Part 8 (2/2)

Windows moved the fork closer, and the old man leaned forward and opened his mouth. He chewed furiously and swallowed, and opened his mouth for more. Windows obliged. The poor old man was starving, a sensation she remembered well from her first few weeks on the road right after the outbreak. It dawned on her that no one had ever fed him before. Oh sure, Debra and the others had brought him his food. With his deformed hands he couldn't eat, which explained his appearance and his soiled clothes. She couldn't imagine what h.e.l.l he must have gone through these past several months.

Windows noticed a single tear sliding down his cheek, leaving a grimy path through the dirt.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

DeWitt stood in the center of the doorway. ”We need you outside.”

Robson set down his end of the desk that he and Jennifer were moving out of a windowless office to convert into living quarters for Dravko and Tibor. ”Is there a problem?”

”Not yet. We have company.”

Robson reached for his AA-12. ”Rotters or gang members?”

”Neither.” DeWitt stepped aside and held open the door. ”Come see for yourself.”

Robson and Jennifer followed DeWitt outside into the parking lot. A single figure approached the compound from the same direction they had driven in earlier that day. Robson a.s.sessed him as approximately thirty years of age, with an average height and build. He wore a hunter's camouflage jacket and matching pants, plus a black baseball cap with the Boston Police logo emblazoned across the front. A sniper rifle hung over his left shoulder. The visitor walked down the center of the road so everyone could see him, approaching at a slow pace so as not to pose a threat. By his demeanor and actions, Robson pegged him as a cop. That meant he probably represented no immediate danger. If he did, then his skill level would outmatch everyone except Robson.

Out of the corner of his eye, Robson noticed Jennifer place a hand on her holstered Magnum and move off to the right to provide cover fire if necessary. When the others saw this, they also spread out, forming a phalanx around the visitor. The visitor paused. He spread his arms to the sides with the palms out, showing that he held no weapons.

”I'm not here to start trouble,” said the visitor. The ”r” in start sounded more like an ”h,” signifying a Boston accent.

”Good,” said Robson. ”Because that's the last thing we need. Put your weapon on the ground and slowly approach.”

”Sorry, I'm not going to disarm myself.”

”Then I guess we'll just have to shoot you.”

”I doubt that.”

Man, this guy has b.a.l.l.s, thought Robson. ”And why won't I?”

”You're a fellow cop, so I a.s.sume you won't shoot me without good reason.”

”Stay where you are and don't move.” Robson approached the visitor, watching for any sudden movement. The visitor looked relaxed.

When Robson got to within ten feet of the visitor, the latter said, ”If you're planning on frisking me, I have a Colt .45 strapped in a shoulder holster and a hunting knife lodged against my back.”

”Show me.”

The visitor slowly reached for the flaps of his jacket. Robson heard the others raise their weapons. Without taking his eyes off the visitor, Robson waved his hand in a downward motion, ordering his people to stand down. The visitor clasped the flaps of his jacket and opened the ends, and then turned in a circle. Sure enough, he wore a Colt .45 strapped into a shoulder holster and had a hunting knife lodged against his back.

When the visitor faced forward again, he let the flaps of his jacket drop and again extended his hands with the palms open. ”Are we okay?”

”For now.” Robson stepped forward and extended his hand. ”I'm Mike Robson, the leader of this group.”

”Neal Simmons. Consider me the local welcoming committee.”

”I a.s.sume there are more of you?”

Simmons nodded.

”And I a.s.sume at least one of them has a sniper rifle trained on my head ready to take me out if we moved against you?”

”I knew a fellow cop would have figured that out. No offense.”

Robson chuckled. ”I would have done the same thing. How did you know I was a cop?”

”We've been watching you all day. You give orders like someone used to commanding authority. The clincher was when you approached me like I was an armed suspect.”

Impressive, thought Robson. ”What can I do for you?”

”We wanted to invite you to have dinner.” He p.r.o.nounced it ”dinnah.”

”Are you serious?” Robson must have said it louder than he meant to because he heard the others raise their weapons again. He shouted, ”Put those things away!”

”Thanks,” said Simmons.

”Don't mind them. We've been on the road so long we're all a bit jumpy.”

”Well, the invitation to dinner is still on. It's been awhile since we've talked to anyone, and we would love to know what's going on out there.”

”I don't know. There's still-”

Simmons cut him off. ”I can offer you a hot meal and a cold beer.”

”What time do you want us there?”

Simmons wasn't kidding about a hot meal. Robson could not remember the last time he ate this good. Dinner consisted of vegetables and venison, real venison cooked over an open fire rather than dried jerky. And cold beer. Honest to goodness, cold beer. He hadn't had one of those since before the apocalypse. By the end of his second bottle, he felt his thinking getting fuzzy, the effect of not having a drink for so long. But d.a.m.n, did it taste good. After everything they had gone through the past few weeks, this return to normalcy, even if only brief and surreal, was refres.h.i.+ng.

Robson focused his attention on the others. The survivors of Fort McClary sat around the dining room table of the church rectory, eight in total. Two weeks ago, before that fateful mission to Site R, they had numbered more than fifty. Now his numbers were half that, and most of his people had been sent off on a yacht to Omaha. He tried not to dwell on it.

”You have a sweet deal going on here,” said Robson as he speared carrots onto the end of his fork. ”We haven't seen anything like this before.”

Simmons nodded his thanks. ”We lucked into this.”

”We” referred to Isaac Wayans, Simmons' partner. He stood over six feet tall and weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds, all of it muscle. Wayans wore his Boston Police BDUs. He hardly said a word during dinner, eating his meal with a sullen expression that furrowed his bald pate.

When his buddy refused to respond, Simmons patted him on the shoulder. ”This town is so small, we're the only ones who care about it. The general store is the most significant spot, and the locals emptied that out before they left.”

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