“Or they’ve been eating only a little bit here and there.” Aidan hefted a jar of pickled brussels sprouts. “Man, I used to hate this shit, but now? No problem. We got to tear up the rest of the house. We oughta tear up all the houses, X ’em off.”
“Wait, wait, not so fast.” Greg was getting dizzy. The urge to crack the seal of that jar of cherries was nearly overwhelming. “This is cool, but we came for the cat.” What am I saying?
“Screw the cat.” Lucian fished out a mason jar swimming with ruby-red plums. “Man, we could—”
“Don’t even think about it.” Greg replaced the cherries, although letting go took effort. “Come on, hand them over.”
“Hold on.” Lucian cocked his elbow, holding his jar out of reach, leaving Greg with air. “Don’t we get a say?”
“No.” Greg’s stomach fluttered. From the knot of frustration on Pru’s face, he wasn’t sure this wouldn’t end up being four against one. Maybe even five, if you counted doddering old Henry. “Listen, I understand, but we can’t. It’s not fair to everyone else.”
“Fuck fair.” In the gloom, Aidan’s tats looked like bugs that had chewed their way out of his cheeks. “Dude, I’m hungry. We keep quiet, no one has to know.”
“Old woman’ll know,” Lucian rumbled.
“We can do something about that,” Aidan said.
“No,” Greg repeated. “The only thing we’re doing is turning this stuff in.”
“What if I don’t?” Aidan said. “You can’t make me.”
The words were so like a five-year-old’s, Greg had to bite his cheek. Just get one of them to hand over a jar. “We can’t go there. Come on, guys.” He held out his hands to Pru, who, he thought, would relent first. “Hand it over.”
After what seemed a very long second, Pru pushed the jar into Greg’s hands. “Here,” Pru said. “Take the damn thing before I accidentally break it on purpose.”
Slotting the jar back, Greg tilted his head toward Aidan and Lucian. “You, too. You know the rules. We share food. That’s the way it has to be.”
Aidan’s head swiveled to Lucian, whose shark eyes ticked to Pru and then back, weighing the options. A moment later, Lucian shrugged and silently passed over his jar.
“Fuck.” Aidan tossed his brussels sprouts in an underhand pitch that Greg fumbled and nearly dropped. “Asshole. Hope you fucking choke.”
“Jarvis?” Heart banging, Greg looked up at the old man. “Come on.”
“It’s a jar of peaches.” Jarvis’s tongue flickered over his lips. “No one has to know.”
“I’m with you, brother,” Aidan put in.
“I’m seventy-fucking-five years old,” Jarvis said, and then his face knotted. “Council cares more about you. Spared eat better. You’ll get it all.”
“Hey, fuck that, Jarvis,” Lucian said. “I’m scraping empty.”
“Yeah,” Pru chimed in. “We Spared are doing so great.”
“All I’m asking for is a lousy jar of peaches, for God’s sake,” Jarvis said.
“Jarvis.” Greg swallowed around the stone in his throat. “We’re all hungry. But you know the rules.”
“Rules.” Jarvis’s eyes narrowed. “Real easy for you when the rules break your way. Guess that’s what comes with being the Council’s private pets.”
“Whoa, who you calling a pet?” Aidan said. “We gave up our food, too, you know.”
“Yeah, but why?” Jarvis rifled a glare at Greg. “Because the Council gives you the authority? Here we’ve supported them for years. We gave up on our grandkids. We let them get rounded up and shot without ever being given the chance to get better, come back to us—and now we’re supposed to starve, too, to save you? Kids that aren’t our blood, not our family? Hell with that.”
“Okay, wait.” Pru put his hands up, palms out. “Let’s all just cool off, okay?”
“What if I don’t want to cool off ?” Jarvis’s eyes hadn’t left Greg. “What if I’m done taking orders from the Council? From punks?”
“Hey.” Lucian’s forehead furrowed so deeply the scabs on the dome of his skull bunched. “Watch the punk shit.”
The pantry was, suddenly, very cramped, and much too dark, and he’d left his rifle in the kitchen. So had Jarvis, but he also carried a pistol in a paddle holster. Greg flicked a glance to the old man’s waist, then wished he hadn’t given himself away like that.
Jarvis read the move. “Afraid I’m going to take a shot?”
Before Greg could think of the right answer—was there one?— Pru said, “Seeing as how I’m right behind you, Jarvis, that would be a real bad idea.”
“You got a Ruger, kid.” Jarvis cracked a laugh. His Adam’s apple wobbled in his turkey neck. “Punch right through. Blast me, you blast him.”
There was the sound of metal sliding over plastic, and then Greg saw Jarvis’s back stiffen. “Yeah, but this don’t have bullets,” Aidan said, and he must’ve pressed the tip of his knife just a touch more into Jarvis’s neck, because the old man gasped. “I did this once in bio, to this big honking bullfrog.”
“I remember that lab,” Lucian said. “Kind of a rush, the way the frog spazzed?”
“No one’s pithing frogs, and no one’s blasting anyone. Now I’m just picking up Lucian’s knife here, okay? Everyone be cool.” Slowly unfolding himself from the floor, Greg raised his right palm out while he held the machete’s blade in his left and prayed Lucian didn’t grab it so quickly he lost a few fingers in the bargain. Beyond, he could see Pru, his Ruger Mini-14 holding steady on the back of Jarvis’s head, and Aidan, whose lips were drawn into a predatory grin Greg knew all too well. Lucian only looked thoughtful, like all the gears were clicking away in there, all the angles being considered. That was somehow even scarier.
“Here’s what we’re going to do.” His jaw was so tight, Greg could barely get the words past his teeth. “Screw the cat, okay? We pack up this stuff and then we all leave, together. We take everything to the food stores and then we don’t have to worry about it anymore, all right?”
“Out of sight, out of mind?” Jarvis gave a bitter cackle, like the snap of bad ice. Didn’t sound—or look—much like a gobble-gobble now. “You think it’s that easy?”
“Hey.” Aidan’s teeth showed in a snarl. “You threatening us poor little punks?”
“Aidan, put the knife away.” Greg’s eyes slid to Pru. “You, too.” After a long second, Pru’s elbows broke, and Greg heard the click of the Ruger’s safety. “Aidan,” Greg said again.
“Yeah, yeah,” Aidan said, but from the way Jarvis’s cheek twitched, Greg thought the little rat-creep still managed a cut.
“Okay,” Greg said. “We need something to carry this stuff. Pru, you and Jarvis go look for some pillowcases.”
“How do we know you won’t slip a jar into your pocket or saddlebags while we’re gone?” Jarvis said. “Why should we trust you?”
“Because you can. Jarvis, really, we’re on the same side,” Greg said.
“Yeah?” Jarvis said. “Which side is that?”
43
Move! The fine down on Sarah’s neck bristled with an electric surge of terror. Something coming, move, move! “No!” Gasping, she bolted like a spooked rabbit, springing for the storage room door, keys tinkling to the Formica, but no time to search for them, just enough to get away! The door crashed open with an enormous bang. As Sarah bulleted through, she felt fingers whisking through her hair. With a wild yelp, she spun on her heel and lunged for the door to clap it shut. Her flashlight jittered crazily, ripping wide gashes, cutting shelves out of the dark before she lost her grip. The light clattered to the floor, the orange spray winking out. Blind now, she swam through the dark, made a wild grab, felt the bite of wood, and then she was muscling the door home with a solid clap.
Safe, she was safe. Chest heaving, she leaned back, bracing the door with her body, expecting to feel the thud. But nothing happened. No bang. No battering of a fist. No kicks.
Barricade the door. Without the keys, she couldn’t lock it, and this might be her only chance. She knew the storage area well enough to navigate in the dark: freestanding, largely barren metal shelves right and left. The only shelves with any food at all were on her left. So grab a shelf off to her right, haul it in front of the door. Unless she’d imagined the whole thing. She pulled in a screaming breath, held it, listened over the clamor of her heart. The air smelled, very faintly, of peanut butter, but she heard nothing. So, nerves? No, she’d felt something grab for her hair. Unless that had been a phantom terror, too.
Felt so real. Maybe only her mind playing tricks? Because I’m stressed, starved, exhausted . . .
What to do now was the question. She could stay here, barricade the door. But the Coleman was on. Eventually the ice would melt, boil off. Forget the waste of fuel; the flame would burn a hole through that pot and then they’d have a fire.
She listened again, pressing her ear against the keyhole. Still nothing. If she decided to leave, go back out there, she would need light. Which meant retrieving her flashlight from the floor and hoping to God that it worked. Sarah dropped to her hands and knees. Grit bit through her jeans. Okay, which way? She’d been spinning for the door when she lost the flashlight. From the sound the metal tube made as it struck the floor and then rolled, she thought it might be ahead, at roughly ten o’clock. Moving carefully, she swept her trembling right hand over the cold floor. She kept expecting something to skitter across her skin. A spider, maybe, but no self-respecting spider would set up shop here, and it was too cold besides. Her fingers skimmed more dirt—a lot of it, and that was so strange because Tori was such a stickler about neatness. But Cutter had interrupted Tori this afternoon. So she might not have swept here at all.
