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

by Adrienne Lecter

  I don’t have to wait long until an unfamiliar voice comes from the speaker, followed by a familiar one—Martinez. I almost clap with excitement when I recognize him, but it only lasts for the seconds it takes my tired brain to realize that he sounds exhausted, without even a thread of his usual exuberance in his voice.

  “Everything all right over there with you?” he asks first, ever the caring soul.

  Dad is quick to assure him that we’re doing great—pointedly leaving out recent not-so-pleasant events—and asks when they will be dropping by.

  The pause is a long and pointed one, making a cold shudder run down my spine. Something is wrong, and I’m almost afraid of his response now.

  “Fuck if I know,” Martinez grates out—Martinez, who maybe cursed once, at tops, in my presence; who always has a smile and a calming, easy answer for everything. Martinez, who is the poster boy for positive thinking will get you out of any situation.

  The fact that Mom doesn’t chide him is telling, too. I realize she’s tense as hell, but gone is that weird combative stance she’s been riding for months now. She looks deeply troubled, and sounds it too, when she begs, “Please tell us what’s going on.”

  Martinez sighs loud enough for the static-crackling mic to pick it up. “Where to start? There’s the part of our entire command staff, down to the former NCOs, right now sitting in a barb-wire topped, fenced-off area of this fine settlement, all but waiting for their execution. Figuratively speaking, although I think that’s what Zilinsky was screaming when they pulled her away. Busted her face up badly enough that I was afraid she’d start fighting back in earnest, but I think Miller put a muzzle on her first. Damned if I know, since I wasn’t in on whatever talk they had before this.”

  Confused looks are traded. I don’t understand half of what he’s mumbling, and it’s about that moment when I realize that he’s drunk as a skunk. Also highly unusual, since I haven’t seen him have more than a few sips of anything since very early in our bunker life, for whatever reason.

  Before any of us can ask, he goes on, still sounding bitter but also amused. “Guess they must have seen this coming. I think Miller at the least knew. Sounds just like him to drop a bomb like that on all of us without much warning. Although, I saw Bree sneak over there a while ago, so I bet someone’s getting his balls busted right now, and not in a way he likes. Or, hell, what do I know? At least she sobered up pretty fast when she wanted to pretend to be all intellectual and scientist-y again. She’s been an unbearable cunt to us for the last two days. But I think that’s wearing off, too, now that she has something else to be angry about. She’s taking this way harder than any of us thought she would. Shit, I didn’t know they were that close. She never moped around when we lost someone last year.”

  That’s when the room goes quiet, my mother actually raising a hand to stifle a gasp. “Who did you lose?” she asks when Martinez doesn’t explain.

  “Oh,” he mutters. “Should have probably led with that, huh? It’s been a week for us. Kind of forgot nobody filled you in yet, but we didn’t have your frequency or codes or whatnot, and when we got here the assholes gave us a lie about their station being busted or some shit, so you couldn’t warn us. If you would, which I don’t know, since they told me you’re part of their network now, too. And guess so will we be, come tomorrow. Well, most of us. Still not sure if Bree won’t stay, although I doubt it. Maybe for a week or two, to get back at Miller. But now that the bling’s wearing off, I doubt she’ll want to hang around these would-be fascists any longer.”

  With every word he rambles, I get more and more anxious, although from what I can read between the lines, I get where he’s coming from. Mom is quickly nearing the end of her patience, finally snapping, “Who the hell died, Martinez!?”

  A brief pause follows, and he actually sounds chagrin—and unmistakably sad—when he answers. “Sorry. Got carried away.” Another pause. “We lost Bates. The damn cannibals got him.”

  My heart—and soul, and mind for that matter—exit stage left.

  The words register—and from the way I feel myself go numb, I’m in shock, feeling like I’m suddenly reduced to a spectator, incapable of doing anything at all, forced to watch and listen only—but that’s about it. More words follow, but they splash off me like water on plastic. I don’t want to hear another word but my brain keeps registering the details… so many details, so painful and cruel, and every single one making it all worse and worse until, finally, the radio line goes silent when they end the call. Nobody says a thing, and all around I see faces pale with fear and anger. Less than half of them even knew him, but it’s like someone killed a god—unimaginable and terrible. Mom may have kicked them out, but the thirteen of them are our local heroes, the winning team we will always be betting on.

  And now there are only twelve of them left, and maybe one more might not be coming back on the road, and Martinez didn’t sound like they had any intentions to come our way any time soon.

  But none of that matters, because the man I love is dead, and I never even got a chance to tell him what he means to me.

  The room is closing in on me and I can’t breathe, so I slink outside as the first murmurs start spreading through the room. As usual, nobody will notice that I’m not around to discuss things with them, but this once I’m glad about it. I stagger maybe ten or fifteen steps before I hunch over and start to puke, dry-heaving long after my stomach has emptied itself. Tears are streaming down my face but it’s mostly from exhaustion and trying to breathe, or so I tell myself. Out in the cool night air, I feel like I can draw air back into my lungs, but it hurts. Everything hurts so fucking much that remaining on my feet is impossible.

  Can you die of a broken heart? Because that’s exactly how this feels right now.

  Of course, I know that’s not going to happen, and underneath the sea of emotion that I’m drowning in, I know I have maybe five minutes until someone will realize I’m gone and come look for me. By then, I need to be composed enough to pretend that all I lost is a friend. The idea is ludicrous, but already I feel myself quiet down, if not exactly achieve actual calm. If the apocalypse taught me something, it’s to grieve quietly and compose myself in record time if need be. But I have a few more minutes, and while I don’t sit in the dirt sobbing my heart out, I let myself hurt.

  The scuff of boots on dirt tells me I’m busted, yet it’s not one of my parents that I find hunkering down behind me to pull me to my feet. It’s Collins. And one look in his face—and seeing the sympathy shining there—makes me realize that I’ve been busted, and probably for a long time now. I let him pull me into a hug, and the waterworks start anew. He doesn’t say a word as he holds me, gently rocking me until I finally quiet down. I can’t look in his eyes, not because of the mess I am, but because he knows. Fuck, but shame is the last thing I need right now.

  “Sadie, I’m so goddamn sorry,” he tells me, and he means it. I nod, not sure what to respond. Thank you doesn’t cut it. I try, anyway, but only make it as far as letting out a heavy, shaky breath. Then I turn into a vomit rocket all over again, and it gets bad enough that it almost drowns out the pain. I hear him curse as he tries to get out of the splash radius while still attempting to keep my hair out of it as well. Too late for that, but, oh well. Tonight can’t really get worse.

  Until, of course, I realize that it can. And does.

  Straightening, I do my very best to assume a semblance of calm but likely look like a cat dunked in, well, barf. I focus on Collins, hoping against hope that he will simply disappear. He doesn’t, because none of them lack the decency to abandon me now. Or at least after what I’m going to say to him.

  “I need to pee on a stick.” Understandably, he looks confused as hell, and I swallow hard as I force my brain to string together words that make sense for someone else. “When are you heading out for the next roundup tour?” That sounds so much better than looting, but that’s what it is.

  “A couple days from now,” he offe
rs. “I can trade shifts and make it as soon as tomorrow, provided your father doesn’t nix the next tour or two.”

  He might, or maybe not. Routine is important to give people a sense of normalcy. And, really, most won’t care either way, so why shake them up needlessly?

  “I need you to hunt down a few things for me, but, if possible, without anyone else knowing.” I pause. “Except for Moore, maybe.” I need to take a deep breath to go on. “He knows, too?”

  Collins nods. “He’s actually the one who filled me in. He accidentally walked in on you a few times. Theoretically, a good idea to schedule things after the evening watch is done. Too bad if you don’t get away far enough from the checkpoints.”

  Fuck, I knew they were checking on the garage, too! Usually after returning from the first perimeter circle. Since neither of us ever noticed anything, we thought… well, clearly, we thought wrong. If anything, Collins sounds amused but it’s gone the next moment.

  “Whatever you need,” he insists.

  I glance around him to make sure it’s just the two of us. “I need you to pick up a new pair of pants and a jacket for me,” I tell him, adding a number or two to my usual size. “And I need you to bring me some pregnancy tests. Grab different brands if you find some in a store. Hopefully one or two of them are still working.” I have no idea about the expiration date on those things, but since the woman disappeared, I’m not risking going into Tanisha’s stash so she can bust me. She’s anal about her inventory.

  Under different circumstances it would be funny to watch Collins’s eyes almost come out of his head. Apparently, no need to elaborate on who the father is. When he finds his voice all he mutters is, “Holy shit.” Then I find myself in another warm bear-hug, if one that’s careful to be limited to my shoulders only. Crap, but this way I give myself a twenty-percent chance at the most not to get busted.

  But right now, I need it, and it feels good, and that’s all I care about at the moment. What’s left of the numbness is receding, and I feel another crying fit brewing on the horizon.

  I don’t need to pee on that stick; I already know. Well, now I know. I’ve never been an emotional crier—something I’ve always been very proud of. Three out of four grandparents died, and a close friend in high school caught in a freak accident last year: nada. Sure, romantic love may feel different, but it doesn’t turn you into a different person. Certainly not a hyper-emotional mess. Or maybe I’m simply reading too much into it and need to cling to the idea that not all of Chris is lost—but then it never will be. I’ll always carry a piece of him inside. But in all likelihood, also a peanut-sized something, and if tonight taught me one thing, it’s that I need to know. Because something is going on, and if there’s even a chance of a chance that my baby is in danger, I need to know so I can protect him. Or her. I have no idea where that latent sense of paranoia comes from, but now that I’ve acknowledged it, it’s impossible to ignore.

  But fuck, this is too much. Too much for me, now, all on my own. How am I ever going to be able to pull this off?

  Part 3

  13 SADIE - APRIL

  Moore and Collins become my clandestine sidekicks, and unlike before—when their hulking presence was mandated by my parents to save me from whatever unfounded paranoia they had dreamed up—I’m immensely grateful for their help.

  It takes them four days to find an excuse to go raiding, but when they return, it’s with a stash full of goodies—a new jacket, new jeans and sweatpants, but also T-shirts and underwear, and a pair of hiking boots that’s too large for me now but swelling feet and needing a size larger is something I remember hearing over and over again from the few expectant and new mothers in my life. Also, the tool for the confirmation I need and both dread and hope for: pregnancy tests.

  I end up peeing on not just one, but five different sticks, and they all come back with the same result: I’m knocked up.

  I have no idea why that still stuns me, but it does.

  I’m going to have a baby. Chris’s baby.

  Just thinking about him makes my throat close up and my eyes burn, and even five days after getting the news, it hurts just as much as in those first few horrible moments while listening to Martinez ramble on the radio. I want to ask for all the details, but considering what I know, it’s for the best that I can’t get a hold of any of them right now.

  Pretending like nothing happened is impossible. I try, but fail just like that very first moment after we got that call. Contrary to my expectations, nobody chides me, and nobody suspects a thing. Mrs. Walters is the first, but by far not the only one who approaches me, offering spiritual guidance in a time of need, or simply a shoulder to cry on. The first three times I’m just waiting for someone to point a finger at me and cry foul because my grieving can’t be for a simple friend, but I soon realize why they are so happy to be lenient with me: we’ve all lost people in the outbreak, and we’ve all developed very unhealthy coping mechanisms. Seeing me cry openly—try as I might to stop it, I always fail—looks to them as if finally someone is able to go about grieving in a more normal, healthy way. Tanisha even comments that it’s not out of the ordinary that a death of someone who hasn’t been that close can easily tear open old wounds. I know she doesn’t mean it like that—the not-so-close part—but it’s this remark that sends me into a new fit. Moore and Collins know, but that doesn’t help me in the emotional department. I’m on my own, and that very idea makes the pain almost unbearable at times.

  But life goes on, or so they say, and just because everything I’ve assumed as normal is suddenly turned on its head doesn’t change that. I help Tanisha at the triage station. I spend as much time as I can with all the many agricultural projects. I always greet people nicely and have a smile for those too busy to respond, which leads to me being everyone’s favorite person around that they don’t really know anything about. That way, everyone is always happy to see me, and I don’t even need to owe anything to them to be able to trade for favors. We don’t have much left over in the fruit and vegetable department until our first crops are ready for harvest, but even so I manage to barter for the healthiest food options available. I also make sure to get as much fresh meat as possible, reasoning that after fresh produce, it’s my second-best option to get all the nutrients my baby needs. I’ve considered reading up on special supplements like folic acid or whatnot, but I’m afraid that’s one choice that will get me caught. Keeping to the basics sounds like the way to go right now. Every time I have a little freakout, I tell myself that I’m not the first woman to have a child under less than perfect conditions. In fact, if I ignore the, say, past sixty years, I probably still have better food and living circumstances than ninety-nine percent of expecting mothers in the history of humankind. My baby and I, we will be fine.

  My baby… that’s still a concept so foreign it makes me startle at random moments. But just the same, it gives me comfort and stability in a time when my mind is running in too many different directions constantly. I have no clue whether that’s due to the pregnancy hormones, or everything else.

  It’s over a week later when Nate himself finally deigns to contact us, and of course I miss the radio call because I’m helping Tanisha. I only hear of it over dinner, when, hours later, Mom is still fuming and I don’t shy away from asking her what’s wrong. She refuses to answer me, but after she gets called away to discuss some thing or another with the council, Dad finds me, packing a cinnamon roll of appeasement that I gladly devour. Ah, the joys of civilization.

  “You know that you can’t take her anger to heart,” he explains, even before I’ve had a chance to start moping. He knows her too well—and me, too, I have to admit, even though his words now make me pause so he doesn’t miss my grimace.

  “Yes, yes, I know,” I grumble. “She’s under a lot of stress, yada yada yada. But that’s no excuse.”

  He flashes me a quick smile and reaches over to ruffle my hair. God, I hate when he does that! It makes me feel like a kid. At the sam
e time, I wonder if that’s something he will soon be doing with his grandchild. That thought is enough to make the waterworks threaten to go off once more, so I quickly concentrate on my righteous anger instead.

  “Yes, you are right,” he admits. “It’s not an excuse. And I will talk to her later, when she’s had time to process the news and realize that she’s not acting like the mature woman she needs to be right now.”

  Why do I feel like that’s also a barb in my direction? I do my best not to scowl as I finish the sugary bribe. “It’s just that I don’t understand,” I complain. “She always liked Nate, and all the others. She called them your stray dogs, but with the loving affection of a veteran dog owner. And I know she was so happy to see them all arrive at the bunker, even Bree, who she knew would likely not fall in line and accept her authority as a given immediately. Why the change now?”

  He makes a face as if this discussion is the last thing he wants to have right now. I know a topic that could make that pale in comparison—and for just a moment, I almost blurt out that I’m pregnant. I’m not even sure why I’m keeping it a secret, from my parents no less. Sitting here with a full belly in pleasant company makes all my reservations evaporate. But the moment passes, and I’m glad I kept my trap shut when Dad responds.

  “You know that none of them is a cuddly wolfhound, though? All of them are trained killers.” I nod, impatient. He makes sure that his voice isn’t carrying as he goes on. “And you know about the serum program.” Not a question, but I still nod. He hesitates, which immediately makes my hackles rise. Like many veterans, he keeps his share of secrets, but he always tries to be open and honest with me. That hesitation is so unlike anything I’m used to from my father.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” I prod when he doesn’t go on.