I can’t help it; witty just isn’t me. “Congrats on what must be the most disastrous rescue mission in the history of mankind,” I say instead. Since we are two or three hours away from disaster, it feels warranted.
“Oh, I don’t know,” my minx mumbles as she scoots over, going straight for the ropes—her hands are already free. “It took us all of three hours to get in here, find you, and be in a position to escape together. That’s three to four days ahead of the most positive estimations.”
As soon as the undone rope falls away, I turn to face her, but she’s already right there, kissing me deep enough to take my breath away. I grab her and pull her close, the fear licking at the back of my mind only fueling the need that’s taken hold of me. If not for Richards grumbling in the corner, that would have been one passionate, immediate reunion right then and there—and the nasty voice at the back of my mind helpfully supplies that I should very well make the best of what little time together we have. At the very least, it’s the humane thing to do, trying to make her as worked up and well-lubricated as possible so that, maybe, what comes next will go over just a little easier for her.
I don’t tell her that as I watch her free Richards. They’re joking as she does so, which sends a weird twist to my stomach—not because I suspect that she cheated on me with him; I don’t, and honestly, if she did, right now I couldn’t care less about inconsequential things like that. No, it’s the level of camaraderie that they display that must have been growing substantially over the past few weeks—while I was sitting in here, rotting away. Good to know that I’m not beyond spite yet. It’s mostly that which makes me sound harsher than I intend. “Maybe you think that travesty of a plan of yours is working, but that ends here.” I hate that I can’t hold a certain amount of defeat out of my tone, either. Bree blinks at me with wide, guileless eyes, turning that hint of annoyance into real anger. “Exactly how drugged up are you?” In the room down the corridor, I thought she’d been acting more intoxicated than she really was, but now I realize that’s not true. She really does look too out of it to be much use to Cortez in her current state. And she knows it, judging from her reply.
“Very. I might benefit from a punch or two in the gut. Any volunteers?”
Richards looks up enthusiastically. I put a quick end to that idea. “If you even think about hitting my wife, I’ll fucking end you!”
Confusion surpasses fear on his face, but he’s quick to placate me. Somewhat. “Not sure I could hit her right now. Hit, as in not miss. But I wouldn’t. Besides, I don’t think it works that way. Didn’t work when she was in a fight earlier.” That confirms my guess about the blood and bruises on her face.
Bree playfully sneers at him, then draws herself up as if that would help anything. “I may blather like I’m drunk to the gills but my motor control is at ninety percent. Maybe eighty-five,” she amends when she almost loses her balance—leaning against the wall. With the three of us in here, there’s hardly enough room for her to fall. “Doesn’t matter. You’re alive. That matters. And now we’re getting out of here.”
I can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm—but it disappears just as quickly as it comes up. I’m not holding my breath, but, with luck, it can be that easy—at least for her, and right now that’s all I care about. So I explain to them about the loose bars up there on the skylight of my prison cell. It took me a week to loosen the first, and I made good progress on the second before… my shoulders gave out. I’ve tried many times to climb back up, but Cortez took good care of making that a futile endeavor at best. I suspect he found out, yet rather than cement the bars once more or move me to a different cell, he left me to rot down there with my way to freedom so tantalizingly close—yet forever out of reach. Until he was stupid enough to throw a tall, strong guy in here with me who can finish what I started. As expected, Richards is eager to give it a try—and Bree takes all of a minute to pick the first fight with me. As much as I’ve missed this, and her in general, right now I have no patience to explain to her why I risked ruining what’s left of my rotator cuff in the arena. She folds surprisingly easily—and without me having to explain exactly how it happened that I wrenched my own shoulders out of their sockets.
We form a human pyramid as best we can; obviously, none of the three of us were cheerleaders in high school or college—not much of a surprise, but I wouldn’t have put it past Richards to have had a former life as a gymnast, tall and gangly as he is. Bree spends a little too much time staring up, and I’m surprised she doesn’t spout a string of cock-and-ball jokes. When did my wife become so mature?
I already know the answer, but mostly to distract her, I still pose it. “Let me guess—you don’t have five thousand people ready to attack?”
“More like fifty,” she calls back down to me.
“Sixty-three,” Richards gets in between grunts. “But not sure about all our spies, or how quickly we can activate them.”
Spies—which explains why they ended up together. I was hoping that Richards would find her since I didn’t make the drop-off on time. Coincidence, really, that they snatched us up days before that was due. Or the army presence tipped them off, and that’s why I’ve been rotting here for the weeks. I’m not even mad Richards didn’t get anyone to try to spring me earlier—I doubt he has manpower enough for that under cover. But I will kill his spies without mercy if it turns out one of them is one of my trusty guards.
“How soon can you get them here?” I ask, mostly to distract myself now.
“Soon,” Bree quips, making me guess she’s being stealthy. No need for that, really—Cortez will rely on the knowledge that he can beat the intel out of her soon, no need to spy on us. Rotting away in a dark hole is more efficient when you realize not even your shouts get heard.
“Good.” That’s the understatement of the century—and some of that relief must have been in my voice because Bree looks at me imploringly. I swallow thickly, not sure how to say this—so I spit it right out. “You have to promise me. As soon as Richards gets the bars off, you’re out of here, do you understand?”
A small smile crosses her face. She’s not taking me seriously. “Sure, after I’ve found a rope and gotten you two out as well.”
As much as I love hearing her plan, that won’t do. “The gap’s too small for either of us. But it’s large enough for you. Just get out, sneak out of the town, and get help. That’s the best you can do.”
Defiant denial beams down at me, but before she can put up a fight, Richards manages to pull the first bar free. I urge him on to continue, and he’s smart enough to follow through. Bree continues to chatter away but I can tell that the urgency of the situation is finally sinking in with her—or it’s the knowledge that she will have to leave the two of us behind to save her own hide. I know it’s in her nature to survive but she’s not someone who easily abandons anyone—but she can’t do anything by herself. She can rain down terror and destruction once she has backup, and I hope to hell that she does.
As soon as the second bar is gone, we disassemble our pyramid. Bree is ready to get in my face, logic be damned, but I cut her short the only way I can—with an uncustomary display of affection. I wrap my hands around the back of her neck and lean my forehead against hers, savoring every second of skin-on-skin contact. I don’t want to let go. I don’t want her to leave. I don’t want to be alone anymore, and above all else, I don’t want to be here for what will happen when Cortez realizes that he just lost a brand-spanking-new toy without getting any use out of it. But my sanity relies on her getting away clean, so it’s easy to urge her to go.
“Bree, I need you to be free,” I tell her, the words coming straight from my soul. “Trust me, after how long? Going on nine weeks—”
“I wish I’d managed to get here sooner,” she whispers, her voice heavy with regret.
“Doesn’t matter. You’re here, and you brought backup, and after what little I’ve managed to hear from others, in this world with what’s going on out
there that’s close to a fucking miracle in itself! I’d give anything to be out of here right this fucking second, but I’ll hold out a while longer. Problem is, I don’t have anything to give up, and the only thing that’s kept me holding on so far is knowing that you’re safe. That you’re not here.”
“How did you know—” she starts to ask, but I quickly cut her off.
“Not important. I’ll explain once we are out of here. My point is, if you’re still here when they come back, things will get bad. Fucking bad, fucking quickly. And I’m talking your level of imagination bad, just so we’re clear here. You’ll help me the most by not being here. And don’t bring up Richards; I know he’ll agree with me once he gets what’s at stake.”
“No protest from me,” Richards offers, trying to make light of it but I know he must realize that he’s in for a world of hurt.
“Promise me,” I implore, needing her to say it.
It takes her some time, but finally, she nods. “Promise.”
“Good. Then up you go. In this weather, it shouldn’t be hard for you to slip away unseen.”
I don’t want to let go of her. It’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but I know there’s no way around it. I kiss her one last time, asking myself if it’s the last, stat. How long ago was it that I almost gave up? Sixty minutes? Now it’s the last thing on my mind.
Physical limitations aside, Bree is quick to scramble up to the window, and while there’s some comical kicking, grunting, and pushing involved, she fits through the gap in the bars. I let out the breath I’ve been holding when her legs disappear—she’s free, and hopefully smart enough not to get caught. I trust that she is.
Richards and I both stare up at the window for a little longer, then inadvertently look at each other. I can tell that he’s assessing the state I’m in. The moment his mouth drops open, I growl, “Don’t even think about shrinking me.”
“Wouldn’t dare,” he lies, but drops the point. “Let me guess—this is going to get real brutal, real quick?”
I would have shrugged sarcastically if not for the lingering pain in my shoulders—and my ribs, and my entire body several times over. “Depends on your definition of brutal.”
“It does?” There’s a hint of real surprise in his voice.
“No.”
“Thought so.”
There’s nothing I can tell him that will help. I think he’s smart enough to know what I mean. I’m not sure I have it in me to try to come up with anything consoling—and I don’t feel charitable enough to try. I’m tempted to ask him what he knows about how Bree got away the first time, but don’t. She’ll tell me soon enough herself. All I care is that she got away—and makes this a repeat performance. I give her a good chance—the only reason we were caught in the first place was because they were smart, and we got stupid. She was right when she called them an incompetent bunch of assholes—problem is, in all the weeks I’ve been here nobody has given me an opportunity to exploit that. Half a week more in the beginning, and I could have gotten the other two bars loose as well, and then I could have simply walked out of there. In hindsight, few things make me feel as stupid as the fact that I’m to blame for missing out on that chance—but I could take only so much without resisting. Besides, I am still convinced that Cortez knew what I was doing and turned it all into another failure that’s staring me in the face every time I look up there. He’s good with the small things, I have to give him that.
Something clanks above us—metal against metal. I squint as I lean against the opposite wall. Is that a chain? A car engine revs, then whines, and fountains of mud come cascading down into the cell. I raise my arm to avoid the worst, but I don’t really care as with a screech of metal, the bars tear free, disappearing into the stormy night outside. Richards and I stare at each other; he offers me a goofy grin that makes me guess he’s exactly as loopy as Bree, and that placid act was the best he could do to appear like he isn’t.
“Your wife may be a shit magnet of gigantic proportions, but sometimes her tenacity borders on miraculous.”
I agree. A rope dropping down between us delivers me from having to answer. I nod at Richards to climb first—which costs me a lot. I don’t want to stay down here a second longer than I have to—and it would be just my luck for the door to open just as Richards makes it outside—but since there is no way I can climb, even with the rope, I tell him to go. Bree can’t pull me out herself—and I’d get smashed against the wall if she used the car—but Richards should be strong enough to get the job done.
It takes him fucking forever to squeeze through the opening, and from his pained grunts and groans, he’s leaving some skin behind. I pace up and down, incapable of standing still. I feel like a caged animal for sure, the promise of freedom suddenly making it all but impossible to suffer for even a moment longer.
Patience, I try to tell myself.
Go fuck yourself! I reply.
Yeah, I’m about ready to get out of here.
The moment the rope drops down again, I grab it, winding it as best I can around my right hand—right now my better one—and hook my feet around the end to make this easier. The jolt of being pulled up is killing my shoulders but this is nothing compared to what will happen if I don’t make it out of here. As soon as I’m up at the freshly-widened hole, I twist around so that I’m with my back to the wall and ground and reach outside, and a quick, hard pull is all I need to get through. I come to my feet, feeling like I’m taking my first real breath in ages—I’m free. I can’t believe it. I can’t—
Yes, I can, particularly as I’m greeted by Bree crowing her triumph. What can I say—she keeps me down to earth and humble. The door of the car they used opens—belatedly I realize that Bree standing outside means they must have had help—and out spills one of the last people I’d have expected to see here. “Marleen?”
The woman in question smirks—and doesn’t hide the fact that she still likes what she sees. Richards, too, which makes me want to groan—but that’s not something I’m going to concern myself with right now—
The hunger roars back to life inside of me, stronger and louder than ever. It takes every ounce of restraint I have not to launch myself at the next bag of meat to tear apart and savor—which happens to be Richards, which is bad luck for him because I care a lot more about both women present. I manage not to, forcibly telling myself that this has to wait. Yes, I’m starving, but I have reserves aplenty so I don’t need to eat right this fucking second. I can hold out another hour or two easily.
Some arguing ensues, then we’re off toward where the labor slaves are kept. I know a thing or two about them, but I don’t have the energy to care right now to explain. While we hunt for clothes, Marleen returns with the marines, and my wife once more proves that someone would have shot her in the face already if she wasn’t my wife. I can’t tell her I agree—explaining to her now how the rivalry between the different branches works is beyond me. At least they’re not air force. Bree’s banter helps me focus on not trying to see if I can overwhelm Scott or his men and get some quality protein into my body.
Up to the fields it is, where we narrowly avoid running into a patrol. Instead, they run into us, and if I don’t get to slake my hunger, at least I can bleed off some of the frustration that’s been accumulating inside of me for fucking forever. I’m so fucking tempted to tear into one of those assholes, but getting away is more important, so we hop onto the ATVs and take off into the night.
I don’t care about the storm whipping my face or the rain drenching me to the bone, leaving me shivering like mad. With every yard that I get farther away from my prison, I feel myself become a little more like, well, myself again. I’m still hungry as fuck, but that insane need for raw, human flesh abates. There’s hope, I tell myself. I’m not beyond redemption, just one motherfucker of an opportunist. I won’t spend the rest of my life running around with a Hannibal Lecter mask.
Part of me dreads getting to our people’s camp, but I
kill the impulse to feel like anyone will need exactly one look at me to know what happened to me. I know it’s all in my head—and besides, Bree’s opinion is the only one that matters to me. I won’t start on that whole victim-versus-survivor trajectory—I will never be anyone’s victim. And if I have a say in it, this time tomorrow there won’t be anyone alive to dispute my conviction.
But first, bittersweet reunion, which I know I should care about more but my mind has decided to switch to single-track only—so it’s food, sex, and comfort that I want, and since the stew someone hands me tastes like shit and I won’t get a thread of comfort until I can rest, which I won’t until I’ve killed that sadistic asshole and torn him to shreds, some alone-time with my wife it is. I’m almost surprised when they just let me drag her off to the next quiet, dry place, but I don’t miss the look Zilinsky in particular sends me—an offer and a request: she’ll listen if I need someone to talk to, but if I could just get that over with talking Bree’s ears off, she’d be much obliged. That’s exactly what I intend to do.
I wish I could avoid the talking part, but I’m not stupid. I know my wife well enough to know that curiosity will eat her up, even though she’s smart enough not to want to hear a word of what I need to tell her. And a need it is, in a twisted sort of way. I’m world class at keeping a lid on my emotions, and that has gotten me into more trouble than keeping silent has ever been worth. I know it’s best to go the Band-Aid route—vomit it all out, do a complete purge, and then never look back. Part of me feels bad for dumping all this on Bree, but I know that she wouldn’t have it any other way.
But first, I need to figuratively mark my territory, and shut up the nasty voice in my mind that questions whether I’m still man enough to do that.
As soon as we’re alone, I’m all up in her business. Since she had no qualms whatsoever before about kissing me, that’s where I start. Just like it should be, she joins in very enthusiastically, making me want to pause and tease her about not getting any for too long—but I don’t, because doing anything more mentally challenging than worshipping her body with mine would wake up the part of my mind that’s not content with wallowing in trauma later and celebrating the here and now first.
Beyond Green Fields | Book 3 | Lost & Found [A Post-Apocalyptic Anthology] Page 6
