Fet did not look back until he was certain the feeding was over. He caught sight of Mr. Quinlan’s retracted stinger, its narrow end lolling out of his mouth like the hairless tail of some animal he had otherwise swallowed. Flush with energy, Mr. Quinlan lifted the limp Stoneheart driver out of the truck and carried him, as easily as a bundle of clothes, off the street. Half in the shadows of the doorway, in a gesture of both mercy and convenience, Mr. Quinlan snapped the man’s neck with a firm rotation.
Mr. Quinlan left the destroyed corpse in the doorway before rejoining them on the street. They needed to get moving before another vehicle happened along. Fet and Eph met him at the rear of the truck, where Fet opened the unlocked clasp, raising the sliding door.
A refrigerated truck. “Damn the luck,” said Fet. They had a good hour’s ride ahead of them, maybe two, and for Fet and Eph it was going to be a cold one, because they could not be seen riding in the front. “Not even any decent food,” said Fet, climbing inside and rustling through the scraps of cardboard.
Mr. Quinlan pulled on the rubber strap that lowered the door, closing Fet and Eph in darkness. Fet made certain there were vents for airflow, and there were. They heard the driver’s door close, and the truck slipped into gear, jerking them as the vehicle lurched forward.
Fet found an extra fleece sweatshirt from his pack, pulled it on, and buttoned his coat over it. He laid out some cardboard and set the soft part of his pack behind his head, trying to get comfortable. From the sound of it, Eph was doing the same. The rattling of the truck, both noise and vibration, precluded conversation, which was just as well.
Fet crossed his arms, trying to let go of his mind. He focused on Nora. He knew he would likely never have attracted a woman of her caliber under normal circumstances. Times of war bring men and women together, sometimes for necessity’s sake, sometimes for convenience, but occasionally because of fate. Fet was confident that their attraction was a result of the latter. Wartime is also when people find themselves. Fet had discovered his best self here in this worst situation, whereas Eph, on the other hand, at times appeared to have lost himself completely.
Nora had wanted to come along with them, but Fet convinced her that she needed to remain behind with Gus, not only to conserve her energy but because he knew that she would not be able to stop herself from attacking Barnes if she saw him again, thereby threatening their plan. Besides, Gus needed assistance with his own important errand.
“What do you think?” she had asked Fet, rubbing her bald head in a quieter moment.
Fet missed her long hair, but there was something beautiful and spare about her unadorned face. He liked the fine slope of the back of her head, the graceful line moving across the nape of her neck to the beginning of her shoulders.
“You look reborn,” he said.
She frowned. “Not freakish?”
“If anything, a little more delicate. More vulnerable.”
Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You want me to be more vulnerable?”
“Well—only with me,” he said frankly.
That made her smile, and him. Rare things, smiles. Rationed like food in these dark days.
“I like this plan,” Fet said, “in that it represents possibility. But I’m also worried.”
“About Eph,” Nora said, understanding and agreeing with him. “This is make-or-break time. Either he falls apart, and we deal with that, or he rises to the occasion.”
“I think he’ll rise. He has to. He just has to.”
Nora admired Fet’s faith in Eph, even if she wasn’t convinced.
“Once it starts growing back in,” she said, feeling her cooling scalp again, “I’ll have a butchy-looking crew cut for a while.”
He shrugged, picturing her like that. “I can deal with it.”
“Or maybe I’ll shave it, keep it like this. I wear a hat most times anyway.”
“All or nothing,” said Fet. “That’s you.”
She found her knit cap, pulling it down tight over her scalp. “You wouldn’t mind?”
The only thing Fet cared about was that she wanted his opinion. That he was a part of her plans.
Inside the cold, rumbling truck, Fet drifted off with his arms crossed tight as if he were holding on to her.
Staatsburg, New York
THE DOOR ROLLED open and Mr. Quinlan stood there, watching them get to their feet. Fet hopped down, his knees stiff and his legs cold, shuffling around to get his circulation up. Eph climbed down and stood there with his pack on his back like a hitchhiker with a long way still to go.
The truck was parked on the shoulder of a dirt road, or perhaps the edge of a long, private driveway, far enough in from the street to be obscured by the trunks of the bare trees. The rain had let up, and the ground was damp but not muddy. Mr. Quinlan abruptly jogged off without explanation. Fet wondered if they were meant to follow him but decided he had to warm up first.
Near him, Eph looked wide-awake. Almost eager. Fet wondered briefly if Eph’s apparent zeal had some pharmaceutical source. But no, his eyes looked clear.