Beyond Green Fields #4 - The Ballad of Sadie & Bates: A post-apocalyptic anthology

by Adrienne Lecter

  No, having her sag down on my chest with my arms wrapped around her lithe body is, while we both ignore my limp dick pressed somewhere against her thigh, ten minutes later. We don’t talk but we keep kissing, in a much slower, less feverish way than before. I realize I would do anything just to keep this night from drawing to a close, but since I can’t, I do my very best to cherish every single minute of it.

  Then, all that’s left for us to do is to clean up, put our clothes back on, stash away our paraphernalia as they are, and end up standing in front of each other, neither of us the wiser for what to say or do next. Give her a hug? A peck on the cheek? I almost laugh at myself when I realize just how much I hate that this is it. What I want to do is take this girl to my bed and hold her all night, and then maybe have another go at it in the morning when she’s likely too sore for actual penetration but she can, sure enough, sit on my face instead. And maybe I’ll get a blowjob out of it, if I’m lucky, which doesn’t sound too far-fetched seeing as she’s generally a very generous, giving kind of woman.

  But we can do none of that because in thirty minutes from now, the first people will start to rouse, and with the dawning day whatever this is that we have going between us has to be stashed away just like the blankets and the snacks. I know this. She knows this. And when I look deep into her eyes I see the same longing there that I feel deep inside, and the same resentment for our circumstances that keep us from having something so utterly basic. Just a man and a woman and some crazy hormones, and no reason why anyone in the world should be opposed to that.

  “That’s it, I guess,” I murmur, hating that it’s true but not wanting her to have to say the words. Let her be caught up in the dream that is us just a little longer.

  “That’s it,” she agrees, sounding tired but that special kind of satisfied that you only get after a night like this.

  “We should head back to the main house,” I go on. “Get coffee started, or something like that. Why don’t you crawl back into bed and try to get a little more sleep? I’ll try to run interference for you, say you were up late and deserve a little more shut-eye.”

  She makes a face, snapping right back to her usual, easy joking. “The lot of you snore, and fart, and generally do enough other disgusting stuff in your sleep that it’s no wonder that I couldn’t get any rest.”

  I know it’s stupid but I can’t resist. “Anything that I did tonight that might convince you to keep putting up with us disgusting, hairy monsters?”

  I love that special smile she gives me. That one’s new. That’s not a girl’s smile, however mature and smart that girl may be; that’s a woman’s smile. “Maybe,” she teases—and the moment passes, and we’re just two exhausted, if happy, people standing in a cold garage. “I really should hit the sack,” she admits.

  I hesitate, too tempted to pull her close for one last kiss, but the temptation not to stop at that is too strong. How does that line from that movie go? At least we’ll always have this? I know I’ll have to let her go, and might as well be on a high note. “You should.”

  She nods, as if she gets what I actually yearn to say—and do—and walks away, with the tiniest gingerly twist to her steps. I did that to her—and I have zero regrets, except that we’ve already agreed that this will be a one-time only thing. Because we are both two intelligent adults who know how to tread carefully and make smart decisions.

  Yeah, right.

  Turning around to make sure I’m leaving the scene of the crime without a trace to be found, I can’t help the satisfied smile that takes hold of my face. I give her a week, two weeks tops, before she’s back with another well-thought-out, oh-so reasonable excuse why she needs to hump me dry. It would be wrong to deny her, because reasons. Or science. Or curiosity, or whatever. I know that we won’t be able to keep this up forever, but where’s the harm in doing so for now? We both beat the odds and survived the apocalypse—what good is any of that if we can’t celebrate being alive?

  Part 2

  7 BATES - MARCH

  This is probably the best winter of my life—and considering we’re higher-than-neck deep in snow more often than not, and for every shambler we kill a pack of wolves moves in, that’s saying something. Yeah, it may have something to do with my ever-so-enthusiastic girl, but even without Sadie’s curiosity to explore, I would be having a blast. But that, of course, is a bonus.

  One factor, for sure, is that we really are becoming a team. The first few weeks of the apocalypse were easy; survival beats any man-made team-building exercise. But when we got to the bunker and could allow ourselves to let our guards down, things got a little strained sometimes. It was civvies versus everyone else; active army personnel versus those of us who’d decided to work for a paycheck that, in the end, none of us got to cash in; people started to complain about always getting the bad weather shifts, monotonous food, lack of entertainment—you name it. Fooling around with Sadie did a great job taking my mind off that bullshit. Zilinsky starting a weekly sparring competition worked even better. And there were the betting pools on everything, ranging from how many times a week we would have to eat apple sauce, to people abusing their favorite phrases, to when and where and for how long Lewis and Miller would be getting it on. That last one backfired in late January when a tip in the supposedly anonymous betting jar spelled out way too specific details in crisp, neat, decidedly female handwriting. I wasn’t around when she collected her winnings but later got in from watch duty to find Lewis lounging in the kitchen with an enormous stash of provisions stacked up on the table in front of her, happily munching away on her hard-earned spoils of war. What made it even better—or worse—was that part of the winnings were two bags of wasabi-coated almonds that everyone knew had belonged to Zilinsky, much coveted by everyone and never shared, not a single one of them. Nobody was stupid enough to contest her win, and she shared some of the shit only with Sadie, who was grinning just as brightly as the winner herself. The fact that I suspected that Sadie had been in on it didn’t make it better. One thing was for sure—my girl knew everything that went on in our bunker, and there was no way Miller hadn’t set her up to bust all our asses this way.

  What can I say—the fact that she is always in on all the guard, perimeter, and sortie schedules makes sneaking around undetected so much easier.

  Just as I’d expected after our first time together, it took Sadie all of ten days to decide that there really was no sense in wasting an entire winter not getting her rocks off, and I was only too happy to support her educational endeavors. We don’t always screw around—particularly when she gets her period, she gets shy—but just hanging out together for a while and not having to watch what I’m saying or being able to touch her easily brightens otherwise glum weeks. Took me a while to realize that I really like hanging out with her, not just because of her not being a hulking guy with sweaty balls, but because I genuinely like her—as in, really like her. When that hits me, it is a tough nut to swallow, but she never makes a big deal out of anything—and doesn’t force confessions of any kind. And while that makes me like her even more, it also makes me insanely resentful that our situation forces us to keep things at that level only.

  Then, one Tuesday in early March, things changed, and not in a way I’d been dreading.

  I may or may not have been dawdling on the way back from my morning run; I have no specific tasks set for the day, which means Zilinsky will likely rope me into another hunting trip. It’s still fucking cold outside, but spring is supposedly on our doorstep, and although we human assholes can’t see it, the animals know. Our hunting success ratio has turned from a handful of weak, usually older deer to easily several healthy animals a day, much to everyone’s happiness. Hunting is still better than doing the prep work to turn all that game into actual food, so I don’t mind that much—

  Until I hear voices coming from the tiny office next to the den, which is also where we keep our radio equipment. I recognize Emma and Bert’s voices—his calm, hers unnaturall
y agitated—followed by Miller growling a response. The only words I can make out is Emma hissing an upset, “like fucking animals!” and something about covering up shit.

  I instantly know I’m busted. There’s no other explanation. While my pulse starts to race, a part of me is glad. Sure, the next few hours will get damn fucking uncomfortable, but I’ll get through this somehow. They’ll happily let me take all the blame—which is okay, since it is all on me—and after the worst of the fallout is over, we will be able to move forward. I doubt they’ll exile me, but even if that happens, I’ve found a cabin further up in the mountains that would work well for a temporary shelter. I’ve always known that I will die alone as a miserable, old drunk, but maybe, just maybe…

  But first things first. Besides, while I’m still stand there, both trying to warm up and continuing to eavesdrop, Burns looks out of the office and gestures me to join them. Exhaling slowly, I square my shoulders and march to my execution—which will happen with quite the audience, it seems, as the room is crammed with people. The only ones who are missing are Lewis, Santos, and Collins who are right now on perimeter watch, and Sadie and Martinez, busy in the garage with some car stuff. Everyone ignores me, which is strange. Shouldn’t they be coming after me? I’ve had my suspicions that Taylor may have spotted us once, but so far this is a really badly planned public execution.

  Maybe this isn’t about my girl and me after all.

  Bert notices me, but his wife going off at Miller again forestalls him from acknowledging me. “Why is this the first I hear of this? You’ve endangered us for months, and I have to learn from a repeat broadcast on the radio that my family has been locked in with a bunch of monsters all winter long?”

  Ah. I have no clue about broadcasts and whatnot, but that’s hard to interpret wrong. It’s a bullshit reaction, of course, and Miller only waits for Emma to stop spitting vitriol to tell her so.

  “Do you really think I would have endangered Sadie if there’d been even a moment’s concern?”

  His—without a doubt rhetorical—question meets willful ignorance. “I don’t know? Are you even capable of rational thought? There sure have been changes—”

  Miller seems happy to let himself get abused. Zilinsky, not so much. She cuts Emma off with a harsh laugh. “It’s been years since the last of us got inoculated. Closer to a decade for most. Any changes you are looking for come because you got to know us better rather than barely tolerating our presence.”

  Emma glares at her, clearly gearing up to go off in Zilinsky’s face. Unlike Miller—who’s stoic yet uncomfortable—Zilinsky never looked more at home in her skin than she does now. I cast Bert a warning look; there’s no guessing what will happen if Emma should decide to throw a punch. Zilinksy is not known for being a turn-the-other-cheek kind of woman. I get an almost imperceptible shake of the head back—apparently Bert trusts his wife to wise up. I don’t, but I know better than to speak up when the grown-ups are fighting.

  Miller finds the single diplomatic bone in his body. “We would never have willfully endangered anyone, and, quite frankly, we are likely the reason why the rest of you had a better chance of survival than most. Whatever those assholes on the radio may be broadcasting, we don’t just turn into zombies. We’re immune to their bites and scratches. That makes going out there a lot easier.”

  Emma narrows her eyes at him, not that it has any visible effect on Miller. “And I’m supposed to take your word for that?”

  “Yes,” Miller states, his tone allowing no objection. Emma seems ready to debate the point, making him elaborate. “I take care of my people—good or bad. The only way we can convert is if we eat contaminated food, or when we die—and I take pains to keep either from happening. As Zilinsky said, this is nothing new for any of us. We know how to deal with this. There’s no need for concern.”

  “To hell there isn’t,” Emma hisses, making a few heads turn. “At the very least, you should have informed me of this.”

  “There was no cause for that,” Miller insists, just this side of hostile himself.

  “No cause? You endangered my daughter!”

  I get the feeling that they’ve been going in circles for a while. Since this clearly isn’t going anywhere, I lean toward Burns so I can whisper into his ear. “What’s this about a radio broadcast?”

  Before he can answer, Emma has had enough, crossing her arms over her chest. “If you won’t see reason, I will make you. I want the lot of you diseased scum gone from my home. Either you leave on your own account, or I answer that call and tell them that we need their help.” Whoever “they” are.

  Zilinsky looks pissed beyond reasoning, but Miller physically holds her back with an extended arm when she tries to step up to Emma. They share a look that would have withered a weaker man’s balls, but as expected, Zilinsky backs down in the end. Miller’s voice is that careful kind of neutral that makes my hackles rise when he responds.

  “We will talk about this once everyone has had a chance to process the news and calm down.”

  Emma storms off when she realizes that she’s been dismissed. Bert follows, but only after giving Miller a reproachful look that our esteemed leader ignores. Nobody says a thing as we all listen to them not just leave the room but disappear down into the lower level, without a doubt so Emma can scream her head off in relative isolation.

  “What do we do now?” Zilinsky asks, looking ready to get out the big guns.

  Miller surprises me—and everyone else, I imagine—when he grunts, “We leave.” Zilinsky’s eyes look ready to bug out of her head, and Miller pretends to be a little more human—and sounds more angry—when he elaborates. “Not right now, but soon after we thaw out. You’ve heard the broadcast. You know as well as I do who’s likely behind it. Let Emma believe she chased us off; you know that’s not why we need to leave.”

  Zilinsky looks too livid to answer, so it’s Romanoff who jumps in for her. “It’s the only way to keep our people safe.”

  Fuck, but I hate when he’s right.

  Miller casts a brief look around. “I need at least two volunteers who will stay to make sure that they stay that way. I’m taking applications tomorrow.”

  Fuck, but I’m tempted to step forward right now—but know I’m probably not on the list of acceptable candidates.

  Our little assembly breaks up shortly, and I find myself at a loss for what to do now. Miller’s reaction right there at the end is all the explanation he needs—he’s afraid that the ghosts of his past are still around to haunt him. And from what Burns fills me in on, not just him—all of us. The broadcast was sent by what sounds like the remnants of the army. They’d know, those fucking assholes—they are who turned us into what we are, for better or worse. Until last year—and hell, well into the fucking apocalypse—I’ve always counted myself lucky to have been accepted into the program. I owe the army so much more than my life, and maybe, one day far down the road, paying the ultimate price for it has always sounded like a bargain to me. That is, until a certain girl swept in and stole my heart, and now I’m feeling resentful for the first time ever.

  Turns out I’ve been right in one aspect—as soon as she sees me standing around idly, Zilinsky sends me on a hunting trip with the usual rejects. It’s a welcome distraction, even if it does come with a certain amount of wry amusement now. We’re not just hunting dinner, but provisions—for those that will be left behind, but even more for the lot of us who won’t.

  Dinner is a needlessly somber affair. It’s obvious that something has happened in the meantime. Lewis seems to be the only one oblivious to it, but maybe her incessant joking with Martinez and Burns is just a cover. I wonder—not for the first time—whether Miller has finally filled her in on the details. It’s impossible that she doesn’t know some of us are more equal than others where injuries are concerned. We’ve had a few bouts of sinus infections making the rounds, and it was tantalizingly easy to pick out who of us couldn’t turn into snot rockets any longer. She’s also
helped treat a fair share of injuries over the past months that obviously weren’t from wild animals and healed up in under record time. Looking back, I’m not even sure if she didn’t make the connection right there when we had her in that damn glass cube and Jones ate that damn candy bar and converted. She was Miller’s brother’s assistant or some shit, right? She must know.

  I’m not surprised that Emma has been in the dark. Miller must have anticipated her reaction. Bert knows, I’m sure. Sadie confirmed it to me. I realize when she catches my gaze across the table and gives me a confused, questioning look that nobody has filled her in yet. Guess that’s my job now.

  As usual, we have to wait for fucking forever until everyone else has fallen asleep before we can tiptoe out of the bedroom and meet up in our usual spot—the garage. I walk in, writing a whole damn script in my head, but before I can say a single word, she pounces on me, and I soon forget I can even talk as I pull her against me. She’s eager going on desperate, which can mean one thing only: Miller filled her in. Or someone else, but considering how close they are, it makes sense that he must have pulled her aside and told her the deets.

  It’s cold in the room but Sadie resists my attempts to pull away and hunt for blankets, so good old standing up, against the wall fucking it is. I’d feel guilty, but she’s the one pulling on my clothes like she’s drowning and my dick is the only source of oxygen out there, and who am I not to oblige the lady? And, fuck, she feels good enough to make me forget there might be no tomorrow for us—at least for a while.

  Then all passion is spent and our mutual lust for each other is slaked, and she looks up at me with a sadness in her eyes that breaks my heart. Girl, what have you done to me?