by Post, P. J.
Sam hops up onto the bumper and leans into the trailer. “But you never had a prayer, why even try? Why not talk to us?”
Another woman speaks up from behind the witch. “They said they’d be watching and if we didn’t…”
“This still doesn’t make any sense,” Cam shouts, kicking at the side of the trailer.
The women gasp and try to push away from him, suddenly terrified again.
The witch in the middle of the trailer glares at him, her face twisted, her lips trembling. “You’re no better, you took my Jen, you took…”
“Yeah, yeah, it does,” I say softly, trying to force Jen’s pleading face out of my mind.
I pull out a cigarette, ignoring the dried blood I still haven’t had a chance to completely wash off, and light it. I take a drag and then turn and blow the smoke out of the trailer as I gather my thoughts.
“What?” Cam asks, he’s scared but it’s coming out as anger.
“Remember, how I told you they were herding the refugees, before? I think they were using these fucked up folks to test us, see what we’d do. The Cart People knew they couldn’t take us, but I don’t think they gave a shit, they just wanted to see how we’d respond and if these mistreated wretches killed any of us, all the better for when they do attack.”
“Mistreated?” Paco mocks me.
“Or get the next group of refugees to attack us, wear us down through attrition, or maybe it was just for fucking kicks,” I say.
“Jesus,” Sam says, and then her voice grows cold. “What about the children? What about the children you killed — our children?”
The woman snaps her attention to Sam and leaps forward onto her hands and knees like an animal, drool dripping from the corners of her mouth. “Our children matter, our children come first, Ronny comes first — fuck your kids,” she hisses through flying spittle, her eyes wide, nostrils flaring.
I look up the road at the carnage of their attack and try to concentrate on my cigarette, trying to remain clear-headed, neutral.
It’s surprisingly easy, because I understand this woman.
It’s not a matter of condoning their murderous rampage, or preaching about Sunday School morality or Golden Rules — it just comes down to who we love, who I love, and how far I’ll go to protect them.
How wrong it is changes nothing.
“Ma’am, ma’am,” I say, trying to get her attention, but I’m not sure anyone’s home right now. “Where did they take your kids?”
Cam stares at me. “Is that a good idea?”
“Going after them?” I ask.
The women stare at one another and then us; the woman on the floor has a weird look on her face, but she’s lost, fuck, everything today; what should she look like?
Sam sighs, I’m guessing in resignation. For her, it doesn’t matter whose kids they are. They’re innocents. She’s seen the Cart People up close too. The only thing on her mind is finding a way to rescue them. I can see it on her face. “No, but we have to. None of this is their fault,” she says, more than a little reluctantly.
Cam runs his hands through his hair. “Fine. Let’s get everything moving here…”
“The kids don’t have that kind of time, Cam, and you know it. We’re probably already too late.”
“Tough shit,” Cam shouts. He’s beginning to lose it. “First things first.”
“If we wait too long, they could be dead! You didn’t see those creepy guys,” Sam shouts back at him.
“Then they’ll be dead!” Cam has tears in his eyes, but doesn’t correct her.
“It’s not up to you though is it, let’s go talk to Hauser,” Sam says, defiantly.
Cam looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. “We can’t.”
“Why…” and then Sam figures it out. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“He’s dead. So, yeah, it is up to me, at least until they get someone else,” Cam says, but I can tell there’s no joy for him in taking charge.
Sam looks like she’s about to cry too. They look at each other and something passes between them. I guess they’re closer than I thought.
“I think I know,” a voice interrupts from the group of women.
“What?” I ask more tersely than I intend. Exhaustion is setting in.
I’m not sure how much more we can handle, any of us, before we start snapping.
The woman on her knees lifts her head and glances back at the new voice.
Again, that weird look, is she smiling?
A young girl, maybe seventeen, dressed in jeans and a holed and stained blue parka raises her head and brushes her dirty, plain chestnut hair out of her face. When she steps forward, I fall back out of the trailer and barely catch myself, grabbing hold of the gate mounted tie-down bar just in time to keep from busting my ass on road.
Sam looks to the girl and then back to me, and then frowns, sadness creasing her brow — she understands.
Fuck me.
This girl is Jen’s twin.
What the fuck is it with twins and the apocalypse?
Unlike her companions, her eyes are clear, aware and very much in the present.
“I think I know, I mean, where they took them, I think I know,” she says in that same forgiving voice that refused my pleas this morning, refused to take revenge, refused to kill me — the other girl, the stranger that saved my life today.
She looks down at the woman and nods, before looking back to me. “I think I know.”
§§§§§
“I don’t want you to go!”
“Sam, you know I’m their best chance.”
“Don’t use guilt against me, that’s not fair. I want those kids to be safe too, but I don’t want to lose you. I just found you,” she says.
“Well, Cam said I needed to make myself scarce. Seems the real me is bit much for the kindly people around these parts.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means I freaked out a lot of people. I did a number up there, and these people haven’t seen that, haven’t met anyone like me yet. Cam thinks it might be better if I take off for a while and I think I agree, besides I’m the most qualified to…to help those kids.”
“They’re ungrateful; you saved their butts.”
“Yeah, well…”
“Then I’m going too,” she says firmly.
“No, you’re not going and that’s final,” I say to Sam.
“You can’t…”
“No, I’m not trying to tell you what to do, I want…I’d rather be with you, here or there, I trust you — but who can we depend on to take care of Emily?”
“I…I don’t want to lose you,” she says again, deflated.
She finishes wiping the blood from my hair and neck. We’re standing near the back of the wagon train and I’m in my new-to-me jeans and braving the cold without a shirt, at least long enough for Sam to help me clean up.
“You won’t lose me, promise,” I say, trying to reassure her.
“What if you,” she pauses, and then makes a gun with her fingers and sticks it to her head.
“That’s sensitive,” I say, grinning.
“Too soon?”
I laugh and her eyes twinkle.
“Seriously, we don’t have the time for nuance,” she says.
“I won’t. I promise.”
“You told me I can trust you. If you’re lying, I’ll track you down and…and…I swear to God, I’ll kill you.”
“That’s two death threats in the same day…”
“I can’t lose you,” she says again, so softly I barely hear her.
I take a deep breath and pull her to me, hugging her. I can feel her cheek and scarf against my chest, her bald head on my neck and her hands on my shoulders as she collapses into my embrace — the leather of her coat is cold and stiff, but the promise of the warmth underneath pulls at me like a goddamned magnet.
God, she feels good in my arms, but she smells of charred wood — and that makes me sad. I miss the scent of honey. I miss tha
t, for a while, it was almost like the end of the world hadn’t touched her — but that was childish fantasy.
After a moment, she slips away from my embrace — reluctantly? And that whimsical look dances across her eyes again, but refuses to linger. I want to know where that look comes from — what it means.
It’s tantalizing.
I can’t wait to find out.
“You’re healing,” she says, sliding her fingers gently along the knife scar. After the hug, her touch sends goose bumps racing down my stomach, exciting me. And that’s not cool, not now, not after everything that’s happened — right?
“I can’t believe you took these stitches out yourself,” she says, her fingertips still tracing my scar.
I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to be away from her — or her touch.
“Yeah, well…it’s not like I had much choice, you know? It’s been an interesting couple of months,” I say, concealing my misplaced excitement.
She tosses the towel into a basket in the back of the supply trailer and leans against the side, folding her arms as I pull a plain black t-shirt on.
“You haven’t said anything about…about…” she starts.
She keeps watching me, looking at me with…anticipation or something, like she’s still waiting for a reaction to what she said when she took the gun away from me, what she showed me…
I should.
But I have no idea what that is.
I love you, too?
You’re beautiful?
Who hurt you?
I want him to suffer.
“Your confession?” I guess instead.
She pulls her scarf down and smiles. “Yeah.”
I wonder if my face just lit up on the outside, because it sure as shit did on the inside. I have that achy feeling in my cheeks from grinning too wide. I’m probably blushing. “I don’t know what to say, I guess. I mean…”
She looks so young, so fragile now, but with her face covered, she looks tough as nails.
The cool thing is she’s both.
I think I’ve always known too, ever since that first morning — when our eyes met over the sights of her .38.
And I love both.
“You can cover your face if you want, I mean, you don’t have to…you know,” I say, finally seizing control of my grin.
She looks down, a shadow of shame falling across her face and quickly pulls her scarf back up.
Christ.
“No…that’s not what I meant,” I rush out.
Her voice breaks, the happiness dying in her throat. “Don’t you think I know how ugly I am? I thought you, I thought you wouldn’t…” Her eyes dart around like she’s looking for somewhere to go.
It’s like I slapped her — no, it’s worse.
I feel like shit.
I step closer and lay one hand gently against her cheek.
She looks up at me, her eyes full of mistrust and more than a hint of fear.
And now I feel like I’ve been slapped. I would never hurt her, and for her to be afraid of me is sickening. But that’s just how broken she is — a word can turn her.
But I will put her back together, even if it’s the last goddamned thing I ever do.
I ever so gently tug the scarf down, careful of the healing brand until I can see her face again, her full lips and those dimples. She looks up, still scared.
“You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever known.”
She looks away, anger creeping into her voice. “I’m not stupid. Don’t patronize…”
I lay one finger against her chin and lift her face until our eyes meet again. “I’m not bullshitting you. I can see the brand. I’m not blind. But that doesn’t change who you are.”
“I’m pretty on the inside, is that it?” she demands.
“Yeah, you are.”
She sobs convulsively and tries to pull away from me, but I take her hand in mine and hold her. She glares up at me, her eyes thickening with tears.
“Samantha…”
“What?”
“You are beautiful on the outside. Is it creepy that I count the little ice-blue flecks in your eyes when I go to sleep; you have more in your right eye than your left in case you were curious. Even with your scarf up, I know when you’re smiling, I know when you’re grinning — it’s the little wrinkles at the corners of your eyes that give you away. I knew you had dimples, the cutest dimples I’ve ever seen by the way.
“I’ve memorized the curves of your ears and you have three, long white scars on your right hand, old ones, like from when you were probably Emily’s age — and I wonder how you got them, I wonder about when you were a cheerleader, I imagine you skipping down the halls at school, saying hi to all the jocks and they’re all like, smitten and shit.”
The tears spill down her cheeks.
“I imagine you coming to the door of some house in the suburbs with white siding and a nice green yard out front. You open the door and you’re wearing a long formal dress, white cause that’s how I think of you, you know, pure, anyway, it’s prom and you’re my date, and…” I look away.
Her fingers lace together with mine. I look down at our hands and then back to her face.
That goddamned whimsical smile’s back.
I’m not done. “I wonder about how good you had it before, and I worry about how much you’ve lost.”
“I wonder about the day you painted your fingernails blue. I imagine you waking up, lying in the fresh sheets of that suburban house, stretching and smiling — looking forward to seeing your friends, school, gymnastics — shit, just everything — the day.
“You have a cute walk too, did you know that?”
She grins through her tears, shaking her head.
“I think it has something to do with how good your ass looks in those jeans,” I say through my own grin.
She swats my arm, but not seriously.
“Yeah, you’re beautiful on the outside, I check you out every chance I get and your face, you have no idea what you do to me, but on the inside,” I pause, thinking how to say what I feel, and I realize there’s no words, but I say the first thing that comes close, “On the inside, you’re a goddamned angel.”
Her face lights up, her dimples in full charm as she stares up at me through her tears.
“I’m not patronizing you,” I say.
“I’m sorry…”
“Does this mean I’m released from my vow?”
She nods, softly laughing through her tears. “Thank you.”
“There’s nothing to thank me for, you mean everything to me.”
“Yeah, but you must think I’m a stalker, saying I…” She looks up at me and can’t seem to look me in the eye. “Saying I love you.”
“Only because I don’t deserve it.”
“Don’t ever say that. You have no idea how wonderful you are.”
“You’re must be as crazy as I am, I’m a killer, Sam. Trust me, there’s nothing wonderful about me.”
Her tone shifts and grows firm — intense. “No, that’s not who you are — you’ve done what you had to, but you’re a good person.”
“Are you high? What about this morning?” I say pointing up the hill to the forest.
“What part of they were going to kill us are you missing here? What if that really was Emily under that wagon? Defending the ones you love is brave, especially if…”
“If what?”
“You’ve been through a lot. Just…you did good today.”
“Then why does it feel like murder?”
She shakes her head, and that adorable face changes yet again, the happiness morphing into a look of pity.
My anger comes from someplace deep.
Her tone changes; it’s no longer apologetic. “Well, it's not. Want to hear a story?” she asks.
I’m pissed now. I won’t be pitied, not by anyone, least of all by Samantha. “We have to get going; I don’t have time for stories.”
Now she’s just irritated
as she wipes her eyes dry. “Shut up and listen. I’m going to tell you a story and you’re going to listen, so deal. I’m as worried about those kids as anyone. Cam will find you when it’s time to go.”
I glance back up the wagon train. Men are bunched up along one side of the charred remains of the first wagon, a wooden farm cart really, probably used for moving horses or cattle. They’re rocking it from side to side, trying to get the leverage they need to tip it over and shove it down into the ditch. I can just see the other men and women butchering the horses in front of the wagon. It’s going to be a while before they get the road cleared. Cam is taking his time. He’s worried about the Cart People but he’s more worried about everyone panicking — it’s settled over the caravan like a fog.
His people are on edge.
They need something to focus on — something to do.
Besides, it’s not like we can hide. The Cart People know where we are and where we’re going to be for the next day or so — we can only get so far. And if they want to attack, all we can do is try and be ready. Cam has more men and women standing guard and scouting the surrounding woods than he does clearing the road. The rest, including the older kids, are burying the dead.
The surviving women begged, but right or wrong, Cam decided to let the men that attacked us rot where they fell.
I don’t envy his new position.
Samantha snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Hey, pay attention. Ready?”
“Sorry, yeah, fine.” I’m all nerves, but her voice is soothing in a way I can’t explain. And I’m slowly learning that I don’t have to explain everything — don’t have to understand — sometimes stuff can just be whatever the fuck it is, and that’s okay too. I brush her good cheek with the back of my hand and pretend to slip her hair behind her ear like they do in the movies.
She grins and rubs her bald head.
“Okay, okay,” I say and then take a seat on the back bumper of the trailer. “I wish that was all I had to think about, listening to your stories all day.”
“Thanks, dear, but I said shut up.” Her eyes are still glistening, but her chin is up again, confident.
I light one of my last cigarettes and give her my attention, which is all I really want to do anyway.
Samantha pauses, like she’s gathering her thoughts.