Tier Trilogy: Books 1-3

by Cindy Gunderson

  “You did the best you could, Mom. I know that.”

  After holding him for a moment, I extricate myself from his arms in near desperation and escape to the hall. Leaning against the wall, I allow my body to slide to the floor as I bury my face between my arms and knees, and softly sob. If only I could be so sure.

  Chapter 98

  “Hey girls,” I coo, watching their legs kick in excitement as I pick them up out of their crib, placing one on each hip.

  “You feel soggy!” I tease, and they both giggle as I tickle their ribs. “Let’s get you changed.”

  Laying them on the floor, I quickly grab the cloths before they wriggle away. It’s almost an impossible task with how quickly they are moving now. I allow Beth to think she’s escaped while I wrestle Leah to the floor. Her contagious giggles ring through the room as I pin her legs with one hand, attempting to remove the snaps on her current diaper with my other. Eventually, I succeed, only to realize that Beth has disappeared.

  “Where’s your sister?” I ask smiling, gently pinching Leah’s chubby thighs. She squeals and flips over, swiftly scooting to the other side of the room. “I’ll be right back, I just need to find that little stinker,” I assure her.

  Walking out of the room with the wet cloth still in my hands, I scan the hallway. No Beth. Moving into the living room, I assume I will find her near the toys, but she isn’t there either. Light from the hallway catches my eye, and I follow it. The front door is gaping open and panic rises in my chest. Frozen, I stare into the morning sunlight, a silent scream on my lips.

  “It’s just a dream,” Eric whispers over and over, rocking me in his arms as tears stream down my cheeks in an unending torrent. As I slowly become more present, the terror begins to subside, and I am able to breathe normally again. It felt so real.

  “I’m sorry I woke you,” I say eventually, lifting my head and looking up into Eric’s eyes.

  “No, it’s okay. I was already up.”

  “You were? Why?”

  “One of the clotheslines had come loose and was snapping against the house in the wind. The sound woke me. When I came back in, you were crying in your sleep.” He pauses, searching my face. “What was it?”

  “The girls,” I sigh. “I love hearing from Nick, but...every time. That wound is opened right up again. It’s not like I would prefer never hearing from him—it’s definitely preferable to know that they are thriving and doing well—but that desire to be a part of their lives...it never goes away,” I admit, looking down at my hands.

  Eric lifts my chin with his hand. “Nor should it,” he assures, his eyes intense.

  I nod as he pulls me close. “Every time I dream about them, they’re babies still. Eric, they are almost three years old now and I can’t even envision them—” I whisper, my voice breaking. Eric holds me close. He strokes my hair as I softly sob, grieving the loss of a childhood I won’t ever have the opportunity to be a part of.

  I wake to a quiet house. Eric is still passed out next to me, but the sun is high enough in the sky, I know the boys must be awake. I slip out of bed carefully, throw on my long cotton shirt, and walk out into the main room, closing the bedroom door softly behind me.

  Though the boys are nowhere to be found, they have left breakfast in their wake. A pot of oatmeal sits on the burner—bowls and spoons tossed in the sink. I glance through the window and find the warm morning sun turning everything into gold, making it nearly impossible to be annoyed at the mess. A soft mist rises from the grass—the dew evaporating in the gradual morning warmth. Across the garden, Tal and Bentley take turns tossing rocks into cans on the opposite side of the yard. I don’t know what competition they have going today, but even from here their body language communicates that they are quite excited about it.

  Scooping some oatmeal into a bowl, I pull the carton of blackberries from the cold storage and sit at the table. I catch myself staring at the dark display of my sensor. Normally, in the days following a new message, Nick responds promptly. We usually get at least a few notes back and forth before we both return to our separate realities, and then—months later—the cycle repeats again. I shake my head and use my spoon to add the berries to my bowl.

  As I eat, I ponder the unanticipated anxiety in awaiting his response. Am I antsy simply because he’s taking longer than usual? Or am I heaping my own expectations onto a possible response? Despite my continual mental reprimands, I know I’ve allowed hope to take root, if only just barely. If Nick gains enough traction and integration is instituted, we could make a strong case for inclusion. That would mean I could be potentially involved in the girls’ lives. Maybe not as their mother—I wouldn’t want to cause trauma—but maybe as an aunt?

  That also means I would see Nick again. I search my feelings, taking another bite of oatmeal. It would be fine if he was happy, right? More than fine, I chastise myself. Hopefully he has paired at this point? I haven’t had the courage to ask...though he does mention Jessica in every message. Slight nausea hits my stomach, imagining another woman raising the girls. No. I am grateful. That’s all. I force the thought through my brain, pushing out the insecurity and doubt. Even though it will be difficult to get used to seeing him in a new life, it would be exponentially more devastating to find Nick alone and unfulfilled. I shudder, imagining how that meeting would feel on his end.

  The bedroom door opens and Eric walks out, his hair disheveled.

  “Good morning,” I greet him, grinning.

  “Hi,” he yawns, stretching his arms behind his head. “Where are the boys?”

  “Out in the yard, tossing rocks.”

  “Sounds about right,” he smiles.

  “They made us breakfast,” I say, motioning to the oatmeal.

  “Well at least they’re good for something,” he teases.

  “I have the blackberries here at the table if you want some.”

  “Perfect.”

  After breakfast, we dress and head out to the yard to join Tal and Bentley.

  “Who won?” Eric calls, and Bentley responds by doing a little dance, pointing to himself. Eric laughs, giving him a thumbs up. “I need you boys to come help now,” he adds, and they obediently come running.

  Out of breath, Tal asks, “Can we try again for pheasants today?”

  “Tell you what. If you can help me repair this fence, then I’ll take you out this afternoon.”

  “Yes!” Bentley exclaims. “What do we need to do?”

  Eric launches into his instructions, the boys nodding in attentive acknowledgement. I turn and begin walking my typical route around the pond, checking the nests of the ducks who roost there. Sure enough, there are a few eggs in each. I gently lift them into my basket. There hasn’t been a drake around for a few weeks, but our luck likely won’t last much longer. And I certainly want new ducklings for next year, so I’ll just have to stock up while I can. Pausing, I roll one egg—slightly heavier than the others—in my hand. I’ll have the boys check these with light, just in case.

  Making my way back slowly—my boots sinking in the mud every few steps—something catches my eye. Picking it up, I realize it’s a small piece of string, almost like a shoelace. It doesn’t look like anything we own, but it could have been left here in years past. Maybe turned over in the rain? After rinsing off the mud in the pond, I wring it out, and put it in my pocket. You never know when something like that could be useful.

  With the fence repaired, the boys get ready to head off on their hunt. Assessing the state of the yard, I realize with satisfaction that I’m caught up on most of my projects. I’ll be busy next week when we harvest the green beans, but until then…

  “Would you guys mind if I came along?” I ask.

  “You’re going to come?” Bentley responds excitedly.

  “I was thinking about it,” I laugh. “If you’ll have me.”

  “That would be great,” Eric says. “Family hunt! I love it.”

  “You can use my gun, Mom,” Tal says.


  “No, it’s okay, I don’t need to shoot, I can just help. I don’t want to take away your fun,” I assure him.

  “Maybe you could at least take one turn,” Eric teases, knowing that I have zero desire to actually do any shooting. He chuckles as I send him a derisive, sidelong glance. Pulling out my backpack, I place a few plums and carrots into the outer pocket, then fill up the bladder with cool water. The empty shelf in the pantry reminds me I need to make more granola bars, but I want to wait until we harvest the oats. While we do already have some in storage, it makes me nervous to break into those until we have more to replace them.

  “Do you need me to prep anything for dinner before we go?” Eric asks, breaking my train of thought.

  “I was thinking we could just cook up a few eggs and vegetables along with the leftover jerky. Does that sound alright?”

  “Sounds great, that will be fast and easy,” he says, giving my hip a swat. “I’m glad you’re coming.”

  The boys lead us down a well-worn trail into the brush. They have a few favorite spots for pheasant hunting, but I’m not sure which area we’re headed to now. Not shouldered with the responsibility of being the leader, I relax and enjoy the beauty of the woods around me. Here in the deep shade of the trees, the late summer air is cool on my skin, and I can almost taste the decomposing wood as I breathe in.

  Bentley pulls out a silver bar from his pocket and a smile spreads across my face. “What are you doing, Bent?” I ask.

  “Just taking a picture,” he answers, holding the small display in front of him. “Those trees are really beautiful.”

  “They are,” I agree. I don’t see him use the imaging display often, but I know he always has it on him. Eric and I grappled with whether we should allow the boys to even know it existed when we first found it in our supplies. Pictures are opinionated and biased, which is why Berg never supported wasting resources in providing access to imaging technology. Everyone in Tier 1 knew it existed for security and certain scientific purposes, but we also recognized its limitations. Images create false memories and can be altered to manipulate our perceptions and moods. Why distract the mind with potentially false information when we can offer it experiential truth?

  In the end, Eric and I decided that the risk in our situation was low. Could viewing those images potentially create future problems for the boys? Perhaps. But with such little access to technology in general, we couldn’t make a good enough argument to keep it hidden. Experiencing the magic of reliving something through a picture is a guilty pleasure we are currently willing to provide.

  After we walk for a time, the trees open to a small meadow. Tal and Bentley lead us to a log behind a particularly tall bush, dense with leaves and branches.

  “Let’s watch from here,” Tal says, crouching down. “If they’re in the meadow, we should see some sign within a few minutes.”

  I sit next to Eric and watch the boys do their thing. Eric doesn’t jump in once with instructions or advice, and witnessing their independence makes me proud. Eventually, they seem to be convinced that this is, indeed, a good location. After getting themselves situated and in position, they sit completely still. Waiting.

  After what seems like an interminably long interval of silence, Bentley’s head perks up. Tal slowly lifts his rifle, pointing it toward the edge of the meadow to our left. My body tenses, not knowing when to expect the shot. Just as I begin to relax, he pulls the trigger, and I jump. Lightning quick, Bentley springs to his feet and runs into the field as Tal lowers his gun to the ground.

  Bentley returns quickly, a gorgeous pheasant dangling from his grip. The umber feathers on its back reflect rosy iridescence in the sunlight. My eyes widen as he immediately takes charge. The boys still haven’t said a word, communicating silently as they work. Tal pulls out a bag and begins stuffing the feathers into it, almost as quickly as Bentley is plucking them from the bird’s warm skin. Bentley holds out his hand expectantly, and Tal hands him a small knife. Expertly, Bent makes an incision behind the sternum—careful not to cut too deep. Reaching inside the bird, he pulls out the entrails and windpipe and hands them to Tal who quickly wraps them in leaves and moves a few feet into the brush. Without pausing, he digs a small hole, buries the organs, and returns with hands full of grass. Bentley stuffs the inside of the bird and presses the two sides together, then places the carcass inside a clean sack and attaches it to his belt.

  My jaw is hanging open, and—realizing this fact—I quickly purse my lips together. Not quickly enough for Eric to notice, though. He laughs and pats my shoulder.

  “Where to next, boys?” he asks, his eyes smiling.

  As the sun begins to set, four birds hang from the boys’ belts. Each time, they had followed the same routine—switching responsibilities depending on who made the kill. While hunting is still not something I relish, I am truly in awe of my children. Having the opportunity to observe their attention to detail and mastery of each skill was a true joy. How did they become so adept? So fearless?

  Eric holds my hand as we walk, the colors of the trees becoming full and vibrant in the quickening twilight. Suddenly, movement catches my eye and I pause. My eyebrows furrow as I squint—holding perfectly still—hoping to locate the source of my distraction. Nothing. It must have been the wind or a falling leaf. As my shoulders relax, another flash moves through the bushes, and this time I’m sure it is something abnormal.

  “Boys,” I say softly and they turn, their gaze following my outstretched finger. Zeroing in on a cluster of small trees, Bentley moves slowly around one side while Tal moves to the other, gun drawn. Turning, Eric is nowhere to be found. I remain standing in place, not sure what I can do to be helpful at this point.

  Suddenly, the brush explodes with movement and I jump back, startled. Recovering, I quickly dash forward, attempting to determine the source of the disturbance and suddenly nervous that I may have put the boys in danger. Before I can get too close, Eric appears with something wriggling in his grasp. Someone. A small, gangly thing—dirty and struggling against his captor for dear life.

  “Whoa, it’s okay,” Eric says gently, while still maintaining a strong grip around the child’s shoulders. Bentley and Tal follow, the gun still lifted. I catch Tal’s eye and motion for him to put it away. The last thing we need is someone accidentally getting shot in all the commotion. As I watch Eric try to contain thrashing arms and legs, my mind reels. Is this who Bentley saw the other day? Who could possibly be out here? And why? Why would any human be so far out from the boundaries? How long have they been spying on us? And how have they survived on their own? Are they lost or on their own? Recognizing this familiar pattern—a spiral of unknowns—I close my eyes and force myself to breathe, lowering my shoulders and relaxing my neck. We will figure this out, I just need to be patient.

  Opening my eyes, I find Eric using his arms as restraints across the child’s chest as he patiently waits for the kicking to slow. It doesn’t take long for the child to tire, and eventually, all fight has seeped out of the small body, leaving a slumped over pile of skin and bones.

  “We aren’t going to hurt you,” Eric repeats softly, “I’m going to loosen my grip. If you try to run, I will have to restrain you again and I don’t want to do that, okay?” He cautiously lowers his arms, still keeping them looped loosely over the child’s shoulders. “Better?” he asks, and the child nods, finally looking up. Immediately upon gaining a better view of the child’s face, I recognize that it’s a little girl. She can’t be more than eight years old, judging by her height and facial structure. Although, based on how skinny she is, she may simply be malnourished.

  “Hi,” I say with a hesitant smile. “I’m Kate, what’s your name?”

  Her eyes are wide—fearful—and she doesn’t respond.

  “Do you understand what we are saying? Nod if you do, no need to say anything,” I assure her.

  She slowly lowers and then lifts her head, not meeting my gaze directly.

  “Great,”
I say, relief evident in my tone. This would have been impossible if we weren’t able to communicate verbally. “I have so many questions for you, and I’m sure you have some for us, but I wondered...would you like something to eat first?” As soon as the words leave my lips, her head snaps toward me, her eyes almost pleading. Reaching into my sack, I pull out a plum and carefully hand it to her. She snatches it from me, savagely ripping into it with her teeth and nearly swallowing the pit. As she licks her fingers, I again ask her name. This time, she answers.

  “Wild Rose,” she says slowly. “Bu’ people jus’ call me Rose.”

  “Rose, that’s beautiful,” I say, moving a step closer. “How old are you?”

  “ ‘leven,” she answers and I try to disguise my shock by coughing into my elbow.

  “Eleven, wow. Tal over here is twelve and Bentley is ten, so you are right between them.”

  Bentley looks confused, obviously noticing her immature speech and the fact that she is inches shorter than him. I mentally will him to keep his comments to himself and am grateful when his mouth remains shut.

  “How did you get all the way out here?” Eric asks and Rose turns to him, her eyes flashing.

  “This is m’ home,” she spits indignantly. “How did you get all the way out here?” she asks, mimicking his voice. Feisty, this one. I almost laugh at the expression on Eric’s face, but think better of it.

  “Your home?” Eric asks. “Do you live by yourself?”

  “I live wit my family,” she answers, shrinking into herself and looking at the ground. That response makes me nervous. Is she in a dangerous situation? Judging by the state of her clothes, she has either run away or her parents aren’t very functional.

  “Rose, we have been all over this area and have never seen another person, let alone another house. I am worried that you are in trouble. Can you show us where you live?”