Some believed that there were no seasons. That they had been covered by the same smoke that shrouded their skies. Some believed that the seasons were infinite. That time bled together after blood had torn them apart. In the South, there was The Season. One of the two. There was silence. And then there was not.
Farmlands were rich with the last okra harvest this time of year, the buds always ripened perfectly a few miles north of the marsh. Crisp breezes scattered overgrowth flooding amongst the vacated lands, but Della presumed that her knowledge of the hidden reserve was not unrivaled. Abandoned agricultural properties were no-brainer destinations for all varieties of travelers and local gatherers. Normally she would visit these areas on her morning trek, and every once in a while, she would be able to scrounge up enough produce both for cooking and trading. Most people were too impatient to do the digging, expecting handouts from more successful and generous patrons, but Della had never been the latter. She provided her fellow neighbors with enough aid to enjoy a guilt-free platter of stew every time she craved a midnight snack. Of all the reasons she lost sleep at night, their starvation was not one of them.
The Season began on the first of September each year without falter, bringing migratory groups in swarms. Hundreds of people from the Highland regions came to roast their sunken bodies under the direct, penetrating punch of the southern sun, if only for a meager dinner ration each night. Those who did not travel solely to replenish their pantries with food were also preparing to huddle desperately on Della’s doorstep, praying that they arrived in time. The lucky ones suffered from heat exhaustion, dehydration, and hunger. Many, however, were not so lucky.
Dawn was just beginning to break as Della entered the forest. The first light of the sun sparkled in the early morning fog, lighting the sky a caramel color that was cautionary of afternoon showers. Drops of dew appeared as glistening silver egg yolks on the waxy plates of leaves soon to fall. At one point in time, not too long ago, the trail had been a commonly known hiking destination by the locals, but as the native population dwindled the competition became scarcer. Where a narrow dirt path used to wind between slender pines there were now untrodden heaps of rotting plant debris. Della had to be careful to step lightly, as cypress trees many times reached out beneath the camouflage with their stationary roots to trip unwarranted visitors.
As days grew cooler her work hours grew longer and the loads grew heavier. By the time Della finished restocking it was nearing eleven and all three of her satchels were heaping with fresh blueberries, collard greens, kale, cabbage, cucumbers, and peaches. It would likely be another three hours before she made it back home, and there would only be more work waiting for her when she arrived. A brief break to tie her boots tighter and tuck her sweat-soaked shirt under the band of her bra had her back on the way, breathing in the only solace she ever found within her surroundings. It had only been two short years since the war put an end to her first world worries. Life was both more simple than ever and more miserable than imaginable.
When Della made it out into the clearing, it was no surprise to see that the lands where there were once clearings only hours ago were now overrun by rampant travelers. Their tents and equipment were carelessly strewn over the field in heaps, their horses roamed the pastures grazing on valuable greenery that none of their owners recognized. Still more were arriving, the modestly wealthy were pouring in by means of private travel businesses. Many who not only survived the disaster, but also managed to salvage their personal vehicle, soon after discovered the profit that could be made off of selling transportation services. Gas stations and holding tanks, if not destroyed, were cleaned out by these individual competitors. They were no doubt living in comparable luxury, especially during the harsh winter months.
Della’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a familiar smooth whistle. “Hey baby, wait up!”
She continued at her current pace. Food was not the only resource in high demand, and an entirely collapsed law enforcement system only encouraged those who might’ve previously been dissuaded. Many former cops turned into the outlaws they despised. Their experience and training were now only valuable for forsaking justice rather than enforcing it.
The man jogged casually until he caught up and fell into her stride, a smirk growing on his greasy, unshaven face. “Hey, hey slooooow down sugar, lemme see that pretty little face o’ yours,” he slurred, reaching out and placing a hand on her shoulder. “Where I come from we ain’t got nuthin’ like you.”
Della froze under his touch, still remaining emotionless and unresponsive.
“It’s too damn hot out here for you to be wearin’ so many clothes,” he purred in her ear, glancing down her shirt. His breath was a rotten punch of periodontal disease and hard liquor. “Looks like you’ve got yourself too much to eat for a sexy little body like that, whaddaya say we share...” he tightened his grip, rubbing himself against her backside. “I’ll share too.”
His hand lingered on her shoulder for a moment before trailing downwards. Over her breast, over her slick, sun-kissed skin. It was then that she grabbed him with startling force. The white caps of her knuckles became the screws of the shackle clamped down on his sunburned wrist. “If you touch me one more time, I will break your arm.” She stated calmly.
He let out a dismissive chuckle, proceeding to press his palm against her again. “C’mon baby, don’t be like that.”
Della rolled her eyes, dropped her bags, and hooked her foot around him from behind, pushing him flat on the ground with her free arm without relinquishing her grip on his wrist. She quickly restrained his other arm before shoving his face in the dirt with her knee. She pushed back on the first arm until she heard him scream. “What is your name?”
“What the–”
“What is your name?” she demanded, pressing harder on his arm.
“Rob, my name is Rob!” he shouted.
“Rob what?”
“Rob Jackson, Rob Jackson, my name is Rob Jackson holy shit lady!”
“Well, Mr. Jackson, while we’re here – because obviously, you aren’t going anywhere – I’d like to tell you a little story,” Della spoke in a childlike tone, turning around to lean back against the arm she was holding under leverage. Rob cried out in pain as she slowly reclined with more and more force. “You see, there was one man not too long ago, much like you, who decided he was going to assault my dignity. I was a little younger, a lot more inexperienced, and a lot more terrified.” She briefly took in his features, committing them to memory as she had done with all of the others. She never forgot a face even though she never saw one twice. “He had his way with me. He got what he wanted.”
She paused, pushed all the way back, and the distinctive snap almost echoed through the marsh. His scream drew even more attention from surrounding gatherers. “You can be very certain, Mr. Jackson, that something like that will not happen again. Under any circumstances. Is that clear?”
“You’re a crazy bitch,” he breathed laboriously, spitting and groaning into the soil.
“You’re right,” Della cracked a small, cold smirk. “I am a crazy bitch. And I’m a crazy bitch who’s going to break your neck too if we can’t seem to reach an agreement.” Rob squirmed under the intensity of her knee digging into his spine. She twisted the broken arm until tears spilled from his eyes. “Now I said ‘Is. That. Clear.’ Mr. Jackson.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he dismissed.
She released her grip, making sure to throw down his dangling limb with enough force to rub in the pain. Rob sighed in relief, attempting to catch his breath before she kicked him in demand for him to stand. He shot her a fuming, vengeful glare as he stumbled to his feet, clutching the arm as if he’d be able to put the bone back where it once belonged. That fury was doused when she whipped out a pistol and anchored her aim at his skull.
Any admonishment of shock from his lips was silenced by her command. “That’ll be a ‘yes ma’am’. Since you’re learning how to be respectful.” Della’s amber eyes were entirely fixed on his, unshifting, unblinking. They warned that she didn’t joke, she didn’t hesitate, and she never missed her mark. They dared the prideful and the foolish to disregard her spoken word. They promised that threats were always carried through.
“Yes ma’am,” he uttered in compliance.
“Excellent,” she smiled mockingly, cocking her head and slapping his cheek with the barrel of her gun to get him to turn around. “Go on now, and don’t let me find out you’ve been harassing any of the other poor defenseless women. And good luck finding yourself a doctor around these parts.”
“Who are you?” he hissed, turning his head to look at her one last time in disbelief.
“Oh, my apologies,” Della feigned courtesy, a learned trait for a Southern woman such as herself. It came in handy on many occasions to save face after she had gotten herself into a little too much trouble. “I’m Della Maguire…MD.”
With a wink, she cast her attention elsewhere and regained her composure, collecting her things and clipping her gun back onto her work belt. It rested among a dagger, a set of throwing knives, a filet knife, a pouch full of ammunition, and enough assorted tools to give any attacker sufficient reason to back off. Della couldn’t tell whether it was a bet, a running joke, or a severe case of one-track-mind-syndrome, but nothing seemed to fade the target on her body. She figured that men focused so intently on getting in her pants that they paid no heed to what hung off the belt loops.
A large audience had established an open circle around the scene. Many looked her dead in the eyes, likely trying to convince themselves that she was truly a real person and that none of the events took place in a dream. She took a single casual step forward and the crowd dispersed down that direction in a linear, murmuring shuffle. As Della carried on her original path and made her way home some of them cheered for her bravery and some spat on her, the crazy bitch, for living up to her namesake. Those who crossed the line were shot back over it by a single wordless threat cast their way by her stare. She preferred not to spend her entire day incapacitating all of her newly made enemies, but if that’s what it would take to put them in their place then that’s what she would do.
The duplex was roughly a quarter mile from the commotion of the harvest fields, so it was no surprise to find that the vast majority of people waiting in line outside Della’s door had been spectators as well. They regarded her accordingly, hushing their conversations once she was in earshot and bowing their heads as though it would keep them hidden and quench the impulses of their fear and controversial opinions. She unlocked the door and briskly stepped inside without acknowledging the patients.
Once part of a quaint neighborhood of divided homes and apartments, Della’s duplex was the only one that still housed one of its original inhabitants. The ones that hadn’t been reduced to rubble were commandeered by locals whose homes were destroyed as many were. At one point both sides had belonged to her grandfather, who rented one out to retire more comfortably, but her mother had moved the two of them into the right half when she was in middle school. Now both halves belonged to Della, the left space served as a clinic after she had transformed it to store the necessary equipment and supplies, and the right space served as her living area.
The interior began as nothing extraordinary, in fact it was dated and designed just as cheaply as it was sold. Della transformed it years ago to give it life, back when she felt happiness to express and had the time to spend on projects that would now seem trivial. Every wall was painted a bright color like tangerine, seafoam green, or cherry red. Bowls of fruits and vegetables sat upon hand-painted tiles that were grouted to the once beige laminate cabinetry and countertops. Damaged vintage furnishings were restored and reupholstered with vibrant floral prints. Woven rugs, architectural lamps, and pop art adorned every room, and shelves upon shelves of storage housed her other eclectic decorative belongings along with books and quite the collection of outdated CDs. No matter how far technology advanced she had always preferred to hold the disks in her hands, flip through the cover art and read the booklets full of lyrics and dedications.
If Della’s house was a work of art, her tiny yard was a sanctuary in its own right. Citrus trees grew like weeds in every available lot of soil, perennials bloomed in terra cotta pots, and bromeliads hung from the wrought iron fence pickets in boxes and baskets. A shabby swinging loveseat, crammed in the patio space, overlooked a koi pond that began as a dollar store kiddie pool. The little orange and white fish had managed to survive what many people did not, even though Della neglected them for the longest time to tend to her other newfound responsibilities. They still swam around obliviously, finding algae to scrape up on the sides of their enclosure.
Della prepared a hearty pot of vegetable and barley soup on a large pot over the stove, and organized the rest of her harvest into storage bins, saving refrigerator space for greens that would spoil rapidly. She was fortunate to have the electrical and water access that most places did not. Though the connections were poor and she often experienced outages, the two remaining workers on staff at the local power company attempted to keep her hooked up since she operated the only functioning full-service medical office in the South. She lit candles as a precautionary measure and traveled between the two houses placing them in critical areas. At one point the efficiencies were completely separate from one another, but Della took a sledgehammer to the drywall in the back bedroom to remove any division that would decrease efficiency. A thick bedsheet served as a visual barrier to wandering patients and their family members.
The clinic was nothing special, but at least it served its purpose. It reeked of vinegar cleaning solution and the sickness that no amount of scrubbing could conceal, and the walls whispered stories of the hundreds that died within them. Memories of her long-deceased grandfather fought for rightful dominance in a place that was no longer recognizable as his. Sunday morning orange juice and crossword puzzles fought for prominence over blood transfusions and fevers. Two sets of bunk beds and several stacks of blankets provided overnight stay accommodations in his bedroom, the kitchen was gutted of appliances to house medicine cabinets, and the living room served as the main office. Della had engineered an examination counter with a hydraulic pump base and the top of her old dining table, and the dining room chairs provided extra seating. It wasn’t much for a doctor, but for a sick person in this new world it was more than sufficient.
Della cracked open the clinic door, addressing upwards of 30 people with all eyes on her. “Alright, first in line, come take a seat when you’re ready.”
The crowd erupted in hushed tones that grew louder by the second.
“Hey,” she shouted, gathering their attention again. “Pick someone now or you will all be on your own.”
If there had been any doubt before, they knew by now that she meant it. A mother carrying her young child stepped forward. The little girl ducked her head in a terrified submission, clinging onto the hem of her mother’s khaki shorts. Though envy came to a rolling boil on everyone else’s faces, they kept their mouths shut and their feet planted. “We’re ready.”
Della nodded, ushering them through the door. One look at the weak, sniffling little girl suggested the flu. Not every diagnosis was a simple one, but with limited resources, options, and time, she often stuck with her intuition as far as treatment went. At first it had pained her to think about how exemplary her patient survival rate could have been only a short while ago, but she learned to suck it up and forget the failures. It was all a numbers game to her in the long run. If a life was going to be lost regardless, at least it was better for her to attempt to save it first.
Although her practice may have appeared valiant to outsiders, Della had her own motives. She certainly would never provide service as a simple act of charity. With supply for doctors insurmountably higher than the demand, she was well aware that her prices could be raised to the lavish sum that her equals in other regions were charging, however; with the vast majority of people remaining poor, sick, and faithless, it was far more profitable to cater to the masses. Charge less and serve more was her impromptu business platform. The terminal and too-far-gone cases didn’t even require work on her end, and she would be paid to act the part and put on a sympathetic face while people’s loved ones drew their last breaths. She never once questioned a deceitful bargain. She liked to believe instead that everyone was corrupt and morally broken, only some were successful and others were dead.
The afternoon continued as she would have expected; administering stitches, tending to sprains and fractures, prescribing antibiotics and painkillers, and passing out canisters upon canisters of water and soup to emaciated and dehydrated travelers. That is, until the last group greeted her at the door. Dusk had just given way to nightfall, and though it was difficult to distinguish the features of her visitors, Della was experienced enough to sense when the conditions were destitute. They crossed the threshold into the main room, and it was then that she laid eyes on the man they were carrying with them, passed out cold and hanging off the shoulders of his companions.
“Take a seat,” she told them. Without protest, they obeyed. A thick wall of silence washed over all three of the healthy men as she crossed the room and sat down on an arm chair in the corner. They were definitely from a different region, and they acted as out of place as they appeared. “What are your names?”
They turned and looked amongst themselves, debating who should volunteer their identity first. The man on the far end spoke up. “I’m Tucker,” he replied, rolling up the sleeves of his checkered shirt. His gentle features displayed his fear, though he tried to hide it behind a daring dirty blonde hairstyle and a shaky smile. He was visibly intimidated, but openly vulnerable to the point that it came across as confidence. “That’s Kayden,” he pointed to the man next to him with the silver hoop earring and the wife-beater shirt that he couldn’t quite fill in with his tall and lanky body. Kayden gave an uneasy wave in response. “And that’s Fletcher down on the end.” Fletcher looked up at her, motionless.
She took notes on a pad of paper as she went. Records were seldom utilized, but she liked to believe that the written word always held its value. “Alright, and who did you bring here today to see me?”
“His name is Carver, Carver Witten,” Tucker responded immediately.
“Put him on the table.”
The men appeared to be floored by her detached expression and monotone voice. Their expectations of hospitality were obviously not at all dissuaded by the fact that they had watched her shatter a man’s arm and then hold a gun to his head merely hours prior to this meeting. They remained seated, examining her as though she were the patient instead. Tucker wiped the first of many nervous beads of sweat from his brow. He blinked several times, opened his mouth in attempt to speak, and then snapped it shut upon second thought. A million things barreled through all of their minds as they exchanged looks across the room, but none of them were brought forth.
“Do you want him to live or not?” Della inquired.
“Uh,” Tucker stuttered, his wide dark eyes flickered between her face and the floor. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry. We’re sorry, we didn’t mean to offend you. Thank you so much for seeing us, really, I mean you’re our only chance, really, I just–”
“And I just don’t care. I don’t care who I am to you or what I mean to you. I am everyone’s last chance. That is why they come here. Obviously you would not be here either if you could heal him on your own, no?” Della felt the heat rush to her face and spread across her skin.
“Um, yes, uh, yes ma’am,” Tucker held his breath, his interlocking hands trembled as he squeezed his fingers together more tightly. His knee bounced up and down, poking through the rips in his jeans like a target at a carnival game.
Fletcher turned his head to look at his nervous comrade, then rose to his feet and walked deliberately to Della. He curled his grasp around the arms of the chair to create a cage in front of her and dropped his face inches from hers. “You can put up whatever front you want but you will not treat us like we are nothing.”
She looked up at him, locking onto the depths of his impenetrable royal blue eyes. “Everyone is nothing.” She pushed lightly against his arm in a dismissive attempt, but he remained statuesque. “Move.”
“No.”
“Just do it man, Carver needs us to pull it together. You might not need her help, but he sure does.” Kayden chimed in. He addressed her as though he was about to get down on his knees and pray for her to grant salvation to his friend. “I’m sorry Doctor Maguire, please forgive him.”
Della looked Fletcher up and down in consideration. “Don’t mistake my intentions. I appreciate your loyalty. I appreciate your dignity and your naïve sense of self-worth. As a matter of fact, I find some level of humor in it. It’s not every day I encounter a man brave enough challenge my authority after they’ve found out what I am capable of,” she paused. “That being said, do not hold yourself above me as though I am some difficult child throwing a tantrum. In this world, in this town, and especially in this house, you are the child. And I will not hesitate to remind you of that fact.”
He shot her one final lingering look before loosening his grip and turning his shoulder to her. His muscles strained under the weight as he single-handedly scooped Carver into his arms and laid him on the table. Upon feeling his head touch the hard surface, Carver regained a minimal amount of consciousness. He began to sit up and immediately broke into a dry coughing spell, heaving violently as his weak body shuddered. The illness clawed through his lungs, slashing tissue aside to create more room for itself as it grew. Blood splattered into his hands as he attempted to cover his mouth.
“I,” Carver trailed off, distracted and dazed. “Where am I?”
Fletcher opened his mouth, prepared with a retort, but Kayden cut him off before he had the chance. “We brought you down south to that doctor, remember? Doctor Maguire. You’ve been getting pretty sick and she’s going to make you feel better.”
“Got it Kay, I’m confused, not stupid,” Carver smiled weakly and shot his friend a wink. “And you’re the doctor?”
Della stood up and grabbed her stethoscope from the hanging rack on the wall. “That’d be me.”
He chuckled and another drop of blood trailed from his nose. “Shit, shoulda known I wasn’t dead yet. Not even I could hallucinate a woman that beautiful.”
She rolled her eyes, resisting the urge to crack a laugh. Instead she carried on as usual, analyzing his vitals. It was hardly the first time she had been hit on by a patient, especially one who felt so close to death that they latched onto bravery with the mindset that there was nothing left for them to lose. The other men gave Carver warning glances that he failed to notice, obviously under the impression that his flirtatious attitude would land him a place on her radar. “Relax,” Della reassured them, her ear and cheek still pressed sideways to his bare chest as she listened to each jagged breath. “I prefer moving targets.” She looked down and addressed Carver. “Maybe you should save the flattery for a higher power. See if it’ll keep you alive in case I can’t.”
“What do you think is wrong?” Tucker asked.
“Pneumonia, for certain. I’m almost surprised you didn’t recognize it yourself with symptoms this severe,” Della went to the medicine cabinet and stood on her tip-toes to sift through the antibiotics on the top shelf. “Does he smoke? Or have a family history of any respiratory cancers?”
Tucker’s eyes remained wide with hope and glassy with dread. “No and I don’t think so. You think he could have cancer? But what if it’s just pneumonia, isn’t pneumonia curable?”
“It can usually be cured, yes, especially with modern medicine, but if you haven’t realized by now, medicine isn’t so modern anymore. It certainly isn’t widely available. We’re lucky I have what he’ll need but I can’t guarantee that there will be any improvement at this point. I also can’t guarantee that this isn’t related to cancer. His symptoms are quite severe and his immune system has been compromised for a while now, how long has he been like this?”
“It seemed like a cold at first, probably for a month or so, but things went downhill from there very rapidly,” Tucker said. “For about two weeks his health just got worse and worse and it was then that we decided to start looking for a doctor. Prices are so high in Westwood though, we’re lucky to be better off than many people over there but not lucky enough to afford the help he needed. We tried the local office but you were the only affordable option for us.”
“Travel took another month or so,” Kayden chimed in. “We managed to set aside enough to travel by bus from the coast to just past the mountain ranges, but from there we had to travel by horseback, and that wasn’t the quickest option either when we were taking turns carrying Carver.”
Carver smiled. “That’s me, always complicating things.”
“Dude, your health isn’t a joke.” Fletcher reprimanded him, pulling up a chair to sit by his side. “That’s what got you here in the first place. Thinking that everything is a damn game.”
“Well what’s the sense in being serious to someone who isn’t going to take you seriously then?” Carver attempted to laugh but wheezed instead.
Della returned from the kitchen with a tall glass of water, a handful of pills, and a tray full of overflowing bowls of soup. She helped Carver take his medicine and then proceeded to pass out a helping of food to each of them. When she got to Fletcher she made sure to splash some on his shirt. “Be careful, it’s still hot,” she cautioned, making deliberate eye contact with him as he peeled the wet fabric off of his skin. “If one of you wants to bring your horses around back, I have more than enough to provide for them as well. It’s a long journey.”
“They’re roped up to the back of your fence already,” Kayden told her. “We didn’t mean to be rude but we knew they’d be gone within the hour if we left them anywhere else.”
Della nodded. “No insult taken. The people here are ruthless, especially this time of year. Ya’ll wanna help me take these barrels out there?” She pointed to the solid wood troughs, easily able to be lifted by a person of her strength, but they needed a distraction and she needed a break.
Kayden grabbed one for the water, and Tucker grabbed one for the food, but as Fletcher began to stand, Della put him immediately back in his place. “I don’t want your help any more than you want to give it to me, so save us both the trouble, alright?”
“Gladly,” he bit back.
Tucker appeared taken aback by his friend’s hostility, but chose not to question it. Instead he opened the sliding glass door for Della and mentally urged her to walk out before Fletcher could think of something more insulting to say to her. As soon as Kayden made it out he slammed it shut in a hurry. The dusk air on the patio was muggy and clouded with hordes of famished mosquitos the size of rodents. None of them had seen anything like it before, a bug that could fill a fish bowl.
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry again, for Fletcher I mean. He can be a real ass.” Kayden rubbed the back of his neck, trying to gasp a breath of fresh air while they continued to drown in tension.
Tucker nodded in apologetic agreement. “Him and Carver have been best friends since they were in pre-school. No one else has ever really managed to get on his good side besides the three of us.”
“Yeah, I wish I could say he was a softy underneath all of that…well, whatever that is,” Kayden chuckled as he placed the trough in front of the horses and began to fill it with the hose. He looked over his shoulder and gestured towards Fletcher back in the living room, who was sitting there scowling as Carver presumably teased him and prodded him with his elbow to get him to laugh. “But he’s not. He’s just an acquired taste I suppose.”
Their casual small talk floated through Della’s head like a spring breeze, refreshing and carefree, but nothing worth paying attention to. Nothing that would last for long. She gave a curt nod. “I’ve noticed.” She hopped the fence and began tending to the horses, wiping down the sweat on their backs with a wet cloth and scraping the muck from the crevices of their shoes with a screwdriver. As she circled behind them to finish up the back hooves she noticed the branding on their speckled flanks. She snapped her head up and hit Kayden and Tucker with her eyes. The blow resounded in their minds with more impact than a physical strike. They stared back with guilt in their own. They could’ve taken the words right out of her mouth, but they chose to wishfully leave them there. She spoke them anyways. “These are stolen horses.”
“Yes,” Tucker affirmed, knowing very well from his brief encounter with Della that lies were not only intolerable, but also fatal.
She eyed them both up and down before walking over to Kayden and turning his jacket and jeans pockets inside out and retrieving a coin bag loaded with hundred dollar bills. She flipped through the money, not out of disbelief, but out of skepticism. Counterfeits these days were rarely and poorly executed, the money was real, and god was it plentiful. “Where did you get this? Who are you? What are you?”
They appeared genuinely taken aback, they looked between themselves as though trying to connect their minds and rationalize an answer that held honesty and wouldn’t land them at a disadvantage. Kayden took a deep breath and held his palms up in a surrender.
“We are who we told you we are,” he started. “Our names and our intentions are true. The horses are from a ranch somewhere back in one of the western Sun Villages. The money is from, well, a lot of people to tell you the truth.”
“Living people?” Della raised an eyebrow. “Or dead people?”
Kayden looked at Tucker for back-up, but Tucker just peered anxiously back at him from behind a fallen lock of hair. Apparently, he would be the only one sharing incriminating information to Doctor Doomsday over here. “Both. Whoever leaves it unguarded, really.”
Stealing wasn’t an uncommon crime. It was within reasonable question whether or not it was even a crime anymore, but those who stole were limited to the supply of the poor and the stupidity of the wealthy. No one carried a bank safe in their pockets without a story to tell and an incredible amount of skill. This wad of cash far surmounted anything that Della had seen in her previous lifetime. It was roughly three times the thickness of the twenty-thousand-dollar cash transfer she had made three years ago when switching accounts, and it dwarfed the collective family income of today’s working class. This was not petty thievery. This was talent.
Della nodded her head and slipped the money back into his pocket. “It’s a good idea that the four of you like to keep yourselves under the radar. Acting like you’re some homeless commoners trying to make ends meet. I’m sure you know that you’d all be killed the second you set foot outside if anyone found out about this. Hell, they probably wouldn’t even wait that long.”
“Yes ma’am, we’ve certainly had some rough encounters,” Tucker spoke up.
“Oh, I imagine.” Her voice was thick with sardonic glaze, but also mutely animated by a newfound and never before seen curiosity. “My lips are sealed, so long as my questions are answered over dinner. Your friend won’t be going anywhere, at least for tonight. If there’s any chance of him making it I’ll need to keep an eye on him.” Della brushed past the two of them and fiddled with the rusted lock on the door until it popped out.
“Wait,” the sound of Tucker’s mild voice came from behind her. A crease formed at his brow as he struggled to find the words to clarify his confusion. The offer seemed too good to be true. “Why? Why help us? I mean, I’m not complaining by any means, but you said so yourself, anyone else would kill us. Especially, well.”
“Especially me?” She spun on her heel and faced them with a hint of a smirk on her lips and an intrigued glint in her eye. “You’re wise not to underestimate me. I’ve killed before, I’ll kill again. But not you guys. Not tonight. Not unless you give me a reason to.”