by Coralee June
Today, Kemper set aside the entire day to fix the Bakery's oven so that it was level, and that had me bouncing with eager energy. I was so excited to spend the whole day with him that I burned a whole batch of chocolate chip muffins, as well as Lois’ patience. Like all of them, he was overworked. His small team of builders were working overtime to get each Walker immigrant a cabin of their own.
When he wasn't building, he spent his evenings fixing things around the community. Last week, he built a ramp for one of the elderly community members that used a wheelchair. He coordinated so much but rarely took credit for it. Kemper simply saw a need and fulfilled it.
When he arrived, he looked tired but just as happy to see me as I was to see him. He wore tight denim that clung to his tall, slender, frame.
“Hey, Ashleigh,” he said in a cheerful voice. He carried a forest-green toolbox that clanged with each step he took.
“Hey, Kemp, I’ve missed you.” I walked into his open embrace. He nearly dropped his toolbox at the force of my hug.
“I should move my office closer to the town center, so I can see you more. These team builds and Providence repairs are brutal,” he replied while letting me go and rubbing his forehead.
Brutal indeed. Aside from my mornings with Maverick, it felt nearly impossible to steal time away with any of them. If I wanted to see them, I had to roll up my sleeves and help.
“I cleared my day, though. I was hoping that maybe after we get your oven situated, you could maybe teach me how to bake a cake? You know—since the one I made for your birthday was such a disaster.” He gave me deprecating grin that made me chuckle. “Of course, if you’re busy or—or something, I could, uh, leave.”
“Spending the day with you sounds lovely, Kemp. And . . . it wasn’t that bad. I’m just amazed that you managed to both undercook and overcook it. That takes true skill.” Somehow Kemper had burned the exterior of the cake, but uncooked batter had still oozed from inside.
Kemper laughed, and we maintained a playful conversation between us while he worked on the oven. I watched him with giddy greedy eyes as he worked. He was methodical in the way he approached a problem. Examined it from every angle while biting his lip in concentration. His attentiveness made me wonder if he approached everything with that much care.
Once he was done leveling the oven and cleaning it, he tinkered with a few other things that needed fixing in the Bakery; adjusting a sliding door, greasing a drawer. He inspected every inch of the Bakery until there was nothing left that needed improving.
“Are you done prolonging the inevitable?” I asked with a smile while pulling out the recipe for chocolate cake. Despite knowing it by heart, I wanted Kemper to reference it since it was his first time making it.
“I guess it’s time to face my fears,” he joked back.
I explained each step in painstaking detail and even told him why each of the various ingredients were important to the flavor of the dish, why following each step was vital to its success. Kemp studied me like I was a manual and even took notes while I spoke, never once asking me to hurry up or get on with it.
He mixed the batter with ease, and I watched the way his slender frame moved. His forearm flexed with each twist of his wrist and mix of the batter. I had to pry my eyes away from his graceful movements. Watching Kemper was addicting.
Once the cake was in the oven, we sat down and painted some of the toys left out by Lois. She was determined to get them completed this week, and once again, Kemper was eager to help.
“Are you regretting coming here on your day off?” I asked with a smirk while putting the finishing touches on a carved bear. “Don’t let Lois know what all you fixed. She’ll keep finding more work for you.” I chuckled. That woman was ruthless and loved having the Dormas Leadership Council around.
“It's worth it,” he replied while painting a smile on a doll with such attentiveness that I wondered if he had any artistic abilities. It wouldn’t surprise me; Kemper seemed to be able to do anything.
“Where did you learn how to build?” I asked
“My Grandfather taught me; he saw that I liked working with my hands, so when I was old enough to take direction, he gave me little projects that turned into bigger projects. Then I was building an entire town.” Kemper set down the doll he was working on and peered at me with a sigh. “He died a year ago." Kemper’s voice held such sadness and conviction that my heart ached. "He outlived his wife and my mom, survived X, survived the Eastern Scavenger attacks, all to just peacefully die in his sleep. He was a good man.”
I reached out and grabbed his hand, then gave it a little squeeze, reminding him that I was here.
"Cyler and the others have always been my family. We're like brothers. But I still miss my Grandpa," he said in a choked voice.
“I’m sure he’d be proud of you,” I replied, not knowing what to say.
Kemper coughed then grabbed another toy, his gesture seemed to end the conversation, and we went back to painting in uncomfortable silence.
The beeping of the oven ended our torturous silence, and we both breathed a sigh of relief. He stood, walked over and opened the oven door slightly then said, “it needs a bit longer,” before shutting it. He re-read over the recipe as I watched. Kemper was a perfectionist. Every action, every thought, every word was designed with such intention that I wondered if Kemper ever actually broke out of his carefully constructed comfort zone and walked on the careless side. I briefly remembered the others teasing him about streaking in the town center, but that was under the influence of alcohol.
“Kemp, do you ever let go?” I asked while standing and walking towards him.
“What do you mean?” He stopped looking at the cake and peered up at me in confusion. I knew what a lifetime of striving for perfection could do to a person. I knew how exhausting it could be.
“Do you ever . . . I don’t know, act without thinking?” I questioned, searching for the words.
“No, but lately it’s all I can think about,” he said quietly while biting his lip. “I want to forget the consequences, forget my responsibilities. Forget being perfect.” He looked at me with such intensity I had to catch my breath.
Abandoning the cake in the oven, Kemper looked around the store, and after seeing no one, leaned close. He grabbed my hands and moved them around his waist before nuzzling my hair. “Like right now? I want to forget that we’re in a public place,” he said with an exhale. I felt his hands drift lower until they were wrapped around the back of my thighs. He lifted me up and placed me on the bakery counter. “I want to forget this beautiful dress you’re wearing. I want to rip it to shreds,” He said while tracing a finger down the buttons trailing the front of my dress. He froze at my chest. “I want to sink into the swells of your breasts. I want to drink you in. I want to burn a thousand cakes because we’re too busy doing other things,” he murmured.
The bell to the shop rang and he smiled while biting his lip. He drifted away from me then took the cake out of the oven with care. I watched his precise movements while I struggled to catch my breath. The corner of his lips lifted in amusement at my reaction to him.
He put a wooden toothpick in the batter and slid it out carefully to inspect if it was done, which it was, and he rewarded me with a tender smile. “I brought you something,” he said. His large hands struggled to slip into the pockets of his too-tight jeans, causing me to chuckle and stare at his movements. I slid off the counter then coughed to expel the last bit of lust from my system.
“Ah, here it is!” He pulled out a singular blue-striped birthday candle. I grinned in response. He walked slowly towards me and grabbed my hand. “It bothered me that I ruined your birthday with my burnt-but-not-burnt cake,” he admitted with a hard smile, then peered at me with unspoken sadness. We both knew his cake didn’t ruin my day. Kindle's death and the guilt that followed is what made my birthday so grim. Nevertheless, I appreciated Kemper's attempt at a do-over. I sensed that he wanted to replace the bad mem
ories with a new one.
“My grandfather taught me to have pride in everything I do. If he were alive, he would have told me to keep baking cakes until I got it right—especially if he knew it was for someone as beautiful and perfect as you.”
Kemper continued while blushing, “So, Ash, wanna blow out the candle?” He puffed out a blast of air, and minty fresh breath wafted towards me, mixing in with the sweet chocolaty smell of the cake.
My chest rose and fell, and my breathing felt labored. I almost forgot that Kemp was waiting for me to answer.
“Yes, I’d love to,” I replied while walking with him over to the counter. “And for the record . . .” I glanced at him from the corner of my eyes. “I liked your faulty cake. I prefer effort to results.” It was important to me that he understood that I didn't expect perfection, especially after seeing his rebellious side just moments before. Now I found myself craving it.
Kemper smiled then, a genuine, heart-stopping smile. It brightened the entire room. While sliding the birthday candle into the spongy cake, he hummed then ignited the wick with a lighter he produced from his too-tight pockets.
“Happy Birthday, Ash,” he whispered.
I blew out the candles and watched the smoke carry up my unspoken wish.
Chapter Twelve
The Bakery was abnormally slow the next morning. Aside from the few stragglers and my breakfast regulars, there was an odd quiet about the General Store that had me on edge. Even Lois lacked her usual inquiring gaze.
I was wiping down the wooden countertop when a shrill siren erupted throughout the store and echoed on the streets. It sounded like a muffled, squealing pig and made me cover my ears.
"What is that?" I exclaimed to Lois who was practically running towards the windows to inspect what was happening. Three loud beeps sounded, and the sirens stopped.
"There's an infected Walker loose on the town," Lois said in an annoyingly giddy tone. She peered down her nose out the dusty window, and I followed suit. "When the alarm beeps three times, it means it's on the main strip. We might even see it!"
I was shocked by Lois' excitement over seeing a Walker, but she lived a relatively mundane life, so I assumed that any excitement was enjoyable to her, no matter how morbid.
"It’s been a good eight months since we've had an infected Walker!" Mark exclaimed while scratching his stomach and adjusting his glasses so that he could have a better look, too.
I scanned as far as I could, and in the distance noticed a figure wobbling down the road, holding what appeared to be a bundle of blankets.
"What'll happen to the Walker?" I asked in a whisper, almost dreading the answer.
"Cyler or Huxley usually will shoot them with their bow. They're our most skilled marksmen, don't you know," Lois said with a grin.
"Right they are, dear. I'd almost say they're the best in the Empire, wouldn't you agree?" Mark candidly replied.
"Yes, yes. Most definitely." Lois nodded eagerly.
The Walker moved closer to us, and I noticed that it was a woman. Long, white, matted hair clung to her neck, and bloody sores oozed down her arms. The bundle she held looked strange against her robotic movements and vacant gaze.
"Something's not right," I said mostly to myself.
"Oh, don't you worry, darling. The poor infected Walker will be put out of its misery in just a moment. I'm surprised she isn't already dead, she looks to be in the final stages of the disease," Lois pondered aloud.
The Walker continued to trudge closer, and a gnawing feeling in my gut told me to go to her. I placed my hand on the door, and Lois screeched, "Stay inside, you fool!"
I ignored her and opened the door. The air was hot and humid, the air was heavy and smelled like smoke. I slowly made my way towards the Walker. It was as if a magnetic force urged me forward. I was drawn to her, fate demanded I give this infected Walker my attention
"Ash! Don't go any closer!" I heard a familiar voice yell from behind. Huxley. “We don’t know if she’s violent!” he shouted.
I should have felt fear but felt nothing. A calm washed over me.
"I'm fine, I just need to see something," I yelled over my shoulder while keeping my eyes on the infected Walker. I knew if my eyes connected with Huxley’s, I would lose my nerve and not follow through with my insane plan.
Each step I made felt heavy with tense anticipation. The Walker continued to drag herself down the strip. Not once did she notice me walking towards her. Huxley continued to yell at me, begging me to stop, and I heard the slamming of windows as they opened. I felt the eyes of the entire Providence on me as I made my way towards her.
Once I was finally in front of the infected walker, I noticed scarring hidden behind sores on her face, indicating that she was once a Scavenger. Her black clothes were damp with blood, and I heard a muffled cry from the blankets she held.
Her bloodshot eyes were vacant yet penetrating, and I caught the sliver of relief flash through her expression before she collapsed clumsily to her knees. Blood droplets seeped down her skin, and the dry dirt hungrily accepted her offering. Still, the bundle of blankets remained clutched to her heaving chest.
I knelt so that we were eye level. I timidly reached my hands out towards her and grabbed the wool blanket from her weak arms. Slowly breaking eye contact with the Walker, I studied the bundle in my arms. It was the most beautiful baby I had ever seen. White hair framed its plump cheeks. Its heart-shaped lips were cracked, indicating dehydration. The baby appeared to be only a few months old, and I thanked whatever god that was watching that I had listened to my gut.
I peered back up at the infected Walker who was wavering where she sat. I saw the hint of a smile grace her busted and bloody lips before she coughed; blood splattered all over the baby and me.
"Ash, please move," Huxley pleaded in a sad voice. I looked back at him and saw that he had his arrow aimed and ready. The reality of my situation made a stabbing grief prickle beneath my skin.
Once again, I looked at the Walker woman. She was in the final stages of her disease and should have easily died days ago. Her strength and resolve spoke volumes about her love for the child in my arms. I wanted to remember everything about this profound woman that, against all odds, did everything she could for her child.
I nodded an unspoken promise to the Walker woman, one that said I would care for her child, and that it was okay to let go. It was okay to cross the threshold into peace, knowing that her baby was cared for.
I stood while carrying the baby, and made my way back down the street and towards the Clinic where Maverick was. As I passed Huxley while holding the baby, I saw him grimace. We exchanged a wordless exchange full of pain and promise.
Just before I entered the Clinic, I heard the sound of a blade slicing through the air and a thick guttural groan as it hit its intended target. I clutched the baby tighter as it let out a heartbreaking whimper.
Maverick was ready for me when I opened the door, wearing a devastated expression.
"Bring the baby back here. I'll get an IV ready, and we can run some blood tests to check for immunity," he said in a solemn tone.
I knew that the odds of this baby surviving were slim to none, but I was determined to do whatever I could to care for it. The infected Walker woman defied all odds and delivered the baby safely to Dormas. I was going to fulfill her unspoken wishes.
Huxley joined us shortly after Maverick hooked the baby up to a monitor and got an IV set up. It would take an hour to determine if the baby was immune or not, and once we knew, we could make decisions on what to do next. I stared at the sleeping baby with wonder while pleading with God that she was immune like me. The alternative would be devastating.
"I didn't see the baby. I could have killed him," Hux murmured.
"Her," I interjected. “It's a girl." I wondered what her name was.
"Ah, Ashleigh. The tests are running as we speak," Maverick began he exchanged a cautionary look with Huxley. "But I just want you to prepare yours
elf . . .”
I wasn't ignorant of the facts. I knew the survival rates. I was well aware of the percentages of immune individuals. It was a narrative I’d been told my whole life. I knew that this sad story wasn't over, not by a long shot.
"I know, Maverick. Can we just pretend the baby's going to be okay for a little while?" I asked.
Huxley gripped the counter and stared at me with the eyes of someone that has seen too much.
"Let me know," he croaked out before leaving, his head hung low. Eventually, Huxley and I would have to discuss what happened, but not now.
I played with the baby's hair while she slept to the sound of the heart monitor’s beeping. She looked worn but so incredibly peaceful. I felt an inexplicable connection to this child. I, too, was orphaned by a disease that stole life without rhyme or reason. But unlike me, I was determined for this child to have a different story.
The hour passed painfully slow, but finally, Maverick's stoic form appeared in the room. The frown on his face made my stomach plummet.
"I have good news, and I have bad news," he began. I clutched my stomach in preparation.
"She is not immune, but it looks like X hasn’t attached itself to her platelets yet. If I give her the vaccine now, it could prevent her from getting sick,” he said while peering at her. “I still want to keep her for observation. Sometimes the vaccine can be tricky in younger children, and I want to double and triple check that she is not infected.”
