I’m tempted to smirk and give a response that will get me a kick in the teeth—and a well-deserved one at that—but instead take another drink. “Exhausted, but that’s to be expected. She’s dealing, so that’s a plus.”
Zilinsky inclines her head, hiding a little smile, I’m sure.
“How’s her training progress?” I ask, because while we’re here, I might as well be nosy.
Her amusement disappears immediately and she gives me a hard stare. “You wouldn’t need to ask me if you took the time to see for yourself.” Again with the chiding; she’s not subtle about it.
“You know why I’m keeping out of her training right now.”
Her brows rise. “Oh, I know why you think that’s a good idea, but I have no fucking clue why you’d be so stupid,” she professes, scorn heavy in her voice. “Afraid that you’ll be overcome by lust if she manages to sock you a good one? Give me another week or two, and I’ll have her where she stands a chance to get through your defenses. She’s a slow learner but she doesn’t backslide. She only makes mistakes once.” Judging from her tone, I’m definitely one of those.
“Good.” I don’t give her the satisfaction of letting her see how much her tart criticism of my methods annoys me.
“Good,” she agrees with me about her criticism being warranted. Fuck, I hate how good she is at this. That’s why she’s in charge of Bree’s training, not me. I suffer from the very same flaw that Bree is choking on right now—ego. I can’t remember Zilinsky ever showing that problem, even back when we first met and everyone else agreed that we’d do her a favor if we put her down like the rabid animal she resembled.
I open my mouth to switch subjects; we might as well discuss tactics now that bad weather is increasingly factoring into our planning—and providing better defenses than weapons ever could, making a lot of our precautions superfluous. But she has other ideas.
“You need to be careful,” she advises. My first instinct is to lash out and not-so friendly point out that I know exactly what I’m doing with Bree; besides, she’s a lot more resilient than that. She can take a mental beating better than a physical right now, or ever. I wouldn’t be doing any of this if she wasn’t, also because then I wouldn’t be interested in her; but then I realize that’s not what Pia is trying to tell me.
“Careful about what?”
“That you don’t miss your window of opportunity.” Now there’s cryptic for you. I offer a sardonic smile to communicate my lack of understanding but she doesn’t smirk back; the fact that she remains serious is alarming on several levels. She does look a little exasperated now but is happy to explain. “There will come a time when you need to tell her how you feel about her. Don’t be stupid and miss that.”
It’s not the concept that makes me guffaw—it’s that she of all people just said that to me. “For real?”
Any other woman would have rolled her eyes at me. Zilinsky gives me a death glare. “I’m not talking about mushy feelings,” she bites out. “That we even need to have this conversation is a travesty. I never thought this would happen, not in a million years.”
Now my interest is piqued. She’s not exactly prone to dramatic exclamations like this—and I don’t quite know what she’s talking about. “Apparently you were wrong.”
Her eyes narrow but she leaves it at that silent warning. Duly noted—and it’s not like I’m deliberately playing dense.
“You care for her,” she explains, frowning when that’s not quite what she wants to say. “I think because she’s a match for you, and you never expected anyone to be able to live up to you.” She’s not wrong with that and I gesture her to go on. She does, but only after weighing her words carefully. Heart-to-heart, not usually the territory of our conversations. “I know that right now it’s only her potential that she still has to fully reach that is drawing you to her, but one day soon, she will surpass that, and if you’re not careful, she will move on. You teach her that she doesn’t need you, and she’s free to decide that, indeed, she doesn’t. Maybe you should start concentrating more on making her want you instead.”
The fact that she looks vaguely disgusted with herself—and very much so with me for making her say those words out loud—should make me want to laugh, but it’s not a laughing matter.
“That’s for her to decide when the time comes,” I offer, the words tasting like ash on my tongue. “I’m happy to lend her a hand in pretty much everything, you know that. But I won’t manipulate her into falling for me.” I know I’m being overly dramatic—the same as I know that it’s not just physical attraction that Bree must be feeling for me. I’ve been an ass to her a few times too many for that to be enough.
Zilinsky clucks her tongue in vexation but her frustration with me is real. “It would likely suffice if you weren’t always such an asshole to her,” she pretty much echoes my thoughts. “I think she sees right through you, but if you keep it up, she may one day decide that this is all there is, and it’s not enough.” She pauses, and that’s when I realize that she’s actually getting to a different point than I’ve thought. “You need to tell her. Everything.”
My first instinct is to physically recoil but I keep myself locked in place. Mentally, it takes me a few seconds to get my shit back together. “You know why I can’t do that,” I mutter, my voice low enough that even I can hardly hear it.
Her eyes narrow, but this time it is pain and sympathy that drives her annoyance rather than irritation. “Don’t give me that shit about keeping our secret for our privacy’s sake,” she admonishes me, but gently. “None of us cares. She deserves to know, as do the others. There’s no sense in keeping that from them. It’s our best defense right now, and it’s something they can rely on. But you know that’s not what I’m talking about.”
I know, but a warning glance from me is enough to make her jaws snap shut. She actually looks hurt, if only for a second. Then it’s gone, replaced by the cold mask she’s always wearing when someone is around that she doesn’t want to know that underneath the tough-as-nails exterior she’s still human. Without another word, she finishes her tea and leaves, but her unspoken message is impossible to ignore: I’m an idiot, and I deserve what I have coming if I stay on this path.
If I could still drown my misery at the bottom of that bottle of whiskey, I would, but alas, that’s not an option. So I finish my tea, debating with myself what to do.
Do I want to be honest with Bree? Fuck, yes. I’ve never felt the need to confide in anyone, but with her, every day that goes by that I’m dragging my gigantic heap of crappy baggage with me is a day that I feel I’ve wasted. The worst thing is, I want her to know it all, to see me as I am so that if she decides that she wants me, she wants all of me. But there’s a risk that she might not, and that turns me into a scared little boy plagued by insecurities and doubt. I don’t do insecurity nor doubt, even less so when it concerns me or my decisions.
The thing is—I’m afraid that it won’t be enough, what we’re trying to do here. We can teach her the physical parts of survival, but not account for the emotional and psychological toll it will take on her. And that’s discounting what parts of my past may still be lurking out there. I have the sinking feeling that I’m making a huge mistake every time I think I got away and my slate is clean now. Zilinsky knows that—and she agrees with me. My problem is, I can’t let Bree close enough to me to see beyond all the defenses I’ve built up unless she’s truly my equal—and for that, things have to happen that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, let alone the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with in whatever capacity possible. I can’t be the catalyst of that. Hell, I’d make it my life’s mission to prevent it all from happening if I knew how to. Because to be my equal, something so catastrophic would have to happen to her that it completely rends her apart, annihilates who she is—and she has to come back from that. I signed up for at least some of the events that ended up doing that to me—although not all of them, and certainly not the shit that ended u
p sticking—but she didn’t. So where does that leave me?
This woman is killing me, and she doesn’t even know it.
An End and a Beginning
An End and a Beginning
“Major Slater wants to talk to you.”
I stare at the pencil pusher in front of me for several seconds straight, hard-pressed not to openly sneer at him. I’ve been out in the dirt and sand for seven weeks straight; I need to debrief my men, check on the wounded, write to the families of the deceased. A shower would be nice, too, seeing as I feel like a uniform layer of grime, caked dirt, and blood has melted into my skin. And before I can even grab a bottle of water, the admin staff wants something from me? Fucking bureaucrats.
I give a quick order to get the debriefing started to my senior NCO, knowing that McGillis neither needs the instruction nor particularly appreciates it, and follow the decidedly nervous-looking boy to the admin buildings of the base. I try very hard not to glare at anyone who draws up short as I stomp into the office; apparently, the fact that my uniform isn’t freshly pressed and I don’t look like I’m back from a stroll in the park is not gelling well with people’s finer sensibilities here. It can’t be anything important, or else they would have ordered me to see the colonel, and with more of an escort than a single staff member.
Slater is waiting for me next to where he must have been harassing two members of the tech staff, both less than pleased to have a superior officer hovering over them who likely has no idea what they can do on their consoles but likes to make sure they do it right. I haven’t had the displeasure of dealing with him much in the past, but when you get ready to deal death and then someone annoys you because the wrong box on a form is checked, you don’t always create fond memories. I can tell that he remembers me from the curl of his upper lip, but his body language isn’t screaming confrontation—which makes me draw up short. Something is wrong, and it’s not the kind of something I can gun down or blow up, that much is for sure.
I feel my stomach knot up as I salute, still conflicted whether I mean it as an insult or not. The best thing about being out in the field is that I don’t have to give a shit about politics. “You wanted to see me, Major?”
“Ah, Captain Miller. I see you’re back from your mission,” Slater offers as a conversation starter. “Good to see you and your men are well.”
I’m glad for the carbine in my hands as it keeps me from wrapping them around his neck and strangling him. If he took a moment to look out his fancy office’s window, he’d see in what state my company is—if that term is applicable, which some days I doubt; we’re a bunch of hard-hitting specialists, all highly trained with years of experience, no corporal in sight. While technically he’s my superior, I report to a very different branch from what he’s a part of. We’re just passing through, if you will—which makes this meeting even more suspicious. New orders I’d get from the colonel, not him, and with my staff present.
“Pardon me for cutting to the chase, Major, but what is this about?” I ask, way more polite than I feel. It’s been over seventy hours since I last slept—the coffee and stims I’ve been running on have long since turned to fumes and memories of fumes, leaving my body with the sweat still drenching me from head to toe.
“Why, of course,” Slater says, actually looking taken aback. Rather than reply, he turns to one of the techs. “Do you have an open line?”
While most of the furniture and computers are outdated and scuffed, the two stations are top-notch, state-of-the-art gear. The tech nods and taps away on her keyboard, a new window opening—displaying my mother’s face, of all things, in a video-conference call. Like most professionals her age, she knows how to use a webcam, but one look at her is enough for me to know that something is very, very wrong. My mother looks distraught—and I don’t remember ever seeing that look on her face. My thoughts grind to a halt, all previous complaints and misgivings forgotten. I feel myself stand a little taller, shoulders back—she’s never abided Raleigh and me slouching in her presence.
“Mother,” I acknowledge before I fall silent, waiting for her to explain. Of course she doesn’t know exactly what I do for a J.O.B. these days, but she knows well enough not to contact me on a whim—besides the fact that my mother doesn’t do whims. That they let her reach me here lends extra importance to the call. Nothing shy of a death in the family will accomplish that—
And it’s this thought that gives me my answer before she can even open her mouth.
My brother is dead.
A chasm opens inside of me where my soul used to reside, and I feel like a mute puppet as I listen to her speak.
“Nathaniel. I’m calling because there was an accident. Your brother—” She pauses, looking more vexed at her need to cast around for words than grief-stricken or overwhelmed. I know I’m the only one who sees it for what it is, but that doesn’t diminish the effect it has on me. Her gaze never wavers, boring into where she must have caught mine on her monitor. “Raleigh died six days ago. Apparently, he accidentally infected himself with one of the viruses he had been working on. The CDC is currently in possession of his body. They have not told me when they will release his cremated remains to me. Since there seems to be some confusion about the accident, they need to make sure exactly what happened and that nobody else has been affected. I will commence with funeral proceedings as soon as I know more.” A brief pause follows, almost too short to notice. I can tell that she has a lot more to say, but what she settles on is a curt, “I would greatly appreciate your presence at the ceremony. He will be interred here in Lexington.”
There is someone screaming inside my mind, and it’s hard to make sense of anything over the incessant noise. Propriety more than reason makes me nod and offer a quick, “I will do everything I can to be there.”
She accepts that with a nod that plainly states that nothing short of my utter compliance is acceptable. “I will contact you again once I know more.” With that, she cuts the connection, leaving the tech next to me looking quite perplexed.
I don’t have the mental capacity to decipher for her what she just heard, so I don’t. Instead, I turn to look at the major again. “Anything else? If not, I need to debrief my men.”
Slater looks almost annoyed at my own lack of what he must perceive as normal human behavior, but next to my mother, I likely pale in comparison. “No, no, of course not. Proceed. And my sincere condolences, Captain.”
Because he offers his hand, I have to shake it and thank him. As soon as politely possible, I’m out of there, heading straight toward the barracks. I know that the news has already spread when I see McGillis waiting for me, a pinched look on his face. Rather than waste time with niceties, he holds out an overstuffed manila folder to me. “Orders from the colonel. They’ve fast-tracked our next mission. We’re moving out at 2100.”
Under different circumstances, I would have at the very least cursed. My men are good, but they need their downtime. But this is the best news I’ve gotten all day—the only good news, in fact. I know the orders that are in that folder already; we need to deliver support to another—if not black-ops then gray-ops—platoon that bit off more than they can chew. Simple extraction and support, should their current status warrant an attempt to complete the mission rather than just making sure they haven’t caused an international incident. Does it suck that my men have barely enough time to shower and grab some chow before they are back on the line? Yes, but it means that we will be back on the base within five days, soon enough that I can catch the next supply plane heading home.
“Good. I presume you’ve already updated the guys?”
McGillis grimaces as if I’d asked him if he knew how to tie his shoelaces. “Debriefing is in thirty. I’ve already sent an updated requisitions form to the major’s office.” He pauses—something not in his normal repertoire. “Go grab a shower and hit up the nurse to get your knee checked. We’re happy to twiddle our thumbs for a few minutes if it means you’re not a limping mess we n
eed to drag back out of the next hellhole you’re leading us into.”
I’m hard-pressed not to give him a mock salute. He’d probably try to hit me, and if anyone saw, we’d both be in trouble—him for insubordination, and me for not having control of my men. It takes skill to read between the lines. If you didn’t know him, you’d think McGillis is a washed-up old devil dog, with kids who don’t talk to him and a wife who divorced him decades ago. I’ve actually had the pleasure of meeting his family once for a barbecue on base. His wife is a very pleasant, loving, kind woman who adores her husband, and his kids are well-adjusted, polite specimens who hog their father’s time in the few occasions each year they get to see him. He’s the same sour-faced asshole behind the grill, but you can tell that he loves them, and everything he does, he does to protect them and what they stand for. But if I showed even a hint of weakness, he’d chew me out and call me a crybaby, be damned whoever got to listen in on him. He’s the best NCO I’ve ever had, and I love working with him on all the sanctioned missions we get sent on. He’s not part of my special team, which is a shame, but someone has to run the company when I’m off playing the hero.
And, like usual, he’s right, so I make a beeline for the showers.
I feel physically and emotionally numb by the time I get dressed once more. I don’t need a shrink to tell me what’s going on—my mind is refusing to process the news. It’s not something I ever thought about having to deal with—which was maybe naive, considering what my brother does for a living. Did, I remind myself. But compared to what I still do—and have been doing for the past fifteen years—it’s child’s play. Or not.
I hit up the nurse on the way back to the barracks. He pokes and prods, listening to my recount of the latest abuse the joint had to take with a sourly stoic expression. I get a shot—to reduce the swelling—and some unhelpful advice that I will swiftly ignore since I can’t very well “take it easy” for the time being, nor do I want to. McGillis has everything ready by the time I get back to actually doing my job, but I barely hear the words that leave my mouth. My attention is somewhere at the other end of the world, but I doubt I’d find any more answers there than here.
Beyond Green Fields (Book 1): Beginnings [A Post-Apocalyptic Anthology] Page 9