Forever After (Post Apocalyptic Romance Boxed Set)

by Rose Francis

  “We found the rest of Monkey's stash,” she said, and he raised an eyebrow. “It was tapped. I switched them for fresh from the storage. We're going to escape. And you're welcome with us.” He exhaled heavily. “What's that mean?” she asked.

  “It means you haven't left me much damned choice.”

  “I'm not sure how you figure that.”

  “You think if I come back without you the captain would let me live?” he asked. “Or if I try to restrain you both and something happens to the baby. Even in the best circumstance, I corral you both there, but we get back to the ship late enough he whips me for cowardice—and I don't know that I like my odds of living through it.”

  “You don't have to be a dick,” she said.

  “What Christine means is, we're sorry. We never wanted to screw things up for you. But for our own safety, we have to go. And if it'll help keep you safe, we're happy for you to come with us.” She put out her hand. Reluctantly, he took it.

  Twenty-One

  Christine couldn’t get used to the feel of actual earth under her feet. She didn’t realize how much being able to return to the ship, or even to the Block, comforted her until she faced the prospect of hiding out on-planet until they could find another ship with a saner captain.

  Ilsa, at least, had seen the community gardens and knew what soil felt like underfoot. The cracked pavement and pervasive weeds tripped Christine with every step. Ilsa was slowing down, too. Christine knew the hard toll the heavy labor had taken on Ilsa’s pregnancy, and tried not to focus on the louder wheezes coming from Ilsa’s mask. They couldn’t afford to wonder how long their ventilated masks would last before they had to switch to the less strong filters. Even hauling the tanks was a burden, though once empty, they’d still be useful salvage to offer to the next ship they found.

  Tyson insisted they leave the base and led them into town. He looked for the least-decayed building to find a spot to rest for the night. A branch jutting partially through a broken window whipped Christine in the face as she led Ilsa inside.

  “Ow,” she muttered. “At least the mask took the brunt of it. I just wish I had more cannisters for it.”

  “We’ll sneak back in the morning, if we can,” Tyson said. “Recover the rest of those cannisters. They’ll have moved on to the next salvage point, downtown in the old print district. It’s not worth wasting filters to have someone keep watch.”

  “They won't be looking for us?” Ilsa asked.

  “We wouldn't be the first group to go missing during a carnideer hunt. My staff sticking out of a corpse would further convince them we were caught out during the initial wave. Unless…”

  “Unless what?” Christine asked.

  “When Monkey went missing, the captain talked to a man-catcher. They hunt out indentured workers who still owe on a contract, or ones who abscond with property. He priced out services. For the one soul, the price was too high, more than double the worth of the supplies Monkey made off with. But...” Tyson glanced at Ilsa's belly, as though he knew better than to finish the thought.

  “Do you think he would?” Christine asked.

  “I don't know rightly what he'd do. That baby…” he swallowed. “I've never seen him so focused on a single thing in all my time on ship. Captaining is about balance; too cruel, and the crew will mutiny, too kind, and the work don't get done, and nobody eats. If you're asking if he'd wager his ship to get you back, I think he just might.”

  “What the fuck are man-catchers?” Christine asked.

  “Folks with the best damn cloud-gear bounties can buy. When a wealthy brat wanders into the cloud, man-catchers fish them out. And you don't carry the best gear without being deadly enough to keep it from anyone who might want to take it from you.” For a moment, Christine wondered why the man who had hurt Ilsa so hadn't employed a man-catcher. Perhaps he worried about the word getting around, or worried that the catcher would be untrustworthy in actually returning who he sought. She traded a glance with Ilsa, who seemed to have the same thought, from the way her hand hovered on her stomach.

  He shivered. “It's cold,” he said, and it was, but neither of them were fooled that it was the reason he shivered. “We should rest tonight. Whatever the case, we need to make good time tomorrow, and get good distance. Our tanks won't last forever—and they likely won't last all the way to the port, leave alone the Foundations. We're going to need to get as far as we can before we get too fucked up to continue.”

  “The port?” Ilsa asked.

  “When we made port last time. It wasn't at the docks. It was at one of the scavenger ports. We take care of our own out here, better than the Pocas. And it's at least a half-day's foot travel closer than the Foundations.”

  Christine curled around Ilsa, the same way they had on their shared bunk.

  Tyson fell asleep quickly. He snored, but the noise was nearly comforting.

  Ilsa couldn't quiet her mind enough to drift away. “You awake?” she whispered to Christine.

  “Yeah,” she said, though she didn't lift her head off Ilsa's shoulder.

  “Can't sleep?” Ilsa asked.

  “Not if you're talking to me,” she said, but her tone was warm.

  “I'm glad we left,” Ilsa said.

  “Me, too.”

  “I'm glad we did it together.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I'd— think I'd like you to hold me,” she said.

  “Aren't I already?” Christine asked, and finally did sit up.

  “Were you?” Ilsa asked. “Or were you just laying against me.”

  “I know what we said,” Christine said, and blushed a little in the moonlight streaming into the room, “but I don't think I was ever just laying against you. I mean, I tried; I wanted to respect your boundaries, but I wanted to hold you, too.”

  “Well, now I want you to hold me, too.” Christine wrapped her leg around Ilsa's, and put her arm across her chest so it rested against her shoulder. She wasn't sure how much she was supposed to enjoy the press of Ilsa's breasts against her arm, until she realized they were probably already sensitive and maybe sore. “This okay?” she asked.

  “It'll do,” Ilsa said, “until we can get you someplace we can take our masks off, and you can nuzzle against my neck.”

  “I love you,” Christine said.

  “I love you, too.”

  * * *

  For the third time, Christine woke up to the sensation she was being watched. The first time Ilsa had been propped half on her side, and was stroking Christine's hair softly. But Ilsa was asleep.

  She tensed at the thought of a giant rat inhabiting the building. She listened carefully for rodent chitters. They hadn’t smelled fresh feces in the building when they chose it, so it was unlikely there was one nesting here, but she didn’t want to take any chances.

  Then Christine felt delicate fingers walk down the nape of her neck. They sent a chill down her spine that had nothing to do with the cool wind blowing through the broken window. They stopped at the point where her neck and collarbone joined, and traced the bone all the way to her shoulder. From there the fingers slid underneath the collar of her shirt, then wrapped around the fabric in a fist.

  Ilsa released a contented little moan and arched her hips. Christine placed her hand on Ilsa's knee, but refrained from stroking further up the inside of Ilsa's thigh. It relaxed her to feel the hum of Ilsa's body, the life that pulsed through her with every flexed muscle. Helped distance her from the ghost hands touching her.

  But Ilsa was right. They would find some place they could touch each other outside of the cloud. She could wait for that. Christine wrapped her arms around Ilsa and squeezed the other woman to her. She had never felt safer.

  In the morning, they backtracked to Christine’s stash inside the office building. Ilsa looked somewhat comforted by the familiar scenery, but it only reminded Christine of the claustrophobic doom she felt being trapped on-surface. Tyson smiled at Christine with new respect when she dug the tech o
ut of its hiding spot. “Never would have thought to check there,” he said. “We still shouldn’t linger, just in case they do decide to swing back to check on their way out.” He didn't mention the man-catchers again, but he paused a moment too long, and Christine and Ilsa shared a look. They all knew what he was thinking, even if he didn't say it out loud.

  “Here,” he said, and opened up his own tank. “We should switch in fresh canisters. That way we don't have to stop later. We'll save the fresh filters for Ilsa; that'll mean she goes through fewer cannisters. But even when they're tapped, we can use them. They won't make the air safe for us the way they do for her, but they'll cut down on the cannister usage. I think we should be able to go all day without a cannister change.”

  “I thought we could get five, six hours out of a fresh refill,” Ilsa said.

  “We can,” he said.

  “We'll be fucking stoned by the time we bed for the night,” Christine said.

  “Which does put some of the extra stresses on you,” he said to Ilsa. “It means you have to herd us, and make sure we all make camp someplace safe. It also means you'll be the one who decides when we've had enough, when we need to stop and get indoors.”

  He divided up the rest of the cannisters and filters, and distributed them between the two duffles. He took the heavier pack, and gave the other to Christine.

  Ilsa and Christine slid through the hole in the fence, though it was much more difficult for Ilsa now that her stomach was an actual impediment, not just an unbalancing influence.

  They walked for the better part of the day, until the distant sun began to set. Ilsa felt sick to her stomach, in a way she hadn’t since the morning sickness faded. She tried to focus on putting one foot in front of the other, but her feet shimmered like a mirage, and she was never entirely sure where or when they would hit the ground. From the drunken lilt to Christine and Tyson’s movements, they felt the same.

  She tried not to think of how much worse it probably was for them, with everyone conserving the filters for her use, to protect the baby. Every so often, Tyson’s eyes flashed towards her, and she was positive he saw something else. There was a feral, wild aggression there that reminded her of the rats they ate. Christine stuck close, but Ilsa noticed how frequently she whispered to herself, and didn’t feel comfortable asking who Christine was whispering to.

  Her feet hurt. Her frame ached. And her head was pounding. She hoped her baby was all right, but there wasn't much of anything she could do for it, at least not until they made camp.

  In the cleft of a valley, they found a building slightly too large to be a home, with a red cross painted on its roof. “Huh,” Tyson said. “It was a little medical emergency station. Used to be skiing here, back before all the snow melted. They must have set this place up to deal with injuries.”

  “We should stay here,” Christine said. “They might have useful supplies we can raid.”

  “Might even have a generator,” Tyson said. “Shit. Shouldn't have said anything—get your hopes up. I'll check. But even if they did, it was abandoned for a reason. Probably no fuel, or a busted generator. I'll check, after I get us inside.” He took Christine's staff. He looked around the edges of the windows in the front.

  “Here,” he said. He jammed the pry end of the staff between the window's sill and the wooden frame. He gave it one good pull, and it cracked. He moved the broken frame to the side, and then levered again, this time against the metal frame of the window itself. There was a soft crackle. “There's the lock,” he said. He handed the staff to Ilsa.

  “I'll hold it open while you crawl in,” he said to Christine. He lifted the window several inches. He cocked his knee out, and she used it as a step to get herself most of the way inside before having to pull. When she was on the other side, Tyson let the window slide back in place, and pushed the broken frame back where it had been. Ilsa might never have known it had been broken.

  “It's dark,” Christine complained.

  “It's just a few feet to the door,” he said.

  She disappeared from view. Ilsa heard a scream. “Pry,” he said, and was two steps towards the door before it swung open, with Christine standing on the other side.

  “There was a nest of spiders on the handle this side. I didn't see it until I put my hand through it. I don't like spiders,” she said.

  Tyson shouldered all of their gear and dropped it just inside the door. Then he disappeared outside.

  He was gone for a couple of minutes before returning. “Come,” he said to them.

  He led them to the back of the building. Christine recognized a small generator build into a concrete slab. “Not much in the way of fuel,” Tyson said, “but it's one little hose in need of a mend—If you think you can fix it.”

  “I've done some tool grinding, but I'm no mechanic.”

  “You know that isn't what I meant.”

  “Just a mend?” she asked, taking the hose he pointed to in her hands.

  “That'd do.”

  She concentrated. Her palms began to glow.

  Tyson glanced nervously around, as if worried about someone seeing the flare.

  Christine collapsed. “S'as much as I can do,” she muttered. Her eyes looked clearer, as though the focus had wiped the Hals from her mind. Her eyes darted from side to side, but more slowly than they had been.

  Tyson flicked several buttons, then pulled out a drawstring. The generator began to hum, kick out smoke, and several lights came on from inside the building.

  They walked back around to the open front door. The lobby, which was immediately inside, was brightly lit. Tyson shut and locked the door behind them. Then he upended a table and put it in front of the window he had broken to get in. He balanced an old computer monitor on top of it, where someone trying to enter through the window would knock it over if they tried to move the table.

  Christine thought that the air inside was getting both colder and clearer. On a hunch, she lifted her mask and took a deep breath. She smiled as she let it out. “They've got filtration.”

  Tyson followed the air flow to a vent in the corner, and after examining it a moment, turned back to them. “They must have been operating this place after the cloud formed. They've got scrubbers and filters on the vents; no reason for those unless they were cleaning cloud out of their air.”

  “We should check for anything we can use,” Ilsa said. They both looked at her like she was crazy. “We have a moment's calm,” she said, “and we can't know how long it'll last. We might have to leave here in a hurry. And if we do, we don't want to leave supplies that might save us further down the line.”

  They each took a wing of the building.

  Ilsa found the patient rooms. There was one, with several beds, separated by curtains, and one that seemed to double as an operating theater, with only the one bed in the center of the room. She shuddered.

  They met back in the lobby after several minutes and compared finds.

  Christine found the medical supplies to be similarly thin, but grabbed a few things she thought might come in handy when Ilsa's baby came. Tyson had found a few remaining cans of beans in a pantry otherwise picked clean and already managed to start heating them. They ate together. They headed back to the room with the beds.

  “Now, if you'll excuse me,” Tyson said, “think I'll get some rest. I'll take the single, since I imagine the two of you will want to bunk together.”

  Ilsa turned red and avoided his eyes.

  The beds were extra wide, intended to accommodate patients of all sizes, and there was enough room inside the one they chose for both of them to lay comfortably atop it. The bed was nearest a window that faced the moon, and the view was alien, from below the cloud. Ilsa’s feet ached, and she was tempted to measure the mattress's width then and there by sprawling across it.

  Christine seemed to have the same idea. Just then, Tyson cleared his throat.

  “I’ll go collapse now. Should be out like a light.” Tyson glanced at them,
tapped the wall by way of good night, and walked to the other end of the room.

  That left Christine and Ilsa standing next to each other again, staring at one of the biggest beds they’d ever seen.

  It occurred to Ilsa that it was as big as Benito’s bed, and she shoved the thought away. She didn't want to always judge her world against him. Instead, she gingerly moved towards the edge and sat down. She let out an involuntary groan.

  “Your feet must be killing you,” said Christine.

  “I…yeah, okay, fine.”

  “Give.” Christine held out her hands. Ilsa removed her shredded shoes and holey socks, then set a swollen foot in Christine’s calloused palms.

  Christine got right to work, kneading and rubbing her tortured feet.

  Ilsa gasped, then stifled it with a fist. Both women were silent for a moment, until Tyson’s snores filtered back to them from the other side of the room. Christine snickered quietly, then kept rubbing Ilsa’s feet.

  “You can probably let it out a bit,” she added.

  With that, Ilsa let out a sigh that strangled itself. She wiped her eyes furiously.

  “Whoa,” said Christine.

  “Sorry, just…”

  “No, no,” said Christine. They stretched out together on the bed and cuddled up, Christine curling around her.

  Ilsa slowly, laboriously turned over. She glanced at Christine, then looked up at the spackled white ceiling. It was strange to see a place with new things, somewhere that compared to the home she'd fled. Even the scratchy sheets felt luxurious.

  They said nothing to each other for a few moments. Then Christine reached over to take her hand. She squeezed, tracing Ilsa’s knuckles and fingertips with her own. Ilsa felt a dim awareness of how much rougher her hands had gotten, and distantly, was glad.

  She looked over into Christine’s eyes. It was good to see them so clear. Clearer than they’d been in a long time. Danger still hung over them like the poisonous clouds outside, as much a part of life as the toxins were part of the atmosphere, but she felt a sense of peace.