by James Cook
He looked up as I pushed the doors open with my back, hands occupied with the food. I raised my face enough for him to see it through my hood.
I said, “Mornin’ John. Slow night?”
He nodded wearily. “Just the way I like ‘em. Here to see your boys?”
I nodded. He stood up, jingled a set of keys until he found the right one, and let me in. As I stepped through the door, he put a hand on my arm, stopping me.
“Whatcha got in the box there?” he said. “Smells delicious.” He leaned over my shoulder trying to get a better look. I would have screamed at him, but it would have drawn too much attention. I faked a smile instead.
“Hands off, friend. It’s for my men. I call it the gunshot special. It’s given to all recipients of the Purple Heart, otherwise known as the Insurgent Marksmanship Award.”
The guard chuckled heartily and released my arm. “All right then. Send them my best.”
“I’ll be sure to do that.”
The hall was empty. There were four intersections between me and the recovery room. I set off at a steady clip, making sure to pie out corners before crossing. If Allison was standing in any of the passageways, I didn’t want her to see me. There were a few alcoves and closets I could duck into if I heard her coming, but it would only work if no one saw me. This early in the morning, the staff would be a skeleton crew. My odds were good.
I got past two junctions with no problems. A nurse had her back to me at the third one, but I managed to inch quietly by and make it to the fourth undetected. I looked around the corner. It was empty. One last obstacle. I shifted the box to one hand, hurried to the recovery room door, turned the latch slowly, and slipped through.
So far so good. Now I just had to drop off the food, say a few words of encouragement, and make my escape. Disarming the emergency exit and slipping out through the supply room was an attractive option, but that would damage the clinic’s security system. I am merely a common coward, not a heartless one.
No. The only way out was through the front door.
“Gabe, is that you?”
I jumped. I had been peering through the narrow, wire-grated window on the door looking for nurses or petite, dark-haired doctors with fiery tempers, and had almost forgotten about Fuller and Riordan.
“Hey, fellas,” I said, turning around and holding up the food. “I brought you breakfast.”
Eric was propped up in his bed, wounded leg lying atop a pile of pillows. His eyes were glassy, but steady.
“Thanks, man. Smells great. Mijo Diego?”
“You know it.” I moved a tray next to Eric’s bed and began laying out containers and utensils. Fuller lay flat on his back next to me, eyes closed, breathing steadily, arm connected to an IV. “Is he okay?” I asked.
Eric peeled the lid off his eggs and sniffed at them. “Yeah, he’ll be all right. His wounds are worse than mine, so they gave him a stronger dose of painkillers. Don’t bother trying to wake him up, he’s out like a light. I’ll make sure the nurses give him his food when he wakes up.”
Excellent. That cuts my time in half. “So how are you feeling?”
He grinned. “Like I’ve been shot.”
I gave the obligatory laugh, wondering how much opiate the nurses had given him to bring about such a bland, predictable joke. Eric was usually more colorful than that. He tested a forkful of eggs and groaned. “Oh, man. Even pickled, these peppers and onions are awesome. Everything is so bland these days, you know? Gotta have some flavor once in a while.”
I cast a nervous glance at the door and pulled up a chair. Eric began piling potatoes and chicken on a tortilla. “So what did I miss?”
“Not much. Pretty much business as usual.”
He shot me a look. “I mean with the insurgents. Did you talk to the asshole yet?”
By ‘the asshole’, he meant Sheriff Elliott. The two had never gotten along, due mostly to the old lawman’s inexplicable antagonism toward Eric. I thought Walter would warm up to Eric after all he did to bring down the Free Legion, but so far, nothing had changed.
“Yeah, I talked to him. He’s going to keep questioning them, see what he can find out. I have a feeling it’s not going to be much. They admitted they were working for the Alliance, which makes it a federal matter. The sheriff’s hands are pretty much tied. All he can do is wait for word from the feds.”
Eric grunted and shoveled more potatoes into his mouth. “Whur uhut irinda?” he asked.
“I can’t understand you. Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
He swallowed and took a sip of water. “Sorry. What about Miranda? She look over the haul yet?”
“Yep. Counted it up, scheduled the transport, and took care of payroll. Even convinced the crew to help her move the surplus to the warehouse.”
“Damn. That was quick.”
“She’s an efficient girl.”
“She seem like she’s doing okay? You know, with me being shot and all?”
“I talked to her last night and explained your wounds aren’t that bad. She took it in stride. Said she would pay you a visit this afternoon after she closes the store.”
“That’s good, man, I appreciate you doing that. Miranda’s good people. Anything else going on? Any gossip?”
I thought about Miranda’s budding relationship with Hicks, but decided to keep it to myself. That conversation would only delay my departure, and the longer I stayed, the worse my chances of escaping undetected.
“Nope,” I lied. “Hollow Rock is a quiet place.”
“It is now, anyway. Let’s hope is stays that way.”
He ate a few more bites, drained his cup of water, wiped his mouth, and lay back on the bed. “Sorry, but I can’t eat all this. I think the meds are messing with my appetite. You mind boxing it up for me and giving it to one of the nurses? If there’s no room in the fridge, they can just wrap it in a towel and set it outside. It shouldn’t freeze before lunch.”
“You going to eat it cold?”
“No way, man. Microwave. I’m dating the only doctor in town, remember? I get special privileges.”
“Right. I forgot all about those things. Funny how you get used to doing without after a while.”
“I know what you mean. That Ishimura guy is a miracle worker.”
“That he is.”
With a full belly, in a warm room, doped up on God knows what, lying under a blanket, Eric began to get droopy eyed. I sensed my opportunity.
“You look tired, amigo.”
He nodded drowsily. “Yeah, it’s the meds. I’m all loopy and shit.”
I stood up and patted him gently on the shoulder. “Tell you what, I’m going to head out and let you get some rest. Let Fuller know I stopped by, okay?”
He made a vague gesture with one hand. “Sure, man. No problem.”
I made quick work of gathering his food, took out my trusty sharpie, tore the bottom off an empty box of rubber gloves lying in the trashcan, and wrote a brief note of instruction for the nurses regarding Eric’s leftovers and Fuller’s uneaten breakfast. That done, I hurried to the door and peered outside. All clear.
Sensing victory, I opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. I got about two steps before a pretty, petite woman in a white coat rounded a corner, stopped in her tracks, and glared venomously.
“There you are,” she said.
My stomach hit my shoes. My shoulders slumped. My chin fell to my chest.
Shit.
Busted.
ELEVEN
It is amazing how much space a small woman can occupy when she is infuriated.
I had been in Allison’s office before, several times, and it had always seemed spacious, never cramped or confining. There was enough room between walls and desk and chairs to put patients at ease, so they would not feel boxed in. A doctor quite often gives people bad news, and whoever built the clinic knew the recipients would need room to breathe.
With Allison standing less than three feet away, bar
ely eye-to-eye with me despite the fact I was sitting down, I felt as if I were locked in a cage with a large, angry animal brandishing claws and rows of pointy teeth.
“What the fuck were you thinking, you idiot?” she said, hands on hips, face red, chin jutting forward. Allison rarely cursed, so I knew I was in trouble.
“I was thinking someone needed to stop those insurgents. They were leading about a thousand ghouls toward Hollow Rock.”
“But why did it have to be you, Gabe? Why did it have to be Eric? You’re not in the military anymore. This town has a militia and a whole platoon of soldiers. Why didn’t you just come back and tell the sheriff, or the mayor, or Lieutenant Cohen? They would have sent troops after the insurgents. They could have stopped the horde. That’s their job. It’s why they’re here. It’s why the mayor gives them food and puts a roof over their heads, so people like you and Eric don’t have to fight anymore.”
“There was a blizzard last night, Allison. They might not have made it in time. They might have been overwhelmed by the horde, or the insurgents might have escaped. Any number of things could have gone wrong.”
“Yes, but that’s the risk soldiers take when they decide to become soldiers. You say things could have gone wrong for the Army, but what happened when you decided to handle things yourself? What about Eric and Private Fuller? Didn’t go so well for them, did it?”
I had been looking at the wall, and the ceiling, and the floor, and anywhere but at Allison. But when she said that, when she took that cheap shot at me, I looked up. Somewhere deep in my chest, the old fire began to burn.
“You know, Allison, last year you told me you were tired of working hard and getting shit on for it. Well you know what? Now I know how you feel. Every time I save this town from disaster, all I get is grief. Maybe you forgot, but this whole fucking place would be overrun with marauders if not for me. All these patients you’re treating wouldn’t be healing, they would be dead. This clinic wouldn’t have electricity, it would be a pile of rubble. You wouldn’t be standing here bitching at me for saving lives, you would be chained to a floor somewhere wondering who was going to rape you next. So don’t you point your finger at me and call me the bad guy. I stood up for you, and everyone else in this town, when no one else would. The least you can do is show some goddamn respect.”
Allison went still, the color draining from her face. Without realizing it, I had stood up and now loomed over her, hands balled into fists, teeth clenched. My voice had steadily grown in volume until it thundered off the stark white walls. Behind me, I heard shuffling feet edging closer to the door and people whispering. Closing my eyes, I counted backward from ten until my breathing slowed and my pulse returned to normal. I sat back down. My hands uncurled and went slack, dangling between my knees.
“Listen, I’m sorry Eric got hurt, okay? And you’re right, it’s not my job to fight this town’s battles anymore. But Allison, you have to understand, Eric and Fuller knew what they were getting themselves into. They could have said no. They could have walked away. They knew the risks, they knew the danger the horde and the insurgents posed, and they chose to fight anyway. I might not be in the Marines anymore, but I care about this town, and I will not stand idly by and let the Alliance, or marauders, or slavers, or anyone else threaten my home. I will not. So don’t stand there and tell me I shouldn’t have gone after the insurgents. It’s not just the responsibility of the Army or the Militia to protect this place, it’s everyone’s responsibility. Every man, woman, and child who lives here. And if they are not willing to take on that responsibility, if they are not willing to meet that challenge, then everything we’re doing here is a waste of time. Because this place will not survive.”
There were any number of reactions I might have expected from Allison at that moment. It would not have surprised me if she yelled at me again for letting Eric get shot. I would have quietly accepted a lecture that saving a town doesn’t give me a license to behave recklessly. She could have admonished me not to lecture her about sacrifice, considering everything she had done for Hollow Rock. If she had slapped me in the face and said never to talk to her like that again, I would have meekly sat there and taken it.
But that’s not what happened. What happened was the worst, most disarming thing she could possibly have done.
She put her hands over her face and started crying.
Great shuddering sobs racked her. A heartbreaking, hiccup-like noise broke loose from her chest. Tears spilled out from between her fingers. Her legs gave out and she went to her knees.
I sat there with my mouth open, too stunned to move.
Allison handled things on a daily basis that would make most people run screaming for the hills. She had brought children into the world, and sometimes, watched them die. She had personally delivered crushing news to patients and families. She had pulled bullets out of soldiers and militiamen, amputated infected limbs, and performed surgeries to repair horrific injuries. And through it all, she always maintained a clear-eyed, professional calm. Nothing ever seemed to rattle her. So seeing her huddled on the ground crying like a toddler with a skinned knee was, to put it mildly, fucking disturbing.
“Hey, hey, calm down now,” I said, kneeling beside her. “Look, I’m sorry I yelled at you, okay? I didn’t mean any of that stuff. That was just anger talking.”
She took her hands away from her face and glared at me. “I’m not crying because you yelled at me, you idiot!”
I tried to talk a few times, but nothing came out. Her face went back to her hands, sobs unabated. Lacking any other ideas, I reached out and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. She responded by sliding down onto one hip and leaning into me, faced buried in the hollow of my chest. I sat down and wrapped my arms around her, rocking back and forth, whispering little comforting things. We stayed that way for a while, her crying, me trying to calm her down. A crowd gathered outside the door, peeking in through the window.
I shot them a look.
They left.
Finally, she calmed enough to let me help her into a chair. “Allison, what’s going on? This isn’t like you. You don’t break down like this. You’re the freaking iron lady of Hollow Rock.”
She wouldn’t meet my eyes, just sat there looking small and miserable. I kneeled next to her and took her chin in my hand. When I turned her face to mine, her amber eyes were full of tears.
“Hey, it’s me, Allison. You’re friend, Gabriel. Remember me? Look, I’m sorry I got mad, but I’m over it now. Just tell me what’s going on, okay? You’ve got me worried.”
She reached up and took my hand in hers, holding it in her lap. “If I tell you, you can’t tell Eric. Promise me.”
“That depends on what it is.”
She looked at me again, firmly this time. “Promise me.”
What was I supposed to do? She was crying. “Okay. I promise.”
“I’m pregnant.”
I froze. There was a ringing in my ears that grew louder and louder. I felt as if a gigantic hand was pressing me into the floor. Allison narrowed her eyes and gently slapped me on the cheek.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “You just went really pale.”
The ringing stopped. I stood up on shaky legs, walked around the desk, and sank into a chair.
“Well, that explains a lot.”
*****
Later, as I stumbled numbly down the street, I found myself in front of Stall’s Tavern. It was not uncommon to find myself there—in fact, it had become something of a second home. But I had not gone there by force of conscious will. I had been walking with no clear sense of direction, vaguely aware of people passing me on the street, wondering just how in the hell I was going to look my best friend in the eye and not tell him the woman he loved was carrying his child. A commotion near the front door distracted me as a man pushed through a crowd of people and stomped angrily toward the lobby. I recognized him.
Roy Cranston.
My heart sank.
It was
almost noon, and the lunch crowd had swarmed the place, all of them regulars who showed up nearly every day. Among them was my good friend and one of the most skilled tradesmen in town, Tom Glover, father of Brian Glover, the kid who had just beaten Uriah Cranston bloody a few hours earlier.
The trouble started by the time I pushed my way inside.
“Where’s your son, Glover? I want to see him right now.”
Tom calmly wiped his mouth, set his napkin on the table, stood up, and squared off with Cranston. He spaced his feet shoulder width apart, forty-five degrees from his opponent, arms relaxed, head slightly forward, weight shifted back so he could swing his torso one way or the other. I watched his eyes become unfocused and center on Cranston’s shoulders, just the way I had taught him. If a punch came, he would be ready for it.
When I first met Tom, he was gaunt from lack of nutrition. But eight months of good food and hard labor had restored his health and added twenty pounds to his frame. Knots of hard muscle lined his arms and wide shoulders, and though he was only about two-thirds Roy’s size, I put their strength about even. Furthermore, Eric and I had spent as much time training him as his son, and although he didn’t have Brian’s raw talent for combat, Tom could handle himself just fine.
“Before I explain to you how you’re not going anywhere near my son, how about you tell me what the problem is?” he said.
“My son came home beat up and bloody, and said it was your boy that did it.” Cranston took a step closer, clearly not understanding the danger he was putting himself in. He was a big man, nearly as tall as me, but lean and rangy. He was fond of stepping into people’s personal space and looming over them, not realizing how stupid of a thing it was to do.
