Fair Haven

by Red Lagoe

  "We'll prepare to get moving in the morning," he said.

  "I'm glad we don't have to spend the night in a pitch black room again," she whispered as the flickering light danced across her polka dot shirt.

  Her damp clothes were still clinging to her body, chilling her skin. Kayla unbuttoned her shirt, slid the sleeves down her arms, and draped the blouse on the back of the chair. She bent over, tugging her skirt downward around her ankles, and hung it beside her blouse.

  Marcus leaned against the wall, watching the peculiar girl undress.

  "I hope you don't mind if I hang them to dry." She wet her nervous lips as she stood before him in her bra and panties.

  Marcus took a step closer to her and paused. He knew he couldn't lead her on like this any longer. He would have to turn her down tonight.

  "You should get out of your wet clothes too," she said.

  She stepped closer to him, put her hands on Marcus's waist, and then slid her fingers up his chest.

  While Kayla unbuttoned his shirt, Marcus wondered whether he should break her heart now or later. She removed his shirt and tiptoed away from him to drape it across the desk.

  Later—he thought. Marcus charged at her, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed the girl. If he was going to ditch her, he may as well let her feel good for a while first.

  She jumped up, squeezing her legs around his body in a boa-like grip and drove her pelvis against his. Her scraggly, red hair hung in her face as they entrenched each other's mouths with a long invasive kiss.

  With Kayla still latched onto him, Marcus moved to the comforter. He held onto her back with one arm as he laid her down on the floor. They rocked back and forth, entangling themselves in the comforter as the lantern's light flickered across their naked skin. Her toes curled and her fingernails scratched along his back. There was a groan outside, and a thud against the door, but it was not enough to stop them.

  28

  The Widow

  The house was stale and quiet as the clip-clip of the dog's claws tapped along the kitchen floor. John and Melody surveilled the house for signs of danger, working their way across the first floor; it was clear. The décor reeked of the 1980s. Doilies lined every wooden surface. Gold touch-lamps with floral prints on the glass lampshades adorned the living room set. The house was peppered with Bible scriptures that were cross-stitched into pillows and oven mitts.

  Once they were certain the house was safe enough for them to relax for a moment, Melody found the master bedroom upstairs and lay down on the downy blanket with her head on the pillow.

  A row of decorative candles lined the dresser—some adorned with biblical imagery and others had cute animals.

  Marcus was gone. Her heart hurt knowing she would never see him again and knowing they never had a chance to resolve their problems. She would never know what happened to him, but her eyes were bone dry and her emotions were stoic.

  "I should be crying, shouldn't I?" she whispered to the dog lying beside her on the white downy bed, "What's wrong with me?"

  A sense of peace swept over her, perhaps because she could finally conclude that Marcus was not coming back. Or perhaps because she didn't care enough to cry. She considered that her seemingly emotionless state may be due to shock, but a tiny part of her felt relief that she didn't have to look for him any longer. And with that thought, guilt crept in.

  John stopped in the doorway and braced his arms in the frame, holding weight off of his prosthetic leg. The sweet distraction of seeing him kept her from thinking about how she was supposed to feel.

  "You should take that leg off for a while," she said.

  "The leg? Well, I'd prefer to remove the prosthetic," he joked, and Melody was able to let out a slight chuckle.

  "Seriously. Are you OK?"

  "Are you?"

  His eyes stood out in the color-faded room. Unsure how she felt about anything, she simply looked down to the hands in her lap—they were coated in mud and blood.

  "I'm not strong enough," she admitted.

  "I don't believe that. You're a tough son-of-a-bitch."

  "I used to think I was, but look at me—traipsing around town, endangering lives, so I can hold onto a marriage that was doomed anyway. I’m good at hiding from problems..."

  Melody inhaled the earthy scent of her muddied clothes and stood up. "I'm going to shower," she said, "if the water still works."

  "It works," he said. "And guess what? Gas water heater is still working.”

  “Hot water?” She almost smiled.

  “I’ll take the hall bathroom.”

  She closed the bedroom door and removed her soaking wet, disgusting clothes and dropped them to the floor. The dreary, rainy day allowed in a small amount of grey light through the window over the toilet in the master bathroom. She peeked out the tiny window to look down at Carlisle Road; it was desolate, but she could spot five dead bodies in the street. More of them were dying.

  She turned the handle of the faucet. The water sputtered out of the shower head and came to a steady hiss. The warmth lifted her spirits, if only for a moment.

  Melody got under the hot water, letting it drench her body, washing away the blood and filth. Clumps of mud dropped to the bathtub floor and diluted in the falling water.

  They had been arguing constantly and even discussed divorce a few days before the town fell apart. Melody tilted her head back to soak the top of her head. She wasn't even sure if Marcus loved her any more. At least she tried.

  She pulled a bottle of tea tree shampoo from the shower rack and began to lather herself from head to toe, trying to scrub away her memories with the filth.

  She shut off the water and stepped her bare feet on to the plush bathroom rug. It was luxurious. Finally, something nice. Everyone deserves a chance to have something nice from time to time. Something like a hot shower and a fluffy bath rug. Something comfortable. John was comfortable.

  She opened the bathroom door to see her dog sitting patiently on the other side, wagging his tail nub, leaving brown paw prints across the pale blue carpeting.

  "Come on." She waved him in. "Your turn."

  She washed up the dog, then her clothes, and rummaged through drawers of hideous old lady clothes for something dry to wear.

  Pink jumpsuits. Yellow silk blouses. Large royal blue sweatpants. She pulled out a cotton, sparkling, bedazzled kitten blouse that read, Hang in There. She laughed at the ridiculous shirt and put it on.

  John's bathroom faucet shut off. Melody grabbed two of the candles from the dresser, walked down the darkening hall, and stopped outside the open bathroom door. The warm moist air spilled out of the bathroom and clung to Melody's skin.

  "Do you want a candle in there?" she asked.

  "That'd be great," he answered, "but avert your eyes, I'm indisposed."

  She entered, looking away, holding up the unlit candles for John to see.

  "Your choice," she said. "Kittens or Jesus?"

  John laughed, and after a moment of contemplation, he said, "Jesus."

  "Really?" She didn't pin him for the religious type.

  "Well it feels wrong burning kittens," John snickered.

  "And burning Jesus doesn't seem wrong?" she asked.

  "Jesus can handle it."

  Melody lit the wick of the Jesus candle, protected the wavering flame with her hand, and set it down on the edge of the sink. She tried to respect John's privacy as he was soaking in the tub, but Melody stole a glimpse of his strong tattooed body out of the corner of her eye. Glistening orange and yellow sparks of light danced around him.

  "Are you taking a bubble bath?" she asked with her eyes on the candle.

  "Are you looking?"

  Melody turned to leave.

  "Hey."

  She froze in ecstasy in the doorway, awaiting him to summon her back to him. Ready to climb into the tub with him on his word. "Yeah," her mousy voice cracked.

  "Nice shirt!" he said, laughing about the hang in there sparkling attir
e that she had found.

  An excited burst of laughter came from Melody, and a genuine smile stretched across her face as she left him alone while she went downstairs to feed herself and the dog straight from a can of pork and beans.

  John pulled himself out of the tub. He wondered what to do about Melody. He wanted her more than he had ever wanted any woman, but warned himself not to pursue her so soon. Screw it. No sense in waiting.

  He wrapped a small white towel around his abdomen and dried off the stump of his leg. The skin was irritated and too sore to put the prosthetic back on, so he hopped out of the bathroom, supporting himself on the walls.

  He braced himself in the dark hallway with his prosthetic blade in one hand, fresh out of the tub. His body was wet from the bath, and his thigh bulged from the constraints of the towel as Melody climbed the stairs. He knew what he was doing and hoped it would work on her.

  "Do you need some dry clothes?" Melody said. "There are some in there." She nodded toward the master bedroom behind him.

  "Are they going to be as cool as yours?"

  "I doubt it." She shook her head and moved by John in the hallway.

  He barely stepped to the side, making her slink around his body to get by. Her breast grazed his ribs, and he inhaled the scent of tea tree shampoo as she passed.

  She went through the drawers in the master bedroom and pulled out a plain white undershirt and a pair of plaid pajama pants and handed them to John.

  "Nothing better?" he asked.

  "It's this, or the God Camp '99 shirt with the unidentifiable stain." Melody shrugged with a smirk.

  "Dangerous yellow stain? It could be mustard."

  "Could be urine," she said.

  "Plain white tee it is," John agreed, taking the clothes from her hands.

  Melody slid her arm into the crook of his elbow and helped support him as he moved toward the bed to sit down.

  "Your leg doesn't look so good." She looked at the red, raw flesh at his stump.

  "It's OK. It happens sometimes. I powdered the hell out of it this morning, but all this moisture and running around irritated it. I have balm for it in my bag."

  John slid the tee shirt over his head, and noticed Melody looking at his chest.

  "You have any tattoos?" he asked.

  "Yeah."

  "Let me guess. A butterfly."

  "No," Melody sounded offended.

  "Sorry. I assumed you had a girlie tattoo. Then what is it, Chuck? A skull? Dragon?"

  "It's a dolphin," she said, trying not to laugh. She tugged down the front of her jeans to expose the pale blue dorsal fin of a dolphin on her pelvis, but left the rest to John's imagination.

  Melody turned to leave as her cheeks were blushing, but before she was out the door, John stood up and pulled his towel from his body, allowing it to drop to the floor.

  The sound of towel made her pause, and John waited for her to turn around and tackle him to the bed.

  "Pork and beans?" she asked with her back to him.

  "Excuse me?"

  "Do you want some pork and beans? I found some downstairs." She said it with a cool disconnect, like she wasn't interested in him at all.

  "Sure," he answered.

  She left him alone in the bedroom, pants-less, and feeling ridiculous for assuming his tactics would work on someone like her.

  Once downstairs, the light of day was nearly gone, so Melody lit a candle while they ate some beans from the can and she relaxed in an old man's recliner.

  The moans of the infected outside began to permeate the walls of the house, so she lowered the candle to the floor and tried to obstruct the light so as not to attract outsiders. Melody and John rested in the living room while paintings of Jesus and inspirational word art surrounded them.

  "Perseverance" was printed beneath a photograph of Everest, but it did not make Melody want to persevere at all. The thought of climbing made her tired and ready to give up. She sat on the couch and pet the freshly washed sleek fur of her dog.

  "What are you going to name him?" John asked with a sleepy, deep voice.

  "Something bad-ass."

  "I knew a guy on my team that was bad-ass. His name was Harkness. He got hit by the same explosion that got my leg a few years back. His face was burnt, and he took a bullet while pulling one of our guys out to safety. That guy was bad-ass."

  "You're bad-ass," Melody said.

  John shook off the compliment with modesty.

  "Not like Harkness. Besides…my last name is Myers. What kind of name is that for a dog?"

  "Well, John Myers...I think I like the name Harkness."

  A thump at the front porch startled them.

  Melody jumped up and blew out the candle. Paralyzed in the darkness, she awaited another sound at the door. The shuffling of feet played on the porch wood, but the infected were not trying to get in. Melody watched the movement of shadows beyond the lace curtains in the windows, then looked to John with panic piercing her soul. Harkness growled at the door, but quieted down on Melody's whispered command, "Hush."

  She and John slid the couch across the carpeted floor to barricade the stairwell and they moved upstairs for the evening. They sat on the edge of the stairs, with weapons in their hands as the moans and clunking of the infected persisted.

  "I don't think I can fight any more tonight," Melody admitted. Her fingers were barely strong enough to hold the baseball bat.

  John led her into the master bedroom and locked themselves inside. Harkness jumped on the bed and curled up near the pillow, while they listened to the ungodly groaning sounds outside.

  "But you will," he demanded. "You'll fight if we have to. If they get in here, and all we have is an ounce of strength, then we will use every last drop to survive."

  The thought of it exhausted her.

  "You got that?" John's voice was urgent and forceful.

  Several infected were crawling about on the street below.

  "I don't think we'll have to fight or run, though," he said. "Not tonight. They don't seem to realize we're in here. They're just making noise."

  John stood with his back to Melody. The thin white tee clung to his muscles as he peeked through the lace curtains. She could barely make out his body through the darkness of the room.

  "It's been a long day, and I don't think I have much more to give with this leg like this, but if it came right down to it, I would run. I would fight...You and I both would. We’ll fight our damn asses off."

  He shuffled himself to the door to move a small chest of drawers in front of it, and Melody got up to help him. They stripped the muddied white down comforter from the bed to expose a clean, green quilt beneath.

  "I don't need a pep talk," she said.

  He smiled. "OK, Chuck. Neither of us are in this alone. We'll do this together as long as we can. And even then, even if we're separated, we keep up the fight."

  John looked upon the woman in those silly blue sweatpants. That ridiculous cat shirt hung off of one smooth shoulder. Her damp hair laid heavy on her back. He was tormented by her, but she had just lost her husband. Grieving. He could not rightfully make a move so soon, but every second with her was torture. Perhaps the same rules didn't apply in this environment. He looked at her exposed shoulder and ignored the standard rules of engagement.

  He re-lit the candle and set it the bathroom doorway, so the light couldn't be seen from the street.

  "Do you want me to sleep on the floor?" he asked, desperate for her to decline.

  Melody froze for a moment, considering the question, but didn't respond.

  John interrupted her thoughts. "I would offer to take the bed in the other room, but-"

  Melody shook her head and John sat down beside her, inches away, as her fingers explored the fibers of the bedding. The flame of the candle frolicked and Melody sat still as she faced the door to the bedroom, unresponsive to John.

  He gave her a moment to figure out what she wanted. Minute after minute passed, and Melody re
mained still. He shifted closer to her, trying to read her. John placed his hand on her back between her shoulder blades, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood to attention. He was under her skin. He rubbed her back, and she released a deep sigh.

  "We'll be alright here for tonight," he whispered as he placed both hands onto her shoulders, massaging her sore body. "We'll keep each other safe."

  John's hands drifted down her arms, while his breath skimmed the nape of her neck, and she released an ecstatic breath of relief. John knew she wouldn't be able to contain her passion any longer. His gentle touch was exactly what she wanted.

  "Ah crap," Melody whispered, and turned her body to face him. He smiled, waiting for her to tell him to stop, but she stared at him with longing eyes.

  She relaxed in the comfort of his touch and closed her eyes as he inched so close that the warmth of his breath and the scruff of his beard tickled her skin.

  Melody fought to keep from kissing him. It was too soon. It was wrong. John's handsome, scruffy face gazed back at her with kind, worried eyes, awaiting her move. He leaned closer, and Melody caved. She collapsed into him, allowing their lips to meet. He kissed her with great passion and gentility.

  Melody's entire body surged with a wave of ecstasy as John held the back of her neck and kissed her. Guilt coursed through her veins as she reveled in his touch. She leaned into him, tugging the fabric of his white tee shirt as he held onto her waist and laid her back on the bed.

  Her damp hair laid tussled on the green quilt while he hovered over her body. She wanted John, but couldn't stop thinking about the fate of Marcus. She tried to force Marcus out of her head, wondering what kind of person shacks up with someone the same day they learned their husband died.

  John's hands crept from her waist and came to rest with his thumbs barely grazing the cups of her breasts. Their eyes met again and he smiled. She saw a trusted friend in that gorgeous, friendly gaze—maybe someone she could trust more than Marcus. Her body pulsed with temptation as he hovered over her.