Deserted Lands (Book 2): Straight Into Darkness Page 6

  “We’re in a precarious place here. Surviving long term depends on what we do the next few years. And that depends on what we do now.”

  Mannie paid close attention to DiSilvio. It was like he was pitching a product on late night TV. You, too, can create your own country, just like I did. Learn how in these ten easy steps.

  “We don’t have to worry about Koreans or the Jihadists anymore,” he said, his pronunciation surprisingly accurate. But we’ve got the Utah Independents. Plus, there are groups, like the folks you met in San Antonio, who are intent on being the new capital of the United States of America—pure arrogance. All we want to do here is survive and maintain our way of life, which is what it really means to be American.” He puffed up a bit at the last statement.

  Mannie leaned forward in his chair, trying not to give in to its comfort.

  “There are already obstacles to that simple pursuit. We’re even seeing wildlife push into our borders, which you, no doubt, have noticed in your parks.”

  “Had a coyote in my garden this morning,” Mannie said at DiSilvio’s prompt.

  “Exactly my point. How long before a coyote makes off with a small child?”

  Mannie hadn’t seen a coyote that large, but they would only get larger with better food and more territory. Most of DiSilvio’s rant stretched the bounds of the truth, but Mannie’s input wasn’t really being requested.

  “What do we need to survive? Defense. Food.” DiSilvio tapped his fingers as he counted them off. “How long will our food stores last, Mannie?”

  Mannie shrugged. “I have gardens planned for the spring.”

  DiSilvio waited for Mannie to continue.

  “Well,” Mannie avoided a name rather than call him Tony. “I’d guess the frozen stuff being collected will be decent for a year or two. If we can keep the power on. Canned goods ought to hold out for decades, maybe. Dry goods too. Pickled and home canned?” he smiled, “I had some 20-or-so-year-old pickles mi abuela made. A little rubbery, but they tasted good.

  “We should have enough food to keep us going while we get the gardens growing. My concerns at this point are electricity, and whether we will be able to grow enough food in this climate. The winters are long and cold, and the summers are hot and dry. We will have to choose the right crops.”

  Tony nodded appreciatively. “I would add to your list of concerns that we need to be concerned about security and keeping what we have collected and grown. And what if the electricity does go out? We got an engineer to keep natural gas flowing for the power plant. Ought to last us a while, but not years. Did you know we quit all coal-fired power a few years back?”

  Mannie shook his head. “No. I’ve been in Del Rio, Texas for most of the last 20 years.”

  DiSilvio leaned forward, finally warming up to a point. “There’s a solar plant in Delta. Not far south. It could power all of our needs indefinitely. You know where that power’s heading?”

  “California,” Captain Foote supplied when Mannie shrugged.

  Mannie feared where this was going.

  “We need that power,” DiSilvio continued.

  Mannie kept his smile in check. “And you think California’s not going to care?”

  DiSilvio shrugged. “Lake Mead and Hoover Dam produce enough to keep what’s left of California fully powered. They won’t even notice.” His eyes bored into Mannie.

  Mannie was tired of playing questions, but he had a few of his own to ask. “So why am I here? And how do I fit in?”

  “How do you want to fit in?” Foote asked.

  “I don’t. I’m not going to war again. Not for Uncle Sam, not for you.”

  “But you’ll fight to keep your family safe, right?” DiSilvio’s eyes were dark and intense.

  Mannie sighed and looked down at his hands. He would kill for them, his kid, her friends and his future grandkids. He closed his eyes. For my family. That was a pretty twisted way to motivate someone.

  “That’s why we’re forming a militia,” DiSilvio said, “To protect our families.”

  Mannie had come here to flat out refuse anything Captain Foote offered him. “From whom, sir?”

  “Have you seen the graffiti? BONZ?”

  “No,” Mannie said. “I don’t get out much. What’s bones?”

  “B. O. N. Z. The Brethren of New Zion, it’s a coalition of fundamentalist Mormon’s who see the apocalypse as a sign that they were right.”

  “The members of,” Foote said with a pointed glance at DiSilvio, “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints are, shall we say, concerned about their intentions.”

  “And are they violent?” Mannie asked. Most of Mannie’s experience with church was the nuns at school who smacked his hands when he spoke in Spanish.

  Foote lay open his hands like a benevolent grandfather. “We don’t know. There is some precedent. Our concern is that some of the bands we call Independents may be connected to the Brethren.”

  For my family. If he wasn’t involved, who would do it, and how would it be done? “I still don’t know what you want me to do.

  “Will you be a part of our survival, Mannie?” DiSilvio’s stare demanded an answer.

  “Mannie, we need you,” Captain Foote said, laying his hands flat on his desk as though he were resisting the urge to jump to his feet.

  “For what?”

  “Can you train recruits?” Foote asked.

  Mannie sighed again. “No, sir.” He didn’t want to—he was pretty sure he didn’t have the right attitude anymore. “Not well, sir. I can run teams, plan for supplies.”

  “That would be helpful,” Foote said.

  Make some demands, Mannie told himself. See how serious they are. “Short term only? When I say, I’m done, I go back to playing in the gardens?”

  DiSilvio smiled like he was about to whip out a contract and a pen.

  “And who is there to help me?” Mannie asked. “I’ll need an assistant or twenty.”

  “You can put a requisition in at the Jobs office. Ms. LaFevbre is the person in charge.”

  Mannie wasn’t sure he wanted the severe woman that Lizzie believed gave out assignments like punishments doing his hiring. “Can I pick my own team?”

  DiSilvio smiled. “Nepotism will work for the time being. Make sure you get the job done and we’re fine.”

  “Okay,” Mannie said, his body sinking into the chair, “Where do I start?”

  Foote grinned and DiSilvio looked satisfied. DiSilvio being here was not a coincidence, it had been the plan all along—a tactical move. Was it Foote’s idea or DiSilvio’s?

  Foote pointed at the hall. “Third door down on the left. Office of Records is all yours. We’ll get the sign changed in a few days.”

  Shit, a desk job. “Yes, sir.” Mannie put on his warmest sycophantic smile. Get enough people together and what do you get? A new old boy network like the days of politics when he was a kid: Richard Nixon and his cronies.

  “I’ll get to work then.” Mostly he wanted out of the room. He respected Foote, but he felt like he needed to shower after being in the room with DiSilvio.

  Down the hall, Mannie slipped the key into the lock; the opaque glass revealed nothing of the state within. Once he opened the door, he would be back in the army, an army desk-job even—right where he never wanted to be again. He pushed the door open and let it swing wide.

  Stacks of paper piled high on an old wooden desk. The stapler and hole punch were of the era to be classed as deadly weapons. Either there hadn’t been a budget for office equipment upgrades since Nixon, or the previous occupant had a thing for antiques. Mannie sure as hell hoped the stacks of paperwork were from before the outbreak.

  He picked up the top manila folder. “Handwritten inventory lists from houses that had been collected.” This stack was already his. How had they known he would take the job? Foote was a hard man to say no to.

  He’d assisted several military operations, but mostly his job was had been courier, filer and sorter. T
his was going to be a lot of work and he would rather be tromping around in the wilderness bringing information to people, collecting data and supplies.

  He needed to find an assistant happy to do the desk work to free him up for the field work. Pronto. Someone with some organization skills. Lizzie would love to get out of her pregnancy group, but he was just starting to get along with her, so maybe working together wasn’t the best idea. Jess? Hell no. Nev? She’d gone to a university, but it was Evergreen, so how much of a Greener was she? He pulled out his phone and dialed Nev’s number.

  “Nev, it’s Mannie. I’ve got a strange question.”

  “Okay. I’ll bite.”

  “You have any experience in organization? I might be able to get you out of your secretarial-pool.”

  “I’m on the OCD end of organization,” Nev warned. “If you can handle that…”

  “Well, I’m about as far from that as possible, I need OCD.” A part of him relaxed. “I’ll put in a request. See if we can do it without driving each other crazy.”

  “When do I start?” She sounded eager. He hoped that was a good sign.

  “As soon as I can get it approved.”

  “Sounds good. Thanks, Mr. uh, Mannie.”

  He set the phone down and stared out at the little bit of sky he could see. The light was fading along with his energy. He pulled open the desk drawers: paperclips, post-its, old USB drives, and in the lower right hand drawer, canned soup, boxes of tea bags and a bag of sugar. He smiled as he rummaged through. His hand struck on something cold, glass. He pulled out a slim fifth of vodka. He dropped it back in and shoved the drawer shut.

  The pressure had been enough to drive the previous desk’s owner to drink at least half a bottle of Smirnoff’s. He jerked the drawer back open and pulled out the bottle. He made his way to the lunch room, undid the cap fully intending to pour it into the sink. A new job deserved a clean slate. But he couldn’t do it.

  He screwed the cap back on and put it at the back of a cabinet with the cans of coffee. At least he hadn’t taken a drink.

  Chapter Seven

  RED-FACED FROM THE BITING JANUARY cold, Lizzie dropped Saj’s hand and knocked on the door to the house her dad had claimed. She had her own place, a small apartment she’d been granted due to her status as a pregnant mom, but going back to it right now seemed like admitting defeat. She and Saj had skipped daycare and class to play in the snow and to visit his grandpa.

  Snow drifts piled against the garage door so she could tell he hadn’t gone in Rubi, his Jeep Rubicon. But that didn’t mean he was home. Despite there being plenty enough gasoline to go around on the planet now, he liked to walk most places.

  She checked the knob, unlocked. “Dad? You home? You know, just because the world ended doesn’t mean it’s any safer to leave your door unlocked.” She stamped her feet on the mat and stepped in.

  “Mampa?” Saj called, stamping his own feet in imitation.

  “Mampa’s not home yet, Saj.” She started unwinding his clothes. “Let’s get these off. It might be cold out there, but you, my little steam engine, are hot!” She kissed his forehead. Too hot. “Shit.”

  “Sit,” Saj said with emphasis.

  “Don’t say that, Saj. Bad word. Sissie shouldn’t say it either.” She smoothed back his sweaty hair. “How’re you feeling, little buddy?”

  His dark blue eyes were a little glassy and he sat without fighting the clothing removal. She finished the disrobing down to diaper and changed it while she had access. But it barely needed changing, he must be dehydrated.

  “Saj? You want some water?”

  “Water,” he agreed.

  She went to the sink in the bathroom and while she was there pulled a temperature strip from the first aid pack in the cupboard.

  Saj chugged down the water as she put the strip on his forehead.

  More? He put his thumbs inside his fingers and banged them together, sign language for more…. Please. It had been a while since he’d signed for anything; his verbal vocabulary had been growing in leaps and bounds the last few weeks.

  Lizzie refilled the cup half-full and handed it to him. He sucked it noisily.

  She pulled out her phone and hit redial. “Rach?” Her words tumbled out in a rush. “I’m worried about Saj. He’s feverish and drinking water like crazy. And now he’s reverted to signing.”

  “Temp?”

  Lizzie looked at the strip. “101.”

  “Is he lethargic?” Rachael asked.

  “No.” Lizzie breathed. “A little.”

  “There’s a bit of the sniffles going around daycare right now. That’s probably all it is.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Of course, I’m right.” Rachael said calmly, “Lots of liquid and some rest—if his temp hits 103 or higher take him to Doc Wright.”

  Lizzie hung up the phone and hugged Saj with tears in her eyes. This is what happened when she left, it was her punishment. She collapsed with him into the recliner. She hummed him a lullaby as they both faded in exhaustion.

  The front door opening woke Lizzie, soaked in sweat. Between the baby in her belly and the toddler on her chest, it was a toss-up which was the cause.

  “¿Hola?” her father called.

  “Aquí, Papa,” she answered softly, hoping she wouldn’t wake Saj. Her Spanish skills still lacked depth, but at least she’d learned what the Clash meant in Should I Stay or Should I Go? Silly that they repeated the same lines in Spanish.

  She leaned forward to touch Saj’s forehead with her cheek. It didn’t seem any warmer than it had before the nap. That had to be a good sign.

  Her father’s tired face peeked in the arch between the living room and kitchen. When he saw Saj on her chest his face softened into a smile. “Taking a nap?”

  “Yeah. He’s a little sickie.”

  His jaw tensed.

  “Rachael says it’s just a cold. I pray she’s right. He’s got a bit of a temp.”

  He tiptoed over and peered down at Saj’s sleeping face, a furrow between his brows. “He looks peaceful.” He kissed Lizzie’s cheek.

  It still felt awkward, having a dad that was around. She wasn’t used to the scratchy stubble or the physical proximity.

  “How are you? Have a nice trip?” he asked.

  “How the fuck does everyone know I was gone?”

  “Small town—big family who loves you. Zach, Jess, Rachael. I heard it through the grapevine.

  “Jesus. Can’t anyone give me a little peace?”

  Her father knelt down, still looking at Saj as he spoke softly to her. “I wasn’t there when you were growing up. I want to be here for you now. Si quieres.”

  “¿Si quieres? ¿Cómo se dice en inglés?” Lizzie asked, changing the subject.

  Her father grinned. “Kind of like, As you wish.”

  “Me gusta,” she responded.

  Her father’s lip twitched, but he’d gotten better about not laughing at her Espanglish.

  She laughed at his pained expression. “Okay, how should I say it?”

  “Yo quiero. I would like that.”

  “Yo quiero.” His smile told her she got it right. ‘So, did you get it out of your system?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Wasn’t really planning on leaving. Though, sometimes I think Rachael would be better for Saj. She’s stable. Loves him like crazy. And it’s not like I’m really his mom. I just found him.”

  “You’re as close to a mom as he’s going to get in this world. What happened to all that adoption paperwork they gave you?”

  “Paperwork isn’t going to make me feel any different. I’m 18, should I really be adopting a kid?” She winced at how ridiculous that sounded, given the baby she would be having before her 19th birthday.

  “Haven’t you already?”

  Lizzie grunted, noncommittally. Saj squirmed, pressing his knee into her bladder, which made her realize how long she’d been sitting there. “Can you take Saj?” she asked, eyes popping at the su
dden urgency.

  “Yeah. I’d love to.” He shucked off his jacket and tossed it toward the coat rack. It fell short. He scooped up the toddler from her arms and pulled him into his chest. “Oh, he is hot.”

  As soon as she had extricated Saj from her lap, Lizzie leapt up and bolted for the bathroom. “Pregnant girl, coming through!”

  Zach groaned inwardly as Nev finished explaining their fun evening, but he kept the pleasant look on his face knowing he’d skated on thin ice spending the night with Lizzie at the N.S.A. facility. First to the Council meeting, then to dinner, that he could go for. Nev wanted to make certain the council was setting up the monetary exchange logically.

  “How often do we get to start from scratch on anything,” she asked, “let alone something as important as currency?”

  “If I can buy beer, food and clothes for myself and you and our future children, I’ll be happy.”

  Nev wrapped her arms around him and snuggled in. “You’re such a guy.”

  “You don’t like that?”

  “Yeah,” Nev tucked herself inside his arms and under his chin. “I like that you’re a guy. But sometimes I wish you were a little more worried about what happens outside.”

  “Dunno if that’s gonna happen.” She made it sound like what he was didn’t make the grade. “Look, Nev, I care about people, and I’m not dumb. But decisions above my pay-grade? Makes no sense to worry about them.” Damn. Pay-grade. He was sounding like his old man. “But I will support you in taking on the man if that’s what you want to do.”

  “That’ll do, donkey.”

  “You calling me an ass?”

  “If the shoe fits…” Nev slipped out from under his arms and slapped his butt. “Let’s go. I don’t want to be late.”

  “You da boss.” Zach slipped into his sheepskin jacket. Coming home to be with Nev made everything else in between okay. He opened the door for her and patted her butt more gently. “So, why should I be worried about whether or not we use existing American money, ration books or bartering?”

  “Not saying you need to worry about it.” Nev lifted his arm onto her shoulder as they walked down the steps. “But if we’re going to move forward and not back, currency is one way to keep things stable. We need stability.”