Only I’m glad that I didn’t, and not just because I hate the very idea of doing any of that to someone I like, let alone love. And, look at me now, sitting here, fingers drumming on my thighs, anxiety firmly in the driver’s seat. What good does all that training do me now?
Guess all I can do is hope that she’s not too far gone; that there is still enough of her left in a shell that might be more broken than I can imagine—and, like her, I have a very vivid imagination.
Breaking camp takes us a little longer than usual. First, we have to hash out the details of who will come into the settlement, and get them into the right equipment. That choice is easy—medic plus bruisers, so it’s Martinez, Burns, Romanoff, and me. Anyone could drag her out if the need arises, but the three of us are strong—and determined—enough to just throw her over a shoulder and run. It also makes sense from a morale standpoint—any of my people would lay their life down for her, but those three in particular without question or hesitation. I can’t take Zilinsky because she would be too obvious; plus, I need her outside to bail us out if more shit hits the fan than I can calculate—and I don’t expect to leave that settlement without a fight. I may even be the one starting it.
We start off the day in our usual marching order, but twenty miles from the settlement we stop and change into the vehicles we’ll need to be in. That leaves us all with only a single person per car, and three in the Humvee. I hate the level of exposure we have to risk this way, but there’s no way around it. The Humvee goes first, both because it now holds the most firepower in a pinch, and they would lead us if we were a protected trader caravan. All radios are off and unplugged to make sure that should they still be bugged, we cannot be traced.
Santos wasn’t wrong about the stench in the car but it’s the least of my worries as I idle along behind the Humvee. Three times we have to stop to kill shamblers, which amounts to two hours of wasted time that are grating on my every nerve. The last time borders on an excessive slaughtering match when we encounter a spread-out group that has enough individuals to form a streak, but for whatever reason they don’t seem to be on the hunt. Usually, twenty shamblers is around where things get nasty, but we butcher a good eighty of them before the road is clear once more. I’ve left the damn poncho inside the car for this but still need to clean up—traders don’t spend their time killing the undead, after all. That wastes more precious minutes. By the time we top a rise and Martinez reports in that we are five miles outside the settlement—the mark where we’ve decided to ditch the rest who will remain behind—I’m ready to blow.
We go over the plan one last time before the four of us split into the Humvee and decoy car, and over the last rise and toward the settlement we go.
There are more shamblers in the vicinity of the settlement, which is a surprise—and not a welcome one. It speaks of neglect—not something that we’ve seen much of where security is concerned. Most settlements, particularly those well guarded, have established free zones that range miles outside of their walls. This one, not so much. Some of them are close enough to the wooden palisades that they don’t even require a sniper rifle to dispose of. What the fuck is going on here? It occurs to me that simple mismanagement might just as well be responsible for why Dispatch deemed the area unsafe. I guess on some level it would make sense—they don’t want to deal with scavengers who might clean up the mess within a few days but would ask for provisions and to be let into the settlement. Traders would do well to stay clear of areas where they are likely killed by the undead that are attracted by the settlements but nobody got rid of. Bree would have a field day with that level of incompetence—and for a second I entertain myself with the thought that all my worries were for nothing and some idiotic settlers kidnapped my woman to get a few pointers about how to built up their defenses…
But the palisades look solid, and I can see guards patrolling up there, with weapons that look like they could easily do away with the shamblers—they just don’t bother with them. It strikes me as weird that none of the undead turn to us as an alternative fuel source. I’m itching to take care of the problem myself but most of my weapons are back in the Humvee or back in the Rover, where Zilinsky is right now preparing to both make a stand and be ready to ride to our rescue.
Not soon enough, the Humvee slows down as it approaches the gate. There are four guards on the wall, watching us closely. One of them motions us to park the cars next to the gate, outside of the fence. That’s another red flag—so far, not a single settlement has forced us to remain outside. On the other hand, scaling the wall and jumping down the outside is easy, while the vehicles can be locked inside a gate—a mixed blessing.
I have to force myself to go still and wait while the others file out of the Humvee, make a show of securing the location, before Andrej signals me to get out. I don’t attempt to mime the scared trader as I know it will show that I’m not; I’m itchy enough that my need to wring answers out of the next best guard can be perceived as nervousness.
Martinez takes over talking, the slight, southern twang in his voice sounding convincing enough that the asshole persona he’s assuming is nothing like the man I know he really is. Before he’s through introductions, he has already dropped two slurs in my direction and has the guards chuckling. I’m glad for the shades so my glare is partly obscured. The hat helps as well. I do my best to remain the silent bystander as I wait for the gate to open.
There’s no password and no other verification that we would have missed, and no two minutes later we are being ushered through the gate. It’s sturdy enough to withstand the elements—and the odd shambler—but not up to par with other settlements, or the big hubs like Dispatch or the Silo. The houses inside are in bad shape as well, only minimal additions having been built—which isn’t much considering how many people are waiting for us inside, a more or less silent crowd of watchers. It looks more like a temporary fix than a permanent residence trying to thrive in the face of the apocalypse—like nobody bothered with putting any real effort into rebuilding. Even our bunker got more additions last winter than the town here in an entire year—if it is that old. I doubt it.
There’s a lot going on here that doesn’t fit the bill, setting my teeth further on edge.
I recognize three of the guards, but at least not from the good ol’ days. One of them is the mayor from that overrun town in Missouri we liberated with the Chargers—Harristown, I vaguely remember. I think that’s where the other two are from as well—whatever the fuck they are doing in this town. Their gear is shabby and their weapons could use some maintenance. Maybe they got tired of working with competent people? None of this paints a good picture, but at least there’s some consistency. I don’t make eye contact with anyone, and we should be virtually unrecognizable with our disguises in place.
While Martinez continues shooting the shit, with Burns adding a few comments, Andrej remains silent, his accent too heavy to easily pass for a long-time citizen of this great nation. It’s something that could be explained away easily but we’re trying to fly under the radar, so dirty, stupid jokes and minimal details worth remembering it is. The guards are relaxed and somewhat friendly, at least to the three soldiers—and even more so once they surrender their rifles. I’m the first to be patted down, which gives me a good reason not to join the conversation and to instead scan the crowd…
And that’s when I finally see her.
I have to do a double-take, for two reasons. One, I don’t remember if I’ve ever seen her wearing such flimsy clothes—a tank top, loose skirt, paired with fucking flip-flops and a straw hat, of all things—her hair open and flowing down her upper back. And two, because that’s her damn girlfriend standing next to her. Holy crap.
My first instinct is to assume I’m hallucinating, because neither vision makes any sense. But I’m not, as a hard shove from the guard frisking me convinces me when I’m too slow to turn around. While utterly ridiculous, her getup isn’t that out of place from what the other women are wearin
g—and a good portion of the men as well. Settlers are seldom as geared-out and armed to the teeth as we are, but sturdy clothes and a good gun and knife are standard everywhere nowadays. As for the girlfriend—I bet that was quite the shock for Bree as well, after mourning her for the past year. None of that matters now, and when the guard lets me look over my shoulder in her direction again, I take in the more important details.
She looks thin, going on emaciated—more so than after she almost died—which means someone must have starved her. Her exposed skin is a deep shade of reddish-brown, speaking of a hell of a sunburn slowly dissipating into more of a tan than her arms have a right to get. Even across the distance, I can see the dark circles under her eyes, and she’s jumpy as fuck, not just anxious to be with us once more and gone from this weird-as-hell settlement—so much for my hope that nothing much happened. But she’s alive, she’s standing on her feet without needing support, and just like with me, the ridiculous get-up turns her into a very different person from who she really is. Relief washes through me, even though my nerves remain on edge. We’re not out of here yet; before that I sure as fuck won’t let my guard down.
She’s alive. Thank fuck she’s alive.
Once the guard is done with me and nods at me to move on, I take the hat and shades off, readying them for Bree if she wants them. I know the exact moment when Samantha recognizes me because her eyes go comically wide and she starts talking to Bree animatedly, if in hushed tones. Bree offers a handful of short responses but her focus is on me now, with a few odd glances at the guards. Part of me is really interested in what her girlfriend is trying to tell her—after all, I happened to spend a week leaving business cards and flyers around her to make her notice that psychologist’s office after her old one miraculously dropped her; and I think she saw me visiting my mother in her practice twice. My mother was less than thrilled when I made her take on a new client out of the blue, and I’m convinced she would have chewed me out had she known I later had my hacker get into her files and read up on her notes about Sam. Not really worth the hassle, but it’s what first got me thinking I might just befriend that redheaded scientist to get her on my side… and the rest is history.
Then Bree’s attention returns to Sam once and she tells her something the other woman really doesn’t want to hear. She takes off the hat and kicks off her sandals, the sun immediately making her eyes stream tears down her face—smart move. A last, sad smile at the woman she once loved, and then she’s launching herself at me—and my life is complete again.
Only that she’s sobbing for real, which sends my mind and body into overdrive—and kill mode; she feels even smaller and thinner than she looks, all wiry muscles and too-fragile bones. I pull her close as if my embrace can make up for food and rest that she didn’t get. Fear and frustration are choking me up; frustration because I couldn’t stop whatever happened to her from happening; fear, because there is fallout to be dealt with, that much is obvious. She’s trying to keep it together, but she’s been under more stress and pressure than she can stand—and that, in turn, makes me so fucking mad that I’m hard-pressed not to go after the guards who are still trading silly jokes with Martinez.
But I can’t do that—or not yet—so I hold her tighter, my face buried in her hair for a moment. “Please tell me that you’re okay. I swear, I’ll kill everyone here if they’re responsible for this,” I mutter—maybe not the most comforting words ever spoken, but I know they will be the ones she needs to hear.
She laughs—not quite the healthy human reaction at a death threat uttered, but so very much Bree. It’s a shaky laugh, tinged with notes of hysteria, but there’s warmth and strength underneath. I exhale slowly, feeling a little less like I’m holding a fragile bird in my arms but a killer hawk ready to strike at any moment.
It takes her a little to gather herself—and the sobs dissipate a little too soon not to be a different warning sign, but it’s one that I ignore. “I will be,” she promises—a confirmation that right now she’s not, which grates on my already ragged self-control. “Just get me out of here, right fucking now.” A shaky exhale follows, and I can feel her tense once more. “You don’t need to kill anybody. But I do.”
I feel myself grow hard, just a little. Weirder things have happened; part of it is her closeness, her scent tickling parts of my brain that have been terribly under-stimulated of late; part of it is hearing the bloodlust in her voice. A lot of it is the relief that she’s in a state where she can plan and plot any revenge she wants to exact. I’ve spent over a week afraid that I will find her broken and sobbing, too weak to want to go on living. Finding her ready to bring down bloody vengeance on those who wronged her is something I’d much rather deal with. I’m careful to shift my hips to the side so she doesn’t notice, though—because I still don’t know what happened to her, and the last thing I need is to push any triggers that may exist that I’m still not aware of. I use the same motion to slide the shades onto her face and drop the hat on her head to give her sensitive eyes some reprieve.
Suddenly, she goes tense, but it’s not her reaction that sets me off, but Burns standing up straight. I quickly scan through my brain, trying to recognize what set them both off at the same time—a name, if I’m not completely wrong. Taggard. Doesn’t ring a bell, but contrary to what my wife may sometimes believe, I’m not on speaking terms with every single asshole in the country—just the really bad ones. Judging from Bree’s reaction, I need to add a name to my list.
Good. Then we have a target, and if that helps with her recovery, all the better. After the frustration of not having any intel for the past week, that’s almost a relief.
Except that it means this is likely larger than a rag-tag band of pirates taking a little too much liking to a woman who passed by them on the street. Fuck. I knew I wasn’t going to like any of this, but I’m getting a feeling that, very soon, I’m going to hear a lot of things I absolutely don’t want to hear.
I notice that asshole of a mayor—now former mayor, I presume—staring straight at me and do my best to cast my gaze down. Demure isn’t something I can feign, so non-confrontational pretense will have to suffice. His attention moves on to Burns, who still hasn’t relaxed one bit. Martinez is quick to catch on, doing his best to dissolve the situation. “He’s new. Don’t mind him. He’ll learn.”
The guards share grins that make me want to stab them all to death; one slaps Burns on the shoulder as if they’re about to become best chums. “You’re in for a nice surprise.” Burns doesn’t seem to agree but remains silent. While his behavior triggers those reactions, it still works for him as he is acting very unlike himself. I’m burning to find out what this is all about, but the waves of apprehension coming off Bree make it obvious that I don’t want to.
I’m loathe to let go of her as she pulls away, but it makes more sense for her to walk than for me to carry her. Her gait is uneven, speaking of either more serious damage to her legs or tons of exhaustion—probably both. The onlookers are curious but none of them react overly weird so I’m guessing that whatever happened to her must have gone down elsewhere; the sunburn speaks of longer exposure to the elements, and it fits the story she dished out as well. I’m not quite sure what to make of the fact that she’s careful to always keep me between herself and the guards; she’s normally not one to beg for protection, whether it’s loud or by position only. It’s a smart move, though, and I’m more than happy to be her human shield.
There’s a momentary lull in the conversation, and Martinez uses that to put an end to this farce. “We’re moving out.” He stares at me, and I almost laugh at how uppity he manages to appear. I almost smile at how hard he must be cringing inside right now. He wants to know, mostly from me, “Unless there’s a reason for a longer holdup?”
I look away and shake my head, doing my best to sound grateful. “I got what I came here for. We don’t want to be a burden.” I use the excuse to step closer to Bree as I address the onlookers, making sure to include
the guards. They seem to get off on the attention lavished on them. Assholes. “Thank you all so much for sheltering my wife. I don’t know what I would have done without her.”
Bree remains silent, the opposite of what she’d do if she’d felt even a little welcome here. I stealthily glance in Sam’s direction. She looks lost, but a certain determination appears in her eyes when our gazes cross. I quickly look away, not wanting to incite an incident from that direction. Then I look up once more, trying to convey “I will take care of her,” as good as I can with my expression. Sam draws up short but then gives the smallest possible nod. I get the sense that she knows that I can—although my track record speaks otherwise.
It’s only then that I see how much suggestive glancing—and quite-open staring—is going on among the guards. I’m tempted to pull the poncho off and drop it on Bree’s shoulders, but it might hinder her movements—and we can both take the odd leer if it means she can fight more easily. I do my best to keep my hands, relaxed and open, at my sides, but that doesn’t keep me from imagining strangling them one by one.
We start toward the gate, Bree and I falling in behind the others. Martinez keeps up the inane prattling while Burns still hasn’t shaken off whatever got to him. He keeps looking back over his shoulder, trying to catch Bree’s gaze. She avoids it for a while, then gives him a warning stare that makes him straighten immediately. I really don’t like this. What can he know that I don’t?
Beyond Green Fields #2 - Regrets: A post-apocalyptic anthology Page 8