She answers with a wet cough as she sags in on herself, the challenge in her gaze familiar and almost enough to make hope flare alive—almost. “So you will do what, watch me die, then shoot me? Before or after I come back?” she taunts. I don’t respond because the answer is obvious to both of us, but she makes a face. “Gee, thanks for taking away the last remaining choice I still have.”
And just like that, the threatening white-out is back, the rage, momentarily forgotten, roaring back. But it’s not like I can do anything to alleviate my grief, so instead I scream. It’s not enough, not by a long shot, but it’s a start. I’m still fighting for composure as Bree mumbles something about not being able—or willing—to become a part of her own wake.
Zilinsky, as usual, saves the day—or what little there is left to save. In quick order, she has the others establish a perimeter—and makes sure no one else is about to die, I suppose. My body is singing with unspent tension as I pick up Bree and deposit her back in the Rover, ignoring her feeble snark that in itself is killing me. That she’s in the passenger seat now, even more so.
That I get the car running without breaking anything is a miracle, and it takes forever until we screech into the parking lot of the motel we passed a few miles back. I’m out of my seat as soon as I’ve killed the engine, not a second wasted. Blind rage takes over as I tear from room to room on the ground floor, then the upper level, kicking in doors and smashing in the heads of the handful of zombies we find. It’s not enough, but then an endless sea of undead wouldn’t come close. I’m drowning in misery, and the preciously small outlet is gone way too soon.
And then all that’s left to do is settle in and watch her die.
The others try to console me, but I am truly inconsolable. The rage flickers and dies as I bury my fist in a flimsy excuse for drywall, unshed tears burning in my eyes.
Why? Why did it have to be her? Why her when it was always supposed to be me?
Suddenly, it’s only Zilinsky, Romanoff, and me, and I know I’m going to lose it if either one of them says anything. They both stare at me, trying to gauge my reactions, Romanoff cautiously, Zilinsky incapable of reining in her own disbelief and frustration. “What shall we—” she starts but cuts herself off, the utter meaninglessness of the question silencing her before all the words are even said.
I exhale slowly, fighting against the wave of misery that’s taking hold of me. Right—as much as, right now, I only care about a single person in the world, I’m responsible for the others as well.
“Come get me three days from now. If I’m no longer here, don’t bother looking for me.”
The last part isn’t supposed to come out but they both ignore it, anyway. They know me better than to take me seriously. This once, I’m allowed to be dramatic.
Fuck, but I wish I didn’t have a reason to.
I get a pat on the shoulder from both before we exit. Romanoff helps me haul up water and what little provisions I’ll need to the second room from the left on the top floor. This part of the tract has been completely deserted and it has good access to the stairs—not that I care. I go through the motions, the emotional storm raging inside of me too hard to ignore, so all I can do is act numb.
And then they are all gone and it’s just the two of us, the beauty of the blood-red sunset mocking me. How many more of those will she still see? One? I doubt that, two days from now, she’ll be lucid enough anymore. Three, and she will be gone. The finality of that thought chokes me up, try as I might to swallow past the lump in my throat. We were supposed to have a million sunsets left to enjoy—or, as usual, ignore—together, and now the count is insignificantly low.
With the sun gone, temperatures drop quickly, and Bree shivering is as good an excuse as I’ll get to tear myself from my morose thoughts. She feels too light as I carry her up into the motel room adjacent to where Romanoff and I stashed the provisions; I have a feeling we won’t be staying in there for long if the progression of her sickness is anything like we’ve witnessed with others in the past—and why should it be any different?
Because I love her, that’s why.
Because she means the world to me.
Because there is nothing in this world I can’t do—except keep her from dying.
I have to cut her out of most of her clothes because they are either too ruined or sticking to her body. I try to be gentle as I clean her up, not that it seems to matter much; her leg is numb for good, and everywhere else I touch her seems to hurt her no matter what, discolorations forming even where no pressure disturbed her skin. She’s shaking like a leaf in the wind by the time I manage to get her into some comfortable clothes, and I run to fetch more blankets from the next room to bundle her up in. I don’t mind wasting one of our precious camping burner propane cylinders to get some water hot for tea and a quick meal—it’s not like I’ll care much about anything a few days from now.
And then all I can do is wait, time slipping through my fingers like water.
It’s not even midnight yet the first time she blacks out.
I do my best to keep her comfortable, an impossible task if there ever was one. Her body is declining rapidly but hasn’t quite stopped working yet, and as soon as she’s awake once more, I’m viscerally reminded that she ate and drank something yesterday before we hit that factory. I don’t care; how she still finds the energy to be embarrassed, I don’t know. You’d think that by now we’d be beyond such trivial BS.
It’s easier to strip and clean her, then carry her to the next room down the floor than try to salvage anything from the first, so that’s what I do. She’s out again for most of that, which is a small blessing. I hope that keeping her naked for a little while will help bring down her temperature, but she’s shivering again by the time I’m done so back to clothes and extra blankets it is. I try to talk to her but she barely manages a murmur, still shivering, so I climb into bed with her and do my best to give her some of my own warmth.
She’s never felt as small and vulnerable as she does now, in my arms, her ragged, irregular breaths an echo of the time counting down at the back of my mind.
The sun rises, but, if anything, being able to properly see her once more makes me feel worse. She’s unresponsive for longer stretches of time, even when her eyes are open, unfocused. There is a world of things on my mind that I want to tell her, but hardly a word makes it out. What is there left to say?
I love you?
I’m sorry that you’re paying for my sins?
Back before I met her, I often wondered exactly where I am on the sociopath-to-psychopath spectrum; not caring about shit came easily for me, and since such things are hereditary, I always knew chances were I wouldn’t be on the “normal” end, considering my mother. But watching her writhe in pain and knowing there’s nothing I can do feels as if someone is tearing my heart out and eating it, so obviously, I was wrong. I just hadn’t met the one woman in this world I give a shit about.
And as I keep watching her, I wonder—does she really know how I feel about her? I’m not a man of many words when it comes to emotions, and Bree would be the first—among many—to point out that I can be a dick more often than not. I’ve spent months deliberately ignoring her to make her realize that being strong and able to survive has to come one hundred percent from within her; that she can never base any decision or whim on anyone else’s opinion—and that includes me. It was a painful if necessary lesson, but now I wonder—did she learn the right things from it? Or did she simply accept the fact that I’m dead inside and there’s no sense in waiting for a response I’m incapable of providing, and she settled for that compromise? That idea haunts me as it comes up from the deepest, darkest recesses of my mind, to the point where it makes me surge forward so I can grab her clammy hand and press my lips against it, then my forehead, as I silently pray that she knows.
That she knows that she means everything to me. That she undid damage that I was convinced was permanent for sure. And that losing her now is killing
me as surely as the virus is killing her.
And it is killing her, there’s no denying that.
The day drags on forever.
The following night is worse.
I force myself to eat and drink, but only so I can keep my own strength up to continue caring for her. She doesn’t accept water anymore but I manage to get some tea into her. Trying to be sneaky—and brilliant, but doubting myself in that—I dissolve what anti-inflammatory painkillers I find in her pack, not giving a shit about the dose. As it is, she hardly takes a swallow or two at a time, and watching her suffer makes me feel like accidentally euthanizing her would be a blessing. There is not much fight left in her, and I can’t tell anymore if what I do helps, or just postpones the inevitable.
Exhaustion is starting to wear me down as the sky lightens once more. We’re in room number three… I think. Or four. Who gives a shit? I try to remember how much time has passed since the factory. I try to remember the time stamps from the video that chronicled my brother’s agonizingly slow death. My mind draws blanks on both accounts. It doesn’t matter. I must be deluding myself thinking that she’s holding out longer. And even if not, to what avail? So she suffers an hour or two more?
Her Glock on the nightstand is a silent reminder for me what is to come. I have a shotgun and rifle next to the bed as well. Every time she draws a breath and then falls silent I ask myself, is that her last? I know what I have to do. I know what I owe her—but I’m not sure I can. At least not until she comes for my jugular, a mindless, hungry killing machine wearing a Bree meat suit. Maybe not even then. I doubt she’ll have enough strength left to get past me, but if I don’t fight her, she’ll likely manage to inflict a killing wound before my self-preservation overrides my mind and I break her neck. If I time it right, I’ll still be around when whoever comes for me can pull the trigger. The very concept of bleeding to death in a world without her makes me want to hurl—something her rapid decline hasn’t managed so far. No, before it comes to that, I will off myself. It’s not without irony that I realize that I will choose the very thing I already denied her, but I’ve never claimed not to be a hypocrite sometimes.
But we’re not quite there yet; she’s still breathing. So I wait.
And wait.
And regret every single decision in my life that led to this very moment.
No change for the past five hours, and counting. That’s a good thing, right? I thought I lost all hope when I realized that Bree was dying, but now, I’m not so sure. It’s a pesky thing, that optimism deep inside of me. A double-edged sword as well, as inevitably I have to ask myself—is it mercy if she doesn’t die but remains a vegetable for the rest of her life?
Is that even still considered life in times like these?
Unbidden, images of that cursed woman’s children come up in my mind. Madeline Chambers, another questionable decision of mine, but she did keep Bree distracted. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul—well, those kids were empty as fuck. I can’t suppress a shudder, picturing Bree like that. Above all else, “vibrant” has always been my favorite descriptor of her. With that gone, what’s left?
As if in answer to my thoughts, Bree moans—not an “argh brains!” kind of moan but a sound of distress and pain that I’ve become all too familiar with. I try to ignore it but a few labored breaths later, she repeats it. I can’t help myself; I have to check on her although I know there’s no change. Her forehead is still hot enough to fry an egg on it, and she doesn’t respond to my touch. Except… this time she kind of does, her head moving a fraction of an inch as if to press into my hand, seeking contact. Does she even still know I’m here? Probably not, so it’s mostly selfishness that makes me pull the blankets away so I can scoot in next to her and steal what might as well be the last few minutes of an embrace that I will miss forever…
That’s when I see the blood.
My first thought is that it’s from the wound at her hip, but if there’s one thing to say for the glue, it’s that it’s doing its job; her leg is still red, swollen, and inflamed but the surface has closed over where I drained the worst of the pus… yesterday, I think. Maybe it’s not even blood? Yet from a distance that metallic twang in the air is unmistakable, so I rule out liquefying organs, although that very thought makes me cringe. Option three—last time I checked she’s a woman, and women tend to get their periods at the weirdest of times as Bree has informed me, in no uncertain terms, a time or two. But even as I reach for her underwear—the dark gray color making it impossible to tell if it’s sweat only that has drenched them—doubt rears its ugly head. If she’s dying and her body is slowly shutting off system by system, why go for an unnecessary energy expenditure like that?
Unless—
Another moan, and this time, much closer to her, I realize what it actually is: a whimper rather than a moan, speaking of emotional distress more than physical. True enough, when I look at her face, there’s that line between her brows, always pronounced when she’s fighting to close off her emotions but battling a lost cause. And that’s not sweat that’s staining her cheeks. Those are tears.
Seeing her in so much anguish on top of everything else is what undoes me, even before my mind finishes jumping to the right conclusion—and it does, in that cannot-unsee starkness of reality shifting, forever. I’m not even thinking as I pull her frail, light body against me, a desperate embrace that I pray can lend comfort when I’m not even sure she’s aware enough to appreciate it. I hope to hell she’s not; that what I think is distress is me reading into things when really, she’s floating on a cloud of oblivion, unaware that her body, after fighting for days to sustain two lives, has made the choice that it only has energy left for one. Because knowing Bree, she’ll throw that overinflated intellect of hers to the wind and punish herself forever with the knowledge that, to live, she killed her unborn child.
Our child.
The very concept is so alien to me that it barely registers, but there’s no doubt in my mind that it’s mine.
That train of thought derails when Bree suddenly goes stiff before she curls in on herself—and my arm, holding her close—a gasp leaving her in what cannot be mistaken for anything other than intense pain. My gaze inadvertently drops to her thigh, not just to check on the bandage. More blood, enough to leak onto pasty skin and white gauze. She starts to tremble, convulsions racking her body, and her fingers, finding purchase on my arm, dig in hard enough that her short nails break the skin easily.
I panic—there’s no other term for it—grab her, and run into the bathroom, looking at everything and nothing like the headless chicken that I am, terror gripping me hard. She’s panting now, which isn’t helped by clogged sinuses and mucus-filled lungs, and soon that turns into grunts followed by gasps and sobs. And I have absolutely no idea what to do, or how to help her. I’ve never felt this useless in my entire life.
Her weight isn’t heavy, but she’s writhing in my grasp now so I do the only thing I can think of and stagger into the shower, ending up in a heap of limbs with her mostly on top of me. I hear myself babble senseless things, trying to comfort her, calm her down, but only end up upsetting myself more—until I can’t take it anymore and scream at the top of my lungs, giving voice to all the pent-up anger, frustration, and pain that my world has turned into.
Then it’s just our ragged breaths in the semi darkness of the bathroom as seconds tick by, time uncaring for what is going on.
The first thing I do as I come to my senses is check that my stupidity hasn’t doomed us both—if that’s even possible. No undue noises of anything drawing closer or trying to get inside. That’s something, I try to console myself with noting. What little light seeps in from the main room isn’t enough to let me see colors but I know that both of my hands are red, sticky with blood—and other things. As is Bree’s lower body since she’s naked from the waist down. I have to fight hard to cut down on the impulse to shove her away and, as quickly as possible, clean us both up. On some level I
know I should—and I would, but she’s now clinging to me as if I’m her lifeline, and if I’m honest, she is mine, so I tighten my arms around her, rocking us both for comfort while telling myself I’m doing it just for her. Which is a lie, but I’m all out of truths to offer, bleakness creeping in now that the panic has receded.
Mostly to distract myself, I think—if only for a second, because I won’t allow myself this level of silliness when Bree’s life is still hanging in the balance—how exactly did we end up in this situation? And what could I have done to prevent it?
The answer is easy: just once, Bree wasn’t my number one priority, and that’s why she’s pretty much dead. The second I realized it was a trap, I should have done everything possible to get her to safety, no questions asked. But rather than do that, I hesitated. I wavered, I stayed, if only to find out why that fucking asshole was really there at the factory.
I still don’t buy the bullshit story he told us. I’d never admit that to Bree, but I’m very aware that in this new world, she’s one of the most valuable bargaining chips in existence. I, myself, am, too, and I’m not just being an arrogant ass about it. But compared to her, I’m expendable because there are hundreds like me, while she’s unique. Her intellect, but even more so her knowledge and expertise, make her immeasurably valuable to any number of factions. I couldn’t risk that idea going to her head so I always tried to play it cool and let her throw her lot in with me time and time again, but in that blasted town in Kansas, I was a step away from begging her, on my knees, to stay with me, that blasted lab be damned. That I didn’t have to is best for both of us, that goes without saying.
Or is it?
Hamilton isn’t stupid, and like me, he has the guts to turn into a power-hungry megalomaniac if left unchecked. I’ve had Zilinsky at my side for ages to keep me on the straight and narrow, come hell or high water, while he—
That’s not a topic I want to consider, now or ever. It can’t be of relevance, anyway. That old bastard can’t still be alive—anyone over fifty would have had a hell of a time surviving the outbreak, let alone the year that has gone by since then. And even if, against all odds, evil prevailed, it’s impossible that he’s behind any of this, still pulling strings in the distance.
Beyond Green Fields #2 - Regrets: A post-apocalyptic anthology Page 2
