“What about my face? She wo
uld have blown that clean off. Does no one give a shit about that? And that poor woman that she’s impregnated is out there somewhere, dying with the spawn of evil inside her. Does no one care about her?” I’d spit at him if I could gather enough moisture in my mouth, and I
hate
spitting. I’m so angry, the room feels like it is throbbing around me.
Zee walks a
way, looking at the old dusty chalkboard fixed to the wall. “Of course we care about you. Every member of this community—of this team—is important, but Michael has said that if it gets out about Rachel, he’ll leave. He says Nova will leave with him. The thing is, Nina, I need their skillset. I need them to help keep everyone safe, and while I agree that what she did was disgusting and inhumane, telling everyone won’t help anyone. It won’t change things.” He turns to look at me. “Do you understand?”
I roll my eyes again. “I
’m not fucking stupid, of course I understand.” I take a deep breath and grumble loudly. “Fine. I won’t say anything. Keep him the hell away from me, though. I don’t want to be on duty with him or work near him. I don’t even want to eat near him. You got that?” I point a finger at his chest, and while he isn’t intimidated in the slightest, he does back away. “Do
you
understand that, Zee?”
He nods. “I do, Nina. That
’s perfectly acceptable. Go rest, you deserve it.”
I pick up my back
pack and head out of the office without another word, and come crashing into Mikey.
“Fuck, Mikey!” I yell.
He holds his hands up and frowns. “Sorry.” He frowns as Zee comes out behind me.
“You should go get some rest, Nina. It
’s been a long couple of days, I’m sure,” Zee says as he passes us and heads off to meet the others.
I snarl at his retreating back. “Thanks.”
Mikey looks at me. “What’s going on?” He still has his hands on my arms, as if trying to stop me from falling. I shrug out of his grip, not missing this hurt look on his face that he quickly replaces with indifference.
“I
’m sorry.” I reach out to touch his arm but he pulls away from me.
Jesus, this is stupid
.
“Don
’t be, it’s fine. It’s been a hard couple of days. Let’s go get you cleaned up. You stink.” He laughs dryly and walks off, following in Zee’s footsteps, and I’m left standing like an idiot all on my own.
I
wring my hands, feeling a headache coming on.
How did I become the asshole in all of this?
I shower in our little home,
the water turned up as hot as I can stand it in an attempt to wash away the grime, guilt, and worry of the past couple days. My jumbled thoughts mix with my shampoo suds that swirl away down the drain. But unlike my dirty suds, my thoughts don’t wash away. The heat does nothing to clear my head, only making my weird sense of sisterhood to the unnamed pregnant woman increase.
I step out
and wrap a towel around myself before clearing the fog on the mirror and staring at my reflection. I roll my eyes. This isn’t one of those moments that you get in the movies, where the woman stands and makes some life-changing decision while staring at her reflection. Hell, no. I’m not
that
woman.
I do notice that the scar
on my face, from my mouth to midway up my cheekbone, is now just a thin, jagged, red line. It will always be there, a constant reminder of Fallon and the Forgotten, and I think I can live with that. Revenge is one thing, but my family’s safety is another.
I think of Michael and Rachel, and how it must have hurt him to go throug
h with everything she suggested; but he did it, because like her, he thought they could save the world, save everyone. And poor Nova: she killed her sister for me. Or did she? I wonder if it was more of knee-jerk reaction to kill her. She was angry—though she’s not shown any anger, per se. But she had to be: she was kept out of the loop for so long by both of them—how could that not hurt? And she hasn’t spoken to Michael since she got back.
So maybe she didn
’t pick me, and maybe now she’s suffering, thinking of how her quick temper killed her sister. I shouldn’t feel guilty for that but I do, and that pisses me off more than anything else.
A knock comes on the door, and Mikey
’s voice sounds from outside. “You okay in there?”
“
I’m fine, I’ll be right out,” I say.
I listen to his footsteps retreat as he goes back downstairs. He knows that something is wrong, but I promised Zee I wouldn
’t say anything, that I would keep Rachel’s secret, and I intend on keeping it. If it keeps the people I love safe, then what’s a little secret?
I brush my teeth and dress before heading downstairs, still drying my hair with a towel. Mikey is
sitting in the kitchen, nursing a bottle of bourbon. The curtains are drawn and a small lamp is lit. Shadows dance around the room, creating a weird atmosphere—or maybe I’m imagining the atmosphere.
“This is all very
spooky and cliché,” I joke with a cocked eyebrow.
He looks up to me and offers me a soft smile. “Just glad that you
’re back.”
“Yeah, you seem it.” I turn
on the tap and fill a glass with water before downing it.
“I am,” h
e says, and pours another shot. “You want?” He offers me the bottle.
I hand my glass to him. “Yeah, why not?” He fills it and hands it back and I take a large swallow. It
’s warm as it goes down, but does nothing to improve the chill that I’m feeling deep inside. “Gotta enjoy the little things in life, right?” I lean against the kitchen counter, watching as he stares at me with a look that’s hard to distinguish, and then looks down with a deep exaggerated, sigh. “So?” I say.
“So,” h
e replies, and looks back up from the heavy brooding he’s doing into his bourbon to stare at me again. He clears his throat before speaking. “So, what happened out there?”
I shrug and drink some more of the fiery liquid
, looking away. “Just what you heard: there were bad guys and deaders in equal measure, they both tried to kill us, we won—mostly. Rachel lost her life,” I pause, hating to lie, “saving us all.”
“You
sure about that story, Nina?” He continues to stare into his glass and I take the opportunity to drink the rest of my drink.
“Uh huh,” I say and clear my throat.
“Thirsty?” Mikey says with a quirk of his eyebrow as he looks back up at me.
I
hand him my glass for a refill. “Guess so.”
Mikey wraps his hand around the glass and stands, keeping
my own hand pinned to it. He steps closer to me, so close that even in the tragic lighting I can see his jaw muscles twitching, the dark shadows from a two-day beard bristling.
“Nina,” h
e says hoarsely.
“Mikey,
” I mimic with my own brooding voice and smile at him.
We stare at each o
ther for what seems like an age before he finally lets go of my hand.
“Stop with this weird bullshit, Mikey. I don’t need this right now.” He continues to stare at me, making me feel more uncomfortable. “Jesus, what is wro
ng with you and this Mr. Tough Guy routine?”
Mikey looks down before walking
away. He knows I’m lying, and I don’t know what to do about it. I suck at this girlfriend shit. I’m trying to do the right thing by everyone, but clearly failing. I sit down in Mikey’s chair and reach for the bottle before realizing that he’s taken it with him.
I roll my eyes and pout into the darkness, listening as he shuts the bedroom door behind him. I want to go upstairs and tell him everything he deserves to know, but if truth be told, I don
’t trust what he might do. The last thing we all need is another hothead on the base. I head over to the sofa and climb onto it, snuggling down into the cushions and trying to drift off to sleep. Knowing that I can’t tell anyone what happened out there, about that woman, it hurts, but Mikey’s rejection of me hurts more. Still, I’m too proud to go upstairs and tell him now.
I close my eyes with a yawn. It
’s been a long couple of days, and I have a lot of sleeping to catch up on. The sofa, a bed—it doesn’t really matter to me. I’ve slept in worse places. The important thing is that I feel safe here.
*
The front door shuts with a soft click, stirring me from my dreams—dreams of a woman with a bulging stomach and hands clawing at her from the inside out, little teeth gnawing on her flesh and tearing away at her stomach lining.
I jump and fall off the sofa, landing in a jumbled heap on the floor. I scramble up to my knees and then back
onto the sofa, pushing knotty hair back from my face.
“Mikey?” I look around but don
’t see him.
I head up the stairs. H
e’ll have to put up with me sleeping next to him; I’m not falling on the floor again. I sit down on the edge of the bed, realizing he isn’t there. The bottle of bourbon stands empty and proud on the bedside table and I sigh out a frustrated breath.
I head back downstairs and grab a jacket as I leave the house, looking in both directions before setting off. It
’s still dark out, meaning it must be the middle of the night. I still find that frustrating, not knowing the time. I used to be a slave to the time—I guess everyone did—and some people have found a great freedom in the fact that there is no time for things now. Me, I find the whole thing irritating.
I can see
Mikey’s kerosene lamp bobbing in the distance as he walks, and I jog to catch up to him, finding him in the old park, sitting on a swing and swigging on another bottle of something.
“You should be sleeping,
” I say, making him jump and turn around.
Ha! Serves you right,
is all I can think.
“So should you,” h
e retorts and keeps on drinking.
It
’s cold out, an icy chill wailing through the trees. I look up to the sky, seeing not a cloud there, every star shining down brightly, their beauty an oxymoron in this once beautiful world. In some ways it is beautiful still. Mother Nature has flourished under man’s passing. Trees have grown tall, flowers have sprung up everywhere, but the ugliness is in what is left behind: the deaders and the people that have survived, the ones that still think they can control others. It makes my heart grow heavy thinking about all the deaths at the hands of these stupid people.
“I was
. I fell off the sofa.” I sit down on a swing next to him, pulling my jacket tighter around me. “That’s your fault, just so you know.”
“Alway
s with the loose tongue, huh?” he says.
“You know me,
” I reply with a small laugh.
“Do I?” h
e replies, and looks at me as he swings his legs out from under him.
“Don
’t be like that.” I look away, guilt flaming my face. “Don’t be an asshole.”
Mikey stops swinging and
looks at me. “Me? An asshole?” He stands up with a bitter laugh and starts to walk away.
I roll my eyes, refusing to
go after him. Yes, this is my fault. Yes, I know what’s pissing him off. But fuck this and fuck him. I stand up and begin walking back to the house. A couple of seconds pass with only the howling wind for company before I hear him jogging up behind me.
“You
’ve got some fucking nerve, Nina. You lie to me, straight to my damn face, and expect me to roll over and be okay with it. How fucking dare you, after everything that I’ve done for you!” He stands in front of me and I push past him and keep on walking.
I feel him tug on my arm a second later, and I stop as he again stands in front of me. I bite down on my lip, seeing the hurt and anger on his face. I know I
’m about to lose my shit and shout at him, but I’m trying not to. He has every right to be angry at me. It doesn’t mean I have to like it.
“Tell me w
hat the fuck happened out there,” he says with a shaking voice and cold eyes.
I
look down and try to push past him. I can’t tell him; I promised Zee, and Zee promised Michael. Like Zee said, we need Michael, and it will be my fault if he leaves—if he finds out I told anyone. And if he leaves, Nova will leave, and this camp—these people—need soldiers; they need protecting. I’ve caused enough damage as it is. I can’t cause any more.
“Nothing happened, Mikey. Jesus, just drop it. It was shit
ty—as usual. Now let’s just get on with this whole surviving thing and stop being an asshole with me,” I snap. I swallow down the rest of the sentence and try to compose myself. I reach out to touch him but he pulls away, and I feel my cheeks flame with embarrassment.
“Nina, I know that you
’re lying,” he yells, his nostrils flaring. “Damn well tell me now!”
“Will you calm the hell down? Y
ou’re being unreasonable,” I yell back.
“We
’re together—you should be able to tell me anything.” He points his finger at me. “I put up with a lot of your shit, Nina, but I won’t put up with you keeping things from me. I’ll ask you again: what happened out there? Did you get it on with Michael? Is that it? I’m not good enough for you?” he sneers.
I slap him hard.
“How fucking dare you? No, I didn’t. But you know what? You’re not my damn husband, Mikey, you’re my boyfriend. And if I wanted to screw somebody else, I would.” My hand burns from slapping him and I regret it instantly, nearly as much as I regret my vicious words. I don’t know why I hit him, why I said that to him. I’m just so hurt that he would even think that of me.
Mikey rubs a hand across his cheek; even
in this light I can see a handprint appearing. “Why won’t you tell me the truth then?”
“I
’m—I’m sorry.” I take a deep breath, feeling an ache in my gut. “Can’t you just trust me?” I say quietly.
He looks confused for a moment,
his features softening before quickly hardening back up. He looks away, his arms dropping away from me. “No.”
We stand there together, inches apart but separated by so much. I refuse to cry,
refuse to get upset by his pigheadedness. He should trust me and he doesn’t, and that hurts me more than anything.
“Then there
’s nothing left to say to each other,” I say to him stubbornly.
He
looks at me, his face full of hurt and anger. “Fine. I guess this is it, then.”
He doesn
’t look back at me as he turns and walks away, leaving me in the darkness of the park by myself. I don’t chase after him, don’t shout him back like I want to. And it’s only when he’s gone that I sit down on the swing he occupied only moments ago and I cry, letting the tears give way to my anger at him and everything else in this shitty, unfair world.
I
realize that I have to tell him. I’ll have to make him understand—force him to, if I have to—that he can’t tell anyone, that he can’t be different with Michael. Because I can’t lose Mikey, not after everything we’ve been through. Hell, maybe we’ll leave here together. Either way I have to tell him everything. Even as angry at him as I am, I know it’s the right thing to do.
It takes half an hour o
r so for everything to subside—my sadness, my anger—and I head back home. I open the door, finding it still dark. Mikey isn’t down here and though I don’t want another argument, I head upstairs to him.
In the dark of the
room, I can see the unmade bed and the closet doors open with all his things gone. And I know that he’s left me.