Beyond Green Fields #2 - Regrets: A post-apocalyptic anthology

by Adrienne Lecter

  Until she’s suddenly reaching for me with her right hand, thumb, index, and middle finger spread as she’s grasping for me; beckoning for me, really. I’m stunned for the second it takes my mind to flip around and reanalyze what information it’s getting. No, she’s not cowering away from me, she’s simply trying to do the impossible and find a comfortable position; I have no idea what they actually did but since most abdominal surgery is done on the front, it makes sense that the worst scars are there rather than on her back, hence the inward curl of her frame.

  Even if I’ve lost the right to touch her, if she wants me there I will damn well eat my pride and loathing and be fucking there for her!

  I still hesitate after gently touching her shoulder, part of me needing that contact to reassure myself that she’s really there, and still alive and breathing. I hear her gasp in pain but there’s no additional tensing, no shying away. I fucking hate hurting her as I pull her up and into my lap so I can fold as much of me as possible around her while keeping her in a position mirroring what she assumed before. Her head ends up on my shoulder where I can see straight into her face, and I’m relieved to notice that she’s not weeping blood. I pray that her eyes really are okay. Under different circumstances, it might have been funny to see her cheeks puffed up like a chipmunk’s, but the very idea that they must have drilled into her jaw to set some dental implants gives me the creeps. Yes, I noticed that she didn’t just lose the molar I knocked out in that fateful sparring session, and why that of all things is what I fixate on, I can’t tell. Probably because it’s the most relatable pain I’ve ever felt to what must be her reality now. I’ve dislocated shoulders and wrenched knees, even broken some of the long bones in my body, but there were always quick fixes for that—not anything that took way longer than half a day.

  At least I have her back now, I tell myself. I need to focus on that. Only on that. She needs my strength now, and I’m determined to carry her as far as she needs it; I have the rest of my life for self-flagellation—now is not the time for that.

  Time crawls on, but it’s much easier to bear now. I can tell that the serum is working—obviously it is, or else she wouldn’t have survived this far—as soon as the swelling in her jaws starts to recede, and several of the wet patches across her body dry up as the wounds close for good. I can’t help it—I’m curious what they did to her, and not only so I can come up with plans to help her deal with it. Maybe that makes me a terrible person but I’m beyond denying that part of myself. Also so I can keep notes on what I will inflict on the people who are responsible for all of this. Not necessarily the doctor, although I’m not quite sure what to make of her. I can’t tell Bree that, but she reminds me of her, and not just in the strong, opinionated woman sense. Bree might love to deny it, but I know that if things had been different—if my brother had lived, for instance—she may very well have been running the science wing here. Not for the first time, I entertain myself with the notion of wondering what would have happened had things gone down differently. I’m not jealous of my brother, but the sense of hero worship for him I’ve always gotten from her rankles sometimes. I have done a million times more than he ever could for her, but does she regard me that highly?

  Not that I deserve it—least of all after what happened today. Yesterday, I remind myself uselessly. Whatever.

  I’m starting to feel the strain of having been awake for too long, so I keep on musing to keep the darkness at bay. Would we have ever met? Maybe Raleigh would have brought her to a family gathering, if only to avoid getting set up by one of our aunts again. Would I have ignored her? Would I have noticed her, picked her out of a crowd of hundreds of other people? I like the idea that it wasn’t just my mission to avenge my brother that led to our paths crossing. If I’d never triggered the wrong people and he was still alive, maybe they might have sent me to recruit her for the serum project? Or might we have snuck away to hide from all the nosy questions to screw around in the pantry?

  I know it’s useless fantasy, but as I look down at her, frail and so small in my arms, still deathly pale and in so much agony, I can’t help but feel like this is all my fault all over again. I know she’d punch me if I voiced those thoughts out loud—at least in a week from now, or so, once she felt up to it again—but that doesn’t make them less real.

  Bree, can you ever forgive me for what I’ve done to you?

  She doesn’t answer—she has yet to speak, and it’s likely better if she doesn’t until the swelling has gone down further—and I don’t ask her directly. I know her—the fact that she wanted me close means she has forgiven me. I doubt even hearing her articulate that would chase away the guilt that is once more threatening to choke me.

  So we sit, and wait, for hours, with nothing better to do than sit, and wait.

  A few times people cross the hallway outside, but I know this time is different when the door goes translucent once more. Most of my body has gone unresponsive from bad circulation but I refuse to move as that would hurt her; I can take it, and it’s not like they will let me fight and run. But I must have moved, or otherwise triggered her, because I can feel Bree starting to get restless. I can’t fault her for that—I don’t want anyone here to get near to me as is, and I’m not the one who spent countless hours in the OR. I don’t know how to reassure her—also because, let’s face it: we’re both helpless prisoners here, me no more capable than she herself of protecting us. But my lizard brain won’t accept that message, and suddenly, being able to punch someone, anyone really, is too good not to go for it. Warning bells start going off at the very back of my mind as I feel my control slipping, years of iron will worn away by the events of the past days.

  I only notice that I’ve pushed her off me when she grabs my arm, the contact making her wince. I force myself to relax and give her a soft pat on the leg—hopefully a part of her that doesn’t hurt—to show that I’m here, and not about to lose it. She goes still, not something I’m used to, and for a moment my mind wants to freak out. I know that the first few days after inoculation are critical, and just because she had some immunity before getting the shots doesn’t guarantee she won’t convert now. But no—it must have been the pain and latent tension that made her pause. I still don’t like it. If nothing else, “vibrant” has always described her. Now she’s a swollen, deathly pale shadow of her former self.

  The arrival of way more people than is necessary pulls my attention back to the here and now. I don’t actively seek him out but I can tell when Hamilton steps inside, as if the monster curled around my very soul has his proximity alert activated. The urge to vomit is back but I force myself not to react. It’s too soon, and until I’ve had enough sleep to think straight and come up with a plan of action, I shouldn’t do anything.

  But I want to. I really, really want to. Few things in my life have been as hard as not hurling myself at Hamilton and beating him to death with my bare fists.

  The doc is back, striding through the mass of guns and fatigues as if none of that bothers her—a welcome distraction. A glare and gesture is enough to make me back away to the side to make room for her; the last thing I need is her deciding we shouldn’t be kept together.

  Raynor doesn’t hesitate as she drops into a crouch next to Bree, going for her face first. As she removes the bandage over Bree’s eyes, I hold my breath, but there’s still no blood underneath, and when she check’s Bree’s eyes, her reaction—lots of squinting as she tries to turn her head away from the sudden brightness—looks blessedly normal. Seemingly satisfied, Raynor sticks a needle in Bree’s arm to give her an infusion, then sets to checking her bandages. As she pulls up the back of the scrubs shirt, I can’t help but swallow convulsively, my hands balling into fists. Bree’s entire back is a nightmarish landscape of bruises and scars, putting her face to shame. It gets worse when she starts reopening a few of the scars to drain fluids and pus.

  “Do you know how to do sutures?” the doc asks me, presumably.

  Fuck, no! I w
ant to scream. “If I need to, yes,” is what I reply. Wouldn’t be the first time—and that includes my wife.

  “You will,” Raynor is quick to assure me, close to rolling her eyes as I stare her down. “I’m sure that you will be the only one who she’ll let touch her, so either you do it, or she’ll have to deal with prolonged complications from recurring sepsis for a while.” She keeps prattling on—another similarity to her patient—but I stop listening after “is healing well.” That’s all I care about.

  Latent horror grips me anew as I watch her do the work I will be tasked with going forward—which means they don’t intend for us to stay here. Did the other shoe just drop? I can’t say.

  As Raynor keeps working, I get glimpses at the rest of Bree’s body. Her left thigh still looks bad, if better than before; it’s obvious those scars will never go away. I hate that Raynor forces her to be that exposed in front of the entire room, even more so Hamilton. To keep myself from going after him, I fixate on what the doc is up to now—checking the much finer scars on Bree’s hands and feet. There’s some swelling still but most of it looks healed for good, like a week or two have passed since the wounds were fresh, not mere hours. I know that the serum can perform near miracles, but that’s way beyond what I’ve ever experienced myself. I should be glad, but instead I hope that the infusion they are giving her is packing a hell of a punch. I know how fast healing can turn a well-nurtured body into a starving ruin, and Bree’s doesn’t have any reserves left by now.

  Last, the doc checks Bree’s teeth and eyes, obviously satisfied with what she finds. Just for fun—to check for the reflexes she just asked about, I’m sure, but it seems unnecessary—Raynor pokes Bree in the side, which makes her growl. I’m a little concerned, but have to hide a smile as Bree explodes forward, moving faster than her battered body should be able to—but that’s not the serum; that’s one hundred percent my infallible minx. Raynor backs away, looking scared for real, which makes everyone and their mothers go for their guns. Bree smirks—which looks grotesque because of the residual swelling on the left side of her face—and offers a succinct, “What are a few bites between friends?”

  She doesn’t get more out because the next moment, she is being overwhelmed by three of the buffoons. I don’t need the warning of a muzzle pressing into the back of my neck. Part of me wants to move, but I’m smarter than that. And it turns out to be unnecessary as Richards steps in, calling his dogs to heel. Raynor, still a little frazzled, recovers quickly and doesn’t miss any opportunity to put Bree down—but at the same time it’s impossible to miss her annoyance at Hamilton’s actions. I can tell there is no love lost between them, and as I keep studying Richards’s reactions, he seems to agree with her. Interesting—but I don’t buy it. Not yet, at least. I’ve done too many good cop, bad cop runs in my day to be that easily fooled.

  Bree slowly getting to her feet gives me the perfect excuse not to glare after Hamilton as he leaves. I’m tempted to simply bundle her up in my arms and carry her but I don’t even attempt that—Bree can be one stubborn bitch on a good day, and I can tell that she needs every little morale boost right now that she can get. If shuffling down the corridor on her own, even if every single motion pains her, is what she wants, that’s exactly what she gets. I don’t care for how Richards switches into chivalry mode, holding the door for her and pretending like we’re anything but prisoners. I do appreciate that he leaves us alone to shower, even if he locks us in.

  I do a quick check on the bathroom, but there’s no obvious route of escape presenting itself. No surprise—and even less so considering the state Bree is in right now—but instincts are hard to quench. Speaking of my wife, she keeps staring at the pile of her stuff that someone—Richards himself, probably—has left sitting on a chair. There’s so much obvious “look, I’m the nice guy here!” shit going on that it destroys most of the progress the young lieutenant has made in my book. But maybe that’s exactly what he’s been planning for? I need sleep, and real rest, and more food.

  When I see Bree has stopped drooling all over her gun, I indicate the showers. “We’d better get going,” I offer, then turn away without hesitation and undress. I can feel her watching me, which shouldn’t make me as uncomfortable as it does; it’s only when she utters a very small, sad plea for help that I realize I’m being not just a dork but an utter failure as a human being. Of course she needs help.

  The revulsion is back, and I have to fight hard to shove it back where it belongs. The last thing I need is for her to believe it’s her I’m having any issues with. I can tell that my, “Sure,” doesn’t convince her, though.

  Fuck.

  She grimaces, and it’s obvious that she’s fighting for composure herself. Very unlike how she sometimes behaves, she zeroes right in on the issue at hand. “I don’t have a problem with you touching me,” she croaks, making sure to hold my gaze to hammer down the message. And I can tell that she means it—nothing in her behavior is hinting otherwise. She looks small and incredibly miserable as she’s standing before me, but not uncomfortable with my presence. Once she realizes that I got it, she goes on, her voice, already grating, becoming harder. “But I have a very big problem with needing help to do something as small as undress myself, let alone scrub all that crusted blood and pus and shit off myself. Right now I simply don’t have the mental capacity to deal with your bullshit on top of my own.”

  It’s not often that she can deliver a barb like that—and have it hit—and she deserved to land that one. I force myself to ignore the guilt churning in my stomach as I step up to her with a pointed, “You never do.” Any answer she might have given gets swallowed as I pull off the scrubs top as carefully as possible. She stiffens as she tries to stifle a series of groans but does a shit job at that. I do my best to ignore all of it, but it tears at my composure.

  Ever the sport, she tries to keep it light. “Are you complaining?” she huffs as I help her out of the pants and booties. I’ve never been less tempted coming face-to-crotch with her, but seriously doubt that’s a problem right now. “Should have thought of that before you married me.” Ah, she’s such a sweetheart. As much as I want to rail at myself, I can’t help but crack a smile at her. Yeah, she will be fine. Maybe not right now, maybe not later today, but her abysmal sense of humor is already back and in the driver’s seat—she’ll make it.

  I do my best to help her clean up. I’m almost relieved how preoccupied with her own pain she is so she doesn’t notice my hesitation. I’m already going to hell so it shouldn’t matter, but adding another layer of guilt sure feels nice. Until she’s completely healed, washing up is a labor of love and only does so much, but I can tell that she feels better once the layer of dried pus and scabs is gone. Again I marvel at how well she is already doing—or if it’s one last flicker before the flame goes out for good. That idea chills me to the bone, and I force it out of my head as soon as it settles.

  My momentary enthusiasm about Bree’s state crumbles when it is time to get her into her clothes again. Worse than being the one to inflict that pain on her is seeing the despair in her eyes when it comes to pulling on her boots. It is easy to attribute her apprehension to the ongoing discomfort, but compared to her thigh, abdomen, and back, her feet look almost unharmed—if one were to ignore that most of her toes are stubs only, or completely gone. I’ve seen my fair share of amputated fingers dealing with explosives, and on a clinical level, I can admire the work Raynor and her surgeons have accomplished, going for function over form to keep her running and grabbing onto things—but I’d have to be blind to miss how the fact that she has lost so many parts of herself doesn’t rattle her to the core. My first impulse is to snap at her to stop being such a child, but I quickly swallow that. True, compared to losing an entire arm—or, worse yet, a leg—a few fingers and toes are nothing, but it is a constant reminder that she will never be able to shake off. It’s only when she drops the boot I hold out to her, her hand too weak as it’s still healing, that I realize an
other layer of her grief: yes, I can teach her how to hold a gun with a different grip, and I can lead her through hours of physical exercises to relearn how to run—but she will never be able to do all the things her work in the lab required, a combination of manual dexterity and strength. Realistically, the impact of that will be close to zero, but I know how the mind is, easily latching on to what you can’t have over what is still a possibility. I’ll have to give her time to mourn the life she left behind years ago, a life that will never again be a part of who she is.

  We finally find a technique to get her boots on in a way that lets her walk, if with clenched teeth and obvious agony. Richards is waiting for us outside, patient and pleasant as ever. On the way up to the conference room, I try to decide how to handle what will come next—without a doubt straight-forward demands with alms masquerading as a shitty ultimatum, at best, to make it appear like they aren’t putting a gun to our heads. Sure, they could force us outright, but that’s not how it is done. It’s easy to rebel against a prison; it’s damn hard to get yourself out of the shit you got yourself into.

  I recognize a few people in the room but it’s less of a display of force than I’ve expected. There’s the doc and her colleagues, looking all self-important. Hamilton is there, of course, but I try to ignore him for now. I don’t recognize the general in evidence but his name—Morris—rings a bell. Lots of guards—several of them have been around our cell downstairs, and two look familiar from somewhere else—but none of the heavy hitters I’m expecting besides the asshole grinning at me from across the room. It’s impossible to miss the woman in the wheelchair, hiding what’s left of her face, and it’s only when Bree keeps staring at her, eyes wide, that I realize it’s the Silo’s third in command, Stanton. I’m not sure she’s happy to be alive, and it seems like death would have been merciful. Mercy is not something the people around here deal in, so she’s stuck for now. The state she is in is a stark reminder of how lucky Bree is, although it doesn’t feel like that at the moment.