Chapter Text
When the news is broken, they gather outside for the dining room will not hold them all. It is nearly dusk. No one speaks. Only Lena says to John, “Dear God, haven’t we suffered enough? Why can’t they give up?”
The plan is simple, or so the leader say. We cannot run, for they will follow. We must fight to survive. We must protect what is ours, and that is all that can be done.
Nobody sleeps well that night. Sidney dreams of Eugene and Robert- only their forms are twisted and bent, teeth long, eyes yellow, and reaching out with outstretched claws to tear his throat out.
Preparations to fight begin the very next day.
“Does it have to be you?” Dick muttered, keeping his voice low so that the others gathered in front of the Big House did not hear him. He held the reins of Lewis's mare. Lewis finished checking his saddlebags and girth before hauling himself into the black leather English saddle. Leaning over, he gathers up the proffered reins in his hands.
“You know I’m the best one for this. Eyes on the ground is what we need- to see if I can get more than just what Sparky got.”
“Be cautious,” Dick hissed. “I’m serious, Lew.” He reached up to grab Lewis's hand and squeezed it tightly.
“I will, I promise. Besides, you’re sending Bunny- best soldier you got.” He raised one eyebrow, glancing over at where Floyd Talbert was swing up onto his own horse. A little flush appeared in Dick’s cheeks.
Not subtle about your choice of bodyguard, are you, Dick?
Lewis looked back down at his husband, who let go of his hand reluctantly, and stepped away, quickly placing them behind his back and standing in an unconscious parade rest.
He looked every inch the disciplined and well-groomed soldier their superior officers had once complimented. Not an inch of stubble, face controlled and perfectly emotionless, fit and trim, clothing pressed, hair neatly cut regulation short with not a strand out of place- perfection. The kind of guy you’d put on the recruitment posters.
But Lewis knew Dick too well. Remembered hearing their higher-ups compliment Dick on deployment and standing nearby with the stubborn shadow on his face and a flask of Vat hidden somewhere, slouched posture, and inwardly shaking his head all the meanwhile.
Because while outwardly Dick was a disciplined and controlled picture of perfection, inside he was a ball of stress, nerves, anxiety, and resulting bitchiness. Most people when they were stressed stopped taking care of themselves, stopped grooming, became more outwardly emotional- not Dick. Lewis had seen it come to the point of obsession- he figured it had been borne out a need to control something when things were going badly- push comes to shove, always yourself at the end of the day if nothing else.
They hadn’t gotten to that point. Well, not yet anyway.
“This one should still be good,” Floyd muttered, taking out the bad battery, and replacing it with another one, “I swear to God I checked these before we left, Nix.”
“That’s our luck,” Lewis snorted as Floyd handed him the night vision binoculars. Batteries were precious things nowadays- no way of getting more after all- so they were not used unless for emergency. Lifting the binoculars to his eyes, Lewis supposed this counted as one.
They had staked their horses not far away and quietly crept under the cover of night to a large church. From its steeple, they got a good vantage point of the enemy camp.
The whole process reminded him a lot of being back in the army. Dick stressing, wearing camo, and scouting out the enemy. Only he’d never done that last part; his job was just to analyze the information others brought back. Odd how life went- now in their shoes and yet, still his own from back in the day. At least now, he wasn’t having to carry as much as he once did- his knees had suffered enough.
The camp itself was large, but compact. By the number of people, and size of it, Lewis was guessing they were double the number of his side. He grimaced. Wonderful start indeed.
But on the other hand...
“They’re confidant,” he told the other leaders later.
“What makes you say that?” Andy asks. Lewis taps the map hung up on the cork board and circles his finger around the layout of the enemy camp drawn in.
“No fence, no barrier- their guards are relaxed, patrols minimum. Of course- unlike by Philly, they’ve got no zombies to worry about here- but still...I think we can use that to our advantage, don’t you think?”
They are given the details of the plan as it is formulated, starting with the initial outline, the morning after Nixon returns. Everyone sits outside on the ground, on picnic benches, on tables, listening carefully as they are briefed. There is no side chatter now, only a morning and evening briefing every day, serious in both content and tone.
It is likely that the enemy will move closer, and it will be soon. Before then, they must train, be prepared, and ready to fight- no longer refugees, farmers, or even survivors, but a militia.
The leaders are honest. The enemy outnumbers them. They have professionally trained guards with black-handled tactical rifles- more fearsome looking than the majority of their wooden stock hunting guns, antique firearms, and self-defense pistols and revolvers.
Not only this, but their enemies had mutated zombies.
“I don’t know how,” Nixon admitted, “but they’ve got these things like guard dogs. Trained too- trained to attack you, but not their masters.
Any and all trips outside the walls are forbidden, unless authorized. The guards at the gate are now armed, no longer the nodding off pair, Mary remembered coming back. Constant patrols are organized, led always by Chuck, Floyd, John, Lena, or J.P.
Meanwhile, the leaders planned. For nearly two days, they were in the office almost constantly.
Once Sidney had been tasked with bringing up coffee during the evening. Lit by candle and oil lamp as the night fell were piled high books of military strategy- modern and historical- some half open and others with bookmarks sticking out of them. Maps of the area were hung up and spread out on the table with little figurines of soldiers, horses, and a cannon arranged upon them. The flickering light cast their shadows out over the map’s symbols of trees, houses, and roads and scribbled notations. A blackboard had been wheeled in- circles, arrows, notes drawn and scrawled in different colors of chalk like coaches planning a football match.
The whole room smelled like cigarette smoke- acrid and strong. As if by magic, packs of cigarettes had appeared in Speirs’s and Nixon’s pockets. They had dropped any pretense of being recovered smokers, and- so it seemed- constantly had a cigarette in their hand or between their lips.
Renee had simply shook her head when Sidney asked about it later.
“What can I do? There are bigger problems to worry about.” She shrugged and leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. I’m not in there much anyway.”
“Why not?”
“There’s a limit to what I can do. I’m trained to heal people, not hurt them- their trade is war. Mine is medicine.”
“Do you know what I’m going to do?” She frowned and fixed him with a serious stare.
“You won’t be fighting. Neither will I, Anne, Eugene, or Ralph. But what we will do- that will be just as important, do not forget that.”
Finally, finally a plan was given. They were briefed that morning- two days after the enemy had been detected. The leaders were focused, calm, and deliberate as they spoke- pulling on previous experience with the shadows under their eyes, the nicotine stains on their teeth, and the grey hairs peppering Andy’s hair for as long as they’d all known him.
It relied on tight coordination, timing, and surprise- utilizing every advantage they had of ambush and psychological warfare. On paper, the odds were not in their favor- this fact bluntly repeated once more- and the enemy knew this. They had become confident- too confident- and that was something that could be exploited.
The ambush would last for approximately one hour. It would begin at 1:00 A.M.- or 0100, because that was how all the times were talked about now. Everyone was divided up into five teams, each designated by a specific code name for radio communications.
The first was the Medical Team. They had no code name, other than Medical. Renee headed this team, with Anna as her second. There were two parts to this team: the Infirmary group and the Ambulance group. The latter made use of the same wagon they’d used for that supply-run to Philadelphia- perhaps not surprising since that’s what it had been made for in the past.
The second team was the Cavalry Team- code named, Saber. They would ride on horseback, using pistols and carbines to attack. Team Saber was led by Speirs, with Hillbilly as his second. The third team was the Infantry Team- code named, Rifle. Team Rifle was led by Andy, with Lipton as his second. Everyone here was on foot, as the name suggested, carrying rifles, with the exception of the pair who carried the farm’s surprising weapon: a M1917 Browning Machine Gun, water cooled, and belt fed, and approximately either from the Korean War or World War II, no one was exactly sure which. It had been one of those lucky finds: the man who’s house they’d looted had clearly done reenacting for both time periods, and surprisingly the machine gun had not been adapted for blanks. John and J.P. were picked automatically to operate it; they had been machine gunners in the Marines, and treated the gun with a mixture of reverence, spite, and tender loving care. Luckily for them, they did not have to carry its heavy tripod, barrel, water for cooling, or ammunition- that would all be strapped on a pony or two for quick transport. They did not have the men for a full crew, although someone was probably going to be a designated water carrier, but for the pair, who had carried a just as heavy machine gun in their service with full body armor, it was a nice change.
The machine gun wasn’t the most surprising, nor the most damaging weapon in the farm’s arsenal. No, that privilege belonged the 3” Ordnance Rifle- or in Hillbilly’s words, the fucking cannon. The cannon, a fully working reproduction of a Civil War artillery piece, came with its limber (the two wheeled cart the cannon attached to), and the full harness for the team of horses who pulled it. This had all been taken early on in the apocalypse; Welsh had ‘known a guy’ in the Civil War reenacting scene who owned a full artillery piece (he had not survived) and convinced the others at the farm to mount an expedition to retrieve it. It had been, in Renee and Anna’s words, an most interesting road trip to say the least.
The Artillery Team that was formed to operate it, was known not surprisingly as code name Cannon, and was headed by Welsh who had done Civil War artillery reenactments with his wife prior to the world ending. Kitty was his second.
The cannon was the crux of the plan- the very thing that the Enemy could not and would never expect. After all, who expected- in the zombie apocalypse of all places- a goddamn cannon? Certainly, no one had expected the farm to have a fully functioning artillery piece, and in no form of zombie media could anyone remember a cannon being included. It just simply...did not fit the so-called ‘vibe’ of the apocalypse.
It was the first part of the ambush. At 0100, Nixon and Talbert would take care of the one observation picket placed on the hill surrounding the Enemy’s camp. This would give time for the Cannon Team to come in, set up, and fire the starting volley. Its effect was both psychological and physical; shock and stun the Enemy, create chaos (because no one expects the cannon), and take out major targets like the machine gun the Enemy had. The Enemy wasn’t stupid; they would soon enough send out a team to take care of the cannon. The leaders had anticipated this and even hoped for it. The Cannon Team would pack up, and run- moving of course, much slower than the Enemy’s motorbikes and beast zombies, and making for an easy pursuit....an easy pursuit right into Phase Two of the Ambush.
Phase Two was where Team Rifle came in. Ideally, Team Cannon would lead their pursuit straight into another ambush, where Team Rifle would be hidden, ready to rain down death and slaughter with their rifles and the machine gun when they came by. So really, someone joked, we’re just bait- which was true, technically speaking.
The ‘bait’ would also remove part of the Enemy’s defenses, leaving them more unguarded and their manpower down. Here was the other part of Phase 2- the cavalry raid. While the pursuit went after Team Cannon, Team Saber would move in onto the camp- exactly when it was least defended, and still regrouping from the confusion of the artillery attack. Their job was to hit hard, quick, and create as much confusion and chaos as possible.
“You want to hit commanders, officers- anyone in charge. Strike the rally points and the reserve troops held back- we want to keep them on their toes and unable to regroup,” Nixon told them. “Go for the animal pens, and the motor pool too- likely their horses are going to be spooked out of their mind, useless, but still, we can use that for extra chaos. The motor pool- that will be very important. We don’t want them to get very far. So too, will any forms of communication they have- let's target that too.”
The raid would last probably around fifteen minutes. Then the cavalry would pull back, regroup, and hit again- just when Team Rifle would come from the other side of the camp as reinforcements. This was when prisoners would be captured, and the camp hopefully subdued and under their control. Once the fighting was done, the Medical Team would come into play.
Here was Phase 3- triage, and pursuit. The Medical Team would bring in their ambulance, prioritize the most wounded, bring them back to be treated at the Infirmary, and go back for the less severe cases. That was the triage part- a very important one as was stressed. They did not have the manpower to afford massive casualties that could have been prevented.
Even if the camp was subdued successfully, there would likely be “runners” as Nixon called them. Team Saber would come in again here, aided by Team Rifle to hunt these people down, capture them, and- if they resisted surrender- kill them.
“We need prisoners- especially higher ups if you can get them,” Andy emphasized. “The intelligence we may be able to get out of them can give us a better clue as to who these people are, and what their true motives really are.”
Leading all of this, was HQ- Richard Winters, who would coordinate the attack from the Big House radio, and communicate with the other officers (especially Nixon whose role was his eyes on the ground) by radio.
Once the plan was explained, they were given their assignments; training would begin today- no time to be wasted.
Mary was on Team Saber. A good shot from horseback, and a good rider- no surprise there.
Sidney got the Medical Team- again, no surprise there. He would be with Renee and Anne, preparing the Infirmary or eventual casualties.
Which there would be, of course. The cavalry team was expected to incur the most casualties- casualties that could very well include his wife.
This thought made Sidney feel sick. Not that he could stop her or change the decisions that had already been made; it simply was what it was. He didn't like it one bit- no, ‘like’, that wasn’t the right word. He was scared, that’s it, the memory of his wife’s fragile and ill body so light in his arms as he carried her into that abandoned house in the winter too fresh in his mind.
That night, lying in bed, trying to fall asleep, all he could see was that same body- only drenched in blood and dead as it was pulled off the saddle of her horse.
Mary wasn’t particularly sure when the leaders started to become officers- when Winters became the Major, when the Basilones and J.P. became sergeants, when Speirs became Captain, when Hillbilly became Lieutenant- as if they were falling back into their service and old habits of military hierarchy, and bringing the rest with them. It wasn’t an obvious change, nor an all-encompassing one, but it was there, subtly threading through the cracks, like water.
Except for Andy. Only Winters- a man built and run on formality- called him captain. To everyone else, he was simply Andy or Skipper depending on who was talking. He’d always been casual, so this was apparently no surprise.
They got to training right away. Their horses had long been desensitized to gunshots. It was their riders that needed teaching- funny how the animals could pick on things quicker than she did!
Under Speirs and Hillbilly’s watchful eyes, with Lena and Chuck as their demanding hands, they learned cavalry tactics, commands, and maneuvers. They were lectured about the concepts of partisan, and guerrilla warfare- stories told of past commanders and engagements both successful and not. They practiced shooting from horseback, not just stationary, but at trots, cantors, and gallops- with both pistols and carbines.
And drill- by God, did they drill. Everything had to be done over and over and over again until Mary swore she could’ve done it in her sleep. From morning to past sundown, they trained. All had to be done at command- discipline drilled in- sometimes, Mary felt quite literally.
If she hadn’t been a good rider, she was now. If she couldn’t aim, she could now. And if she couldn’t ride in tandem, following orders on a dime- well, she sure could now.
And then, on top of all that, they learned first aid from the Medical group: how to quench blood from wounds, how to properly bandage injuries, what to do with bullet wounds, versus stab wounds, and more.
“Your job,” Renee stressed, “is not to heal someone. It is to stabilize them by suppressing hemorrhaging until we can get to them. We cannot lose people when we could’ve prevented it.”
Of course, what they learned in those classes, done during the hottest time of the day, was only first aid. She knew from what Sidney told her that him and the rest of the Medical group were learning much more.
He would practice what he learned on her in the evenings- tying bandages and identifying major arteries- going through as many scenarios of various bullet, stab, and slashing wounds as he could. It was all the things that could happen to any one of them, or, to be more specific, to her. He always took it seriously- lips pursed, a little line appearing on his forehead, fingers cautious and gentle in the flickering candlelight.
As the training continued, cohesion was being poured between the farmers and the newcomers- cementing, even if not quite solidifying. Yet, tension still ran here.
It came out when the enemy camp appeared on the horizon. Now, you could see their tents from the stockade, and the smoke from their cooking fires rose into the sky, hoovering on the edge like a gathering storm.
And like a storm, Mary mused, eventually the sticky hot humidity had to break some time in a quick and violent flash. The people involved should have been no surprise either.
It was the second day that you could see the camp. Seeing them made everything feel real; the threat concrete.
“It’s just like the city,” Bill snarled, “They’ve got us trapped, and they know it. That’s all they gotta do is wait. Bastards.”
But unlike in the city, this time the enemy sent out a delegation. They wanted to bargain. Well- bargain was a strong word- more like demand. The delegation came under a white flag, riding on noisy ATVs. The smell of gas and sound of their motors were a shock to the nose and ears. How soon a person could get used to the quiet and empty world was amazing considering engines and machines had been the majority of their life. It had only been three years- so long and yet so short.
It was agreed that the leaders should meet with them privately, but only the army men and Renee would talk. Staying out of view were the cannon, its limber, the machine gun- all tucked away with a tarp covering them all in a locked shed with the other weapons, and ammunition. Any and all other preparations for the attack were hid away as well. A few things were shown purposefully- the guards who accompanied the delegation were armed with the oldest single shot rifles they had, and the army men with only antique pistols around their hips.
All a deception of course. A way to convince the enemy- no doubt spying away- that they should continue to be underestimated.
Part of that deception included Sidney and their friends. They all hid in the cottage; curtains pulled closed, staying away from the windows, the doors locked, and all inside quiet as church mice. It was the lock-down drills in elementary, middle, and high school- only this time, the threat was real.
“Think they’ll turn us over?” Hoosier muttered softly. His shoulder is pressed against Lucky’s on one side, and on the other, Runner is feverously chewing on his nails. Chuckler casts a worried glance toward him. Sidney tries to focus on how they’ll deal with Runner’s poor nails- not the reality of their situation. Hoosier is a pessimist, but this time, he’s probably not the only one with that thought.
But they are not betrayed. Sidney had not really expected that to happen- he had too much trust built in the leaders and their moral integrity for that. But even so, doubts are a slippery little thing- the leaders must care for their people too, and terrible, awful decisions can be made to protect your folks, over another innocent group.
Sidney had known that the first people on ATVS had gone back to camp once they and the leaders had agreed to terms- Winters perching on a ladder to peer over the stockade and talk. The rest, Malarkey fills him in on.
“They came back on horses this time. Two guards of their own, and two scientist-looking people.” Malarkey shrugged. “’Course that’s who we were told they were. One was a woman and the other a man- both like in their fifties or something. Older people.”
Older people- yeah, fifty sure feels old now.
“I think the woman was in charge- her and one of the guards- burly looking guy.” He laughed suddenly. “Riding- they were riding, but I think we’re all better riders than they are.”
He tells the rest with his usual aplomb for storytelling, illustrating with words and gestures to dramatize it. The woman had ridden a white horse and her guard a bay. They had been arrogant, walking in as if they had owned the place, and carrying the smug satisfaction of the conquerer who knows they’ve won before the battle has even begun.
The pair had met with the leaders in private. No one knew what was said, or what had happened. Malarkey paused dramatically here, before continuing, his voice hushed.
“They were in there for over an hour- just barely.”
Sidney knew this. He’d watched that time pass tortuously slow on his watch while hiding in the cottage.
“The woman and her guard came out- the leaders escorted them. They were in a huff alright- I don’t think they got what they wanted.”
Winters only informs them all that there was an attempt at a negotiated surrender, and that the terms were unacceptable, and nothing could be reached. They were to continue planning for the attack.
Later Andy tells them more, after he and Hillbilly are caught up on that meeting. The Marines gather their strays in the barn where they are still housed for the moment, and in the flickering lamplight, he confirms what they were all thinking.
“They’re here for us. They know we are here. They want Winters to give us up in exchange for being left alone. That is not going to happen,” he assures them all- guessing at the very root of all their fears.
“Who are these people, Skipper?” Burgie asks. “Do we really not know anythin’ more about ‘em?”
Andy shakes his head and sighs.
“No, I’m afraid not. But I think they are crazy and arrogant- although as to their motives and purposes, beyond the experimentation we can guess at, we don’t know.”
Sidney wasn’t quite sure if Andy was supposed to tell them the first part. It must’ve been obvious to everyone here that they were the reason the marauders had come here. But none of the army men mentioned it- even Renee had kept mum. Perhaps they saw the potential for blame, for distrust- for the farmers to look at them like they were the source of the problem. That if they left, if they were given up to the marauders, all would be well for the farmers, and their little sanctuary would be safe.
It was understandable, this selfish, protective, in-group only mindset. Survival changed a man- it stripped him of empathy and sacrifice for strangers and forced him to concentrate on himself and his people- to prioritize the ‘us’ over the ‘them’. Sidney could not blame them for it.
After all, it struck a little guilty nerve inside them all- was it their fault? Had they really brought the enemy here, to this sanctuary, this second chance for all these people who had welcomed them in?
Some thought yes.
Later that evening, everyone- after more training, dinner, and the stressful delegation visit that morning- did their best to unwind. In normal times, it was often successful. Tonight, it was not.
It was humid- sticky air that clung to your skin and made the normally cooler evening air hot and stuffy. Perhaps there’d be rain soon or even a thunderstorm later, but for now, the mosquitoes and the humidity only added to everyone’s irritability. The leaders had disappeared back into the once office, now designated war room, to brief on the day's events. Some had gone to their own rooms to relax there and others for last-hour chores. Most, however, had gathered on the lawn and porch of the Big House, escaping the stuffiness indoors. They sat on the swinging bench hanging from the porch, one of the many rocking chairs, or clustered over on the picnic tables pulled together (Winters had finally admitted defeat on having everyone in one room for mealtimes). Books were read, little crafts and projects worked on, and board games and cards pulled out to play by the occasional music of an amateur musician. By this time lanterns had been brought out, and for those with apparently tastier blood, bug spray to keep away the gnats and mosquitoes attracted by the light.
Sidney sat pressed against his wife on the swinging bench, gently pushing it too and fro with a toe balanced on the porch railing. Mary had her head on his shoulder and around her’s, his arm curled to nestle her in. She was starting to fall asleep, lulled by the rocking and exhaustion from the day. She could still catch her husband’s own eyelids starting to droop though- clearly caught between wanting to go to bed and end this long day and not wanting to move them from the comfortable spot. From here too, she could watch everyone else with an idle eye.
The NCOs- Marine and Army alike- were clustered around one table, talking low as J.P. fiddled with a rubix cube, twisting and turning the rows with no apparent strategy, and Floyd tugging on his lip.
On another bench, Lucky, Hoosier, Chuckler, and Runner played cards- a betting game like blackjack or poker- which, Mary couldn’t tell. Runner wasn’t fully recovered from his illness, not well enough to train and fight, but enough to be able to go outside the Infirmary. They were soon joined by some farm folks.
“Is that Ed Tipper with them?” Mary whispered softly. Sidney nodded. She clicked her tongue, adjusting to hold her head up properly.
“What?”
“I think something’s goin’ to happen.”
She was right- always was about these things, even if sometimes she wished she wasn’t.
It appeared as if their friends were winning- specifically Hoosier who had a good poker face, and Chuckler who was simply getting lucky with his cards. They were playing for poker chips- not that the money meant much anymore, but it was more about the spirit of things now.
Hoosier kept quiet, but Chuckler was prone to boasting- a more competitive person than one might suppose. Lucky joked and teased as he was prone to do, and Runner laughed along with them as he always did.
Out of their opponents, Smokey took this all in good humor, and so did Buck, who with an apologetic smile, simply folded eventually, declared “I’ve got no luck tonight boys,” made his goodnight well-wishes and then left to turn in. Ed Tipper- who tended to take things too seriously- must have been a poor mood that night. This was perhaps not surprising considering the looming danger outside their walls.
He became sullen, taking each loss and jibe almost personally. Finally, after losing one round particularly badly, he slammed his cards down, and exclaimed, “Forget this shit, I’m done.”
“Aw c’mon, maybe nxt round you’ll get lucky,” Chuckler half- pleaded, still smiling.
“Yeah, don’t be a sore loser- Fate's a fickle mistress,” Lucky added and shrugged, voice half-lecturing. “You can’t take it personally.”
“Sorry you lost,” Runner said, giving Ed a sympathetic smile. “But Lucky’s right- even if he’s being an ass about it-”
“Hey, I’m just speaking facts!” was the mock indignant interruption and then a startled “Hey!” as Hoosier jabbed an elbow into his ribs.
“-sometimes that’s just how things play out, y’know?”
“Well, sure seems like things work out for you real nicely,” Ed replied sourly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Chuckler asked, fading a little at the corners of his mouth.
“You know what he means.”
It was Roy Cobb who had spoken this time. He’d sauntered up a few minutes, sitting on another nearby picnic bench to watch. He leaned with his back against the table's edge, arms crossed, and mouth twisted bitterly. He spoke loudly, and added, “I think we all know what he means.”
A hush fell over the front yard. Roy got up and sauntered over to their table to stand over Ed. Ed scooted in his seat, suddenly fidgety.
“In fact,” Roy continued, “I think shortie there knows exactly what I’m talking about.”
Runner paled and hunched his shoulders. He’d put his hand down, all except one card. That one he stared down at, fidgeting with it in his hands.
“I should stop him,” Sidney muttered, “that’s not fair.” He made to get up, but Mary’s hand on his thigh kept him in place.
“Don’t,” she hissed. “It’s not good to get involved.” They were both awake now. So was everyone else. At their table, the NCOS had stopped talking and started to glance over, seeing what had gotten everyone so quiet. “Let them handle it.”
Lucky, Hoosier, Chuckler, had gone quiet too, and their shoulders rigid. Any trace of a smile on Chuckler’s face was gone now. Hoosier glared.
Snafu had gone to bed by this point. This was probably a good thing.
Bill had not gone to bed. He’d been at another table, talking with George Luz and Jay, while Vera, Gene, Bull, and Johnny played a game of Uno around a kerosene lantern. They had momentarily forgotten their cards, while the conversation had trickled to an end on the other side of the table. Bill had stopped laughing at some joke George had made, and now fixed Roy with a narrowed eyed stare. That was not good.
Even less good was Joe Liebgott who sat at the same table Roy had been, and who now leaned over, every bit of his wiry frame tensed as if ready to jump and run. Les, James, and Tony were learning in right along with them- their own board game forgotten.
Ed, for his part, did all but run. He got up quickly, kept his head down, and sat down by Joe, still a little unsure as to what he had started.
“Well, if you know the answer then,” Lucky drawled, “go ahead- breaking the fucking suspense.” His teeth were bared in a half-smirk, half snarl. He stood up so that he and Roy were eye-level.
“Lucky- don’t,” Runner hissed. Lucky wasn’t listening, too focused on staring Roy down.
“Motherfucker,” Bill snarled. “What’s he trying to do?”
“Start shit,” Johnny muttered while Bull added, “Don’t pay ‘im no mind.”
“Alright,” Roy snarled. “You brought the danger to us. It's your fault they’re here.”
No one spoke. Sidney winced.
“I mean, I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking but see, they don’t want to say it. Pretty lucky we took you all in- but didn’t tell us shit about your friend here.”
Runner had hunched even further down. Lucky’s nostrils flared, and he gritted his jaw.
“Real lucky about that one too- why'd he make it, huh? Why not everyone else, huh? Something you’re not telling us?” Roy’s words were bitter- the kind that comes out of hurt and sorrow festered into questioning anger. They were meant to sting- and sting they did. “About why you didn’t have to put him down-”
Lucky’s fist slammed into Roy’s face.
Suddenly the yard erupted in shouting as Roy doubled over, clutching his bloody noise, and then with a snarl, lunged back with his own fist. The two were fighting, and then their friends were jumping in- Chuckler and Hoosier stopping Joe and Ed from attacking Lucky. Jay and Vera were holding back Bill who was yelling, “Get ‘im Lucky! Punch that fucker’s balls in!”
Runner had gotten up too- a little less aggressive than Bill, but he was staunchly loyal no matter what he wanted Lucky to not do. He was shouting,” Watch out- he's going for your shoulder! Duck- duck!” and other such helpful advice.
But the fight was over quick. Bull and Johnny had stopped Les, James, and Tony from getting involved with a harsh word and a meaningful look. They had been gearing up- ready to throw their lot with the in-group. The NCOS had waded in, pulling apart their men with cursing and brute force.
At the end of it, no one had been seriously injured. Sidney and Gene only had to deal with bruises, a split lip, Lucky’s nasty black eye, and Roy’s bloody nose. John, JP, and Lena each had their turn reaming their boys out- especially Lucky. Roy got his own furious scolding- not from Floyd or Chuck, but the officers themselves, who had come outside at this point to see what all the commotion was. George testified that Winter’s eye was twitching. Sidney believed him.
Chuckler, Hoosier, Joe, and Ed got off lighter than the other two did. They only got kitchen duty for two weeks. Lucky and Roy had to muck out stalls, take out chamber pots, and all the other worst possible chores that they could possibly do for a month. No one who cared who started it- frankly, they both had even if it was Lucky who threw the first punch.
The tension eased after that. Perhaps a fight had been needed- a way to air grievances and relieve steam- or something like that anyway. Perhaps it was simple survival- the need to work together to win pounded in their heads day after day- and as they got closer and closer to the fight, it became all the more real, and all the more necessary.
They refused to discuss the possibility that Mary could die, but it never left Sidney’s mind. He tried not to think about it, but that was a lot easier said than done. They were busy- her with training to fight and him to heal- busy enough that it didn't leave either much time for reflection. It helped him, that business- pulled his focus on other things away from terrifying realities and horrifying, worst case-scenarios. But it didn’t stop the nightmares- where he was pulling a bloody body off the ambulance only to see it was her face beneath the sheet, and her blood covering his hands.
A subconscious could be a nasty little traitor like that- wasn't that funny?
As for Mary... well, she seemed to have taken a similar route. He had no concrete knowledge as to how she felt about her own impending mortality. Like the others getting ready to fight, she either refused to discuss it, or started making darker jokes with only her comrades as if in some effort to mask fear and laugh in the face of death- acknowledging but not taking it seriously all at the same the time.
But as they got closer and closer to the planned attack, she had begun to fixate on a certain thing.
“I think we should consummate the marriage,” Mary said out of the blue one night from where she lay on their bed after having flopped face first, arms sore from carrying her carbine and legs sore from riding all day. Sidney, halfway through brushing his teeth, spluttered and nearly swallowed half the toothpaste. The other half was spat into the bowl of water he was using in front of their vanity. Lifting her head up, Mary continued, "I mean really- We never did, even when we got married.”
This was true. Certainly, they had been married for enough time now to be... experienced, but by the technical sense of the word, both were still virgins.
Sidney could still remember when they decided to get married. The decision had been both impulsive, and yet perfectly natural with the background of the apocalypse. Life was short- who knew what could happen tomorrow?
It had been spring- perfect wedding weather, someone joked. They'd found an abandoned, old country church- small, picturesque, even- its garden starting to grow wild and out of the way of major urban (and thus, zombie) centers. Their horses were staked outside- just in case. A stream ran by- perfect for washing up. Their rings were found in a pawnshop- counters dusty, and the firearms and bullets long gone- the jewelry left behind had served little use to past survivors.
Andy married them.
Captains could officiate- declared to be full legal truth by Lucky with the one year of political science he'd managed and no actual knowledge of marriage law. Andy was a captain- never mind he was in the Marines and never headed a boat in his life- and it was reasoned he was the voice culture. Give the man a Bible, and he did a good enough job everyone thought. Who was there left to object anyway?
As for his best man, quite naturally that had been Eugene. Mary's dress had been found by the girls- from a thrift shop, an attic, or a bridal store, Sidney did not remember, only that it had needed to be hemmed slightly with the wrinkles pressed out as best they could.
She had looked beautiful that day, walked down the aisle by Hillbilly, a veil trailing down her back, short hair, carefully cleaned, and a wildflower bouquet. Mary had joked about the dress- oh, it didn't fit me right, it wasn't the best- but by God, if she didn't take his breath away in it. The Lord had blessed him with her, and Sidney occasionally wondered what he'd done to deserve it.
Everyone feasted after that- on caught game, fish, and canned goods scavenged- all washed down by the finest wine that could be looted from the liquor store. It had been a good excuse to be happy, indulge, and forget their woes for a little while.
During that feast, John pulled him aside and tried to speak sympathetically, as one married man to another.
“Listen- you both are getting that office for the night. Enjoy it.” He'd winked, then cleared his throat and looked serious. “But listen, I hate that I gotta say this...but... just don't go all the way. We can't risk a baby- even if Lucky gave you- Yeah, I know he did- but we just can't, OK?”
So, they never had... Until now- and an idea that had surprisingly been hers. They picked a night- and Sidney had a very awkward conversation with the grinning Guarnere, who passed him the “goods” and “useful tips.” accompanied by a clap on the back, a whistle, and “Have at it!”
Sidney resolved never to speak of this moment again.
The night itself was a little awkward, a little shy, accompanied by some giggling, but in the end, it went well. Afterwards, he curled up with his wife in his arms and held her close and tight. Both were satisfied pretending that the reason had been as Mary rationalized: that the thing simply...ought to be done by now.
They never vocalized- never spoke or even hinted at the real reason she had decided this- why she was so sore most days from a carbine and a horse. That was the real reason. A reason that countless young men before her had on the dark eves of countless wars, campaigns, battles, and first deployments.
Who knew if they'd lived to see the next day?
From the top floor of the Big House, you can see the orange glow on the horizon- a dull color against the night sky and peeking just beyond the stockade’s walls. One- maybe more- of their fields are burning. It's a threat- a warning.
Lewis knows that more of their fields, the orchards, and berries- perhaps even the wild game- will face much the same fate. His mouth twists. They have no access to these resources anyway- and with more mouths to feed, too. The burning is just rubbing salt into the wound- a display of arrogance, a way to get them to surrender, and a way to make them feel afraid.
Hide behind your walls.
Hide all winter if you want.
But we won't leave. We'll starve you out.
In the office, the rest of the leaders are quiet. The mood is grim. No one says a word. He watches Dick, who stands at the window. He hasn't moved in a few minutes; his body so rigid you could probably shatter it.
Finally, Dick turns around. His mouth was pursed so tight his lips had disappeared. He looked angry- Not the petty anger Lewis was familiar with, but a genuinely cold fury, seething and freezing behind his eyes.
“We're attacking them as soon as possible,” he half snapped, half stated curtly. Nothing about his tone brokered any argument.
“The men and women should be ready within a few days,” Andy replied, arms crossed and eyes serious as he met Dick's gaze and held it. For a moment, Dick hesitated, almost as if not expecting the challenge, with his hands behind his back, and likely clenched so tight his nails left little red marks in the palms.
“Fine. But we don't wait any longer than that,” he finally acquiesced.
Andy nodded.
“Good. I think we got ourselves a date, gentleman.” he said, turning to the rest of them. “In a few days, we attack.”