by A. M. Geever
I’ll give it five more minutes, he thought. After that, it would be cutting it too close to when Dom would arrive home.
A branch snapped. An electric charge thrummed through Mario’s body. He tensed, preparing to flee.
“Mario?”
Relief felt like a ten-ton weight lifting from his shoulders.
“Over here,” he said.
A few moments later, Emily wriggled into the space between the tall boxwood hedge and the wrought iron fence.
“Oh my God!” she said, reaching for him through the bars. “What are you doing here?”
“Are you okay?” he asked, taking her face in his hands.
Her skin felt warm and soft and smooth, and a faint waft of perfume—Coco, by Chanel—clung to her. A dark baseball cap covered her bright blond hair.
“I’m fine, we’re all fine, but you shouldn’t be here,” she said, her face pinched with anxiety.
“I had to make sure you were okay.”
A deep sorrow over the failure of their marriage blossomed inside him. He and Emily had gotten married too quickly, for the wrong reasons. Even if that hadn’t been the case, marriages fell apart all the time. But his upbringing—the good and the bad—was always there, buried deep and disapproving, especially because he carried most of the blame for what had happened to theirs. You stayed with your wife and took care of your family. You stayed with your husband, even if he beat you, like his mother had. It was old-fashioned and outdated and sometimes unhealthy, but a sliver still persisted, woven into his DNA.
“We’re fine,” she said. “Is Connor with you?”
“Oh, Em,” Mario said, pulled up short. Of course she couldn’t know, and somehow, he’d never thought about it. “He’s…no, he’s not. He’s— He was infected, Em. He’s gone.”
Emily whimpered, then slumped, her head resting against the bars of the fence. She took shallow, shuddering breaths as her shoulders shook. Mario patted one, feeling completely inadequate to the task—and terrible for wanting to hurry her up—because they couldn’t be here long. She looked up at him, but her face was twisted with anger.
“I’m going to kill him, I swear to God,” she hissed. “Your fucking brother… I’ll fucking kill him.”
Mario’s eyes widened in surprise. The grief and sorrow he’d expected, but not anger.
“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking it off as she wiped her eyes. It was hard to tell in the weak moonlight, but Mario thought he saw a steely determination in their depths. “They’re going to execute Father Walter tomorrow.”
“What?”
“You have to let them know,” she said. “They have to get him out of there now.”
“Okay,” Mario said, his brain spinning like a top.
Brother Rupert and the others thought they had maybe a week, but they didn’t. Their plan to rescue Walter in three days would be too late.
“Are you sure you’re all okay?” Mario asked again. When she nodded, he said. “I’m coming back for you, all of you. I will get you out of here. And I’ll deal with Dominic.”
Emily smiled, and her face softened. “You think I don’t already know that? It never crossed my mind that you wouldn’t come for us if you knew what was going on. Though you could have picked a better night than Halloween.”
“Tell me about it… I didn’t realize.”
“How’s—” She paused, then said, sounding unsure, “You and Miri…you’re together again?”
Words failed him. What could he say in this moment, when every second he spent with Emily put her in danger? How could he answer her question and have it make any sense when he barely understood what had happened to them himself?
She must have taken his hesitation as reluctance to say something that might hurt her, for she added, “I’m happy for you, Mario. For both of you.”
He could tell she meant it, and it hurt—more than he could have ever imagined.
“We aren’t right for each other, Mar. I needed you at first, and I did fall in love with you. It didn’t start out that way and it didn’t last, but for a while…” She sighed. “Being with you made me think I couldn’t cope, that I was helpless, but I’m not. I realize that now, because I haven’t been allowed to be helpless since you left. I’ve had to get on with it, and I found out that I can.”
The lump in Mario’s throat made it hard to speak. “I can see that now, Em, how strong you are. I’m sorry for how it all happened, with me and Miranda. I never meant to hurt you, but I did.”
“There’s a lot to be sorry for, for both of us. I’m—” She stopped, and he could see the nervous energy in the tilt of her head, how she shifted her weight back and forth, the suddenly higher pitch of her voice. She bit her lip as she looked at him without seeing him, as if she was searching for the right word. “Ashamed, for using the boys the way I did.”
“What are you talking about?” He was genuinely confused, because Emily was a wonderful mother. She always had been.
Her mouth fell open. Haltingly, she said, “When I... took them out… Beyond the walls. When you said you were leaving me. I thought— Oh Jesus, Mario, I thought you figured it out. I didn’t want you to leave, and I knew we’d be spotted right away, and that you’d be there. I knew there weren’t any zombies nearby.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “When I think of how I could have been wrong…”
For a moment, her words didn’t make sense.
“Doug was right,” he said, so softly she didn’t hear him.
She hadn’t lost it or been pushed too far, not in the way he’d thought, anyway. She hadn’t cracked up or been out of her mind when she took the boys outside SCU’s walls all those years ago. It had been a thought-out, calculated decision. She had manipulated him, and he had fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker.
She reached out and touched his cheek, but hesitantly, like he might shove her away.
“I’m so sorry.”
Mario had known Emily for eleven years, been married to her for most of them. Hell, he still was. He’d seen her at her best and her worst, made love to her with passion and tenderness, and sometimes, bitterness. Had a family with her, built a life together, yet he felt like he was seeing her—really seeing her for who she was, not the wounded person he’d thought of her as—for the very first time. He covered her hand with his own, a different kind of love for her swelling in his heart. One grounded in respect instead of rescue, in recognition instead of projection.
“Em, it doesn’t matter now.”
They looked at one another, an ending hovering between them that held the other with compassion.
“I should go,” Mario said, wiping away the tears that had sprung to his eyes. “Anthony said Dom gets back around nine. You’ve been here too long already.”
Emily laughed softly. “They haven’t even noticed I’m gone yet, trust me. I started a grease fire in the kitchen.”
“What?”
She began to laugh harder, yet still stayed quiet. “It’s okay, Mario. Really. The kids set up a tent in the yard. They’re in there stuffing their faces with candy. The fire wasn’t that bad, even if I did manage to accidentally spill flaming grease across the floor. I pretended to freak out and ran away screaming to look for the kids.”
“Oh my God,” Mario said, alarm giving way to amazement. “Who are you, and what have you done with my wife?”
Emily’s smile mirrored his own. She took his hands and gave them a squeeze. “I’ll keep the kids safe. Be careful, okay?”
“I will.”
He leaned toward her between the bars of the fence, then hesitated, but Emily met him halfway. Her lips on his were soft and familiar, but the kiss they shared was entirely new. It said all the things that he didn’t know how to put into words. That he wished he’d met this Emily first. That he was sorry for the pain he’d caused her, and grateful that she didn’t begrudge him the happiness he had found—however fleeting—with Miranda. That he’d loved her once, too, for a time…inconsistently, badly, in a
way that had stunted her, though he’d never meant for that to happen. That he’d forgive any and everything she might have done, because that was what a man who had once loved and still respected his wife did. Not because he had to, but because it felt right, because she was the mother of his children and they would always share that bond. That he was grateful they’d reached this place of understanding, of compassion and care, for one another.
The kiss said goodbye to the life they had shared, imperfect as it was, but not to the family they would always be, even as their paths diverged. Mario was breathless, and a little dizzy, when the kiss ended, and surprised by the heat it sparked between them. They stood, foreheads touching.
“Be careful,” Emily whispered.
“Always,” he said. “Kiss the kids for me.”
She kissed him again, and he responded, wishing the fence wasn’t between them. He ached to hold her in his arms, feel the warmth of her body’s familiar contours against his own. They were both breathless when she disappeared through the hedge. Mario stood for a moment, the endings and beginnings of his life seeming to surround and hold him close, all of them at once. He let them swaddle him tight for a bittersweet moment, before they dissipated into the warm night air, and set him free.
He managed to not limp too much, keeping his pace steady. The trick-or-treating was over, thank God, but there was still the occasional person out. He’d already passed a woman on a run, and an older man walking a fluffy little dog at a brisk pace. Mario had adjusted his baseball cap as they passed one another, as if doffing his cap, while he shielded his face with his upraised arm.
He followed Waverly north as far as Kingsley. The wall was three blocks straight ahead, and the gate three blocks west. He turned the corner, his proximity to the wall so close it felt like a magnet pulling on him. Music blared from the house on the corner, laughing people in costumes visible in the brightly lit windows. Mario picked up the pace, anxious to reach the next block.
He crossed the street and could see the mouth of an alley halfway down the block. Then bright lights flared on his left. The squeal of tires, and the shrill squeak of brakes hit too hard shattered the quiet night. He was slammed from behind, his feet scooped out from under him. He tumbled over the warm hood of a car, then backflipped off it on the passenger side. His shoulder cracked against the pavement. Bright sparks he was pretty sure weren’t really there lit up his vision. Mario rolled onto his side, moaning. Pain flared in his lower back, where his Sig dug into his spine. Pain from his injured calf radiated through his toes and into his thigh. He pushed himself to sitting, trying to orient himself. The world seemed to be spinning around him.
A car door opened. “Are you okay?”
Mario barely heard the voice—a man’s voice. He had to get away, had to run. He couldn’t let the driver help him. Mario staggered to his feet and slowly, painfully, he started to walk away. He’d have run if he could.
“Wait up!”
Mario stumbled, but righted himself. His pulse pounded in his ears. He could hear the man’s footsteps behind him. He was going to be caught. After everything, he was going to be caught, and if that happened, he was dead.
He stumbled again. The dark alley was just ahead.
“Hey! Wait!”
Mario waved him off, “I’m okay,” he said, but his words sounded slurry.
A hand closed on his bicep. He tried to keep going but the man’s grip was strong.
“I didn’t see you. Your clothes are so dark.”
This close, the voice sounded familiar. The man got in front of him, still holding on to Mario’s arm. He was a little taller than Mario, with a heavier build, well dressed, and reeked of gin. Mario squinted at him, and shock cut through the muddle of his concussed brain. In an instant the world around him came into focus, the shadows sharply exaggerated.
It was Dominic.
Dominic’s face went slack, mouth falling open. Color drained from his face like he’d just seen a ghost. “Mario?”
Mario shoved, driving his shoulder into Dominic’s solar plexus, knocking him into the dark alley. Dominic staggered, pinwheeling his arms to keep his balance. Mario charged, fist leading the way for a Superman punch. He connected squarely with Dominic’s chin. Dominic teetered for a split second, then fell backward with an oof.
“You fucking piece of shit.”
Mario pulled the Sig from the waistband of his pants. Wrath flowed through his veins. His injured body felt numb, the pain distant. He approached his brother’s prone form like an avenging angel.
“Mario, thank God!” Dominic said, pulling himself to sitting.
Mario kicked him. The crack of ribs against his boot felt good. Dominic groaned, clutching his side.
“I know, you motherfucker. I know what you did.”
“Mar!” Dominic’s voice was high—panicked. “I don’t what you’re—”
Mario kicked him again, harder than before. He pressed the barrel of the gun against Dominic’s head, and he quit writhing. The only sound was the wheeze of his breath and the faint dinging from the car.
“You tried to kill Miranda.”
“What are you talking about?”
“She was pregnant. Did you know that? She was pregnant when you hatched your little scheme.”
“A baby?” He could hear the fear in Dominic’s voice, smell it pouring from his alcohol-soaked pores. “That’s great, Mar. Congratulations.”
Mario cocked the hammer of his gun. “If one more lie comes out of your mouth, I’ll blow your fucking head off.”
Dominic whimpered. It was a pathetic sound, like a scared puppy might make. From the street behind them, Mario heard voices. He looked up. People from the party were coming to see what had happened.
“I know everything. If it was just me,” he said. “But it wasn’t. You had to go after Miranda, too.”
His finger trembled on the trigger, itching to squeeze it.
“Is everything okay there?”
Mario glanced down the alley. A woman dressed as Cleopatra stood in the street, the gold cape affixed to the shoulders of her dress falling behind her and fluttering around her ankles. She squinted, her eyes bright against the heavy, black kohl encircling them. A guy dressed like a Viking was a few steps behind her. She’d asked if everything was okay, so she obviously couldn’t see them well enough to know Mario was holding a gun to Dominic’s head.
“Just trying to get this guy up,” Mario said. “He’s drunk.” Cleopatra took a step forward. “A little combative, though.”
She hesitated. “We heard the brakes, and I saw someone getting up from the ground.”
“That was me, but I’m fine. I fell getting out of the way. He came to see if I was okay, but started puking,” Mario said, trying to make it sound like it wasn’t a big deal. “We’ve all had a few too many. No harm, no foul.”
The Viking arrived. “What’s going on?”
“He says the guy’s drunk,” she said to him. “But that he didn’t hit him like we thought.”
The Viking squinted down the alley at them. “Do you need help?”
“Thanks, but no. He just needs to sleep this off. I’ve already called security to drive him home.”
“Are you sure?” Cleopatra asked, her voice anxious.
“My dad was a drunk. I’ve been dealing with guys like this all my life.”
“Well,” she said uncertainly. “If you’re sure.”
“I’ll wait with you,” the Viking said.
“That’s so kind, but you really don’t need to,” Mario said, a calm in his voice that he did not feel infusing warmth into his words. “Your party’s been interrupted enough… I’m so sorry.”
“Well, if you’re sure,” he said.
“I’m sure. Security will get the car. They’re so on top of stuff like that.”
The Viking nodded, and Mario thought his shoulders relaxed. Only people who belonged here knew how efficient security was when it came to cleaning up messes.
“Let’s go, honey,” the Viking said. “If he’s already called security…”
Cleopatra hesitated for several seconds. “Well, okay. Come over for a drink, if you want. My name’s—”
“Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile,” Mario said, a smile in his voice.
She laughed. “Yeah. Have a good night.”
She turned away, taking the Viking’s hand, and they walked back to the house. For a few seconds, Mario thought they might change their minds and come back, but they didn’t.
Dominic must have been watching them, too. When he spoke, the pretense of surprise and concern was gone. “Just do it,” he said. “Just get it over with.”
Mario looked down at the dark form of his brother. He could feel Dominic trembling through the barrel of the gun pressed against his temple. His little brother, who had sided with the Council from the start, and used the worst calamity in human history to enrich himself. Dominic joked about shooting migrants, and toyed with the Dosers working as dishwashers at restaurants if he got a dirty knife, insisting the offender be brought to the dining room so they could grovel for his forgiveness. He was also the boy Mario had taught to ride a bike, who imitated the old German priest in their parish so well that Mario had laughed until he cried. Mario had taken beatings from their father to keep his little brother safe, and he’d repaid him, all these years later, by trying to kill the woman Mario loved.
His arm trembled as he curled his finger around the trigger. Just squeeze, he told himself… He tried to kill Miranda. Just do it.
Anger howled inside him like a cyclone, bludgeoning the inside of his skull, shoving and pushing, but not enough. The tension in his arm slackened, because he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t shoot his little brother.