“I know.”
“Soon they’ll be comin’ down those tunnels lookin’ for bluff.”
“We ain’t got any!” thundered Gunner.
“But we told ’em we did,” Donny said. “And then we flaunted like show ponies for those fuckin’ Dunnitch men.” He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, wishing, for the first time in his life, that he could block out the spurts of color and plunder himself into the quiet, fathomless dark.
Patrick wouldn’t have made this mistake. He would’ve been miles ahead of it.
“Rally up some of the lads,” Gunner was saying now. “Give them some rifles. We’ll pay those ungrateful fuckers a visit ourselves.”
“And turn against our own comrades, just as they fear we have?” God bloody damn, but he needed silence. He needed sleep. He needed someone else to take this burden from him. “That’s how this whole fuckin’ thing unravels, Gun. From within. It starts with lies. And then we grow distrustful of each other, then fearful, instead of rememberin’ who we’re fightin’. That’s what the House is hopin’ for when they write those fuckin’ headlines.”
The other men grew quiet. Donny felt their stares on the back of his head, felt the gooseflesh rise along his neck. “This was our fault, brother,” he said heavily. “Better to lead with something true. That’s what Dad used to say.”
“Aye. Well, he ain’t fuckin’ here.”
No, he wasn’t. It was just the two of them now to look over the business, the Union, their mother, and they were making a mess of it.
“What do we do with the coal meant for Dorser, Don?” Scottie was asking now.
“Fuck those Dorsercunts. We’ll have it here, where it’s needed,” Gunner heaved.
“No,” said Donny, and he felt the decision land in his gut, felt the fingers of it strangle his organs. “Leave the coal at the end of the tunnel in Dorser. They’ll find it.”
“What? Donny—”
“Their population is three times ours,” he continued. “And they’ve suffered their own attack. They’re just as much prone to a dead winter as we are. That’s what Patrick would say.”
“Fuck that! Patrick would tell you to turn your attention to Kenton Hill first. He’d tell you Dorser was someone else’s village!”
“Patrick promised Dorser bluff,” Donny answered. “And until we can make good on it, we’ll act in good faith. Let them see it as a sign that we remain on the right side of this war.”
Scottie cleared his throat. Otto exhaled again, and the smell of sweet tobacco found Donny.
None argued, and Donny wondered if he didn’t want them to. If he wanted them to stomp their feet and tell him no, that he was wrong, that this, too, would prove a mistake.
“What about the market, Don?” said Otto. “We need to fill it with somethin’.”
Donny sighed, pictured Patrick somewhere in the brink, fossicking for the last dregs of terranium this continent had to offer.
They only had to hold out a little longer. Any day now, Patrick would return.
“Call a Union meetin’ in the pub for tonight,” he said. “And be ready for trouble. They ain’t gonna like what we got to say.”
“And what’s that?” Scottie asked.
“That their food sundries now belong to Colson & Sons and will be redistributed evenly, and that all southside residents will be relocated to the north to conserve coal.”
“Fuck,” breathed Otto, and Donny thought he sounded wearier than he ever had.
“Then I’ll get to work divertin’ the gas lines,” Gunner said. “Be easier to persuade ’em to leave when they come home to cold houses.”
“Are you sure you’ve got the words to convince ’em, Donny?” Scottie said carefully, his tone grave. “You better put some balls behind it, or we’ll have mutiny on our hands.”
Donny sighed long and hard. “I’ll find ’em.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHTPATRICK
