Fear (Gone #5)(102)

Dekka didn’t choose to disagree.

“Everyone just saw him as this guy who sold drugs and booze and all. But he was different sometimes.” Orc crushed a tin can under one foot and with his next step flattened the earth over what felt like a gopher hole.

“He liked me anyway,” Orc said.

Nothing from Dekka.

“You have lots of friends, so you probably don’t understand why Howard—”

“I don’t have a lot of friends,” Dekka interrupted. Her voice was still shaky. Whatever had happened to her back there, it must have been pretty bad. Because as far as Orc was concerned Dekka was a hard, hard girl. Howard always said that about her. Sometimes he would call Dekka names. Probably because Dekka had this way of looking at Howard, like her face would be down, but her eyes would be on him, like they were watching him through her own eyebrows, kind of. And from that direction all you saw were these cornrows and her broad forehead and those hard eyes.

“Sam,” Orc said.

“Yeah.” Dekka’s voice softened. “Sam.”

“Edilio.”

“We work together. We’re not really friends. How about you and Sinder? She likes you okay.”

The idea surprised Orc. “She’s nice to me,” he admitted. He thought it over a little more. “She’s pretty, too.”

“I wasn’t saying she liked you that way.”

“Oh. No. I knew that,” Orc said, feeling as if he’d be blushing if he had more than a few inches of skin left. “That’s not what I was talking about. No.” He forced a laugh. “That kind of stuff, that’s not for me. Not a lot of girls are interested in someone like me.” He didn’t want it to sound like he was feeling sorry for himself, but it probably did.

“Yeah, well, it turns out there aren’t a lot of girls interested in me, either,” Dekka said.

“You mean boys.”

“No. I mean girls.”

Orc missed a step, he was so shocked. “You’re one of those lesbos?”

“I’m a lesbian. And I’m not one of those anything in this place; it looks like I’m the only one of those.”

This was making Orc feel very uncomfortable. Lesbo was just a name to call some ugly girl back when he’d been at school. He hadn’t really thought much about it. And now he had to think about it.

Then a thought occurred to him. “Hey, so you’re like me.”

“What?”

“An only. Like me. I’m the only one like me,” Orc said.

He heard a derisive snort from Dekka. It was an annoyed sound, not a happy laugh. But it was the best she’d come up with so far.

“Yeah,” Orc went on. “You and me, we’re onlies is what we are. The only person made out of rocks and the only lesbo.”

“Lesbian,” Dekka corrected. But she didn’t sound that mad.

Something smacked Orc’s head and poked at his eyes. “Careful. There’s a tree. Grab my waist and I’ll go around it.”

Lana was right. It wasn’t long before trouble started. Quinn stopped a kid who had taken a burning stick from the fire and was heading toward his home.

“I just want to get my stuff.”

“No fire outside the plaza,” Quinn said. “Sorry, man, but we don’t want another Zil thing with the whole town going up in flames.”

“Then give me a flashlight.”

“We don’t have any to—”

“Then mind your own business. You’re just a stupid fisherman.”

Quinn had grabbed the torch. The kid tried to rip it away, but he, unlike Quinn, had not spent months with his hands gripping an oar.

Quinn wrested the torch away easily. “You can go where you want. But not with fire.”

He’d escorted the kid back to the plaza just in time to see two torches heading away on the far side of the plaza.

Quinn cursed and sent some of his people after them. But the fishing crews were exhausted. They’d been chopping wood and dragging it and sawing it and distributing food and organizing a slit trench.

Lana had been right. She was looking at him now, not saying it, but knowing he was coming to the same conclusion.

“Caine,” Quinn said. “Do you have it back?”

Caine had disappeared for a while. Later Quinn realized he’d walked down to the ocean and washed himself up. His clothing was wet but more or less clean. His hair was slicked back, and the scars of the staples Penny had driven into his head had been healed by Lana.

His hands—the backs, at least—were still covered in anywhere from an eighth of an inch to half an inch of cement. He had a hard time articulating his fingers. But his palms were mostly clean.

He looked gray, even by firelight. He looked like a much older person, like he had gone straight from handsome teenager to weary, beaten old man.

But when he stood he held himself with some dignity.

Caine turned toward the steps. The church had been emptied of anything that would burn. The last of the roof had come down with a sequence of crashes that sent dust billowing out to spark the bonfire. Now the tired crews were tearing handrails and old wooden office chairs, framed pictures and broken-up desks out of the town hall building.

Caine focused on the largest fragment, most of a desk. He extended his hand, palm out.