Zypher walked over and slammed his shoulder into the portal. As the metal panel broke free, the lock splintered into pieces, littering the floor of the darkened interior beyond.
The air that greeted him was cold, wet, and smelled like various strains of mold and decay. But the oppressive blackness that surrounded him was good news.
They had no food. Only the weapons and ammunition on their backs. And this was an iffy shelter at best.
It was just like the good old days.
Save for one rather large and noticeable absence.
As his fellow bastards filed in and found places on over-turned crates and stretches of countertops littered with plastic containers, rats scuttled out of the way, squeaking their curses.
“Upon nightfall, we shall return unto the farmhouse, pack up, and determine our course.”
Zypher chose a section of floor by the door, wedging himself into a crevice between shelvings such that he was propped up with his autoloader in hand and ready to discharge.
In his long history as a soldier, there had been many days such as this, his body required to catch its sleep on the fly as he rested with one ear and one eye open. And before all that, as a student of the Bloodletter, he had feared for his life when the sun had risen and the trainees had been forced to retire unto the caved war camp until nightfall.
This was a vacation compared to what he and the others had endured.
Closing his lids, he found himself wondering how Xcor had died. And where that troubled soul of his had ended up.
Some questions were destined to remain unanswered . . . and it was strange for him to discover that he most certainly missed their leader—though he found that difficult to admit. Xcor had been as fearsome as the Bloodletter at times; yet his absence was like that of a limb or a crucial organ.
Habits died harder than mortals, however.
And this ennui, tied as it was to centuries of cruelty, was hardly a recommendation for the male’s soul.
THIRTY-SIX
“Yes, of course. I will get a message to the buyers before the closing next week. Yes, the walk-through is scheduled for Thursday at eight a.m. Is that still convenient? Very good. My pleasure. Good-bye.”
Jo hung up the phone, made a note in the client’s file, and then checked her personal cell.
She couldn’t possibly have read the text right. The damn thing was from Bill:
You played me well, but not for long. You should have tried this with someone who has no research skills.
What the . . . ? They had parted the night before on good terms, heading back to his car when her sense that they were being watched had become too overwhelming for her to ignore. The plan had been for them to meet up at lunch and head over to the school campus again.
She hit him back. What are you talking about?
Returning her phone to the drawer, she tried to look busy as real estate agents walked back and forth in front of her desk without acknowledging her. Which was a good thing. If they stopped to talk to her, it was usually because they were upset about microwave etiquette in the breakroom, had an IT issue she couldn’t help them with, or were acting out their frustration with the current less-than-robust seller’s market.
Meanwhile, Bryant had been out all morning, but he had been busy with his phone. He’d sent her fifteen texts, only half of which had been office related. The others had had a strange tone to them: He’d wanted to know why she’d left at seven last night. When she’d replied that he’d told her she was free to head out, he’d asked where she’d gone. When she’d told him that she’d headed straight home . . .
He’d replied, Are you sure about that?
Which had been bizarre—
A rattling sounded inside her desk and she ripped open the drawer. Accepting the call that had made the phone vibrate, she repeated, “What are you talking about?”
Bill laughed with an edge. “You didn’t tell me who your parents were. Receptionist, my ass.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re Phillie and Chance Early’s kid. Their only daughter—I’m sorry—heir.”
She closed her eyes and sucked in a curse. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Look, if you’re trying to get your little Blair Witch Project wannabe a traditional media boost, you’re going to have to find someone else to be your bullshit artist, okay? I don’t have time for this.”
Jo switched her phone to her other ear, as if that would change the gist of the conversation. “I don’t understand—”
“I asked you last night if your buddy, Dougie, had the kind of resources to stage something like all that trampled landscape. You said no—and conveniently left out the fact that you do. With your kind of money, you could CGI the crap out of that footage on YouTube, pay people to rough up the center of campus, and then, wow, hey, you hit up a CCJ reporter, hoping he’s stupid enough to buy into it all and get you some local coverage. Next thing you know, the piece gets picked up by the HuffPost and BuzzFeed—and then it’s Deadline announcing a movie deal about the “vampires” of Caldwell. How perfectly organic.”
“That isn’t at all what—”
“Don’t call me again—”
“I’m adopted, okay? And I haven’t seen those two people you call my ‘parents’ in at least a year. I don’t identify as theirs any more than they support me, and if you want me to show you proof of how small my bank account is, fine—I’m happy to show you my pathetic monthly statement. I asked you what you thought about that stuff on the Net because I’m trying to figure it out myself. Allow me to assure you, however, that none of the Brownswick footage is the result of me writing any checks to anybody. So how about you do more than a cursory job at investigating me before you leap to conclusions and jump down my throat. Thanks. Bye.”
The air that greeted him was cold, wet, and smelled like various strains of mold and decay. But the oppressive blackness that surrounded him was good news.
They had no food. Only the weapons and ammunition on their backs. And this was an iffy shelter at best.
It was just like the good old days.
Save for one rather large and noticeable absence.
As his fellow bastards filed in and found places on over-turned crates and stretches of countertops littered with plastic containers, rats scuttled out of the way, squeaking their curses.
“Upon nightfall, we shall return unto the farmhouse, pack up, and determine our course.”
Zypher chose a section of floor by the door, wedging himself into a crevice between shelvings such that he was propped up with his autoloader in hand and ready to discharge.
In his long history as a soldier, there had been many days such as this, his body required to catch its sleep on the fly as he rested with one ear and one eye open. And before all that, as a student of the Bloodletter, he had feared for his life when the sun had risen and the trainees had been forced to retire unto the caved war camp until nightfall.
This was a vacation compared to what he and the others had endured.
Closing his lids, he found himself wondering how Xcor had died. And where that troubled soul of his had ended up.
Some questions were destined to remain unanswered . . . and it was strange for him to discover that he most certainly missed their leader—though he found that difficult to admit. Xcor had been as fearsome as the Bloodletter at times; yet his absence was like that of a limb or a crucial organ.
Habits died harder than mortals, however.
And this ennui, tied as it was to centuries of cruelty, was hardly a recommendation for the male’s soul.
THIRTY-SIX
“Yes, of course. I will get a message to the buyers before the closing next week. Yes, the walk-through is scheduled for Thursday at eight a.m. Is that still convenient? Very good. My pleasure. Good-bye.”
Jo hung up the phone, made a note in the client’s file, and then checked her personal cell.
She couldn’t possibly have read the text right. The damn thing was from Bill:
You played me well, but not for long. You should have tried this with someone who has no research skills.
What the . . . ? They had parted the night before on good terms, heading back to his car when her sense that they were being watched had become too overwhelming for her to ignore. The plan had been for them to meet up at lunch and head over to the school campus again.
She hit him back. What are you talking about?
Returning her phone to the drawer, she tried to look busy as real estate agents walked back and forth in front of her desk without acknowledging her. Which was a good thing. If they stopped to talk to her, it was usually because they were upset about microwave etiquette in the breakroom, had an IT issue she couldn’t help them with, or were acting out their frustration with the current less-than-robust seller’s market.
Meanwhile, Bryant had been out all morning, but he had been busy with his phone. He’d sent her fifteen texts, only half of which had been office related. The others had had a strange tone to them: He’d wanted to know why she’d left at seven last night. When she’d replied that he’d told her she was free to head out, he’d asked where she’d gone. When she’d told him that she’d headed straight home . . .
He’d replied, Are you sure about that?
Which had been bizarre—
A rattling sounded inside her desk and she ripped open the drawer. Accepting the call that had made the phone vibrate, she repeated, “What are you talking about?”
Bill laughed with an edge. “You didn’t tell me who your parents were. Receptionist, my ass.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re Phillie and Chance Early’s kid. Their only daughter—I’m sorry—heir.”
She closed her eyes and sucked in a curse. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Look, if you’re trying to get your little Blair Witch Project wannabe a traditional media boost, you’re going to have to find someone else to be your bullshit artist, okay? I don’t have time for this.”
Jo switched her phone to her other ear, as if that would change the gist of the conversation. “I don’t understand—”
“I asked you last night if your buddy, Dougie, had the kind of resources to stage something like all that trampled landscape. You said no—and conveniently left out the fact that you do. With your kind of money, you could CGI the crap out of that footage on YouTube, pay people to rough up the center of campus, and then, wow, hey, you hit up a CCJ reporter, hoping he’s stupid enough to buy into it all and get you some local coverage. Next thing you know, the piece gets picked up by the HuffPost and BuzzFeed—and then it’s Deadline announcing a movie deal about the “vampires” of Caldwell. How perfectly organic.”
“That isn’t at all what—”
“Don’t call me again—”
“I’m adopted, okay? And I haven’t seen those two people you call my ‘parents’ in at least a year. I don’t identify as theirs any more than they support me, and if you want me to show you proof of how small my bank account is, fine—I’m happy to show you my pathetic monthly statement. I asked you what you thought about that stuff on the Net because I’m trying to figure it out myself. Allow me to assure you, however, that none of the Brownswick footage is the result of me writing any checks to anybody. So how about you do more than a cursory job at investigating me before you leap to conclusions and jump down my throat. Thanks. Bye.”
