'Bartlett…' his voice slid from his mouth like venom. 'Get. That. Fucking gun. Out of my face!'
Bartlett took a step forward and kept the rifle pointed at Cleese.
'Or what, Tough Guy?'
Instantly, Cleese slapped the barrel up toward the ceiling and spun at the waist. He quickly grabbed the rifle and, with a quick tug, yanked the gun away. Behind them, the kid could be heard trying to get to his feet, but his wounded legs wouldn’t support him. Without a second thought, Cleese flipped the gun around in his hands and slid the barrel of the rifle up under the kid’s helmet just at the jaw line. An explosion of blood, brain, and bone erupted against the fractured surface of the kid’s visor.
'You’re making too much fuckin’ noise, man,' Cleese said, 'and I won’t have you endangering us all just because you want to get your rocks off torturing this thing.' He pulled the clip out of the rifle and ejected the chambered round. The discarded brass tinkled brightly as it hit the ground. Cleese raised the rifle so that it could be seen. 'And you’ll get this back at the end of the semester, young man!'
Bartlett shot an angry look at his back as Cleese walked back down the aisle and toward the front of the store.
'Fuck you!' Barlett barked.
'Oh and point another gun at me, Fuckstick, and I’ll drop you like the sack of shit that you are,' Cleese called back over his shoulder.
'Don’t threaten me, Cleese!' Bartlett shouted after him.
'I don’t threaten, motherfucker,' Cleese’s voice came slithering out of the darkness, 'I offer up prophecy.'
~ * ~
The ride back to the compound was a quiet one. Cleese decided to sit in the back of the truck with Del Castillo, Harrison and Hines. They’d rearranged boxes and made little cubbyholes to sit in between the stacked fruits of their labor. Cleese noticed that there was a distinct separation between theirs and his.
Whatever…
It wasn’t like he was ever looking to make friends.
As the truck rumbled along, he could hear Bartlett and Pugnowski as they talked in the cab. He caught muted mumbling that, from their tone, had all the earmarks of bitching and posturing. Cleese had heard it time and time again, usually from some propped-up tough guy who’d just had his social standing diminished by someone tougher and smarter.
Cleese leaned back and got as comfortable as he could given the constant rocking of the truck as it rumbled down the road and back up into the mountains. He grabbed a package of toilet paper and set it under the back of his head as a pillow. He knew he’d not heard the last of Bartlett and his empty-headed cronies, but it wasn’t like he was worried. If there was ever going to be a serious altercation between them, it would have happened at the drug store when they were all alone and everyone was well armed. Instead, Cleese had walked away without so much as a tussle.
It told him everything he needed to know.
Spines of water.
As he settled in deeper and tried to get comfortable, he took a glance over at the three men riding with him. As he met their gaze directly, they looked away or into their laps.
Cleese smiled to himself, closed his eyes, and promptly took a nap.
~ * ~
Back at the compound, Cleese turned in the SIG, but asked if he could hold onto the nine mil. Having a pistol in this day and age just seemed like a pretty good idea to him.
Luckily, Wolf agreed with him.
He felt almost like himself after his nap in the truck and as the sun slowly set he decided he’d go and dig up some chow. The smell of food being prepared caught his attention the second they’d made it back to camp. He figured now that he’d done a little something to earn a place here, he’d reap himself some of the benefits in the shape of a full stomach.
As he made his way through the encampment and toward the roach coaches, he saw that a line had formed and it suddenly occurred to him how many people had come under Wolf’s protective banner. Dozens of men, women, children, the handicapped and the elderly stood waiting patiently for their food. Even though they’d all faced a pile of shit, they were an orderly bunch; surprising since it’d been only a short time since what many had come to refer to as The Fall. A few of them still had that 'What the fuck?' expression on their faces, but they all looked like refugees from some foreign conflict. What made it worse was that they were Americans who’d suffered while on American soil. Theirs had been a life of entitlement and plenty. None had experienced any calamity of note before, especially not 'up close and personal' like this.
Never mind coming to grips with the whole 'dead guy getting back to his feet and trying to eat you' thing. That shit was too fucked up to get a handle on for even the hardest of them. Shit, if the military lost their motherfuckin’ minds over it, what chance did John Q. Public have? Some things were better left alone. Others were best left not even being considered.
Abruptly, a disturbance became apparent toward the front of the line. Cleese leaned out and saw the pony- tailed girl, Jenny, waving her arms and gesturing wildly. She repeatedly pointed her finger at someone as if in accusation and then another more heated exchange took place. Whoever she was talking to, it was pretty obvious that she was pretty pissed at them.
Then suddenly, the object of her ire stepped out of line and made himself known.
Bartlett.
The crowd around them was starting to become visibly agitated, due primarily to the fact that whatever was going on was keeping them from getting their dinners.
'What’s that all about?' Cleese asked the small dark-haired women standing in front of him. She held a fidgety two year old boy tucked under her arm and her face was covered with a thin layer of dirt.
'Someone’s jumping the line,' she said, brushing a lock of hair from her boy’s tired eyes. 'It happens… especially when the Scavenger Squads come back with supplies. Some of them feel like, since they took all the risks, they deserve first dibs.'
'Some of them, eh?' Cleese quietly excused himself from line.
With an amiable gait, he slowly made his way up alongside the queue. As he got closer, he was able to make out bits and pieces of the conversation.
'Look, we earned a place at the head of this line, Jenny,' Bartlett said in his most cocky manner. 'I didn’t see any of these people out there with us… when we were risking our lives!'
'Don’t make me have to go get Wolf, Fred. You know what he’d say about this kind of bullying.'
By now, Cleese was close enough that he could be seen by Jenny. She nodded slightly, but didn’t acknowledge him. She had bigger problems.
Bartlett stood with his back toward the line so he therefore had no idea Cleese was coming up behind him.
'Go get him! I don’t care!'
'These people are just as tired and hungry as you or any of your men. The line moves quickly. You know that. Just show a little patience.'
'Honey, we risk our asses to get this shit while the rest of you sit up here and do nothing.'
'When exactly did you risk jack shit, Freddie?' Cleese interrupted as he stepped up behind Bartlett. 'Before or after Motorcycle Boy got the drop on you? The only thing I seem to remember is when you were rolling around on the ground with him, screaming like a bitch.'
A wave of snickers rippled through the crowd.
Bartlett markedly jumped at the sound of Cleese’s voice and quickly turned around. His expression spoke volumes as to how unwelcome Cleese’s involvement was in all of this. A pain in his ass since he first walked into camp, Cleese somehow managed to yet again show up and make him look like a fool. Bartlett looked back and forth between the diminutive girl who had stood up to him and the newcomer who’d managed more than once in less than twenty-four hours to make him look stupid and ineffectual.
Visibly angry, he mumbled a quick 'fuck you both' and strode off sullenly toward the tents and campers which
