Beyond Green Fields | Book 3 | Lost & Found [A Post-Apocalyptic Anthology]

by Lecter, Adrienne

  But, oh, he’d made me pay for that afterward. Spite does shit for comfort, but I still can’t make myself regret it.

  “You still think you should have let him live, huh?” Hamilton observes, snorting when he catches my eye. “Pansy.”

  “Killing him quickly let him off the hook easily,” I grate out. I need a few seconds to get a grip on the anger that floods my mind, making me physically shake until I manage to lock my muscles down.

  “Sure did,” Hamilton agrees. “But there are others who you can beat the shit out of to your heart’s content. I did you a favor, giving you permission to go for the easy resolution.”

  I know that he’s right—and I’m weirdly relieved that he doesn’t voice what he actually means by that. By going for the quick kill, I may have shorted us both on taking out our well-deserved revenge on that asshole, but how far would we have gone had I not done it? Shit like that changes you; it leaves stains just as much as when it’s done to you, and right fucking now I can’t deal with any more shit than I already have clinging to me like a disgusting, oily film that won’t come off, however hard I scrub. So I don’t even try, but trust that Bree will do a much better job with that—possibly without even realizing it.

  This may have been a good time to ask him for the rest of the intel he dropped when Cortez was about to strangle him, but I leave that for the scheduled briefing in the morning, where I don’t have to repeat it a thousand times—and lots of others with different biases toward Hamilton can form their own opinions what to make of that. Right now, none of that matters. But there’s something else I can’t keep my trap shut about.

  “Think this was Decker’s doing?”

  I’m watching for it, so I don’t miss the moment he goes still—but then relaxes after a second of reflection. When he turns his head to regard me head-on, his body language gives me nothing. “You mean, because it screams his MO?”

  I give him a “duh!” look back that makes him smirk. I don’t like that reaction one bit because it doesn’t fit the narrative that I’ve been building for weeks. “You disagree?” I ask, not hiding the fact that I do. His shrug is ambiguous at best, and a clear invitation for me to present my case. “You said so yourself—you went against your orders when you let Lewis live, and you came back empty-handed where I’m concerned. You still accomplished your main objective so it makes sense not to kill you right then and there, but give you some time to let down your guard and then throw you to the wolves for punishment? I’d do that if I wanted to fuck with you but give you one last chance to hold out and thus redeem yourself.”

  Hamilton grimaces, but not in agreement. “And you ended up in the same place why, exactly?” he asks, a certain note of satisfaction in his tone. Asshole.

  “Because I needed to be taught a lesson, too,” I state the obvious.

  Hamilton mulls this over for a second but shakes his head. “Cortez didn’t know who you were until you got away. Even then, he wasn’t completely certain. And from what I hear, they let your bitch get away, which they wouldn’t have had they known that she’s the key to breaking you in ten seconds flat.”

  That he’s still as sharp as years ago is underlined by the fact that he hones in on the single point of inconsistency that I’ve found in that theory—but it’s easily explained. “Miscommunication,” I point out. “If he wanted to keep things low-key and bide his time, he wouldn’t have sent an entire dossier of instructions, just a location, and then let things proceed the most obvious way. He likely relied on the fact that Bree would either be killed in the taking as she wasn’t regarded as valuable, or soon after. Using her against me might have tipped me off. Or he simply didn’t understand how far I will go for her.”

  “Not hard not to get that,” he grumbles under his breath—but his tone doesn’t change to agreement.

  That, in turn, makes me consider something else. “Since the shit hit the fan, did you ever talk to him face-to-face? Or directly at all?”

  Hamilton shakes his head, no hesitation. “No. I always dealt with Morris, or that imbecile Luther. Luther bit it the summer after France, but Richards will know if Morris is still calling the shots from his icy little bunker in the middle of nowhere.”

  I’ve only passingly dealt with the general who officially sent us to France, but he didn’t strike me as mastermind material. A good commander, maybe, but his position makes me guess pencil pusher more than forcibly-raised-through-the-ranks bruiser. I certainly won’t shed a tear for Luther—that asshole cost me five good men on two missions combined back when I was still believing I was fighting for the right cause. That he was around that long is a surprise, actually.

  That Hamilton didn’t have direct contact with Decker is something I know Bree will hone in on, but it fits the picture better than the reverse. That doesn’t explain his reluctance.

  My silence seems to do the trick of asking about that as, eventually, he explains. “I’m so sick and tired of this fucking shit. I’ve lost thirty-seven of my best men and women to this fucking war, or whatever it is. You think I don’t care? Update for you: I do. I know that shit happens, but it’s convenient that almost everyone who’s been sticking with me for years, who I relied on, is dead now, including a few promising new recruits. That sounds like someone has been undermining me for quite some time. But this fucking shit here?” He glares down at the arena. “That’s just civilization going down the drain. You think it will make a difference if you let your damn rejects have the town now? Give it a few months and it will be worse.”

  I agree with him—on everything except that us both ending up here was a lot of bad luck. This is no new utopia, and never will be. The sooner I’m gone, the better. Already, the way the locals and free-roaming scavengers look at me gives me hives. It won’t get better if I stay here. But that’s beside the point.

  “You sure about that? That someone is gunning for you?”

  He shrugs, but it’s not that convincing. “At first I thought it could be Richards, but he doesn’t have the chops for it. I’m surprised he’s still around, but as stupid as he gets when he sees a skirt, he’s smart everywhere else.” He offers another smirk. “If I were you, I’d be a little concerned about how close he and your beloved wife have become. I remember they were already thick as thieves in France, to the point where he bent his orders to get you back out of that damn lab. Just consider what riding to her rescue might have done.”

  I can’t help it. The very idea makes me laugh. “Yeah, I’m not concerned,” I say, and it’s not a lie. Hamilton gives me a “yeah, now you laugh, but watch out” look, so I explain. “If my behavior hasn’t scared him straight yet, Bree is very good at doing so herself. She saw me tear that guy’s heart out and eat it, and wanna know the first thing she did once she could?”

  Hamilton grimaced. “No need telling me—”

  I do, because in this I can agree with my wife—making Hamilton physically ill with recounts of our relationship is hilarious. “She kissed me, tongue and all—we didn’t have more time for anything else. But she launched herself at me the second she could. She had a million reasons not to, but I don’t think the possibility of cheating on me even occurred to her. That’s not how she operates.”

  “Did you already update her on your new dietary requirements?” Hamilton drawls. “I watched you almost choke on that pork earlier tonight. How are you going to sell that to her?”

  I have no fucking clue how he knows—and it makes me paranoid on a different level—but it makes sense now why he’s emaciated as fuck while I’ve only shed most of my extra subcutaneous fat with my muscles having remained mostly intact. He must have become a truly picky eater, sticking to what little vegetables came with our meals. Cortez wouldn’t have wanted to risk his champion to weakness, so when Hamilton didn’t relent after likely almost starving to death, they must have upped the fiber part of his rations. The nasty voice at the back of my mind taunts me with why I didn’t think of that. The answer is easy: I didn’t want to.
But that doesn’t mean I’m going to dwell on this.

  “Her reaction was pretty much to attest that the human body does come with a great caloric count, and that there are enough assholes out there that nobody will miss that she will be happy to kill with me so I don’t starve to death. See why Richards doesn’t worry me?”

  Bree would have loved the cross-eyed look Hamilton gives at that recount, but he’s quick to get over it. “Exactly what did you do to her to turn her into this?”

  The question makes me want to laugh, and I’m sure I’m the only one who sees the humor in it. “Nothing.”

  “Oh, come on,” Hamilton grouses. “I only saw her for a few minutes back when you, fucking asshole, brought down the building on us to when we went separate ways, but she was a scared little scientist then. Now she can—and from what I keep hearing, does—give those drugged-up lunatics a run for their money. That kind of change doesn’t come from nothing.”

  Of course he doesn’t know how loaded that word—“nothing”—has become between my wife and me, but this once, it’s true, although the darker connection of course plays into it as well.

  “You’re right—she was nothing but a scared scientist back then, but she was smart enough to realize that her bright mind would only get her so far. So she learned, and toughened up, and the rest is history.”

  Hamilton isn’t satisfied with the short version. “How did you even make it? You were in damn bad shape yourself, and she must have been a colossal weight around your neck. Would have been so much easier to just ditch her. With me, like all the other scientists, who weren’t completely fucked in the head.”

  I ignore his stream of profanity in favor of giving my honest answer. I’m only now realizing how much I’ve missed shooting the shit with him, even though we are millions of miles away from how things used to be between us.

  “Honestly? I gave either of us a twenty-percent chance at the most. That we survived getting out of the city was dumb luck. At the end of the next day, we found shelter in a house that hadn’t been overrun yet, staying with an elder couple. That’s where Bree cut out the glue that Martinez had fixed me up with. I wouldn’t be alive if she hadn’t.”

  A nasty smile forms around the corner of his mouth. “Was that before or after you told her what would happen if she nicked the wrong artery?”

  I know my blank stare won’t do shit but can’t hold back. “Long before, but I think by then, it was just confirming what she must have known from the very start. She knew exactly what had happened to my brother. She saw one of my men insta-convert from a chocolate bar. Hell, she killed Smith with a cake knife when, on the way out of the city, we made the mistake of stopping at a coffee shop. No chance in hell she didn’t get how and why I was still alive with a wound that should have killed me in the first place.”

  Hamilton’s mirth dims at the mention of Smith. “Damn fine guy,” he attests. “Bates, too. I heard the cannibals got to him.” I give a curt nod; nothing more to say about that. I already know what’s coming next when his nasty grin from before resurfaces. “And what a coincidence that it’s always her who gets them killed.”

  “Yeah, she’s a shit magnet. So what?” I question, not letting him get a rise out of me. “Never gets boring with her around.” He has nothing to say to that, so I pick up where we left off. “The entire first summer was a day-by-day grueling trek across the country, for all of us. I wasn’t really concerned about anyone getting stupid around her, but they were quick to pretty much adopt her, either as a little sister or our team mascot. And once we settled down at the bunker, I asked Zilinsky to make sure that come spring, she’d know everything she’d need to survive on her own and be a full member of our gang.”

  “And that’s it?” He sounds appropriately disbelieving.

  I shrug, allowing myself a small grin. “Well, of course we fucked every chance we got, but I laid it out straight to her from the beginning—that’s all she’s getting from me. I’m not going to play her personal savior, and if she can’t handle that, she’s better off with someone else. Seemed to suit her just fine seeing as she never hesitated to set out with us, and at that damn lab in Kansas she wasn’t really tempted to stay, just mad at me for not dishing out all the deets from the start, with some survivor’s guilt mixed in from Bates biting it. She’s a handful at times, but she’s loyal to the bone.” I pause, then add, “And so am I.”

  I don’t like how thoughtful he seems for a second. I’m sure he has a rather consistent idea of where we’d been until we dropped off the side of the earth after coming home from France. If anything, he was directly involved in most of the shit that happened after we officially formed the Lucky Thirteen.

  “Still doesn’t explain why she’s such a psychotic bitch,” he prompts.

  I consider not answering, but if he still hasn’t understood, it’s time someone sets him straight. “She hates you from the bottom of her heart because you killed our child. Her getting shot up and infected at the factory, and losing two of our guys, was bad enough, but she never was the same after that. She was depressed going on suicidal after that—and whatever that asshole Taggard did to her when he kidnapped her, it gave her new purpose in life. I hear that happens to some people when they bounce back from something that could have very well emotionally crippled them for life.”

  Hamilton pretends that my words don’t affect him, but I know him well enough to see that they do. That he foregoes the next chance to talk shit about my wife underlines that—but I’m still surprised that he actually divulges some information. “From what I know, they roughed her up, but that’s it. She only sustained light injuries, and all from fighting back.”

  As glad as a small part of me is for getting confirmation for what Bree has been insisting on forever, it doesn’t change anything. It’s not like him to miss the big picture.

  “Yeah, because watching someone get raped before your eyes doesn’t do a damn thing to you,” I drawl, forcing myself to keep eye contact with him. He doesn’t look away, but there’s no life left in him for several seconds straight. I go on after letting my point settle, because I’m not that much of a bastard. “They also tied her to a damn gyno chair and tried to get one of their recently zombified soldiers to rape her. Serves them right that she used that chance to break free and kick off enough chaos so she could get away. If not for the damn booster I shot her up with when we were coming for the installation in Colorado making her hallucinate and skew her perception of everything, she would have insisted on fucking slaughtering Taggard in front of all of us. She absolutely did you a favor when she shot him with no further ado and let you play out that farce of a negotiation. You barely lost face that night, let alone people or actual power. I didn’t expect I’d get her out of that shit that easily.”

  Far be it from him to give her even a hint of credit. “You’re just glad there was no mess for you to clean up. Or anything to stand up for yourself.” He shakes his head, chuckling softly. “I told them all that it was bullshit that you of all people would be stupid enough to step out into the spotlight and get in our faces, but I didn’t know how much of a pussy-whipped idiot you are.”

  He has to do much better than that if he wants to land an actual hit. “Of course I was playing along to appease her need for revenge. Do you think that a single one of your men would have survived if I’d been hell-bent on wiping you off the planet? It took a lot of planning and effort to orchestrate the entire fucking mission to minimize casualties on both sides. I fucking delivered you the chance for a truce that everyone would buy on a silver platter. You’re welcome.”

  He must know I’m speaking the truth, but rather than admit it, he switches gears again. “You really thought that disappearing would be enough to get Decker off your trail?”

  No need to mull that question over now—I’ve spent endless days and nights doing that already, before and after coming here. “I’m surprised he gave us that much time. Still doesn’t sit well with me, if I’m honest. Eve
n considering everything that’s happened, I still feel like the other shoe has yet to drop.”

  “That’s because it’s true.” When he sees me jerk my head to the side with surprise, Hamilton allows himself a smirk. “You still don’t get it? All that great rescue mission now did was flush out your remaining sympathizers and take out the trash. Again. If your bitch is one thing, it’s fucking predictable. She could have gotten all this underway on a very hush-hush basis, snuck in, and dragged your carcass out of here with less than five people the wiser. Instead, she made sure every last one of the people still willing to help you now has a big, fat target painted on them, and everyone in the entire country will know where to look for you within a day or two, if they don’t already.”

  “And yet, you’re still hanging around,” I retort. I know that he doesn’t have a shred more intel than I do so it’s all guessing, but I can’t help but agree with him, even if I don’t tell him that. I knew all this when I decided to get him out as well—and I could have done so stealthily, too.