After the Fall

by Robin Summers

  “Running away so soon?”

  Shit.

  The morning light has not yet penetrated the recesses of the wraparound porch, and Buck’s face is obscured by shadow. His silhouette is clearly visible to me, however, and I curse myself for having been careless. He leans forward in his wicker chair, resting his forearms on his knees as he stares me down. His eyes shine even in the darkness, boring into me.

  I straighten up, squaring my shoulders toward him. I’m not about to let him shame me.

  “I’m not running. Just getting back to what matters.”

  Buck comes down the steps, blocking my path. He searches my face, and I fight down a flush of humiliation. We stand that way in silence for quite some time, him refusing to back off, and me refusing to back down. His gaze is unyielding, and I try to match it.

  I know I am doing the right thing.

  I know.

  Finally, he relents. He takes a small step back, sliding his hands into his pockets. I ignore the disappointment he tries to hide.

  “If that’s what you want, then I guess you should go.”

  I nod, any words I might say stuck in my throat.

  “Might as well at least take some supplies.”

  Buck turns, heading into the house. I stay where I am, not quite knowing whether I should wait or follow him inside, but lacking the energy to choose either. My indecision becomes its own answer. My feet grow roots in the shallow grass below the porch, and I stare up at the porch, finding solace in the gaps between the wooden slats. Sometimes emptiness is the only safe place you can hide.

  I hear the faint clatter and shuffle of Buck working his way through the house, ostensibly gathering things I will need but making no overt haste to complete his task. His delaying tactics might make me laugh, the image of him puttering through the house like some old codger searching for a lightbulb might even make me outright guffaw, if I wasn’t in such a hateful mood. Buck, however, isn’t what I am hating.

  My self-loathing is interrupted by a new sound carried faintly on the breeze that has kicked up without my noticing. I turn to find Zeke and his dog-pound stalking by, packs and duffels slung over their shoulders. They each glare at me as they approach, except for Zeke, whose eyes are trained five feet in front of him.

  What should be obvious takes me a few beats to figure out. I can’t take my eyes off the set of Zeke’s jaw, the muscles twitching there just under the surface as the three men near. I feel the pulse of it in my head, rhythmically pounding a solemn, ferocious song. Somewhere behind me the screen door claps shut, and Buck’s boots thump down the aged wood.

  He sidles up next to me, silently watching the parade of angry souls. I don’t really expect him to explain what is happening, nor do I need him to by now. My addled brain has finally caught up. Buck is sending the boys packing. Last night had been the final straw.

  Oh great. Traveling companions. This should be fun.

  If they notice my own impending departure, they don’t mention it. They don’t mention anything at all, a fact for which I am grateful. I just want them to pass without incident, to leave me and Buck and the farm far, far behind. I know it shouldn’t matter, but I am relieved they won’t be staying on the farm after I leave. Even if that means possibly running into them outside the farm’s protective gates.

  “Fucking dyke.”

  Spoke too soon.

  Buck tenses beside me, and I feel the answering tension coil in my belly. I really, really hate that word, although I suppose it isn’t the word I hate as much as what assholes like these mean by it.

  Still, I choose to ignore the slur. What does it matter, anyway? They are leaving, as am I. I feel Buck’s gaze upon me. Whether he is waiting for my action or asking me for permission, I don’t know. Either way, I give a small shake of my head. It just isn’t worth it.

  I’m not sure which of the two dogs spewed the words, although I know it didn’t come from Zeke. The voice is all wrong. If I had to bet, I would put my money on the shorter of the two, the one with an extra-snide twinkle in his eye just for me. I feel so fucking special.

  At least Kate doesn’t have to hear this shit anymore.

  That thought cheers me, at least a little.

  “You boys need anything else?” Buck asks, as if compelled to try and take care of the men even as he banishes them.

  Zeke stops, his boys coming to an abrupt halt behind him. His head is slow to turn, but when it does his eyes are full of fire. I can feel flames lick my skin. I have a sudden urge to call for the fire department. Or maybe just make fire-engine noises.

  Oh yeah. I’m perfectly sane.

  “We’re fine.” Zeke seethes, staring Buck down.

  For the fire in his eyes, his voice is like ice. The contrast shakes me. I can’t wait for them to get the hell out of here.

  “I’m sorry it had to turn out like this.”

  Damn it, Buck. Just shut up and let them pass.

  I know Buck means well, but all he is doing is stoking the flames. The last person I knew who tried to make peace with the devil paid for it with his life.

  Zeke’s jaw tightens to the point I think it might explode from the pressure, but he remains silent. His only response is a terse nod. I almost have to give him credit for his self-control. Almost.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” one of the men screeches at Zeke, breaking the implied order of silence.

  Zeke turns, glaring at the man, but to no effect. The tall one has decided to join the mutiny.

  “We’re really just gonna let this shit go down? Let him kick us out over some dyke bitch?”

  “That’s enough. Zeke, you and your boys best be leaving. Right fucking now.”

  If Zeke’s voice had been ice, Buck’s is an Antarctic midnight. From the looks on their faces, I have a feeling they have never, ever, heard the head of Burninghead Farm curse.

  Zeke seems less impressed. A barely suppressed rage is brewing, and I wonder if Zeke will be able to control it. Or if he even wants to.

  After a moment that verges on extended, Zeke turns back toward the road as if to resume his exit. His brothers follow suit. My exhale of relief is short-lived, however, when Zeke pivots and strides directly up to Buck.

  “This is a new world, Buck,” he sneers, the words slithering off his tongue like lacerations. “This world belongs to the strong, not the weak. You and your little family are never going to make it if you’re not prepared to make the hard choices.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Look around. The old world is dead. And I say good riddance. There is no room for equivocation, or experimentation, or deviation,” Zeke seethes, his venomous gaze now directed at me. I refuse to give in to the chill that sweeps through me. “There’s only one way for the new world to survive, and it sure as hell isn’t by letting the few women who are left reject their God-given roles.”

  Something snaps inside. I step forward, invading Zeke’s pulpit before my mind officially decides I’ve had enough. Zeke meets me there, effectively pushing Buck out of the debate.

  “What are you gonna do, little girl?” Zeke spits out the words, towering over me with an inhuman glee.

  “Come on, Zeke. Just go now. Please.”

  Zeke ignores Buck’s plea, as do I. My blood rages with the memory of death and violation.

  “A few months back I met some guys like you, Zeke,” I say, my voice a mixture of icy calm and molten will.

  I will not back down. I am done with backing down.

  “They thought they knew what was best. Especially for the women. Sow the seeds and inherit the earth, right Zeke?”

  He doesn’t respond verbally, but I see it. He knows exactly what I am talking about. He leans in, his breath heavy on my face. Heat rises in my cheeks, anger spinning in my head, making me dizzy with its force. But I hold my ground, unwilling to do anything less.

  “One day,” he breathes, “one day you’re going to get exactly what’s coming to you.”

&
nbsp; “Been there, done that, Zeke. But if you want to try, bring it on.”

  I don’t know why Zeke doesn’t take a swing at me, but the blow doesn’t come. I push for it. Maybe even want it. And he and his friends certainly could take me. Maybe they are afraid of Buck. Maybe they are afraid of what the rest of the farm will do when they find out.

  Zeke turns, finally, after I’ve seen what little is left of my life flash before me at least twice, and storms off down the road that leads away from Burninghead Farm. After a couple of stutter steps, the other two follow.

  I watch them go, watch the shadows their retreating forms cast in the early morning sunlight lengthen and fade in the dust, watch their bodies dissolve into a hazy apparition and then disappear altogether.

  My breathing slows. At first I think I am just releasing the fuel that was driving the fire beneath my skin. I turn to Buck, whose face is lit up with pride and a little bit of awe. I have to admit, I am pretty proud, myself. I stood up to Zeke, and I feel good. And whole. And extremely nauseated.

  And then, the world goes black.

  Chapter Twelve

  Light has this way, every now and then, of slipping into your consciousness without revealing where or when it began. It brushes your skin and you feel the weight of it, wrapping you in its warmth. The glow surrounds you, indistinct yet focused, a guiding hand out of the shadows. The last thing you sense, before the light reveals its true identity, is the sudden absence of darkness. And then you know.

  I feel it, the light. Holding me. Comforting me. I am self-aware, but only in the vaguest sense. Where there had been cold, there is heat. Where there had been absence, there is presence. Where there had been darkness, there is the light.

  My eyes flutter open slowly, adjusting to the change from nothing to something. I blink once, then again, over and over in search of some sort of clarity. Greasy streaks mar my vision, fighting to keep me blind to the light. The remnants of shadow.

  The tears come, doing what they do, washing away the last of the darkness. The room around me is bright, white and blue with cheerful daisies peeking out from behind curtains of gold. My arms are heavy, even trapped, and a slight panic sets in before my sluggish brain recognizes my prison for what it is. A blanket. A big, fluffy blue blanket. A big, fluffy blue blanket that was not on my bed last night. And I am surrounded by walls covered in flowers that definitely do not adorn the walls of room 39. Which leaves me with a question, or maybe two.

  Who in the hell’s bed am I in, and how did I get here?

  I try sitting up but quickly discover it is a very bad idea. If the quivering masses of gelatin my arm and leg muscles have become are not a rather obvious clue, the sudden and overwhelming dizziness fairly well confirms it. I am on a rickety old rollercoaster doing nauseating loop de loops, and I need it to stop moving. Right now.

  The creak of hinges sounds faintly in my head, but I am too preoccupied with my alcohol-free hangover to care.

  “You’re awake.”

  She is a vision gliding into the room, an angel in blue jeans, complete with halo, although that is more likely a remnant of my…collapse? coma? abduction by aliens? than an angelic aureole. She smiles that smile at me, the one that would make me weak in the knees if I wasn’t already horizontal. She rounds the bed and comes to rest at my side. Her fingers are cool against my forehead, and my eyes flutter closed involuntarily at the gentleness of her touch.

  My mouth is chalky and sour, my throat scratched and burned, and every time I think of speaking my stomach does another round of somersaults. I assume speaking is going to be a bit of a challenge, and decide to go slow.

  “What happened?” I scratch out, my voice a tangle of grit and glass. I swallow thickly and try to clear the sediment from my throat. It stings even worse than I thought it would, but I try to ignore it.

  “You passed out,” she says gently, patting my arm.

  “How long?”

  “How long were you out?”

  I nod. The throbbing in my head from moving is a bit easier to take than the fire in my throat from speaking.

  “Two days.”

  I feel relatively rested, more than I have been in quite some time, and yet weaker than I can ever remember feeling. It’s pretty odd, really.

  “We were worried about you.”

  Maybe it is my near delirium, but it seems to me her voice carries a world of emotion, far more than such a simple statement would imply. Her fingers brush my cheek as she searches my face, and I swear I can feel the stroke of her hand against my heart.

  The door creaks again. “You’re awake.” It’s Buck this time, though I barely notice. I am too focused on the tilt of her head and how her eyes crinkle at the corners as she locks her gaze with mine.

  “Fever’s down,” she tells Buck. She checks my forehead again, as if she wants to be sure. Then her hand falls away from my face, and I mourn the loss.

  “Good, good,” he says, stepping up to the bed. He looks down at me kindly. “You had us worried there. That was a nasty infection you had. I wasn’t sure you were going to wake up. Kate was though. She took really good care of you.”

  “You took care of me?” I croak, cursing the vulnerability in my voice. I am just too damn weak to hide my insecurity. I need to know that she cares, need to feel her compassion directed at me and me alone, need to have that something between us wrap itself around me and hold me close.

  “She sure did. Barely left your side, as a matter of fact.”

  She drops her gaze, her cheeks flushing. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “Sure it is,” Buck continues, either not noticing her embarrassment or not caring. Hearing the pride in his voice, I figure it is the former. He turns to Kate. “I thought we were going to have to hit you over the head just to force you to get some sleep.”

  She meets my eyes hesitantly, as if she is afraid I will somehow reject her for having cared. But I don’t. How can I? Buck’s words are music to my ears, her actions a peaceful quiet in the raging storm.

  I curve my lips into the best smile I can manage, which given my state probably resembles a goofy-toothed snarl more than a grin. Still, her face lights up, and I feel as giddy as a schoolgirl at her first high school dance.

  Her hand slides along the blanket and slips over mine. I feel each millimeter of progression, a glorious torture against my flesh. Her skin is velvet, soft and warm and heavenly to touch. She searches for confirmation, for acceptance, for desire of this. She is reaching out to me, offering herself in a way I have no right to expect or even want. But I do want. So much.

  I edge my fingers out, sliding them between hers, finding a home beneath her palm. She grins shyly even as her eyes sparkle with confidence. The contrast nearly makes my heart stop.

  I hear the distant sound of a shuffling foot, followed by a throat being cleared. Clearly, Buck is trying, in his delicate way, to let us know he is still in the room. Kate’s expression tells me she caught the not-so-subtle gesture as well.

  “So, I guess you’ll be staying a little while longer then? No more sneaking off before dawn?”

  It is like a blindfold being removed.

  Damn.

  It all comes rushing back. The plague, my parents, the barn, Zeke, my journey…I’d been so caught up in Kate I’d nearly forgotten.

  I’d decided to leave.

  I’d been trying to leave.

  I need to leave.

  Damn it.

  I find regret in Buck’s expression. He misread things, and he knows it. He thought I’d made a choice, but I hadn’t. I’d just forgotten the last one I had made.

  I can’t look back at Kate. I release her hand, slipping my fingers out of hers as I start to slip my wall back into place. I have a mission. I have someplace to be. I can’t…won’t…stay.

  “Well, I’ve got things to do. I’m glad you’re awake. You should be well enough in a few days.”

  Her words hang in the air. Our moment is gone, and I wish with everything
I have that I could get it back, even as I push it away. I stare down at the blanket covering me, focusing on the worn threads poking out here and there. They are a distraction. A cruel but necessary distraction.

  Coward.

  I know she is gone before I hear the door close. I can feel her absence in every corner, screaming at me to fix it. A banshee in the silence.

  My eyes meet Buck’s. He sighs, but I do not see the disappointment I expect to find, only compassion. I am as relieved as I am resentful.

  I want him to hate me.

  I want him to fix me.

  “You should get some rest,” he says gently.

  “That’s all I’ve been doing for two days, it seems.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “What I need is a drink.”

  My words are full of the venom I hold for myself.

  “I think I can accommodate you there. Feel up for a walk?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  I’m not sure you could call what I am doing walking. I shuffle, trip, flop, and fluster my way along after Buck as my legs reacquaint themselves with solid ground. We make our way down the hallways and, to my horror, stairs of Buck’s home, where I have apparently been since my collapse two days ago. Buck is patient, respecting my need to make it on my own but hovering close enough I know he will catch me if I fall, my pride be damned. I don’t tell him how it frustrates me to think of myself lying there, helpless and drooling—in my nightmare-image of my mini-coma, I drooled all over the place—but I don’t seem to have to. Buck is no fool, and I am certainly no enigma.

  The house is small but comfortable, cozy in an antiquated sort of way. My legs grow more stable as we wander the first floor, but my exhaustion digs in deeper with each step. Buck chatters on about the house, about his daughters, about life before the plague, and quite possibly leprechauns and rainbows for all the attention I am paying him. It’s not that I don’t want to hear it, or even that I’m not interested. In truth, I kind of am interested, but his words just bounce around in my head, never quite landing in a coherent sentence.