Done with shopping, I left the market, walked to the offices of the Civil Construction Corps at The Citadel Mall, and turned in my resignation. The clerk looked hard at me across the table.
“You sure you want to do this?” she said. “It’s getting harder to find jobs with the city these days.”
“I have something else lined up.”
She shrugged and stuck my form in a box. “Well, best of luck then.”
Next was a visit to Tyrel. I wasn’t sure if he would be home, but luck was with me. He opened the door, took a moment to read my face, and knew exactly what I was there for. “About damn time,” he said. “Come in and have a seat. I’ll put on some tea.”
The tea tasted better than anything I had ever drank. Tyrel didn’t have any sugar, just the artificial stuff, but considering my options over the last few months had consisted of either cold water or hot water, it was heaven in an enameled cup.
Tyrel sat down across from me, a satisfied smirk on his face. His chairs were proper chairs, complete with foam and cloth and springs. I leaned back and tried to remember the last time I had sat in a comfortable chair. Sophia and I often joked to one another that we lived like the Japanese, most of our time spent sitting on the floor.
“So,” Tyrel said, “what changed your mind?”
I sipped my tea, let it rest on my tongue a few seconds, and swallowed it gratefully. “Sophia is pregnant.”
His cup stopped halfway to his mouth. “Seriously?”
I nodded.
He put his cup down on a little wooden table. The presence of such luxury made me feel like a peasant in a lord’s manor. “I don’t know what to say, Caleb. Congratulations?”
“I’ll take it.”
My old friend smiled. “Congratulations, then. You’re gonna be a daddy.”
I ignored the flip-flopping in my stomach at that statement and smiled back. “I’ll do my best.”
“Does Sophia know?”
“Well, being that she’s the one who told me …”
“Hardy-har, smart ass. You know what I mean.”
I sighed and held my tea in my lap. “No. I haven’t told her.”
“She’s going to be pissed.”
“Yes. Yes she will. But she’ll get over it.”
“Well, I think this calls for more than just a cup of tea.” Tyrel stood up, lit an oil lamp, closed and locked the front doors, and started digging through a box behind his chair. A few seconds later, he returned with two small glasses and a bottle of Buffalo Trace. While he poured, I gulped down the rest of the tea, not daring to waste it.
I accepted a glass of amber liquid and gave it a little swirl in the golden lamplight. Tyrel raised his in the air and said, “To fatherhood, prosperity, and better days ahead.”
“Cheers.” We clinked glasses and drank.
FIFTY
Sophia did not take the news well at all.
In fact, I’m reasonably certain she was just next door to a rage blackout. And that was before she began throwing random missiles at my head. Lucky for me her aim was off, although there were a few near misses.
I explained myself in a reasonable manner. I told her we could barely feed ourselves, much less a baby. She countered that other people had kids and seemed to be getting by just fine. I told her that was true, but those kids were all toddlers or older. I had not seen a baby since arriving at the Springs. She told me she had, perfectly healthy ones.
I asked her what she planned to do after the baby was born. It was not as if there was a plethora of childcare options to choose from. She glared angrily and said we would figure something out.
Sensing an opening, I said, “Sophia, you’re going to have to stay home with the baby. Without the food your job brings in, we’ll go hungry.”
“No,” she replied firmly. “We won’t. We’ll just have to make due with less.”
My temper began heating up. “Listen. I’m not going to raise a child half-assed. I have valuable skills. I’m going to use them. I’m going to provide for this family by doing what I do best, and that’s it. End of discussion.”
Wrong. Thing. To say.
I slept on the roof that night and spent the rest of the week at Tyrel’s place.
Early Monday morning, when I knew Sophia would be home, I went back to get my things. There was a very shrill voice in my head worried that Sophia had thrown my belongings in the street, but when I turned into the driveway, there were no signs of anything having been discarded. The smell of flatbread and boiled potatoes wafted through the half-closed doors. I knocked and poked my head in.
“Sophia?”
She adjusted the light on a wind-up lantern. “Right here.”
I stepped inside. My possessions were exactly where I had left them. I wanted to talk, but I didn’t have time for another argument, so I said, “I just came to get my things.”
She gestured to an old wooden crate containing my weapons and tactical gear. “It’s right there.”
The M-4 was still clean and well oiled. The spare ammo in the P-mags had not left the pouches on my MOLLE vest. I detached the holster for my Beretta, regretting I’d had to trade it away. The knife, multi-tool, crowbar, hatchet, and all my other equipment were in their places. I suited up, put on my hat, hung a pair of goggles from my vest, and wound a scarf around my neck.
Sophia kept her attention on the tiny pot and small frying pan on top of the fireplace. I turned to leave, hesitated, and said, “Should I find another place to stay?”
She did not look up. “Do you want to?”
“No.”
“Then come home.”
A breeze could have knocked me over. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. Probably overnight at least.”
“I’ll be here.”
Not wanting to push my luck, I walked toward the door. As I pushed it open, I heard Sophia say, “Caleb?”
I turned to look at her.
“Be careful.”
“Always.”
I left.
*****
It was not until I exited the north gate that I realized I had not been outside the wall since arriving in Colorado Springs.
It was cathartic, in a way. I had been so constrained by my limited, miserable existence, scraping and breaking my back and struggling to get by from one day to the next, I had nearly forgotten there was a world out there. A dangerous world, granted. A world not possessed of the relative safety and security of life behind the wall, but one with open spaces, salvage free for the taking, and no one to stop you and challenge you if you were out past curfew. The only curfew in the wastelands was nightfall, enforced by the dead, and if you were quick and smart and handy with your weapons, you could challenge that authority without reprisal. For a while, anyway.
On the way out, we passed a column of men marching in identical orange coveralls, their ankles tethered together with leg irons. Two policemen on horseback armed with shotguns watched them trudge wearily away from the gate. I nudged Tyrel on the arm and said, “That what I think it is?”
He glanced toward the prisoners. “Yep. Going out to work on the west side of the wall. Poor bastards.”
“Takes something serious to be sentenced to hard labor, right?”
He shrugged. “Serious is a relative term. I know a fella got ten months for stealing a sack of potatoes. Just depends on what mood the judge is in, I guess. Show up on the wrong day, and you might find yourself looking at a few years. Best to stay on the right side of the law around here.”
I watched one of the men stumble and fall, then roll onto his back and stare at the sky. His chest heaved, eyes closed, mouth hanging open like a tired dog. One of the cops gestured with his shotgun and shouted something I could not hear. The man behind the fallen prisoner reached down and hauled him to his feet. The cop snarled something else, nudged the prisoner in the back with the barrel of his gun, and the column started moving again.