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

by Adrienne Lecter

  “You’re leaving with the others, right?” she whispers, less so because she’s afraid anyone will hear us than not wanting to utter the words aloud.

  I nod. I don’t know what else to tell her.

  Not that I get a chance to try, as a moment later I hear the door in the small connective corridor from the cabin bang open. Sadie’s eyes widen, and she’s already scrambling to get her clothes back in order. I do the same, beating her to it since all I need to do is zip myself back up. What can I say—it’s really fucking cold in the garage.

  The door opens and Burns saunters in, munching on some jerky. I’m relieved momentarily—he’d be the easiest to fess up to by a long shot—but still signal Sadie to duck behind one of the tool carts off to the side. Maybe I can distract the fucker, and there won’t be any reason for any confessions tonight, after all.

  “Never knew the garage was this busy in the middle of the fucking night,” I say, grinning when Burns jumps—and drops the previously glossy magazine he’s been getting ready to get comfy with. I hope that where I end up stopping will be in line of sight to where Sadie is hiding. Staring at my ass must be better than at his mug, right? That thought amuses me further. Yeah, we got that one covered.

  “Asshole,” Burns mutters. “You scared me shitless.”

  I pointedly look down at the magazine, finding a pair of nice tits staring back up at me. Yeah, he’s so busted. “Sorry, bro, but you should have penciled yourself in the schedule if you wanted to be on your own.”

  His eyes narrow at me. “There’s a schedule?” I flash him a grin and he roars with laughter. “You almost got me there,” he tells me, then turns a shrewd look on me that makes me sweat for a moment. “Wanna switch? As much as I appreciate Miss March, she’s getting old after...” He trails off to think. “Way too many months locked in here. Fuck, but I’ll be glad to see some real pussy soon. Don’t tell me you weren’t ready to high-five me when Miller dropped the bomb today that we’re leaving.”

  I should be, right? At least that’s the reaction everyone will be expecting from me. It’s not like I’ve ever pushed a willing woman off my lap. Not being completely starved for sex might play into my sudden lack of enthusiasm, but with a weird pang of something deep inside I realize I’m not even looking forward to seeing another beautiful woman, let alone touching her.

  “Yeah, sure,” I mutter. Fuck, I’m a step away from busted, so I follow that up with a bright smile. “You know me too well.”

  Burns considers, but lets his titty rag disappear inside his jacket. “Smoke break? After how you jumped me, I’m not sure my mister is ready to get some action, even if it’s only with my right hand.”

  I’m relieved, but it’s a shallow victory. “Sure, meet you right up.” When Burns shoots me a questioning look, I shrug. “Still need to clean up after myself.”

  I get a snicker for my trouble. As soon as I hear the outer door close, I round on Sadie’s hiding spot, but she’s already up. I can’t read the look on her face, which is a first in a long, long time. It takes me a few seconds to realize what could have her panties in a twist—and when my lackluster responses to Burns make the only sense, I’m at a loss for what to say.

  “I—” she starts, but bites her bottom lip when she stalls. “I should head back to bed, but I think it’s better you leave first. Not much sense in subterfuge when Burns sees me come out of here after you just established that you were in here alone.”

  Her words are neutral enough. Her tone is a long shot from it. I understand when I’m being dismissed. Part of me wants to protest—and a much smaller part even wants to beg for her forgiveness although I haven’t done anything wrong—but I end up giving her a small nod instead, and leave.

  Damn, but that could have gone better.

  8 SADIE - MARCH

  I feel like such an utter fool when he leaves me standing there, on my own, in the dark garage, my flashlight the only source of light. I feel stupid, betrayed, used—and I’m not sure who I’m more livid with, Chris or myself. Waiting five whole minutes to make sure that he and Burns are outside on their smoke break so I can safely get back to my bed without being discovered is maddening.

  Must be the hormones, I tell myself. I should be getting my period any day now. That would also explain why my mind was hell-bent on skipping the talking part and going right to the feels-so-good, let’s-forget-the-world-exists part. I know I’m overreacting, and I tell myself that a short but good night’s sleep will help.

  Only that I can’t fall asleep, and being wide awake with your mind churning itself into deeper and deeper ruts is not helping.

  What did I expect, really? Oh, yes, Sadie, you’re such a mature woman now with your eighteen years of age. And you’re having such a mature relationship that doesn’t need verbal concessions, or even acknowledgments. Because would it really kill a guy to say more than “I like you” after screwing around for months? He’s supposed to be the one who says it first, right? And damn, am I glad I didn’t, because if last night’s disaster taught me anything, it’s that I’ve been reading way too much into whatever this is that we are having. Really, what did I expect?

  I realize that I’m being delusional, expecting a confession of everlasting, undying love. That only happens in movies, anyway. And while we both sure got something out of this, it wasn’t really a conventional relationship in the strictest sense. Fuck, I mean, I emotionally blackmailed him into taking my virginity! And why would he have protested after that since I am the only game in town? But there are lots of other towns out there, and with things changing, why did I expect them to stay the same? When, really, I realize now how much I must have been the exception—maybe the only somewhat long-term-ish relationship he’s ever had.

  It was fun while it lasted, and I got way more than I bargained for—so why does it feel like my chest is bursting into a million different pieces? I should be happy with what I got, and content to leave it at that.

  As soon as Pia gets up, I follow, hoping that going through the motions of making breakfast and getting all the many, many daily routines started will help. It’s only when I rinse the coffee mug last night’s late shift left behind that I realize that Chris never made it back to the bedroom.

  He appears, virtually out of thin air, in the thick of the morning craziness, and I have too much to do to be able to ignore him properly. He doesn’t avoid me but also doesn’t go out of his way to interact. I only half-heartedly pay attention to today’s schedules being called out. Why bother? I’m sure everything will run smoothly for a single day that I don’t know exactly who will be where and when. It’s not like I need to know for any ulterior motives. Even so, it shapes up to be an unremarkable day; the only thing of note is that Nate and Bree are together on perimeter watch in the afternoon, which means that pot will get busted. And damn, I’ve never been so resentful of two people I really like, and the idea of them having sex.

  For the first time since I got this stupid idea stuck in my head, I wish I had someone to talk to. It’s probably for the best that Bree is gone, because she’d be my most likely confidante. She’d understand, and since she’s the only one in here who doesn’t think I’m a child, I could be open and honest with her. Sure, it would get us busted one hundred percent, but right now that conjures up feelings of vindication rather than dread inside of me. I’d get the Talk—with a capital T—of my life, but there are so many people here who’d be so happy to let me play the naive, innocent girl just to alleviate their wrong sense of honor that I likely wouldn’t even get grounded. And even if I did, how would that be a change from what has been my daily life forever?

  Bree and Nate remain gone far longer than expected, which gives me something else than my thoughts to obsess about. Taylor thinks he heard some shots just before it got dark. That could mean a lot of things. It could be nothing; it could mean they found some good game and are hunting it down right now; or they happened upon some zombies and can’t return to the bunker yet. I refuse to
consider anything that goes beyond the discomfort of cold exposure and a long hike back, or else I’m really going to go insane. With every ten minutes that pass and still no news, I get more antsy.

  And I still haven’t gotten my period.

  Mostly to distract myself, I dig up one of the useless calendars in the house and try to remember when this cycle started. It takes some thinking and correlating of other events to finally nail down the correct date. Yes, it must have been a Saturday, so that makes today… day thirty-three. I’m always on twenty-eight days, like clockwork. Even before starting with the pill. And stopping it because it wasn’t needed, and gave me heavier flow and worse cramps, contrary to what it should have. Mixing brands doesn’t sound that smart in hindsight, but it was all I had. Whatever. Maybe I’m just getting a cold, or my uterus has finally decided to give me a break after the winter of rivers of blood.

  Zilinsky is getting worried as well, and sends out a second guard rotation. That leaves the main house unnaturally empty as it’s usually the backup guys that lounge around and munch food that’s meant for next week. Just my luck that I end up traipsing into the office, looking for used but not returned coffee mugs, and run right into Chris, where he’s been lounging against the desk, doing God knows what. We stare at each other for a moment, both at a loss for what to say. Part of me wants to fly off the handle and go off in his face; part of me wants to steal a hug and a few kisses to forget that, by now, I’m worried sick about Nate and Bree. My intellect wins, overruling the silliness in favor of what I should have done last night.

  “Got a minute to talk?” I ask, doing my very best to sound measured, confident, and calm. That my voice shakes just a bit on the last word so doesn’t help.

  Chris nods and pushes away from the table, but not to embrace me or some shit, but to peek into the other room before he silently closes the door. It’s late, so chances are better than average that nobody will come in here. And it’s not like we’ll be doing anything that’s suspicious, should someone look inside.

  He rounds on me with a conflicted expression, and I know—this is going to get bad. I almost speak up to let him know that I have no expectations and that it was all just in good fun and no strings attached and whatnot, but force myself not to. I hate that there’s this weird space appearing between us that never used to be there, even before my crush on him bloomed into something stronger and drove me to act, and he accepted.

  His voice is low yet laced with emotion when he finally finds the words he must have been looking for. “I don’t want to leave. Trust me, if it was up to me, I’d stay. But we both know that it’s not, and at least for the time being, I need to go.”

  My heart skips a beat but I don’t allow myself to jump to conclusions. “I know.”

  He gives me a pained grimace that I think is supposed to be a smile. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. And I don’t think anyone, not even Miller, has an idea where we’ll end up going. But I promise you, I won’t forget about what we had, and…”

  I know it could be a simple slip of the tongue, but to my addled brain it’s like a red-hot poker going straight through my heart. “Had,” he said, as in past tense. I feel myself choke up, and half of what I intend to say will never make it past my lips. I realize I walked in here to absolve him of any guilt or doubt he may have, but I can’t. I know I should be the bigger person. I know I need to act mature. But I just can’t find it in me.

  “Good,” I say, and it sounds more like a curse than anything else. I’m not even sure what I’m meaning to say with it, but he seems to get it, because he looks like a beaten dog for a moment—yet he’s the one who’s holding the rolled-up newspaper, not me. Shit, but this is not going the way I want it to.

  Before I can make it worse, I push past him and through the door. Shit, but nobody told me all this pain and bullshit would be part of falling in love as well.

  9 BATES - STILL MARCH

  I know I fucked up. And from that last real talk we had—if you can call a two-minute conversation that—it’s still going strong. Problem is, I don’t know how I fucked up, and I have even less of a clue how to stop this self-perpetuating dynamic of making it worse.

  Well, that’s not entirely true. I know exactly when things went sideways, and it’s not like I’m stupid enough not to see what’s going on. If I’d wanted to be a true asshole, I could have insisted that, obviously, I had to play along with Burns to avoid him sniffing out why exactly I’d been in the garage, but I can see where it’s easy to misread the situation, if you only wanted to. I don’t think Sadie is the kind of woman who will jump at a chance to twist everything around, but she is only eighteen, and it’s not that much of a stretch to guess that this is the first serious relationship of her life. Well, shit, for both of us, because the same’s true for me, and if men in general are ill-prepared to handle the emotional shitload of misconceptions that can arise, I’m in the lower twenty percent of that group. I don’t want to say my stellar upbringing is an excuse for that, but I’ve never had a role model for how to do that crap—and never thought I’d need one.

  It doesn’t help that the other assholes are getting hyped up with everything we do. When Bailey brings in the news that someone responded to the messages we left all over the region, you’d think someone had just told us the apocalypse was just a hoax, and, ha ha! We all fell so hard for it. Everything’s back to normal now. At least Sadie’s mood seems to have brightened somewhat since Miller and Lewis didn’t bite it. Cleaning up their mess helps clear my mind a little—nothing like spending half a day tracking down half-frozen shamblers and giving them the end they deserve. I can’t wait for the warmer months when they don’t get stuck in the snow and actually put up a fight.

  Even snickering at my own idiotic thought doesn’t help much.

  For the meeting that has been set up with whoever else is roaming the wasteland out there, we need to do some cleanup first. I don’t mind being stuck with Lewis, since that usually means the easy workload. I think she knows that Miller and Zilinsky still keep her on the back burner, but considering the shit we get in, that’s not saying much. Routine sure has helped her a lot. She’s almost to where Santos was when we picked up the kid before that shitload of zombies came after us; maybe even more useful since she sees it as a matter of pride and ego not to slack off, while the kid needs a kick in the ass every once in a while. And it’s thinking along those lines when I, again, have to remind myself that my girl is four years younger than the kid. She doesn’t act it—and I don’t even mean sex—but it’s true. None of that helps me, so all I can do is concentrate on not getting eaten by the undead. Easy peasy.

  The trailer park we clean up really isn’t a hard task. A lot of the RVs have already been searched, and we find a handful of locked-in and ravenous shamblers, tops. It makes sense to come back later and do a more thorough search since there’s an abundance of tools to strip from the mobile homes, and the odd preserve that should still be good.

  I don’t know what makes me pause in the middle of the RV I’m checking. It’s definitely on the lower end of potential usefulness since it screams old-lady van even before I bust open the door. Those are bona fide crocheted curtains, and the biggest danger in here is that I get attacked by lace doilies. A glance is enough to know that the former inhabitant died in her bed, and remained there. I hate needing to confirm that as I gently poke one desiccated arm with my rifle. A lot of the old-timers never turned, no idea why. Maybe their metabolism was too slow. Lewis might know. I don’t care enough to ask. There’s no reason to linger, and with every moment that I stay, I feel like I’m desecrating a tomb. It says a lot about how bad the shamblers stink up a space that only having a permanently dead corpse in here is almost bearable.

  I’m turning to go when my gaze skips over the small desk in the corner. It’s overladen with what I presume are family photos—across five generations, ranging from old black-and-white to printed-out selfies of what I guess must have been her grandk
ids—next to a wooden jewelry box. I hesitate before I open it.

  Don’t get me wrong—I have no qualms about taking shit I need to survive from dead people, and I have no issues with calling it what it is: looting. But there’s a line for me, and that’s personal items. There’s absolutely no reason for me to take souvenirs, and I never have—not before the shit hit the fan, and sure as fuck not after. When you have to drag your entire life around on your back, you get very selective, down to considering whether you need a third pair of socks or underwear. Spoiler alert: you do, but you sure as fuck don’t need to rummage through some old lady’s gaudy baubles. Except that, contrary to her entire interior design choices, they aren’t gaudy, and very much fit the glamor shot of the 1940’s beauty staring off into the distance in the simple picture frame right next to the box. I don’t try to check whether she’s still recognizable—age and mummification make that a guessing game at best, and a rather morbid one at that—but presume that must have been her in her early twenties. An actress, maybe? She sure used to be a looker in her hay day.

  My common sense finally catches up with me and I’m about to close the box when I notice a much smaller, light blue box in the corner. Yes, that special light blue-green that even idiots like me, who’ve never bought a single piece of bling for a fling in their lives, recognize. I know I really shouldn’t grab it and look inside—and the cold trepidation that creeps up my spine has nothing to do with my sense of decency, for what it’s worth—but I do. Just like the box, the ring inside is rather understated, made of plain, brushed metal and that’s it, no stones or mixed materials. Since it’s lacking a patina and, while dainty and obviously a woman’s size, is kind of solid, I presume it’s made of platinum, and probably worth more than my gun. I stare at it with a transfixed kind of horror that my mind refuses to analyze.