Page 24 of Nazab

Her disappointment rolled off him without leaving an impression. Like all the other women he’d used, she was just a convenience to him. He got up from his chair when the door closed behind her. He poured the steaming mug of coffee into the bathroom sink, then rinsed the mug out. It was an annoying ritual, but a necessary one. The snacks and lunch she brought him on a daily basis were flushed down the toilet.

Xathan left his office and his guards fell in behind him. He caught a glimpse of them sharing an amused look behind his back in the reflection of a glass door on their way outside.

“Where are we heading?” one of the males asked.

“Nowhere in particular,” Xathan replied moodily. Taking the lead, he ambled around, checking on the general state of Manhattan. He headed to the Brooklyn Bridge to see human crews using a crane to hoist the clogged vehicles into the air. One at a time, they were being dumped into the water far below. He’d come up with the idea of using a crane a few months ago. As usual, Governor Giamano had taken credit for it.

Xathan put his hands in his pockets and watched the scene. The vehicles would rust down there and would probably cause some kind of environmental disaster eventually.

“Why are we even being given the choice to remain on Earth if we win the war?” he mumbled too quietly for his companions to hear him.

Anarchy had promised that the Soldiers of Chaos would rule this world forever if they won, but what was the point? Xathan felt strangely hollow as he contemplated an eternity of bowing down to their insane commander. His entire existence was beginning to feel pointless.

Despite his foul mood, the advisor returned to his office in time for a meeting with Kelvin Naylor and Carl Eddy. The humans were to thank for getting Manhattan up and running again. Both were vital, so he had to keep them protected and compliant. That was easy enough, since they were given everything they could possibly want or need. Humans had basic needs, unlike the soldiers. The aliens all craved the thrill of battle. Sitting behind a desk all day and half the night was grating on Xathan’s nerves. Maybe he’d feel better if he let his inner savage out to play for once.

Chapter Eighteen

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PEN SCRIBBLING DOWN his thoughts as fast as his fingers could move, Oliver Giamano paused to read what he’d just written down. He’d filled two large journals with notes and was working on his third one now. The politician’s mind felt far clearer, but he’d become filled with anxiety.

“I can’t trust anyone,” he whispered, glancing around furtively. He couldn’t shake the notion that someone had planted bugs in his office. A thorough search that had taken two hours had ultimately been a failure. “They’re there,” Oliver muttered. “I know someone is spying on me.”

A soft knock on his door made him start so badly that his pen flew out of his hand. It landed on the floor a few feet away. “Come in!” he called out, forcing his voice to sound neutral. Ivy Roche opened the door and entered. Her expression looked downcast. “Is something wrong, Ms. Roche?” he asked, affecting a concerned tone.

His receptionist glanced at him in surprise. “No, sir,” she said, then put a mug of coffee on his desk.

“Are you sure?” he enquired. “I’m more than just your boss, Ivy. I’m your friend, too.” He gave himself a mental pat on the back for the sincerity he’d injected into his tone.

“There’s nothing wrong, Governor Giamano,” Ivy insisted, giving him a cynical look he pretended he didn’t see. He had vague memories of being hard on her, but that was all in the past now.

“I haven’t heard from you or your colleagues about the matter we discussed six weeks ago,” Oliver said casually.

Ivy clasped her hands together, clearly wanting to leave. “Will, Hector, Franko and I haven’t heard any rumors that anyone is planning to usurp you, sir,” she said.

The governor nodded and kept his smile in place, but he was seething on the inside. “You can go now,” he said politely. Ms. Roche strode to the door and exited from his office quickly. “What if she’s working for Rahab or Creel Lawson now?” he whispered, smile vanishing now that he was alone. “What if all four of my employees are spies?”

Using his feet to wheel his chair over to his pen, he picked it up, then shoved himself backwards. He swiveled the chair around to jot his fears down in his journal.

Oliver’s gut churned and he opened a drawer to pull out a roll of antacid tablets. Chewing one, he washed it down with coffee, then continued to write. His mind was clear enough to know he had a meeting with one of the men he believed was planning to take his position soon.

Checking the time half an hour later, the governor closed his journal and put it into his drawer. He opened the book about past politicians he was pretending to read just as knuckles rapped on his door. “Enter!” he called out, schooling his face into a pleasant expression.

Dressed in camouflage gear, Creel Lawson stepped through the door. He wore the same white armband as the rest of the militia, but something had changed. “Good morning, sir,” the ginger-haired prepper said as he strode over to take one of the visitor’s chairs.

“How are you, Mr. Lawson?” Oliver asked. His gaze went to the rolled-up sleeves of the head of the mercs. A black swastika was on full display that he’d previously hidden from view. The politician had known for some time that his ally was racist, but he was no longer even pretending to hide it.

“I’m great, Governor Giamano,” Creel said with a grin.

All of his allies still thought he was addlebrained and Oliver was going along with it. “What was our meeting about today?” he asked, keeping his tone as vague as always.

Mr. Lawson rested his elbows on the desk and clasped his hands together. “I’m just here to update you about how everything is going in general, sir,” he said.

Oliver flicked a look at the prepper’s bruised knuckles as he began speaking. He’d heard rumors that Mr. Lawson beat his wife and children. While the politician had married his wife for convenience, he’d never raised a hand against his family. It would have been career suicide if word had gotten out that he was abusive. Four of Creel’s six children had been raptured. The two boys who’d been left behind obviously weren’t saints, but it was hard to believe they deserved the beatings their father meted out to them.

“Thousands of survivors have trickled into the city by now,” the prepper was saying. His condescending tone grated on Oliver’s nerves, but he kept his small, polite smile in place. “We’ve been culling the ones that are sick, weak or injured,” Creel went on. “Rahab’s crew sorts them into different groups. Most are sent to the farms, factories and distribution centers to keep food production running. I’m still not sure how they decide which survivors are chosen to join the militia,” he said with a small scowl. “The attractive women are taken to the whorehouses and the unworthy survivors are disposed of.”

“Why aren’t some of the survivors being kept in Manhattan to help clear the roads?” the governor asked.