“Don’t fuckin’ care.”
She exchanged a look with Chad. His eyes offered no solution, and she decided it was best to leave. Don’t rock the boat. “Save me a seat.”
Beckett scoffed.
Keeping her gaze on the floor, she rejoined Vera. “Ignore Beckett,” the other woman whispered. “He’s an asshole to everyone.”
“Pete allows it?”
“They go back a long ways.”
Mercy drew a breath through her nose, making a mental note to avoid Beckett.
“Your man knows better than to call Beckett out for being a dick or to walk away from the scene with you. Don’t take it personally. He needs to save face with the other men.”
“That’s okay.”
The line moved quickly, and Mercy set her tray on the stainless steel counter where Cindy and three other women were serving the food. Cindy was sweating heavily, strain showing on her face, but she gave Mercy a half smile and placed a plate with a piece of homemade bread on her tray. The woman next to her dumped a ladle of gravy with some sort of ground meat on top of the bread and slid Mercy’s tray to the next woman, who gave her a skimpy scoop of canned green beans. Mercy thanked them and received a few surprised glances in return.
She gripped her tray and searched the crowded tables for Chad.
“We’ll sit over there,” Vera instructed, pointing at a table near a row of garbage cans. A few women sat in a tight group.
“I was going to talk with Chad.”
“The women sit at that table,” Vera said firmly.
Mercy nearly dropped her tray. She trailed after Vera in shock.
Four women looked up as they approached.
This feels like high school.
She took a seat by Vera, who ran through quick introductions. Mercy nodded at each woman in turn as her mind tried to comprehend why the men and women were separated.
Do they separate married couples?
Where are the children?
Eyeing the thick, unattractive gravy that’d been dumped on her bread, Mercy took a cautious bite, and flavor exploded in her mouth. The sausage gravy was amazing. “This is incredible,” she uttered in shock as she dived in for another bite.
“Food’s usually pretty good,” said the woman sitting across from Mercy, her focus on her own tray. The rest of the women ate silently. Mercy pegged Vera as the oldest at the table, and the youngest appeared to be in her early twenties. None of them wore makeup. Hair was worn straight down or pulled back, and all of their clothing had seen better days. They looked content and ate heartily. No one moped or picked at her food.
Mercy had nearly finished her delicious gravy and bread when a piercing siren sounded outside. The mess hall exploded into action. People leaped up from their seats, and the men poured out of the mess hall, boots pounding, leaving their lunches on the table.
What is happening?
Mercy’s stomach churned in panic, and she stood, her right hand automatically touching her side, where she had no weapon. Vera and another woman ran to open a cabinet and yanked gas masks off the shelves.
We’re under attack.
Terror bombarded her as the siren continued its wail of warning. Someone shoved a gas mask in her hands, and Vera hauled her down and under one of the tables. “What is going on?” Mercy hissed as she fumbled with the mask. Her parents had never stocked gas masks, unlike some of their survivalist acquaintances.
“Drill.” Vera slipped on her own mask and tightened the straps.
Relief made Mercy’s hands go limp. Vera grabbed Mercy’s mask and shoved it on her face as the other women huddled under the tables. The hideous black masks on the women, with their built-in respirators and eye protection, made her feel as if she were hiding with a group of huge bugs.
This is insane.
“Where are the men going?” she asked.
“To fortify the perimeter and gates.”
The door to the mess hall opened, and from under the table Mercy watched a pair of heavy boots and camo pants enter. The man closed the door and stood in front of it, his feet planted. Mercy leaned forward to see more of him and saw a rifle held ready.
To keep us in or keep attackers out?
“The drill won’t last much longer,” Vera whispered, her voice muffled through the mask.
“How did you know it was a drill?” Mercy asked as she kept an eye on the figure blocking the door.
“The siren was steady. If this had been the real thing, the sound would have pulsated.”
“Who do you expect to attack this camp?”
“Get your mask right or you’ll get a strike,” Vera told her, ignoring her question. “You’re of no use to the group if you’re dead from poisonous air.”
Mercy adjusted the straps until they fit smoothly around her head. It smelled strongly of rubber. “What’s a strike?”
“Pete didn’t tell you about strikes?”
“No.”
“Three strikes and you’re punished. Strikes are given for missing work or missing the drills. You can also get one at a lieutenant’s discretion for insubordination or just being messy.”
“Who are the lieutenants?” Carleen had briefed Mercy on the group’s simple command structure. Pete delegated to four lieutenants.
Vera jerked her head toward the door. “That’s one right there. He’s in charge of the women during drills.”
“Wouldn’t it make more sense to have you in charge of the women?” Vera seemed very competent.
Vera’s eyes widened behind her mask’s eye protection, and she slowly shook her head. “You have a lot to learn.”
“I’m trying.”
The siren abruptly stopped, and from the direction of the lieutenant Mercy heard the crackle of an inaudible question over a radio.
“Mess hall secure,” answered the man at the door. He raised his voice. “Line up!”
The women scrambled out from under the table, and Mercy joined them in a straight line before the lieutenant. He was dressed from head to toe in camo and had slung his AR-15 over his shoulder. He didn’t wear a gas mask but walked the line of women and inspected theirs. He tugged on a strap here and there but didn’t issue any strikes.
I think he used to be a cop.
Mercy recognized it in the way his balance was always forward and by the movement of his hands—always up front and ready—and the continuous visual assessment of his surroundings. She wondered what had happened to make him leave the world behind and join this compound. Pete’s group was firmly anti–law enforcement at all levels.
He got to Mercy and stopped, scanning her from boots to mask, and she hoped her mask was adjusted correctly. He was in his midtwenties and reminded her of a blond actor whose name was on the tip of her tongue—she could see him in her mind but couldn’t come up with the name. The lieutenant was a younger version of the actor.
He moved on. No strike.
“As you were.”
The women pulled off the masks and finger combed their hair, talking quietly among themselves. Mercy fumbled to loosen the straps she couldn’t see, taking a deep breath once she was free. The lieutenant briefly met her gaze.
“Polk!” he said loudly.
A split second passed before Mercy realized he’d called her last name.