Doug looked away with a smirk and set himself up to take a bite. “Who won?”
The blonde raised a brow. “That isn’t the least bit funny,” she sizzled.
“Damn. This was personal. And the plot thickens; but the riddle is finally coming together now, thank Christ.”
“Mine and hers is a long lurid chronicle chock-full of lackluster disparities, none of which I intend to rehash over breakfast. I’d rather we change the subject entirely.”
“Fine. Let’s do that. How about, say, the topic of current events?” Doug quipped, feeling mightier than he had earlier on.
“Suit yourself.”
“You had teams of agents working that area you bombed the ever-loving shit out of, and your husband was running them. I believe they were ordered there to retrieve some…shall we say…collateral?”
“Yes. What about them?”
“I need to know their whereabouts.”
“Need?” Beatrice barked the interrogative. “Doug, are you suggesting that I knowingly jeopardized their lives in a manner very much uncalled for? That perverse extrapolation appalls me. I am a professional.”
“A professional who not even two minutes ago admitted her reasons for going to extremes as being personal. August has led the primary task force for the operations and—”
“And you’re insinuating because of that and…other things, I had those men position where an air-to-ground warhead might find them?” Beatrice rolled her eyes. “Douglas Bronson, the assertion perplexes me. I’m astounded…and a little turned on at the way you think. It’s macabre, nuttier than a fruitcake, but that is not what I have done. In fact, orders were relayed to both teams to remain bivouacked until further notice. It just so happens they have yet to receive that notice.”
Doug took a sip of his coffee. “And that explains breakfast. You’re not anticipating visitors today.”
“Nope. It’s just the two of us, the way it’s been and the way it should be. Though I did have a few ulterior motives for having you here.”
“Such as?”
“I am truly glad we’ve broached this juncture,” she droned. “My mind’s been fixated too much on food all morning. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about our future, as in where we go from here, and maybe hash out some of these…pesky final obligations.”
Bronson didn’t say anything.
“There are a few issues I’d like to go over with regard to the plantation, beginning with our supply shortages,” Beatrice began. “Hope you don’t mind, but I’ve acquainted myself with your inbox in recent days, quite the hellish nightmare. There are literally hundreds of unread messages from department heads, from assistance requests to official complaints. Nearly every one mentions insufficient resources or the unavailability thereof.” She locked eyes with Bronson. “The situation is dismal here, Doug. Well on its way to becoming dire.”
“Our situation has been dire for months,” Doug grumbled, “well on its way to becoming unrecoverable.”
Beatrice forked a helping of pancake. “Yet you’ve failed to mention it as being so.”
“You mind telling me precisely when I’ve had the chance to?” Doug retorted. “At this point, I don’t see any use in discussing it. There’s not anything either one of us can do about it. The situation’s hopeless.”
Beatrice swallowed the wad of food and wiped her mouth daintily. “Elaborate.”
“We’ve had zero contact with neighboring Homeland Security outposts for months going now,” Doug began with a sigh. “That’s zero interaction via comms with other camps, no word of any kind, and no explanation for it. Every link in the chain of command has been unresponsive; it’s like they all went dark or dropped off the face of the planet. We’ve had no deliveries, no convoys, no resupplies. Both Bravo and the outpost have been operating as detached subordinates, independent of heretofore established framework. We’re a structure devoid an infrastructure, Beatrice. Entirely solitaire.”
“And you’ve exhausted every means on hand?”
“And then some.”
Beatrice mulled this over. “I’ll have you know this isn’t the least bit viable.”
“No shit it isn’t.”
“My, my, my,” she cooed, head judgingly in motion. “The plantation’s on its last leg.”
“The plantation is dying.” Doug exhaled. “And this lampoon with which you’ve been entertaining yourself as of late hasn’t helped one goddamn bit.”
“Lampoon?” Beatrice scoffed at him, starting now to look a little worried. “I wonder what’s become of everyone…”
“It’s impossible to know. Maybe they went AWOL. Maybe the camps were raided and overtaken. Maybe a pandemic got out of control, ran amuck, and they’re all dead now.”
“Or maybe some of them grew a brain, cut themselves free of all this, and moved on to bigger, better, and brighter things.”
Doug furrowed his brow and set down his fork. “Maybe it’s time for you to elaborate.”
Beatrice folded her arms and turned her head away, opting to chew on her fingernails.
“Okay, that’s fine. Clam up. Don’t elaborate. You’ve been openly displaying your true colors to me a lot lately. The silent treatment is nothing I can’t handle.” He leaned back and belched. “I realize I’ve failed to match your expectations, Beatrice. The two of us are a far cry from being the ideal post-apocalyptic power couple, but it can’t all be my fault. This time around, I don’t think it’s anyone’s fault. It’s just like the song goes, you can’t always get what you want.”
The buxom blonde shot him a cantankerous look. “Oh, but I can. And I will get what I want, Doug.” She sat fully upright and went about cutting her remaining pancakes into superthin slices. “Let’s talk numbers, specifically related to those under our charge, beginning with detainees. By my estimation, there are entirely too many of them, and something must be done about that. The humane termination program has always been insufficient and untenable. Purgatory is forever backed up something nasty, like old, dilapidated plumbing.” She set her utensils down and fiddled with her hair. “I remember my nanna’s first house with indoor facilities. Got clogged up all the time ’cause she never minded her pipes, that old black cast-iron crap.” A pause. “She’d call on a neighbor to give her a hand. He wasn’t a plumber or anything, he’d just
