by Trevor Zaple
It was not as if it were wholly objectionable. Guard duty was boring, but so far it had proven itself boringly safe. Hallway watch duty was mostly a good opportunity to catch up on rumor, bullshit each other about random trivia that they’d known from before the disappearance, and play a lot of cards. Cards were the preferred form of entertainment; mostly they would play Asshole, but there were often games of euchre, poker, and caravan. For Mark it felt as though he were back in high school again, playing cards in a garage lit by lamps, the air thick with smoke and chatter. Outdoor watch duty was worse but bearable, since it was often shorter and there was never any action. The ground boys down the street at the Press Club took care of any problems with straggling transients, and the criminal Paul Taggert had not made a move in two months. Taggert’s men hadn’t been seen within blocks in quite a while, and the streets had been eerily quiet since early November. There were rumors that Taggert’s people had run out of food, that they hadn’t sequestered nearly as much as had been originally thought and they were even now starving in silence in the wilds past Bathurst. Someone said that they would all be dead soon and they were going to march west and claim all of the city for the Mayor; some cautioned that there would be probably be fighting involved with the last of the starving remnants, and that starving people would fight like rabid rats. The survival instinct was strong, especially in the last extremes.
Conley would join them in their card games but never in their gossip. He was a jovial player and gave as good as he got. They played using old currency for markers, putting together a pool of gathered money and divvying it up equally. It was bizarre at first, casually throwing around the equivalent of a year’s wages on a bet, but after a while it had just become a way of keeping structure to an otherwise pointless exercise. Northdancer was often fond of pointing this particular observation out; when the card table started, he would sourly as the others if they hadn’t gotten enough of playing cards when they were teenagers. He would inevitably join in, however, throwing money around and cursing over it as much as the others. It passed the time, after all.
New Year’s came and went with little fanfare; a few days after Mark and Olivia were relaxing in the room when the two nurses, Janice and Varada, came walking in without warning. Olivia sat up, suddenly awake from a light doze, and nudged Mark. Mark came awake and started. Janice smiled impatiently, crinkling her aging face. Varada, a tall, plump Indian woman with crow’s feet and a lightbulb smile put her hands together.
“Mr. Taylor,” she said, “Miss Dalhousie. We have been instructed to come and relieve you of your daughter for the night.
Mark looked at Olivia, confused. Olivia paid no attention to him, and stared at the two nurses.
“You’re taking Victoria?” she quavered.
“Just for the night, Olivia,” Varada shushed her. “She’ll be back tomorrow morning—the late morning, mind you. You two need to get some rest”.
“Now I don’t know…” Mark began sternly but Olivia hushed him.
“Take good care of her,” she said. Janice laughed and walked to the crib beside their bed. She took sleeping Victoria Elizabeth and gently cradled her. They then walked out of the room and just like that Mark and Olivia were alone. Mark looked at her shyly.
“So, what do you want to do?” he asked diffidently.
“First, we’re going to sleep,” she replied, yawning, and crawled into the bed. Mark followed her, tired beyond reckoning. They both fell asleep within moments of getting into a comfortable sleeping position.
Some unknown time later Mark awoke. The candles in their room had burned down quite far, but that was meaningless in terms of real measurement of time. He turned his head and found that Olivia was awake, and watching him.
“Hello,” he murmured, and she stretched slightly.
“Hello yourself,” she replied. “how do you feel?” Mark smiled slightly.
“I feel just fine,” he sighed, “I think they were right, we both really could use some rest”.
She turned over partially onto her side, facing him more. She leaned her lips in close to a place on his neck just below his ear.
“I could really use something else,” she whispered, and her hand found his. She guided his hand down her cotton t-shirt. Where it ended he found bare skin and only bare skin; she kept him going until he found wetness, and warmth. She ground her hips against his questing fingers and exhaled sharply and sinuously into his ear. He was instantly ready, and they made a very intense, very nuclear love, with embedded fingernails and tense muscles. They parted for twenty minutes, panting and slowly stripping each other of the remainder of their clothes. After came a much slower, more sensuous lovemaking, exploring every inch of each other and rejoicing in touch. They both achieved a much deeper climax and slept, contentedly, for nine hours uninterrupted.
Four nights later, Mark was on window patrol. This meant that he was posted in one of the unoccupied rooms, his rifle balanced out of the window, watching the deserted streets at a more intimate level. He had no partner; the size of the room made it so that there was little point to stationing two people inside. He was staring out of the window into the darkened street, bored, when suddenly a poisonous-green flare arced into the sky to the west. It was blinding for a brief instant; long enough, at any rate, to cloud his vision so that when the rattle of rapid gunfire began he had no idea of where it was coming from. He immediately ducked down, pulling his rifle in after him. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision as the stylized brick wall around the window chipped off in a hail of automatic discharge. He swore, and his hands shook as he flipped the rifle around and readied himself to return to his window post. His heart was pounding in his ears, though, and he wanted nothing more than to crawl away and find Olivia and Victoria.
The gunfire from the street ceased and was immediately followed up by cracks from the sniper team on the roof. After a minute they stopped and there was a shocking silence. After an endless moment Mark gathered up the courage to crawl up to the window and peek out. He immediately saw no movement from anywhere on the ground level. He grabbed the heavy Tac rifle and leveled it back into the window. Through the scope he saw no movement for a long time, but then from the top corner of his sight range he saw a flash of movement in the coffee shop. It was just a stray bit of moonlight glinting off of an unfortunately exposed metal something; Mark fired without thinking, squeezing the trigger like Conley had taught him. There was a far-off tinkle of shattering glass and smoke obscured the rest; he ducked down below the window again, hanging onto the rifle by his right hand. He counted out ten breaths and popped back up, his shaking hands trying to hold it as steady as possible. He saw everything moving; the scope was oscillating in his traitorous grip. A heartbeat later and he couldn’t take it; he dropped from the window and pulled the rifle with him.
He listened intently but silence had settled back down over the world like a blanket that has been thrown into the air. Then, he heard the clack of bootheels in the hall outside. They were coming closer at a rapid pace, and he knew that they were coming for him. He tried to get to his feet, tried to put himself back in his proper position, but he found that he couldn’t. His conviction had failed him and at any moment the door would be thrown open and he would be discovered amidst the most shameful type of pusillanimity. He closed his eyes and listened to his heartbeat pound in direct time with the fall of the heels.
The door squeaked open and he forced his eyes open. The light of the lamp in the man’s hands was blinding at first, and Mark covered his eyes with sudden pain.
“Who’s there?” he cried out. The light went out, and Mark heard the man approach him and kneel down.
“Mark, are you alright?”. It was Conley, his voice concerned. Mark stiffened.
“Sir, I’m fine,” he brayed automatically, and he felt Conley’s hand fall upon his shoulder.
“Relax, Mark, it’s over. Come with me, I’m relieving you of duty”.
Mark gripped at his arm.
“Sir, no, Olivia, my daughter, I,”
Conley grabbed his wrist. “Come on, Mark,” he said firmly, and helped him to his feet. Mark bent over to retrieve his scoped rifle, which felt like a heavy armload of lead. He wanted to sit back down, to just collapse like jelly, but something kept him moving, following Conley out of the guard post. His knees shook but he kept walking. He wondered how his two loves would take the news: their partner and father being shot for being a coward. He stared at his feet for the journey that Conley took him on. Eventually he realized that they were heading towards the living area, and then Conley was leading him into the nurses’ station down the hall from his room.
There were others in the station but Conley motioned them to leave. They did so, casting pitying looks at Mark. He took them all in without expression, dully watching them exit. After they were gone, Conley motioned for Mark to take a seat in one of the leather manager’s chairs. Once he did so, Conley took a seat beside him. There was silence for a moment.
“Never killed anyone before, huh?” Conley asked compassionately, and Mark said nothing. He kept himself very still, very calm. He was amazed at it, actually. What was it that Conley was saying? He thought back to the one round he’d managed to squeeze off, how it had flown through the air, a .50 caliber bullet whistling across the street to smash in the glass. Had he killed someone there? He honestly had no idea. He hadn’t been able to properly view the situation after the fact.
“No,” he said, after he began to fear that he had hesitated too long. “I’ve never had to kill anyone before”.
Conley nodded sagely. “Didn’t think so. You don’t really seem like the type to have ever killed someone. Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not particularly,” Mark admitted. He had no desire to do anything except to leave the station, make his way down the hallway, and join Olivia in blessed sleep. Conley looked at him closely.
“When you do, let me know. I don’t need you cracking up because you want to be a tough guy. We have to keep ourselves healthy,” he pointed to his forehead, “up here”.
“I’ll let you know, I’m just…” he paused, struggling for the appropriate word. “Disoriented,” he settled on. Conley nodded again.
“Alright,” he said, letting it go. “You did great work, tonight. The two snipers on the roof, Charoli and Northdancer, confirm that you took out whatever presence was in the coffee shop. Get some rest”.
He stumbled out of there, and he would never be able to remember anything that happened for the rest of that night. He woke up with his family the next morning, and for this he was profoundly grateful. An idea had begun to form in his mind. A terribly urgent idea.
Jason watched two of Taggert’s gunmen enter the busted old computer shop that he had claimed as his position. His eyes were suspicious, calculating. He sized them up and felt at the warm, worn grip of his Beretta. He stretched his mouth in a hideous approximation of a welcoming smile at them. Neither of them returned the attempt at good cheer and bonhomie. They stared him down, instead, focusing on him with a disinterested dislike. He found the feeling mutual, and so he dropped the pretense and smiling.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” he leered. They both coughed nervously.
“I hear you’ve got a woman in there,” one of them asked, an Irish accent in the trace corners of his voice. “A rentable woman”.
“Might be,” Jason replied diffidently. “Depends on who you are and how much you’re bringing”.
“We’re Taggert’s men,” the other one said, defiantly proud. He sounded like he was from Niagara, his voice that slow rural rumble shot through with an American twang. It set Jason’s ears on edge and he felt it in his teeth.
“Good for you,” he replied tiredly, “who else would you be, around here? You’ve obviously been eating and you are flashing badges around, so there’s really only one choice left, isn’t there?” The Niagara man bristled and made as though he were going to lunge at him. He brought the Beretta up and aimed it at the man’s round, freckled face. He received a grim satisfaction at the sight of the man’s shocked, frightened expression. Probably just shit his pants, Jason thought nastily, and chuckled.
“Just so we’re clear,” he said mockingly, and lowered the Beretta to the table he thought of as his desk. The Irish man rubbed at his lips and then stepped forward.
“We’ve got some canned peaches, pretty rare,” he offered nervously. Jason scoffed loudly.
“Wow, canned peaches. Sure, you can get your dick wet in exchange for some canned peaches. I’m so hard up that I’ll let you fuck my sister for some shitty bland fruit”.
The Irish man flushed, but the Niagara man laughed at this.
“I told you she was expensive,” he said lightly. He turned to Jason. “What about a battery-powered water heater?”
Jason considered this for a moment. “That it?” he asked, eventually. The Niagara man chuckled again, ruefully this time.
“We’ve also got a bunch of tea we were going to trade off to someone else, I guess, but…” he licked his lips. “Taggert keeps the girls pretty off-limits to guys like us, and I haven’t gotten any in months. I’ll give you the tea, too, if I can do whatever I want to her”.
“Woah,” Jason balked. “What do you mean by ‘whatever you want’?”
The Niagara man shuffled his feet. “You know, grab her hair, mouth fuck her, pull her hair while I fuck her, that kind of thing”.
“No burning or cutting her,” he said firmly. “No roughing her up so badly she’s permanently hurt”.
“Let him try,” a gravelly voice called from the back doorway. All three sets of eyes turned to look at Sarah, who was leaning against one side of the door frame lazily and wearing a silk robe that was parted down the middle to reveal hints of her gaunt curves. Her eyes were ringed in black shadow and her thinning lips were parted around a long cigarette, the kind she usually called a “bitch stick”. She took the cigarette out and blew smoke.
“Cigarettes or heroin,” she said, “I’ll let you tie me up and slap me around—lightly—and I’ll let you cum on my face”
“Deal,” the Niagara man replied quickly, and snapped his fingers at the Irish man. The Irish man recovered two packs of cigarettes from his knapsack and tossed them onto the floor between himself and Sarah. Jason hesitated a moment and then lunged for the packs, bringing them back to his desk like a squirrel avoiding prey with a nut in its mouth. He scowled at the dusty cigarette packs but said nothing.
“You first, boyo,” Sarah said mockingly to the Irish man, and beckoned him forward. The Irish man bounded forward with a disgustingly excited look on his face. They both disappeared into the back room and the door was closed shut. The Niagara man took a seat in one of the torn-up chairs that littered the front half of the store.
“So, what’s the story here?” he asked casually, and Jason shot him a stony glare.
“I don’t talk to the johns,” he said disdainfully, and the Niagara man did not make any further attempt at conversation. After an hour or so the door opened and the Irish man came out, breathing heavily and red in the face. Sarah walked out after him, stark naked. There were red marks on her cheeks like handprints.
“You’re next, country boy,” she said tiredly and the Niagara man joined her in the back room. The Irish man leaned back and dozed off in another of those semi-broken office chairs. Jason fiddled with his gun and tried to read an old mystery paperback by low lamplight. He was halfway through when he realized that he knew exactly how it was going to end. He put it down, disheartened, and the door opened again. The Niagara man strutted out, doing up the zipper on his jeans with some difficulty. Sarah came out limping slightly, her eyes clouded. The Niagara man shot a contemptuous glance at Sarah and then nudged his companion awake. They both took a final, bored look around the store and left. Sarah, still as naked as the day she was born, took a seat in the chair that the Irish man had just vacated. She snapped her fingers impatiently at Jason, who bit back a sha
rp word and threw one of the packs of cigarettes at her. She tore it open and put one in her mouth. Jason threw a plastic lighter at her pre-emptively, feeling some satisfaction in watching her frantically try to catch it before it hit her face with semi-painful force. She lit the cigarette and drew back with heavy force.
“So, are you going to lick it out, then?” she asked derisively, looking up at the ceiling. Jason pounded his fists on his desk but couldn’t find a reply that he wanted to make. She snorted and this triggered a domino cough, harsh and thick with stale smoke.
“You should have let me have the water heater,” he complained bitterly. She laughed nastily.
“We don’t need tea, Jason, but I need cigarettes. I could use some fucking heroin, I’m starting to get dope-sick like a motherfucker, but I’ll settle for the cigarettes”. She leaned forward to stare evilly at him. “I’m the one letting these idiots put it in me, I’m the one deciding what I get for it. I’m not sure why I keep you around at all, anymore”.
“Security,” he replied pathetically, his voice wavering.
“Oh yes, you’re so very good at that, flashing your little gun at them. I could hire one of these idiots to do that just as easily as you”. She power-dragged her way to the cotton filter and stubbed the thing out on the arm of her chair. “After I came to my senses and figured out what you’d been doing, I fucking well should have put you out on the street. Maybe I should have killed you. I certainly would have been doing someone a favor”.
“Who?” he asked, disinterested. He gripped at his Beretta, wanting very badly to shoot someone. He wanted especially to point it right into Sarah’s once-fresh-and-pretty face, but he knew that he would wimp out of that in short order, and then she would take the nearest object at hand and use it to beat the everloving snot out of him.