S7, E6 | Free Spirit

“Good evening” Gamble remarks, laying on a passive grin to present his secretary whilst carrying on with his night, the polite and eerily unwelcoming demeanour fading the moment he turns the corner. Wearing a pair of dress shoes to round off his attire- consisting of slacks, a blue button up shirt, and a red tie beneath a beige trenchcoat- the rebellion leader’s each step echoes through the spacious corridor he navigates in search of the room he most frequents.

His glasses level, hairline recently evened, and straight-lipped presentation neatly retained, the unemotional man carries himself through the metres that remain between himself and his office before stepping through the door to folks he’d anticipated finding upon his arrival. “Who is responsible for giving up your cover?” Gamble immediately inquires, shedding his long coat before folding it over the arm he holds against his chest, letting the article of clothing fall upon his clean desk.

“The man responsible was amongst those killed, sir” a man speaks aloud from within a line of residents, all without the weapons they’d carried when within the forest. “I was informed the woman managed to snag his wallet, is that correct?” Gamble retorts, stepping around his hardwood desk before claiming the chair he usually occupies during the hours of daylight.

“That is correct, sir” the same man replies, aware that he’s amongst the few willing to carry the guards’ end of the conversation. “And how long ago- exactly- did she manage to take ownership of that wallet?” Gamble questions once more, folding his hands atop his folded coat before taking his eyes toward the direction of the only man willing to reply to him without hesitation.

“Fifteen hours ago, sir” the unarmed resident- dressed no differently than his peers and owning as easy of a face to forget as them at that- replies immediately. “How many were killed in this ambush?” Gamble wonders aloud, continuing to survey his due-diligence as he looks to the man that speaks back to him, stoic visage unchanged from any other interaction he’d taken part in.

“Approximately eight in total, sir. All eight casualties were on our side” the man replies, experiencing the first pause from the island’s silent overseer since his entry. Without a word to offer at first, Gamble’s eyes take to one side of the line his unarmed subordinates stand in before slowly making their way to the other, unimpressed with anyone other than the figure responding to him.

“That leaves me to imagine that word has gotten back to Nova Scotian higher-ups by now” Gamble murmurs to himself, soon taking his eyes toward the desk that his hands calmly sit upon. “A flank of people from the island taking fire at the compound’s guards stationed just past the cove out near New Glasgow- that’s tough to explain away” he continues to whisper to himself, reading through the situation at hand with eyes held upon his pressed-together palms.

Puckering his lips before his head takes toward a nearby window, Gamble restrains the words that he speaks aloud to the confines of his head, running through his thoughts away from the various ears that surround the room. “You, go get my secretary. Thank you” the subdued leader of the breakaway island remarks to the lone soul speaking to him, remaining hushed as he reaches into the desk drawer just beside his right knee.

As instructed, the surviving soldier- whose clothes are soggy and damp from the long journey back to the safety of his home island- nods and departs for the hallway. Without issue, the man closes the door gently on his way out before making for the direction in which he’d come, eyes taking to his right side where he knows the desk will be. After a few seconds, the man finally reaches his destination, coming to a stop in the middle of the open area before parting his lips.

“Mr. Gam-” the man begins to speak aloud, having waited for the woman to turn toward his direction before the sound of numerous gunshots in the distance force him to fall silent. With wide eyes, the soldier ducks for cover before the first three bullets are finished firing, his posture steadying as the follow shots allow him to realise that the gunfire does not pose a threat to him.

After eleven bullets are finished pounding against the marble walls of the Charlottetown capital building, the soldier stares down the hallway which he’d just traversed in shock, unsure of what horrors could possibly await down a second venture of them. “Thank you for letting me know, I’ll be with him shortly” the polite woman responds calmly, a pleasurable smile paid to the man tasked with calling her to attention whilst the awestruck soldier looks as if he’d just escaped assured death.

As if nothing out of place in the slightest had occurred, the woman steps out of her seat and carries a small number of folders in her arms, letting them rest comfortably on her inner elbow before sliding her chair in. “You have a good night, sir” she remarks, nodding to the frozen-stiff soldier before jutting her chin toward the opposite end of the building she prepares to embark upon journeying into, breaking her composed character so as to instruct the man to leave whilst he’s still able to.

Just as those of her employer had, the secretary’s shoes tap along the floor on her way toward the office near the corridor’s conclusion, the calm air unchanged throughout the duration of her casual stroll. With ease, the woman turns the knob of- and pushes in- the door she finally comes upon, entering an office covered in blood and the corpses of those who’d failed the leader of the rebellion they’d been called to serve upon quietly.

“I have contacts within the strategies department, the internal resources department, the artillery subsection of Mt. Stewart, and the list of residents stationed in Newfoundland as of last week” the woman remarks, laying the folders onto the folded jacket her superior has yet to sit opposite. Changing an empty magazine for a full one, Gamble returns his submachine gun to the desk’s drawer before calmly lowering himself back into his seat, yet to wipe the freshly-splattered blood from his cheek.

“Thank you, Bristol” Gamble replies, reclaiming the glasses he’d calmly set just beside his jacket and calmly returning them to his face, the streak of blood beginning to run down his skin. Bowing her head, the woman turns back and exits the room as calmly and with as much grace as she had entered it, dismissing the scene of tragedy and chaos that is contained within it before calmly shutting the door, returning to her desk as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

Leaning into the hardwood table, Gamble takes the first folder into his possession and opens its front, reading from a list of names that run down the length of the first page within it. Taking his hand toward a nearby telephone, the man claims possession of the handset and dials the number of the figure he wishes to speak to, pressing the piece to his ear whilst staring ahead blankly, eyes falling upon his blood-covered wall as he calmly awaits an answer.

= Rise is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and the entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 3 onwards =

With her arms crossed, Salem sits at one end of the three-seat couch whilst Franklin occupies the other, his shortened arm resting on the discouraged shoulder of his wife whilst his full-length limb sits on the nearby armrest, Alicia occupying the chesterfield’s centre. On a two-seat couch to the left of the relatively-new father, Jack sits with his arm wrapped around his wife, Lauren’s body pressing into his side as they remain quiet, simply staring at the woman sitting at the room’s front.

Seated on the floor with his back pressing against the coffee table at the room’s centre, Emilio drapes one hand over his bent knee whilst his business partner stands a few metres off to Charlotte’s side. Keeping as quiet as the loveseat-occupying married couple, Clint and Nessie stand beside each other with their arms crossed just as Salem’s do, their backs pressed against the drywall that separates the flat’s kitchen from its communal space.

“And that’s it” Charlotte concludes, sitting in a chair she’d taken from the kitchen before every set of eyes she is the guest of, “that’s who Gamble is, how he knows you, and what he wants from me.” Closing her eyes tightly, Alicia lets her head hang whilst her lips pucker, too aggravated to respond with the thoughts her husband soon puts into words.

“We didn’t come here for another war” Franklin replies, leaning forward in his seat just slightly as he speaks to the compound’s overseer, “we have a family here. For god’s sake, we left the last place we called home- before Rockford- because we didn’t want to fight anymore.” Feigning a smile, Charlotte’s head drops at the man’s remark, no more satisfied with having to argue against his claims than she is with acknowledging their accuracy.

“Are you under the impression that I want this anymore than you do? The only reason I’m in this position is because of a power-hungry sociopath” she responds, the metaphorical bind her hands are tied in made evident, “there’s no point in trying to keep society thriving if the end goal is just more violence.”

“Why even put him in charge on that island in the first place?” Clint wonders from the side of the room, feeling as if the point had been left unaddressed, “there’s no way I’m the only one that feels like we’re missing some rather important context.”

“It was the only way we could secure our border over the bridge. Gamble and some others resisted the premier- the guy in charge of the island before everything went down- and disobeyed his orders to keep the peace” Charlotte responds, shaking her head as she leans back in her seat, “the same shit storm that ran through Connecticut swept through here about three days earlier. Levi had to settle something on my behalf since I was in New York looking for John.”

“Who’s Levi?” Alicia responds, an uncertain eyebrow raised as the name evades her, though the emotion it threatens to take hold of within the community’s leader is well-subdued. “Levi was my husband. He’s the person I was going to put in charge of New York instead of John, but I changed my mind when I realised we wouldn’t finish the Toronto compound in time” Charlotte responds, clearing her throat before continuing, “he let Gamble run a phantom government and now we’re here.”

“This seems like a pretty easy fix then” Lauren responds, one knee arched upward as her foot rests on the edge of the couch she and her husband occupy, “if he wants to breakaway, why not just let him break off? He’s clearly not going to back down from this, so why waste lives and ammo fighting a war that doesn’t need to be fought?”

“Do you realise how much I’ve lost trying to keep this place alive? Do you even realise how improbable it was to make a place like this work in the first place?” Charlotte rebukes, hands coupling together between the parted legs she soon leans forward toward. “The most powerful force in human history- the United States- it died” she continues, speaking to a silent room, “every other nation- dead. Every leader- dead. The most well-trained troops on the face of the planet- dead.”

Falling to a hush, Charlotte prevents herself from speaking further, instead choosing to let her tongue press against a chapped bottom lip whilst her eyes survey the souls of the room that surround her. One after another, the same civilians that had once been her greatest adversaries now listen into the information some of her most highly-trusted acquaintances don’t even know in full, the wicked twist of fate and the heavy irony that surrounds that truth only beginning to settle within her.

“The collapse was slow and it was avoidable, but not even the greatest powers within recorded human history could stop the descent...” Charlotte proceeds, her voice lowering just enough for it to come across more emphatic than what she’d uttered in the responses that precede it, “...but I did.”

As if beckoned for by a result having long-since been anticipated, a pair of hands begin to pat together at the declaration made, the two palms colliding slowly, one after another, applauding in mockery the claims bestowed upon the group that they’re heralded toward. “Congratulations” Salem sarcastically responds, leaning forward in her seat whilst the remainder of her group turn their focus toward her, centring her upon their conscience as they await her further remarks.

“I mean, implying you’re the only one that accomplished such a task also implies places like Cumberland and Rockford weren’t at least operable when shit hit the fan, but why commend people like Jade and Rocky when we can all kneel to the mighty Charlotte” Salem scolds, watching the compound’s leader hang her head.

“Even if we do just go along with that song of bullshit you’d sung for us, let’s ask why the hell it matters now” she proceeds, watching the woman whose seat is taken at the room’s centre look back to her with patience. “You may have kept Nova Scotia running, but now it’s on the verge of splitting in two, bloody halves. So, why are we expected to believe it’s better off being held together, huh?” Salem carries on, a clear vigour in her tone, “because you’re too proud to let it go?”

“Salem-” Courtney attempts to interrupt, only to fall as silent as her superior does in the refusal the woman shows her, Salem’s finger pointing toward her as the wounded sniper definitely steps off the chesterfield. “No. I don’t want to hear from you, Courtney. I want to know why this woman- right here- is willing to let people die just so she doesn’t have to let go of her toy” she responds, spiritually biting at the woman’s interjection, “I want to know why you can’t just let them go.”

“They have to share an open bridge with each other- that’s a good start” Emilio responds, surprising the rest of his group by speaking on his once-nemesis’ behalf. His head having spent much of the expected conflict hung, the interrupting survivor looks across the room toward his peers and shrugs his head, accepting that he must speak what they might be displeased to hear.

“In addition to a banking system, fuel reserves, weaponry, businesses, access to different patches of land and water- so on and so forth-” Emilio proceeds, sitting upright in his chair as both Salem and Charlotte look toward him with differing dissatisfaction, “-there’s one bridge between them. They both hate each other, and what right now serves as an invaluable way to trade goods from one place to the other could very easily become a really bloody bottleneck.”

“And yet somehow, I don’t believe that’s what her reasoning is at all” Salem responds, again carrying her line of sight back to the compound’s leader once more. With a frown, Charlotte steps out of her seat and stands alongside the hobbled survivor shaking her down, her composure loosening the more time she spends in the apartment, but still strong enough to support her in the argument she’s well aware is about to be engaged.

“I don’t even know that I can avoid war anymore. Allow me to remind you of what I just said ten minutes ago- Gamble had spies outside of our walls” Charlotte clarifies, watching the face on whom stands before her begin to slowly dishearten, “even though war isn’t one of the outcomes of that deal he and I agreed to- he’s still preparing for it.”

“I don’t blame him” Jack retorts, crafting a break in the discourse to supplant his own thoughts, “we’d figured we would’ve run you off for good back in New York, but there you were in the woods quietly getting ready for another run at us.”

“And now my brother’s dead, so clearly that didn’t end so well for me, did it?” Charlotte rebukes, only for another voice to catch her ear. “Why would anyone expect that to stop you from trying again?” Clint inquires, his arms crossed and chin directed toward the ground whilst his voice takes over for his sister, whom he knows wishes to stay out of the conversation, “you lost your entire family- blood and marital- keeping this thing together. If I were Gamble, I’d wonder what you had to lose.”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t have a reason to, I’m saying that he is” Charlotte corrects, not shy from admitting her understanding, “if I were in his shoes, I’d be readying myself for the exact same thing.”

“Her point is that Gamble’s already committed himself to planning for a war” Courtney interrupts, her voice’s arrival more accepted this time around. “He’s got spies outside the walls, and for all we know- he’s probably got half a dozen things already in place to put up a fight” she proceeds, using her status as a more accepted face than that of her superior’s to make an effort of reasoning with the civilians, “we can’t afford to sit on our hands and wait for the war to come to us.”

“Assuming these people were outside of the walls on his orders, why can’t we make the claim that they fired on Nova Scotian personnel and do away with him?” Alicia wonders aloud, her eyes looking toward Courtney to symbolise her hopes that the paramotorist would be the one to answer. “Sure. But then we’d be opening a power vacuum on Prince Edward Island” Charlotte replies instead, “martyrdom is the same reason we haven’t just tried to kill him and be done with it.”

Though options and alternatives were thrown around one after the other, the room soon falls quiet, the various bodies that inhabit it all fail to produce a sound. Within an instant, the discouraged and wavered spirits of the compound’s citizens soon make themselves known through their sheer silence, one that only comes to an end when the voice of their trusted successor to power speaks aloud.

“They would fail, right?” Emilio inquires, watching Charlotte’s eyes take toward his direction just like all others, “if you let them break free and they carried on with their business, how long would it be until they failed? Until everything fell apart?” Unsure of what the man is trying to get at, Alicia and Franklin turn their sights toward the pair of elites within their flat’s centre, both Jack and Lauren following a similar pathway, though their eyes take toward the ground the women occupy.

“I’m not sure. He says they’re self-sufficient, but that’s about all I know” Charlotte responds, her voice less defensive of her intentions, and now more exhausted with the consistent explanations she’s forced to give, “why?”

“Because you could win that war without having to fire a single shot” Emilio replies, his remarks soon reclaiming the eyesight of the two couples within the home’s interior. “If you let them go out on their own and they couldn’t hack it, they’d fall into disrepair and have no one to blame aside from Gamble” he reiterates, clarifying his point whilst the room listens on, “all you’d need to do is keep the ship tidy and neat until that happens. Then, you can swoop in and offer to reunify.”

“We’d still have to go in and clean up the mess Gamble and his lackeys would make” Courtney responds, taking the reins for her superior, who continues to sit with her thoughts, “and if things get as bad in there as they are outside the walls, there’s not much we can do to quarter off the bridge.”

“We’d also lose nearly half of our ports, and Charlottetown is a pretty important one to lose completely” Charlotte adds, still looking to the floor as her thoughts now voice themselves aloud, “and with that, we’d pretty much be giving up our entire fleet of war boats and the shipping boats we still have docked there.”

Allowing his point to fall on the doorsteps of death it had appeared to ascend, Emilio lets his head hang without an alternative to provide, beginning to see the writing on the wall his group had begun to read whilst he extended hope that the words would not have to be made out. Equally hushed, Charlotte continues to stare at the floor whilst her thoughts return to her mind, surveyed and inspected from start to end, front and back, before falling from her tongue’s tip once more.

“It might work” she murmurs, prompting the group’s eyes to join their leaders’ in taking toward her, awaiting more than just the three syllables to voice themselves.

|

Calmly and without trouble over the scene that surrounds her, Bristol carries herself down the corridor she frequents almost as often as her superior does, bowing her head politely at the various workers she walks past. “Good morning” she remarks to all that she finds travelling in the opposite direction of herself, each worker pulling a body-stuffed cart away from the office she finds herself closing in on, a piece of paper carried in the palms of her fingers.

“Good morning, Mr. Gamble” she remarks, entering an office whose every window is opened and every inch is being scrubbed with such harsh chemicals even the cleaners feel the need to dawn hazmat suits. “Oof” Bristol grumbles as her second hand frees itself from the paper to cover her face, the first hand extending the message to the desk her superior sits at, “that’s a rather strong odour, isn’t it?”

“My apologies, Bristol” Gamble responds, taking his hands away from the keyboard in which his fingers dance across to retrieve a face mask from beside him, “I had underestimated the fumes.” With appreciation, the woman claims the mask for herself and delivers the message she’d been tasked with waiting for, “it’s not an issue, Mr. Gamble” Bristol replies, bowing her head as she holds the covering to her face, “would you like me to send a response?”

Standing by as she watches the island’s lawmaker read the message she’d handed him, Bristol waits for the unchanged, emotionless visage to shift in one way or the other, a reply to her question all that she desires. “No need- he’s gotten my instructions with resounding clarity” Gamble responds with the same empty, joyless grin he’s become known for sporting, “I will ask for you to call a car for my pickup, if you don’t mind. I have some business to attend to in Kensington.”

Within an hour, Gamble occupies the backseat of an old town car, watching various fields and ponds pass by as if he were in the middle of nowhere. Dressed in his same suit and tie with a beige trench coat over each shoulder, the man folds his hands in his lap whilst he sits to the right-most side of the vehicle, staring out the window at the dreary scenery he’s surrounded by, the start of a rainstorm just beginning to make its way over Prince Edward Island.

“That front has already been taken care of. The crew stationed in Newfoundland is already aware of the need for heightened parameters” Gamble responds, walking alongside a man dressed in a mechanic’s jumper through the floor of a bustling warehouse. “I’d imagine that’s the easy part, right?” the unnamed man in the dirty jumper and hat that’s ripped and torn in various places replies, “the plant up north being not as big and all, y’know?”

Remaining quiet, Gamble’s head is held toward the ground in which he walks, keeping track of every step before his eyes peer toward the sound of repetitive thumping. “How many in total?” he wonders aloud, prompting the filth-covered gentleman he walks alongside to direct his focus toward the same scene spoken of.

“Around a hundred and fifty- probably just a little more” he replies, removing his ragged baseball cap whilst his superior stops in the middle of their walk, fully turning his body toward the nearby loading bay. “They were all put under about a half hour ago. With about twenty per truck, I’d say they’ll all be up and walking in five hours or so” the dirty man proceeds, explaining the scene of unconscious human bodies being tossed into the back of box trucks as if no different from products.

“They’ll all starve to death within three weeks or so, but in all likelihood- one will come back and tear into all the others” the warehouse overseer remarks, “that should take a week or so. If we’re gonna use the zombies as weapons, I’d say you’ve got about two weeks after that to work with if you still want them running.”

“And you’re sure about these- running types- correct?” Gamble wonders aloud, turning his eyes to the man that accompanies him throughout the fortified, out-of-the-way warehouse. “They’re real rare now that it’s been so long since the outbreak, but I’ve seen them myself. Zombies- fresh from the crypt- running like they’re olympic sprinters” the accommodating labourer responds, “not all dead people come back like that, but some retain enough muscle for the first few weeks or so.”

Taking his eyes back to the warehouse floor, Gamble’s face shows the faintest hint of emotion, a subdued look of awestruck pleasure coming over his usually-stiff and rigid visage. Slowly nodding to himself, the island’s quiet peacekeeper pulls himself away from the short balcony he stands at and begins resuming the patrol he and his subordinate had originally embarked upon, carrying on with his duties whilst the preparation for warfare carries on.

|

“Come on in” Salem remarks, limping aside to grant her friend entry to the flat she calls home, one hand resting against the lip of the counter she uses for support. “Thanks” Emilio mutters, closing the entrance on his way inside whilst the woman he visits begins hobbling toward a chair across from the apartment’s fireplace.

“So, it’s been a few days. How’re you feeling?” the visitor inquiries, watching the hobbled woman step along the hardwood floor cautiously, her weight mostly placed in the healthy leg, which prompts the floorboards to creak. “It’s been four days. I’ve still got a bullet hole in my leg, and I don’t think much else matters than that” Salem replies, finally reaching the chair she’d intended to take a seat upon before waving off the cane in which her friend tries to offer her.

“I’m not gonna bring myself to depend on that” the survivor rebukes, discouraging the assistance of anyone or anything in her time of recovery, “I’ve been saddled with worse than a gimpy leg over my life- I’ll be fine.”

Allowing the woman to refuse the aid he makes an attempt at offering, Emilio returns the walking stick to the side of the room as he listens to his acquaintance’s weight collapse into the chair with a satisfying sigh. “Ah” Salem hisses aloud, arms sinking into the comfortable armrests whilst her mouth sits agape, held toward the ceiling that her closed-eyes take toward also.

“Comfortable?” Emilio jokes, watching the woman’s left hand lift from her side whilst the rest of her posture is unchanged, the middle finger on it extended toward the sarcastic man who replies with a chuckle. “I’m very comfortable. If it weren’t for the leg, I’d be in paradise” Salem responds, eventually coming around to sinking into the chair like a normal person, head held toward the ottoman that her fellow survivor takes a seat upon.

“I always thought people like Edgar Allen Poe lived in places like this” Emilio remarks, taking a gaze around the apartment he’s very rarely visited, rows of books that line a variety of shelves just behind the seat his friend occupies. “Cuddled up by the fire with a book in hand. Of course, that didn’t make sense since he wrote books, not necessarily that he read them-” the man corrects, peering toward the open flames and the small pile of books seated on a table beside the chair.

“Thanks for comparing to Edgar Allen Poe of all people” Salem sarcastically quips, watching her friend bow his head with a smirk, “I don’t know much about the dude, but I’m pretty sure he was a freak- and not in a good way.”

“Oh, he was. He definitely was” Emilio replies, another pan of his sights across the room preventing him from speaking further, “but this is the kind of place I always associated with that dark and dreary atmosphere.”

“Ah yes, that’s me!” Salem enthusiastically jokes, propping herself upright further until both her and her guest are at eye-level, “Salem Ailwood- dark and dreary.” Concealing the same laughter that he shares with the flat’s tenant, Emilio bows his head whilst the room grows quiet, their laughter the only thing having prevented the crackling fire from setting an ambient tone over the pair.

As their voices stop, the two survivors can’t help but silently stare at each other, almost as if they were waiting for the same attempt at filling the void that silence replenishes as the other does. “Can I ask you a question?” Emilio soon wonders aloud, aware that his friend will not take him up on speaking through the pause, instead opting to take the mantle for himself.

“I’ve got nowhere else to be, so why not?” Salem responds, an eyebrow raised as her back begins falling further into the cushion support of her seat, eyes firmly cemented upon a man amidst his pause. Yet to outright open the floor to his inquiry, Emilio looks off to a corner of the room cluttered with books stacked well above the lip of a box labelled ‘return to library’, pondering his thoughts before voicing them aloud.

“Why do you read so much?” he finally inquires, a brief smile coming over his face as if the question had been one he’d only just conjured, uncertain over whatever else to ask. “I mean, you practically live in a library in and of itself, so I’ve gotta ask why” Emilio clarifies, hands spreading out at both sides to illustrate the scale in which the hardcover novels fill the room, “I’m sure some of them were here when you moved in, but I can’t imagine all of them were.”

Though her teeth don’t show through it, Salem’s lips part briefly to form a smile, the corners of her mouth stretching upward. “Actually they were. The guy that lived here before me died a few months before we moved in. That’s why I don’t have some massive bill for that pile in the corner there” she responds, pointing to the library box in the room’s side, “but I read them ‘cause they’re here. I mean, what else am I supposed to do around here? I work, I come home, I sleep.”

“And you read” Emilio adds, pointing at the woman who soon points back to him, nodding in agreement to his clarification. “That I do. Indeed, I read a lot” Salem replies, lifting her injured leg onto her friend’s lap in lieu of the stool he occupies as a chair of his own, “I put on a pot of coffee or tea, I sit by the fire, and when I have nothing to do- which happens for a few hours every day- I read a book.”

“But why?” Emilio replies, shaking his head with genuine curiosity, not seeing the necessity or even understanding the desire, “I know they were here, but that doesn’t necessarily mean you have to read them.”

“No, of course it doesn’t. I’m Salem- I don’t need to do anything” the woman responds, a smile worn on her face before it falls toward the ground, looking at the healthy leg that still sits atop the floor. “So why start?” Emilio again inquires, unable to see the correlation that his initial question- though not originally having been planned to ask- leaves him eager to make out, “why pick up that first book and start reading? Why care to pick up another one, or the one after that?”

Though her charming grin remains partially intact, Salem’s lowered chin indicates a different answer than what her deceptive visage implies. With her eyes taking toward the outstretched leg that she rests atop Emilio’s leg, the woman’s demeanour begins taking a turn for something sour, less amused with the witty back and forth she’d engaged within to present a more disheartened expression.

“Because it kept me from running off on the rest of you” Salem confesses, finally lifting her head as she speaks, eyes finding those of her close friend whilst she does. Clearly doing what she can to hide the grief this admission leaves her with, the freedom-yearning survivor lets her back sink further into her seat whilst her eyes take toward the sky, Emilio’s patience remaining intact as he leaves her the room to process what she soon puts into words.

With a squint, Salem stares at the various dots her late 80’s-era popcorn ceiling is dotted with, running over them with her eyes before speaking aloud. “When I was younger, and right after I got my driver’s licence, I bought a ragged, old van and took it out on the road” she begins, a smirk beginning to resume its hold over the corner of her mouth, “the gas was cheap and I didn’t really need to know where I was going. I just started driving until I got tired of eating the cheap shit I’d find.”

With his hands folded, Emilio listens to the woman through each pause she takes, allowing the popping noises of the fireplace his back is turned toward to serve as white noise to the momentary one-sided conversation. “My parents started getting really pissed at me after a while. Especially after I stopped going to classes in my first semester” Salem continues, almost amusing herself enough to laugh, “so, eventually I decided to just start driving around full time.”

Lowering her chin until eye-level with the man across from her, Salem looks at the lack of judgement in her friend’s face and takes more comfort in seeing it than she could from anything his words would be able to provide. “I haven’t seen them in years. They never called and neither did I” she carries on, diving deeper into the verbal rabbit hole she’s revealing the inner workings of to the surface, “after some time, I got my pilot’s licence so I could afford a little place like this and gas.”

Preparing to continue with her remarks, Salem takes a moment for a second thought, her eyes trailing away from her silent friend and following the outstretched arm she directs toward a half-empty bottle of scotch. “Eventually, I bought a little field for myself and stuck a trailer on it. I didn’t have to pay rent and could just disappear into the middle of the woods for a few days at a time” she speaks further, unscrewing the bottle’s cap, “it was fine for what it was- which wasn’t much.”

Taking a swig, the woman lifts her arm toward her mouth and extends the bottle to Emilio, who takes her up on the offer and begins drinking whilst she speaks. “I eventually found a guy to sell me a chopper for cheap, stopped doing those little ten-person travel tours my employer had me working, and started doing carry jobs for some of the locals” Salem proceeds, waiting for the man to return the liquor bottle to its rightful arms for a second sip.

“So that’s what you were doing when the old world fell? Odd jobs?” Emilio wonders aloud, finally breaking his silence as his face sours, not in reaction to the woman’s remarks, but to the bitter taste of the booze that coats the inside of his mouth. “It paid well and I could work my own hours. Besides, I was living in rural Pennsylvania at the time- gas was cheap” Salem retorts, her smirk growing, “do a few odd jobs, hit the road for a few months at a time- rinse, wash, repeat.”

“And exactly when do you get to the part where you save my ass out in Connecticut?” Emilio questions, a squint in his right eye as he begrudgingly gives into the woman’s hidden request that he drink once more, the bottle extended toward him for a second time. “I’d tell you to be patient, but we’re sort of already at that part” Salem replies, licking the liquor residue that coats her lips, “since the outbreak began about two weeks or so before it got bad, I was probably just outside Buffalo.”

“Fuck Buffalo” Emilio immediately interjects, wincing as he lowers the bottle from his lips, reacting to a second swig that’s somehow worse than the one that preceded it. “Patriots fan?” Salem queries, reclaiming the bottle as her answer is first offered in the form of a vehement head shake. “Do I look like upscale, Windsor Locks trash to you!?” Emilio rebukes, the squint in his eyes now carried more from the offence he takes than the taste he’s left with, “Go Jets.”

“I don’t know how good they were supposed to be. My football knowledge comes from that dude’s DVR back in Cumberland” Salem replies, shaking her head as she takes sip number three, “I remember a dude telling me the Patriots were Satan when I was up there, so I figured the two applied.”

“They’re all in the same division. Buffalo Bills, the Patriots, and the Jets” Emilio responds, again hesitating as the scotch bottle is handed to him yet again, “they’re our division rivals- so are the Dolphins. But with that said, I’ve got less of a problem with them than I do the Pats and Brady.”

“Yeah, I wonder what happened to that guy when everything fell apart” Salem replies, familiar with the man in question in spite of her inexperience with football. “I don’t care about what happened to him. I’m just pissed this shit hit when the season was about to start” Emilio responds, scrunching his face again with the third sip taken, “Sam Darnold was gonna be something special, man.”

“I still have no clue what you’re talking about, but anyway-” Salem interjects, pausing to take her fourth sip before continuing with her recollection, trading the bottle back to her acquaintance. “I was in Buffalo when the first dead guy came back and made the news. I figured it was too risky going back to Pennsylvania once people started running through the shops scavenging what they could and hitting the road” she continues, “so heading for where Sikorsky was headed in seemed like a plan.”

“And that’s when our paths crossed in Waterbury?” Emilio responds, swearing off any further drinking with his fourth and final swig, returning the bottle for the flat’s tenant to serve herself as she pleases. “Well, it wasn’t smooth sailing there, but yeah” Salem answers, taking her fifth swig before returning the cap to the bottle’s top, gently placing it back to the floor beside her chair, “I ran with Alicia and Franklin for a bit and we met up with you guys at the New World Order.”

With a nod and caught up to speed, Emilio’s eyes trail back toward the pile of books in the corner awaiting a return trip to the library that will never come. “So it’s not just a new thing, huh?” he wonders aloud, watching the sigh-heavy grin and shake of Salem’s head respond to him, “you’ve just always been a free spirit, I suppose.”

As the air that fills her chest now leaves in one, big breath, Salem’s shoulders fall and her body relaxes further into the cushioned chair, her head swaying from one side to the other. “I’ve never really been tied down. It’s a miracle that I’ve actually gotten as attached to you all as I have. I’ve only ever really been on my own- even when I was young” she admits, her head lowering whilst paused, thinking to herself for a moment before voicing her thoughts aloud.

“But that’s not why I’m tempted to leave now” Salem confesses, looking back to the face of a man awaiting context, a luxury that not even she always accepts internally at times. “It was different at the New World Order. I was only fond of Alicia and Franklin at that point. With Sheol, I just wanted to feel like I belonged. With Sun City, I’d just wanted what was best for all of us” she proceeds, “by the time we got to Cumberland, I felt like the rest of you were finally somewhere safe.”

Pressing his arms into the top of his thighs, Emilio leans in as the effects of his dinner- no more than a few swigs of scotch and an apple from earlier in the day- begin to weigh on him slightly. “It’s different now with Charlotte telling us about this stuff with the people over the bridge. It’s like there’s something bigger than anything we’ve seen before right around the corner” Salem explains, the sound of worry in her voice, “but this time, I care about the people that could get hurt.”

Letting his body loosen, Emilio’s eyebrows refrain from their slightly-furrowed state as he pulls his body upward slightly, unable to say much to relinquish the woman from her trepid state. “I don’t feel comfortable here and I’m never really going to. But I didn’t feel comfortable in Cumberland either, and I toughed it out there” Salem proceeds, watching her friend’s eyes take to the other end of the room, “but I don’t really wanna imagine what it’d be like to see-”

Hearing the woman prevent herself from speaking further, Emilio’s eyes- which had spent the last few seconds looking toward a sea of various street lamps and the lit windows of a nearby apartment building- take back toward the hesitant woman with haste. Looking at the ground beside her, Salem remains put with parted lips, unsure of exactly how she’s trying to phrase the thought she can’t fully flesh out within her head.

“I don’t wanna see this battle hurt more people than it already has, I guess” Salem confesses, still refraining from looking her friend in the eyes. “When we lost John, it hurt. When we lost Jess, and Amy, and Heather- that hurt too” she confesses, clearing her throat before keeping silent for another second, using the time to finally reclaim eye contact with the man across from her, “but I don’t know that I’ll be able to survive watching anyone else that I care about die.”

Left feeling like his core is knotting upon itself, Emilio parts his lips before bowing his head, unsure of how to respond to a claim that strikes him as deeply as the one his dear friend has shared with him does. “I’m afraid of how it’ll feel if I had to see you die. Or Jack and Lauren, or the siblings, or-” Salem proceeds, falling silent yet again as she reaches a thought that horrifies her to imagine, “well, with the kid being around now, seeing Alicia or Franklin die would ruin me.”

“We shouldn’t think like that. It may be as possible as anything else we’ve seen, but we’ve fought through worse” Emilio refutes, a claim the woman can’t help but prevent him from clarifying further. “We say that a lot, but I don’t think that’s true this time” Salem argues, defending her stance with ease as her friend fails to find much ground to debate her with, “any other time and we could’ve just stopped the violence by staying out of it. This time, it isn’t even our war- it’s theirs.”

“And we’ve beaten both of them combined before” Emilio replies, believing in his defence as much as the woman does, taking it with a grain of salt in a mountain of sand. “It doesn’t change the fact that we’re just pawns in this one. We may know- and have proven ourselves to- Charlotte a lot more than the others, but we’re not the ones playing chess this time” Salem retorts, listening to the air she shares with the man grow silent, “we’re no safer than anyone else.”

Though his mouth remains slightly agape, Emilio has no intention of speaking further, all that’s needed to be said having filled the air long ago. Instead, the man’s eyes place themselves on an unimportant corner of the room where two bookshelves meet, looking away from the woman whose presence prompts him to consider the same horrifying thoughts that Salem herself dreads imagining.

“I love you guys. All of you. Every one of you reminded me of what it felt like to be cared about and how to care for people” she continues, not wanting to leave anything less in the line of thought. “But I can’t take losing anyone else here. I’m willing to be as uncomfortable as possible in this bland, boring society so long as no one I care about is in danger-” Salem concludes, a stoic confidence carried within her relaxed demeanour, “-but if this place falls into chaos... I’m out.”

The woman’s stance making it impossible to construe as anything different than her peace, Emilio remains seated whilst the apartment’s tenant steps out of her chair, already having gotten her stubborn refusal for assistance well-established in her guest’s eyes. “I know you’re a pathetic lightweight, so you can sleep in my chair. There’s a pull-out couch in the study if that’s more your style” Salem proclaims on her way to bed, “I don’t want you walking the streets tipsy.”

Aware of the lessened sensation of sobriety and yet retaining his sound mind, Emilio watches the woman walk off and nods toward her, keeping to himself so much as a ‘thank you’ he knows she’d dismiss as little more than the decency it would be intended as. To his own devices, the man finds himself alone in the living room with a fire to keep him company, the desire to step away from the ottoman he’s seated upon incapable of being found with the heavy discourse that weighs on his mind.

== Rise ==