War Girls (The Juniper Wars Book 5) by Aaron Ritchey (best short novels .TXT) 📕

The drugs stop us from going coco, but they don’t do nothin’ else. Not one bit of nothin’ else. Inside, the blankness. Inside, the numb.”

Many of the Gammas grumbled.

Despair bit me deep. Despair, such a habit, such a wicked thing, that grew like mold on my heart. Seeing my family again had lifted my spirits, but only for ten minutes, and now I was back to hating and wanting to hurt this world.

“You promised us cure,” Dizzymona said. “LaTanya say you promised. You still going to cure us? Or just use us?”

“Shut up!” I screamed. “You ain’t dead yet! You ain’t dead like Alice!”

And there it went. The truth came popping out of me.

I didn’t stop. That was one of the secrets of being a mean skank. Once you started yelling you didn’t quit. “You might be victims, but it wasn’t me. And I meant it when I said I’d work to find a cure, but guess what? We can’t find it until we find the secret ARK research facility in the Juniper. And for that, we need President Jack.”

My screams opened a Pandora’s box of howls and unearthed the sullen violence lying just under the surface.

Wren still had my back, and I didn’t shrink away or think about running. My sister and I would fight them if it came to that.

Dizzymona barked, literally barked, and with her lung size and her mouth, it was deafening. Her Gammas went quiet. “You think cure maybe okay?”

“The truth? I don’t know. But I’m going to try my damndest.”

“No cure,” Dizzymona said, her faced dropped, her hand in the bag of rice stuck there. “No cure. But we die for you, Weller. We get you to President Jack though we all die. Like Alice. Bad Alice wanted to be queen. Bad Alice is dead.”

“Alice was good,” I said forcefully. “And we don’t need no grand sacrifice plays. No way. We’re smarted than that.”

“You smarter.” Dizzymona smiled at me and showed teeth the size of puppies. “But even if you smarter, Little Weller girl, you no get a say.”

(v)

Wren and I left. Even in that big room, with all the bodies and stink, my claustrophobia kicked in. It felt too enclosed. I needed to be outside. I wanted sky above me.

The little bits of snowy ice shooting from the heavens had stopped and the day had grown dark and silent, winter on the plains with the Rockies shadowing the horizon.

“Alice. Dead.” Wren frowned. Her eyes were far away.

I told her the story.

“Peaceful. Now.” Wren nodded.

I didn’t like that nod. It was like she was defeated already.

“You can be peaceful without being dead.” I took her hand. Or at least a couple of fingers.

Wren shrugged but said nothing else. I got the sense she wasn’t about to agree with me any time soon.

We wandered west, to a series of storage units, three stories tall. The fencing had all been rolled up, like our little resistance army might use it later. The storage units themselves were full of Stanleys. They’d had to chisel out the first and second floor, but without the flooring, the big battle robots stood in lines inside the chiseled away storage garages. Closing the doors, you couldn’t really tell that most of the structure had been hollowed out.

Immediately, I searched for the Marilyn Monroe. I found her in a storage unit nearest to the ancient highway, 285, otherwise known as Hampden Avenue. The Marilyn looked good, patched and painted. I saw something new: Someone had painted the words “Some Like It Hot” across the front of the Porsche hood that made up the war machine’s belly. It seemed to fit perfectly.

More surprising, Pilate and Sharlotte sat on nicked dining room chairs under the Marilyn. He was awake, freshly bandaged, smoking the butt of a cigar with a pair of rusty needle-nosed pliers. I’d never seen him look so pale, so thin, and yet he grinned when he saw us. A sapropel heater cooked up enough warmth to make the hacked-up garage comfortable.

“What are you doing outside?” I demanded. “And smoking? Are you insane?”

Pilate grinned. “Got an IV and I’m feeling better enough to ingest a little nicotine. I love that Jan woman. Quite the doctor.”

“We all love Jan,” Sharlotte said. “Most of us wouldn’t be here without her. And I told Pilate you’d give him hell for smoking, and he said he already had a bunch of hell in his pocket. A little more wouldn’t hurt.”

“Did I say that?” Pilate asked, grinning. “I always have more room for hell in my pockets.”

Sharlotte said, “Mama always said you weren’t good for much except you could be slightly amusing every now and again.”

The man winced. “Slightly amusing? Ouch.”

Sharlotte talking Mama put a tight feeling in my belly. I glanced at Wren. Her hair covered her face as did the hood of her army tarp. Someone had stitched a piece of canvas big enough to cover her enormous head. She’d changed out of her wet clothes and now wore pieces of tent, tarps, and more metal taken from a variety of places. The patchwork tarp hood covering her head reminded me of a poncho. Like the one I wore over my parka.

Wren’s lips separated in a snarl. Not a good sign.

“I loved making your mother laugh,” Pilate said. “And she loved putting me to work every time I visited.”

“Stop,” Wren grunted.

I heard her. Sharlotte and Pilate seemed oblivious.

“I bet you hated that little bit of work.” Sharlotte rolled her eyes. “To be honest, I always wondered what she saw in you. I know you were viable, and Mama wanted more kids, but really? You?”

“Me,” Pilate said. “Me and your mom got along well. She was something. Say what you will about Abigail Weller, but she could be as fun as she was focused. And she laughed at my jokes... some of them. Your mother was a good, good woman, God rest her soul.”

“No!” Wren thundered. “Mama. Bad. Bad!” Her huge throat and lungs made it