Dorado

A/N: Phew! Editing sure is hard. Here's another chapter!

Please recommend this story!: http://www.tumblr.com/directory/recommend/creative%20writing/misol

Lisa: Thanks for reviewing! It certainly helped motivate me to write more. I'm glad you like it, 'cause I was having a rough time writing it out. As for Mason, I think you'll like the strange twist that's coming up.

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chapter two
  

           The phone was ringing. He could hear it through the haze of sleep.

           Forget it, Beck thought, rolling over onto his stomach and burying his face into the pillow. After a few moments, the phone fell silent. Beck was nearly asleep again when another shrill ring pierced the room.

           His hand nearly knocked the phone off of the nightstand.

           “Good morning,” Beck said into the transmitter with restrained sarcasm. “The time is now five thirty in the morning. How the fuck may I help you?”

           “Actually, its six thirty,” George’s amused voice filtered through the receiver. “I knew I could trust you to be in a lovely mood.”

           “Christ, George, I only got back at two. What’s up now?” Beck nearly whined. Nearly.

           “Well, here’s an idea: your job.”

           He flipped over onto his back. “Nice try. My job starts at eight. What do you want?”

           “Hey, this is your boss you’re talking to! And I really do need you to get an early start today. Sorry, old chap!” George chirped cheerfully at his groan. Beck sat up, the bed sheets pooling around his waist.

           “It’s not that bad. I just need you to stop by Hill’s to pick up some more Micol. Only just got around to restocking and I realized there’s none left.”

           “What about the supply room? I thought you guys restocked every other week,” Beck said, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. The hardwood floor chilled the soles of his feet.

           Should’ve gotten a carpet, he thought hopping lightly from foot to foot to the dresser.

           “There’s a large demand right now. And that’s only this city.”

           He groaned. “All right, all right. How much am I picking up?” His voice was slightly muffled as he pulled on a tee.

           “About…three cases. That’s ten bottles per case.” Beck raised a brow at this.

           “I thought you said it was popular.”

           “Yeah, but I’ve got a bunch of other guys dropping in too. By the way, I need you to fill back in for your old morning camera job. Just for a few months.”

           “Pay still the same?”

           George chuckled; Beck could hear him shuffling papers in the background. “What, not going to ask about the job first? It’s sixty a hour now. They’re expecting you at eight thirty. You should be done at five. They’re shooting at the old cinema six streets down, so don’t bother going to Set Four.”

           “What about my usual route?” Beck asked, toeing on his trainers.

           “It’s covered; don’t worry about it. I just need you to bring back the Micol first.”

           He reached behind the bathroom door and pulled a hoodie from the hook. “Sure thing, Boss.” Beck ended the call without waiting for a reply and tossed the phone onto the couch.

  
&
  

           He rode the lift down to the lobby. It was too early to call up a driver without having to deal with a grumpy attitude. There was, however, a car in his name stashed in the garage.

           Beck approached the front desk and leaned against it. “Morning, Penny.”

           She jerked away from her computer with a smile. “Mr. Carson! Good morning. How can I help you?” Penny was impeccably dressed, as if she had been at her desk for hours already. Somehow, he doubted she was paid nearly enough.

           “Just my cars keys,” Beck said, rubbing a hand across his eyes. God, he felt like shit.

           Penny gave him a surprised look. “Of course, Mr. Carson.” She unlocked a drawer out of sight and handed him a small silver keychain. “Have a safe drive.”

           “Thanks, Penny.” He gave her a small wave and she returned it enthusiastically.

           The lift creaked ominously as it slid underground; the garage was dark and deserted when the doors open.

           His baby was tucked into a cozy corner. Beck ran a loving hand over the black frame and frowned when his fingers came back coated in dust. It must have been sitting there longer than he thought. Shrugging, he opened the door and slid into the blood red seat. When he’d bought the car, an Audi TT Coupe, he had been a little put off by the bright interior. But even after five years and quite a few rough trips, the leather looked brand new.

           Well, not exactly five years, he thought, pulling out of the garage. The guy before me must have had it for about two years. Then again, he probably didn’t get a lot of driving in during the Pulses. By now it was a relatively old model; it had been brand new in two thousand and ten, but that was a little over two decades ago. There wasn’t much Beck could complain about, since it had retained its quality through the years and he had gotten it for a relatively cheap price.

           The car moved silently through the streets which were empty this time of day. A few dodgy characters huddled in doorways and watched Beck slowly pass. The city had done a relatively god job with clearing away all the rubbish on the streets after the bombing had died down, but Beck didn’t want to risk hitting one of those deep craters.

           Hill’s Pharmaceuticals was clear across the city, but Beck had been there enough times to know which turns to make and which streets to avoid. The only traffic he had to avoid was the empty car shells piled alongside the road and pedestrians.

           The building bordered the city edge, encased in a high wire fence that Beck knew was electric after witnessing a stumbling drunk meet his end when taking a piss. Beck shook his head as he pulled up to the gate. The fence had lit up light a pre-mature Christmas light show.

           “Hey, Pete,” he said after rolling down the window. “Mr. Evans asked me to drop by for a pick-up.”

           The guard nodded and stepped back, raising a hand to some figure in the distance. There was a loud buzz and the wire gate creaked open. The fence had been put up shortly after the Pulses, when people had become so desperate for medication and first aid supplies that looting became a daily occurrence.

           Hill’s Pharmaceuticals was housed in a large building that rivaled the size of Mather’s Media. What Mather’s Media didn’t have, however, was the large expanse of open land.

           It would have been nice, Beck mused as he wound his way up the drive, if there was actually some grass. He left his car in the visitor’s lot and entered through the side doors.

           “Good morning,” he said to the woman behind the desk. She barely gave him a passing glance, shoving a clipboard and visitor’s pin towards him instead. So much for security. Beck scribbled down his name and passed the board back.

          “ Have a nice day,” she grumbled, eyes glued to the computer screen. Beck slid past the desk and approached the electronic scanner. There were two guards flanking the open door, tracking Beck with disapproving stares. He ignored them, dropping the pin into the machine. It disappeared with a few clinks. One of the guards motioned him through the security pillars and gave him a quick pat-down. Satisfied that Beck wasn’t armed, the guard nodded and Beck collected his activated visitor’s pin from the machine tray. The small bulb in the middle glowed as he pinned it to the edge of his collar.

           Halfway down the hall, Beck glanced at his watch. I’ve got time for a detour. He veered to the right and continued down the brightly lit corridor. The blank walls and lack of furnishing made the place feel completely sterile, but at least Beck could touch things without washing his hands every other minute. He stopped in front of a door plainly marked ‘LAB’ and glanced up and down the hall. After a few seconds and no approaching footsteps, Beck punched a ten-digit code into the keypad, gripping the handle so there would be no resounding click.

           There was a woman standing by one of the counters, brown hair curling down over her blindingly white lab coat. She stood with her back to Beck and the door, humming softly as she washed something in the sink.

           Beck creeped up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. To his surprise, she let out a loud shriek and swung an arm backwards, the knife in her hand narrowly missing Beck’s eye.

           “Whoa!” he said, setting her back on her feet. “Calm down; it’s just me!”

           The woman ripped herself out of his arms and turned to face him, hands on her hips. “Beck Carson! How many times do I have to tell you not to sneak up on me like that!” She threw up her arms in exasperation. “Especially when I’m working! What if I was handling chemicals?”

           Beck eyed the blade in her hand uneasily. “Why don’t you put that thing down? You almost cut my face off.” She sighed and dropped it back into the sink

           “It’s only a separating knife; it’s not going to cut you,” she said, frowning. A small crease formed between her brows and Beck felt a surge of guilt.

           He took her arm and pulled her close, wrapping her in a hug. “I’m sorry,” he buried his face into her hair. “I just wanted to see you.”

           She relaxed into his hold and tilted her head back. “How can I stay mad at you?” she said with a small smile. “You’re such a cutie.” She reached up and gave his cheek a painful pinch.

           “Ugh, Samantha, don’t do that,” Beck complained, pulling his abused face away. Samantha giggled, her bright blue eyes lighting up with laughter.

           There’s something haunting about those eyes. Beck bent slightly to press a kiss to her lips. Her eyes had captivated him the moment they met and over the years became a haven for him. When he had felt like he was drowning in life, Samantha had kept him afloat with simple, loving gazes.

           Nothing compares.

           “What are you thinking about?” Samantha asked in a soft voice.

           Beck pressed a kiss against her temple. “You, of course.” He flashed her a smile. “And if you’d accompany me to dinner?”

           “That sounds great,” she gave his arm a squeeze before stepping away. “Anyways, why are you here? Shouldn’t you be at work?”

           “Yeah,” Beck leaned against the counter and watched her flitter from table to table, checking on various beakers and vials. “George sent me to pick up a case of Micol.” He almost immediately winced.

           Shit, I’m a fucking idiot. “Samantha-.”

           “No.” She stood stock still with her back to him. “It’s none of my business if you and George want to deal that shit. I just regret having a hand in creating it.”

           “Samantha, I-.”

           She faced him with a sigh. “Beck, I’m really busy. Don’t worry about it,” she said at the worried look on his face. “Come on, get going.” Samantha started pushing him towards the door.

           He tried to protest but ended up being shoved into the hallway. “Hey,” she said, leaning against the doorframe. “Come back around eight and we can go for dinner, O.K.?”

           Beck sighed in defeat. “Alright. I just-.”

           “Great!” She beamed and slammed the door shut.

  
&
  

           Beck straightened his tie for the umpteenth time. How long does it take to get ready? He looked at his watch again; they’d be lucky to make the reservation.

           “Don’t get antsy; I’m done,” a voice said beside him. Beck stood from the couch and turned to greet Samantha.

           Who was breathtaking.

           Her hair was done up in an elegant bun, a few stray curls framing her face. The dress she chose was a deep rose and hugged her curves nicely. A little too nicely.

           Beck placed his hands on her hips, dragging Samantha close. “How about we skip dinner and enjoy the dessert instead?” he murmured against her lips.

           She laughed and wriggled out of his grip. “That was terrible, Beck. I expect better from you!”

           He shrugged. “When it comes to you, I’ll try anything.”

           Samantha winked at him. “I’ll hold you to that. Now come on, I’m starving!”

           “Of course, my dear,” he said, opening the front door with a flourish. “After you.”

           The restaurant Beck drove them to was by no means lavish, but it was still impressive and quite a bit out of his price range. An old, wizened maître d’ led them past a dimly lit open floor to a cozy, private corner on a raised level.

           “How did you manage to get reservations here?” Samantha wondered aloud as Beck pulled out her chair.

           Beck seated himself across from her. “Just pulled a few strings.” Or rather: got attacked by George. When Beck had returned to the office with the case of Micol, he had mentioned only briefly that he was taking Samantha out to dinner before George had thrust the reservation upon him. Not that he was complaining, because it would have been difficult to take Samantha out somewhere nice on his own, but he hadn’t really liked the scheming look in George’s eyes.

           “So much for an apocalypse,” Beck scoffed, glancing around. There were only a few other patrons scattered about, mostly couples, but none were on the terrace with Beck and Samantha. The floor was flawless checkered marble that seemed to absorb the faint lighting, producing a very isolated atmosphere. The chairs were crafted with an old style, but Beck was fairly sure even one was worth more than his annual salary.

           Real silverware. Beck touched a finger to a spoon. On spotless white linen. Now that’s amazing. “Some people sure know how to live, huh?”

           The maître d’ returned with a small towel thrown over his arm and holding a dark wine bottle.

           “With our compliments, sir.” He popped the cork.

           Samantha watched in interest as he filled their glasses. “What is it?”

           “A ninety-six Romanee Conti Montrachet, Madame. Perfection, if I might add. I shall return with your entrées shortly.” He bent slightly at the waist and disappeared.

           “A Montrachet?” Samantha hissed. “From nineteen ninety-six! That’s insane!”

           Beck lifted the glass and took a sip. “It’s not bad. What?” He said at her expression.

           He rarely drank wine and this one was dry but the taste settled pleasantly on his tongue. I could get used to this. He took another sip.

           “That single bottle is worth over thirty grand!”

           Beck barely stopped himself from spitting out the wine in surprise. A small trickle escaped but he wiped it away with the napkin before it could stain his collar.

           “How is that worth thirty grand? It’s just a bottle of wine!”

           “The Montrachet vineyards burned down from the first Pulse in twenty eighteen. A ninety-six bottle back then would be valued at ten grand, easy.” Samantha took a tentative taste of the wine. “With no way to make more, the price has skyrocketed.”

           She sighed, swirling the wine in her glass. “Papa used to dream about visiting Montrachet. That man had an unhealthy obsession with wine.”

           Beck reached across the table and covered her hand with his. Samantha offered him a shy smile but pulled back her hand in surprised when the maître d’ reappeared.

           He placed two steaming plates in front of them. “Your entrées,” he said simply and excused himself.

           They finished their meal in a comfortable silence, taking their time to enjoy the rich flavor of the meat. It melted on his tongue, an effect Beck didn’t appreciate, but the taste made him clean his plate.

           “That was amazing,” Samantha sat back in her chair as the dishes were cleared away. “I haven’t had a meal that good in years.”

           Beck laid a hand on his chest in feigned shock. “What about me?”

           She let out a surprised laugh before clapping a hand over her mouth. Quite a few diners turned their way and her cheeks visibly reddened.

           “You’re shameless, Beck,” Samantha accused when she had regained her composure. “I swear, sometimes you’re ju- is that black forest cake?”

           “Oui, Madame. Freshly baked,” a younger waiter said, refilling their glasses.

           Beck took a bite of the cake. It was spongy and moist, but most importantly: it was chocolate. How long has it been since I’ve tasted chocolate? Beck wondered with a mouthful of filling. He snuck a glance at Samantha.

           Half of her slice was already gone, but she chewed slowly and thoughtfully, trying to appreciate the texture. Beck watched as she smiled at the taste of the cherries, transfixed. A small crumb clung to her lower lip and she glanced up while brushing it away with a thumb. Her eyes were unbelievably bright, as though she were on the verge of tears.

           Beck was suddenly aware of a strange chill creeping up his spine. Time slowed and his perception warped. It made him lightheaded and blurred the edges of his vision, but it felt so right.

           So this is what fate feels like.

           “I’m so sorry,” Samantha babbled. “I feel like such an idiot, crying over chocolate…”

           He reached across the table and grasped both of her hands. “Will you marry me?”

           She froze, staring at him with an unreadable expression. There was a long, uncomfortable pause.

           She’s going to say no. Beck could feel his palms start to sweat. “I-I know this seems sudden, but we’ve been together for six years and it just seem right, you know? Well, not ‘right’ as in practical, but ‘right’ because we just rely on each other and we make each other happy. Wait-, no, what I meant was-,” he stopped.

           Shit, now I’m babbling. He took a deep breath and met her gaze.

           “What I mean is… I want to wake up every morning by your side and fall asleep with you in my arms. We’ve been together for so long, but every day I feel like I’ve only just found you. I look at you and my heart smiles. You’re sweet, and kind, and the most beautiful woman to have walked this earth. I’m sorry I don’t have a ring, but will you have my heart instead?”

           Samantha was crying openly now, her shoulder shaking. She looked at him through watery eyes.

           “And who said you didn’t try?” she whispered, and pulled him across the table for a mind numbing kiss. Beck was vaguely aware of applause, but then Samantha introduced some tongue and he quickly lost his train of thought.

           “I love you,” he murmured against her lips when they finally broke apart. Samantha smiled and ran her thumb across his cheek.

           “Mon amour,” she returned, and dragged him back in for another kiss.

           This is much better than cake.

  
&
  

           The alarm was ringing. He could hear it through the haze of sleep.

           Beck reached backwards and patted around for the clock, becoming more and more irritated as his search came up empty.

           An arm reached across him and slapped the snooze button before falling onto his chest.

           “Morning,” Samantha said, rubbing circles into his bare skin. “You have to leave already?”

           Beck nuzzled her hair, not willing to accept the time just yet. “Yeah,” he grunted. “Can’t be late.” He lifted a hand to caress the silky skin of her shoulder.

           They fell back into a light doze but another shrill ring pierced the silence.

           “All right, all right! I’m up,” Beck groaned. He slid out from under Samantha’s grip, snagging his jeans on the way to the bathroom. The artificial light stung his eyes and he braced his hands on the counter, squinting at his reflection.

           Oh God… He needed a turtleneck. And a scarf. Beck prodded the discolored flesh on his neck and winced. That is one nasty hickey. He went through his morning ritual and snuck back into the bedroom to give his fiancée a kiss before he left.

           Fiancée. He liked the sound of that.

           Samantha shifted under his touch, turning her head so her lips met his. “Are you sure you can’t come back to bed to sleep a little more?” she pouted and wrapped her arms around his neck.

           Beck chuckled. “All I hear is quotations around ‘sleep’.”

           “Hush! Here, I’ll make some coffee for you,” she said, beginning to sit up.

           “Don’t bother,” Beck protested and pushed her gently back. “As much as I’d love to have you naked in my kitchen, I’ve got to go. You’ve still got about an hour, so get some rest. I’ll call the front desk to have a car send you back when you’re ready.”

           “You’re so sweet,” Samantha cooed and tugged him down for another kiss.

           Beck laughed and untangled himself from her arms. “Only for you, babe. I’ll see you later.”

           He was closing the bedroom door behind himself when he paused. Should I…? Beck stuck his head back into the room.

           “Hey, Samantha?

           She poked her head out from under the covers.

           “There’s a surprise for you under the bed.” He laughed at her excited squeal and shut the door behind himself.

           She can fit under there…I think.

  
&
  

           His good mood lasted until the afternoon.

           Everyone’s curiosity immediately piqued after seeing ‘the scary guy smile’. Beck snorted. He was a man of few words, not a mass murderer. Besides, talking seemed to only reinforce his reputation among them.

           You can’t really blame me for playing along, he argued with himself. It’s so boring around here.

           One of the rookies who wasn’t put off by Beck’s silent demeanor followed him as often as possible, chattering about inane topics and the latest gossip. The boy even claimed that their colleagues likened Beck to Timothy McVeigh. Mildly offended, Beck was more interested in the possibly that those empty-headed children could recall any history earlier than two thousand and one.

           So he got a kick out of telling them he was engaged. It’s not illegal.

           It doesn’t cheapen the sentiment, Beck thought, smirking to himself as another coworker stared at him in shock.

           “Oh, uh-I…,” she stuttered. “Congratulations?”

           “Thank you kindly,” Beck intoned in the most sinister voice he could manage. He pointed in a vague direction behind her. “You are being summoned.” The woman squeaked and scurried off, making Beck grin. It was incredible how easily he fell back into his role after only two days.

           The sun had just edged past the city skyline when Beck left work. He pulled his Audi out into the nearly deserted streets, driving slowly to enjoy the feeling of satisfaction he rarely had after filming. There were a few shops open as he passed, their harsh fluorescent signs glaring. The buildings were bathed in an eerie yellow.

           I’m swimming in a pisspot. It was certainly dirty enough to be one.

           Beck turned the corner and suddenly he was floating. The car lifted from the left to right, as though riding a wave. At the crest, everything froze. His fingers were clenched around the wheel and he stared past them through the windshield. The debris on the road was floating along with him, suspended in that pregnant pause. He could see the glass windows of the shops were in mid-shatter as the earth rippled by. The silence was deafening and the pressure crushed into his body like a thousand pound weight. It was so hard to breathe and he was panicking and there were tears in his eyes and his head was pounding and-

           -and he lifted a finger.

           Everything jerked back into motion. The Audi reunited with the road and Beck’s forehead banged painfully into the steering wheel. Grunting, he wrenched the wheel to the left, flooring the break. The car slid sideways down the street, the wheels squealing before coming to a stop. He sat there in the car, engine still running, with a death-grip on the steering wheel. Beck barely realized a nearby building had collapsed into itself until a cloud of grey dust engulfed the Audi.

           He couldn’t move. His brain was stuck in rewind; a chaotic mess of heaving bodies and bleeding corpses parading past his mind’s eye.

           “Oh, fuck,” Beck groaned, cradling his head in his hands. At first he thought his forehead was slick from sweat but when he pulled a hand away it was stained red. Beck stared at the blood, transfixed, and realized he was shaking. Violently.

           He tried to breathe in slowly and couldn’t. The pressure was still on his chest, making him wheeze feebly. Mentally cursing, he leaned sideways and popped open the glove compartment, shuffling through the papers. His fingers curled around a small bottle and he pulled it out.

           Thank you, Samantha. Beck broke the seal and swallowed two pills of Benzo dry. He stopped short, head tilted back.

           Samantha.

           Beck burst into a flurry of motion. Chucking the pill bottle over his shoulder, he shifted the Audi into drive and shot out of the dust cloud, speeding towards the north side of the city.

           He prayed to every God and deity he could think of.

           Please. Whoever you are, wherever you are, he begged. Let her be all right. The idea of living without her made his chest tight in a way he hadn’t felt in many years. Not since his parents died.

           He peeled around the last corner, nearly smashing into a street light, and climbed out of the car. Almost the entire building was nearly leveled, with charred, jagged debris scattered across the ground. A single wing was still standing, but there were wide cracks spider webbed through the concrete. Beck took of at a run, his trainers slapping loudly against the pavement. There was already a small crowd forming at the fence gate, and he shoved through them, not caring who he knocked over.

           “Whoa, whoa, you can’t go in there,” a man stepped in front of him. Beck tried to push past him too but the man grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

           It’s Pete, Beck thought in wonder. And he’s got a gun.

           “Pete, I’ve gotta get past. Samantha, she-.”

           “I’m sorry, man,” Pete interrupted. “But I can’t let you in. We don’t know if chemicals and biotoxins are still floating around. There’s an ambulance coming and a team to clean up.”

           Beck stared at him in disbelief. “Clean up? Clean up? Is that all it is? Something to clean up?”

           This time the gun was trained on him. “Calm down! There’s nothing you can do! The fence is still live and the controls are completely shot. We all have to wait this out.”

           “I can’t wait this out.” Beck ducked under Pete’s arm and dashed towards the gate. He could hear the man cursing behind him but he didn’t care.

           He was so close. The gate was right there. Beck reached out a hand and-

           -and a pair of arms wrapped around his waist, dragging him back.

           “No!” He yelled, wriggling desperately to free himself. “No! Samantha!”

           Beck was thrown unceremoniously onto the group and his skull bounced against the pavement. Pete stood over him, chest heaving, and Beck could make out a dark red stain blooming on guard’s shirt.

           “You’re bleeding,” he said in a dazed voice. Pete nodded shortly, wiping a hand over his mouth.

           “So are you.” There was the sound of slamming car doors nearby.

           “Beck! Jesus Christ, what the fuck happened to you?” A large figure appeared and crouched down beside him.

           He sat up a little too quickly and instantly regretted it. “Nothing, nothing,” he protested, vision swimming. “I’ve got to get Samantha, she’s still in there! I have to find her, she needs my help…”

           George and Pete exchanged glances before George put his arms around Beck and hauled him to his feet. “Come on, kiddo. We’ll wait back in my office. There’s nothing we can do here ourselves.” There was a distant wail of sirens.

           “No!” Beck tried to push George away, but pushing a mountain would have been easier. “George, please. She needs me.”

           George led him through the crowd towards a black car. “The best thing you can do, Beck, is let the paramedics help her. Pete will give us a call with any news.” He pushed Beck in and crawled in after him.

           “To the office.” The chauffer nodded and drove away from the scene.

           George reached across the seat and grasped his chin. “That’s a nasty cut. Did you hit your head?” He pulled out a handkerchief and spat on an edge. Beck recoiled when George tried to dab at his wound.

           “It’s nothing. We have to turn back; I can help-.”

           “Beck!” George barked sharply. “Don’t argue with me.”

           They spent the rest of the ride in relative silence, with George occasionally attempting to wipe the blood of Beck’s face only to be swatted away. George half-carried Beck up to his office where he set him gently on the settee.

           “I think some whiskey is in order.” He turned away to the small bar.

           Beck closed his eyes, exhausted. His head was throbbing; hell, his whole body was aching. His tee stuck to his skin uncomfortably and his curly hair lay matted against his head from a mixture of blood and sweat.

           “Drink this; you’ll feel better.” Beck cracked open one eye and accepted the glass. He downed the honey colored liquid in one go and it burned his throat.

           “Another. Please,” he croaked, holding out the glass. George gave him a strange look, but complied. A few drinks later and he was sprawled across the settee more comfortably. George was sitting on the carpet with his back leaning against the couch, nursing his own drink. An awkward, heavy silence fell between them.

           “I asked her to marry me,” Beck confessed. He flung an arm over his eyes.

           “I know.”

           Beck frowned. “What?”

           “What do you think that reservation was for?” George’s voice was mildly amused, but there was also a small hint of something else; something that resounded within Beck.

           He laughed hollowly. “I should’ve known. God, I should’ve known.” Beck could feel tears welling up and he breathed deeply. “She said yes. She was just so happy. She even cried over the chocolate! Who would’ve thought there was any chocolate still left… You know what she said? ‘I’ve been waiting two years, Beck. You sure are a slow one.’ Two years! I’m a fucking idiot.”

           George gave his knee a comforting pat. “You asked her, Beck. That’s all that matters.”

           His limbs were getting heavy. “One day,” he slurred. “That’s all we had. One day…”

  
&
  

           Beck’s sleep was deep and dreamless, but he felt worse after waking up than he had before it. A hand was shaking his shoulder incessantly and he knocked it away.

           “F’ck ‘ff,” he grunted and squinted at the offender.

           “Dammit, Beck! You’ve been out for ten hours! You’ve got a concussion. I should’ve taken you to the hospital earlier.” George slid an arm under his shoulders and helped him sit up. The bright morning light was filtering in through the windows and Beck groaned, acutely aware of the stabbing needles in his brain.

           “It’s not a concussion. I just took some Benzo.”

           “And then you drank all that whiskey? Why the hell aren’t you dead?”

           Dead.

           Beck grasped George’s arm in alarm. “Did Pete call?”

           George stared at him, surprised. “Beck,-.”

           “Did Pete call?”

           Suddenly, George seemed ten years older than he actually was, kneeling in front of Beck. There were bags under his eyes and his dark hair was ruffled. Even his normally pristine suit had creases and stains.

           “Yes.”

           Beck closed his eyes.

           “He called about two hours ago, while you were asleep. They…they found her.”

           “And?” He covered his face with his hands.

           George laid a heavy hand on his knee. “They were too late,” he whispered.

           Beck let out a choked whimper. “Oh, God.”

           George reached up and wrapped his arms around Beck. He returned the hug, sobbing freely into George’s shoulder. They stayed like that for a long while, with George patiently rubbing his back in soothing circles. After what seemed like hours, Beck realized his own shoulder was wet and pulled back, trying to stem the emotions.

           I’m not the only one mourning.

           He met George’s red-rimmed eyes and offered a faint smile. It didn’t feel real. Nothing felt real. It was like he was floating again.

           “She listed you as her next-of-kin,” George interrupted the silence. “They need you to identify her remains. You don’t have to go now,” he added quickly. “But you know they don’t keep bodies for more than sixteen hours.”

           Body. She’s just a body now.

           A hand covered his and he glanced up. I’m sorry, George’s eyes seemed to say.

           “Me, too.”

           The ride to the city hospital was nearly unbearable. Beck fidgeted restlessly as the car rolled slowly past buildings, avoiding the new rubble. At the same time, Beck wished they would never reach the hospital. Seeing the place would make it all real and there would be no way to turn back.

           He watched the yellow and green sky slowly brighten and felt a sudden surge of anger.

           I hate you, he thought, glaring at a cloud. I hate you so much.

           Beck was pulled out of his reverie when the grey and dreary hospital building came into view. His skin was already crawling in disgust but he pushed the feelings down. He had to do this.

           The mortician was already waiting for them inside.

           “Mr. Carson, Mr. Evans. This way, please,” the morose man greeted. He led down a series of winding hallways. Beck got the impression they were being led deeper and deeper underground. More than once he wanted to turn around and run, but George’s hand had pressed against the small of his back in silent empathy.

           The undertaker stopped before a wide glass window and waited for them to adjust. In the middle of the green-tiled room a short, sheet-draped form rested on a metal table. The outline of the figure would have been sickeningly familiar if it had not been missing legs. Beck took in a shaking breath, the stale dry air of the hospital filling his lungs.

           “We are unable to step inside without appropriate gear, as you can see,” the mortician droned, gesturing to the window. There was an assistant wearing protective garb; he was covered head to toe in a plastic white suit and equipped with a portable air system. “The bodies have possibly retained dangerous chemicals and are emitting an unidentifiable gas. Until it has been contained and deemed safe, we also cannot release bodies for any funeral preparations. I apologize for any inconveniences this may cause.”

           Beck could feel sweat beginning to bead on his upper lip and he rubbed the back of his hand across it. His stomach was in knots and his knees were starting to quiver. The undertaker was obviously bored and uncomfortable, but could it hurt to be human for a moment?

           “If you are ready?” The man raised a brow at him and Beck wanted nothing more than to punch the exasperated look of his face.

           “Yes,” he choked out instead, twitching slightly when George squeezed his shoulder comfortingly.

           The undertaker raised a hand toward the assistant, who nodded and grasped the edges of the white sheet. Slowly, the man pulled back the cover with careful reverence, stopping when he reached the waist and stepped back.

           She was burned. Her hair, her ears, her face, her arms – everything. That adorable, dainty nose that Beck had loved to pinch was gone, her charred teeth gaping through the pockets of her cheeks in an absurd grin. Samantha’s arms and hands were crossed awkwardly across her chest, as though she had been laid out for burial. But Beck realized, with startling clarity, that her hands had originally been held over her face to protect herself from the blast. The hospital had only been able to lower Samantha’s arms to her chest to make her presentable.

           Presentable. The word echoed in his head. The woman I love is ashes and bones. There’s nothing to present.

           Beck stared, wide-eyed, at Samantha’s corpse until the room started to spin violently. The rotten air made his stomach churn and the whiskey began to claw its way up his throat. He clapped a hand over his mouth. Don’t throw up don’t throw up don’t thro-

           “Are you all right?”

           Beck was able to shoot George a fleeting glance before he turned and vomited all over the mortician’s shiny black shoes. As the bile splattered across the floor and the man’s pants, there was one image burned into Beck’s mind – a shining, gold band melted into the flesh of Samantha’s finger.

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A/N: What do you think? Please leave a review! Very much appreciated. Everyone starts popping in next chapter, so I hope you tag along!

Please recommend this story!: http://www.tumblr.com/directory/recommend/creative%20writing/fihs

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EXPLANATIONS:

The Romanee Conti Montrachet is from the Domaine de la Romanee-Conti, otherwise known as DRC. It’s an estate in Burgundy, France that obviously produces wine. It’s one of the world’s top wine producers, and also one of the most expensive brands. Montrachet is one of the seven DRC vineyards, and considered superior to its neighbors. If you manage to spot a Montrachet nowadays, you can bet it’ll be worth at least three grand. A ninety-six bottle is worth four grand, but if you factor in an apocalypse and complete destruction of the vineyards, you can expect it to be worth a crapload in Beck’s world. A Montrachet is best after allowing it to mature for at least twenty to thirty years; in this story, that particular bottle has been maturing for almost half a century.

Mon Amour – “My Love”

Timothy McVeigh was a co-conspirator in the Oklahoma City Bombing. It occurred on April 19, 1995, and killed 168, including 19 children, and injured about 700 more people.

The pills Beck took, Benzo, officially known as benzodiazephine, generally have a sedative and hypnotic effect. They are usually used to treat anxiety, agitation, seizures and spasms. Take too many, too often, and you’ll quickly become dependent. That’s why Beck’s bottle wasn’t opened! What a responsible kid.