Page 12 of The Outpost (Jamison Valley 4)
Wait. Not a dream. I jerked awake and winced at the sudden movement.
Curses.
I hoped I hadn’t been snoring. Or, worse, moaning Beau’s name.
“Sorry, I fell asleep.” I looked toward my window and wiped away the drool at the corner of my mouth.
“No problem. I bet you’re wiped.”
“We’re here?” Ahead of us, I saw a clearing but no sign of an outpost, just a tiny shed at the end of the road.
“Yep.”
“Where’s the outpost?”
His finger pointed to the shed. “Uh, right there.”
“That little tiny building?”
“No. That’s the biffy. The outpost is right in front of us.”
My stomach dropped. I had no idea what a biffy was but it didn’t matter. Beau’s words were clear. The outpost was the shed and my new, dreaded home.
Even in the dark and from a distance, I could tell there was only one room. Did that mean one of us would be sleeping on the floor? What about a bathroom? And laundry? I wasn’t a gourmet cook by any means but would there be some place to prepare my meals?
For once in my life, I had no idea which question to ask first.
I tensed as Beau parked by the front door. I stayed in the truck, per his instruction, as he went to turn on the power.
When he was done, he came and opened my door. “Ready?”
“No.” My honest answer got me a look of irritation mixed with pity.
He held out a hand to help me down from the warm truck and into the cold night. Underneath my clothes, my skin prickled with goose bumps. I followed closely behind Beau as he walked from the truck to the outpost. Shivering on the square cement pad, I waited for him to unlock the padlock on the brown wooden door.
He pushed inside first and I braced before forcing my feet to move. The musty smell assaulted my nose before Beau flipped on a light, revealing my new home.
There was no doubt about it now. I hadn’t just messed up my life with the Federov article.
I had completely fucked it up.
“I can’t stay here.”
“I know it’s not much,” Beau said, “but we’ll make it comfortable for you.”
Not much? Talk about the understatement of the century.
The overhead lamp cast a dim glow through the open room but I could see enough to know that I’d never be comfortable here. Beau’s footprints were visible in the thick layer of dust coating the floor. Every one of his steps sent echoing creaks and squeaks through the uneven floorboards.
On my left was a small kitchen circa 1972. The pea-green counters clashed fantastically with the mustard-yellow refrigerator and stove. Dead-fly carcasses were scattered across the counters. The fridge’s door was opened slightly and there were suspicious brown droppings in the bottom.
In the back corner was an old, black wood stove with a pile of wood blocks at its base. Next to it was a log chair that looked about as comfortable as sitting on a gynecologist’s exam table with your feet in the stirrups. Besides the chair, the room was empty.
“If you need to use the bathroom tonight, you’ll have to go in the biffy,” Beau said. “I’ll get the well pump running in the morning so the water works.”
“Biffy?” I asked.
“Outhouse.”
