sometime. Her belly growled, reminding her. Deandra
grabbed up a loaf, pulled off a large chunk, shoved it in her
mouth, and spat it back out. They’d changed their recipe or
something. It tasted worse than sawdust might.
Fine. She’d eat later. First she had to find
out what was happening, who were the perpetrators, and how many
there were. She entered a hall containing more light than the
others. She sniffed. It smelled like they were burning something
rotten in the fire pit. It wasn’t wood. The stench grew stronger
and more pungent the closer she got to the big gathering room, the
one with the funnel fireplace where Edna had been telling spooky
stories.
A lifetime ago.
“What the hell do you think you’re
doing?”
That sounded like their new friend, Len. He
didn’t sound nonchalant and self-assured. He sounded angry.
Frustrated.
“Len. Len. Len. I can call you Len, can’t I?
Doesn’t everyone?”
The voice sounded feeble. Old. And a lot
closer. If that was the perpetrator, it sounded easy to take him.
Deandra reached the end of the wall and hugged the edge. Held her
breath and waited, listening with a sense of hearing that exceeded
her wildest imagination. If she concentrated, she could hear actual
sounds of breathing. Some bits of sobbing. Sniffing.
Unreal.
She had super powers? She
watched the opposite wall for shadows. They shouldn’t have lit the
fire. It gave her shadows to work with. And then she remembered the
makeup compact. And the mirror.
“Hell no, Lord General Beethan. You can call
me Mister Griggins.”
“Ah. You know my name. And our mission. Good.
Very well. Mister Griggins it is. Want to cut through all the
nonsense... or you want to do this the hard way?”
“There are women and children here!”
“That is hardly my fault.”
“Assholes.”
There was the sound of guns getting cocked.
She estimated ten. At least. Shotguns by the sounds of it. The
effect was intimidating and meant to be. Deandra slid the mirrored
compact from her pocket, clicked it open with one hand. Held it
out, tipped toward the room beyond.
“Name calling is not necessary, Mister
Griggins. And completely unwarranted. You know why we’re here and
you know what we want.”
“Says who?”
“Why be stubborn? We know he’s around. And we
want him. So what say you just give him over and save a lot of
useless bickering... and you some skin.”
There was a stifled cry following that. It
didn’t come from a male. It came from the chunk of shadows at the
edge of the wall. That was probably her group. And maybe the girls
from last night. Deandra caught their reflection in her mirror.
Just as she thought. It was the entire 2100 Radical Society group,
their hostess Rosa and her staff, and eight young girls. All
huddled on the far side of the room.
Deandra moved the mirror, picking up eight.
No... ten. No. She counted thirteen. They were all large,
fit-looking men. All dressed in some tan shaded camo material. All
sporting crossbows and guns. All standing with feet shoulder-width
apart, guns at the ready. Looking extremely efficient. Something
the 2100 Radical Society would likely never achieve. At least, not
while she belonged to it.
Preparing to survive the end of society was
no longer on Deandra’s agenda. Not anymore. She was going to get a
proposal of marriage that she’d accept, she’d become Missus Grimm
Bradley, and she was going to be the most ecstatically happy wife
ever.
At least, that’s what she planned to happen,
once she got out of this predicament.
The mirror caught a bit of light, splashed it
on one of the men’s faces, gaining his instant glance. Deandra
leapt for the end of the hall and then jumped right up into the
crossbeam of wood laced through the ceiling. And clung. Without
expending one bit of effort. She watched as the guy brought another
fellow with him to check where she’d just been standing, their
fingers resting on triggers, their eyes alert and watchful. They
went to the
grabbed up a loaf, pulled off a large chunk, shoved it in her
mouth, and spat it back out. They’d changed their recipe or
something. It tasted worse than sawdust might.
Fine. She’d eat later. First she had to find
out what was happening, who were the perpetrators, and how many
there were. She entered a hall containing more light than the
others. She sniffed. It smelled like they were burning something
rotten in the fire pit. It wasn’t wood. The stench grew stronger
and more pungent the closer she got to the big gathering room, the
one with the funnel fireplace where Edna had been telling spooky
stories.
A lifetime ago.
“What the hell do you think you’re
doing?”
That sounded like their new friend, Len. He
didn’t sound nonchalant and self-assured. He sounded angry.
Frustrated.
“Len. Len. Len. I can call you Len, can’t I?
Doesn’t everyone?”
The voice sounded feeble. Old. And a lot
closer. If that was the perpetrator, it sounded easy to take him.
Deandra reached the end of the wall and hugged the edge. Held her
breath and waited, listening with a sense of hearing that exceeded
her wildest imagination. If she concentrated, she could hear actual
sounds of breathing. Some bits of sobbing. Sniffing.
Unreal.
She had super powers? She
watched the opposite wall for shadows. They shouldn’t have lit the
fire. It gave her shadows to work with. And then she remembered the
makeup compact. And the mirror.
“Hell no, Lord General Beethan. You can call
me Mister Griggins.”
“Ah. You know my name. And our mission. Good.
Very well. Mister Griggins it is. Want to cut through all the
nonsense... or you want to do this the hard way?”
“There are women and children here!”
“That is hardly my fault.”
“Assholes.”
There was the sound of guns getting cocked.
She estimated ten. At least. Shotguns by the sounds of it. The
effect was intimidating and meant to be. Deandra slid the mirrored
compact from her pocket, clicked it open with one hand. Held it
out, tipped toward the room beyond.
“Name calling is not necessary, Mister
Griggins. And completely unwarranted. You know why we’re here and
you know what we want.”
“Says who?”
“Why be stubborn? We know he’s around. And we
want him. So what say you just give him over and save a lot of
useless bickering... and you some skin.”
There was a stifled cry following that. It
didn’t come from a male. It came from the chunk of shadows at the
edge of the wall. That was probably her group. And maybe the girls
from last night. Deandra caught their reflection in her mirror.
Just as she thought. It was the entire 2100 Radical Society group,
their hostess Rosa and her staff, and eight young girls. All
huddled on the far side of the room.
Deandra moved the mirror, picking up eight.
No... ten. No. She counted thirteen. They were all large,
fit-looking men. All dressed in some tan shaded camo material. All
sporting crossbows and guns. All standing with feet shoulder-width
apart, guns at the ready. Looking extremely efficient. Something
the 2100 Radical Society would likely never achieve. At least, not
while she belonged to it.
Preparing to survive the end of society was
no longer on Deandra’s agenda. Not anymore. She was going to get a
proposal of marriage that she’d accept, she’d become Missus Grimm
Bradley, and she was going to be the most ecstatically happy wife
ever.
At least, that’s what she planned to happen,
once she got out of this predicament.
The mirror caught a bit of light, splashed it
on one of the men’s faces, gaining his instant glance. Deandra
leapt for the end of the hall and then jumped right up into the
crossbeam of wood laced through the ceiling. And clung. Without
expending one bit of effort. She watched as the guy brought another
fellow with him to check where she’d just been standing, their
fingers resting on triggers, their eyes alert and watchful. They
went to the
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