Chapter 14
Darryl takes us on a tour through East Jersey.
How nice of him. If only it was actually out of the kindness of his heart, and not because he wants to show off how impossible it’ll be for us to leave without his blessing.
Despite being what Maverick called a prison town, it doesn’t seem that different from the Grave.
Most of the people live in a strip of houses that are connected together like the collection of townhouses on the far side of Grove Avenue; the idea of having your neighbors as close as possible is one that Jack believes in, too.
There are six interconnected apartment complexes that make up East Jersey.
According to Darryl, the next three streets beyond it belong to the settlement, too.
Past that, there’s a fully infested lurker nest. They keep the monsters at bay by a row of torches that one of the men in town lights every evening before the sun goes down.
The first apartment complex is built in a square. On the inside, there’s a large patch of grass with a wooden platform erected in the middle. I don’t know what that is, and—still listening to Mav’s advice—I don’t ask.
Darryl doesn’t explain. I guess he thinks it’s obvious. That, or he and Maverick already know what the deal is with some kind of… I don’t know. Stage? It reminds me of a stage.
There is more wood behind another one of the complexes. A stockpile, obviously. They have barrels of gasoline, too, and I’m envious of their supply. These ex-cons seem to know what they’re doing.
After the quick tour—when I get the feeling that it’s more about showing Maverick how guarded his territory is while also showing me off to the people who mill about, doing work and gawking at us—he brings up to his designated home.
I’m not surprised that it’s the nicest one on the block.
A real McMansion, it’s twice as big as the others surrounding it.
I can tell that Maverick would rather go anywhere than inside.
I’m right there with him. Darryl’s friendly act is just that: an act.
We’re fucked, and I don’t even need the warning Maverick gives me to know to keep my mouth shut.
He’s on his guard. His body is tensed, a small tic in his jaw as he attempts to hold up his end of the conversation with Darryl.
I’ve never heard him talk this much at once.
They’re all meaningless little comments designed to keep the older man’s attention on him instead of me, but no matter how many people think I’m innocent and naive, I’m not.
I can see how closely Darryl is paying attention to me even as he plays the role of host.
My zipper is still up as high as it can go. Pointless. Rory’s jacket was tailored to his taller, broader frame, and it covers up my shape. Useless. The steely look in Darryl’s eyes makes it obvious that he’s undressing me with his gaze.
What the fuck? I’m covered in dirt, my hair is ratty and tangled, and I smell of sweat, smoke, and the outdoors.
He can’t be so hard up for a little pussy that he’s willing to ignore the fact that Maverick called me his, right?
I mean, I’m not, and Mav’s never given me any hint that he’s interested, but if he’s willing to stand between me and the men of East Jersey, I’m okay with it.
In fact, as I sidle closer to him, clutching his sleeve, I notice Darryl picking up on the gesture.
He pushes in the door, holding out his hand so that we stay on the porch. Before I can yank on Maverick, hissing at him that we should find a way out of this, Darryl sticks his head inside.
“Girls? Your husband’s home. And I’ve brought guests so I hope we can squeeze two more in at the dinner table.”
I don’t know what stuns me more: the plural of “girls” or the way that he calls himself their husband.
Ten minutes later, when I’m sitting between Maverick and Darryl at a large, oval table that seats ten, I decide: both. It’s fucking both.
And how do I know that it seats ten? Because between me, Mav, Darryl, and Darryl’s six wives, that’s how many people are perched around it, eating the meal of spaghetti and some questionable meat sauce that Bernadette— Darryl’s first wife—had cooked with the help of Felicity—his most recent acquisition.
Dinner is quiet time. Thank God, and I don’t mean that ironically. Darryl makes a display of saying grace before any of us are allowed to eat. Even then, his wives all wait like well-behaved robots for him to eat his fill before they pick up their own forks.
I’ve learned not to turn down food, but this is rough. With my nerves making my belly squirm, it takes everything I have to force mouthfuls down. It’s obvious I’ll offend our host if I refuse more of his hospitality. Maverick chows down, and so do I.
Because he started the meal first, Darryl finishes before the rest of us.
He disappears between the end of dinner and only returns about ten minutes later when one of the youngest wives—with a big belly that almost makes me lose my appetite when I realize why she’s waddling—heads into the kitchen, returning with a cake.
I’m sure it’s delicious. Since the Turning, so many survivors have altered recipes to suit whatever supplies are left, and this almost tastes like it could’ve been made from fresh milk and eggs in the before times.
Doesn’t keep it from going down like concrete.
I don’t know what to expect as dessert comes to a close. By now, it’s gotta be getting close to sundown. Even if Darryl sends us on our merry way, is there enough time to find a safe place to sleep for the night?
Or are we stuck here?
That’s what I’m worried about, and I don’t have to worry for long before I understand that Darryl’s “welcome” isn’t over quite yet.
It’s toward the end of the meal that this horrible clanging sound starts.
No one says a word. Darryl stands up first, striding out of the room as if he had been expecting the interruption; or, better yet, had orchestrated it. That would make sense. He was gone for a while, and as he invites Maverick to rise next, there’s a smugness to him that has my hackles rising.
“Alexandra will join us,” he announces, gesturing at me next.
Felicity, the newest wife, shoots a jealous look my way. “Why does she get to go?”
“Because I said so, darlin’. You’re not questioning your husband, are ya?”
The poor girl pales. “No… Darryl, honey, of course not. You know I would never. You know that, right?”
He makes a tsk-ing sound. “I thought I did. I thought you understood that us boys… we keep our women safe in the house. Unless you’d rather be the one the alarm bell’s ringin’ for?”
Her fingers jolt. Her fork falls to the tabletop. “No. I’m sorry, Darryl.”
“That’s fine, Felicity. When I get back, you can join me in my room and show me just how sorry you are, my sweet thing.”
A hint of fear, a touch of distaste… watching the slender brunette closely, I see all of that, followed by the same sort of determination that’s stared back at me when I used to look in mirrors.
She’ll do anything to survive—including this brute.
“Of course. I… I’ll be waiting for you.”
“That’s my girl. And Kendra… you’ll be next.”
Another one of his wives nods. “Yes, sweetheart.”
Darryl shares a look with Maverick. “You got to show them who’s boss. Eh, Brooks?”
Maverick says nothing.
I wonder if I can grab the knife that Felicity used to cut the cake and jab it in Darryl’s jugular.
Figuring that’s pretty much a death wish, I rise from my seat, sidling over to Maverick’s hip again. I’m glad I get to go… wherever… even if the other women don’t. Right now, Mav’s the only ally I have. Darryl is going to have to pry me away from him if the prison town leader wants to separate us.
Once he sees that we’re ready, he leads us outside.
“This way. Follow the crowd. My boys know where they’re going.”
There’s a sea of people, smaller than the Grave, but large enough to carry me along it like a current as we all flow in the same direction. Before I think better of it, I reach out and grab Maverick’s chilly hand.
I glance up at him, and whether I want to assure him that the hand is mine or demand he tell me what we’re doing now, I don’t know, but I can’t find my voice.
There’s such a strange yet curious expression on his face, one I don’t think I was meant to see because, in a heartbeat, it’s gone.
He tugs on my hand, but doesn’t let go. I follow his lead.
The crowd empties us out on the edge of that first apartment complex, the one with the open center.
The one with the wooden platform that is basically some sort of stage.
Most of the crowd ebbs their way closer to it and I’m suddenly reminded of the high school auditorium in the Grave. This is just like that last assembly we had, when Maverick arrived. This is East Jersey’s way of coming together as a community.
But why?
It’s no surprise to me when Darryl is the one who mounts the stage.
The clanging had stopped. I didn’t even notice until it starts up again as the big man moves toward the front.
“Tonight, I’ve gathered you all here to witness what happens when one of you don’t follow the rules.” He lifts his hand, raising his voice to be heard over the noise. “Clyde. Melvin. Bring him in.”
Two men march from the other side of the courtyard. One is a couple of inches over six feet. Dark skin. Hair closely cropped to his skull. He’s holding a handbell, ringing it out of rhythm. His partner is a little shorter, more squat, and with greasy black hair that’s tucked behind his ears.
In between them, a younger man who can’t be more than twenty-five.
In the setting sun, his short hair is dark, his skin pale.
He’s not wearing coveralls like the two men surrounding him.
I’m pretty sure that he was a survivor living in this neighborhood when it was overrun by the former inmates.
Either that or a corrections officer, but the way he’s dragging his boots as they carry him toward the stage, muscling him up the stairs, I go with survivor.