Page 31 of All Your Days
It makes me feel like the worst type of judgemental asshole—but I can’t think of anything worse. Every loud shout, every curious leer from a passerby has me jumping out of my skin. And there’s a lot of both. There’s a few groups of armymen, still in their khaki green uniforms, drinking loudly and enjoying their time off, and others that I assume are Union officers. They have a different look to them—cleaner and less like they’ve been battered by the brutal conditions out here.
Different groups are crowded around different tables, some more rough and weather beaten than others. It’s not just the sun that’s caught them. There’s enough here to make me really begin to understand the darkness in Moby’s eyes when he tells me to be grateful.
An older man at the bar with a gnarly grey beard balances on one leg, hopping back and forth between his mates, his mug gripped in a mangled claw of missing fingers. A woman with pockmarked cheeks and sores around her mouth stumbles between potential customers. Another bloke, so painfully thin I can see his bones beneath his skin, picks at the food on his plate.
Rotten teeth, lesions and scars—they are everywhere.
There are definitely those here that would be sent below if we were home. Like the dickhead who’s been shouting incoherentlysince we arrived, looking to start a fight with whoever dares pass him. Turns out he’s not willing to wait anymore.
Yelling erupts in the bar when he grabs a man walking past by the scruff of his neck and slams his head into a nearby concrete pillar, laughing ecstatically when blood sprays from the man’s skull.
In the chaos I’m swallowed up by Lou and Jacob. How they manage it when I’m not that much smaller than them is a miracle. But not seeing only makes it worse. The smacks of fist against muscle and bone, sharp cries of pain and others of victory and the snapping of timber following the crashing of a body all mix together.
The band has stopped with a screeching halt and our evening now hangs in the balance. And we haven’t even gotten our food yet.
It goes on for a countless number of minutes. It’s hot and hard to breathe with Jacob and Lou sitting half on top of me, their shoulder blades keeping my head hard against the wooden panelling behind me.
And just as abruptly as it began, it’s over. Done.
When I’m allowed to see the world there are only smears of blood where the man once was, trailing to the door.
“What–”
“No.” Lou stops me. The blood has left his face, leaving him strangely pale below his permanent tan. He shakes his head, eyes disturbingly wide as he looks down at me. “Just leave it, Eli.”
Even the guards seem thrown by what they’ve seen, Cale looking a bit grey like he might vomit on the floor. Jacob shows no obvious outward reaction, just sipping the grog in his tin cup with a steady hand. The guys can’t see the other hand, though, the one on my thigh, fingers gripping into my skin painfully tight. As casually as I can, I drop my hand below the table andlay mine on top of his. Mistaking the gesture, he releases my thigh like he’s spring loaded. I push down hard against the back of his hand until he gets the point. He can take all the comfort he needs from me. And I won’t tell a soul if he doesn’t want me to. His fingers tighten back around me, but not as painfully, while I trace a gentle pattern over the tense tendons with my thumb.
The rest of the pub is quicker to recover than our group. The music starts up again on the band's makeshift instruments and everybody goes back to whatever they were doing. There’s one less table of armymen, though. They’ve probably left to deal with the infected.
“Jacob! I fought I said fer’you tuh join’us fer a drink!” A booming voice has me cringing again. Jacob’s fingers flex tighter as the man limps closer towards us. “Who’re all this? Where’s Emmy?”
The man gets louder in his confusion, spinning unsteadily this way and that, looking for Jacob’s usual team like they’ll just appear. If I had to guess his age, I couldn’t. The man’s skin is like a leather hide, wrinkled and riddled with sun spots. But despite that, he doesn’t have even a single thread of grey in his bushy moustache or stringy brown hair.
“She stayed behind this time, Albert. Got a different crew. Emmy’s good, though. Safe.” Jacob talks slowly to the man, who seems to blink in time with his words. After he’s absorbed each one he looks around the table, taking in each one of us with a blink.
My heart sinks when he comes back to me.
“Why you wearin’ dat’n ‘ere?” It takes me a second to figure out what he’s saying with the strange way his voice dips and swerves.
I don’t know how to answer. Scarves are common enough out on the road—or at least, it seems that way when people come to The Facility—but judging by the fact that I’m the only onestill wearing it across my face, it does seem to be drawing more attention than I prefer. Plus, I have no idea how the fuck I’m going to eat.
“He’s got a big bite on his cheek.” Malcolm answers for me. “A lizard got him while he was passed out drunk, took a hunk of his cheek. ‘Sgustin’ it is—oozing. He’s keepin’ it covered so we can eat without pukin’.”
What the fuck? Where the fuck did he pull that from? I’m glad the scarfiscovering my mouth and the way it’s hanging open. That fuckin’ mongrel.
Albert doesn't seem to register the stifled laughter from Cale and Ryan on either side of Malcolm. The man’s eyes bore into me and he smacks his lips. Not in a lewd way, he just seems to have a very wet mouth.
“I fought it might’n be dose eyes.” He slowly blinks at Jacob, talking to him. “You keep a good watch on ‘im. Blue Creek’s ‘ere at Merline’s. ‘Dey’d love a crack at dose pretty eyes.”
Jacob’s fingers are back squeezing me tightly again. Above the table, no one would ever be able to guess.
“Thanks for the heads up, Albert. I’ll keep him safe.”
The arrival of our dinner interrupts Albert’s visit, sending him limping off for conversation elsewhere.
“Blue Creek’s here? Does that mean what I think?” Lou asks at the same time Malcolm whispers harshly across the table.
“What the fuck is Merline’s?”
