I couldn’t help it, I laughed. “Talk about kicking a man while he’s down.”
Tyrel smiled.
“Heard anything from Lance lately?”
“Yeah. He’s back to being a cop again, works on the south side of town. Haven’t seen him in a couple of weeks, but last I heard he’s doing all right.”
“Glad to hear it.”
A short time later, we arrived at Ty’s street. “I’m up this way,” he said, pointing down a row of shipping containers virtually indistinguishable from the street I lived on.
I said, “Don’t be a stranger, Ty. You know where we live, now. You’re welcome any time.”
“Duly noted. Y’all take care.”
I put my arm around Sophia, feeling the tension in her shoulders, and held her tight against me on the walk home. When we arrived, I opened the padlock, unwrapped the chain from the front doors, and swung them wide. The two of us sat on the floor, drank tepid water, and stared at nothing. The place seemed too quiet, too empty, and even more squalid than usual. It is not until someone is gone that you realize what an influence they have on your life, and your home. There is an energy to each human being, to each life, and it affects the people around them whether they realize it or not.
It was mid-afternoon before Sophia spoke again. “He’ll be all right, won’t he?”
I glanced up at the soft chestnut eyes, full lips, and the delicate fall of hair. My heart constricted at how beautiful she was, even dirty and dressed in clothes little better than rags. The fact I could not provide a better life for her made me want to break something. “He’s a smart man, Sophia. He knows how to take care of himself.”
“Just tell me he’s going to be okay. Please.”
“He’s going to be okay.”
She pushed her hair out of her face, and said, “You know what? Don’t. It sounds like you’re bullshitting me.”
I did not know what to say to that, so as usual, I didn’t say anything.
FORTY-NINE
The warmth of summer faded into the chill of autumn.
We passed the days as best we could, living and working and hoping that someday, somehow, things would get better. It was the same hope people had before the Outbreak when they climbed in their cars, or public transportation, and whisked off to jobs they hated in order to pull in a paycheck and keep the fire burning for another day. There are no promises, and some days it seems pointless, but what else are you supposed to do?
In the mornings, I would go to the end of the street and get our water, carry it back, and then we would have breakfast. Afterward, I left for my job building the wall, while Sophia left for hers on a cleanup crew. We had to make sure the place was locked up tight before leaving, as theft was rampant in the refugee districts. Leaving a door or a hatch unlocked was as good as throwing your possessions into the street.
Sophia’s job, from the way she described it, mostly consisted of tearing down buildings with heavy equipment and then loading the refuse into large trucks. My job involved walking an hour to the job site, engaging in backbreaking labor for ten hours, punctuated by a thirty minute lunch break, and then enduring the long slog home.
Some days it rained, and the job site shut down. The rest was nice, but the government docked our pay.
In the evenings, either Sophia or I would heat some water in a metal pot and wash one another with damp rags. I found it amazing how little water it takes to wash when you have no soap, and consequently, do not have to worry about rinsing.
Sometimes, when we had the strength, we made love. Most nights, however, we ate a bland meal, read books from the public library (delivered to the refugee districts by volunteers), and slept. The next day, we got up and did it all again.
The fighting north of town never stopped, but it did slacken in pace. There were trenches, miles and miles of trenches, dug along the northern perimeter a few miles from the city. The Army crouched behind these trenches at night, and during the day, they made forays in armored vehicles. They located hordes, lured them to various killing grounds, and waited while fortified bulldozers, bucket loaders, and other heavy construction equipment squashed the infected into paste. With the undead immobilized, the troops dug enormous mass graves and pushed the bodies in by the thousands. Something close to half of them were still kicking and biting when they went over the edge, but the troops buried them anyway. It was easier and less dangerous than finishing them off, and used less ammo.
Tyrel came around to visit once a week, usually on Saturday evenings when we did not have to worry about getting up for work the next day. He always brought dinner from one of the few restaurants operating near the refugee districts, a luxury Sophia and I could not afford. But for Tyrel, being in a volunteer militia meant he had ample opportunity to scavenge the countryside and loot the bodies of infected he killed. A lucrative, if dangerous, line of business.
When Sophia wasn’t around, which was not often, he tried to talk me into leaving the Construction Corps and joining up with his militia. Due to his advanced training and combat savvy, he had been promoted to a senior leadership position within the ranks.
“I’m in charge of hiring,” he told me often. “All I have to do is say the word. You wouldn’t have to break your back anymore, and you’d make a hell of a lot more trade.” (The word ‘trade’ had come to replace ‘money’ in casual conversation.)
My usual reply was, “Yeah, and Sophia would cut my balls off.”
“No, she wouldn’t. She’d just be pissed, and you wouldn’t get laid until you started bringing home food worth eating and some nice furniture. Then she’d get with the program.”
I resolved not to test Tyrel’s theory, and I didn’t. At least not until a Tuesday evening in late September when I found Sophia crying and everything changed.
I came home from work the same as any other day. My feet hurt, my back was a wreck, and I had the beginnings of a headache riding over the horizon. I wanted nothing more than to let Sophia wipe the dust from my skin, eat something warm, and sleep for ten hours. But when I turned up the driveway and saw the doors open, I went on my guard.
“Sophia? You home?”
Her voice, tearful. “Yes. I’m here.”
I walked up the drive and stepped through the door. Sophia had started a fire and sat next to it, face in her hands, wiping tears from her cheeks. I hurried over and knelt beside her. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
She didn’t respond, just kept sobbing. I pulled her hands down and tilted her face up. “Sophia, look at me. What happened? Did someone hurt you?”
When I walked in the door, my mind immediately went to Lauren and the attacks she had endured. If someone had hurt my Sophia, they were dead. There would be no remorse, no hesitation, no mercy, just a movement at the corner of their eye and then nothing. My teeth ground together as I tried to remember where I had put my fighting dagger.
“No, Caleb. No one hurt me.”
I blinked a few times, let out a breath, and released Sophia’s wrists. My fingers left red marks. “Okay. Can you to tell me what’s going on?”
“Sit down, Caleb.”
I was getting very tired of people telling me to sit down, but I did it anyway. “Sophia, you’re freaking me out.”
She took my hands and held them. “Caleb …”
“What?”
She looked up, and the fire caught in her eyes, and they gleamed like stars in the winter sky. My breath caught in my throat and I wondered if I would ever breathe again. I leaned closer, brushed my lips against her cheek, and pulled her close to me.
“Sophia, whatever it is, you can tell me. I’m not going anywhere. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. I’m right here.”
She put her face in the hollow of my shoulder, took a long, shaky breath and said, “Caleb, I’m pregnant.”
*****
The next day, I traded my Beretta for a new pair of boots.
After months of mixing concrete, shoveling dirt, and exposure to wind and sun, my old clothes were just about done for. I picked out five new outfits of sturdy outdoor wear and paid for them with four boxes of nine-millimeter cartridges. Everything else I needed was waiting for me at home.