by Joshua Guess
I didn’t want to be around me.
Among the dead on our side: six soldiers, one scientist, and Colonel Phillips.
The older man had gone down quickly, taken when his injured leg went out from under him as he hopped out of the back of his truck. One of the last shots fired, I was told, and it took him through the neck. Someone had done the honors on all of the dead, sliding a tool into the brain to prevent them from rising, but that was all we did at the scene of the battle. When we left, our dead were loaded onto the trucks and taken to Bastion for a proper goodbye. The rest we left to rot.
When we got home, there was no celebration. We were tired and hurt and there was a lot to be done. I let others do it. I didn’t care about the disposition of the trucks or their contents, where we parked the liberated Humvees. I wasn’t even interested in discussing what we should do with the soldiers or the votes we would need to cast. Hell, I only gave Nikola a single scratch behind the ears before shuffling off to the bathroom.
I emptied my pockets and divested myself of gear, stuffing the clothes in a bag. I wanted to burn them. The thought of wearing them again make my throat tighten. My shower was short by necessity; the tank Jem had installed to feed it only held so much. I didn’t mind that it was tepid at best. It could have been ice cold as long as it let me clean myself.
Let’s be clear about one thing.
I didn’t cry. I was not depressed or even sad. There was no existential crisis rocketing through my mind and weighing heavy on my heart. Was I bothered deeply by what I had done? Sure, just not because I had killed living people. I had long since come to terms with the necessity. What bothered me was the very real, very salient fact that my illness could take over completely. Just balancing the usual effects of the Shivers was bad enough. This new dimension left me terrified for the people around me.
I went into my room afterward, clad in a baggy t-shirt—one of Jem’s—and loose fleece pajama bottoms. Jem sat on the bed with Anthony next to him. Ellis leaned against a wall chatting with Garcia, and a somewhat nervous Abel Barnes hovered near the unused recliner as if afraid it was going to eat him.
“Is this an intervention?” I asked. “Because I swear, I can stop any time I want.”
Barnes cracked a smile, but it was Jem who spoke.
“I talked to the doctor while you were in the shower,” he said. “I thought it would be a good idea to have a chat.”
I shrugged. “Okay, but let’s make it snappy. I feel a good wallow coming on, and I don’t want to miss out.”
“You’re not going to snap and kill anyone you care about,” Barnes said, cutting right to the point.
I opened my mouth to say something snarky, then shut it again. Anthony took the hesitation as his cue to cut in. “He’s right. It’s happened to me a bunch of times. Never hurt any of the others.”
I let out a frustrated groan. “Statistically, that can’t stay true forever.”
Barnes raised his hands. “No, you’re working under a misunderstanding. You think you turned into a wild monster with no control at all, correct?”
I shuddered as I flashed back to the abattoir I’d created in the trailer. “I think that much is a given, don’t you?”
“Nope,” Barnes replied. “You blacked out while you were doing it, that’s true. But your brain was still working. You didn’t slaughter those men because they were there. You did it because they were enemies and had hurt your friend. Just as Reavers will recognize goals like food even in their wildest state, you will recognize and focus on enemies.”
Anthony nodded. “More than that. I did it once while we were on a field trial. Killed a bunch of zombies, but didn’t try to hurt the doctors or guards even though I hated them. Doc says it was because I understood they would kill me.”
“Exactly,” Barnes said. “Just because you don’t remember doing it doesn’t mean you lack the ability to reason or differentiate between people.”
I didn’t want the news to make me feel better, but it kind of did. “So what you’re telling me is that really was me who gutted those men.”
Barnes seesawed a hand. “Eh. More like it was a compromise. Nero was turning your brain into a stew of rage and violence while your basic nature guided it in a useful direction. Kept it from hurting those you saw as innocent.”
Garcia cleared her throat. “And can I just add: fuck those guys? Because dead is dead. They had it coming. How it happened doesn’t really bother me. Since, you know, they just got done shooting me and all.”
All of them had something to say, some little encouragement or fact to make things better. I didn’t know whether Barnes and Anthony were telling the truth or not. Maybe I wanted to believe it either way, but it did help. I wasn’t dancing on rainbows, but it helped.
That’s the big secret about going through trauma. Or, as my favorite therapist put it, Trudging Through the Shit™. You don’t have a revelation and suddenly walk away empowered and whole. You’re never whole. You heal a little at a time, helped along the way by people who care enough to do the work.
And as it turned out, I had my share of those. Carla and Tony, Julia and the other freed prisoners, even Gregory who had once been so terrified of me he’d remained silent about an attempt on my life. Over the next few days, all of them showed up again and again to make sure I knew they had my back.
We held a funeral service for Phillips and the fallen soldiers. The citizens of Bastion showed nothing but respect, which if I’m honest came as something of a surprise. There was bound to be at least some friction, hard feelings left over, but that hour of remembrance existed outside of them. It was calm, peaceful, and I hope therapeutic for everyone who knew the fallen better than I.
At the end of the show, everything is supposed to go back to normal. Isn’t that how it works? The cast learns their lesson and defeats the bad guy, good triumphs, freeze frame as time seemingly resets until next week when we do it all again.
There was no more normal, and in real life, life damages you. You heal, but like a broken vase glued back together, the cracks are still there. Always a part of you. I was afraid of myself and of what I could do. My friends helped me take the first steps to coping with that fear, for which I would be grateful until the day I died. But there was no fresh beginning. Only moving forward, putting distance and time between myself and the memories.
I stood at the funeral for Colonel Phillips, and if that doesn’t tell you there’s no such thing as an easy villain, I don’t know what will. Life is so much more gray and complicated than stories. It’s much easier to stop the villain. Clean and simple.
People—real people—instead require compassion and thoughtful consideration.
And you know what? They’re worth every second.
Epilogue
“I can’t fucking believe you did this to me,” Garcia grumbled at me two weeks later.
I waved an arm expansively, as if I were showing her the entire world. “Not me, Garcia! The people! They voted for you.”
She snorted. “They voted for me because you told them I was your choice. Even though there are a couple people ahead of me in the chain of command.”
I stepped back and eyed her. The uniform wasn’t anything spectacular. Mostly it was made up of her Army gear, but with a few additions. The dark gray arm band held rank and a yellow and green symbol sewed on. Ellis had the idea to make a symbol for Bastion, and I liked it. A circle with a simple arc of green at the bottom, yellow sunlight above. It gave people something to focus on.
Then there were the more practical elements we had added. Like the neck protector made from three layers of heavy-duty nylon fabric. No zombie could bite through that, though any who tried would leave an awful bruise. Her hands were covered in a set of the new gloves being cranked out using the leather made from the deer we hunted. Lined with rabbit fur, they had integrated metal knuckles just right for cracking zombie heads without interfering with motion too much.
Garcia tugged at the gorget a
round her neck. “I look ridiculous. And none of them are going to listen to me.”
I couldn’t help smiling. “I wonder if you’ve been asking yourself whether Phillips had those same doubts. I bet you have, ever since the vote.”
She said nothing. Pointedly.
“Yeah,” I said with a sigh. “That’s what I thought. Look, I gave you my support because I trust you. Period. No one else would have worked and your guys know that. But if it helps, remember that your former rank means nothing. If you consider the remnants occupying bases around the country the legitimate US military, you still chose to leave. Rank here is what we decide it is.”
Garcia perked up. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. We’ve had messages from some of those other bases. You saying that reminded me.”
“Yeah? What’s the word? Please don’t tell me the word is war. That would really make me sad.”
Her face brightened. “No, just the opposite. Sounds like Station One is going to recognize Bastion as a safe zone. No interference.”
My jaw dropped. “No way. Really?”
Garcia chuckled. “Yeah. Turns out some other soldiers at other bases have decided to recognize us, and a bunch threatened to run off like we did if there wasn’t some reform on how test subjects were, ah, recruited.”
“While I’m really happy about that, you need to stop stalling,” I said, reaching out and straightening her armband. “You have soldiers to address.”
She stared at the door. Outside it stood the first shift of them, waiting for her orders. “I really don’t want to do this.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s what will make you good at the job. You won’t take command for granted. You’re in charge of the home guard, Captain. So get out there and do your job.” As encouragement, I slapped her on the ass.
Garcia went. She grumbled and complained and said something in Spanish I was pretty sure was anatomically impossible, but she went.
Communities are living things. They’re like people. They grow and change, take wounds and scars. But just like people—and yeah, like me—they can be coaxed and shaped into something better than they once were. There was no small amount of distrust between the old residents of Bastion and the new, I’d been right about that much, but I was also right in what I said to Phillips.
Despite that tension, everyone saw each other as citizens. As residents. Whatever you want to call it. One day we might have rebuilt enough for pettiness to grow into a real problem, but in the home we built, everyone at least pretended to understand the importance of recognizing the contribution made by each person.
Garcia would do well. I knew she would. She was the bridge between the new arrivals and the old guard, someone who had seen the best and worst of both worlds.
You might wonder what my role in the new and improved Bastion was. Many people did. The place ran just fine in my absence, and I liked that. I didn’t want to be central to its function. I have never had a desire to for the limelight.
So I took advantage of the situation, using the fact that I had no vital role to play and leveraging my personal popularity to land the one job I knew I could do and enjoy. Let Garcia keep us safe, Tony build things, Jem keep the peace, and Carla run the show.
I would tend the bar.
Catch me on Facebook at my page:
Joshua Guess, Author
You can subscribe to my non-spammy newsletter, used only for book releases
at JoshuaGuess.com. I also blog there.
Also by Joshua Guess
The Fall
Victim Zero
Dead Will Rise
War of the Living
Genesis Game
Exodus in Black
Carter Ash
The Saint
Living With the Dead
With Spring Comes The Fall
The Bitter Seasons
Year One (With Spring Comes The Fall, The Bitter Seasons, bonus material)
The Hungry Land
The Wild Country
This New Disease
American Recovery
Ever After
The Next Chronicle
Next
Damage
Black Sand
Earthfall
Ran
Apocalyptica ( Also serialized into multiple parts)
This Broken Veil
Misc
Beautiful (An Urban Fantasy)(Novel)
Soldier Lost (Short Story)
Dog Dreams In Color (Short Story)
With James Cook
The Passenger (Surviving The Dead)
