Tara woke up a little after sunrise that morning as she had every morning that week. She tied her hair back in a neat little bun, pulled on a pair of jeans and a cosy sweater, laced up her boots and was out the door of her home within ten minutes, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
It was her turn to milk the cows this week, so early mornings were a must. She didn’t mind, not really; it gave her a some time alone with her thoughts, which was at a bit of a premium these days.
Being the only one awake in the compound was a little like living in a ghost town and while the analogy should have rattled her on some fundamental level, it was instead soothing. There were no cranky children to look after or barters to be made for supplies—all that existed in Tara’s world at that moment was herself, the cows and the early-morning mist that billowed through the streets.
They’d had her on wall duty the week before. She hadn’t enjoyed that as much—had felt entirely too edgy for the duration of her rota, had barely slept and woke up each morning filled with dread over the day to come. She had been more than glad to give up the task to someone else, a plucky guy about her age with a trigger finger just itching to be put to good use.
They said that the refugees came in two sorts—the ones who were too timid to fire a gun to save their own lives and the ones who took all too quickly to the killing. Tara had stood there as Bayliss went on at length about it, about how the type of person you were in life before didn’t even dictate whether you were capable shooting your own friend in the head if it came to it or if you’d be the one cowering in the back of a closet, hand clapped over your mouth to muffle your whimpers. He said it didn’t really even matter in the end which one you were, either; if you made it through you’d be so desensitised that it’d just become a part of life like everything else on the compound.
Tara didn’t think she’d ever get to that point, and honestly she didn’t think Bayliss was there, either. She’d seen the look in his eyes when he’d had to put his hunting rifle to good use because she had been too much of a coward to use hers. She’d seen the way he held his breath and closed his eyes for just a moment before taking the shot, only to let out the breath with a resigned sigh once the deed was done. She imagined there were those who got used to it and didn’t so much as bat an eyelid over it but Bayliss wasn’t one of them; that just made him human, she figured. It made him better off than those who already seemed to have surrendered to their fate.
The cattle were antsy that morning, letting out the occasional plaintive noise or butting against one another as if to seek reassurance from each other’s company. Tara feared the worst at first, but a quick scout of their shack found they were the only occupants. She chalked it up to the recent drizzly weather and the fact that they hadn’t been let out in quite some time—neither of which was something she could do anything about. If she’d been able to, she would have opened the reinforced gates of the compound and sent them off roaming the lands as they pleased; probably never would have brought them back in, either, as there was more grass out there than they could offer them in here.
Truth be told, the cattle weren’t the only ones she would have set free if it were in her power. The kids were only cranky because they’d been cooped up just as long as the cows and if she didn’t know better she’d think some of the grown-ups were stir-crazy, too. Maybe she was as well; maybe she only relished the opportunity to spend some time alone so early in the morning because months of living in a cramped space with the same group of people was in danger of making her lose her mind. Maybe she ought to fling the gates of the compound open and run off with the cows, follow them as far as she could before her legs gave out. She entertained the thought briefly with a smirk on her lips before putting it out of her head entirely. There was work to be done.
This was life for them now, like it or not. It wasn’t glamorous, it wasn’t fruitful and at times the whole damn thing felt completely hopeless, but the refugees clung to it like their existence in the compound were the only thing keeping them from becoming savages altogether. It was a little scary to think that there wasn’t a whole lot between them and what lurked beyond the walls of the compound, but allowing yourself to think such things was a shortcut to driving yourself nuts.
Tara had seen what it did to people, had watched a man deteriorate by the day until he had shrieked that he was sick of waiting, of waiting to be saved or killed or worse, and had made a dash for the gates. There had been too many bolts and bars securing them in place; in his desperation, he had rushed up the stairs, had hopped from the top of the wall surrounding the compound, landed funny on his ankle and hobbled away into the distance. Tara imagined he wouldn’t have made it very far with an injury like that, but then she didn’t think he was any better off alive in his state of mind than he would have been dead. Death would have been merciful.
Not a day passed when she didn’t wonder if this was all they had left, this flimsy, unconvincing shred of normality. No matter how much she might question it, however, it never once stopped her from doing her job. She would milk the cows or man the walls or muck out the outhouse if that was what they needed her to do, because at least when she was working she could trick herself into thinking she was making a difference. She might not have been saving lives or doing a damn thing to fix the situation they had found themselves in, but she was doing what she could and that was the best anyone could ask of her.
Outside, there wasn’t much of a life worth living, she knew, and that sustained her. There would come a day when she would wonder if the life they led within the walls of the compound was much of a life to lead, either, but for now it did her well enough. For now, it was better than being one of those who were left outside, one of those who hadn’t made it. She would hold tightly onto the belief that the day-to-day repetitive grind was worth fighting for because if she didn’t, there wasn’t much else to keep her going.
