by Lynn Lamb
“Reverend John, she has nightmares all of the time now. She wakes screaming, and her heart starts racing,” Jackson said, as if telling on me to my mother like he did last night.
“Jackson, Laura knows what she needs. Sometimes we need to see the things that scare us the most. It can be healing.”
“This won’t be healing. I guarantee it,” said Jackson.
We pulled up to the door where I had entered when we first came upon the occupied winery. There were bloody hand prints all over it, but I went in without a word.
The place was so quiet this time. The first body was in the entryway. It was so riddled with bullets that I couldn’t tell if it was a male or a female. I turned away and Jackson was immediately at my side. I took his hand and continued to move us onto the main winery floor.
Most of the barrels had bullet holes, but only a few had pools of wine below them. In places, blood from nearby bodies mixed with the spilled wine.
“Reverend John, can we recite Psalm Twenty-Three now?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said. He led us through the Psalm, and I turned to look at Jackson as he said it right along with us.
At the end, Jackson turned to me and said, “What, you think you were the only one to go to parochial school?”
“Well, yeah,” I said. “I’ll be outside. I have something to do out there.”
I exited the door and pulled the black permanent marker from my saddlebag, and in my tradition of writing on walls, I penned:
Inside lie the remains of thirty nine Wanderers.
Some were innocent and some were guilty.
May they find their way in death,
That they could not find in life.
∞
The men stayed inside for another half hour, moving the bodies and covering them with whatever they could find to use inside the mausoleum. We closed the doors behind us, hoping that they would remain that way forever.
“So, you two are the big scuttlebutt in the Village now,” said Reverend John out of the blue. I knew that he was trying to get our minds off the horrendous scene that we just encountered, and it worked.
Jackson looked at him in disbelief, but I was not surprised at the Reverend’s candor. He and I have been discussing the relationship since the beginning. He has always been open and honest with me.
“It’ll die down as soon as we have our next big piece of gossip,” I said.
“So, Padre,” said Jackson. “I guess we are going to hell, huh?”
“Laura asked me that not long ago,” said Reverend John. “And I will tell you exactly what I told her. I think you each have enough good guy points built up that you are both a shoe-in for a spot in heaven.”
“Thanks,” said an unconvinced Jackson. “Laura does anyhow.”
∞
When we returned to the camp we were whisked into a MT meeting. I hadn’t completely recovered from the sights and smells of the winery experience, but it was time to get our ducks in a row. We now had a total of nine new people in the Village, some of whom might have been involved in the horrific activities that had taken place, at least in part, in the winery. And then there was the matter of Sergeant Ramirez’s burial.
“Report, Jackson,” said Mason. “Not the details, we already have those. What went wrong?”
“Well, Colonel Mason, it seems we raided a beehive of suicidal, American insurgents. Men and women, armed with assault rifles, pistols and knives, came out in force. We used the gas and waited, but it didn’t stop them. Some of them were probably on drugs, but we don’t know what.”
“This was your mission, and we lost a man,” said Mason.
“Yes, we did. He died saving more men,” said Jackson. “It could have been much worse. Put plainly, we didn’t have enough troops.”
“Then we need to start recruiting,” said Mason.
“Hell no. Not in my Village,” I said. “If someone volunteers then fine, but there is to be no active recruiting or drafting.”
“I understand your trepidations,” said Fitzpatrick. “But it is very possible that we will run into this sort of thing again. We need to know that we have enough combat forces to take care of it.”
“We need to get the hell out of these hills to where you promised us safety,” I said. “I am getting tired of arguing with all of you. If you will not figure out how to get us out of here, we will. And Mason, don’t forget your promise when you joined us. The Villagers are not your minions,” I said.
“And we still plan to keep that promise. Don’t we, gentlemen?” said Jackson.
“Then work with the Villagers, and we will find a way out,” I said. “Now let’s get down to business. What are the chances of making it out on foot?”
“Little to none in our present state,” said Fitzpatrick.
That meeting went on for another excruciating hour and a half.
∞
“That son of a bitch,” I ranted as Jackson and I headed back to the cabin.
“I have never been a fan of his, either. But he is right, Laura. Our people came back badly beaten, both physically and mentally. You only saw the aftermath of what happened. Bloodbath doesn’t even begin to describe it. Those people were like rabid dogs. The ones who didn’t have traditional weapons used homemade shit, like metal balls with spikes. In my thirty five years in the service, I have seen a lot, but I have never seen anything like that. They were like wild animals.”
“I am sorry you had to go through that, Jackson. I really am, but that doesn’t mean that the people who surrendered to you are that way. And if they are, maybe it was their only way to survive. I’m not at all happy with them being interrogated by your men. We have Katie, and she knows what she is doing. I am sending her to them when they are out of quarantine, maybe before.
“Jackson, I have to tell you something that I know to be true; you need one person in charge of the MT. Since you all have decided to join the Village, it needs to be my call. That person should be Fitzpatrick.”
Jackson’s face lit with surprise, and then he said something even more unexpected than my decision, “I agree.”
∞
Sergeant Baldwin was watching over the livestock when I went to see what we were planning on doing with the animals without Ramirez. He was attempting to milk a goat.
“You need some help over here?” I asked him.
“No, ma’am,” he said. “I’m sure you have more important things to do.”
“More important than supply our people with good nutrition? No, not really,” I said. His expression was wistful.
“He was a good friend to you, wasn’t he?” I asked.
“The best, ma’am,” said Baldwin.
“You have a lot of experience with farming?” I asked him.
“Nah, I grew up in L.A.,” he told me. “But Ramirez talked a lot about it. I figured I would keep the animals fed and taken care of until we got to the Valley; if we ever get there.”
“I am feeling the same. He taught me to milk those things. It will go by faster if you have company,” I said, grabbing one of the female goats by her collar and pulling up a little plastic chair. The animals were actually growing on me.
Baldwin had a wash bucket with warm soapy water, and I pulled out a wash cloth and wrung out the excess water before cleaning down her udder. She bucked a little, but she soon complied with my will. I pulled over a clean bucket and did just as Ramirez had taught me. The first few attempts yielded some milk production. I guess I got cocky because the next time I squeezed, my cold fingers slipped, and the milk squirted right into my face. Baldwin took one look at me and began laughing. He tried to get it under control as I wiped the milk out of my eyes.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said controlling his laughter.
“Why? It was funny,” I told him.
“You are my superior, and now isn’t the time for fun anyhow,” he said.
“Would Ramirez have laughed?” I asked.
“He’d probably be rolling
on the ground.”
“You know, it’s alright to find something to smile about in all of this. I don’t think he would have wanted you to stop finding happiness in life.”
We finished milking the goats in silent thought.
∞
I took a deep breath before entering the RV. I wasn’t sure what to expect. Erica was at the desk that had been set up as my office at the beginning of our journey. That seemed like a million years ago.
“Is he awake?” I asked, pointing to the door of the bedroom.
“He’s awake,” she said dryly. It didn’t take much for me to guess that she was on team Mark. I knocked lightly on the door.
“Come in,” said Mark’s weak voice. His face lit when he saw me. “I was wondering when you would come.”
“You were sleeping when I tried before,” I told him. It was an excuse, and he knew it. “How are you feeling?”
“Like someone shot me, twice,” he replied.
“Fair enough. Mark, I was so scared when I saw you on the stretcher.”
“Sorry. It was insane in there, Laura. When that first bullet hit me, all I could think about was never seeing you again; never having the chance to make things right again.”
I lowered my head in guilt. Did he think that his getting shot would make me leave Jackson and go back to him? My heart was bleeding seeing him lying there, helplessly. How had everything gone so wrong? Not just in the world, but with Mark and me? He looked up at me and smiled the smile that used to make me melt, but now it just made me sad.
“Mark, the Doc said that you are going to be fine,” I told him, purposely not commenting on what he said.
“Bri came by earlier. You did right with the way you helped in raising her, even though sometimes I criticized you. She pulled me out of there. I would be dead if it wasn’t for her.”
“She’s a brave one, and you had something to do with that, too.” Tears were forming in my eyes and I sniffled, hoping to keep them back. “She wanted to be in the army, just like her brave Uncle Mark. You were a good influence.”
A tear fell from Mark’s eye, and I wiped it away. He didn’t take his eyes off of my face, and we stayed frozen, still unable to say all that we needed to say.
∞
Matt had finally made it into the deep frozen earth with the tractor so that we could bury Ramirez in a way befitting the hero that he was.
Sampson had made a plain wooden coffin out of some of the supplies we had, and Jackson found a flag to drape over it. I wish that there had been someone to give the flag to after it was folded, but Sergeant Ramirez was alone in the world after the Last War. Sometimes I felt guilty that I had so many of my family with me when others did not. I also felt very fortunate.
When they lowered the coffin in the hole, we had no flowers to throw on it, but Holly had some of the children make some out of coffee filters and colored markers. Bailey went up and dropped her flowers on the coffin of the man who, only days before, had taught her how to milk a goat. She was crying. I went over, lifted her up and held her close. Maybe it was a bad idea to let her attend so many funerals. She was only eight years old, and her existence day in and day out was full of fear and death.
Fitzpatrick was the first to speak. “I was honored to know Sergeant Jose Ramirez for the past year. I worked alongside him in his tireless efforts to prepare for the Last War, for which we will all always be in his debt. He died saving the life of a fellow soldier. I believe that is how he would have wanted to go, as a hero. We can honor him by caring for his beloved animals and using them to help sustain the people with us today. In that way, he will live on as long as we do.”
I leaned myself and the tearful child in my arms into Jackson’s shoulder, and he placed an arm around us. I wasn’t in the mood to worry about how it looked to everyone else.
When Holly asked for the kids to gather, Bailey wiggled out of my arms and joined them. They sang a haunting rendition of Amazing Grace, and Reverend John ended on Psalm Twenty-Three. It was becoming a staple in this world.
After a funeral in the old world, we would have joined together for food and to tell loving stories about the deceased. In this world, we went back to work.
Good-bye Staff Sergeant Jose Ramirez. Thank you for what you did for Mark and Bri.
∞
I was working at my table in the cabin when Jackson came back from the MT meeting with Fitzpatrick at his side. He looked tired. I had encouraged him to wait to discuss the MT leadership until things settled down, but he said he needed to get it done.
“How did it go?” I asked, foregoing a more pleasant greeting. I looked at the clock on the wall. “That was one long meeting.”
“We had a, well, let’s call it a lively debate,” said Fitz.
“I am sure you can guess who wasn’t so happy with your idea,” said Jackson. “Mason has three years seniority over Fitz, but in the Marines. He whined that it was his time, blah, blah, blah. When it came up that Fitz had more combat experience, and that he was generally better received by the Villagers, that’s when the real fit happened. He went on and on about you being the one putting us in danger, and how you will make sure that we will never get out of here.”
Jackson came over and put his hand on my shoulder, trying to comfort me. I didn’t care what that old bulldog thought. I smiled up at Jackson to make sure he knew that.
“He insisted that rank determined who was to lead, but we made Fitz here a General, anyway,” said Jackson. “Mason was out numbered.”
I got up and shook Fitz’s hand. “Congratulations, General. Jackson told me that you were planning on retiring right before learning about the war, so I am deeply grateful that you took on this incredible responsibility,” I told him.
“You would be the one person to know just how incredible the responsibility is,” he told me. “I have no doubt in my mind that we will be able to work together to accomplish our goals, Laura. And thank you for your confidence.
“And I wanted to tell you two congratulations on figuring out how to, ahem, get along now. Any small piece of happiness in this nightmare has to be clung to.”
Jackson and I smiled knowingly at each other. I thought about how Fitzpatrick walked in during our first, let’s say, encounter in the snow cave, and I blushed.
“And that reminds me,” said Fitz. “I have a prior engagement with Miss Jessica Sheraton.”
I had no idea when those two found the time to even talk; much less make an “engagement,” but it did answer my question about Jessica’s good mood this morning.
“Tell her I will be by for that free hair cut soon,” I told him before he left us alone.
“Sit and have a cup of tea,” I told Jackson. “How’s your leg?”
“It’s fine, just stinging a little.”
I made tea as he got comfortable on the sofa, elevating his upper thigh on a pillow.
I brought him his tea and sat on the overstuffed chair across from him. No one had much time for recovery anymore. I looked at the dark circles under his eyes. His hair had grayed so much since I meet him that first day when we came out of our houses to form a community. It was now more salt than pepper. I remembered seeing photos of how presidents aged during their time in office; any youth they had was stolen under the great weight of the office that they held. In just half a year, he had aged more than any two-term president. Perhaps Fitz taking over some of his responsibilities would help, but I was still concerned.
He took a sip of the tea and made a face. “What is this pig swill?”
“Ammie made it. It has healing herbs, and you are going to drink every last sip. The ginger and turmeric will help with the pain.” I said. I didn’t mention the lavender that was added for his blood pressure that I assumed must be high with all of the stress he was under.
“It’s awful. What?” he said in reference to my staring at him. “What do you want? More sex? Damn woman, do you ever think of anything else? You’re exhausting me.”
�
�Funny! No, not that. And you are the one who only thinks about sex. Actually, I was just wondering what your life was like before you came to Monterey. You went to parochial school?”
“Yep, Roman Catholic. Got whipped by my fair share of nuns and priests, heh.”
“Yeah, I bet you were one great altar boy.”
“You laugh, but I was. Let’s see, then it was off to West Point, like my father and his before him. I met my wife and settled down, had three kids, but you know that part. I was deployed more times than I can count. Oh, then there was that little matter of finding out about the doom of the world and meeting you. That’s it in a nutshell.”
“That’s one short nutshell,” I said, disappointed at his lack of details.
“I don’t have the strength to do anything with the innuendo that you just left dangling,” he said. “The best part of my life was my kids and you.” His eyes were beginning to close. I found him a blanket and covered him. I wished we had enough fuel to light the gas fireplace, but he drifted off comfortably.
I stared out the window as sheets of ice were released from the dark and angry skies above us and thought about what Jackson said. His life hadn’t been a dream come true. He spent thirty-five years going to wars and working towards a retirement. Maybe he would have moved to the Bahamas and lived out his years with some pretty girl, downing piña coladas on the beach. And he would have deserved it. He certainly didn’t deserve this.
Something struck me about the Village; people were beginning to pair up like Noah’s Ark. Was it like Violet said? Did the women really believe that they needed a mate in order to survive? We have lost so many good people, but how would having a mate insure that you weren’t going to be picked off by natural selection or just a gang of really bad people? Perhaps these new pairs have simply come about for some kind of comfort in these terribly uncertain times.
Still, I was glad that people were finding happiness and reassurance in their new relationships. Maybe some of those younger pairings would produce offspring. But would that be advisable with all of the radiation and other containments we have been exposed to? Mark and I had tried for kids before the war, but I couldn’t do it. The doctors told me it would be a miracle, and I learned to accept it. Maybe Jackson’s Bahamian girlfriend, the mythical one I just made up, could have given him more children, assuring that his bloodline would continue.
