“Fair enough. I’d never ask for more than that,” Sorenson—with his dog as his heels—led us to a side door and entered. We all followed into a well-lit hallway. I glanced back to see Otto and Pedro stepping in behind us, and Otto closing the door. Inside, the hallway was straight with doors every ten feet or so. It reminded me of an old-fashioned hotel, and I realized that was exactly what the Lady Amore was.
The end of the hallway opened into a winding double-staircase that led down to an enormous open area. Twenty or so poker tables dotted the colorful open space. Couches, beanbag chairs, and camp chairs looked out of place in the ornate room that reminded me of a scene from Titanic. The new furniture was likely replacements for the missing slot machines, and the area was now filled with people chatting and eating. At the far end of the casino was the restaurant area where a large buffet was set up against a wall. Twenty or so people stood in line.
Sorenson had a good setup here, a safe little paradise that no zed could get to…though I suspected it was a different story each time they had to go to land to refuel and restock.
He led us down the stairs and through the area, nodding, chatting, and smiling at folks as he walked. Beyond the buffet line, there was another winding stairwell. After climbing a flight of stairs and taking several hallways, we entered a bland corridor with beige walls and no artwork.
“This used to be the staff quarters. My quarters are right on the end up here,” Sorenson said. “We’re a bit cramped around here, so this is the best place to chat openly.”
“I would’ve taken the biggest room if I was the boss,” Jase said softly behind us.
“A family of eight lives in the Presidential Suite,” Sorenson replied as he stopped at a door. “They need the space far more than I do. Besides, these quarters have been my home for nigh on thirty years. They’re plenty enough for my needs and suit me just fine.” He opened the door, and his dog bounded inside. Sorenson walked in and held the door open for the rest of us to enter.
Inside, the area seemed to be as large as any suite, which I supposed was probably common for captain’s quarters. The room we stood in was a medium-sized living room area with a large wood conference table in the middle. A couch and TV sat in the far corner opposite a small kitchenette. Next to the refrigerator was an open door to a bedroom.
Sorenson gestured to the table. “Have a seat,” he said before he opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bowl.
I took a seat next to Tyler, and Otto sat on my other side.
Sorenson set down the bowl. “Pickled bass. Help yourselves.”
His dog yipped, and Sorenson picked out a large piece of fish and tossed it in the air. The dog jumped, caught the chunk, and swallowed it in a single bite.
Tyler reached in and grabbed a small piece of fish. “Bass? Haven’t heard of that being pickled before.”
“You can pickle just about anything that can be eaten. It keeps food from going bad and doesn’t ruin the taste,” Sorenson replied. “But we steer clear of the bottom feeders. In fact, I lost one of my people from bad catfish. Too many fish have ingested zed-infected bits to be safely eaten anymore. It makes fishing more challenging.”
“I can imagine,” Tyler said, after taking a bite. “We no longer hunt wolves since they’ve started going after zeds. We can’t trust that they don’t carry the virus.”
“Speaking of zeds,” Sorenson said. “Looks like a heap of trouble about to pass through.”
Tyler gave a tight nod. “We have a theory that they’re migrating south for the winter.”
Sorenson cocked a brow. “Interesting idea, and what I’ve seen would support that. But I wouldn’t put much weight on that theory. I’ve yet to see the herds do anything logical.”
Tyler shrugged. “I doubt it’s a planned event. I think it’s nature. As they get cold, they just start heading to where it’s not so cold.”
Sorenson chuckled. “You’re assuming they can feel anything. I’ve speared a zed right through a kidney and it didn’t even wince.”