a crash."
"Yes Olivia, I'm fine." She was about to click off and thought better of it. "Olivia?"
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Have one of the team leaders alert me before he performs his execution. I'd like to view it."
21
* * *
Becky stood just inside the entrance to tunnel six, the tunnel that housed the kitchen and dining room. The kitchen was a wonder to behold. Jiri, who was in charge of all things related to feeding the tunnel-dwellers, built it with the idea of what they wanted the community to be, not what it was. So even though they numbered 203 people, he designed it to feed 1000.
It was located in a medium-sized alcove to the south of the dining room. Chambers like this one — pockets off the main shaft that the miners had hollowed out back when they pulled eighty tons of limestone out of the earth every day — popped up with frequency as you traveled through tunnels. Some were no bigger than a phone booth, while others were big enough to house huge factories.
Jiri pilfered all the kitchen items he could from the dining rooms and break rooms in the various factories and offices that called the Underground home. Then he led scavenging runs to a pair of small-town diners- Judy’s Cafe in Jasper and Cooky’s in Golden City. The runs produced two big, eight-burner commercial stovetops that sat side-by-side in the center of the room. The exhaust hoods and ventilation systems from the cafes loomed over the stoves. Whenever Becky saw the hood and vents, she recalled the three days Danny and Will spent trying to install them- the pair almost came to blows over it twice. At a loss at the start of the fourth day, they sent for Cyrus; the mad scientist had the hoods installed and running before lunch.
Two industrial ovens pilfered from a bakery out by Kellog Lake sat back-to-back with the stove. A wide aisle separated the ovens and a row of six gas grills. Three smokers sat adjacent the stoves. At the present, one stove, one oven, and a few of the grills or smokers were all they needed they cooked with, and the kitchen used two or three liquid propane gas cylinders a week. But Jiri confided to her once that he saw a day when his biggest concern was keeping a steady enough supply of gas coming into the quarry to operate all the equipment.
Three big stainless steel prep tables lined the alcove’s west wall. On each side of the tables sat two six-foot-tall shelving units. The shelves held the cooks’ tricks of the trade. Mixing bowls, pots and pans, baking sheets, and utensils of every sort filled the units.
On the opposite wall, he’d placed two more prep tables and a restaurant-style double sink between them. They pumped water from the underground lake at the north end of the quarry and piped to the kitchen through a long series of hoses. Once there, it ran through a complex filtration system (Cyrus again) and two more hoses delivered it to the sinks. The staff had to heat their hot water on the stoves (the council deemed a water heater used too much precious electricity, against Jiri’s agonized objections) so they did as much as they could with the room-temperature water.
A generator that ran off of the biofuel they produced powered three banks of fluorescent lighting, making it a bright, shiny affair. Will considered the generator, the propane, and the grills and called it an explosion waiting to happen.
Some equipment was pushed off in a corner, looking sad and unwanted. Two big four-tank deep fryers sat next to a portable walk-in cooler and a portable walk-in freezer. Jiri couldn’t use them until the quarry had a steady supply of electricity; until then, he fretted over them and cleaned the limestone dust off them twice a day.
Like every woman in the community, Becky came in twice a month to work a shift with the kitchen’s permanent staff. No matter if she came to work or to eat, what Jiri, Kathy — the kitchen’s manager — and the workers had built amazed her.
She looked over the dining room from left to right, searching for her husband. Not only did she not see Will, but Danny and Jiri weren’t around, either. She ran a hand through her thick hair and cursed. "So much for everybody getting together for one meal a day," she muttered to herself.
A woman spoke behind her. "Becky, is everything okay?"
She turned and saw Tara, eyeing her with concern.
"It
looked like you were giving yourself a cussing out."
Becky gave her a grateful smile. Although the two women were diametric opposites, they'd become fast friends. "I need a man."
"Lord, don't we all?" piped up a short, waiflike woman at Tara’s side. She extended a tiny hand to Becky. "Willa. Willa Piski."
"That's right- Willa.†Becky accepted her hand with a smile. "You were too fast- it would've come to me."
Willa had dark eyes and tousled brown hair. She possessed a caustic wit and seemed to always have a lit cigarette in hand. She was in the large contingent of Originals that switched tunnels after Will’s coup.
Tara pointed a thumb at her companion. "Willa's the one Mark and the Judge were having wash dishes and do laundry. When she got with us, Danny discovered she could fight and she's been kicking ass on scavenging runs and scouting trips ever since."
Becky raised her eyebrows. "Oh, yeah- I've heard the guys talking about you. Very impressive."
Willa beamed, although Becky wasn't sure it was because of the complement or because she said the guys were talking about her.
"Listen," Becky continued, "I'm sorry I didn't recognize you right away. We had 150 people move into the tunnel at once, and that’s a lot of names and faces to keep straight. No offense."
"Oh shit, none taken." Willa took a quick drag on a cigarette and blew smoke out of the corner of her mouth. "They don't like me smoking in here," she said in a conspiratorial tone of voice.
Tara grasped one of Becky's hands in both of hers. "Anyway, which man are you looking for?"
"Will, Danny, Jiri- one of the heavy hitters. I'm having a woman problem I can't solve by myself." Willa looked at her sideways and Becky laughed. "Not that kind of woman problem. I have a problem with a group of women."
Willa looked relieved. "Well thank God. Because if you still need help figuring out that other woman problem at your age, then you're just not the first lady we thought you are."
Becky gave her an arch look. "At my age?"
Willa grimaced and her face flushed. "Oh my God, I did not mean that the way it sounded. I swear, I meant-"
"Relax," Becky laughed. "I was kidding."
"Thank God!" Willa clutched her arm. "I thought, way to go, Willa. You just insulted the Mother Superior to her face."
They laughed, then Tara grew serious. "Who are these women and what problem where they give you?"
Becky rolled her eyes. "There are five or six gals that say they don't want to have any part in defending against the attack. They don't want to leave, and they're willing to help in any other way. But they say they don't know anything about fighting, and it's a man's job, anyway."
Tara — lawyer, feminist, fighter of the dead — looked at her with fire in her eyes. "Let’s go talk to these women, shall we?"
22
* * *
Becky exited the dining hall with Tara and Willa in tow. As they left, they turned left towards the Judge's tunnel rather than turning right toward their own.
"Oh my God," Tara growled. "Don't tell me they're still with the Judge."
"Of course. Do you think any of our people would act like this? The leaders are friends with his little girlfriend.â€
"Tra-ash!" Willa called out in a singsong voice. "I can’t stand that woman. She'd strut around wearing too much makeup and dressed like she was on break from the set of Dynasty. Little rolls of fat sticking out from underneath dresses three sizes too small."
"What is her name?" Becky asked.
"Missy," spat Willa. "She never liked me because her stupid son had the hots for me and I wouldn't have anything to do with him."
"She's got a kid?"
"Yeah, two of them. Glory is her daughter. She's in her mid-twenties and is a pretty decent person."
Becky stopped walking. "You mean the Glory that works with Cyrus a lot?"
Willa nodded. "That's the one. She’s a science nerd so she spends a lot of time in his lab. Cyrus lets her putter around and work on her own projects if he doesn't need her help. Glory's cool. We got high together a few times when I lived down in the other tunnel."
"Okay. I've got Glory placed. Who’s her other kid?"
Willa curled one side of her mouth in a snarl. "Buster."
Becky and Tara both burst out laughing. "Buster?" Becky asked. "Is that a nickname?"
Willa shook her head. "No, that's what it says on the poor bastard's birth certificate. He's a dumpy eighteen-year-old with an endless supply of smelly sweaters and those glasses that turn into sunglasses when he goes outside. When he eats a bowl of soup, he slurps every spoonful until it’s empty. It used to drive me out of my fucking mind- he'd sit next to me at dinner, slurp slurp slurp, then start picking his nose with one hand and digging at his ass with the other."
Becky and Tara giggled and listened with wide eyes.
"No one ever sees him because he's mortally afraid of Danny so he hides in his room in their apartment all day."
Becky's eyebrows squished together. Why is he afraid of Danny?"
"Who knows- they've never talked to each other." Willa saw the other two women staring back at her with dubious expressions. "I shit you not. Danny's never said a single word to him. I guess the first time Buster saw the guy it reminded him of somebody who used to bully him back in the world. But he’s scared to death of the guy.
"I think that's why I got the shit jobs down there. The Judge cornered me one day, blew a bunch of smoke up my ass about what a great guy Buster is and how I was sure to like him if I just gave him a chance. I figure Buster went to his mom, and she shut the vajay-jay down until the Judge got me to date her son.
"But getting to know Buster's little buster on an intimate level didn't appeal to me, so I said ‘no thanks’. After that, they always assigned me to washing the dishes or scrubbing the floors. The Judge stopped me in the tunnel every now and then to let me know how much he could do to help me if I gave Buster a chance. I give him a sweet smile and keep washing my dishes and scrubbing my floors."
Tara gawked at the shorter woman. "That's harassment!"
"Sing it, sister. From a judge, no less. Unfortunately, the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission didn't make it through the zombie apocalypse." She shrugged her shoulders. "So what are you going to do?"
Tara pulled herself up to her full five feet, eight inches; fury sparked and sizzled in her eyes. "Willa, you and I are having a long talk later." She turned to Becky. "And if any more of this shit is going on, your husband will fix it."
"I'll make sure he does." She gave Tara brief hug, then broke away. "Now, come on. I'm freezing out here."
23
* * *
The trio strode into tunnel eight. Number eight shaft used to house over 120 people; the Judge and twenty or so Originals were the only ones who remained. They threaded their way through a maze of empty apartments- tiny connected homes made of office cubicle walls, tin sheets, plywood squares, and anything else they could find to use for building materials.
They knocked on doors and listened for voices, both to no avail.
"I don't get it," said Becky, tapping her heel in frustration. "Aren't there fifteen or twenty people still living here?"
Willa knocked on a pair of pallets someone had rigged to act as a front door. When no one answered, she looked at Becky and shrugged. "To the best of my knowledge, yes."
Tara shooshed them with a finger over her lips. "Listen," she hissed.
Becky concentrated and listened hard, trying to ascertain the sound Tara heard. After several seconds she shook her head. "I got nothing."
Tara pointed at a smaller shaft that ran west off the main tunnel. "I detected voices that way."
Becky peered down the passage but saw nothing. The side channel was pitch dark; it lacked the row of lanterns strung overhead down the center of the main tunnel had.
Willa's lighter flared and the tip of her cigarette glowed in the shado
ws. "I'm a brave little bitch, but I don't want to walk through there in the dark." She pointed at the channel.
Becky concurred. “Let's go, and come back this afternoon. I don't understand where everyone could've gone."
Tara looked like she wanted to argue, but in the end she pursed her lips and gave in. "Okay. We'll go for now. But I want to talk to these bitches, and I want to do it today."
They walked toward the exit, chatting about this and that. As they neared the opening they heard a jumble of voices. A dozen people engaged in several conversations crossed the threshold into the tunnel, stopping abruptly when they saw the three women. Becky recognized the Judge and Misty, and Cheryl and Darena- two of the women who didn't want to help with the fight for the quarry. Several of them carried drinks and two had greasy hunks of meat wrapped in paper towels.
Becky and Tara turned to one another. "They were at lunch," they said together, laughing like a pair of loons.
The Judge stepped forward and stood in front of the scrum of people; he eyed the girls, his eyebrows furrowed and one chubby hand placed on the back of his neck.
“Hello, Jody,†Becky said, a smile still playing on her lips.
“Rebecca,†The Judge intoned. Tall and patrician, Judge Tompkins was old money from way back. If he walked in on a man screwing his wife he’d greet him politely and not mention the faux pas. "What brings you down to our neck of the quarry?"
"I need to talk to Cheryl and Darena." Becky caught herself and motioned toward Tara and Willa. "We need to talk to them."
"Very well." He turned to the group behind him. "Cheryl? Darena? These ladies need a moment." He took a step toward Becky and gave her a hopeful look. "Can I be of any help, Mrs. Crandall?"
As he spoke, she noticed a dumpy young man wearing glasses and a bulky sweater. He stared at Willa, hot lust written all over his face. He had to be the infamous Buster. She cast a questioning glance at Willa, who rolled her eyes and shot a plume of smoke in his direction. That made Becky laugh again, just as the two women stepped in front of her.
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