lit the cigar.
“Nearly perfect,” he said to the empty office. From the center drawer Crenshaw took out a framed picture, of himself from twelve or more years earlier, when his hair was darker, and fuller. On his arm was his second wife Amelia, a flush in her cheek, twinkle in her eye and bright smile. She was pregnant when the Night Storm happened. Crenshaw took a deep pull on the cigar and blew the smoke against the frame. Amelia never suspected his true nature back then. Making sons was all that mattered: heirs to the throne, a creation of someone equally relentless as their father. He stuffed it back in the drawer and closed it. Neither Amelia nor the baby survived the storm.
Through the window, Crenshaw looked at the building across the street. A meteor had slammed into it, sheared off the upper six or seven levels. Sometimes at night he swore he saw the dull glow of exit signs from ruined stairwells or campfires of some poor squatter. During the day it was nothing more than a twelve story stack of debris and garbage. Twisted metal beams and Rebar reaching out like bent and mangled fingers. The damn thing could be full of the dead for all he knew. Since he didn’t go inside it didn’t matter. The few times he sent foraging parties went in they came back with nothing useful.
Williams cleared his throat at the door, the man’s dark skin almost as black as shadow.
“What do you want?”
“You called for me, Mr. Crenshaw.” Williams stood in the doorway, Crowe silent and lethal behind him.
“How long have you and your family lived in my building?”
“At least six years, sir.”
“You can leave now, Crowe. Stay outside and close the door behind you.” Crenshaw turned to Williams. “You like your home here?”
“I do. We’re grateful for the space.” Williams ran his hand along his shaved head. His dark eyes reflected the sun streaming through the windows. “My wife sends her regards.”
“I’m sure she does. I need you to do something for me.” Crenshaw ran his finger along the rim of the glass.
“Anything.”
“A bunch of locals hacked our security. I want you to befriend them, make them take you in and accept you.” Crenshaw snapped his fingers again, miniature gunshots. “What were they looking for Crowe?”
The door opened a few inches. “A researcher named Pierce.”
“There you go, Williams. Find out about Pierce and report back to me. Mr. Crowe will get you equipped to look the part. Close the door on the way out.”
“What do you want me to do about them, boss?” Williams asked.
“Nothing. Crowe, wait for Williams to return.” The red embers of the cigar colored Crenshaw’s eyes for a moment, making him look like the devil.
* * * * *
“So you expect us to endanger our village and our families for water?” Catherine asked.
“That’s not just any water, it’s the cure,” Pierce said clutching his backpack tight. Catherine stared down at Pierce; the crazy in his eyes sparked a little for a moment. She held out her hand and Pierce handed her the canteen. She unscrewed the lid and sniffed it and then handed it back. She fought the urge to slap him, at least for now.
“How does it work? Did the water come from a puddle with a meteor in it? Do you drink it, or wash with it?” Catherine asked.
“Those are answers I don’t know. I know I have research and samples down south. I know it’s a very dangerous trip and I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. Think of it, be the village that helped with the cure.” Pierce held the canteen to his chest and shifted the pack to the ground between his feet, tight and secure. “I know with my bite, I kind of washed with it. I haven’t tried drinking it.”
“You mean to tell me you managed to wander to New England from Florida with a half full canteen and didn’t drink any of it?” Sam said. “Sounds like a load of bull to me. Water is more treasured than ammo.”
“So we do this trip for what? Riches to
“Nearly perfect,” he said to the empty office. From the center drawer Crenshaw took out a framed picture, of himself from twelve or more years earlier, when his hair was darker, and fuller. On his arm was his second wife Amelia, a flush in her cheek, twinkle in her eye and bright smile. She was pregnant when the Night Storm happened. Crenshaw took a deep pull on the cigar and blew the smoke against the frame. Amelia never suspected his true nature back then. Making sons was all that mattered: heirs to the throne, a creation of someone equally relentless as their father. He stuffed it back in the drawer and closed it. Neither Amelia nor the baby survived the storm.
Through the window, Crenshaw looked at the building across the street. A meteor had slammed into it, sheared off the upper six or seven levels. Sometimes at night he swore he saw the dull glow of exit signs from ruined stairwells or campfires of some poor squatter. During the day it was nothing more than a twelve story stack of debris and garbage. Twisted metal beams and Rebar reaching out like bent and mangled fingers. The damn thing could be full of the dead for all he knew. Since he didn’t go inside it didn’t matter. The few times he sent foraging parties went in they came back with nothing useful.
Williams cleared his throat at the door, the man’s dark skin almost as black as shadow.
“What do you want?”
“You called for me, Mr. Crenshaw.” Williams stood in the doorway, Crowe silent and lethal behind him.
“How long have you and your family lived in my building?”
“At least six years, sir.”
“You can leave now, Crowe. Stay outside and close the door behind you.” Crenshaw turned to Williams. “You like your home here?”
“I do. We’re grateful for the space.” Williams ran his hand along his shaved head. His dark eyes reflected the sun streaming through the windows. “My wife sends her regards.”
“I’m sure she does. I need you to do something for me.” Crenshaw ran his finger along the rim of the glass.
“Anything.”
“A bunch of locals hacked our security. I want you to befriend them, make them take you in and accept you.” Crenshaw snapped his fingers again, miniature gunshots. “What were they looking for Crowe?”
The door opened a few inches. “A researcher named Pierce.”
“There you go, Williams. Find out about Pierce and report back to me. Mr. Crowe will get you equipped to look the part. Close the door on the way out.”
“What do you want me to do about them, boss?” Williams asked.
“Nothing. Crowe, wait for Williams to return.” The red embers of the cigar colored Crenshaw’s eyes for a moment, making him look like the devil.
* * * * *
“So you expect us to endanger our village and our families for water?” Catherine asked.
“That’s not just any water, it’s the cure,” Pierce said clutching his backpack tight. Catherine stared down at Pierce; the crazy in his eyes sparked a little for a moment. She held out her hand and Pierce handed her the canteen. She unscrewed the lid and sniffed it and then handed it back. She fought the urge to slap him, at least for now.
“How does it work? Did the water come from a puddle with a meteor in it? Do you drink it, or wash with it?” Catherine asked.
“Those are answers I don’t know. I know I have research and samples down south. I know it’s a very dangerous trip and I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. Think of it, be the village that helped with the cure.” Pierce held the canteen to his chest and shifted the pack to the ground between his feet, tight and secure. “I know with my bite, I kind of washed with it. I haven’t tried drinking it.”
“You mean to tell me you managed to wander to New England from Florida with a half full canteen and didn’t drink any of it?” Sam said. “Sounds like a load of bull to me. Water is more treasured than ammo.”
“So we do this trip for what? Riches to
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