Chapter Eighteen
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PEN SCRIBBLING DOWN his thoughts as fast as his fingers could move, Oliver Giamano paused to read what he’d just written down. He’d filled two large journals with notes and was working on his third one now. The politician’s mind felt far clearer, but he’d become filled with anxiety.
“I can’t trust anyone,” he whispered, glancing around furtively. He couldn’t shake the notion that someone had planted bugs in his office. A thorough search that had taken two hours had ultimately been a failure. “They’re there,” Oliver muttered. “I know someone is spying on me.”
A soft knock on his door made him start so badly that his pen flew out of his hand.
It landed on the floor a few feet away. “Come in!” he called out, forcing his voice to sound neutral.
Ivy Roche opened the door and entered. Her expression looked downcast. “Is something wrong, Ms. Roche?” he asked, affecting a concerned tone.
His receptionist glanced at him in surprise. “No, sir,” she said, then put a mug of coffee on his desk.
“Are you sure?” he enquired. “I’m more than just your boss, Ivy. I’m your friend, too.” He gave himself a mental pat on the back for the sincerity he’d injected into his tone.
“There’s nothing wrong, Governor Giamano,” Ivy insisted, giving him a cynical look he pretended he didn’t see. He had vague memories of being hard on her, but that was all in the past now.
“I haven’t heard from you or your colleagues about the matter we discussed six weeks ago,” Oliver said casually.
Ivy clasped her hands together, clearly wanting to leave. “Will, Hector, Franko and I haven’t heard any rumors that anyone is planning to usurp you, sir,” she said.
The governor nodded and kept his smile in place, but he was seething on the inside.
“You can go now,” he said politely. Ms. Roche strode to the door and exited from his office quickly.
“What if she’s working for Rahab or Creel Lawson now?
” he whispered, smile vanishing now that he was alone.
“What if all four of my employees are spies?”
Using his feet to wheel his chair over to his pen, he picked it up, then shoved himself backwards. He swiveled the chair around to jot his fears down in his journal.
Oliver’s gut churned and he opened a drawer to pull out a roll of antacid tablets. Chewing one, he washed it down with coffee, then continued to write. His mind was clear enough to know he had a meeting with one of the men he believed was planning to take his position soon.
Checking the time half an hour later, the governor closed his journal and put it into his drawer. He opened the book about past politicians he was pretending to read just as knuckles rapped on his door. “Enter!” he called out, schooling his face into a pleasant expression.
Dressed in camouflage gear, Creel Lawson stepped through the door. He wore the same white armband as the rest of the militia, but something had changed. “Good morning, sir,” the ginger-haired prepper said as he strode over to take one of the visitor’s chairs.
“How are you, Mr. Lawson?” Oliver asked. His gaze went to the rolled-up sleeves of the head of the mercs. A black swastika was on full display that he’d previously hidden from view. The politician had known for some time that his ally was racist, but he was no longer even pretending to hide it.
“I’m great, Governor Giamano,” Creel said with a grin.
All of his allies still thought he was addlebrained and Oliver was going along with it. “What was our meeting about today?” he asked, keeping his tone as vague as always.
Mr. Lawson rested his elbows on the desk and clasped his hands together. “I’m just here to update you about how everything is going in general, sir,” he said.
Oliver flicked a look at the prepper’s bruised knuckles as he began speaking.
He’d heard rumors that Mr. Lawson beat his wife and children.
While the politician had married his wife for convenience, he’d never raised a hand against his family.
It would have been career suicide if word had gotten out that he was abusive.
Four of Creel’s six children had been raptured.
The two boys who’d been left behind obviously weren’t saints, but it was hard to believe they deserved the beatings their father meted out to them.
“Thousands of survivors have trickled into the city by now,” the prepper was saying.
His condescending tone grated on Oliver’s nerves, but he kept his small, polite smile in place.
“We’ve been culling the ones that are sick, weak or injured,” Creel went on.
“Rahab’s crew sorts them into different groups.
Most are sent to the farms, factories and distribution centers to keep food production running.
I’m still not sure how they decide which survivors are chosen to join the militia,” he said with a small scowl.
“The attractive women are taken to the whorehouses and the unworthy survivors are disposed of.”
“Why aren’t some of the survivors being kept in Manhattan to help clear the roads?” the governor asked.
Mr. Lawson gave him a sharp look and Oliver blinked at him, pretending to be befuddled. “Rahab suggested we keep the slaves out of the city so they don’t try to revolt,” he said.
“Oh, that makes sense,” the politician said. “How many mercenaries do we have now?”
“About seven thousand trustworthy men have been chosen to guard Manhattan,” Creel reported. “More are arriving daily, but the survivors are so malnourished and starving that they’re practically useless.”
“We don’t have any female militants left?” Oliver asked in confusion.
“I arranged for them to be moved to other locations outside the city,” Mr. Lawson said with his upper lip lifted. “Women are weak and they cause too much of a distraction for my troops. It’s best not to have them close by to cause any trouble.”
“I imagine the whores are kept busy,” Governor Giamano joked, almost pitying the female captives. At least they were fed daily and they had a roof over their head.
“They’re serving the purpose they were created for,” his ally said in an uncaring tone. “Women are only good for cooking, cleaning and making babies.”
“We should think seriously about plans to repopulate Manhattan,” Oliver mused. “There are far too few people left now. Humanity will be in danger of extinction if our numbers fall too low.”
“That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking, sir,” Creel agreed.
“We have a couple of paramedics now. They should examine all of the women we’ve gathered so far.
The ones who are healthy and young should be kept separate from the others.
Only men with the right sort of genes should be allowed to get them pregnant. ”
“Of course,” the politician agreed with the same fixed smile in place. “I’ll leave that task in your capable hands, Mr. Lawson.”
“You can count on me, sir,” Creel said, snapping him a salute despite having never served a day as a soldier.
Their meeting came to an end a few minutes later. The prepper let himself out, closing the door behind him. Oliver’s smile dropped away and he took the roll of antacids out again. Chewing a tablet, he withdrew his journal from the drawer to scribble his thoughts down about the meeting.
“I can already guess exactly who Mr. Lawson thinks should impregnate the women,” he muttered.
Creel would no doubt be the first in line.
He and his friends would spread their seed as far and wide as they could.
None of them would be happy until their ilk had control of their entire country.
Sometimes, it was hard for Oliver to decide if Rahab or Creel Lawson posed the bigger threat to his position.