Orphan Maker Read Free

house. Weasel rounded up everyone, his movements choppy, his countenance grim. He carried a lot of weight on those skinny shoulders of his. Gwen felt a wave of fondness for him despite her mercenary thoughts. She had been content to be his while the situation called for it. Too bad that had to change.
    “Let’s go, fuckers!” he harangued. “We’re almost there.”
    His voice carried, loud against the silence of the valley. Gwen eyed the next house, wondering if they had heard him too. Her question was answered a few minutes later as the Gatos dragged their sorry asses up the street. The yard was similar to the last, minus the aging swing set, but the grass here was cut down to manageable levels. Standing on the porch were two boys, one with a rifle and the other with a bow and arrow, of all things. A third one, unarmed, stepped out onto the pavement to block their path.
    Gwen and the others marveled at him. He was clean, and his skin didn’t hang from his bones. In fact, he had too much paunch on his belly, indicating a love of beer or sweets. His clothes were completely alien, the jeans worn and patched, his shirt holding no logos or smart sayings. His head was shaved, but his beard filled out his face. He had to be one of the elders here to have such a luxurious growth of facial hair, making him no older than nineteen.
    The stranger held his hands up, palms out. “Hold it right there.”
    The travelers drifted to a halt, some of them edging closer to look him over. Soldiers gripped their weapons with sweaty palms, eyeing the two on the porch. Weasel’s glare of reproach kept them from attacking.
    “Who are you?”
    Weasel drew himself up though the stranger had him by six inches or more. “We’re the Gatos from the city. We were told by a cracker that there might be a place for us in Lindsay Crossing.” He looked beyond the kid’s shoulder. “Is this the place? Or do we keep walking?”
    The stranger studied him a moment. “This is Lindsay Crossing,” he finally said. “Don’t know nothing about a ‘cracker’ or a place for city kids, though.”
    Behind her, Gwen heard a gentle moan of despair from some of the crew. She stepped forward to stand beside Weasel. “His name was Riddick.” She cursed to herself when the boy’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.
    “Riddick, huh?” he asked loudly.
    On the porch, his two friends brought their weapons to bear, scanning the crowd. In response came the deafening click of multiple Uzis locking and loading. The little ones crouched in fear of the coming firestorm.
    Gwen silently cursed again. She should never have said his name.
    The stranger moved sideways to get a better look at the gathered children. “Riddick! You here with these people?”
    “He’s fucking dead.” Weasel blocked his path. “He was dying when he told us about this place. We left him in the city.”
    His attention back on Weasel, the man examined him. Evidently believing the news, he waved his hand at his companions who lowered their weapons. “Good riddance.” He spat on the blacktop.
    Weasel gave Gwen a look that was part exasperation, and part fear of what could have happened. They both knew a firefight would have gone in their favor; they outnumbered these yokels twenty to one. But any chance of joining the township would have been shattered.
    “Look, do you have a leader or something? Maybe we could talk to him and come to an arrangement.”
    The boy grunted, scanning the crew again. “You have to lose the guns.”
    With a curt nod, Weasel called over his shoulder. “Drop the gats.”
    There was some grumbling, but discipline was always tight with the soldiers. Still, Gwen breathed a sigh of relief as safeties were switched on, and weapons put on the ground.
    “Grace!”
    A child popped up from behind a bush near the porch, a slingshot in her hand. She looked well fed and strong. The kids her age stared.
    “Run into town. Tell Dwayne we got company.”
    Grace pelted down the