Page 3 of My Apocalypse Mountain Man
"Good. Pain means the tissue's still alive. No pain would be bad."
He's so matter-of-fact about it, like he's treated frostbite a dozen times. Maybe he has.
"Why didn't you respond?" I ask suddenly. "I thought you were dead."
"Radio took a lightning strike three days ago. Fried half my equipment. I've been trying to repair it, but..." He shrugs. "Some things can't be fixed alone."
"I can help. I mean, if you want. I maintained our whole network, I know radios."
"After you recover."
"I'm fine."
"You almost died in my front yard. You're not fine."
The blunt assessment should irritate me, but he's right. I can barely sit upright, much less work on delicate electronics.
"You need rest," Kole observes. "Take the bed. I'll keep watch."
"I couldn't."
"You can and you will. Storm's getting worse. That herd's moving. We'll need you functional if we're going to survive what's coming."
We. He said we.
"You're letting me stay?"
He looks at me for a long moment, and I can see him calculating the risk I represent, the resources I'll consume, the danger that might follow me.
"You're Goldfinch," he finally says, like that explains everything. "Eighteen months of morning check-ins, weatherreports, supply coordination. You held the network together when everything else was falling apart."
"You listened to all that?"
"Every transmission. You're the reason Old Pines and Bear Creek started trading. The reason Maybrook had warning about the last raider group. The reason a lot of people are still alive."
I don't know what to say to that. I was just doing my job, keeping people connected.
"Besides," he adds, turning away, "nobody should face two hundred zombies alone."
The simple humanity of it makes my throat tight. After eight hours of isolation, days of barely holding everything together, someone is offering help without asking for anything in return.
"Thank you," I whisper.
"Don't thank me yet. We've got a fight coming."
two
Kole
Idon'tsleep.
Can't, really. Not with her here.
Sierra—aka Goldfinch—is in my bed, finally warm and resting after her near-death experience in my yard. I've positioned myself where I can watch both the door and the bedroom entrance, rifle within easy reach. Not because I think she's a threat, but because having another person in my space after three years of isolation has every instinct on high alert.
She talks in her sleep. Soft murmurs about frequencies and check-in times, occasionally calling out call signs I recognize. Even unconscious, she's trying to hold the network together.
Eighteen months I've listened to her voice over the radio. Eighteen months of morning check-ins where her cheerful "Good morning, North Ridge, this is Goldfinch coming to you live from absolutely nowhere interesting" became the highlight of my day. I'd built up an image of her—probably former militaryor emergency services, definitely not someone who'd nearly die trying to reach me in a blizzard.
