by A. M. Geever
“Way to go, slick. You better make up with her. The world is too small when you two are fighting.”
Mario sighed. “I will.”
A pause, then Doug said, “That was about the CVS.”
“Fuck me,” Mario said softly, because Doug was right. He hadn’t realized it until Doug said it, but he had lost his temper because of what had happened earlier today.
“I really thought that was it.”
“I’ve never seen you fight like that.”
Mario could still hear the plate glass window of the CVS crack and shatter, the stress of the pressing horde finally too much. When he and Doug had broken the other window to escape, he had known they were already dead. But they could die inside like trapped animals, or die outside and go down fighting.
“Knowing I spent the last few hours of my life in a moldy drugstore instead of with Miranda made me angrier than I’ve ever been.”
“Harness that, grasshopper. It saved us today.”
Mario scrubbed the back of his neck with his hand.
“She makes me so fucking crazy. Climbing the mast when her knee is only just starting to heal? I know what she’s like, I know, but… It’s like she goes out of her way to make herself as vulnerable as possible.”
“You know it’s all about I-statements, right? No one makes you feel the way you do. It’s more like she does shit that might get her killed down the line, and then I feel afraid, but it feels safer to get angry than admit it scares the bejesus out of me.”
Mario looked at Doug for a moment, his brow wrinkled.
“What are you, my therapist?”
Doug laughed so loud it came out as a bark. He shushed himself almost immediately, mindful that Miranda might be asleep. “I think of it more along the lines of a couples counselor.”
Mario smiled despite himself, but it faded almost as soon as it began.
“She has no idea how close she came to being on her own today. The pier was a breeze compared to getting out of that drugstore. She has no fucking idea.”
“Then tell her.”
Mario’s eyes narrowed, and he pursed his lips, skeptical. “When’s the last time you shared that close a shave with someone you care about?”
Doug opened his mouth to answer, then closed it.
“Ha! I knew it!” Jeremiah said softly.
They both looked up, giving Jeremiah their full attention. He was nodding his head as he read his book, oblivious that he had attracted their attention.
“Thank God for Jack Reacher,” Doug said. “Otherwise, I’d have killed him by now.”
“Jack does tamp down the crazy.” Mario sighed. “Guess I’m sleeping out here tonight.”
“You’ll be fine. Tropical Storm Miranda never lasts long.”
A soft smile curled the corners of Mario’s mouth. Furious and intense but blowing over quickly—Tropical Storm Miranda indeed.
“I know,” he said, sighing. “But I learned a long time ago that when a woman is angry with you, if you have to ask if it’s okay to talk to her, it’s too soon.”
Mario crouched next to Anthony. The calico cat that Anthony had finally coaxed into the mudroom was nestled in the blankets that lined the birthing box. Six kittens suckled with small squeaks, continuously kneading their mama’s stomach with their tiny paws.
“See, Daddy. There are three regular calicos, one tortie, and one black and one gray.”
“I see them,” Mario said. “They’re so itty bitty.”
“She had them while I was at school. They won’t open their eyes for at least a week. See how their ears are flat? They’re so cute.”
Mario ruffled his son’s dark hair. He never tired of getting the blow-by-blow of kitten development with the latest litter of Anthony’s rescue kittens. Anthony was so serious about it. He had no idea how cute he was.
“They can’t walk yet. Like, at all,” his son continued. He turned to look at Mario. “I wanted you to see them but we can’t be in here too much at first or the mama won’t like it and she’ll move them and how can I take care of them if that happens?”
Anthony took a deep breath, sucking in air after fitting so many words into one breath. Mario stifled a laugh.
“We don’t want that,” he said.
“No, we don’t,” Anthony said, agreeing with a seriousness beyond his years.
A high-pitched squeal came from the door to the kitchen.
“Daddy!”
Mario stood and took three steps, intercepting the streak of blond hair and pure energy that was Maureen, while Anthony cried, “Stop her!”
Mario lifted the three-year-old up in the air.
“How’s my girl?”
Maureen wriggled in his grip, straining to see over his head.
“Wanna see kittens!”
“No!” Anthony said, sounding desperate.
“It’s okay, Anthony,” Mario said. He shifted Maureen to his hip and headed for the kitchen. “No can do, kiddo. They’re too small. So are you.”
“Wanna see kittens,” Maureen shrieked.
Behind them, the door to the mudroom closed. Mario glanced back in time see Anthony’s frowning face through the pane of glass before he disappeared.
“No kittens for you,” Mario said.
Maureen’s face had flushed dark pink on its way to deep red. Emily entered the kitchen, followed by nine-year old Michael, who had stuffed his fingers in his ears.
“What is going on?” Emily asked.
“She wants to see the kittens.”
“Oh.” Emily smiled. “Someone didn’t get her nap today.”
“Yeah, I can—”
* * *
Mario jerked awake.
Disoriented by the dream, it took him a moment to figure out where he was. As soon as he remembered the yacht, he felt the crick in his neck and the cramped muscles in his back, hips, and legs. Sleeping on the lounge floor had not caused the stiffness—running for his life through Seattle had that honor—but it hadn’t helped.
The dream had been so real. He could still feel the weight of Maureen in his arms, the softness of Anthony’s hair, and the serious expression in his dark eyes. Michael had been wearing a t-shirt with the logo of his favorite band, Vegan Zombies.
How the hell do I dream t-shirts, he thought.
The yearning for his children reared its head, a physical ache that throbbed in his chest. He sat up, replaying the dream in his head because he didn’t want to forget it. The slightly musky smell of the newborn kittens. The birdsong outside, the sunshine that had illuminated Maureen’s blond hair so that it glowed. Even Emily’s smile once she realized the crisis was only an overtired toddler.
Mario pushed the covers back and sat up. The chilly morning air sent prickles of gooseflesh racing over his bare chest and arms. He would never walk Maureen down the aisle at her wedding. Never know if Anthony became a vet, or what sort of man Michael would be. Better than his old man, Mario hoped. He had as good as orphaned them, leaving as he had. And while he knew he needed to go, for his safety and theirs, it didn’t ease the guilt one iota. The only person who had not been in the dream had been Dominic, his brother.
Christ, he thought. If this is how the day is gonna go, I might as well kill myself and get it over with.
His brother’s fate was the completely predictable consequence of the choices he had made, but Mario was the one who dropped him in it. Dominic was surely dead. Even though he hadn’t been involved in the plot to steal the vaccine, the rest of City Council in San Jose would never believe him. He would be guilty by association, and someone would have to pay.
“Stop,” Mario whispered to himself, taking his head in his hands. “Stop, stop, stop. Now.”
He climbed to his feet, his eyes adjusting quickly to the gloomy predawn light. He stretched for a few minutes, mindful to not wake Doug who slept on the long built-in couch. Doug had offered it to him last night, but Mario refused. Doug wasn’t the reason he was sleeping on the metaphorical couch a
fter losing his cool with Miranda. He shouldn’t be the one to suffer the consequence. Besides, he was already sleeping in the lounge instead of the fore cabin because they needed a secure place for Jeremiah.
Carefully, he walked to the galley and got a drink of water. After hitting the head and brushing his teeth, he decided now was as good a time as any to eat a little crow.
Gently, he opened the door to his and Miranda’s cabin, easing it shut behind him. He could tell by the soft rise and fall of her breathing that she was still asleep. From the floor on Miranda’s side of the bed, Delilah’s wagging tail thumped softly against the floor, but she did not get up to greet him.
Mario stripped off his boxers and crawled into bed, curling his body against Miranda’s bare skin like water sliding around a rock. The warmth of her body comforted him. He slipped his hand over her waist. She stirred, arching her back, which pressed her hips against him. His cock stiffened, and he was overcome by the sharp need to make love. He wanted to lose himself in her, be reassured that they were both alive and whole and together.
She rolled over to face him, blinking and scrunching her eyes as she woke. Even in the dim light he could see the pink flush of sleep on her face. And the downward pucker of her lips, which meant she wasn’t mad anymore, but her feelings were hurt.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I was out of line.”
She looked at him a moment, stifling a yawn, then said, “What happened out there?”
Every instinct shouted at him not to tell her. You didn’t burden others with almost stories, unless they were fueled by bravado and alcohol, when you tried like hell to one-up the last guy. You didn’t burden others, especially the people you loved. The rule was unspoken, but everyone knew it.
Mario choked over the words, forcing them out. “We almost didn’t make it back.”
Miranda sighed. “You think I don’t know that? I saw the whole—”
He cut her off. Now that he had begun, the urgency to make her understand swept over him like a tsunami.
“No, Miri, you don’t. The pier—fuck,” he said, tears surprising him. “The pier was the easy part. The drugstore. There was no way we could make it. No way. I still don’t know why we’re not dead.” His voice cracked, and his eyes welled up, but this time he didn’t care about the tears. “I was never going to see you again. I was leaving you on your own. I wasn’t afraid it might happen, Miri. I knew it already had.”
“Oh, sweetheart.”
Her comprehension of why he had acted like such an ass, the instant forgiveness that filled her eyes, bathed him in absolution. Her lips touched his, and he fell into her headlong—her caresses and soft whimpers, the silk of her skin, and the heady musk between her thighs. Her urgency matched his own, consoling him, reassuring him that she loved him no matter his flaws or mistakes, until the fiery conflagration of their desire and conciliation burned away to nothing.
Afterward, she nestled in the crook of his shoulder, the warm weight of her body half sprawled over his.
“You’re not going anywhere without me,” she murmured drowsily. “I promise.”
Mario squeezed her shoulder, then resumed stroking her hair. It was unlike her to make such a promise, one she could not be sure to keep, but he appreciated the gesture. He drifted toward sleep, the solidity of Miranda’s body tethering him to what was real, to what he could count on, but it could not quash the wisp of worry that would weave itself into his dreams.
What if they failed in Portland, too? What would happen then?
4
Doug scowled at the skeletal cranes looming over the Willamette River’s east bank, relics from a time when cargo ships were filled with goods or relieved of them. Even though iron-gray clouds blanketed the sky, an attenuated glare suffused the gloomy morning light enough that he squinted. The good weather of the past week had ended, and it would be this way all day, he could tell already. He wished again that he had his polarized sunglasses. He was not sure where he had lost them. In New Jerusalem, most likely. Another reason to hate that shithole and every fucked-up thing Jeremiah had done there. That the delusional leader of a post-apocalyptic cult might be the missing ingredient for a cure to save humanity made their mission feel like a bad movie.
You need an attitude adjustment, Doug told himself.
A growing sense of dread had taken root as soon as Doug glimpsed the ruins of Portland this morning. Such moroseness was unlike him, but zombies had taught him to pay attention to his instincts and feelings rather than logic them away. He was not exactly embracing the dread, but he wasn’t pushing it away, either.
The decayed state of the buildings was evident even at this distance. It looked more desolate than Seattle had. There were no signs of life, past or present. The makeshift bridges strung between buildings in downtown Seattle, even those that had fallen into disrepair, were evidence of life. Someone had held on, at least for a while, but here? Nothing. No thin wisps of smoke from campfires or stoves, no glimpses of motion behind windows so dirty they were almost opaque. So far, even zombies were absent instead of shuffling in the streets.
Portland felt dead in a way that Seattle had not.
But it was more than that. Seffie had come up last night while he and Mario talked, and Doug realized he hadn’t thought of her once since they left Santa Cruz. Seffie had saved Connor’s life, however briefly, and his, Mario’s, and Miranda’s as well. She’d been informing on them at first, but Doug had believed her when she said she stopped as soon as she knew the mission was about the vaccine. Seffie had more than redeemed herself but almost as soon as she was gone, she had become out of sight, out of mind.
When he first became a priest, Doug had cultivated the habit of reciting the names of the most recently departed when he said or went to Mass every day. There were so many who had died, too many to remember everyone, but Doug had felt that he could manage the recent ones at least once. For people like Seffie, who literally had no one, it had felt like a moral obligation to acknowledge that they existed at all. But Doug had not thought much about anyone who’d died to get them this far. Perhaps it was just a coping mechanism, but the realization bothered him. He could not even remember the last time he’d said Mass since they left Santa Clara, something all priests are obliged to do every day, even if just to themselves. The disconnection he felt from his vocation left him feeling like a ship without a rudder.
“I’m really starting to suck at priesting,” he muttered.
He turned at the squeak of approaching footsteps. Miranda was cocooned inside a drab green jacket. The shadows under her eyes had receded, and the green tinge to her skin had been replaced by a rosy glow. And an air of contentment and obnoxious well-being. She had probably gotten lucky last night.
“You look a lot better,” he said. “I think you’ve even gained a pound or two.”
Miranda smiled. “I haven’t needed a Dramamine in days. I love rivers as much as I hate open ocean.”
“You were pretty pathetic.”
They stood in silence as more of Portland’s derelict buildings slipped by. The yacht rounded a gentle curve in the river, and a bridge came into view. The first of six, maybe eight, before they reached Ross Island? Doug couldn’t remember.
He sighed, then said almost under his breath, “This fucking place.”
Miranda looked up at him, eyebrows knitted together. “What do you mean by that?”
“I don’t know,” he said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Two days ago I was so restless I couldn’t wait to get off this boat, but now?” He shrugged. “You haven’t been puking and the rivers are beautiful. Even Jeremiah’s been less of an asshole.”
“But?”
“I don’t know,” he said again. He knew that some of it was the feeling of disconnection from his vocation, but he wasn’t going to get into that with Miranda. She’d just tell him that he shouldn’t have become a priest in the first place. “It feels deader here. I know Seattle was the same but here
it feels…more. It’s like every place is deader and emptier than the last.”
Miranda looked at him with appraising eyes. Her face became thoughtful as she looked back to the river.
“We thought people were waiting for us in Seattle. No one is waiting for us this time, either, but we know it. Last time we didn’t.”
Doug let her words settle for a moment, felt the truth of them slip into place like the last piece of a puzzle.
“I think you’re right.”
“You’re agreeing with me just like that? No smart-ass anything?” At his nod, she snorted in disgust. “I refuse to do all the heavy lifting. You better step up your game, buddy.”
A tiny smile curled Doug’s mouth and crinkled the corners of his eyes. A bridge was only three hundred yards ahead now, abandoned cars visible through crumbled sections of concrete parapet. Movement caught his eye, followed by a moan. Soon a small group of zombies gathered. First one, then another, walked off the crumbling edge and splashed into the river.
“And the welcome wagon arrives,” Miranda said.
Doug gripped the pulpit rail tighter when the yacht tacked starboard to avoid the dropping zombies.
“Come under the canopy,” Mario called from the cockpit.
Miranda headed to the cockpit to join Mario, but Doug watched the zombies a moment longer. The first few to fall from the bridge flailed in the water. More followed, pummeling into them like a slapstick routine. The voyage from Seattle had been pleasant, even restful, especially since Miranda had not been on death’s door the entire time. Instead of puking, she had spent her time scribbling in a journal and grumbling about how hard it was to find a pencil that didn’t smudge. When he thought no one was looking, Mario had spent an inordinate amount of time watching Miranda and looking content. Doug hadn’t done much more than sleep, read, and tease Miranda.
They had needed the time to recoup and to plan, but most of all, to rest. Doug knew that he was always connected to God, because the door on God’s side was always open. He would feel it again. He just needed to find the door on this side.