Free Children of the Earth by Anna Schumacher Page B

the moment of death. And even though he’d never admit it, he wasn’t proud of the way he’d acted. Being at the track brought it all rushing back in bright, painful flashes.
    “C’mon, son.” Vince was already out of the Buick and striding up the dark slope toward the parking lot. “Now’s not the time to get chicken—we got business to take care of.”
    Doug fumbled with his seatbelt and stepped out into the cooling night. The wind picked up whispers of smoke and the cloying scent of generator fuel, night mutters and bawdy laughter from the drifters.
    “Why are we here again?” Doug heard a whine creep into his voice and hoped his dad didn’t notice.
    “I told you.” Vince didn’t break stride. “Taking care of business.”
    Doug was a big guy and prided himself on walking like a man, fast and with purpose, but he still had to practically scamper to catch up to his dad. A low haze of light hung over the parking lot as they approached, the sickly gleam of gas lanterns throwing shadows on the earth, and bare, strung-up bulbs scattering beams into the sky. A feeling of unease gnawed at Doug’s stomach, fueled by the stench from a pair of beat-up porta-potties set flush with the edge of the woods. He’d heard rumors about this place from his friends at the Vein, rumors that the guys here packed heat and didn’t appreciate nonsense, rumors that knife fights were as common here as money was scarce. Heck, even stuck-up Daphne Peyton had gotten attacked here. But Vince didn’t flinch as he approached a group of stringy-haired, unshaven men huddled in camp chairs around a fire that was more smoke than flame.
    “Gentlemen?” Vince went right up to their circle and tipped his cowboy hat. One of the drifters, a lanky guy with a weathered face and hooknose, guffawed.
    “Gentlemen? Hardly.”
    Vince placed his hat back on his head, undeterred. “Whatever you want to call yourselves—who here’s looking for work?”
    The chatter around the campfire died as a dozen pairs of eyes turned hungrily toward them. Vince had their attention now, and Doug felt his chest puff out with pride. The Varleys may not have had much, but they had something the drifters wanted.
    “That’s what I thought.” Vince surveyed the circle with approval. “I’ve got a deal for you fellas—a good one. I had a little luck on a piece of land I happen to own down by the Global Oil rig. I’ve got a foreman and an investor, now all I need is folks to work. The first twenty able-bodied men who show up at eight ` tomorrow are guaranteed jobs. And just to sweeten the deal, I’ll pay twenty percent more than those suckers on Floyd Peyton’s rig make.”
    There was silence around the circle as Vince fingered his belt buckle, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. Then the drifters exploded with questions: “Where do we show up?” “How soon do we get paid?” “Is this even for real?”
    “Hey.” Vince held up his hands, quieting them. “It’s
my
rig, and I ask the questions. Got it? I got equipment coming into the train yard outside of town. Be there at eight A . M . And have a valid driver’s license, okay? I don’t need the law on my back.”
    He turned so quickly a spume of dust spun in his wake, then he started briskly away from the camp. Doug watched him, realizing a smile had settled onto his own face as well, the first in what felt like months. He quickly wiped it clean, not wanting the drifters to think he was the type to get swept away by emotion. He’d be their boss soon, he reckoned. It was time to toughen up his game.
    “See you tomorrow, boys,” he said authoritatively. Then he turned and followed in his father’s footsteps, back down the dark road that no longer seemed scary and ominous, to the car gleaming like a soft beacon of hope in the night. The Varleys would be on top again in no time—and boy, would it feel good to be back.

9
    “WANT TO HIT THE CA NTEEN?” Daphne loped across the hard-packed dirt toward