by Laila Blake
She ran her fingers over the labels: beans, meat, corn, fruit, soups and stews. Her stomach growled, and she forced herself to move on. He kept a ledger that lay by his field bed, but she couldn’t read his handwriting and it just looked like long lists of items, anyway. He cooked on a small camping stove. A last canister of melt water stood next to it, waiting to be used.
He was clearly well-equipped, but Emily couldn’t shake the impression that the room looked empty, that the haphazardly placed boxes were all but remnants of something she couldn’t quite picture.
She gave up on finding something incriminating when her bladder started to ache. It reminded her that there was a whole house to explore, that there might be a basement full of young mothers and their children getting ready to be cooked and canned.
There was no basement, but she did find a bathroom.
The toilet had a jug next to it, and she numbly recalled a weekend when the plumbing in their apartment had busted and they poured water into the bowl to make it flush. The seat itself was frigid, but she squatted anyway, having faced much worse indignities already.
Where the main room had been comparatively warm, here, she could feel the cold creep up from the floor and through her socks into her body. Once situated and her bottoms pulled down, she leaned back and closed her eyes, allowing that sense of light-headedness to circle in on her while she relieved the pressure. There was no toilet paper and for a long moment, she gnawed at her bottom lip before she pulled her panties back up. It wasn’t the first time these days. She used the jug sparingly and finally leaned onto the sink, inspecting her reflection in the mirror.
She looked like a ghost; her papery thin skin stretched over her bones. Her hair was messy and stuck out in all directions. Fumbling in the nest of knots, she found an old elastic and, without a brush at hand, she tried to comb her fingers through it as best she could, before she tied them back into a bun at the nape of her neck. She felt the desire to be clean, to rub soap all over her skin and her hair, to wear clean clothes, drink clean water.
Shivering, she rubbed her face; it seemed to belong to a stranger, not the girl she remembered. That girl had been happy, once upon a time.
Emily edged away from the mirror, unwilling to look at herself, or to leave Song for long. Keeping herself upright with her palm to the wall, she staggered back down the narrow hall and into the main room, back to the strange silence that was broken only by Song’s rasping breaths.
She eased herself onto a chair and watched him. Hours could pass that way, easily, convincing herself that he was alive. When the door opened, though, she looked up. A gust of wind blew into her face and the stranger gave her an apologetic kind of smile. Emily still had trouble returning those. Like small-talk, like jobs and a home across the sea, she just wasn’t used to them anymore.
“I check a lot,” he explained, in that lolling accent that she might have mocked once upon a time. There were so many things to feel guilty for.
“I don’t blame you.” Her eyes went, almost without her realizing, to the boxes she’d snooped through. So much for secrecy.
His gaze followed hers and he stomped snow from his boots. “Ain’t got a lot left.”
“Well it’s… it’s been a while now,” she whispered, trying to figure out exactly how many months. A year at least, a year and a half?
“It has.” His boots free of snow, he took off his coat next, and the hat that appeared lined in fur. Thus undressed, in jeans and a sweater, he wasn’t quite as formidable, but was still broad across the shoulders, and shockingly tall.
“You want some more tea? I’m gonna kick up the hotplate again for supper.”
The mere word made her lean forward, aching and needy and trying to hide it. Supper. It was another word that had lost its meaning long ago. They ate when they found something, or when they couldn’t stop themselves, when the hunger hurt too much.
She nodded, though, trying for a smile again.
“Thank you. I…” She swallowed, then looked away. A debt was starting to stack up, much higher than she knew how to repay.
He waved in her direction, turning the knob on the propane tank and setting a tarnished and dented kettle on the plate. “Just got some canned stuff from the PX. It does the job.”
“PX?” she echoed, watching the flame jump into life like magic.
“Post exchange, sorry. Was on post—Army base—when everything went down. I collected the remains.” He shot her a smile like he had to apologize for that, for being forward-thinking.
“Oh,” she whispered again. “Lucky. I mean…” Shaking her head, she rubbed her eyes. It was the wrong word but she was too tired, too hungry and in too much pain to find better one.
“Lucky,” he echoed, and she glanced away with the expression that flickered over his face: she knew she should ask, but she just didn’t have it in her.
“Sorry,” she mumbled instead, cradling her arm and glancing over at Song, anything familiar to focus on. Sullivan’s guitar case leaned against the wall by the makeshift bed. Her backpack on the floor kept it steady, and the hard, cold panic took seed again, down at the bottom of her stomach, when she noticed how thin it had gotten, how much they’d had to leave behind.
“Don’t worry about it.” He had straightened up again, and she could feel his eyes on the arm she had clutched to her chest like a physical sensation that stirred the tiny little fluff on her skin.
“What happened?” He didn’t make pretense, and she reminded herself that he was a medic, when the stiffness hit her spine and made her freeze for a moment, unsure of what to do with his attention anymore.
“I fell. Slipped,” she amended, looking down at it. The purple color, the swelling, both made it hard to keep her gaze there. “There was a dog. Dying, loud. I tried to hurry… Song kept slipping off my hip.” She shook her head, squeezed her eyes shut and did her best to sound confident when she added squeakily: “It’s no big.”
He moved closer to her, though, and she opened her eyes to find him crouching beside her chair. “Let me take a look.”
She didn’t argue, relinquished her arm and looked away. It was the same instinct that used to have her turn her head when it came to blood tests or jabs; it felt childish, but she didn’t want him to see the tears of panic pooling in her eyes even before he touched her, even before he could tell her what was wrong.
His touch was gentle, more than she’d expected, his palms warm. She breathed out a whistle through her nose, the pain less than she’d prepared for.
“Looks like it’s just a sprain,” he told her, fingers encircling her skinny wrist. “So that’s good. I can wrap it up, we got plenty of ice,” he added, and even with her head turned, she could hear the smile in his voice. That hurt, too, in a different way.
“Really?” she asked, finally allowing herself to look at his fingers where they supported her arm. “I thought… I thought it’d be… you know, screwed.” She tried to laugh, hollow and short, and she stopped immediately. “Bit of a wuss, I guess.”
“Sprains can hurt just as bad.” He set her arm in her lap and shifted onto his knees to reach for one of the boxes, the one with the bandages, to pull out a roll, almost virginal white.
“I got some Tylenol, too. That’ll help the pain.”
“It’s… okay. Don’t worry about it. It’s better already.” She looked up, then avoided his gaze that seemed to try and catch her in the lie. It wasn’t as far as Emily was concerned—the worst had been the fear of a serious break, that she could do more damage with each movement, that she didn't know when—or if it would heal. She could live with a little pain.
“So um, you’ve been living here? Sitting it out?” The place didn’t look like it to her, but then he was in the army and she’d seen movies about their Spartan, tidy living.
“Kinda,” he said, lifting her arm to tuck the end of a bandage under it, keeping the fabric in place with his thumb, still gentle. “Back and forth. Takin’ stuff I collected from po
st and thereabouts.”
“Thank you,” she whispered again. His fingers looked massive on her arm, like they might wrap around her wrist twice, and she looked away from the boney, discolored piece of flesh that her body had become. “That’s what the gas is for? Getting more?”
He shook his head: without his hat, his hair was thick and shaggy, a little like a dog’s. “Planning on heading out again,” he said, more to her wrist than her. “This is all I got left,” he added, lifting an elbow in the direction of the boxes.
Nodding, Emily followed his gaze. It still looked like a massive treasure to her, but she didn’t say that. If this really was winter’s last blow-out, the season for gathering was finally coming and nobody would make it through another year on these reserves.
“We won’t… you know, have to rely on your generosity for long. I promise.”
He looked at her then, eyebrows drawn together. “I wouldn’t worry about that,” he said, though his voice had gone softer. Before she could react, he patted her arm and pushed it back towards her, getting to his feet as the kettle on the stove emitted a spray of steam. “Tea’s ready.”
Emily’s gaze slipped to Song first. He was still sleeping soundly, though, and she didn’t have the heart to wake him, just to make him drink more tea. She watched Aaron then, how he puttered around in his tiny makeshift kitchen, rolling thoughts in her head and trying to square her stacking debt against another request that had started to take shape in her mind.
He brought over a cup, and a bowl of something that looked and smelled like oatmeal, with a scoop of fruit cocktail atop it. She felt her head swim for a moment, aridity rolling off her tongue in a way she almost didn’t recognize—salivary glands waking up suddenly. She tried to attribute the sudden rush of tears to some internal connection, but still looked away for a moment, gathering herself while her little silver engagement ring clicked against the bowl.
“Thank… thank you.” She was beginning to feel like a stuck record, shaking her head at herself and inhaling the smell, spoon shaking in her hand.
“Sure. Eat slow,” he added, that same sweet smile on his face, too kind to look at. The dizziness almost hurt, like a physical manifestation of relief. And now she had no idea anymore how she could possibly ask him for one other thing—the lift into the next town. She could think about it later.
Sticking the spoon into the thick, glutinous mixture made her quiver. The last time she’d eaten anything hot felt like weeks ago, before the snow, when they’d found safe, pretty houses by the lakes, houses with beautiful open fireplaces and ready kindling.
“Maybe I should wake Song…” she stuttered before she could bring it to her mouth, the intense need for that morsel of sweet mush suddenly made her feel guilty.
“Let him sleep it off,” Aaron advised, sitting beside her on the floor; she noticed he’d not served himself a bowl, even as he held a cup of hot tea between his hands. “He’ll be plenty hungry when he wakes up.”
“I’m not used to… not sharing with him anymore,” she admitted, more to herself as she stared down at the spoon. She felt watched, even though she was the one keeping up the senseless conversation and invited his gaze.
His smile crept up on one side. “There’s enough for both of you.”
Emily breathed in deep and then, in a hasty gesture as though afraid he might change his mind, she stuck the spoon into her mouth. The mash melted on her tongue, tasted heavy and good—hot. A tiny moan crept up her throat and she closed her eyes as she swallowed. Maybe it was her imagination, but her stomach immediately felt less achy, less shriveled and dead.
Aaron made a huffing noise, and got back to his feet. Though he’d only had a sip or two of the tea, he moved to the window, to look out at the waning light, reaching, almost absently, for his coat.
“I…” Emily said, before he could reach for the door again. “You’re kind.” She paused at the awkward non-sequitur, the explosion of little words. “I am not used to that either. I just… thank you.”
The smile on his face grew, just a little, making his ears shift under his lank hair. “Just try to do what’s right,” he told her, pulling the sleeves onto his arms, shrugging the bulky coat onto his shoulders.
“Aaron?” she tried again, forcing the tall man to turn around to her once more. “I really wouldn’t ask, and if it’s not convenient or there’s no room… you can say no. But… if… if you were getting ready to head out anyway? Do you think… maybe you could give us another lift? Anywhere really. I’m not picky.”
That seemed to bring him up short, but he didn’t look appalled or annoyed the way she might have feared. He stood in front of the door for a few seconds, before he gave a short nod.
“I was gonna head out tomorrow,” he told her, hands going to his pockets. “I got a few places I know where I’m going, people to take these supplies to. That work?”
Emily blinked. Her mouth opened, then closed and she cleared her throat.
“You’re bringing people stuff?” she asked, sounding hoarse and high pitched.
He nodded. “This is too much for me. Would be a crime if I went and horded it all.” He almost winked: she recognized the expression, and the way he just stopped short of doing so. It did something to her stomach, like lancing an infection, loneliness, maybe.
“That would… yeah, that would be great. Thank you, Aaron.”
“Of course. What else would I do?” He picked up his gun and pushed the door open again, the blast of cold not quite so shocking with the bowl cradled in her hand. She held her breath until he was outside again, until the door was closed, and then she let it out, shaking, wet and short.
Chapter Four
If trudging through snow had been exhausting—both physically and emotionally—driving through it was mind-numbing. It was something Emily had not expected: she’d lived in cities for so long, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in a car for more than thirty minutes. Time and distance, both passed slowly. The snow had drifted across the road, piling so high in places that Aaron couldn’t let his focus waver for a second, rendering him mostly unresponsive. For Emily, it was a little like sitting in traffic—except everything was white and soft, no blaring horns or raging drivers. With nothing on which to focus her eyes, they had started to feel heavy, and she yawned and stretched at every turn.
Song, in the nest of blankets she had built him on the backseat, had drifted back off to sleep again shortly after they’d left the cabin, his shyness around Aaron still outweighed by the fever that rendered his body weak and malleable. In regular intervals, coughs would roll through his chest. Emily craned her neck back every time, but he never really woke. She knew he needed sleep but, at the same time, it made her feel lonely, eyes gone somewhat blind, staring at the bright expanse of snow.
The silence wasn’t entirely comfortable enough to try and get out a book or her sketches, and she remembered getting violently carsick from that anyway. She sighed heavily; it surprised her how slowly the time trickled by when nobody spoke. Unbidden came the memory that with Sullivan, they had been able to sit together in silence for hours on end, each following their own thoughts, leaning against each other, the mere proximity providing comfort. But there would have been no reason to stay that way, and eventually Sullivan would have launched into some kind of tangent, that storyteller voice of his weaving in and out of words like he was born to swim in them.
Aaron glanced in her direction. “Everything okay?”
She twisted her mouth in thought and then shrugged with a guilty kind of smile.
“How do you know where to go?” she asked, selfishly trying to stop him from sinking back into his silent concentration. His eyes were back on the road.
“I don’t know,” he said, after a moment. “When I cleared out the supplies at first, I had no real place to take ‘em. M’not from around these parts, remember.”
Emily nodded. “Georgia,” she said, some proof she’d been listening.
&nbs
p; “That’s right. Just stationed here between tours.”
She scratched at her shin, drawing her knees up against her chest.
“You were in Iraq.”
“Yeah. Reupped and was waiting to be shipped back out.” He gave a small chuckle of disbelief but didn’t continue. Emily looked at his profile, considered the chuckle. She remembered demonstrations she had gone to, carrying a banner: No Blood for Oil. Song, tiny baby Song, had sat on Sullivan’s shoulders, excited, not completely sure why everybody was shouting and waving posters.
“Was it horrible?” she asked very, very quietly.
Again, Aaron didn’t answer right away, but she couldn’t tell if it was because he was focusing on the road, was annoyed or just done with the conversation.
Finally: “That’s not really a question to answer.” He lifted a hand from the wheel for the first time in what seemed like an hour, knuckles creaking, hand damp. “There was a lot that was bad, but also a lot that was good.”
Emily watched him again and then rubbed her face.
“I guess it’s a weird question now, anyway,” she admitted.
How much worse could it have been than the dark terror every last survivor now carried deep inside them?
“Why’d you go there? I mean, why’d you become an army medic?”
He shrugged. “My dad was in the army, he died when I was a kid. Wanted to do something he’d be proud of, I guess.” He gave her a ghost of a smile, seeming a million miles away. “Mom was none too pleased, I guess, but I had to do what I had to do.”
Nodding, Emily looked out of the window again, thinking of her parents; once upon a time she couldn’t have gotten away from them fast enough. Now they were like ghosts or characters in a book she once read, long ago, alive or dead and a world away.
