The bad thing is, even now, knowing all this, looking back with acid burning in the back of my throat, I know that I wouldn’t have done anything differently.
Why? Because I know I made the right choices—even when they were shit awful choices—and while I’m choking on regrets now, I don’t regret doing everything I did, exactly as I did it. But now it’s not me paying the price but her, and that’s what’s killing me.
It should be me. It should always have been me. I put so many contingencies in place, I made so many people swear on their lives to make sure that she survives, that she comes out ahead—and what good was any of that?
None. None whatsoever.
I continue to pace and wallow for a while, which isn’t hard since I don’t have anything better to do. The only other thing I can do is ask myself what I should do once I get her back—and that she survives is not something I dare question. It’s not something I want to ponder—and when I consider that there’s a good likelihood she will be repulsed by the very thought of me ever touching her again, I’m back to vomiting all over—and there’s not much sense to it, anyway. Like so many other things, I will deal with the reality of things once it presents itself to me, and roll with the punches.
Rationalizing helps—but in the end, it doesn’t change shit, and that only adds to the guilt that is settling into my very soul.
Time passes. No, it crawls—whenever I check my watch, sure that hours must have gone by since last I looked, it’s mere minutes. I try to sit down on the mattress they put in here for a bed, but in seconds I’m back on my feet, too restless to remain still. More pacing. I try squatting down a while later but that’s not much better. I consider punching the walls some more—I’d certainly welcome the pain, both as punishment and distraction—but refrain. I have no fucking clue what will happen next, but I will need my strength; taking myself out won’t help anyone, least of all Bree.
Somehow I doubt they’d simply leave her be if I killed myself. Hamilton—and whoever is pulling his strings—might just continue to torment her out of spite for missing out on me.
I briefly consider who might be that puller of strings but quickly abandon that train of thought. It doesn’t matter, and wild guessing won’t help.
Hours later—more than a small eternity—I think I hear something outside of my cell so I stop and listen. Moments later, the opaque glass in front of what serves as a door becomes translucent. No idea how this works but after spending a year and a half out there roughing it, I’m easily impressed. Outside I see an overkill of ten soldiers, nine of them armed to the teeth, the tenth carrying a tray with food. Eating is the last thing on my mind, but I haven’t eaten much since we left the Silo, and my stomach grumbles in anticipation of what’s to come. I stare flatly at them from where I’ve stopped, halfway across the room from the door, doing my very best not to show any emotion on my face.
I don’t give a shit that they don’t respect me; and after what happened in here the last time we got visitors, I don’t feel like I deserve anyone’s respect. I haven’t had the mental capacity to dread having to face anyone except my wife, so that’s one concern that only springs up as it already gets disbanded—nothing has changed. I don’t recognize anyone, and I’m not sure whether they’ve been part of the previous guards or not. It doesn’t matter, really. The guy who’s in charge—a young staff sergeant named McDonald, his face still covered in zits from late-teenage hormones but his demeanor speaking of good training—gives an order that glass muffles beyond comprehension, and the door opens. I’m half-tempted to hurl myself at them, simply so I can do something—anything, really—but before I get any ideas, I see myself confronted with a lot of firepower right in my face.
“Back off to the opposite wall,” the sergeant tells me, not unfriendly but cold; he clearly doesn’t give a shit about me, or what I have done.
I hesitate but then comply, figuring that there’s no need to waste my energy. The soldier armed with the tray follows the four of his comrades who enter, but only far enough that he can put the food down inside the room. Five seconds later, they are back outside and the door slides shut, going opaque a moment later. I keep staring at where the group had been standing when last I saw them before I step forward to inspect the offerings. There’s a bowl of stew, some bread, packaged cheese, an apple, and a bottle of water—very basic rations, but not something I’m used to. Everything looks a little more DIY than from before I quit, but well above settlement standards. There is no cutlery provided—nothing that I could use as a weapon later. I’m a little surprised they left the tray, but not much I can do with it. Plus, I have a very good reason not to antagonize anyone right now—a reason that must still be in agony beyond my wildest imagination. That thought alone is enough to make what little hunger is stirring disappear.
I consider hurling the tray and everything that’s on it against the glass, but my body violently objects to that. Now that I can smell the food I realize just how much I need it. Mostly to spare myself having to lick it off the walls and floor later, I hunker down by the tray and start to eat, spooning up the stew with the bread. It’s all warm and fresh with lots of fatty cuts of meat, and on some level I can even taste how delicious it should be, but I don’t allow myself to savor the taste. It’s nutrition, plain and simple. My body needs it, so my body gets it. Going on a hunger strike would only weaken me further, so that’s not an option.
Too soon, the food is gone and I’m back to pacing. It’s been five hours now. I’m not sure whether it’s a good sign or not that they didn’t bring Bree back yet—does that mean she’s still hanging in there? Does it mean there’s still more they can do so they are doing it? Or did they give up on her and nobody bothered to tell me?
I pace and pace and pace, but nothing comes of it. The food is making me drowsy, not because it has been poisoned—which I briefly considered, but they’ve already proven to me that if they want to fuck with me, they won’t hold back, so why worry? Rather, it’s days of exhaustion coming to a head. I’m too worked up to sleep but eventually drop onto the mattress—only to jolt up a few moments later when I can’t stand staying still. Since I have nothing else to do, I drop to the floor and do a few sets of push-ups, hoping that a bit of physical exertion will help. It doesn’t, and I’m back to pacing soon after.
It’s close to nightfall now, and I ask myself what the others did once they discovered that we were gone. Follow us, most likely, since they must have realized that they were closer to the base than the nearest settlement. I didn’t think about leaving instructions with Burns—not that I’m sure that he would have heeded them. I’m definitely having some issues with insubordination of late—but I can’t make myself see that as a bad thing. As much as I appreciated all of those who followed me to fall in line and work smoothly as a unit from the moment we split from Hamilton’s group in the middle of Lexington, I’m happy to say that over the months since then we’ve morphed into a more democratic community. I don’t mind being in charge—although right now I feel like the least qualified asshole on the planet to lead anyone—but it’s nice to spread the burden of responsibility. And since I got more people killed than I helped survive, maybe it’s a good thing that, right now, I’m only in charge of myself.
A while later, the soldiers return to retrieve the tray and bowl. I’m a little surprised they let me keep my bottle, but since it’s near the mattress in the corner and would have warranted them to enter, while they can easily fetch the tray from the door where I’ve left it, it’s likely not worth the bother for them.
Ignoring my guilt, I can’t help but feel that, just maybe, I made a mistake not being in charge of them. But who could have guessed that the world would go to shit like this?
They all behave professionally, but it’s easy to see that most of that is likely due to their LT—Richards, if I remember correctly—and not Hamilton. No, there are signs aplenty of his style of leadership, and they are not the better for it. It’s not ego and arroga
nce that makes me believe that I’d be the better leader—it’s experience. Sure, back when we both started this gig, I did everything in my power to always outperform him, in every sense of the word. Not for bragging rights—although that sure was a neat benefit, even more so as it rankled so much for him—but because my motivation has always been stronger than his. But then things changed and I realized just how fucking naive and stupid I’d been, and that was likely the first day I was fit to be a leader. From what I can tell, Hamilton still hasn’t learned that lesson, and likely never will.
Six hours.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
I get fed once more at ten hours. By then, I’m bored—and thus, desperate—enough to consider asking for an update, but the soldiers are quick to take their leave. It’s the same food as before, but I don’t mind. Don’t give a shit is more like it, but nobody asks, and nobody cares. I’ve spent way too much time locked inside my head with nothing to do and too much to worry about. Frustration is taking over from guilt, and as I resume pacing once the bowl is empty, I have to admit to myself that I’m more than ready to deal with all the crap I have coming if only there is an end to the waiting.
But there isn’t, so I continue—up and down, back and forth.
I know what my biggest mistake has been over the past year: I’ve become too complacent. I thought I was protecting Bree and my people by taking things a step at a time, but that tactic is to blame for where we have ended up. I should have put my foot down when Emma tried to throw us out of the bunker; I should have put it to a vote whether we wanted to leave, and urged for building our own outpost in Alaska instead of becoming heroes of the road. Fuck civilization—our people always come first. Barring that, the moment Bree was well enough to travel after getting savaged, I should have found out where the nearest base was—likely this one, from what I can tell—and dragged her here to make them check her out and give her the serum, just to be sure that her immunity was as strong as mine. She would have hated me for it and called me a traitor, but she would have been okay—and most of the people relying on me would still be alive. Right now, it’s hard for me to give a shit about them; she would have been okay. She wouldn’t be suffering through the eleventh hour of agony, that’s for sure.
Who knows? Maybe by now, half a year later, I would already have turned everything around, wormed myself back into the graces of those in command, convinced my wife that it was in all our best interests, and—
And all of this is inconsequential bullshit because I can’t turn back time, and if I’m honest with myself, I would never have gone for that option. Not after the factory, and even less so after she got kidnapped. What really grates on my conscience now is that I’m half convinced that if I’d taken charge then and forced her back in line, rather than let her lead us on a merry goose chase, none of this would be a problem now because I would have crushed Hamilton and his boot lickers, and I would have beat every little scrap of information out of them—including that they already knew that something was wrong with her. My position would have been strong enough to negotiate a deal that left us in a very different place than where I am now—completely helpless, at their mercy. I fucking hate it, and I hate myself for getting us into this. Holding back and being paranoid just made it all worse. And for what?
Because I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop, the nasty voice at the back of my mind supplies. My frustration—and that way of reasoning—are warranted with the information I have now, but even so, I know that there’s a lot I don’t know, like who is in charge of all this? This facility, the base, the operation, the army in general? And who is actually pulling the strings?
And it’s that uncertainty, narrowed to a single possibility, that’s keeping me paranoid and cautious. Because whatever Hamilton has done, and made me do, it pales in comparison to what he could have done, and could have made me do. It’s so tempting to fall for it and say, “right there he had his chance at revenge and he gave it his all,” and that’s the worst I will have to deal with—but I know that there’s the possibility that the obvious isn’t the truth. It’s that possibility that scares me, down to my bones.
It’s going on eighteen hours past when I became myself again that I hear another disturbance outside. A few times, people have passed, but now the door becomes opaque once more. The tray from my last meal is still there but it obviously doesn’t need a full twenty people to fetch that, yet here they are. I feel my lungs empty with elation—at least the waiting is over. There’s no sign of Hamilton, which is a good thing, as by now I’m more than ready to put my fist through his face. Richards is in charge, and I consider him for another target but decide to bide my time—for now. I let myself be shooed against the opposite wall from the door and further back into the empty corner. I don’t like how they clear a space for the way to the mattress—just how demented do they think I am? Why the fuck would I keep them from making Bree comfortable?
Do I have a reason to?
I really don’t like thinking along those lines, but before I can make up my mind, the door swooshes open once more, admitting yet more soldiers and Dr. Raynor walking in behind them. I barely take a second to recognize her—in clean scrubs and another immaculately white coat—before my vision narrows down on the figure between the last two soldiers to enter. They more carry than drag her into the room and she clearly doesn’t have the strength left to walk on her own. The wave of trepidation that comes up inside of me quickly ebbs when I see that she still has all four appendages attached—not that I expected anything else, but her left leg was an open, oozing nightmare last time I saw it. As they put her down on the bed, I also notice her bandaged feet and hands, a few fingers and one big toe peeking out—and that’s when I realize that’s all that’s left. Dread settles in my stomach but I force myself to ignore it; already my mind is coming up with ideas of how to teach her to compensate for what she’s lost. I know she’s quick to discard the fact that years of working in labs have made her almost ambidextrous with damn fine motor control and strength in her left hand for a right-dominant person, but this will help a lot.
It’s likely all that plotting that’s kept me from noticing the thick bandage across her face.
Fuck.
Being blind isn’t something she can compensate for with a different grip and some clever technique.
“What the fuck did you do to her eyes!” I ask; gone is all the meekness I tried to conjure for the sake of being nice. I try to move toward her but consequently get slammed back into the wall, unable to take a single step forward.
Raynor isn’t pleased with me as she quips, “Only what was necessary.” She continues with her explanation, mentioning massive retinal scarring, but I stop listening when I realize that Bree can still see. The doc ends with a tart, “So if you will excuse me now, I’m still not done making sure your wife survives. I hope you understand.” No objection from me there.
I still have to wait until she leaves and the clown parade follows. Whoever plants his elbow in my gut just as the others let go of me must be very proud of himself. I glare after them as I do my best to keep standing up straight, not giving them the satisfaction of showing pain or emotion—
And then, it’s just me and her, and I have no fucking clue what to do now.
She’s as white as the sheet that’s covering the mattress. Not just pale like anyone would be in winter after not getting any sun exposure across most of her body except parts of her face for too long, but lack-of-blood pale. Part of me wants to rail about why they didn’t give her any blood transfusions but rationally, she likely bled like a stuck pig—wrong analogy right now, for so many reasons—and I doubt there’s more than a few drops to the gallon of her own blood remaining inside of her. That’s probably a good thing as that must have cleared what remained of any blood-borne pathogens, and they sure as hell would have spiked the transfusion with not just the serum but an entire cocktail of shit to keep her alive while her body
is as close to out of order as it will ever get again.
But that’s not the worst—not by a long shot. She looks incredibly small and frail as she curls in on herself, the scrubs, too bulky for her frame even with bandages underneath covering most of her. Already, some of them are stained once again, yet more fluids soaking into the sheets underneath her.
I was wrong, I realize. My first impulse was to sprint over to her and pull her close, but I can’t touch her. Not because she’s revolting to look at, her body mangled and swollen—although that’s not a pretty picture. I frankly couldn’t give less of a fuck about this if it was ten times worse. No—I can’t touch her because of what I did.
That I sneered in her face while my fingers contracted around her neck, squeezing harder and harder until I started to feel something vital give—and only stopping when ordered.
That I slammed her down on the table and kicked her legs apart, using my full height and weight to keep her barely-struggling body in place.
I was wrong. It’s not her blaming me that’s the worst.
It’s me blaming myself that roots me in place, and makes me sag down onto my ass when my legs finally give out.
What have I done? How could I do this? And how could I think I could justify this, rationalize it away like a harsh word meant to teach her a lesson that might also ruffle her feathers a bit?
How the fuck will I ever make up for that, in this life or the next?
She’s shaking and whimpering now, still in so much agony that I can’t do anything about, and that makes me feel even worse. Her body language is obvious—how she tries to make as little of a target as possible of herself, how she draws her knees up and has her arms in front of her chest to protect herself. The very idea that, on top of everything else, she’s scared of me is tearing me apart, it’s killing me—
Beyond Green Fields #2 - Regrets: A post-apocalyptic anthology Page 11