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She walked straight up to the front gate, stopping far enough back so that the guards on the wall could get a good look at her. At all of them. The Pack had grown since she’d joined Old Man Church. Strays, refugees, and small parties swelled the ranks so that there were now about a hundred of them.
“Everyone stay cool,” she’d ordered. “Weapons slung. No one says anything. No one acts like a dick, okay?”
Her people nodded. Even those who were a good deal older than Dahlia. To all of them, she was the leader of the Pack, and she was answerable only to the strange old man with the tinted glasses and black gloves.
Church came and stood near her, but slightly back and to one side. Allowing her to own the moment. Dahlia felt a little bit like a kid in a school play with her father watching, but that was okay.
“Hey,” she called. “Hello in there.”
Above her a figure appeared. A woman of about sixty with iron gray hair, dark eyes, and severely angled cheekbones. Two men flanked her and laid the barrels of hunting rifles on the wall, the barrels pointing down.
“Who are you and what do you want?” asked the older woman in a voice that was very clear and very sharp. “And who are all these . . . people . . . with you?”
Dahlia did not like the woman’s voice or attitude. It was an instant decision, but it came from her gut. Even so, she put on her best debate team voice and plowed ahead.
“My name’s Dahlia. These are my friends. We heard about Happy Valley and came to see if it was still standing.”
“It is, as you can see,” said the woman. “What of it?”
“Well, not to be blunt, but it’s not going to be standing much longer, ma’am.”
The woman gave her a cold smile. “Oh really? And is that supposed to be a threat of some kind?”
“A threat?” Dahlia was actually surprised. “No. It’s a warning, I suppose. We heard about some people—a big gang of bikers and such—heading this way. They call themselves the Rovers.”
One of the men on the wall leaned close and whispered something to the woman and they spoke together for several seconds. Then the woman nodded and turned back to Dahlia.
“How do we know you’re not Rovers yourself?”
Dahlia glanced at Neeko and a few of the other younger ones, then back up. “Seriously?”
“Yes, I’m very serious.”
“Um, because the Rovers are a motorcycle gang. At least they were before the EMPs killed their bikes. They go around wearing leather and studs, and they wear necklaces of body parts they’ve cut off of people. Most of us are teenagers, or close enough. I don’t think we’re actually rocking a killer biker army vibe. I mean . . . do you?”
The woman gave her a cold appraisal for a long ten count. “Why come and tell us?”
“Common decency?” said Dahlia, inflecting it as a question.
“And what would you expect in return? We don’t have food to share.”
“We have plenty of food,” said Dahlia. “We don’t actually need anything from you. Look . . . can we come in so we don’t have to stand out here shouting?”
The woman’s eyes seemed to focus on Church for the first time. “And who is that? Your father?”
Without hesitation, Dahlia said, “He’s my uncle. He used to be a—”
Church cut in and Dahlia was shocked to hear him speak with a New England drawl that was thicker than his own accent. “My name’s John Deacon,” he said, “of the Hampton Deacons. Steel exports. What my niece here is trying to say is that we’ve been out here for some time and we’re doing fine. Have a good place with all the comforts of home. Even make a good martini, as long as the olives last. But these Rovers have been raiding a lot of settlements and causing all kind of trouble. Some of these young folks are scouts—we have a barter system of field work of all kinds in exchange for room and board. Works out very well, if you follow me. Well, we sent some teams out to keep an eye on the Rovers and they overheard mention of Happy Valley. So, I came out here, gathered up the scout teams. Wasn’t sure if you were all safe here or if you needed some warm bodies to sort those thugs out. Not looking for anything because, quite frankly, I can’t think of a thing you have that we need. But what pains me is to see . . . ” and here he paused to pour acid on his words, “ . . .
those people come and take away what rightfully belongs to decent Americans.”
The speech shocked Dahlia but she kept it off her face. She saw Neeko and Jumper exchange deeply surprised expressions; though Slow Dog was nodding in appreciation. Church sounded like a completely convincing rich asshole, from the imperious tilt of his head to the word choice. It bothered her that he could play this role so well.
The woman on the wall cleared her throat. “The Hampton Deacons, you say?”
“Yes. We helped build half of New York, or at least the bones of most of the buildings. Shame what happened to it.” A beat. “I mean before this whole outbreak thing. Used to be a decent place, once upon a time. People you met on the street could speak English, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes,” said the woman. Church smiled up at her, and damn if she didn’t smile back.
