Chapter 145: Emery

"Let me help you," I say, reaching for the armload of supplies Doctor Bishop is struggling to carry out to the car. We're loading two vehicles with food, blankets, medicine and other supplies.
"Thank you, Emery," he says kindly, tipping two of the boxes into my waiting arms.
"What is all this?" I ask, helping him place them into the trunk next to the bags of clothes and blankets I'd gathered from families from Sector Thirteen that wanted to help out with the refugee situation.
His voice drops as he gives me a quick rundown. "Some tubing and needles for IV's, antibiotics, painkillers, fluids, a few other things." He glances around quickly and I realize he's probably taking more supplies than he's been authorized to give, stretching our own city supply more than the Warlord would approve of.
I smile warmly and pat his arm. "You're a good man, Doctor."
He nods at my compliment and closes the lid on the trunk. We climb into the vehicle, me in the back with Bishop and Taran in the front with the ever-imposing Commander. In the car behind us is a few more of Diogo's men who will act as our bodyguards while we're in Old Tucson. My heart pounds in exhilaration and fear at the thought. I haven't left this Sanctuary city since the day I arrived around thirty-five years ago.
I had been nineteen, and my parents and I were granted Sanctuary by the Warlord before Diogo. Since coming here I've lived under two regimes, not including Jorje Cruz's coup attempt. The old Warlord, Commander Pearson, hadn't been a military man. His title had been superficial, and his ability to govern showed it. At the time I had been too young to understand or care about the politics surrounding Sanctuary cities, but in the years after my arrival I'd quickly learned what made a successful Sanctuary, and what didn't.
Pearson had been diplomatic. He believed the city should make joint decision on everything, and put most things to a vote. The process had been slow and mostly ineffectual. Arguments, bickering and protesting had worn down any power he'd had. His power-hungry lieutenants had obliterated the last of the people's trust in Pearson's rule. It was only a matter of time before another Warlord stepped in and took over his crumbling city. Either that or a Primitive attack. Our wall hadn't been the best either, maintenance had fallen to the wayside and patrols were almost non-existent.
My parents hadn't been pleased with the direction the city was going in and we'd held discussions about moving to another Sanctuary. Either Santa Fe or Sacramento. But before we could decide, my father had been killed in a hunting accident. Broken-hearted my mother soon followed, allowing herself to waste away until death claimed her too.
For awhile I'd been resentful of her decision to leave me, but gradually, as time had distanced me from the tragedy, I'd come to realize the depth of my parents' feelings for each other and am proud of that connection. I was born out of love.
Before our new Warlord could come in and take over, I met someone. We married, for a brief time. It had been the thing to do. Marry and produce babies, for the good of the Sanctuary. But we quickly came to realize that we weren't a good match. We didn't hate each other, but we didn't love each other either. Our inability to get pregnant was the last nail in the coffin of my short-lived marriage.
Lack of children isn't uncommon in Sanctuary. Without regular access to food and medicine, fertility levels dropped. My periods had never been regular, so it hadn't been a surprise to discover that I struggled to get pregnant. And the one time I did fall pregnant, I lost it within weeks of the discovery. Again, I'd been pragmatic about the event. Miscarriages weren't uncommon either. Oliver, my ex-husband, moved out shortly after finding out. He believed that I didn't care enough, that I'd done something to lose the baby. I think it was an excuse to leave a marriage that made us both miserable. I'd waved good-bye and gone back to my simple life. Last I heard, Oliver had remarried and moved out of our Sanctuary.
When I was in my thirties, Diogo Fuentes had come in with his army, taking over in the blink of an eye. At first, we'd been horrified and fearful. His regime was harsh with so many rules and laws. Anyone that went against him was immediately executed. But then, like it always does, life settled into a pattern. We got used to the new Warlord's rule and shaped ourselves around him.
For my part, I hadn't been too disappointed. I slept better at night knowing our walls were well defended and food was more plentiful under his guardianship than it had been under Pearson's. The commander's faults were in his arrogance, his refusal to listen to the people. By separating himself from the citizens of his Sanctuary, he couldn't hear us when we cried for food, when we begged for justice. He allowed striation to flourish, separating the poor from the elites.
Still, Diogo was better than nothing, and now, after meeting and falling in love with my surrogate daughter, he's opened his eyes to his city. Or perhaps he's just giving his wife the things that will please her. Either way, our Sanctuary is beginning to flourish under his dictatorship and has become a happier place for everyone. The reason doesn't really matter, as long as the results continue.
I stare straight up as we approach the wall. Truth be told, I rarely even come close to it. This is the barrier that keeps the Primitives out. It nearly killed me every time Taran climbed it and made her way out into the desert, making herself vulnerable to attack. Though she knew I worried, I held the majority of it back knowing how the lives of others would benefit from her efforts. It was her calling, and she did her job beautifully. I couldn't have been prouder if I was her own mother.
I gasp my awe out loud as the massive doors open wide and Taran turns in her seat to look at me. She grins and nods knowingly, having gone through several times now with her Warlord husband.
Our drive to Old Tucson only takes a few minutes. I grip the edge of my seat as we speed along the bumpy dirt path that's been forged from countless trip this way. The guard vehicle takes the front position and I can see men hanging from the windows, weapons sweeping the desert as they search for any approaching threats.
My heart thumps in fear and I almost wish I'd stayed behind with Milla and Grayson, who are babysitting Blaze at the house. I've never actually seen a Primitive up close, or even from a distance for that matter. The idea is absolutely terrifying. I've heard more than enough stories to know that I wouldn't stand a chance in the face of an attack. I'm not a fighter. I've never even held a weapon, let alone fired a gun or stabbed anything.
"Do you think we could be attacked?" I ask hesitantly. The question is directed at Diogo who's been out to Old Tucson several times in the past months. He intimidates the hell out of me so I don't often speak directly to him. Especially after I yelled at him to boost his wife out of a sixth-floor window while the building burnt down. Even though we both knew that was the best course of action at the time, I still worry he resents me for separating them during such a terrible event.
I shudder as I remember that day. How close I came to death, how close all of us came to it. The feeling of the building rumbling underneath me, the smoke blinding and choking us, and Diogo throwing his body into mine as the whole thing went down. I will never forget those moments. They play in my brain over and over whenever I close my eyes and try to sleep.
"Not likely," Diogo says reassuringly, his gaze meeting mine in the rearview mirror. I can read the truth there and relax a little, knowing Diogo doesn't sugarcoat. "The Primitives are going after the easy fresh meat of the refugees, and though they try the city defences once in a while, they aren't straying much off the perimeter set up in Old Tucson. We'll drive deep enough into the ruins that the likelihood of them getting in back there is almost none."
I nod, not surprised. Diogo wouldn't take Taran anywhere near the action, he simply values her too highly to place her in that kind of risk, though Taran has been through several battles and would point out that she can take care of herself. I smile gratefully and murmur my thanks. He may not be the son-in-law I might've hoped for, but we're growing on each other. I know when I leave this earth he'll still be doing his damndest to keep my girl safe. That's good enough for me.
"How many zombies do you think are out there?" Taran asks her husband.
He shrugs. "Dozens at least. Maybe hundreds. It's hard to tell since they seem to have some kind of attack strategy. We can't be sure how many are hiding and how many are hitting Old Tucson."
"Primitives."
"Pardon me?" I ask in surprise, turning to Doctor Bishop who'd spoken quietly, almost to himself, but loud enough that everyone in the car can hear.
"The word zombie holds stigma, it marginalizes and reduces the people that used to have value to us. Most of us have lost loved ones to the disease. We call them Primitives to differentiate them, but the word holds fewer negative connotations, it simply speaks to their state once they've been turned."
We all fall silent for a moment, and then Taran speaks softly from her place next to Diogo. "Thank you, Bishop. You are absolutely correct. They deserve what little dignity we can maintain for them."
My eyes burn as I think of the many lives lost to the Death Kiss. People we all knew and cared about. Bishop is right, we have no right to treat them like they're horrifying objects, they deserve more from the people that are still capable of loving and remembering them.