by James Cook
“And you have every right to be.”
We walked a little farther in silence, then out of curiosity I asked, “Ty, what happened to your hair?”
He chuckled. “Head lice. You believe that shit? My first week in the field with the salvage crew, and I come down with fucking head lice. Had to shave it bald and douse my head and all my clothes with powder. Had to buy a new bedroll too.”
I couldn’t help it, I laughed. “Talk about kicking a man while he’s down.”
Tyrel smiled.
“Heard anything from Lance lately?”
“Yeah. He’s back to being a cop again, works on the south side of town. Haven’t seen him in a couple of weeks, but last I heard he’s doing all right.”
“Glad to hear it.”
A short time later, we arrived at Ty’s street. “I’m up this way,” he said, pointing down a row of shipping containers virtually indistinguishable from the street I lived on.
I said, “Don’t be a stranger, Ty. You know where we live, now. You’re welcome any time.”
“Duly noted. Y’all take care.”
I put my arm around Sophia, feeling the tension in her shoulders, and held her tight against me on the walk home. When we arrived, I opened the padlock, unwrapped the chain from the front doors, and swung them wide. The two of us sat on the floor, drank tepid water, and stared at nothing. The place seemed too quiet, too empty, and even more squalid than usual. It is not until someone is gone that you realize what an influence they have on your life, and your home. There is an energy to each human being, to each life, and it affects the people around them whether they realize it or not.
It was mid-afternoon before Sophia spoke again. “He’ll be all right, won’t he?”
I glanced up at the soft chestnut eyes, full lips, and the delicate fall of hair. My heart constricted at how beautiful she was, even dirty and dressed in clothes little better than rags. The fact I could not provide a better life for her made me want to break something. “He’s a smart man, Sophia. He knows how to take care of himself.”
“Just tell me he’s going to be okay. Please.”
“He’s going to be okay.”
She pushed her hair out of her face, and said, “You know what? Don’t. It sounds like you’re bullshitting me.”
I did not know what to say to that, so as usual, I didn’t say anything.
FORTY-NINE
The warmth of summer faded into the chill of autumn.
We passed the days as best we could, living and working and hoping that someday, somehow, things would get better. It was the same hope people had before the Outbreak when they climbed in their cars, or public transportation, and whisked off to jobs they hated in order to pull in a paycheck and keep the fire burning for another day. There are no promises, and some days it seems pointless, but what else are you supposed to do?
In the mornings, I would go to the end of the street and get our water, carry it back, and then we would have breakfast. Afterward, I left for my job building the wall, while Sophia left for hers on a cleanup crew. We had to make sure the place was locked up tight before leaving, as theft was rampant in the refugee districts. Leaving a door or a hatch unlocked was as good as throwing your possessions into the street.
Sophia’s job, from the way she described it, mostly consisted of tearing down buildings with heavy equipment and then loading the refuse into large trucks. My job involved walking an hour to the job site, engaging in backbreaking labor for ten hours, punctuated by a thirty minute lunch break, and then enduring the long slog home.
Some days it rained, and the job site shut down. The rest was nice, but the government docked our pay.
In the evenings, either Sophia or I would heat some water in a metal pot and wash one another with damp rags. I found it amazing how little water it takes to wash when you have no soap, and consequently, do not have to worry about rinsing.
Sometimes, when we had the strength, we made love. Most nights, however, we ate a bland meal, read books from the public library (delivered to the refugee districts by volunteers), and slept. The next day, we got up and did it all again.
The fighting north of town never stopped, but it did slacken in pace. There were trenches, miles and miles of trenches, dug along the northern perimeter a few miles from the city. The Army crouched behind these trenches at night, and during the day, they made forays in armored vehicles. They located hordes, lured them to various killing grounds, and waited while fortified bulldozers, bucket loaders, and other heavy construction equipment squashed the infected into paste. With the undead immobilized, the troops dug enormous mass graves and pushed the bodies in by the thousands. Something close to half of them were still kicking and biting when they went over the edge, but the troops buried them anyway. It was easier and less dangerous than finishing them off, and used less ammo.
Tyrel came around to visit once a week, usually on Saturday evenings when we did not have to worry about getting up for work the next day. He always brought dinner from one of the few restaurants operating near the refugee districts, a luxury Sophia and I could not afford. But for Tyrel, being in a volunteer militia meant he had ample opportunity to scavenge the countryside and loot the bodies of infected he killed. A lucrative, if dangerous, line of business.
When Sophia wasn’t around, which was not often, he tried to talk me into leaving the Construction Corps and joining up with his militia. Due to his advanced training and combat savvy, he had been promoted to a senior leadership position within the ranks.
“I’m in charge of hiring,” he told me often. “All I have to do is say the word. You wouldn’t have to break your back anymore, and you’d make a hell of a lot more trade.” (The word ‘trade’ had come to replace ‘money’ in casual conversation.)
My usual reply was, “Yeah, and Sophia would cut my balls off.”
“No, she wouldn’t. She’d just be pissed, and you wouldn’t get laid until you started bringing home food worth eating and some nice furniture. Then she’d get with the program.”
I resolved not to test Tyrel’s theory, and I didn’t. At least not until a Tuesday evening in late September when I found Sophia crying and everything changed.
I came home from work the same as any other day. My feet hurt, my back was a wreck, and I had the beginnings of a headache riding over the horizon. I wanted nothing more than to let Sophia wipe the dust from my skin, eat something warm, and sleep for ten hours. But when I turned up the driveway and saw the doors open, I went on my guard.
“Sophia? You home?”
Her voice, tearful. “Yes. I’m here.”
I walked up the drive and stepped through the door. Sophia had started a fire and sat next to it, face in her hands, wiping tears from her cheeks. I hurried over and knelt beside her. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
She didn’t respond, just kept sobbing. I pulled her hands down and tilted her face up. “Sophia, look at me. What happened? Did someone hurt you?”
When I walked in the door, my mind immediately went to Lauren and the attacks she had endured. If someone had hurt my Sophia, they were dead. There would be no remorse, no hesitation, no mercy, just a movement at the corner of their eye and then nothing. My teeth ground together as I tried to remember where I had put my fighting dagger.
“No, Caleb. No one hurt me.”
I blinked a few times, let out a breath, and released Sophia’s wrists. My fingers left red marks. “Okay. Can you to tell me what’s going on?”
“Sit down, Caleb.”
I was getting very tired of people telling me to sit down, but I did it anyway. “Sophia, you’re freaking me out.”
She took my hands and held them. “Caleb …”
“What?”
She looked up, and the fire caught in her eyes, and they gleamed like stars in the winter sky. My breath caught in my throat and I wondered if I would ever breathe again. I leaned closer, brushed my lips against her cheek, and pulled her close to me.
“Sophia, whatever it is, you
can tell me. I’m not going anywhere. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. I’m right here.”
She put her face in the hollow of my shoulder, took a long, shaky breath and said, “Caleb, I’m pregnant.”
*****
The next day, I traded my Beretta for a new pair of boots.
After months of mixing concrete, shoveling dirt, and exposure to wind and sun, my old clothes were just about done for. I picked out five new outfits of sturdy outdoor wear and paid for them with four boxes of nine-millimeter cartridges. Everything else I needed was waiting for me at home.
Done with shopping, I left the market, walked to the offices of the Civil Construction Corps at The Citadel Mall, and turned in my resignation. The clerk looked hard at me across the table.
“You sure you want to do this?” she said. “It’s getting harder to find jobs with the city these days.”
“I have something else lined up.”
She shrugged and stuck my form in a box. “Well, best of luck then.”
Next was a visit to Tyrel. I wasn’t sure if he would be home, but luck was with me. He opened the door, took a moment to read my face, and knew exactly what I was there for. “About damn time,” he said. “Come in and have a seat. I’ll put on some tea.”
The tea tasted better than anything I had ever drank. Tyrel didn’t have any sugar, just the artificial stuff, but considering my options over the last few months had consisted of either cold water or hot water, it was heaven in an enameled cup.
Tyrel sat down across from me, a satisfied smirk on his face. His chairs were proper chairs, complete with foam and cloth and springs. I leaned back and tried to remember the last time I had sat in a comfortable chair. Sophia and I often joked to one another that we lived like the Japanese, most of our time spent sitting on the floor.
“So,” Tyrel said, “what changed your mind?”
I sipped my tea, let it rest on my tongue a few seconds, and swallowed it gratefully. “Sophia is pregnant.”
His cup stopped halfway to his mouth. “Seriously?”
I nodded.
He put his cup down on a little wooden table. The presence of such luxury made me feel like a peasant in a lord’s manor. “I don’t know what to say, Caleb. Congratulations?”
“I’ll take it.”
My old friend smiled. “Congratulations, then. You’re gonna be a daddy.”
I ignored the flip-flopping in my stomach at that statement and smiled back. “I’ll do my best.”
“Does Sophia know?”
“Well, being that she’s the one who told me …”
“Hardy-har, smart ass. You know what I mean.”
I sighed and held my tea in my lap. “No. I haven’t told her.”
“She’s going to be pissed.”
“Yes. Yes she will. But she’ll get over it.”
“Well, I think this calls for more than just a cup of tea.” Tyrel stood up, lit an oil lamp, closed and locked the front doors, and started digging through a box behind his chair. A few seconds later, he returned with two small glasses and a bottle of Buffalo Trace. While he poured, I gulped down the rest of the tea, not daring to waste it.
I accepted a glass of amber liquid and gave it a little swirl in the golden lamplight. Tyrel raised his in the air and said, “To fatherhood, prosperity, and better days ahead.”
“Cheers.” We clinked glasses and drank.
FIFTY
Sophia did not take the news well at all.
In fact, I’m reasonably certain she was just next door to a rage blackout. And that was before she began throwing random missiles at my head. Lucky for me her aim was off, although there were a few near misses.
I explained myself in a reasonable manner. I told her we could barely feed ourselves, much less a baby. She countered that other people had kids and seemed to be getting by just fine. I told her that was true, but those kids were all toddlers or older. I had not seen a baby since arriving at the Springs. She told me she had, perfectly healthy ones.
I asked her what she planned to do after the baby was born. It was not as if there was a plethora of childcare options to choose from. She glared angrily and said we would figure something out.
Sensing an opening, I said, “Sophia, you’re going to have to stay home with the baby. Without the food your job brings in, we’ll go hungry.”
“No,” she replied firmly. “We won’t. We’ll just have to make due with less.”
My temper began heating up. “Listen. I’m not going to raise a child half-assed. I have valuable skills. I’m going to use them. I’m going to provide for this family by doing what I do best, and that’s it. End of discussion.”
Wrong. Thing. To say.
I slept on the roof that night and spent the rest of the week at Tyrel’s place.
Early Monday morning, when I knew Sophia would be home, I went back to get my things. There was a very shrill voice in my head worried that Sophia had thrown my belongings in the street, but when I turned into the driveway, there were no signs of anything having been discarded. The smell of flatbread and boiled potatoes wafted through the half-closed doors. I knocked and poked my head in.
“Sophia?”
She adjusted the light on a wind-up lantern. “Right here.”
I stepped inside. My possessions were exactly where I had left them. I wanted to talk, but I didn’t have time for another argument, so I said, “I just came to get my things.”
She gestured to an old wooden crate containing my weapons and tactical gear. “It’s right there.”
The M-4 was still clean and well oiled. The spare ammo in the P-mags had not left the pouches on my MOLLE vest. I detached the holster for my Beretta, regretting I’d had to trade it away. The knife, multi-tool, crowbar, hatchet, and all my other equipment were in their places. I suited up, put on my hat, hung a pair of goggles from my vest, and wound a scarf around my neck.
Sophia kept her attention on the tiny pot and small frying pan on top of the fireplace. I turned to leave, hesitated, and said, “Should I find another place to stay?”
She did not look up. “Do you want to?”
“No.”
“Then come home.”
A breeze could have knocked me over. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. Probably overnight at least.”
“I’ll be here.”
Not wanting to push my luck, I walked toward the door. As I pushed it open, I heard Sophia say, “Caleb?”
I turned to look at her.
“Be careful.”
“Always.”
I left.
*****
It was not until I exited the north gate that I realized I had not been outside the wall since arriving in Colorado Springs.
It was cathartic, in a way. I had been so constrained by my limited, miserable existence, scraping and breaking my back and struggling to get by from one day to the next, I had nearly forgotten there was a world out there. A dangerous world, granted. A world not possessed of the relative safety and security of life behind the wall, but one with open spaces, salvage free for the taking, and no one to stop you and challenge you if you were out past curfew. The only curfew in the wastelands was nightfall, enforced by the dead, and if you were quick and smart and handy with your weapons, you could challenge that authority without reprisal. For a while, anyway.
On the way out, we passed a column of men marching in identical orange coveralls, their ankles tethered together with leg irons. Two policemen on horseback armed with shotguns watched them trudge wearily away from the gate. I nudged Tyrel on the arm and said, “That what I think it is?”
He glanced toward the prisoners. “Yep. Going out to work on the west side of the wall. Poor bastards.”
“Takes something serious to be sentenced to hard labor, right?”
He shrugged. “Serious is a relative term. I know a fella got ten months for stealing a sack of potatoes. Just depends on what mood the judge is in, I guess. Show up on the wrong day, and you might f
ind yourself looking at a few years. Best to stay on the right side of the law around here.”
I watched one of the men stumble and fall, then roll onto his back and stare at the sky. His chest heaved, eyes closed, mouth hanging open like a tired dog. One of the cops gestured with his shotgun and shouted something I could not hear. The man behind the fallen prisoner reached down and hauled him to his feet. The cop snarled something else, nudged the prisoner in the back with the barrel of his gun, and the column started moving again.
“Seems like a shitty thing to do to a man, regardless of his offense.”
“Maybe,” Tyrel said, “But you don’t see too many repeat offenders.”
I lingered a moment more, watching the prisoners march westward. Everyone in town knew what happened to people who ran afoul of the law. There was too much work to be done and too little food to allow convicts to languish in prison cells, so they were forced to work on the wall from sunup to sundown, fed once a day, and given barely enough water to stay alive. No one liked it, but it made for a hell of a criminal deterrent.
Before that moment, I had harbored a vague, self-centered disregard for the suffering of the convicted. But there is a difference between hearing about a thing and seeing it for yourself. The suffering of others loses its abstract distance when you add a human face. It bothered me.
“Come on,” Tyrel said over his shoulder. “Long walk ahead of us.”
Our destination was a neighborhood on the outskirts of Monument, about twenty miles to the north. One of the squad leaders in Tyrel’s platoon had scouted it a few weeks ago, and after deliberation, Tyrel and the platoon commander, a man named LaGrange, decided it was worth investigating.
LaGrange was short, stocky, had a face like a frying pan, and a nose that had been broken no less than five times. And that’s being conservative. He ran first squad, Tyrel second, while third and fourth were headed up by a couple of hard-cases named Henning and Caraway.
Rather than march single file, we spread out at squad strength over an area roughly half a mile long. One of the earliest lessons Tyrel and LaGrange had learned was it was better to disperse their lines than congregate in one place. Keeping the squads separated meant if a squad found themselves surrounded by infected, they could radio for help from one of the others. The best way to deal with hordes was to give them multiple targets to pursue, break them up, and once divided, run far away. But to do that, we had to maintain a minimum distance.