by Sky Corgan
Today, I'm bathing alone, which I honestly prefer. Not that I mind bathing with other women, but I'm more thorough when I don't feel like I have eyes on me.
Eyes on me... As I lather the wet washcloth and start to run it over my skin, I get the feeling that I'm being watched. A quick glance at the small space between the two overlapping tarps is confirmation that Jak is trying to peek through. I shudder internally and step out of his line of sight, knowing it doesn't keep him from seeing the silhouette of my naked body. Creeper.
As I drag the washcloth over my breasts and between my legs, I find myself silently seething at the fact that there are no decent men anywhere around me. There are a few guys with their wives, an older retired firefighter, two teen boys, and this one guy who used to be in a motorcycle gang that mainly keeps to himself. None of them are close to my age. None of them are attractive. Even the motorcycle guy doesn't have the ruggedly handsome appeal of my blue suit savior.
Did I just think that?
A bolt of electricity jolts through me as the washcloth passes over my clit and I see an image of the long-haired stranger bent over me. His eyes were intense, his posturing dominant. There was a confidence in everything he did that was strangely alluring. But I shouldn't be thinking about any of that. I shouldn't be thinking about him...because he's an enemy.
That blue suit with all of the pins on its chest said it all. He's a high ranking officer. Someone of importance. It's his job to subdue us. That's why I still don't understand why he let me go. And for as much as I try, I can't stop thinking about it.
Disturbed by my fascination, and even more so by my attraction to the man who chased me, I quickly finish my bath, wash and wring the water from my hair, and dry myself off. Regardless of my fear of being caught again, I have to set out to forage. That's my job. And I need to heed the soldier's advice and stay as far away from the military encampment as possible. I'll scavenge the area I'm assigned to and do nothing more, returning to camp whether I'm empty-handed or not. I won't be brave. I'll focus more on my safety than on being a hero. Three of the guys came back empty-handed yesterday, and no one said anything. Comparatively, I did well with my small haul.
I put on my clean clothes and hand in my old ones to Frederikke, one of the wives who is assigned laundry duty for our camp. Then I eat the five saltine crackers I was rationed for breakfast before pulling my messenger bag over my shoulder in preparation to head out. The small amount of food would have barely been a snack pre-wartime. Thanks to reduced calorie intake, it does enough to sate my appetite for now, but I definitely don't feel full. No doubt, within the next few hours, my stomach will be growling angrily.
I was given strips of jerky for lunch that was made by one of the other wives. I don't dare ask what kind of meat it is. To be honest, I don't want to know. Probably someone's pet left behind when they fled the country. If I get too hungry, I might nibble on that—try to make it stretch throughout the day.
“Good luck today,” Jak tells me as I step outside of the building. He must have lookout duty today. Except for the two women who watch the children in our camp and do domestic chores, we all take a rotation as a lookout. It's like having a day off, sitting in one spot making sure that no one is coming. We always try to have one person on the ground level and one person higher up to see further away.
In the beginning, we had two specific people assigned as lookout every day. But it caused contention in the group from many of us feeling like those people got to do less than everyone else. It's not a difficult job by any means. And while those of us who scavenge were out earning blisters on the bottoms of our feet from walking so much, they were sitting back in camp barely moving, suffering nothing but the cold.
I'm glad the rules changed. Usually, I count down the days until it's my turn. I don't care what shift I'm assigned, night or day. It means time off from having to put myself in danger wandering into unknown territory. My last lookout shift was three days ago. That means I've got two more days before it's my turn again. The closest thing to a weekend that I've experienced since the war began. It's incredibly boring work; hard to keep yourself entertained with nothing to do but sit and watch. Often, I'll take a pen and a piece of paper with me to draw, not that I'm any good at it. Doodling might be a more appropriate word. If there's one thing there hasn't been a shortage of since the war began, it's pens and paper. You can find them in almost every home. Things low in value that few people want.
I have to be careful, though, because if Frederikke or Inger catch me, they'll chastise me—give me a reminder of how important my job as a lookout is, as if I don't know that. It's not like I don't have ears to hear someone coming. It's not like I don't glance up every few seconds out of paranoia. But perhaps I'm not as careful as I think I am, because if I was, the blue suit never would have caught me.
For all that I remember about him, I've forgotten his name already. I even said it once, but it left my mouth as if it didn't belong there, a stolen syllable never meant to be spoken again. At the time, my mind was too wild with all my fears to hold onto any other information. And what does it matter that I don't remember? If I'm lucky, I'll never see him again. It's better to just keep referring to him as a blue suit, because that's all he is to me.
“Car!” the word comes out of Henrik's mouth in a panic as he whizzes past Jak and me to warn the others still inside the building. His face is flushed from the effort of climbing down the ladder from the roof.
Jak and I look at each other, and my heart clenches in my chest.
We both rush back inside to conceal ourselves.
“Not military,” I hear Henrik repeat over and over again, which means we don't need to escape out the back. We just need to keep quiet until it passes.
I press myself against the wall next to one of the windows, my body rigid. The vehicle stops in front of our warehouse, and Henrik begins to move the women and children towards the back of the building in case they need to make a speedy escape. He glances at me to join them, but I don't move. I'm afraid, but more than that, I want to be useful if something happens. Most of the men have left to forage already. I don't have a family to protect. If I can help the others escape by serving as part of a wall to keep intruders out, I'll do it, even if it means getting caught or injured. Maybe I'm more selfless than I thought. Or perhaps I'm just braver when there are other people around me for support. Whatever the case, I hold my ground, exhaling deeply when I see that there's only one man in the vehicle.
He steps out, wearing a suit. Not military, more like formal wear. He's young, around my age. I'm confused about what's going on, why he's out here. He doesn't appear threatening at all as he walks up to the front entrance of the warehouse and knocks.
“I have a special delivery,” he says, keeping his voice low enough so it won't carry very far. I'm barely able to hear him, and for a moment I think I must have misinterpreted.
Kim, the biker guy, eyes me as he edges towards the door. He may be quiet, but he's also one of the bravest people in our group. He has a metal pipe in one hand, ready to lay waste to the man on the other side of the door if he poses a threat.
Kim opens the door, and there's a brief exchange of conversation before he follows the man outside. The rest of us hold steady, not moving until he returns moments later with a crate. He sets it on the floor just inside the warehouse before disappearing to retrieve another. When he returns this time, we hear the car door close, the engine start, and the car drive away.
“What is it?” Jak asks as he finally pushes away from his hiding place next to the window to approach Kim.
Kim stares at me with his beady blue eyes, and I can't quite make out his expression. “It's food,” he tells us.
“Food? From where?” Frederikke has moved from the back of the warehouse. She crouches down over the boxes and starts going through one of them. Her hands pull out fruits, vegetables, and what appears to be meat wrapped in paper. My mouth instantly salivates. I can't remember the last t
ime I tasted fresh produce.
“I'm not sure you'll believe me if I tell you.” Kim rubs the back of his neck.
“Out with it, man. We need to know if this stuff is safe.” Henrik furrows his brow at Kim.
“He said...” Kim hesitates. “He said it was sent by Prince Fynn Söderberg.”
I gasp, my hand drawing up to my mouth to cover the sound. There are others around me gasping, too, but for a completely different reason. Fynn. That Fynn. Images from old newscasts flash through my mind. Pictures of long brown hair and forced smiles and tailored suits.
“Fuck. It's probably poisoned.” Jak roles his eyes, disappointment taking over his features.
“It's not.” I shake my head.
“Of course it is.” Jak gives me an incredulous look. “Why else would the enemy send us food if not to kill us all?”
There's nothing I could tell them that wouldn't make them think me a traitor, so instead, I go with, “I'll test it. I'll eat a piece, and if I die, you'll know not to eat it.”
It makes me look brave, but that's not the case here. I feel no fear as I pluck a tomato from one of the crates and hold it up to my mouth. Everyone looks on with apprehension, though no one tells me not to eat it. Fynn said he wouldn't harm me, and I may be naive, but I'm choosing to believe him. I brought this mess down on my people, it's only fair that I'm the one who discovers whether he was genuine or not, even if it costs me my life.
CHAPTER FOUR
FYNN
“I know what you've been doing.” Daniel leans against the doorway to the dining room and stares at me, his arms folded over his chest. There's a disapproving look on his face. I should have known an unpleasant conversation was coming when he'd been unnaturally silent after entering my estate.
I glance over at him as I pull out my chair to sit. “What have I been doing?” He needs to specify. I do a lot of things during the day.
“Sending food to the people in that warehouse in sector seventeen,” he says and then waits for my reaction.
I show no sign of alarm from his discovery of my private betrayal. “If you're acknowledging that there are just displaced people there, then the area doesn't need to be swept.”
“Nice way of evading.” His jaw clenches. “Why are you supporting the enemy?”
“I'm not supporting the enemy.”
“I had your servant followed, Fynn. Not just once.” He pushes away from the doorway and walks over to me finally, pulling the chair out opposite from me. He drops himself into it heavily and bends to catch my gaze. “You've been having food delivered to them for lord knows how long. I need you to tell me why so I'll know whether or not to report this to your father.”
My nostrils flare from the threat, and anger takes hold. “And all this time I thought you were more loyal to my friendship.”
“We're at war, Fynn.” He bangs his fist on the table, causing the plates and glasses and silverware to dance for a fraction of a second. “My allegiance is to my country above all else.” We glare at each other heatedly for a moment before he settles slightly. “You're my best friend. We've never kept anything from each other. The thought that you're hiding something from me...”
I exhale, my own anger dissipating. He doesn't so much feel like the betrayal is to my country but more directly to him. There's concern etched all over his face. The threat was likely without merit. He doesn't want to turn me in to my father, he just wants to force me to tell him what's going on.
I'm speechless as I try to come up with some lie that's justifiable. Nothing is more justifiable than the truth, though.
“Do you remember the day we executed those rebels?” I begin. He nods. “I told you there was a woman watching us. Kenny Öberg reported back with her whereabouts, and I took it upon myself to investigate further.”
“Fynn, that's grunt work.” He shakes his head at me. “Why would you put yourself in danger like that?”
I hold my hand out to stop him before he chastises me further. I swear, sometimes he can be worse than my parents.
“There are twenty-four of them now,” I inform him. “There were twenty when I first started watching them. They mean no harm. They're just trying to get by.
“The girl had been scavenging through the neighborhoods. She came upon us by accident. It wasn't worth telling you about.”
“And you felt sorry for them, so you started sending them food,” Daniel finishes the story for me. The alternate version of it.
“The war is over, Daniel. We should be giving those who chose to stay in this country our assistance.” I start cutting into my salmon like it's no big deal.
“The war isn't over, Fynn,” he insists. “Your father wants this area cleared out, and that's what I intend to do. You can't be going about having a bleeding heart for these people. They know they're not supposed to be here.”
“There isn't anywhere else for them to go.” I set my silverware down and look at him. “What are they supposed to do?”
“I don't care what they do. It's not our concern. Our only concern is following your father's orders.” He sits back, challenging me. I wish he would just forget about it and eat his damn food, but that's not who he is. Daniel looks away from me, sighing. “I'm not going to tell your father about this out of my love for you. But I am ordering a sweep of sector seventeen on Friday whether you approve or not.”
I want to say no, but if I'm vehement about it, he'll know that there's something more going on. All I can do is nod and try to appreciate that at least he's giving me a few days to warn Anya's people. The thought of pushing Anya out of my reach doesn't sit well with me, that I'll no longer be able to keep an eye on her and protect her.
For as much as I've watched her from afar, I've made no further attempts to approach Anya. It makes me feel like a coward, hiding in the shadows secretly pining over her. I wanted to get closer, but how would that even be possible with the way things have been. I could make the food deliveries myself, but there's no guarantee that her people wouldn't take the opportunity to attack me. Capturing me would be advantageous to them, and there's no telling what they'd do to me.
I don't have long to decide my next move. Time is of the essence if I want to give Anya and her people time to relocate. But the thought of losing her tugs at me like nothing ever has, and after spending a full day thinking about it, I realize it's not an option—that there's only one option I'll be satisfied with. Only one way to help her people and still get what I want.
The following afternoon, when I'm done with my duties, I change into my street clothes and take a car to Anya's camp. I sport a hood and cover my nose and mouth with a handkerchief, trying my best to conceal my identity. I would have sent my servant, Jan, if I had thought that Anya would actually go with him. No, it has to be me. I have to make sure she can't get away.
Anya's people are accustomed to seeing the black sedan by now. I've been sending food deliveries every three days like clockwork. When I receive produce at the estate, the camp receives their shipment several hours later after my servants have had time to go through and pick out what we need to get by until the next shipment.
They're used to seeing Jan, though. Only Jan, dressed in his tailored servant's uniform, his face unobstructed and non-threatening. By comparison, I look like a terrorist having come to gun them all down. Wearing a mask isn't the best idea, but there's no way for me to sneak in when they have people on watch all the time, and I can't afford for anyone to see my face. Just in case there's a confrontation, I have a gun with a silencer in my pocket. I hope it doesn't come to that, though. No doubt, if I kill someone in front of Anya, especially one of her own people, she'll be terrified of me. What I'm about to do is risky business for everyone involved, but I have to do it.
I kill the engine and step out from behind the wheel. There's a middle-aged man with a large paunch of a stomach standing sentry in front of the warehouse. Discomfort fills his eyes as I approach him, and he grips the metal pipe he's holding even tight
er.
“I want to speak to Anya.” I don't bother beating around the bush.
“We got our food delivery yesterday. Who are you?” He wrings his hands around the pipe, but he doesn't look threatening.
“I'm a messenger,” I reply plainly. He doesn't need to know more than that. “Where is Anya?” I look past him at the door. I know she's not out scavenging, so she must be inside.
“How do you know my girl?” He steps in front of the door as if he already knows what I'm thinking. His voice is full of suspicion.
“Your girl?” I jut my head back, squinting at him. “Are you her father?” If that's the case, that throws a whole other layer of unexpected complications to things.
He chuckles. “Not hardly. She's my woman.”
“Your woman?” I can't hide my disgust, nor my disbelief. Not once in all the times that I've watched Anya have I seen her with a man, and I can't bring myself to believe that she'd shack up with this useless lump of flesh for protection. “You'll step aside now,” I tell him. It's not a suggestion.
“I don't know who you think you are,” he comes toe to toe with me, “but you're not getting in there.” He points back at the door with his pipe.
Crunch.
The bones in his nose make a sickening sound as my right jab connects with his face. I don't have time for this shit, I think as I step past him while he stumbles back against the wall, blood running over his fingers as he clutches his face and murmurs in pain. The pipe in his hand has fallen to his feet and been forgotten in the wake of his injury. I'm both surprised and pleased that one punch was all it took to make him back down. Not exactly the kind of guy you want guarding the entrance to your hideout, though it did work out in my favor.
Within seconds of me entering the building, everyone is frantic. I spot Anya in a corner. There's a semi-circle of children around her. She's hunched over and has string wrapped around her fingers, probably showing them some trick. When she sees me, she steps forward and uses her arms to corral the children behind her, protecting them with her small frame. For as tender as the scene is, it wakes something hungry within me to witness her acting so maternally. An image flashes through my mind of her with a round belly, my child inside of her. My cock twitches in my designer jeans, an awkward time for it to rear its head.
