“Everyone who is able should have a weapon in case outsiders try to raid the town. Since this is America, we do have the God-given right to a well-regulated militia.”
I’m torn here. One hand, yes, the world has changed and once again we need weapons. As much as I didn’t want the handgun at first, I understand how important it is now. At least there doesn’t seem to be a zoo in Fort Caroline.
On the other hand, I’m a little nervous about all these strangers with weapons.
Grover continues, “You’ll have to register your firearms here, though. And we also have ammo rations, which you can’t stockpile. You need to account for every bullet you use. And of course it goes without saying, don’t shoot anyone.”
I point to Grover and try to sound playful. “But you still said it.”
“Oh good!” A booming southern voice makes me flinch as Danny Rosewood—flanked again by the same two young men who were with him last night—rounds the corner of the sheriff’s station. He’s wearing a full suit even in the hot July sun and large beads of sweat slide down his red forehead. “I was hoping we wouldn’t miss the end of the tour.”
“Right on time, Danny,” Grover says. “I was just finishing up.”
“Y’all hand in your questionnaire yet?”
See? Boner City. And now I bet I have a contender for the creator of the questionnaire. How long do we think before he takes credit?
“Not yet,” I say. “We were a little wiped after last night.”
“Not a problem.” He waves a swollen hand “Not a problem at all. Just make sure you get that in ASAP. The questionnaire was my idea—”
Eleven seconds.
“—one of my better ones, if I do say so myself. It’s important to get it in so you can get your work placements. That’s something we’reveryproud of here. Everyone’s happy to pitch in and help get America back in business again.”
Back in business? Who is he kidding? There’s no way any country is going to be the way it was before.
“Did you hear about Reagan Airport?” I ask, interrupting Rosewood’s spiel. He turns to me, looks confused for a moment, so I help him along. “The EU coming to help us.”
Realization dawns on his face. “Right! Back in June. We heard, but we also got word from a few of the newer folks that no help was coming.”
I nod. “That’s where we came from. It’s going to be a while before anywhere is ‘back in business.’”
Rosewood’s grin widens and he claps a heavy hand on my shoulder. “America first, son! We all built America from the ground up once, we can do it again!”
“Uh, actually America wasstol—”
“What kind of job placements could the two of us expect?” Jamie interrupts me before I can remind Danny Rosewood that his ancestors killed the Indigenous people of America and then built everything lost to the bug on slave labor. Which, yes, maybe Jamie is right and I should keep my mouth shut right now. Danny Rosewood doesn’t seem the type to change his mind easily and my knowledge bomb would only serve to make us less welcome.
Rosewood looks back and forth between us. “How old are you boys? Seventeen? Eighteen?”
“Sixteen,” Jamie answers.
“He turns seventeen in November,” I say, hoping there’s some clout to that. Danny Rosewood nods and continues speaking, but something happens with one of the guys behind him. The taller guy with the sad excuse for a mustache on his upper lip and a patchy beard lowers his eyebrows and looks between Jamie and me.
Shit. I know that look. When he sees me watching him, his eyebrows return to their normal position and he turns to face the pale boy to his left, who doesn’t seem to be paying attention to anything.
“Oh, and this”—Danny Rosewood turns and claps Fuzzy Lip on the shoulder—“is my youngest boy, Harvey.”
Harvey Rosewood nods at both of us, but when Danny Rosewoodclaps the pale boy on the shoulder—introducing him as Harvey’s best friend, Walt Howser—Harvey gives me the same unfriendly look he gave me before. The look that said,I see what you are, and we don’t like it here.
And then everything clicks and I feel light-headed. What’s off about this place—it’s the people. They’re all relatively young, the oldest I’ve seen being either Danny Rosewood or one of the men by the manhole, who was in his early fifties. I haven’t seen anyone on crutches or in a wheelchair. There were no sick people in the hospital. Nadine didn’t point out the surgical wing. I didn’t even think to ask what happens if someone gets sick. What if they have appendicitis? Do they have anyone to help?
Would they even help? Or would they think it’s a drain on their stockpile of resources?
And then there’s the look that Harvey Rosewood is giving me. The look that says,You don’t belong here.
And he’s right.
