Never Far Gone, page 19
As I prepare to sit back down in the gray metal chair, I turn it around to sit in a normal position. I move the handgun under my belt to get more comfortable, and I cross my right leg over my left knee to show that I am attempting to transition to a more civilized conversation. He’s giving me that look again: sizing me up. He spits to the side before addressing me.
“I swear to you that when it’s your time to leave this miserable world, I’ll be standing right over you…” Graham mutters as he displays a row of bloody teeth to me and the rest of the room. Rather than resort to my previous method of questioning, I ignore his threat entirely and begin speaking normally.
“I need to know where these… Colonists are set up,” I say as I put my hands together and lay them on my right calve positioned in front of me. I can tell he’s hesitant about speaking, so I continue. “This isn’t about retribution; this is about avoidance. I’m not apprehensive about another encounter; I’m more concerned about how many lives I would’ve been responsible for taking by the time that encounter is over,” I confess. Given his limited range of movement, Graham takes a second to position himself upright as best as he can. The look in his eyes tells me he doesn’t care about my reasoning, but he confesses anyway.
“We had sentry routes throughout most of the upstate highways. They never came this close to the city because we were pretty fucking certain that no one could survive the sheer number of infected this city was about have running through the streets,” Graham says as he looks around to those closest to him. “Yet here you are…” Graham says, letting out a sly smirk before slowly glancing around the room. I can’t tell if that is a statement of the obvious or a concealed threat, but I chose to perceive it as the former.
“You’re going to tell us everything about these people. You can start with their habits and MO. How do we know if they’re around?” I ask as I switch the position of my legs.
“Besides them slashing the tires of every abandoned car on their turf to stop others from taking cover during an ambush? Let me ask you this: have you ever seen anyone else hang people like they do? Fucking animals… I mean, you can see why I won’t shed a tear for those assholes. Still, they took me in regardless of whether or not I hung a few nobodies on a string or-“ Graham says as the sound of an infuriated Derrick charging toward the restrained man becomes audible from behind where I am sitting.
“You piece of shit-“ Derrick yells out as he lunges forward toward the apprehended man I was speaking with. Being one of the largest people in the room, even Igor has difficulty holding him back, given how well-built Derrick has remained over the past couple of seasons.
“Hey, hey! Whoa!” I yell out while springing out of my chair and holding both hands in front of Derrick, easing him to relax. It takes him a second, but he eventually steadies himself and forces everyone’s hands off him as he storms out of the room angrily, nearly setting the wood from under his feet ablaze. Once I hear the wooden door slam shut, I turn back around again and sit before addressing our man of the hour.
“Alright, next question…” I say.
Following Corver’s lead, I walk through the same doorway Derrick had stormed through nearly half an hour ago as I hold open the door for whoever is tailing behind me. As I glance over my shoulder, I can see Pancho speed walking to catch the door before it swings shut as Igor, unlocking the handcuffs on a weakened Graham, releases him under the supervision of the two other Thrivers watching his back. Placing my hands into my pockets due to the cold gusts of wind circulating throughout the halls of the fifth floor, I stop a few feet away from the gym’s entrance. When Pancho catches up to Corver and me in the hallway, I begin addressing them.
Fuck that guy.
“He seems like he doesn’t know shit. Either way, I don’t trust him. If he’s staying with us, he’ll be locked up in there and away from the others,” I whisper as I point to the gym where we had just come from. “He’d be alone and would have to pass the Nocturnal Patrols if he ever got out,” I state as Pancho begins to pace around.
“And what of the Armory?” asks JB, who glares back up at me when he notices me shift my posture to display concern.
“It’s next to me, so I’ll hear anything that goes down, but I want two people on it per shift now. I don’t care who, just as long as he stays away from that room. He’s dangerous… I also want him running collection with the next crew we send to the shooting ranges,” I say as I recall how a few of the Thrivers are supposed to be heading to a shooting range in New Jersey to collect brass casings for our reloading workshop, as well as ammunition and firearms if they can find them. I transition my attention to Corver, who is rubbing his hands together in a desperate attempt to generate some warmth.
“You good?” I ask.
“Yeah… You did what you had to. I know it’s for a bigger purpose other than ourselves,” Corver admits. I can tell he meant what he said, as Corver has sacrificed more than most to keep us safe over the past few months. From training some of the Thrivers in marksmanship to saving my life more than once, my instincts tell me he’s someone I can trust.
How can such a loyal kid have such a douchebag sibling?
“Look, we need to learn more about the Colonists. They could unravel everything we’re building here if their group is big enough. In the meantime, I was hoping you could do me a favor and run down to the cafeteria. Tell the culinary team I said to bring out some of the dark chocolate and biscuit mix from our reserves in the fridge for you guys. You two deserve it,” I mutter as I grab both men’s shoulders simultaneously. “Just be discreet. I don’t want to have to explain to Vito why only the adults can have chocolate today,” I say as the two men at my side begin to chuckle.
“Don’t tempt us with a good time,” JB says jokingly. “Just keep us posted about these… Ravelers, alright?”
Ravelers, huh? I can work with that.
“Alright. I have to run to the office real quick, then get ready for this evening,” I say as the men turn to each other with confused looks, then back to me. Although they don’t know about my evening plans with Renata, their facial expressions tell me they’re fighting the urge to pry for more information. I let out a sincere laugh I needed right about now before releasing my grip on their shoulders and cutting in between them, grabbing the door handle leading to one of the staircases. I look at the men about ten feet to my right and smile. “Keep your eyes open and ears to the sky. Shit is about to change,” I say with intentional ambiguity as I disappear into the stairwell.
As I fling open the door leading into the main office, I swing my body around the long countertop separating the seating area, where I remember most parents would impatiently wait for their “sick” kids to joyfully run out of class early and the remainder of the faculty’s office.
I unlock the wooden door leading into my room and grab the journal still sitting idly on my desk. While I make my way over to the PA system, which hasn’t been used since last night, when I rallied the crew for the Yonkers retaliation, I remove the handgun from behind my belt and place it on the desk near the microphone. After taking a deep inhale, I hold the fresh air in my lungs before casually letting out an identical exhale and hitting the transmit button on the microphone.
Here we go.
“Can I have everyone listen up, please?” I ask calmly into the bendable microphone as the speakers begin blaring around the hallways. I guess the speaker in the office had been blown out recently, as no sounds are coming from it, but I ignore this revelation and continue to speak.“This is Miles Gether. I know I look much better than I sound,” I say jokingly as I hear muffled laughter coming from the hallway. “But on a serious note, I wanted to let you know firsthand that things are going to be changing around here,” I declare as the button below the microphone is released. Inhale. Exhale.
Control the situation, Miles…
“I know we are more than a team or a group around here. We’re the closest thing we’ve got to a family. As such, we make decisions together. Therefore, a group of our most trusted members will govern the decisions made for the Thrivers in good faith of the Consulate. This group will be known as the Delegation,” I say. The previously distinctive laughter transitions into that of confused murmurs in the distance.
“There will be seven people I will be listing. These people have gained my trust, admiration, and utmost respect. I am confident that these people will put their own at stake to ensure we make the Consulate safer than ever been…” I say. The sounds of inaudible dialogue seem to subside in anticipation of the reveal. I take the rooster of names from the personnel ledger in my journal, which I have opened on the table before me.
“Hope Starcov. Pancho ‘Jawbreaker’ Ruiz,” I say before releasing the button to catch my breath. The mugginess within the office is making me want to crack a window open.
“Lance Ridgeford. Derrick Simons,” I let out. I can see some people peering around the doorway leading into the office. They all want to know.
“Corver Whitlock.”
“Yours truly is number six… and- ” I declare in a friendly way as the group gathering around the office entrance begins to whisper. I catch myself smiling before letting out a small laugh.
“Well, I’ll announce number seven later,” I say as waves of disappointment flood the halls, even beyond those a few feet away from me. “For now, please enjoy the rest of your morning,” I implore as the microphone bends backward once I push it away from my face. A few in the small crowd smile at me; the others, not so much. After a few seconds, people within the crowd begin dispersing, and I take the opportunity to head back into the office with my pistol in hand.
Closing the door behind me, I place the firearm on the mahogany nightstand next to the cot at the end of the room, which we picked up from the truck we seized from the Ravelers in Yonkers. I flick off the small beige lamp, also found in the truck, that I had accidentally left on when I rushed out of here an hour ago.
I’m so tired.
I lay down in the foldable cot we had retrieved a few months back from the abandoned armory across the street and position myself around until I am comfortable enough to fall asleep. Even as the previously absent sunlight is beaming down into the room, it doesn’t take long for me to start dozing off in anticipation of tonight’s events.
Ten feet. Six. Five.
As I approach the double doors separating me from the library, counting each step in my head, I see the dim light radiating from multiple lamps inside. The bookworms in the building could use a dim light source for nighttime reading, so we implemented the remainder of the lamps we got from Yonkers into the library.
Four. Three. Why am I so nervous?
With each hand holding the edge of a warm ceramic plate that we saved for the more festive occasions, I am hit with the smell of freshly cooked canned beans, white rice, canned corn, grilled chicken, canned sweet potatoes, and, of course, an uneven portion of mozzarella sticks that were probably on the brink of expiration.
Just as I extend my hand to reach for the door handle, the intoxicating scent of cologne I had borrowed from Montero, which he lent me after I brought him food in the third-floor sickbay, begins to overpower the comforting smell of food. Did I put too much? Nevertheless, I shake my head and nearly stumble backward as Renata smiles through the window positioned on the upper portion of the door, cautiously pushing the right one open from the inside once she sees me struggling to balance the plates.
“Hi there,” she says as her dimples show almost immediately, arguably her most distinctive feature. Even as she stands slightly shorter than me, her blonde hair, which she has washed since our last encounter in the morning, flows seamlessly as she extends her left arm out to hold the door open for me. The black sweater she has tied around her waist goes well with her dark red top.
Come on, say something…
“I uh- I got mozzarella,” I say.
Dude…
Her soft laughter makes me question whether she is laughing with me or at me. As I make my way into the room, she removes her hand from the door and dances around me before pointing toward one of the tables she has set up near the larger window facing the front courtyard. With the plates set gently on the tabletop, I notice the unmistakable sound of a light draft effortlessly making its way through the small bullet holes created from my first night here.
“I wouldn’t have expected anything less,” she says with a slight chuckle, no doubt referring to my fumbled remark, as she rubs the front of her legs with her hands before placing them in front of her and toward the table. “Please, sit,” Renata says as she bites her lip while simultaneously letting out a beautiful grin.
I reciprocate the smile before gently placing the plates down and removing the tin foil wrapped around them. I’d hate to bring cold food to a dinner date. I pull out her chair, which seems to catch her by surprise, and she pauses for a second before placing a hand on the side of my face and taking a seat. The touch of her hand is soothing, and amid my appreciation of her embrace, I stand in front of her awkwardly for a few seconds before quickly remembering to take a seat.
I pull out my chair on the opposite side of the square-shaped oak wood table before sitting down and positioning myself closer to the edge of the table. As I examine the food on the plate, which is letting off a warm steam, I reassure myself that dinner could be much worse than this.
“Who says canned beans can’t be sexy?” I blurt out as we begin to pick up the utensils that Renata had already placed on the table prior to my arrival.
Shit, I hadn’t thought to bring any utensils…
She lets out another subtle laugh before biting the sweet potatoes. We usually don’t eat this good in the Consulate, so her face is plastered with satisfaction. It’s probably not the most edible food, but it sure as hell beats tree bark and moss. I follow suit shortly thereafter, digging into the chicken before anything else. Before speaking, I finish chewing and wipe my mouth clean, but Renata beats me to the punch before I can move my lips.
“Can I ask you something?” Renata asks as she leans forward and places her exposed elbows on the table.
“Um- yeah- yeah, of course. What’s up?” I ask while rubbing my hands together.
How is she not cold?
“I… alright, I really like you. I just want to know something before anything else happens. I want to know, what really happened to Simon in the auditorium that day?” she asks as her eyes seem to pierce through my soul. She’s asking about the truth. Once my surprise, mostly stemming from the fact that she hadn’t heard anything from the other people who witnessed the event, wears off, I reposition myself in the chair I am sitting on.
“I don’t-“ I mutter out before she cuts off my sentence.
“Nobody let us go back down when the crowd was released. I practically had Hope and her boyfriend holding me at gunpoint with the kids. Then I heard what sounded like a gunshot, and… I- tell me what happened, please…” she quietly implores as she retracts her elbows and places the palm of her hands in between her thighs.
I don’t even know where to begin. How do I explain the fact that most of the Thrivers haven’t seen Simon in months? Or the fact that Hope and David were instructed to keep Renata and her son in the gym until any evidence of foul play in the auditorium was removed? Was I trying to protect her? Was I trying to defend myself? I don’t even know the answer to my own questions, let alone hers.
“I uh- I don’t think we’ll be seeing Simon again. He… he was very dangerous. Not physically, but- look, he was a parasite that I cut from this family,” I say in an attempt to justify my reasoning behind the execution of another man whose betrayal she knows little about.
“Cut out with this, you mean?” she asks in a frustrated manner, right before she tosses a small metallic projectile onto the table that she retrieved from the pocket of her sweater wrapped around her waist: It’s a .45 caliber bullet casing. As my hands remain motionless on my knees, I stare at the casing, rolling back and forth on the white tablecloth before coming to a halt. After a few seconds of awkward silence and rising tension filling the room, I glance up at Renata with my head still lowered.
She’s good.
I don’t know what to say to her. She has the right to know, but I can’t predict how she will react. Her stoic demeanor is hard to read. Maybe she’ll be scared of me. Or perhaps she’d leave the Consulate for good. Would she accept me for who or what I am? Do I even know what I am?
“I had him killed…” I whisper with minimal hesitation as my head begins to rise. My eyes don’t break away from hers. The sudden revelation of what she already knew to be true makes her sigh, although I can’t tell if it is one of relief or disbelief. “He could’ve helped us save Jayden, but his actions got Jayden killed. Simon was working with that group of people we brought in to take what we had…” I assert. The feeling of temporary regret surrounding the truth about what happened that night subsides with every word mutter.
“W- wha-“ she stammers before I interrupt her.
“Charlotte had the right to know what had happened. She also had the right to choose what happened next. I gave her that choice… Hell, the truth is that I would’ve done it if she had backed out,” I declare as I lean in and place my arms on the table. All sense of joy in the room seems to dissipate almost immediately as the truth about Simon’s murder comes out in the open.
“Renata… Simon was a bad man. Everyone in that group was a bad man. Shit, I am starting to believe that I am a bad man, too. But, I’d like to believe that sometimes good people can get away with doing the wrong things so long as they’re for the right reasons,” I say. I retract my arms from the table and sit back in my seat. Her expression of bewilderment disperses as she nods and stands up.
