Feast

by Jeremiah Knight

Jakob focused on her. She had ratty-looking blonde hair that hung in clumps over her dirt-covered face. He’d seen the look before. Hell, he emulated it. “Were you living on the outside?” he asked. “In the wild?”

  The woman’s eyes twitched.

  “We were, too,” Jakob said. “At least, for the past few weeks. Our farm was attacked.” He hitched his thumb toward Alia. “Hers, too. Now we’re here.”

  “And here you will stay,” the old man said, his voice rattling like he’d enjoyed a few too many packs a day. Jakob reassessed the man. Was he starving or just miserable from nicotine withdrawal?

  “H-how long have you been here?” Alia asked.

  The old man turned toward the couple. “Two years in the camp. About a week in the cell?”

  “For what?” Jakob asked.

  “Well,” the old man said. “I took too long with the lemonade. These two were caught...well, doing what men and women sometimes do. And if that sounds ridiculous to any of you, the only men and women allowed to engage in such activities are those approved by Mason, and that is generally relegated to Mason himself and a handful of his most trusted hands. Mason’s got himself a real harem inside that house. Most of them want no part in it, but they don’t really have a say anymore.”

  Anne clenched her fists. “Why doesn’t anyone help them?”

  The old man grunted like a cantankerous horse. “Most people living outside the house never see them, let alone communicate with them. I only know them because I worked inside, too. I’m a handy kind of guy, and I know my way around a kitchen. Was a line cook in Philly, for a while. Aside from his motley gang of enforcers and guards, I was one of the few men let inside the house. Mason believed I was too old to fraternize with his wives.” The man tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. “More than a few of them know that’s not true. I might have twenty years on Mason, but the plumbing is still good, and I’ve spent more than a few nights tending to wounds inflicted by that man.”

  He took a deep breath, and as he let it out, the fight that had been building in his voice seemed to melt right out of him. “This place could have been a blessing. There’s food enough for everyone in those domes. The walls provide safety. The human race could have begun again, right here. Instead, he took Hellhole Bay’s name to heart. Brought his own kind of hell to Earth.”

  Anne seemed unfazed by the man’s doom and gloom. She nodded her head at the woman. “Why aren’t you, you know, in the house? Looks like you might be pretty under all that dirt.”

  The woman’s eyes flicked to the man beside her, with whom she’d apparently had an unsanctioned relationship.

  “You don’t need permission to speak,” Anne said. “From him or anyone else. At least, not while you’re already locked up. What more can they do?”

  The old man guffawed. “I’m going to walk out of this cage. So will she, despite the scarlet letter Mason’s branded on her chest. His boys can still have their fun with her. But him...” He pointed at the younger man. “He’s either going to wither and die in this cell, be thrown out against the next monster that comes looking for trouble, or be used for target practice. Whatever the case, his end won’t be—”

  “Shut-up,” the woman said.

  “Carrie,” the young man chided.

  “No reason to keep quiet,” she said, her Southern accent far thicker than the old man’s. “He’s right. They won’t do anything more to me, and there ain’t nothing I can say that will make things any better or worse for you.” She turned to Jakob. “John, here, thinks old Willie in the corner there, is a spy for Mason, on account of his life in the house. But he’s just as hungry and dirty as the both of us.”

  “Why would Mason want to spy on you?” Anne asked.

  “On account of him fearing a rebellion. Mason and his men make up roughly thirty percent of the compound’s population. The rest of us are kept hungry, weak and separate. Took me a while to figure out why, but it’s because he’s a paranoid man. A little food and respect would have made loyal servants out of us all, but he chose the alternate route, and now he fears us. Maybe even more than we fear him. So every now and again, he conjures up a reason to deem some of us Questionables. Throws us in here. Less frequently, he puts someone to death, and I reckon ol’ Willie is right about John’s fate.”

  John, a twenty-something year old man who looked like he’d stepped into a hurricane and walked out the other side with a story too horrible to tell, let out an anguished sigh, but said nothing.

  “They caught us screwing, dead to rights, but we’re just friends.”

  Ouch, Jakob thought. Post-apocalypse friend-zoned. Harsh.

  “Was just letting off some steam,” she continued. “And it’s not like anyone else was having a go. One case of the creeping crawlers and those boys had no interest in dipping their wicks. Good for me they didn’t know the difference between crabs and them little red spiders. Sprinkled ’em on and presto, I was a free woman. For a time, anyway. Now I’m here, still not planning an insurrection.”

  “Maybe you should,” Anne said.

  The three captives on the far side of the cell tensed.

  Jakob almost shushed Anne. For all they knew, their cellmates could be there to determine whether or not newcomers were a threat. If they spoke of rising up against Mason, maybe these three would tell him? Even if they weren’t spies, they might tell him with the hopes of gaining his favor. Of course, Willie and Carrie had already confessed to several other infractions that Jakob could trade for favor.

  When he saw fear creep into Willie’s and Carrie’s eyes, he realized that they were thinking the same thing. The duo had let their guard down, probably because they were speaking to three kids they’d never seen before, but now they had that terrified look of children caught looking at pornography.

  Jakob held up his hands. “We’re not here to spy on you, either, I swear.”

  “Why’s she talking about rebellion?” Carrie asked.

  “Because I don’t like being caged like an animal,” Anne said, “and if there were a few more people willing to help, our Dad would—”

  “Ignore her,” Jakob said. “She has an inflated opinion about what our father can do. You know how kids are.”

  Anne kicked him, but didn’t say any more.

  “Your father the big fella Boone was talking to?” Willie asked. “And that tough looking lady with him...that your mother?”

  “Yeah,” Jakob said. It was far more complicated than that, but Jakob didn’t want to explain.

  “Certainly looked as capable as the girl claims,” the old man said. “But if he’s a smart man, he’ll join up and do Mason’s bidding. Only real way to get the lot of you out of this cage.” He pointed a shaky finger at Alia. “Except maybe her. Racism runs deep in these parts. Only a few people with skin darker than a sun given tan are here, and that’s because they’re useful. Used to be more at the beginning, but these Questionable cells have seen a lot of use over the years. So my advice to you, young miss, is to make yourself useful.”

  “B-but, I’m just a kid,” Alia said. “I don’t know how to do anything.”

  “Better learn quick,” Willie said, “or lie and then learn quick.”

  “It won’t come to that,” Jakob said to Willie, and then turned to Alia. “My father won’t let it happen.”

  “Sounds like you have a little more faith in your old man than you wanted us to know, eh?” Willie tapped his nose again and gave a nod. “You have nothing to worry about from any of us. We’re already up shit’s creek. Might as well be in cahoots, too.” Willie leaned forward, elbows on knees. He moved faster than Jakob would have thought, more aged than emaciated. “Your daddy trust you?”

  “Yeah,” Jakob said.

  “How much?”

  “As much as anyone can,” Jakob said.

  “And he’s a good man?”

  “The best,” Anne said.

  “Says his daughter.”

  “I only met him five weeks ago
,” Anne said.

  Willie grunted and met Jakob’s eyes. “She telling the truth?”

  Jakob returned Willie’s gaze, trying to get a read on him. Was he crazy? Was he a spy? Was he exactly what he seemed to be—an old man sick of living in a literal hell hole without much left to lose? “Yeah. He’s honorable, if that’s what you’re asking. Nothing like that Mason guy.”

  “That’s exactly what I was asking,” Willie said. “Now then, let’s talk insurrection.”

  “Thought you said there wasn’t one,” Anne said.

  Willie grinned and looked to John, then Carrie, who returned his smile and nodded. “Well, there is now.”

  11

  To Peter’s surprise, the search-and-rescue party sent after the missing group of men was composed solely of Boone and himself. That told him a few things. First, Boone had no fear of what might be hunting him on the outside, which meant he was supremely stupid, or genuinely good at surviving—but still stupid in most regards. Second, it meant that the majority of Mason’s most skilled and loyal men were currently outside the gates. Sure, there might be armed guards watching the walls, and some of them were probably hardliners like Boone, but Peter guessed most of them were more like Stevie and Marcus.

  He couldn’t be sure, though, and until he was, playing along was the safest option—until the kids were set free.

  Or was it? Boone had the keys. Peter had no doubt he could take them by force. But would the gates be opened to him if he returned alone? And if they were, would he be greeted with a bullet? Even if he could take the keys, re-enter the camp, free the kids, retrieve Ella and leave again, without waging a one-man war, something still nagged at him. Hellhole Bay, perhaps the last bastion of humanity outside a scattering of biodomes and ExoGen themselves, was a corrupt, evil place.

  Could he just leave? Even if they reached George’s Island and altered the human genome so that ExoGen food didn’t turn people into rapidly evolving eating machines, what good would that do if their fellow survivors were still monsters at heart?

  “Sure you don’t want to wear something a little more protective?” Boone asked. He was dressed in black military clothing and body armor. It would stop a bullet, but wouldn’t do a whole lot of good against an Apex predator, or a knife for that matter. It looked cool, but had limited mobility. If they were walking into a conventional battle, he’d have taken Boone up on the offer, but out here in the wild, he was happy with the dirt-covered tan cargo pants and equally soiled black t-shirt. Not only were they a natural-looking camouflage, but they also smelled like the outdoors.

  “I’m good,” Peter said. “Thanks for the offer, though.”

  Boone stepped over a log, gripping his AR-15, back to Peter. It was the thirteenth time the man had left himself completely open to attack. Peter couldn’t decide if it was an intentional test, or if the man simply had no combat awareness.

  Neither, Peter decided. He trusts that I care about Ella and the kids, and won’t endanger them by doing something stupid.

  “Your funeral,” Boone said.

  The swamp around them was still, lacking the non-stop sound of birds and insects normally present in such locations. Peter eyed the water, half expecting something to burst out and snatch one of them. But Boone moved with more confidence, following a worn path through clumps of moss covered islets. ExoGenetic crops grew around them, protruding from the water and from the mounds of land scattered around them. They mixed in with hearty plants and ferns that hadn’t retreated from the ExoGenetic advance. But the path ahead was clear. Maintained. This wasn’t just a jaunt through the wilds in search of missing men.

  “Where are we headed?” Peter asked.

  Boone waggled his hand forward, indicating the winding path that disappeared behind a stand of short, twisting trees. “The lot. Where we keep vehicles.”

  “Why don’t you keep them at Hellhole?”

  “Firstly, the bridge at the entrance ain’t big enough for a vehicle.”

  “That’s the only way in?”

  “Yep. And secondly, it keeps the degenerates and unknown Questionables from stealing them.”

  “They’d have to be pretty desperate to leave the safety of Hellhole, don’t you think?”

  Boone shrugged. “People do stupid things. A few have tried leaving on foot. Sure you can imagine how that ended.”

  Peter could, but his mind’s eye didn’t conjure images of ExoGenetic creatures hunting down those poor people. He saw Boone looking down the sights of that AR-15 in his hands, pulling the trigger with a smile on his face. “Sure can.”

  “None of them was like you and me, though.”

  “How’s that?”

  Boone looked back with a lopsided grin. “Killers. Men who do what it takes to survive, eternal soul be damned.”

  Peter gave a nod. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Glad t’ hear it.”

  You shouldn’t be, Peter thought. Then he asked, “And the men we’re searching for?”

  “More of the same,” Boone said, trudging through foot-deep black water separating one islet from the next. “Dangerous men. Survivors.”

  “You all have a name?” Peter asked.

  Boone looked confused. “We all have names.”

  “I mean as a group,” Peter said.

  “Like a nickname? Naw. Seems kinda cheesy if you ask me.”

  “More like a callsign,” Peter said. “All the most elite units in the military have them. Have for thousands of years. The Persians had The Immortals. King Arthur had the Knights of the Round Table. The Paladins fought for Charlemagne. In the Marine Corps, I was a member of the Raiders. Groups of fighting men deserve a name. Helps form bonds in battle. Unity.” He was pouring it on a little heavy, but he wanted Boone to start feeling that sense of comradery with him. Naming this group of men would be a step in the right direction.

  “Huh,” Boone said. “S’pose there is something to it.”

  “Something like Mason’s Devils,” Peter offered.

  “Not bad, I guess,” Boone said, pondering the issue he’d never before considered. “How ’bout Redneck Rampagers?”

  It was a horrible name. Not even grammatically correct. But it was accurate and revealed that Boone was not only aware of his backwoods nature, but proud of it. “Perfect,” Peter said.

  “Redneck Rampagers it is, then.” Boone froze in his tracks, eyes focused straight ahead, like a cat who’d just spotted prey.

  Peter looked past him, searching for what had the man spooked, but he saw nothing. The idea that Boone’s attention to detail or ability to detect danger was beyond Peter’s irked him. The man had no formal training, Peter thought, but he did grow up here. He knows the smells, sights and sounds. If something is off, he’ll know about it long before me.

  The realization made their prospects of a simple escape less likely. Boone would be able to hunt them down, which meant he would have to be dealt with first. But that was the brewing plan anyway. Peter, in good conscience, couldn’t abandon the large number of people living under Mason’s oppressive rule. It had been a while since Peter had assisted in a regime change, and he didn’t always agree with it, but in this case, with the future of humanity at risk, he wasn’t going to look the other way.

  “What is it?” Peter whispered.

  “Should be a guard up ahead.” Boone pointed to a tree, where a perfectly camouflaged hunter’s tree stand was mounted, twenty feet off the ground. Boone let out a bird call, which sounded convincing, but in this lifeless swamp, it would attract the same kind of attention as shouting. Peter kept that to himself, though. If the guard was missing, or dead, they could be in trouble. But what kind of trouble?

  “The stand looks intact,” Peter said. “No claw marks. No blood.”

  “Uh-huh,” Boone said. “Wasn’t one of them mutates, that’s for sure.”

  “Maybe he heard the men at the Lot were missing and went to check?” Peter asked.

  “If he did, he’s gonna get
throttled.” Boone crept forward, heading for the stand. When he reached the tree, he slung the AR-15 over his shoulder and gripped the coarse bark on either side. Then he shimmed up, scaling the fifteen feet in seconds. He slid over the camouflaged wall and into the hide.

  “Sombitch,” he muttered.

  “He dead?” Peter asked.

  “Surely is.” Boone emerged from the hide and slid down the tree. Peter had never seen someone move through a tree with such ease. Boone hadn’t just been raised in the swamp, he’d become one with it. “Dumb shit’s neck is broke.”

  Peter eyed the tree stand. “You know what that means, right?”

  Boone nodded. “Someone killed him. For sure weren’t no mutate.”

  How had someone scaled the tree, entered the stand and broken the man’s neck?

  “Was he armed?” Peter asked.

  “Sheeit.” Boone spat at the tree, and Peter wasn’t sure if he was cursing the dead man or whoever it was that killed him. “Yeah, he was. Hunting rifle with a scope. Sidearm, too. Can’t remember what kind.”

  “So the men at the Lot have gone silent and your lookout is dead. Weapons missing. You’re under attack.”

  “Sounds ’bout right.”

  “Should we get reinforcements?” Peter asked.

  Boone sniffed and shook his head. “Redneck Rampagers don’t need no reinforcements. Whatever this is, I can handle it.”

  Peter suspected Boone’s decision had more to do with a lack of reinforcements rather than an absolute faith in his abilities. If someone had come through here and killed his men, they might have done Peter a favor. Then again, he might just be trading one Devil for another. Until he knew, Boone was the closest thing to an ally he had.

  “Can I have a weapon?”

  “You shittin’ me?” Boone said. “This all started not too long after y’all showed up. For all I know, you’re in cahoots with whoever is out here.”

  Peter frowned. “Good point.” And it was a good point. Had they been followed? And if so, by whom?

  “Thank ye,” Boone said, starting down the path once more. “Lot’s a quarter mile ahead. Follow close, but not too close, and keep your trap shut.”