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  “Go check it out.” When two of Weasel’s soldiers brought their weapons up to bear, he growled at them. “No, stupidos! Show some respect! Knock!”

  They looked sheepish as they headed for the front porch.

  Gwen peered at a broken window.“I don’t think anybody’s there.”

  “Me either, querida.” Weasel put an arm around her waist. “But we’ve got to make sure. Besides, if there’s anything there we can use, I can’t leave it behind.”

  She made a noncommittal sound and pulled away. She ignored his look of irritation at her slight and went back to the road. Things were changing. That meant her relationship with the leader of the State Street Gatos had become a liability. She neither liked nor disliked Weasel, but had pursued him from the beginning. He was a strong and capable leader, and that had meant safety and security. He would be a nobody here in Lindsay Crossing. She had to keep her options open.

  She spotted another house ahead—this one with smoke trickling from the chimney—and her heart lurched in fearful anticipation. In the back of her mind, she mulled over her relationship with Weasel. Will he allow me to leave him? He had a territorial streak a mile wide that could create problems. She knew her appearance was hardly desirable. Petite at four foot nine, a starvation diet had done her no favors. She looked little better than a scarecrow with half its straw missing. It would take time to fatten up and become attractive once more. She would have to bide her time until then. Breaking things off with Weasel was paramount. Do that from the beginning and her future cut buddy would never have to deal with her sexual history with Weasel. Of course, it all depended on whether or not Riddick’s people took them in.

  Weasel raised his voice, and she turned back to the people she had lived and partied with for the last four years. There was no one and nothing in the house. Weasel rounded up everyone, his movements choppy, his countenance grim. He carried a lot of weight on those skinny shoulders of his. Gwen felt a wave of fondness for him despite her mercenary thoughts. She had been content to be his while the situation called for it. Too bad that had to change.

  “Let’s go, fuckers!” he harangued. “We’re almost there.”

  His voice carried, loud against the silence of the valley. Gwen eyed the next house, wondering if they had heard him too. Her question was answered a few minutes later as the Gatos dragged their sorry asses up the street. The yard was similar to the last, minus the aging swing set, but the grass here was cut down to manageable levels. Standing on the porch were two boys, one with a rifle and the other with a bow and arrow, of all things. A third one, unarmed, stepped out onto the pavement to block their path.

  Gwen and the others marveled at him. He was clean, and his skin didn’t hang from his bones. In fact, he had too much paunch on his belly, indicating a love of beer or sweets. His clothes were completely alien, the jeans worn and patched, his shirt holding no logos or smart sayings. His head was shaved, but his beard filled out his face. He had to be one of the elders here to have such a luxurious growth of facial hair, making him no older than nineteen.

  The stranger held his hands up, palms out. “Hold it right there.”

  The travelers drifted to a halt, some of them edging closer to look him over. Soldiers gripped their weapons with sweaty palms, eyeing the two on the porch. Weasel’s glare of reproach kept them from attacking.

  “Who are you?”

  Weasel drew himself up though the stranger had him by six inches or more. “We’re the Gatos from the city. We were told by a cracker that there might be a place for us in Lindsay Crossing.” He looked beyond the kid’s shoulder. “Is this the place? Or do we keep walking?”

  The stranger studied him a moment. “This is Lindsay Crossing,” he finally said. “Don’t know nothing about a ‘cracker’ or a place for city kids, though.”

  Behind her, Gwen heard a gentle moan of despair from some of the crew. She stepped forward to stand beside Weasel. “His name was Riddick.” She cursed to herself when the boy’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  “Riddick, huh?” he asked loudly.

  On the porch, his two friends brought their weapons to bear, scanning the crowd. In response came the deafening click of multiple Uzis locking and loading. The little ones crouched in fear of the coming firestorm.

  Gwen silently cursed again. She should never have said his name.

  The stranger moved sideways to get a better look at the gathered children. “Riddick! You here with these people?”

  “He’s fucking dead.” Weasel blocked his path. “He was dying when he told us about this place. We left him in the city.”

  His attention back on Weasel, the man examined him. Evidently believing the news, he waved his hand at his companions who lowered their weapons. “Good riddance.” He spat on the blacktop.

  Weasel gave Gwen a look that was part exasperation, and part fear of what could have happened. They both knew a firefight would have gone in their favor; they outnumbered these yokels twenty to one. But any chance of joining the township would have been shattered.

  “Look, do you have a leader or something? Maybe we could talk to him and come to an arrangement.”

  The boy grunted, scanning the crew again. “You have to lose the guns.”

  With a curt nod, Weasel called over his shoulder. “Drop the gats.”

  There was some grumbling, but discipline was always tight with the soldiers. Still, Gwen breathed a sigh of relief as safeties were switched on, and weapons put on the ground.

  “Grace!”

  A child popped up from behind a bush near the porch, a slingshot in her hand. She looked well fed and strong. The kids her age stared.

  “Run into town. Tell Dwayne we got company.”

  Grace pelted down the road.

  The boy smiled at them. “It’ll be a spell. Why don’t you all settle down in the yard? We’ve got good well water and a bushel of apples to spare.”

  Gwen’s mouth watered.

  Chapter Two

  Marissa Loomis finished hoeing the row she worked. She straightened to ease a kink in her lower back. Pulling a rag from her back pocket, she mopped her sweaty face. So far the spring looked promising. She hoped to bring in a bumper crop, and the weather had been cooperating nicely. She scanned the garden, over an acre in size, watching the rest of her family doing their level best to remove the weeds.

  Rick had shot up over the last winter. At fourteen, he now towered over her. He paused weeding to flirt with his girlfriend working the next row over. The only indication of Heather Elledge’s condition was the slight swell of her abdomen, barely visible at four months. Loomis figured she would have a miserable season with the summer heat. As much as she hoped the pregnancy wouldn’t take a turn for the worse, she knew chances were slim given Heather’s age. One thing Loomis had learned was that the younger the mother, the more dangerous the birth. Rick would be devastated should something happen to his budding family, but Loomis had spent a considerable amount of time preparing him for the inevitable. Lindsay Crossing had lost several girls and a handful of babes to childbirth over the last five years. It was a harsh fact of life with which they had all needed to come to terms.

  Their cousin, Cara Chapman, was the same age as Rick. She was the only one wearing a dress. No one else in the family was particularly interested in the feminine aspects of clothing, not even the children. She and Heather kept the home and hearth spotless, something of which Loomis was glad. If she’d had to do all the cooking and cleaning, she would have long ago run off to the city like some had done in the early days.

  Cara’s brother, ten-year-old Terry, tore through his row at the speed of his favorite comic book hero, Superman. His strawberry-blond hair hung in two long braids. It looked like they were wrapped with rabbit fur today, in imitation of an American Indian. Loomis shook her head with a grimace over his lack of care. They would be lucky if the weeds were all he took out. She would have to have another talk with him about his responsibilities. His desire to be an
Indian Brave was becoming more trouble than the education it provided.

  Two little girls played within sight of those working, one with curly white-blond hair and the other sporting the unmistakable coloring of the Loomis homestead. From what Loomis could gather, they were grooming their dolls and stuffed animals. They had every one of them out on the redwood table, chattering back and forth as they swapped between them.

  A bell tolled in the distance.

  Loomis froze, listening. Her family did the same, all looking up from their tasks.

  The bell continued, ringing with a slow, steady pace.

  “Marissa?”

  She looked at her brother. “Better saddle the horses. It doesn’t sound like an emergency, but it’s still a call to come into town.”

  He nodded and handed Heather his hoe before trotting toward the barns.

  Loomis left the garden, stopping in the yard to strip off her work gloves.

  “Loomis! Loomis! Are you goin’ to town?”

  She swept up the youngest of the girls, a faint smile curving her lips. “Yes, I am, miss. Why do you ask?”

  “I want to go with you.” Wisps of auburn hair strayed from the child’s ponytail, and she swiped them back with an expression of faint irritation.

  Loomis pretended to think it over before shaking her head. “Nope. You need to stay here and keep Delia and Cara and Heather company.” The little girl pouted, hazel eyes mournful. “Oh, you know that doesn’t help, Megan. If that lip pooches out much further, a bird’s going to fly overhead and drop a turd on it.”

  The thought of such an unlikely event occurring caused Megan to giggle. It always did. She fell forward, and hugged Loomis’s neck. “I’ll miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you, too, baby.” Loomis gave her a kiss, and set her down. “Go play. And don’t drive Cara to drink.”

  “If anybody does, it’ll be you.” Heather had left the garden, and Cara stood beside Loomis.

  “We’ll just have to lock up the brew then, won’t we?”

  Cara appeared unconcerned with Loomis’s taunting. “Get out of here. And if you see Annie Faber, let her know we can use another gallon of honey if she’s got it.”

  “I will.” Loomis waved to her family and headed for the barn. She stopped at the rain barrel long enough to sluice water over her head before joining her brother.

  ***

  Gwen and the others huddled together on a low dais at the front of the room. Her first thought had been that it was some sort of a theater until she saw the large wooden cross on the wall. Daylight filtered through from a skylight. Looking up, she saw blue sky, and the same church steeple she had spotted with the binoculars a few hours before. The building was modern, recently built. Other than the steeple and cross, it could have been a community hall. The townie kids apparently used it as such because Weasel’s bangers weren’t alone. While they idled on the platform, the residents of Lindsay Crossing trickled in, heeding the peal of the church bell that had rung for a half hour or more. It had been silent for some time, but still everyone waited. The so-called mayor, Dwayne Walker, said that some of the folks lived a ways out from town, and needed time to get there.

  Gwen shook her head. That was the word he had used—“folks.” She didn’t think anybody used that word even before the plague, let alone now.

  Someone had located a box of old military rations, and jugs of weak tea were passed around to the refugees. The rations tasted like cardboard regardless of what the wrapping said, but it was difficult to eat their first meal in two days with any sense of decorum. Those townies that had already arrived stared at them as they ravaged their lunch. Gwen felt a hot flush of shame. That didn’t stop her from licking every last crumb from the dusty wrapper. It was a good thing the rations carried a gummy texture. It forced even the most ravenous of the Gatos to slow down and chew, ensuring no one wasted the food by puking it back up.

  Walker greeted people as they arrived at the door, and Gwen watched him speculatively. Even with the lame-ass title of mayor he was the head honcho here. That meant he held the power. He looked like a dweeb. Her eyes passed over the rest of the townies. Hell, they all do. Maybe coming here wasn’t such a hot idea after all. She glanced at Weasel. His face was contorted with an effort not to scowl. He thought he had made a mistake too, she could tell. His people had been disarmed, herded like cattle, and left to twiddle their thumbs by a bunch of crackers. As the pews filled, Weasel’s crew became increasingly outnumbered. And you can damn well bet each and every one of them has a gun or knife. The two groups stared at one another in suspicion.

  She couldn’t help but notice their health. Had she ever been that hale and hearty? She had always been small, but she couldn’t imagine looking like these country people. As survivors of the plague, they were all under twenty years of age. But these people were heavy, well fed and limber. All the boys and most of the girls had good muscle tone, as if they spent a lot of time doing physical labor. And they were clean, even the little ones! They wore neatly mended clothes that, while lacking in fashion sense, were certainly well cared for. Any dirt smudged upon them appeared fresh, like it was acquired today during their chores or travels, not caked on from endless days on the road or living in squalor. She looked over the gang she lived with. At one time, they had been the cool kids, the tough ones, the survivors. They had been the kings of their world. Now look at us. What good were the hairstyles and makeup compared to the reality of life? They had scrabbled their way through some of the worst street wars in history and had come out on top. Yet after five years of living on the dwindling resources of a dead society, what had it gotten them? A slow death and nothing else. Why hadn’t any of them thought to plan ahead for the long haul like these kids did? The townies might be dweebs but they’ve done a better job with the hand dealt them.

  Gwen shook herself from her depression. The last of the townies had arrived—two redheads entered the church, a boy and a girl. The boy was younger, but he stood a head taller than the girl. There was no doubt they were related. They looked like siblings, even walking the same way as they went to a front row pew. Gwen leaned forward, eyes intent. From the expressions and greetings of their neighbors and the mayor, one or both of these two were also a force to be reckoned with.

  Walker came to the front of the room, and Weasel stood. “Okay, the Loomises are here. Anybody else coming is late or not coming at all.”

  “What’s going on, Dwayne?” A boy’s voice cracked with puberty. He sat in the second row, gesturing at the strangers. “Who are they?”

  “These kids are from the city. There are forty-three of them.” Walker held his hands up to quiet a round of whispering. “Things are really bad down there. There’s no more food, and most have gotten sick and died. These people are the last left, and they need places to stay. That’s why I called a town meeting. I can’t make this decision for all of us.”

  “Why the blazes would we take them in?” someone else demanded. “We got enough mouths to feed as it is.”

  “If they had done a better job, they wouldn’t need to come begging,” another said, causing a general mutter of agreement.

  Gwen snuck a glance at Weasel. His brown complexion was dark with anger, but he kept his mouth shut. Nothing being said was a lie, and he knew it. She felt a strong stab of sympathy for him. He was no longer in charge. He couldn’t protect her anymore. Still, she would miss him. He was a good enough guy for the most part.

  “If we split them up among the families here, they’d be less of a burden on everybody,” Walker said, oblivious to the fallen hero standing beside him. “Look, we all know how tough it’s been. We’ve had a couple of good growing seasons. We’ve created a decent way to live with our neighbors so everyone has enough. What’s a few more bodies?”

  That opened the floor for argument. None of the Gatos said a word, watching the discussion rage around them as people argued for or against letting them stay. Voices in support were few and far between. Weasel’s t
hin shoulders were stone. He was strung so tight, Gwen saw him tremble with each breath. Her throat grew tight as she considered the possibility that they would have to leave here. Where else can we go?

  “What does Loomis have to say about it?”

  A good number of them craned their necks, looking for Loomis. Gwen wasn’t surprised to see them focus on the redheads who had arrived last. What intrigued her was that it was the girl who responded, not the boy.

  “I say keep ’em,” she said, her smoky voice firm. “We’re standing in a church our parents built and maintained, God rest their souls. Don’t think they’d be too happy we’ve forgotten to help those in need.”

  The crowd sat in momentary contemplation, her words having serious effect. Gwen quickly scanned the crowd, realizing that the cloud of negativity had lifted. They actually appeared to consider Walker’s suggestion and, for the first time since seeing the smoke from that farmhouse, Gwen felt a twinge of hope.

  Dwayne pounced on their sudden indecision. “I’m not going to throw these people out on my own. I know you voted me as mayor, but this isn’t a decision for me to make. I move we vote on whether or not to keep these kids here.” Someone called out that they seconded the motion. Things happened too fast, it was too confusing to the newcomers.

  “All those in favor of farming these kids out to the different homesteads?” Walker raised his hand.

  Gwen looked out over the townies. It was slow, but eventually hands began to rise. The constriction in her throat squeezed tighter. Most of them agreed with their mayor and Loomis. Around her, her companions sat frozen in fear, waiting for someone to tell them it wasn’t what they thought.

  “Those against?”

  A half dozen hands shot up.

  “I’d say we have an agreement.” Walker turned to Weasel who blinked uncertainly. “You folks are welcome to stay.”