The Survivors: Book One

Belly content for the first time in a while, Marc looked at the pictures she'd set by his plate, and he was glad she hadn't pushed him on why he had stayed in so long. That question required trust and they didn't really have that yet. They would have honesty though, he sensed, but when he tried to make eye contact, she avoided his gaze, "Why didn't you call me, Angie? I would have come and taken responsibility."

She pushed away her half-finished burger and corn. "I wanted more back then. I wanted all of you or nothing."

Angela lit a smoke. "Besides, they wouldn't have left us alone, and you know it. Between their religious crap and your shame, we didn't stand a chance."

"Didn't I deserve to make that choice?" he asked quietly.

Angela took the cigarette from her mouth with shaky hands she knew he saw. There was probably little he didn't notice. He was a Marine. "Yes. We both deserved the right to be happy, but it was taken away. I found out about the baby, and I was alone. I did what I had to, made hard choices that were wrong sometimes, but we've always been together and no one's ever told him he's going to hell because of our sins against God."

Marc winced, fading back in time to the confrontation with his mother.

"She's your family! How could you?"

"Not by blood!"

Slap! "By God!"

"That was a long time ago." Angela's voice held a tremor.

"A lot of hurt between then and now," He stated.

"We made our choices. What's done is done."

She yawned tiredly and stood up, still surprised to find that his obvious pain and regret didn't please her. She really did owe him much worse for the way he'd abandoned her. She headed for the doorway, pulling on her jacket.

When he followed her, Angie said nothing, but felt immediately better that he was taking her request for protection seriously. "So, where all have you been since the War?"

She headed for her Blazer and he hung back, thinking her waist was still so small, he could span it with both hands. He shoved them into his pockets instead, remembering a time when he'd been free to do that and a lot more.

"I was in Virginia when the bombs fell, heading home for a funeral."

"Whose?"

"My mother's."

Angela started to offer her sympathy and he held up a hand. "Don't bother. I went home to bury the past, not her. She's been dead to me for a long time," he lit a Winston, casual tone not changing at all. "After Roanoke, I headed northeast for a couple weeks, but it all looked worse. There were mutations in West Virginia and after that, I changed directions fast. I've been to about twenty other bases, offices, centers. There's nothing."