She leaned forward eagerly, and Palmer handed her one. She stuck a second cig in her own mouth and went back into the office. "There must be a light in here. Lord, let there be a light."
A cry of triumph, and she came out holding a tiny flame to her lips. Cheryl ran over to light up. They both inhaled slowly, filling their throats, their lungs; they sighed happily.
"You smoke?" Palmer asked Lauren. She shook her head no.
"I never, ever, ever dreamed I'd smoke again." Cheryl held her cigarette out before her, as if it perhaps weren't real. "I haven't smoked since I was seventeen. And just one cost you the shirt off your back! This…"
"It's a blessing." Palmer spoke through a gray cloud. She propped herself against the wall. "It'll help with the hunger pangs. Are you sure you don't want one, Lauren?" Another shake of the head.
"Where did you come here from, hon?" The reverend asked Cheryl.
"The badlands."
"Really? How'd you end up here?"
"Long story."
"We've got plenty of time."
"I was with my brother, and he was dodging the draft. There are thousands of people out there in shanty towns. It's really not that bad, about the same as it is here…just no walls."
"No cops either."
Cheryl shuddered at that. "I'm sorry," Palmer gasped, "I didn't mean-"
"I know, I know. I can't even bring myself to think about that right now. But my brother…well, as we moved further south he started dropping hints that I should stay with my cousin here in the Harbor. He was only trying to look out for me, but I felt like I was a burden or something. I got more and more difficult…those last weeks together we fought constantly. I cursed him for running away from the Army and taking me with him, even though I knew Portland had fallen. Portland, Oregon, our hometown."
"Ah."
"Anyway, we weren't too far outside the city gates when a couple of rotters hit us. They must have been wandering all around the walls, because as soon as I screamed more of them came stumbling out of the night. There were…there were runners. Have you ever seen them?" Tears welled in Cheryl's eyes. "I have," Palmer nodded. "You're lucky to be alive."
"I'm not lucky. He saved me. He pulled them off of me and onto himself…he laid there, and they took the easy prey while I ran."
"If he hadn't, you wouldn't be here now — and I know you'd say that's not much consolation, but you can't blame yourself. You can't tell yourself that you weren't worth saving. If you do, that means his death was a waste."
Cheryl stubbed her cigarette butt out on a windowsill. She didn't speak. Palmer gave her another one.
"Maybe you're right." The girl finally said.
A few hours later, Duncan was awake, though groggy, and he was carried by Voorhees and Jenna down the hall to a dark room. They placed him on a cot. The door closed, and Duncan stared into blackness.
He heard a weight shifting beside the cot.
"Someone there?"
"It's me." Jenna's voice. "How does the leg feel?"
"I don't feel much. A dull ache I guess. Ugh, I'm fucking stoned."
"How's your head?"
"Iffy."
Her hands, on the edge of the coat, moved to touch his side.
"Jenna?"
She kissed him on the cheek. Her breath smelled like coffee. "Is this okay?"
"What?"
"I want to do this. Do you?"
"Jenna-"
"If you can't, because of the leg, it's all right." But she began undoing his jeans. And, though he could have stopped her, could have done more than say her name, he didn't.
Water sloshed. A wet cloth slipped into his pants and massaged his crotch. His loins throbbed and he nearly came. "W-what are you doing?"
"I want to be clean." Her pants rustled, descending to her ankles. "I want this to be good. I don't want to fuck, Mark, I want to feel good." She was still massaging him with the cloth, and he rolled slightly, searching with his hands. "You have another?"
She handed the other rag to him. Steadying himself on his elbow, he found her in the dark. Feeling her through the cold cloth, seeing nothing, hearing only his own labored breath — despite it all he somehow felt closer to her than he'd felt to anyone.
She sucked in a deep breath. "Are you crying?" He asked.
"Is it okay if I am?"
"It's okay."
He drew her onto the cot, Jenna carefully straddling his legs, easing herself down. He felt her bare breasts brushing his shirt and he unbuttoned it. Their lips met in a single sigh as their flesh met.
"Oh God."
"You don't have to hold back," she breathed.
"No, it's not that." He pressed his mouth over hers, tasted her, moaned again. She moved slowly and twinges of pain, of anxiety, gave way to warmth. Outside the room, in the light, in the world, were the dead and the almost-dead. She felt alive, so fucking alive that the tears streamed down her cheeks onto his. He kissed them away and her fingers travelled the rough contours of his face. Getting close, she buried her face in the crook of his neck and instinct drove her rhythm. He pushed his face against hers, groaned in release.
Feeling erupted through her and she pushed herself back, arching her body to feel the waves in her back, her toes, her fingertips.
Wary of his thigh, she slipped off of him and found her clothes.
"Jenna?"
"Mark, don't."
He touched her shoulder and plied her back to the cot. "Just stay. Just a while."
"I want to, but…"
"Then stay."
She touched his face again. It was the face of a stranger. Jenna fought back the tears this time.
Down the hall Voorhees stood outside his office. The others were inside; he knew Jenna had stayed in the room with Duncan, so there was only one explanation for the soft footfalls coming from downstairs.
He crept out of the hall and panned the lobby with the shotgun. "Come on up. I've got something for you. All of you. Come get it."
"Don't shoot…?"
A man in a soiled dress shirt and slacks poked his bearded head over the bannister.
"I'm Thom. I work for the city?"
33
Silent Running
"I thought that tunnel was sealed off." Voorhees muttered into his fist. "What tunnel?" Palmer asked, studying Thom's ragged form.
"There's a security tunnel running from the PD to City Hall. Few people outside the mayor's office knew about it. Of course, that was before the mayor jumped." Turning to Thom, Voorhees asked him, "I've never seen anyone going in or out of that building. Every door's barricaded to the max. How many people are over there?"
"Oh, it's just me." The man's voice was timid, quiet. He was used to speaking in whispers, or perhaps not at all. His hands trembled excitedly as he described his situation. "There were other staff staying there, but some left…and others…"
"Others what?"
"They just didn't make it. There's no food, not much water except what leaks in when it storms like it is now — do you have any food?"
"Not much, but we'll get you something." Voorhees replied. The man, hugging his emaciated frame, smiled gratefully. "I was a clerk in the mayor's office. The mayor was writing a biography, you know. I've spent the last few months proofreading the manuscript."
This guy was just a little mad. Palmer offered him a cigarette, and he refused it with a wary look. "Terrible for you. Can't fight or run with emphysema. Some of my colleagues were heavy smokers. That's what got them in the end. It eats you from the inside out. Cancer, I mean. It's like a rotter growing inside you. Makes you ashy." Thom grimaced.
"How did you know we were in here, Thom?" The reverend asked.
"I saw you going in. They saw you too, I think. That's why I came over, through the tunnel — thought you ought to come with me to City Hall."
"Wait, who's 'they'?"
Thom gestured toward the lobby entrance. Hefting the shotgun in his arms, Voorhees climbed onto the barricade and peered through a paper-thin slit, through the damaged doors.