“Then lucky you, things working out like they did.” She capped the canteen and handed it back. “Now let’s go see our babies.”
52
“Hey, good afternoon, everybody.”
Two DS officers manned the stockade’s outer room—one sitting at his desk, a second, much older, standing behind the counter. Greer recognized the second one immediately; years ago, the man had been one of his jailors. Winthrop? No, Winfield. He’d been just a kid then. As their gazes locked, Lucius could see a series of rapid calculations unfolding behind the man’s eyes.
“I’ll be damned,” Winfield said.
His hand dropped to his sidearm, but the movement was startled and clumsy, giving Greer ample time to raise the shotgun from beneath his coat and level it at the man’s chest. With a loud clack, he chambered a shell. “Tut tut.”
Winfield froze. The younger one was still sitting behind his desk, staring wide-eyed. Greer nudged the shotgun toward him. “You, weapon on the floor. You too, Winfield. Let’s be quick now.”
They placed their pistols on the ground. “Who is this guy?” the younger one said.
“Been a while, Sixty-two,” Winfield said, using Greer’s old inmate number. He seemed more amused than angry, as if he’d run into an old friend of dubious reputation who’d lived up to expectations. “Heard you’ve been keeping yourself busy. How’s Dunk?”
“Michael Fisher,” Greer said. “Is he here?”
“Oh, he’s here all right.”
“Any more DS in the building? We keep the nonsense to a minimum, this doesn’t have to be a problem.”
“Are you serious? I don’t give a shit one way or the other. Ramsey, toss me the keys.”
Winfield opened the door to the cellblock. Greer followed a few paces behind the two men, keeping the shotgun trained on their backs. Michael, lying on his bunk, rose on his elbows as the door to his cell opened.
“This is sudden,” he remarked.
Greer ordered Winfield and the other one into the cell, then looked at Michael. “Shall we?”
“Nice seeing you, Sixty-two,” Winfield called after them. “You haven’t changed a bit, you fucker.”
Greer shut the door, turned the lock, and pocketed the key. “Keep it down in there,” he barked through the slot. “I don’t want to have to come back here.” He turned to look at Michael. “What happened to your head? That looks like it hurt.”
“Not to sound ungrateful, but I’m thinking your being here is not good news.”
“We’re moving to Plan B.”
“I didn’t know we had one of those.”
Greer handed him Winfield’s pistol. “I’ll explain on the way.”
Peter, Apgar, and Chase were looking over Michael’s passenger manifest when shouts erupted in the hall: “Put it down! Put it down!”
A crash; a gunshot.
Peter reached into his desk for the pistol he kept there. “Gunnar, what have you got?”
“Nothing.”
“Ford?”
The man shook his head.
“Get behind my desk.”
The handle of the door jiggled. Peter and Apgar took positions against the wall on either side. The wood shuddered: somebody was kicking it.
The door blew open.
As the first man entered, Apgar tackled him from beind. A shotgun skittered away. Apgar pinned him with his knees, one hand on his throat, the other lifted, ready to strike. He stopped.
“Greer?”
“Hello, General.”
“Michael,” Peter said, lowering his gun, “what the fuck.”
Three soldiers charged into the room, rifles drawn.
“Hold your fire!” Peter yelled.
With visible uncertainty, the soldiers complied.
“What was that gunshot outside, Michael?”
The man waved casually. “Oh, he missed. We’re fine.”
Peter was shaking with anger. “You three,” he said to the soldiers, “clear the room.”
They made their departure. Apgar climbed off Greer. Chase, meanwhile, had come out from behind Peter’s desk.
Michael gestured in Chase’s direction. “Is he okay?”
“In what sense?”
“I mean does he know?”
“Yeah,” Chase said tersely, “I know.”
Peter was still furious. “The two of you, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Under the circumstances, we thought a direct approach was best,” Greer replied. “We have a vehicle outside. We need you to come with us, Peter, and we need to leave right now.”
Peter’s patience was at its end. “I’m not going anywhere. You don’t start talking sense, I’ll toss your asses in the stockade myself and throw away the key.”
“I’m afraid the situation has changed.”
“So the virals aren’t coming back after all? This is all some kind of joke?”
“I’m afraid it’s the opposite,” Greer said. “They’re already here.”
53
Amy was going to miss this place.
They had decided to leave the rest of their chores undone for the day. There seemed no point in finishing them now. Sometimes, Carter told her, you got to let a garden tend itself.
She felt sick, almost feverish. Could she control it? Would she kill him? And what of the water?