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 thin 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.”
The street tough’s shoulders slumped in relief, the shaking more evident. “
Graciás
.” He stumbled when he shook Walker’s hand.
Several of the older Gatos began to cry, the young ones joining them in confusion. Even the soldiers had wet eyes, as did their leader. Only Gwen’s eyes were dry, and they studied Loomis with intense concentration. With just a couple of sentences that girl had changed everything. Her word carried enough weight that those most against the decision had agreed. Gwen had to go home with her.
The mayor returned his attention to the audience. “Let’s take a bit of a breather and get to know these folks a little. Then we can figure out how to divvy them up amongst us.”
As the meeting broke up, those that were voted down denied any responsibility for the mess and left. Others approached, making tentative gestures of friendship, moving among the young ones with caring eyes. Gwen ignored them all, rudely stepping past a boy who had spoken to her to watch Loomis. She was fascinating; so serious and strong. A group had gathered around her and when she spoke, they really listened. What kind of person was she to command such respect? Why wasn’t she running this town? When Loomis began drifting toward the door, her brother or whatever following, Gwen felt her heart seize.
She’s not going to leave, is she? She can’t spout that shit about taking people in, and then not do it herself!
Walker also saw Loomis preparing to leave. He dropped his conversation with one of the Gatos to intercept her. As Gwen observed, he spent a few tense moments speaking with her, gesturing to the refugees still gathered on the dais. Loomis seemed reluctant, flat-out refusing at one point before grudgingly allowing him to persuade her. The boy with her made a comment, shrugging. Finally, she nodded at Walker, a curt up and down motion revealing her exasperation. Gwen felt her gaze with an electric shock as it swept over her. Swallowing hard, an unfamiliar sting in her eyes, she barely noted the beginning of tears. She stared so attentively at Loomis, she read her lips as she said, “Two or three,” and then something else.
Pleased, Walker scanned the crowd. He fairly strutted toward Gwen, whose heart raced. Instead of speaking to her, he stopped at a boy standing alone a few feet away.
“What’s your name?”
The boy stared, eyes wide. “K…Kevin.”
Walker put a hand on his shoulder. “Kevin, do you have any brothers or sisters here?”
“No. My brother died last year.”
“You’re about ten or eleven, aren’t you?”
Kevin dropped his gaze, and shrugged. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “I don’t know when my birthday is.”
“Well, you look like you’re ten or eleven,” Walker said, not to be dissuaded. “Why don’t you come with me? I’ve got someone who has a place for you. They have a boy your age, too.” As Kevin nodded, Walker looked at the kids in the immediate vicinity. “And two girls, any age.”
Gwen jumped forward, feeling as if a knife had been thrust into her backside. “Me! My name’s Gwen.” The others were reluctant, uncertain what would happen to them if they got separated. Not allowing that to daunt her, Gwen reached out and grabbed the closet one’s hand, tugging her forward. “This is Lucky and her baby, Oscar.”
Walker grinned. “Kevin, Gwen and Lucky. Let’s go.”
“Please, Loomis. As a personal favor to me.”
Loomis had already told Walker no, but he didn’t buy it. What did she have to do, beat him over the head to make good her escape? He blocked the door, and now everyone watched them. Oh, they looked away when she glanced around, but she saw the worst of the gossipmongers edging closer to hear the conversation. At least Rick stood solidly at her shoulder, backing her choice, whatever it was. “C’mon, Dwayne, we’ve got seven at home, and another on the way. Our homestead’s not that big.”
“Maybe not.” Walker rubbed the back of his neck. “But I remember up until Orphan Maker, you had almost an easy dozen living there. You didn’t complain much then.”
Loomis didn’t remind him that they had traveled in far different circles during childhood, he a middle school football jock and she a homeschooler active in the 4-H youth group. He hadn’t heard any complaints because they had never socialized with each other before the plague. He glanced over his shoulder at the gathering. She couldn’t help but shift her gaze that direction. The initial ice had been broken, yet there were still two distinct camps among those gathered under the skylight. These city kids had been through a lot. They considered themselves family. Now that they were here, they were being split up. She could imagine how they felt, but the reality of the situation made their separation a necessity. They had no idea how to survive out here. There was no place large enough to house them together, at least not one able to support forty-three stomachs. She met her brother’s eyes, not pleased to see an apologetic tilt to his head. He would back her if she said no, but he thought they should do as Walker wanted.