Maddox glanced across the table at Colt. His head was bowed, hands clasped together.He’s not on board with this,he considered.I can tell.
“You could take them for a swim in the Scalding Wells, give them a taste of the Pit,” Luther proposed, a calculating expression on his face. “Send them home with a warning—and disfiguring scars. We’ll tell people that, after the protest, they hid in the outer ring, an off-limits underground. Fell in. Terrible accident. If they open their mouths to say otherwise, then a trip to Tucson can be arranged.”
“I think that’ll cover it,” Vexler agreed.
Maddox felt sick to his stomach. The springs, once a life-giving symbol of health and vitality, transformed into a toxic pit of boiling torture. And Luther Irons, whose bid for president Maddox had supported? Had he always been unethical, cruel, and unrestrained, or had power corrupted him?There’s nothing I can do,he told himself.Anyone who calls him out gets fired. At least while I’m in command of the army, I can ensure a minimal loss of life on the battlefield. I can be a voice of reason on the council.
“Colt,” Irons said, turning to his son. Colt perked up, facing him with quiet dignity. “I’ve decided you can accomplish several objectives with one trip. I’m sending you on an important mission to Fort Rustin—I know you won’t let me down.” He grinned proudly at Colt. “Take the shipment of munitions and supplies to the front, and, while you’re there, I’ll arrange for you to give some speeches, let the good folks know President Irons hasn’t forgotten them. That farm bill the Agrarians want? It’ll pass Congress before you arrive.”
Colt nodded. “Yes, sir. I can do that—no problem.”
“Good. You need to be in charge of more operations, you hear that, General?” His commanding stare landed on Maddox.
“Yes, sir, Mr. President. Captain Irons is a fine officer.”
Luther smiled at the response, then held out his palms innocently. “It’s not likeeveryelected official must belong to the Dominion Party. We have to maintain the mirage of democracy.” His gaze hardening, he added, “But it’s imperative we keep a strong majority at all times—no matter what it takes.”
Chapter fourteen
A Table Set for Ghosts
North of Nelanta, Verdancia
The wind whipped Lark’s hair around her face. The cap they’d given her was too big, and she feared it would blow off if she wore it. She sat in the back of the Jeep, paint bordering between olive drab and desert tan, speckled with rusty spots, as it sped down a modestly maintained portion of freeway. After several hours, they’d passed one delivery truck, a horse-drawn wagon made from a reclaimed pickup bed, and two folks riding bicycles. Traffic here was always light, she supposed.
Lieutenant Skye Navarro drove, managing to miss most of the potholes, while Wes Walker rode shotgun, the smoke from his homeroll stinging Lark’s nose. Younger than Lark, the wiry Black mechanic and gadget expert had enormous boots despite his average height. Across from her, Diego Marín—demolitions and heavy weapons—gazed out the open side, the wind pummeling his brunet kiss curl. About Lark’s height, Diego had a full cowboy mustache and compact muscles. He nursed an old top-of-the-line XMZ 5000 machine gun. Lark was stuck babysitting a cage of three pigeons, crowded by smelly ethanol cans.
Captain Luke Moreau sped along in the lead on one motorbike while sharpshooter and tracker Harlan McCrae brought up the rear, his blond curls tuckedsafely into his helmet, a long rifle strapped across his back. She pegged him for late twenties—older than her, younger than Moreau. She’d noticed his sharp green eyes, playful freckles, and cleft chin when they’d been introduced. “Handsome fellow,” Navarro had whispered to her. “No wonder he’s hitched.”
Lark had learned their names but had no intention of getting attached. This wasn’t summer camp; it was a mission. Recover supplies from the old hospital, collect what she’d come for, and race back to Saltmarsh Reach in time to save Tommy.
Deer grazing on the side of the cracked asphalt scattered at the noisy engines’ approach. Lark glanced down at the marvelous, multi-fire crossbow and stroked the smooth metal of its bolt canister, hoping it wouldn’t be needed for more than mutant vermin. She’d practiced with it before they left the capital. Lark still brought her hunting bow as backup but decided she liked the military advancements.I wonder if they’ll let me keep it?she pondered.Probably not.
The caravan slowed as it took an exit ramp. A blue-green ridge rose in the distance—her first real mountains.
“Just wait.” Lark turned to spy Diego’s grin. “Where we’re going, there are more than you can count. The Great Smoky Mountains.”
“But we aren’t crossing into Appalachia, are we?” Worry carved a line in Lark’s forehead.
“Naw.” Diego waved a hand at her. “Farther north than I’ve ever been, but not that far.”
Noticing the Jeep plodded along at a crawl, Lark looked out at a shabby town—with people. Interest piqued, she took it all in. A faded billboard sign marred with several large holes read, “Wel ome to Ne Holla d.” Tall poles with busted lights, lifeless wires hanging from some, leaned precariously. No one seemed concerned as bright faces shone at the visitors.
“This is New Holland,” Diego narrated. “I’ve been here several times before. “Population’s two thousand. They supply apples, pecans, grapes—odds and ends from their farms. Nelanta trades back cloth, clothes, cornmeal, and grits.”
Lark marveled as children ran out, waving and cheering. Mothers brought toddlers. Men stopped their work.
“Maybe they think we’re bringing new items,” Lark commented.
Navarro glanced over her shoulder. “No. They’re just patriotic. They love the military in this town.”
“Why’s that?” Lark wondered how Saltmarsh Reach would react if uniformed soldiers ever showed up.
“Regular army sends patrols around here,” she explained. “We’ve disposed of packs of warg, roaming bear mutants, and broken up a band of raiders that tried to take over the town. Plus, soldiers always accompany trade convoys, so they associate us with protection and getting new stuff.”
To Lark’s eye, about two out of three buildings were derelict or unusable. However, the others seemed quite nice—many even whitewashed. With no factories producing it, pre-war paint was scarce, whereas mixing powdered limestone with water was easy. Two men sawing wood outside a construction project stopped to wave, as did the two who’d been hammering. The attention made Lark feel self-conscious.
As they neared the end of town, they crossed a railroad track—rails tarnished, crossties cracked and weathered. An old passenger train had died on a sidetrack—windows fractured, paint peeled away, rusted red-brown, appearing like giant discarded lobster shells.
