Page 40 of Beacon

It’s a fascinating culture here in The Wild. Different from anywhere else I’ve been. There are so few people and so little organization in communities that it’s much more like it was in the first year or two after Impact where every step you took outside the boundaries of your home immediately put your life under threat.

As far as I know, the market is the only regularly held social event.

When we reach the clearing, Mack parks the quad bike in the normal place, and I wait next to it, pulling out my gun so I’m prepared for anything.

Mack strides over to the table and waits for the buyers in line to clear before he steps up to offer the economy-size bottle of combined shampoo and conditioner we brought with us.

The toiletries stocked up at the cabin are rare finds nowadays, and they’re clearly worth a lot. Mack and the woman behind the table have a brief negotiation about what he should get in trade for his offering.

I’m watching so I don’t notice immediately when something changes in the mood of the clearing. The first thing I notice is that the small group of old guys not too far from me stop talking and get tense.

Looking around to discover why, I see several newcomers. They walk in together but split up almost immediately, each moving to a different position in the open space. Three are men and one is a young, cold-faced woman. They’re dressed like anyone else nowadays—inworn remains of the clothes manufactured in the old world. There’s nothing noteworthy about their appearance except their manner is so efficient and guarded.

I haven’t fully wrapped my head around what’s going on when someone else enters the clearing accompanied by four more men and a rising murmur from the folks already here.

I can’t get a good look at the newcomer, but he’s clearly being guarded by the others. And the four who entered first are with him. They were checking the surroundings before he came in to make sure it’s safe.

Like the Secret Service protecting the president.

Every single person in the clearing stops talking as soon as the man comes into view. It’s not until he reaches the table—everyone even remotely in his way clearing the path with notable urgency—that I can see any features.

He looks like a normal man. Maybe in his forties or fifties although it’s hard to tell anymore. He’s got salt-and-pepper hair grown long and pulled back with a tie at the nape of his neck. He’s dressed in gray trousers and a blue button-up shirt that are neat but well-worn. He’s got hiking boots on.

When he turns his head to the side, I can see that his features are pleasant but unexceptional.

Who the hell is this man? And why does everyone make way for him like he’s royalty or a superstar?

My heartbeat has accelerated, but it’s not as much from fear as it is curiosity and intrigue. Mack has steppedto the side and is waiting quietly while the man talks to the woman behind the table. After a minute, the man steps over to say something briefly to Mack.

Mack shakes his head. His expression isn’t angry or adversarial, so he’s obviously not threatened by the stranger.

I watch open-mouthed as the man gestures toward his guards. They break away, each moving to talk to various people who’ve been hanging around the perimeter of the market.

One of the guards—a burly mountain of a man—stays with the main guy, who scans the clearing in a silent inspection. Then, to my surprise, his eyes land on me. He approaches.

Mack has tensed up as the man gets closer. I can see that even from the distance. My throat grows tight. I have absolutely no idea what to expect, but it feels like a very bad idea to raise my weapon, so I don’t.

“You’re new around here,” the man says when he reaches me. “I’ve never seen you before.”

He sounds educated. Articulate. With a very slight Ozark accent.

I clear my throat and reply, “I am. I’m a friend of Malachi.” I nod over toward Mack, who is visibly bristling but holding himself back for some reason. “I’ve only been here a month.”

“Where are you from?”

I’m not sure why it’s any of this man’s business, but toomany alarms are going off in my head to object to the inquisition. “I’m from farther east. Originally from the mountains of Virginia, but I’ve been living in Kentucky for several years. The same area Mack—Malachi—is from.”

He nods, evidently accepting my answer as believable and appropriate. “Someone has taken my daughter.”

“What?” I’m genuinely surprised and appalled, and I sound that way.

He’s got startlingly intelligent blue eyes. They’re focused on me without wavering. “She’s been kidnapped. Her guard was killed. We’re checking for anyone who might have seen something.”

“I haven’t seen any little girls. How old is she? What does she look like?”

“She’s eight. This high.” He makes a gesture with his hand to indicate her height. “Brown hair and blue eyes. She always carries a doll with a pink dress.”

“I’m so sorry she’s missing. I’ll keep my eye out. I really hope you find her.”

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