The building was clear; the people were safe. Miller was on his way out when he heard a rustling from a nearby closet. He yanked open the door and was prepared to strike down yet another ghoul when he saw a little girl sitting as far to the back of the closet as she could manage. Her tiny legs were pulled up to her chin; she held onto them tightly and sobbed. He put his machete away and leaned down so as not to tower over the frightened child.
“It’s okay. You’re safe now,” he said gently as he offered his hand.
She leapt to him without hesitation and wrapped her little arms around his neck. She was so scared and all he wanted to do was let her know that everything was going to be alright now. He rubbed her back as he carried her outside to rejoin her family. The little girl held onto him as tightly as she could until she was safely in her parents’ arms. This is what all the sacrifice is for, Miller realized. This is why I continue to do what I do.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Changing Seasons
Summer passed into fall and winter, and the survivors of Pepperbush settled into their new positions aboard Haven. For most, life aboard the ship was uneventful—dull, even—but if there was one constant thread running through all their minds, it was that they were thankful to be alive. They were thankful for a safe place without carriers around every corner or roving bands of marauders looking to rob you at best, sometimes worse.
For some, their new professions were thankless duties that, in their eyes, were wastes of time or indentured servitude, but if their new landlords deemed it necessary, then work they would. And work hard most of them did; the opportunity to contribute was welcome. Marisol floated somewhere between those two mindsets. On the one hand, her entire existence aboard Haven seemed nothing more than a waste. She was squandering her valuable experience and skill as a glorified janitor. On the other hand, like most, she was thankful for this opportunity for a fresh start, so for the most part, she kept her misgivings to herself—mostly.
Lately, Marisol had been spending her days as a handyman, a subcontractor of a sort. On Ames’s endorsement—after months of menial labor—she was at least moved up from janitorial to maintenance; it was a step in the right direction. She enjoyed getting her hands dirty; it wasn’t as if they stayed clean in her previous job. Now she went to bed at night with at least a sense of accomplishment, as small as it was.
Marisol ran into her old friend Lancaster out at the Pen one afternoon. He was scraping up mounds of chicken shit. She was rewiring the lighting in the chicken coops. The breakers had been shorting out from too much moisture getting into the slapdash rigging.
“It’s nice to see you where you belong—surrounded by shit.” Marisol was never one to mince words. She smirked at his incompetence as he struggled with even the most basic of tasks.
“Officer Marisol!” Lancaster shouted. “It’s so good to see a friendly face.”
“Why, do you see one?” Marisol gazed around the small farm in mock surprise.
“I know that we haven’t always seen eye to eye, but I’d like to attempt to rectify that,” Lancaster began. He was skinny now. Weary. The once-proud mayor still wore his white suit—it was more of a tannish color now—and it was filthy from so much time on the road and now even more so from months of manual labor. “I would just like to say that I’m sorry, for everything, and that I would like very much if we could start over.”
Marisol wasn’t so inclined. “We will never be friends, Donald.” She finished up with the wiring as she spoke. She secured the faceplate on the wall atop the new outlet and then rose to meet Lancaster’s expectant gaze. “As a matter of fact, if you ever see me coming, do us both a favor and walk the other way.”
Lancaster was sullen. “Please,” he whispered. “I have no one.” His eyes and the corners of his mouth sagged.
She wiped grease from her hands onto a rag, tossed the cloth into her workbag, and approached him. Marisol stood as close to Lancaster as she dared, lest she lose her composure and put her hands on him again. “Then I guess you’ll die alone,” she said as she bent down to pick up her work bag. She left herself vulnerable to the untrustworthy old man and silently begged him to take advantage of the situation. She lingered atop her bag, bent over with her back exposed to him for what felt like an eternity. It was as she thought: nothing. Lancaster didn’t possess the fortitude to make a move against her now, not anymore, and she wondered if he ever really did and why anyone feared him in the first place. Marisol lifted her bag and departed without another word. She left Lancaster standing alone in the filthy pen, surrounded by squawking chickens.
Marisol spent her nights trying to force something—anything—about this place to make sense. She sought desperately to fit in, to find purpose. Failing that, she would seek out ways to keep her mind occupied in hopes of finding anything as a distraction. But there remained a constant nagging, the ever-present tic in the back of her mind of a life unfulfilled, wasted.
The night after her encounter with Lancaster, Marisol took a guy home from Trix’s bar. She tried to make the best of it as she lay there, going through the motions until he noticed that she looked bored. She said she wasn’t and that he could stay if he wanted to, but the damage was done; he was offended and so he left. Marisol didn’t even bother to make sure that he locked the door behind him; she simply rolled over and went to sleep. She would either see him again or she wouldn’t; it made no difference to her. Marisol’s time aboard Haven would pass much the same as she moved from task to task without ever being fully invested in any of it.
~~~
Vanessa’s morning alarm was the sun’s bright rays cutting through the blinds; its light, broken up into small slivers, warmed her bed. It had been that way since she and Lillian moved into their new quarters six weeks ago. Vanessa and Lillian sought a room with a balcony. They asked weekly, and weekly their request for a transfer was denied. Even with Trix’s considerable pull, Naomi would not budge. Naomi must have been feeling generous one bright morning a little over a month back because she had a change of heart. Lillian suspected the stern woman must have gotten laid the night before. The reason behind the sudden kindness remained a mystery. It certainly wasn’t guilt, because the woman was immune to its effects. Naomi relented, and she let the girls relocate to a room just above the waterline. Their new stateroom did not feature a balcony; it did, however, have a port window. The slight upgrade in amenities was at least a move in the right direction. Baby steps, Trix told them. In the meantime, Trix often invited Vanessa over to her quarters for drinks on her own balcony when Cortez was away on excursions.
She untangled herself from Lillian and was careful not to wake her; they didn’t both need to open the bar in Trix’s absence. Their boss had a weekly meeting to attend first thing this morning. “Vital ship business,” Trix always told her with an eye roll. Vanessa didn’t mind closing the bar down only to turn around and reopen a few short hours later; after all, she did the same thing back home for years. Vanessa leaned over to kiss Lillian on the forehead before sneaking in a quick shower. Her blue shoulder-length hair fell into Lillian’s face, and for a moment, she was afraid she had woken her. Vanessa discovered while walking laps with Trix that the ship had a hairstylist, an honest-to-goodness salon where you could still get your hair styled. This community was truly living in their own world, despite what was happening back on the mainland. And why not make the best of it?
Little more than a week ago, Vanessa worked up the courage to enter the salon and had a long conversation with Haven’s lone stylist before they decided on a deep indigo A-line bob with a wispy violet-tipped fringe. The new look framed her face well, and it accentuated her striking features. She wore it tousled so as not to portray a sense that she was overly made up. This new style was a radical departure from Vanessa’s traditional long and wavy brunette hair, but these were radical times. Months on the road still hung heavy in her mind; she could be dead tomorrow, so why not try new things? Vanessa left the salon feeling ten pound
s lighter but with an air of confidence she never realized she was missing. Vanessa showered quickly, kissed Lilian on the forehead again, and was off.
Just outside of Trix’s, an old man in gray robes was waiting to greet her. “Good morning,” she said as she passed.
The man pleaded with her as he had every morning for months about removing sin from her life and to turn to God for salvation. Sometimes she humored the harmless preacher with questions, but not today; she was tired and just wanted to get the bar open.
Her first task daily was brewing a fresh pot of coffee; that took priority. While it brewed, she set the bar up and arranged stools and chairs around the tables. The preacher would join her; he usually helped with arranging the furniture. She didn’t mind the company, though his incessant pushing was becoming tiresome. He meant well, and that’s what stayed her tongue.
Holiday decorations were on the itinerary for the day. End of the world or not, Trix would have the bar set up to represent whatever holiday was closest. Christmas and New Year’s Eve were right around the corner. There was something off-putting about Santa being displayed so prominently, considering the world she lived in now. But she agreed; the decorations were a nice distraction from the monotony of life aboard Haven. The preacher took extra care when handling an old manger diorama that Vanessa tasked him with setting up. She handed him a cup of coffee and he took a seat at the far end of the bar nearest to the exit. Vanessa enjoyed hers in relative solitude near the center of the bar, where she had the best view from a small port window.
Trix must have stopped by early in the morning instead of sleeping in like she promised she would. The bar was already mostly restocked, and a good portion of the stools had been taken down and set in place. A brief to-do list was taped to the mirror with a smiley face as a signature; its tongue hung out cocked to the side, and it had X’s for eyes. The list comprised a single task: Have a nice day at work, ladies! XOXO!
~~~
The passage of time can change people, even for Cortez and the excursion team that had been at this for a long time by this point. In a former life, Cortez was never the type to settle down, but on a recent trip to the mainland, he stumbled across the perfect ring. Now he only needed to find the appropriate time. He and Trix had been living together for so long that he barely remembered a time when they didn’t. That fateful excursion to a Miami suburb had changed both of their lives forever—and for the better. Cortez remained mostly content to bide his time between missions with busywork, though Miller’s antsy behavior had become contagious.
During his early-morning run, Cortez found himself stopping and staring at the gathered masses vying for spots around the pool or lining up at the buffet. A tinge of guilt would swell at the sight. Goddammit, Miller, he thought with a smile. Life was uncomplicated before the pressure of guilt for the unseen masses on the mainland was introduced. Of course, he knew others were out there suffering, but what could he possibly do to change that? He had lived with the fact that he was doing the best he could for as many as he could for so long that it had become a mantra. Now he wasn’t sure if any of it was enough. All thanks to a man that he broke his own rules to go back for.
Petrova had cut her own father off completely after the incident in de-cons, and she was all the better for it. As a result, she began spending more time with Joelle. It wasn’t like they kept their relationship a secret in the past; Petrova simply avoided her father when it came to the subject. Now she and Joelle were free to roam the ship arm in arm, damn what her cruel old man had to say. That one simple change in routine was freeing, as if a weight had been hoisted from her shoulders. In time, Petrova rose Joelle up from the stuffy confines of the lower living quarters to the airy floor that she and the other excursion team members called home. Her father—the relic of the past that he was—could fume or sulk for all she cared. No longer would she allow him to dictate the terms of her life.
Simon was teaching a course on the fundamentals of avoiding large groups of undead and what it took to survive an encounter. Tate, of course, attended every class. Simon’s course was open to any and all, but he primarily focused on the younger inhabitants of the ship. The kids that they rescued a few months prior were all in attendance, and before long, timid and uneasy glares were replaced with smiles and glowing eyes. A sense of confidence helped to wrest these children from the shackles of despair and doubt. Bull would surely be proud to see that his sacrifice wasn’t wasted.
Simon’s teachings transitioned to lectures that outlined the history of warfare. His curriculum and its exciting content sparked the imagination of every child that attended his class. Letting them group up and reenact famous ancient battles in front of the classroom had them hooked from the start. Word spread of the fun teacher who taught a battle-school. As a result, the size of his class grew overnight, and in only a few weeks, Simon had to bring on more instructors.
When Simon felt that the class was sufficiently engaged, he would seamlessly transition the lesson to geography. The way a country’s terrain could determine the outcome of a battle before it began worked well in this regard. From there, he eased the class into math. His use of battle tactics and troop numbers as a primer for what otherwise could have been considered boring and tedious was a masterstroke. Captain Kayembe very much approved, and he soon moved forward with a planned expansion to the school.
Simon’s entire course was a not-so-subtle lesson in subterfuge used to steer the children of Haven into the habit of both wanting to learn and seek knowledge for themselves. By the end of the first week, some of his students were even bringing books to him, books they were reading in their free time.
Genevieve put together a self-defense class after she broke up a group of would-be predators picking on some newcomers to Haven. Her classes grew in size and scope weekly. Word of one of the excursion team members heading up her own training course traveled fast, and before long, more than twenty hopeful students had joined. Genevieve liked to change up the location of her classes on a regular basis. The new surroundings were a constant reminder that danger lurked around every corner and that familiarity was no replacement for caution.
Alex took to life aboard Haven fast; she acclimated overnight. While she lived out on the road, she kept her hair short. She would periodically pull her hair back behind her ears and hold it tight; everything sticking out between her fingers she cut off. Now her hair was full, nearly down to her shoulders, and dyed a rich auburn. For months in her new home, she spurned the advances of all serious potential suitors; she was here to have fun and enjoy herself without the shackles of a relationship.
Alex had no intention of falling in with Ames, but such was the way of things. They spent more time together than she anticipated, but truth be told, she enjoyed the attention. His constant fawning was appealing on some level. She meant what she told him daily, though. Whatever this was, it wasn’t meant to last. Someday and without warning—at the end of an excursion—she would opt not to get in the return boat and she would be gone for good. He didn’t fully believe her; consciously but somewhere deep in the recesses of his psyche, he knew she wasn’t exaggerating. When not navigating an impromptu relationship, Alex spent time in mechanical. She wasn’t there to be close to Ames; in fact, she almost completely ignored him during the day. She looked to Catherine to teach her how to better work on things—mechanical things—a skill she couldn’t exactly pick up while out on the road.
If time healed all wounds, then Ahole’s return to his normal jovial self was a textbook case. He still began each day at Bull’s side with Joel and Ulrich, only now he regaled Bull with wild tales. His antics were not for his friends alone, as he had stories for the entire infirmary. Jonah hated it, of course, and Jeremiah was indifferent, but Aiko, Nazneen, and Nia loved it. Nazneen, especially, thought it was wonderful therapy for the patients.
~~~
Aiko was about seven months along now; the baby was due early in the new year. She had always been hands-on when it
came to her patients, but her belly kept her at a distance from them, and that was something she wasn’t comfortable with. Aiko shone a light into Lillian’s eyes; the girl had been complaining about headaches since her tumble. It was odd that she was experiencing short-term memory loss, but Aiko chalked it up to stress from an extreme situation. Lillian’s body was blocking out the bad memory for her own good.
Aiko moved on from Lillian to Paula, who was due in about two weeks. Besides Aiko, she was the only other woman aboard Haven who was pregnant prior to the crisis. Aiko’s duties to the expectant mother had been her priority of late. She would do everything in her power to ensure that Paula had a safe birth, for not only her unborn child but for the mother as well. Aiko’s motives weren’t completely altruistic, for Paula’s fate was intrinsically tied to her own. How closely remained to be seen. For now, Aiko would let Paula know that everything was going to be just fine, despite Casandra’s ill-fated pregnancy, which had come to its conclusion in this very room just a scant five months ago.
“Everything looks good, Paula. How are you feeling otherwise?”
“I feel great. Every day the little one kicks a little harder. I think she’s ready to get out of there just as badly as I’m ready to have her come out of there.”
“I think all of us will rest a little easier once your baby is born healthy.”
The Roaming (Book 3): Haven's Promise Page 24
