Wilma took a chair opposite him. She knew in normal light the sofa he was sitting on was a green vinyl. The cheap kind of decor you'd expect of a government office. Yet in the yellow candlelight, it took on a more ominous purplish hue.
“I was hoping you can tell me. He mentions fields…”
“Fields with number sequences."
Wilma nodded. "Alex tried to get as much of it down as he could, but he said the guy was hard to understand, he had a heavy New Yorker accent."
She watched in the dim candle light Henry pouring himself another swig of alcohol.
“I don’t know how you keep yourself from running out of that.”
“Got a couple more bottles of it stashed away. Leah wanted to experiment with fermenting fruit. I was a willing test subject.”
"Henry, it's just peach schnapps, isn't it?"
"Here have a smell." He held up his glass to her. "You want some?"
Wilma shook her head. "Do you even know what proof that is?"
"Does it matter," he snorted. He leaned back into the sofa.
Henry's massive frame, partly draped in shadow and darkness, made Wilma feel she was being granted an audience. As if she were in the lair and dungeon of some minor demon.
"You got my girl misusing her superpower. You should consider the consequences."
A moment passed. Wilma saw a glint of light off the glass. The demon was brooding. He then put his head back and laughed.
Wilma grinned, shaking her head. "Henry, Lieutenant―"
He swatted his hand down in a dismissive gesture. "Come on, Wilma. Why not have one drink with me?"
"You know I'm old enough to be your, mama?"
She saw him flinch at this. She kept quiet. He raised the glass, then downed it. Wiping his mouth, "There's something I wanted to ask you first. Since I may not get a chance―"
"I read the book you gave me," she interrupted. "It says Blitter, but I don't understand the rest. The Tomorrow Sequences―"
"It's eight," he said, "we're Blitterfield eight. I remember seeing it before."
"But Alex didn't hear an eight on the broadcast. What do the numbers mean?"
"Can I ask my question?" He was reaching for the bottle on the floor. Wilma waited, watching him.
"We got time to talk about the book. But I don't see why it matters," he said holding the bottle, pouring the liquid into his glass.
"Henry, I didn't want to bring this up. There may be a chance. We might be able to get out of here."
Wilma startled at the sound of the glass clinking hard against the bottle. He had spilled some of the alcohol on himself.
She let out a breath. "Please, ask me your question."
He was downing the glass. Finished, he set it on his knee, still holding the bottle in his other hand.
"Do you know what blitter means?" He asked slowly as he filled his glass.
Wilma shrugged. "I know it's a code word, but if I had to guess. It comes from the word to obliterate. To destroy."
Henry nodded at this, letting the bottle slip down his hand to the floor. "Yes, it's derivative."
"And we're field eight―"
"No, that's not what I said. Field is not a place."
"What did you want to ask me?"
His fingers massaged the glass. He was looking down at it. "It's kind of personal."
Wilma put her palms together, burying them between her thighs. She leaned forward. "We've been here for four years. All of us just trying to live, surviving. How personal can it be? Ask me your question."
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