Melt (Book 8): Hold

by Pike, JJ

“She said she did.”

  Alice had a whole mess of questions. “He came to your house?”

  “He came to yours to begin with. We just happened to be there. I don’t rightly remember what we were doing, but I made up a Tupperware box of sandwiches—don’t hate me, I’ve tried to get rid of all my plastic, but my Tupperware has lasted so long I just couldn’t bear to part with it.” Betsy paused, her hand on her side. Alice had never heard of anyone winding themselves by talking so fast, but there was a first time for everything. “I drove us right into the line of fire…” Her eyes welled up. “It was my fault, Alice. My fault your little girl was hit.”

  “Give me a minute.”

  Helen had stopped moving. That meant she was prepping for her next move. Either she was about to redouble her efforts to escape or she’d already undone her tether and was getting ready to make a run for it.

  Alice left Betsy crying by the kitchen sink and went back to the front room, Maggie-loo and Reggie bobbing along beside her. Sure enough, Helen’s ropes were loose. Not loose enough for her to stand up, but two more minutes would have seen her free and clear. Alice secured her again, kicked the glass shards of TV screen away from both girls, checking all around them to make sure there was nothing they could use to hasten their escape.

  Her papa’s words rang out. “A string is just a string around your neck…” Everything was a weapon if you made it so. Heck, she’d taken a modem and turned it into a flail mace of sorts. She kicked the cushion-turned-weapon to the other side of the room where the girls couldn’t reach it.

  Reggie didn’t need any more encouragement than that. He grabbed the cushion cover and thwap-thwap-thwapped it from side to side, shaking the modem free and was left with the perfect toy, a piece of fabric that might—if he kept trying, kept being charming, kept dogging it up for his audience—might convince Alice to play tug of war or keep-away.

  Alice shifted the sharp corners and metal fragments with her shoe. They could be made into a knife or a shiv or a bludgeoning stick in no time. She checked Helen again: secure. Then Claire: she was still breathing just fine though she had blood dripping down her front, mixed with her own saliva.

  As Alice turned to go back to the kitchen a glint in the carpet caught her eye. She didn’t want her back to the girls when she bent down, even though she’d just checked their restraints, so she faced them as she inspected the shiny thing in the carpet. Claire had her head down, but Helen was doubtlessly watching her prison guard. Alice would have been if the roles had been reversed.

  It was a key. On its own, that wouldn’t have been remarkable but it had been glued to a fragment of modem. An interior part. An interior part of an old fashioned box that no one would look at because it was obsolete, laughable even. She palmed the plastic shard and made her way back to Betsy. Jo had glued a key to the inside of her modem. That meant it was important. The key was small and flat. The kind of key that opened a safety deposit box or a small, fireproof safe. Jo would have her important papers stashed where no one would think to look. If it was important enough for her to hide the key it was important enough for Alice to find.

  Betsy blew her nose. The woman had been crying this whole time and Alice had walked away and left her on her own. It wasn’t Betsy’s fault that she’d been hit by a stray bullet. Why was it that victims of violent crime blamed themselves? Alice’s therapist had told her it was so they could maintain a modicum of control, or at least the illusion thereof. If you’re to blame, you have agency. If you happened to be in the line of fire when a madman let loose—if it was random and unpredictable and had nothing to do with where you were or where you were headed—you could never count on being safe. It could happen anywhere at any time to anyone. If, on the other hand, it was (at some level) “your fault” you could at least take steps to “not do that again” or “take another route” or “somehow control your environment so you wouldn’t get caught out in the same way”.

  Alice had lived her life like that: believing it—“it” being the worst thing she could imagine—might happen again at any time. Betsy had gone into self-preservation mode by blaming herself. Neither of them were wholly right. Bad things could happen. Madmen were out there. It might happen and it might not.

  New Alice was trying out all kinds of new ideas in the presence of disaster. Old Alice wasn’t sure what to make of it. She didn’t stop the new thoughts. She let them run on, interested to see where they might lead her.

  Neither she nor Betsy had invited evil into their lives. They’d done nothing to deserve the bad things that had happened to them. They were both victims and survivors. She put her arm around the old woman and hugged her close. “It wasn’t your fault. If someone was firing on you and you got hit, that wasn’t your fault.”

  “But Midge…” Betsy started up again, crying and sniffing.

  The thought of her little girl being hit in the head by a bullet made Alice feel queasy. Neither she nor Bill had broken down when they saw Paul on the surgical table, nor when they saw Midge in a helmet. She’d been brave for Bill and he’d been brave for her and both of them had been stoic for the sake of the children. As the adults on site they had to hold it together. Now Betsy needed Alice to be strong and release her from her agony. “That wasn’t your fault either. He shot, not you. You were being kind taking them their lunch…”

  Betsy looked up at her, desperate for absolution.

  “Though we are going to need to talk about your Tupperware…”

  They laughed, though the laughter was soft and bittersweet. Their lives were filled with heartache and tragedy. The new version of Alice didn’t want to live her life in fear and pain. She wanted to spend whatever time she had—nuclear fallout, I hear you’re coming for us, but we’ll make it to safety somehow, just you see if we don’t—with her husband and children. They had to head back.

  Fran had been wrong. Christine Baxter wasn’t at Jo’s place. Why the girl would have gotten that wrong was…well…no, she’d been suicidal. She could have gotten all kinds of things wrong. Perhaps the team had been here and moved on? Who knew?

  “We need to get back,” she said. “Let’s leash up Helen and Claire and get going.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Josephine was still talking, insisting she go with Alistair. The general argued back, but she was having none of it. Her mind was made up.

  She hadn’t said it, but Alistair knew she was only demanding that she come to Wolfjaw because of her pride. He had managed a massive project right under her nose and she’d never guessed. She’d be awestruck when she saw his city. It rivaled the multi-level underground cities in Cappadocia, Turkey which he’d studied extensively.

  “They’re new, they’re going to have to…” She pointed at the soldiers standing behind Alistair but caught his eye and stopped herself.

  How fascinating. She would have to admit she’d been coming to Wolfjaw for years if she spoke of their induction protocol. She’d never been allowed to witness the rite of passage, but they’d talked about how you made sure the people seeking you out were the right kind of people; that they held the same values; that they were going to be good additions to the community. Alistair’s people never left him. He made sure of that by first screening out the non-believers.

  Josephine was sizing him up. What did she see when she looked at him? She was fond of him and his flock, he knew that, which made the fact of her holding them at a distance confounding. More of her “Savior Complex” perhaps? Did she offer her services to the children of Wolfjaw as a way to salve her conscience? He had a terrible thought: was it because she was childless herself? How tragic. Was she one of those “mate for life” types? Like a swan or a wolf or a termite? She’d lost her husband and, with that death, her chance at a family. Whatever the reason, she was fascinated by Wolfjaw. Couldn’t stay away. Kept coming back. Even now, with the world on fire, she was arguing that she should be allowed to accompany a squad of soldiers who’d abandoned their posts.

  But
it was likely much simpler than that. She was madly curious about his underground city.

  “Come on, Josephine,” he thought. “Say it out loud. Tell the general you have to come back to Wolfjaw because curiosity has gotten the better of you.” She couldn’t admit that; not even to herself. So few people had that level of self-knowledge let alone the courage to admit they’d been outsmarted.

  It was a strange moment in Alistair’s life. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had held his gaze for that long. He’d never felt the slightest hint of any sexual tension between them, so that wasn’t it. She wasn’t afraid of him. That was what singled her out from everyone else.

  Anyway.

  They’d already wasted enough time.

  He’d allowed her to draw him into a debate and now had him standing on the road like a fool.

  Action.

  He needed to be in action.

  He looked away. Let her wonder about him, not the other way around. If he walked, she’d follow. She’d signaled that. There was no reason to wait any longer. He turned to Jacinta, his head down, his instructions spoken softly and his lips almost unmoving so no one else could hear nor see what he was saying. “Remove the vehicles in the usual manner then park them behind the outhouses.” He flicked his eyes towards the soldiers who wanted to come to Wolfjaw, just for a second so she’d know what he was talking about. “Keep your distance from them, but don’t make it obvious.”

  “What about the girl?” said Jacinta.

  “The girl?”

  “The one in the forward truck. The one with scales.”

  Alistair shuddered. “Leave her. Whatever it is they’re carrying, we don’t want it in our homes.”

  There might be a fight for the vehicles, but it didn’t seem likely. His men would already have taken their places close to the cabs and, as soon as Jacinta gave the order, they’d commandeer the trucks and vans. At the same time, the north and south flanks would move in and secure the enemy. The soldiers might be armed, but with their general out of commission and their ranks depleted they’d see it made no sense to mount any resistance. His men had done this dozens of times before. He wasn’t worried.

  He took one last look at Josephine and walked away.

  Herb was ogling her, all hang-dog looks and puppy-dog admiration. He had no pride. Women didn’t want a doormat in a mate. They wanted someone like him: Decisive, action-oriented, able to shoulder the tough decisions. Not in some Neanderthal “me Tarzan, you Jane” way. He wasn’t some throwback to the 1930s. But all of history, all of literature, all of art, everything pointed to women preferring to be led. There was the occasional outlier, but if you graphed women’s preferences, the vast majority would be smack in the middle of the chart, looking for security and leadership. Not bullying or coercion. He’d made sure that wasn’t a thing at Wolfjaw. Women were to be revered and respected and—he would never say this part in these specific words though he believed it to be true—ruled.

  But Herb’s hopes? Pointless. He might as well throw away his man card and be done with it. Josephine Morgan would never give a sap like him the time of day.

  Scuffles broke out as his men took charge of the vehicles but Alistair didn’t need to concern himself with low-level fights like those. He needed to get back to the compound, search the new vehicles for provisions when they arrived, find out what the scouts had secured on their daily runs, and see to the water filtration problem. If they were going to live underground for the foreseeable future nothing could be left to chance.

  Unless Josephine really did come to Wolfjaw. If that happened he’d take the time to woo her. Not in a romantic way. In the way a leader woos a top-flight team player. They were looking at years of isolation; having another smart, interesting, dedicated person on board would be a boon.

  Josephine followed.

  If Alistair had allowed himself physical gestures that relayed his innermost feelings he’d have gone for an air punch. Instead, he kept walking.

  She was shouting at her colleagues as she went. “Michael, show them my place. House the men…” Alistair couldn’t see what she was doing and had no intention of giving her the satisfaction of looking back at her, but the pause suggested she must be gesturing to someone in particular. “…They can be housed in my barn.”

  Ah, yes. Josephine’s barn. She’d let it slide after her parents died, but with a bit of work it might be livable. Sensible, too, that she’d chosen a place that was away from the main house. Had Hannah and Chloe investigated the barn? He couldn’t remember. He’d have to ask when they got home. It might be necessary to send them over for a quick look-see if they hadn’t pried at least two or three floorboards loose.

  “And Michael?” Josephine was still shouting. “Stay with the general and the professor. They need you to…”

  Alistair halted. “A professor?” They didn’t have any professors at Wolfjaw. “What kind of professor?”

  “Linguistics,” said Josephine. “Believe it or not, she specializes in the Great Vowel Shift of 1350. She’s the leading authority. There’s nothing she doesn’t know about diphthongs…”

  Alistair turned and kept on walking. Who in their right mind would waste their brain that way? Wolfjaw’s young people were schooled in practical matters that helped them navigate the world. Any child over the age of six knew how to find water, build a fire, and catch a fish. Children over nine could snare a rabbit, skin it, and roast it for dinner. Josephine taught the three R’s. But linguistics? Honestly. Some people.

  “What do you want me to do with them, boss?” Jacinta, who had short legs, jogged to keep up with him. “The rear guard. The ones who are hanging back. Something’s off with them, am I right?”

  Alistair heard the army vehicles roar into action. It had been a success. Another bloodless take over. Score 1 for Wolfjaw, 0 for the Army.

  “Is it Operation Birch Tree?” said Jacinta.

  He didn’t need to reply. If he didn’t contradict her it was as good as an order. Jacinta would see that the sick were taken to a copse of trees some distance from the compound and hanged by the neck until they were dead. He didn’t want them close to his water source, which fed the underground food supply, or any means of ingress or egress.

  “No one’s going to want to touch them, boss.”

  She was right. That was going to be a puzzle. He trusted she’d work out the details.

  “We should leave them there, hanging in the trees. Not bury them.”

  Wow. She was unstoppable. That was a fabulously grim idea. He turned it over for a couple of minutes. Truth be told, it didn’t matter if the corpses of their enemies were visible from the road. In fact it would act as a deterrent. Too many local people knew where they were and what they had stockpiled. The attack by MagPies Pies was testament to that. They’d been sent packing, of course, but that didn’t mean they might not eventually regroup and return.

  They weren’t the only people he had to worry about.

  As conditions in New York state worsened the laggers—the feeble and stupid and lazy; those who didn’t have the foresight to evacuate when they still could—would straggle up the highways, looking for a place to stay. Though he and his people would be underground he didn’t want idiots and fools living overhead. Ridgers were going to have to leave their burrows from time to time for supplies. It’d be best if the upper compound was deserted. Rotting corpses would do the trick. He scratched a point on Jacinta’s card, mentally. He’d have to remember to tell the Tally-keeper that she’d done well. He clapped his hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

  “Operation Birch Tree it is. I’ll liaise with Claude and his men. We’ll get it done, boss.”

  Alistair didn’t need professors when he had people like Jacinta who could smell trouble before it manifested and knew what to do about it.

  “And the new recruits? Same as usual?” she said.

  “We only want the best to join our ranks, Jacinta. Let’s be sure these men and women are given
a warm Wolfjaw welcome. And then, yes, the same as usual.”

  “On it.” She was off, orders in hand, ready to do what had to be done.

  “Josephine?” Alistair shouted but didn’t look back. She was close by. She’d catch up and walk by his side.

  She was there faster than he’d expected. “I’m impressed,” she said. “An underground city?”

  “I thought you might be. It’s going to outstrip your wildest imagining. Trust me.”

  They walked in silence for at least a mile. Alistair had nothing to reveal and Josephine had to be plotting her next move. What must be going through her mind? She couldn’t believe that order would be restored and her old life would fall back into place. They were long past that point. Even if the march of this plastic-eating compound could be halted, New York and all the surrounding states were going to be largely uninhabitable—above ground, anyway—for centuries. What did it matter if she revealed her true identity now? What had gone before was meaningless. The slate had been wiped clean.

  Almost.

  Whatever her reasons, he wasn’t about to broach the topic. He didn’t want to give her a reason to walk the other way. He discovered, to his surprise, that he genuinely wanted her to see his underground metropolis.

  But it raised another problem.

  She’d always come and gone at will. Could he allow that freedom if he showed her what they’d built? He laughed to himself. Who was she going to tell? Her neighbors were scattered. Her friends—if she had any; she rarely talked about her personal life—would similarly have taken flight. If she was with the Forest Service, as Herb suspected, her colleagues would be working with the fire department or the Coast Guard or other forces from different states to stem the tide of this disaster. With the storm front coming in and with it the threat of fallout, fewer people were going to tough it out. Even those moving west weren’t going to fare any better. They would face privations his people would not be subjected to.

  They reached the gates to Wolfjaw Ridge. The familiar mix of pride and gratitude rose within him. He’d built this. It had taken him the better part of 15 years, but it was all about to pay off.