Chapter 8: Marinah

I’m alive, I tell myself.

Pissed off but alive.

My head hurts, I have muscle cramps in my legs and arms, I’m starving, and I’m exhausted. Oh, and I look like hell. My hair, which is a tangled mess around my head, makes it appear as if I’ve grown Medusa’s snakes. The whites of my eyes are more red than white and my face is tanning-bed orange.

I turn on the shower and tear off my crappy clothes, tossing them on the floor. A good stomp on top of them does nothing to alleviate my anger or headache. My head pounds with each solid stomp and I feel no better for the small display of temper. Nothing about today went as planned.

I step under the cool water while rubbing my arm where the IV went in. At least I don’t remember the needle. Those I hate. I do a rundown in my head of other things I hate and King is on the list every other item.

I hate roaches and King.

I hate military rations and King.

I hate my period and King.

A whoosh of cold air fills the room after the devil himself opens the door during my silent recital. I don’t need to look out from behind the shower curtain to know it’s him. I feel him under my skin. It’s like an internal, itchy rash. I listen to the sounds he makes before closing the door. I peek out and see a bottle of water on the counter. I unscrew the cap and down it. When I feel pressure in my bladder from the water added to what was in the IV, at least I know I’ll survive. I should pee in King’s shower just to prove a point. The man’s an arrogant jerk. If I had a spray bottle, I’d pee into that and spray it everywhere. I honestly thought I would die in that hot room. No, my life didn’t flash before my eyes. Anger that I was dying for absolutely no reason kept me fighting. I’m not a fighter, never have been, but something sparked inside me and I held on.

I wash my hair and body with a bar of pleasant-smelling soap while continuing my hatred list. By the time I’m ready to get out, the lukewarm water has improved my mood.

I’m not sure what I expected when I arrived here. Maybe living outdoors with campfires or even underground quarters like the U.S. But from what I’ve seen so far, Cuba fared better than we thought. I wonder if King and the Shadow Warriors were aware of the island’s condition when they accepted the treaty. I saw damage when we road here but nothing like the destruction the U.S. suffered. Europe fared far worse than we did, and many of the survivors took boats across the Atlantic Ocean. There are parts of the world we haven’t heard from in years and we have little hope that anyone survived. The war completely annihilated Japan and Australia, or so we thought. Cuba was on the same list. I’ll need more time to look around before assimilating my thoughts on the island. I shrug off my endless mental questions.

After taking care of my bladder, I flip through the neatly stacked clothes that King placed on the counter. The pants are soft beige cotton that will be dirty as soon as I trip. The bra and panties match and are a light shade of beige. I put them on, and everything fits like it was made for me, which seems quite strange. I pull on the light blue T-shirt and gaze at myself in the mirror. There’s no comb or brush, so I do the best I can to untangle my hair with my fingers. I desperately need a toothbrush and hope King plans to provide more necessities. I fill the water bottle from the tap and stare at it. Drinking the water is most likely not safe and I can’t believe I forgot so fast. I haven’t had untreated water in years. Even our filtered shower water isn’t safe for drinking. I slowly poor the water into the sink while taking deep breaths to gather my courage and leave the bathroom. I slip on the black flip-flops left on the floor. They’re a little loose but still an upgrade from the heels I was wearing when I arrived.

With another deep breath, I grasp the cool metal doorknob and turn. The bedroom, lit by one small night lamp, is large and Spartan. The Spanish tiled floor has colorful area rugs spread around. A simple white bedspread covers the four-poster bed. Mosquito netting tied to the posts gives the room an almost feminine quality. I squint into the shadows and notice King sitting at a small table in the corner. He’s watching me so intensely goose bumps break out along my skin.

“Can you see or do you need me to increase the lighting?”

His deep voice startles me even though I know he’s there. I take a few tentative steps closer.

“Um, I think I’m good.”

He stands and walks toward me. “Let me help you. I’m sure you’re hungry, and I’ve been waiting for you.” His hand comes out. I stare while considering whether I’ll touch him. I’m not acting according to the president’s wishes, but I simply don’t care.

King leaves his hand out, seemingly unconcerned that I’m not accepting his gesture. Oh hell, I say to myself and take his hand. His fingers circle mine and he pulls me closer, guiding me to the table. He’s so… large—from his hand that dwarfs mine, to his towering height, to his body mass, which makes the room seem smaller than it is. I’m unsure how this makes me feel. I’m awkward enough in my body and King seems to be completely comfortable in his.

“Sit here and I’ll serve.”

He releases my hand and my butt hits the simple wooden chair he holds out. There are two place settings and several covered dishes in the center and to the side of the table. King lifts one of the metal covers and an incredible smell fills the room. No, incredible doesn’t cover it. My mouth waters at the sight and smell of real food. King places a warm tortilla from the second dish on my plate and adds the meat, red peppers, and onions. He takes his seat and watches as I break etiquette, pick up the soft tortilla, and take a bite without waiting for him.

The delicious taste hits my tongue and I close my eyes. Instant. Taste bud. Orgasm. For a girl who was raised as a vegetarian, the years of food shortages changed me and now I only care that it’s delicious. When I open my eyes, a smile tips King’s lips as he watches with obvious delight. I should feel uncomfortable, but it’s the last thing on my mind. “The vegetables are fresh and this is real meat,” I say after swallowing.

“Yes.”

“Did I die today?”

He throws his head back and lets out a full-throated laugh that changes the hard lines of his face. He seems almost handsome now. My lady bits tingle, which is something that needs to stop. Right this second. With a stilted smile I take another bite and allow the delicious taste to soothe my nerves. My life hasn’t had much happiness since my father’s death. I’ve known for far too long that my time with the Federation as a non-essential worker is limited. My very existence is a waste to the new government. Fear and worry dog my every waking hour. When I was offered this gig, I couldn’t help but feel I might die doing something useful.

The smile doesn’t leave King’s face when he finally makes two fajitas for himself. “I remember the rations provided by your government. They were atrocious and I hoped things had improved.”

Talking about our food stores may be taboo but no real guidelines were given other than offering apologies and pleading the government’s case. “Nothing’s changed,” I say when I stop long enough to take a drink of water from a crystal glass. “The food we manage to grow is dried and packaged. I haven’t had a fresh vegetable in years. Mostly we eat the same military rations fed to you and your men.”

“Shadow Warriors need large amounts of food,” he responds between bites. “We burn calories at a high rate. It helps when the food is healthy.”

I finish my first fajita and King makes another and puts it on my plate. I’m surprised he has no problem serving me. I think of Shadow Warriors as the alpha race. Part man, part Neanderthal. Definitely not someone I thought would wait on me. “Thank you.” I lift the next fajita to my mouth and we both concentrate on eating.

I finish three fajitas and lose count on how many King puts away. There is one more dish on the table. King moves our plates aside and lifts the lid. I almost fall from the chair. Half an apple pie rests on the plate. I salivate.

King cuts the available pie in half and lifts the largest piece to a small, unused plate. “I can’t possibly eat all that,” I say in desperation when he pushes it my way.

“Eat what you like. I’ll finish what’s left.” He places the other piece on his plate.

I’m almost afraid to taste it. Being here, in this room, reminds me of the time before the war. It’s surreal. I want that time back, to wash my memory clean of death. I want my long-ago friends back in my life and most of all, I want my father. A flickered image enters my head of my mother and I slam it shut. Losing Dad was hard but knowing that my mother’s life was given to save mine guts me. I snap the thought closed and go back to eating ecstasy.

King takes a bite of his pie and I lift the fork to my lips. The warm cinnamon apples and crust slide down my throat, and a small moan escapes me. He smiles and I’m struck again by how it changes his face from scary to almost handsome again. I concentrate on my pie and eat the entire piece. If King tried to take it, I’d have stabbed him with my fork. So delicious. The best thing I’ve eaten in years and no comparison to the occasional packaged snacks my father brought home.

Thank God the pants I’m wearing stretch and they have a tie that I can adjust. I’m stuffed and content. At the feel of King’s heavy gaze, I glance slowly upward.

His smile from a few minutes before is gone. The stark lines of his face are more prominent, making him appear almost angry. My fingers tremble when I nervously reach for my water glass.

He moves so quickly that I can’t pull away. His large hand wraps around my wrist before I touch the glass. I glance from his hand to his eyes and if I weren’t sitting, I’d step back from his fierce expression.

He looks ready to kill.