ANYA
It's difficult to sleep when there's the worry looming overhead that I might have brought down my entire camp by returning to it. After I left the house where I had the encounter with the handsome stranger, the thought crossed my mind not to return—to take what little food I had managed to scavenge and go off into the unknown—to survive as long as I could. The probability that the man had let me go so he could follow me and find out where my camp was was high. It was the only logical reason why he'd allow me to escape.
But I'm not a selfless girl. And after feeling so isolated and alone and helpless, all I wanted was to be around other people—to feel some level of protection, even if it wasn't real. I wandered through the streets well into the night to return to the place I call home, this dingy, dilapidated warehouse that's only temporary until we have to move again—which will probably be soon thanks to me being caught by the blue suit.
By the time I'm ratted out for my treachery, we'll probably all be standing in a row waiting to be shot. An image of those men being executed flashes through my mind. Except their faceless faces are replaced with those of my fellow camp members. The fear I imagined in their eyes belongs to us now. I've spelled the end for everyone, signed their death certificates one by one. I might as well be on the other side holding a gun.
I lie on a crumpled up sheet on the hard concrete floor replaying my encounter with the blue suit in my head over and over again. How stupid I was to allow him to sneak up on me like that. I should have been more vigilant. One eye over the shoulder, that's what I was taught when I first learned how to scavenge. Why didn't I listen? He was so quiet. Like a ghost. I didn't even feel his eyes on me until it was too late.
And then I made one bad decision after another. Up the stairs instead of trying to get around him or looking for another exit. Into a bedroom and not brave enough to immediately jump out the window. He could have done so many bad things to me. At the time, being dragged back to the military encampment and executed was the least of my concerns. When he had wrestled me down onto the bed, I feared my virtue was at stake. He could have put his hands on me—forced his way between my legs. It's not an uncommon thing. I've heard that women frequently get raped by soldiers when they become prisoners of war.
But that's not what happened. He didn't rip at my clothing or try to force himself on me, though he could have. He was big enough, his body covering mine. Strong enough; I can still remember his large palms wrapped around my wrists, the way he pressed me to the bed. I can remember the scent of him, masculine and exotic. I can remember the light brown of his eyes with green flecks. The way his long brown hair fell from beneath his officer's cap and hung down between us. The soft pink of his lips and his jaw set in a look so serious. I gazed up at him with malice, but the same hatred wasn't reflected back at me.
And then he let me go. Not only that, but gave me words of caution and concern in his deep voice. And when I left him standing there alone in the middle of that room, I didn't hear his footsteps behind me. Though I was incredibly paranoid, I never felt his presence as I traversed the neighborhoods to return to the camp. If he did follow me, he did a damn good job of staying out of sight.
Why did he ask if I had everything I needed at the camp? Was that just a ploy to gain my trust? The whole interaction was confusing. He wouldn't have had to alert me of his presence to follow me. In fact, that would have been the unintelligent thing to do. It would have been smarter to wait in the shadows and follow me. There was no logical reason to make himself known.
Then again, I wasn't that brilliant either. He told me to go back to my camp, and I did exactly that. A better woman would have taken one for the team, realizing she had royally fucked up and had to face the consequences that she might starve alone by breaking off from the group. Maybe we're both idiots. Or maybe he was genuine. That explains nothing, though.
I grow weary of thinking about it and losing sleep over it. Whatever the case, what happened happened. He let me go, and I came running back to the camp. If shit hits the fan, I'm sure there's a special place in hell carved out for cowards like me.
I pull myself from bed, groaning softly from the ache in my arm from having slept on it wrong. In some Asian countries, it used to be customary to sleep on your back on a hard surface. Supposedly, it's even better for you than sleeping on a mattress. I've never been able to sleep on my back. I always end up on my stomach or side. Usually, when I sleep on my stomach, I don't wake up in such pain. But since I was restless last night, my body was everywhere, trying to be comfortable—trying to force sleep.
I sit crosslegged and rummage through the plastic bag with my belongings for my one change of clothing, preparing to swap out the black t-shirt and jeans I have on now for a white t-shirt and similar jeans. When the war started, and I was forced to evacuate my apartment, I carried a lot more clothing in a small suitcase. Since then, I've given most of it away to other people in need, figuring that one change of clothing was enough to get by with. Everyone has so little these days, but it makes moving from place to place a lot easier.
I take my clothing and head to the tarped-off area where we bathe. There's one bathroom in the warehouse, and it's used exclusively for the privacy of people doing their business, not that any of the facilities are functioning. We use a bucket and dump it out when it gets full. Needless to say, that room stinks to high heaven, but that's one reason why it's closed off from everything else.
“Going to get clean,” Jak notes as I pass by him. The comment forces me to stop out of courtesy, but I cringe internally at the sound of his voice.
He's one of the newer people, and he's had his eye on me ever since he first stepped foot into camp. Older than me by about twenty years with a barrel-like stomach and a cul-de-sac of white hair, he's not exactly the type of man a girl my age would want the attention of. I catch him staring at me more often than I'd like to acknowledge. One time, I even saw him licking his lips while he was ogling my ass. It made bile well up in the pit of my stomach.
From what he's told me, he used to be an accountant before the war. Never married. One kid who doesn't speak to him. There's something off about him, and I'm not the only one who has noticed it. He's too friendly with all the women in the camp. Though I've heard no reports of physical sexual harassment as of yet, he doesn't think twice about saying inappropriate things.
“Yep.” I keep my answer short, not wanting to engage him in conversation more than I have to.
“Think of me while you're in there.” He winks at me before continuing on his way.
I exhale a breath I didn't even know I had been holding. As if I would think of him when I'm naked and touching myself. And even if I wanted to, it wasn't as if there was enough privacy to do something like that. Masturbating has become a thing of the past—antiquated like so many things since the war.
I note that there is no shadow being cast against the tarp, but still call out to make sure I'm not invading someone else's bath time. Then I slip inside and draw it closed as best I can before I start undressing. There's a bucket of water and a washcloth already waiting for me. It's the duty of the last person who used the bath area to dump the water bucket and refill it. That way the water isn't ice cold when it's the next person's turn. Well, usually it's not. That really depends on how recently it was refilled. Half of us bathe at night and the other half in the morning. That way there's not as much competition for the space. Sometimes, multiple women will bathe at once. We have a few extra washcloths, and it saves time.
Today, I'm bathing alone, which I honestly prefer. Not that I mind bathing with other women, but I'm more thorough when I don't feel like I have eyes on me.
Eyes on me... As I lather the wet washcloth and start to run it over my skin, I get the feeling that I'm being watched. A quick glance at the small space between the two overlapping tarps is confirmation that Jak is trying to peek through. I shudder internally and step out of his line of sight, knowing it doesn't keep him from seeing the silhouette of my naked body. Creeper.
As I drag the washcloth over my breasts and between my legs, I find myself silently seething at the fact that there are no decent men anywhere around me. There are a few guys with their wives, an older retired firefighter, two teen boys, and this one guy who used to be in a motorcycle gang that mainly keeps to himself. None of them are close to my age. None of them are attractive. Even the motorcycle guy doesn't have the ruggedly handsome appeal of my blue suit savior.
Did I just think that?
A bolt of electricity jolts through me as the washcloth passes over my clit and I see an image of the long-haired stranger bent over me. His eyes were intense, his posturing dominant. There was a confidence in everything he did that was strangely alluring. But I shouldn't be thinking about any of that. I shouldn't be thinking about him...because he's an enemy.
That blue suit with all of the pins on its chest said it all. He's a high ranking officer. Someone of importance. It's his job to subdue us. That's why I still don't understand why he let me go. And for as much as I try, I can't stop thinking about it.
Disturbed by my fascination, and even more so by my attraction to the man who chased me, I quickly finish my bath, wash and wring the water from my hair, and dry myself off. Regardless of my fear of being caught again, I have to set out to forage. That's my job. And I need to heed the soldier's advice and stay as far away from the military encampment as possible. I'll scavenge the area I'm assigned to and do nothing more, returning to camp whether I'm empty-handed or not. I won't be brave. I'll focus more on my safety than on being a hero. Three of the guys came back empty-handed yesterday, and no one said anything. Comparatively, I did well with my small haul.
I put on my clean clothes and hand in my old ones to Frederikke, one of the wives who is assigned laundry duty for our camp. Then I eat the five saltine crackers I was rationed for breakfast before pulling my messenger bag over my shoulder in preparation to head out. The small amount of food would have barely been a snack pre-wartime. Thanks to reduced calorie intake, it does enough to sate my appetite for now, but I definitely don't feel full. No doubt, within the next few hours, my stomach will be growling angrily.
I was given strips of jerky for lunch that was made by one of the other wives. I don't dare ask what kind of meat it is. To be honest, I don't want to know. Probably someone's pet left behind when they fled the country. If I get too hungry, I might nibble on that—try to make it stretch throughout the day.
“Good luck today,” Jak tells me as I step outside of the building. He must have lookout duty today. Except for the two women who watch the children in our camp and do domestic chores, we all take a rotation as a lookout. It's like having a day off, sitting in one spot making sure that no one is coming. We always try to have one person on the ground level and one person higher up to see further away.
In the beginning, we had two specific people assigned as lookout every day. But it caused contention in the group from many of us feeling like those people got to do less than everyone else. It's not a difficult job by any means. And while those of us who scavenge were out earning blisters on the bottoms of our feet from walking so much, they were sitting back in camp barely moving, suffering nothing but the cold.
I'm glad the rules changed. Usually, I count down the days until it's my turn. I don't care what shift I'm assigned, night or day. It means time off from having to put myself in danger wandering into unknown territory. My last lookout shift was three days ago. That means I've got two more days before it's my turn again. The closest thing to a weekend that I've experienced since the war began. It's incredibly boring work; hard to keep yourself entertained with nothing to do but sit and watch. Often, I'll take a pen and a piece of paper with me to draw, not that I'm any good at it. Doodling might be a more appropriate word. If there's one thing there hasn't been a shortage of since the war began, it's pens and paper. You can find them in almost every home. Things low in value that few people want.
I have to be careful, though, because if Frederikke or Inger catch me, they'll chastise me—give me a reminder of how important my job as a lookout is, as if I don't know that. It's not like I don't have ears to hear someone coming. It's not like I don't glance up every few seconds out of paranoia. But perhaps I'm not as careful as I think I am, because if I was, the blue suit never would have caught me.
For all that I remember about him, I've forgotten his name already. I even said it once, but it left my mouth as if it didn't belong there, a stolen syllable never meant to be spoken again. At the time, my mind was too wild with all my fears to hold onto any other information. And what does it matter that I don't remember? If I'm lucky, I'll never see him again. It's better to just keep referring to him as a blue suit, because that's all he is to me.
“Car!” the word comes out of Henrik's mouth in a panic as he whizzes past Jak and me to warn the others still inside the building. His face is flushed from the effort of climbing down the ladder from the roof.
Jak and I look at each other, and my heart clenches in my chest.
We both rush back inside to conceal ourselves.
“Not military,” I hear Henrik repeat over and over again, which means we don't need to escape out the back. We just need to keep quiet until it passes.
I press myself against the wall next to one of the windows, my body rigid. The vehicle stops in front of our warehouse, and Henrik begins to move the women and children towards the back of the building in case they need to make a speedy escape. He glances at me to join them, but I don't move. I'm afraid, but more than that, I want to be useful if something happens. Most of the men have left to forage already. I don't have a family to protect. If I can help the others escape by serving as part of a wall to keep intruders out, I'll do it, even if it means getting caught or injured. Maybe I'm more selfless than I thought. Or perhaps I'm just braver when there are other people around me for support. Whatever the case, I hold my ground, exhaling deeply when I see that there's only one man in the vehicle.
He steps out, wearing a suit. Not military, more like formal wear. He's young, around my age. I'm confused about what's going on, why he's out here. He doesn't appear threatening at all as he walks up to the front entrance of the warehouse and knocks.
“I have a special delivery,” he says, keeping his voice low enough so it won't carry very far. I'm barely able to hear him, and for a moment I think I must have misinterpreted.
Kim, the biker guy, eyes me as he edges towards the door. He may be quiet, but he's also one of the bravest people in our group. He has a metal pipe in one hand, ready to lay waste to the man on the other side of the door if he poses a threat.
Kim opens the door, and there's a brief exchange of conversation before he follows the man outside. The rest of us hold steady, not moving until he returns moments later with a crate. He sets it on the floor just inside the warehouse before disappearing to retrieve another. When he returns this time, we hear the car door close, the engine start, and the car drive away.
“What is it?” Jak asks as he finally pushes away from his hiding place next to the window to approach Kim.
Kim stares at me with his beady blue eyes, and I can't quite make out his expression. “It's food,” he tells us.
“Food? From where?” Frederikke has moved from the back of the warehouse. She crouches down over the boxes and starts going through one of them. Her hands pull out fruits, vegetables, and what appears to be meat wrapped in paper. My mouth instantly salivates. I can't remember the last time I tasted fresh produce.
“I'm not sure you'll believe me if I tell you.” Kim rubs the back of his neck.
“Out with it, man. We need to know if this stuff is safe.” Henrik furrows his brow at Kim.
“He said...” Kim hesitates. “He said it was sent by Prince Fynn Söderberg.”
I gasp, my hand drawing up to my mouth to cover the sound. There are others around me gasping, too, but for a completely different reason. Fynn. That Fynn. Images from old newscasts flash through my mind. Pictures of long brown hair and forced smiles and tailored suits.
“Fuck. It's probably poisoned.” Jak roles his eyes, disappointment taking over his features.
“It's not.” I shake my head.
“Of course it is.” Jak gives me an incredulous look. “Why else would the enemy send us food if not to kill us all?”
There's nothing I could tell them that wouldn't make them think me a traitor, so instead, I go with, “I'll test it. I'll eat a piece, and if I die, you'll know not to eat it.”
It makes me look brave, but that's not the case here. I feel no fear as I pluck a tomato from one of the crates and hold it up to my mouth. Everyone looks on with apprehension, though no one tells me not to eat it. Fynn said he wouldn't harm me, and I may be naive, but I'm choosing to believe him. I brought this mess down on my people, it's only fair that I'm the one who discovers whether he was genuine or not, even if it costs me my life.