There’s no other way back to D’Ville. The only other bridge close by was blown up three years ago. The self-declared cotton baron of Louisiana—an immune man who took over several plantationsand the historic mansions on them after their owners died in the fairy emergence—destroyed it to get a leg up on his competition. Now, the only way to get cotton out of this part of Louisiana is via the river dock on Baron von Greedy’s property.
“Greed, greed, and more greed,” I mutter, narrowing my eyes as the dock’s main building comes into view.
The structure crouches in the shadow of a long vacant petrochemical plant and has a charming view of the barbed-wire fence the FCC installed on both sides of the river last year in hopes of deterring pirate attacks on the barges. But if you ignore the post-apocalyptic scenery, the facility is downright swanky. It’s about four thousand square feet, a three-story iron building with glass walls that sparkle in the sun. It’s big enough for half the town of Donaldsonville to live in, but houses only two men. I know the dudes who man the dock work long hours—punching in the commands for the robots who do all the loading and unloading of the ships that pass through—but do they deserve this kind of luxury? Simply because they won the immunity lottery?
It doesn’t seem right. But if the government didn’t pay the immune well, most of us would quit working for Uncle Sam and find someone willing to pay a better wage. There are independently owned companies doing business in the Delta, too, and they always need immune employees, especially ones who are qualified to do more than not get infected.
My premed degree has earned me cushy job offersfrom several private research facilities. I’ve turned them all down. I’m too lazy for the long hours, and the salaries were scandalous. I didn’t see how anything I’d be doing would be worth millions of dollars per year. Most people don’t have that problem. I’m definitely in the minority when it comes to feeling bad about scarfing down more than my fair share simply because I can get away with it.
It’s too easy to get away with it these days. With so many people dead and 95 percent of the fairy-infested states living in mortal fear, the immune can get away with murder.
Maybe even literally, in this case.
I wonder if the dock workers know that their black-market dealings led to at least one person’s death. I wonder if they would care if they did. After all, isn’t one life an acceptable price to pay when it comes to getting rich and living large?
“One life.” My foot eases off the gas and inspiration strikes like a Zeus-hurled lightning bolt to my brain.
Hitch’s friend wasn’t some random murder. He was killed because he knew too much. He was a threat that had to be eliminated for the safety of whatever shady business is going down in the cave, a threat serious enough for the high-ranking FBI traitor in charge to risk exposure to take him out.
To date, scientific observations of the Fey have shown them to be nonverbal, antisocial creatures incapable of complex thought. But what if that’s a smoke screen? What if the little bastards are waysmarter than we’ve given them credit for? What if they’ve been hiding in plain sight, using the fact that we underestimate them to their advantage, secretly planning some kind of fairy uprising?
If so, what humans don’t understand about them would be the fairies’ biggest strength. They wouldn’t tip their hand unless they had a very good reason, a serious threat that had to be eliminated.
Like, say, an immune woman with the ability to take them out with a thought.
Holy shit. I’ve been so busy trying not to think, I’ve missed the single most important aspect of what went down on the road.
The fairies lost. I beat them, with a highly effective, nontoxic weapon that might be able to succeed where chemical companies have failed. So far, the only pesticides capable of
“Greed, greed, and more greed,” I mutter, narrowing my eyes as the dock’s main building comes into view.
The structure crouches in the shadow of a long vacant petrochemical plant and has a charming view of the barbed-wire fence the FCC installed on both sides of the river last year in hopes of deterring pirate attacks on the barges. But if you ignore the post-apocalyptic scenery, the facility is downright swanky. It’s about four thousand square feet, a three-story iron building with glass walls that sparkle in the sun. It’s big enough for half the town of Donaldsonville to live in, but houses only two men. I know the dudes who man the dock work long hours—punching in the commands for the robots who do all the loading and unloading of the ships that pass through—but do they deserve this kind of luxury? Simply because they won the immunity lottery?
It doesn’t seem right. But if the government didn’t pay the immune well, most of us would quit working for Uncle Sam and find someone willing to pay a better wage. There are independently owned companies doing business in the Delta, too, and they always need immune employees, especially ones who are qualified to do more than not get infected.
My premed degree has earned me cushy job offersfrom several private research facilities. I’ve turned them all down. I’m too lazy for the long hours, and the salaries were scandalous. I didn’t see how anything I’d be doing would be worth millions of dollars per year. Most people don’t have that problem. I’m definitely in the minority when it comes to feeling bad about scarfing down more than my fair share simply because I can get away with it.
It’s too easy to get away with it these days. With so many people dead and 95 percent of the fairy-infested states living in mortal fear, the immune can get away with murder.
Maybe even literally, in this case.
I wonder if the dock workers know that their black-market dealings led to at least one person’s death. I wonder if they would care if they did. After all, isn’t one life an acceptable price to pay when it comes to getting rich and living large?
“One life.” My foot eases off the gas and inspiration strikes like a Zeus-hurled lightning bolt to my brain.
Hitch’s friend wasn’t some random murder. He was killed because he knew too much. He was a threat that had to be eliminated for the safety of whatever shady business is going down in the cave, a threat serious enough for the high-ranking FBI traitor in charge to risk exposure to take him out.
To date, scientific observations of the Fey have shown them to be nonverbal, antisocial creatures incapable of complex thought. But what if that’s a smoke screen? What if the little bastards are waysmarter than we’ve given them credit for? What if they’ve been hiding in plain sight, using the fact that we underestimate them to their advantage, secretly planning some kind of fairy uprising?
If so, what humans don’t understand about them would be the fairies’ biggest strength. They wouldn’t tip their hand unless they had a very good reason, a serious threat that had to be eliminated.
Like, say, an immune woman with the ability to take them out with a thought.
Holy shit. I’ve been so busy trying not to think, I’ve missed the single most important aspect of what went down on the road.
The fairies lost. I beat them, with a highly effective, nontoxic weapon that might be able to succeed where chemical companies have failed. So far, the only pesticides capable of
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