by Urban, Tony
Seth couldn’t hear that. Not now. He grabbed her hand, pulling her down the hall. “Just come on.”
Barbara followed him, trance-like, until they returned to the medical bay.
Franklin and Jose had been joined by a few guards, but everyone looked clueless. Seth wondered why Papa wasn’t here, if for nothing else than to tell them all to get their heads out of their asses.
“Move over, my mom can help him,” Seth commanded.
All the men looked relieved. Now someone else could take the blame when things inevitably went wrong.
“Get her a needle and some thread,” Seth said.
Jose did as told. He handed the items to Barbara who accepted them but didn’t react otherwise. The men all stared at her, at the frozen shell of a woman.
“Stitch him up, mom.” Seth gave her a gentle push in the hip.
“I used to do alterations in Portland,” Barbara said, her words dreamy and light. “Wedding dresses mostly.”
“I remember,” Seth said. “Now you need to close the wound on Clarks neck.”
Barbara finally looked down at Clark and seemed to regain a small part of herself. “Okay,” she said. A little more came back. “Get some iodine first. We need to clean it up before I can stitch it.”
Franklin passed Jose a bottle of orange liquid. Jose sprayed it into Clark’s neck wound and roughly swabbed it with a fistful of cotton. Clark gave a low moan. “Cocksucker.”
Barbara closed the wound in short order. Neat, precise stitches. Seth was proud of her for coming through when needed but noticed. She was more alert now and her gaze had shifted to Clark’s torso where a hole and a large, maroon stain were all too evident.
She took the scissors she’d use to cut the suture thread to slice off Clark’s shirt, then pulled it open.
Everyone in the room gasped.
Seth’s medical experience was limited to TV dramas and the occasional horror movie, but he knew what he was looking at.
Clark was going to die.
A fist-sized hole marred his stomach and from it stretched red streaks. It seeped puke green pus and, through the hole Seth, could see coils of intestines which were black and swollen.
There was another hole at his side. This one was smaller, but an inch of wood protruded from it. After a moment, Seth realizes it was the shaft of an arrow. Which meant that more of the arrow was still inside the man.
“Do something,” Franklin said, his voice too hard for Seth’s taste.
Barbara turned her attention from Clark’s destroyed body to Franklin’s bossy face. “There’s nothing to do but make him comfortable. Do you have any pain killers?”
Jose shook his head. “I don’t know.” He began the hunt.
Seth wheeled up to Clark, as close as he could. The smell of rot coming off the man almost made him sick. “Clark, this is Seth. Wyatt’s brother. You have to tell me what happened.”
Clark opened his eyes a little wider and met Seth’s. “The cripple?” He asked.
Seth nodded. “Yeah. I’m the cripple. Now what about Wyatt?”
Clark rocked his head side to side. “Got him with spears. Arrows. I lost count.”
“Where is he?” Seth demanded.
“Dead.” Clark said. “They’re all dead.”
Jose returned to the table with a syringe and a small bottle. He held it up like it was a Cracker Jack prize. “I found this. Oxymorphone. How much should I give him?” He asked Barbara.
Barbara turned away from all of them and walked toward the exit. “All of it,” she said, and Seth watched her leave.
Chapter 37
Papa stood at the head of the dwindling group of men and women who called the casino home and recited his rote homily. Allie thought he sounded like the teacher in the old Charlie Brown cartoons. Wah wah wah wah wah.
He meant well, but she didn’t want to hear it. She didn't want promises of better days ahead or how this was all part of God’s plan.
Wyatt was dead.
There was nothing that could be said that would make her feel better. Nothing that could calm her down. Nothing that could make anything different.
The last time they were together they fought. She was so demeaning. And now he was never coming back.
Spread out before the remaining residents were three rows of crosses, all lined up beside the graves still fresh from the attack on the casino. Only there was no disturbed dirt in front of these new crosses. Except for one. Because the only body to bury was Clark’s.
There was chatter about building a monument to the fallen protectors, but first they wanted to gather mementos and trinkets from the fallen. Wyatt, Alexander, and the others. Allie supposed she should bother to find out their names since they died horribly, just like the man she thought she might love. But she couldn't care less about any of them. That was rude. She knew that. But it was the truth and she wouldn’t apologize for her feelings.
The crowd began to disperse, and Allie realized the funeral was over. Time to move on and pretend like it never happened.
She caught Franklin staring her way and acknowledged him with a nod. He offered a pitying, half smile. The kind that people used in times like these when they wanted to be reassuring but knew the situation was fucked.
“How are you holding up?” He asked.
Allie shrugged. “About as well as can be expected, I suppose.”
“It still doesn’t seem real. Like they aren’t really gone,” he said.
“It’s real enough” Allie felt like her skin was going to crawl off her arms and squeezed her hands together to hold it in place.
“They’re having a meal on the veranda. It’s not for everyone, just friends of the de-- Fallen. Will you come?” Franklin shifted on his feet and, for the first time, Allie thought he looked nervous.
“I’m sorry, but I’m really not up for it.”
“It would be cathartic. Shared pain and all that. I think it would be good for you too.”
The last thing she wanted was to be around people right now, but Franklin was being so kind it felt rude to decline. “Okay. But I’m only staying for a little while.”
“You can stay as long or as little as you want, Allie.”
She followed him, but her mind was still consumed with everything she’d lost.
Chapter 38
It had been over a month since Wyatt’s death and, as Seth looked at his mother, he realized she was getting worse instead of better. The initial shock seemed to have worn off and that void had been replaced with a sadness unlike anything Seth had seen before.
She was even more despondent than when his father never came home from Boston. That was bad, but she had two young sons to care for and to distract her. Plus, the world was crashing down around them which probably kept her grief at bay. Now, in the relative calm of life at the casino, she had nothing to occupy her mind but thinking about everything she’d lost.
That, and alcohol.
As he looked at her across the table, Seth thought she might fall off her chair. Her spaghetti remained uneaten on her plate and she swayed side to side, eyes half-closed. Like a woman in a lounge chair aboard a luxury yacht.
“I can get you something different if you aren’t up for Italian night,” he said
Barbara blinked in slow motion. “Not hungry, hon. You want it?”
Seth shook his head. “I’m fine. But you need to eat.”
He wondered how he’d become the parent in this situation. And he resented this new role. Because as much as he pitied her for her losses, she still had him. She still had a living son.
That didn’t seem to matter these days. He couldn’t recall one hundred words she’d spoken to him since they learned Wyatt had died and that only reinforced something he’d believed all his life.
Wyatt was the favorite son.
Growing up he’d felt loved, but not special. Cared for, but not appreciated. And after he ended up in the chair, he became a worry and a burden while Wyatt emerged as the he
ro for being so willing to care for him.
Now, he wondered if she even loved Richard, a man she’d known for just a few weeks, more than him. Than her own child. He’d watched as she spent days crying by his grave, meanwhile she never once bothered to ask Seth how he was doing, how he was holding up.
He felt like his entire life prior to coming to the casino had been a waste. And it made him realize how much he needed Papa and his love.
“I’m going back to my room,” Seth said to his mother.
Barbara gave a weak nod.
“You’re sure there’s nothing I can get you to eat?”
She didn’t respond at all to that, so he turned his chair away from the table and left her alone with her sadness.
As he wheeled himself along, he thought about the last few weeks and how he handled everything. Overall, he was impressed with how he’d done.
It wasn’t that he didn’t miss Wyatt. If anything, it was the opposite. He missed him like he missed being able to walk. He didn’t simply love his brother, he depended on him.
Wyatt was his strength when he was weak. His heart when he was despondent. Wyatt was the one who got him through all of life’s hardships and now he was gone, and Seth had to find a way to get by.
And he made it.
On his own Seth had his chance to emerge from his brother’s shadow. And he had. People here came to him for advice and guidance. They prayed with him as they coped with their anxiety and fear. They trusted him. Loved him. Respected him.
It wasn’t just Papa that believed in him anymore. He believed in himself. He saw himself maturing, getting stronger. He was leading the community, just as Papa was training him to do.
With his brother dying Seth felt like he could be himself for the first time. But thinking that made him feel lower than dogshit.
He hoped that guilt would go away soon, because he didn’t deserve it. It was only the truth.
Chapter 39
These days Allie’s mind wavered between anger over having lost Wyatt so soon and gratitude that they hadn’t had more time together. Because more time meant more love, more memories, and a bigger hole.
She longed for him, but life could always be worse, and she tried to remind herself of that each and every day.
Franklin had been so good to her, helping her through the pain, listening when she wanted to talk, and just being there when she didn’t.
He made her get out of bed when all she wanted to do was sleep, made her connect with others in the community, made her go on living.
It was because of Franklin that she didn’t end up like Barbara - a broken, miserable mess.
“I know I’ll never replace him. I’m not trying to. And I’m not trying to force you into anything. I’m just asking you to give me a chance,” Franklin said.
She inspected him as they sat in the courtyard. His handsome, earnest face reminded her of a dog in a shelter, desperate for a new home. Pick me, pick me. Allie knew she owed him, so why was it so hard to just do what Franklin was asking?
He deserved a chance after everything he’d done for her. And she was attracted to him. Who wouldn’t be? It should be easy. But it wasn’t.
The memory of Wyatt always lingered in her thoughts. He’d been the one to save her. He’d been the one to give her a real chance at life. Then he got himself killed.
Part of her was still angry that he went into the desert when she begged him not too. That he’d thrown away his life when she pleaded with him to stay. Was she supposed to sacrifice the rest of her life when he was the one who left her?
“I know I need to let him go. But I just need more time.”
Franklin nodded. He really was so patient with her, so understanding. “I get it, Allie. And I’m not telling you to forget about Wyatt, please believe me when I say that.”
“I do.”
He reached out, his fingers brushing her forearm. “I just can’t stand seeing you hurting.”
She felt her heartbeat quicken. What had she done to deserve such kind, compassionate men in her life?
Allie chewed on her lip; not sure she could get the words out but gave it her best shot. “I tell you what, let’s have dinner together tonight. Not in the cafeteria with everyone else. On one of the balconies. Just the two of us.”
Franklin’s eyes gleamed. “Only if you’re sure.”
As if she could possibly change her mind after seeing the excitement on his face. “I am.”
She knew she was blessed that someone so genuine, so accepting, and she wouldn’t deny it - so handsome - wanted to be with her. But she fought back tears as she remembered Wyatt’s face.
It had been more than a month now, but she could remember every centimeter of him. The chicken pox scar on his jaw. The patchy bit of stubble that sprouted from his chin. The way the left side of his mouth twitched when he tried to hide a grin.
Their time together had been short, but it was so crammed full of memories. And now those memories were all she had.
But there came a time to move on and make new memories.
Chapter 40
Papa laid sprawled on the bed, looking heavier than ever. Since the protectors had been wiped out, the big man sometimes spent days in his bedroom, only leaving to use the toilet. Seth worried about his health, both physically and mentally.
Belle, one of Papa’s wives, laid at his side and fed him canned fruit one spoonful at a time.
“Jorge Bolivar has volunteered to recruit a new group of protectors,” Seth said, glancing at his notes.
Every day he made it his mission to speak with each member of the community to check on them and ensure they knew they were being cared for and listened to. Recently, he noticed many had begun to worry for their safety, feeling that they were sitting ducks should the cannibals decide to renew their attacks. It didn’t help matters that Papa hadn’t spoken in public in weeks.
Papa craned his head to the side to look at Seth. His lips were parted, and partially masticated fruit dribbled from the gap. “I don’t see that’s necessary. Long as we keep the gates manned. We’re safe inside.”
Belle wiped Papa’s mouth with the bedsheet. “Thank you, my love,” he said.
She nodded silent.
“I trust your judgment, Papa,” Seth said. Although, as much as he tried to convince himself otherwise, there were times that he had reservations.
“Anything else of which I should be aware?”
Seth looked back at his notes. “Not really. I do think the people who like to hear from you. Maybe tomorrow--”
Papa waved his hand, dismissive. “Remind them that patience sews a bountiful harvest. Yahweh bestows peace upon those who comprehend.”
Seth didn’t think that even made sense. “They miss you, Papa.”
“And I them. And I them.”
Belle fed Papa another mouthful of fruit. He chewed, breathing heavy. Seth thought it might be time to leave, to let his mentor rest, but then Papa erupted into a gagging fit. He rolled onto his side and regurgitated the food onto the white duvet. Seth saw putrid phlegm and dark blood intermixed with the vomit and his worries multiplied by a factor of ten.
“Oh dear. I’ve gone and soiled the bed like a toddler,” Papa said. “Belle would you please get a wet cloth?”
She was up and gone without a word, but Seth struggled to keep his eyes off the mess.
“Look at me, my son,” Papa said.
Seth did and when his gaze shifted to Papa, he was relieved to see the man looked a bit more alert than he had in some time.
“I understand your concerns. I have been lax in my responsibilities of late. To everyone, but especially to you.”
Seth shook his head. “You don't feel well. I understand. You need to rest and heal.”
“My body betrays me,” Papa said. “But my mind and my spirit are tack sharp. And I accept the concerns of our brothers and sisters. You must tell them I appreciate their patience and that their reward is coming.”
Seth wait
ed, sensing there was more. He was right.
“Tell them it is time for the tombola.”
Seth furrowed his brow. Was this more nonsense? “I don’t know what that is.”
Papa laughed. “Of course you don’t. It’s been years since our last. Far too long.” He pushed himself up in bed, resting his back against the headboard. “The tombola is a celebration unlike any other. It is our way of proving our love and devotion to Yahweh. Of showing Him that we are His obedient servants. Of proving and renewing our faith.”
All of that sounded perfect to Seth. The community needed something, and this sounded like the answer to their prayers.
“How do we go about it?” Seth asked.
“Fetch Franklin for me. He knows the ceremony well. And inform the community that we shall be hosting the tombola this weekend. And to prepare.”
“And you’ll be there?” Seth asked.
Papa smiled, looking more like himself than he had in weeks. “Of course, of course, my child. I would not dare miss it.”
Chapter 41
The humming was joyless and out of tune. The noise a man makes out of habit rather than purpose.
He tried to place it, to decide whether it was a song, a hymn, or only a made-up tune. But soon he lost interest.
All he could remember was pain. In his chest, his stomach, his head. It had consumed the entirety of him and made anything else, even the act of thinking, impossible.
Now, to his surprise and relief, he could think again. And rather than waste time trying to decipher the mystery music, he had a more important question to answer.
Where the hell was, he?
He sat up. Or tried. His body was tied down. He strained his arms, kicked his legs, with no results.
He turned his head from side to side but saw nothing but darkness. Only, that wasn’t quite true. There were random blobs and shapes hidden in a dense fog that made them impossible to decipher.
When he opened his mouth to call out, he felt like his jaw had been glued shut for years. It gave with an audible pop, admitting a gasp of dry air that sent him into an immediate coughing fit.
