The only part of the property that seemed undisturbed was the tool shed. It had a padlock on it, but a few swings of a crowbar solved that problem. Inside the shed, we found the usual collection of yard implements—lawn mower, weed trimmer, hedge clippers, tree pruner, etc.—and a couple of digging spades.
It took the two of us most of the afternoon to dig a grave. I used the mental exercises Mike taught me about keeping my mind clear to focus on the task at hand, losing myself in the rhythmic stab of the shovel, stomp of foot, levering of dirt, and shoulder-swing throw into an ever-growing pile. The sound of rocks and earth rasping over metal filled my existence, drowning out all other voices. When the grave was deep enough, we wrapped my father in a sheet and lowered him into it. Then we filled it in again and stood for a while mopping sweat from our faces. Dad was not a religious man, so we didn’t bother with a cross. He would not have wanted one.
During the process, Sophia expressed concern the people who attacked us in Boise City might come looking for us and maybe we should hurry up and get going. I told her to grab a pair of binoculars from the Humvee, climb to the balcony above the farmhouse’s second floor, and keep a lookout. If anyone showed up, I would shoot them, cut out their heart, and eat the fucking thing in front of them while they died.
She paled, nodded, and backed away.
*****
Night fell.
We stayed at the farmhouse. I sat on the front porch, outfitted for battle, grenade-launcher equipped carbine between my knees. Mike and Sophia went inside to eat dinner, but I declined. I had no appetite.
There was a pair of NVGs next to me. When full dark came, and the half-moon and stars were the only light to be seen, I donned them and conducted a wide patrol, circling the property, praying I saw signs of pursuers. I wanted them to come for us. I wanted to see the outline of the suppressor through my rifle’s optics, feel the stock buck against my shoulder, hear the clack of the chamber, the muted crack. I wanted to hear screams of pain as people died in the darkness. I wanted them to know they were being punished.
But no one came.
Maybe they got what they wanted from the vehicles we left behind, or maybe we killed enough of them they decided it wasn’t worth coming after us, or both. Maybe they tried, but simply could not find us. Mike had done a good job of leaving a meandering, double-backed, circuitous trail for any tracker to follow. Even with a good horse and a flashlight, I would have been hard pressed to figure it out myself. Whatever the case, as dawn crept red and gold over the eastern sky, I switched off my NVGs and headed back to the farmhouse, disappointed.
Mike and Sophia greeted me from the kitchen table and offered me breakfast. I took off my gear, sat down, and shoveled food down wordlessly. I do not remember what I ate. Minutes later, I went upstairs to one of the bedrooms, took off my boots and combat gear, and fell into a dreamless slumber.
*****
Five weeks passed.
My wounds, carefully tended to by Sophia, healed quickly. Soon, all that remained of them were fresh pink scars and a few persistent aches where the shrapnel had scraped bone. I was still sore most of the time, but did not let it slow me down.
Mike spent most of his time scouting the area and hunting wild game. Sometimes I went with him, but most of the time I made some excuse to stay at the farmhouse with Sophia. I know he knew why, but he didn’t make an issue of it. Not that it would have done him any good.
Sophia and I made love often, taking comfort in each other’s embrace, reveling in the heated, gasping, kissing, thrusting passion of new lovers. We explored each other, teased each other, took turns reducing one another to clutching, moaning incoherence. Then we would rest for a while, talk and laugh in exhausted, throaty voices, and start all over again.
I often wondered in the months after why my sexual appetite, which had never been much of a distraction before, suddenly had so much power over me. It was not until after I joined the Army, and the battle of Singletary Lake, that I learned of the strange urges that possess a man after combat. I remember sitting with my back against a cinder-block wall, and a Navy medic coming around to check the guys in my platoon for injuries, and how pretty her green eyes were, and the roaring, burning urge to pull her clothes off and take her right then and there.
She must have seen something of it in my eyes, because she gave me a strange look. Or maybe she noticed the swelling in my pants. Either way, I cast my eyes to the ground, ashamed, willing the feeling to go away. It has happened a few times since, and for a while, I thought there was something wrong with me. But later, I learned most of the other soldiers I served with had experienced the same thing at one point or another, and it was not unique to men. Why it happens, I do not know. I am sure there is a psychologist out there somewhere who can give me a rational explanation, but I have not crossed paths with them yet.
So with Sophia at my side, and Mike the Stalwart an ever-present reassurance, the pain and anguish slowly began to fade. But I never let Boise City out of my mind for more than a few hours. The shadows behind the windows, the indistinguishable faces behind muzzle flashes, the glimpses of what I could have sworn were Army issue combat fatigues. A single word kept rattling around my mind, whispering to me, visiting me in the dark hours when I drifted off to sleep next to Sophia’s warmth.
Deserters.
During those weeks, I did not spend all my time eating roasted meat and indulging carnal pleasures. I drew up a few ideas about how we might head back and recon Boise City, see what we were up against, what we could do to make them pay for what they did to us. When I thought I had worked out all the angles, or at least as many as I could see, I asked Mike to join me for a sit-down on a nearby hill.
He listened patiently, chewing on a toothpick. When I was finished, he tossed the toothpick into the brush and said, “Caleb, you have to let it go.”
“It’s not that simple, Mike. They killed Blake. They killed my father.”
“We all knew we were taking a risk going into Boise City, son. There could have been infected, or hostile locals, or deserters holed up, or any host of dangers. We went in there with our eyes wide open—Joe and Blake included. We rolled the dice, and we came up snake-eyes. Joe and Blake were two of the best friends I’ve ever had. I loved them both like brothers. But they’re gone now, and we ain’t gonna accomplish a goddamn thing getting ourselves killed trying to avenge them. It’s not what they would want us to do. I know that because if I had died and they had lived, I wouldn’t want them to risk their lives the same way. There’s been enough bloodshed here, Caleb. No measure of revenge is ever going to bring them back. We need to move on.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but Mike interrupted. “And what about Sophia, Caleb? What if something happens to us, and she’s on her own? What do you think will happen to her?”
To my shame, the thought had never occurred to me. I had been too caught up in my own anger and plotting and pain. The idea of Sophia alone in these wastelands, unprotected, sent an invisible spear through my gut. I looked down and crossed my hands in my lap. “I’m sorry, Mike. I never thought of that.”
The big man reached out and put a massive hand on my shoulder. “Listen, kid. For all I know, you and Sophia are all I have left. I have no way of knowing if my wife is still in Oregon, or if she’s even still alive. I think it’s pretty safe to assume the Outbreak made it that far. The only way for me to find out is to get you two someplace safe and then try to find her. Maybe I can, maybe I can’t. I don’t know. But I can’t start trying until the two of you are out of harm’s way. And every day that goes by, my chances of finding her alive get slimmer and slimmer. So do me a favor, Caleb. I know you’re hurting. We’re all hurting. But I need you to start thinking about someone other than yourself for a while. Okay?”
I sat quietly and watched him walk down the hillside back to the house. Inwardly, I cursed myself for a fool. Mike was right. I had been a selfish idiot. I had forgotten about protecting Sophia. I had forgotten about Mike’s wife, Sophia’s mother, stranded in Oregon. All I had thought about was myself, and my pain, and how much I wanted, needed to lash out, to make someone else hurt as much as I did.