Linda Andrews - Extinction Level Event

“You need to speak with us.” The woman spoke softly but the flap covering her side arm stood straight up and her hand was on the pistol grip. “Please provide us with your name and address.”

Fucking bitch. Like he actually believed she would shoot him. His leg twanged as a reminder. Well, she wouldn’t dare shoot him in front of witnesses. Trent looked around the tent. Two male soldiers had their weapons drawn and aimed at him. Ash-colored people crowded near their tables as if to get away from the imminent gun play.

Fear broke over him in a wave of cold air. Maybe they would shoot him. It wouldn’t be the first time the government stomped on the citizen’s civil liberties. Inhaling a calming breath, he straightened. She may have won this round, but he’d get his revenge. His thoughts rolled back to his wife hanging from the loft railing of the house she’d stolen from him.

He was good at revenge.

The Redaction was almost over and soon the military would return to their pathetic lives. One by one, he’d find each man and every woman who’d insulted him today and make them pay. He bared his teeth in a smile. Although concealed by his mask, he felt it. And its power and promise. So he’d let them think they’d won. This time.

The outer door banged open. A gust of wind swept fresh soot across the floor and brought with it the smell of food—tomatoes, spices and… His nose twitched. Beef. He sucked up the drool pooling in his mouth while his nose urged him to turn.

A man balancing a tray filled with Styrofoam cups stepped into the tent. Black spoons bristled from them. Ash freckled his sable cheeks above the drooping mask and stained the white cap on his head. He paused by the men with their weapons drawn. “Soups on. Should be enough for everyone.”

Everyone? Trent’s stomach jumped for joy on his intestines. Food. Real food.

Holstering their weapons, the soldiers took a cup from the tray.

Metal creaked behind him. “Now, if you would just tell me your name and address.”

He watched the tray bearer’s progress across the room. Cup after cup disappeared. Would there be any left by the time he got to him?

“Sir?” The woman’s voice began to grate. “Your name.”

“Trent.” Finally the man zagged toward him. Five cups remained on the tray. Trent grabbed the closest one as the man bent down to offer one to the woman. Latching onto the spoon, he scooped up bits of potato and carrot and shoveled it into this mouth. Maybe if he finished fast enough he could get another before the man moved on. After what he’d been through he deserved two helpings.

The tray bearer straightened. “Aren’t you the preacher fellow from last night?”

Trent groaned partly from the harmony of spices dancing across his taste buds and partly from the recognition. The lie had been a miscalculation on his part. None of this lot would respect a clergyman. Most probably couldn’t count to eleven with their shoes on. Turning his attention back to the table, he groped for a way out of the lie.

“You’re a reverend?” The woman unhooked her glasses and chewed on the earpiece.

Well, I’ll be damned . She actually respects men of the cloth. He scooped another bite. If he had to be a preacher man to get home, then that’s who he’d be. “Yes.”

“Reverend Trent?” She blinked at him.

That sounded good. He nodded. “Yes. Benjamin Trent.” He borrowed from the money in the Bible. The good book was worth something after all.

Clearing her throat, she perched her reading glasses on her nose and set her fingers on the computer keys. “I apologize, sir. Now I understand why you were so determined to return home. I’m sure your flock is in need of comfort.” She typed in a few lines. “So many people think they should be given special privileges. The salesmen are the worst.”

He nodded and sipped the liquid. Garlic and salt infused the tomato juice. He smacked his lips.

The male soldier glanced at his tray. “I’ll be right back, Sally. Don’t let the preacher leave. There’re quite a few folks calling for Last Rites.” He edged the tray and its remaining food out of Trent’s reach. “You’re going to be one busy man.”

Not here, he wasn’t. Trent speared a cube of meat from his nearly empty cup. The morsel dissolved as soon as it hit his tongue. “About returning to my flock…”

“Where is it located?”

“Sixty-Eighth Street and Frank Lloyd Wright Boulevard.” He gave the crossroads nearest his condo. There was probably a church around there somewhere. If they dropped him off in the parking lot, they’d never know he’d lied to them.

The woman glanced up at him. “I’m sorry, sir. That area has been completely destroyed.”

Trent blinked. “Destroyed? I…I don’t understand.”

“The fires raged through your neighborhood last night. There isn’t anything left standing except a few brick walls and chimneys.”

Leaving his spoon in his cup, he wiped his palm down his face. All of his stuff. Gone. By fire. But the fires were downtown. “How can that be?”

“Folks panicked and lit the trash on fire.” She patted his hand before grasping it in hers and placing it on the rectangular signature reader. “Unfortunately, there was so much garbage, the flames got away from everyone. There isn’t much of the city left. And all the stick homes are just embers.”

Trent eyed the dregs of his soup. Thank God, he’d put all his policy papers in a safe deposit box. Of course, at this rate, he wouldn’t have to spend a dime of his wife’s insurance money. His homeowner’s policy would cover everything. He kept his face averted so she couldn’t see his grin. He was certainly among the lucky ones. “I see.”

“Don’t worry, Reverend, you’re safe here.” She patted his hand again before releasing it. “And your particulars and fingerprints are in the system, so if anyone needs to find you, they can. In the meantime, we’ll assign you to a house and get you settled.”

“That’s fine.” He finished his soup in one gulp. Of course, the house wouldn’t be up to his standards, but it would do for now. At least he didn’t have to live in a tent like the rest.

“If you’re ready, Reverend.” The soldier handed his tray of cups to another man and then gestured toward the doors at the rear of the tent. “Outside of the CO and the Doc, you’re the most important man on the base.”

Trent inclined his head. About time people recognized his true worth.

“Excuse me, Sir.” Manny pulled the child’s wagon to a stop in front of a couple. The dozen cans he’d collected rolled along the plastic bottom.

Rini raised the lantern in her hand, highlighting the mottled green and purple bruises on her face. In the west, shades of the red and orange sunset bled through the black smoke.

While the older woman perched on a boulder, the man spread a coarse blanket on the rocky ground. He looked up at Manny. Ash caked his face like a mime’s make-up but didn’t disguise the dark circles clinging to his eyes. Two battered tapestry bags sat at his feet.

A twinge of guilt ate at Manny as he scanned their scant belongings. Only a few people had anything. And those who had started out with too much had left it behind as they’d taken blind turns only to be beaten back by fire, heat, rats and foul-scented smoke. With two bags, the couple had more than most. But he doubted their luggage contained food. So many didn’t.

Yet he had to ask them to donate something for their evening meal. Henry said it was the first step toward building a community. Manny couldn’t help feeling like a thief. After what they’d salvaged from the mission, they didn’t need to take people’s last food stuffs.