Hawkins doesn't back down. "This wouldn't have happened in the first place had you just traded with them, you power hungry son of a bitch!"
"What did you just call me?" Gibbons asks, chest to chest with Hawkins.
"You heard me!" he yells. And then he shakes his head, an unmistakable sadness spreading across his features. "What the hell happened to you, Gibbs? Ever since Jess..."
"Shut your Goddamn mouth about shit you don't understand!" Gibbons warns. "It has nothing to do with this. The fact is this little bastard here stole from the town's stores, held myself and two of my men at gunpoint, and hijacked my transport! He's an endangerment to the town, and you know as well as I do, the protocol for that."
The sadness recedes as he holds his ground. "He's no endangerment, not at the present. He's a subdued trespasser, which means it's no longer your call to make. It's the council’s."
Chapter 13
I huddle, bloody and beaten in the bed of a diesel truck, two guards flanking me on either side. So unnecessary. Even if I wanted to mount an escape my body wouldn't allow it. I've never known pain like this. Every bump sends streaks of fire across my back, each breath brings a deep ache to my battered ribs. I cradle my right arm, any movement agony to my shoulder. The stench of my own blood is overpowering, coating my parched throat, making me gag and dry heave. I ask for water but am ignored by my captors. I don't blame them. Gibbon's glare from the trailing truck is an effective deterrent.
Dawn approaches, pale crimson light spilling against the ghostly clouds. With a grunt of pain, I manage to unstrap the watch from my wrist. I rub my thumb across its face, thankful it is still too dark to see my gristly reflection in the glass. I watch the clock tick forward, time moving on the same as always, uncaring of my situation. To think, only yesterday it was strapped on the wrist of the girl I've fallen for: the girl who let herself believe I would return because she couldn't believe fate would be so cruel. I clutch the watch tightly, remembering the way her hand felt in mine and how warm her breath felt against my lips. I bring the watch to my bloodied lips, gently kissing its face as a silent sob takes over me. I'm sorry Lauren, I tried. Maybe fate is crueler than we thought.
Despite the early hour, the streets show signs of stirring. Smoke rises from chimneys and blinds are drawn from their windows, tempting the sunlight to filter into their homes. Men and women walk in pairs and small groups to places unknown, bemused expressions on their faces as they watch our procession, oblivious to last night’s events. We pass the pharmacy we raided, the sight of it leaving a bitter taste in my mouth as I think of Gibbon's untimely arrival. If only we had moved a little faster, left the shop a minute earlier, I might be with Leon and Felix right now, traversing the countryside in our haste to make it back to camp. But it's like my father always said: Wish in one hand, shit in the other, and see which one fills up first. He was a poet, my father. But even from a young age I knew what he meant: that in life, no amount of wishing will get you what you want or change anything. So for that very reason, I close my eyes and force it out of mind, unwilling to let the thought drive me crazy.
We pull to a stop, and it's only then that I notice the sign for the Chaffee County Jail. I might laugh if I had the strength: twenty-three years of life and my first stint in jail comes after the end of the world. Talk about irony. I am hauled out the truck and nearly break my jaw biting back a scream of pain. I won’t give Gibbons the satisfaction of seeing me quaver under the damage he has caused. It's a lost battle, grunts and gasps betraying me as I am marched inside. I am lead to an empty cell and I all but collapse onto the mattress, unable to keep my feet. I close my eyes against the pain and try to slow my wheezing breath. When I open them again, Hawkins stands in the entryway, waiting to fill me in on what's about to happen.
"Gibbons is on his way to inform the council of last night's incident. There will be a hearing this afternoon, at which time you will be tried and sentenced. Toilets are a no go at the moment, but there's a bucket in the corner if you need it. It's our policy in the present climate not to feed inmates who are nonresidents, one of the reasons we hold trials in such a timely manner. There's a jug of water and hand towel inside the sink, I imagine you must be thirsty and would like to clean up some." he finishes his speech as if reading from a textbook. His expression softens for a moment and I think he's about to add something else. He must think better of it, leaving the cell with a nod a moment later.
I heave myself off the cot, the need for water a driving force more powerful than the pain. With a trembling hand I bring the jug to my lips, managing a swallow before a coughing spell overtakes me, sending a firestorm to all my tender areas. When it passes, I take another, the water soothing on my blood-caked throat. I drink till the taste of blood leaves my mouth and pour some onto a washcloth. I clean my face by feel, staining the cloth red, and throw it into the sink before collapsing once more onto the mattress. I find my eyes closing, my body giving in to exhaustion. I don't fight it. My head sinks into the pillow, so soft it might be made of clouds. I hold Lauren's watch over my heart, recalling the words I spoke as I exchanged them: now it'll be like we're right there next to each other. The memory brings a smile to my lips, and the world fades into dream.
I wake up abruptly, shouting in pain as someone rocks my injured shoulder. They stop at my shout, but it's a minute before the pain subsides enough that I can open my eyes again. Hawkins stands inside the cell, a genuine look of concern on his face.
"Sorry," he says. "I hadn't realized you busted up your shoulder." Clenching my teeth I sit up straight, the stiffness in my back momentarily making me forget my shoulder. I take a deep breath, relieved at finding the tenderness of my ribs more bearable than earlier. "I think I'm busted up all over," I comment.
He nods, a troubled look crossing his face. He looks over his shoulder and then back to me. "You didn't get these from me," he says extending his hand. Four white pills fall into my open palm. "Lortabs. It's all I could smuggle, so use them wisely." I don't hesitate to take one immediately, washing it down with a long pull of water. "Thank you," I say. "You didn't have to do that."
"Just seems like the decent thing to do," he replies. He points to my shoulder. "Your shoulder dislocated?" I give it a glance, my left hand involuntarily drifting up to clutch it. "Maybe," I reply. "I don't know how to tell or not. It hurts like hell, though."
"Let me take a look," he says. He inspects it for a minute, careful in his examination. "Yep, dislocated alright. It needs to be set or it'll get worse."
I nod. "You know how?" I ask.
"Yeah. Used to be an EMT way back when, but I still know a thing or two," he says. "This isn't going to feel too good," he warns. He wasn't lying. I scream into the pillow and tears pool in my eyes during the procedure. When he's finished there's still pain, but also relief now that my shoulder is in its proper place. "I don't know if I should thank you or punch you," I tell him, a strained laugh escaping me, its sound out of place in this gloomy cell.
The corners of his mouth twitch slightly. "Just letting you know, the council has been notified and will receive you in an hour to stand trial."
"What am I looking at?" I ask. Hawkins seems like a good enough guy. Had he been in charge, I have no doubt he would have approved our trade yesterday. And he's only tried to help me since then. If anyone in this town will give me a straight answer, it's him.
He pauses, debating whether or not to answer me. "Up in the air at this point. I think a lot weighs on what you say to the council. Gibbons is leaning heavily for the harshest sentence, but he can only suggest it and plead his case. The council isn't as bullheaded as he is, though. You'll get a fair trial."
"Gibbons," I say out loud. "What's his issue, anyway? It's like he hated us the moment he saw us."
He shakes his head and sighs. "He's not that bad a guy. At least he didn't use to be. He’s...been through a lot of messed up shit since all this started."
"Jess?" I question, recalling the name from l
ast night. His eyes narrow harshly for a second. Then he blinks, and looks up as if lost in thought or remembrance. "Yeah, Jess. They were together for almost twenty years, married straight out of high school. She...she passed during childbirth a few days after the grid went down. Doctors did all they could, but in the end they couldn't save her or the child. Worse part is, if the grid hadn't gone down there was a good chance they could have saved them both. He hasn't been the same since...how could he?" His voice is thick and his eyes are glassy.
"You were their friend." I say. The emotion in his voice makes it clear to me he and Gibbons were more than just work colleagues. He nods and wipes at his eyes. "Since grade school," he says quietly. Despite everything, I feel a pang of sympathy for Gibbons. The collapse has stolen something from all of us, and some more than others. He didn't just lose his wife and unborn child that day, he lost a piece of his soul, without which morphed him from the good man Hawkins knew, to the spiteful man he’s become. It explains a lot, but not everything.
"I don't get it," I say. "You'd think going through all that would make him want to help us—make him want to help save a life."
"Yeah, you'd think," he agrees. "Grief can do strange things to a man, though. He's been my best friend since forever, but sometimes when I look at him, I have to remind myself he's still the same guy." His radio crackles to life and he excuses himself, informing me an escort will fetch me when it's time.
I absentmindedly draw circles around the watch's face as I wait. It's nearly one o’clock. Leon and Felix should have arrived back at camp hours ago. It is a bittersweet moment. But I find comfort in the knowledge that my friends will go on. I can see it, too. I see Emily healed and healthy, determined to make the most of the opportunity to move forward in this strange new world. I see Leon and Felix leading the girls the rest of the way home and reuniting with their families. I see Maya welcomed with opened arms by my mom and dad, offering her that intangible love and support only a parent can.
And of course, I see Lauren. I see her carving a new life for her and Grace alongside my friends and family: the kind of life they both deserve, yet I don't believe they’ve ever had. There is so much I've come to love about her, and yet so much more she never let me see. It's hard to believe a month ago she and I were strangers. This past month has made me feel alive in a way I have never felt before. Since she's joined us, nearly all my waking hours have been in her presence. Time is different when you spend so much of it with another person. It weighs more, the kind of weight that can wear one down over time, and where time apart is like a physical relief. But when I’m with her I don't feel weighed down, I feel lifted up: like my whole life has been spent at the bottom of a scale, waiting, hoping for the day someone would step onto the other side and bring balance to my world. It was almost there too, I felt it. In her smile, in her laugh, in a hundred tiny things in a hundred different ways, I felt it. But now I am here, and she is there, and I can feel the scale shift again—dragging me toward the bottom I've always known. It's alright though, because even as I sink, she allowed me a taste of what could have been, and that's more than many ever get.
Less than an hour later I am handcuffed, and escorted to the trial by two solemn guards. I expected the trial to be held elsewhere, but am surprised when I'm lead to a common conference room. A long wooden table anchors the otherwise bland space. Beige walls decorated sparsely with framed photos of uniformed men line three sides of the room, the fourth side made of glass, floor to ceiling shades, currently closed, lining its length facing the hallway. I spot Gibbons, his usual glare set on me, at the head of the table to my right. I don't let my gaze linger, afraid my anger will rise to the surface if I do. I am ushered into the lone seat on this side of the table, across from the accessing eyes of the council. There is five of them in all, three men and two women. Not since the collapse have I seen anyone look so clean and polished as these five. What a sight I must make to them: dirty, bloodied, like the kind of man who wants to destroy all they hold dear.
As a formality, I am read their names. From left to right sit: Councilman Jeffrey, a balding middle aged man, with a weak chin and beady eyes; Councilman Moss, a thick-set man with little neck and bushy brows; Councilwoman Hess: a middle-aged woman with short auburn hair and piercing eyes behind square-framed glasses; Councilman Conner, a youth-faced man with ruddy cheeks; and Councilwoman Young, a sandy haired woman with a strong jaw. Nobody stands out to me aside from Councilwoman Hess. Some people carry about them an air of authority you can't help but notice, and the auburn-haired woman at the center is no exception. No doubt these men and woman carry a great deal of influence to be seated at this table, but there's something different about Hess. She is who I need to convince.
"Please state your name for the record," Hess asks from across the table.
"Morgan Taylor, ma’am," I reply.
She nods in recognition. "We have received an account of the events which transpired the past 24 hours. At this time, there are a few questions we would like to ask you." She pauses, waiting for my acknowledgement. I nod and she continues. "Yourself and two companions were apprehended yesterday morning by members of our local militia, correct?"
"Yes, ma’am."
"You were then brought forward to the town line where you sought a trade with the town?"
"Yes, ma’am."
"What was the nature of that trade?"
"Antibiotics. My friends and I were attacked days ago by a group of men trying to take our supplies. We fought them off, but my sister was stabbed in the arm during the altercation. We tended the wound the best we could, but still it grew infected. We knew she would die if we didn’t find antibiotics, and we also knew your town was our only hope of finding them."
She turns her piercing stare toward Gibbons. "Deputy Gibbons, is this a true account of what transpired?"
Gibbons clears his throat. "Yes ma’am, that's the story he told." The way he says story makes it clear that's what he believes it to be: a tale I invented rather than the harsh reality I faced.
"You believe he was untruthful in his request?" Hess asks, the inflection not lost on her.
"No, ma’am,” Gibbon replies. “I do not.”
"And what led you to reach this conclusion?" Hess asks.
"The manner in which they were apprehended for starters. Concealing their approach, armed with firearms, observing our operations. If they were honest traders, why the need for such measures? And when we searched their belongings they didn’t carry much outside of alcohol, cigarettes, and bullets. They had all the markings of bandits, and I believed them to be a threat to the town."
I force myself to remain calm and silent while he paints us in this false light. When he's finished, I find myself glancing his way as he shifts his attention on me. His glare remains as cold as ever, but for the first time I think I see a flicker of something else. It's hard to place because all I've associated with him is hostility and vindictiveness, but eventually it hits me: conviction. He truly believes in the words he speaks.
"Which is why you declined their request, and confiscated their firearms and ammunition?" Hess asks.
"Yes, ma’am. I wanted to confiscate all their weapons, but I was convinced to let them walk away with a crossbow and their knives. A decision I now regret."
"Thank you, deputy," Hess says before refocusing her questioning to me. "What occurred after your trade was declined?"
"We walked down the highway till we were out of sight, and then circled back around to the other end of town," I admit, wishing it didn't sound so duplicitous.
"And you and your companions did so with the knowledge of the lockout we are currently enforcing on the town, and the repercussions of unlawful entry of our borders?"
"Yes ma’am," I confess. "It was either that or return to our camp and watch my sister die. It wasn't even a choice." Some of the council's eyes soften at these words, but Hess keeps an expressionless mask intact. "Can you please give a breakdown of events once you
entered the town?" she asks.
"We searched the area till we came across a pharmacy, and then convinced the guards outside to trade for what we needed. Two of us entered the pharmacy with one of the guards while the third kept watch. We found the meds we needed, and as we made to make our exit, we were discovered by deputy Gibbons. Our lookout subdued him and the guards, and we escaped on the UTV, knowing we didn't have time to waste after he called us in."
This doesn't sit so well with the council. Whatever my reasons, these actions paint me in a bad light. In their eyes, I'm looking more and more like the bandit Gibbons has conveyed me to be. It doesn't help my case when Gibbons voices that I forgot to mention stripping himself and the guards of firearms, and then proceeded to hold them at gunpoint before tying them to the lamppost. When asked, I admit his words as true and another ripple of resentment goes through most of the council.
Hess alone remains stoic and asks Gibbons his account from there. He tells of the chase that ensued through the streets. He tells of me shooting out the tire of the pursuing pickup, and of the mad dash through the grassy field, ending with me falling off the back of the UTV. He tells not of his rampage and how I sustained my injuries. "My men recovered the UTV earlier this morning, the rationed gasoline having been spent, but were unable to pursue his accomplices as they left no trail to follow." The hollowness I've felt throughout his version of events lessens on that final note. Of course my boy scout would see to it they couldn't pursue. Any lingering doubt that they might not have made it back to camp fades, and I remind myself it was all worth it.
"At this time, we would like to call on deputy Hawkins who requested the chance to speak at this hearing." A guard opens the door and Hawkins enters, standing at the head of the table opposite Gibbons. The look Gibbons levels him with makes me wonder how they were ever friends. "Deputy, you wished to address this hearing. The floor is yours."
Echoes of a Dying World (Book 1) Page 15
