Page 2 of The Commander

“He said I couldn’t come back until you come back too,” Brenda said.

Cara wasn’t surprised. “What about these people here? Did you ask about them?”

“They can’t work. Do they look like they could work? The mayor has to have more people to make the tax. They’ve been short,” Brenda said, pushing herself upright and wiping her face.

“You know that’s not what they want from us. Did you tell Andy about the baby?”

Brenda shook her head, tears pooling in her eyes again. “It’s all a mistake, Cara. It must be a mistake. Andy wouldn’t do that to me. I know how he feels about me. A baby needs its father, right? What am I going to do?” She wrapped her arms protectively around her stomach.

Cara could picture the scene all too well—slimy, no-good Andy yelling, demanding to know why Brenda was in his room, calling her names, and throwing her out.

“If you can’t feed yourselves and you’re gonna make all this noise and nonsense, then just move on,” Mighty Joe muttered, tossing a stick onto the fire.

“I didn’t plan to stay here. What do you think I’ve been doing all day?” Cara’s voice came out sharper than she intended. She hated the edge in her tone but couldn’t help it.

Mighty Joe acted like she hadn’t spent the entire day trying to fix their mess.

His group had cobbled together a flimsy shelter from tax day boxes and scraps. The walls sagged, the whole thing stank of cheap biodegradable plastic, but it kept the worst of the cold out.It wasn’t much, but it was still better than what Cara and Brenda had before stumbling on the camp.

“I’m a good guy. I gotta take care of me and mine. Muzzle faced grumblers are everywhere, doing what the mayor tells them now. That’s bad enough.”

Cara frowned. The muzzle heads—alien foot soldiers—didn’t answer to any human. They followed orders from their alien masters, patrolling towns, collecting taxes, and enforcing their version of order. Their thick, guttural noises barely passed as language, and they didn’t care about the politics of humans. Mighty Joe had to be rambling again.

Her gaze flicked toward the makeshift camp. Stacks of garbage and leftover scraps surrounded the sagging shelters. The group’s thin, hollow eyed faces haunted the edges of the firelight. None of them looked strong enough for a single day’s work. Somehow, they’d managed to avoid being dragged off by patrols. Maybe the aliens ignored them because they stayed hidden after dark. Or maybe they weren’t worth the trouble.

Her stomach tightened as the knot of frustration grew heavier. Dad would’ve called this a waste of time. He used to say that humans had lost their fight long before Cara was born.“Don’t resist. Just survive. Keep your head down. Avoid people. Avoid aliens. Find your own place and don’t get involved.”

He’d lived by those words. Cara hadn’t. After he died, the peace and quiet of going it alone lost its appeal. That felt like a mistake now. He’d be so disappointed in her.

“What do you mean the mayor has a deal with the muzzle heads?” What kind of crazy talk was that?

Mighty Joe shook his head hard, waving his hands as if brushing away the question.

Figures. He never made sense for long. She let it drop, but unease pressed against her ribs. The invaders didn’t make deals with humans. They cared about two things: taxes and order. Solong as humans paid and didn’t cause trouble, the aliens left them alone.

The real danger wasn’t the aliens—it was the wankers. Those killers thrived on chaos, prowling the freedom lands outside the towns. They raided, they murdered, and they fed on the scraps of human misery.

Dalewood’s camp sat far enough from the town to avoid muzzle head patrols but close enough to dodge the wankers. Wankers didn’t usually mess with tax paying towns; the aliens had too much firepower, and none of the gangs wanted to risk it. Still, Cara had spotted groups slipping in and out of Dalewood as if they belonged there.

If mayor Danov had made any deals, it wouldn’t surprise her if they involved a wanker gang. The brothel he ran in Dalewood stank of sleaze and exploitation, just the type of treat that would draw that skanky crowd here.

“I’m not sure what could be worse than this situation.” The stink of filth and sweat clawed at her nose as she scanned the camp. This wasn’t just poverty—it was decay. The people huddling near the shelters weren’t just poor; they’d stopped trying. When someone couldn’t clean themselves, it meant they’d given up. These people were already dying, they just didn’t realize it.

Brenda’s sniffle broke through the silence. “Cara, don’t you know about the commander?”

Cara turned toward her friend, the sudden question catching her off guard. “A commander? The big, hairless ones who are supposed to boss the muzzle heads?”

“You ain’t seen him if you talk like that.” Mighty Joe spat into the dirt, his voice a low grumble.

“My dad told me there were different types of aliens. He had an old radio when I was a kid. Traded information over the wire for a while. But I’ve only ever seen the muzzle heads.”

“Different types?” Mighty Joe snorted. “Is that what your daddy told you? You think you know everything, don’t you, Pretty Miss Freckles? Acting like you’re ready to take on the world, like you can do anything. But I tell you what—you don’t know shit. If you’ve never crossed paths with one of the blueys, you don’t knowanything.”

“They are huge, Cara. All angles and teeth with more muscles than any creature needs and solid black eyes. If you saw one, you wouldn’t forget it. One came to Springfield before you did to set up a new mayor.”

“Did anyone die then?” Mighty Joe asked, as if death was a foregone conclusion with those guys.

Brenda shook her head. “Not in town. Outside. Wankers had tried to steal some of our tithe and got into the horses and goats.”

---