Kipuka Blues

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

DANNY GERVAIS, professional lickspittle, stood behind my right shoulder. I’d like to say he was just the type to sneak up behind me, but the clatter and rattle of Jack’s increasingly crowded bar would have drowned anyone’s footsteps.

But still: he’d snuck up. Even if he hadn’t.

Danny’s small enough that he was able to wedge himself between two blocky, square wooden tables behind us. He wore heavy work pants and a dark blue polo shirt, as if trying to say he worked for a living, but I remembered him as one of the Building the Future crew from the years before Absolute’s final attack. He wore his black hair combed straight back from his forehead, wore slim gold rings on each finger, and carried his own personal cloud of expensive cologne everywhere. Danny would smile and fawn to your face. Turn your back, and you’d learn he knew exactly which ribs to slip the knife between.

“Mister Woodward wants to talk to you,” Danny said. There’s nothing objectively wrong with his voice, but it still set me on edge.

“Then he should come talk for himself,” I said. “But I don’t know any reason to.”

“He’s got a lot of people to see.”

“Then he should go see them. I’m talking to my girls.”

Danny stepped up beside me and lightly dropped a hand on my shoulder. “There’s no need to be like that, Detective. We don’t have a lot of time to get organized.”

I looked at his hand. I looked up into Danny’s eyes.

Danny looked back.

I kept my face carefully blank. “We don’t have detectives any more. Or leaders. The only future we’re building is our own.” I doubted that anyone more than three feet away heard me over the clatter and babble of the people quickly filling the bar. “I would still advise you to keep your hands to yourself, Mister Gervais. Someone might take offense.”

Danny tried to keep a cool, level gaze, but in a heartbeat he flinched and snatched his hand back.

“You have a nice day now,” I said.

Danny scowled. “What is it going to take for you to listen? Some big disaster?”

I turned back as he walked away.

“Who was that?” Alice said.

I said, “His name’s Danny Gervais. He’s one of Woodward’s yes-men. And he thinks that everyone should jump as high as he does for his boss.”

“Boss?” Ceren snorted. “How’s he paying him?”

“Who knows?” I shrugged. “Some people think that someone should be in charge. We’ll need to sort that out some day, probably soon. We can’t let anyone just put themselves at the top, though.”

“I know someone like that,” Alice said.

“I’m sure you do.” I made myself relax. “You can’t let those people push you around, either. So, Ceren, how did your day go?”

Ceren said, “Okay.” Her eyes flashed over my shoulder, fixing on something.

I had a good idea what—or who—she saw, and self-consciously relaxed as I glanced that way.

“Kevin!” Lyle Woodward stood over our dinner table, precisely far enough away that I couldn’t quite punch him in the junk.

Not that I make a habit of that. Just a corner-of-the-eye observation.

I didn’t look up. Surrounded by heavy wooden tables and padded vinyl stools and chairs and illuminated by neon beer signs, his crisp blue suit looked completely out of place. The paunch fit right in, though.

“Woodward,” I said, without taking my eyes from Ceren. He wanted me to look up. It’s a psychological trick, looming over someone to “assert dominance.” Not looking up was the best counter. “I’m eating dinner with my girls.”

“Dinner’s not ready yet.” Woodward had the thick, rich voice of a news announcer or professional preacher.

“You never heard of small talk? It’s what holds a family together.”

On my right, Ceren leaned back and offered Woodward a cool, level stare. Opposite her, Alice set her jaw and stared up at Woodward. They’d never met the man, but they took their cues from me like champions.

“You’ve been ducking me for days,” Woodward said.

“Avoiding you would mean that I cared,” I said. “I don’t. Care, that is. I have important work to do.”

“I heard,” Woodward said. “Dragging people out of their homes.”

Woodward wanted a fight. I wanted to talk to Alice and Ceren, but I’d have to shut him down first. Scooting my chair back, I rose to my feet before turning to face him.

Lyle Woodward is an inch taller than me, with silver hair, a practiced smile, and an oily, unctuous charm. He has the kind of bulk that comes from hard work, with the couple inches of the overhanging gut that comes from not needing to work hard anymore. I’d seen him flip into rabid rattlesnake mode at a wrong word, and back to ice-cream sweet just as quickly. He showed up in Frayville as the federal Building the Future lead two days after the first nukes flew at Australia, immediately starting to throw that weight around. Mostly he annoyed and frustrated everyone until the end. It looked as though he wanted to keep at it, right past the end.

The new Woodward had shown up at Jack’s a week ago. In a crisp, tight, dry-clean-only suit and tie. We had as many dry cleaners as we had coroners, but still, he wore a suit every day.

I met his gray eyes. “We’re doing a house-to-house search. Checking for traumatized people. Making sure that everyone knows that there are other people out here, before they starve.”

“Yes, yes,” Woodward said. “Very worthwhile.”

“It is if we don’t want to lose any more people,” I said.

“Nobody wants to lose anyone,” he said. “Is that you and—Eric, is it?—marking empty houses with the warning tape?”

“Yes, we are.”

“Great! That’s good to know. And we’re going to need a census. Do tell me you’re writing down names.”

I didn’t want to agree with him, but I wouldn’t stoop to lying. “Of course.”

“I’m glad you’re checking on them. I’m glad it’s not like I heard.”

He wanted me to ask what he’d heard. “It beats breaking out the flamethrowers.”

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about,” Woodward said.

I waited, not inviting him to speak.

“We have some big problems coming up,” Woodward said. “There’s lots of food now, but it’ll run out some time. We have solar, and Brockett’s done an exemplary job getting the main power back. But we’ll freeze this winter, or starve, unless we get things organized.”

“And you’re just the man to organize it.”

Woodward gave that politician’s smile again, the kind where his warmth and mirth never made it past his nose. “I ran the county’s invasion preparations. I know everything about Frayville, what our resources are, how everything’s connected, and what skills we have. Who else?”

“Have fun getting people to listen to you,” I said.

“Part of that is doing the work,” Woodward said. “I have a fine team of volunteers checking warehouses and stores, building an inventory of what we have. I went to the police station today.”

I’d been to the station, and found its littered halls and slack-doored offices unbearably sad. “There’s nothing there to interest you.”

“Someone changed the access code on the police armory,” Woodward said. “Added an extra lock.”

“So?” I said.

“I need to check what’s left. Can’t have those weapons lying around loose.”

“They’re not loose,” I said. “I locked them up.”

“We had enough equipment here to fight a small war,” Woodward said. “We might need them for defense.”

“We fought that war,” I said. “We lost.”

Woodward’s smile dissolved. “We’re getting things back in shape around here. Have to make sure people don’t go hungry this winter. Have to be sure we can defend ourselves against whatever Absolute throws at us next.”

“Tell me, Woodward,” I said. “Have you ever heard of fire discipline?”

“Of course.”

“The armory still has firearms, yes. Serious firearms. And explosives. And flamethrowers.”

“That’s why we need them. So we can train a militia.”

“And who is going to train them?”

“I have someone—”

“No, you don’t,” I said. “You have a couple of retired soldiers who know how to shoot rifles. A flamethrower is totally different. Do you have any idea what can go wrong with one of those beasts?”

In the edge of my vision, Ceren’s face flushed. She kept her eyes on Woodward, though.

“We will need them,” Woodward snapped. “One day, you’ll be out going door-to-door and some dreg will come into town.”

“Dregs,” I said. “How many of these dregs have you even seen?”

“That’s not the point.”

“That’s exactly the point, Woodward,” I said. “I’ve burned down three houses this week. To kill what was inside. Something that had been human, but wasn’t anymore. Something that I couldn’t let out into the streets. While you’ve been trying to convince everyone that you’re still in charge, I’ve persuaded a couple dozen terrified people to leave their homes and eat something so they don’t go the same way.” My voice grew sharper than I intended. “I’m the one who’s taking care of what needs doing. So don’t go telling me I’m not doing my job.”

“You’re not the only one,” Woodward said through bared teeth. “We have—”

“You want those vets trained? Sure. Send them to me. If I think they can handle it, I’ll work something out. With them. But I’m not going to hand out that gear to any yahoo and let them burn down half of Frayville.”

“And in the meantime, you’re the only local cop,” Woodward said.

“I’m not a cop,” I said. “I’m a copy.” I stared into his eyes. “Exactly like you.”

Something behind his eyes cracked. For just a second, I saw past Woodward’s veneer of normality, glimpsing the screaming, gibbering terror behind it. I recognized that terror—it showed up in my own face every time I tried to sleep.

I caught motion at the bar. “Jack’s ready for us. I’m going to get dinner now,” I said. “I suggest you go find yourself a table and let my girls and I eat in peace.”

Alice’s chair scraped the floor. “I’ll give you a hand.” For the first time tonight, she didn’t sound like she was asking a question.

“I’ll hold our spot,” Ceren said.

I nodded at the girls, then glanced at Woodward. “You have a good night, now.”

Before he could speak, I turned and let Alice trail me to the bar. When we returned, weaving our way through the crowded tables carrying trays stacked with stew bowls and fresh-baked rolls, Woodward had retreated to his customary booth at the back of the bar, where his lackeys insulated him from us no-men.

Jack had cooked the meat until it fell apart at the touch of a spoon. You couldn’t tell it was last night’s roast pig, which had been recycled from the previous night’s barbeque. The bread was his usual fine, fluffy domes of pure carbohydrate goodness. There wasn’t any butter, but I tore off a chunk of roll and stabbed it into the thick, savory, vegetable-laden pork broth.

I’d eaten an entire roll that way when Alice said, “So, who was that?”

I swallowed. “His name is Lyle Woodward. You two did good with him, by the way.”

Ceren nodded. “We’ve got you covered. Now that he’s out, though, can you tell us why I was giving him the death glare?”

I drained an inch of water from my tall, clear plastic tumbler and set it back beside my aluminum spoon. “He—his original—was the local Building the Future rep. Washington sent him out here after the Australia bombing, even before we glassed South America. They sent someone to every county in the United States. He was supposed to get us ready for whatever came next.”

Alice looked at her stew. “Absolute.” I barely heard her fear-softened voice over the surrounding hubbub of conversations.

I nodded. “And he did the job. We built greenhouses before the weather carried the ash up here, got us through those cold summers and nuclear winter. Mined the beach. Water sterilization. Decentralized power and water. We got the official vehicles switched to diesel, clamped down on the gasoline supply to limit the scope of panic. It took three years, with winters lasting extra long and Absolute creeping up on us everywhere. We were as ready as we could be.”

“So what’s the problem?” Ceren asked. She kept her voice even quieter, but by choice rather than Alice’s fear.

“The problem is…” I sighed. “The problem is that he enjoys being the man in charge. And everything that comes with it. He not only had a gasoline card, he got himself one of those big SUVs to use it in. Said he needed it for official business, then showed up at restaurants with a girl half his age on each arm. He lived in this big house overlooking the Sand River. Everyone was putting in energy efficiency, spraying foam insulation over inside walls if nothing else, and he had these huge picture windows. We had families with thermostats set to fifty degrees in February, and he’s lounging around in his outdoor ten-person hot tub and throwing parties.”

I looked from Ceren’s intent face to Alice’s widened eyes. “It’s okay to come in and be the bad guy. It’s okay to be in charge. But you don’t eat steak every night while the people you’re supposed to be helping are trying to figure out how to stretch that box of mac-and-cheese to feed four kids.”

Ceren said, “He needs to have an accident. We’ll swear you were with us the whole time.”

Alice made herself smile. “I’ll bring the shovel.”

I snorted. “No, it’s not like that. You can’t let those people get their hooks into you, or next thing you’re either stuck out in the cold or helping him rip off someone else.” I lifted my spoon. Jack’s stew wasn’t as spicy as last week’s, but it had a rich, mellow flavor from long cooking. Was he running out of peppers? “You can’t try to get along, you have to let them know where they stand before they even start.” I dug my spoon back in. “And if this isn’t a fresh start, I don’t know what is.”

I’d just filled my mouth with shredded pork and carrots and broth when someone shouted “Help!”

A gawky, bony man in pristine mechanic’s overalls stood inside the front door. His hair was a shock of red, his eyes wide. “Is anyone a doctor? Please!”

“Stay here,” I said, jumping to my feet.

As far as I knew, we didn’t have a doctor. I’d had first aid training every year as part of my police training, but I didn’t know that first aid would do anything for us.

I bulled my way through the crowd. “Reamer,” I said.

Sweat ran down Ian Reamer’s gaunt, pale face. “In the truck.”