“You look like you’re having fun,” Gabriel pointed out archly.
Blake didn’t even try to deny it. “Why? You got a thing for bad boys?”
“Your safety glasses are slipping.”
“Bad boys can care about eye safety, Gabriel.” He snatched a bottle of drain cleaner and pointedly flicked the glasses back down over his nose before going back to helping Judd.
After their brainstorming session, the entire motel had galvanized. Everyone split into teams. Whether it was resource management for those who kept them going with food, water, and clean clothes, or teams on active mission preparation.
Judd was the de facto meth expert. Why he knew what he knew, Gabriel steadfastly didn’t want to know. But he’d had everyone running around with lists that grew weirder with every grumbled pen stroke. And despite Alvarez’s bitching, Judd did know how to spell.
They’d returned with entire drug stores, pipes, hoses cut from houses, and even a cappuccino machine from a local coffee shop. Judd’s little setup was looking more and more like a raven’s nest, full of all manner of shiny crap that no one else understood. Or maybe a raccoon in a dumpster.
Despite the unknown looming over the horizon, the energy at the motel felt different. Gabriel could claim it was the lightnessof spring. That the oppressive cold and heavy gray skies had lifted. But he knew that wasn’t it. Not entirely.
It was excitement. The thrill ofdoing somethingother than looking over their shoulders. No one was naïve. They knew this mission was hanging on by hopes, dreams, and—as Blake would say—the belief that they were all the main characters in this story. But to people who had lost their whole lives, anything felt like everything. And they took it with both hands.
Alvarez and his team specialized in finding high-priority resources—weapons, diesel, generators, vehicles, and medical supplies. Phin served as their weapons expert, carefully examining everything that came through and testing its serviceability. He had a knack for finding them, too. Looking in all sorts of nooks and crannies that no one else would have even thought of. Even the refugees had offered to help. Gabriel told them he would escort them wherever they wanted to go, but they decided to stay. He didn’t think any of them would join the teams on the actual mission, but they were doing a fantastic job cataloging inventory and rationing resources.
Emily took the lead on most of it. With her wild curls pulled back by a bandana, she walked around with a clipboard and a bottle of insulin in her pocket. Blake checked on her constantly, but short of a few bad days, she was getting the hang of guessing her insulin dose. Blake spent most of his nights desperately researching ways to check blood sugar without any form of technology. He had instructed everyone to look for bottles of insulin or urine test strips when they went out.
“Oh,” Sara gasped, holding an empty set of tongs over one of his misshapen pots. “I dropped too much in.”
Judd peered over her shoulder, watching the mixture for a minute before shrugging. “It’s probably fine. It’s not like we’re going to make ittootoxic.”
Blake groaned on the other side of the table, and Gabriel took that as his cue to leave.
While everyone else had been running around, working with their hands, Gabriel’s position had been largely that of staring at maps and the back of Irving’s head, trying not to claw his eyes out as they encountered dead end after dead end.
Irving may have thrived on the careful planning of a mission, but Gabriel far preferred the execution aspect.
A disemboweled pre-1980s Volkswagen was scattered under the portico in front of the lobby doors. A cat was curled up on the roof, tail dangling against the dusty windshield. Tommy bent over the hood, up to his elbows as he rooted around the engine. He was looking a little better since Blake had been feeding him eggs. There was some color in his cheeks, and he didn’t look quite so waifish.
“Any luck?” Gabriel asked. Simply because he was curious and not because he was dragging ass to get back to looking at maps with Irving.
Tommy looked up. Grease and sweat had plastered his hair to his face. “This was a lucky find. A lot diesel engines are trucks.”
It was a surprise to everyone except Blake to find that Tommy was excellent with cars. He told Gabriel over dinner once that his father was an electrical engineer and was passionate about sharing his work. Tommy had retained much of the information and had been instrumental in getting most of the vehicles up and running.
“You should have been a mechanic.”
Tommy wrinkled his nose, pushing his hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand, as if it were any cleaner than his palm. “Most modern cars are all computers and wiring. Fixing them basically requires an IT degree.” He shook his head, looking down at the car fondly. “Not these babies. Only electrical is youralternator, starter, and lights. Lights are optional in an alien apocalypse—the rest I can work around.”
Gabriel let Tommy get back to it, walking into the lobby. Their command center had spilled out of Irving’s office. Maps, documents, Polaroids, and rough sketches were tacked up onto every surface. Irving was in the center of it all, a pen behind his ear and a pencil in hand—something about how a pen was for more official purposes. Gabriel didn’t really get why he needed both, but Blake did. When asked, he just shrugged and said some things were better in pencil.
Irving was penciling something onto a notebook on his lap. He was glancing at what looked like a tidal map.
“Oh no,” Gabriel groaned. “Not this again.”
He looked peeved to be interrupted. “I’ve told you I could find adequate shipping containers.”
“AndI’ve told youit’s not the shipping containers. It’s the magnets! We cannot procure, fasten, and utilize massive magnets to create a giant mousetrap for aliens.”
The look Irving gave him was a little toochallenge acceptedfor his liking, so he moved on, shoving the tidal map out of the way and looking at their big map of DC. Certain landmarks were marked by color coded thumbtack. The Queen’s location was in gold.
Gabriel voiced what was bothering him. “If we do manage to kill off the Monkey Cats, do you think the Off Formers will just leave?”
The leather creaked as Irving sat back in his chair. “It depends why they’re here,” Irving said thoughtfully, apparently having forgiven Gabriel for ruining his plans for evil scientist of the year. “The Off Formers were here first.”