“Not really,” I admitted. “But they seem to be laboring under the false impression that I need an incentive to be open and honest about my intentions when danger isn’t breathing down my neck or about to bite me in the ass.”
“Are they, now?” he asked, his attention skipping from my face to the three desperados lurking behind me, Burns and Martinez busy helping Bates hop to one of the cars.
Glancing around, I made sure no one was standing close enough to listen in but still dropped my voice to a whisper. “As a matter of fact, they seem to think I’m too chickenshit to tell you to your face that you’re a fucking hypocrite, and I’m not okay with your stupid enforced stance on celibacy.”
He was definitely laughing at me inside from the way his eyes lit up. “Are you, now?”
Maybe there was something to Burns’s theory that I needed an incentive to light the kind of fire under my ass that made me do away with any filters I had—few that had survived. “Yes.”
“Noted.” A wry twist made it to his lips, and Nate was about to turn away but I spoke up once more. “I’m also not okay with you pretending to give me an out. Like it or not, I’m one of you, and you’re not getting rid of me anytime soon. True, I’ll never catch up on the years of experience all of you have in all matters of bashing each other’s heads in, but I’m a quick study. I’ve spent too many years of my life being complacent; I won’t let the zombie apocalypse throw me right back into that mindset. Besides, if I spend one more day sitting in that damn bunker where Emma can boss me around to do menial tasks, I’ll go insane, and nobody wants that.”
“Might be amusing to watch,” Nate observed, his tone wry but holding a certain edge.
I rewarded that with a bright grin. “Maybe at first. But who are you going to trade barbs with when you have to keep me locked in the basement, gagged to keep me from biting off my own tongue? You’d get bored out of your own damn mind within a day. Better not risk that.”
Nate didn’t answer, but the way he looked at me—particularly the hunger plain on his face—made me feel oddly satisfied. That hadn’t been too hard, now.
“Since I can’t send you out on perimeter duty drunk, you’ll clean all our gear tonight after we get home,” he declared, pitching his voice loud enough to carry to the others, his eyes silently laughing at me. “And once you stop being a fucking disgrace to everyone surviving the damn apocalypse, you’re on double shifts until you learn that staying sober is part of operational security, always. But don’t worry, you won’t be out there alone in the cold, long nights. I know just the guys who will be keeping you company. Until further notice, that is.”
He didn’t wait for me to acknowledge his words with anything, not even a nod, before he walked away to check on the cargo of the truck himself. That left me staring at the spot where he’d been standing, annoyed but also somewhat chastised. Oh well. At least Burns was still fun to be around even when lack of sleep made him grumpy.
You win some, you lose some—but today? Today was definitely a win.
Training Day
4:50 am
I startle awake as my wrist vibrates. I don’t want to get up. It’s not even the asscrack of dawn yet, and it’s not like I’ll miss an important meeting at work.
Someone grunts to my right, his subconscious likely reacting to the alarm of my watch. With my eyes still screwed shut, I mash buttons until it stops, the room sinking into the relative quiet of almost twenty people breathing softly—and snoring not so softly—close enough together that we don’t need extra heating.
I don’t have to get up yet. I know I have ten—make that nine—more minutes of blissful not-doing-anything. I might even fall back to sleep if I try hard enough…
But no. With a sigh, I force my eyes to open wide as I blindly grope for my flashlight, the state of my eyesight not changing as it’s pitch black either way. We use the room for sleeping only, and it’s one level underground; of course it’s dark in here, great for sleeping all hours of the day. The soft glow of my watch looks like bright lights right now, and I let fifteen more seconds run by before I get up, switch on the flashlight, and softly pad toward the door.
We keep all our gear—including surplus clothes and private stuff—in the next room and over by the armory, one level up, so at least I don’t have to play leg Jenga to get to my change of underwear—that I’m not getting right now as it’s fucking cold outside the room and I’ve washed up before donning my current set of clothes; that will have to do for today as well. I put on my pants over the thermal leggings I slept in, a thermal and fleece jacket to keep my torso from hypothermia, and lace up my boots. I’ve gotten really fast about it all, and not just because of the cold, and I still have five minutes to spare as I drag my sorry, yawning ass into the kitchen, aiming straight for the coffee pot to make some—
Only to find my morning nemesis leaning against the counter next to it, a spare mug of steaming-hot coffee already waiting for me. I nod—with the Ice Queen, that’s a sufficient way of saying “good morning”—and accept the peace offering that I know really isn’t one. I get a nod back—and a barely contained smirk—but ignore both in favor of the harsh, black liquid scalding first my mouth, then my esophagus as I swallow. No cream, no sugar, because neither is really available, and both might kill me in the next agonizing fifty hours—no, thanks.
As I slurp down my coffee, I silently kick myself. Would it have been too much to ask to get a moment to myself? I should have stayed in bed—wake-up time for me is five sharp; getting up a few minutes early just means that Pia will drag me into the garage that much earlier. I try to console myself with the puny satisfaction that, at least today, she didn’t get to kick me awake.
That woman loves kicking.
I don’t have to check my watch to know that it will show 5:00 am the moment the Ice Queen pushes away from the counter as she drops her own mug into the bucket our dirty dishes go into. “Ready?”
No, I’m not. I’m still hurting from yesterday, and the day before yesterday, and the day before that. My bruises have bruises, and a week in the world’s best spa wouldn’t help to make it all go away. But guess what? I nod, because there’s no acceptable alternative. So, I swallow the rest of the scalding, bitter liquid, send a silent prayer to whatever entities might be listening that the caffeine kicks in soon, and put a smile on my face. Everything goes easier with a smile, right?
5:23 am
I’m not smiling.
Partly because the left side of my face feels like it got hit by a truck. Cement floor is more like it, because that’s exactly what happened. I need a second to be able to breathe again, but I know I don’t have it, so I roll over and try to get my feet under me before Pia kicks them out once more. I land on my right hip, hard, but at least it’s not my face. For now.
Sparring with Andrej is fun. He believes in making it fun, even if he has me sweating and cursing just as much as Pia. He believes in muscle memory, so with him I do a lot of punching, jabbing, and kicking against the pads or the sand sack someone has slung over one of the high beams in the corner. I even get to wear gloves since we found a pair that fit me earlier this month. It’s a constant string of jokes and encouraging remarks with him.
The Ice Queen doesn’t believe in fun. According to her, learning by avoiding failure is the way to go; also speed, agility, and getting a good sense for what your opponent will do next so you can counter it. I’m slow, I’m clumsy, and more often than not my mind is still reeling from the last hit she just landed by the time the next one comes flying right through my too-slow defenses. I’m starting to lose hope this will ever change. I think the lesson she actually teaches me is how to get beat up.
It’s not like I can quit, so I get up, steeling myself for when—and where—my body will hit the concrete again. And again, and again. Maybe I can rope Martinez into sparring with me while the Ice Queen does her acerbic running commentary. Probably not; he doesn’t like getting criticized any more than any of the ot
her guys do, but there’s always hope, right?
6:03 am
I stagger down the porch steps and take a moment to enjoy the cold morning air as it hits my splotchy, hot face. Feels so good! If only I didn’t feel like someone has worked me over with a sledgehammer. If only I could crawl back into bed. If only the fucking zombie apocalypse didn’t happen!
Thinking that doesn’t help, but moving will, so I start trotting across the meadow toward the gap in the trees where Burns just disappeared. I’m halfway there when Moore and Clark come back from first watch, at ease now that they’re off duty. I must have missed Santos and Cho heading out to relieve them. That means I’m late, which consequently means my lap times will be all wrong, and that’s never a good thing. Why Nate insists on starting measuring my time at six sharp I don’t get; something about learning to keep to a schedule, I’m sure. It isn’t exactly my fault that I needed to take a few extra seconds to switch into my running shoes when one of my toenails decided to part ways with my toe. It hurts like fuck as it is, but I don’t allow myself to limp. The grass is crunching under my soles from being semi-frozen after last night’s cold, but there’s no snow yet. Maybe I’ll get lucky and make up the minutes my traitorous toenail has cost me.
6:47 am
No, I won’t be catching up on anything. Not today. I’ve actually lost another five minutes over the first two laps, and knowing that I will be late for breakfast now doesn’t really brighten my mood. Bailey just overtook me—for the third time—and is now heading for the house, while I still have an entire third lap to run. I contemplate mutiny and bloody murder as I wonder if anyone would notice if I left it at two.
Just then, Taylor zooms by me, gently slapping my upper arm as if to steer me away from the beckoning porch. “On your left!” he calls back, way too chipper in the cold morning air. I don’t even know what that means, but since I still have enough air in my lungs to consider hollering a random insult after him, I speed up and force myself to chase him for a while. The guys do that sometimes—play pacemaker for me. At first, I thought someone was always trying to be around should I get lost or sprain my ankle, but since they don’t watch over me on perimeter duty, I doubt it. They probably have a betting pool going for who gets me to break my lap records. Yeah, that sounds more like them. I console myself with the idea that, today, Taylor won’t get the pack of nuts or extra venison jerky. Too bad.
7:14 am
“You’re late.”
I don’t respond. Instead, I fall face-first into what’s left of the scrambled eggs. That there’s something left is a miracle. I don’t know where they come from—and they taste like they’ve been processed a few times too often, with too much protein powder in the mix for sure—and I don’t care. Food is food is food. After the scarcity of the summer, having a stocked pantry is bliss. Too bad that I go through several cycles each day of people punching me in the gut or otherwise subjecting me to things that would make me hurl up said food if I grabbed it from the pantry, so I don’t. Considering I now weigh about half as much as some of the guys and there’s always someone hungry who’s ready to get a meal going, that’s not really a problem. Between watch shifts and sorties, we’re never all at the table at the same time—which is a good thing, seeing as the table only has room for eight people comfortably, or twelve if we get really comfortable with each other. My thighs are sore from running but I don’t bother looking for a seat—it’s either getting bounced on someone’s knee or remain standing. Thanks, I’d rather stand. I also don’t bother with getting a dish for my food; eating straight from the pan is fine with me. I was last out for the morning laps so I’m up for dish-washing duty. Again. Might as well be my designated job as I doubt I’ll manage to beat the guys any time soon. I also have the creeping suspicion that whenever my actual lap time gets faster, most of them start running a little earlier. I wouldn’t mind so much except that it’s a constant reminder that I’m still slower than most of them on a good day, and always after getting the shit kicked out of me for an hour first thing in the morning.
Some days, the way Nate keeps glancing my way when I take my grumbling, sore ass over to heat up some water for doing the dishes makes me suspect that it’s not just a neat way for him to get out of having to do it himself, but it’s one more lesson on top of all the others. I just haven’t figured out what kind of lesson yet. Can’t be a lesson in humility because everything is a lesson in humility for me.
8:29 am
“Hand me the wrench, please?”
I can do that—except that we have what feels like my weight in wrenches and other tools lying around. If Martinez is any less specific, I will clobber him over the head with that wrench—whatever exact wrench it is that he’s asking me to fetch. We’re both up to our elbows in grease, lying underneath the Rover, doing something with the suspension... I think.
I know I’ve spent too much time with my silent grumbling when he lets out a soft laugh. “You have no idea which wrench I’m asking for, right?”
I make a face, even if he can’t see it. “If you already know that, why ask?”
Martinez’s answering laugh does a lot to do away with my rising ire. “Should I be concerned that you’re starting to sound like him already?”
I don’t reward that with an answer as I push out from underneath the jacked-up car to get the fucking wrench. Martinez is smirking at me when he accepts it but drops the point. Instead, he launches into a repeat explanation of what we’re doing here—and I feel my concentration slip three words in.
Another lesson in humility, I remind myself.
“Bree?”
I turn my head to find him looking at me. “Huh?”
“You could at least pretend you’re listening to me,” he chides, gentler than the last gazillion times.
I let out a sigh that’s more exhaustion than frustration, much to my chagrin. “I’m trying. It’s just—” Words fail me, so I drop it after a few seconds. “I’ll never be a mechanic. I only need to know how to drive the cars, and at the most, hot-wire them.”
“Maybe right now that still works,” he offers, his concentration returning to his actual work, because teaching me anything is, obviously, a lost cause. The most I’m getting out of this is a lesson in taming my ego, and getting to spend an hour lying on my back, more or less relaxed. Considering that sleeping is the only other time I get to let my guard down, I really couldn’t care less what happens to my ego.
“Guess I’ll just have to walk then,” I snip back, trying to ignore how my feet hurt. Walking, not my favorite pastime at the moment, more so since Pia also doesn’t believe in short, casual strolls. Sparring with her may be painful, but whenever I’m on a sortie with her, it’s as if she’s training for a marathon—and not in the Olympic sense of participation being everything. No, she’s gunning for the new world record.
I’m ready for our conversation to segue into other topics but a pair of boots approaching on the other side of the car, upside-down from my vantage point, stops us both. I can tell it’s Nate. It’s not that he has a different gait from the others, but something in my subconscious is already bristling, and he’s the only one who ever draws that out of me.
“Do you absolutely need your wrench wench right now?” he asks, his face appearing in the gap between the floor and the car. Of course he’s smirking, even if his eyes only flit to me for a second. God, I hate that nickname! And it’s not even the worst they’ve started calling me. I know better than to react, though. Long before the skin on my feet and hands will be nothing but calluses, my sensibilities will have disappeared for good, I’m sure. Can’t happen soon enough!
Rather than ask why—and maybe stall a little—Martinez, the traitor, shakes his head. “Not necessarily. You can have her any time you wish.”
Oh, I do wish, but teasing aside, we all know that’s not going to happen. Rather than protest, I punch him in the shoulder and roll out from underneath the car, wisely on the opposite side from where Nate is crouc
hing. My side and abs are killing me from any and all of the grueling things I’ve done this morning, so the motions I get up with are a long shot from fluid. The last thing I need is for him to point that out to me, as if it’s possible that I haven’t noticed. Asshole.
For once, Nate refrains from offering any snide comments. “We’re expecting bad weather later this week, so if you want another driving lesson from Bates, you need to get that done now.”
I grin in spite of myself; driving with Bates is always fun, a lot more so than I initially expected. Also, he’s not out to tease me mercilessly all the time, so that’s neat. It’s one of the few things I look forward to, and there’s only a twenty percent chance we’ll end up stuck in shamblers or totaling a car—speaking from experience. Last week was fun! Particularly the twenty-mile march home with no coms to let anyone know where to pick us up from. Bonding experiences come in all shapes and sizes, I guess.
Only one thing is in the way of more shenanigans. “I have watch from noon to three,” I remind Nate—needlessly, I figure.
“No, you don’t,” he tartly informs me, already turning away. “Switched your rotation to six to midnight.”
Right, I’m still on double shifts—but only when it’s convenient, like when nobody else wants to freeze their asses off in the cold October air.
I don’t protest. I actually don’t even make a face—which I’m very proud of. Slowly but surely I’m perfecting that neutral-going-on-hostile stare of acceptance. I can’t do anything about what’s going on inside of me, but I can damn well not serve myself up for another verbal reprimand, damnit! Of course Nate sees right through me—and he doesn’t hide his obvious amusement—but leaves it at that statement as he makes his exit.
Beyond Green Fields (Book 1): Beginnings [A Post-Apocalyptic Anthology] Page 6