"Whoever cleaned out this place did a thorough job."

Jennifer met him at the end of the aisle. "Are we making Gilmanton our new camp?"

"Just until we figure out a way to get Windows back. Then we'll find someplace more secure." He motioned toward the front door. "Come on. Let's help DeWitt and the others check out the construction company and get settled in."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

The hand slid up Windows' back and cupped her shoulder, squeezing gently. Her eyes popped open as she jolted out of her sleep. A cold shiver shot down her spine and her skin crawled under the touch. She felt her v.a.g.i.n.a clench. She'd already had s.e.x with Meat twice tonight. The first time, she had woken up to find her pants down around her knees with him on top of her. Then, a few hours later, he had roused her and demanded a b.l.o.w. .j.o.b. Christ knew what he wanted now. Swallowing hard to force down the bile rising in her throat, she rolled over to face the latest indignity.

Debra knelt beside her. "How are you doing?"

"How do you think I'm doing?" Windows sat up and pulled the end of the sleeping bag across her chest, holding it tight against her. "He raped me twice last night. And Jesus Christ, doesn't he ever bathe? He smelled so bad it gagged me."

"Hygiene is not a priority around here." Debra stood up. "Besides, last night was better than the alternative."

Windows' face flushed. "That's easy for you to say. I'm the one who took over being his play toy while you got a break."

"Not for long. Meat will soon get bored and want to do us both at once." Debra wrapped an arm around her daughter, hugging her close. Her tone became hard and angry. "I went through the same thing you did my first night here, only Cindy was made to watch the entire time. So don't lecture me about how bad you have it."

"Sorry."

"Forget about it." Debra rubbed her daughter's head, and then looked over at Windows. "Come on. We all have ch.o.r.es to do around here. I got you a.s.signed to work the kitchen detail with us. It's the best job available."

"Why's that?" Windows rolled on to her knees and began folding the sleeping bag.

"It's not that difficult. You have to prepare three meals a day, which is challenging considering how limited the food supplies are. More importantly, there are four of us in the kitchen most of the time. You'll make the fifth."

"Safety in numbers?"

Debra nodded.

"And we can sneak food," said Windows trying to lighten the mood.

"Trust me, you won't want to sneak any of what we serve here."

Five minutes later, the three girls reached the "kitchen", an empty storage unit facing the northern wall of the compound. Outside the open sliding door, a large pot hung by a chain from a tripod, with embers from a dead fire piled up underneath. One woman, a blonde in worn and dirty jeans, swept the ashes into a dustpan while a brunette with short-cropped, badly-cut hair poured water into the pot and cleaned it. Along one wall inside the unit sat a fifty-five-gallon drum filled with dirty water. A teenage girl stood in front of it, taking a soiled dish, pushing it beneath the surface, and wiping it clean with her hand. When she pulled out the dish, she flicked off the excess water and used a towel almost as dirty as the water to dry it.

Debra stepped into the middle of the women. "Girls, this is Windows. She'll be joining us on kitchen detail."

The brunette glanced up. "So, this is Meat's new wh.o.r.e?"

Windows bristled, but Debra interceded. "We all do what we have to in order to survive."

The brunette huffed and went back to cleaning.

Debra turned her back on the woman and spoke to Windows, gesturing behind her to the brunette. "The pleasant one here is Tracey. That's Karen." She pointed to the blonde sweeping the ashes, and then to the teenager cleaning the dishes. "And that's Lisa. Follow me."

The two stepped inside the container unit. Against the rear wall sat a stockpile of boxes of rations. Windows read the labels. Almost everything came in cans, from luncheon meats, tuna fish, beans, and chili up to a variety of fruits and vegetables. A few cartons contained packages of jerky.

"This is all you have for rations?" asked Windows.

"It's all we have left. We went through the perishables within the first week, and all of the frozen foods shortly after. Every time the raiding parties go out foraging, they bring back as many canned goods as they can find. The past two months they've come back empty. Everything within a forty mile radius has either been cleaned out by us or someone else, or it's in one of the big towns where there are too many deaders to get it. At the rate we're going, we'll be out of food in a month."

"Then what happens?"

Debra shrugged and looked away. She picked up a metal plate that held a pile of baked beans and two strips of beef jerky, and handed it to Windows. "Since we're done here, you get to feed our special guest."

"Special guest?"

"The creepy man," whispered Cindy.

"He's not creepy," Debra gently admonished. "He's just old."

"I don't understand," said Windows.

Debra motioned for Windows to follow. They walked down to the end of the compound to the last unit in the far corner. The words KEEP OUT were written on the door in red paint. A padlock kept the sliding door secured to the frame. Debra bent down, removed a set of keys from her pocket, and opened it. Sliding the lock out of the ground mounting, she placed it to one side and lifted up the door halfway. When Windows didn't move, she motioned inside. "Go ahead."

Windows bent down and ducked under, and Debra closed the door behind her.

This unit was even more Spartan than her own living quarters, which said a lot. The "furniture" consisted of a dirty sleeping bag crumpled up in one corner and a bucket in the opposite. The only light came from a battery-operated lantern placed in the center of the floor, its beam so dull that it barely lit the corners. A heavy stench of urine and s.h.i.t permeated the room. She a.s.sumed the odor came from the bucket, which must have served as a toilet.

A raspy voice came out of nowhere. "h.e.l.lo."

Windows spun around, searching for the person a.s.sociated with the voice. Fear threatened to overwhelm her, and she fought back the urge to scream. Instead, she prepared to fight, fueling it with her rage, rage that came from Debra having set her up. Windows would deal with her if she got out of here alive. Right now, her eyes darted around the unit, but she couldn't see into the corners because of the dark.

"I didn't mean to startle you."

Something stirred inside the sleeping bag. One of the flaps fell to the side, revealing a haggard old man sitting underneath. She had not noticed him at first because his clothes appeared as threadbare and filthy as the sleeping bag. Long, white, unwashed hair hung in clumps off his head and draped across his shoulder, with several loose strands sticking against his scraggly beard. His features were drawn and gaunt. She could hardly see his eyes between the dark circles under them and the lack of light, but they mirrored a broken and defeated soul. The fingers on both his hands twisted in unnatural positions and curled in against the palms at awkward angles. Placing his deformed hands on the ground, he struggled to sit upright, and then leaned back into the corner. When he did, the odor of feces became so overwhelming Windows gagged.

"Sorry about the smell." The old man raised his gnarled hands. "Hygiene is not easy for someone in my condition."

Windows hesitated. Nothing in his manner was threatening, so she cautiously approached. "I have your dinner."

"Is it that time already?"

He pulled the loose flap of the sleeping bag back across his lap to mask the stench and held out his hands. Windows tried to hand him the plate, but he could not hold it because of his fingers. The plate started to slide, threatening to spill the food across his lap. Windows caught it at the last minute and tilted it so the contents moved back to the center. Moving closer to the old man, she knelt beside him and scooped up a forkful of beans.

"You don't have to do this," he croaked, his tone neither defiant nor proud, but one of a man long used to being mistreated.

"I know."

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 refreshing.

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."