Savages (7 page)

The clinic was a buzz of activity. I stopped to stare at it.

“She’s probably still there,” Gabe said.

“I know.”

“You going to see her?”

I hesitated. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. She’s probably busy.”

“Well, I’m going to see Elizabeth.”

I clapped him on the arm and started down the road. “See you in the morning.”

“Yeah.”

On the way home, I saw a pile of horse manure on the side of the road and remembered I had let Red out of his stall and had not told Gabriel. Gabe would not be happy if Red was missing when he got home. A sense of alarm told me to run, but I was too tired. A brisk walk was the best I could manage.

I turned the corner on our street and saw Red with his head down munching grass in my front yard. He still wore the saddle I had put on him. His long tail switched at fat flies trying to land on his flanks. He did not seem to be in any discomfort. I called to him and walked closer.

Red nuzzled my chest, sniffed at my face, and left a smear of horse snot on my forehead. I laughed and wiped my head across his shoulder, leaving a sticky smear in the reddish-brown coat. “Bet you’re hungry, big fella.”

I led him to the barn by his halter and removed the saddle and blanket. After tossing them over the sawhorse, I put Red back in his stall. He went along willingly—a human putting him in his stall usually meant feeding time. The padlock securing the feed room was clamped shut, so I threw a big wad of hay into Red’s stall to give him something to munch on and went home to get the spare key to Gabe’s place.

As I came up the drive, I heard voices coming from inside the house. A boy of about eight years sat on the front porch feeding pieces of dried fish to a stray cat. I stopped. Thoughts swirled in the old gray matter until a reasonable explanation presented itself. Nonetheless, I rested a casual hand on my pistol.

“Hi,” I said to the boy as I stepped onto the porch.

“Hi,” he said. He was thin, like all kids are now, and most everyone else for that matter. The boy had dark hair and eyes, and did not seem put off by my arrival.

“When did you get here?” I asked him.

The boy looked down and fed another scrap of fish to the stray tabby. I noticed the cat was missing one eye and half its left ear. Another hardened survivor.

The boy said, “Yesterday. Our house burned down. One of those bombs landed on it.”

“Everyone in your family all right?”

“Yeah. None of us were home. One of our neighbors died, though. Mrs. Steadman.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

The boy shrugged. “She was mean. Her and my dad argued a lot. He had to send for the sheriff one time when he caught Mrs. Steadman stealing out of our garden.”

I did not know how to respond. The boy reached out to the cat with both hands, one holding fish, the other gently scratching at its ears. The cat began to purr.

“I’m Eric, by the way. I live here.”

“I know who you are. Everybody does.”

“You got a name?”

“Brandon.”

“You staying here now, Brandon? You and your family?”

“Yeah. Doc Laroux said we could stay here until we can get a new place. Lots of folks are staying with other people now.”

I winced, and was immediately glad the cat held Brandon’s attention. I liked my house. I liked that it was just me and Allison. I liked our privacy. But the house had four bedrooms, and we only used one. There were two guest rooms and Allison’s office. The office could be cleared out to accommodate more people if necessary. Whatever disruption our new guests might cause to our lives was small compared to what they were now going through. I could only imagine how much they had lost.

Don’t be selfish, Riordan. Go inside and introduce yourself.

I went in. The foyer opened into the living room. The couch and recliner and fireplace were right where I left them. Atop the dining room table were plates, flatware, and the remains of a recently-eaten meal. I remembered making love to Allison on that tabletop and determined it best if my guests remained ignorant of that information.

“Hello?” I called out.

A man in his late thirties emerged from the kitchen wiping his hands on a towel. He was short, broad shouldered, and had the same face as the boy on the porch, aged thirty years. He smiled and came over to offer me a handshake. His eyes registered recognition.

“Hi, Arthur Silverman. Call me Art.”

I accepted the handshake. It was calloused, strong, and gritty like sandpaper. The hand of a farmer. “Eric Riordan.”

He smiled. “I know who you are. Sorry to barge in on you like this.”

“Your son told me what happened to your house. I’m sorry.”

The smile went away. His eyes dropped and he nodded. “Yeah. Burned all my crops too. I only had a few acres and some chickens, but we made it work. Don’t know what I’m gonna do now. Might have to sign on with a caravan and head someplace else.”

“There’s always the military.”

“No, I’ve been down that road already. Four years in the Army. Infantry. ’04 to ’08. Served in Iraq.”

I held back a grimace. “I know some folks who served around that same time. Tough years, from what I understand.”

“Tough enough I don’t ever want to go back.”

I unslung my rifle and hung it on a hook by the front door, followed by my MOLLE vest. The shirt underneath was soaked through with sweat. A long pull from my canteen eased the burn in my throat. I stared at my gear and worried over the fate of my pack. There were valuable things in it. But like everyone else, I had left it in the transport when the bombs started flying. Now that things had calmed down, I hoped someone from Delta Squad found it and kept it safe. If one of the troops from Second or Third Platoon realized it was a civilian contractor’s pack, it was as good as gone.

“I’ll get this mess cleaned up,” Art said. He began stacking plates in the dining room.

Normally I would have offered to help, but right then all I could think about was filling a bucket with water, wiping myself down with a sponge, putting on clean clothes, and sleeping for ten hours. After I gave Red his dinner, of course.

“Thanks,” I said. “By the way, how many of you are there?”

“Me and my two kids,” Art said. “My boy Brandon, and my daughter Jenny. She’s outside using the facilities.”

By ‘facilities’ he meant the outhouse. I’m proud of my outhouse. A friend of mine, who in my opinion is the Michael Jordan of carpenters, helped me build it. By post-Outbreak standards, it is downright posh.

“Take whichever rooms you like,” I said, “except my bedroom. I’m afraid that one is reserved for me and Allison.”

Art laughed. It was an awkward laugh, like he was out of practice. His expression held a kind of guilty tension I had seen on many faces since the Outbreak. The notable absence of his wife likely had something to do with it. He held up a hand.

“No argument here. I’m just glad to have a roof over my head tonight. Been plenty of nights me and the kids didn’t even have that much.”

I grabbed a towel from the linen closet and headed for the bathroom. “Make yourselves at home.”

*****

Allison came home late. I did not hear her come in, nor did I hear her cleaning up in the bathroom. She could have stomped into the bedroom with a knife and stabbed me and I would not have noticed. I did notice, however, when she slid in bed beside me and kissed me on the side of my neck.

“You awake?” she asked.

“I am now.” I rolled onto my back and pulled her into my arms. She slid against me like fine silk and lay her head in the hollow between shoulder and chest. Her left hand moved slowly over my lower stomach and she put her lips close to my chin. I knew what she was thinking, what she wanted. It was a stress response. Many people have experienced it, myself included. Tired as I was, I did not object. But I knew not to rush things. Best to let her set the pace.

“How are you holding up?” I said.

“Better than most of my patients.”

I ran gentle fingers through her hair and kissed the top of her head. “You did everything you could Allison. You can’t save them all.”

“I know. I still hate it.”

We lay quietly a few minutes and listened to the night sounds outside our bedroom window. I had opened the window to let some cool air in. Spring was rapidly headed toward summer, and the days were getting warmer. The nights, on the other hand, would still be refreshingly brisk for a few more weeks. As much as I hated facing a Tennessee summer with no air conditioning, it was good to know the nuclear winter of the last three years was finally abating.

“So many of them were children,” Allison said. “I see that, and I can’t help but think it could happen to our child too.”

The movement of soft fingers dipped lower and brushed at my waistband. Despite the topic of conversation, I felt myself beginning to respond. “I’d like to tell you I would never let that happen, Allison, but I think we’re both realistic enough to know that’s not possible. False bravado only gets people killed. All we can do is be smart and take as few risks as possible. I’ll do everything I can to protect you and the baby. And I know you’ll do the same. That’s all we can do. It’s all anyone can do.”

The hand stopped moving. Her breathing slowed. I knew she was working her way up to say something she did not expect me to like. “Eric,” she said, “I think we should leave.”

Color me surprised. “You mean leave Hollow Rock?”

“Yes. But not yet.”

“Okay,” I said slowly. “When?”

“Somebody has to do something about the Alliance. And the ROC.”

I blinked. “Okay. I agree completely. But what’s that got to do with us leaving town?”

“You remember the other day when you told me you were going with the expedition?”

“Yes. My memory is pretty good when it comes to people throwing things at my head and shouting at me.”

She sat up and looked me in the eye. She did not smile. “I was wrong. You were right. You belong in this fight. There’s a reason I’m telling you this. I overheard Captain Harlow talking on his satellite phone. He and General Jacobs are planning to send a strike team to meet up with Task Force Falcon.”

“Jesus, you heard that? Talk about lousy op-sec.”

Still no smile. “Do you know anything about it?”

“No, but Gabe and I have a meeting with Captain Harlow tomorrow morning. Did you hear anything else?”

“Yes. He wants you and Gabe on the team.”

I was quiet for a long moment. I knew Captain Harlow respected my abilities, but he did not like me very much. The feeling was mutual. We often traded salvage and other goods, but always kept things strictly business. No banter. No jokes. No friendly handshakes to seal a bargain. And while he had hired me in the past for sniper work and recon and such, he had never tried to recruit me for something this high level. It made me nervous. “What else did he say?” I asked.

“They’re going after the Alliance’s leaders.”

I laughed. “Yep. That sounds like General Jacobs. Listen, I appreciate the heads up, but what are you really trying to say? I sense a subtext to this discussion.”

“I want you to go with them, Eric. I want you to help them. The Alliance is weakening. Remember, they’re not really a country, just a loose federation of city-states. And a lot of people living in Alliance territory don’t much care for the way things are being run. They don’t like antagonizing the Union, and they don’t like North Korean commandos in their communities. They don’t like that the Alliance central government legalized slavery. Most Alliance citizens are still angry at the Union government, but they still see themselves as Americans. Foreign occupation doesn’t sit well with them, nor does the slave trade. Take out the leaders, and the Alliance will fall apart. If that happens, the individual communities will have to turn to the Union for help. And when they do, the ROC will be out of options. They’ll have to surrender, or face all-out war. They’re already being hard pressed by resistance forces in California and Oregon. They’d be facing a war on two fronts, and it would be a war they couldn’t win. But to make that happen, General Jacobs is going to need the best fighters he can get. Fighters who can end the Alliance for good.” She kissed me on the side of the mouth. “And you’re one of the best there is.”

For the first time I can remember, I was stunned speechless. I stared at my wife and felt like I was seeing her for the first time. The eyes were different. The usual gentle honey-browns glittered in the dark like slices of amber. I remembered seeing a look like that before on a six-hundred pound Bengal tiger.

When the circuitry in my brain finally rebooted, I said, “You know, for a country doctor, you sure know a lot about politics.”

Her smile finally made an appearance. It was not a warm one. It was a surgical incision with pretty white teeth. “I’m a very smart country doctor, Eric. I have a disarming smile and an excellent memory. People trust me. They tell me all kinds of things. Doctor-patient privilege and all that.”