Resistant

by Rachael Sparks

  His eyes never left her face, and the pain in her features and voice felt almost palpable to him. God, he was out of practice. It was so unusual to have someone react to him, to his face, without disgust. She resumed steadily pulling weeds, eyes down, radiating humility. Not judging him, despite how his words had hurt her. He didn’t know for a moment if he’d ever seen a more beautiful woman in his life. Against all training, he reached out and covered her hand in his. Rory’s blue-green eyes lifted. Unadorned. Unassuming.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, halting. “I just hurt you. I’m not accustomed to anyone being comfortable around me. Friendship with you isn’t . . . It isn’t a chore.”

  Rory could read more in his eyes, but she wasn’t sure it needed to be spoken aloud. She smiled softly, looking back down to their gardening.

  “Good. Because I’ll warn you, kale is a chore to eat. You may wish you’d eaten the weeds later.”

  His laugh, barely louder than a deep breath that vibrated the air around him, sent a warmth down her spine.

  That afternoon Navy found more wiring errors in the solar panels, based on a hunch that they were underproducing in wattage. He helped cook dinner that night and earned a beer for a thanks. Byron pulled out his harmonica, Rory reluctantly revealed her violin, and they played “Long Hot Summer Days.” To Rory’s surprise, Navy recognized the ancient lyrics and hummed along. The wolf in the forest howled along behind him.

  “What was that?” Navy asked quietly.

  “Our strong fan base,” Byron deadpanned. “He’s a red wolf. A little displaced, it seems, but he’s been around for months.”

  Navy looked to Byron. “A wolf? Is that typical in this area?”

  Byron shook his head and stretched his feet out to the porch railing. “So many animals are having to adapt to the climate changes, and it’s far more difficult for them. We’ve evolved a whole level of technology to help us cope. They have nothing but their wits and muscles. Someday, many years from now, we might know how many extinctions were caused. It’s probably thousands of species wiped out.”

  “Millions,” Rory echoed quietly. When Navy sent her an incredulous look, she shrugged. “We used to be part of a network that helped track ocean life changes—whale migrations, shark sightings, tracking tags, fish catch, even plankton. The data hinted at a devastating impact.”

  Byron sighed and added, “Unfortunately, the gentleman who had organized the tracking network went dark about two years ago. We assume he was infected.”

  Navy cleared his throat, sipped his beer, and stared quietly toward the wolf’s howl. They seemed knowledgeable about the predator, but he had learned only to trust upon close inspection. Drones no longer looked like his father’s old model planes.

  The week became a slow shock for Navy, too. It had been a long time since he’d had the satisfaction of doing a hard day’s work for work’s sake. Something about harvesting a turnip you ate that night or nibbling on an apple fresh from the tree imparted a sense of place that he only vaguely recalled from his childhood in Maine. Rory and Byron were a strange pair, but their unnerving brilliance was balanced with a humility and generosity that he’d never encountered before. Not many people accepted the appearance of his discolored face without some distaste, or questions, or natural human revulsion. They never showed any. He could tell they were curious, but they never asked. He learned that they traded frequently with neighbors, keeping their friends close by an economy of kindness and community. Rarely, they bought goods from stores, but seemed to avoid it and the legitimate currency it devoured. Their evening chats were often devoted to theorizing inventions that would solve problems of sustainability or reduce waste, but always keeping in mind how they could then be built and shared freely with others. Money or patents never entered the discussion.

  Whatever his orders, getting to know them only reinforced Navy’s suspicion that they were innocent in all this, and ultimately victims. It was hard to think of them in any other light.

  CHAPTER 4

  * * *

  By Thursday evening, after working on it for the afternoon, he announced that he’d found the boat motor’s issue.

  “Really? That quickly?” Byron exclaimed.

  “I think the leaky gasket caused a bit of corrosion down the line. I found some unused parts in storage at the marina, and by tomorrow I should be able to see if that fixes it.”

  “Now see, Rory. That’s how you fix a motor. You could learn something.”

  Rory flashed a wry smile at her dad. “I’ll stick to my own talents, but thanks. But maybe you can give me the abridged version of the repair tomorrow. We’ll go put out a lobster trap,” she said to Navy. He met her gaze briefly, his green-brown eyes seeming to hold a glint of hope and excitement that was out of character for him, but then he quickly found a piece of food on his plate that needed a glare. Rory didn’t know what came over her, but she reached out and nudged his hard shoulder playfully. “I saw that, Navy.”

  One eyebrow, slashed by the dark blue pigment across his face, rose sardonically and dropped just as quickly.

  “Saw what?” he replied without inflection.

  “I saw that boyish thrill cross your face. You’re so excited to throw out a lobster trap that you might go fix the boat tonight.”

  Byron watched the interplay with curiosity. He might not like it, but he had to reluctantly admire his daughter’s skill at flirting. Her mother had been a killer at it, but she’d been able to go to college, to practice. Rory was an amateur, and Navy was already losing.

  Navy sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I think you saw alarm.” He waited a tense beat, frowning at her. “I’ve seen you on a boat, Rory. I’m not sure I have the first-aid skills to help you survive lobstering.”

  Byron let out a roar of laughter that was soon answered by a howl not far outside the house.

  Navy helped Byron wash the dishes that night while Rory devoted time to her thesis, and he used her absence to probe into their past.

  “When did she die?”

  “We lost Persephone a few years ago,” Byron explained. “We don’t like to talk about it much.”

  “I’m sorry.” Navy took a different tack. “Has Rory ever had an infection?”

  “Nope. Very lucky there.” Byron looked to Navy. “Your family?”

  “My father died of an infection. My mother is still living. I don’t see her much, but she seems safe every time we talk. My sister and her family live with her, in Maine. So . . . do you think living this kind of lifestyle, out in the country, is the key? Or do you guys have a secret sauce?”

  “Secret sauce?” Byron laughed.

  “Yeah, I mean . . . you’re all three so brilliant. I would wonder if it’s all luck.”

  Byron was quiet. “All three?”

  Navy didn’t miss a beat. “Rory told me your wife was an amazing doctor. A lead researcher. I didn’t mean to upset you, sir.”

  “No problem, son,” Byron sighed. “As much as I wish I could find a secret sauce, and as much as Persy tried, I don’t have that answer tucked in a syringe somewhere. And if I did, I’d share it.”

  Navy let the quiet sit between them for a while. He believed Byron, for what it mattered to anyone. And Persy’s work obviously lived on with them. But they weren’t ready for what was coming. “Sir . . . about the wolf. I think it needs to be killed.”

  Byron stopped and studied Navy, who was steadily scrubbing an impossibly blackened pan. “Are you worried for Rory?”

  “Yes. It could be hungry, dangerous. Desperate.”

  “Or hungry, lonely. Needy.”

  “It doesn’t belong here. You can’t predict its behavior.”

  “Sometimes I take a chance on those types of animals.”

  Byron woke late that night reaching for Persy. As usual, the point when his subconscious crossed the boundary into reality left him almost doubled over in regret and pain. God, he missed her. Sometimes visiting her headstone in the back of the property made him
feel better, or perhaps it was just the walk. Either way, lying in bed miserable wouldn’t fix him. He chucked on jeans, boots, and a shirt and headed out with a small flashlight.

  The moon was almost full and lit the farm with that silver-blue that almost made it feel cool out. He was only fifty yards from the house when he saw the wolf, watching and tracking him from the far tree line. In the color-drained world, it appeared mottled gray, but its eyes picked up the light of the moon. It tracked him for a while and then dashed off suddenly into the trees. The dash gave him a surprise, made him pause. He stood still, the breeze carrying voices to him. He thought he heard Navy’s voice, but he didn’t recognize the second voice. Is it Rory? Is this a tryst? God, being a father sucks sometimes.

  But it was a male voice. Instinct, for protection of their home and of Rory, had him sprinting toward the voices in the apple orchards. Navy sighted him when he was a dozen yards away, and Byron saw the dark-skinned, taller man standing across from Navy, but neither moved.

  “Who the hell is this, Navy?” he demanded as he approached. Neither needed a flashlight to see the other.

  “Mr. Stevigson, I—”

  “I never authorized you to invite guests,” he warned angrily.

  “Yes, sir, and I’m sorry. This is my friend; he’s also traveling by foot. He was a few days behind me and caught up.”

  Byron waited a beat. “Bullshit. He’s been here the whole time.”

  Navy took a breath, squaring his shoulders, but gave a curt, honest nod. “You’re right. I let him sleep on the boat. Neither of us is dangerous, I promise. This is Army.” He gestured to the newcomer, a strong, tall young black man with a shaved head. When he smiled, his teeth practically glowed in the moonlight.

  “Bullshit again. I want your real names.”

  “Unfortunately,” the man answered with a slight accent, holding out his hand, “I don’t know any other name. The Marines gave me that when they took me in as a boy from Trinidad. I don’t recall what I was called before that.”

  Navy could tell Byron was too angry and uncertain to know what to ask next, and he jumped into the divide. “Byron, we’re both just military grunts that got out after the government burned us. You can see my scars in the daylight. Army got his scars from the same people, they’re just more subtle.”

  Army tipped his head to the flashlight clenched in Byron’s hand. “You can see it, if your torch has a black light.” Byron looked down at the small device, turned it on, and pressed the toggle button until a violet-toned UV light shone, making his white shirt glow in the darkness. He lifted it to the black man’s face and nearly jumped as small, bright green stripes appeared on every bit of exposed flesh. It was as if his skin were lit from beneath. “I’m just glad they didn’t call me Frog,” he joked. His manner was friendly, more naturally extroverted than Navy.

  Byron looked to Navy, who nodded with understanding.

  “I realize I should have been more honest with you. Everyone who meets me is typically so repulsed that they never trust us at all. You and Rory, you surprised me. I didn’t expect you to be so . . . different. Army is actually who fixed the boat.”

  Army laughed and punched Navy’s shoulder with a force only a brother would permit. “Ah, you tried to pretend you know how to fix a motor? Now that’s lying with flair!”

  To Navy’s surprise, Byron let out a reluctant chuckle, disarmed by his friend’s natural warmth.

  “Okay. I’m going to believe you. What caused this skin condition you both have?”

  Navy glanced at Army and then met Byron’s eyes. “We’re not sure. We were told it was an experiment to create immunity—an ability to survive the bacteria. It failed, and the rest of the men in our unit died.”

  “We barely survived,” Army added. “Don’t know how.”

  Byron sighed and looked up at the moon, then down the rows of the apple orchard.

  “All right. This discussion is by no means over, but I’m not in the mood for an all-nighter when we need to start harvesting apples tomorrow. You can stay, Army. But you’ll work your ass off.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said with a respectful salute. “And thank you sincerely, sir.”

  “Let’s go.”

  They fell in line beside Byron and headed toward the house. Navy’s eyes scanned the tree lines for the wolf. For any wolf.

  “Maybe you can fix that broken Jeep for me, too,” Byron suggested. When there was no answer, he glanced past Navy to their new guest. Navy cleared his throat.

  “I already did,” Army admitted.

  As they neared the house, Rory rushed barefoot onto the porch with a flashlight, wearing only an oversized shirt. When she turned the light on and pointed it toward them, Navy realized the beam was trembling. He broke into a sprint to the house, taking the four porch steps in one bound.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, grabbing her arms and running his hands down them to check for harm. “Was it the wolf?”

  “What? No. Where were you? I woke up and everyone was . . . gone.” Rory realized her voice was shaking and reined it in on the last word, trying to make it sound like a scold instead of a scare. She rubbed her arms where his hands had painted a trail of warmth.

  He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “We’re fine. We . . . Your father and I took a walk. I’m sorry we scared you.” Touching her felt so good, so reassuring, he had to clench his hands not to do it again.

  “You didn’t,” she lied. “I was just surprised.” She’d woken from a nightmare of being left alone on the farm, her father, the animals, and everyone else dead. And you dead, she thought. She didn’t realize the tear tracks were still on her face until he ran his thumb over her cheek.

  “You’re crying.”

  “No, I’m not.” She slapped the back of her hand across her cheek, squared her shoulders, and hugged herself to keep from hugging him. He was close enough that she could feel his warmth. “The doors were open, everyone was gone. I was just surprised.” Her tone was meant to be light, flippant. It almost worked.

  “You said that.” He took her hand and rubbed his thumb over it. She looked up into his eyes again and desperately wished her father wasn’t walking up behind him . . . with someone else?

  “What the hell . . . ?”

  Navy turned, releasing her hand reluctantly. “This is my friend, Army. We were in the same regiment. He’s passing through, too. I just wasn’t sure if you had space for us both. Byron says you do.”

  “If I work my ass off,” Army quipped, then added with an outstretched hand to Rory, “Excuse my cursing, ma’am. It’s late, but I should mind my manners.”

  She shook his hand hesitantly, still a little off-center after the fright. After Navy’s touch, she thought. “Hi, um . . . Army?” It occurred to her that she was barely dressed.

  “Check this out, Rory,” her father said cheerily, then looked to Army. Game, Army grinned and nodded consent, and Byron flipped the black light back on to shine it at Army. As his face lit up, she tilted her head in sheer, curious amazement. Byron chirped, “It’s some sort of mesodermal bioluminescence!”

  Rory took in a slow breath, and Navy was the only one to notice it shook a little as she released it. “Army, welcome. I . . . We . . . um . . .” She struggled to find a proper welcome. “Oh, fuck it. I’m going to bed. I’ll be polite in the morning.” Turning on her heel, she disappeared up the stairs.

  Byron watched in quiet amusement as Navy’s eyes followed Rory every step until she was out of view.

  “She’s just like her mother. She’ll make you coffee and breakfast in the morning, but late is not her finest hour. C’mon, gentlemen. We have a full day tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 5

  * * *

  The day did start early with a pleasant breakfast, but Rory had little time to learn more about Navy and his friend’s shared past before they were sketching out the plan for the apple harvest. Ripe apples and the storms Byron predicted would mean a great deal of lost
fruit and income unless they were largely done with the thirty-odd trees by evening. If it was a lightning storm—more deadly since the climate had warmed—their window would be shorter. After explaining and demonstrating how their system worked, now much faster with a functional Jeep, Byron assigned Rory and Army to work the Jeep while he and Navy suspended the nets from the next trees.

  It was simple physics: hang a circumference net from the widest limbs, shake each major limb to drop the ripest apples, and then pick the rest by hand. Ladders helped, but their trees were young and most fruit was within reach. And once Army got the hang of it, he was already thinking up new ways to move quicker. By noon, the limbs of over twenty trees floated a couple feet higher than before, relieved of their tart burdens. After a quick lunch, they dove back in as a breeze kicked up from the eastern shore, but by three in the afternoon a driving rain had begun.

  With only three trees remaining, Rory wanted to slog through, but Byron shouted a different order.

  “We still need to get everything into the barn and start sorting. Those will have to wait,” he said, raising his voice to conquer the wind and clutching his hat to his head.

  Rain was beginning to plaster her hair to her face, but Rory blinked it away and shook her head. “I’ll finish, you guys go sort!”

  Byron knew his daughter. “Fine. But don’t blame me when you’re cold and wet and the water heater doesn’t work tonight.” She smiled and kissed his cheek, then jogged back to her trees. Navy, shaking his head at Byron’s indulgence, gave Army a nod to the barn and followed Rory to help.

  “You’re stubborn as hell, you know that?” he shouted at her over the wind.

  She shrugged and kept picking and throwing apples into the net. “It’s important. This is our biggest income.” Rain blinded her as she looked at the higher branches, then over to the Jeep pulling into their barn. It won’t get done by just looking at it, she thought, and started to pull off her boots and socks.