Tanisha is still frowning but relaxes gradually. “Nothing, really. I need to check again. Probably a fluke or something.” She glances from her papers to me. “Or does she strike you as a promiscuous, lusty individual?”
Mrs. Walters is easily the opposite of those terms—and the very idea of what kind of underwear she must be wearing would even make Chris swear off sex, at least for an hour or two—making me shudder momentarily. “Not exactly. Why, what are you testing?”
Tanisha hesitates—and my, doesn’t that send up an army of red flags in my mind—but before she can answer, one of the guards drops in, panting heavily from sprinting across town to reach us. “New scavenger train coming in, and they report they have two wounded. They’re requesting immediate help. ETA ten minutes.”
“I’ll be there,” Tanisha tells him, already grabbing her urgent care supplies. At her gentle yet firm insistence I remember what else we need and is my job to carry, and we’re out of the door moments later. I’m afraid to find someone has gotten savaged by the undead, but it turns out that it’s more conventional and ultimately more familiar circumstances for an army nurse—bullet wounds. The newcomers are a very different bunch from the traders that just left, and even before Tanisha reaches them, Dad comes in with the backup guard rotation that should have been off until tonight. I’m not afraid of the eight men but I’m damn glad I don’t encounter them in the middle of the night on my own, if you know what I mean. Tanisha remains professional, but I can tell she gets really annoyed when she learns that she’s got work to do because one asshole got in a fight with the other, and neither of them practiced proper gun safety. Or maybe they outright shot at each other and they are lying about “shots accidentally fired.”
Nobody is too happy to let them stay but they demand getting their five days. Dad immediately insists on doing a through strip-search, including the cars—and then gives me a glare that tells me to scurry off before I can get an accidental look at a naked butt or two. I don’t have the heart to tell him that, last week alone, I’ve seen more male genitalia than I’ve ever wanted to come close to, but what the heck. I’m turning to leave when the search party finds two more passengers in the cars—and judging by the fact that both women are tied up and gagged, I don’t think they agreed to be there. I high-tail it out of there before Collins can tell me to, sprinting into the next house with him hot on my heels. There’s some shouting, followed by shots from rifles and the boom of a shotgun. Ten shots, maybe, twelve tops—I’m too afraid to count. Collins, armed and ready, glances out a window and quickly gives me the all-clear. Apparently, not a single shot was fired at our people. None of the assholes are alive to regret it.
As soon as she sees me come out of the house, Tanisha makes a shooing gesture in my direction, but I square my shoulders and continue walking toward her. I know what’s coming, but I speak before she can chase me off. “I appreciate it that you want to spare me this, but seriously, don’t. If I was in their position, I’d want someone to help me, too, and I’d much prefer an eighteen-year-old girl to some grizzled soldier. The least I can do is try and help them.”
Tanisha glances at my Dad, and when he doesn’t offer an opinion, gives me a grim nod. “Get some of the other women and meet me at the station. And grab some tea and food from the cantina. And clothes—something comfortable and easy to get into, like sweatpants.”
I nod and do as she says. Mrs. Walters is actually among the women who quickly come to help. Her passion for gardening—and agriculture in general; she’s quickly becoming our coordinator for the fields we’re planting—is easily forgotten when a pair of strong hands is required. What follows is about as much fun as I dreaded it would be. One of the women is pretty much catatonic, but the other needs all of five minutes to start crying hysterically, not that anyone can fault her. We help them clean up, dress them, and try to coax some food and tea into them, all the while Tanisha tries to do her work as non-invasively as possible. The catatonic woman is pregnant—at least five months from what Mrs. Walters guesses to me in a hushed whisper—and the other one likely as well, seeing how her stomach isn’t completely flat while the rest of her body is going on emaciated. Their blood samples end up in a different rack than where we store ours, and only after getting both women comfortable in the house next door does Tanisha talk to Mrs. Walters about retesting her. Mrs. Walters is highly amused when Tanisha starts to prod about her sexual behavior, and tells her outright that in the last twenty years there’s no chance on God’s green earth that she had “relations” with a man, but agrees to get tested once more. She also volunteers a urine sample, as a control for the girls, as she states. For, you know, confirmation of pregnancy. I know that in a proper lab that would all be done with blood, too, but seeing as Tanisha still has regular test sticks in her kit, it seems easier to do it this way. This time, I’m around to watch Tanisha as she treats the samples and preps them for analysis, which is a terribly boring job that takes a million steps and hours to facilitate, and by the end of it any smidgen of interest I’ve ever harbored about science is dead. Sorry, Bree—I’m afraid I’ll have to chalk that up as one of your more questionable life decisions. It does explain better what she sees in Nate, though, considering that one would presume he’d know a thing or two—
And, as usual, thinking about the two of them—or at least Nate—having sex is making me want to barf. Ugh.
It’s late when I make it home to the bunker, hitching a ride with some of the perimeter guards. I hear soft voices coming from the office, and because it’s my parents, of course I linger to eavesdrop. They must have expected me to crash in town, as I do more days than not now, but after that incident today I needed to go back to the safety of our bunker, and the knowledge that not everyone out there is a murdering, raping asshole. It’s no surprise that my parents are discussing the same topic, and from what I gather, they’ve reported the incident with whatever authorities there are to report it to.
“They’re not registered,” my Dad chimes in. “I talked with the coordinator in Dispatch.” I’ve never heard that name but it sounds official. “She said that they have no records of anyone matching that description.”
“They must be covering it up,” Mom harps. “Like they’d admit that their ranks are full of murderers and rapists!”
Dad grunts, which is his way of expressing doubt without telling it to Mom’s face. “But they have reported a group missing that included a woman matching the description that I gave them. Maybe if we get her to talk, she can confirm that her group got ambushed and killed.”
Mom is silent for a while, which usually means she agrees but can’t admit it yet. “You checked the marks?”
“Yes. They were real tattoos but recent, as our local specialist confirmed. But the same is true for virtually any trader out there at the moment.”
“Scavengers,” she insists. “A trader is someone who doesn’t just steal and loot for their own benefit.”
Dad is silent long enough that I wonder if I should sneak off now before I get caught, but his answer makes me halt in my tracks. “You know as well as I do that’s not true. And you know that’s even less true for our people.” Mom gives a disagreeing sound but he talks right over her. “You know it, and you agree. Else you wouldn’t have filed our official settlement listing with the note that we have a resident scavenger group, only that they haven’t been tagged yet.” I’m surprised to hear that but insanely glad at the same time. Yes! I knew it! Mom can be a hardass sometimes, but she’s smart, and her heart’s in the right place.
I slink off downstairs to catch some sleep, my soul a little lighter than it has a right to be after today.
The next morning dawns bright and early—for this time of the year at least—and I manage to make it to my job with a smile on my face. It quickly disappears when Mrs. Walters tells me, tears in her eyes, that the catatonic woman hanged herself in the middle of the night. I don’t know how to react to the news, but I’m crying and sobbing with
her before I fully realize what’s going on. Tanisha finds us on the porch like that and leaves us to our grief after murmuring to Mrs. Walters that, of course, her results came back clean and it must have been a fluke. Tanisha goes to check on the other woman and Mrs. Walters leaves to water her garden—completely unnecessary, but I can tell she needs something that gives her comfort—which leaves me standing on my own in the triage station since I insisted that work would do the trick for me. The test results from the latest gel thingie are on Tanisha’s desk, and I can’t help but sidle over and look at them. It’s silly to be sneaky about it as I’m sure that if I asked, Tanisha would freely explain. Except that she didn’t, last time, which still leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I don’t quite remember how the splotches looked last time but of the four samples, two look virtually identical, and the third kind of similar. I strain my ears, trying to pick up voices—and yup, Tanisha is talking in gentle tones to the woman in the adjacent house. Open windows can be useful sometimes. So I open the drawer of the desk where I know she keeps her files and rifle through it until I find those from the routine physicals.
And, sure enough, the sample that I know is mine looks just like the two identical new ones.
Exactly like them.
My pulse skyrockets and my thoughts go haywire for a moment, but I force myself into action and put the papers where I found them, making sure that everything is in order. And not a moment too soon, as Tanisha walks in before I have a chance to start hyperventilating. She must take my weird behavior as aftershocks of the news—and few things have ever been truer—and gives me some menial labeling task until the first patients of the day come in.
I’m not really registering much for the rest of the day, but the first chance I get to excuse myself to the bathroom—well, outhouse, really—I bolt. Rather than pee, I wrench my pants down and push my sweater and shirt up, first staring down at my stomach and then push and prod—gently, of course, but with rising trepidation. My body doesn’t really feel much different but I have noticed my pants getting a little tight. I chalked that up to the massive increase in baked goods that our new town lifestyle has brought with it. Also, my boobs are a bit sensitive. Can that even be happening already, I ask myself? Then again, since I’m almost in believe-in-immaculate-conception territory, I’m not ready to discard anything right now. And I have very vivid memories of said possible conception opportunities, and there’s nothing immaculate about that.
But, how is this possible?
I force myself to take a deep breath, and then another, which isn’t the smartest thing to do considering where I am right now. I allow myself to consider for just a moment that I am, really, actually knocked up. It wouldn’t be the end of the world—because that happened last year, and we’re all still alive and kicking, so setting a little barfing, crying monster loose on the world? The world can take it. Yes, the very idea makes panic claw at my throat, but I’m not the first teenager who’d have gotten herself into this situation. Considering my current circumstances, it’s maybe even less bad than if it had happened without the apocalypse. I’d be in college, and likely about to severely derail my career path if not kill it forever. Now? We sure lost a lot of people, so creating life is the opposite of a disaster. The worst—and really, only negative—thing that I can think of is how my parents will handle this, particularly my mother. Oh, and there’s the chance that the possible baby daddy won’t want to get anywhere near me ever again, but really, I don’t think I need to be afraid of that. As much as my dad, and Nate, and possibly the entire group as a united front will come after him for knocking me up, that’s nothing compared to what he will face if he abandons me. Not that threats like that are required, I think. We never talked about having kids—or, you know, actually being together—but I know he’d be a great dad. And a great guy to be with, not just physically. It’s obvious that he’s afraid of history repeating itself and him turning into whatever his family did to him, but I don’t see even a sliver of a chance of that happening. The very idea of watching him slowly realize all that makes me smile.
But maybe all this is wishful thinking in the first place, I remind myself. Not how people would handle my pregnancy—but me being pregnant at all. Yes, I’ve been told all the first trimester signs that might happen and I’m checking a lot of the boxes, but there are alternate explanations that make a lot of sense. Stress, lots of work, food that might not be as top notch as a year ago, emotional turmoil—you name it. And let’s not forget that I’m panicking based on smudges I don’t know the meaning of. I haven’t even peed on a stick yet. Maybe that’s a step I really need to take first before I build imaginary families in my mind.
Yes, I definitely need to pee on a stick first.
That settled, I do my best to compose myself and get ready to face the world once more.
Three days later, and I still haven’t peed on a stick. I’m not sure it’s necessary since I woke to cramps and spotting the day after my huge revelation. It’s light and very unlike my usual periods, and I’m almost disappointed. Almost, but also hugely relieved. A false alarm, obviously. Quite the scare, but catastrophe avoided. Phew, dodged a bullet there.
Then why am I unable to shake that pervasive sense of sadness that spreads through my mind like physical fatigue and won’t let go?
Helping Tanisha do her thing helps distract me. We have a lot of people with digestive issues coming in today, and Tanisha sends me to the main storage to check if any of the large food containers have spoiled food in them—pasta, rice, something like that. I think we find the culprit later when Moore mentions the water’s tasting funny. Of course we use filters—and we’ve paid attention where we have the outhouses and latrine pits—but running a town with over a hundred permanent residents and a good three times as much coming and going on casual schedules poses problems that nobody planned for as they didn’t happen with small groups. After that is resolved, there are some issues with an aggressive strain of the common cold, a few cases of genital warts that I really didn’t need to witness, more pus draining of wounds and the odd dental issue—and I realize, another week has come and gone. It’s almost a month now since they left, and still no word. I’m starting to get antsy. What is taking them so long? I didn’t expect them to come back in under a month, but at least send word home?
11 BATES - APRIL
When I have the mental clarity left, I curse out the fucking bastards at the top of my lungs.
When I don’t, I scream, because FUCK! This shit hurts. So. Fucking. Unbelievably. Much.
I know it won’t be long now. I can feel it coming, roaring like the ocean beyond a cliff. It’s there, calling to me, promising sweet relief; impossible vengeance. I’m not even sure why I’m trying to hold on. What’s left of me is lying in a spreading pool of blood, piss, shit, and vomit, and every second is a fucking eternity too much.
Up on the slope behind their damn camp I see something glint as it briefly catches the light—a sniper scope. It’ll be over any second now, I tell myself as I keep cursing at the top of my lungs.
They’ll be merciful. They’ll end it.
But they don’t, and that’s when I realize what’s going on.
They can’t, because we miscalculated, and we’re easily outnumbered one in four.
They need a distraction. And that’s going to be me.
Fucking hell, but this sucks.
I try to let go, but turns out, dying ain’t that easy when your body’s made to endure. I thrash harder, scream louder, all in the hope that exhausting myself will do the trick. Or losing more blood, whichever comes first. I don’t even see or hear those taunting assholes anymore. Everything is red, and then it turns black, and then bright white—
And after I draw my last breath—and I know it’s the last because my lungs give out and I can neither in- nor exhale—I allow myself to think of her. My sweet girl. My spunky menace of a girl.
As much as dying sucks, I can say I’ve lived my life to the max and o
ften way beyond that, and there’s nothing I did that I regret. Nothing. What I do regret is the one thing I didn’t do because I was too stupid to find the right words.
Sadie, I love you. Now, and forever.
12 SADIE - APRIL
One morning I go to check on our patient, but she’s gone. And not only is she gone, but so is every clue that she’s been staying with us for two weeks now. Also gone are Tanisha’s two hulking orderlies, and when she comes into the triage station, she seems upset. I think about asking her what’s going on but as I gear up to do so, she sends me scurrying on a slew of tasks that keep me busy until late in the afternoon. Returning from our vegetable patch with a basket full of fresh herbs—we may no longer be able to produce antibiotics, but a lot of natural remedies actually work for other medical issues—I run into one of the men, and see the other leave the armory a few minutes later. Maybe they were out on a hunting trip or something. Maybe the woman ran away. Or maybe she’s staying with someone else. But then why is Tanisha still doing a lot of busy work when, for once, the day is surprisingly quiet and uneventful?
I can’t shake the feeling that something is up, and I don’t like it.
Rationally, I know that it’s likely nothing, but after deliberating for another hour I decide to hunt down Dad and talk to him about it. We haven’t really had much of a chance to hang out of late since he’s always busy with organizing the patrols and playing lawmaker. Since we don’t have an official sheriff, that’s his job now, too. We don’t keep the tightest security, but if the woman left, he’s likely the one to know.
It takes me a few minutes to ask enough people until I find someone who’s seen him head for the radio station. That’s where I find him—and Mom, and half of the town council, and Moore and Collins lurking in the background. It’s almost as if they’re having a party and I haven’t been invited. Since nobody kicks me out as I enter, I decide to linger and find out what it’s about.
Beyond Green Fields | Book 4 | The Ballad of Sadie & Bates [A Post-Apocalyptic Anthology] Page 9
