Page 12 of Everything Under the Sun

Wolf turned to the room. “I don’t give a shit about the South right now. We keep working our way north toward the Great Lakes because that’s where the fucking water is. Freshwater is power.”

Brown-nosing Edgar, a portly, balding man, lifted his hand as if he were in class seeking his turn to speak. He wasn’t a soldier, but Wolf kept him around because he was the greediest and sneakiest bastard he had probably ever known, and would lick the mud off Wolf’s boots for the sheer pleasure.

Wolf sighed with annoyance and glanced at Overseer Rafe, a giant man with a shaved head standing to Wolf’s left, my right. They shared a brief, knowing grin.

“Yes, Edgar?” Wolf prompted. He motioned a hand at the plump man, palm up, in a bored fashion. “I always look forward to your input.” The comment was laced with mockery.

A few low rumbles of laughter went around the table.

Edgar stood from his chair, puffed out his dough-like chest, rounded his double-chin as if he were important and said, “I think you’re right, sir. We should head north toward the Great Lakes. The South is farther, and, quite frankly, is a waste of time.” His chubby face was lit by the orange glow of a nearby candle. He tugged the bottom of his button-up shirt as if to straighten it and then sat back down.

Overseer Rafe raised a brow at Wolf.

“Yes, Edgar,” Wolf said. “I thank you for that…obvious observation.”

Edgar looked up smugly at the other men, unaware he was being mocked.

Ignoring Edgar, as everyone naturally did, Rafe turned to his leader. “I will lead the attack on the city”—his cold eyes skimmed the other men in the room, daring them to contest—“and I’m the best man for the job not only because I outrank every pussy in this room”—(some men glared back at him, their hands clenched into fists)—“but because I lived in Cincinnati for fifteen years before The Fall, and I know my way around.”

“Then send me to the South,” said another man, the one who had been the most adamant about the South since the meeting began. “Why not spread out and cover more territory instead of focusing on one place at a time?”

Because only an army can seize a city of that size, I thought to myself, shaking my head.

“Because I need as many men that can be spared to take the city,” Wolf spoke. “The enemy’s army is over four thousand strong, if the rumors are true.”

“I was born in Ohio,” said another man from the other end of the table. “I should lead the attack on Cincinnati.” He and Rafe locked eyes from across the room like two bulls ready to charge.

“I led the attack on Frankfort,” the man born in Ohio went on, “and I—”

Rafe made a split-second movement, and the shiny glint of a blade cut through the air across the length of the table and disappeared inside the man’s neck.

The rest of the men froze. I just stood there, unsurprised, unintimidated.

The man from Ohio swayed on his feet; his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and his hands came up, grasping at the knife. Blood poured down his throat, soaked his T-shirt; he choked and gurgled as blood spewed from his lips. The men standing near him all stepped aside as his body fell and hit the floor with an unsettling thud.

“Unless Overlord Wolf has other plans for me,” Rafe said as he made his way over to the twitching body, “then I will be taking Cincinnati.” He leaned over and wrapped his hand around the handle, pulled the blade from the man’s throat; an ominous sucking sound accompanied the movement.

Twenty-two pairs of eyes veered away from Rafe as he wiped the blood from the knife onto his camouflaged pants, swiping it back and forth. Then he sheathed it at his belt. Walking back toward his position beside Wolf, he stopped when he passed the man who wanted to go south and said, “And when we go south, I’ll be leading that attack as well.”

The man sneered, but kept his mouth shut.

“I certainly agree that Rafe should lead the attack,” Edgar chimed in without acknowledgment from anyone, as usual.

Wolf sat down in his tall-back wooden chair at the head of the table and leaned forward, resting his arms on the table in front of him. He fondled a nickel chess pawn between his thick, calloused fingers. “If you go to Cincinnati,” he said to Rafe, not looking at him, “who do you expect to take care of your operations here in your absence?” He looked up at Rafe then. “Security of this city can’t be weakened, and the overseeing of scouting missions can’t be left to just any imbecile desperate to prove his worth.” With implication, his eyes skimmed the man who wanted to go south.

Rafe nodded and then glanced over at me.

“Atticus Hunt,” Rafe said, and I stepped up, back straight, chin level. “You might remember him from—”

“Ah, yes, I remember Atticus,” Wolf said with a small, impressed smile. “He took out an entire camp back in Blacksburg—How many men?” He looked right at me.

“Eighteen, sir,” I answered with no emotion; I stood with my left hand covered by my right, resting against my pelvis.

Rafe nodded at Wolf to verify.

“I can’t even say that I’ve killed eighteen men with my bare hands in one day,” Wolf admitted, and then tapped the edge of his thumb against the table contemplatively.

He turned back to Rafe. “If you trust Atticus to take over until you return, then it’s settled.”

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