Beyond Green Fields #4 - The Ballad of Sadie & Bates: A post-apocalyptic anthology
Beyond Green Fields #4: The Ballad of Sadie & Bates
A post-apocalyptic anthology
Adrienne Lecter
Contents
Introduction
Part I
1. BATES - SEPTEMBER
2. SADIE - SEPTEMBER
3. SADIE - OCTOBER
4. BATES - OCTOBER
5. SADIE - NOVEMBER
6. BATES - NOVEMBER
Part II
7. BATES - MARCH
8. SADIE - MARCH
9. BATES - STILL MARCH
10. SADIE - APRIL
11. BATES - APRIL
12. SADIE - APRIL
Part III
13. SADIE - APRIL
14. SADIE - MAY
15. SADIE - JUNE
16. SADIE - LATE AUGUST
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About the Author
Books published
Beyond Green Fields #4: The Ballad of Sadie & Bates
A post-apocalyptic anthology
by Adrienne Lecter
Copyright © 2021 by Adrienne Lecter. All rights reserved.
http://adriennelecter.com
Produced and published by Barbara Klein, Vienna, Austria
Edited by Marti Lynch
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
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Introduction
Round Four: The Ballad of Sadie & Bates
This was a story I wanted to tell pretty much since it developed inside the larger world of the novels. It was the first time in a while that I got slip into two very different main characters and experience the trials and tribulations of their relationship, sometimes so very independent of what else was going on in their world, while never completely apart from it. You may be familiar with the framework—now you get to experience the details left out.
Part 1
1 BATES - SEPTEMBER
“Man, this is the life!”
All Burns gets is a weird sidelong glance for me. I don’t give a shit what he thinks. Sure, a year ago—hell, a couple months ago—I would have seriously questioned my sanity if I’d declared that parking my stinking ass in a room with twenty other people was called luxury, but much has changed.
Today, ladies and gents, is the first day of the rest of my life! And no stink in the world can change that!
Sixteen hours since we got here, with “here” being the bunker in Wyoming. I’d almost given up hope after endless weeks on the road, but not only has our little hidey-hole in the foothills of the Rockies not been looted, no—the other half of what will now become our illustrious organization has beaten us here. It’s not that I’ve been looking forward to meeting any one of them in particular, but, damn, it’s good to see a few more familiar faces alive! Best of all, everyone brought provisions so there’s no reason to risk my ass out there today, or tomorrow, or any time this week! Sure, before winter hits we’ll have to do plenty of looting, but today? Today I can enjoy the simple comforts of life—like a cup of freshly brewed coffee, beef jerky for breakfast, and one of the last cancer sticks I picked up on the road—sitting on the porch steps in the late morning sunlight.
Today, life is good.
I know it’s just a matter of time until Zilinsky will send us out there. Part of me is surprised she hasn’t done so yet, but when I passed her in the kitchen earlier, she made no move to tell anyone anything except to go fuck themselves and leave her the fuck alone. I’m very okay with that. Nothing can ruin my day. Abso-fucking-lutely nothing.
2 SADIE - SEPTEMBER
Well, things didn’t take long to go south.
Am I happy to see that a handful more people I care about are still alive? Sure. Absolutely. No question. Did yesterday feel like the best day of my life since the world ended? Yes. Was I ecstatic beyond what I thought I could still be, considering what we’ve been through? Yes.
But having to cook for and clean up after more than twice as many people as before is not how I expected things to turn out.
It’s not even that they are deliberate slobs—the way Pia glares at everyone who exits the stairs leading up from the communal bedroom is keeping them well in line. But there’s dishes, and utensils, and breadcrumbs everywhere! And they’re eating and drinking everything up faster than I can bring it in from the pantry and kitchen! I’m not naive; I know that a two-hundred-pound mountain of a man can decimate what makes up an entire day’s food for me in minutes, and call that an entree—although they wouldn’t, because right now the intellectual level is dropping like nobody’s business. I don’t mind that; Mom is scowling at everyone who mutters a curse or offers up a lewd joke, but this feels a lot more normal than what we’ve had going on since we got here. The bunker felt downright haunted with just the eleven of us. Now we’re at beyond expected capacity, but it’s a good feeling to know there’s always someone around who can defend the base—or fetch me something from the top shelf.
But why do I have to do all the cleanup?
Part of me wants to get up on the table and start a speech about how I’m an emancipated woman and deserve better than to be expected to clean and cook. The more realistic part of me realizes it’s the byproduct of everyone actively trying to protect me. The only time I need to go outside is when I want to—no perimeter watch, no hunting, no looting for this girl. And it’s not like I’ve never had to do chores—Mom and Dad both believed in not raising a spoiled brat. Doing it for my family plus a handful of hearty guys who happened to be around when we bugged out wasn’t so bad—particularly compared to everything that we’ve been through. But now everyone is lazing around and enjoying themselves while I work my ass off! It’s unfair!
And then there’s this… woman.
I don’t know what to make of her. Brianna. Nate’s… girlfriend? I have no idea if that term is applicable, and not just because it’s the absolute last thing I’d have expected from him. I’m not stupid—intellectually, I know he’s had to have had sex with someone, presumably several someones even, in his life, but I never figured I’d meet any of these women. It’s not that he’s an antisocial asshole—although I have called him that to his face a time or two—but he’s just not what I’d consider a family man. He’s the best uncle or godfather—or whatever you want to call someone who drops in at odd times of the year for a few days—anyone could wish for, but I’ve always viewed him as a singular entity in so many possible definitions of the terms. More than once, Mom or a well-meaning neighbor tried to pawn him off to a prospective female of the single persuasion at a barbecue, but the most anyone ever got out of him for that was a suffering smile. I never considered what kind of woman he’d go for, but certainly not any of those selected for him. She’d have to be bright, that much is for sure. And probably pretty ruthless and driven, or else he’d automatically disregard her on principle. Maybe the CEO of a Fortune 500 company? But he’s not interested in
business so probably not, unless her company was a weapons manufacturer, and she went white-water rafting in Alaska for fun and was an accomplished hunter and survivalist. Tall and graceful; oozing sophistication. And I’m sure she’d have to be a freak between the sheets, although I always feel weird thinking about Nate and sex. Something like that, yeah.
Certainly not a pudgy, blathering thing that stumbles over a discarded boot on the floor, consequently sloshes coffee over her hand, and swears up a storm in Serbian. Yeah, I understand her all right—I’m not fluent, but Andrej has been teaching me choice words since I was old enough to understand why my mother could never hear me utter a single one of them. Apparently, I’m not the only one he has imparted his wisdom on, judging from the display currently going on in front of me. At least she’s funny, although more in a coincidental than deliberate way. And she’s not really pudgy—I got a look at her in the washroom last night when she spent a good hour scrubbing off what must have been months of grime. Fully clothed, she looks pretty normal—and rather unremarkable—but naked it’s obvious that she’s lost weight recently, and what muscle she must have been starting to pack on instead doesn’t make up for that. She also has the expected bruises and scrapes that inevitably happen when you tramp through the underbrush and are stupid enough and let someone like Pia teach you hand-to-hand combat. Lots of rough patches all over where blisters and chafe marks must have been. She’s been living rough, and from what I can tell, that must have been both a huge change for her and done her good. I guess not being a stunner but ready to put in the work is a good combination when you’re trekking through the apocalypse with a bunch of burly guys. That they see her as asexual is obvious, although I figure more learned behavior than instinct. But Nate and she must be screwing because she has a certain amount of territorial threat display going on where he’s concerned. I almost burst out laughing when I saw her standing there, next to her car, scowling at me. As if. The very idea is hilariously ridiculous, and that must have occurred to her quickly—but I didn’t miss the way she sized me up. She and I must agree that she really isn’t what anyone would expect him to go for—but still, he does.
Or did. There’s no PDA going on whatsoever between them, but I get that. I know Mom would have gone ballistic if she knew he’d done that, but a few years ago—about the time when I got interested in boys—Nate pulled me aside on one of his visits and we had a heart-to-heart about intelligent behavior of potentially vulnerable females around males. That was fun, and totally didn’t leave me paranoid enough that it was two more years until I dared let a boy kiss me. That lecture sure did more than Mom’s “because you could get pregnant and ruin your life before it even starts” speech. That I got it again—twice—from Pia, and without a good amount of sugarcoating, didn’t help. The fact that Nate broke what’s one of his principle rules makes it obvious that Brianna is way more than a fling to him. But I absolutely don’t see why.
At least she grabs a towel and wipes up after her coffee spill, which is more than I can say for Bates—fucking idiot!
I wonder if I should have a talk with Pia. I’m sure that if I stress how much of a bother the additional workload is for me, she’ll set someone to help me clean. Then I realize that someone would likely be Brianna, and my enthusiasm disappears into thin air. Pia obviously likes her—which is another thing I don’t get. And that Andrej, Burns, and Martinez have practically adopted her as their combined little sister is just weird. I must be missing something—but what?
3 SADIE - OCTOBER
It’s past midnight when I bolt from the bedroom and tiptoe up the stairs to the kitchen. It’s getting cold enough that being surrounded by the bodies of my fellow humans is a commodity, but if I hear one more snore, I’m going to scream! I can still hear them, even with three doors between us now. It’s only October—how am I supposed to survive the winter?
The kitchen is dark but I don’t need to see much to find the bench by the window, a little moonlight illuminating the space. There’s someone sitting in one of the chairs, momentarily scaring the hell out of me—but only until I realize it’s Pia. I tried not to make a sound but must have audibly held my breath because I see a smirk pass her features when I un-freeze and park my butt on the bench.
“Can’t sleep?” I quip as a way of greeting. She pushes a thermos my way and I happily fill a mug with steaming hot tea. I’m too tired to get up and fetch a new one, germs be damned. What I wouldn’t give for a dishwasher! Not that anyone would let me have one—all the electricity the newly installed solar panels collect is for batteries and illumination. We’ll likely have to add heating soon, too—if we can keep the panels free of snow. The days are getting short now and the weather is turning cold, which is something my mind still has problems wrapping itself around after how hot the bunker got when we first arrived here.
“I will hit the sack soon,” Pia says, almost startling me again with the sound of her voice. I didn’t expect a response. During the day, she’s not one for much talking.
I ruefully shake my head as I inhale the tea fumes. “Wish I could. They’re just too damn loud!”
A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “Should we fetch you more earplugs?”
“More like a new bedroom,” I harp, but dutifully shake my head. “Thanks. I have plenty. You’ve really been spoiling me.” And it’s not even a lie—whatever I ask for will eventually end up in the bunker. It might be a different color or size—less of a problem with clothes, a massive issue with tampons, until Bree cleared that one up for me—but someone will fetch it for me. All things considered, that should make me feel loved and cherished. What it actually does is make me feel even more like a bird locked in a gilded cage. I’ve always considered myself strong and independent, quick on my feet in both a mental and physical sense. The zombie apocalypse has changed a lot about that. Sure, it’s nice not to have to go out and risk my life for a pack of tissues, but more often than not that comes with the disadvantage that I can’t even go for a brief walk without someone heavily armed and armored coming along. Not that I have much time or energy for walks, but sheesh—living on top of each other is getting cumbersome when you never get a real chance to step outside.
I can tell that for all of them, reaching the bunker has been a step up in the quality of their lives. For me, it sometimes feels like a nosedive.
Then I remember how ungrateful that would make me sound if I was stupid enough to voice it, which I’m not. I’m grateful for everything I have, above all else my own life and my family’s health. But that doesn’t mean that there isn’t room for improvement.
As much as I like hanging out with Pia, I’m not unhappy to see her leave—particularly when the door remains open just long enough to reveal a somewhat disheveled, tired figure lumbering upstairs. I can’t help but smile when I see Chris make a beeline for the coffee pot, completely oblivious to my presence in the corner, judging from how he, quite nonchalantly, is scratching his ass. It’s ridiculous how well-mannered they all try to act around me—and yes, I am well aware of the fact that it’s just an act. Our house has always had a revolving door for my dad’s army buddies, and I’ve seen and heard my share of things that were far from age appropriate. I get it around Mom, but it’s like they forget that I’m no longer a pesky five-year-old with pigtails.
He grabs a fresh mug, fills it up, then turns around and leans against the kitchen counter as he enjoys a first sip—and sees me smirking across the table at him. I can tell he knows that he’s busted, but rather than a bashful apology, he offers me a lazy grin. “What’s up, kid?” And a bucketful of ice-cold reality check, thank you very much.
“Can’t sleep,” I offer, trying hard to hide my annoyance.
“Me, neither.” He gestures with his mug before taking another sip. “Bed’s too soft.”
It’s not the first time I’ve heard this from soldiers coming home from their deployments, but it always puzzles me. Even more so considering that our beds are a layer of thin m
attresses on top of insulating tarps, with sleeping bags thrown on top and the odd quilt that we’ve had to break out now that temperatures are dropping. Twenty people can easily warm up a room, but there’s no heating downstairs and the earth-encased concrete bunker of the lower level gets even colder now than in summer. Great for our pantry full of preserves next door; not so much for when you hate sleeping with socks on.
I know that the silence that settles over the room is a comfortable, familiar one, but I’m still annoyed about his kid comment, which adds to my general level of aggravation. Welcome to my life! So when Chris makes no move to talk, I finish my tea, rinse out the mug in the sink—and the five others already waiting for me there—before I trudge back down to try to get a few more hours of sleep. If Chris is sorry to see me go, he doesn’t say anything, but why should he? I tell myself to get a grip. Silly thoughts are the last thing I need right now.
4 BATES - OCTOBER
It’s fucking Halloween, and tonight is shaping up to be the most depressing day of my year—and that’s saying something. I always used to love Halloween, and not just as a kid. Lots of scantily-clad, perfectly inebriated girls looking for a fun time—what’s not to love?