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

by Adrienne Lecter

  I have to keep myself from helping Bree into her chair, hell-bent on doing it all herself as she is. I know she needs all those small wins but it pains me to see her so vulnerable in front of these vultures. The monster deep inside of me is rattling the bars of his cage, screaming at the top of his lungs that now is the perfect time to act—Hamilton will be dead before anyone can make a grab for me. I will die moments later, I’m well aware of that, but it would be worth it—until I notice how Bree pulls herself up the second she has energy left to spare for posture, her eyes hard as she glares at Hamilton. Regret tickles across my mind, but only for a second. No, I won’t be the one to kill him, because that one’s hers now. She doesn’t need to say so out loud. Doesn’t mean I can’t help—when the time comes.

  Suddenly, the idea of working with Hamilton has become a hundred times more interesting.

  The general, the doc, and Bree start the travesty that’s supposed to be negotiations. I hold myself in the back, letting my wife do the talking. Why? Because it doesn’t matter what either of us says or wants—but it matters to her. I remain her silent shadow, watching the people more than listening to their words. It only takes Raynor a minute to drop the bomb—if only we agree to help, she will fix Martinez’s spine. It’s a good carrot she’s dangling in front of Bree’s face, I have to give her that—and she needs it, because threatening the lives of our people isn’t good motivation, if still effective. Bree isn’t graceful about swallowing the bitter pill, but she does—we will be going to Europe to do fuck knows what, with Hamilton as our commanding officer. My guess for why they put Richards up as the good cop turns out true—he’s the XO, and obviously tasked with handling us. I almost feel sorry for him because I can already tell that Bree is jonesing to give them all hell, as soon as she’s able to.

  Without any details about the mission, I can’t plan for how to approach this, but right now it sounds better than I could have expected, which means it will turn into a real shit show sooner or later. But it’s something I can deal with, particularly if I have Burns to help me run interference. After Zilinsky and Romanoff, he’s always been my choice to look after Bree, and since Romanoff is down for the count and Zilinsky is on babysitting duty, it’s as close to the best-case scenario as possible. I wonder who else they will be sending with us. Depending on that, this situation may well be salvageable.

  When everyone except Richards has left, Bree turns to me, looking vexed as hell but I take that as a good sign; after getting the news at the Silo, all she had was bleak determination. Now there’s fire in her eyes. And venom. Lots and lots of venom.

  More to defuse the tension than because I feel like joking, I offer, “Well, you complained I never take you anywhere romantic. Looks like someone else volunteered to fill in.”

  I get a weird look for that, making me backtrack—how could she misunderstand that? But she shakes if off after a moment. “Europe, huh? What could possibly go wrong?”

  I can’t help it. The way she comically widens her eyes makes me smirk. She’s so bad at appearing innocent, it hurts. “I have a certain suspicion that you will be the one to cause it.”

  I get a semi-teasing, “Gee, you say the sweetest things,” back from her, delivered with a surprisingly real smile. I hadn’t expected that she’d be up to that yet, but it proves once again that my wife is one resilient menace of a woman.

  And I’m so not worthy of her, that’s for sure.

  Richards leads us back down to our cell, but our agreement must have signaled a change, because the door remains open, and our packs are waiting for us. The ammo is gone but the weapons are all still there, giving me something to occupy my mind and body with while Bree gets some much-needed rest on the mattress. She doesn’t sleep, and I doubt that will change any time soon. I still remember how the serum sucker-punched me into a week of constant alertness, followed by months of having trouble staying clocked out for more than a few hours at a time. The nightmares didn’t help, either.

  That she seems ready to be gunning for Hamilton makes me feel weirdly satisfied—also because I’m not sure if I could actually kill him. If he comes for me, sure, no question; if he threatens Bree again, same. But we’ve been through so much, we’ve shared too many sleepless nights that I can ignore all that. I realize that part of that stems from the kind of mind fuckery that makes me feel complicit rather than—rightfully—wanting to put the entire blame at his feet. Not without mirth I realize that having Bree around to do the deed absolves me of a lot of conflict and guilt. After all, even though his actions have been aimed at me, she’s the one who suffered the consequences, so she has a right to be out for blood. And I have a feeling that it won’t take long for him to offer her an opportunity that she can’t refuse.

  Once Bree is a little better—or so she claims; she doesn’t look it—I bundle her up in warm clothes and we join Richards to head out to meet with the rest of our people. It’s only after we hop off the truck next to where Burns, the two Chargers, and the folks from New Angeles are anxiously watching us that I feel my stomach churning once more. It takes everything I’ve got to face them and hold their gazes, pretending like I don’t feel like the lowest dog. As if a look at either of us is everything they need to know what I’ve done.

  Fuck. This is not going to be an easy mission.

  Bree barely manages to keep herself upright but she’s running her mouth as usual, if a little slurred and hoarse. She tells it how it is, and as expected, nobody cares. Burns gives me the side-eye when he’s sure she doesn’t see, and I do my best to look back confidently. Could be worse, I silently tell him. He shoots a warning glance back but nods—he’s on board, come hell or high water. The others look equally determined, which in Gita and Tanner’s case makes me suspicious. It’s obvious that Greene sent them with us for a reason. Now I’m starting to question exactly what that weasel knew and didn’t tell me. Either way, I’m glad they are all on board—which makes it much easier to rebuke Luke and Charlie. I will miss having two very capable fighters by my side, but I don’t trust Raynor and her team, so I need to set up precautions. I can’t prevent whatever shit storm we will have to weather out in Europe, but I can make damn sure that we won’t hand-deliver them their next hostage.

  As expected, Jason gets right in my face when I tell him that they won’t come with us. I keep a straight face as I dish out the details. He’s understandably cautious, but I think me asking him for a favor rather than telling him to guard Martinez’s ass does the trick. I will rest much easier knowing that Martinez has the support he needs, because the last thing I need is another notch of guilt on my belt. I know that a lot of us are ridiculing our medic for always having refused the serum because of his faith. It’s not a motive that would have worked with me, but I respect that he thinks differently about it. I’ve compromised too many principles in my life to let him do the same. Richards is quick to offer them a ride, continuing with the good-guy facade. I intend to ride that until the very end, if need be.

  That settled, we return to the base. Some idle chatter happens, and I start to put out feelers, trying to gauge who may be easy to work with and who isn’t. That works well enough, until Bree realizes just how much her amputated fingers will hamper her direct usefulness in combat. With thick gloves on, of course the others haven’t had a chance to see her hands yet. I try to remind her that if she learned everything once, she can learn it again, but that doesn’t go over well. Her anger I can deal with easily; that bleak look she casts my way? That’s harder to swallow. Burns does a good job distracting her by being nosy, but there’s only so much that can accomplish.

  Back inside the base, everyone is gearing up to get ready to depart. Richards is back with an update. “We have about an hour left until the containers are loaded into the plane. If you got a minute to stop being needlessly paranoid, you might want to consider updating your gear.”

  I know that he’s goading me on. If he thinks that works, he has much to learn. “How much do we get?” />
  “Whatever you need,” he replies, a little disappointed that I didn’t blow up in his face. We stare evenly at each other. He’s the first to look away, pretending to be beta to my alpha wolf. I don’t buy that, either, but I’m happy to rob them of their carefully stored-away merchandise. He’s less ready to part with ammo and weapons, but I get that. We’ll never run out of pants and parkas, not in ten lifetimes of what remains of humanity, but there’s only so much ammo stashed away still. We all know how to make it last a little longer; my people have been collecting shell casings wherever possible since the very start. But one day soon we will have fired the last factory-manufactured bullet, and then things will get interesting. I’m sure that assholes like Greene are already working on alternatives, but it’s still smart to ration.

  I tell Burns and Tanner to grab what we’ll need but hesitate to follow. I should have a heart-to-heart with Bree now to best gauge what new gear she’ll need, size- and purpose-wise. But already, she looks close to losing it now that some of the immediate stress and fear is gone and she starts to feel safe around people she can trust. It’s an illusion only—and I’m certain she’s aware of that—but I can’t make myself burst that bubble. So I turn around and try my very best to guesstimate—something I always hate doing, but this once it’s the way to go.

  The shotgun is out of the question but they have a good selection of assault rifles, so I grab a few. Back outside, I ask Bree if she’s okay with that, hoping that a snappy comment will go over better than careful inquiry. She agrees with her usual show of grace—something that seems to amuse Richards, who is still gobbling up every little detail—and we do a quick rundown of the rest of her gear. She snags at boots; stuffing them seems to work well enough for her that she tartly informs me to just get some in her usual size. That comment of course trips Burns up—we’ve all gotten accustomed to grabbing whatever useful shit we find if it will fit any of us, and my uncertainty is a red flag. He’s smart enough to get it after a second, without me having to explain. He’ll see for himself soon enough, I’m sure.

  Then she asks for an ax—not the worst of ideas. Earlier this year, I managed to make her abandon using baseball bats in favor of edged weapons, and it’s still a good deal. As I leave, I can’t help but grin for a second when I hear Bree and Richards start to bicker about terms and technicalities. I’ve gotten so used to her refusal to adopt any of it that I don’t even notice anymore, but he does—little boy still needs to learn a lesson or two. I wonder if that’s another act. He’s young enough to still be green as fuck, but his men respect him so he’s no imbecile—and clearly has seen action over the past years. I know that he was in Colorado but that’s about it. I need to change that, stat. But now is not the right time, also not to pull Burns aside and fill him in on what’s actually going on.

  Bree gets another infusion, and then we’re ready to roll. I trust that Bree remembers the instructions she gets about her meds, but truthfully, her body should be at the point where we can’t make a lot of mistakes anymore. Hamilton does a grand speech that I do my very best to ignore, instead focusing on his men. I’m surprised to see Murdock and Davis among them but probably shouldn’t be. I won’t hold it against them that they betrayed me when the shit hit the fan—not any longer. Bree doesn’t buy it, but that’s okay. Until I know whether I can leverage that or not, it doesn’t matter.

  I have to play nice one last time when Richards offers to let us call New Angeles; I would have preferred Dispatch, but pretending like Greene is my number one contact is fine with me. Once that is done, I give Luke a quick rundown of what he and Charlie should expect—and tell Martinez to let him know that we got his back. I drop a few more messages for various people in there, too, since I don’t expect I can give anyone any updates until we’re back. Luke listens and assures me that they will protect our people while we’re gone, and then it’s time to part ways.

  We pile into the C-130 and Burns does a good job keeping Bree occupied while I get our packs stashed away. I can tell that she’s slipping, but there’s only so much I can do. The plane is in a better state than I’ve expected, and takeoff is quick and smooth. Everyone settles in for a long flight, me included. Why they do it by night is obvious—not to give away that they still have airplanes, going long distance.

  I spend the next hours trying to further formulate my action plan. From how they treat me, Hamilton’s men expect me to act like a petulant little shit. It’s a tempting option, but not one I seriously entertain. Nobody needs me for command and I have no intention of usurping Hamilton any time soon—not yet, at least. Sooner or later, he will have to spill the beans what this is all about, and by then I should have managed to worm myself inside his men’s defenses. My primary objective is to make sure my wife survives; if that means I have to act like a rookie private, that’s fine with me. I have no skin in this game but hers.

  Except—

  Being back in present company hammers in my previous realization—things would be better for everyone if I’d been around to run this joint. Hamilton thinks he’s a good leader, and therein lies the main problem: he selects for the wrong traits, attracting the wrong people to him. From what I can tell, they might even act well as a unit, but they won’t fight to the death to keep each other alive. We’re not even halfway into the flight and I can already pick out three separate groups when they should be one well-oiled machine—with us making up a fourth. This could be an opportunity for me. It sure will become a problem sooner or later. Part of me hopes that Richards is aware of the dissonance inside his unit but I doubt he has the experience to do anything about it.

  I haven’t reached a decision by the time my alarm goes off and it’s Bree feeding time. I study the instructions—shit, that woman is anal beyond what’s reasonable—and then mix the stuff according to what I know will work better. Bree’s feverish glare is still fixed on Hamilton, who is in high spirits because of all the attention he’s getting. Question is how long until he realizes that it’s not a good thing, least of all for his ego. I park my ass on the crate in front of Bree to break their eye contact and hand her the shaker. She downs it all without emotion, and without the revulsion the vile taste of the concoction should have painted on her face. For the first time, I’m happy the virus fried her taste buds. Looks like the serum couldn’t reverse the effects of that. It doesn’t matter, but it’s one more reminder for me that the only way is forward.

  I should be damn glad about it. I hate it. But there’s no alternative, so move on we must.

  Bree sinks into a deeper kind of stupor, which is both a relief and cause for concern for me. I try to remain calm and pray that she’s doing better than her clammy, pale skin looks like. I could do with some sleep as well but my senses are still on high alert. If I had something to do—like review whatever mission files must exist—it would be easier, but since I’m not in charge, I know less than the other grunts. As intended, that is driving me insane, but at least it’s a distraction from the rest.

  When the plane finally touches down, I’m ready to crawl up the walls, but instead, I get ready to help Bree outside. It would be best for her to stay in the relative warmth of the plane but with crates and packs everywhere, she’d be right in the middle of unloading, and a little cold will be easier to handle than getting jostled around. Half of the crates are already on the tarmac when I get back inside to grab our packs, only to find Hamilton lurking next to them. The fact that part of me wants to hesitate, if not outright run away, makes it harder to hold on to my composure. I know what comes next is likely a series of threats, and I need to decide how to react. I can’t back down—after what he did to me, showing weakness is not something I can stomach—but if I act too aggressive, I might make things worse. I need Bree to regain her strength before I can set anything in motion, so whether I like it or not, my ego will have to take a hit.

  I approach Hamilton as casually as I can manage, which likely means I’m glaring at him, but nothing I can do about tha
t. He steps aside so I can snatch up the packs, yet when I straighten, he is right in my face. Around us, crates are being dragged out and other things are getting fetched so it’s not like either of us can do anything particularly out of line. I realize he could because he has trained his flunkies well, but I doubt he will, just to prove a point. Already did it, and I think we both know he delivered his message.

  “You only get this one warning,” he drawls, staring straight into my eyes, a gleeful smirk twisting his lips. I don’t respond. He takes that as an opportunity to elaborate. I know him well enough to be sure it is a real threat—he looks ready to beg me to misstep so he can unleash it all on me—but he sure does like to boast and gloat as well.

  “If you act like a jerk, she dies.” Not much surprise there. I keep on staring straight ahead, which due to his close proximity means our gazes remain locked. His eyes narrow a little but if he thinks he’ll get any acknowledgment from me, he’s barking up the wrong tree.

  “If you try to usurp my position, she dies. If you go against my orders, she dies. If you don’t keep your ragtag band of misfits in line, she dies.” He pauses for maximum effort, then takes another step closer—close enough that I can feel his breath on my face as he continues. “You start any shit with me or my men, and she won’t die—but you will find her the next morning, broken and bleeding from every single orifice. Watch how you’ll get her to recover from that. Do we have an understanding?”

  I’m of half a mind to call his bluff—except that I can’t be sure if it is a bluff. The gang-rape part, that is—I’m overwhelmingly sure he has no qualms killing Bree. But I don’t know most of his men, and I can’t spend every single second of every single day making sure nobody gets too close to her. Bree would be the first to knife me if I tried.