Hunger

and hard,” Howard said with a smirk. “I’ll talk to my boy. But he doesn’t work for free. You know that. Four cases of beer.”
    “Two.”
    “Three.”
    “Two, and if you argue anymore, I’ll show you just how cold and hard I can be.”
    With the deal done, Sam looked over at Dekka. “You ready?”
    “I am,” she said.
    “Let’s do it.”
    Dekka raised her hands high over her head. She aimed her palms at the nearest edge of the melon field.
    Suddenly, in a rush, melons, vines, and a cloud of dirt rose into the air, a dark pillar. Worms could be clearly seen, writhing within the ascending cloud.
    Sam raised his own hands to shoulder height. He spread his fingers.
    “This is going to feel good,” he muttered.
    Blazing fire shot in two green-white bolts from his palms.
    Melons exploded like soggy popcorn. Vines crisped. Clods of dirt smoked and melted in midair.
    The worms died. They died popping open from the super-heated steam of their own blood. Or they died shriveling up like ash curlicues, like Fourth of July snakes. Some did a little of each.
    Sam raked his flamethrower up and down the pillar, aiming anywhere he saw movement. In places where he lingered, the dirt grew so hot, it glowed red and formed flying droplets of magma.
    “Okay, Dekka, let go!” Sam yelled.
    Dekka released her hold. Gravity worked again. And the whole molten, smoking pillar fell back to earth. It sent up a shower of sparks as it crashed. Some of the kids who were standing too close yelped as they were hit by droplets of what was almost lava.
    Sam and Dekka both backed away hastily, but too late to save Sam a burn that went through his jeans and sizzled a teardrop-shaped spot onto his thigh.
    “Water bottle,” he yelled. He grabbed the proffered bottle and doused the spot. “Okay, that hurt. Man. Ow.”
    “I saw some very crispy zekes,” Howard commented.
    “Let’s go again, Dekka. If you’re up for it.”
    “I like melon,” Dekka said. “I’m not giving it up for these worms.”
    They moved a distance to the left and repeated the whole sequence. Then to a third location and did it again.
    “Okay, message sent,” Sam said when they were done. “Let’s see if they got it. Howard?”
    Howard waved Orc over. The boy-monster lumbered wearily toward the field.
    “First go into an area we blasted,” Sam instructed him.
    Orc did. If his stone feet were bothered by the scorching heat of the singed soil, he showed no sign of it.
    “Okay,” Sam said. “Now farther. Past the burned part. Try to pick a melon.”
    “Someone ought to beer me,” Orc grumbled.
    “I don’t have any with me,” Sam said.
    “Figures,” Orc said. He plodded into fresh, unburned dirt. He leaned down to grab a melon and came back up with two worms writhing around his hand.
    Orc flung the worms away and moved with some speed back onto safer ground.
    Sam felt deflated. He had failed. Even at this.
    In the process he’d used the promise of beer to turn an alcoholic kid into human bait.
    “Not maybe my proudest day,” he said to himself.
    The crowd, disappointed, shot sidelong looks of worry at Sam. He ignored them all and climbed into the Jeep beside Edilio.
    “You want my job, Edilio? he asked.
    “Not a chance, man. Not a chance.”

    Nothing stuck to the FAYZ wall. Lana had discovered that fact. She had put on gloves and tried to tape a target to the barrier. The tape didn’t stick. Neither did rubber cement.
    No one was going to be mounting posters of their favorite bands on the barrier.
    She tried spray paint. It was fun to try. Fun to imagine that the barrier could be covered in graffiti. But spray paint sizzled a bit as if it had been sprayed onto a hot frying pan. Then it evaporated and disappeared, leaving no trace.
    It was frustrating. Lana needed a target. And the notion of shooting at the wall appealed to her.
    In the end she had dragged a chaise lounge from the pool area over to the tennis courts, where the barrier was most easily accessible. She leaned the chair up against the barrier—you could at least lean things against it—and taped a target to the chair.
    It was not a bull’s-eye. It was a copy of a photo she’d found. A picture of a coyote.
    Then she took the pistol out of her backpack. It was heavy. She had no idea what caliber it was. She’d found it in one of the houses she’d previously occupied. Along with two boxes of ammunition.
    She had figured out how to load it. She’d gotten pretty fast at