This Bitter Earth

[divisionary]

It rains the day after the mission to the consulate. Not the gentle downpour of a spring day, but the bitter pounding rage of a hurricane. Benitez mutters curses, and the JTF piles sandbags in front of the door like they expect another Sandy to break out over Manhattan. The rain does not breach the perimeter.

Rikers huddle under awnings and inside ruined buildings. Cleaners take shelter in the sewer system, trying desperately to find somewhere dry. (Some do not succeed to take to the streets again.) Rioters cling to scraps of dry pavement and walls upwind of the storm. Civilians stay inside, doors barred and windows locked as raindrops smash themselves against the glass.

There is silence from the LMB.

Lindianne Parker is on the roof of the Post Office, face turned into the wind coming off the Hudson River. Her dark green shirt is soaked clean through to the skin. Wind whips against her face until her cheeks redden. She does not flinch. She does not move. Half a year ago, she sat here and stared out over the Hudson as the sun beat down.

(He leaned against the parapet, shirtless, a fan of old intel reports beating helplessly against the heat in his hand. His eyes clear and bright as he gazed longingly at the river.)

There is a length of paracord around her neck. From it dangles a rabbits foot. She does not reach for it. She does not hold it in her fist like a drowning man clinging to wreckage. She does not shed tears. Her mouth does not taste of salt water. There is not a shirt under her bunk that is stained the dark rust of blood.

There is not a body lying in the medical wing with a bullet wound through his torso. He did not bleed to death while Parker and his team fought their way across the length and breadth of the island to save him. He did not bleed his last while Dr. Kandel tried to massage his heart back to life.

(He looked at her, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes as he held an open Tabasco bottle between his fingers.)

Thunder crashes overhead. Parker bows her head, presses it to her folded hands.

(He held a Polaroid in his hands, eye pressed to the viewfinder. "How about you, Parker?")

And there, alone, she weeps.

("Smile?")

Comments

[survivors_of_new_york]

[Behind her, rusted hinges scrape as the door opens. Boots plod through the rainwater collecting on the roof, coming closer as thunder echoes through the dead streets.

Mother's seen better days. They all have. There's not much comfort to be had here - even less elsewhere on the island. His eyes are bloodshot, his gaze sunken and hollow. Dirt and concrete dust matt his beard, and when he lays his hand on Lindianne's shoulder his grip isn't near what it used to be.]



It wasn't your fault.