Райан Уэстфилд - Finding Shelter

The space was small, and fairly cluttered with odds and ends, things that Max had been tinkering with. Knives he’d been trying to get a good edge on again, or broken compasses he’d been trying to reassemble. Maps he’d been drawing routes on, or just studying.

“Take her pulse, would you?” said Georgia, noticing that Cynthia had on a watch. She hoped that hers worked.

Cynthia moved to Mandy’s side, taking her hand and putting her fingers on her wrist, while watching the dial on her watch.

“Now tell me where it hurts, Mandy,” said Georgia, taking Mandy’s other hand. It was her attempt at a comforting gesture. Not necessarily her strong suit.

Mandy said nothing. Instead, she pointed at her belly.

Cynthia looked over at Georgia, and they exchanged a look.

The meaning of the look was clear.

Neither of them knew what was going on.

But they both knew that it wasn’t good.

For some reason, Wilson couldn’t get that man from earlier that day out of his head.

Wilson had sent many men and women to the stockades before. He’d sent many to be executed. He thought that he’d gotten used to it all.

After all, what did it matter if a few people were sacrificed, so long as there was a good cause? As long as they were doing important work, a few lives here and there were all part of the deal. Part of what had to happen.

How many lives had been lost overall since the EMP? Hundreds of thousands? Millions?

Whatever the number, it was a lot.

Of course, somewhere in Wilson’s files were the official estimates on the death toll. Not to mention the death toll in the coming months.

They weren’t going to restore order to the nation without some good solid numbers.

And without a fair bit of paperwork as well.

It was getting late. Wilson was tired, and his back was aching. Maybe he should put in an order for a better chair. He did deserve it, after all, as Grant was always telling him.

Wilson put out the candle that was still burning on his desk and slowly stood up, grabbing his lower back with both hands and letting out a groan of pain.

“Anyone there?” came a gruff, familiar voice from outside the tent.

It was Grant. His voice was unmistakable.

Wilson felt his heart start to beat a little faster. Even after all the time he’d spent with Grant, Grant’s presence still made him a little nervous. Not that he’d ever admit that. Maybe not even to himself.

“Hey, Grant,” said Wilson.

The tent flap moved back, and Grant stepped into the room.

He had a commanding presence. He was taller than most men. And well built. A good amount of muscle. But he didn’t seem like the type who spent a lot of time working out. More likely, it had just come naturally to him.

He was probably a little thinner than he had been before the EMP. But weren’t they all?

After all, they were on strict rations here at the camp. Everyone was. Even Grant. And those in charge of the mess halls were strict. Very strict. Men had been sent to the stockade for a week just for trying to plunder a few hundred extra calories.

It suddenly occurred to Wilson that he didn’t have any idea what Grant had done before the EMP. Which was strange. It was almost as if Grant were made for a post-apocalyptic world. It seemed as if he had just shown up, his ideas and mindset already fully formed, ready to lead. And people had been ready to follow.

Grant stood there, arms crossed, surveying the tent. “You really must like paperwork, you bastard.”

“Someone’s got to do it, and I’ve got a talent for it, apparently.”

“That you do, my friend, that you do.”

They spoke sometimes in a casual way, as if they were friends. And in some ways they were, but there was always a distance around Grant. Wilson was the closest to him, and he felt far away.

Grant said nothing more, and a long silence hung in the tent. The silence made Wilson feel nervous. Anxious.

It was strange. Wilson felt almost as if he were in trouble for something. That was the way Grant made him feel sometimes. But Wilson knew he’d done an excellent job on everything. Hell, he was practically running the camp, while Grant did whatever it was that Grant did all day.

“What’s on your mind, Grant?” said Wilson, breaking the silence. His voice cracked a little as he spoke, due to his nerves, as if he were a teenager.

“I thought we’d go for a little walk,” said Grant. “Just the two of us. A nighttime stroll.”

Grant said nothing more. Offered no explanation.

“All right,” said Wilson. He knew it wasn’t a good idea to contradict Wilson. He’d seen men do it before.

The last thing Wilson wanted to do right now was tell Grant that he didn’t feel like going for a walk.

And the truth was that he didn’t feel like it. After all, it was late. His back hurt. And he was tired. And he didn’t see the point in puttering around in the darkness. That was the duty of those who had night-watch shifts, and those who had other responsibilities.

Wilson followed Grant out of the tent.

The night was upon them. There was darkness everywhere, punctuated by the odd lantern, candle, or flashlight.

Flashlights were in short supply, despite the abundance of supplies that the militia had managed to secure through countless raids and expeditions.

Wilson knew that Grant had a couple of his own flashlights. After all, as a leader, he was entitled to the best gear.

But Grant didn’t pull one out. Instead, he just stepped out into the darkness and started walking at a brisk pace. His long legs moved rapidly.

Wilson had to practically jog to keep up. He tried to stay abreast of Grant, but it was difficult, and he kept finding himself lagging behind.

The activity of the camp had certainly died down since the daytime, but there was still quite a bit going on. After all, things had to get done. Wilson had signed off on a lot of the orders himself. So there were plenty of men and women who were going to work all the through the night tonight. They’d sleep during the day, of course.

Their camp was huge. At least a 1,000 men and women. Wilson couldn’t remember the exact population figure at the moment.

The camp spread for miles. And it seemed as if Grant wanted to walk to the camp’s edge tonight, because he never stopped. He just wound his way through the lines of men and women working away, with Wilson trotting behind him.

They’d walked in silence for half an hour, when Wilson had almost had enough of it all. After all, he was huffing and puffing. His legs ached and his stomach rumbled with hunger. He’d skipped his dinner that night, and had been planning on having it right before bed. But now, it seemed that there was no dinner in sight.

Wilson was really lagging behind now. He could just see Grant’s back. And the back of his head.

Grant wasn’t slowing down at all. And he never once turned around to see if Wilson was still there.

“What’s this all about anyway, Grant?” said Wilson, in a rare moment of sticking up for himself. “I was thinking I’d be hitting the sack around now.”

Grant stopped dead in his tracks. Turned around.

Wilson almost ran smack into him. But he stopped too.

Grant stared right at him.

They were near a man who appeared to be digging a trench. The man wore a headlamp, and its very pale white light cast strange stark shadows on Grant’s face. There in the shadows, there in the darkness, he had never looked more severe or imposing.

The man who was digging didn’t even look up. He looked like he was digging with all the fervor and strength he had, as if he was carrying out severe sentencing, as if he’d be sentenced to death if he stopped. And, for all Wilson knew, that was actually the case. Wilson had a good memory, but he didn’t have every penal sentence on the tip of his tongue. There was a reason he used all those clipboards.