Savages (29 page)

The summer passed and gave way to October, and the harvest, and my child growing steadily in my wife’s belly until the most nerve-wracking day of my life finally arrived.

I stood next to Allison, her hand gripping mine like a steel vice, and held on for dear life while she pushed and screamed and pushed some more. I was wearing blue scrubs, a clear plastic bag on my head, and dearly wished I was anywhere but in this hospital room with all these people, my wife uttering some of the vilest sentences I had ever heard, most directed at me, calling into question my intelligence, ancestry, and my odds of surviving the day. Which, according to her, were not very good. She seemed to be under the impression her intense suffering was entirely my fault, and boomed out her reasoning thereof at great length and with ear-burning eloquence. I wanted to point out she’d also had a hand in things, and I had certainly never heard her complain during any of the sessions that led to the conception of her current misery, but prudence and good sense told me this was not the time to bring it up.

“It’s okay, honey,” I said lamely, not knowing what else to do. “Just keep pushing.”

She looked at me fiercely, face sweaty and flushed, her hair a damp tangle. “What the fuck do you think I’m doing, you moron! What have I been doing this whole shit-sucking time!”

“Okay, okay, honey. You’re doing great. Just-”

“Shut your goddamn mouth you brainless idiot!”

So I shut up, and held her hand, and prayed the baby would come soon. There was more pushing, and screaming, and a lot of people moving around between my wife’s legs. Finally, one of the scrub nurses uttered the most beautiful sentence I had ever heard.

“It’s breaching, Doctor.”

“Okay,” Doctor Khurana said. “Almost there, Allison. Give me one last push.”

The nurse motioned for me to help. I put an arm behind Allison, lifted her up, and said, “Come on, honey. You can do it.”

Her eyes went hard, she took several quick breaths, clenched her teeth, and pushed with everything she had, culminating in a scream of raw, primal effort.

“He’s out, Allison,” the nurse said.

My wife collapsed on the pillows and struggled to catch her breath. I stepped around the side of the bed and looked at my child. Doctor Khurana’s eyes held a smile behind his surgical mask as he held up my baby.

“It’s a boy. Congratulations, Mr. Riordan.”

I had to wait while the nurses cleaned him up, suctioned something out his mouth and nose, cut the umbilical cord, and put some kind of clear goop in his eyes. Blue eyes, just like mine. Then they wrapped him up and handed him to his mother.

Allison smiled through the pain and exhaustion and cried tears of joy onto her little boy’s face. The little fella started crying, and his toothless, baby mouth was the most adorable thing I had ever seen. Allison glanced up at me.

“Say hello to your son, honey.”

I took him from her and added a few tears of my own to the growing collection on the little guy’s cheeks.

“Did you decide on a name yet?” Allison asked me.

We had chosen on a middle name already. Kenneth. It was Allison’s grandfather’s name, whom she had been very close with before his death over a decade ago. The baby’s first name, however, she had left up to me.

As I opened my mouth to speak, there was a knock at the door. Gabe poked his head in. “Is it okay to come in now?”

Doctor Khurana looked to Allison, who nodded. Gabe stepped in, dressed equally as stylishly as I was, and smiled down at my son.

“He’s beautiful,” the big man said.

Allison touched my arm. “He still needs a first name.”

I cleared my throat, wiped the tears from my cheeks, and smiled at the best friend I have ever had.

“His name is Gabriel. Gabriel Kenneth Riordan.”

*****

“You should stop listening to that thing.”

I looked across the kitchen table at my wife. Her shirt was unbuttoned, one side of her bra pulled down, little Gabriel suckling at her breast. It had been three weeks since we had brought him home from the clinic, but it still creeped me out to see my son’s mouth on my wife’s boob. I wondered if I would ever get used to it.

The little guy’s eyes blinked slowly as he drank, his bright blue irises contrasting sharply with his mother’s olive skin. I reached over and turned off the emergency radio.

“You’re right.”

I stood up and walked over to the window. My reflection looked pensive in the early morning light. The President had just made her weekly speech, and as usual, it was not good news.

As expected, the Alliance had fallen into anarchy with the death of its highest-ranking officials. The KPA troops stationed there, never terribly popular to begin with, had been driven out of the city-states. At first they had scattered, hiding in the woods in small bands, but then managed to regroup in northern Kentucky and launch a counter-offensive. Their problem, however, was they were isolated, unable to re-supply properly, and unable to call in reinforcements.

The President, who wanted to work quickly to mend fences with the people of the former Midwest Alliance, committed thirty thousand troops to the fight, including most of the troops stationed at Fort McCray. Only the Ninth TVM had remained behind.

The North Koreans never had a chance. Trapped between the hammer of former Alliance soldiers and the anvil of Union troops, they were slaughtered to a man.

In the months after the fighting, all but a few former Alliance city-states signed treaties with the federal government, essentially making them part of the Union again. The response from the ROC was predictable. Their best and strongest ally had turned against them. They had their collective backs to the wall. War was imminent.

There had been opportunities to take part, being that General Jacobs thought that me, Gabe, and Great Hawk were a bunch of steely-eyed bad-asses, meaning he had no shortage of missions for us. The pay was very high. Gabe and the Hawk took a few contracts. I did not. I’d had enough of fighting for a while. I wanted peace, and quiet, and to spend time with my wife and son. Having a family was a new experience for me, and it suited me just fine.

“What are you thinking about?” Allison asked.

I turned to look at her. The sun coming through the window lit her amber-colored eyes like flames, highlighting her thick, wavy hair in golden cascades. The warmth in my chest that had been growing since the day I met her flared to a heat so intense I thought it would burn me alive. It did not. I sat down next to Allison and took her hand.

“I was thinking of something Thomas Edison once said.”

She tilted her head. “And that would be?”

“’Non-violence leads to the highest ethics, which is the goal of all evolution. Until we stop harming all other living beings, we are still savages.’”

She nodded and was quiet for a long moment. The little guy fell asleep, a small stream of milk and drool dribbling down his chin. Allison wiped his face with a cloth and tucked her swollen breast back into her shirt.

“Is that what you think? We’re all just a bunch of savages?”

I sat back in my chair and ran a hand over my jaw. “I think we all have a bit of savagery in us, Allison. I think anyone can be pushed to it. And I think the more often we resort to that sort of thing, to violence, the easier it becomes. When your only tool is a hammer, everything starts to look like a nail.”

“You haven’t reached that point, Eric. Not even close.”

“I used to have nightmares. I thought I would again after the mission in Illinois. I thought it would be like after the Free Legion.”

“But it isn’t.”

I shook my head.

My wife put the baby in his crib, poured herself a cup of water, and sat across from me.

“For whatever it’s worth, Eric, I’m proud of you. I think what you did took a lot of courage. I think you’re strong, and brave, and not afraid to stand up for what you think is right. I think the world could use a hell of a lot more people like you. And I think you need to stop with all the self-recrimination and armchair psychoanalysis. Life is what it is. Not good, or bad, or anything else. It just is. One person’s tragedy is someone else’s triumph. The only difference is which side you happen to be standing on. This time, you picked the right one. So just be who you are, turn into whatever you’re going to turn into, and remember that no matter what happens, we’ll get through it together. As a family.”

I pulled her onto my lap and held her tight. Outside, southbound geese flew overhead, fleeing the coming winter. I nodded my head in the direction of the window. “Still think they have the right idea?”

“What do you mean?”

“I remember you mentioning something about leaving Hollow Rock.”

She laid her head on my shoulder. “I may have changed my mind about that.”

“Good.”

We sat together in our home, held each other, and for the first time since the Outbreak, I could say in all honesty, without reservation, that I was happy. And with this realization came the understanding that all the other things I had worked for in life—trade, freedom, shelter, food, all of it—nothing compared to this. Nothing compared to being with a woman I loved, a woman who had given me a son, and with whom I could truly enjoy a moment of peace. Whatever else the future held, I would always have this memory. I would always have this light inside me, no matter how dark the road ahead.

For now, it was all I needed.

Caleb Hicks pulled the morning watch.

Unlike most of the other soldiers at the north gate, he did not mind getting out of bed early. He liked mornings, the way the dawning sun passed through trees in bars of lemon-gold, the crispness of the autumn breeze, the smell of cold in the air, and the sky-shades of copper and burnt amber painted across the eastern horizon. He stood with his hands in his pockets, rifle hanging loose on its tactical sling, and scanned the field below for infected. He did not see any.

“You notice there aren’t as many ghouls coming around these days?”

Caleb turned to look at the other guard on watch with him. His name was Vincenzo, one of Sanchez’s men from the Ninth TVM.

“You know, I was just thinking the same thing.”

“Wonder why that is.”

Caleb shrugged. “Don’t know. But I’m glad for it.”

“Yeah. No kidding.”

The two soldiers continued their patrol along the wall, reached a watch tower, and turned back. Caleb thought he saw movement near the treeline and raised his binoculars.

“Got incoming.”

Vincenzo checked his rifle and brought it to the low ready. “Living or dead?”

“Not sure. Hang on a minute.”

Caleb switched to his rifle, dialed the magnification on the scope to six power, and peered through it. The figure in the distance wore thick layers of mismatched clothes, a hood over its head, and a scarf wrapped around its face. Caleb relaxed. Wearing thick layers, and lots of them, was a common tactic travelers used to protect themselves from ghoul bites.

“Living. Let’s go see what they want.”

Vincenzo lowered his rifle, but held it so he could bring it up quickly if need be. Caleb did the same.

The two men descended a ladder to ground level and waited while the figure approached. The closer the person came, the more Caleb knew it was a woman. Or a girl, more likely. The gait was distinctly feminine, but had a touch of the awkward clumsiness of early adolescence. She was tall, maybe five-foot ten, and did not seem to have fully grown into her body yet.

She came to a stop not far from where Caleb stood. She wore a pack with a short crowbar lashed to one side, a small pair of bolt cutters on the other, and a rifle over one shoulder. The rifle was a Marlin Model 60, .22 caliber. 

Good choice
, Caleb thought.

A pouch on her belt, which looked to have been hand-stitched from thick nylon fabric, hung heavily against her hip. By its obvious weight and the slight rattling it made when the girl moved, Caleb guessed it was full of ammo.

“Good morning,” he said pleasantly. “I’m Sergeant Caleb Hicks. This is Private Vincenzo. What can we do for you?”

The girl stood and stared. Only a small part of her face was visible, the eyes obscured by the hood and her scarf covering the rest of her face.

“Is this town called Hollow Rock?” she asked.

The voice was young. Caleb guessed the girl at no more than fourteen. Tall for her age. “Yes ma’am, it is. Are you here to trade, or are you with a larger group?”

She hesitated. “Um … actually I’m looking for someone. I was told I might find him here.”

“Okay, we might be able to help you with that. But would you mind pulling down your scarf, though? It muffles your voice, makes it kind of hard to understand you.”

The girl did as Caleb asked. She was neither pretty nor ugly, her face long, square, straight nose, sharp angles to the cheeks and jaw, and a pair of striking gray eyes. Greasy strands of long black hair blew on the breeze as she pushed back the hood. Oddly, she looked familiar. Caleb had the feeling he had met her before.

“This is who I’m looking for. The man, not the woman. She’s dead.”

The girl slowly pulled a picture from a jacket pocket. It was inside a small freezer bag, ostensibly to protect it from damage. Caleb took it and felt his heart skip a beat. He understood now why the girl looked so familiar. The picture was of two people, a man and a woman, the woman in a wedding dress and the man standing behind her in a Marine Corps dress uniform, his hands on her waist, obviously taken on their wedding day.

“The guy in the picture’s name is Gabriel Garrett,” the girl said. She reached out a nervous hand and Caleb numbly gave her the little plastic bag.

“I know that guy,” Vincenzo said. “He’s kind of a big deal around here. Why are you looking for him?”

Caleb knew the answer but let the girl speak anyway. His mind swirled with thoughts of how his friend was going to handle the shock headed his way.

“My name is Sabrina Garrett,” the girl said. “Gabriel Garrett is my father.”