9
ATTICUS
Lexington, Kentucky | Capital East-Central Territory
I met with Rafe yesterday morning for the particulars of my temporary position as Overseer. It was a short meeting before Rafe set out with a small army on the road to Cincinnati.
“How long do you expect them to be gone?” my friend, Peter Whitman, asked, standing in the doorway of my apartment.
I pushed the buttons of my military uniform shirt into the holes, to the last button, then tucked the tail of the shirt in behind my pants and tightened my belt. I needed to look the part my first day as Overseer—everything I could do to gain the respect of the other men, needed to be done. And if I couldn’t get the respect the easy way, I was prepared to get it the hard way.
“I don’t know,” I answered. “They might not come back at all.” I sat on the edge of my bed and tightened the strings on my boots.
Peter leaned against the doorframe, crossed his arms over his chest.
“I think he’ll be made General,” Peter said about Rafe. “And you’ll become Overseer.”
The last General was killed two weeks ago, and Wolf still had not named a replacement.
I looked up from my boots at Peter. “I’m beginning to think the same thing.”
Cautiously, Peter looked out into the hallway, and then said in a low voice, “The shit you can do with that kind of power.” His boyish face was alight with the exciting possibilities. “All the liquor, tobacco, and women you can handle.”
Peter was not like the other men in Wolf’s army, but he loved the ladies, and was one of the brothel’s best customers. He was the only man in Lexington who I felt I could almost trust—I trusted no one fully.
I shook my head at Peter’s comment, pulled the boot strings tight and tied them. I moved to stand in front of the tall mirror mounted on the wall, and inspected my uniform; I glimpsed Peter behind me in the reflection of the glass.
“I’m not trying to get ahead of myself,” I said, “but if that does happen, if I end up with the Overseer position, every soldier in Lexington will be my enemy by default—I hope you don’t become one of them.”
Peter’s eyebrows drew together; a smile of disbelief slowly crept over his features.
“You’re kidding, right?” he said. “You’re the only man in Lexington I trust, the only one I like.” He pressed his boot against the doorframe, pushed his back away from it and uncrossed his arms. “If anything, I’ll pretend to have it out for you like everybody else, but have your back from the inside.”
“That’ll be hard to pull off,” I said.
“How so?”
I laughed lightly. “Look where you are right now, Peter.” I shook my head at him in the reflection of the mirror. “We’ve been friends since you came here—you’re the last person any of them would trust with information they don’t want me to have.”
Peter shrugged, having to agree.
“I’m just hoping you won’t force me to do something I don’t want to do,” I added.
Peter chuckled, his shoulders bouncing slightly.
“What, are you gonna kill me if I fuck up?”
“Yes,” I said, and I meant it.
Peter’s smile fled in an instant—he knew I wasn’t joking. Jokes usually weren’t in my repertoire. Not anymore.
“Well, I’m always going to be on your side no matter what happens,” Peter said, and then he stepped farther into the room. “And you can repay that loyalty with a little on-the-side treatment, if y’know what I mean.” He grinned.
I raised a brow, standing near the window now with my arms crossed. “Repay you?” I said. “Are you blackmailing me, Private Whitman?”
“Hell no,” Peter said with laughter. “I’m jus’ sayin’, it would be nice to, y’know, be appreciated.”
A flurry of voices came in through the open window from the street below. I stepped up closer to get a better look, pressed my hands against the windowsill.
“A few extra cigarettes, a bottle of Scotch, maybe a red-headed wife,” Peter said, as if he were dreaming about these things as he named them off. “You know how much I looove redheads.”
“Yeah, I do,” I said absently, watching the scouting party come down West Main Street. “But I never took you for the wife type.”
Peter made a noise under his breath that sounded like a laugh. “You know me better than I know myself sometimes—well, just keep me in mind, and don’t forget the little people.”
“Like I said, I don’t want to get ahead of myself, so let’s just leave it at that for now.”
A small caravan of horses moved up the center of the street across from my building. I straightened my back, inhaled a deep breath, and prepared mentally for my first public appearance as Overseer.
“Is that who I think it is?” Peter said, peering over my shoulder.
“Yeah.” I stepped away from the window. “Marion’s party. They’ve been gone for over a week; I was starting to think Marion finally got himself killed.”
Peter laughed. “Nah, we couldn’t be that lucky.”
I grabbed my 9mm from the desk and holstered it at my chest, and we left the room together to meet the scouting party on the street.
Lexington’s residents, always anticipating the arrival of scouting parties, gathered in crowds outside the old History Museum. Hooves trotted against the asphalt, and a flurry of eager voices rose as the party got closer. I pushed my way through the crowd and went down the sidewalk that cut through the grass, and then stopped at the steps. Peter gave me the slip and disappeared into a crowd of soldiers.
Voices rose and fell, talked over one another, some shouted and argued.
“I’ve been on the list for wine for three months!” one man said to another. “One of those bottles is mine! I’ll see to it!”
“I hope there’s more food!”
“Sugar! We need sugar and cornmeal for the moonshine!”
“Where’s the Overseer?!” another shouted over the crowd.
I felt a twinge of insecurity in my stomach, but got over it quickly. I moved up to stand on the top step, just as Rafe always did, and then I turned to face the crowd, my hands folded loosely down in front of me. I wore no expression and made no sound. I just stood there, giving the crowd time to quiet down on its own so I wouldn’t be forced to shout over it.
“Where’s the Overseer?” another voice called out.
Still, I said nothing.
Dozens of heads moved in search of Rafe, until the only thing left for any of them to do was turn their attention back to the man now standing in Rafe’s usual spot. Many watched me with confused faces. Shouts eventually dwindled to whispers.
Marion, leader of the scouting party, jumped down from his horse; some of his men followed. He cut a path through the crowd and approached me.
“Marion,” I greeted with a nod.
“Atticus,” Marion greeted in return, also with a nod.
Marion looked around me with question, but it didn’t take him long to figure out what was going on.
“Rafe set out last night to take Cincinnati,” I said, and glanced into the crowd. “I’ll be Overseer until he returns.”
A wave of whispers carried over the crowd as the announcement made its way from the front to the back in under four seconds.
“All right then,” Marion said with an indifferent shrug; he looked back at his men. “Then let’s get this underway—you’ve got your work cut out for you, my friend.” He eyed me with a private look of warning, and luck-wishing.
“Wine, sugar, beans, spices, and I’m sure over five thousand rounds of .22 caliber ammunition.” Marion made a gesture with his hand, and three men walked up toting supplies.
I descended the steps, back straight and refined, chin raised level and strong. I had to look like I wouldn’t think twice about shooting any of the soldiers dead in the street for testing my patience—it was a good thing I wasn’t faking it.
“I can think of a few men better suited for the Overseer position,” someone said from the crowd, but I ignored it and kept my attention on Marion and the stock being set on the concrete in front of me.
After the soldiers popped the lids from the buckets, they stepped away from the supplies. I inspected everything, counting the most valuable items in my head, and when I was satisfied that I’d made a firm mental note of the goods, I waved to an old man who stood nearby waiting to take orders. He stepped up with a spiral notebook in one hand and a pen in the other.
“Make note of the food inventory,” I instructed, “and then have it carried to the warehouse.”
The old man crouched, with difficulty, and moved items to one side as he jotted down the contents.
I motioned to another man with a notebook. “Six thousand two hundred rounds of .22 caliber ammunition, and three hundred rounds of 9mm ammunition,” I told the man—I’d counted the quantities on each box. “I’ll be taking the 9mm rounds with me, so go ahead and make a note of that as well.”
The soldiers grumbled their protest.
“Is there a problem?” I challenged, looking up.
One man smiled and stepped up from the crowd.
“As a matter of fact,” he said boldly, “I don’t think it’s right you take all three hundred rounds for yourself.” His eyes browsed the men around him, seeking their support, and getting it as some heads nodded in agreement.
I stepped right up to the soldier.
“What kind of gun do you carry, Private?” I asked, staring into the soldier’s eyes, unflinching.
A knot moved down the center of his throat; he looked down at the handgun holstered to his right thigh and then back up at me. “A twenty-two-caliber pistol,” he answered with reluctance. It wasn’t considered a man’s gun, but these days one was lucky to have a gun at all.
“And what kind of gun do most of the men in your scouting party carry?”
The soldier’s confidence continued to dwindle; he could hardly look me in the eyes anymore, not because of the gun he carried, but because he realized I was getting around to making a valid point, and a fool out of him in front of everyone.
“Twenty-two-caliber pistols and rifles,” he answered.
I rounded my chin, narrowed my eyes. “Twenty-two-caliber pistols and rifles, what?”
The soldier’s eyebrows drew inward; his gaze veered off to the other men nearby, seeking answers now rather than support. He straightened his back, swallowed again, and corrected himself: “Twenty-two-caliber pistols and rifles, sir.”
Laughter moved through the crowd behind him.
The old man inventorying the food ordered men to scoop up the buckets and follow him down the street toward the building where the food was stored. The crowd thinned out significantly then; the average citizens of Lexington only had an interest in the non-breathing loot brought back from scouting missions.
“And tell me,” I went on, “what sort of gun does Rafe and Overlord Wolf typically carry on their person at all times?”
The soldier’s eyes strayed toward his boots.
“Nine-millimeter pistols, sir.”
I moved my hands around behind me, folded and rested them on my backside.
“Move your stupid ass,” Marion ordered the soldier, grabbed his shoulder and then pushed him to the side. “He’s a fuckin’ idiot,” he told me, and then got on with it. “In addition to all of this, we have bags of smaller items like batteries and jewelry. Found a bug-out bag stocked with a little bit of everything from a sewing kit and veterinary sutures, to water purification tablets and old prescription meds—expired, but you never know.” He jerked his head back once to indicate behind him. “It’s all on the horses.”
I looked over the small crowd at the horses lined on the street. I only glanced at the eight women—I’d known there were eight the moment Marion’s party had gotten close enough for me to count them, but I’d been trying to keep my mind off that aspect of the job.
“And of course, saving the best for last,” Marion said, his smile growing dark, “we have eight new residents of Lexington City.”
That small twinge of insecurity from before came back with a vengeance. I pushed it down, not letting it show on my face. I thought of Evelyn in that moment, and the things she had warned me about that I had always known but tried to ignore. But I could no longer deny the truth, that no matter what I did or what I believed or what morals I possessed, that I would never survive if I didn’t throw it all away, once and for all, and evolve with the rest of the world. Or rather devolve with it.
I gazed across the space that separated me from the women who would be my initiation. And as they were forced to walk toward me, their hands bound, their faces shadowed by fear, I felt what was left of my humanity finally slipping away.