That night, we bedded down in an old Canadian ranch house, boarded up and fortified but with no indications that the fortifications were ever used. There were no bullet-holes in the walls, no bloodstains, no dead bodies anywhere. The only clue was a hastily scrawled note written in black marker on one wall of the master bedroom; "Robert, gone to Delta. Meet us there. ~Elizabeth" Not even Bill knew what 'Delta' was, but he guessed that it was another evac zone like Echo. Francis was the only one who didn't seem curious, though. He just grumbled something about hating Canada, and went to find the bathroom.
The house had three bedrooms - a master bedroom with a huge king-size four-poster, and two smaller bedrooms, each with a smaller bed. The master bedroom and one of the others were on the second floor, whereas the third bedroom was located on the first floor, presumably a guest room. Bill had taken the guest room, claiming that he'd had enough of stair-climbing during this, as he colorfully put it 'goddamn apocalypse horseshit,' and Coach joined him to give the old man some company. Louis and Rochelle took the other small bedroom, the former not wanting to share a room with Francis for obvious reasons. Nick and Ellis, lacking anywhere to sleep, decided to take first watch. That left Francis and I to take the master bedroom, a situation neither of us objected to.
I was sitting on the bed, legs stretched out in front of me and crossed at the ankles, hands behind my head, leaning up against a pile of pillows. Francis sat on a writing desk in a near corner of the room, one leg pulled up next to him, one leg dangling down over the edge of the desk, his arms folded over his chest. We were silent for a long time, then Francis said softly "Thanks. For saving my life back there." It took me a moment to process this; it was the first time I'd ever heard Francis directly admit to needing someone's help. After a moment, I managed to say "Nothing more than what you would have done for me." He smiled, a very slight, almost sad smile, but didn't say anything more. In a desperate attempt to break the awkward silence, I said "So, Francis, you ever have a girlfriend before?" He snorted. "I've lost count of 'em all." I scowled at him. "You know what I mean, Francis. Not one-night-stands or brief love affairs - a real girlfriend." It was his turn to scowl, and after a pause he growled "Just one. Five years ago." Shit. Bad choice of topic. Glaring at the wall, Francis continued "I came home from the bar one night, found her sleepin' with another man." My breath hissed in through my teeth. A worse choice of topic than I thought. I was about to say something, to apologize for bringing it up, when he continued. "It was… about nine o'clock, I think…"
Francis's PoV, five years ago
I parked my black Ford F-250 at the end of the driveway - where I always put it so I could leave quickly in the morning. Twisting the key in the ignition, I listened as the baritone snarl of the huge engine died away, then slid the key out and stuffed it in my vest pocket. Popping the door open, I slid out of the leather seat, boots landing with a heavy, muffled thump on the dirt. I knew something was wrong as I started up the path; the bedroom light was on in our house. I could see the dim yellow glow slicing through the blinds of the two upstairs windows facing out over the driveway. Nicky never left the bedroom light on when she went to bed, and she was almost always in bed by now to be ready for her breakfast shift at a local Bill and Ernie's. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I mounted the front steps, the wood creaking beneath my weight, and reached for the doorknob. I twisted and pulled, and the door swung open, another warning sign. Nicky always kept the front door locked. Some instinct deep within me was practically screaming at me to be quiet, so I obeyed it without thinking. Sneaking in steel-toed motorcycle boots is not an easy feat, but I had practice. Walking almost soundlessly across the ratty old baby-blue carpet of the dining room, I stopped suddenly as if pole-axed. My eye had been caught by a plate on the table, still with a few leftover bits and pieces of food on it. My eyes narrowed, my gut sinking even further, and my heart revving up. Nicky was a neat freak - she never left a plate, let alone a plate with food on it, out on the table. She also never ate this late. I started to hear sounds coming from the bedroom as I climbed the stairs; the closed door muffled them, so I couldn't identify them just yet, but by now I was beginning to fear the worst. My muscles bunched as I gripped the handrail, squeezing the wood until I thought it might break. By the time I reached the top of the stairs, I could tell beyond a shadow of a doubt what was going on in there - and I was pissed.
The door to our bedroom was thick and made from oak; the real deal, not the cheap knockoff shit you find in some stores. It was sturdy as hell, and even I would have trouble breaking it. Thankfully, Nicky had not had the presence of mind to lock it, and it swung open without much protest. My eyes instantly locked onto the bed, and it's two occupants. Nicky was instantly recognizable, lying on her back, her hair in a wild mess around her head. Her eyes were partially glazed, her lips parted to let out a moan. On top of her was a man I didn't recognize. Nicky looked in my direction, and froze. Her eyes instantly snapped into perfect, crystal focus, locked onto mine, and widened in fear. Her lover noticed the change in her behavior, and turned his head to follow her gaze. Through clenched teeth I snarled "Am I interrupting something?"
The man was off the bed and coming at me within five seconds - impressive, considering the shock and surprise that would have paralyzed most men for at least double that. He was a big man, not as tall as I was and not quite as muscular, but with the hard, toned look of an athlete. His knuckles were heavily calloused, implying a career in boxing. However, he had the disadvantage of not being me. When most men get angry, they get wild. Sloppy. Like what's-his-name here. Me… I'm different. Rage makes me focused. Lethal. And at that moment, I had nothing but rage.
His first punch was sloppy - a wide right hook aimed for my face. Typical boxing instincts. My left hand snapped up, catching a hold of the poor man's wrist. With a sharp twist and jerk, his wrist broke. I could feel the bones snap and grind beneath my iron grip, and the man's mouth parted in a silent 'oh' as shockwaves of pain lanced up his arm to his brain. He didn't have any time to recover, however, as I delivered a vicious snap-kick to his groin that would have had him doubling over if I didn't have such a firm hold on his wrist. Bringing my free hand up, I rammed it into his gut, sending the breath whooshing out of him. Then I did it again. He was bent over as much as my grip would allow by now, head practically parallel with the floor. Taking advantage of this, I brought my fist up again, this time right into his face. I felt his nose crunch, felt the hot blood spurt out onto my fist. He would have cried out - I could feel his body twitch from the effort - but there was no breath in his lungs to cry with. Letting go of the poor bastard, I stepped over his collapsing form, standing before the bed where Nicky lay. She had drawn the blankets up around her, as if they would protect her. Other men would have probably started ranting about now, or crying, or yelling and pacing around and asking why, why had she betrayed them! Not me. I got right up in her face, glaring down into her eyes, and slugged her across the jaw.
Her head whipped to the side, her body twisting along with it to prevent her neck from snapping. Even so, it took several moments for what had just happened to register with her. She clearly was not expecting it. She reached up a hand, absent-mindedly running her fingers across what I was sure was going to be one hell of a bruise. Then she looked at me with a stunned expression on her face. Then I tore off the necklace she had bought me for my last birthday, and flung it onto her lap, snarling "This belongs to you." Turning on my heel, I stalked out of the room without a backward glance.
Zoey's PoV, present day
"And I never saw her again," Francis finished. "Never even learned the guy's name." I could see his eyes shimmering with tears that he brutally held back. This 'Nicky' must have meant a lot to him, for him to still be this bothered by it, five years later. If I ever met her - assuming she wasn't dead by now - I'd give her a few more bruises. After several moments of silence, I patted the bed next to me, wordlessly inviting Francis to join me. He didn't need any encouragement. He got up from the desk, walked over and slumped down on the bed next to me, shoulders hunched. "Sorry," he muttered, fists clenched in his lap. "I know, it's been five years, I shoulda gotten over it by now…" he shook his head slowly, then finished "It's just… the ironic thing is, I was gonna propose to her the next day. I'd already bought a ring an' everything." He turned his head, giving me a lopsided smile, and said "Guess I'm better off without her, eh? After all…" he leaned close to me, draping an arm over my shoulders, and whispered "I got you now, don't I?" I smiled, temporarily unable to say anything around the lump that had suddenly formed in my throat, and rolled over on top of him, planting a firm kiss on his lips. I could feel his hands on my sides, and I took hold of them, guiding them down lower. Grinning into the kiss, I murmured around his lips "Well, seeing as how we've got this room to ourselves, how about I cheer you up a little?" His voice took on a note of concern, and he pulled back for a moment, asking "Zoey… are you sure you-…?" I cut him off with a finger to his lips, and said simply "Yes."