“Oh John, it’s wonderful.” Lydia’s hands went to her face and she covered her mouth. “Beck, can you run down to the basement and get the tree stand?”
“Sure thing, Gram.” Becky smiled and left the room.
They stood the tree up, and John leaned back, admiring it. “Just because times are tough, don’t mean we ain’t gonna have a proper Christmas. We never once didn’t have no tree, and we ain’t about to start.”
Tears came to Gwen’s eyes. “Pa, it’s so special.”
Becky returned with the stand, and they set the tree upright in the corner. Lydia and Becky collected boxes of ornaments from the basement. Smiles were free and joyous as they hung ornaments. Each and every one represented a memory, taking everyone back to happier times.
Lydia and Gwen put on a pot for hot chocolate. Lydia had discovered a dusty box of the stuff in the back of their pantry and demanded they use it.
Steele stood alongside John. “This was a great surprise.”
“Twas.”
“I was thinking about surprising Gwen with something.”
John regarded him for a moment. “Is that so?”
“It is.” Opening his palm, he revealed a small square box. “I wanted to ask your blessing.”
John raised a frail-speckled hand into the air to prevent him from continuing. “She’s her own woman. If she has ya, I’ll have ya too.”
“I think she will,” Steele said, with a smile.
“I think she will too.” John put a hand on Steele’s back and tried to shake him in happiness. “You are a big one.” He wagged a finger at him. “I could pin a cow with one hand back in the day.” His hand shook as he held it, forming a fist.
“No doubt in my mind you could.”
“You’d be good to remember that, son.” All of his words were in jest, more of an obligation between men. Customary words that men felt needed to be said despite the reality of modern times.
“I will.”
The grandfather gulped back his emotions. “I watched that girl grow up. Took care of her.” He stuck the corner of his tongue in his cheek.
“I’ll take care of her. Hell, she takes care of me most the time.”
The old man nodded fiercely, swallowing his emotions, a mixture of joy and change and a remembrance of the past. “Good. That one would bring in a lot of strays.” He released his grandfatherly hold on Steele’s neck and smiled at him.
“Hopefully, I’m the last one.”
“You will be, son. She’s a good one.”
“And what are you two talking about?” Gwen asked as she came in the room with Lydia and Becky.
“Nothing, dear,” John said.
Lydia eyed him with a knowing look. “You can’t hide from me, Mr. Reynolds.”
“Bah, I ain’t got no time for your inquisition.”
Lydia snorted. “You’ll tell me, John. I’ll get to the truth.”
Steele gulped down the dryness of his parchment-like throat. He was more nervous now than when he’d faced a hundred infected. He was more nervous than when he’d fought and killed other men. Those things were second nature to him now, including watching men die. Even if he never got used to it, he knew it, he’d experienced it and could wrap his mind around it, but this. This was a whole new game. He walked over to the Christmas tree.
He bent down near a box of ornaments pretending to dig around inside. “Gwen,” his voice croaked like a teenage boy. “Could you help me with this one?”
She smiled and stood, walking over to him. “You can’t do it?”
He wrapped his hand around it and shook his head, it was the only general motor skill he could eke out in his nervousness. Should I be this nervous? Is everyone this skittish before it happens? Can’t back out now. The wheels are in motion. He tried to swallow, but his tongue balled in his throat.
She knew he was in distress and half-smiled at him. “Are you okay?”
He nodded dumbly and let himself drop to a knee. She turned her head inquisitively at him. Lydia gasped.
Opening his mouth for a moment, he closed it quick and took a deep breath. “I can’t tell you what this world may bring, but I will do anything for you and our child because you make this world worth living, and I can’t live in it without you.” He opened his hand revealing a simple gold ring. No princess-cut diamonds. No precious sapphires or rubies. Just a plain gold band that symbolized all he had to give.
Gwen’s hands went to her mouth, a younger replica of Lydia doing the same. Becky covered hers with a single hand.
“This ain’t flashy nor expensive.” He gave a nervous laugh, holding out the ring.
“It doesn’t need to be,” she whispered.
With a knowing smile, he fixed his eyes on her. “Gwen Reynolds, will you marry me?”
Tears exploded from the corners of her eyes, chin bobbing. “Yes! I will marry you, Mark Steele.”
He slipped the ring on her finger, and she helped him up. They embraced long and hard, both crying and kissing one another in a shaking union of two souls. “I knew I’d make an honest woman out of you.”
She laughed, gripping his hands harder. “Stop it. You know I hate that.”
“What? Being honest?”
She tilted her head to the side, and they let go. John hugged his granddaughter and shook Steele’s hand vigorously. Lydia and Becky hugged everyone, and they all shared laughter and happiness and joy.
When everything settled down, John eyed Steele for a moment. “So when are we going to do the wedding?”
Steele shrugged his shoulders. “I hadn’t thought about it much.”
“Christmas Eve,” Gwen said.
Steele raised his eyebrows at her. “That’s only two days.”
“Yes, Christmas Eve. We both know what dangers lurk out there, and I don’t want to live another day not married to you.”
“As good of a reason as any,” Lydia said with a nod.
John smiled. “Aye, it is. That’ll give me a couple days to round up a few pigs from the Carters.”
“A damn fine plan. Tell him we’ll pay whatever he asks. It’s the Christmas spirit.” The joy felt unusual in Steele when they’d grown used to so much turmoil and struggle. It was as if laughter and life were a foreign language that he was learning for the first time.
He laughed and shared a glance with Gwen before he turned to John. “Would you care to be our officiant?”
John’s smile deepened from ear to ear as he placed a hand over his heart. “It would be an honor.”
MARGIE
North of Burlington, IA
Gripping her trembling body tight, she scrambled through the gray tree trunks. Her clothes stiffened as she ran, the water and the cold air threatening to freeze her literally in her tracks. The timber stopped before a white-covered field. Square structures rose up in the distance. Her feet were blocks of ice and she stumbled, numbness overtaking any sensation.
She trudged toward the buildings, the promise of humanity growing with every step. Ignoring the footsteps in the snow, she knew this refuge was her only hope. In a disoriented struggle, she collapsed on the front porch of a new-looking farmhouse. She brought her fist up in a single knock and fell into a ball.
***
She forced her eyes open. She could feel the various parts of her body and she was warm. I’ll never leave this place, she thought. Snuggling deeper into the comforter, she went back to sleep.
“She’s awake. I saw her move. Get mom,” came a voice from her room.
A minute later a woman with maple syrup-colored hair and glasses appeared in front of her. “How are you feeling?” Her voice was had a nasally twang to it.
“Warm,” she managed to say.
“You weren’t when we found you or more like you found us. Where’d you come from?”
“I was on a boat going to Clinton.”
“Clinton? This is no weather to be on the water.” She paused. “Or in it.”
Margie sat up and moved to a seated position cov
ering her breasts with her hands. The woman bent near the bed.
“Your clothes are still drying. I figured you could borrow some of mine. We’re about the same size.” The woman placed a set of clothes on the bed and turned away while Margie dressed.
Margie hurried to cover herself, throwing a shirt over upper body. “What’s your name?”
“Beth.” A young teenage girl stood near the door. “That’s Grace. My husband is Dennis, and our boys are Nicholas and Austin. Who are you?”
“My name is Margie.” Mother of none. Wife of a corpse. Lover of a murder victim. She slipped on wool socks. “Thank you. Where are we?”
Cocking her head, Beth’s curls jumped. “You don’t know where we are? Where you from?”
“Michigan.”
“Figures. We’re in Kingston, Iowa. Why were you in the river?”
“Men ambushed us.”
“Ambushed?”
“A traitorous biker gang. We were all militia forces under Captain Steele.”
“You part of the group down in Burlington?”
“Yes, do you know them?”
“We know of them. We’re hesitant to send our boys down for training when we need them here.” Her eyes searched Margie for understanding why she kept her family out of harm’s way.
“I must warn them. Can you take me?”
A man appeared in the doorway. He was over six feet and had thick arms that she bet used to be lined with muscle, but age had added a layer of fat over them. He had a blond mustache. “She’s awake.”
“Yes, dear, been talking about an ambush. She needs to get down to Burlington.”
“Is that so?” he rubbed his mustache with concern. “An ambush? Don’t sound good. By who?”
“Traitors. My entire team is dead.”
“Shit.” He sighed through his mustache.
Beth gave him a disappointed look. “Honey, please.”
He pushed his mustache up with his lower lip. “Sorry. All right. I was trying to avoid heading down there, but I suppose it’s time for us to see what all the fuss is about.” He yelled over his shoulder. “Austin and Nick, get the horses ready. We’re headed down to Burlington.”
“Do you have any guns?” Margie asked. She read the woman and then the man.
“Guns?” he tilted his head. “Hell, we got plenty of guns.”
“I need a gun.”
“What kind? We got ARs, shotguns, .308s, a shit ton of handguns.”
“Language,” Beth chided with a disapproving look.
“Sorry, sweetheart.”
“I’d prefer a 30-06 hunting rifle, but whatever bolt-action you got.”
He smiled. “I think we can cover you.”
***
Red Clare stood with her hands on her hips, a cigarette hanging from her lips. Her gang surrounded them in a menacing mass of women. They pointed guns at Margie and Dennis along with his sons.
Dennis held his hands in the air. “Shit, Margie, I thought they were the good guys.”
Margie kept her arms high, praying to God she was right. “They are.”
“They aren’t taking too kindly to us.”
“They will.”
Red Clare took a few steps closer and coughed a wheezy laugh. “I thought you were all dead?”
“Not all of us.”
“War Child said you turned on them on the river.”
Margie raised her chin an inch. “It was the other way around. He ambushed us. Killed the soldiers and my crew.”
“Don’t surprise me. Never trust a War Machine. Ain’t that right, ladies?” Red Clare said.
Chuckles and smiles came from the ladies, and they lowered their weapons.
“Come on in before you freeze a tit.” She waved them into the warehouse.
Dennis’s face flushed scarlet. “This is the militia? These women?”
“Yes, come on.”
She swung off her horse and walked her mount toward the warehouse. Her ride hesitated near the door, its oval black eyes skittish. Tugging the reins, she attempted to maneuver the scared beast through the door. Her companions stayed atop their animals staring at her. She pulled the reins harder, trying to lead the wary horse into the building.
Peering over her horse, she said. “You’ll freeze to death if you stay outside.”
Dennis shook his head. “This don’t seem right. If there’s trouble, we’re leaving.” The men dismounted.
As Margie managed to goad the animal inside, she said to herself. “If there’s trouble, we’ll die.”
They entered the warehouse tying the reins of their horses on a support beam inside.
“Why don’t you warm up near the fire? I’ve got to talk to Red Clare.”
Dennis nodded and his eyes shifted uncomfortably at the female bikers. But he did as she suggested and led his boys near the fire.
Margie marched for Red Clare’s commandeered office, closing the door behind her. “May I?”
“Course.”
The chair puffed dust as Margie plopped into it.
A cigarette burned in Red Clare’s mouth and she sucked on it, flaring the orange tip, releasing tiny gray tendrils. “So you’re telling me War Child is a big old liar?” Leather scraped as she took out her handgun and placed it on the desk. She rotated the pistol, pointing it in Margie’s direction. Her hand rested nearby, fingers drumming on her desk.
It was hard to pry her eyes from the handgun, but she forced herself, connecting with Red Clare and clasping one hand tightly in the other. “Yes. His men slaughtered us on the river.”
Surprise unfurled on Red Clare’s face, fingers drumming. “How’d you escape?”
Margie made a fist with one of her hands as the other rubbed the top. “Tony shielded me from bullets with his body. I dove into the water.” She exhaled forcefully.
Red Clare blew smoke out her nose and leaned forward, putting the cigarette out in an ashtray piled with butts. “What do you expect me to do about it? Turn the War Machines over to the cops?”
Her thumb dug into the meat of her other hand. “I expect you to do the right thing. He’s betrayed Captain Steele, and we have to tell him before War Child can hatch whatever plan he’s made.”
The female biker president scratched her head. “War Child is a devious old fool, but I’m not getting my girls all shot up over a squabble between those two.”
Red Clare’s eyes were two orbs devoid of pity, and Margie wanted to wring her neck for it. “My people got all shot up for nothing. He’s a traitor.”
The other woman sat silently, her mouth settling into a tight pucker.
Pressing her thumb harder into the meat of her hand, Margie said, “My crew is a bunch of frozen corpses on a pontoon boat. All of them dead.”
“I heard you the first time, sweetie.” Her tone shut Margie’s mouth. “Exactly what I’m trying to avoid for my girls. And I take care of my girls. It’s your word against his, except he’s got a whole crew at his back. Steele’s got an army. There’s no way War Child is going to go up against him by himself.”
“What if he’s not? What if there is someone helping him?”
“Honey, you ever hear about playing your odds?” Red Clare leaned back in her chair. Margie stared at her in silence, anger seeping from her eyes. This woman was supposed to be an ally, part of the greater good against the marching death.
“Why do you think all the bikers banded together to begin with? Why do you think we followed Thunder and then Steele? We had a lot better shot together than apart.” With a creak, she bounced forward in her chair. “And when this is over, we will be stronger together once again. The boys can off each other to see who’s got the bigger Johnson, but all the while my girls are safe, whole, and uninvolved.” She paused. “Oh yeah, did I mention, not dead.”
Margie peered down at her hands. Would it always be the strong over the weak? Would someone not stand for what was just? Her hands released from one another finding taut freedom. Her right hand found the handl
e of her knife and she drew it with speed and angry purpose. She pointed it at Red Clare, jabbing it close to her face. The biker didn’t flinch.
“Honey, what is sticking me gonna get you? A moment to feel better. I’m just telling you how it is. Not how you want it to be.”
Margie shook her head. “No. You make your choice here and now. You’re going to help us or die. I don’t care. Your people will kill me either way.”
“Sister, you got a lot of nerve coming in here threatening me.”
Margie eyed the woman shaking her head in disgust. “Not you too.”
“I already told you. I do what’s best for my club.”
With a twirl of the blade, Margie flipped her knife and slammed it between Red Clare’s fingers. Eyes bugged out of the biker’s head. Margie lunged, grasping for the pistol.
“You bitch.”
She stuck her index finger at the woman. “I don’t give a shit anymore. Do the right thing.”
Clare worked the blade back and forth out of the desk.
Margie cocked the gun, centering it on her face. “Do the right thing.”
Red Clare’s puckered mouth turned into a wrinkled smile. “You mean to miss?” She wheezed a cough that turned into hysterical laughter. Her breasts shook with laughter. She clutched her hand to her chest, struggling to breathe.
“You are much more of a cunt than you look,” Red Clare said. She shook her head in amazement.
“Make your choice.”
The biker president narrowed her eyes. “I see your point. I’ll help ya and Steele, but under one condition.”
Margie twisted her head, suspecting a trap. “What is it?”
With a slow hand, she grabbed her package of cigarettes and popped another in her mouth, bending to light it. Inhaling, she said. “You join my club.”
Margie snorted. “Me join a biker club?”
“Those are my terms. Otherwise you’ll have to pull the trigger and get gunned down outside.” Her assassination of Red Clare would surely lead to Dennis and his boys’ death. What’s a few more lives to my death tally? But her heart wasn’t in getting more innocent people killed.
Red Clare flipped the knife around and offered it to Margie.
“All right. I’ll join your club, but after you help Captain Steele.” She eyed the hilt as if it could bite.
The End Time Saga (Book 5): The Holding Page 26
