by A. M. Geever
By feel, Doug kept climbing, his eyes riveted on Skye. When she reached the midway point up the palisade, she began to work her way over to the ladder.
“Get out of my way,” she said, grinning.
Doug felt his heart rip and bleed as he watched Skye in her element one last time. She was only doing this because he had weaponized her affection for him. And he was rewarded by the sight of her moving with confidence and grace and joy, even now, on what she knew was her very last climb.
Doug tore his eyes from her and climbed. The ladder tightened with the weight of Skye working the rungs below him. It surprised him how heavy she felt below him but the gratitude that filled his breaking heart was impossible to deny.
A blur of faces and hands reached for him at the top of the palisade. He fell over the edge onto the large watch platform. Rocco helped him to his feet.
Doug pivoted back to the ladder. Skye’s head crested the palisade. Doug clasped her hand in his.
“I’ve got you,” he said.
Skye smiled wearily at him. And then she jerked down, her hand ripped from his, and disappeared.
Doug lunged over the palisade’s edge, caught at the waist on the thick tree trunk poles. Skye clung to the ladder three rungs below, screaming and kicking at the zombie clinging to her feet. It had dragged her feet off the ladder and hung from her legs.
Doug had seen five zombies that were coordinated enough to climb, including this one. He hoisted himself farther over the palisade and grabbed Skye’s wrist.
Behind him was an eruption of noise, jostling, the thud of running feet, and a shout of, “Someone shoot that fucking thing!”
Hands clamped around Doug’s legs. Skye kicked one foot free of the zombie’s clutching grip and got it on a rung. Her face contorted with effort, her eyes screwed shut, as she pushed and Doug pulled. Doug’s fingertips brushed her other arm, pinching the barest sliver of her jacket between his middle and ring finger. He bunched the fabric until he could wrap his hand around her other arm above her elbow.
A rifle cracked, and Skye launched up at him. His grip on her wrist and arm never loosened as they tumbled back onto the platform.
Doug gasped, his chest heaving, covered in sweat and shaking. His heart pounded against his sternum, blood thundering in his ears. Skye looked over at him, the fear and panic in her eyes receding. Doug scrambled to Skye’s feet, ripping the shredded leather of her pant leg as if it were cotton candy.
The mirror crescents of the zombie’s teeth, so distinct he could see them individually, were red and angry against Skye’s sweat-soaked skin. But her skin was smooth and unbroken.
Doug almost collapsed with relief. He felt the sob rush from his mouth. He looked up at Skye.
“You’re okay. It was sweat you felt.”
Her hand flew to her mouth. Doug could barely breathe. He moved to embrace her, but Rocco knelt beside her and wrapped Skye in his arms. Doug wanted to push him aside, but Rocco didn’t let go, so he got to his feet, swaying on rubbery legs.
Skye broke hers and Rocco’s embrace. Rocco almost got out of her way when he turned to look up at Doug. Almost, but not quite. He kept hold of Skye, his arm around her shoulders. Skye smiled at Doug, relief and gratitude and something more, lighting up her face more than the morning sun climbing into the sky above them. She had pulled her leg close to her body and rubbed her hand over the unbroken skin that she had been sure was her death sentence.
Rocco said, his voice hoarse, “Nice save, Father. That direct line to God got us a miracle.”
Doug squinted at Rocco. No one here called him Father. A vertical, anxious-looking line creased the space between Skye’s eyebrows. Rocco’s happiness over their safe deliverance was genuine, but a hardness lurked beneath his smile. His flashing eyes bore into Doug’s, brimming with warning.
Doug got the message loud and clear. He was a priest, with nothing to offer Skye except friendship. And he needed to back the fuck off before Rocco decided to remind him again.
21
Miranda’s eyes cracked open. The feeble gray light from the sliver between the curtains detonated an explosion of pain behind her eyes. She screwed them shut again.
Everything hurt. Her muscles ached, so tight that she had to strain to move. And when she did, she realized it was a bad idea. Her head throbbed, wrapped in bands of steel that radiated from her sternum and traveled up over her jaw and cheeks. Another band of steel-tight muscles began at the base of her skull, meeting the other at the top of her head before sliding down to bore through her temples. Her back felt no better, her hip and right elbow worse. Her toes, even the soles of her feet, pulsated with pain that matched the beating of her heart.
A wet snout nudged her. Delilah snuggled closer.
“Liley,” she said, relaxing, even as the steel bands crushed her skull. If Delilah was here, then she was at LO. She snaked a stiff, sore arm out from under the blanket to scratch the top of the pit bull’s head.
A door creaked open, then a figure approached.
“You’re safe, Miranda. You’re at LO.”
“River?” she asked.
“Yep,” River said, walking to Miranda’s bed.
Phineas, Miranda remembered. Dread filled her chest. Had she even told them?
“Phineas. Did I tell—”
“Phineas is fine, he’s here,” River said quickly. “He’s got a nasty fracture, but he’s young and strong. He should be okay. Look straight ahead, keep your eyes open.”
A bright light flashed into Miranda’s eye. Pain stabbed her brain, then the light flicked away. Then the other eye—bright light, stab, relief.
“That looks good,” River said. She pulled off the covers and skimmed the taut muscles of Miranda’s body, ignoring Miranda’s whimpers and gasps. “I’m going to give you another painkiller and see what I can dig up for a muscle relaxer. We’ll try a hot bath and massage later today. You were hypothermic. That’s why your muscles are so tight and sore, from your body shivering to stay warm.”
“What about the… Am I still pregnant?”
“Yep,” River answered. “Contrary to every soap opera you ever watched, the female body can take a pretty good wallop and not miscarry. Especially if there’s not a direct blow to your abdomen.”
A flash of relief made her body feel light for a second but was immediately displaced by crushing weariness. She still had to deal with getting rid of it. You would think the apocalypse would help me out, just this once, she thought. An overwhelming need to talk to Mario ambushed her so suddenly she wanted to cry.
She tilted her head from side to side, focusing on the misery of her painful muscles. Physical discomfort helped push the feelings aside so that the tears did not break through.
“How long have I been back?”
River pursed her lips, her eyes flicking down as she thought. “About eight, nine hours.”
River turned at a soft knock on the door.
Doug’s voice said, “River?”
Relief filled River’s voice. “You’re back. Is everyone okay?”
“Yeah,” Doug said, stepping into the doorway.
The smell of rotten zombies, shit, mud, and blood poured from Doug’s filthy clothes. Dark smudges circled his eyes. A clean strip of pale forehead came into view as he pulled off a bandana tied over his head.
“Someone’s downstairs with your assistant,” Doug continued.
“Thanks for letting me know. Five minutes, then let Miranda rest.” River wrinkled her nose. “And go get a shower.”
Doug approached the bed. “You look like shit, Miri.”
“You smell like shit,” Miranda said, wrinkling her nose. “What have you been doing?”
Doug petted Delilah as he looked around the room, then pulled a chair to the bed and sat down. River pulled the door shut behind her.
“I’ve been doing my part to save everyone instead of going swimming like some people,” he said, but she could hear a grin in his voice. “We got the comm equ
ipment to fix the sound defenses, but it was a near thing getting back.”
For the first time, Miranda noticed a background hum. Despite the grin, she realized Doug looked careworn and exhausted.
“Are we completely surrounded?”
Doug nodded. “As far as the eye can see.”
Tears filled Miranda’s eyes. She sat up without thinking, gasping at the pain in her muscles. “What about the Institute?”
“They’re fine. They’ve got their own mini-sound defense perimeter, remember? It’s working. The zombies are a lot closer than they’re used to them being, but they’re safe. Besides, the monkeys screech like banshees when the wind blows. If they can’t get to the damn roof in time with all the squawking, I’m not sure they’re worth saving.” Doug paused, his brow furrowed. “Are you crying?”
Miranda shook her head despite the tears that spilled down her cheeks.
“Everyone over there is okay, Miri,” he said, no trace of teasing in his voice.
Miranda let the tears that would not fucking stop roll down her face. It hurt too much to move her arm to wipe them away.
“I’m fine,” she sniffled, feeling like an idiot. “I don’t know why I’m crying. I just need to talk to Mario.”
“You can get him on the radio,” Doug said, his tone encouraging.
Miranda bit the inside of her cheek to keep fresh tears at bay. “I need to talk to him in person.”
“That’s gonna take a while,” Doug said. He got up, bandana in hand, then seemed to think better of it. He pulled at the bedsheet and used it to blot the tears on her face. “We can’t get out to fix the sound defenses. There are too many of them. Smith is having everyone but the perimeter guards shelter-in-place starting at noon. They did it once before when a horde surrounded LO, early on. It took two weeks, but eventually the zombies moved off.”
“Two weeks!” Miranda gasped, panicked. “But in two weeks I’ll be… I can’t wait that long!”
What had River said? Eleven weeks? Twelve? Two more weeks was cutting it close for a simple vacuum abortion. She didn’t have to wait to get the abortion. It wasn’t necessary to talk to him. Doug was right; she could use the radio. But not talking to Mario in person felt wrong. And she wanted his support, his in-person support, like River had suggested. Less than two days ago she hadn’t seen the point in talking to Mario, but now she didn’t want to deal with it alone.
“Miri, what’s wrong?”
“I— fuck,” she said. She opened her mouth, shut it. Opened and shut it again. Even though she knew it was true, she couldn’t believe it.
“I’m pregnant.”
Doug stared at her blankly. “But…I thought you got your tubes tied?”
Miranda laughed bitterly. “Yeah. I did.”
“Holy shit.”
“Tell me about it.”
They were both silent for a few moments, then Doug asked, “What are you going to do?”
Miranda lay back, grimacing at the shriek of pain from her abs and back. It felt like she had done a thousand crunches.
“Have an abortion.”
Even to herself she sounded weary, like this was the last thing on earth that she wanted to deal with. Which was true. But it was more than just ordinary weariness. She was exhausted by this world. She was tired of zombies and everything they represented—death and pain, mindless hunger and miserable choices. Of how relentlessly it ground everyone down, denying them the things that were normal—that were human—to want.
“How far along are you?”
Miranda sighed. “Eleven or twelve weeks. I was so shocked I don’t remember half of what River said. I only found out the other day, when you got here.”
“Oh.” Doug’s face became thoughtful. “It would have been nice to know I had a hormonal mess on my hands.”
Her laugh came out as a half-strangled snort. Delilah whimpered and nudged Miranda’s hand again.
“It’s okay, Liley,” she said, rubbing between the pit bull’s eyes until Delilah closed them, warbling with happiness.
Doug said, “Makes sense that you want to talk to Mario in person.” When she didn’t say anything, he said, “Is there anything I can do?”
“Short of preaching a homily so bad that the stupid zombies run away?”
Doug smiled, then sobered, a flash of sadness in his eyes.
“Have you thought about keeping it?”
“No,” she said, then paused. “A little. Mostly about what it would be like to be able to do something human and not have it come back and kill you. But just a little. Like a tiny speck of dust little.” She paused, then said, “What if Mario wants it?”
“Do you really think he will?”
She threw her hands up, exasperated, and immediately regretted moving her arms. “I don’t know. I don’t even know why I’m worrying about it. Everything about this makes me want to find a razor.”
Shit, she thought, watching Doug’s eyes widen. She hadn’t meant to say that. She didn’t even mean it. Even though she knew that Doug knew, she had barely acknowledged to him that she used to cut herself.
“You’re worrying me, Miri,” Doug said.
She sighed heavily. “I’m not going to. You don’t need to worry. I just… I just don’t want to have to deal with this.”
“You can always lean on me.”
Doug looked so young, and as ready and willing to help her as a Boy Scout. Sometimes she forgot how earnest Doug could be when he wasn’t being a smart-ass.
“I know that, Doug. I am. My mental health is already improving.”
“Hot mess is what usually comes to mind,” he said. “But, yeah. Maybe it is.”
“Thank you for not going all forced pregnancy on me.”
Doug snorted. “For crying out loud, Miri. I can barely figure out my own life. I don’t need to control someone else’s.”
Miranda laughed, which made her stomach muscles hurt. “You’re a terrible priest that way. Quit making me laugh; it hurts!”
Doug didn’t laugh like he usually did when she teased him about not towing the patriarchal, priestly party line. Instead, he scowled down at the floor.
“I’m gonna go,” he said, stretching as he stood. “I came straight here after we talked to Smith. I need a shower and something to eat. If I get a move on, I can catch Skye—the others—at the dining hall.”
He looked sick at the mention of Skye, which was not the reaction Miranda was accustomed to seeing where Skye was concerned.
“Is Skye okay?” she asked.
“Yeah, of course,” he said, a grin quickly put in place. “Just the usual close shaves all around.”
His deflection rang as hollow as an echo bouncing off the sides of a well. Whatever had happened to Skye had scared him.
He cocked his head to the side. “I guess we’ll hang out at your place for the duration?”
“I guess. Talk to River, see what she says. Maybe we can stay with her, so we don’t drive each other crazy.”
Doug shook his head, looking amused once more. “It’s too late for that, Coppertop. No more refreshing dips in alpine streams.”
“Alpine streams, my ass.”
She watched as he moved the chair back to where it had been before he arrived. Everything about his manner, his body language, was off since Skye came up. Whatever was going on with them—or maybe just with him—had changed.
When Doug reached the door, she said, “I’m sorry for giving you shit about Skye when we were at Station Eight. That was the hormonal mess talking.”
Doug turned back, the discomfort on his face plain. “You were right. I need to get my head on straight.”
He looked as excited about getting his head on straight as she felt about being pregnant.
“It won’t be the end of the world, you know. If you want something different for your life.”
He stared at her, frozen in place, like an animal caught in a trap. When she saw the conflict and guilt that flashed across his face, her eyes
filled with tears again.
Doug sighed. “You should keep that in mind, too, Miri. The waterworks are back on.”
Miranda wiped at her face. Delilah wriggled closer, licking them away. Gently, Miranda fended the too helpful pit bull off. Delilah settled beside Miranda with a contented sigh.
Despite her worry for her best friend in the world, Miranda closed her eyes and slept.
22
Doug felt one thousand percent more human after a shower. Exhausted and wrung out, but human. He checked his watch as he emerged from the wooded path next to the cluster of Boys’ Home buildings near the dining hall. Seven thirty, the time they had agreed on. Skye would be there on the dot.
Five hours until shelter-in-place started.
When they reached LO not even two hours ago, Doug had known he was going nowhere for a while. But his relief at having responsibility for that decision taken out of his hands was matched only by his anticipation of spending time with Skye.
And his guilt.
A fingernails-scratching-on-a-chalkboard shiver slithered from the base of his skull along the length of his spine. The grasping hands and biting teeth. The flash of terrified panic in Skye’s blue eyes when the zombie yanked her off the palisade, when they were literally home free. Or almost, since Skye had believed she was dead no matter what. The sheer scale of the smell and sound of the horde below them had felt almost as overwhelming as his panic. But he would have dived off the palisade into the horde after her, if that was what it took.
This kind of thing usually rolled right off his back, but not this time. Not with Skye. He had wanted to hold her close so badly, make sure she was really here, when he realized she had not been bitten. But Rocco got between them, literally and figuratively, with a back-the-fuck-off glare that was genuinely frightening.
Rocco was only trying to be a good friend.
And he was right.
Doug knew he had to get his head straight. He had to. Especially after seeing the look on Skye’s face earlier, the little anxious line that had appeared between her eyebrows, and the tightness at the corners of her mouth. The way he was feeling, the way he was acting—seeking her out like a goddamned puppy, conversations that only deepened their connection—was not good for him and was definitely not fair to Skye.