After the Fall

by Robin Summers

  “Yes?” she says a bit hesitantly, losing some of her bravado.

  “Good,” I respond, smiling broadly. My heart thunders in my chest, and it is no longer from worry. “Now let’s get you up and back to the farm, where someone more qualified than me can take a look at that hard head of yours.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The ride back to the farm is agonizingly slow, the wait outside the makeshift hospital room in the farmhouse where I woke up earlier in the week even slower. I pace outside the door after having been practically shoved out by Margie, who had deemed my presence in the room distracting.

  “She didn’t have to kick me out,” I mutter as I prowl the hallway. My lack of control over the situation is making me cranky. But more than that, I am worried. It’s not like we have an X-ray machine or CT scanner lying around.

  Buck chuckles behind me, but I choose to ignore him. Dunk, on the other hand, who arrived out of breath just in time for my ejection from the room, is harder to ignore.

  “Well, you did kind of get in the way.”

  I pause in my pacing to glare at him. I might have growled.

  “You threatened to shove the needle where the sun don’t shine if Margie didn’t back off,” Buck says, responding to Dunk’s silent plea for a little help.

  “Yeah, well…” I realize that threatening Buck’s daughter hadn’t been one of my brightest ideas. “But did you see the size of that needle?”

  I really had acted like an idiot. Am still acting like one.

  “Sorry,” I say with a groan, sinking back against the wall.

  “We’re not the ones you should apologize to,” Buck says with a laugh. He settles his hand on my shoulder. “She’ll be fine.”

  I search his face for reassurance as the bedroom door finally opens.

  “The patient will see you now,” Margie says sweetly to no one in particular. I shove off the wall and surge toward the open doorway, only to be stopped by a resolute Margie blocking my path. She crosses her arms in a clear challenge.

  “Sorry about before,” I squeak out.

  She nods her acceptance of my apology and steps out of my way. Kate is sitting on the bed, her legs dangling over the edge. She greets me with a warm smile. I can breathe again. She is going to be okay.

  A large bandage is taped to her forehead. My fingers reach out and skim the edge before slipping down the side of her face. She nuzzles her cheek into my hand.

  “Ahem.”

  Buck’s throat-clearing startles me. I had forgotten there was anyone else left on the planet, let alone in the hallway waiting to come into the room. I start to pull my hand away, more than a little embarrassed, but Kate’s own hand snags mine and holds it in place for a moment longer. She is telling me that this, too, is okay. Then she withdraws, and my hand falls limply to my side, having lost its home.

  “She going to be okay, Doc?” Buck asks his daughter. Dunk hovers in the doorway, his baseball cap clenched in his hands.

  “I’m fine,” Kate says dismissively. “It’s just a bump.”

  “Pretty big bump,” Margie responds, her voice stern. “And you’d do well to remember that. No riding for at least a few days, and take it easy, will you?”

  “Pfft.”

  Kate’s bravado, combined with Margie’s lecture, is making me more than a bit nervous.

  “We were worried about you, kiddo.”

  Buck’s concern seems to deflate Kate’s defiance.

  “But she is going to be all right, right?” Dunk asks quietly, taking a hesitant step farther into the room.

  “She’ll be fine,” Margie says, recognizing the true distress behind Dunk’s words. “She just needs to take it easy for a bit, despite what she may think.”

  Kate holds up her hands, surrendering to the will of the group.

  “I promise. No marathons for me.” Dunk still fidgets nervously in the corner. Kate looks him in the eye. “Promise.”

  Dunk finally relaxes.

  “Feel up to some dinner?” Buck asks, helping Kate to her feet. I stand dumbly at the side of the bed, wanting to reach out but too insecure to make a move. Kate slips her hand around my arm. For balance, I tell myself.

  “Sounds good,” she tells Buck, squeezing his arm before letting go and wrapping her free hand around the other nestled in the crook of my arm. “Lead the way?” she asks me softly. My stomach flutters.

  We take our time walking to the north barn, me and Kate, Buck, Dunk, and Margie. Along the way, we are stopped at least half a dozen times by the farm’s residents, who fuss and fret over Kate’s injury. It seems everyone has heard about our little misadventure with the horses. Kate is gracious, making time to chat with each well-wisher and always making sure they are okay, as if they were the ones who had somehow bashed their heads on a rock, but her kindness is taking its toll. The pressure on my arm increases steadily, and I can see the fatigue in her eyes. It takes everything I have not to lift Kate up into my arms and carry her the rest of the way, knocking down anyone who gets in my way. I know that’s not what she would want, and I rein it in and support her the best I can. Thankfully, Buck reads the situation and intervenes, keeping us moving and leading folks away from Kate so we can continue our way up to the barn.

  “Thank you,” she sighs as I finally ease her down at one of the dining tables in the hall. I hover protectively over her until I am sure she is settled and then sink down beside her. Dunk immediately races off to get Kate a plate of food and is back barely after having left.

  “Thanks,” she says. The boy nods, grinning like a fool, before heading back to get a plate of his own.

  “Aren’t you going to eat anything?” she asks me. I think about saying no, but my rumbling belly betrays my intentions.

  “Will you be okay? Just for a minute?”

  “I’ll be fine. You are quite the knight in shining armor, aren’t you?”

  I wonder if I have gone too far, if maybe my actions have been read as some kind of inappropriate possessiveness. I am acting on instinct, and for all I know maybe I have stepped over some invisible boundary. But her voice holds no recrimination, and I realize she is telling me I am doing right by her.

  I feel myself blushing.

  Not wanting to embarrass me further, she pats my arm and says, “Go. I’ll be right here.”

  I nod, my voice having left me, and leave to retrieve my supper. When I return, Buck, Dunk, Margie, and a few others have wedged themselves into every open space at the table. I notice, however, that my seat remains conspicuously empty. I grin at that.

  I tuck into my dinner, keeping an eye on Kate with regular glances. She is tired but less fatigued than before, seeming to get her second wind from her food and the conversation at the table. I eat silently, content to just listen to the chatter around me, which jumps from farm talk to favorite films to, strangely enough, a lively discussion of the benefits of capitalism versus those of socialism. The purpose of such a debate in our present circumstances is lost on me, but it is familiar and vaguely comforting in an odd way.

  Soon enough, the plates are cleared, and the Saturday-night party is in full swing. The music, which begins by featuring the greatest hits of disco, weaves its way through the room. I sit beside Kate, watching the citizens of Burninghead Farm do their thing, watching Buck lead Margie around the room in a mismatched waltz, and I am content. Kate’s attention is focused on Dunk’s attempts to dance with a nine-year-old little girl by the name of Rachel, which has ended in a mutual decision to just let Rachel stand on Dunk’s feet as he shuffles around the floor.

  I take a stolen moment to study Kate in the soft glow of the Christmas lights, watch the play of emotions cross her face as she watches her friends, the way the candlelight from the table dances across her skin, the way the corner of her eyes crinkle as she smiles, and I feel myself falling. I turn away just as she turns toward me. I pretend to be watching the crowd but risk a quick glance back at her only to find her grinning in such a way that I know I h
ave been busted. Somehow, I don’t mind.

  We stay that way for a while, just the two of us, enjoying the joy around us. Eventually, the frenzied up-tempo tunes give way to softer fare, and the dancers settle into a new, more subdued rhythm.

  “Dance with me?”

  Her voice is a whisper. She is still looking ahead, watching the dancers in the center of the barn, and I wonder if I am hearing things. Then she turns to me.

  “Dance with me?” she asks again, her voice still petal soft, but this time I see her lips move. She holds out her hand to me, palm up, both an invitation and an offering. How can I refuse?

  I stand, slipping my hand into hers and offering her my other one, which she accepts with a shy smile. I help her up and slowly lead her out onto the dance floor, careful to pick a spot that is not too crowded. We stand that way, facing each other, our hands locked together, until I tug her gently into my arms. She slides her arms up around my neck. My hands find her waist and settle there. I am caught between wanting to pull her closer and not daring to make such a bold move. She makes up my mind for me.

  She steps into me without pretense, molding her body against mine and tightening her arms around my neck. All I know is how good she feels in my arms, how warm her breath is against my neck, how soft her hair is against my cheek, and how I want this dance to go on forever.

  I am not, nor have I ever been, a good dancer, and while I might wish for the dapper feet of Fred Astaire, I am much more like Mister Ed on the dance floor, even if my partner is Ginger Rogers reincarnated. Still, somehow, I find my way without inflicting grievous bodily injury. We move as one, neither leading nor following. One step simply leads to the next without thought or plan, and we move so easily I would not be surprised to look down to find that we are floating.

  Her cheek slides against my own as she pulls her head back, her eyes finding mine in the muted light. The hum of her skin tickles my nose. My hands tighten around her waist both in anticipation and uncertainty, and my gaze falls to her lips without thinking. They part softly, and the inevitability of it all overwhelms me. There is no denying what is about to happen, what I know beyond reason we both want to happen.

  I don’t know who moves first, or if our mouths simply fall toward each other, no longer able to withstand the pull of gravity. Her kiss is soft and unbearably sweet, cocoa smooth and velvet rich. Her lips feel weightless, brushing over mine once and then again, infinite with the promise of things to come. My eyes close, my brain unable to withstand the sensory overload of both the kiss and her beauty. I feel a hunger I have never known, which is tempered by the knowledge that we have all the time in the world.

  The kiss seems to go on forever, until it finally ends, and I press my cheek against hers, unable to bear the separation of our lips. I have to remember how to breathe. I feel her smiling. I pull back to look at her, my mind unable to fully comprehend the magnitude of what I am feeling. Her hand brushes my skin, her fingers dancing in the fine hairs at the base of my neck, and I feel like I am home.

  Hazily, I become aware of the music around us, which has regained its upbeat tempo once more. Somewhere along the way we have become the focus of everyone’s attention. I begin to feel the blood rushing to my face. Kate notices the attention, too, but doesn’t pull away. Her courage bolsters my own, and I decide I have no reason to be anything but proud. I slide my arm around her shoulders and face the room.

  I needn’t have bothered. Smiles light up all around us, and I half expect someone to start clapping. Thankfully, no one does. Soon people are talking again, going back to whatever it was they were doing before our little show. I turn back to Kate.

  “Would you like something to drink?” I ask, stroking my thumb along the side of her face.

  She nods.

  “Want to sit back down?”

  She shakes her head, and I think about pressing the issue but see Dunk hovering at the edge of the dance floor. I know that as soon as I leave he will rush in, and that is good enough for me.

  I head over to the other end of the room. When I reach the drinks table it occurs to me that I have no idea what Kate likes to drink, which seems funny to me in some bizarre way considering our intimacy. There is so much I still don’t know about her, but I am looking forward to learning.

  “Go with the lemonade,” I hear Buck say. He steps up next to me and hands me a plastic cup. He must be reading my mind.

  “Thanks,” I say, accepting the cup and grabbing one of the two-liters on the table.

  I grow nervous, wondering if Buck is going to disapprove in some way, but he says nothing about the kiss. At least not directly.

  “So,” he says, pouring his own cup of soda, “you still planning on leaving us soon?”

  I look over at him, the hope in his eyes contradicting the phrasing of his question.

  “I know you have to find out what happened to your family. But you have family here, too. This is your home now, Taylor, if you want it to be.”

  I look across the room at Kate, and at Dunk, and at the rest of the people of Burninghead Farm, and I know Buck’s words to be true. I have known it for days, since I played guitar on the porch and was struck by the first glimmer of hope I have felt since leaving DC. I just hadn’t been ready to fully embrace it until now. Leaving the farm does not have to mean the end. The promise I made to my father is not the only thing I have to live for. I have journeyed toward one home only to find another, one that will be here for me regardless of what I find in Illinois.

  “I’ll go to Asheville, and then—”

  My words die in my throat as Buck’s face falls.

  “Did you say Asheville?”

  His voice is strained, his skin ashen.

  Please. No.

  “A few days ago. We heard a couple of boys had wandered into Milton Station, scared, practically starving. There was a raiding party, they said. It had come to the boys’ town. There were about twenty survivors still living there, mostly men, a few women, children. The raiding party came, about a dozen men, heavily armed, demanding food, supplies. The survivors offered to share, but it wasn’t enough. The raiders demanded everything they had, and they couldn’t let that happen.”

  Buck doesn’t have to finish the story for me to know what happens next. I can feel it in my blood, know it in my bones, and still I want to scream at him to continue, to hurry up and tell me everything is going to turn out okay. But I can’t. I just stare at him. He doesn’t look me in the eye.

  “A few of the men from the town pulled out guns, just trying to scare off the raiders. Then one of the guns went off. The boys didn’t know who shot first. They ran and hid. After a while, when they were sure the raiders were gone, they came out. Everyone was dead.”

  Buck’s voice shakes with the horror of it. I do not feel it. I have gone numb.

  “Milton Station took the boys in. They’re only fifteen.”

  “Which town?” My voice sounds dead to my own ears.

  “What?”

  “Which town?” My voice is harsher now, but just as dead.

  “Taylor…” The sorrow on his face nearly kills me. I already know the answer, but I am going to make him say it. I need him to say it. It is all I have left.

  “What was the name of the town, Buck?”

  “It was Asheville.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Duncan did not understand how the world could change so quickly. It should not have surprised him, he supposed. After all, one day the plague had been only an interesting puzzle on some scientist’s shelf, and the next it had been the beginning of the end.

  The world had changed all over again on Saturday night, at least for Taylor. Taylor’s family, it appeared, was dead. If they had managed to survive the plague, they had not survived the raiding party that had come to Asheville.

  That had been a week ago. Duncan had wanted to follow her that night, to try and calm her down and tell her everything was going to be okay. He had lost his parents, too, as had Kate, and
they were both okay. But Kate had stopped him. If he was honest about it, he was still kind of mad at her for that.

  “How can you not want to help her?” he demanded as she grabbed his arm to keep him from following Taylor.

  “You think I don’t?” Kate asked, visibly shaking. “You think my heart isn’t breaking right now?”

  “Then why don’t you?”

  “Because that’s not what she needs right now.”

  “How do you know?” His sorrow was thick in his throat.

  Kate shook her head, slumping down onto one of the benches outside the dining hall. “I don’t know. Not for sure.”

  “Then why—”

  “The world just ended all over again for her. She’s going to need time to deal with that, and nothing we say is going to make that any better for her.”

  “But she’s alone,” Duncan said, sinking down next to Kate. He stared off toward the dorm, feeling like his insides had been turned inside out. Duncan just could not understand. Taylor was his friend. You did not just let your friends suffer alone.

  “I know.”

  “Will she be okay?” he finally asked, defeated.

  “She has to be,” Kate said. She nodded to herself. “We’ll make sure of it. We just have to give her some time.”

  Which is exactly what they had done. Duncan had not seen Taylor for the first few days. They had let her be, alone, locked within her room. She did not touch the trays of food Duncan and others brought and left outside her door every morning, noon, and evening. After two days, they had begun to worry in earnest, but Taylor would not let anyone in, would not answer the knocking on her door or the voices on the other side of it. No one could get through to her, not even Kate.

  The only reason they even knew she was still alive was the sound of her sobbing every night. The sound haunted him well after he left his spot in front of her door in the hallway each night to try and get a few hours of shuteye.

  Finally, on the third day, they had decided to intervene, to break down the door if they had to. Turned out it was not necessary. Duncan, Kate, and Buck arrived at Taylor’s door to find the tray half empty of its lunch.