bed fronting the trailer where Dor made his home. Owner, proprietor, mayor, leader, foreman—whatever he was—Dor was the heart of the Box and the source of its power, and as he stood with arms folded across his chest, listening to the raiders make their case, he was something akin to Olympian as well. George and Three-High and Sam—Cass was surprised to see Sam there, because Sam was a quiet one and not given to opinions.
Faye and Smoke flanked Dor on either side. If you were new to the Box, if you had just arrived hoping to trade the last precious belongings you carried in a wheeled suitcase or a gym bag or a child’s backpack for a few nights of safety, a meal, a high—if you didn’t know better, you might read tension into this scene. You might suppose that Faye and Smoke and Dor meant to face down the others, who stood exhausted on their feet and stinking of sweat and fear, the perfume of every raid.
But it wasn’t like that, not really. Smoke was a good man and fair, given to contemplation, the first to listen and late with an opinion. When he did talk, he had a soft-spoken command that could quiet a gathering instantly, everyone straining to hear. When he was wrong he owned it, but that was not often. And he was Cass’s own, her heart’s solace.
Faye was quicker tempered, a fiery woman who threw fuel on her losses and grief each day by walking her solitary beat around the outside of the Box, her hand on the holster at her belt. Faye loved to kill Beaters, screaming out her rage at everything that had been taken from her as she gunned down and hacked at the creatures that had lost their humanity for a flesh hunger.
But she was ready to lend anyone a hand with any undertaking, and she was gentle with Ruthie.
The six of them all worked together, even Dor. They trained together, buried the dead and shared gate duty and got drunk on kaysev wine. They were each other’s family, their consolation. As members of Dor’s security detail, they possessed a fierce unity. Which wasn’t to say that they agreed on everything—far from it. But they had found a rhythm, a way to talk things out, and they always came to an accommodation of one sort or another. They would not fight among themselves when there was so much to fight outside the ten-foot-high chain-link walls.
“No kids,” Faye said pointedly, fixing her gaze on Dor. The policy she spoke of was his—as were all policies, even if they were rooted in public discussion. What Dor said became law, and the unspoken subtext was that if you didn’t like it, there was the wide-open world out there elsewhere for you to go and form your own opinions.
“There’s Ruthie,” Sam said quietly. Not arguing, not pleading, something in the middle. Cass couldn’t see his expression through his dark glasses, but she didn’t need to in order to know what he was asking. Moving slowly down the path because of her daughter’s weight in her arms, she stopped short of the cleared space, semihidden by the farthest row of tents. Until that moment she hadn’t been trying to hide her approach, but now she hesitated in the shadows, avoiding the wide pool of yellow light cast by the xenon bulb wired over the door of Dor’s trailer. He ran it off his own private generator, the perk of authority; his home alone was lit up bright every night as he dreamed his solitary dreams within.
Cass did not breathe, hearing her daughter’s name. The only child in the Box, Ruthie was tolerated only because she was swept in on the terrible wave of events that brought Cass and Smoke here a month ago. Ruthie had been stolen by the religious order living in the stadium across the street; Cass had snuck in and taken her back, in the process killing several of the order’s most dangerous leaders. Among Box citizens, Cass’s actions were counted a win, a miracle, a rare enough reason to celebrate—so when she brought Ruthie into the Box, not yet three years old, shaved bald and made silent as a
Faye and Smoke flanked Dor on either side. If you were new to the Box, if you had just arrived hoping to trade the last precious belongings you carried in a wheeled suitcase or a gym bag or a child’s backpack for a few nights of safety, a meal, a high—if you didn’t know better, you might read tension into this scene. You might suppose that Faye and Smoke and Dor meant to face down the others, who stood exhausted on their feet and stinking of sweat and fear, the perfume of every raid.
But it wasn’t like that, not really. Smoke was a good man and fair, given to contemplation, the first to listen and late with an opinion. When he did talk, he had a soft-spoken command that could quiet a gathering instantly, everyone straining to hear. When he was wrong he owned it, but that was not often. And he was Cass’s own, her heart’s solace.
Faye was quicker tempered, a fiery woman who threw fuel on her losses and grief each day by walking her solitary beat around the outside of the Box, her hand on the holster at her belt. Faye loved to kill Beaters, screaming out her rage at everything that had been taken from her as she gunned down and hacked at the creatures that had lost their humanity for a flesh hunger.
But she was ready to lend anyone a hand with any undertaking, and she was gentle with Ruthie.
The six of them all worked together, even Dor. They trained together, buried the dead and shared gate duty and got drunk on kaysev wine. They were each other’s family, their consolation. As members of Dor’s security detail, they possessed a fierce unity. Which wasn’t to say that they agreed on everything—far from it. But they had found a rhythm, a way to talk things out, and they always came to an accommodation of one sort or another. They would not fight among themselves when there was so much to fight outside the ten-foot-high chain-link walls.
“No kids,” Faye said pointedly, fixing her gaze on Dor. The policy she spoke of was his—as were all policies, even if they were rooted in public discussion. What Dor said became law, and the unspoken subtext was that if you didn’t like it, there was the wide-open world out there elsewhere for you to go and form your own opinions.
“There’s Ruthie,” Sam said quietly. Not arguing, not pleading, something in the middle. Cass couldn’t see his expression through his dark glasses, but she didn’t need to in order to know what he was asking. Moving slowly down the path because of her daughter’s weight in her arms, she stopped short of the cleared space, semihidden by the farthest row of tents. Until that moment she hadn’t been trying to hide her approach, but now she hesitated in the shadows, avoiding the wide pool of yellow light cast by the xenon bulb wired over the door of Dor’s trailer. He ran it off his own private generator, the perk of authority; his home alone was lit up bright every night as he dreamed his solitary dreams within.
Cass did not breathe, hearing her daughter’s name. The only child in the Box, Ruthie was tolerated only because she was swept in on the terrible wave of events that brought Cass and Smoke here a month ago. Ruthie had been stolen by the religious order living in the stadium across the street; Cass had snuck in and taken her back, in the process killing several of the order’s most dangerous leaders. Among Box citizens, Cass’s actions were counted a win, a miracle, a rare enough reason to celebrate—so when she brought Ruthie into the Box, not yet three years old, shaved bald and made silent as a
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