by A. M. Geever
She ran upstairs, hopping into a pair of jeans and tucking in her sleeping shirt. Her hair was long enough to pull into a nubbin of a ponytail or two pigtails. She grabbed two elastics and smoothed it into pigtails. Maybe pushing thirty-one was too old for pigtails, but Miranda liked them. And Phineas had said they were cute.
She stepped onto the shared porch of the duplex, the concrete cool under her bare feet. Just as she raised her hand to knock, the door flew open. Noelle started, her china-blue eyes going wide. Her black hair was unkempt, and her eyes were puffy with sleep. She looked paler than usual, her skin an almost chalky white. She reminded Miranda of Snow White, but Snow White had never been surrounded by the aura of perpetual anxiety that pinched Noelle’s eyes at the corners and pressed her mouth into a tight line. She looked thinner, too, and she’d never needed to lose weight. Was the rationing so severe already? The more Miranda got to know her, the more sympathy she had for Noelle. Raising a child on one’s own had always been hard. Doing so now must feel next to impossible. She got it, now, why a person might choose to have a child despite how dangerous the world had become, but she pushed the thought away.
“They’re not with you?” Noelle asked.
“No,” Miranda said. “I thought they were here.”
“She gotten good at unlocking the door,” Noelle said, sounding on the verge of tears.
“It’s not a big deal,” Miranda said. She placed her hands on Noelle’s shoulders. “They can’t have gotten far, and everyone will steer them home. How about I take the Big Woods and you take the housing plan?”
“Okay,” Noelle said, taking a deep breath. She gave Miranda a tremulous smile. “Thanks, Miranda.”
“You should be yelling at me for not locking my door,” Miranda replied. “Meet you at River’s in fifteen minutes?”
Noelle turned away, not bothering to close the door. Miranda pulled it shut and trotted down the walk.
Goddammit, she thought. She would either have to remember to lock the door or start shutting the bedroom door so Delilah didn’t have the run of the house. Being awake was bad enough, and hitting her head had been worse. Dragging her hungover ass outside in search of her dog and a three-year-old, while ice picks of sunlight stabbed her eyes, was a whole new level of suck.
She’d also forgotten to put on her shoes.
She jogged under the high canopy of the Big Woods, the sun’s overcast glare cut by fifty percent and replaced with a suffused green glow. She turned right off Big Fir Trail, one of two main trails, onto the Ash Loop. She went this way on her morning run, so the probability that Delilah had turned this direction was high, but she didn’t find them.
She turned right onto the Trillium Loop. Nothing. She continued toward the Nature Center…or where it used to be. She squinted up Owl Path, but decided to keep going. If she didn’t find them by the time she reached the south end of Ponderosa Loop, which at half a mile was one of the longer loops, she’d double back on it, then backtrack again to the Nature Center.
She’d just turned onto Ponderosa when she heard Delilah bark, followed by a high, piping voice. Relief flooded through her as she trotted toward Gemma’s voice. Delilah barked again. It was her playful bark, and Miranda heard the low buzz of a man’s voice. Someone had found Gemma and Delilah and was bringing them home, just as she’d predicted. She rounded the bend and stopped in her tracks. Gemma and two men—one in front of the other—walked down the path. The larger of the two, with close-cropped blond hair and a strong, chiseled jaw, held Gemma’s hand. He looked down at her as she explained something—Gemma loved to explain things—a smile curving his lips. His brown tee shirt strained to contain his muscled frame, as did the work pants he wore. It was Phineas who followed them. He faced the opposite direction, and Miranda saw a stick fly through the air. Delilah took off after it like a rocket.
The big man looked up and froze, just for a second. Miranda stared at him in openmouthed shock. Victor, the mercenary who had led the attack on LO only a few months ago, held Gemma’s hand, while Phineas threw a stick to her dog. What the ever-loving fuck was going on? Her stomach filled with lead. Sudden, overwhelming fear of Gemma being harmed felt like a blow. She dashed over and snatched Gemma away.
“Are you okay, Gemma?” she said, her arms trembling with the need to keep the girl safe.
Gemma squirmed in Miranda’s arms. “Manda,” she whined. “Let go!”
Miranda’s grip didn’t loosen. She hadn’t bothered to put on her holster, with her handgun, knife, and machete, and really wished she had.
“What’s going on?” she demanded. She glared up at Victor as Phineas came abreast of him. “What is he doing out?”
“It’s okay, Miranda,” Phineas said quickly. “I’m escorting Victor to breakfast.”
“We met Gemma and Delilah, so we’re walking them home on the way,” Victor said.
“Shut up,” Miranda snapped at him.
“Ow,” Gemma whined, wriggling harder, and Miranda realized her grip on the child was too tight.
“He’s supposed to be in the stockade,” Miranda said to Phineas.
“Rocco told me to bring him to the dining hall, that he’d meet us there,” Phineas said, sounding apologetic.
“What?” she fairly barked, because there was no way she had heard him right.
“I want the nice man,” Gemma said, the whine in her tone much more pronounced. She reached her pudgy arms for Victor, who watched Miranda and Phineas’ exchange. A wary amusement danced in his brown eyes.
“You don’t even have a weapon, Phineas,” Miranda said, both dumbfounded and furious, which intensified the pounding in her head.
“I’m not going to hurt him,” Victor said mildly. “Besides, where am I going to go?”
“Not talking to you,” Miranda said at precisely the moment Gemma began to wail.
The high-pitched shriek felt like a jack hammer against Miranda’s temples. Gemma’s thrash became a whole-body endeavor. Delilah had returned and began to bark, distressed by the girl’s distress, but unsure what her role was in keeping Gemma safe since Miranda was holding her.
“I want the nice man,” Gemma wailed, sounding like someone was murdering her soul.
Victor looked at Miranda. “Just let her walk with me.”
Gemma thrashed, her wails getting worse by the second. Miranda didn’t know what the hell was going on, or why this murderer was out and about with access to children. But she also knew she wasn’t making the situation better. Despite the desire to hold Gemma tight and flee, she relented. Get a grip, she told herself, unsure what was driving this feeling of fear. Maybe it wasn’t fear. Maybe it was pain, because if she had to keep listening to this shrieking, she was pretty sure her head would split open.
“Fine,” she said.
Despite every instinct in her body telling her not to, she set Gemma down. The wails ceased immediately, replaced by hiccups and few pathetic whimpers. She ran to Victor and wrapped her arms around his massive leg. Delilah wriggled close and licked at Gemma’s face.
“Nice man,” Gemma said.
Victor pulled a bandana from his pocket, old and threadbare, and bent to wipe Gemma’s tear-streaked face. The muscles of his torso rippled, and his biceps flexed. Miranda watched, horrified. All she could think was how he could pop Gemma’s head off her body as easily as flicking a dandelion from its stem with his thumb, and she’d be too slow to stop him.
Victor wiped Gemma’s face and smiled at her. “Better?”
She nodded, rewarding him with a sunny grin. She took his hand and resumed her childish prattle as if the last two minutes hadn’t happened.
“I’ll follow,” Miranda growled, gesturing him past her.
Victor nodded and resumed his way down the path, even skipping with Gemma for a few steps. Phineas fell in step beside Miranda, looking at her like she was a bomb.
“You weren’t even watching them,” Miranda whisper-yelled at Phineas. “I don’t know what the hell Rocco is
thinking. You were playing with the goddamned dog instead of watching him.” She fixed him with a withering stare. “You don’t even have a weapon.”
Phineas gulped audibly.
“Why aren’t you walking her? What the fuck, Phineas?”
“She ran right up to us, and Delilah was with her,” he stammered. “She just took his hand.”
Phineas’s lame explanations set her teeth on edge. Normally, he was sensible, but this…
“I didn’t—” he started.
“Don’t talk,” she snapped. “Just. Don’t.”
Phineas shrank away despite still walking alongside her. Birdsong, the scuff of Delilah’s trotting paws, and Gemma’s high, babyish voice, punctuated by Victor’s deep, basso answers or comments, were the only accompaniment for their journey. Miranda studied Victor, noticing that his arms and neck, and now that she thought about it, his face, were tanned, as if he’d been spending time outdoors. He walked with an easy, relaxed stride, even though it was shortened by Gemma’s short legs, and did not seem distressed in the least by being a prisoner. But if this was how Rocco thought murderers should be treated, no wonder he looked that way.
As they emerged from the Big Woods into the housing plan, Miranda had mostly regained control of her temper. She saw Noelle at the corner, pacing in front of River’s house where she was waiting for Miranda. She looked up, and when she saw them, her petite frame sagged with relief. She hurried over to meet them.
When they were twenty feet apart, Noelle called, “Gemma!”
Gemma looked up, then let go of Victor’s hand and ran to her mother. Noelle swooped Gemma into her arms and held her close.
“You scared Mama,” she said. “You can’t leave like that.”
Gemma pointed to Victor. “The nice man!” She glowed with happiness, like she had found a buried treasure.
Victor halted, and Miranda sidled up so she almost stood between them. Noelle smiled, relieved, then looked up to Victor. He towered over Noelle, as big and brawny as she was tiny and petite.
“Thank you so much,” she said, relief filling her voice. “I hope she wasn’t a bother. I almost had a heart attack when I realized she was gone.”
“It was my pleasure, ma’am,” Victor said.
Miranda snorted. My pleasure? Ma’am? Who did he think he was kidding?
“And she had that pittie looking after her,” Victor added.
“Yes,” Miranda said, her voice hard. “She did.”
“I can’t thank you enough…” Noelle trailed off, a question in her voice.
“Victor,” Victor said.
“Noelle,” Noelle answered, shifting Gemma to her hip before shaking Victor’s hand.
“It really was my pleasure,” Victor assured her. “Gemma told me all about the woods.”
He smiled, and goddamn if the man wasn’t charming. Miranda glared at Victor, then Phineas, who was trying hard to blend into the background. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” she asked pointedly.
“Yeah,” Phineas said, leaping into action to escape Miranda’s wrath.
Victor said, “Bye, Gemma.”
Gemma buried her face in her mother’s shoulder, playing shy. If only she’d done that when she met them on the path and ended up with Phineas in charge of her.
“The nice man,” Gemma said, peeking out at him.
“Let’s go, Victor,” Phineas said, a note of desperation in his voice.
“Miranda,” Victor said, with a small incline of his head.
Miranda said nothing, working hard to not throw up in her mouth at Victor’s performance. Phineas and Victor walked away, down the street toward the thin spit of trees that separated the housing plan from the ground of the Boys Home, where the dining hall was located.
Delilah leaned against Miranda’s leg. Miranda could tell Delilah’s tail wagged by the way her body vibrated. Gemma worked her way around her mother’s waist like a monkey until they faced one another. Noelle held Gemma under her arms, the child’s legs wrapped around her waist, and held her a little bit away. She looked at her daughter severely.
“You cannot do that, Gemma. You have to wait for me, or wake me up, if you want to play with Delilah. And you cannot wander off. You scared Mama.”
Gemma’s lower lip, pink as the blush on an apple blossom, jutted out in a pout. She looked down and studied her belly button through her nightgown.
“I’m not mad at you,” Noelle said, her voice less severe. “But you can’t do that again.”
Gemma nodded, then wrapped her arms around her mother’s neck and stuck to her like a sea urchin.
Noelle said, “Thank you so much, Miranda.”
“I’ll lock my door, I promise. Hopefully she’ll just go back inside if she opens your door again.”
“Thank God they came across her before she fell in the pond or something…” Her voice trailed away, then she said, turning to Miranda, “That Victor must be one of the new arrivals coming to get the vaccine. I’ve never seen him before. He seemed nice.”
Miranda hated to be the one to crush the hopeful look in Noelle’s eyes that the return of her baby had sparked, but talk about getting it wrong.
“He’s one of the men who attacked us,” Miranda said.
Noelle’s eyes widened. Her mouth formed a perfect cartoon princess O of surprise.
“I don’t know why he’s not in the stockade,” she continued. “But I’m going to see Rocco about it. He’s a—”
She’d been about to say murderer, but caught herself in time. Gemma was always asking questions, wanting to know what things were and how things worked. She’d asked Miranda why birds didn’t land on leaves. When she’d explained they couldn’t bear the weight, Gemma told her that wasn’t it, so she’d said they were slippery. The last thing Noelle needed was to have her asking what a murderer was. She was already stressed out.
“He’s not what he seems, Noelle,” she said instead. “You should steer clear of him.”
“Yeah,” Noelle said softly, her arms tightening around Gemma. “I will.”
11
Rocco wasn’t at their usual table by the window. Phineas and River were, but Rocco must have finished eating. When she caught Phineas’ eye, he quickly looked away. Miranda scanned the rest of the dining hall, but she didn’t see him. She threaded her way through the tables, nodding in acknowledgment to greetings as she veered toward the door at the far end of the room.
She saw Rich approaching from her peripheral vision. He fell in step beside her. “Have a tough night?”
Miranda realized her hasty pigtails were probably untidy, and she hadn’t even brushed her teeth after she walked Noelle and Gemma home. She had put on shoes, then come straight here to talk to Rocco.
“Something like that,” Miranda answered. Mathilde and their children sat a few tables away in the direction they were walking. She caught sight of Rich’s plate. The portions were measly.
“Is that your whole meal?”
He shrugged. “They offered me a little more, but not much. We’re going to the bunker soon, and I’ll have plenty to eat there.”
“Okay,” she said.
When they arrived at his table, she said hello to Mathilde and the kids, and goodbye to Rich.
The amount of food on Rich’s plate wasn’t quite half of normal. So they must be at about two-thirds rations. The pressure of needing to get to the bunker, to do something to get food for everyone, settled on her like sandbags.
She entered the hallway of offices at the back of the building, pushing stray wisps of hair behind her ears. She had her hand raised to knock on the door to Rocco’s office when she heard the low murmur of voices. She fell back and leaned against the wall. Her temples throbbed. She smacked her papery-dry tongue against the roof of her mouth, but there was no moisture to speak of, even after the cider she’d drunk before. Now that she thought about it, though, her hangover had eased a little.
After what seemed an age, but was probably ten minutes, she
heard the rustle of movement from Rocco’s office.
“—talk again later this week,” Rocco said as the door opened.
“Sure thing.”
Victor filled the doorway, more than even Rocco’s broad frame did. He nodded to Miranda and made his way down the hall back to the dining room. Miranda pulled her stare away from his retreating form.
“You look like a truck hit you, Tucci.”
Miranda marched into Rocco’s office. “Why is he out? Why is he walking around with an ‘escort’?” She made air quotes with her fingers. “And why is the escort unarmed?”
“I can see what side of the bed you woke up on.” Miranda narrowed her eyes at Rocco and scowled. He added, “I’ve been meeting with Victor a couple times a week the last few weeks. To get a read on him, and—”
“Why aren’t you doing it in the stockade?”
“And,” Rocco continued, emphasizing the word to make sure she understood he was annoyed at being interrupted. “I’ve decided to give him something to do.”
“Since when?” Miranda asked.
“Since you left on the P-Land errand.”
“Really?” They’d stumbled across Kendall’s bunker two weeks ago. “He’s Navy, Rocco, which means he’s scum. He led the attack on us just a few months ago. He’s a killer.”
Rocco settled back into his chair, arms crossed. “So are you.”
Miranda crossed her arms, mirroring his posture. “That was different. I know I owe you for smoothing the way after I killed Jeremiah, but bringing him up all the time is bullshit.”
“Look,” Rocco said, his tone more conciliatory. “I’m sorry for saying it that way. I was just trying to draw a parallel, not imply you still owe me, ’cause you don’t. Okay?”