The Bride Wore Camo
MIKE MASSA
“Becky-Anne, the stripper tailor is here!”
Auguste Bertrand Boudreaux’s clientele had once stretched from genteel Southern mansions to the densest thickets of the bayou. Titles and ranks mattered more in the South than any other part of the country. The pleasant labels were gracious and respectful. Some were insults shot like arrows into the heart of a man’s worst insecurities. However, this rather obvious effort at the latter wasn’t even in the top ten, so Auguste, with an upwards glance at the stout, stentorian matron, merely brushed past, forgoing any return snide comment about her heavy make-up or the strain she was putting on the waistband of her floral print, off-the-rack dress.
He’d been allowed to clean up, so his attire wouldn’t have been out of place at one of Lady Dianne’s famous French Quarter soirees, but it wasn’t a natural fit for what was effectively a local feudal manor.
The only pair of Saint Laurent boots he’d been able to save elevated him three inches above his normal five feet two, and Auguste had repaired their shine during their time on the Mississippi barge. The olive riding breeches were salvage, but fashionably tight. The white linen shirt laced up the front, though he’d left the top open in a generous V, and the sequined, black toreador jacket was suitably camp. A red silk scarf trailed from one cuff, concealing the unfortunate stains one tended to accumulate on one’s linens during these trying times. His customary pistol belt was missing, no surprise. The guards had been thorough so the throwing knives that normally lined his jacket were also out of reach. He wasn’t completely unarmed. The eyeliner and beauty mark he’d freshened up would have to do.
Behind the door dragon, a neatly dressed blonde girl stood, a junior chambermaid or perhaps a younger sister. Auguste glimpsed smiling eyes before the girl ducked her head and curtsied prettily. The corsetiere swept off his black felt flamenco hat, and bowed en passant as he cleared the threshold and entered the room, only pausing to make a courtier’s leg once he was a few steps inside. His glossy black bangs fell across his eyes, hiding them from the rest of the room while he snuck in a quick wink for the young maid just behind and to the rear. She’d been examining the fit of his breeches, and blushed pink.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentleman,” he said, slowly straightening.
Ahead, a collection of remarkably similar people were gathered on a somewhat less uniform set of furniture in a large, airy room. Most were blonde, wearing light but formal afternoon wear, including a suit jacket for the lone man. Like the functioning air conditioning, the clean, well-lit space reflected the family’s status. The white paint was unmarred, the brocade upholstery unworn. A thick wool carpet covered most of the floor, leaving only a yard of polished honey-colored planks along the walls. Floor-to-ceiling bay windows showcased the perfect blue of a late summer sky. The medley of green hues of the half-acre truck garden which lay beyond wasn’t just more practical than the pre-apocalypse lawn, but prettier too, in his opinion. Auguste could make out the familiar shapes of broccoli and peas. White roses still stood sentry along the edge of a three-meter-tall cypress hedge. He could make out the reason that all the adults in the room were unarmed: the distance-shortened figure of a sentry appearing to stride along the tops of the bushes, an optical illusion made possible by his path along the tops of the double row of shipping containers more than a football field away.
Why, the chamber even smelled nice! Auguste recognized Chanel, which they must have salvaged in gallon amounts to keep the entire house so fragrant.
Perched in the middle of a family huddle of mostly female relatives and friends was his likely target, one Rebecca-Anne Caplewood, only daughter of the Caplewood clan. Dark blonde, college age or near enough as no matter. Broad in the shoulders, she was sitting stiffly, but her strained smile seemed genuine, unlike the tooth-baring grimaces affected by a few of the others. She was wearing a dreadful navy-and-white shin-length gingham dress of the same cut and color as the older woman, presumably her momma, at her side. Her quarter sleeves left her arms quite bare, showcasing a clear athleticism, somewhat at odds with the other, softer women and wilted male relative huddled on the couch and settees.
“So good of you to come,” one of the older relations said, rising and moving to offer him her hand. If anything her smile yawned even wider, affording Auguste a view clear back to the molars. She was the older version of Becky-Anne, right down to the dress and hair color. Her low heels still amplified her height advantage, placing her bust at eye-level. It made her oversize blue enamel broach, decorated with a jeweled tree, unmissable. “I’m Dame Jeanette Caplewood. When our daughter told me she’d seen one of the most famous ladies’ tailors of New Orleans and San Francisco in our little town of Natchez, I said to myself, I said, ‘Jeanette, you just have to see if that young man is the real deal!’ And here you are, Mr. Boudreaux! Are you truly from the Sable Jardin?”
As she spoke, Auguste could feel the various eyes surveying his outfit. A few lingered on the detail of his unlaced shirt. Auguste slightly angled his head to return their regard before he focused on the evident boss.
“It is my sincere pleasure to make your acquaintance, madam,” he replied, allowing his French-Creole accent free rein, by way of presenting his own bona fides. As he raised her hand as to kiss it, he saw the faintest gleam of apprehension in her eyes. He was careful to brush his lips only to his own thumb. This was the South, after all, and no gentleman would kiss the bare skin of a newly introduced lady. “And yes, I can claim that honor. I journeyman sewed for Jardin for four years, and for five more after, rising to become a senior corsetiere. I confess I am a bit at a loss as to how your daughter recognized me. Your summons, though naturally welcome, was unexpected.”
“Why you must have begun as a mere lad!” Dame Caplewood said, lowering her hand. It twitched in the direction of her skirt, but she didn’t actually wipe it. “You hardly seem old enough for nine years of service. What was that fashion show called, Becky-Anne? The one we watched before the cursed disease ruined our lives and drove us into these poor accommodations? Ah yes, Mega Runway Fashion Survivor. You won, did you not?”
“Runner up, madam.”
“Momma, you leave him alone,” Becky-Anne said, shedding the circle of female relations and crossing to shake Auguste’s hand. Her grip was warm and firm. She had an inch or two on Momma, and wore a similar brooch. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Boudreaux. I wasn’t certain I recognized you, but then I saw the beautiful Sable Jardin corset your companion was wearing at the ferry landing. I knew it had to be you. We don’t see too many corsets like that around here, and I’m, we’re big fans of yours, Mr. Boudreaux.”
“Please, my friends called me Auguste.” Auguste favored her with a nod as he perched a fist on his hip. “I’m delighted to hear you enjoyed my work.”
“Yes, my daughter was quite excited,” Dame Caplewood said, the words barely escaping the smile which was trying to promote itself into rictus status. “You see, Becky-Anne is to marry in a few weeks. A wonderful young man, excellent family. The Montanaros are an old Southern family of the finest quality, and I must say our dear Becky-Anne hasn’t been as enthusiastic as she could be.”
“I see,” Auguste said, though he definitely didn’t see. There were nuances here, and he didn’t yet understand the terrain. He arched one polite eyebrow just a fraction, and waited while it did the necessary work.
Becky-Anne folded her arms and looked daggers at her mother.
“I, for one, still think this is suspicious, Jeanette,” the door matron advanced into the conversation, delivering a withering glance at the corsetiere, who returned it, looking upwards as sweetly as he knew how. “Someone thought she wanted a corset wedding dress. So, I offered her several designs, but no, only an authentic Sable Jardin corset wedding dress, which heretofore seemed impossible, would do. And now this . . . person has dropped conveniently into our lap.”
“Aunt Catherine, I nev—”
“And apparently, that someone doesn’t think her aunt, who’s sewn every wedding dress in the family for a decade, is up to her high standards. This coddling is most unseemly.”
“But—”
Dame Caplewood raised an open palm, shutting down both her sister and daughter, and returned her regard to the dapper figure to her front. Auguste looked up from the perusal of his manicure, and returned his overworked eyebrow to his toolbox, until it was again needed. Instead, he kept his smile natural and his posture relaxed yet subordinate.
“So you see, Mr. Boudreaux, we find ourselves in need of your services. We require appropriate corsetry for not only the bride but other members of the bridal party. Doubtless, there will be public talk over Rebecca-Anne’s choice and our unconventional”—she very carefully looked Auguste up and down, mostly down—“style choice. However, if we are to indulge our young bride, it will be with family solidarity. None shall criticize her family. And our choice is to have the premier, surviving corsetiere from the world-famous Sable Jardin of New Orleans design and make our wedding attire. The wedding will proceed as planned.”
“Mother, you’re embarrassing me! Mr. Boudreaux—” Becky-Anne tried again.
“Miss Becky-Anne, do call me Auguste, please.” Auguste gave the girl top marks for persistence. “I insist.”
“—Auguste is not some beck-and-call-boy you just yank into our house with your guards when it suits you. Why would a tailor of his stature make me anything after getting snatched away by your goons from whatever he was doing?”
“I prefer to think of it as a firm invitation, Miss Becky-Anne,” Auguste said, keeping his smile warm and relaxed as he turned to Dame Caplewood. “To be sure, the well-equipped gentlemen that scooped us up from the ferry landing could be considered . . . intimidating. Such capable types are doubtless a source of great comfort in these times. However, directly I can access my tools and my assistant, Miss Jonna, I would be delighted to proceed. I’m honored to be invited to provide my services. For a reasonable consideration, of course.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Boudreaux!” Becky-Anne, wringing her hands. “I love your corset but I di—”
“I’m very glad to hear you say so, Mr. Boudreaux,” Dame Caplewood overrode her daughter. “I would be positively wounded had you declined. That would have created an unpleasant tension with such a distinguished person, such as yourself.”
Auguste surveyed the little group beyond. They had taken the cue from their mistress. What smiles remained didn’t go as far as their eyes.
“I declare there’s no need for anything but joy at the pending nuptials, ma’am,” Auguste added. Since he was firmly en rôle, he blew an air kiss to Aunt Catherine, just to watch her jaw muscle jump. “I do love a good fais-dodo, but there is much work to do first. I would like to meet with the groom’s family. I must also ask your indulgence to prioritize time dedicated to fittings since time will be short. Constructing the garments will require specialized materials, so I must beg your permission to access to whatever you have already gathered.”
“I’d be happy to show you what we have,” Becky-Anne offered. “It would be no trouble at all. The clearing and salvage parties have been working for several months, and the w—”
“Daughter, I am so glad you are once again firmly set on your duty to your family, but you have other details to finalize, dear, now that the matter of the corset dress is settled,” Caplewood said, waving the younger blonde girl forward. “Invitations, seating arrangements, menu, meetings with the reverend, the list is considerable. Your sister, who will also continue to prioritize the family’s needs over her own preferences, may act in her role as the maid of honor, and will assist the corsetiere.”
The dame of the house firmly gripped the elbow of the slight blonde and pushed her an additional step forward.
“Mr. Boudreaux, this is my youngest, Priscilla-Jo. She will escort you to the Montanaro estate, on the other side of town. She can also show you the storerooms, and arrange for your quarters.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Auguste said, bowing again before turning to Priscilla-Jo. “No time like the present, Miss Priscilla-Jo.”
“I’ll arrange a ride, sir,” Priscilla-Jo said, shooting a slit-eyed glance at her older sister, who turned to stump back to the family group.
* * *
“This is certainly a step up from mules and my tired feet,” Jonna Hayden said, surveying the sturdy golf-cart-sized vehicle toward which Priscilla-Jo and her guard were leading them. The gravel driveway had a few SUVs and trucks, but there were several rugged-looking golf-cart-sized vehicles with knobby tires. “But I’d rather have Betsy.”
To Auguste’s relief, his assistant hadn’t broken composure when the armed men had accosted them and taken their weapons. It had been a nearer thing than those good old boys had realized.
“The Caplewoods were adamant, Jonna,” he replied. “No long guns in town. It’s fully cleared. Besides, you have the twins.”
Auguste could tell she was slightly more relaxed now her double pistol rig was returned and hanging off her hip. Her beloved 1911s rode as a pair on the right side of her belt, which was supported with a baldric, Sam-Browne style. Fitted dark red leather trousers complimented the bespoke black-on-white brocade underbust corset which she was wearing over a slightly soiled, white men’s collared shirt. Her sole concessions to travel were the sixty-liter Maxpedition bag hanging off one shoulder and the dusty Danner boots on her feet. Their rifles had been stored in the Caplewood family armory, and despite his misgivings, Mrs. Caplewood had been very clear on the need to adhere to the town rules. So Betsy, Jonna’s scoped Model 70 in .22-250, was locked up next to his WASR.
“If someone dings her, or screws with the zero, I will not be consoled, Auguste Bertrand!”
She grudgingly yielded her pack to the male guard, who looked briefly consternated as he took the full weight of her pack on one arm. He sat it down and slung his rifle, freeing both hands. He squatted to collect the pack, and grunted on rising, before laying her gear in the vehicle bed.
“Jeez, did you pack the kitchen sink?”
“A corsetiere can’t rely on finding adequate tools and components just laying around, can she?” she replied primly, mounting up and bouncing a little in the rear seat next to Auguste. The upholstery was generously padded with closed cell foam. She elbowed her boss. “Coulda used this when we were in ’bama. How do they keep this thing charged, solar?”
“Oh, no ma’am,” Priscilla-Jo answered, pressing a switch on the dash while looking over her shoulder. “This area has always had natural gas, and now we’re the new natural gas capital of Louisiana. That’s how Daddy made his money, running a big gas company right here, downtown. You can’t hardly poke a hole in the ground around here except gas will come out. His workers set up low-pressure wells to capture the gas and run it to one of the plants inside the Wall. We use it for everything, including the town generators and running the vehicles. One of his surviving workmen converted a bunch of off-roaders. This one is a Polaris.”
As she spoke, she drove them out the big gravel drive and onto a paved road. The day was warm, but the roof kept the sun off the passengers, and Auguste enjoyed the breeze afforded by the open cabin. He surreptitiously gave Priscilla-Jo’s bodyguard a good once-over. The prohibition on long guns didn’t appear to apply to him, since the man riding shotgun was running a red-dot-equipped AR. There were also pistol-armed people in view going about their business, though mostly on foot.
“Why don’t they have their own golf-carts?” Auguste asked. “If there’s plenty of fuel.”
“Well, Momma and the Montanaros, that’s Dolf’s family, are pretty much in charge—”
“Sorry, miss,” Jonna interrupted. “Dolf?”
“Dolf is the only son of the Montanaro family. He’s the one they’re making Becky-Anne marry. And she doesn’t even—” Priscilla-Jo stopped herself. “It doesn’t signify. Anyhow, the Families decided it’s more important to protect the town and look for other survivors and supplies instead of giving everybody a car. Even with plenty of gas, there’s parts you need to convert to use it, and then tires, brakes and so on. No one is making more of those anything soon. Even though we only got about six hundred people left from Natchez now, that still a lot of vehicles if everyone insisted on having their own car and using it all the time.”
“Sounds like your daddy was a smart man,” Auguste said, watching the town go by. The streets were clear and in good repair. Signs of a large fire were visible, but most of the unoccupied buildings had either intact windows or plywood patches.
“Daddy was brilliant! He never minded when I asked questions, and always found time to talk to me. He taught me all about his plans for the town. Daddy cared what I thought. Momma is—well, she’s Momma.”
She took a deep breath and hunched a bit behind the wheel.
Auguste took a deep breath too, tasting the air. It was missing something. He could smell the exhaust of the little motor that whined underneath him. There were the usual floral scents, and the traces of woodsmoke. He inhaled again and looked around.
“Smells nicer than usual.” Jonna was paying attention, as usual.
That was it. The usual familiar reek of rotting corpses was entirely absent. The locals had gone to a lot of trouble to get all the corpses belowground. The Polaris passed a work gang of a dozen men and women, dressed in gray coveralls, cleaning bricks and stacking them neatly under the supervision of a bored-looking man in jeans and a cowboy hat. Unlike other settlements where he and Jonna had traveled, this labor gang didn’t appear to be betas.
“Are y’all using prisoners as labor, miss?” he asked, pointing towards the group.
Shotgun followed his gesture and grunted.
“Well, we do, but they’re not prisoners exactly,” Priscilla-Jo say, giving the workers a quick glance as they hummed past. “They can leave whenever they want, once they work off their debt. Daddy said everyone works and everyone eats. At first it was easy, everyone wanted the vaccine. Daddy’s chemical engineers had enough know-how to follow the instructions the government broadcast on the radio. Later, people started expecting to be supported. Wanted fancy food, meat every day, their own cars, and air conditioners. But the Families made the rules. If you don’t work, or you shirk your duties, you get judged, and after that, the lazy end up on supervised work details, if they want to stay inside the Wall.”
“You mean the big line of shipping containers around town?” Jonna asked. “That’s a lot of containers.”
“Yes, ma’am. Even before New York went off the air, some folks around here organized to build it from the traffic in the river. Tens of thousands of TEUs were on the river during the Fall. We’re—”
“Tews?” Auguste asked, watching as they passed another labor party and their “supervisor.” “What’s that?”
“Sorry, Mr. Boudreaux. Twenty-foot equivalent units—abbreviated tee-ee-you. Any given day, pre-Fall, there were better than thirty ships on the river, each one carrying as many as nine or ten thousand TEUs. We only needed five hundred double units to make the Wall, and New Natchez is on a peninsula, so really we only had to close off one direction and we’re all set. It wasn’t done before the zombies got real bad, but between the three families, we got it done.”
Shotgun clicked on the radio, evidently bored with the conversation.
“Listen up, maggots! Drop your socks and grab your . . . equipment! This is Gunny Sanchez of the You-Ess Mareen Corps, coming to you from Guuaatanamo Bayyy!”
“Y’all can get Devil Dog Radio here?” Jonna asked, leaning forward to touch Priscilla-Jo’s shoulder.
“We have a big tower for FM radio, and one of Daddy’s men uses his ham radio to record the broadcast,” she answered. “They report a lot about which cities are getting cleared. The music is okay, mostly old people stuff.”
On cue, the radio started blaring the Marine Corps anthem and the guard clicked it off, harumphing disappointedly.
“My sister loves it, wants to grow up and be a Marine, she says, just like that girl, She-Wolf.” Auguste saw Priscilla-Jo’s grip on the wheel turn her fingers white. “Momma says her duty is to her family first. Becky-Anne tried everything. She asked for the impossible dress to stall the wedding. Then, jokes on her, you arrived. Now she has to go through with it. And she gets to marry Dolf after all.”
Auguste carefully did not look at his assistant.
“Pardon, miss, but besides the groom’s family and yours, who else is in charge?” Jonna asked. Auguste noticed the guard straightening from his slouch, giving them both some side-eye. He cut in.
“That is, if you don’t mind us asking,” Auguste said, with a frustrated nudge against Jonna.
“Well, it’s long story, and Uncle Skip or Momma would know better. Besides, we’re here.”
“Here” seemed to be the parking lot of an ex-grocery store. The yellow-and-black sign had been painted over, but if there was one thing Auguste had seen a lot of as he moved about the South, it was Dollar General stores. The lot had a few cars, as well as several shipping containers, nearly lined up in parking spots. An inexpertly painted coat of arms covered the glass of the front display to the left of the door. The red shield wasn’t perfectly symmetrical, and he had to squint a bit to discern three green hills in the middle, surrounded by three yellow stars.
“You sure about this, Miss Caplewood?” Behind Auguste, the guard spoke up. “Missus Caplewood call ahead?”
“Johnson, it’s fine,” Priscilla-Jo tossed her hair and went confidently to the door.
“What’s that?” Jonna pointed out the coat of arms to their guard, who was bringing up the rear.
“It’s a Montanaro salvage warehouse,” he said, hooking a finger towards the tan plate carrier he wore. Auguste noted a pair of patches stuck to it, one an embroidered blue shield with the now familiar tree in the middle. “Ours have a blue shield. Theirs is red. We’re all friends now, so share and share alike, Mr. Caplewood says. Used to be the reds and the blues didn’t get along.”
“But?”
“But nothing.” Priscilla-Jo didn’t even break stride; instead, she skipped ahead two paces, pulling the door open for Auguste. “We’re friends now. Allies. And this is for the wedding. Besides, I’ve been dying to peek in here.”
Auguste stepped into a relatively small foyer with a familiar cement floor, surrounded on three sides by waist-high tables that incorporated old checkout conveyors. Even though there were several lights, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. He was jostled from behind so he shuffled forward a bit more. A heavyset man in camouflage trousers and a dingy red T-shirt appeared from the rows of head-high shelving that blocked further view in any direction. His lip curled.
“Caplewoods?” Auguste watched the man’s eyes jump back and forth between the members of the party, finally pausing on Priscilla-Jo, who was fiddling with the latch on a hinged part of the counter. “Whatcha doin’ here?”
A thirty-something brunette poked her head out, looking fearfully at Mr. Whatcha Doin’ before scanning the foyer. She was better dressed, wearing clean blue jeans and a fitted red tank. It was no surprise she knew the Caplewood girl, but Auguste knew to the second when she recognized him. Her eyes opened all the way, and her jaw dropped.
“Dame Caplewood is coordinating the wedding with Mrs. Montanaro,” Priscilla-Jo announced. Auguste noted that she didn’t even bother to look up to look at the counterman. “I’m here to look for fabric for the wedding on their behalf. Open this thing, please.”
“You’se gotta a letter from Missus Montanaro, miss?”
His workmate crept forward and tugged on his sleeve, but he yanked it away with an angry look. Auguste saw the man’s hand come to rest on his belt, just above a holstered pistol.
“No letter, then? Best y’all move on.”
“Are you a few minutes shy of a fully baked biscuit?” Priscilla-Jo had stopped fiddling, and her head snapped up. She saw where the attendant had his hand and lost her temper, dramatically throwing one arm towards Auguste. “This is an important guest! He’s a Very Important Person, all the way from New Orleans, here to coordinate the wedding, and he’s under Caplewood guest right. Hold him up, and the bride will personally stretch you out on the killing ground and leave you for the next hungry zombie that wanders by. Believe!”
“Him?” The man looked down uncertainly at Auguste, who had decided to stand a bit hip shot, and examine the nails of his left hand. It also left his right conveniently free.
“Do you not know who I am? My name is Priscilla-Joanne Constance Caplewood. My family saved this place! That isn’t enough? Maybe you’d like to shoot the youngest Caplewood as a wedding gift to Dolf Montanaro? I’m sure he’d reward you—by making you eat your own eggs, you fool! Now open up—you’re embarrassing me and this town! You will open up this instant or I will inform the Montanaros that you offered specific disrespect to the younger sister of the lady who’s about to become the new Missus Montanaro! If you’re lucky, you’ll only end up outside the Wall. If I get my way, you’ll be under it!”
“Yes, miss!” The man very nearly got all spitty in his haste to get the counter unlatched and swung up out of the way. “Sorry, miss, I didn’t recognize you! I meant no disrespect, miss!”
Auguste sashayed through, Jonna on his heels, both following Priscilla-Jo’s pointing finger. She followed them, nostrils flaring. Their guard stayed in the foyer, his weapon slung and a worried look on his face.
The lady attendant had skittered towards the back during Priscilla-Jo’s outburst, but poked her head out again.
The aisle endcaps had inventory signs, but the organization was self-evident. Aisles of products extended into the darker interior. One of engine parts, another of tools, one of thousands of pairs of shoes. It was the work of a moment to spot the familiar shapes of bolts of cloth. These display units had been stripped of anything but the bottom shelf and one more, just about shoulder high to Auguste. Bolts had been stacked on end, leaning against the dividers. Unprompted, he walked over and began running his hand along the vertically stacked fabrics. There were a surprising number. Someone must have salvaged a fabric store. Several fabric stores? Everything was represented in quantity, from silk to upholstery.
“I know that Momma hasn’t even picked out a final color plan yet, but there’s plenty to choose from, isn’t there?” Priscilla-Jo said, also running her hand along the fabric rolls. She appeared to have gotten over her indignation quickly. She unwound a length of white lace suitable for a bridal train and laid it across her arm. “Ooh, this one’s pretty!”
The female employee crept up, eyes hungry and shining. She had added some lip gloss, unless Auguste missed his guess. Perfume was evident as well—something cheap and sharp.
“Excuse me, sir, are y’all—” she began.
“Yes, yes, Auguste Boudreaux from the Sable Jardin, but he’s working,” Priscilla-Jo said, flapping one hand at arm’s length while she continue to look at bolts of cloth. “You can ask him questions later. He’s designing a wedding dress and I’m helping.”
“You looking for something specific, miss?” the female attendant summoned her courage. “We have a lot of fabric, but hardly any call for it. Not too many people are sewing yet. It’s easier to salvage the clothes what they need. Even wedding dresses.”
In the background, Auguste could hear the shop manager, if that’s what he was, dialing an old-style wall-mounted phone. His voice began to gabble, almost inaudibly. Auguste sighed and turned back to the matter at hand, which was learning more about this place.
“Well, I do declare, we simply are not going to reuse a wedding dress,” he said, smiling at the attendant. He touched the nearest bolt. “You have many lovely things, but I’m looking for something specific. This will be a corset dress. Structure will be everything. But it must be fine, as well. What we really could use for a start are some charmeuse and batiste.”
Blank looks met his glance.
“Think double-layer satin for the first and a strong, sheer cotton for the second,” he said, carefully not rolling his eyes. “We’re going for a more architectural look, not a romantic design.”
Both women listened carefully as his monologue became even more technical. The assistant began pulling out bolts and unfolding them along a long worktable. Jonna was stacking her own candidate rolls to one side and cutting swatches from a variety of earth tones. He looked more closely. All filmy selections. Tiger stripes, leafy green, mossy tree, various sorts of hunting patterns were represented. Trust Jonna to follow her instincts. He was diverted as Priscilla-Jo began listing everything she knew about her sister’s preferences, although to Auguste, it sounded more like her own wish list. She held out a bolt of white satin for him to touch, and suddenly he was deep in le espace créatif.
That lasted an unknown time, until a sharp jab between his ribs staggered him.
The warehouse assistant gave a little scream.
Auguste looked up and kept looking.
The newcomer could have easily qualified for college basketball. Pro, even. He wore khaki trousers and a snug, red polo shirt. Auguste couldn’t make out the pistol on his belt, but he had a great view of the AR-pattern rifle which was painfully tucked, muzzle first, under his own short ribs. At least Meathead didn’t have his finger on the trigger.
Jonna didn’t move, her eyes comically crossed on the muzzle of another rifle a few inches from her nose. Priscilla-Jo wasn’t impressed.
“Do you know who I am!” Priscilla-Jo shrieked, enraged. “That’s our guest!”
“Don’t care, Miz Caplewood,” the man said, giving Auguste another jab. “What I want to know is just who the fuck are you, little man?”
“My name is Boudreaux,” Auguste replied, his voice cool. He turned, deliberately letting his jacket catch on the muzzle of Meathead’s rifle, and coincidentally clearing his strong-side holster. “I am the designer.”
“Yeah, that’s what Missus Montanaro said you might be. None a y’all don’t got permission to be here. We’re going for a ride, pretty boy. The Montanaros want to see you.”
* * *
The extent of Auguste’s view was the inside of a black sack. Mercifully clean and itch-free, it nonetheless had kept him from seeing his surroundings for the last twenty minutes.
“Remove that at once!” the feminine voice was imperious. “This man is a visitor under my roof!”
“But, Missus Montanaro, you sai—” The familiar voice of Meathead sounded far more plaintive than Auguste expected, considering the previous rough handling. Over the nuclear objections of Priscilla-Jo, he’d been separated from his companions, then bagged, and bundled into another vehicle. Considerably higher off the ground, it felt like a proper truck. The ride had been altogether rougher and longer than the preceding trip.
Then yank—stagger—march, and blessed air conditioning again, he had found himself indoors.
“Shut your mouth, Jackson!” Unseen, Auguste winced at the whipcrack in that voice. “When I want your opinion, I will deliver it to you, ready to regurgitate. Remove that blindfold, unhand my guest and take yourself off.”
“Ma’am, shouldn’t I stay wi—”
“You’re becoming quite tiresome, Jackson. You know what happens when staff take on that quality.”
The ladies of this burg sure seemed comfortable giving orders. Auguste noted a bit of Commonwealth in the accent.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The vise grip on his upper arm abruptly vanished, allowing Auguste to stand straight. The bag was whisked off, and Auguste blinked rapidly. He straightened the lapels of his jacket and gave his trousers a slight tug upwards. He missed the weight of his gun belt, but this didn’t seem the opportune moment to inquire.
Auguste was in a big library. Tall ceilings accommodated the double-height shelving that lined the expansive room on both sides. Old wood and the scent of older books surrounded him. A wrought iron chandelier was off to one side, but the room was illuminated by a row of windows screened by gauzy drapery. However, all of it was secondary to the true focal point of the room.
She emerged from behind a large partners desk which took up a mere acre or two of the room. The lady was five eight or more, leggier than the exclusive merchandise his New Orleans madam used to hold back for special guests, and a spill of raven hair as dark and shining as his own swayed side to side as she strode confidently, like a lioness, to greet him. On a woman with weaker features, her strong Roman nose would have overpowered whatever good looks remained, but her high cheekbones and dark brows provided the symmetry to make her bold, not masculine. Her direct gaze spoke of confidence. She might have been forty or more, but the clean skin, bouncy stride, and taut figure spoke of a dedication to sport, the masseur, and self-discipline. Her legs, like her feet, were bare. She wore a loose, burgundy and white kimono-pattern robe over a black scoop-necked tank, and the visible musculature of her chest, shoulders and calves underscoring the sculpted lines of her face were due to athleticism, not an accident of diet. The ensemble was tied together with a wide sash. He noticed a traditional Japanese-style sword rack on the wall behind the desk, holding two black-lacquered scabbards of dissimilar lengths.
“Auguste Bertrand Boudreaux in the flesh! Love the beauty mark!”
“Lady Montanaro, I presume,” Auguste bowed from the waist. His courtesies were getting a lot of practice today. Behind him, the library door closed, reluctantly it seemed.
“Please, call me Claudia,” she said, advancing all the way, taking his hands in hers, and looking at him up and down. The air didn’t warm, precisely, but Auguste felt her nearness like an animal presence, like the heat coming off a big cat, the machinery in perfect order and tensely sprung. “All my friends do, and I just know we’ll become the very best of friends, don’t you think?”
The rising inflection at the end of the sentence gave it away.
“Claudia, you’ll pardon my presumption,” he said, holding her hands and returning her beaming smile with one just as authentic. “Is that lovely accent of yours originally from Australia?”
“Well done!” she said, retaining one of his hands and starting to step across the room. He followed in her wake, if not enthusiastically, then at least obediently. “Most Southerners ask if I’m English. Such provincials. Met Georgio, that’s Mr. Montanaro, during one of his fishing trips to Perth during his salad days. He used to be mad for fishing. His study has loads of mounted fish. Great, gaudy things. Dolf, Georgio’s oldest, loves to hunt. Spends most of his time outside, like a beast.”
“Not to rush your welcome, Claudia”—Auguste noticed he was being towed towards a nicely paneled door set to one side of the library—“but why precisely am I here? Are we to meet Mr. Montanaro?”
She drew him with her implacably. Open door, through door, close door. They proceeded along a long, interior hallway.
“Georgio hasn’t been well enough to have guests in some time, Auguste. May I call you Auguste?”
“Certainly, Claudia.” The carpet was thick, silencing their footsteps. “Mr. Montanaro is ill?”
“Georgio had a bad reaction to the vaccine,” she said, turning a corner, still holding his hand. The new corridor opened to one side, windows brightening their path, while large portraits of the sort, painted over photographs, lined the opposite wall. “The Caplewoods supplied it, and while I don’t think it was intentional, the product of their best efforts still created quite the side effects in a few. Georgio’s fever didn’t break for some time. I’m afraid it left some damage. Of course, he had what the CDC calls comorbidities. He’d run to fat, drank far too much and had a few minor heart attacks along the way. It’s rather impressive he’s still breathing, darling.”
“So you are House Montanaro.”
“I run the house. All of this is to please me.”
A set of double doors opened from the inside. A slim, olive-skinned woman in a traditional maid’s uniform stood to one side as they entered and then left at her mistress’s nod. Auguste felt his hand released. He took the liberty of scanning his surroundings more closely.
He was standing in the nicest walk-in closet he’d ever seen. More specifically, it was a boudoir in proper Southern style. Matching settees and a fainting couch that would not have been out of place in the Sable Jardin took pride of place. An extraordinarily complete beauty station, complete with low chair and a neat array of cosmetics, occupied one wall. The inevitable four-poster bed was covered in a dozen satin pillows, it’s expanse sufficient to satisfy a decadent French king. Interestingly, the bedside table held a tall stack of books. He barely refrained from walking forward to indulge his nosy habit of reading the spines. There were other things, custom pieces of furniture. They had the look of craftmanship but decidedly weren’t something out of the Ethan Allen catalog. He decided not to notice.
Claudia Montanaro stood facing him, elbows akimbo and fists on shapely hips.
“My god, look at you! When my staff reported that the senior corsetiere from the Sable Jardin had not only survived but was in my city, I could not believe it. I had to see at once!”
“They were watching the docks, Claudia?”
“They were watching the Caplewoods,” she said, throwing open a pair of double doors. “Amounts to the same thing.”
He opened his mouth to reply, but she’d already stepped inside what turned out to be the actual walk-in closet. Several garments came flying out, and she impatiently unbelted her robe.
“I’d be happy to wait for you to change, Claudia,” he finally said, giving her his back.
“Nonsense,” she replied. “Ha! I have it. Be a love, help me.”
He looked and saw her advance with a corset held to her chest. She managed to keep her girls covered, but she was unmistakably voluptuous on top, belying the absence of fat everywhere else. She rotated on the ball of one foot and presented the corset’s lacings to him, incidentally displaying a pair of matching dimples just above her briefs.
“When I married Georgio, I was a good wife. I cooked, I cleaned, I bore his children, and I was a proper minx in his bed.”
He somehow doubted she did much cleaning or cooking considering the house he found himself in. The minx part seemed about right, though. He busied his hands.
“His third marriage, you understand, so he was considerably older. Only one child at that point, Dolf, but I quickly produced additional heirs, which was what he was after. That, and a trinket to show off. I kept my figure but after a while his appetite faded while mine, if anything, grew. You understand? Then, two years ago, my children died from the virus.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss, Lady Claudia,” Auguste said, meeting her eyes in the mirror opposite. Sorrow shadowed her face for the span of an eye’s blink. “Truly. This fallen land is sodden with the tears of those of us who remain.”
“It hardly makes me unique, Auguste,” Claudia said, returning her regard to the image of herself, running her hands up her flanks. “This a world of widows and orphans, grieving over the past. I’m firmly focused on the here and now. For the sake of my stepson, I’d largely refrained from sating my body’s needs before the plague, but by God I did indulge my fashion-hunger. Which brings us to you, Auguste. You are my answer to interminable boredom.”
“Indeed?” August said, his hands automatically straightening and snugging the lacing of her corset. He recognized it without having to check the tag. It was from one of his winter lines, a black leather overbust number from the year before the Fall, when the brand had really taken off following his appearance in Fashion Survivor. “I love your corset, by the way.”
“I expect so,” she giggled, her laugh husky. “I adore it! Let me brace so you can give it a proper tug. I’ve worked hard in the gym to ensure a much tighter fit.”
She walked over to one of the custom pieces of furniture. He recognized she was waiting for him to comment on it.
Oh, chérie, a simple St. Andrew’s Cross isn’t going to shock me.
She took hold and nodded. He gave the lacings a firm tug, rocking her. Her underwear covered stern surged backwards a bit, so Auguste placed one hand in the small of her back, and tightened the lacings a final time, firmly pulling and causing her back to arch.
“Unlike her momma, I thoroughly approve of the Caplewood girl’s choice of wedding attire.” Claudia said, patiently waiting as he tied the knots. “However, I mean to have the best corset at the gala. Obviously, black will never do. So, you’re going to fit me. And you’re going to fit me first.”
“Delighted, of course,” Auguste said, tucking the loose ends out of sight. “But my measuring tape, my assistant . . . ”
She spun inside his arms and looked down at him with a proprietary air. Her hands established anchor points in suggestive places.
“Claudia, you’re lovely as the dawn, but I confess I am a trifle overwhelmed. Aren’t you going to ask me if I’m married or otherwise affianced?”
“A woman leaves her mark; she molds her signature into her things, whether they’re furs, her home or a man.” Her hands began to roam lightly about his person, and one grasped his right hand and held it up briefly to display an empty ring finger, before sliding back up towards his chest, leaving a trail of goosebumps. He stiffened as she grasped the vestigial bit of mammalian anatomy inside his shirt, which responded predictably, damn it. “It’s a thing readily detectable to any other woman, whether there’s a ring present or not. And mate, I find you unclaimed!”
“And your . . . underling? Jackson?” Auguste said. His hands weren’t entirely still either. There was a lot of her to catalog, a sort of feminine index to savor. “I think I might have detected a mark or two there, no?”
“He’s become boring. I think it’s his turn to work for my son, who is happily away on a foraging party in Arkansas. Whatever will I do when he’s gone?”
“I’m sure you’ll manage.”
This wasn’t his first dance, or his twenty-first. Auguste had been expecting her to kiss him any moment.
He wasn’t wrong.
* * *
Later, in the inevitably damp, tangled sheets, his breathing still returning to normal, he realized he’d been had.
Some days this job didn’t, as the kids say, suck.
“Although this is as unexpected as you are lovely, my languorous Mrs. Montanaro,” Auguste said, enjoying the slow passage of her fingernails up and down his spine, “why me?”
“Well, aren’t you precious,” she replied. Her hand dipped a bit lower, swirling a trace of hair at the base of his spine. “You are unattached, very attractive and frankly, you’re available. A chance to indulge myself is rare. The selection here is rather dull, rather like my marriage. In the before times, and in an effort to help my husband address my needs, I made a study of, let’s say, intimacy. I consumed everything I could get my hands on. Tantric exercise videos, Japanese pillow books, yoga, everything. Then I’d take trips to rehearse every combination I could think of. My budget was effectively without limit. Everything medically supervised, you see. Nothing sordid, only the most exclusive partners, venues and practices. I’m quite accomplished and sometimes handle two things at once.”
“In that case, you won’t mind if I ask some questions,” he said, rolling onto his back. She lifted her hand off his tailbone as he did so, then replaced it in the corresponding location. “About this wedding.”
“All questions are valid.” Her hand became a little busier. “Not all answers enlighten.”
“This town seems to be more than a bit feudal,” he said. “Split between rival families, who are supposed to be sealing an alliance using a marriage. It’s an arrangement well past your basic tres antebellum South! Convenient that there are only two families remaining in power.”
He glanced down.
“Ah, my dear, I’ll be with you shortly, but I do need a few minutes.”
“Relax, my dear corsetiere, and let me try a little something . . . ” She changed her angle and indeed, it appeared she’d accelerated matters. “Nothing unusual about it, the marriage, I mean. The reason hereditary and political marriages were so common was because they worked. They were a way to settle issues about land without violence. At the outset, there were several prominent businessmen in Natchez. Where we are is actually the ruins of Vidalia, across the border from what my husband charmingly labeled ‘Mississip.’ It was too small a town to hold itself together and was quite overrun. With enough people and proper leadership, it became defensible. So, we just moved across the river and made it our own. New Natchez, you see.”
“You moved a state boundary, just like that?”
“Yes, just like that. Who was going to gainsay us, no? The zombies? We’re more violent than them. Ah, there we go. Speaking of, a little gentle violence seems called for about now.”
* * *
“Hello, darling, are you quite alright?”
“Jus—” Auguste, lungs pumping like bellow, tried box breathing to recover his mental balance. A few cycles later, he answered. “Just a moment.”
She let him be for several minutes, passing the time tracing her finger about his chest, drawing little designs in their mingled perspiration.
“Well, what do you think?” Claudia perched over him on one elbow, her long, lovely length cuddling him from the side, the sheet discreetly rucked up over her hip. “Money and time well spent? If it’s a mattress matter, I’m across it. What do you say? I must know. I collect the better comments, you see.”
“Spung! I died happy,” Auguste had begun to have a suspicion, and her last remarks provided the answer. He’d fallen into the hands of a genuine eccentric. The Commonwealth, and the gentry of the South seemed to breed them. Something about being possessed of both a surfeit of money and free time. When accompanied by an ache they couldn’t properly describe, let alone fill, they sought something to assuage the gnawing feeling of loss. Some set out to be the Authority on obscure orchids, or the rarest of stamps, or archeology. Of course, the Fall had amplified everything. Greater loss, burning regret, more loneliness. Her need was correspondingly deeper. At least, Claudia had elected a more physical pursuit. It was . . . charming, in a way. And sad. Mr. Montanaro likely didn’t know what he’d bargained for. “You are incomparable, beautiful Claudia. Magnificent.”
“Here’s something to help you recover—” She stretched towards the bedside table, retrieving a tumbler covered in condensation. He sat up to enjoy it. Ice-cold orange juice, and perhaps a little salt. “You can refresh yourself while you think of more boring questions.”
“That’s quite good.” He sipped appreciatively, and considered what he needed to know. “How do you feel about the wedding, really?”
“Oh, it will be good for Dolf. He’s an only child now, and he needs family. I won’t be here forever. Old Battlewagon Caplewood is no spring chicken and she has only girls. Becky-Anne is the best of the bunch, which is why I insisted on her. Soon she’ll be ours. Here, drink up.”
He finished the juice while filling his eyeballs with the sight of her.
“The sheets are a bit damp, no?” she asked, flipping the sheet away. Her skin gleamed in the afternoon light filtering through the drapery. She was perspiring too, but her breathing was the long, deep rhythm of an athlete, quite prepared to continue. “I have this lovely couch we must try.”
She half led, half tugged him to a couch in the shape of a shallow letter c, as if the letter had collapsed on its back and raised it forepaws and hindlegs in the air in surrender.
I know those feels, couch.
It was as broad as a twin bed, but one that had built-in headrests at either end. Anticipating her choreography, Auguste confidently arranged himself at one end. He might not be a sexual racehorse, but he had spent the last decade in New Orleans after all. He’d even seen this model couch before. He ran his hand along the super suede, moving the nap so that it slightly changed color as he did so.
Claudia strode a short distance to an end table. She looked, as they said in the Commonwealth, smashing, her glow complimented by an imaginary hum, full of improbable energy. She refilled his glass from a crystal pitcher that was soaking condensation onto a white cloth. It definitely hadn’t been there at the start, so presumably her chamber maid was accustomed to visitors of his sort.
“Thank you,” Auguste said, tossing off the entire tumbler in three large swallows. As he did so, he felt her hands move to his groin and busy themselves. “I’m delighted with your effort and—ahh—really feel—oh that’s lovely—even for me, a short respite is in order, Claudia.”
“Well, I’m sure you’re right,” she replied, a mischievous twinkle too apparent. “Still, I think that Parisian couple taught me a little something that might have bearing on this matter. Half-countrymen of yours, of a sort. But continue with the questions, as long as you don’t mind answers that are brief. Or less intelligible.”
Then she bent down.
“As you wi-ish,” Auguste managed. Could his courting tackle already be stirring again? “The younger Caplewood girl played the government’s radio broadcast for me. Eventually, they will come here. Have you thought about that?”
She seemed to think about it.
“Mm-hmm,” she affirmed.
“Do you suppose the Caplewoods are aware of that, too?”
“Mm-hmmm . . . ”
“An-and do you plan to share power with the Caplewoods when that happens.”
“Uh-uh,” she replied, far more tolerably.
“So, whenever the govern—” He paused in mid-conclusion. It had been awhile, but he was relearning what every boy found out in his early teen years. Too much, too soon after, was exquisite agony.
And suddenly it wasn’t. His body responded most unhelpfully, or very helpfully. Matter of perspective.
He felt her chuckle deep in her throat.
Oh shit.
* * *
“Whrf immm duh ornng ju?” he asked, before his head fell to the couch’s surface, his pillow abruptly removed.
“Come again, darling Auguste?” Claudia asked, thumping the pillow down on his thighs.
“What,” he tried again. “Is in. The orange juice?”
“Well, oranges of course. Some electrolytes. And a teensy, tiny splash of very good vodka. Barely even there. Useful as a relaxant. Maybe a wee bit of sildenafil, in suspension.”
He raised his head and stared at her, then plopped his head back down. He’d deal with it later.
“There are a lot of pre-wedding events,” he said, gathering the skeins of thought that were more thoroughly tangled than the sheets on the bed where this had begun. “The Caplewoods mentioned a hunting reception. Will you attend in your husband’s place?”
“Of course,” Claudia said, swinging one thigh over and sitting on his upper thighs. She applied her hands to the well-defined muscles along his spine. Auguste felt paired thumbs spread and press on either side of his vertebrae, before being pushed upwards all the way to the base of his skull. Her strength still came as a surprise, even after the last forty-five minutes. Had it been forty-five minutes? Maybe twice that. Fuck, who knew. He was starting to float.
“The Families collaborate extensively, sharing responsibility for clearing infected—that’s the proper term, right?—infected away from New Natchez in an expanding circle. We share alike in salvage, but maintain, by agreement, separate depots. Incidentally, the littlest Caplewood took a bigger risk than she knew. If I hadn’t been so excited to meet you, there would have been considerable trouble for Missus Caplewood.”
Some time went by before he could form the next idea, let alone speak it. She found knots just above his shoulder blades. He let her carry on, while he rehearsed what he wanted to say.
“The river is the key to recovering the central United States,” he said. It was a strange twilight experience. His body felt alive, limber, even energized. His mind was foggier than he expected. “Controlling, or at least participating in the river trade will be to everyone’s advantage.”
“Oh my, yes.”
“Could be enough profit and influence in it for the right people to have a significant leadership role in the state. Guv’nor, maybe.”
“Certainly.”
“Izzat somethin’ you. Want?”
“Aren’t you feeling quite relaxed, darling man?” Claudia asked.
“Maybe we can talk more about it later.”
“Are you getting sleepy, deary?” She horsed him around a bit, so he was laying on his side, being cuddled by her from a sitting position. Suddenly, her activity changed.
“I think—what are you doing?” Auguste blurted. “Look, Claudia, I’m flattered, I’m replete, I’m beyond impressed. However, as a gentleman of some note among the boudoir set of New Orleans, I assure you that any new business will simply have to wait. A nap would be quite restorative.”
“Are you totally worn out, then?” Claudia smiled. She didn’t stop moving. He turned a bit, twisting to address her directly. Her open-mouthed smile conveyed a dark knowing.
That’s funny, I can see the tips of her canines when I’m laying like this.
“The spirit is willing, but the flesh is bruised, and spongy. Yes, worn out is the correct turn of phrase.”
“Well, ignore me. Just relax and if I’m wrong, I’ll soothe you to sleep. But I rather think this will work. I adore the grand gesture, showing off, proving I’m right. Years I spent being dutiful, meek. No more. You see, not only did I study anatomy, neurology, even glandular function, I also spent time with Eastern medicine. I learned something from Su-Jin, my Korean maid. She brought it to LSU when she was a nursing exchange student. It’s something that Korean women have known for thousands of years. So, I’m going to continue to have you, piece by piece, until there’s quite nothing left to have, my beautiful corsetiere. We’re not even halfway through my little program. When you get back to the Caplewood bitches, you’ll be quite useless. Don’t tense up! Ah, there we are.”
Auguste felt her hands move into high gear, assisted occasionally by something smoother and slicker.
He tried to sit up, but she pressed him back.
“Tsk, tsk.”
What on earth? Is she constructing a corset down there? Bend the busk about, careful, it wants to spring back on you. Leave room for the boning channels, ah, there’s the fold for the modesty panel. Now insert the whalebone, handsomely, if you please. Test-fit the laces, nice and snug. Wait, is she whistling? What song is that? “House of the Rising Sun”?
The peanut bulb on the old sewing machine in Maman’s fabric room blinked on. The creaky sewing machine made an almost inaudible electric whine. A little adjustment of the workpiece and the balance wheel was slowly beginning to come around. The needle bar eased down, then up and returned, like an old man nodding. The bobbin was threaded and the presser foot made contact with the dog plate. Suddenly the seam lined up and the full power surged through him. The stitching went from one-two one-two to a steady chuckle, like a train moving purposefully down the track, clickity-clack. The needle bar accelerated then, too fast to see, a smooth gallop, then a blur, the bobbin spinning and jerking, the whole machine straining towards the finish, straining, straining, straini—
* * *
The sun was very bright in the repurposed parking lot of a former warehouse hardware store, which the inhabitants of New Natchez had converted to long-term vehicle storage. The crowd was growing as the families, staff, and hangers-on assembled an ad-hoc bleacher to observe the impending celebratory hunt. The heat reflected off the macadam, making Auguste feel as though he was being broiled from two directions, flamenco hat or no. Located on the edge of the town, the space was bordered by the ersatz anti-zombie wall of shipping containers. Unfortunately, the metal boxes, stacked two high, simply created a hot, eighteen-foot-tall steel radiator. The riverside location offered no respite since the sluggish breeze was moving the air, sodden in the prevailing humidity, just enough to make him feel like the entrée in a sous vide.
He’d chosen to soothe himself by hiding his misery behind a pair of Versace mirrored sunglasses in rose-gold, acquired from the glove box of an abandoned Lexus. Standing with folded arms, his pistol on his side, at least he could observe the preparations in privacy. The arena in front of him took up a third of the generously sized parking lot. The chain link fence demarcated the fighting arena, with two additional shipping containers already in place, RV air conditioners on the roofs rattling away. The double doors were flush with openings to the enclosure. He and Jonna stood alongside the bleachers inside a further, larger chain link circle reserved for the families and their retainers. It kept the larger group of townsmen segregated from the Montanaros and Caplewoods.
“You look like shit, Auguste,” Jonna said in a stage whisper. She was holding a stainless steel canteen, using it to cut the heat from the noonday sun. “I left the sewing room when I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer, but I didn’t see you. What time did you finally go to bed last night?”
“I didn’t. As soon as the wedding rehearsal was over, Dame Caplewood demanded another fitting, and elected to inform me in painful detail how every adjustment made her dress worse, not better, to the echoed refrain of complaints from her sister. Two weeks of nonstop fittings, sewing, fittings, more sewing, and she hates the color, the length, the fit, the collar—”
“Still hasn’t forgiven you for your little tête-à-tête with the Australian man-eater, has she? Well, relax. This assignment is almost over—as soon as the hunt is complete, we change for the evening wedding. Maybe then the Caplewoods will stop watching us like hawks and you can visit Chez Montanaro again.”
“That nightmare,” Auguste replied, withdrawing the red handkerchief from his sleeve and mopping his brow. “The only saving grace of the Caplewoods’ anger is that the carnivorous, crazy, dangerous she-bitch hasn’t found a time to sink her claws into me again. Speaking of time, did you get an acknowledgement on the radio?”
“Just that they got our message, and the cavalry is en route.” Jonna watched the Caplewoods file into their box seats. “I couldn’t linger and risk Caplewood security finding me. I still think we’re overdoing the cloak-and-dagger business.”
“Orders from the Boss,” Auguste said. “Smith says we’re spread too thin to police every aspiring baron or duke. We have to know who we’re dealing with.”
“There’s Becky-Anne.”
The scion of House Caplewood was dressed and equipped in light clearance gear. In place of rifle, she held a boar spear, and the handles of twin machete’s jutted over her shoulders. Her bannerman was Priscilla-Jo, who kept the limp, blue pennant high.
“Quite the spectacle,” Jonna observed. “You don’t usually see armed brides at the wedding preparations.”
“Becky-Anne insisted,” Auguste said, pulling his shades down a touch, and looking over them. “She’s got her own demons, and apparently she likes to kill them. If the demons aren’t available, she makes do with the infected. That other corset I’m building is at her request. Ah, there’s Lady Montanaro.”
Auguste watched the beautifully dressed Claudia debark, but forbore any further comment. Didn’t matter. Jonna spoke fluent Boudreaux.
“It’s not often anyone gets the best of the Beau of Sable Jardin,” Jonna said, watching the Montanaro boy hop out of his glorified golf cart and hurry to his stepmother’s side.
“What can I say, Jonna? Claudia Montanaro knows her sexology, endocrinology—hell, her pharmacology. I don’t care if we are the same height laying down. Unlike Sir Edmund Hillary, I have no more desire to climb any peak, let alone the tallest, just because it’s there.”
“Speaking of tall, isn’t that guy with the groom the same one that took you to your assignation with Lady Exhaustion?”
Auguste followed her gesture, and sure enough, among the party wearing red, Meathead was shadowing Dolf Montanaro. The corsetiere had made the lad’s acquaintance during the fitting process and he seemed nice enough. Tall, like his father, who was reported to be nearing the end. The town would be thanking their lucky stars if they understood he lacked his stepmother’s grand appetites. The Montanaro scion was dressed and equipped much like his bride. He strode out with a red-shirted standard-bearer, joining Becky-Anne in the area.
Dame Caplewood and her house manager, a stout gray-haired man in a light suit, walked to shake hands with Lady Claudia, before they mounted the dais, and Claudia her private box. Caplewood began to address the crowd, her manager at her elbow, handing her pages of her speech. The theme was predictable.
Survival. Sacrifice. Rebuilding. Families coming together.
“This definitely ain’t the average wedding-week event,” Jonna said softly, after a while. “Whatever happened to ‘we’re not losing a daughter, we’re gaining a son’?”
“Both families believe some sort of spectacle is needed to demonstrate the competence of their leaders to the people,” Auguste replied sotto voce, gesturing to the spectators gathering. “It’s the old cost-benefit of a titled landowner. The peasants work the land and trade their labor for security. The leaders make the decisions, collect the rents and protect the people, bleeding to do so, if necessary. Nearly Arthurian, I do declare. I admit the inclusion of the armed bride in the arena is a modern touch.”
“Maybe,” Jonna answered. “Becky-Anne makes it look good, but I’m not sure this is a legit wedding activity. I’m a simple girl. Where’s the bridesmaids’ party? What happened to male strippers?”
On the podium, Dame Caplewood was working up to the climax.
Mutual responsibilities. Obligations. Duty. She tapped her manager’s shoulder.
He swung his hand towards the area. Dolf and Becky-Anne dipped their spearheads in salute, first to Dame Caplewood and then towards Lady Claudia in the other set of stands. Then the shipping containers swung open.
A pair of infected stumbled out. Someone had been taking care of them, because they were a lot cleaner and better fed than the zombies Auguste had seen recently. The pair of infected oriented on the two meals-ready-to-eat and charged the bride and groom, who quickly spitted them for their trouble.
The crowd applauded loudly. A few hoots and catcalls were audible.
“See, as I understand it,” Jonna said, “they’re going to kill increasing numbers of infected to demonstrate their worthiness to each other and the hoi polloi. Whoever kills the most accrues the greatest honor.”
“I’m interested to see how far this goes.”
Four more zombies were released from the darkness of each container.
The combat was a little more frenetic, and Becky-Anne’s spear was stuck on a ribcage, so she transitioned to machetes. She spun an infected’s head free of its shoulders and the crowd screamed its enthusiasm this time. The screams from the Caplewood stands went on a bit longer than expected. Auguste looked towards the commotion. One of the party was down.
Holy bleeding saints, is that Caplewood on the ground?
“The fuck is going on?”
Auguste wasn’t sure if those were his words, or Jonna’s.
Dame Caplewood was cradling her house manager’s bloody head and screaming. The crowd was just beginning to notice, when the containers disgorged not six or eight more infected, but scores. They weren’t just in better condition, they were faster, jittery even. The seemingly unending pack streamed out towards the engaged pair. Auguste and Becky-Anne readied their weapons and stood back-to-back as the first of the infected reached them, and the screams of the surging crowd reached new heights. The packed family retainers of both sides were jostling, and Auguste began to lose sight of anything but what was immediately adjacent to him.
Over the screams, Auguste thought he heard laughter. Almost as an afterthought, he drew his pistol, muzzle down.
That’s definitely someone laughing.
Auguste snapped his head around and saw the Montanaro woman laughing. Worse, she was looking right at him.
“What fuckery is this, Auguste?” Jonna asked.
“Heinous fuckery, my dear,” Auguste said, considering the distance from his gun muzzle to the crazy bitch’s skull. Through the crowd, he saw Meathead and a few others in red shirts coming his way. “Fuckery most foul. ’Ware ambush!”
More firearms began to crackle around the arena. The roars of infected were clearly audible now.
And then it all went for a ball of chalk.
* * *
Mustn’t shoot civilians, me lad. Boss wouldn’t approve. Jesus, Jonna, leave some for m— Oh shit, got you, you bastard. Shoot and move, shoot and move. Wait, what’s an infected, two infected doing here? Oh, sweet burning beignets, the fence is down. I hope those kids are okay. Okay, that’s a red shirt—heh, perfect, the bad guys are wearing redshirts. Ahahahaha—front sight, front sight, front sight, HA! Got you! shitodear. Wait, why’s my leg burning? Where’s that Montanaro bitch. She did this—fuck, infected. Mag change, no, don’t drop your mag in the scrum, need the bullet need the bullets—no bitey bitey Mr. Infected, here EAT THIS! Is Jonna screaming— Ohthankyoujesus it’s someone else. Last mag—where did all the infected come from? Oh, hello Meathead, okay motherfucker, no fucking mer—
Ow. Oww. Blue sky? Why am I on the ground? It’s not very sanitary. What is wet? Oh, nasty, this naked fucker is leaking all over me—shove this bastard off me, fuck me that’s heavy. That’s a lot of shooting, let’s see what’s going on, nope can’t move this bastard. Who has machine guns? I don’t have machine guns. Is that “Anchors Aweigh”? Where’s Jonna, I want my Jonna. Why am I so cold? Mr. Boudreaux, you ask a lot of questions. It’s getting quieter, anyway. Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lor—
* * *
“Hey, Auguste,” he heard. Auguste blinked blearily. “Hey, Boss, are you tracking?”
He looked over, and Jonna’s blood-smeared face swam into view, swaying against a moving background. Then Auguste realized that she wasn’t swaying, he was. He glanced down. He was on a litter, about to be swung onto a pair of sawhorses.
“What the hell happened?”
“Oh, thank you God!” more of Jonna appeared, leaning over him. “Look, you caught a round in the leg, not too bad, through and through the meat. Something also fetched you a crack on your Cajun skull, and you have a concussion.”
“Help me sit up,” Auguste said, struggling to get to his elbows at least. He looked at an IV line taped to the back of his right hand. “The hell?”
“Boudreaux, relax,” a new voice said. This one belonged to a tall young man in ridiculous blue-patterned camouflage. Spiky black hair stuck out from under his red baseball cap, which read COMMANDING OFFICER. His name tape read CHEN. “I need you to lay back. The doctor is triaging casualties and you’re definitely one of them.”
Auguste squinted at Chen.
“Took you long enough to get here, college boy.”
“Yeah, the cavalry got here just in time,” Jonna explained. Behind her, two remarkably husky men in camouflage, helmets, and plate carriers trotted past with another stretcher. One looked down at Auguste curiously. “Lieutenant Commander Chen and half a dozen boats pulled up before your girlfriend could finish her plan.”
“Help me sit up, goddammit!” August ordered. “You can help me or watch me fall over. And she’s not m—you know what, fuck right off.”
Together, they got him upright. Order was being restored, but the hubbub of activity wasn’t quitting. An enormous number of naked, dead infected were in the middle of the area, and spilling outward in two directions, the chain link fence trampled flat underneath a mixed pile of bodies.
“Montanaro?” Auguste asked.
“Lady Claudia is in custody,” Chen said, consulting a clipboard. “The Caplewood man is dead, but the boss lady is all right, except for the part where she’s demanding I turn Montanaro over to her.”
“The kids?”
“Well, see for yourself,” Jonna said, motioning across the triage area.
A short distance away, two blood-covered persons stood talking to less be-spattered well-wishers. When he made out Dame Caplewood stalking up the little group, her face a mask of anger, the pair snapped into focus. It was Dolf Montanaro, with a pistol in his left hand, and Becky-Anne Caplewood, who was still holding a bent machete. While he watched, the couple saw the approaching storm too, and started laughing. They exchanged an overhand handshake, Weathers and Schwarzenegger-style, that was right out of the 90s-era action movies, before turning to face Dame Caplewood.
“I declare, that does not, does not, I say, look like a couple about to tie the nuptial bonds of matrimony,” Auguste said, slumping back to his elbows. “And we still need a wedding to go with all my fucking corsets.”
* * *
“You better not fall over, Mr. Boudreaux,” Dame Caplewood said, her mouth pursed. Her icy expression matched the perfection of her pale blue corset dress. Though she wasn’t taking any obvious care to not be overheard, the background jazz music provided some cover. “I do not care for posturing, and your recent wounds will not excuse you. I will not have this reception spoiled by a medical emergency.”
“Madam, I assure you that falling over is entirely out of the question,” Auguste said, swaying. “For the moment. Perhaps your sturdy daughter could lend me her strength so I can find my seat?”
Becky-Anne, the target of his initial mission, conveniently overheard and stepped over to place an arm around his shoulders.
“It’s okay, Momma, I’ll get him to a chair and you can make sure Priscilla-Jo is ready to cut the cake,” Becky-Anne said, already guiding Auguste towards a round banquet table. “Mr. Boudreaux, you really shouldn’t be on your feet. You’re still mildly concussed. I thought a creative type like yourself would be above displays of macho.”
“There is no one quite like me, darling, but it’s true we creatiffs are mildly, I say, mildly, addicted to drama. Now, be a dear and get me to the friends of the groom table.”
Jonna was waiting there, wearing one of her own creations. The overbust corset in green was accented by a very gauzy blouse, complimented by freshly conditioned leather trousers and boots. She was also armed. The combination of corsetry and guns was repeated throughout the room. As Auguste leaned on Becky-Anne’s sturdy shoulder, he could see a stupendous amount of cleavage on display. He was glad to see the benefits of civilization in effect, because both the décolletage and weapons were spotlessly clean and holstered, as such things should be. He smiled at Jonna as Becky-Anne pulled out a seat. His assistant cum bodyguard had her hand on Zac Chen’s thigh. His blue uniform was clean and pressed. A small, black handheld radio sat on the table for easy access, but the naval officer appeared fascinated with some detail on Jonna’s corset instead.
“Zac, if you can convince your boss, I can come up with an improvement to that awful blue camouflage,” Auguste said, calling Chen’s attention to his arrival. “Something that doesn’t scream blueberry tart.”
“I don’t think the secretary will accept a corset as a uniform item, and more’s the pity,” Chen replied, guiltily tearing his eyes away. He nodded towards Becky-Anne. “No matter how good a job you did on this one.”
“I love this thing, it’s perfect!” Becky-Anne smiled and ran a hand over Auguste’s secret project. Her corset was a perfect match for the Marine-pattern uniforms that were scattered among the crowd, as well as the utility trousers she wore beneath it. It had built-in MOLLE loops, from which hung a flashlight, spare pistol magazines and a small first aid kit. “The overbust is deep enough to keep everything in place and the shoulder straps take the weight. I have the first tactical corset—a tactiset! Or maybe a mili-corse.”
“If either of the Lieutenants Smith sees that thing, you can expect more orders for another ASAP,” Jonna said, reaching out to straighten the flashlight pouch. “I’m just glad that your momma is relaxing into the new order.”
“We were lucky,” Chen answered, glancing to where the giggling bride and Dolf Montanaro had borrowed a Marine officer’s Mameluke sword to cut the cake.
Auguste followed the look. The groom was wearing a black waist cincher under his tuxedo jacket, and the bride was radiant in a satin corset dress of brilliant white. The bustline dipped daringly, covered in lace and seed pearls, but panels below the bustline to the waist were semitransparent. Layers of skirts, split in front, flowed floorwards. It was decorated with still more matching seed pearls, and a two-meter train complimented the look of another Boudreaux masterpiece.
Auguste kept his sigh of contentment mostly to himself.
“If your sister hadn’t been carrying a torch for young Montanaro, it would have been a real problem.” Chen looked over at Becky-Anne. “His daddy was the popular one in the family, and there’s a good chance the kid will turn out the same way. I’ve talked to him, and he’s ready to support a return to a democratic system. Finding his daddy alive and drugged was the clincher. His ex was planning on cleaning up that detail directly the rest of her plan was complete.”
“Hell, if those two weren’t ready to tie the knot, I don’t think Dame Caplewood would have settled for anything less than Montanaro’s head,” Jonna said. “Once we got Montanaro talking, it all came out. She never planned to allow her stepson to be in a position over her. Once the succession plan was eaten by the infected, and Dame Caplewood was out of the picture, she was going to take over. When the government representatives eventually arrived, they’d have to treat with her.”
There was a low roar of approval from the cake cutting.
“Where is she now?” Auguste inquired, while craning his head to see what was going on. The newest Mrs. Montanaro had just smeared Mr. Montanaro’s face with a palmful of cake. “The evil stepmother, I mean.”
“Already shipped her downriver, in chains,” Chen replied, returning to his perusal of Jonna’s corset. She merely smiled indulgently. “Effing and blinding the entire way. Claudia Montanaro will end up at Guantanamo for trial. The days of ‘what happens in the compartment stays in the compartment’ are over.”
“Speaking of compartments, those two need to go get one,” Becky-Anne said, smiling at the scene where her little sister was being deeply kissed by her new husband. She raised her voice. “GET A ROOOOM!”
There was general laughter.
“I must say, Auguste, I’m surprised you didn’t convert my tactiset to Priscilla-Jo’s size, given how much Dolf loves hunting,” Becky-Anne added, with a wink to Jonna. “It might have spiced up the wedding night.”
“Auguste took care of it,” Jonna replied, using her teaspoon to join the chorus of tapping utensils on water glasses. The happy couple embraced, again. “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a bride wearing the fanciest, sexiest underthings will be shortly relieved of them by her groom.”
“Oh?”
“I used some of that silk with a mossy tree camo print to make a pair of sexy, dainty panties for Priscilla-Jo,” Auguste said, smirking knowingly. “Like my fellow corsetiere said, the nicer the underwear, the shorter the interval they stay on. Wouldn’t be surprised if she had them on now, just to get some mileage out of ’em. But I do declare that tonight, when Dolf is finally alone with her, the bride will be wearing camo.”