Beyond Green Fields #2 - Regrets: A post-apocalyptic anthology Read online

  Or is it?

  Now that the kernel of doubt has taken hold in my mind, it spreads like a wildfire. Rationally speaking, I know Hamilton was there to make a grab for Bree to get her for either their own lab project, part of which we already stumbled on, or sell her to the highest bidder. To keep her useful and as agreeable as hostages go, he would have had to treat her at the very least well—none of that nonsense he was babbling about. That was for show, and for my benefit, but we both know he would never rape a woman, not even one who I obviously cared about. But it’s a believable threat, and one that works for someone like Bree; I don’t need to know her as well as I do to be aware of that. That other scavenger girl would have become collateral damage, maybe, or they might have turned her loose a few miles down the road. Unless—

  I try to disband the thoughts coming up inside of me, but between fear of losing Bree, exhaustion, sleep deprivation, and maybe going a little insane, my mind latches on to that worst case scenario.

  Unless Hamilton is still on a leash, maybe tighter now than ever. They had Bree’s blood, so running the odd extra test would have been easy. I’m no expert, and even now, staring down at her flat stomach, it’s hard to wrap my mind around the fact that she was pregnant—but the amount of liquids and solids soiling us both makes it easy to guess that she must have been further along than the few weeks since we hit Aurora and the lab—two to three months, if I had to take a guess. All the shit we’ve been going through—and the utter lack of freely available medical expertise—makes it easy to guess that she didn’t know yet. Her own behavior made it obvious at various occasions that she and I are a thing, and she’s not our team mascot in a sense that makes me want to put my fist through the tiled wall at my back.

  There’s a single person I can think of who would have wanted to get his grubby hands on any child of mine, now that I’ve become useless to him because of that ulterior flaw in my character: a moral compass. A child with all of my potential, and let’s be honest, a good chance to inherit Bree’s smarts isn’t exactly a downside.

  I feel sick as the impossible scenario keeps unfolding before my mind’s eye. So they know she’s pregnant but it’s likely too early for more than a random guess, certainly for a confirmation, except the one they already have. They send out a hit squad to grab her. I’m a nuisance at best, a danger at worst, so killing me and the rest of my people is a bonus if not a requirement. They don’t care about her in any other capacity than as an incubator for the ultimate prize, but they can’t let her form any attachment to the child growing inside of her. So they rape her, just long and often enough so she can be certain that’s how the child was conceived, which isn’t hard since even now I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that I was able to father offspring. Then they let her carry the child to term, or cut it out of her as soon as it’s viable on its own. Maybe they even let her bleed out right there, legs tied to the stirrups, screaming for the child she hates but at the same time not because nature is above such pesky things as morals.

  I can’t help it; I hold her tighter still as if that would ward off that living nightmare now forever etched into my brain. That it’s utter nonsense on all levels doesn’t help.

  The fact that I’ve just come up with the single concept that’s more horrible than our actual situation doesn’t help, but as I shake it off, I can’t avoid asking myself: wouldn’t it have been better—for Bree—if I’d surrendered and let Hamilton drag her off? She’d still be very much alive, for one. The child, too. And it might have taken me a while to track her down, but I sure as hell would have found her again—even raped and beaten and locked away in a cell inside an underground bunker in the middle of nowhere.

  Fuck.

  Stupid ideas aside, the conclusion is obvious: it’s all my fault. I killed the woman I love and our unborn child, and on top of that two of my people who trusted in me to keep them alive.

  Where’s the odd shambler when you need one to suddenly appear inside the doorframe, ready to come for you?

  As if conjured by that thought, I hear a crash nearby—the door to one of the other rooms banging shut, or open, jump-starting my fight-or-flight response; and right now, I’m all fight, even with Bree’s near-lifeless body clutched to my chest. I silently curse as I realize that the closest weapon is her Glock on the nightstand, on the other side of the bed. I know I could still get to it if I move now—

  But I don’t, because somewhere in my subconscious the series of haphazard sounds that follows registers for what it is: two highly trained professionals slowly making their way through a not-quite abandoned building.

  So it comes that, a few minutes later, Romanoff and Burns find me, still sitting in the shower with Bree in my lap and blood everywhere.

  They come to a sudden halt, staring at me. Us. I squint at them, the stark cone of the flashlight trained at me, making me squint. I instinctively clutch Bree closer, not because I’m afraid they’ll tear her from my arms but because of the ghosts of my paranoid thoughts still haunting me. I’m vaguely aware that I’m probably hurting her, and while her breath so close to my ear has a pained quality to it, I feel like she needs the physical contact just as much as I do. Because she’s still holding on, so doing the same is the least I can do.

  “She’s still alive,” I say—or rather, try to. It comes out as a hoarse croak. I don’t remember the exact time I last spoke more than a few whispered words, and even most of those in my head.

  Romanoff wises up and drops the light to where it’s no longer searing my retinas, but that now highlights the blood smeared across the tiles and the shower curtain that must have come down as I fell into the stall. The three of us stare at it in shared mute horror. I know I need to explain but it takes me fucking forever to find the right words. “She’s—” And just like that, they are gone again.

  Fuck. I can’t even wrap my mind around any of this. How can I hope to explain it to others?

  A disbelieving grunt answers me—coming from Burns, I think—while Romanoff takes a cautious step closer. “Are you sure?” he rasps out, his tone that special kind of careful that you use with children and demented people, and definitely something I don’t deal well with.

  “The fuck I’m sure!” I bellow, the words—or, more likely, the pain so plain and exposed in them—making both men draw up short once more. Bree whimpers, which breaks my heart all over again because now it’s me who’s needlessly causing her discomfort. Fuck. I really need to snap out of this!

  Forcing myself to expel the air from my lungs and let go of the irrational part of my anger—which doesn’t change much overall—I focus on what’s important now. It’s less intent and more happenstance that my fingers brush over the side of her neck, instinctively finding her pulse. She’s still burning up but her heartbeat feels stronger now, more steady. Maybe I’m just imagining things, but I don’t think so.

  “She’s still alive,” I reiterate, my voice calmer now as I keep staring at Burns and Romanoff. “She got progressively worse but she’s been stable now for”—I try to remember—“the past twenty hours or so. I think she’s pulling through.”

  Saying the words still doesn’t make them true, but there’s conviction in my voice rather than the shrill pipe of wishful thinking.

  The guys exchange glances, less than convinced of my claim. Burns, usually not such a chickenshit, cautiously asks, “The blood?”

  Vexation grips me, but I’m sane enough now to get where that’s coming from. Still doesn’t change a thing—my heart seizes up, the unfamiliar agony of empathy a crushing weight on my chest. After everything that’s happened, I still couldn’t do a fucking thing to spare her this…

  Another slow, forced exhale from me, then, “She was pregnant. She isn’t anymore.” There, I said it. Not that hard, right? But it is, and it only takes a second for the truth of my words—and the ramifications—to register. If I thought they were treading on eggshells before, that’s nothing compared to their expressio
ns now. I go on, mostly to give them a few seconds to get a grip. “Why are you even here? I said three days.”

  “It’s been three days,” Romanoff offers, his eyes snapping from the bloody tiles to my face. For a moment, he lets me see his emotions—pain, regret, empathy with both of us—before the mask snaps back into place and he’s the jovial, ruthless killer again.

  Burns, bless his heart, tries for levity—not a great idea. “That’s pretty much a miracle.”

  My glare already makes him wither. “Does this look like a fucking miracle!?”

  A moment of awkwardness follows. I’m not sorry for snapping at him, but he sure didn’t deserve it. He knows, as does Romanoff. Seconds tick by that I count on Bree’s rasping breath. Romanoff finally does what’s usually my job—act rather than just stand around and bicker.

  “Let’s get you both cleaned up,” he suggests, putting the flashlight on the counter so it doesn’t blind anyone yet yields enough illumination that we can get to work. It’s only then that I realize that dusk is setting in outside. How long have I been sitting here? The fact that I can’t feel either of my legs tells a different tale than my perception would have me believe. I still refuse to let go of Bree as I shift enough so I can let circulation do its job so I can get up. There’s more congealed blood and stuff everywhere. Her placenta, my mind helpfully supplies. I’m not stupid—I just don’t want to think too much right now.

  Burns is already ditching his weapon and gear so he can help, but hesitates at the threshold once more—well out of my reach, I realize, not without mirth. “What are we gonna do with all this?”

  I’m about to bark that I couldn’t give less of a shit but swallow the words instead. Romanoff explains why this is even a discussion. “We got a call from the geeks at the Silo just as we split from the others. They asked us if, maybe, we could get them some samples.”

  My paranoia comes roaring back with a vengeance, but just as I’m about to demand how they could have known about her pregnancy, I realize what he actually means. “What—they really expect me to cut up my dead wife so they can dissect bits and pieces of her?”

  It’s only when they both stare at me that I realize my slip of the tongue. Fuck it. I’ve already missed too many opportunities as it is; I’m not going to pretend like I care anymore. It’s only a matter of getting her lucid enough to respond. I know what her answer will be.

  But that poses another question—or the same, really, that Burns just did. Exhaling shakily, I force myself to focus. “I think she’d want them to have the data. Particularly if she doesn’t make it.” Just because my heart is convinced and my soul likely depends on her survival doesn’t mean I’m delusional enough to think that it will happen. This could just as well be a momentary reprieve—a last, steady moment before the final plunge.

  That’s all that needs to be said, and we set to the grisly task in silence. We end up dumping everything, including what she and I have been wearing, on the shower curtain that Burns then rolls up and drags outside while Romanoff helps me clean us both up. I don’t bother with the shower—and most of the bathroom as it is now—and simply do what has worked well so far and carry her into the next unsoiled room. By the time I have us both dressed once more and Bree tucked into her blanket fortress, minus the previous bottom layer she bled all over, I’m flagging, and not just emotionally.

  “Shit. When’s the last time you ate something?”

  I blink stupidly at Romanoff for asking such an inconsequential thing, and consequently he sits me down in a chair and shoves nuts and jerky at me before getting some water heated on the camping stove. It takes a few bites that taste like ash for my body to realize that it’s actually famished, and I wolf it all down fast enough that I have to concentrate hard not to hurl it all back up.

  Romanoff watches me, still cautious but more relaxed now. I take that as a good sign regarding Bree’s state—or as the final confirmation I will never accept. Not a tough choice, really. “Suppose it’s stupid to ask if you slept?” My bleary-eyed, silent scorn is enough of an answer, but I can tell that he gets it. I doubt any of them got a good night’s sleep since… I have no clue what day it is. It’s been months since I bothered with trivialities like tracking days of the week, and I’d have to check my watch to know the date. Possibly the last day of my life. Who cares? As soon as she’s gone, not me.

  Burns returns from yet another trip downstairs, dropping more water next to me and some provisions for yet another few days. I don’t even check what it is as I don’t give a shit. He hesitates before he clears his throat. Sure, he may understand—and relate—why I’m in such a foul mood but that doesn’t mean he appreciates getting snapped at.

  “How about we burn the sheets from the other rooms?” he suggests. “Lots of flies already, and there’s no guessing what else that will attract.”

  It’s a sound suggestion, even if leaving Bree’s side is the last thing I want to do. But she’s sleeping now—comatose, really—and looks stable enough. I know that a bit of physical work and fresh air will help clear my head. I’m just not sure if I want to be able to think. Right now, all I feel—besides sorry for myself—is that deep-seated anguish for her. Her pain, her loss. Nothing else has actually registered. I know that will change eventually, and I’m not looking forward to that.

  “Sure, let’s do it.” I don’t need to tell Romanoff to keep an eye on her; he wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Burns gets busy digging a hole in the yard behind the motel while I drag pillows, blankets, sheets, and clothes outside. Once the hole is deep enough, we dump it all in, pour some gasoline on it and watch it burn—quite the metaphor for my life, really. Full dark hits by the time we douse the flames and dump the loose earth back in. Burns aims for the stairs but I linger for a sec, then motion him to go on as I head to the Rover instead. I’m not even at the door yet when the scent of bleach and decay hits me. Those seats will need to be replaced; there’s no saving them. I choke as I get in and thankfully, it only takes me a minute or two to get the radio working and find the right frequency so I can at least stand outside, the cool evening breeze a relief I don’t feel I deserve.

  The radio tech at the Silo is quick to get one of the geeks on the line. I wince when I realize it’s Sunny rather than Dom. How Bree can stand that imbecile is beyond me but I don’t have the mental energy for banter right now so it’s all the same.

  “Hey, how you doin’, man?” Sunny asks with that fake sense of levity that makes me want to punch him.

  Rather than respond, I instead dump the details on him before I can change my mind. “She’s still alive if barely hanging in there. She was pregnant and lost the child a few hours ago. Three months along is my guess. Any of that making any sense to you?” I don’t even care about the deterioration of my vocabulary anymore. Fuck that shit, too.

  The excitement in Sunny’s response slays me, but with him, I kind of expected that, at least. “That’s fantastic! And yes, it does make sense. Perfect sense even. It confirms so many of my theories…”

  He goes on and on but I barely listen. I know my subconscious does, and when I’ll have to fill Bree in on it all, the words will be there, but right now they just wash over me. I think I give a few responses but I’m not sure. I may have hung up mid-sentence. All I care about is the facts he provided: yes, there’s a good chance that the pregnancy conferred a limited immunity to her—so it’s not because of my spunk that she has been surviving but because of the embryo growing inside her. And because of that very same fact, she wouldn’t have carried it to term. He was very certain of that fact, and didn’t even really touch on the me-being-able-to-knock-her-up fact.

  I’m still mulling that over as I rejoin the others, first making sure that Bree’s still breathing—she is—before I share the news with them. They both take it in with stoic silence, but I don’t miss the look of paranoid hopefulness that briefly crosses Burns’s face. It’s this that makes me remember an incident—we’ve had some sc
ares in the past, of course. Drama is more like it. Guys that got home from deployment, only to find the wives and girlfriends they shouldn’t have had cradling babies they couldn’t have fathered. It never went over well because, obviously, that cheating, lying cunt must have been trying to play them. Except, there was this one guy—I forgot his name; Sanchez, or Suarez, or something like that—who was dead set on insisting the kid was his. He hadn’t even seen the little girl himself, only gotten photos and a quick video call from his girlfriend, but he was over the moon. I remember thinking he was a dumb sucker, until he showed me photos his mother had sent him, old pictures of him barely a month old, and he looked exactly like his kid. Not just like all babies look kinda alike, but creepy-level twin shit, with just a slightly darker complexion because his parents were Puerto Rican and Hawaiian, and his baby momma brought some extra Creole flavor into the mix. There was hoping the girl would take after her rather than the dad because from the picture he showed me of the two of them, that woman was a real stunner, even exhausted by taking care, all on her own, of the kid, but that didn’t lessen the resemblance for a second. Back then, I laughed it off as random weirdness.

  I’m not laughing now.

  And while I’m dead set on parroting Sunny’s ideas, I know, deep down, that he’s wrong. If not for my own pride and idiocy, she would have had that baby. I don’t say any of that out loud but I can see in their faces that they agree with me, if not necessary with the blame and guilt I’m punishing myself with now.

  Damn. This is all such a mess.

  Romanoff and Burns stay until the next morning. They try to talk me into taking a nap at the very least, but I can’t make myself even consider it. I’ll stay by her side until she’s either dead or well enough to get up from her deathbed—there’s no other option. I can tell that Burns at least wants to stay but two people on their own is risky enough; one is suicide.