Rise of the Poison Moon by MaryJanice Davidson Page B

turned back to the man who looked ready for orders—her PA, Michael Donovan. “We’re low on ventilators and antibiotics. We’ve got to decide if baby Marshall here truly needs anything beyond a blanket and a bottle. By the sword of St. George, I swear —”
    Jennifer raised her eyebrows. That was a rare epithet indeed—one her mother, prior to Big Blue, took care never to repeat in mixed company.
    “Basically we’re down to freaking kangaroo care!”
    Now Jennifer tried to stifle a giggle. Her mom had explained once that in less-developed countries (or in cities that were, say, trapped beneath a dome) the best way for medical professionals to treat premature infants was skin-to-skin contact. And not only from the new moms. People all over town would be pressed into kangaroo-care service: male or female, trained or not, dragon or beaststalker or neither. Lactating or, uh, not.
    Jonathan cleared his throat. “I better not keep you too long, Liz. Listen, I scouted those farms you sent me to—the ones to the northwest? There are maybe half a dozen cattle left.”
    Michael twisted his mouth. “That’s maybe enough to feed this hospital population for a couple of weeks. If nobody has seconds.”
    “Mother fuck,” her mom said in quiet despair. Then, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—thank you so much for looking. It’s good news, Jonathan.”
    “Sure it is. I’ll bet Jennifer has more.”
    They all—both parents and Michael, and possibly even the baby—looked at her. She chewed her tongue, trying to figure out how not to make what she had seen sound even worse than starving to death.
    As it turned out, there was no way to do that. So she settled on telling them, no punches pulled, about the repeated hobbling of Tavia Saltin on the bridge in front of Skip and Andi.
    Everyone sat down—first Jonathan and Michael, and then Elizabeth, with baby Marshall still in her arms.
    “Did anyone see you?” she asked.
    “I don’t think so. I was in camouflage, circling overhead. No one acted as if they knew or cared I was there.”
    “That was dangerous, ace.”
    “I know, Dad.” She did know. He might as well have said, We’re stuck under a dome, ace.
    “You say Skip walked away from that?”
    “And Andi. But I doubt this is the end of it. Skip doesn’t walk away from fights. Not these days, especially. He has something in mind.”
    Elizabeth handed baby Marshall off to Michael before pounding her forehead with a fist. “Fucking Hank. Fucking Hank. Fucking Hank.”
    “Liz. You okay?”
    “I’m super, honey.” Whack! Whack-whack! “This is how I think.”
    “Maybe it would work better if you could punch Hank instead of yourself.”
    “Don’t tempt me. I can’t believe he’s provoking arachnids as we head into a second winter. What does he have stockpiled down there under city hall—provisions for eternity? Moronic mama’s boy.”
    “On behalf of mama’s boys everywhere,” her father said with faux dignity, forcing Jennifer to stifle yet another giggle, “I resent that. And I doubt Hank thinks that far ahead. C’mon, Liz. I know this is bad, but we have to focus. You’ve got a baby that needs care here. What do you want Michael to do?”
    Elizabeth rubbed her eyes and turned to Michael. “Kangaroo care it is. You have first shift. Watch him carefully for symptoms and start an immediate course of antibiotics if you see anything.”
    As Michael nodded and took the baby out of the room, Jennifer marveled at the deftness with which her father, who not twelve hours ago had been nearly catatonic with pessimism and defeatism, had redirected her mother’s despair into positive action.
    He really knows her. And she really needs him. No wonder she’s willing to resort to bad coffee to keep him going. Hey—I wonder if he does the same thing to me?
    Naw. He’d be more subtle. He’d—
    As if on cue, he turned to her. “C’mon, ace. Let’s you and I go bring those cattle in.”
    Subtle like a brick to