by A. M. Geever
“I love you, Violet,” he said, trying, and failing, to smile.
Violet’s battle with the lip wobble collapsed, and tears began to roll down her face. Heartrending cries of a child utterly bereft escaped her. She ran at Mario, almost knocking him over, and clutched him tightly around his neck.
“I’ll be good,” she sobbed. “I’ll be a good girl. I’ll listen, I promise.”
“Oh, Violet,” Mario said. “You are a good girl. You didn’t do anything bad. That’s not why you’re staying. I can’t keep you safe out there. That’s why you’re staying.”
Her cries were inconsolable, ripping at his heart. “Please don’t leave me, Mawree. Please. I’ll be a good girl. Please.”
“I’ll be back for you, I promise,” he said, his voice strangled. “Maria-Elena will take good care of you… You won’t be alone.”
Violet’s shuddering gasps flayed his heart wide and roiled his gut. The impulse to give in, to heed her desperate pleas, was overwhelming. She clutched him tight, her breath hot against his neck, huffing in uneven gusts. He tried to unwrap her, but she clung to him tighter, howling like an animal caught in a trap. Over her shoulder he saw Maria-Elena approach and take Violet’s little arms.
“Come, mi pequeña niña,” she said. “Come to me.”
Violet began to thrash, her sobs echoing off the stone walls of the courtyard. Her fingers scratched along Mario’s cheek as she was dragged away. A flush tinged her dark skin and snot ran from her nose.
“No,” she shrieked. “No!”
“Mario, go,” Maria-Elena said, looking stricken herself as she bent over Violet’s thrashing body. “She’ll be okay. Go my friend, and be well.”
Mario lurched to his feet, stunned. He hadn’t expected this raw grief from Violet. He turned on his heel, stumbling as he walked away. Violet continued to scream and wail, the keening cries of nightmares. Doug fell in step beside him as they emerged into the large courtyard.
“She’ll be okay,” Doug said softly.
Mario didn’t—couldn’t—respond. He felt sick and dizzy, like the world was spinning too fast and he the axis upon which it spun. Tears coursed down his face that he didn’t bother to wipe away. They slid down his neck before dampening the collar of his shirt. He looked ahead to the drawbridge, almost unseeing, walking across the courtyard like an automaton.
“No!” Violet shrieked, her cries echoing across the courtyard. “No! Mawree!”
Mario stumbled to a halt, swaying in place.
He’d heard people talk about their life flashing before their eyes, but he’d thought it was a metaphor. Now, he knew it wasn’t, because he saw his mother, his grandparents, his brother. His first day of school, the year he got a bike for his birthday, the first time he’d fled to Maria-Elena’s after a beating, the first girl he kissed. He saw his graduation from Cal. The day he’d met Emily, when she hammered on his car window, begging him to take her with him before the zombies caught up with them, and the first time he’d held Michael and Anthony and Maureen…all so tiny and pink and perfect. He saw Miranda, in a blur of beauty and heat and loss. He saw Silas, asking about the wild rabbit, eyes bright in his gentle face.
After he’d stolen the serum, there’d been no choice, no options, no solution for his predicament. Once his role in the Jesuits’s plot was revealed, it would only have been a matter of time till the Council managed to kill him. Doug had told him that he hadn’t abandoned his kids…that he just couldn’t stay. Maybe it was true.
What’s right for you isn’t the same as doing what’s right for Violet.
The vowels and consonants of Skye’s words were as sharp and jagged as her voice had been soft and kind. He’d done this before. After Tadpole died, he’d wanted what he needed to be what Miranda needed, but he couldn’t see it at the time. He’d felt abandoned, as if his grief and pain hadn’t mattered to her, so he pressed when he should have backed off, clung tight when he should have let go. He decided she didn’t care, instead of recognizing that she’d been hurting as much as him. And now they were where they were, heartsick and miserable.
But this time, he wasn’t powerless. He wasn’t at the mercy of Fate’s whims, his options narrowed and his hand forced. He was more frightened than he’d ever been that he couldn’t keep someone he loved safe, but he didn’t have to do this. He didn’t have to break the heart of his little girl, who’d already lost everyone else.
This time, he had a choice.
He heard Doug say, from what seemed a very far distance, “Are you okay?”
Mario shrugged out of his pack. The dull thud when it hit the gray flagstones sounded a thousand miles away. At the mouth of the pass-through into the large courtyard, Maria-Elena knelt beside Violet. Sweet little Violet, who thought she was being left behind because of something she’d done. Who had just lost her brother. Who just needed him to love her, which was as natural as breathing because he loved her so much. He almost couldn’t remember a time when Violet and Silas hadn’t been part of his heart. In every way that mattered, they were his, even if Silas couldn’t be with them. And he wanted all of his children—Michael and Anthony and Maureen and Violet—together.
He took one step, and another, and then he was running. Maria-Elena must have let go of Violet, because she rocketed toward him like a kite whipping into the sky after being held against the wind too long. He dropped to his knees, and Violet bowled into him. Her small arms wrapped around his neck once more. She cried into his shoulder, her small body shaking. He held her close, the rightness of his child in his arms overwhelming, his heart overfull with how much he loved this little girl he’d almost left behind—almost failed—because of his own fear.
“I’m sorry, Violet,” he said, crying too. “I’m so sorry.”
Violet whimpered in his ear. “Why did you do that?”
Mario half sobbed, half laughed. Her question—direct and demanding—reminded him so much of Miranda that it hurt.
Mario untangled from her enough to see her tear-streaked face, runny nose, and puffy eyes. He fished in his pocket for a hanky, then dried her face and held it to her nose.
“Blow,” he said, and she did. He took a deep breath. “Because I’m scared. I’m scared I might lose you, like Silas,” he said, his voice breaking. “I love you just as much, and I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”
“I miss Silas,” Violet said, fresh tears brimming in her brown eyes.
“I know,” Mario said. “I do, too.”
“I want to be with you,” she whispered, looking down.
Mario put his finger under her chin and tipped her face up. “I want to be with you,” he said softly. “A lot.”
Violet’s lip began to wobble, and the tears overspilled. “You won’t leave me again?”
His lip wobbled, too. He wiped her tears with his thumb. “As long as it’s up to me, I won’t leave you behind again. I can’t promise, Violet, because it’s dangerous out there, but being with you will always be my first choice.”
Violet exhaled. “Okay,” she said softly.
“Okay.” Relief rushed through him that she was willing to trust him. How that was possible he couldn’t fathom, but he was so grateful. “I love you, Violittle.”
Violet’s smile was less tremulous this time. “That’s not my name, Mawree.”
“I know. But it’s my special name for you.”
Violet leaned against him, her head resting on his shoulder. “Are we going now?”
“No,” Mario said. “Not today. All this crying has tired me out.”
“I’m tired, too.”
“We should probably take a nap, then.”
He felt the nod of Violet’s head on his shoulder. “Mister Bun Bun, too?”
Mario held Violet tight. Love for his little girl swelled in his heart. “Yeah,” he said. “Mister Bun Bun, too.”
26
When Miranda woke the next morning, her hangover was bad enough that she felt ill. She stayed in bed all da
y. Finally, at four o’clock, she threw up. She still felt like shit, but it was a normal level of hangover. She managed to get a shower and pull on some of the stretchy, comfy clothes she’d brought back from the bunker. She finished sipping a mug of hot water sweetened with honey, and was waiting to see if she’d throw it up. She was hungry, but had decided against going over to the Boy’s Home dining hall for dinner. Whether she could hold anything down wasn’t clear yet, but one whiff of the wrong thing would make sure she didn’t. And it would be loud at the dining hall, which her head couldn’t take. She stayed on the couch, propped on a pillow, with a wet cloth over her eyes.
She winced at the soft tap on her door before it opened. She pulled the towel away as Delilah trotted in, tail wagging enthusiastically while she licked Miranda’s hand. She rubbed her hand against the pit bull’s strong jaw, working her way up to the top of her head. Gemma followed Delilah and rushed over to Miranda. Victor and Noelle hovered in the doorway.
“I brought Liley back,” Gemma said, almost shouting.
“Gemma! Inside voice,” Noelle said, hurrying to her daughter. “Miranda’s not feeling well.”
Gemma looked at Miranda, her mouth turned down. She patted Miranda’s hand. “Sorry,” she whispered.
“It’s okay, kiddo,” Miranda said, grimacing.
Noelle frowned at Miranda, maternal worry on her face. “We’re going to dinner now. I’ll bring you something, if you want.”
“That’s okay, but thanks,” she said, levering herself up to a sitting position.
“Thanks for letting Gemma play with Delilah.”
“Anytime.”
Noelle took Gemma’s hand and headed for the door. Miranda heard the low rumble of Victor’s voice but couldn’t make out what he said. Noelle murmured something about heading over now, and she and Gemma left. Victor stepped over the threshold.
“I know you’re not feeling well, Miranda, but can I talk to you for a minute?”
She squinted at him and was just about to tell him to fuck off, but he wasn’t wearing that superior smirk she associated with him. His mouth was downturned, but it betrayed an expectation of being refused, not dislike. His blue eyes looked uncertain. Despite wanting to die, since it would be preferable to how wretched she felt, and her general dislike of the mercenary, she was curious to know what could make him look like that. She held out her mug to him.
“Boil some water. Add honey.”
Victor nodded and took the mug. A few minutes later he reappeared and handed it to her. It smelled sweet, and her stomach didn’t so much as burble.
“You can sit,” she said.
He shook his head. “No need.” He paused. “You don’t like me, and I get it. What I told you before, about Harold being on the outs with the Council and needing to get out of the City, is true. That’s why I believe him. You worked with him. The guy can find anything, including information.”
“Okay,” she said, her tone neutral.
Rocco had confirmed that Victor had told Harold he was in the Seattle area, thus the SEA-TAC airport abbreviation. He’d also assured her that Victor never used the ham radio alone, and that it was guarded twenty-four seven. She took that with a grain of salt. Victor was a sleaze, but he was personable. She could see him getting buddy-buddy with a guard and working that person for as long as it took. She didn’t think he was there yet, so she hadn’t pressed it, but she planned to.
“I’d really like to start over here. You not being so hostile would help.”
Miranda’s brow wrinkled. Even that small movement hurt. “I don’t know why you’d think that. I haven’t even been here a year.”
“But you’re tight with Rocco. People respect him, so it extends to you. They’re a little afraid of you, since you killed that guy with a pencil?” He raised his eyebrows, respect and a bit of nervous amusement almost curling the corners of his mouth up. “Your hostility makes them afraid of me.” He swallowed, then added, “Well, more afraid, given what I did.”
“That’s a nice and tidy way to put it.”
He fixed her with a hard stare. “I led an attack and killed people here. I know what I’ve done, believe me.” He looked away; the flex of his clenched jaw reminded her of vicious dog. Then his blue eyes met hers. “I wasn’t always who I am now, just like you. Rocco’s given me a chance to try to find my way back and be something else. Someone better.”
Miranda snorted, her contempt and derision plain. “Love of a good woman reformed you?”
Victor crossed his arms, like he was holding a secret close. “I would never have tried to get to know Noelle, but for Gemma. She reminds me—” Pain spasmed across his face, just for a second. Then he smoothed it away, the cool, blank mask reasserting itself. “She wouldn’t give me the time of day after you told her who I was, but Gemma liked me. She didn’t want to scare her by telling her to stay away.”
Using a kid, she thought—contemptuously, automatically—but was brought up short. Normally, she’d believe the uncharitable thought. But that look on his face when he’d thought about his daughter or niece or some other little girl he’d cared about once, gave her pause.
“We’re not together, like you think,” he said, his wish that they were plain in his voice. “It could head in that direction. Maybe. Whatever happens, I care about them both. What you think matters to Noelle.”
“It does?” she said, shocked.
Miranda liked Noelle. She’d made a point of getting to know her because Gemma liked Delilah so much. And because she’d been lonely, since Doug and Skye and Mario left. She’d been lonely before that, but would never have admitted it to anyone. Noelle had seemed lonely, too. Miranda had been surprised to find—once she loosened up—that they had a bit in common, but they were hardly bosom buddies.
“Yeah,” Victor said. “It does. Less frost on your part would go a long way.”
Miranda very blatantly looked Victor over, head to toe. She still didn’t trust the guy as far as she could throw him. Rocco thought he was redeemable, despite what he’d done. Now that she knew Rocco was a therapist, she had a better idea of why they met every week. She trusted Rocco’s assessment a bit more—he’d at least been trained to identify pathology. She still thought he was insane to do anything with the guy but lock him up, but Victor was a hard worker, like Rocco had said. Putting him to work at least meant LO got something out of him being here. For Victor’s part, it would have been easier to split, rather than stay in a place where the cards were so stacked against him. She allowed that it counted for something.
“I’ll think about it,” she finally said.
He looked astonished. Her answer was clearly not what he’d expected. “That’s great,” he said. “Really. I, uh… I appreciate it.” He grinned tentatively, with hope. The expression looked strange on his face, like it had been a long time since the muscles had accommodated the motion required. “I thought this would go…”
“Worse?” she supplied.
He nodded. “At least as hard as learning to fly a helo.”
“Fly a what?” she said.
“A helo—a helicopter. I did search and rescue in the real Navy, and the Coast Guard, too, before all this.”
She stared at him a moment, openmouthed. Then she stood up, pounding head be damned. Slowly, she said, “You were a helicopter pilot.”
“Yeah. Sikorsky Sea King and S61s in the service. And civilian aircraft, too.”
A rush of excitement hit her. It made her headache worse, but she didn’t care. If they could get Kendall’s helicopter airworthy, not only could they get the food to LO more safely than by ground, but maybe she could go home. A tiny flicker ignited in her chest, so fragile it could be blown out by the lightest puff of breeze. Maybe, she could find out what had happened to Mario and Doug and Skye, to Emily and the kids, Father Walter and the rest of the Jesuits, Tessa and Karen and everyone else. Could help, even, without the journey taking weeks of perilous travel.
Arriving in a helicopter w
ouldn’t hurt, either. It wasn’t even the guns and missiles, but the psychological advantage of an operational military helicopter. Her mind raced, almost unable to imagine how that would play out. Nobody had working helicopters anymore, because of the fuel, but Kendall’s didn’t need it. Showing up in San Jose in that helicopter would be a psy-ops coup even the Council couldn’t withstand without some damage.
“Come on,” she said. “We need to talk to Rocco.”
As soon as she’d learned Victor could fly a helicopter, a whining electrical hum, like placing her hand on a speaker amp set on low, charged Miranda’s body. Victor hadn’t been sure that he’d be able to perform the repairs it might need, though Kendall’s helicopter being one that he’d flown was helpful. He’d taken great pains to make sure they knew he wasn’t a helicopter mechanic per se, but he was willing to give it a try. Sean was drafted, too, readily agreeing to help get a couple more trucks working. He’d even offered to help with the helicopter to the extent that he could.
Miranda helped Rocco brainstorm about who to take to the bunker. Phineas, Alec, Rocco, and herself, of course. River, too, because Kendall hadn’t seen a doctor in years. They needed people who had strong backs, but also discretion, because they had to respect Kendall’s desire to keep the bunker’s location secret. Kendall knew they would need to bring more people in order to get the food loaded, especially since they’d probably be doing it by truck. She also knew he’d be nervous about it.
She’d also run around doing anything she could find to do the last few days because she was avoiding Alec. She’d begged off spending time together without telling him why the last few days. He was true to his word about keeping things easy and light. He wasn’t making it into a big deal, which was a relief, but he knew something was up. She felt bad about not being straight with him. She lugged her pack down the stairs and set it in the entryway, then checked her watch. Dinner was in an hour, and they were leaving for the bunker in the morning. She knew she’d see Alec at dinner. She’d pull him aside and talk to him afterward.