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I gave them a minute to get their shit together. Then I gave Loki and Diver a nice, big smile. The big hunting cats smile like that. Or so people have told me.
“Now, fellas,” I said, “what’s your interest in Happy Valley?”
— 26 —
DAHLIA AND THE PACK
Dahlia and Neeko moved through the woods together. A small two-person scout team.
Old Man Church had sent them out to gather intel while the rest of their friends packed everything they could and began the process of moving the camp. A lot of things would have to be left behind, but there was nothing that could be done about that. The presence of the Rovers, and the betrayal of Trash, made haste more crucial even than the bulk of supplies.
Before they left, Dahlia said to Church, “Maybe the Rovers will see all the stuff we’re leaving and just be happy with that.”
“Is that what you think?” asked Church, “or what you hope?”
When she didn’t answer, Church gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze and sent Dahlia on her way. That had been three hours ago and the brief conversation was still sticking pins in her. She wanted to be right. Was there something wrong with wishful thinking? Was it wrong to hope for an outcome that didn’t involve fear and fighting and horror?
Neeko, sensitive to her mood, kept cutting her looks but didn’t actually say much. They kept walking. Dahlia tried to keep her head in the game, but that’s the problem with emotions like heartbreak; it’s an easy set up for distraction and for failure.
“Well now,” said a voice from off to their left, “will you look at this shit right here.”
Dahlia and Neeko jolted to a stop and turned toward the voice.
They were there. Five of them. Three men and one woman in their thirties and one woman in her late forties. All in leather. All of them smiling in ugly ways.
Rovers.
“She’s cute,” said one of the women. She had a muscular body and a face made of sharp lines and no softness. A leather cord was strung loosely around her neck and from it hung more than a dozen human ears. “Dibs.”
“Fuck that,” said a tall, lean man with filthy dreadlocks and a necklace of little fingers. Three of them looked like they were cut from the hands of children. “I saw her first.”
“Yeah, but I called it first, asshole.”
The others laughed, and the man relented. “Okay. But leave something for me.”
They all thought that was funny, too.
“Wh-hat d-d-d-do you want?” asked Neeko, but he tripped over nearly every syllable.
“Wuh-we whah-want duh-do wuh-we whah-want?” mocked a short, blocky guy with Asian eyes and bleached blond hair. “Tuh-take a guh-guess.”
Dahlia held up her hands, palms out. “Look, we don’t need to do this. Just let us go and we’ll be out of here. You’ll never see us again.”
That was apparently hilarious to the Rovers.
“Hey,” said Dahlia, “we’re leaving some supplies behind. A lot of them. I’ll tell you where they are, okay? That’s fair, right?”
The second woman, who was in her late forties and wore a pair of eyeglasses that had been repaired several times with tape, shook her head. “Sorry, honey, but that’s not how it works. I mean, sure, you will tell us where the stuff is, but it’s not going to buy you a Get Out of Jail Free card. You do know that, right? I mean, you’re not actually stupid.” She paused. “Are you, Dahlia?”
Dahlia stiffened at the use of her name, and it tore a small cry from Neeko.
“How . . . ?” she began but didn’t finish. There was only one way they could know her name, and it was as obvious as it was awful. “Trash,” she breathed.
“Trashy-boy is our friend,” agreed the woman with the glasses.
“He told you about me?”
