“You just used the wrong threat,” Albert said. “I brought some paper and a Sharpie. I need a stick. No, make it several sticks.”

Half an hour later, Albert marched to the barrier with Edilio in tow. It was now a rather desperate-looking encampment. At least a hundred kids, all filthy and bedraggled, sat staring out. Out at parents, out at siblings, out at the Carl’s Jr. just a block away, out at TV monitors, out at news reporters trying to interview them. It was like some kind of desperate refugee camp, except all that seemed to separate the well-fed, even overfed, people from the starving people was basically a sheet of glass.

No one had bothered to even dig a slit trench, so the entire place stank of urine and human excrement.

Albert focused on the largest cluster of TV cameras. With Edilio carrying half a dozen signs stapled to wooden poles, Albert strode purposefully to a slight rise, unceremoniously chased off the kids sitting there. He swung a backpack off his shoulders and opened it.

“Attention! Attention, everyone! I have cheese!”

Then he began throwing chunks of Parmesan cheese out into the crowd.

The result was instant pandemonium. Desperately hungry kids rushed for the cheese, pushed, shoved, shouted, threatened, waved weapons, beat, kicked, clawed, cried, and cried some more. And as soon as any of them had a hand on some morsel of cheese, they began to stuff it into their mouths like hyenas rushing to eat a wildebeest before the lion came back.

“I’m going to—” Edilio began.

Albert cut him off. “No! Do nothing!”

Then, as the cheese ran out and the riot calmed, and kids were left to stanch the flow of bloody noses, Albert began setting up his signs, one by one.

The first one read:

These kids are going to starve if they sit here watching you.

The second one read:

They need to get back to work. If you keep them here, they will die.

The third one read:

I can feed them if they work. Go away or stay and watch them die.

The fourth:

You can visit from 5 p.m. to 8 p.m. daily. Now leave.

The last sign read:

Alberco: Feeding your kids. Albert Hillsborough, CEO.

To the stunned and now bruised and bloodied crowd of kids Albert said, “I’m going to make this simple. I’m shutting Quinn down, so no more fish. You just had the last food you get unless you get back to work. Everyone will resume their old jobs. If you’ve come here from the lake, either go back to the lake or see me for a work assignment.”

It would work right now, Albert thought, or it wouldn’t work ever.

A single voice muttered something about Albert trying to push everyone around. Albert ignored it.

“Now, wave good-bye to your families or whatever, and let’s get back to work.”

Kids started to move. A few at first, then more. Some of those on the outside, some of the parents and siblings, started to retreat tearfully.

The TV cameras did not retreat. Instead they swiveled toward Albert. Albert looked impressive. He wasn’t a big kid, he was still a bit of a shrimp, but he was wearing clean and pressed khakis and a somewhat too large, pink, immaculate Ralph Lauren button-down shirt.

Albert pulled a six-inch-long tube from his pocket, unscrewed one end, and tapped out a fat cigar. Among the things he had discovered on the island was a humidor. He used a small chrome blade to snip one end of the cigar, stuck it in his mouth, lit it with a matching cigar torch, and puffed out a cloud of smoke.

Albert knew two things at that moment. First, that his signs, and the image of him right now, standing as tall as he could and playing the role of arrogant businessman, would be on every newscast in the world.

And second, he knew that from this moment forward his recent error would be forgotten and if he lived to get out of the FAYZ he would be a millionaire before he even went to college.

“You did the right thing sending for me, Edilio,” Albert said.

Tags: Michael Grant Gone
Source: readsnovelonline.net