better than the titan-birds did.
Helicopters just like the one a block away waiting to whisk Gray out of this hell-hole the second they were done.
“Uh-huh. Yeah.” Gray turned away from the food trucks doling out aid parcels, two per person able to carry them, and idly traced the toe of his shoe over stringy weeds struggling up through a crack in the sidewalk. “I don’t suppose you’ve got the manpower to stop Major General Stockman and his division, do you, Huck?” A pause. “No. I’m not suggesting—no, no you can’t possibly deploy a nuclear weapon on home soil, Huck, I know that.”
That morning, Major General Stockman had reiterated his demand for Schaeffer-Yeager International to stand down and surrender all its staff and assets to the custody of the U.S. Army.
Gray had... declined.
His actual words may have invoked something along the lines of ‘you motherfucking Infected traitors aren’t getting a fucking dime out of me,’ but so far as Miller knew the contents of that conversation hadn’t been made public, and like a good bodyguard who’d eavesdropped on more than he’d intended to, Miller did his best to forget about it.
Stockman was coming, though. Even if he’d decried the president, Huckabee Fredericks, as a corporate stooge with no more authority over the American people than the Queen of England, there was no military to stop him.
What remained of the legitimate U.S. military was in tatters. Army divisions were running off into the wilderness with the food aid packages they were supposed to distribute to civilians. Starving soldiers were deserting in droves, large chunks of the Midwest were depopulating as food ran out.
Depopulating , Miller mused. What a sanitized term for starving to death and fleeing for their lives with everything they could carry.
After finishing with the President, in the few seconds he had before getting back onto camera, Gray stood scowling hard enough the wrinkles showed through the cosmetic treatments.
“Gray?”
“You think anybody around here needs the furniture in those?” He jerked his chin toward the ramshackle aid tents.
“Possibly. Why?”
“I said those bastards weren’t getting anything of mine, and I damn well meant it.” Gray wiped his sweating forehead with a handkerchief, and looked down at the pink smears of foundation he’d scraped off in dismay. “Damnit.”
Sometimes, being the Armani had more in common with being a gun-toting butler than anyone’s mental image of a bodyguard. Miller unfolded a compact he’d gotten off one of the camera people while they were fixing Gray up for his time in front of the lens, and stepped in to repair the damage.
“Thanks.” Gray lifted his chin, shutting his eyes.
Miller gently moved his boss’s chin to the side with a fingertip, and concentrated on getting an even blend with the compact’s brush—something he’d learned from life with Samantha. “Someone could probably use it. But they need food, if there’s any to spare.”
“I’m keeping you people fed, right?” Gray asked, grimacing again, hard enough Miller had to tell him to relax before carrying on.
Miller thought before answering. “Luxuries are a little thin on the ground,” he said, diplomatically. “But we’re eating enough to get through the day.”
“Good. Getting supply trucks through the city for the aid program is difficult, but the civilians don’t come before my employees. I’m not going to fail the company the way Huck failed this damned country.”
Was it the President’s fault that exotic crop pests had crawled out of the ground after hibernating for tens of thousands of years? Miller didn’t think that ‘waking up an all-consuming ancient ecology’ had appeared anywhere on the government’s climate change risk assessments when it came to famines, but he could have been wrong.
Of course the amount of canned food that Gray had pulled out of distribution warehouses and moved into the Astoria
Helicopters just like the one a block away waiting to whisk Gray out of this hell-hole the second they were done.
“Uh-huh. Yeah.” Gray turned away from the food trucks doling out aid parcels, two per person able to carry them, and idly traced the toe of his shoe over stringy weeds struggling up through a crack in the sidewalk. “I don’t suppose you’ve got the manpower to stop Major General Stockman and his division, do you, Huck?” A pause. “No. I’m not suggesting—no, no you can’t possibly deploy a nuclear weapon on home soil, Huck, I know that.”
That morning, Major General Stockman had reiterated his demand for Schaeffer-Yeager International to stand down and surrender all its staff and assets to the custody of the U.S. Army.
Gray had... declined.
His actual words may have invoked something along the lines of ‘you motherfucking Infected traitors aren’t getting a fucking dime out of me,’ but so far as Miller knew the contents of that conversation hadn’t been made public, and like a good bodyguard who’d eavesdropped on more than he’d intended to, Miller did his best to forget about it.
Stockman was coming, though. Even if he’d decried the president, Huckabee Fredericks, as a corporate stooge with no more authority over the American people than the Queen of England, there was no military to stop him.
What remained of the legitimate U.S. military was in tatters. Army divisions were running off into the wilderness with the food aid packages they were supposed to distribute to civilians. Starving soldiers were deserting in droves, large chunks of the Midwest were depopulating as food ran out.
Depopulating , Miller mused. What a sanitized term for starving to death and fleeing for their lives with everything they could carry.
After finishing with the President, in the few seconds he had before getting back onto camera, Gray stood scowling hard enough the wrinkles showed through the cosmetic treatments.
“Gray?”
“You think anybody around here needs the furniture in those?” He jerked his chin toward the ramshackle aid tents.
“Possibly. Why?”
“I said those bastards weren’t getting anything of mine, and I damn well meant it.” Gray wiped his sweating forehead with a handkerchief, and looked down at the pink smears of foundation he’d scraped off in dismay. “Damnit.”
Sometimes, being the Armani had more in common with being a gun-toting butler than anyone’s mental image of a bodyguard. Miller unfolded a compact he’d gotten off one of the camera people while they were fixing Gray up for his time in front of the lens, and stepped in to repair the damage.
“Thanks.” Gray lifted his chin, shutting his eyes.
Miller gently moved his boss’s chin to the side with a fingertip, and concentrated on getting an even blend with the compact’s brush—something he’d learned from life with Samantha. “Someone could probably use it. But they need food, if there’s any to spare.”
“I’m keeping you people fed, right?” Gray asked, grimacing again, hard enough Miller had to tell him to relax before carrying on.
Miller thought before answering. “Luxuries are a little thin on the ground,” he said, diplomatically. “But we’re eating enough to get through the day.”
“Good. Getting supply trucks through the city for the aid program is difficult, but the civilians don’t come before my employees. I’m not going to fail the company the way Huck failed this damned country.”
Was it the President’s fault that exotic crop pests had crawled out of the ground after hibernating for tens of thousands of years? Miller didn’t think that ‘waking up an all-consuming ancient ecology’ had appeared anywhere on the government’s climate change risk assessments when it came to famines, but he could have been wrong.
Of course the amount of canned food that Gray had pulled out of distribution warehouses and moved into the Astoria
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