by Kate Morris
She nods nervously. Her hands are trembling and twisting between them. Simon takes them into his. Hers feel so small and cool to the touch within his. He nods reassuringly.
Cory rounds the corner of the building, skidding to a stop, “Come quick, Simon. There was an attack on another road. This time there were about a dozen survivors, but some are in pretty bad shape.”
“Are we going back out?” he asks, jogging beside his friend, Sam on their heels.
“No, the people said the men took off quick,” he explains.
He frowns, wanting to go after them, “Who found the survivors?”
“Dave’s runners who went scouting for more of the highwaymen who might’ve escaped us,” Cory says. “Guess they weren’t more than a few miles from us. We didn’t hear the shooting because we were doing so much of our own.”
“Man, that sucks. We could’ve helped them,” Simon says, angry and frustrated, the high of the win squelched by this new defeat.
“I know, but at least some of them got away. They said that only three of their group was killed. They said the highwaymen took off in the middle of robbing and killing them and left survivors. We’re guessing that they heard over their radios about us fighting their friends.”
“It could be if they were that close that they heard our shots. The idiots on their team were shooting friggin’ bombs at us, so it’s hard not to hear that, too. Maybe those men we fought last in that ravine were the ones who fled from the people who survived. Maybe they came to join the fight,” Simon speculates.
“I’m not sure,” Cory says. “The survivors said they went northwest, so they got back in their vehicles and fled east. That’s how they ran into Dave’s men. We never did find whatever was making the ground shake. Dave still thinks it was a tank.”
Simon joins Sam and her uncle as the truck carrying the survivors pulls up to the clinic. The family has also taken the highwaymen’s vehicles. Two men jump out of the back and immediately call out for assistance as they carefully lower an older lady on a stretcher. He and Sam help care for the injured people in the clinic while Doc and Sam’s uncle do the same. It’s going to be another long night.
The townspeople volunteer to get people moved and shuffled around across the street in the medical house to make room for additional patients. Others open their own homes to some of the survivors until they can decide what they want to do, whether it means leaving in a few days or staying on in Pleasant View. They would still have to be vetted first if they want to stay.
He and Sam finish with their patients around four a.m. and wash up, sanitizing their hands and any exposed skin thoroughly. Some of the town volunteers working in their clinic clean the two rooms where they treated patients. Her uncle and Doc are still in the surgical suite. Simon thinks they may be performing surgery on a man who was very badly wounded by gunfire.
Simon collects the patient files and directs some of the men where to transport their patients for rest and healing.
Dr. Scott walks up to him and Sam and says, “We lost him. His internal bleeding was too extensive by the time he arrived here and we started working on him.”
“Sorry, Uncle Scott,” Sam says, touching his shoulder.
Her uncle’s face is one of bereavement and frustration. Simon knows the feeling all too well. He diligently studies the pre-apocalypse surgical techniques and medical procedures but will probably never be privy to using any of them. This rustic, barbaric form of medicine they practice now is second rate at best.
“Herb is speaking with the family. I’m gonna go clean up. Simon, can you have his body moved for burial?”
“Yes, sir. Right away,” Simon answers and immediately goes to find help.
It is almost dawn by the time things settle down. He helps Cory load the fifty cal confiscated from their enemy’s truck, along with the AT-4 and about thirty rifles and pistols into the back of the McClane family truck. The rest is divvied up among the townspeople, Dave’s group and K-Dog. They are now the proud owners of three additional trucks, too. One will go to the farm, the other to Dave’s and one will be given to Chet’s family.
Cory walks past him and slaps his shoulder, “Done! Fuckin’ finally. I’m getting hungry as hell.”
“You’ve been hanging out with Dave too much,” he says and frowns at his friend’s language.
“Doesn’t mean I’m not hungry as hell. Killing assholes is hard work.”
Simon scowls and says, “Probably the exertion and adrenaline.”
Cory chuckles at him and says, “Dork.”
“Imbecile,” Simon counters with and grins.
“You stickin’ around?”
Simon’s eyes inadvertently drift toward Sam, who is sitting on the top step of the clinic’s front porch taking a well-deserved break. His adversary, Henry, is standing a few steps below her conversing, his booted foot resting right next to hers, his arm bent at the elbow and propped on his knee. He needs to stand back about three feet, or thirty, or just go back to his own damn farm.
“If you’re staying, you better keep that pistol harnessed, brother. Don’t wanna’ piss off the Mechanic by shooting his friend.”
He fires off a sneer at Cory and says, “Dave has poor taste in friends.”
Cory laughs and says, “Nah, Henry’s all right. You’re just jealous that he’s hanging out with your girl.”
“She isn’t my girl, idiot. I’m just tired of him acting like Sam belongs to him. It’s absurd. And, yes, I’m staying. Herb can go home, and I’ll watch the patients.”
“Good, I’ll let them know. You know, Simon, maybe it’s time you staked your own claim,” Cory suggests, this time without humor or his usual charming wit that others find so engaging and Simon finds so irritating.
“Why would I do that?” he asks as he wipes down his rifle with an oily rag from his pack.
“Because you love her. For some reason, I think she feels the same, although I can’t see why because you’re such a dick.”
Simon scowls at his friend’s humor.
“Because if you don’t, she’s going to end up marrying someone else. Hell, probably that guy.”
Simon looks sharply at Cory and says, “Do you know something I don’t?”
“No, not really, but I’ve seen the way Henry looks at her. And I’ve seen the way other men do, too.”
“I’ll kill them,” Simon growls.
Cory chuckles again, “You can’t kill everyone, buddy. She’s a pretty girl. She’s also smart and funny and sweet. She’s a real catch. Hell, you won’t let me marry your sister, so maybe I’ll have to make an offer for Samantha.”
Simon explodes. He’s had enough. Testosterone and adrenaline have been coursing through his veins for last twelve hours at full speed. He slams down his rifle on the tailgate of the truck and shoves Cory hard in the chest with both hands.
“Hey, hey, hey!” John says from his spot a few feet away where he’d been talking to Kelly and Dave. He steps between them.
“Save it for the enemy, boys,” Dave comments with a laugh. “Jesus Christ, it’s like watching a pack of D-boys going at it after a battle.”
Kelly laughs and says, “Or before. Remember the briefings beforehand?”
“Fuck yeah, I do,” Dave says. “Those were always testy times, lots of tension and stored up adrenaline.”
“Remember when Mitchell and Dr. Death went full-on MMA in the dirt over the plans?” Kelly asks, referring to John and someone named Mitchell, who must’ve been on their team.
“Fuck yeah, I do. Dr. Death was always a little off, if you catch my meaning,” Dave jokes about John.
“Gee, thanks, brother,” John jokes. “In my defense, his plan sucked.”
They all laugh, but Simon grabs up his rifle, slings it, and starts walking away.
John stops him and says, “Are you staying today and tonight? If so, we’re packing it in, and I’m taking Doc home. He looks beat.”
“Yes, sir,” Simon answers.
“Sure,” Simon returns but keeps his eyes leveled on Cory’s behind John. “I’m…I’m going to hit the hay for a while before I get back on medical duty.”
“That’ll be just fine. I’ll let the others know. They can hold down the fort for a few hours,” John says and pats his shoulder as if he is unsure of Simon’s mood. “See ya’, Professor. And, hey, steer clear of Henry for me till he’s gone.”
“Sir,” Simon says and gives a curt nod before turning to go.
Cory shouts at his back, “Hey, let me know when I should start ring shopping!”
“Dangit, Cor,” John is saying as Simon keeps walking. “Stop with the Paige thing. He’s under…”
“Not his sister. I was talking about Sam.”
“Oh, Jesus. That’s below the belt, little brother,” Kelly says, their voices growing quieter as he puts some distance between them. “Give a guy a break, man.”
Simon picks up the pace and jogs. He needs some time alone, so he heads to the house where he stayed the other night with Sam and her uncle. There’s running water, so he can grab a shower. He’s seen many times in movies where people take cold showers to let off steam. Or maybe it was sexual tension. Either way, it sounds good right now.
He lets himself in and goes upstairs to the master suite where her uncle had stayed. The house is not locked; most of the homes in town are not since everyone trusts everyone else in town. He’s not sure if Scott will stay in town today, but if he does, he can have the master bedroom again. The shower down the hall doesn’t work, but the one in the master does. Simon just needs the use of the shower for a while, maybe a long while so that he can cool down, calm down, and clear his head. It’s been a long night.
He drops his gear on the made bed, laying his rifle and pistol out and tossing his pack near it. The stress of the day has been too much. The endless war, the killing, the people who are always shot full of holes and need put back together. Turning on the water in the long, walk-in shower, he steps right into the stinging cold spray and allows it to ease his tired muscles. The home is an older one but has had extensive remodeling done, probably right before the fall. The patterned, gray tile walls of the shower and the floor of the shower are cool to the touch. Despite wanting to linger, Simon washes up quickly using the homemade soap from the farm and gets out, not wanting to use too much water, and not wanting to freeze to death. The water never really gets all that warm. He looks in the mirror, observing the fact that he needs a shave and a haircut but won’t get either until he returns to the farm. It still feels better being clean. Simon wraps a towel around himself and grabs his gear before heading out into the hall. He’ll go back for the guns in a second, but first, he needs some clothing. He brought some of his and Doc’s clothing with him the last time he stayed here in case they’d need it when they’re in town. With the battles and attacks that keep happening, Simon has a feeling they’ll be using this house a lot in order to pull long hours at the clinic.
His mind drifts to Sam like it does most of the day when he isn’t completely preoccupied with the business of staying preoccupied to avoid thinking about her. His feelings have intensified, those feelings of lust and desire, the same ones that make him sick to his stomach. He recalls the moments they shared in Doc’s office just a few days ago when he’d been fully prepared to make love to her right then and there on the desk or the floor or wherever. The softness of her in his hands, his mouth on hers.
“Simon!” Sam states in the hallway as if she is startled, nearly running him down.
She smacks right into his bag, causing Simon to lose his towel. It falls between them on the carpet, and they both freeze.
“Oh, my goodness!” she screams.
Her wide blue eyes dash down the front of him, so Simon covers himself quickly with his backpack. Her eyes dart away as if she has scorched them by looking there.
Sam spins around and says, “Sorry! I didn’t know you…what the heck? Why are you naked?”
“I wasn’t!” Simon retorts, grabbing his towel from the floor and re-wrapping it around his waist.
“Uhh…you look very naked to me,” she states, keeping her back to him.
“I just got my shower in case you or your uncle wanted one,” he explains, leaving out the part about needing a cold-water splash to cool his temper. “I didn’t know you were going to come home right now.”
“I just brought you some food. I thought you might be hungry.”
“Er, thank you,” he says. “That was thoughtful. Just let me get dressed.”
Her shoulders shimmy. Then she bursts out laughing.
“Stop laughing this instant, Samantha. It’s not funny,” he reprimands, still thinking about how she felt under his hands. He’d like to drop his towel and drag her into his room.
She continues to laugh, “Yes, it was. It was very funny.”
Sam turns back around to face him. Simon scowls down at her.
“You of all people. That had to happen to you!” she teases and starts laughing again.
He just groans with frustration, some of it not from losing his towel. She sobers a moment, and her eyes drop to his bare chest.
“You’ve changed so much,” Sam says, stepping closer.
“What? What do you mean?”
She lifts her hand and places it on his chest, the muscles there jumping in response to her warm touch. His skin feels vampirically cold from his shower.
“You aren’t a skinny boy anymore,” she observes as her fingertips trace the ridges of his pectorals.
Simon’s mouth opens, but he quickly closes it for fear of what he might do or say. He has found lately that he cannot control himself very well around her, not like he used to.
“Don’t put on any of my clothes by accident,” she says, her demeanor changing, and turns to go.
Simon frowns, “What the heck’s that supposed to mean?”
She says over her shoulder, “I moved my clothing into your room because someone in town needed a dresser the other day and I told them they could have the one in my room.”
Sam turns the corner, and Simon can hear her skipping down the steps, whistling as she goes. He tries to regain his composure and takes a deep breath. It’s a good thing she didn’t look down again. The settling effects of the cold shower wore off the second she placed her hand on him. Simon lets out a sigh of relief at her departure and goes to his room. This time he closes and locks the door.
He rummages the top drawer in the dresser where he stashed clothing the last time and pulls out a very small pair of pink and white lace panties. His imagination races because he knows exactly whose body these belong on. He stuffs them back in only to pull out another pair, this time satiny black with a tiny ivory bow on the waistband. And yet another find is one of her bras, also pink, all lace, no padding, which makes him swallow hard.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Simon mutters to himself and pulls out a big handful instead. The torture is too much. There in his fist is a collection of her intimates. Lace, silk, satin, delicate, colorful, everything that encapsulates who Sam is. He shoves them back in and slams the drawer closed, opening the next one down. She has moved his socks and underwear to this drawer. It was rather presumptuous of her, but Sam hardly asks for permission in such matters, or pretty much in any matters.
A few minutes later, he has combed his hair and dressed in clean clothing, although his jeans have seen better days with the rips and snags and even a few, unpatched holes in them. At least his button-down, blue plaid shirt looks slightly more professional. Herb never shows up to the clinic to wait on patients dressed like a bum, so he won’t, either. He goes downstairs to find Samantha in the kitchen.
“I set your plate over there,” she says, pointing to the island.
He nods and takes a seat at one of t
he barstools. “Aren’t you eating?”
“No, I’m going…I’ll eat later,” she says evasively.
“Where are you going?”
“Simon, I don’t want to get into this with you right now. Just drop it.”
“Are you about to tell me you’re going somewhere with Henry? Is it another date?”
She groans with irritation and great exaggeration. “You aren’t my father.”
“I’ll tie you up and lock you in this house.”
“Don’t threaten me,” she says, turning with a butcher knife in her hand. Then she realizes that she’s holding it in an offensive manner and lowers it down to continue cutting the watermelon on the counter.
Simon doesn’t argue but eats in silence his donated meal of biscuits and sausage gravy, or venison gravy- he’s not sure which. Whatever it is, it hits the spot but is not as good as Hannie’s. He won’t tell the woman who cooked it, though. He’s not too smart about women, but one thing he does know is that they don’t like to have their cooking criticized. One small woman wielding a knife at him in a single day is plenty.
“I forgot to tell you, Tessa spoke today,” she announces.
“Really? That’s great. Finally,” he says of the little orphaned waif who follows Cory around like a lost puppy.
“Yeah, she said ‘Cory’, and then she said, ‘Daddy.’”
Simon smirks, “Uh-oh. Sounds like he’s in trouble.”
“I don’t know. Grandpa was there when it happened, and he said he wonders if perhaps she didn’t have a father who looked like Cory. She touched his scruffy whiskers on his face and then his hair in the ponytail.”
“Maybe she had a father with longish hair and a beard,” Simon comments. She nods and hands him a chunk of the watermelon, to which he nods and says, “Thank you.”
“Yeah, that’s what Grandpa said, too. About the beard and his hair.”
“Wish we had a child psychologist in town,” he says.
“Uncle Scott said he’ll try to work with her some while he’s here.”
“Good idea. He probably took a lot more child psych classes since he majored in pediatrics.”