They calculated they had six months till they ran out of water. Like most council decisions it seemed like bull to Sam. The council spent at least half their time concocting scenarios they would then argue over without ever reaching a decision. They’d been supposedly drafting a set of laws for pretty much the whole time they’d been in existence. Sam had done his best to be patient, but while they were dawdling and debating he still had to keep the peace. They had their rules, he had his. His were the ones most kids lived by.

The Mall lined the western wall of the school gym so as to take advantage of the shade. As the day wore on and the sun rose, the food stalls would run out of stuff and close down. Some days there was very, very little food. But no one had starved to death—quite.

The water was brought down in five gallon plastic jugs and given away free—a gallon per person per day. There were 306 names on the water list.

There was rumor of a couple of kids living out of town in a farmhouse. But Sam had never seen evidence of it. And made-up people were not his problem.

The remaining sixteen known people in the FAYZ were up the hill at Coates Academy, all that was left of Caine’s isolated band. What they ate and drank was not Sam’s concern.

Away from the school’s wall, over in the lesser shade of a “temporary” building, a different group was at work. A girl read tarot cards for one ’Berto. The ’Berto was short for “Albert.” Albert had created a currency based on gold bullets and McDonald’s game pieces. He’d wanted to call the currency something else, but no one remembered what. So, ’Bertos they were, a play on “Albert,” coined by Howard, of course, who had also come up with “the FAYZ” to describe their weird little world.

Sam had thought Albert was nuts with his obsession with creating money. But the evidence was in: Albert’s system was producing just enough food for kids to survive. And a lot more kids were working. Far fewer were just hanging out. It was no longer impossible to get kids to go into the fields and do the backbreaking work of picking crops. They worked for ’Bertos and spent ’Bertos, and for now at least starvation was just a bad memory.

The tarot reader was ignored. No one had money to waste on that. A boy played a guitar of sorts while his little sister played a professional drum set they’d liberated from someone’s home. They were not good, but they were making music, and in a Perdido Beach without electricity, without recorded music, without iPods or stereos, where computer hard drives grew dusty and DVD players were untouched, even pitiful entertainment was welcome.

As Sam watched, a girl placed a quarter of a melon on the musician’s tip plate. They immediately stopped playing, broke the melon into pieces, and wolfed it down.

Sam knew there was a second market, out of sight but easy enough to find for those who were interested. That market sold alcohol and pot and various other contraband. Sam had tried to put a stop to the alcohol and drugs, but he had not accomplished much. He had more pressing priorities.

“New graffiti,” Astrid said, looking up at the wall behind the meat stand.

The black and red logo formed a crude “H” and “C.” Human Crew. Zil Sperry’s hate group.

“Yeah, it’s all over town,” Sam said. He knew he shouldn’t keep talking, but he did, anyway. “If I weren’t on a leash I’d go over to Zil’s so-called compound and put an end to this once and for all.”

“What do you mean? Kill him?” Astrid said, playing dumb.

“No, Astrid. Haul his butt to town hall and stick him in a locked room until he decides to grow up.”

“In other words, put him in prison. Because you decide to. And for as long as you decide to keep him there,” Astrid said. “For a guy who never wanted to be in charge, you’re awfully willing to be a dictator.”

Sam sighed. “Okay, fine. Whatever. I don’t want to fight.”

“So, how is the little girl from last night?” Astrid asked, changing the subject.

“Mary was taking care of her.” He hesitated. Looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was within range to overhear. “Mary asked her to sing. She says it’s like the world stops when she sings. Like no one talks, no one moves, the whole preschool just practically froze. Mary says it’s like an angel is singing. Just to you.”

“An angel?” Astrid said skeptically.

“Hey, I thought you believed in angels.”

“I do. I just don’t think this little girl is one.” She sighed. “More like a siren.”

Sam stared blankly at her.

“No,” Astrid said. “Not like a police car siren. Like Odysseus. Ulysses. The sirens. The ones who when they sang no man could resist them?”

“I knew that.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I did. They did a parody on The Simpsons.”

Astrid sighed. “Why am I with you?”

“Because I’m incredibly attractive?”

“You are mildly attractive, actually,” Astrid teased.

“So, I’m a kind of really hot dictator?”

“I don’t recall saying ‘really hot.’”

Sam smiled. “You didn’t have to. It’s in your eyes.”

They kissed. Not a big passionate kiss, but nice like it was always nice. Someone hooted derisively. Someone else yelled, “Get a room.”

Sam and Astrid ignored all that. They were both aware that they were the “first couple” of the FAYZ, and their relationship was a sign of stability to kids. Like seeing Mom and Dad kissing: kind of gross, but kind of reassuring.