Breakfast at the Refuge (if the miserable, thin, lukewarm slop the boys
were fed could be dignified with the name of breakfast) was served by a
group of surly employees in a single vast room. The massive collective
hunger of the inmates, combined with privation and a total lack of morals,
created an almost feral atmosphere. Small boys were jostled out of place by
larger ones, bowls were knocked out of hands, and fistfights often erupted.
When Jack had first arrived at the Refuge, he had been the first to come up with a workable remedy for this situation. Before he had come, the place had been ruled solely by the laws of the jungle. The strongest, toughest, and meanest survived, while the unaggressive ones often simply wasted away.
Jack had changed all that. Through a combination of charisma, daring, some force, and no small amount of popularity, he had established himself as the leader of House 4, and made a point of defending the rights of those in his section, making sure none of his own were cheated out of food or clothing. It had cost him untold bruises and one or two fractured limbs, but when the others saw the positive effect his leadership had on his little army, they scrambled to imitate. Soon all eight bunkhouses had their own leader, and a whole parliamentary system had developed, complete with recognized councils and ranks of command. None of the adult officials were particularly pleased with the development, as it looked suspiciously like independence, which was crushed as often as possible to prevent mutiny. But there was little they could do, beyond continually singling out Jack as the primary suspect when anything went wrong.
But fights still broke out in spite of the system, and the leaders had taken to selecting the strongest fighters of their armies to help with breakfast. Spot was not a particularly good choice in this respect- he was small and thin, though wiry, and the sight of him was not likely to inspire much fear. Jack chose him anyway, with a vague, wry feeling that he might very well regret it shortly.
They marched into the Dining hall and took the third place in line, two other bunkhouses having been quicker off the mark than they were. Jack headed the line, Spot strolling along behind him, looking smaller than ever despite his confident manner. After installing his boys in their places in line, Jack and Spot patrolled, on the lookout for any trouble, while they all waited for breakfast to arrive.
For a few minutes at least it looked as if there would be no fights at all that morning. The cold seemed to have everyone moving in slow motion, trying to conserve energy to withstand the freezing chill. Then the door to the Dining Hall banged open, and Jack gave a private little groan as he spotted the burly figure of the bunkhouse 2 leader, known as Stomp for his fondness for literally kicking a man when he was down.
Stomp was one of those tyrants seen so often in history who come into public favor largely because they leave their public no other choice. Before Jack's revolution, Stomp had mostly shifted for himself and a few dim-witted goons that followed him around everywhere and added to his personal muscle power. When he had realized the turn things were taking, he had bullied his way into leadership, threatening and maiming all who stood in his way.
Stomp had always despised Jack for no particular reason other than that Jack commanded all the Stomp desired most and would never possess- popularity, charisma, and respect. He regularly picked fights with Jack, over breakfast line-up and anything else that presented itself as an opportunity. And from the belligerent expression on his face as he strode into the Dining Hall at the head of bunkhouse 2, today would be no different. Jack gripped Spot's arm and inclined his head slightly toward Stomp, whispering, "Get ready."
Sure enough, Stomp sauntered up to on of Jack's smaller boys, known as Mitch, took him by the hair, and pulled the boy's head back sharply. Mitch gave little cry and flailed about in a weak attempt to pull away, but Stomp held him helpless. He leaned close, breathing fetid air in Mitch's face as he spoke.
"Shrimps like you go in the back. Who told ya you could take my place in line?"
Mitch winced in fear and struggled anxiously, but Stomp only tightened his grip on Mitch' scalp, and he stopped squirming with a little gasp of pain.
"We don't like it when people try ta steal our breakfast." He leaned a little closer and spoke with studied gentleness. "But you didn't mean to, didja?"
Mitch shook his head as vigorously as Stomp's death grip on his hair would allow him and whimpered a soft denial.
Without turning his head, Stomp addressed the thugs behind him. "I dunno, boys. Should we believe him?"
"Naw. Smash 'im!"
"Kill 'im."
Teach 'im a lesson."
"He deserves a soakin'."
"I hafta say, I think I agree with my boys here." Stomp smiled benevolently down at Mitch. "It's a pity you was in our spot. I hate ta hurt ya, but it's for yer own good."
Stomp snapped his fingers, and the goons formed a tight circle around them, preventing Mitch from escaping. Little Mitch was sobbing openly now; he had seen what Stomp did to his victims. Desperately, he ran toward the linked arms, attempting to break the chain with the momentum of his slight weight. The boy on the right laughed and dealt him a savage blow to his stomach, knocking him to the floor, where he lay crumpled. "Cowboy!" he gasped frantically.
The boys echoed him mockingly, and were stopped by a voice behind them. "Is there a problem, Mitch?"
"Hold it," Stomp snarled. "Let him in."
When Jack had first arrived at the Refuge, he had been the first to come up with a workable remedy for this situation. Before he had come, the place had been ruled solely by the laws of the jungle. The strongest, toughest, and meanest survived, while the unaggressive ones often simply wasted away.
Jack had changed all that. Through a combination of charisma, daring, some force, and no small amount of popularity, he had established himself as the leader of House 4, and made a point of defending the rights of those in his section, making sure none of his own were cheated out of food or clothing. It had cost him untold bruises and one or two fractured limbs, but when the others saw the positive effect his leadership had on his little army, they scrambled to imitate. Soon all eight bunkhouses had their own leader, and a whole parliamentary system had developed, complete with recognized councils and ranks of command. None of the adult officials were particularly pleased with the development, as it looked suspiciously like independence, which was crushed as often as possible to prevent mutiny. But there was little they could do, beyond continually singling out Jack as the primary suspect when anything went wrong.
But fights still broke out in spite of the system, and the leaders had taken to selecting the strongest fighters of their armies to help with breakfast. Spot was not a particularly good choice in this respect- he was small and thin, though wiry, and the sight of him was not likely to inspire much fear. Jack chose him anyway, with a vague, wry feeling that he might very well regret it shortly.
They marched into the Dining hall and took the third place in line, two other bunkhouses having been quicker off the mark than they were. Jack headed the line, Spot strolling along behind him, looking smaller than ever despite his confident manner. After installing his boys in their places in line, Jack and Spot patrolled, on the lookout for any trouble, while they all waited for breakfast to arrive.
For a few minutes at least it looked as if there would be no fights at all that morning. The cold seemed to have everyone moving in slow motion, trying to conserve energy to withstand the freezing chill. Then the door to the Dining Hall banged open, and Jack gave a private little groan as he spotted the burly figure of the bunkhouse 2 leader, known as Stomp for his fondness for literally kicking a man when he was down.
Stomp was one of those tyrants seen so often in history who come into public favor largely because they leave their public no other choice. Before Jack's revolution, Stomp had mostly shifted for himself and a few dim-witted goons that followed him around everywhere and added to his personal muscle power. When he had realized the turn things were taking, he had bullied his way into leadership, threatening and maiming all who stood in his way.
Stomp had always despised Jack for no particular reason other than that Jack commanded all the Stomp desired most and would never possess- popularity, charisma, and respect. He regularly picked fights with Jack, over breakfast line-up and anything else that presented itself as an opportunity. And from the belligerent expression on his face as he strode into the Dining Hall at the head of bunkhouse 2, today would be no different. Jack gripped Spot's arm and inclined his head slightly toward Stomp, whispering, "Get ready."
Sure enough, Stomp sauntered up to on of Jack's smaller boys, known as Mitch, took him by the hair, and pulled the boy's head back sharply. Mitch gave little cry and flailed about in a weak attempt to pull away, but Stomp held him helpless. He leaned close, breathing fetid air in Mitch's face as he spoke.
"Shrimps like you go in the back. Who told ya you could take my place in line?"
Mitch winced in fear and struggled anxiously, but Stomp only tightened his grip on Mitch' scalp, and he stopped squirming with a little gasp of pain.
"We don't like it when people try ta steal our breakfast." He leaned a little closer and spoke with studied gentleness. "But you didn't mean to, didja?"
Mitch shook his head as vigorously as Stomp's death grip on his hair would allow him and whimpered a soft denial.
Without turning his head, Stomp addressed the thugs behind him. "I dunno, boys. Should we believe him?"
"Naw. Smash 'im!"
"Kill 'im."
Teach 'im a lesson."
"He deserves a soakin'."
"I hafta say, I think I agree with my boys here." Stomp smiled benevolently down at Mitch. "It's a pity you was in our spot. I hate ta hurt ya, but it's for yer own good."
Stomp snapped his fingers, and the goons formed a tight circle around them, preventing Mitch from escaping. Little Mitch was sobbing openly now; he had seen what Stomp did to his victims. Desperately, he ran toward the linked arms, attempting to break the chain with the momentum of his slight weight. The boy on the right laughed and dealt him a savage blow to his stomach, knocking him to the floor, where he lay crumpled. "Cowboy!" he gasped frantically.
The boys echoed him mockingly, and were stopped by a voice behind them. "Is there a problem, Mitch?"
"Hold it," Stomp snarled. "Let him in."
