Page 17 of All Your Days
Worse, the way they push the boundaries of their roles as guards reminds me too much of my first guard team. It makes me extra wary of what other boundaries they will push, and where they define the line between right and wrong.
It’s something that’s black and white to me. Most merchie crews have strict codes of honour, and the consequences of crossing the line would be considered barbaric by the standards of the residents at The Facility. But I know well enough from my life before, travelling with the merchies, that the world out here can be brutal. Without trust, there’s no survival. ‘Boundaries breed trust,’ Mitch, the leader of my first crew and my first real teacher in life, used to tell me, and it’s something I live by.
“What’s this ‘bout keeping the tents zipped?” I hear Eli’s panicked question to Lou by the camp stove in the middle of our camp for the night.
We stopped at my crew's usual place on the road to the outpost. The cleared, flat spot between the tall, white trunks of the red gum trees is a regular camping spot for travellers in the Outback. There is even a water bore close by and enough trees and scrub to keep the camels secured and fed.
Our tents and trailers form a perimeter around the simple camp kitchen and stove, and I abandon my inspection of the setup to wander over to the two grunts. I’m exhausted to my bones, definitely too exhausted to fight my compulsion towards Eli.
Our dinner is the same as it’ll be for most of our trek—a canned stew from The Facility’s stores, made from several animals and whatever scraps they could cobble together. It simmers on the camp stove above the fire, smelling better than it’ll taste. The fire will soon be our only source of warmth. Night has already spread through half the sky, with the moon and the stars slowly swallowing the pinks and oranges of sunset.
“Just gotta keep ‘em closed up tight. The desert comes alive at night with all kinda critters. You'll hear it soon. Don’t be too surprised if you hear somethin’ nosin’ ‘round your tent. There’s always a good chance it’s a dunnart or some other little thing. ‘Casionally, a gecko’ll try to get in. But it can be somethin’ more risky, like a dingo or feral animal huntin’ for food. If you’re real unlucky, snakes get in your shit.” From across the fire pit, Eli looks at me, suitably horrified at Lou’s explanation. His encounter with the zombified snake probably makes his fear even more real.
“Once,” I’m talking to the both of them, but I keep my eyes on Eli’s tired face. “when I was young, with my first merchie group before I was travelling with Sarah and her crew, I didn’t know ‘bout the dangers. I was further south east then. I forgot to close my tent up properly and found a fucking wallaby tearing through my stuff. It shit all over everything, too, the bastard thing. It gotin, but couldn’t get out. It was terrified. Learned my lesson real quick that day.”
Lou chuckles, squatting down to stir the pot of stew, the glow of the fire reflecting off the balding patch on the top of his head. Eli gapes at me, his eyes wide and eager for more of my story.
My stomach swoops under the weight of his undivided attention. It’s almosttoomuch, making me feel uncharacteristically nervous.
“How’d it get out?” Eli asks, a bubble of laughter in his voice that makes whatever has overcome me so much worse. I’ve never felt like this before, but then, apart from yesterday in the Labs, I’ve avoided talking to him whenever possible. Was this why? Did I know that the power of his long lashes blinking in my direction would turn me into a stuttering idiot?
Because, try as I might to say something, my tongue feels too dry and thick in my mouth to form the words.
Just when I consider finding a nice little creek to drown myself in—at this time of year there should be one somewhere close enough, but even the bore would do—I manage to find my words.
“I opened the tent and the thing bolted. I was small enough that it knocked me clean over. Pissed on me, too, as it left. The little fucker.”
My cheeks heat in long ago embarrassment at the last bit. The merchies teased me for weeks after, but the humiliation is long forgotten with the sound of Eli’s peels of laughter ringing out into the night.
His eyes sparkle with hysterical tears when he finally stands upright, his face filled with a delirious kind of happiness, his hair a wild mess standing on ends.
Whoa. I exhale in a rush. It’s a double punch to the guts, leaving me reeling. Seeing him so happy—to beresponsibleforthat look being on his face—is quite possibly the single greatest moment of my life.
“What’s so funny?” Cale calls out, the trio returning to camp in search of dinner, interrupting the moment.
“Nothin’. Just dumb shit.” Lou says wisely, standing and wiping his hands on his thighs. The grunt has been useful, at least, experienced in spending the night outdoors with his work with the camels. He also seems to have the guard’s number, which only makes me think more highly of him. “Grub’s on, though.”
Everyone is too tired from the day to linger after dinner, and if I can give Cale, Malcolm, and Ryan any credit that’s due them, they handle the watch duty between themselves without any intervention from me. Because they aren’t trained in leading the camels, they are responsible for the night watch, and that they treat this single duty with an ounce of responsibility means there is a chance I may get a moment's sleep tonight.
But not a high chance, because no matter what, I’ll know that Eli is right there, less than a handful of metres away, separated only by the thin fabric of our tents. In what could only be described as self punishment, I positioned his tent right next to mine, closer to each other and slightly further out from the others.
When I climb into my cot, my boots, gun, and emergency kit all within immediate reach, I can almost convince myself I can hear his soft snores, like he’s right next to me while we sleep.
“I think I can comfortably say, tents are the fuckin’ worst.” Eli grumbles, stumbling out of his tent.
Without thinking, I turn to face him, and our eyes lock on each other. I’m pretty sure he looks as shocked as I feel.
I’m paralysed, mid motion, the rapidly cooling water dripping from the cloth in my hand. I’m half covered in soapy suds—in all the places I could reach with that dripping cloth—and I am extremely aware of my shirtless state.
Eli seems extremely aware, too. Even from a distance, I can see the bob of his throat as he swallows, my skin puckering with gooseflesh as he breaks the magnetic hold of our eye contact to run his eyes over my chest.
Time stops entirely while he looks his fill of me. Under the rosy glow of yesterday's sunburn his cheeks pinken, his teeth extra bright as they dig into his full lower lip.
The screeching sounds of a flock of budgerigars break the moment and Eli spins quickly on his heel, shuffling away in his unlaced boots away from the tents. I force myself back to my task, not allowing my eyes to stray away from the soapy basin of water to hunt for him, and firmly ignoring the erection straining my loosely buttoned pants. And especially ignoring the snickers from Lou at the now cold stove and Cale who’s just coming off watch.
Fuck. This is going to be a problem.
Day two is always the worst day of any trip. The first night of shit sleep and the aches and pains of the first day multiply, and the novelty of travel has worn off leaving only the monotony and filth. After this it’s easier to get used to things. But I don’t know if I’m going to get used to being so close to Eli. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted, but purposely denied myself from having.
