***
An hour later, somewhere in the haze of sleep, Cheryl felt herself floating on a jerry-rigged raft made from the dried husks of de-spined cactus ribs tied together with rope. Above the soothing sound of ocean waves lapping around her, she heard Mark's voice in her ear.
"I'll miss you…"
She looked up at the sliver of moon dangling amongst the peppering of stars above her, smiled at the sound of his voice inside her head, and wondered where he was going. She had just dipped her fingers into the silky black water when the feeling of buoyancy vanished, and she began to spin and fall, sucked down by a whirlpool.
Instead of drowning and landing on the sandy bottom of the sea floor, she plummeted through miles of darkness then smashed into her bed. The springs creaked and groaned from the impact of her body, but the sound was quickly drowned out by the staccato of gunfire.
Jumping up, she found herself in her room. It was dimly lit by the blue light from the computer monitor, and she could see that she was alone.
There were piercing screams coming from the hallway, so loud and terrifying they caused the hair to stand up on her arms and the nape of her neck. She grabbed her AK, put her hand on the door knob, and took a deep breath.
As she jerked the door open, the screams stopped as if some great being above had waived a wand and instantly killed every pursuer and victim, putting them all out of their misery. The silence was not any comfort when she poked her head out of the room.
The hallway looked like the aftermath of a bloodbath.
Streaks and swirls of dried blood marred the white tile floor, punctuated by zigzagging trails of foot prints. Red hand prints dotted the walls. Big palms, little palms, and many in between—all smeared in one direction as if they were trying to hold onto the wall but were dragged away.
I'm the last one left.
The only sound now was the KER-THUMP of her heart.
Head down, she turned to go back inside the room. To hide? To put the gun in her mouth?
A shadow loomed behind the door. She recognized the silhouette—the towering height, the broad shoulders…
"Mark…I thought—"
He lunged for her, falling into the triangle of light in the doorway. She saw the mottled flesh peeling from his cheeks and the slick, red coating on his teeth that glistened as it reflected the fluorescent light from the fixture in the hallway.
She took a step backwards and fired.
The sound of the gunshot woke her up.
Her head popped up from the cool floor. In one swift motion, she hopped to her feet and scrambled for her gun. Once it was in her hands, her eyes darted towards the closed door. Seeing it shut and no traces of blood in the room or on her body, she whipped around.
Mark was still in the bed, sound asleep.
Chapter 5
Every Friday, Cheryl took a shift in the garden at Fort San Manuel. On most of those days, the skies were as clear as crystal with a bright sun warming the rows of raised beds in a section of the courtyard that was fenced and locked to protect the crops from theft or damage. Today, it was cloudy, and the heavens were beige like mushroom soup, but it was still bright and warm enough that she had on a straw hat to shield her eyes and a yellow bandana around her forehead to soak up the sweat.
She enjoyed digging in the dirt, smelling its earthy aroma and feeling the different textures of the leafy, green plants. But, best of all…it was peaceful there. She could sometimes enjoy the tingle of sunlight on her skin while shutting out the chatter of the other workers and people strolling by who gawked at anything in bloom or loudly commented on failures (like the heap of brown stems from a zucchini plant that looked like a dead octopus—the result of an early planting trial). She tried not to hear any of it, because in those rare Zen like moments in the garden, she could momentarily forget how dire things looked.
Even when soaking up those moments of bliss, she never forgot that this job was just as necessary as her time on patrol duty. Since safaris into Tucson and Phoenix were producing less and less food, it was important to grow as much as they could. The harsh climate and limited space made it challenging. There wasn't enough room to grow enough beans and corn for serious sustenance to help the thousand plus inhabitants survive, but any fresh produce they harvested provided some vitamin C, lessening the number of cases of scurvy that popped up when residents were fed too much canned food and processed grains.
Cheryl shuddered to think what would happen in the fort if the food supplies ran too low. She'd heard rumors that there was an underground area where they were keeping a few rats in cages to breed for protein. There had also been talk about filling the moat with water and setting up a tilapia fish farming system, but with so many of the infected making it over the fence line, it would be difficult to keep it from becoming contaminated.
At worst, she feared that during a famine, the occupants would turn on each other. If that happened, it wouldn't take turning into Eaters for them to go all Donner Party on each other.
That morning, she and five other people helped to clear what was left of the winter lettuce crop that had gone to seed. The crumbly plants with tall stalks were shaken over buckets to collect the seeds that would be saved for a late fall planting. When that task was done, the group grabbed water buckets and went to tend the young pepper and tomato seedlings that had been transplanted the week before.
As Cheryl surveyed a row of chili peppers and the taller tomato plants behind them, Gloria, the Master Gardener who supervised the volunteer workers, approached. She had tawny skin and a generous smile that created deep furrows along the far corners of her eyes and cheeks. She walked up just as Cheryl started to pour water on some thirsty plants that were beginning to wilt. "Just a little around the roots. We've got to save water for the hot season."
"I know," Cheryl said, trying to pour just enough to perk up the little green stems. The water wasn't clear. It had that rusty hue, and she hoped that whatever caused the coloration wasn't harmful and wouldn't uptake into the plants that they'd be eating later in the summer.
"We got some watermelon and butternut squash seeds that need to be sowed after this. You got time to stay for another half hour?"
"Sure," Cheryl told her. "I don't have patrol today."
"That's good," Gloria chuckled. "I don't know if you're a nickel short of the nuthouse for taking that job or if you just like killing things that are already dead. I'm glad that you have a softer touch with my babies in the garden though. I had to fire some lug from your unit last week. He was pulling out the kale along with the weeds, and I think he was just here to hit on some of the ladies."
Cheryl wondered if the lug was Private Kelly. If it was, his growing reputation as a wolf was going to make for a lot of lonely nights.
She was glad that she had Mark. The ring on her finger didn't prevent suggestive banter or advances from other guys, but she could wave it as her first line of defense before resorting to verbal or physical tactics. Did it really mean anything, though? She'd started to suspect that Mark had another reason for his intermittent attention and avoidance of talking about their future. It wasn't just his obsessive research into theories about the origin of the epidemic that was a distraction—she increasingly believed that he didn't want to get married to her. How long could she continue to zip up her concerns and not hash it out with him?
After gathering the seeds that Gloria gave her along with some corn and cucumber seeds, Cheryl went row by row and tucked them into the soil. Then, she circled them with a ring of crumbly, dark compost that had been cooked up from kitchen scraps and enriched by earthworm castings. When she finished, she scrubbed up with water from the spigot using soap followed by a squirt of disinfectant. Then, she took off her hat and used the bandana to wipe the sweat off her face and the back of her neck underneath her pony tail.
"Cheryl…"
She stopped at the gate and saw Gloria jogging up to her.
"Thanks for your help today."
; "No problem. I like it out here."
"Did you hear that I had to report someone yesterday?"
"No, I didn't. Who was it?"
"John Lario."
"Why? What happened?"
Gloria motioned for her to step outside of the enclosure, away from the other gardeners who were still washing up at the spigot. "He was tilling one of the beds, and I saw him eat a stink bug."
"Uggh!" Cheryl grimaced. "Are you sure—"
"Oh girl…let me tell you! He wasn't just looking for some extra protein in his diet. That bug's legs were still kicking when he put it in his mouth, and I could see that he was starting to get a rash."
"Where is he now?" Cheryl asked, after closing her eyes for a second to erase the gross image from her head.
"The guards took him away. He's either in quarantine or put down."
"That's a bummer. He was a nice guy. He taught me a lot when I worked on his crew."
Gloria nodded her head in agreement then looked down and swirled an arc in the dirt with her leather sandal. Her chin and dark brown eyes were raised up high before she began her plea. "So…I was wondering. I've got an opening, and you're one of the best I've got. Maybe you could quit the patrol and work here full time. You know…sometimes the prickly squash vines bite or the bees sting, but it's a heck of a lot safer than shooting guns and risking your life every day."
"Thank you." Cheryl said after a second. "It's tempting, but I don’t think I could stay this far away from the front lines, not knowing what's going on out there." As much as she'd like to have more of those Zen moments in the garden, it wasn't reality. Reality was the fact that they were living in a military fort in the middle of the desert, surrounded by unknown numbers of walking dead people that wanted to eat them. How could anyone just plant vegetables all day and pretend to be oblivious?
"There's nothing I can do to change your mind?"
"No. But, really…thank you. I'll see you next Friday."
She left Gloria standing at the gate, feeling saddened at having to turn her down. It wasn’t a hard decision, though. She had to stay in the loop of the crisis developments by being on patrol. There just didn't seem to be any other way to live from day to day. It was possible to imagine life could be easier if she could be one of the ignorant. Errr…uninformed. Those people could live semi-normal lives, but she'd bet a week's worth of food rations that Gloria and anyone else with a civilian inside job didn't have any clue how bad the attack was yesterday. And those in charge weren't going to tell them. They didn't want the thousand-plus residents to panic or to grab a gun and go on a vigilante killing spree that might cause someone to get killed by friendly fire or accidently open a hole in the defense system.
A few minutes later, Cheryl was on her way back to her quarters to change out of her dirty clothes when she decided to swing by the sundry shop to get some birthday wrapping paper for the dice. The line inside was long, so she took her time browsing the shelves of the ever-changing goods that included things like toothpaste, cotton swabs, candy bars, thread, and flip flops. Unlike her last visit when the store had been packed with goods, some of the shelves were now completely empty. She picked up a few things, knowing they might not be available next time she visited. Then, she grabbed one of the last packages of wrapping paper, choosing the Spiderman print over a pink princess design. She figured Mark would have a good chuckle over it.
Twenty minutes later, after making it up to the store register and paying for her finds with her ration card, she was back in the crowded market area on her way back home when she saw Mark in a chair in the fort's only barbershop. He was chatting up the woman working the scissors on his hair—a surprisingly attractive woman. She had long black hair that hung nearly to her waist, two large silver hoop earrings framing her rosy cheeks, and she wore a white peasant blouse and a short skirt that exposed her lean, brown legs.
Their backs were to her, so neither of them saw her approach. Feeling a bit mischievous, she snuck up behind them and waited for a pause in the conversation, so she could startle him with a hug.
"Can you shave it there?" Mark asked, pointing to the right side of his head.
"Okay," the woman said. "One strip, honey?"
"Yeah, just on that side. A wide arc, tapering smaller in the back behind the ear."
It was a trend among those who worked the patrol units, singling them out as brave saviors of the fort, even when they were out of uniform. It had been adopted by the younger guys first, some who also got their unit number tattooed in the bare spot, but lately some of the guys in their thirties and forties, and even older, were shaving the sides of their heads too. Cheryl bit her tongue, deciding not to give away her presence just yet.
"You one of them patrol guys?" the woman asked, smacking a wad of gum.
"Yeah. I work the battlements and sometimes the baiting stations."
"Ohhh…why's a handsome guy like you out shooting those stupid zombies instead of working in here where the ladies can have a chance at ya?"
He glanced up at her with a grin. "Not much choice. I'm a Specialist in the Army. Marksmanship Unit."
"Good with guns, then. So, I bet you're pretty good with your hands, huh handsome?"
Mark laughed.
Cheryl felt her body tense. Okay…shut her down now…
"You like to go to the Dance Hall?"
"Sometimes," Mark said.
No you don't. You hate that place! Cheryl's feet remained glued to their spot and she felt a prickly heat cover her face.
"They're having a good party tonight. It's a mix up with some retro music, some salsa, and some techno. Maybe, I'll see you there," the woman said as she finished trimming near the spot she'd just shaved.
"Sounds like fun," he said, glancing up with a warm smile. "I might swing by."
"Okay." She used her hands to brush the stray, pale hairs off his shoulders. "You're all done."
Hopping up, he began to fish in his pocket for his ration card.
"I'm a pretty good dancer…especially after a couple of drinks."
He turned around to face her. There was a pink glow his cheeks, and he was about to say something back when he realized he was being watched.
"Cheryl!" His pockmarked cheeks flushed a deeper red as he stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans, seeming to remember that he had been looking for something. "What are you doing here?"
"I…"
He found the card and handed it to the woman who'd cut his hair. Cheryl watched her totter away to the register on spiked heels that looked like they had no place in this post-apocalyptic compound, unless they doubled as weapons that could be used to pierce an Eater's skull. She envisioned one of those shiny, black heels sticking out of the hussy's head with her eyes rolled up into her sockets. It would probably take a bullet to finish her off…
"Cheryl?"
"I…I...was just headed back to quarters after my garden shift and saw you in here."
"Whatcha got there?" he asked, pointing to the paper sack in her hand.
"Just some toiletries and stuff."
"Hmmm…" he said with a smirk. "Can I see?"
"No!" she said, hiding the sack behind her.
"Well…if it's birthday contraband, you may as well not bother. I'm working the south baiting station all day on Sunday."
"On your birthday? That sucks."
Mark shrugged. "I couldn't get online this morning. I think it's because they keep changing the Internet access codes, so I need to buy another one. Sunday shifts pay extra credits."
The woman came back their way. She walked right by Cheryl as if she was a ghost—or some grungy, mud-covered statue that wasn’t worth acknowledgement. Then, she handed Mark his card and looked him in the eyes, giving him a wink before calling her next customer over to her chair with a wiggle of her finger.
"You going back to the room?" Cheryl asked.
"Nah. Going to the cafeteria for lunch. Want to join me?"
"I'm really not hungry right no
w." A true statement, because her stomach seemed to be filled with angry, warring factions of butterflies.
"See you later then…"
He gave her a quick hug then signaled to someone over her shoulder in the market hall crowd. "Jake…wait up!"
She watched him join a soldier in the crowd, someone she didn't recognize who wore the military-issued sand-colored t-shirt, camouflage pants, and a cap. A second later, they disappeared, amongst the sea of bobbing heads.
Instead of taking her bag full of goodies back to room, she headed towards an empty bench. She sat down and watched the people pass by. It was an amazing menagerie of all sorts of men, women, and children. The ones that looked ragged and weary were likely new arrivals who had endured horrific events before making the hazardous journey through the desert or successfully begging to be rescued by a passing safari team. Having made it through quarantine, they carried what was left of their former life in backpacks or plastic garbage sacks. Others, like the couple in matching hunter camouflage outfits with rifles slung over their shoulders looked like vigilantes ready to spray a swath of death into the crowd at the first sign of trouble. There were plenty in between the two extremes—families who huddled together in tight formations lest any new threat tried to pull them apart again, roaming gangs of teenagers chattering like flocks of sparrows, and shell-shocked individuals who seemed to be walking in a dream state being pulled along by invisible cobwebs.
She closed her eyes, listening to the cacophony of voices. When she opened her eyes again a couple of minutes later, there was a little boy standing directly across from her, staring. The preschooler with dark hair and cherubic cheeks reminded her of the little boy in the Thomas the Tank Engine pajamas she'd seen from her temporarily safe perch inside the sandwich shop back in Colorado. She knew it wasn't him. That seemed so far away and so long ago… and there was little chance that boy was still alive.
"Mama?"
"Where is your mama?" she asked.
His lower lip pouted, and water filled the lower rims of his hazel eyes.
Eaters (Book 2): The Resistance Page 5