38. Thirty-Eight
Tucker shoves his shoulder against the door and the hatch opens above me, giving way to a clear, cloudless blue sky. I have to squint to keep from blinding myself, but the square of light hovers behind my eyelids, the natural light leaving its mark regardless of my attempt to shut it out.
When my shoes hit the grass and the fresh air fills my lungs, I’m struck again with how similar the bunker is to Omni. The concrete walls and floors, the fluorescent lights, the ever-present humming of the ventilation system. My body is so familiar with these things, it spent so long drowning in nearly the same artificial environment, and not just figuratively.
Yet, here it’s calm. Anxiety doesn’t ghost its fingers across my mind in each waking moment. I’m not fighting for my sanity, I’m not fighting for my survival, no matter how inane that fight was.
The breeze on my face, the sun warming my skin, the sense of control I have over my actions, it all reminds me I’m not locked in. I’m not waiting for another round of torture.
“Mads, are you okay?” Tucker’s voice is soft, concerned, as it breaks through the stillness of the clearing. He’s quiet enough that Silas and Ray won’t hear from below. He puts his hand on my shoulder, and the gentleness of his grip anchors me back into my body.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You’re crying.”
I hadn’t noticed. I didn’t feel the trails of tears working their way down my cheeks or the persistent knot in my throat threatening to choke me. I don’t know when I started crying, but I’m grateful Tucker pointed it out before the others came up.
I drop my head forward and wipe away the tears, while I try to sort out where they came from. Why this was the moment my body chose to cry. Why now after everything else.
“No, I’m good, it’s just-” No. I can’t start crying again. I ball my fists and shove the heels of my palms against my eyes, trying to force the tears back in. I can’t let him see the emotions I’m so far from fully understanding. “It’s such a pretty day out here.”
Tucker opens his mouth, but shuts it after a breath, choosing not to dig for more explanation. My heart warms when he squeezes my shoulder and steps away, giving me space to collect myself fully.
Only a moment passes before Silas and Ray come up the ladder. Both of them are carrying hard plastic cases. When they pass me they either don’t notice the redness in my eyes or they’re being kind enough not to bring it up. I’m grateful regardless.
I don’t watch when they lay the cases on the ground or when they remove and inspect the guns inside them. Instead I’m scanning our environment, taking in just how pretty it is, how different this expanse looks from the clearing that surrounded our home. I can see so far without those densely packed trees, and the wide-open terrain leads out to the horizon as if it’s all interconnected. It’s daunting, being presented with so much space. Those rolling green fields promising a world so much larger than anything I ever hoped I would get to see.
I understand so little about the world, and it makes me feel so other from the men around me.
“What time of year is it?” I don’t ask this to anyone in particular, but the need to know is eating away at me.
A bird chirps from one of the nearby trees, and it distracts me for a second before realizing that none of them have answered.
Maybe they didn’t hear me.
I turn, ready to ask again, still needing the answer. Needing it to fill some empty pocket inside of me. When I face them, though, I know they all heard me. They’re all staring at me, stunned.
“It’s spring.”
Silas is the first to speak, a sad smile tugging at the corners of his mouth when he does. It’s not pity, not exactly, but there’s a somberness to him now. An understanding that the woman in front of him has no idea what season it is, let alone the date.
So different. So strange, compared to them, a nasty voice whispers inside of me.
“March 7th,” Tucker adds, knowing I would be curious without needing to ask.
The lump in my throat forms again from his kindness, but I swallow it down before it can turn into tears.
I take another look at the fields around us. Peppered throughout the tall grasses are patches of wildflowers, their delicate stems swaying in the breeze. A single yellow butterfly flits from patch to patch, resting on a bloom about twenty feet from where I stand.
I’m still fighting against the nonsense tears, the strange sadness filling my mind, but right now I feel so big. So vast. Like my body is just barely containing me. Like every opportunity, every happiness in the world is waiting just out of sight.
“Spring is pretty here.” It’s the most honest thing I can say. The words don’t do it justice, but it’s as close as I can get with such a simple phrase.
Ray coughs, and when I look to him, he’s dropped the sad shock he had been steeped in. His teeth flash with that incredible smile I’m beginning to see as my happy place.
“Not nearly as pretty as you, Princess.”
Perfect.
The perfect moment to get us back on track and settle us into our strange form of normalcy. What’s more normal than Ray taking any opportunity to flirt with me no matter the setting?
“Alright,” I say while rubbing my hands over the goosebumps that have prickled my skin. “Now that that’s out of the way, where do we start?”
Silas looks just as eager as I am to move past this point, the light in his eyes edging on giddiness, or as close to it as I’ve ever seen from him.
“Don’t worry, we’re going to use targets this time, Madeline,” he says, the hint of a smile lifting his lips.
My eyebrows pinch together at his strange comment and the slight playfulness in his tone. I’m completely lost until I feel two arms snake around me from behind, warm breath tickling my neck and causing more goosebumps to pebble my flesh.
“He wants to make sure your aim is good the next time you try to shoot me, Princess.”
It’s already been an hour and I feel like I’ve learned everything but how to shoot. Now I know how to disengage a safety without looking, clear a chamber, load and drop a magazine, and the exact way to pull a gun out of a holster without shooting myself in the process.
“What are the four rules, Mads?”
This is the fifth time Tucker’s asked me to repeat them, but I’ll do it a dozen more if he needs me to. They’re all so serious about this, so focused, it makes me understand the gravity of what they’re teaching me. At the beginning, I almost expected Ray to groan and roll his eyes about Tucker’s insistence, or Silas’ demands that I draw the unloaded gun nearly a hundred times, but there’s no complaint. He simply watches, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes catching every movement I make with laser focus.
I take a deep breath and step back with my right foot, settling into my stance.
“Treat every weapon like it’s loaded.”
Draw the pistol.
“Never aim until you’re ready to shoot.”
Drop the magazine.
“Keep my finger off the trigger.”
Load a new magazine.
“Keep the safety on until you’re ready to fire.”
Holster the pistol.
I huff a breath, feeling confident with myself. Every move felt so comfortable, so much smoother, than the last. Almost as if it had all become second nature.
I turn around to find three faces looking at me, each proud and sure. An excited flutter kicks up in my chest knowing I’ve done a good job, that they’re pleased with my progress.
“Very good,” Silas praises across the couple yards separating us, and I’m helpless to fight against the bubble of joy expanding within me.
“Hell yeah, Princess.”
Ray doesn’t waste a second. He shrugs off the heavy blankets of seriousness and takes huge, lunging steps to where I stand, beaming the whole time. My heart flutters as he wraps his arms around me and swings me around.
I’m nothing more than a giggling mess, holding on to him tightly.
“Alright, we’re losing light.”
I feel more than see Silas step closer, impeding Ray’s twirling and forcing him to stop for fear of swinging me directly into the behemoth of the man. I’m set down gently enough, but my head is still spinning from a combination of dizziness and sheer delight.
Before I register I’m about to topple over two strong hands grip my shoulders and hold me up.
“Ready, Mads?” Tucker asks from where he stands by the hard cases. There’s a glimmer in his eyes; he knows I’m ready. He knows I’ve been ready for the past hour. Now, though, after all that repetition, after all my practice, he’s finally ready to let me continue. They all are.
Hours. Fucking hours.
Hours pass, and I hardly manage to do more than graze any of the targets they set out for me. My arms scream with strain while the empty cans and bottles mock me. Every single one of them intact, save for the one bottle that only shattered when it fell off the stump it had been resting on.
“Fuck!” I scream after yet another bullet whizzes into the tall grass.
I’ve been trying, doing everything they’ve asked of me, but it’s useless! I’m wasting everyone’s time. Time they could be spending memorizing the plan, learning their roles, and keeping themselves safe. Yet here we are, pushing forward with this, apparently, impossible task.
Why the hell do I need a gun anyway?
The sun is creeping towards the horizon and the light is getting dim. This isn’t going to get any easier in the dark, but I’m determined to keep going until they cut me off.
Until they tell me they’re giving up on me.
Before I can settle back into the weaver stance, Silas steps up beside me. He moves so quietly, I’m aware of his presence before I can see him in my periphery, my body lighting up with delight despite how embarrassed I feel.
“Come on, Madeline, it’s getting dark.”
I don’t realize how cold it’s gotten until I feel his hand on my shoulder and the warmth leeches away from his skin to mine. Now that I’ve torn my attention away from those bullshit targets, I feel the chill in the breeze and I shudder as goosebumps prickle my skin.
I follow the boys back inside and down the ladder. Every step down makes me want to curl into myself more and more, makes me want to hide away from them.
I’m a failure.
Tucker tries to comfort me, making note of my silence, but he doesn’t force me to talk to him, doesn’t do anything beyond holding my hand and squeezing it rhythmically.
I count along with each squeeze as soon as I’ve figured out the pattern.
One. Two. Three. Pause.
The hatch shuts behind me and the comfortable hum of the bunker envelopes me again.
One. Two. Three. Pause.
It’s almost meditative. Those three little squeezes broken by a span of gentle contact, only to return exactly as strong and at the exact same rate.
One. Two. Three. Pause.
That rhythm, the steady consistency of it, eases me. Soothing away the disappointment pressing in on my chest.
Tomorrow’s a new day, I can keep trying.