The strange lopsided grin stretched across one half of Mason’s face left no doubt that he had been entertaining himself by watching her bathe. How many women has he watched through that one-way mirror? How many of them have ended up in maid’s uniforms as a result? It occurred to her that the whole, ‘take a bath’ routine might be a tried and true vetting system Mason used to select which women worked on his staff—pun intended. She smiled back, but only because she pictured the kids’ reaction to her mental pun. The way Anne and Jakob had bonded, like lifelong brother and sister, gave her hope. It also gave her more than enough reason to plunge her thumbs into Mason’s eye sockets. But not yet. She wanted to learn more about Hellhole and the people in it first.
“That was the second most pleasurable experience of my life.” Ella stood from the King size bed where she had been sitting, and stretched, letting the clean white blouse hug her chest a little tighter. The bedroom was clean and fresh, with white walls, curtains and a canopy over the bed. The furniture was solid cherry, gleaming with a fresh polish. A faint lemon scent hung in the air. None of it had any effect on her, but she did her best to look as comfortable as the bedroom was designed to make women feel. When she relaxed again, she took note that Mason’s eyes, like the Grinch’s heart, had grown two sizes. The man’s libido was in full swing, despite his age.
She glanced down and saw more evidence of the man’s still raging hormones. “Your zipper’s down,” she said.
Mason looked caught off guard for the first time since they’d met. He staggered back a few steps, smoothing his shirt for a better look at his crotch. He fumbled with his fly and zipped it up. “So it is,” he said, fixing his shirt. “How embarrassing.”
Ella shrugged. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”
“I’m sure,” he said, the smile returning. “Do your clothes fit?”
She looked down at the white blouse and flowing white skirt fringed with what looked like a doily at the bottom. A real Southern belle’s outfit, so clean and gleaming that out in the wild, she’d stick out like a fluorescent fishing lure in a pond, attracting ExoGenetic monsters with every shift of her body. Like albino animals born outside of captivity, she wouldn’t survive long. And perhaps that was part of the message: you’re only safe inside the walls. But Ella thought that Mason just liked it. In fact, the only major difference between her outfit and the maids’ was the color. White and black.
Oh God... Ella fought to keep the disgust from showing on her face. He’s treating the dress like a wedding dress. White, because he hasn’t had me yet.
It was just a guess, but it made a sick kind of sense. Mason had managed to lead all these people through the Change, had built multiple biodomes and had a true Southern gentleman charm about him. But he was also, quite clearly, a sexual predator. And perhaps always had been.
She smiled wide and ran her hands over her hips. “Everything fits perfectly.” And you’re never going to see me in black, she thought.
“Good,” he replied. “Very good. Now, if you’d still like a tour—”
“Love one,” she said, and there was nothing phony about her earnest desire to see how this man—a contractor in the world before—had taken her design for a self-sustaining biodome and turned it into a series of interconnected domes.
“Then I would be delighted to provide one.” Mason tipped his Ascot cap and motioned to the door. “Ladies first.”
She stepped into the hall, headed for the stairs and descended slowly, searching the first floor for any signs of trouble. The house décor was a mix of old and new. Antique furniture, also perfectly polished, filled the living and dining rooms. But the paintings on the walls...while some were older, boring examples of Southern landscapes, others looked more modern. Then she saw a painting she recognized and paused in front of it. The style was modern, but the painting was at least seventy years old.
“You have good taste,” Mason said, stopping in front of the Picasso painting. “It’s titled ‘Head of a Woman.’ The palette is rather subdued, don’t you think? But I feel it is a good representation of mankind’s dual nature. She looks frightened, but not of something external.”
“Of what she is becoming,” Ella said. The broad strokes cleaving the woman’s face into odd shapes was distinctly Picasso, but the inhuman visage it created really did resemble some of the half-human monsters roaming the world now.
“He painted this in France. 1943.”
“During the German occupation?”
Mason grinned. “A woman who knows her history... You are better educated than I would have guessed.”
She waved off the compliment and hoped to hide her intelligence. “Discovery channel.”
“Mmm.” Mason reached out and traced the black line curving down through the woman’s face with his finger. “Dora Maar. That was her name. Picasso didn’t get along with her. I sometimes wonder if all these lines represented some inner desire to...cleave his subjects with a different kind of utensil. Of course, the brush is the gentleman’s preferred tool.”
“You know a lot about Picasso,” Ella noted.
Mason shrugged. “The boys were smart enough to steal the placards with the art.”
“These aren’t prints?”
“Procured them a few months back. From the Ackland Art Museum in North Carolina. Not too far. Four hours by truck.”
“Not too far? A lot can happen in four hours. Your boys are lucky to be alive.”
“You survived a much longer journey.”
“I had Peter.”
Mason scrunched his lips, twisting them side to side. “You have that much faith in his abilities?”
Ella paused before answering. Would intimidating Mason with Peter’s prowess make the man afraid to overstep, or would it solidify his resolve to have Peter killed? He’s going to kill him either way, she thought, and decided to put the fear of God into him. “He’s seen and done things that most people can’t even imagine.”
“I’m not so sure about that.” The grin on Mason’s face was more convincing than his words. This was a brutal man. But what he didn’t know was that surviving in the wild had turned her into a brutal woman. He wore his savagery very close to the surface, but he still had no idea who she was, or of what she was capable.
“The world has made us all do...unsavory things,” Ella said. “But my husband’s long list of violence started long before the Change. Killing monsters is one thing, killing people...” She shook her head in faux disgust. “That takes a different sort of man.”
“That it does.” Mason started down the hall toward the kitchen, a spring in his step. “Peter sounds like the sort of man I need. Think he would be interested in staying on? All of you could stay, of course. Even the...girl traveling with you. Unless you have someplace you’d rather be?”
Mason paused by the kitchen door, motioning for Ella to once again take the lead. “I know the Askews were your friends, and I regret the condition in which you found them, but I think you’ll agree that this oasis is worth saving, no matter the cost.”
Ella couldn’t hide her anger over Bob’s passing and Lyn’s deplorable condition, but she also couldn’t blatantly disagree with him. While Bob and Lyn’s fates were deplorable, and something Mason would pay for, she couldn’t deny that this last colony of humanity outside of ExoGen needed to be protected. “I do. Agree. But I don’t like it.”
“No one does,” he said. “Not at first. But a few nights without fear of being consumed tends to alter perspectives.”
Ella stepped into the kitchen.
Three women turned to greet her. She recognized Charlotte, who was rolling out what looked like a pie crust. Shawna was there, too, chopping apples.
Apples? Ella peered at the bright red fruit. There must be an old, non-ExoGenetic orchard nearby. Her mouth watered at the prospect of eating an apple again.
The third woman was blonde and aquiline, her features sharp and defined. Where Shawna was curvy, this woman was thin, almost frail. “Salut,” the woman said in French, confirming Ella’s fears about maid choice. But if this was the French maid, what did Mason have in mind for her? She determined to never find out.
“Hello,” Ella replied, and then to the other women. “Hello again.”
Forced smiles were the only replies before the women returned to work, their eyes evading Mason’s. They were terrified of him.
“Sabine,” Mason said. “This is Ella. Could you prepare her something to eat?” He paused, thinking for a moment. “And have the same brought to the children with the Questionables.”
Sabine gave a curtsy, her movements fluid, almost poetic. “Oui, Monsieur Mason.”
She was a dancer, Ella thought. Before the Change. A ballerina. But was she even French? Ella didn’t think so. She spoke French, that was clear, but the accent didn’t sound authentic.
“Thank you, kindly,” Mason said, as he breezed through the kitchen and into the back room. Once upon a time, the space might have been a mud room, where tired farmers, or a family’s children, would have kicked off dirty shoes and boots. Now it would lead to a very modern door, offering passage to a biodome.
As Ella followed Mason toward the back of the kitchen, Sabine’s hand snapped out. The woman’s movement was so fast that Ella nearly punched her, but when she saw the look in the woman’s eyes, and felt the steady grip on her hand...
It was a warning.
She’s telling me to get out, or maybe to make myself undesirable somehow.
Ella returned the squeeze, offered a grin and gave her a knowing nod. The woman let her go, but took no solace in the message being received.
Are they really just concerned about my wellbeing? Or is there something else? Something I’m missing?
The hiss and pop of a decontamination room coiled Ella’s insides. She’d heard the familiar sound all too often in her life, and during her time with ExoGen, after the Change, it served only to remind her that she was a prisoner. That was, until she had escaped. And here she was, about to walk through another decontamination chamber. One that I designed, she reminded herself, but a prisoner once more.
For now.
She stepped into the chamber and waited as Mason closed and sealed the door behind them.
“Removes any and all particulates from bodies and clothing. So if—” He waved his hand dismissively. “What am I saying? You already know all this. You recognize the design, of course?”
Ella nodded slowly. “It looks the same as ours.”
“The one provided by your husband’s mistress...” He shook his head like he still couldn’t believe Peter’s betrayal, like he was stung by it himself.
“I hated the bitch,” Ella said. “But she also saved my family’s life.”
“Interesting perspective.” The decon fans kicked on, filling the chamber with a tumultuous, roaring wind that shifted direction every few seconds, nearly tearing the skirt from her body. There was nothing she could do to keep it from lifting up, revealing the lacy white panties she’d been provided. But Mason had already seen a lot more. It didn’t keep him from leering, though. He was so intent on looking, that he didn’t see her own gaze, leveled at the thick vein on the side of his neck, or her hooked fingers, a twitch away from tearing into him.
Then the fans fell silent, the pressure equalized, and the door on the opposite side of the chamber unlocked. Mason opened the door, flooding the small space with the fragrant smell of growing things. The odor nearly brought tears to her eyes, and Mason did notice that.
“It’s moving,” he said, “for everyone. The first time they come here. And smell this. See it for themselves. Taste it. But to truly appreciate it all, you need to see the macro view. Lead the way.”
The layout of the biodome hadn’t changed from her original design. There were twenty raised rectangular garden beds. Each fifteen feet long and seven wide. A central aisle divided the space into even sides with walkways between the beds and along the walls. A network of water pipes crisscrossed overhead, with three nozzles positioned over each garden, providing an even spread for the plants growing below.
And they were growing.
Whoever was in charge of the dome had a green thumb. But right now, she and Mason were alone. She’d expected to find people—more women—tending the gardens. It can’t be just Mason and the maids. Not with five functioning domes.
He sent everyone away, she thought. Wanted the place to himself. Away from prying eyes or judgmental glares. He might have already visited the self-service station while she was in the bath, but he apparently had vigor to spare. In fact, now that she could see him up and about, he looked bigger and fitter than she would have guessed. But was he a threat—aside from the gun tucked into the back of his pants? That would be determined the moment he tried anything.
“What do you think?” Mason said, walking the long way around the room, admiring the crops. “Take a closer look.”
Ella obeyed, crouching down beside a row of carrots. The stems were lush and green. Fragrant, too. Her stomach growled.
With a chuckle, Mason said, “I heard that from here. Take one. Try it.”
That was an invitation Ella couldn’t pass up, and doing so would be supremely suspicious. She uprooted a carrot, surprised and delighted to find its bright orange body a full foot long. She stood, wielding the carrot the way an actor might an Oscar award, and she carried it to the sink mounted to the side wall. She looked at the root vegetable, almost glowing in the bright sunlight beaming through the glass dome above, protecting this oasis from the deadly crops outside.
“Daucus carota ssp. Sativa. It’s perfect,” she whispered, and then took a bite.
Flavor exploded with each chew. It was distinctly carrot, but almost like carrot concentrate, enough to make her pucker, salivate and crave more. She took a second bite without swallowing, chewing vigorously as the sweetness hit her. The flavor, on par with the best cake she’d ever eaten, was followed by a realization. She’d gotten the carrot’s identification wrong.
This is Daucus carota ssp. Sativa variant RC-714.
This is an ExoGenetic carrot!
Her jaw stopped moving, the toxic food frozen in her mouth and stuck between her teeth. Did I swallow it? Oh god, I swallowed it!
“Too good to be true,” Mason said, slowly moving toward her. “Right?”
She pushed the carrot chunks out of her mouth, letting the food fall to the concrete floor. She spat a few times and then used the sink to rinse out her mouth.
Mason stopped ten feet way. “Didn’t your parents teach you not to waste food, Ella?”
Her mouth was full of water, ready to spit into the sink, when the last word of his sentence sank in.
‘Ella.’
He knows.
He knows who I am!
Ella turned toward Mason, fists clenched, but he’d already closed the distance.