by Laila Blake
Chapter Five
The propane camping stove made a low hissing sound even with the flame lit. It was something Aaron had gotten used to ignoring over the past year, but it seemed to slice through the silence that evening with an unusual sting. The three of them seemed frozen, both physically and in spirit, and Aaron had some silly idea that a cup of tea might cure that—or, at least, the heat would remind them they were all still alive.
They had come too far to go back; Aaron was almost hopelessly lost by the time they found shelter. It was nothing like the comfortable cabin he'd used for storage before, but after the day's events, it occurred to neither him nor Emily to let it pass in the hopes of finding something better. This house was smaller, and it clearly hadn’t been occupied in some time, the roof sagging and the boards making up the walls chinked and shabby. Still, it was standing, and was shelter from the cold, and from anything that might be out there.
“They didn’t get us,” Emily said under her breath. “They won’t get us. I promise.” She was talking to her son, had been for a while, in a quiet hush against his small, cold ears so that it stirred the matted hair that hung down to his chin. It was a voice that didn’t include Aaron, but the silence carried it across to the stove and he rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand, trying not to give into the sense of hopelessness that was always at the edge of his consciousness.
Carefully he filled the smallest of the cups they had with water, added a wilted tea bag, and passed it in her direction. “You did a great job,” he said, and, for a second, he saw Emily glance up at him, but he focused on Song.
The boy didn’t speak, but his eyebrows inched up under his shaggy hair.
“You did just what your mom said. That’s good. We needed your help.” Aaron gave him a small smile, watched him take the cup from Emily with fingers almost blue at the tips.
“I hid.” It was the first time Song had said anything to him, directly to him, and that made Aaron’s smile spread, just a little.
“You stayed safe,” Emily corrected, throwing a small grateful half-smile his way, before she handed the tea on to her son and kissed his forehead. “You made it possible for me and Aaron to concentrate on getting us out of there. You were very brave… right, Aaron?”
“Incredibly.” His voice was sincere, and so was he: Aaron’s heart still hadn’t quite calmed down from the afternoon—he couldn’t imagine being a very small boy and facing the same thing. They both watched how first a skeptical expression, and then a small smile, appeared on the boy’s face. It seemed to relax something in Emily’s stance, the very consistency of her bones.
“Drink,” she reminded him, nodding at the cup. “You still have to get healthy again.”
He obeyed, but only for a sip. Resting the cup against his chin, he peered up at Aaron. “You shoot good.”
Aaron chuckled, pouring a second cup to hand to Emily. “I was in the army a long time. I better be good at it.”
Nodding her thanks, Emily sat up straighter, disentangled herself from her son in order to receive it, then blew carefully onto the surface of the liquid. Aaron gave her a distracted smile before he served himself.
“You do. Shoot well,” she said; and he caught her carefully stretching her hand on her leg, trying to work out the shiver, the hardened tension of the recoil.
“Can you teach me?” Song’s voice sounded high and thin, and so like a little boy’s, that Aaron’s chest hurt for a moment.
“Not yet. I can teach you some other things, though,” he suggested, quickly, before Song’s face could fall. “Like how to build a fire and, uh, dig a latrine.”
“What’s... what’s a latrine?” the boy asked, the word stumbling on his tongue.
Aaron held his expression for only another beat. “A toilet.”
Emily swallowed a choked little sound of amusement, that made both Aaron and Song look at her. She waved them off, smiled carefully.
“Little less glamorous, that.”
“I wanna build a fire,” Song decided, sitting up straighter.
“Soon enough, okay? Why don’t we try dinner and maybe making up a bed first.” Aaron couldn’t help it: he winked at Emily.
“I can make a fire,” she grumbled grinning, and then shook her head at the two. She offered to help with their meal, but Aaron declined, nodding at her injured arm. He’d be quicker about it. She squirmed and wrinkled her forehead in silent protest, but Aaron ignored it as he set to heating some beans and beef jerky.
Aaron ate, a little, but was too jittery to take in much anyway. His eyes kept straying towards the window, half-covered with peeling cardboard, and his gun that was just within reach. The three of them crowded together to conserve body heat, and if there wasn’t that lingering fear in him, that paranoia, Aaron might have felt awkward to be pressed that close to Emily, to a woman he barely knew—so close their knees were touching, and he could feel her breath on his neck.
Song fell asleep the moment his belly was full, curling away from them, snoring like a little tomcat from time to time. It was a calming sound; it belonged to a different world, and Aaron leaned his head against the wall of boxes behind them, trying to calm his breathing. Beside him, Emily yawned, stretched herself, tried to sleep and would jerk awake again a few minutes later. She shivered and instinctively her body sought out the larger, more solid source of heat in Aaron.
Carefully, he touched her arm.
“You doin’ okay?” His accent went deeper when he was speaking quietly, into the silence, when he was feeling wasted and wired at once.
She nodded, but her hand was still shaking and he couldn’t quite believe her.
“You?”
“I don’t know,” he said, honestly, and, after a beat, looked down at her with a faint smile. It was a strange feeling, maybe, after all he'd seen over his tours, over the past year, but it had been a long time since he felt charged with anyone’s well-being and, as it was, he wasn’t sure he was doing that good of a job at it.
He moved his hand out from under the blankets and rubbed at his face; where he’d been darkly amused with the notion of reupping, that he'd signed on again, and only landed in this, it seemed more surreal with every passing day. At least in the desert, the unexpected was also very much the expected. Every damn day in the deserted wasteland that used to be his country, he was stepping alone into the unknown.
He looked over at Song, turned away from them, but still pressed tightly against Emily. They’d given him most of the blankets; his arm was, quite out of habit, around Emily’s back so she was tucked against him. It was comforting, but he didn’t know what to do with it, the bodily memory without a corresponding mental one.
“You can talk to me, you know?” she offered, her voice tiny. She bit her lip and looked up at his profile, attempting a smile. “I’m not half as judgmental as I used to be.”
Aaron’s smile was weary as he looked back down at her, and, for just a second, he did wonder if she would have so much as spoken to him, had they met in the before, with her piercings and her tattoos and her binder full of little drawings.
“I’m gettin’ tired of this,” he admitted, pushing his hand back under the blankets—even the time to scratch his nose left it freezing. “Not really knowin’ what’s next. Nowhere to go, be. All that.”
She nodded, offering a wry and tired smile of her own.
“Why aren’t you somewhere?” she asked, and then frowned, swaying her head with a sheepish air. “I mean, you could, couldn’t you? You know where people are.”
He shrugged, the blankets shifting under the motion, and he reached out again to pull the corner of one back up over her shoulder.
“I dunno. I guess, ya know, I gave myself this mission after I lost my unit? And so there’s that, something to make me feel... useful?” He made a face and shook his head. “I don’t know what I’ll do once I give all this stuff away. Ain’t got nowhere to go.”
Her eyes were wide as she looked at him; it wasn't jus
t the angle of her face. She looked like a kid that way, like a street urchin from a Dickens novel.
“You are really selfless,” she said in a quiet, thoughtful whisper that didn't make it sound entirely like a compliment. “You could trade it? For... I dunno, a chicken or, something. And a place to stay. Seeds?”
She didn’t blush but grinned awkwardly. “I sound like a capitalist. At the end of the bleedin’ world and I’ve turned into one of those.”
“People are nice enough. Always given a place to stay and what food they got to spare. Suppose it’s more like the olden days in that way.” He tipped his head back against where they’d set the boxes of food from the van, blocking out the wind.
“You said y’all was looking for a place to... farm?” His voice was still soft, and he didn’t quite look at her. “I know just about as much as you when it comes to that. No idea what I’d do with a chicken or seeds.”
“I don’t know, cuddle it? Ask it nicely to lay some eggs? Eat the eggs? Make pancakes?” she tried to smile but it got stuck somewhere half-way and she was rather acutely aware of his body so close. She could smell him now, too, that man-smell, a musk that was wholly alive. Sullivan had smelled like that, too, every time he'd returned from another trip into the city, foraging for food, for water and sources of heat. Her stomach flipped then, hurt with the memory of another shoulder she'd leaned against.
“It was Sullivan’s plan, not mine. He…” she took a heavy, wet breath. “He was the kind of person who seemed to be capable of anything, you know? It was infectious. Now I have no clue. None at all. Just south, away from the snow. Then we’ll see. But, you’re strong... I’m sure people would tell you how to farm and let you help.”
“It’s silly I feel like I’d be imposin’, isn’t it?” He shrugged, and sank down a little further under the blankets. It wasn’t the most comfortable position but, really, with his long legs, keeping the whole of his body warm meant he was folded and crammed under the layers.
“Ya know, I reupped for the same reason.” He rubbed his chin against his hand, still tucked under the fleece. “Didn't have any reason to stick around. My sisters and brother, they’re all married. My mom’s got my step-dad. Friends from high school, they’re married too. Felt like the least I could do was go do my job.”
Emily looked down, struck by the unexpected sadness. She was not one for duty or country; and it was the first time she found herself confronted with someone who was. It wasn't quite as alien as she might have thought once upon a time.
“Because of your dad?” she asked, very quietly.
Aaron didn’t answer immediately. “Mostly, I guess. My dad served in Grenada. Him and my mom got married when he came back, they’d been high school sweethearts. I was born a few years later.” He exhaled a long breath; for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why he was babbling now, just that he was jittery and still scared after that afternoon, and there was a need for comfort in all that, with nowhere to throw it.
“Wanted out, too, I guess. The way people do, you know.” At that, she smiled, if a little wanly: of course she knew.
“Why’d you want out?” she ventured, finally.
“Teen angst?” He shook his head almost in the middle of the words, as though in disagreement with himself before he could even finish. “I dunno. It’s like… like you figure something out and you have to go after it as soon as possible or… get away from it? I’m not really sure. I’m not making much sense, am I?”
“It’s late,” Emily told him, dragging up the corners of her mouth. “I figure that’s the time for conversations that only make half sense.” She paused, tongue running over her bottom lip. “But you came back eventually?”
He shook his head. “Never lived in Georgia again. Went to boot camp in Kentucky, then stationed in Carlisle—that’s in Pennsylvania—between tours. Had a girlfriend there.”
A silence fell over them, tense as Emily sought his face for any sign of her fate; he shook his head, though, not noticing that he was beginning to read her. “She didn’t—It didn’t work out in the long run.”
“You broke up.” It wasn’t a question, but he nodded. “It’s not easy... waiting,” she offered quietly but then stopped. What did she know? Sullivan had never gone to war—just on tour.
“I know. I didn’t really expect her to.” Aaron turned his head to look down at her again; she really was tiny, and compact, and nearly disappeared under the blankets and his arm.
“Kinda hoped, I guess. We were gonna have a baby at one point, but she lost it. I think that’s when she decided she couldn’t do it anymore, the waiting.” Again, he surprised himself, and he looked away almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth.
“God, I’m sorry,” she exhaled, shaking her head; her chest felt tight and her words came out pressed and hard.
“I wanted to have... another baby. But, Sullivan didn’t. Not yet, anyway and now...” she whispered. “He was right, it wasn’t a good time and I was too young. Am too young. I know that. Just...” She shrugged and didn’t look at Aaron either.
He tightened his arm around her back, squeezing her very gently in a half-hug. “Don’t know about too young, if you love somebody. Always thought if you keep waiting, then you end up old and without what you always wanted.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine. I... if it’s March. Birthday’s March seventh.”
“That’s not old.”
“I know. But, also, thought I might be a little closer to what it was I’d planned by thirty, or by now, even. Life’s good at throwin' you for loops, huh?” He laughed; it was easy enough to sink into the grey and mire anymore.
“I dunno,” she offered darkly, “maybe it’s a blessing. Less to lose.”
He flinched.
“Guess so.” He rubbed his chin again, looked back at the window once more.
“I’m sorry... really. That wasn’t fair.” Emily took a deep breath and looked up at his profile. Under the blankets, her hand sought his arm.
Aaron shook his head. “Probably right, though. Ain’t really got much to leave behind. Kind of figured that out in the trenches.” The entire damn world was the trenches now, but he could remember, quite acutely, the guys in his unit with their girlfriends’ and wives’ photos, their kids, the lives they had back home and Aaron always felt strangely stunted, like he’d missed the step they all hadn’t, that his father hadn’t missed, either.
“I’m sorry...” she said again, voice hardly above a whisper. She could feel sadness wafting over from him like a physical sensation and after some hesitation, she nudged his shoulder with her chin.
“It’ll be okay. That’s what I say, all the time, I don’t think it means much but... it’ll be okay. You’ll be okay.”
“Hope so.” Was there even a future left? In his bleaker moments, Aaron thought, if he died, there wouldn’t be much of a reason for anyone to remember he even existed.
Her hand was still on his arm. He patted it with an almost apologetic smile. “You two’ll be okay. I’ll get you down south, somewhere with sunshine, alright? Somewhere so you can help him grow up.”
Emily nodded. Her grip on his arm tightened as she held her eyes wide open, making a futile effort not to cry. He was doing too much for them, it was even clearer now—he had his own future to find and yet was here with them, saving their lives. She leaned her cheek on his shoulder and closed her eyes. Her hair fell down over his chest.
“Hey, don’t listen to me gettin’ melancholy, alright?” He didn’t think, just touched her chin with his finger, still covered with the blanket he’d been holding. “You're gonna be okay. And Song, too. Today was just... bad, but it’s not always bad. He’s feelin’ better, and I got an idea how to get going again tomorrow.”
Again she nodded against his finger. She swallowed hard.
“I want to do something for you,” she whispered.
He gave her one of his baffled little smiles. “You don’t need
to do anything. I don’t mind.”
“I know. I still want to.”
“Like what?” he relented, though he couldn’t imagine letting her take on anything else—she was better, sure, but as bad off as she’d been, still half-starved and her arm healing slowly because of it, he could barely allow himself to let her walk herself, let alone anything else.
She shrugged, giving him a look that said: If I knew that I would have done it already.
His smile turned knowing.
“Well, you could help me cut my hair,” he suggested, rolling his eyes up to see the shaggy fringe that nearly touched his eyelashes. “Used to be buzzed, then, just... I’m very hairy,” he said, tone faintly joking.
Emily smiled and nodded. “I can do that! I used to... well, I always cut Song’s hair.”
“When it starts itching, I just kinda hack at it, but can't do much more.” He smiled at her again, crooked. “So that’s something you can do. See?”
“It doesn’t quite compare, but it’s a start,” she agreed. She wasn’t as cold now, thanks to his body heat, but it was comfortable and she was afraid to move and freeze again.
“I’ll turn you into a piece of art. I used to love doing collages. Cutting and pasting, in layers and layers.” She sighed. So many layers, they became sculptures, landscapes with hills and plate tectonics. “I almost had an exhibition once... but then everything went to shite so...” She bit her lips.
“What kind of art did you do?” He knew about nothing when it came to art, but, then, he’d not been around a lot of artists. She had sketchbooks that she had out every morning and, to an untrained eye, they were beautiful. It had only served to make her seem more otherworldly—alien eyes and all.
“I wanted to try everything,” she admitted with a hollow chuckle but then her voice went soft, almost like a caress: “but uh... sculptures. I love drawing, but my drawings aren’t art. Just depiction. In sculptures I just... something clicks, and my hands move over the material, find the curves and the eddies. It's tactile, you know, you get lost in it, like your brain goes to a different place and it’s just you and this block of clay or wood or whatever. It kind of consumes your whole body, sculpting. You sweat and your hands become tired and involved but it feels so good.” Her eyes glazed over with a layer of water and her voice gave out.