by A. M. Geever
“It’s a nice place,” she said, giving him a quick smile.
He looked at her like she was a prize, but also a trap. It had been a mistake to ask for the seeds. She hadn’t even meant to; it just came out. For someone who had a hidden luxury bunker, she couldn’t think of anything less consequential than a few envelopes of seeds he’d never use. She’d met people with far less who had been more generous. She felt the pressure of time, knowing it wasn’t on LO’s side. Part of her had wanted to just ask him for help, play things straight and not beat around the bush, but she abandoned that idea once and for all. If this was how Kendall felt about sharing seeds, she didn’t see how he’d ever share something as valuable as ready-to-consume food. They’d only known Kendall for six weeks, but it was already mid-October. If the scouting parties didn’t find something more than peaches soon, they could be out of food by late January, and January would be here before they knew it.
Kendall looked at her as if her true motives couldn’t possibly be altruistic, while at the same time hoping it might be true. Hoping they liked him for him, not for what he had. She felt desperate after being refused the seeds, and disgusted by how easily it let her rationalize her dishonesty.
Kendall said, “Would you like some more?”
It took her a moment to realize she’d drained her wineglass. She nodded. “Please. It’s very good.”
She examined the room while Kendall refilled her glass, trying to ignore the hollow feeling that gnawed at her stomach. She was interested in helping Kendall, but keeping the people of LO from starving and getting the vaccine rollout back on track trumped everything. Just once, she wanted doing the right thing—the ethical thing—to be clear-cut, but it never was. Kendall was a person and shouldn’t be treated as a means to an end, but there was no history, no relationship, to draw upon. He wouldn’t even give her a few lousy envelopes of seeds. They couldn’t depend on him to help them because it would be the right thing to do, not with the scarcity mentality he’d just displayed.
When it came down to it, if he had the surplus of food they suspected and their people were starving, they’d come visit one day and take it. She’d always known this, but it was easier to rationalize in the abstract. It was easier when it was a nameless hoarder who didn’t need it all, not a person with a name. A person who blinked like an owl when he got nervous and gardened to stay sane, and sang with a tenderness that belied his awkward exterior. A person she could see was beginning to have feelings for her in a way she would never have for him.
Stop this, she said to herself.
She took a deep breath, steeling herself against the hesitant, hopeful glimmer in Kendall’s eyes. She couldn’t think about what was right or wrong, kind or cruel. She couldn’t indulge her ambivalence, or think about how this secret agenda cheapened her genuine interest in helping Kendall get out of this prison of a bunker. She had to think about what was, which was very simple: LO didn’t have enough food; the vaccine rollout was stalled because of it, and the delay threatened their chance to make San Jose irrelevant by breaking their monopoly.
Kendall might hold the key to fix those problems, and she had to get it. How she did was beside the point.
15
Their temporary refuge was quiet now, the darkness like an embrace. Doug was almost used to the gentle creaks the house made, and the sound of the wind as it sighed through the trees and grasses. Cool night air trickled down from the open window, one of the high ones used for ventilation that a zombie couldn’t reach. Even he couldn’t reach it and needed to use a chair, which was not an experience Doug was used to having. Mario had gone to bed early, as had Tessa. She’d been up since dawn, working on the Tesla, and had practically fallen asleep while they ate their evening meal.
He heard Skye’s light footsteps a few moments before her shadowy form appeared in the kitchen, which was open to the living room. She sat next to him on the couch.
“Bad dreams crisis averted?” he asked.
Skye’s gentle laugh felt like a caress. “Nothing Little House couldn’t fix. Violet sacked out after a page, and I don’t think Silas ever really woke up.”
“Good.”
He took Skye’s hand in his, then brought it to his lips. Her skin was warm and smooth, and the moonlight shining through the kitchen windows was just bright enough that he could see the outline of her face, and the swell of her cheek. They didn’t use lights while on watch because it messed with their ability to see outside. The dim light partially obscured her features but not her beauty. A rush of desire washed over him. He wished he could lose himself in her, feel her hands in his hair and her legs around his hips, feel her moving beneath him, her mouth on his, breath soft and ragged, her hungry lips scorching his skin, instead of keeping watch and brooding about things he couldn’t fix.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said.
She was quiet for a moment. “But Mario’s not.”
“No, he’s not,” he agreed quietly. “And I don’t know how to help him.” He almost changed the subject, not sure that he wanted to spend this time with Skye trying to puzzle out something he couldn’t really do anything to solve, then said, “Did Silas or Violet say anything to you this afternoon?”
“About Mario going off on them? No, but Silas was upset. Tessa let him help her by handing her the tools. He gave her the wrong one a couple times and got upset that he’d made a mistake. Like it was a big deal, and Tessa would be angry. It took him a while to settle down.”
“I’m worried about him. Mario, I mean,” Doug said.
“He’s having a hard time,” Skye agreed. “It’s weird, because he’s so good with Silas and Violet. They make up little games, and he’s so good at seeing when they need a hug or a nudge, and when to pull out Mister Bun Bun to settle them down. And how he settled Violet down at that campground. I couldn’t have done that. I can see how much he cares for them. And then it’s like he gets freaked out and pulls away. They don’t understand it doesn’t have anything to do with them, especially Silas. He really takes it to heart.”
Doug chewed on his lip a moment, then said, “He’s beating himself up about his kids, and the baby…like he could somehow have done something to change it. And leaving San Jose like we did. He’s acting like he left his kids behind on a whim, because he didn’t want the responsibility anymore, which is ridiculous. The Council knew he’d betrayed them. They’d already tried to apprehend him and would’ve killed him, no question about it. He had to leave.”
Doug felt rather than saw Skye’s shrug. She said, “Even if it was necessary, I can see how he’d feel like he was letting them down.”
Doug sighed. “Well, I don’t know what to do to help him, besides telling him he can’t act like he did today. It’s not fair to Silas and Violet, or him. It’s like he realizes that he’s enjoying being a dad, and he shouldn’t because they’re not the right kids. I haven’t seen him like this since Emily—”
Doug snapped his mouth shut. He hadn’t meant to say that. He wasn’t used to keeping things from Skye, so wasn’t very good at monitoring himself when they talked.
“Since Emily what?”
“It’s a long story.”
Skye’s soft chuff of laughter felt like a balm on his frazzled nerves. “It’s not like we’re going anywhere. Maybe if I know what’s going on I can make a suggestion, or at least stop you from being an idiot and telling Mario off when it’s not called for because I don’t have the backstory.”
Doug nudged her with his elbow, then said, his tone teasing, “You’re supposed to build me up, not call me names.”
“You know what I mean.” When he didn’t say anything, she said, “Are you going to tell me or not?”
Doug hesitated. He wasn’t sure it was his story to tell. His part was, of course, but it was inextricably entwined… Fuck it, he thought. Skye was smart and caring and discreet. Maybe if she knew the whole story, she’d at least understand why he was so concerned.
> “It was about six months before the preventative vaccine was developed in San Jose and all hell broke loose,” he said.
It had been so hot that day, so hot that it hadn’t cooled off much overnight. It was already seventy-five degrees going on six a.m., which meant today was going to be a scorcher, too. Right now, hardly anyone was out and about.
He’d barely slept the night before, outside of SCU’s walls. It took longer than anticipated to clear out the block of houses near Fremont Park so they could keep expanding the SCU settlement. And they’d made too much noise. They’d been forced to use guns, so attracted every zombie around in the process. They’d only been several blocks from a secure part of the campus settlements, but close didn’t mean jack where zombies were concerned. They’d spent the night in one of the houses, almost every window closed, which made the already uncomfortably warm house sweltering. When morning rolled around, help arrived to shift the remaining zombies east, so they could get home.
Doug’s back foot was still on the curb of Franklin Street near the Jesuit Residence when he saw a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye.
“What the hell?” he said softly, his feet already moving him toward the Lafayette Street gate at the other end of the long block.
People were shouting and pointing at something on the other side of the wall, and someone was running along the catwalk with a rifle. Another person, a man, was shouting for the gate to be opened. Not shouting—screaming—like he’d completely lost his shit. There must be a person approaching the gate who’d been caught by zombies. They wouldn’t use a rifle otherwise, not this close to the main settlement. He was halfway to the gate when he realized that the screaming man, now joined by five others, was Mario. Doug sprinted, drawing on the last of his depleted reserves. One door of the gate swung in, just enough for Mario and two others to get through.
“Clear a path,” Doug shouted at the men who’d stayed behind to guard the door. They scrambled out of the way as he shot through the opening at a flat-out run, machete already in his hand.
He expected to see at least a small clutch of zombies, but there weren’t any. Mario and the other men sprinted north on Lafayette—then Doug saw why. A thousand feet beyond Mario, a tall, willowy woman walked in the road. The morning sun set fire to her golden hair. In one arm she held a toddler, and her other hand held the arm of a little boy, still almost a toddler himself. The boy was crying, struggling, but could not break the grip of the woman’s hand. The toddler in her arms was crying, too. And beyond them, so far in the distance that Doug could barely make it out, a lone zombie staggered in the road. Only one, rather than the usual churn, because the work crew that Doug had been on yesterday had pulled them away.
It was Emily. She was walking away outside the walls, taking Anthony and Michael with her.
Doug felt his stomach heave. What the hell had happened? He approached the next intersection, scanning the area to see if zombies were coming from farther west. When he looked ahead again, Mario was yanking Anthony from Emily’s arms and into the waiting hands of a companion. The other man had picked up Michael. Mario pulled Emily with him and she followed, unresisting. Doug stopped, waiting and keeping watch at the intersection until they reached him.
The boys were crying but otherwise looked okay. Anthony recognized Doug and practically leaped from the arms of the man carrying him. Doug had to drop his machete to catch the crying toddler safely. Emily radiated a beatific serenity. She looked like a Renaissance painting of a saint, she was so calm, while her husband was glassy-eyed, his face a rictus of terror.
Anthony’s sobs grew louder as they reached the gate. Inside, Father Gilbert, surrounded by a phalanx of his brother-priests, hovered, his anxiety palpable. Doug felt the deep thud of the gate closing behind them as if it were penetrating his bones, its purpose—protection—resonating more viscerally than it ever had before. Doc Owen crossed Franklin Street ahead of them, his hair the wild nimbus of one just roused from their bed, his black doctor’s bag in his hand. Someone wrapped a blanket around Emily as everyone was hustled into the Jesuit Residence, even the people guarding the gate. Priests were taking over for them, their faces pinched and serious. Several of them were too old for gate duty.
After handing Anthony off to Mario, he waited in the kitchen along with those who had been on the gate. Mugs of tea and coffee were passed out, the room buzzing with hushed conversations. After a while, Father Walter, who was for all practical purposes Father Gilbert’s first officer, appeared and motioned for him.
“Mario wants to see you,” he said.
Doug nodded. “Does anyone know what happened?”
“Emily’s with Doc right now. We’ll know more later.”
Doug followed Walter to Father Gilbert’s office. Walter turned to him before opening the door.
“He’s in a terrible state, as you can imagine.” Walter’s hazel eyes might have been granite when he said, “We’re keeping this quiet, if we can. I don’t know the details yet, but—” He hesitated. “He doesn’t want Miranda to know.”
Doug nodded. After what had just happened, he was unable to muster surprise that Father Walter was acknowledging Mario and Miranda’s relationship. Miranda was like a daughter to the priest. It wasn’t that he didn’t know they were together—obviously, he did—but he disapproved. Strongly. You didn’t have to be a genius to figure out that while Father Walter liked Mario, he placed the lion’s share of blame for the relationship with Miranda at Mario’s feet. Mario was married, and older, and he’d made promises to another that Miranda had not.
Doug nodded, then stepped inside. Mario sat in one of the two chairs by the window, off to the side of the desk. He clutched a glass with an inch of amber liquid. Doug saw the bottle of Irish whiskey on the desk. Mario looked up as Doug sat in the other chair. His eyes were red-rimmed, his skin ashen. He looked like he’d aged ten years.
“How are you doing?”
Mario looked at Doug, shell-shocked. He raised the glass to his mouth and gulped the whiskey down. His hands shook, though an hour had passed.
“I can’t believe this,” Mario whispered. “I can’t… Oh my God…”
“Do you know what happened? Is Em cracking up again?”
“I—” Mario started, then stopped. When he spoke again, his voice was barely more than a whisper. “I… We had a fight last night. Me and Emily. I told her I was leaving, that I was tired of living a lie. Tired of…making what was left of our marriage a joke. I told her I’d always be there for her and the boys, but I wanted to be with Miranda.”
“Oh,” Doug said, the import of Mario’s confession hitting him like a massive wave that clobbers you into the sand. “Oh. Wow.”
“She said I’d regret it but I never thought…” He looked at Doug, imploring his friend to believe him. “Doug, you have to believe me, I never thought—”
“Of course you didn’t,” Doug said, interrupting him.
“She’s been so much better this past year, you know? She really seemed to not…need me like that. To function. I knew it would be hard, but I thought it would be okay. I never thought she’d do something like this.” Mario stopped and swallowed hard. “This is my fault, Doug. It’s all my fault.”
Mario searched Doug’s face as if it were a lifeline, as if he was seeking absolution from a priest. Which would be funny if this wasn’t so serious, since Mario was talking to him. Then a thought occurred to him—a terrible one. One he wanted to reject outright, but he couldn’t.
“What were you doing at the gate?” Mario looked confused; Doug persisted. “You don’t work the gate, Mario. What were you doing there so early?”
“I was supposed to meet Dominic. What does it matter why I was there?” he said uncertainly.
“Humor me,” Doug said.
Mario’s eyes squinted shut, like thinking was an effort. “Dominic stopped by last night, right after Em and I argued. Dominic was staying the night with the guy he’s seeing, Will. Will was worki
ng the gate this morning at seven. Dominic wanted to introduce us, get breakfast before his shift. He was insisting it be in the morning… I don’t know why. I said I’d meet them there.”
“And you didn’t see Emily and the kids leaving?”
Mario shook his head. “After Dom left, Emily told me to get out. I went to Miranda’s.”
“But she’s in Livermore.”
“I have a key. I knew you weren’t back, or I’d have gone to your place. They announced at dinner that your work party was sheltering in place because so many zombies had been drawn north to you.”
Doug turned it over in his mind, chewed on the idea forming in his brain, the conviction that none of this was a whim, or an accident, or the desperate act of an unhinged mind solidifying in his own. The terrible thought was true. He couldn’t explain how, which went against everything the scientist in him believed, but Doug knew he was right. He knew it in his bones.
“She wanted you to see,” he said.
“Miranda? She’s not even here.”
“No,” Doug said. “Emily. She wanted you to see. She said you’d regret it, and she knew you were going to be at the gate this morning.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” Mario said, sounding downright befuddled.
“She did it on purpose, Mario, because you told her you were leaving her. If it was announced yesterday that we’d drawn zombies north of campus, she would have known the chance of there being many of them here this morning was really low. She’s not cracking up. She’s scaring you into staying.”