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

by Adrienne Lecter

  A few tense minutes and we’re back at the gates where our weapons are still waiting for us, lined up on a table where we can grab them and start shooting at a moment’s notice—

  Only that we don’t make it there. Martinez is still a few yards away from them when someone up on the palisades whistles, making heads all over snap to him. I know immediately that this is bad news as I recognize the whistler—that fucking college kid that we dragged with us across the country last summer. He was at the overrun settlement, too, I remember—and he recognizes us as well.

  “Bree! Nate! Remember me?” he shouts, followed by a frown as he turns to the former mayor. “Hey, since when do we allow scavengers in here?”

  Yup, we’re busted.

  I have a split-second to decide how to handle this. Everything inside of me screams for escalation. For how they’re looking at her alone I want to kick all their faces in, send teeth flying. I want to beat them to a bloody pulp, and I’m sure that Bree could use a little workout to de-stress as well. But there are a lot of them here, and well over a hundred civilians. Nothing I’ve seen tells me they are competent. There’s still a chance to deescalate this. We’re right there at the gate, and kicking us out is quicker and less effort than trying to kill us. If they take a moment to think, they will realize it will remain at an attempt, and end with their bloody, brutal demise.

  Sadly, the imbecile formerly in charge of that shitty town comes to a different conclusion, and before I can act, he grabs Bree and pulls her out of my reach, a knife to her throat. The guards react surprisingly quickly, but all they need to do is keep us from our weapons and point theirs at us—not that hard. Takes half an hour to teach someone how to do that. I give Romanoff a silent command to stand down while I keep pretending to be harmless; the guys go for their handguns but don’t draw yet.

  “Nobody move or I’ll bleed her like a stuck pig!” the idiot shouts, mad eyes skipping between Martinez and me as he tries to decide who’s the real threat. To Bree he grunts, “Almost didn’t recognize you there, all dressed and shit.”

  She looks less than impressed. I don’t like how her eyes go blank for a second, but the rage that replaces that bleakness is all her as I know it. For once, she decides to take the high road, calling out in a calm yet commanding voice, “Just open the damn gate! You don’t want us here. We don’t want to be here. We won’t cause you any trouble unless you force our hands.”

  The fucktard laughs, too stupid to take her seriously—and to realize he’s about to sign his death warrant. If she doesn’t kill him, I will.

  “Big words for such a small, little girl. Maybe you haven’t gotten a good grasp of the situation yet?“

  I jerk involuntarily as he presses the knife harder against her throat. If he so much as nicks her, I will take my time with him, taking him apart limb by fucking limb…

  Bree remains calm, which in and of itself sets me off. Calm is not something she does well. It’s then that I realize that what I’m seeing is not her trying to be diplomatic, but the veneer of civility cracking, worn down as it is after what happened to her. Her voice is hard, every word precise as it leaves her lips.

  “Oh, I have a very good grasp of the situation.You think you and your handful of flunkies are a match for us? Let me tell you a secret. Four of the five of us are your worst nightmare—and I’m not the weak link.”

  The fucker laughs. Bree catches my gaze, a silent ask for clues from me. I give her a blank look—it’s up to her to do whatever she wants.

  My wife is not one for diplomacy. I feel like cheering her on as she grabs his arm and throws him, a clever leg hook getting him airborne. Rage fills me when I see the line of red appear across her throat as she straightens, but it can’t be more than a nick—slicing someone’s throat is a messy, nasty business, and that’s barely more than a trickle on her tan skin. She’s already in possession of the knife and turns the tables on the asshole before anyone can move in to help him.

  “Nobody fucking move or he’s dead!”

  Her voice cracks, and it’s rage incarnate, all pretense of civility gone. Her eyes are wide behind the shades and her chest is heaving, her body geared up for the fight. She’s fierce and beautiful, and in control of the situation. The idiot tries to struggle, but she shuts him up with a hard punch. He screams. The guards go still, realizing that one of their own is in mortal peril now.

  “And don’t you think for a second that just because I’m a woman, I won’t kill him right here and now! I’ve had a really shitty week and my fuse is a breath away from lighting up, so you better not tempt me!”

  She absolutely looks like she means business, and for once the guards are smart enough to heed her warning—except for one asshole, who stops when knife cuts skin. I wince, but since it puts an end to the flicker of resistance, that’s okay. Not that I give a shit, but escalation usually follows bloodshed. Except this time it doesn’t, because she’s in control of the situation.

  “Not. A. Move,” she warns. “Put down your weapons and step away from them. And somebody open the fucking gate!”

  The guards are starting to get nervous, looking a little lost now that they are no longer getting pointers from one of their leaders. One of them finally finds his balls, shriveled up as they are. “You really think you can just walk out of here? You’ll be dead before the end of the day.”

  I feel like laughing in his face. Bree does. “And who do you think will kill us?” she downright spits in his face, her voice turning hard. “You? The only reason you’re still alive is because none of you was stupid enough to get too close to me. Or do you think that Taggard and his boys will come to your rescue? Why do you think your rotation is days late? I’ll give you a hint. They should have stuck with imprisoning and raping hapless girls rather than pick a fight with someone who can defend herself. None of them will come, because they’re all dead.”

  Well, shit.

  Gone is my momentary amusement. That doesn’t sound good—not at all. It hits way too close to all the possibilities I came up with—and not even the hint of satisfaction at the demise mentioned changes anything about that. My stomach flips, which adds to my latent level of aggression.

  The fucktard with the shotgun isn’t done yet. “You’re bluffing.”

  He gets a nasty smile from her for his effort. “Why would I? I have no reason to lie. Do you really think that it tarnishes my reputation? You know who I am?” If he doesn’t, he should have at least a clue by now. “Check that wanted poster. I’m already supposed to have killed a group of traders and the soldiers guarding them. Do you think that a bunker filled with newbie recruits and brain-dead droolers is a match for me?” Her head whips to the side and she stares into the sea of onlookers now, her voice taking on an accusing tone. “Why exactly do you let these clowns terrorize you? Open the gate, and kick them out along with us. Trust me, either we take care of them, or the undead will. No one will come to punish you. If you get on the radio now and hail Dispatch, they’ll have someone over here within the week to help you rebuild a self-sustaining community that can take care of itself.”

  I don’t get how she can have any compassion for these people, seeing as they seem to be linked to what happened to her. If it was up to me, I’d gun them down in a second—but this seems to mean something to her, and I’m not going to add to the trauma.

  But they are too stupid to see her compassion for what it is. Not one of them lifts a finger or even says anything. She repeats herself, but a sharp look and gesture from the guard is all it takes to squish what little resistance there seems to be left in them. Fucking cowards.

  “I’d do what she says,” I tell them. Someone has to—might as well be me.

  “You’d say that,” her captee grunts. “Pussy-whipped, dickless—“

  She cuts him off by pressing the knife deeper, making more blood well from the cut. I’ve had about enough of this, taking over from her as I speak up so everyone can hear me. “Right now there are three RPG launch
ers trained on your walls. If we don’t make it out there in the next ten minutes, my people will reduce your neat little barricade there to a smoldering heap of ash. See how much your measly guns will help you against the zombies that will come pouring in. Your choice.”

  More unease, but they seem to be smarting up. “How do we know you’re telling the truth?” one of the guards asks.

  “Standard operational protocol,” Bree quips in perfect who-wouldn’t-know-this tone. I’m proud of her for what an accomplished liar she has become.

  And it works, thank fuck—the idiots finally wise up, put down their weapons, and open the damn gate. We all back up toward the gate, the other three taking their weapons with them while Bree keeps her hostage. I’m a little bit concerned when I hear her practically coo to him—“Please, try something so I have a good excuse to slice you up like a pig. Please”—but, what can I say? I married that woman for a reason. The villagers keep watching us, a silent wave of sheep. Nobody tries to get in our way, but they also don’t pick up the weapons to do something against the guards. I still don’t know what to make of this fucking village, except that I wouldn’t shed a tear if someone was to drop a nuke on it. Bree finally lets the asshole go—after kicking his knee out—when we get to the Humvee. He doesn’t say another word when I grab my AR from the seat and let it be a silent warning to him. Bree chases him away with a last threat and he makes it back inside the settlement through the closing gate.

  And then, it’s just the five of us—and I don’t know what the fuck I should do or say. So all I do is stare at her, trying to, again, take my cues from her. She doesn’t seem to see me, her eyes glazing over. One moment she looks strong and confident, the next I see an emaciated, scared shadow of her former self. I know it’s just in my head, but it kills me—so I resort to what I usually do and ignore it all.

  “Your gear is in the car, over there with the others,” I tell her, because she must be itching to wear something a little less likely to get her killed out here. She nods, and without another comment turns toward the Humvee. I feel like she just slapped me in the face but give the guys a quick nod to do the same. Lingering just outside the settlement we just pissed off isn’t a smart idea.

  Everyone ignores the decoy car.

  As Burns guns the engine, Bree asks for a map, Andrej quick to supply one. I notice that she scrutinizes the residual bloodstains inside the vehicle but focuses on the map as soon as it gets handed to her. They start discussing our current location and whatnot. It’s the last thing I care about but keep that to myself. Now’s not the time to discuss anything.

  In record time, we join the others who are waiting just out of sight of the settlement. Bree stares at the rocket launcher Zilinsky has ready—a gift we picked up with the Humvees—as she piles out of the Humvee and hightails it to the Rover. Her motions are jerky and she stumbles a few times, not doing too well barefoot in the high grass by the side of the road. With no regard for anything, she tears off her clothes—and that’s when I see the bruises. Most of her body is covered in them, larger parts of her skin mottled with purple and red than remain unblemished. She halts and gives me a look that makes me want to physically back up—and tear apart whoever is responsible for this with my bare hands. I’m tempted to get the rocket launcher from Zilinsky and lay waste to the settlement, although it probably wasn’t them, judging from what little hints Bree has dropped.

  I give her exactly as long as it takes her to dress, then I’m in her face—and I will not be deterred. She’s in full avoidance mode, and while I appreciate the fact that she’s not a weeping, rocking huddle of misery, this isn’t healthy, either. I open my mouth to say something—anything, really; I haven’t even started to think of any questions—when she tears right into me.

  “I’m okay. I don’t need any medical attention. I can drive. I can shoot. Running might get a little uncomfortable because the soles of my feet are still damaged from running a fucking marathon cross-country without anything to protect my feet, but I’ll live. And unless we have any pressing places to be, I have a promise to fulfill.”

  Her tone is hard, and there’s rage burning in her eyes that could stop a charging rhinoceros. Her fierceness gives me an instant hard-on, but thankfully, my intellect manages to override any weird impulses my body might want to succumb to. She’s already turning away—without a doubt hoping that if she keeps giving me orders I will feel obliged to follow them—but this will stop right fucking now. I reach for her arm, but as soon as my finger brush her jacket, she jerks away, immediately tense as she assumes a defensive position. She’s a moment away from drawing her gun on me—and all just because I tried to touch her.

  Yeah, she’s so not okay.

  I let go of her immediately and don’t try to get close to her again, but I can’t drop this. I simply can’t. “First you tell me what the fuck happened to you!” I hate how harsh my voice sounds, but, if anything, that bounces off her like a glancing blow.

  Annoyance swings in her tone, but it soon turns hollow, which makes me cringe inside. “The short version? I was stupid enough to let myself get drugged. I woke up inside a cell in an underground bunker. I got out. I spent a day running through backwater… this is Nebraska, right?” I nod. “Then I ended up in this damn settlement. I couldn’t shake the last of the zombies that I’d had on my tail all night, no food or water, so I couldn’t chance staying on the road. The last four days I spent sitting uselessly around on my ass, twiddling my thumbs. Satisfied?”

  It’s obvious that entire books could be written with what she isn’t telling me—and I realize from the way she keeps glaring at me that it won’t change any time soon. So I do the next best thing and turn to Burns. “Who’s that guy that idiot mentioned—“

  Burns takes a single, albeit conflicted, look at Bree before he responds. “Gordon Taggard. One of Bucky Hamilton’s lieutenants when we started the evacuation in Lexington. I was on two missions with him before that. Can’t say it was a pleasure. He’s an asshole through and through, the kind that finds any excuse to stir up shit. Not sure if it’s the same guy—“ He cuts off. We both look at her.

  Bree has turned white in the face, underneath the sunburn and flaking-off skin. “Sounds exactly like him,” she grates out, her voice toneless. Yet before I can ask more—demand, really—she lets out an exasperated grunt. “Can we maybe do all the gossiping later? They’ve already had a five-days head start, and I’d hate to give them a sixth.”

  “They being the people you single-handedly killed?” I try to sound diplomatic, but the fact that what I know pales in comparison to what I’m still guessing at, it comes out differently. At least I don’t sound like I think she’s lying, because I know she’s not. Avoidance can be just as bad.

  Her eyes narrow. “You know that I’m not good enough to kill thirty armed combatants on my own. Yet. Having three fresh, ultra-strong zombies on the loose helped. I’m not deluding myself into hoping that they’re all dead, but the fact that the guards in there couldn’t make contact with them anymore makes me guess that they ran. I’ll fill you in on the details later. For now what you need to know is that there’s an underground bunker out there with some corpses and a handful of zombies chomping down on them. I have absolutely no idea where they might be heading to, so the logical move is to go there, clear it out and take it apart until we find something. Got any better ideas? No? Then what are we waiting for?”

  I hesitate, because she doesn’t look ready for a fight, let alone days of chasing anyone, but I can’t be the only one who really, absolutely needs to do this—and I’ve always been a strong believer in cathartic violence. “You know the way?”

  “I can backtrack part of it. From there we have to wing it, but it’s a bunker next to a gravel road right in the middle of nowhere. Can’t be that hard to find.”

  I nod, ignoring her failed attempt at sarcasm. “Then let’s go.”

  And that’s exactly what we do—after a brief intermission that creeps me th
e fuck out when Bree walks straight toward some device a few yards away that turns out to be some kind of zombie repellent that she fucking felt. I’m doing my very best to ignore that, and any and all implications of it. It is just one more detail on an ever-growing list.

  I have a hard enough time as it is keeping my trap shut while she drives. Her body remains tight as a coiled spring the entire time, and I hate to see the vacant expression on her face that keeps appearing between intense bouts of anger. The sun is about to set when her face practically lights up with recognition. Ahead, smoke is curling into the sky from a burnt-down pyre, a lone figure standing to the side of it. It takes me only a second to realize that that’s not a person anymore, but a few more to recognize who it used to be—the Raiders girl, Gussy. Bree stops the car a good distance away and makes a grab for her shotgun. “This one’s mine,” she mutters. “Stay back.”

  The hell I will, particularly when I realize that Bree doesn’t raise her weapon as she gets closer. She actually starts talking to the shambler, and that’s where I draw the line. She seemed lucid enough until a few moments ago, but she’s obviously not. The zombie startles at the sound of the car door slamming shut. Bree looks at me, calling for me to stay back. The shambler comes for her, and at the last possible moment she shoots it in the middle of the neck, making what little is left of the head tumble to the ground. The zombie takes one more step forward before it drops, dead for good.

  I’m about to demand what the fuck that was all about when the abdomen of the shambler gives a twitch. We all shy back, Bree included—and her shotgun goes off before I can make sense of any of this. “Her child,” she offers as an explanation, her voice barely more than a whisper.