Page 24 of Brood (After the End #5)

Chapter Nine

I wouldn’t have believed it possible for me to be even more tired than I was shortly after Bun was born, but three months later, I am.

So exhausted, I’m barely functional.

Another baby was born last month, and her mother died during delivery. So feeding a second baby has become my responsibility, in addition to nursing Bun.

The longest I’ve gone in a month without breastfeeding is two hours. My breasts hurt constantly. My entire body aches a lot of the time. And there’s never any break or relief.

Of course I’d never say no to keeping another baby alive, but there is nutritious formula available. Yet Dr. Cameron refuses to consider it while I have milk to provide—even to give me an occasional rest.

My life was never thrilling or perfectly happy, but it was stable for nearly all my twenty-two years. I had few extreme highs and lows, and I was basically content. And ever since I married Will, I’ve had more highs than I ever dreamed were possible.

But nothing ever—ever—has been as hard as this.

They don’t bring Bun to our quarters anymore because I also have to feed the baby girl, who I’ve been mentally calling Rosie because of her constantly pink cheeks.

For days now, the only times I’ve left the nursery have been to shower and put on clean clothes.

There’s a lounge on the back wall of the nursery, and between feedings, I collapse into restless sleep on that.

I’m finishing Bun’s sixth feeding of the day and trying to keep my eyes open when Will comes into the nursery, looking hot and tired and a little grimy.

He’s been busy with refurbishing one of the residential wings this month.

He’s always been a hands-on leader, but he’s been doing more manual labor than normal because the work needs to get finished so quickly.

My head pulses at the familiar sight of him. The only things that have made me happy these past two months are Bun and this man striding toward me.

When I smile at him groggily, he smiles back. It looks for a moment like he’s going to reach for me and Bun, but he makes a quick detour to wash his hands and face in the sink next to the changing station.

He smells strongly when he comes back over—his natural scent—but I don’t care. It’s Will.

It makes me feel safe.

“You okay?” he murmurs, leaning against the back of the lounge and wrapping an arm around me to pull me closer.

“Yeah. He’s almost done.”

Bun is nearly asleep, still trying to get in his final slurps. He’s a pretty good size for his age, and he feels warm and substantial against me. His official name is now Zachary, but he’s still Bun to us.

I never realized I could feel like this.

Like I could fight the world for something so small.

When Bun’s mouth finally stops working, I readjust him until he burps up milk all over the cloth on my shoulder. I can smell that he needs to be changed, and Vera only comes in every hour. I start rising so I can change his diaper, but Will gets up instead, saying, “I can do it.”

I slump back in relief that I don’t have to find the energy to stand.

I watch through heavy eyelids as Will takes Bun to the changing station, tosses the dirty diaper into the lidded hamper, and fastens on a clean one.

He knows how now—having watched so many times and practiced occasionally when no one else is around.

When he picks Bun up, instead of taking him right to his crib—one in a line of six, only four of them filled with babies at the moment—Will carries him on a route around the nursery, jostling him slightly.

The changing woke Bun up, and he babbles happily at the trip around the room. It looks like Will is talking to him, but I can’t hear what he’s murmuring.

I smile like a dope, trying to keep my eyes open as exhaustion washes over me.

I think I doze off. I’m not sure how long it’s been when Will sits down next to me again.

“Bun?” I ask hoarsely, blinking several times.

“He’s asleep.”

“Okay, good.” I fall to the side so I’m reclining on his shoulder.

“You need to eat something. You didn’t have lunch.”

“I’m not hungry.” My stomach is heavy and twisty, but it’s been that way for weeks. It’s not hunger.

“I don’t care. You’ve got to have something.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t go to the dining room. I’m too tired. But you go. You’ve worked so hard today. You must be starving.”

“I am. But you need to eat too. If I bring something to you here, will you promise to eat it?”

I don’t feel like eating at all, but I can’t bring myself to disappoint Will. I nod and reposition myself so that I’m curled on my side when he gets up.

He leans down to kiss my lips briefly. “I won’t be long. Don’t be too sound asleep because I’m going to wake you up. You need to eat something.”

I mumble out what I think is an “okay,” but I do fall asleep. It feels like no time at all passes before Will is gently shaking my shoulder.

With a groan, I force myself to a sitting position.

I feel like resisting, but I promised him I’d eat.

He brought soup and bread for both of us.

I eat as much as I can and then give him the rest of mine, since he’s already finished his.

When he sets the tray on the floor, he sits back down on the lounge and pulls me so my head is in his lap.

“You need to go shower and get some sleep,” I say, closing my eyes as he strokes my hair and face.

“I’m fine. And I already showered today.”

I can’t help but giggle, even though there’s no way to keep my eyes open. “You did?”

“Is that your way of telling me I stink?” His voice is dry. Warm. Known and soothing and precious.

“Maybe a little. But I don’t care right now. It smells like you.”

He chuckles.

“How’s Rosie?”

“She’s still sleeping. You’ve got some more time before you’ll need to feed her. Try to get some sleep.”

“Okay. Wake me up if she cries.”

“I will.”

“But then you need to go to bed.”

“It’s early. I don’t need to go to bed yet.”

* * *

I feed Rosie, and then an hour or so later, I feed Bun yet again. Will doesn’t go to bed. He stays with me, getting the babies and putting them back in their cribs afterward. I assume Vera stops by for her routine checks, but I must sleep through them because I’m not aware of her presence at all.

Just Will. And endlessly feeding Bun and Rosie.

I have absolutely no idea what time it is—what day it is, what world we’re living in—when the crying of an infant faintly breaks through the thick stupor of sleep.

It feels like I just closed my eyes.

“No,” I mumble. “Not yet.”

“I’m sorry,” Will says softly. I feel his big hand on my face. “It’s Rosie.”

I try to open my eyes. Try to lift my head and then my body. I get less than an inch off the lounge before I fall back. I squeeze my eyes shut as my body shakes. “I can’t. Will, I can’t. Please help.”

Every cell in my body aches.

Even in my condition, I sense some sort of tension radiating off him.

It upsets me. I have to fix it. “I can do it. Give me a minute.”

“It’s okay,” he says at last, a rasp in his voice that’s rarely there. “I’ll take care of it.”

His words are such a relief, I start to cry in jerky shudders, still unable to pry my eyes open. But, after a minute, a needling thought pierces my exhaustion. I peek out of my lids to see what he’s doing.

He’s at the sink, preparing a bottle of formula. He’s watched the process enough to know how.

“No,” I gurgle. “They’ll see. They’ll see.”

In our quarters, we might have some semblance of privacy, but there’s nothing of the kind here. There’s a camera in every corner of this room.

“No, they won’t.” He walks over to lift Rosie out of her crib. He carries her and the bottle of formula over to the lounge. He shows me a small device in his pocket. “This disrupts the cameras. We can’t use it for long, or they’ll figure out it’s not a normal outage. But we’ve got a little while.”

There are tears leaking out of my eyes as I watch him feeding little Rosie with the bottle of formula. “I should do it.”

“No, you shouldn’t. You sleep. I’ve got this.”

I’m still crying a little, even as I curl back up and drift back to sleep. After a while, I’m vaguely aware of motion. Will must be putting Rosie back in her crib. Then he’s coming back to the lounge. Pulling my head back into his lap.

He caresses my neck. My jaw. My back.

“Why are they doing this to us?” I choke out, too tired to even wipe tears away. “We’ve always been good. We’ve always done what we’re supposed to do. Why are they treating us like this?”

“Because they can. Because we’re useful to them and they can.”

“I wish we could get out of here. With Bun.”

“I know. Me too. But where could we go where we’d be safe?”

“I don’t know.”

“Nowhere. There’s nowhere.” The bitterness in his voice softens as he strokes my face gently. “Try not to worry right now. Just get some sleep. I’ll wake you up when Bun is ready to eat again.”

“Okay. Thank you,” I manage to get out. “For helping.”

“It’s my job.”

“What’s your job?”

“To take care of you.” There’s a pause. “You and Bun. I never…”

I wait, longing to hear the end of that sentence as deeply as I long for real sleep.

“I never knew what it felt like before.”

* * *

Three months later, and I almost feel human again—like my entire existence is more than nursing and sleeping.

Once both Bun and Rosie (who is now officially Patricia) reached five months, Dr. Cameron and the nursery workers got less rigid with the breastfeeding. Bun has already started on some solid food, and Rosie has moved to formula during the night hours.

That means I have my nights back. I still haven’t been allowed back in the kitchen. During the days, I’m mostly in the nursery, feeding Bun and Rosie and helping out another mother who just had a baby two months ago.

But I get to spend nights in our quarters again and have several hours of sleep in a row.

It’s like a miracle.