*
THE CURFEW ALARM rang out across the City just as he closed the front door behind him. The usual sound of late-night revelry assailed Burroughs at once, louder than The Mile shutting down just a few blocks away as all the wise and wary bunkered down for the night. Recent nights had proven the reality which had never really gone away – the City wasn’t that much safer than life in the great outdoors. And yet none of them, Burroughs included, wanted to go back to how things had been. He hadn’t always been the tight-lipped inspirational leader of Men they knew him for here . . . and if his Brotherhood had seen him in the first year fighting for survival, the things he did, the things he failed to do, and the things that still made him burn with shame a lifetime later, none would listen to a word he said.
Which, Burroughs reflected, was still sometimes the case.
The clink of a bottle or someone’s glass upstairs almost dredged him out of his temporary calm, now the business with the Fury woman was done. Burroughs eyed the stairs going up, wishing yet again that his leadership didn’t come with so many who treated his home like a club house, and then nowhere to be found when action called.
With a tired sigh, he started up, one leaden foot at a time, mood darkening as the drunken laughter reached a fresh crescendo and tapered away.
Sandler, Romano, Freaky, Dangerfield, and the idiot who called himself Zardoz sat crowded around the kitchen table with a plastic jug of hooch resembling the contents of someone’s colostomy bag, while Lewis, cleaning up in the kitchen at the end of a long night, let the grin slip from his face as the first to note their leader come through the door. The booze created an acrid haze in the confined space and it stung Burroughs’ eyes as bad as the electric light the fools were burning from not one, but three big camping lanterns.
“You sure you boys can see?” he grunted.
They were far gone – as usual, on nights like this. Most of them thought his remark a quip about their drink of questionable origin, and donkey laughs grated another layer from Burroughs’ nerves as he shucked out of his jacket, then saw the coat rack was full.
Anger finally rose up within him. With the laughter contagious among his men, Burroughs turned and kicked the legs from beneath Romano’s stool and the rangy man nearly his own age came down hard on the table’s edge, collecting his bearded chin with a deafening crack, then tipping the table, all the marker cards, glasses, bottles and ashtrays onto the swept-clean kitchen floor.
“‘the fuck you do that for?”
Romano held his jaw, blood coming from his mouth as he staggered back upright. The insurrection only triggered Burroughs worse, and he delivered what would’ve otherwise been a killing blow to the pit of the other man’s stomach. Despite his size, Gabe Romano lifted off the ground, then fell to it on his knees as his retching turned into puking that set off Freaky. The scrawny tagalong hurried to Lewis’ clean sink and threw his guts up into it as well.
“Holy shit, Freaky!”
Lewis’ eyes flew agog to Burroughs, terrified he might be next in the firing line for his outburst as much as anything else, but the diligent if otherwise useless young man’s thwarted efforts just to do his fucking job invoked a deadly rage Burroughs smothered to contain. He threw his magisterial gaze across the other brutes and was mildly surprised to see more than a few hooded looks returned – Sandler’s among them. His slender, pale-featured lieutenant stood away from the mess with his hands at his side as if he were a gunslinger, lost in time, and as if he might make a go of it.
Edward’s eyes fell on the younger man’s hands. Whether emboldened by alcohol or just that maybe he’d finally swallowed as much as he could, Sandler rounded on him with a trembling voice.
“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” he said. “We were just having some fun – like you, right?”
Burroughs only grunted.
“You’ve been out again?” Sandler asked.
“So?”
Burroughs didn’t say it defensively, though it was inevitable his shame exposed itself in the flushing of his face not covered by his beard. He ran a hand over his bald dome and caught himself in the act, knowing it was a nervous tic he’d long since tried to snuffle out of existence, the merest trace of which even these sorry, sad-sack drunks could taste like sharks with blood in the water. The more the other Men’s eyes stayed on him, the more Burroughs felt the urge to fetch the hatchet from his quarters and hack the bastards to death – somewhat contradictory to his aims, right now, trying to win the ungrateful fools of the Brotherhood some legitimacy.
“Sit down, Aaron,” he said. “We have work in the morning.”
“Gotta work to eat.”
Lewis’ contribution wasn’t welcome. The reigning collective all but hissed at him. Sandler’s eyes stayed on Burroughs.
“We know where you go these nights, boss.”
“Keep your personal affairs to yourself and I’ll do the same,” Burroughs growled back. “Not like this.” And he motioned at the drunken scene. “We’ve got a chance to get something like what we want here, and you fucking fools can’t even control your drinking.”
“We all got our vices,” Dangerfield said.
Burroughs spat a look the big man’s way, but Sandler started up again.
“You let those niggers run rings around you and make us look like fools and then we go out on your goddamned trooper patrols and all those Enclave fucks treat us like we’re the ones who should be ashamed of ourselves,” he said.
“And?”
Burroughs stood implacable. For perhaps the first time in Sandler’s life, the response was a red rag to a bull – though he was a skinny one, feeling bigger with his companions’ approval.
“There’s trouble brewin’, boss, and you don’t see it.”
The others waited, snake-like, for his response. He didn’t flatter them with any. He took down the closest jacket instead and tossed it at Romano, then hung his own coat up in its stead.
“Work tomorrow,” Burroughs said. “Party’s over.”
“It’s just like you said, Aaron,” Freaky whispered.
Burroughs snapped around.
“What’s that?”
But he didn’t stop to hear the answer. He grabbed the skinny ingrate by his literal face, pulling the vomit-speckled man out of the chair he’d just returned to and throwing him hard into and thus through the door to the landing. It was only luck the slippery survivor grabbed for purchase to avoid a headlong tumble down the stairs.
“Fuck this,” Romano snapped.
“You all got a problem?”
Now Burroughs roared his challenge, spit flicking from his mouth as he turned, and not for one honest second expecting it when Romano stepped into his shadow and drove a hunting knife into the small of his back.
The explosion of pain barely had a chance to register – instead, only Burroughs’ strident alarm as Sandler also pulled a svelte knife from his belt, and ignoring Lewis’ frightened shrieks, gathered the courage to come in at the older man as well, stabbing again and again, mostly hitting Burroughs’ upraised palm and wrist as their leader desperately sought to protect himself. The blood spattered in his face as Burroughs again roared in defiance, clutching at Sandler without effect as he felt Romano’s blade from behind and had the panicked realization he didn’t even know how many times he’d been stabbed.
“What are you doing?” Lewis yelled. “Stop!”
“We’re in it now,” Dangerfield shouted to the others. “C’mon!”
“Stop!”
“He’s had his day!” Sandler spat. “Enough, he’s got to go.”
“C’mon, you queers!” Dangerfield shouted at them.
The blunt-featured man drew a chopping knife from his belt, and Freaky rushed back into the room to leap onto Burroughs’ back. The last of them, bull-shouldered, gray-bearded Zardoz, circled with his usual placid menace, habitual sneering bemusement on full display as Burroughs toppled on the wet floor with Freaky clinging to him like a monke
y. The big man slid left, colliding with the doorframe into the kitchen proper, turning far too late to stop Sandler dropping atop him as the short-bladed belt knife took him in the throat and face.
The only thing stopping the immediate bloodbath was Dangerfield getting an arm around Burroughs’ neck from behind. All the kicking and stomping in the world did Edward nothing, the boards too slick with blood and spilled alcohol for him to get upright as he felt the world squeezing out of his lungs. He grabbed backwards with his wounded hand, did no more than slap Dangerfield behind the ears, then Romano’s knife sank into his exposed ribs and Burroughs gave a spasming kick and shat himself, snarling in fierce defiance, but unable to channel it into action.
Romano’s dagger took him three more times in the chest before Burroughs went completely still.
Exclusive: City in contact with US Navy warship, ‘Greenland’ colony
by Delroy Earle and Melina Martelle
THE Herald can reveal the City Council is in radio contact with a major established colony of survivors on the Virginia coast.
Today, in the first in a series of exclusive reports on the Greenland Files, the Herald outlines everything we know so far that will potentially change life as we know it in the sanctuary zone.
Among what we can confirm from first-hand sources:
– the USS Washington aircraft carrier remains active and operational in US territorial waters
– a settlement described as “extensive” exists on the Virginia coast near Cherry Point Marine Air Service Base
– The City Council is planning a diplomatic expedition
– Contact was first initiated by the rebel Lefthanders faction
– Elements of the United States government are believed to remain on board the Washington
These stunning revelations come to light from information gathered at the scene of a downed US Air Force F-22 Raptor discovered last month.
The discovery offers hope that elements of the United States government remain effective and may help the Council’s reconstruction efforts in Columbus.
Council President Dana Lowenstein said there was no cause for concern after conceding that disgraced Colonel August Rhymes and his Lefthanders faction initiated talks with personnel on board the Washington.
“The Lefthanders’ contact was cursory at best,” she told the Herald.
“City personnel have explained the situation to the crew on board the USS Washington and we have a clear understanding that it is we who represent the City.”
Cr Lowenstein said the information, gathered last month, was kept quiet to avoid “a panic”.
She said Citizens should temper hopes that the aircraft carrier’s discovery meant much would change in the sanctuary zone in the short term.
From intelligence the Herald reveals today with the release of the Greenland Files, it can be reported the Washington only returned to US waters last year.
The aircraft carrier’s last known position was off Newport, home to US Navy shipyards.
Details of the Washington’s ongoing mission were not revealed, but the ship and its crew were now aiding the Citizens of a “major” independent survivor settlement calling itself Greenland.
It is understood Greenland has only rudimentary power supplies, but the Washington’s nuclear reactor and its electrical systems remain functional.
The contact raises the prospect of the Columbus sanctuary zone finding new allies in the effort to rebuild the United States.
– Reports Pages 2, 3 & 4
Chapter 3
A FAIR-SIZED crowd had gathered near the First Gates by the time Tom got free of the duties he used to distract himself from the empty feeling in his guts, synonymous with the unwanted anticipation of the big moment. And wading through the back of the crush of Citizen gawkers ringing the small expedition convoy only worsened that feeling – and then spotting Iwa Swarovsky’s black ponytailed figure moving between the two vehicles sent him plunging back into bleak thoughts he had to push away to fix his fake personable smile in place, nodding to several men and women he didn’t know who somehow seemed to know him as he kept it light and casual as part of the “man of the people” nonsense he’d fallen into in recent days.
Whether the well-wishers sought his favor due to Tom’s role in the calamities of the past month or they were currying goodwill ahead of the much-publicized cattle deal, he didn’t know or care. Try as he might, the sense of doom – and Tom’s corollary muted despair at Dr Swarovsky choosing to exit their potential life in the City together – pecked at his thoughts for attention.
The expedition boasted two of the City’s ethanol-converted vehicles: a Humvee to take the lead, and a repurposed box truck for the majority of the dozen expedition members. The good doctor stood at the back of the latter, an infrequent smile playing across her face as she spoke with Councilor Wilhelm’s man Amsterdam, who’d also nonsensically signed up to lead security on the mission. There were whispers Denny Greerson had wanted a spot on the journey to meet the leadership of the mysterious Greenland colony, which now included delegates from the equally mysterious USS Washington. And the details of their particular arrangement also remained unknown. Tom feared the explorers were headed into a danger none of them could foresee, and the lack of disclosure from the City’s radio contact with the surviving nuclear-powered aircraft carrier only added to his disquiet. One of Dana Lowenstein’s hand-picked lieutenants was running the show, but Kay Seville remained a mystery to him too.
Tom wasn’t alone in sharing some unease. The look on Ernest Eric Wilhelm III’s face as he lit in Tom’s direction spoke painfully about the fears which risked undermining the whole venture. But like Tom, the Councilor didn’t let his doubts undermine his own politician’s mask. It wasn’t until the elegant-looking black man fell into Tom’s orbit that any concession to their unspoken concerns came out.
“Tom,” the Councilor said. “How goes it? It is a strange day.”
“Tell me about a day in the City that isn’t strange,” Tom replied. “You still have Madeline Plume locked up?”
“Do you think I am going to release her after what she did?”
“No,” Tom said. “Just hoping for some reassurance.”
“Miss Plume still isn’t talking.”
Tom grunted, eyes elsewhere. Iwa’s sweeping gaze met his and she smiled across the crowd, the expression tightening as she read Tom’s face, and then a knot of passing troopers mercifully forced a break in their eye contact.
“I am still hopeful a little time in confinement will soften Miss Plume’s position,” Wilhelm continued, more to fill the air than any need for conversation.
“‘Soft’ isn’t a word I’d use to describe her,” Tom said.
“No,” Wilhelm agreed. “But you are out of that particular problem now, right? How is the cattle business going?”
Tom tasted the air as if to gauge the shifting season. It would be weeks still before Freestone’s Confederates returned with Professor Hamilton, if indeed they returned at all.
“Slowly,” Tom replied. “I imagine you’ll want another meeting for a formal update on progress, though.”
The Councilor snickered at the obvious distaste in Tom’s voice.
“I am sorry if the Council oversight is a problem for you, Tom.”
“There’s still a Council, is there?”
“Of course. . . .”
“Delroy Earle doesn’t agree with you.”
“That’s why Mr Earle is not a party to our discussions.”
“Or our meetings,” Tom said.
“You would have it otherwise?”
Again Tom held his tongue, recognizing he was stirring shit for no good reason than his simmering dislike for Wilhelm, as well as a lingering, ill-founded resentment at the Administration’s ongoing intrusion into the cattle venture Tom had found himself leading up.
“The City is underwriting your project, Tom,” the Councilor gently chided. “If the worst of it is a few bori
ng meetings, you are doing OK, right?”
Tom’s reply never came, registering Dr Swarovsky now moving towards him, onlookers shunting themselves out of the way as if sensing the gravity of the looming encounter. Wilhelm glanced back to gauge Tom’s distraction, and the slightest smirk playing out across his bland face was remarkable for a man going through well-known woman problems of his own.
“We have to talk soon, Tom,” the Councilor said and moved as if to depart.
“Yes, we’ll meet.”
“Not about the cattle,” Wilhelm said. “The Council –”
“You’re still calling it that.”
“The City directors are doing an admirable job, given everything we have just been through,” Wilhelm said. “They are risking their lives, after all.”
He and Tom locked eyes. Tom couldn’t deny the ongoing fears about leftover dissident Lefthanders in the wake of the Battle of St Mary’s, and that anyone signing up to replace those killed or those who quit the Council were taking their life into their own hands. At the same time, it was also ridiculous that any sort of risk still existed – or was perceived to exist – with Plume and a handful of “insurgents” in custody, and their other ringleaders and foot soldiers dead.
Iwa’s arrival didn’t leave any time for a witty riposte. Wilhelm made his exit with a friendly hand on Tom’s shoulder, more for show, as usual, and the Councilor saluted the volunteer doctor before heading towards the vehicles she’d left.
“Hi, Tom,” Iwa greeted him.
“Hey,” he replied with a casualness he didn’t feel. “How are you?”
Iwa hugged him, light rather than with any real commitment, and Tom felt the urge to do more than offer the awkward half-hearted kiss he planted on her cheek.
“I’m OK,” he said.
“That’s all?”
“What am I meant to say?” he said. “You’re leaving. I should be the one asking you.”
After The Apocalypse Season 2 Box Set [Books 4-6] Page 5
