Summer's End, page 20
Horton didn’t hesitate. “The Nomad.”
“Where the hell did he come from?”
“Nobody knows.”
“I take it he’s some kind of vigilante?”
“That’s the rumor. Though he didn’t save me.”
Helena bolted to her feet, then scaled the windowsill and slid through the opening.
“Wait!” Horton said, making a grab for her, his hands coming up empty.
Helena tore across the front yard and into the street, taking a direct route to the Nomad.
Lipton thought she was going to attack the man who’d just taken out her clan, but that was not what happened.
Helena’s feet came to a stop, then she dropped to her knees in front of the stranger.
“What the hell is she doing?” Lipton asked, not believing what he was seeing.
“Looks like she’s praying.”
“What? Like he’s a god?”
“Apparently,” Horton said, as Lipton watched Helena grab the back of the Nomad’s hand and pull it close to her face. She kissed it before holding it to her forehead, bowing in reverence, as if she were some kind of wild peasant.
Nomad pulled his hand free from her grasp, leaving her begging for his touch with a stab of filthy hands and fingers.
She cried out, sounding as though she couldn’t decide on whether to grunt or snarl.
The Nomad continued to fend her off, taking a step back. He brought his head around and shot a look at Lipton’s position, holding it for a few beats.
The man’s face was obscured by the goggles and mask, but Lipton sensed he was looking directly at him.
The stare-down lasted another few moments before the Nomad turned and used a fast step to head away from Helena, his ankle-length cloak flapping in the breeze.
Helena got up and ran after the Nomad, once again trying to latch onto him.
“Shit, she’s going with him,” Horton said.
The Nomad whirled around and used a straight arm aimed at her chest to stop her, pressing her back to her knees.
“Apparently not,” Lipton said.
Nomad held up his index finger and stared at her for a few beats before turning away and resuming his trek.
This time Helena didn’t get up and run after him. Instead, she leaned forward in slow motion and fell face-first to the dirt, then rolled to her side and wrapped her arms around her stomach, writhing on the ground in a rocking motion.
“You don’t see that every day,” Lipton quipped.
“Something’s wrong,” Horton answered as he pressed to his feet in a grumble, then took an awkward step toward the window.
Lipton grabbed him with both hands, pulling him hard to the ground. “You can’t go out there. It’s not safe.”
“Let me go, Doc. I have to help her.”
“No. You don’t. Leave her be,” Lipton answered, watching the Nomad pick up speed, sprinting in a full gallop before disappearing from view between a pair of houses.
“Can’t blame the guy,” Lipton said. “I sure wouldn’t want her following me like a lost puppy.”
Helena remained in the dirt with her arms reaching out for the masked man for another minute before she stopped, got to her feet, and headed back toward them.
Lipton watched her head drop, her hair falling forward to cover up her face. “Looks like you have yourself a new pet, Horton. Just like you wanted. Gonna have to feed it, though. Failure is never an option with a meat eater like her.”
Horton didn’t respond, his gaze locked on Helena as if he were in a state of shock. Or disbelief.
Lipton released his hands from Horton, then wrapped his arms around his shivering body. “Now that that’s over with, what do you say we get dressed? I’ve got a serious case of shrinkage happening here.”
CHAPTER 26
Early the next morning, Stan Greco, AKA “Dice”, put his hands under the faucet and let a trickle of water wash over his skin. The water pressure was still low, same as the day before, forcing him to cup his hands together to gather enough water to splash his face.
Doc Lipton still hadn’t fixed the plumbing issue. Typical. Dice would need to remind him. Again typical. Only this time, Dice needed to finish waking up first, before he walked to Doc’s lab.
Dice always slept like a rock. Last night was no different, except for the passing out part. His mind was running in super slow motion. He could hear his thoughts echoing in the empty space that was his head, sounding muffled and distant, as if he was underwater.
“Ugh, I never should have had those last three shots,” he said, thinking of Doc’s legendary moonshine. Talk about a real ass kicker. At least he didn’t have a pounding headache. He’d had his share of those, both recently and long ago—before The Event.
He was ten years younger back then and able to party with a table full of local girls after his late-night shift at the Bellagio in Vegas. He could drink and screw for hours, then get up the next day and do it all over again.
His high-paying job of dealing cards was a great way to meet chicks. So was tending the craps table, everyone leaning over and needing his assistance. The scenery was everywhere, usually clad in a skimpy dress with plenty of cleavage, unlike the complete sausage fest that was Frost’s compound.
When Dice studied his reflection in the mirror, the face staring back told the whole story. The thin slits for eyelids. The bloodshot eyes behind them. The bruises on his neck. All of it was a dead giveaway for a man without a purpose—a true purpose, other than doing Fletcher’s bidding off the books.
“Come on, you pussy. Shake it off,” he mumbled in a gruff tone, splashing his face with more water.
What he needed was a reboot. And some coffee. Gallons of it. Yet, the camp had none. Coffee was extinct, just like the rest of the planet.
Doc Lipton could make just about anything, but he couldn’t grow coffee beans out of thin air. Nor could he synthesize caffeine. Two items that would be worth their weight in gold, if they still existed.
Maybe Dr. Edison across the No-Go Zone had solved the problem. Some type of new invention. Rumor had it Edison was at least as gifted as Lipton at making something out of nothing.
Even though Dice knew the odds of that were nil, it still didn’t stop him from dreaming about it—a giant, hot, steaming cup of joe. Something to warm the body on a frigid morning.
He closed his eyes and let his mind sink into his memories, flashing back to his days in the casino.
Every morning he’d stop at Starbucks before clocking in for his shift. It was next to the high-end jewelry store and only a few steps from the security door that led into the inner depths of the hotel.
He missed the tantalizing aroma, the texture, and the instant energy. The Danish they served wasn’t bad either, providing a much-needed sugar boost in the morning.
Dice swung his focus to the right, checking the condition of the bar of soap next to the sink. The homemade soap was a dirty, crusty white, with half of its original size missing. Its diminished state and layers of filth were expected, since more than two dozen men used this same bathroom. But the black hair wasn’t.
He rolled his eyes. “You gotta be kidding me.”
The thick, curly strand was about four inches long and looked to be stuck to the bar as if someone had embedded it there on purpose. It wasn’t one of his, that’s for sure, his flaming red hair a good five times longer.
The hair could have been from someone’s head or possibly somewhere else on a man’s body, conjuring a visual that he didn’t want in his mind.
The mental image sparked a wave of nausea, making him bend over the sink just in case his system hurled some of the hooch back to its sender.
If he puked, he wouldn’t have been the only one. There were plenty of chunks on the floor in the head, only inches from the toilet. He imagined more than one of his fellow campers had been on their knees the night before, praying to the porcelain gods.
He’d seen it all before; however, last night’s celebration was off the hook. The strangulation tests were new, invented by a few of the deviants and ex-military types, all of them itching for a fight. Exactly the kind of men Frost loved.
Perhaps it had something to do with all the new weapons they’d been building. The fabrication teams had been working doubles to get them done before today’s scheduled meet with Edison’s group.
Dice figured the elderly professor and his sidekick Krista Carr had ordered a huge shipment of arms, but nobody knew for sure. Frost kept the details of each meet a secret.
The urge to vomit vanished a few moments later, allowing Dice to straighten up. It was then that he realized hangovers, hurling, and hair seemed to go together, a wicked combination that would make a billy goat sick.
Dice rubbed his hands together after deciding that friction should replace the need for a lather. There was no chance he was touching the bar of soap. Or the lid on the shitter, for that matter.
He planned to take a leak outside during his morning run. The cold weather would sting, but sometimes a man must make hard choices. More so in a shared bathroom where the disgusting always meets the nasty.
The world may have ended with The Event, but that didn’t mean a little consideration for your fellow man wasn’t still warranted. He didn’t understand why his friends couldn’t clean up after themselves. It only took a few seconds to do.
The yellow hand towel looked fresh, so he used it to dry his face and hands, then brought his fingers up to tighten the wrap he used to keep his ponytail in place.
It was time to go wake up Fletcher, a daily chore he despised. Even so, he’d never complain to the man dubbed by Frost as second-in-command. Every man in the compound had his duties. Duties that must be carried out without fail.
When Dice turned around, he found Fletcher standing in the hallway, just beyond the entrance, his face covered in a grimace. Probably from a headache, Dice figured.
Fletcher was known to partake a little too much, just like the rest of the men, usually announcing that his hangover was officially at DEFCON 1.
The chiseled black man didn’t wait for Dice to speak first, rubbing his bald head with his enormous right hand. “You seen Doc?”
“No. But he needs to fix the damn water. Out again.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. Got up to piss a little while ago and couldn’t flush. So I went to his bunk to remind him, you know, gentle like, but he wasn’t there.”
“What about his lab?”
Fletcher shook his head, his lips turning silent.
“Where the hell is he?” Dice asked.
“He’s AWOL.”
“You sure?”
“Just checked his desk. His notebooks are missing. So’s his favorite hat.”
“The fedora?”
“He never goes outside without it.”
“Shit. Frost will go ballistic,” Dice said. “We have to find him.”
“There isn’t time. I need everyone to cover the meet this morning. That’s priority one. We’ll find Doc later. That lump won’t get far on his own.”
“I can skip my run, if you need me to. I’m sure I can track him down.”
“No, I need you to go. They’re expecting you,” Fletcher said, handing him a folded piece of paper.
Its corners were torn at an angle and tucked under themselves, just like Fletcher did every day. It was his version of a safety seal, not that it was secure by any stretch. Anyone could open it, though Dice never did.
His job was simple: keep his eyes open and mouth shut. Arrive exactly when and where he was told, and never look at contents of the notes sent back and forth. “Where’s the meet today?”
“Drop Seven. Usual time. They’ll give you something to bring back. Keep it secure. Eyes only.”
“Not a problem, chief,” Dice answered, running a quick calculation in his mind. Drop Seven was the closest rendezvous point, meaning he could get there and back before the teams headed to the Trading Post. “Should be back in plenty of time.”
Fletcher put a hand on Dice’s shoulder. “I always know I can count on you. Always.”
“Just doing my job, boss.”
CHAPTER 27
“Hey ya, Summer,” a nice-looking young man said in a friendly tone as he approached her in the opposite direction along the outer ring of the silo bay. She didn’t recognize the stocky guy who wore blue coveralls and a t-shirt, but he seemed to know her.
“What’s up?” Summer said, faking it with a half-smile, hoping it would appear legit. Her plan was to cruise past him, but he slowed to block her path. She brought her feet to an abrupt halt, almost running into him.
He stood close—way too close—the top of his head only an inch taller than hers. What he lacked in height, he made up for in weight. It was muscular weight, not flab, his biceps in clear view.
His blonde hair was an amazing shade of gold, the middle of it pushed up into a twisted swirl down the middle—like a rooster—offsetting his porcelain white skin.
His eyes peered into hers, as if he knew something she didn’t. “You got a minute?”
“Well, uh, can’t. Meeting someone,” Summer answered, her tone unsteady.
She took a step back, looking past him, her heartbeat racing as a tingle rose up across her body. It came out of nowhere. So did the tremble in her hands. She stuffed them into her pockets, praying he didn’t notice.
His eyes turned toward the observation window on his right, giving her the impression he was trying to appear cool, almost detached.
So this is what it feels like, she thought to herself, memorizing every nuance of the boy’s face before following his eyes to the side.
A vegetable rack hung inside the former missile bay. It was loaded with overflowing greens, though a few of them looked black, almost dead, as if someone had taken a blow torch to them. She hadn’t seen that before and wondered if someone had neglected the plants in that particular rack.
The six-foot-long tray was suspended by wires running top to bottom, with a mirror installed next to it, directing sunlight deeper into the hydroponics chamber.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” the guy said, bringing his attention back to her.
Summer shrugged, unable to stop from staring at him. “Should I?” She wondered how long this chat would take. She didn’t want to be rude, especially since he was very cute, but she was already late for a meeting with Edison.
A girl’s gotta prioritize over glamorize, she thought to herself, even though she didn’t want to leave.
“We met a couple of weeks ago. I was the guy who smashed your leg when I was sweeping the deck on six.”
She didn’t recall anyone hitting her with a broom. Especially a blonde guy with the face of Thor. Must have been a mix-up. But then again, there was his total cuteness and her not wanting to be rude thing, so she wasn’t about to correct his goof. “Oh yeah. Now I remember.”
He put his hand out. “My name’s Nick Simms. But you can call me Simmer. Everyone else does.”
She grabbed his hand and shook it, appreciating the whole Summer and Simmer thing.
Was the rhyming name thing kindred spirits or some random fluke? “Sorry, Nick. My mind was somewhere else. I’m usually really good with faces.”
He let go of her hand, his eyes focused on her cheek. “Speaking of faces, what happened?”
Her hand went up to the bandages, checking that they hadn’t come loose. “Just some bad luck.” She wanted to say more, but that’s all that came out of her mouth.
His face tensed as his soulful eyes grew cold, moving their focus to her forehead. “Did someone hurt you? Just tell me who it was and I’ll go have a little chat with him. Man-to-man, if you know what I mean.”
His unexpected gallantry brought warmth to her heart, even though if he tangled with Wicks, this kid would get crushed. “It wasn’t anyone in particular. Just an accident while I was out on a mission. Mostly.”
His intensity cooled. “Stitches?”
She nodded.
“How many?”
“Not sure. Wasn’t really paying attention when Liz patched me up.”
“Hurt, I’ll bet.”
“Some, but I’m used to it,” she answered, deciding that she didn’t want to sound like a helpless girly-girl, even though that’s what she wished she looked like at the moment—a pretty, totally together girl who knew what to say and how to act. It’s hard to reel in a fish when you don’t have any bait.
“No doubt,” he answered, his eyes indicating he was most likely probing her for weakness.
She had plenty of that. More so right now. There’s nothing quite as embarrassing as meeting someone new and interesting with your face all torn up, as if you just lost an argument with an angry hedge trimmer.
Her mind took her deep into her memories, replaying a scene from her childhood. Her dad had just finished cutting the lawn, then fired up the noisy machine, sending puffs of blue smoke out from its engine.
She could still hear its high-pitched pinging as her dad trimmed the foliage around their house. Branches flew and her ears twanged, but she always followed him around the yard regardless. Not so much like a lost puppy, just a young girl who idolized her father.
That same annoying whine was the sound that her heart was making at the moment, screaming at her to say something to Simmer and not just stand there like a total spaz.
The pause in their conversation continued, stretching from a few seconds into a long minute.
She shuffled her feet.
He did the same, his hands in his pockets.
Summer finally regained control of her logic, leaning to the side to glance past him. She wondered how pissed Edison was going to be with her tardiness.
She wanted to stay and chat, but she needed to go. She wasn’t sure what to do. Too many choices. Not enough time.
He seemed to sense her dismay. “Well, maybe later then?”
“For what?”
“You know, hang out. When you have a break in your schedule.”
