Beyond Green Fields (Book 1): Beginnings [A Post-Apocalyptic Anthology] Page 8

  There is hot stew and tea, and I’m shaking too much to use a spoon so I slurp both from the various containers someone sat down in front of me, pretending it’s only the cold. It’s not hard—my fingers have turned that deep red now after being almost white when I pulled off my gloves earlier. Tomorrow, I’ll definitely pack the heavier, warmer gloves, I tell myself. I’m still in four layers of fleece and wind-resistant fabric but could really do with a blanket. A few people are still up besides us and Pia, but I’m too locked inside my head to do a head count.

  I wait until Bates and Burns have beat it toward our bedroom downstairs before I grab some water to heat up and head into our makeshift bathroom. It would kill them to clean up before heading into the den of stink, but this once I’m glad I have the room all to my lonesome self. Because as soon as I close the door behind me and set my steaming bucket on a shelf, the shakes turn into full-body sobs and I lose it, ending up crouching in the corner, desperately hugging myself.

  It’s not even the wolves. Or not just the wolves.

  It’s everything.

  It’s the constant level of fear whenever I set foot outside. It’s the frustration and near-constant humiliation that my life has turned into. On an intellectual level, I know what’s going on—they’re trying to give me the fast-track education in survival without the shortcuts that might get me killed. I know that I can’t measure myself on any of them, and that’s not even counting the physical differences. Even Santos, the most junior member of our little tribe here, has months of training, exercise, routine, and overall fitness on me—and half a lifetime of a very different mindset.

  I only have the fact that I wasn’t stupid enough to get eaten in the first hour of the zombie apocalypse going for me.

  But I’m learning, and I’m willing to take it all and keep going—but not right now. Because right now I need to fall apart and wallow in the broken pieces of my mind and body, or else I’ll go insane—

  And of course it’s too much to ask for them to let me.

  Or not them; I can see even Pia reasoning that, sometimes, I need a bit of a break, particularly after a day like this, at half an hour past midnight. Nate? Not so much.

  I know it’s him before I—angrily, I realize—brush the hair that has come loose from my braid away from where it sticks to my tear-stained cheeks so I can glare balefully up at him. He hasn’t even bothered to bring water or a change of clothes as pretense to be here for any other reason than to do the one thing he’s best at: to chew me out. I know it’s coming. It’s inevitable. I don’t even hold it against the guys that they have ratted out my mistake—they all believe they are helping me with it. And maybe they are; I’m not even debating the point. But right now I’m too sick of all this shit to think rationally.

  Anyone else might have had the common decency to look away. Of course he doesn’t. His eyes zero in on mine, holding my swimming gaze easily. He seems relaxed as he crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the inside of the now-closed door, but that doesn’t extend to his features. He’s wearing something between a frown and a scowl, and I can see the condescension heavy in his gaze. I’ve seen that look before, but never directed at me. A part of me falters, but somehow, that only adds to the rage inside of me. Is it not enough that they push me to my breaking point almost on a daily basis? Now I’m not even allowed to feel like shit when it happens?

  That does it. I’ve had about enough of his bullshit!

  “Are you done?” His voice is level, in conflict with his expression, but that only adds to the flames of my indignation—but then I doubt anything short of an apology would have doused them, and I’ll be dead ten times over before that happens.

  “Am I done?” I parrot, my voice cracking, but I don’t really give a shit. I’m seething with anger, the latent fear and unease quickly transformed to rage. “Done with what, exactly? Being human? Being the butt of every single joke? Being nothing but some weird kind of mascot, here to amuse you bunch of homicidal idiots?”

  None of my accusations hit, but I didn’t expect them to. Nate remains standing there, regarding me levelly. “Are you done feeling sorry for yourself?” I want to hurl every damn expletive I’ve ever heard—and not all of them in English, thanks to Pia and Andrej—at him but I’m too angry to speak, and hissing like a cat doesn’t seem like a sound alternative. He obviously gets my drift, and when he goes on, his tone has turned dismissive. “You know that you chose this, right? You can quit anytime you want. Just say the word and—”

  Turns out I was wrong—I can talk after all. “You fucking asshole,” I growl, interrupting him before he can go on.

  He shrugs, unperturbed. “Just stating the obvious, should you have forgotten that in your self-righteous indignation.”

  That does it. I’ve been able to deal with everything until now, even though it grated, hurt, annoyed me, and often drove me mad. But this? This is too much. Because while I may not agree with Pia’s approach to pretty much life in general, and I could so do without Martinez’s gentle ribbing and Burns plain-out laughing in my face, in the end I know that to a greater or lesser degree, I’ve earned it—good and bad. But Nate is being a prick, plain and simple, and I don’t deserve that. Since we got back from our first loot run to Cody, he hasn’t lifted a finger to help me, but now he feels he can get all up in my face?

  Definitely not.

  I explode up from my corner and slam into him, not exactly knowing what this should accomplish, but I’m beyond caring. Maybe part of me expects him to punch me out cold and put me out of my misery. Of course, that’s not what happens. I may be shorter and lighter than Nate is, but the laws of physics do a good job putting some extra force behind this human cannonball, forcing him to stagger back against the wall next to the door to brace and not go down. I have a second where I contemplate punching him for real but the moment passes, and the next he has us flipped over so that it’s now my back against the wall, his fingers digging into my shoulder and upper arm. I could still flail to free myself. I could definitely kick—but with my breath coming in ragged pants mingling with his, my mind jumps to very different conclusions.

  The small, nasty voice at the back of my head whispers that I don’t always have to fall for it; that foreplay to us more often than not means provocation.

  I honestly don’t give a shit. I’m done talking, or even thinking. All I want to do is feel.

  His death grip on me shifts as soon as he feels me relax, coming out of a fighting stance and morphing into something different. As soon as I can, I wrap myself around him, my lips hungrily seeking his. He’s game—of course he is; the day he isn’t is the day I know the world has gone to shit for real—and he uses his body to keep me pinned while his hands get busy peeling me out of my many, many layers. It’s not the cold any longer that makes me shiver as skin meets skin, and I’m glad that I only have his thermal to pull over his head and his pants to find my way into. I’m dead tired after nineteen hours of awful, endless day, and my patience has been maxed out what feels like weeks ago. I’m not quite ready but Nate is bright enough not to drag things out, and I let myself sag back against the wall as he pushes into me. It hurts but then what doesn’t, and this at least feels so damn good at the same time. To disband any stupid ideas he might get in his head about holding back, I sink my nails into his shoulders, then wrap myself around him, grinding my hips against his to get a tiny bit of the friction I crave more than oxygen right now. He gets the message and grabs my thighs where they lock around him, keeping me in place, right where he wants me—and where I want to be.

  It’s quick, it’s rough, and decidedly on the dirty end of the passion spectrum, but I quite frankly don’t give a shit. I manage not to make too many sounds because we don’t need to wake up the entire bunker. My mind is still reeling for a minute or two but then it—finally!—shuts up. I mentally take all my hurt, frustration, need, and humiliation and roll it all into a neat little package that I dump into the darkest corner of my
mind before I slam the door shut on it all. Oh, there’s plenty of baggage waiting for me there already, biding its time to drown me in my own bullshit—but not today. Today I choose to absolve myself of my sins and move on, affirm life, yadda yadda yadda.

  I don’t know where that need to wax poetics comes from as pleasure and satisfaction wash over me like a tidal wave. I figure as long as I don’t say any of that out loud, I’ll be okay.

  But I’m not okay, I realize, when we end up standing there, pressed against each other, still breathing raggedly from our most carnal union, and I almost start to bawl all over again as he stares deep into my eyes, as if he can peel away all my defenses and look right at the very center of my soul. I know I will lose it if he cups my cheek gently, or kisses me, or just looks back at me with understanding. I’m a fucking mess and I’ve never felt this raw in my entire life, and forget all the physical bullshit—right here, right now, he has the power to completely undo me, and I’m afraid what will happen if he does. I’m not sure I can come back from that.

  A moment passes. Another, and then another. We keep staring at each other, for once without malice or challenge or egos needing to clash so our physical selves can do the same. I read interest and fascination in his gaze but no compassion. Oh, I’m sure he’s capable of it—and a tiny part of me yearns to see it, as a token of affirmation or whatnot—but he doesn’t show it.

  Rather than be nice or supportive or understanding, he pulls away, the warmth of his body lingering a second longer than the emotional connection we just shared. I hold my breath because I know something is coming—and he can still undo me. A few words and I’m done for. I know he knows it. I know that on some level, he must be temped, if simply to see what would happen next. But what he says instead is, “I really needed that,” and follows it up with a smirk.

  I may feel a little relief, but that’s an emotional gut punch, and I’m still bad at rolling with those. It hurts, and it makes a world of insecurity flare up inside of me. Who does he think I am that he can just… use me like that? Am I just seeing things? Deluding myself into believing in a connection that was never there? The list goes on and on.

  The worst thing about it? I’m sure I can’t close off my expression quickly enough to hide my emotional turmoil. He pretty much confirms that when he adds, “You know, if you want more, you just need to tell me.”

  He should be happy I don’t have my shotgun here with me because I’ve never been this close to actually shooting him in the face. That would show him where he can shove his condescension—

  Finally, my intellect jump-starts, cutting through the lingering haze of lust to kick the monkey mind in the teeth and let me act like a rational, intelligent being. Why do I let him bait me like this? My plate is too full to deal with his bullshit right now. I know the basics of how to survive but if today has taught me one thing, it’s that I still have so much more to learn—to fight, to avoid danger, to increase my situational awareness, to plan for the worst, to be prepared, to learn not to hurl just because Andrej is being disgusting, just to name a few. I need to stay objective, most of all about myself and my progress, because in the end, I’m the only one who can tell whether something was just a stupid mistake or happened because I didn’t know better.

  What I absolutely don’t need is this bullshit second-guessing whether he really, truly loves me. That sure as hell won’t keep me from getting eaten by wolves next time!

  It’s that thought that lets me take that one emotional step back that is needed to rein in my emotions—and it’s that what leads to a different realization as I mull over his words—the exact phrasing. If I want more, he said. It’s so easy to take that on a wholly sexual level. He just made me come, if I want more, just say the word; he’s done, and satisfied with what he got.

  But that’s not what he’s actually meaning. No—what he’s really saying is something completely different. What he’s meaning is that, for now, he’s content with what we have—this never-defined to-and-fro that almost doesn’t exist unless we slam into each other, physically and emotionally, and then it goes “poof!” once again until next time. He understands what I’m going through, and he gets that my priorities lie somewhere else right now—learn to fight, learn to survive, learn not to get eaten by wolves, learn not to be in a situation in the first place where wolves might eat me. The last thing on my mind, from when I get up to grab my coffee to when Pia sends me to the concrete floor as we spar, to Martinez and Bates teaching me more about cars than I will ever need to know, to all of them pushing me on and always keeping me moving because complacency and inertia are my deadliest enemies—the one thing I don’t need to worry about is my relationship with Nate. No needless second-guessing, no doubt; above all else, no crippling self-doubt that might get in the way of everything else; everything else that I need to stay alive.

  On a dryer note, I know that he doesn’t really have a choice. It’s either me or nothing at all, with Sadie, Emma, and Pia not an alternative, each in her own way.

  He may taunt me, and often drive me insane, maybe even literally as I’m way past my breaking point—but what he’s really saying is that this one thing isn’t something I need to worry about.

  He’s here. He’s not going anywhere. And should I, one day in the far, far future, decide that I want more, I only need to tell him.

  It’s astounding how that knowledge can both put me at ease like nothing else, and land on my chest like an elephant weighed down by a cement block.

  Oh well. Welcome to the insanity that is my world.

  I take a few more seconds to mentally rally myself, to collect all the pieces and put them back where they belong. Minutes have passed since he’s last said anything but I don’t care. Only when I feel ready, I square my shoulders, jut my chin up, and reply.

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  And with that, I turn around and slink over to my bucket of now lukewarm water to clean up a day worth of grime and sweat, wishing I could get rid of the aches and bruises all over my body. Nate lingers for a sec, maybe enjoying the view, maybe beating himself up over the opportunity not taken—and I don’t question which opportunity that may be. Then he gets dressed with quick, efficient motions and leaves me to my dunking, wringing, and washing, feeling just a little better than before.

  1:00 am

  I silently pad into the basement, making my way to my sleeping bag still lying on the mattress in the corner, just where I left it this morning. Well, yesterday morning, to be precise—and in less than four hours I will go through the same cycle again. And again. And again. But unlike an hour ago, that thought doesn’t scare me anymore, or make me cry, or feel like it will kill me. It would be a stretch to say I’m looking forward to the abuse and humiliation, but a part of me is less resentful than I’ve felt in a long, long while. We’ve only been doing this for a couple of weeks now; I still have the entire winter to learn. Knowing Pia, I’ll need all of that, but that’s okay. Because I will learn, I will get up again, even if I get knocked down a hundred more times—because staying down really isn’t an option.

  Nate POV

  I grab another mug of tea, and for good measure pour a hint of whiskey in. I feel like I’ve earned that, even though the effect is greatly diminished. I can’t help but smirk to myself; I think this time I absolutely had her at the point where she was hungering for violence. Why that still gets me going, I don’t analyze; tonight was necessary, in many ways, and personal satisfaction isn’t one of them.

  Zilinsky joins me, the slight flush to her cheeks lets me know that she must have done a last round outside to check. She wordlessly gets a refill for herself but rather than sit down, she joins me where I’m leaning against the counter. I’m tempted to ignore the silent question she’s challenging me with in favor of hitting the sack. But we’re not done yet, and there’s no sense in postponing that any longer, I realize, as I hear Bree take her tired ass downstairs to the bedroom. Now it’s just the two of us, like so many times over
so many years.

  “You done?” Zilinsky asks, exasperated, likely at the goofy grin I can’t hide anymore now that I’m sure the little minx won’t see it. It would destroy some of my work, although she shows way more self-awareness than she likes to admit; Bree knows I’m playing with her although she likely can’t guess the rules of the game—yet. She must hate it. I don’t give a shit.

  Zilinsky’s already frowning at my delayed response so I shrug. “Do you want a performance review from me?”

  She makes a face, and I can’t tell if her disgust is real or pretend; probably both. She knows what I’m up to—and why. I know she doesn’t agree with my tactics. I know that she believes I should sit Bree down and pelt her with the stark, hard truth until that message sticks. I disagree. Some people need to be led like sheep to the slaughter; for them, a good slap in the face is a good idea. But Bree’s inner workings warrant different strategies. She first needs to realize that she is a sheep, indeed; then rebel. Then course-correct again until she knows, deep in her heart, that slaughter is inevitable and she might as well go there freely. It’s a bad analogy because that’s exactly what I’m trying to teach her to avoid. Right now, she herself is her own worst enemy. She needs to stop agonizing about inconsequential things. Until she does, I will give her more to agonize about. I know that it’s risky; she might as well decide that I’m a piece of shit and not worth the trouble, but if she comes out of this knowing what is, I’ve done my job. We’re still a long way from that.

  “How is she?” Zilinsky asks with more care in her tone than she’d ever show with anyone else around; well, except for Romanoff, but they are both beyond caring about such basic things as keeping face in front of each other, and that for going on decades now.