“You mean what we’ve become,” Gil corrected. “And what of your objections? Are you going to talk to your wife? Question her methods and hope she’ll reconsider? How do you think that’ll go over?”
August sneered. “I don’t see it going over well at all. I think she’ll take it personally, and it’ll cause conflict. And in light of that, I’ve been considering other options.”
Chapter 13
FEMA Resettlement Camp Bravo
Friday, January 14th
The combat weapons armory at FEMA Camp Bravo was comprised of two melded-together shipping containers buried several feet beneath Earth’s surface. A concrete staircase led to the underground entrance guarded by a solid steel fireproof security door. Inside, it was lighted, climate controlled and contained hundreds of NATO and government-issue small arms, along with magazines and optics, slings, accessories, and spare components. It housed hundreds of thousands of rounds of ammunition in an assortment of calibers from 5.56 to 12 gauge. The gun cage itself was staffed by two guards, who maintained inventory, performed repairs, and kept the weapons clean.
Beatrice Carter promenaded her way inside, immediately garnering the attention of two uniformed men. Her looks led the way, accompanied by the alluring scent of her perfume, which infiltrated the room, hooked onto each man’s nostrils, and dragged him in for the kill. Little did these men know by failing to live up to Beatrice’s expectations, a matching fate was exactly what she had in store for them.
The guard seated closest to the counter greeted the slender blonde from his side of the steel screen. “Good morning, ma’am. It’s quite a rarity to have you visit the gun cage, isn’t it? To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Pleasure?” Beatrice’s lips curled. “More like pure agony. I’ve about had it up to here with this gall dang Beretta.” She drew her service weapon and presented it, muzzle to the ceiling. In a deft movement, she released the magazine, racked the slide, and sent the chambered hollow-point round into the air, catching it in her free hand. Feeling more ostentatious than usual, she kissed the brass casing, grinned, then slid it along with the magazine into her back pocket. She then set her pistol on the counter. “It’s never been this dirty before. In fact, it’s so far gone now, I don’t have a clue what to do with it. I’d give cleanin’ it myself a shot, but I don’t rightly have access to the…necessities. You know what I mean?”
The guard nodded, seeming to empathize with her plight. “Yes, ma’am, I know exactly what you mean. There’s definitely no excuse for a dirty weapon—I mean, unless it sees a lot of use.”
The other guard closed in from behind to inspect both Beatrice and her problematic service pistol, but mostly Beatrice. “Would that be the cause, ma’am?” he asked. “Excessive carbon fouling due to, let’s call it, disproportionate use?”
Beatrice squinted an eye and beamed. If it were her wish, she could own both of these men, deprived of the hassle of having to string them along. But stringing them along was the part of the game she enjoyed most. “I suppose you could say that…I mean, I do spend a good amount of time at the practice range, keepin’ my skills sharp, and it does see a good deal of routine duty usage, if you catch my drift. But I honestly can’t remember the last time it was cleaned. I started asking around and was given the impression someone here would know what to do with me—oh, excuse me, it.”
The two guards smirked at each other.
The first then opened a drawer, removed a form, and slid it through the opening in the cage, along with a ballpoint pen. “I’d wager you came to the right place. We’ll take good care of it for you, ma’am. It’ll be spic-and-span when you get it back.”
“Marvelous. Speaking of which, any idea how long it might take? It is, after all, my service weapon.”
“Typically, it can take as little as a few hours, all depends on how much fouling there is to remove. We have a few we’re working on in line before we could get to yours, though. Probably tomorrow morning at the earliest.”
Beatrice placed three fingers to her upper lip, her eyes widening. “Tomorrow morning? Oh my gosh! That’s round about a full day without her!”
The second guard cleared his throat. “Her?”
“I’m sorry, it. The Beretta—my Beretta,” she corrected, appearing sheepish. “Whatever am I to do for so long without it? I don’t suppose you gents have any loaners lying around down here, do you?”
“Unfortunately, that is one thing we most definitely do not have,” the first guard proclaimed. “We used to loan out weapons, but it’s become policy to no longer do so.”
“And why would that be? Sounds silly to me.” She gestured to multiple racks of military-grade weaponry within the cage. “There’s obviously more guns down here than people in this camp.”
The second guard snickered. “I don’t know for certain, ma’am, but from what I’ve gathered, there hasn’t been an open line of communications with any of the other camps for several months going. It’s got the higher-ups pretty concerned over infrastructure, and we’ve gotten the notion they’re real worried about inventory. It’s been more or less conveyed to us that nothing is to be unaccounted for, particularly guns and ammo.”
Beatrice sent a sour look. She pouted, her lower lip seeming to stick out more as the seconds drifted past.
The first guard observed her, regarded his colleague, then returned his attention to the sulking blonde. He was a sucker for a sad face, especially when it belonged to an attractive woman, and most notably when said attractive woman’s cleavage was visible above her neckline. “Tell you what, I never do this, but for this case and this case only, I’ll make an exception.” He lifted a Sig Sauer P320 from a holster on his right side, verified the chamber was empty, and slid it through the opening. “I’ll loan you mine.”
Beatrice’s eyes
