Ooh, I can’t wait to do another healing session on Katy with a Y. She realized she shouldn’t tell a single soul about the healing sessions—until after she healed Katy. All by herself. They already thought she had mental problems.
She thought about all the techniques the Silver Lady and Shari had taught her. When Mommy’s on guard duty, she’d sneak out a bottle of Mateo’s monatomic tea.
Mommy is gonna be so proud of me after I heal my first one . . .
Chapter 9
Dean Wormer steadied his nerves as he inched Zac’s pickup closer to the bumper in front of him. “Must be dern near a hun-erd vehicles in front of us.” At that rate, they wouldn’t get to the Zhetto Market until noon.
A jumpy Justin glanced from side to side. “I’ve never seen this much security.”
“Think we should turn around?” Dean asked. “Tell me while I still have some wiggle room to turn around.”
Justin squirmed in his seat. “We should be okay.”
Dean pulled up another car-length. “You absolutely positive they don’t toss non-chipped citizens in the slammer?”
Justin gnawed away on a hangnail. “Enforcers don’t waste time busting small-time Zhetts. Except the weapons dealers. They get huge kudos for that. Like, how do you stay so freakin’ calm?” Justin grated as if it were a bad thing.
“I’m not on their Most Wanted list,” Dean reminded. Nor was he a new father. “They haven’t turned anyone away. I think we’re good.”
At last, Dean pulled up to the parking lot’s guarded entrance. “Howdy.” He peered into the mirrored sunglasses of an Enforcer while another Enforcer scanned the pickup’s front plates.
“Hand,” the Enforcer droned.
Good thing Justin had chipped them. Dean held his hand out the window and awaited his fate. Meanwhile, the other Enforcer scanned Justin.
“The vehicle’s registered to a different name. Sanders, search the back.” The Enforcer on Justin’s side drew his weapon and rushed the back of the camper.
“Say, what’s all this ’bout?” Dean badgered, playing the disgruntled senior citizen.
“How’d you obtain the vehicle?” the Enforcer demanded.
Dean had an answer ready for that one. “Borrowed it from Mr. and Mrs. Padilla. We’re on contract to purchase food and supplies for Ghost Creek Hunting Lodge.” He sure wished he could see through those intimidating mirrored sunglasses. “Why the third-degree?”
“Ghost Creek Hunting Lodge,” the Enforcer repeated to himself, scrolling through his cell-phoned size electronic device. “You’ll have to do better than that, old man. Says here, the lodge’s officially closed.”
“Right, because,” Dean emphasized, “the lodge’s plum out of food. Look here, young man, if Last State spent as much time disposin’ hordes as they do hasslin’ senior citizens—why your granddaddy must be turnin’ in his grave.” Dean stopped, not wanting to overdo it when he caught Justin’s twitching smirks from the corner of his eye.
The camper’s door slammed shut. “They’re clean,” hollered the Enforcer from the rear.
“My apologies,” the Enforcer offered. “Since the Zoat fiasco, we tightened security.”
“Reckon you’re merely following orders. By the way, has the Zoat breach been taken care of?” Dean might as well take advantage of the situation.
“The inner Zones are locked down tight”—the Enforcer hesitated—“but we’re getting reports of small hordes scattered throughout the panhandle.” He doubled-slapped the hood and motioned them through. “Stay safe.”
By golly, Twila’s spot on. Dean reached up to tip his Stetson, only he had forgotten it had wound up a victim of his madcap escape from the lodge. He nonchalantly pulled into the parking lot.
“Sweeet,” Justin purred.
“I dealt with Enforcers on a daily basis back before they blew up Boom Town.” In fact, Dean thought he recognized the fellow. Chances were nobody would recognize him without his cowboy hat, duster, and worthless sheriff badge. About all the badge had been good for was getting shot at. Glad those days are done with, Dean reflected, swerving into the first vacant parking spot he came to.
Justin strode to a mishmash of carts: Best Buy, Costco, Walmart, and the like. “I’ve never seen it this busy,” Justin exclaimed. “Grab a cart.”
Dean nabbed the sturdiest cart within reach. “If for some reason we get separated, let’s meet at the pickup. And if that doesn’t pan out, we’ll meet up at the bunkhouse,” Dean said as they approached a line of people waiting to get inside the fenced-in market.
“That fence is new. And freaky,” Justin jabbered on. “They really upped security. Probably for the Elites. They like slummin’ it, acting all suave and debonair.”
From what Dean could tell, a shakedown slowed the line. He methodically scanned the surroundings. The flea market was enclosed in a ten-foot-tall chain-link fence topped with three strands of razor-wire. To the right, a hodgepodge of older vehicles butted against the fence line with FOR SALE signs on the front windshields. Primo spot. No one could miss them.
The skoolie caught his eye. His buddy used to have one of those. They had camped in the renovated bus during their annual Oregon fishing trips. Whatever happened to ol’ Frank? His buddy hadn’t shown up for lunch that day—that horrendous day Dean had first realized the world had gone batshit crazy.
“We should hurry,” Justin cautioned. “The cheap stuff sells out super-fast. When the Zhetto tour buses get here, they start price-gouging.” Justin stopped and gave him the once-over. “Hey, I told you to rip holes in your Dockers. You’re dressed too nice.”
Dean brushed him off. It seemed a shame to debauch a perfectly good pair of pants, and under the current circumstances, he hadn’t wanted to wear military fatigues. They might make him appear more of a threat than the dowdy old-man persona that came easily to him.
“Hey!” Justin pointed to the sign. “It’s open seven days
