Beyond Green Fields | Book 3 | Lost & Found [A Post-Apocalyptic Anthology] Read online

  Beyond Green Fields #3: Lost & Found

  A post-apocalyptic anthology

  Adrienne Lecter

  Contents

  Introduction

  Life

  Life

  Hope

  Hope

  Talk in the Dark

  Talk in the Dark

  Evacuation

  Evacuation

  Patreon

  About the Author

  Books published

  Beyond Green Fields #3: Lost & Found

  A post-apocalyptic anthology

  by Adrienne Lecter

  Copyright © 2020 by Adrienne Lecter. All rights reserved.

  http://adriennelecter.com

  Produced and published by Barbara Klein, Vienna, Austria

  Edited by Marti Lynch

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

  The author greatly appreciates you taking the time to read her work. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling your friends about it, to help spread the word.

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  To my supporters on Patreon.

  Without you, none of these stories would exist. You made this possible.

  Thank you!

  Introduction

  Round three: Lost & Found

  How the title of this short story collection came to be is pretty self-explanatory—it’s all all about people who were lost but got found! And by people I mean Nate, of course.

  Going not chronologically but thematically, you’ll find four stories in here: Life—from before GF#10: Uprising kicks off; Hope—during GF#10: Uprising; Talk—right after GF#10: Uprising; and as a special coda, I’ve added Evacuation—the one and only short story from Bucky Hamilton’s POV, running before and alongside GF#1: Incubation. I felt it fit right in if you consider he was “found” in the 10th book, but had to find Nate, quite inconveniently, in his way just as the apocalypse had kicked off.

  Let’s roll through this from the end with the introduction, because that’s actually the order I wrote the short stories in.

  “Evacuation” is the only non-Patreon short story I’ve written set in this world so far. For a year, it was part of the Undead Worlds #1 anthology. It was a fun way to promote other people’s work, and I got to write a short story from the point of view of one of my favorite characters that also explained how a bunch of the more important side characters ended up where they needed to be—a win / win if there ever was one. I even got an official “best selling” author tag for it. I’ve been meaning to re-release the short story since it dropped out of the anthology after a year, but the time never seemed quite right. I’m really happy to finally let it have the second wind it deserves.

  Speaking of Hamilton—I had way too much fun writing him in the last two novels of the series, and the 3rd short story in this collection here, “Talk,” is mostly to blame for it. In 2019, I wrote five short stories from Nate’s point of view in one go, each more emotionally gut-punchy than the last, and this one is kind of the aftermath of them: one long conversation between two men who used to be friends before they were forced to work together, then drifted to very different corners of the earth for a while, only to find themselves side by side once more, and now their very survival depended on it. I think I could easily have written an entire sequence of their talks throughout the last two books but really, only one instance is needed—and this is it.

  Skipping ahead, “Hope” is just that—Nate’s attempt not to lose that final thread of hope he still clung to during his time at the slaver camp. Part of it is a fantasy he keeps rolling through his mind—which is actually a scene from the sequel that never was. You see, GF#1: Incubation used to be a biotech thriller before I added zombies to the mix and leaned back to watch the world burn, but it never quite worked out. Even worse, when I tried to write the sequel, all I managed to come up with was a scene later in the book (also involving Gabriel Greene) that was very much like the end scene of True Lies where Arnold Schwarzenegger and Jamie Lee Curtis do their phenomenal spy tango, plus some more spy things happening. The only other scene was the very vague and kind of silly beginning, featuring a beach in a country that had no extradition treaty with the US. I don’t know why but that mental image of a very different version of Bree that never got to exist kept rolling around in the back of my mind—and ultimately ended up as Nate’s stay-sane-for-her fantasy. See, even the most abandoned project might still end up, somehow, in a different story.

  Last but not least (well, first) we have Life—a quick episodic run-down of a few things Bree and Nate got up to after making landfall in Georgia at the very end of GF#9: Exodus upon returning to the States. People kept asking what they did during those months that ended up turning into years. I knew some of it but really, the opening chapter of GF#10: Uprising (the buggy perimeter tour) was so vivid in my mind that I couldn’t take away from it by adding a few more tidbits. That’s what this short story turned out to be. It also features a moment that would have made a great novel cover: Bree, squatting fully armed and decked out, on a basement stair with the outside world backlighting her. I wish I had the skills to draw well enough to show you. Guess you’ll have to make do with what your minds makes of my words. Sorry!

  When I started my Patreon project, I had a list of stories I wanted to write. I didn’t expect that less than four would be from Bree’s point of view, and the majority from Nate’s. I mean, I always planned to let him tell his side of the novels, particularly GF#5: Retribution (you can find these in the 2nd volume of these anthologies, Regrets). Besides that, the Prequel of how the two of them met was always planned as a ping-pong match between them, and I wanted to get some of his impressions of the long winter in the bunker in, which I wrote as the ending part of Training Day (you can find that in anthology #1: Beginnings). And that was pretty much it.

  Oh, how wrong I was. My readers and early Patreon supporters quickly convinced me that, no, I wasn’t done. They wanted to know about what went through his mind while he sat in that cell in the Canada base—and while we’re there, why not go far, far down into the rabbit hole of his soul and meet him at the very bottom? Hence, “Hope” and “Talk”—the two stories you find in here—were born.

  I didn’t mind; at least not after I’d started exploring further. Just like with GF#5: Resurgence, I needed to know exactly what was happening to Nate—and what it did to him—while Bree was gallivanting across the country, rallying support to break him out of jail. Might as well write it down. And add the talk with Hamilton afterward as well. What I’d dreaded would be a traumatizing chore (and let me tell you, this was part of why GF#10 knocked me out for a few weeks) turned out to be a phenomenal writing time. It also helped me write book 11 quickly, and the last book in record time… and all because of a few supportive people demanding to read more!

  You can thank them for these little nuggets! Please enjoy.

  Life

  Life: Life happens - a few snippets set after GF#9: Exodus. Nate's POV

  Life

  What do they say? Life goes on.

  That saying has always annoyed me, but it’s true. Five days since our drop-off at the Georgia coast, and routine is the name of the game.

  Today is the first day
I wake up moderately rested. For four days we tried our best to keep some semblance of a guard schedule, but last night we finally accepted defeat—also because we found a house, relatively untouched by the elements and all manners of critters, with an attic that is damn hard to reach and easily barricaded. It still took me forever to clock out, my mind startling at every sound the sturdy wood around us made, but I can tell that it was a good night’s rest. I still feel like crap, and the fact that my self-healing rate seems reduced now—compared to Bree’s which is still off the charts—makes me paranoid and cranky on a good day… and we haven’t exactly had many of those lately.

  But this morning, my head is clear, my body flexes and moves like it’s supposed to, and the aches from various residual injuries are easier to ignore than before.

  Turning my head, I appreciate the view—my wife, cocooned in a sleeping bag under a heap of blankets, wearing most of the clothes she owns, drooling onto a pillow that we found in one of the rooms below. Her soft breathing tells me that she’s not as out cold as when last I checked on her a few hours ago—back then, she was snoring, loud enough to wake me up. I can’t help it—since I almost lost her for good, I find myself checking on her at odd times even though I know it’s unnecessary. Or maybe that’s just my latent anxiety about my own state that manifests in irrational worry for her.

  I push away those thoughts; none of that is anything I want to concern myself with today. Through the dirty window at the opposite end of the attic I can see the sky start to lighten—time to get going. But I find myself oddly resentful of the sun that’s still weak enough to produce murk rather than a bright new day. I’d rather just close my eyes again and spend another hour dozing.

  That’s when I realize what’s different today: this feels like vacation.

  The thought is odd enough to make me open my droopy eyes wide to stare at the rafters above. Vacation—not sure I still remember the last time I got to enjoy one. Sure, there were a few hours at a time since the shit hit the fan when we could let our guard down—but never an entire day, and never without some reason or other keeping us grounded that in and of itself didn’t make it feel like free time. Getting snowed in days into a winter storm comes with a lot of worry rather than excitement or relaxation. And before that? Must have been some R&R between two missions, back when my brother was still alive.

  As usual when I think of him, I feel something deep inside my gut twist. I’d always expected I would die long before him—even when he invited himself into the serum project. And for a while, I was convinced that it was my doing that got him murdered. Now, I’m not sure what to make of that mess. Only yesterday Bree told me about her findings—or suspicions, really—and her most recent conversation with Dr. Raynor, who as it turns out had known my brother rather well. I don’t need to be a shrink to guess why my dear wife might not feel like casting the doc in the best of lights, but I don’t think she had anything to do with getting my brother killed. It’s just another layer that adds nothing to our understanding of what actually happened—and nothing will change that since everyone else involved is dead now. I get why Bree is still obsessed with finding out whatever she can—and as much as she tries to deny it, I know that the real reason is not general curiosity, but because she hates that she almost got involved in all that shit without having a clue about it in the first place.

  Ah, Bree. I know you would have hated your evil scientist alter ego, but I can’t help it—the very idea that my wife almost turned into a herald of the apocalypse doesn’t exactly subtract from the attraction of that bright mind of hers.

  Speaking of which—rest and enough food to sustain us well right now do their own to get my mind wandering. Sure, we spent the entire time between when the others left and our drop-off alone in our quarters, but today is the first morning where it’s not just routine physical reaction that makes me sport some morning wood. I could, of course, unseal our little fortress and drop down below to relieve myself… or I could dive under that heap of blankets and well-insulated sleeping bag and wake my wife up in a manner that’s a tad more romantic than kicking her awake. There’s really no reason not to go for option two, so that’s what I do.

  Theoretically, a great plan. Practically, it’s flawed as shit as to get to the good parts, I need to divest her of everything she’s wearing below her hips—and even if winters in the lower parts of Georgia are balmy compared to France, that still includes three layers. No way she is sleeping through that.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” I hear from the other side of the blankets as I pull down her pants, only to reveal the thick thermal leggings she’s wearing underneath that I don’t think have ever been washed. The things you tell yourself you don’t care about any longer when there’s no real alternative…

  “Guess,” I tell her succinctly as I go for layers two and three at the same time. At least she wasn’t sloppy enough to wear diapers. It happens. I almost laugh to myself that not even that thought can derail my one-track mind. Finally, it’s just skin and that innate scent of her—and the latent odor of baby wipes, but that’s better than the alternative, which usually means rash and the opposite of amorous endeavors. I can’t help it—I know she hates it when I touch her left leg now, but the contrast of soft, warm skin and raised scar tissue calls to me. Plus, I can’t make her see reason by telling her that I don’t give a shit about her scars, but I can damn well show her with my hands… and lips, and tongue, as I make my way up to the promised land. She’s still groggy from sleep so her usual annoying insistence that she’s hideous and thus unfuckable doesn’t set in yet, and my touch quickly stirs desire and lust that make her see reason—if you want to call it that. Far be it from me to accuse her of being a lust-driven slut who needs all of three seconds to jump off her soapbox and onto my dick—even if it’s true. It’s one of my favorite things about her.

  The fact that she’d kill me if I breathed even a word of that is another item high on that list.

  That she is, one hundred percent, capable of that, too.

  That it takes less than a minute until she’s all wet and ready, writhing under my attention, is just the icing on the cake.

  I’m tempted to stop and get some good old full body-on-body grinding on, but honestly? It’s been too long since I got a chance to properly make her lose her mind like this, and it’s not like we’re in a hurry to finish. Because I can be one considerate asshole if I want to, I pull the blankets back over her lower body—and consequently my upper half—and continue, not exactly needing to see much. She utters some insincere-sounding protestations at first but there is virtually no resistance in her body, not even a muscle tensing to throw the blankets back off. Fairness is all well and good, but has no place here now.

  I slow down a little; take my time. We’ve done this often enough that I know how to really get her going—and it’s been a while, so I know I’m teasing her for the most part. It’s been too long since last I had the time and opportunity to push sex past merely getting off—the brief, stolen moments in the bunker of the French Resistance were nice, but not nearly enough. And before that… I have to think hard about it. Too long worrying about her very survival has taken precedence over getting my rocks off. We got some use out of the bed they gave us when we visited the Utah settlement, same as the cabana at the beach in New Angeles… but all of that is tinted with worry or some other kind of trepidation. I almost draw up short—physically, not just mentally, but quickly get back in the game when Bree utters a grunt of protest—when I realize that the last time we got to enjoy each other’s company without knowing for sure that it’s only a brief respite inside a maelstrom of shit was our stay in Dispatch. And before that, the ratty motel where we used to have our not-quite clandestine meetings.

  Damn, but I’m kind of a failure at this perfect-lover schtick.

  The thought makes me laugh softly—and I get some great feedback from the missus for that—but I can’t help the thread of disappointment that briefly weaves
itself around my heart. Sure, I’ve never expected to be in a steady relationship—at all, and even less for an extended amount of time—let alone marry, but I know how to treat a woman right. And the damn zombie apocalypse isn’t a good enough excuse. If I’d wanted to, I could have carved more opportunities out for us. And it’s not like I’m opposed to this—on the contrary. But there’d always been something else on my mind, some minor—and often major—cause for worry and alarm.

  Now? Now my immediate imperative is to make Bree come all over my face and fingers, and then fuck her long and hard until she’s close to tapping out, and maybe some food after. Sue me—I’m still recovering so I’m constantly hungry, and present activities don’t exactly take away from that. My currently increased enthusiasm soon gets rewarded with her fingers threading through my hair so she can keep me in place as she grinds herself against me, about to go over the edge—and because I’m not a complete and utter bastard, I keep going until she goes slack and relaxes, a contented sigh coming from beyond the blankets.

  Reaching up, I try to find a way to her breasts, but there’s the layers thing again—no problem getting below her jacket, fleece jacket, thick thermal, and tank top, but her sports bra sits too tightly that I can’t get into it from below without punching her in the ribs or something. It’s not that hard to understand what I’m trying to do, and somewhat more agreeable than before, Bree kicks the blankets off so we can make eye contact for the first time since last night. I love how flushed her face is, eyes wide and just a little wild.