Chapter Two
When the newcomers had all eaten their fill (and Sabine had laughingly told them not to feel guilty, because they would end up working for their keep like everybody else), she led them to a building that was as unassuming as the others they'd seen, but this one had another carefully constructed metalwork sign, smaller, more carefully and artistically wrought, secured to the wall. It read simply, 'The Den'.
"Come on," she led them up the stairs, "Let me introduce you to... well, they're kind of the bunch that keeps the place running, but mostly everybody calls 'em the G.O.M.s. For Grumpy Old Men."
"I heard that," complained a voice from inside, "And I'll have you know, I aint an old man yet, idjit."
"That is not strictly true," replied someone else in a gravelly but reasonable tone. "According to human reckoning, you qualify as 'old' by any criteria. Having passed the age of seventy, taken from the biblical reference to three score years and ten, has been a culturally entrenched benchmark for being considered 'old' in the Judeo-Christian idiom for centuries, and..."
"Pay no attention to him, darling," instructed an imperious British accent, "He can hardly talk – if we tried to put birthday candles on a cake for him, we'd start a supernova, or something."
"You do recognise that you are in no position to cast aspersions?" queried the gravelly voice somewhat peevishly. "You yourself definitely qualify as geriatric."
"You three are worse than the Three Stooges," sighed a voice with so much long-suffering in it that it was possible to hear the purse-lipped expression accompanying it, "And I should know, Dean made me watch enough of 'em when we were kids..."
Sabine shook her head, and pushed the door completely open.
The interior was lit only by the light that could make it through the windows. It was as untidy and cluttered as the office nook of the most eccentric professor Kerryn had ever encountered. The large table was strewn with maps, mugs, documents, and a small fluffy dog, who was napping in what appeared to be a porcelain chamber pot.
Poring over a document was an old man with a beard and a trucker's cap, who was scowling at an astonishingly well-dressed middle-aged man. Behind them stood an untidy-looking individual in a trench coat, whilst a tall guy with a ponytail put down a book and smiled at them.
However, the recent arrivals found their eyes drawn to the scuffle on the floor towards the back of the room. It appeared to consist of a man having some sort of wrestling match with half a dozen kids, who kept jumping on him as he rolled around and growled at them, making them all giggle.
"Uh, Dean," the tall guy said, "We got new people. Maybe you could spend a few minutes pretending to be a responsible adult."
"Ladies and gentlemen," Sabine made an elaborate reverence, "I give you, The Grumpy Old Men."
The man who had been referred to as Dean carefully pushed a couple of kids off himself, and stood up. Kerryn's brain did a double-take in a way it hadn't in a long time: he was into middle age, but handsome in a way that went beyond his physical appearance, which by itself was very attractive (And just where the hell did that thought come from? her higher thought processes demanded to know). As he stood, and then walked, he exuded an easy masculine confidence that made a Neanderthal part of her hindbrain sit up and take notice the way she thought a married woman really shouldn't do, especially one that was bespectacled and let's be honest here still a bit plump and no oil painting...
His smile managed to make her feel like she was the prettiest girl at the prom.
There was a sudden dissonant clanging from outside, and they all jumped.
"Don't worry, folks," Dean grinned, "That's just the orange bell, for the kids."
"What's the orange bell?" asked Donna, one of the newcomers.
"Just what is says," Dean smiled, "Everybody eighteen and under goes to get an orange. Which I'm guessing means you. And possibly you." Kenny nodded. "And which means you lot." He cuffed gently at the gaggle of children milling around him. "You too, tiger," his eye landed on Todd.
Kerryn put a protective hand on her son's shoulder. "This is Todd," she said, "He's... had some trouble since... he's had a rough time."
Dean's smile turned gentle. "Haven't we all," he mused. He hunkered down in front of Todd, who, to his mother's amazement, did not try to pull back or hide behind her. "The thing is, Todd, we gotta make sure that all the kids get fed properly, while they're growin' up," he explained, "And eatin' an orange every day, when we can get 'em, is really good for you. Better than an apple, even, according to Sam..."
"The human body can't synthesise or store Vitamin C," the tall guy confirmed.
"Yeah, and he's a total geek, so he should know," confirmed Dean, "So, when we finish kicking these zombie bastards' asses, we're gonna need healthy people to help fix things, and that starts with you guys. Hey, don't worry," he winked up at Kerryn, "Your Mom will be safe here. So, I'll look after your Mom, and you go eat an orange." He stuck his hand out. "Do we have a deal?"
Smiling back, Todd stuck his hand out, and they shook on it.
"Good man." Dean stood up. "So, Paul, Melissa, show Todd where to get his orange, okay?"
A girl about his own age held out her hand, and Todd took it, then Sabine herded the small tornado of childhood out, no doubt to wreak havoc upon the unfortunate distributor of fruit.
"Don't worry, he'll be fine," Dean assured her, watching them go as Kerryn's eyes followed her son. "They look out for each other."
"Are any of them yours?" asked Vera.
"No," Dean's smile became sad. "We got ourselves a lot of orphans here, as you can imagine. Some of 'em are pretty damned traumatised. But they help each other. We figure the best we can do is make 'em feel safe, and try to feed 'em as well as we can."
"Where are you gettin' oranges from?" asked Dale.
"There's a tree in a garden, not too far away," Sam replied, "When we can, we go pick the fruit, and bring it back. Kids get first pick, then the adults get what's left over."
"Why not move the tree?" Dale pressed.
"Can you do that?" Sam mused. "It's an established tree. I thought moving a tree would damage it, or kill it."
"It's all about timing," Dale said, sounding like someone launching into a favourite topic, "Now, transplanting a fruit tree, even a mature citrus, is entirely possible, if you do it when it's dormant – the fruiting is slowing down about now, isn't it? – so, you cut it back, then, if you're careful, and you dig it out right, and you've got enough digging power..."
"Oh, digging power, we got that aplenty," chortled the old man in the trucker's cap.
Vera sighed. "Don't get him started," she begged, "You get him started about his garden, you'll never shut him up..."
Sam looked pleased. "A gardener? Excellent!" He picked up a dog-eared notebook.
"Why don't we all just sit down for a spell," suggested the behatted man, indicating a number of well-used sofas in a loose circle, some of which were occupied by napping dogs, "And we'll introduce ourselves, and explain our little establishment here to ya, so you folks can decide whether you'd like to join us." He turned to the man in the ridiculously well-tailored suit. "Go make tea, Fergus."
The suited man wore a wounded expression. "Bobby, love, you know I'll do that for you, but is it absolutely necessary for you to treat me as if I was an indentured servant?"
"You're lucky I don't treat your miserable ass like an indentured door mat," growled Bobby, "Or possibly even an indentured target. Make yourself useful."
The British guy, Fergus, picked up a teapot, and gave them a smile. "He's a diamond in the rough, really," he nodded at Bobby, who just growled at him. As he left the room, Lottie growled at him too, making him jump backwards, which prompted another Rottweiler on one of the sofas to growl at him as well. Fergus let out a little shriek, and scuttled away.
"Oh, I'm sorry," apologised Kerryn, "She's become so wary of strangers."
"Don't worry," grinned Bobby, leaning down to pat Lottie, who offered him a doggy grin, "All the dogs hate Fergus. Except for Gedda." The small fluffy dog, a teacup poodle, who was napping in the chamber pot on the table, lifted her head and yawned. "Go on," Bobby said to her, "Go keep him out of trouble." Gedda hopped out of the pot, shook herself vigorously, then jumped down and trotted after the retreating figure. "Now, I know that this has gotta be a lot for you folks to take in, and you're probably sittin' here with your heads spinnin', but I'll run you through our little organisation here."
He launched into an explanation that he'd obviously given many times before.
When the Croatoan virus had gotten loose, they'd rounded up as many humans as they could, and headed for the hills, metaphorically. Geographically, they'd headed for a place out of the way, but not remote, and set about fortifying an area where they could stay safe from the zombies. Life was rustic, but it was life. And it was getting better: the arrival of a guy who'd been a solar panelling expert had certainly made the ablutions block more civilised. It had been hard, and they'd lost a lot of good people, but they were still there, and surviving, and taking in anybody who needed a safe harbour.
Kerryn had the feeling that there was more to it – a lot more to it – than that, but remained silent.
"We got all sorts here," Bobby looked at them sternly, "We got white folks, black folks, red folks, yellow folks, brown folks, and, when Achak and Qiao Xin's baby arrives, we could well have an orange one, too, which would amuse me no end, we're hopin' to get an Eskimo soon so we can say we got the whole set. We got old ones, we got young ones, we got teenagers, we got single mothers, we got orphans and Christ knows how many widows and widowers, we got gay, we got straight, we got anywhere in-between, we got people who prefer a good book and an early night. We got theists, we got atheists, we got I-don't-give-a-shitists, we even let in a guy in a Cowboys shirt. The thing is," his shrewd gaze swept them, "We're all waifs and strays here, washed up a long way from home. And we all pull together, to cover each other's asses. We're all one big screwball extended family – if that don't suit you, that's fine, you aint prisoners, and we'll stock you up with as much as we can spare before you go, but if you decide to stay, you gotta be a team player."
His stern face broke into a tired smile. "So, that's the party political broadcast," he went on, "We'll show you around the place, and find you somewhere to call your own, but first, why don't you tell us a bit about yourselves? Whatever skills you got, we can find a way to use 'em."
Each of the new arrivals talked a bit about their background. When it was Kerryn's turn, Dean and Sam looked at each other.
"You're the molecular biologist?" queried Sam, and she nodded. "Frankie mentioned someone was a molecular biologist."
"Well, yeah," Kerryn replied, "But I don't know how much use that'll be. That guy Chuck seemed quite interested in the idea of isolating yeast to make drinkable alcohol."
"We'll talk later," Sam made some notes in his dog-eared book.
"RJ said his dad would want to talk to me about Lottie," Kerryn continued, looking around and realising that the dog had gone with Todd.
"That's me," Dean told her, "Dogs are important to us here. They're part of the team. I've been holding out hope that a suitable bitch might come along. These guys," he indicated a couple of the other Rottweilers, who had moved to a comfortable pile on the floor, "Are of a particular working line that we really don't want to lose. I'd like to meet Lottie. Would you consider breeding from her?"
"Uh, I guess we could consider it," Kerryn mused.
"Great." He looked around at the new arrivals. "We are not like any place you may have encountered before – we're in contact with some of 'em, and we know what they're like, how they operate. There's a whole bunch of stuff for you to learn about us, and how this place works," he said, "And as you settle in, we'll get to it. For now, you need to get your bearings, and just... catch your breath." His eyes swept them. "This place is as safe as we can make it – we haven't had a Croat or... anything else get in for a long time. But that's because we have security measures in place. So, until you get an understanding of how it works, I'm gonna ask you not to wander around after dark." It was phrased as a request, but it came out like an order issued to the troops by a general. "And stay away from a couple of places that are off-limits. Just for a few days, until you get the hang of how things work here."
"Tea up!" Fergus, with the little poodle at his side, returned, with teapots and some mugs on a tray.
"Oh, you have tea?" asked Vera eagerly.
"Alas, madam, not from Camellia sinensis," sighed the Brit sadly. "We have no way of acquiring the plants, and the climate is probably not right anyway. And the last of the coffee was swilled away long ago. But the untidy git over there grows a number of other herbs in his pot plantation..."
"The marijuana and poppies I cultivate are used purely for medicinal purposes, by Sister Felicity, our doctor," the trench coated man interrupted, looking annoyed, "And is not for recreational use by anyone, under any circumstances."
"Yes, yes, thus speaks Mother Superior of the Women's Temperance League in these parts, well, he's come up with a brew that is remarkably acceptable," Fergus the Brit went on. "So, shall I be mother and pour?"
"Get on with it, idjit," growled Bobby, holding out a stained mug. With a put-upon sigh, Fergus lifted the smaller pot, and poured. The smell was pungent, and unpleasant; Kerryn, along with a few of the others closest to it, let out surprised noises of disgust.
"You drink that?" burst out Claudio, "Whoa, it smells like ass!"
"Uh, this one is for those that like it," Dean grinned, holding out his mug. "It's definitely an acquired taste. Cas's blend for normal people," he nodded at the larger pot, "Is the preferred drink around here. You'll be able to get it in the mess at any time."
"Chuck did try to brew an alcoholic version," mentioned Sam, "Which was not completely successful."
"How not successful?" Kerryn couldn't help herself.
"Not too bad, all things considered," Bobby mused, sipping his ass tea, "We only lost part of the roof, he only lost one of his eyebrows, and what came out turned out to be a serviceable surgical spirit, so Fic commandeered the lot."
"It was truly dreadful stuff," confirmed Fergus, "Honestly, how he could actually have cried over losing what didn't even qualify as rotgut, I'll never know."
Dale cocked his head, and considered the non-native. "How do you come to be here, Fergus?" he asked. "Were you on vacation when the virus hit?"
Fergus's face looked momentarily stricken, like a deer caught in a spotlight, but Bobby answered for him. "The best way to think of Fergus here, is as him having sought... political asylum," he offered. "It's complicated."
They sat and drank their tea, and chatted some more about where they were from, until the whirlwind of kids came charging back in, Todd amongst them, smiling and thundering along with the rest. Bobby let out what could only be described as a howl of protest as a couple of them clambered over him to jump onto Dean. After only a small hesitation, Todd joined them, making Kerryn let out a little shriek of her own.
"Oof!" Dean grunted under the assault, standing up to escape. "Hey, what the hell was in those damned oranges? Crack? Sabine, get this lot outside, would ya?"
"Todd," Kerryn began hesitantly, but he just smiled at her, and Sabine held up a hand to forestall her.
"He'll be safe," she assured his mother, "And he'll find a way to fit in. Come on," she herded kids and some dogs back outside, and the sudden quiet was startling.
It was quiet, but Kerryn realised that none of the children had actually spoken. Laughed, roared, growled, shrieked, but not actually articulated words.
As if reading her thoughts, Sam grinned. "Don't worry," he said, "When school's in, we insist they act more like actual humans, and less like wild animals."
"Kids is wild animals," Bobby chortled, "Now, we still got work to do here," he indicated the table strewn with paper and books, "So why don't you make with the tour, and get these folks settled in?"
"I'll do it," Sam offered, standing, "I'm goin' cross-eyed, here."
"Your hair is pullin' your brain too tight," opined Dean. Sam flipped him off as they left.
He showed them around the enclosed area, which was like a fenced village, surrounded by a fence with some decidedly odd details added here and there, and explained that, when not involved in working in the fields beyond for food production purposes or leaving to scavenge for abandoned items, people mostly stayed inside the fence, and they should do that until they settled in. There were a couple of other places that were off-limits, too. The metalwork shop was one, because it was dangerous, and the herb garden tended by the guy called Castiel, because those plants were needed by the rudimentary health clinic, and another small building, set away from the rest of the enclosure.
"What's that?" asked Kerryn.
Sam's face became deeply sad, but he tried to find a smile. "We got our own hermit," he replied. "We get a lot of people here, they've been through a lot, but..." he gestured helplessly to the small, isolated cabin. "He lost his wife, and his son, and even his dog," Sam explained. "It... did something. He doesn't come out, and you won't see him, well, unless we have an incursion, he'll be the first to tear into anything that tries to get in. We've tried – his daughter survived, and she's tried, we really have, he just... just leave him alone." The grief in his voice was obvious. "If he's not in his right mind, and mostly I think he's not, he might be... dangerous, he doesn't mean to be, he's the sweetest guy you could hope to meet, he just... isn't thinking straight..."
"The poor guy," mused Kerryn.
Sam took a deep breath, and let it out. "We hope we'll get him back one day, but... just leave him alone." With an effort, he put a smile on his face. "So, let's see about getting you people somewhere to call your own bed, then we'll talk some more about what you're goin' to do."
"I don't see how I can be helpful," said Vera mournfully, "I'm an old woman."
Sam's smile became more genuine, and he had dimples. "Vera, I will introduce you to Knitting Patrol, where they produce sweaters and blankets with extreme prejudice," he told her, "Then I will corner your husband to discuss how to move that orange tree."
"I don't suppose you have a lab that needs another pair of hands," Kerryn chuckled, and Sam gave her an intense stare.
"Tomorrow, I'll take you to talk to Felicity – Fic," he said, "There's something I hope you can help us with."
