Beyond Green Fields | Book 4 | The Ballad of Sadie & Bates [A Post-Apocalyptic Anthology]

by Lecter, Adrienne

  What I actually feel is sadness and longing, because for all the many new faces around, the only one I want to see is of the man who isn’t here. And contrary to his prediction, I’m still being ignored. As much as I appreciate that, it’s annoying when it soon ranges beyond focus of the male gaze and spreads to everyday tasks. For a few days, I enjoy not having to shelve preserves and catalog inventory. After that, it gets annoying. I’m sure my parents notice—and if Mom’s comments are any indication, she is waiting for me to ask, nicely, if I can become her administrative assistant—but in true teenager fashion, that makes a relatively interesting-sounding task the last thing I want to do.

  Rescue comes from a direction I didn’t see coming.

  Two weeks after our people left—making that a little over a month since that cryptic broadcast started up on the radio network—we get our first official visitors. Presumably, they’ve called in ahead of time but I only realize something is going on when half of the town is in disarray, a flurry of activity catching on like wildfire. We have fortified gates to hold up a shambler incursion, but now heavy roadblocks are assembled that will withstand something more solid than a human body trying to slam into them. It’s around noon when one of the lookouts reports that a train of vehicles is approaching. I don’t fool myself for a moment into expecting that it’s our guys coming back—no road blocks required for that. Soon, I can make them out, ambling toward us from the south: seven Humvees and two larger trucks, all in subdued green that I know all too well.

  It’s likely overkill, but I’m glad when Dad has every strong, able-bodied man and woman on alert—and in plain view—better safe than sorry. I still have no official role so I lurk around behind where my parents are waiting for our guests to arrive, noting with some mirth that Collins is milling around nearby. I’m well aware that I’d make a great bargaining chip for anyone trying to force my mother’s hand, and the idea that I have my own personal bodyguard is neat—at least until I have cause to ditch him. Right now I don’t, so it’s all good.

  The convoy comes to a stop outside of what is a layman’s shooting distance but I’m sure they know that we have better people than that among us, and a fair share of snipers out in the fields and hills. Six people spill out of the front two Humvees—everyone but their drivers, I figure—and they approach the gate on foot. I notice that they neither wear name tags nor rank insignia, but I realize a possible reason for that when I see that two of the younger soldiers also have no other patches on their uniforms—the army must be recruiting again, and maybe they ran out of sewing machines to make new tags. Or it could be something else. I’ve never asked my father about war-time strategies concerning identification. What’s more along the lines of what I’ve been taught to notice is that their gear is well-maintained and everyone looks as well-put-together as possible under the circumstances. Either way, it’s easy to pick out the man in charge since he focuses on our group rather than on everything else, and he carries himself with a certain dignity. He introduces himself as Lt. Franks, and, indeed, the army has found us.

  Except for a formal greeting, Dad remains a silent, alert shadow next to Mom, who lives up to her new title. She’s welcoming but professionally distant, listening to the lieutenant when he talks without interrupting him but not giving him much information herself. It doesn’t seem necessary—our town and the growing defenses speak for themselves. They can tell that we’re building but have already established ourselves here. I have no clue whether they’ve been around the area before, snooping, or only know the former small village from the maps, but much has changed in the few weeks of spring already, and we don’t intend to stop.

  What Lt. Franks has to tell us sounds more positive than I’ve expected. Dad didn’t outright warn me but I think he expected they’d come over to recruit. While Franks casually mentions that they won’t say no to willing joiners, he instead focuses on prattling off what sounds like a learned sales pitch: the army is happy to help with establishing settlements, including actual hands and manpower, but also building material and know-how if required. There are strings attached, of course, but they sound like yet another incentive to me: there’s a growing network of settlements and bases out there with the goal to bring us a few more steps closer to what we’ve lost of civilization, and to fairly distribute goods and food to ensure we make it over the winter. Last, he reveals that as a token of good faith, they will leave the two trucks—that are full of seeds—with us, whether we join or not.

  “And what’s the catch?” Mom asks when he’s done with his twenty-minute-long presentation. He’s probably sad he couldn’t use Powerpoint.

  “No catch,” Franks explains. “But the network has agreed on upholding certain stipulations, and to become a part, you will have to uphold them as well.” He allows himself a small smile, as if to forestall any “here it comes” comments. “Those rules only passingly concern you as the settlement citizens. They are in place to keep the traders and scavengers in check.” He says that as if it’s a good thing. Considering I have a good idea who he means with that, I don’t agree.

  I notice that Mom stiffens at the mention of everyone who’s happy to go out there and risk their lives so we may get through another year, but her voice is carefully neutral when she asks him to explain.

  And oh, does he explain. It’s a ton of BS since neither the words “serum” nor “program” are named, but when he gets to the part of why they feel the need to actively segregate those at a higher risk of infection, he also needs to drop the bomb that some of them are, in fact, more immune than others. He makes it sound more like a quirk of nature, like a mutation, instead of what it really is, but I can tell from the murmurs around us that people are gobbling up the news. The mood turns from cautious to optimistic, though, at the idea that not everyone needs to die when scratched or bitten, and more than once I hear murmurs about a cure. I’ve been around Bree long enough to know that’s impossible, but maybe this might work out in our favor.

  That is, until Franks drops the bomb about why the immune out there might turn into our worst nightmare in here. His explanation about the instant conversion is as sketchy as the rest, but nobody questions it. Since everyone has heard the broadcast and his story fits perfectly into that narrative, they have no reason for disbelief. I’m glad when I realize that most seem to handle it much better than Mom, accepting it as a possible hitch but likely not one that will come to bite them in the ass. Mom still looks grim, but when she invites Franks and his people to stay overnight so that, tomorrow, she can give him her final answer, backed by the town council, she sounds cordial.

  It takes about an hour—and a heavy standing guard inside town—to get all the vehicles through the gate and room allocated for the soldiers. “Town council” is a bit much for the assembly that meets an hour later, mostly made up of the leaders or speakers of the different groups that now make up our collective. As a first point, Mom proposes that we need to elect actual representatives and will do so once we are on our own again, with some time for people to campaign should they want to. Point two is whether we want to accept the army’s offer. Point three is whether we want to join the network and jump through their hoops. All three are accepted unanimously, and the meeting is adjourned less than thirty minutes later.

  I get it, but I’m still baffled how intelligent, freedom-loving people can sign away a piece of autonomy just like that without raising even a single hand in disagreement. Once everyone has left, I ask Dad about it, but all he has for me is a shrug. “It doesn’t concern them, and they are scared. Are you really surprised? They accept our leadership for the same reasons.” I hadn’t considered that and it does make sense, but still.

  Lt. Franks is very happy and not a bit surprised when Mom informs him the next day that we accept everything they offer—except for the extra guards he offers to post along with the trucks and seeds. It helps that just as she explains this, another twenty people come in, led here by one of our patrols. Franks looks a
little sour when he sees that we can be both careful and welcoming, and he insists that they stay for a week to help us get everything off the ground. Since that means thirty-two extra people to lug around heavy stuff, Dad is more than happy to show him where we keep the shovels.

  As promised, exactly a week later, the seven Humvees leave, but our town is three people larger now at his insistence. That includes 2nd Lt. Tanisha Williams, an army nurse, and two regular enlisted soldiers posing as her assistants. I instantly like her when she tells one of the men off when he hovers too much as she inspects the small house Dad is happy to show her where she can set up shop. That she could be Burns’s sister—tall, a little on the beefier end of the spectrum but definitely not from eating too much crap, and with a perpetual laugh making her sharp eyes twinkle—helps. A lot of people know basic survival that includes some medical skills like cleaning wounds and stitching them up, but having someone with actual knowledge—and who has been working not just as a nurse but on the front lines for years—is a godsend. Since both of the men issued to her look more like orderlies than anything educated beyond that, I follow a spur-of-the-moment inspiration and ask her if she might need an assistant.

  “You are aware that taking care of people who need it isn’t a walk in the park? I won’t let you slack off just because you’re the governor’s daughter,” she states in no uncertain terms.

  “I’m counting on it, ma’am,” I tell her. Her eyes narrow and I quickly launch into my explanation. “Do you have any idea how frustrating it is when I could help everywhere but nobody lets me because I’m the governor’s daughter? I’m not a prissy princess. Just so you know, the reason why my entire family made it out was because I kept my bug-out bag packed and updated by the door, and when the first weird stories popped up late one afternoon, I grabbed it, hopped in my car, and picked up my parents from work so we could bolt. We later found out they closed up the highways an hour later and we were one of the last ones that got out. And now I’m suddenly too dainty to cut firewood because I could get a splinter? Give me a break.”

  I can tell that the story impresses her enough to make an impact. I almost add my usual spiel about picking up a few things from my godfather and his friends, but keep my mouth shut when I realize that, technically, most of them might not be the army’s best friends anymore. It’s a ridiculous concept for me, but probably not for her.

  Suddenly, I wonder what reception they will meet the first time they drop by one of the settlements that did accept a larger guard contingent. One would think that the end of the world is enough of a clean-slate factor to tide things over. Not having any way of contacting them to offer a warning makes me feel sick, but then Nate has always been quick to think on his feet. I know he’s not above lying to avoid issues. I’m also aware that Chris is not the only one of their merry group who has a somewhat shady past, or came with skills that might help outside the well-regulated ecosystem of a military base.

  They’ll be fine, I tell myself.

  Tanisha is happy to accept my offer, if only on the condition that I call her by her first name unless other—outside—military officers are present. So it comes that I can call myself nursing assistant at our new triage station.

  And, damn, that job’s way more exhausting than I thought. Helping her for half a day is enough that the next morning I barely have energy to get up, let alone do my usual workout routine. Unlike Bree, nobody forced me to do pushups and stuff, but it was a great way to get out from my load of chores, and if the apocalypse doesn’t teach you the value of being able to run for ten miles, I don’t know what will. Tanisha notices with a wry smile but doesn’t rub my face in the fact that she spent twice as much time in the station and did most of the actual, physically challenging work. Work it is, and plenty of it, too, as I find out very soon. She casually mentions that she has some other things to do later, but first she needs to treat over three hundred people that have been living under less than optimal conditions for almost a year. Most people with more serious injuries like broken bones didn’t make it—either because they couldn’t run or fight anymore, or because of sepsis setting in—but almost everyone has something to check first before Tanisha can start routine physicals. I soon realize my guess about the broken bones is wrong when we need to re-break and set no less than twenty-five badly-healed injuries, and two fresh ones that come in during the time. Also, more dental work than I ever wanted to be a witness of, and that’s just the first handful of days. Like the professional that she is, Tanisha barrels through it all with a kind smile on her face and a no-nonsense attitude that makes men twice her age act like well-behaved little children.

  I get Sunday off but spend that planting seeds for the crops that will hopefully get us through next winter, so come Monday I feel even more exhausted to the point where I’m slightly nauseated. I consider calling in sick, but then what might turn into the main event of the week happens—our first group of traders draws up to our gates, a haphazard collection of vehicles and people. While we are curiously optimistic, they seem tired and filled with something close to trepidation. I guess I can understand the last part when I catch myself doing what everyone else does—try to catch a glimpse of the tattooed marks on their necks. Sure enough, one of the burly guys who’s among the last to make it through our gate has not just the single mark in the middle, but one each left and right of it, telling the world that he’s a potentially immune, walking viral bomb.

  I almost get angry when I see Dad and Moore casually lounging nearby, watching the proceedings as we welcome the traders, or scavengers, or whatever they call themselves. They only get asked whether they have any bites or need other medical attention; Mom refuses to enact that stupid strip-them-down-and-check practice that Franks advised we need to rely on. As soon as they have all given their promise that they are clean, Dad walks over to the guy with the three marks—and introduces himself, name, rank, and his position here, and thanks the guy for his service. Instant recognition follows, and two minutes later they are heading to get a beer to go with their war stories. Typical! But unexpected, judging from the confused looks on some of the traders’ faces, including the other two former soldiers—marines, from what I snatch up—who tag along. It doesn’t take a genius to realize that apparently we’re different in other ways, too, like that we don’t insist on the five-days-only rule, and are happy to feed people on the sole basis of them being alive. When they hear that we have a nurse, a few of the traders head in that direction, and I manage to beat them to the station and fill Tanisha in—who of course already knows.

  It’s afternoon by the time she’s caught up with the extra work the traders brought us and can finally start with the routine physicals, our main job for the week. Since I’m her assistant, it makes sense that I get this over with on day one, and I don’t question why she draws my blood. She has a testing kit setup that looks more like a basic chemistry set in the back, and I’m kind of curious to learn how to use it. Not that I expect checking high cholesterol will become a priority any time soon, but I admit, Bree’s academic credentials have intimidated me somewhat once I learned what she actually used to do before her life became a non-stop survival training boot camp. She’d likely be a million times more useful to Tanisha than I am.

  It’s only when one of the female traders returns—I think her name is Alice; she’s the group leader’s wife—and draws up short when she sees the few blood samples sitting in a rack where Tanisha hasn’t moved them to the fridge yet that I get a bad feeling. Mrs. Walters is next for her examination; she’s a lady in her fifties who might be mistaken as the crazy-cat-lady type, but she’s more along the lines of kill-moles-with-her-shotgun-when-they-ruin-her-garden type. She’s from Gillette, and spent the winter with the South Dakota people who came last week. When Tanisha hands me the vial with Mrs. Walters’s blood I dutifully label it with a number—but ditch the “one” before the “two” in “twelve,” and make sure to add a line on my own vial—labelled “two” before. I
instantly feel stupid, but it’s easy enough to remember should any weirdness come from that.

  I try to forget about that incident—and it’s easy enough with the traders bringing news from the road and a year full of stories from Ohio, where they managed to survive. My exhaustion gets better soon enough as I get accustomed to my new job, and there’s too much to do to dwell on girlish silliness, anyway. Working also helps to keep my mind off Chris, although I pray every day to hear from them soon.

  The traders leave after three days, and life settles back into our usual routine—until I walk into the triage station in the morning, and find Tanisha frowning over some results. She’s running some analysis thing in a box—damnit, Bree would know what that is; to me it’s just some blue stuff in lanes in a clear gel and lots of water—with three more of the finished results on the table next to her. To me it all looks like the same old smudges except for two rows that have a lot more showing up.

  “Are you sure the list is right?” she asks me instead of a conventional greeting.

  Guilt and stupidity are back, but I still find myself nodding. “Yeah. I think so. Why?”

  Tanisha squints from the smudges to the list. “Twelve—that’s Anita Walters, right? The elder woman with the mole obsession.”

  Apparently, I’m not the only one who found that story weird. “Yes, that’s her. Why, what’s wrong?”