Chapter 53: Diogo

Taran doesn't speak again as I take her to the washroom, strip my own clothes off and then take her into the shower. She stands silently while I wash first her, then myself. Cleansing us of dirt and blood. I run my fingers through her hair, untangling the waves and leaving the strands to cling wetly to her body. I'm careful to keep the water away from her bandage as much as I can, tipping her head back so the water streams away from it. I kneel at her feet, washing all the way up each leg, paying attention to each scrape. I keep her in there for several minutes longer than necessary, warming her with the hot water she enjoys so much. I'd noticed the tremors wracking her small body when we were in the jeep, driving back to the city. Her teeth were chattering, despite the warm desert evening and my heavy military jacket.
When we finish, I dry her off and then carry her back to the bed. Her eyes are already fluttering closed as I tuck her under the covers. Her breathing is even and steady. I'm about to turn and leave when her voice reaches out to me, sounding more vulnerable than I've heard before.
"Will you stay with me?"
I don't hesitate. I turn back to her and climb into the bed, gathering her tight to my chest. She sighs and relaxes against me, sliding her hand under my arm and over my waist, clinging as she falls asleep. Though I am furious with her, I won't deprive her of the basic human contact she craves. Taran so rarely reaches out for the things she needs, for me, that I'm loath to deny her. She can hate me in the morning, when she discovers exactly how small her world has shrunk. When she finds out the fate of her ex-husband.
I hold her for almost an hour, watching her face in the flickering light of a lantern. I will never get tired of looking at her. Her beauty is deceptive and easily overlooked, but the expressive mobility of each emotion as it flits across her delicate features lights her up. Creates an unmistakable energy and beauty that ripples out from her and ensnares the people around her. Her kindness, drive and determination cap her fragile beauty, giving her a strength that legions will follow.
But first, they must follow me. And my wife must fall into line with my way of thinking before I'll allow her to interact with the people of this city. She's far too persuasive, too ingenious to be allowed loose until I know that she'll fall in with my way of thinking.
I touch her brow with my fingertips, feeling the smooth, resilient skin. Then I press a light kiss in the same spot before sliding from the bed. She continues to sleep soundly, oblivious that I've left her. I stretch my arms over my head, testing sore muscles. Then I pull on a pair of jeans and a shirt. I leave the bedroom, but not the apartment. I won't likely be ready to leave my wife's side for quite a while. Trust has been lost and I'm not willing to subject myself to the wrenching feeling each time I find her gone. If she has to spend the rest of her life shadowing my footsteps, then so be it.
I'm standing in my kitchen, eating a tomato and cucumber sandwich when someone knocks on the door. I open it to find a tired looking Stryker on the other side.
"Cruz sent me to report, he's tied up on the rebuild. Got another one of those?" Stryker nods toward the half-eaten sandwich I'm holding and pushes past me, heading toward the kitchen.
He picks up the half cucumber I left on the counter and takes a bite, then tears a chunk off the bread and stuffs it into his full mouth. I don't admonish his serious lack of manners. He looks as rough as I feel. His blond grey hair lays in matted tangles down his neck and his thick beard is streaked with dirt. He probably hasn't eaten since our botched dinner party and working the wall is a consuming job, especially during times of high security.
"So report," I grunt and wave him toward the table where the lavish dinner spread has disappeared, leaving the surface bare.
Stryker grabs a tomato and another chunk of bread before following me and dropping his big frame into a chair. It creaks underneath him. He's about as big as I am. All of my military elite are big men. Powerful symbols of the Authority that rules our city.
He chews for a minute before speaking. When he does, his words are grim and to the point. "I've been supervising the wall since the explosion. The sound attracted Primitives from far and wide. We were attacked on all sides, but most heavily at the explosion site. We had over a hundred of ‘em attempt the wall. We took every single one out. None made it inside the city." He swallows half the tomato in one bite, juice soaking into his beard. "Cruz is still on the wall rebuild. Thinks it'll take weeks for us to get a decent barrier back up and months before it reaches the same height and strength as its predecessor."
I grunt my acknowledgment, not surprised. The original wall took years to build and when I took over as the New Tucson Sanctuary's Warlord I had sections of it strengthened and rebuilt, the effort a massive undertaking. The wall goes up over 90 feet at its strongest point and is topped by razor wire and sharp metal posts that jut out toward the desert. It's mostly made up of failing infrastructure, concrete, buildings, roads, cars. Whatever's most likely to withstand the test of time.
"The rebels?" I ask shortly.
He nods and finishes his tomato before speaking again. "Cruz put Boss on roundup duty. He's gathered about fifty known rebels and has a team out searching for more. We'll start interrogating the detainees in the morning."
Alder Bossman is a young and hungry soldier, always ready for the next big job. I rarely give him big jobs, believing that his eagerness might also be his downfall. A man who doesn't expect death doesn't know to watch for it. And Bossman's youthful arrogance can too easily lead to his death. He is the right man for this job though. He takes his responsibilities seriously and doesn't fail when given a task. He will round up every known person involved in the rebellion and send them to processing and then interrogation. He doesn't fuck up. No one in my elite military team fucks up. The consequences are devastating and final.
"Who did we arrest in the desert?" I lean back and cross my arms over my chest. "Looked like Outsiders from the brief glimpse I got, but more organized. They were already engaged when I arrived. Seemed to be holding their own."
"Mercenaries from what I can tell." Stryker finishes up his meal and wipes his palms across his thighs, dusting off the crumbs.
"Mercenaries," I repeat. It seems like an outdated concept, but I suppose it makes sense. The next logical step for an Outsider is to seek people similar to themselves. Men that don't fit into society, don't affiliate with a Sanctuary. Wild, untamed, unprincipled. Coming together to create their own kind of lawless roving band. In a way, I can relate to them. If duty didn't ride my every decision, I might be inclined to walk away from Sanctuary. Become an Outsider.
"How many?" I demand.
"Six in custody, four killed. I was told there were nearly fifty dead Primitives at the site."
Good odds. They must be skilled fighters to make it out of such a heavy Primitive attack with six men. My guys arrived after most of the Primitives had already been taken out. We helped clean up the few stragglers.
"Anything else?" I ask Stryker. So far I'm happy with the report.
He shakes his head, but then hesitates before saying, "How's the wife?"
I narrow my eyes at him, trying to judge his interest.
He lifts a conciliatory hand. "Heard she made it back to the city, but you called for Doc Bishop. Just want to know how she's doing."
I grunt. "Fine. A few scrapes."
He nods knowingly. "That wall must be a bitch to climb over. Never done it myself. No point, got my wall guard to do it for me. Doesn't look like a pleasant prospect though."
I snort my agreement. The truth is, I've never attempted to climb the wall either. Why would I? But the fact that my tiny, agile wife has done it dozens of times fills me with pride. Her endurance and determination to succeed is unequaled. Though she'll not be doing it again.
Stryker's gaze is sharp on my face. "If you don't mind my asking, why did you never marry before, Commander? Man of your age and position should have an heir, should be working on his fifth or sixth child."
I'm not surprised by the question. Stryker is about the only person that can get away with asking me personal questions. I've learned to value his counsel; his advice is usually as good as clean water. Men my age are almost always married. Whether happy or not, it doesn't matter. In order to flourish, our society must reproduce. As Warlord I'd have my choice of any woman either already living in Sanctuary or coming in as a refugee.
I'd never been interested though. Sanctuary itself has become my constant companion, the yoke of my existence. With the city as my burden I haven't taken the time to consider female companionship. And the few women that might've piqued my interest didn't hold it for long.
"You calling me old, Stryker?" I deflect the question. "Why did you never remarry after San Antonio?"
His gaze drills into me and I feel almost uncomfortable under the intense censure I see there. "I'm no bigamist, Commander."
I frown, trying to follow his logic. "How do you figure?"
"My wife is still alive. She's out there somewhere. Won't desecrate what we had by remarrying."
I sit motionless for a moment, absorbing the deep trauma that seems to have shaped Stryker's life. I don't get close to people, don't listen to their individual stories because I can't do my job effectively with their voices in my head. Yet here I sit, Stryker across from me, asking for his story. I know it's Taran's doing. She's changing me. Making me more receptive to the plights of others.
"Your wife, she was bitten?" I ask, encouraging him to speak of it. Styker's story isn't uncommon and he was forthcoming with the information after he made it to our Sanctuary. He was taken in because he had a lot to offer as a good soldier, a good defender of the city.
"Yes," he confirms. "Changed right before my eyes, while I was busy cutting down the bastards that'd done it. I watched as her eyes turned wild and her hands turned inward, curving into claws. You know what it's like to watch someone you love become a fucking demon, Commander?"
I didn't, but I'd come so close that his story chills me. Every word drives home how close I'd come to losing Taran. "Tell me."
His eyes darken in pain and he hits the table with his fist, almost subconsciously. "Turned in less than a minute. My beautiful Abrielle became unrecognizable. First thing she did was turn around and join the attack. Tried to kill me. I cut them all down except her. It wasn't easy, hacking away at them without hurting the woman that used to be my wife, but I'm skilled, I managed. I killed them all until there was only the two of us left. But there was no logic left in her brain. She kept attacking, kept launching herself right at me. I tried to appeal to whatever was left inside, tried to reach her human side. Get her to stop."
"Nothing worked," I finish for him.
"No." His voice, his eyes are haunted and now I can see the grief etched into his face.
"She attacked herself," I say, knowing what she would've done next. Primitive's are predictable in their behaviour.
He nods absently, his gaze cloudy, turned toward the past. "When she couldn't get to me, she turned on herself. Tore the flesh off her face. I could see her skull through the bloody trenches she'd burrowed."
"You didn't kill her."
"No," he confirms, then falls silent, not speaking again.
Now that I have Taran I understand completely. I might not have gotten it before, but now I do. After today, nothing in this world would induce me to kill my wife. Not even the Death Kiss. If she were to turn, I'd lock her up, keep her living a half-life. I'd give her what she needs to survive as a Primitive, maybe selling what's left of my soul in the process. Then, when she was ready to go, ready to meet the final death, I would join her.
I wait, giving Stryker time to collect himself. After several minutes have passed I say, "Dismissed."
He nods, the harsh lines of his face softening. He wants this conversation over as much as I do. We've both learned something about the other tonight. I've confirmed why Stryker hesitates before each kill. He's searching the faces of every Primitive, looking for his lost wife. And he's learned something from me. I love my wife as deeply as he loved his. She's become my single vulnerably.
He places one hand on the table and rises to his full height, waiting for his orders.
"Secure the wall, eliminate any remaining Primitives. If it's quiet at 06:00 then you can go home to bed. Tell Jorje to continue wall supervision until the same time. He can find someone good to relieve him. If Boss is done in the slums he can take over. I'll be at HQ in the morning, interrogating the prisoners."
He nods his understanding and turns to leave but pauses halfway to the door. "Commander."
I don't speak, and he doesn't seem to expect an answer from me. He continues, "I should've killed her." He runs a hand over his head and then through his beard. A nervous habit. "My wife. It would've been a mercy. Instead I left her to whatever horrors those creatures are subjected to after they turn. My biggest regret."
He leaves without another word.