His father had been punished, though. It had been DJ’s first killing and it had felt so damn good, watching the light dim in that bastard’s eyes. He’d been seventeen years old and had finally understood that true power lay in the ability to grant life. Or death.

DJ granted a lot of death.

“It’s been a month since your last trip,” Coleen said, unaware of his mounting anger. “And you came back wounded, so you couldn’t bring back the supplies you’d gone to buy. We had emergency rations, but they’re gone. The women stretched the rations as far as they could, but a hundred and fifteen people require a lot of food. We’ve run out of most of our essentials.”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it.” They were scraping the bottom of the supply barrels, and DJ was already tired of the jerky that seemed to be their remaining source of protein. “I’ll pick up the supplies and scout out a new place for us to live.”

That was the plan, anyway. The compound was freezing and hungry, huddling in the caves as they were. The caves had never been intended to be a long-term location, but DJ’s injury had forced them to remain far longer than was healthy for any of them. Especially me.

He had other priorities for this trip, however. He’d search for another location if he had time.

She studied his left arm, resting in a sling. “You’re sure you’re okay to drive?” A tiny brunette in her early fifties, she was Eden’s healer, their only medical “expert.” To his knowledge, she’d had no formal training, but she’d done the best she could with his wounds.

At least he wasn’t dead, although he’d apparently come pretty damn close.

“I’m fine,” DJ grunted. He flexed his left shoulder, then moved that arm around, swallowing the pain. “See? Full range of motion.”

Which wasn’t nearly true. Fortunately, he’d trained for years to shoot with either hand. He wouldn’t be completely helpless when he left the compound, but the pain was still excruciating. Sleeping on a pallet on a cold, damp stone floor wasn’t helping matters any. He couldn’t wait to get to civilization so that he could sleep in a real bed for a change.

“Not quite,” Coleen murmured, “but I gave up trying to tell you what to do years ago.”

Because she was not stupid and she valued her life. DJ didn’t suffer fools, nor did he allow anyone to give him orders.

No one except the elderly man in the chair. Pastor was the shepherd of Eden’s flock. He was the leader, and he gave the orders. DJ disobeyed him frequently, but Pastor never found out.

Like his father before him, DJ was the only person permitted to leave the compound—at least the only person the community knew about. The Founding Elders had taken leaves of absence four times a year, ostensibly to “pray on the mountain.” In reality, they went to the nearest city and fucked, drank, and gambled like sailors on shore leave.