Sophie Littlefield - Aftertime

Cass nodded, and Faye returned all the supplies to the pack before handing it over.

“Back soon, Charles,” Faye told the other guard as Cass slid the straps over her shoulders. “Think hard before you make that next move, or I’ll take you in three.”

Cass figured that Faye was the best Dor had to offer. She reminded herself that Smoke was paying dearly for her escort to help negotiate entry. Dor was shrewd, but a part of Cass-the part that had promised a brave and tenderhearted girl that she would find her father-hoped there was more to it than that.

Hoped Dor cared whether she lived or died.

Faye didn’t talk on the short walk to the stadium, and Cass didn’t mind. She concentrated on the view, trying to fix every detail in her memory. The ruins of San Pedro seemed far less dangerous now that she was headed into the Convent. Behind them, the Box was lit up with strings of tiny lightbulbs like a city Christmas tree lot Before. The darkening hills were shrouded with purple nightfall, tree skeletons silhouetted in black. And the street they’d followed into town only yesterday, lined with wrecked and empty shops and apartments-it all seemed harmless now, a stage set of a town, the actors and stagehands due back from their break at any moment.

Cass had become a connoisseur of fear, had learned to sense its moods, its encroachment and retreat. Yesterday the fear had weighed upon her, slunk all around her, crushing and smothering and stealing her breath, a shape-shifter playing the unknown into a thousand different threats.

Today it was different. Today’s fear was sharp and focused and came from within the stadium, beyond the curved windowless walls, and it was crafty and cruel, a foe that meant to outwit and inveigle. Cass made a small, low humming in her throat, gathering her anxiety into a single strand and twisting it out of the way.

She was so focused on her own fear that she didn’t hear the far-off wail for a moment, but it escalated sharply and pierced her consciousness.

“Sounds like they got one,” Faye said, pausing to listen. Cass looked down the street that angled away from the stadium toward the center of town, following Faye’s lead, and thought she saw a bobbing point of light.

“Got what?”

“A Beater. They’ve got this cart thing-it’s like a dog-catcher van.”

“You mean they catch them alive? ”

“Yeah.” Faye laughed softly. “C’mon, I told you they’re fucking lunatics in there.”

“Wait, so you’re saying the Order…”

“They don’t do it themselves. They pay Dor and he sends a team out. They’ve pretty much cleaned out the town but every once in a while you’ll get a few that wander in. Usually they can only catch one and have to kill the rest.”

Cass edged back a step, toward the stadium.

Other people had hunted the Beaters, back at the beginning. But when it became clear how hard it was to kill them, most people gave up. They were just so relentless. An ordinary human would stop if he took a bullet or a face full of acid or, in the case of the more resourceful citizens who didn’t have access to anything else, a thrown hatchet or a rock flung from a sling.

But Beaters, when they came close to a potential victim, were almost unstoppable. They didn’t seem to react to pain or injury unless it was mortal, and even in their death throes they would keep advancing. Everyone had a story of a Beater with a crushed skull or a severed limb spending its dying moment dragging itself toward its prey.

Too often it bit before it died.

“Isn’t that…crazy?”

“They have gear.” Faye shrugged. “Protective masks and all. Shit from the manufacturing plant. And if you know Dor, you know he believes in outgunning the enemy. They’re armed from here to Sunday.”

“But what do they do with them? I mean, the ones they catch?”

“That’s their business,” Faye said. “Some crazy ritual shit, is what I heard. Who cares? They pay out the ass.”

Cass followed Faye across the street and along the broad sidewalk that circled the stadium, glancing back once, but the light had been extinguished and all was silent. When Faye stopped at a boarded-up entrance that looked like every other one and knocked on the nailed-down plywood, there was a click above their heads. Cass looked up to see a small window cut into the wall sliding open.

“Weapons?” a female voice demanded.

Faye slid her revolver from its holster. “Just the usual.”

“Who’s with you?”

“Wannabe. She’s from Mariposa, showed up yesterday.”

The story they’d come up with was that Cass had worked in a church-run child care center Before and missed the structure and leadership of the church, that she hoped to find a faith community from which she could help bring a set of guiding beliefs to Aftertime survivors. Cass had been skeptical that anyone would believe her, but Faye said most of the women being turned away didn’t bother to disguise the fact that they were just looking for shelter.

“They want sheep, not opportunists. Act all pious and hungry for the light and whatever, convince them they can mold you, and you’ll be fine.”

“I can’t believe anyone would sign up for something like that on purpose.”

“Well, people are desperate to believe in something,” Faye said matter-of-factly. “You got a cult situation, it don’t matter what they’re selling. What people are buying is a chance to belong to something, for someone to tell them what to do so they don’t have to think for themselves. Just like the fuckers who started this whole mess, trying to force their ideologies down other people’s throats and getting everyone killed instead.”

The plywood barrier slid open, its soundless, smooth glide hinting at well-oiled hardware and expert craftsmanship. It closed as soon as they stepped inside, and they found themselves in a small antechamber that still held the detritus of ball games played long ago, red-and-silver posters and pennants and a desk inscribed with the Miners’ logo.

Two women waited, tensed and ready, in the small room. A short brunette with a strawberry birthmark on her cheek trained a gun on Cass, and a wiry young woman with crooked teeth regarded them from the raised platform that had allowed her to look out of the peephole. Both were dressed simply, in long-sleeved pink shirts and skirts that hung past their knees, their hair pulled back from their faces.

“Hey,” Faye said by way of greeting. “Lorrie, Jennie, this is Cass.”

“Take off your belts and packs,” the guard with the gun ordered, ignoring the greeting. “Stand against the wall.”

Cass followed Faye’s lead, resisting the temptation to watch as the woman went through her things. While the dark-haired guard finished the pack check, the blonde frisked Cass quickly, mostly patting around her pockets and checking her shoes and bra, and Cass gritted her teeth to keep from reacting when she patted down her scarred back.

“Okay. You can relax. You’ll get your things back later, after your interview.”

“This what we asked for?” the first guard demanded as she hefted a small, paper-wrapped package that she’d taken from Faye’s pack.

“Yes. Plus a little extra insurance.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Faye nodded. “Check it out after I leave, make sure it gets where it’s going. The rest is for you, but I couldn’t get the menthols. Just the Light 120’s. Maybe next week.”

The guard nodded and slipped the package into her skirt pocket. “I appreciate it.”

“Likewise.”

Cigarettes . In contrast to the drugs Dor moved inside the Box, the idea seemed almost quaint to Cass. It was ironic, how fiercely California had fought smokers Before, banning them from every square foot of public space. Now, something that could kill you over decades seemed like a good bet. Hell, maybe she ought to take up smoking herself now-odds were she’d be dead long before her lungs could fail her.