Wicks rolled to his side and spat out a mouthful of blood, making Nomad step back in amazement.
How the hell can Wicks keep going?
Nomad had never seen anything like it. Most men would have passed out long ago, their eyes closing and minds drifting off into dreamland. It must have been the man’s stubbornness fueling his will to continue, despite the endless beating.
Wicks got to his feet once again, only this time he remained bent over at the waist, wobbling from left to right.
Nomad spotted something crawling on the wall, not far from the entrance to this section. He ran and snatched it, feeling its hairy legs filling his grip. He circled to the front of Wicks and jammed the spider into the man’s mouth.
Wicks stood more erect, gagging from the creature filling his throat.
Nomad punched at Wicks’ mouth, hitting it with a jab over and over until an ooze of spider guts leaked out and ran down his chin.
Right then, a vision appeared in his mind, showing Wicks molesting Summer, based on what Watson had said earlier about grabbing a few handfuls. “A real man never lays hands on a woman.”
Wicks tore at the spider in his mouth, ripping it out and tossing it away.
“It’s judgment time,” Nomad said, grabbing Wicks’ arm and swinging him around like the sack of shit he was.
When Nomad let go, Wicks stumbled backwards and out of control in the direction of The Hedge. The backs of his legs caught the base of the stone formation, sending the top half of his body over the edge. The inertia from the throw took over, sending Wicks flipping over the wall and into the space beyond it.
Nomad watched Wicks disappear from view as gravity grabbed hold of him and plummeted him into the depths below. A few seconds later, Nomad heard Wicks hit bottom in a thud.
Nomad went to The Hedge and leaned forward to peer down at Wicks.
The man was twisted around in a heap, partially face-up, with one of his legs bent at an impossible angle behind his back. His arms were out wide and a huge pool of blood had formed around his head.
Watson ran to Nomad’s position and stood next to him, looking down into the cavern below. “Jesus Christ, you didn’t have to do that. You’d already won.”
Nomad looked at Watson. “Am I going to have a problem with you, too?”
Watson backed up with the pistol still in his hand, though it was aimed out to the side and not at Nomad. He raised his arms in a flash. “I’m just the cook. Don’t hurt me.”
“Choose a side. Now.”
Watson tossed the gun away, then fell in a plop to his knees. He began to bow as if he were paying homage to some would-be god. “I won’t say anything, I swear to God.”
Nomad went to Watson and grabbed his chin, pulling it up to make eye contact. Nomad drew in a full breath and let it boil, then yelled, “Swear to me!”
“Yes. Yes. Yes. I swear. I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t kill me.”
“And what about Summer and the rest of the silo?”
“Okay. Okay, I’ll do whatever they want. You have my word. Just let me go, please.”
Nomad released his grip on the man’s face. “Now we go deal with the other one up top. Any problem with that?”
“No, just tell me what you want me to do.”
CHAPTER 21
Wilma Rice waited outside the men’s bathroom in the west wing of The Factory, wondering how long it was going to take her boss to finish his business.
He’d been inside for almost half an hour, doing whatever men did when they disappeared into the inner sanctum of “The Head,” as Craven liked to call it, with a magazine in hand and a glint in their eye.
In truth, she’d never stepped foot in a men’s restroom facility, but often wondered what it might be like in there. She’d heard all the horror stories and even knew some of the unwritten rules about procedure, but still wanted to see for herself.
Not for any sexual reason, especially since her focus had always been women. It was more about baseline curiosity than anything else. A curiosity that was always seeking to fuel her scientific side and gather more information. Plus, it would check something off her to-do list.
Sometimes, even a scientist has to be able to sit back and say, Been there, done that, as if they’d lived a more fulfilling life than they actually had. Wilma was no exception. More like the norm.
Anyone who knew her would probably agree that data and facts were all she lived for. That logic and theory ruled her existence. Of course, that was mostly true, but deep down, she also knew there had to be more to life than just data collection and theory. Perhaps, a simple peek inside the door might quell her curiosity.
Before her next thought arrived, her hand went out on its own, reaching for the handle. Her fingers were just about to make contact and swing the entrance open when she heard the sudden sound of a flush inside. The swoosh was powerful and swift, then the clank of metal came next, which was followed by a squeak and footsteps.
She pulled her arm away in an instant, tucking it down by her side as she took two steps back. The door flung open in a rush of movement, bringing with it a stench that could only be classified as objectionable.
“What are you doing here, Wilma?” Craven asked, his hands working the zipper on his fly.
Wilma kept her nose in check, making sure her boss didn’t notice her detection of the scent trailing him outside. “Ah, well, sir, we just got a report back.”
“And?” he asked, motioning for her to follow him down the hallway.
“The runner said we suffered a few setbacks,” she replied, keeping pace with her boss.
“What do you mean, said? They can’t talk.”
“Well, grunted, sir, and used hand signals.”
“I take it his plan backfired, as we expected?”
“Whose, sir? Fletcher or Stipple?”
“Well, I was thinking Fletcher, since he’s the one that cooked this up. But based on the way you just asked the question, I’m starting to wonder if Stipple hit a snag or two. His Scabs?”
“Actually, both men ran into problems. Apparently, Edison’s group was prepared. Set charges.”
“Edison’s group? That doesn’t fit their M. O.”
“It does if you believe they’d do anything to protect their people. Plus, there’s been a change in leadership, so we have to factor that into our assessment.”
“Okay, I’ll give you that. How many did we lose?”
“A hundred percent. At least, that’s the report given.”
“A hundred percent? Including Stipple?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Damn it. That’s not a setback, Wilma. That’s a Goddamn disaster. That’s not how this was supposed to play out.”
“I wish I could tell you different, sir.”
“How sure are we of this intel?”
“Even though the runner was dispatched by Fletcher’s men, I believe the information is credible.”
“Unless Fletcher is trying to double-cross us.”
“It’s possible, but I don’t think so. Not based on the facts delivered by our runner. The explosion shook the surface and Fletcher’s men seemed genuinely concerned. At least that’s the impression the runner got and relayed to me.”