Page 11 of Outfoxed

My first year in Tulsa, the nearby farmlands had been tended. The following years had seen a steady decline as the foolish and brave alike died to the strengthening storms. I gave it two to three years before nobody bothered to plant crops at all and relied on the East or West for food.

The Alley had already learned the hard way that the South had too many problems of its own to offer any help at all.

I considered planting my own crops in one of the storm cellars I’d claimed as my own. I’d have to skip into the East or the West to buy the right lights and supplies to make it happen, but I could. It might serve me best to convert one of the cellars into a proper home.

However much I hated it, Benedict Mansfield had the right idea with Asylum. Soon enough, nothing on the surface would be safe.

Once I considered the increasing risk of food shortages, I realized I needed to come up with a better solution soon. Neither the East nor the West would be able to supply the entirety of the Alley with food. Then again, maybe they would be able to if the storms got any worse.

It was only a matter of time before only ghosts resided in Tulsa.

I wondered if Asylum would become an underground garden in time, fully self-sufficient so it could survive without requiring assistance from the other quadrants within the United States. It might not even need Tulsa or its residents if Mansfield planned appropriately.

Then again, it wouldn’t surprise me if that was his real goal. Why else dictate who got to live and who got to die?

I walked along the border of the outskirts and Inner Tulsa, debating what to do. The bounty hunters after me would make returning to my usual flops risky at best.

As always, the storm claimed lives, and I stepped around them, muttering prayers to the uncaring gods—or god, if there was only one. I didn’t know, and I wasn’t sure I cared. It became harder and harder to believe in any greater powers when they showed such a disregard for life. The brave and foolish put their faith in those uncaring beings, and they all rested in shallow graves—if they were lucky enough to have graves at all.

Before I worried about planting crops, I needed to focus on dodging the collection of bounty hunters after me. My first step would be securing a new flop. I gave it even odds if my current place still stood, and I didn’t look forward to sneaking around to get the few possessions I had stashed there. I could replace my clothes—if I did a salvage run or two and went to the second-hand stores.

A salvage run would be in my immediate future. The pickings were always better than normal at the start of the storm season.

The dead had no use for their cash or property, and I’d either claim a reward for the return of lost items or make out like a bandit when there was nobody left to inherit their possessions. Most fell into the latter category. Those with families worked hard for a place in Inner Tulsa, where they had some hope of survival.

All I needed to do to move was swing by my landlord’s place, tell him I wasn’t staying at my flop, and move on. Maybe my next place I’d have a lease, but few bothered with them.

There was no point in paperwork when the property might blow away during the next storm—and if the landlord kicked the bucket, the leasers inherited the plots. I found that gem of a law absurd, as did most of the residents, but it simplified inheritance issues.

As such, most landlords rented without leases, removing the few protections a lease offered tenants.

I wondered what it would be like to live in a place with a lease.

I sighed, and rather than pay a visit to my landlord, I headed for the first of my jobs. Waitressing at McCoy’s Bar & Grill earned enough money to pay the rent on my flop but little else. Located barely within Inner Tulsa, the restaurant drew in crowds from all over the city, as my boss had one of the few liquor licenses required to import from abroad. The import rules never failed to amaze me.

Why regulate liquors from abroad? It wasn’t like there were many brewers or distillers left in the Alley. They’d either died or moved to safer waters. But if people wanted Scotch, ales from Europe, or anything other than piss-water beers, they had a choice of five bars across Tulsa.

McCoy’s varieties drew folks from Asylum who were looking for a drink.

It amazed me my boss hadn’t gotten the prized invitation to move into Asylum yet. I figured it was only a matter of time, unless Benedict Mansfield meant for Asylum to be a dry city.

I wished him the best of luck with that venture. After a hard blow, everyone went for a drink.

One day, if my luck turned around, I’d be able to afford a round.

When my boss, Brent McCoy, had built his bar, he’d gone with a stone foundation, put logs over that, and finished the top of the building in brick, which made the whole place stick out. It worked; the two-storied monstrosity caught attention, and the large wooden sign over the door promised foreign brews.

I headed in and made it all of five steps before Gertrude, a German import who kept swearing she’d go back to her home land one day, caught sight of me. “You’re early.”

With Gertrude, blunt and direct worked best—and she needed money just like everyone else living in the outskirts. “Want my shift? Something came up.”

Gertrude frowned. “Somebody die?”

“Not one of mine, but I need a new flop, so I have to deal with that today.” I’d let her assume the storm had taken out my old place. “Game?”

“I’m game. Brent’s upstairs.”

“Pass the word for me?”