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“It would feel even nicer if it were my lap you are sitting on,” I say, grabbing her to sit on me. She smiles at me, and I swear it’s the first positive banter we’ve had all morning.
We watch Byron open the cupboards and pull out old plastic plates and cutlery, which I know we’ll be taking back to camp.
“You know, we could just set up camp here,” I suggest, pressing a kiss to Eve’s bare shoulder, savoring the warmth of her skin and the faint scent of sweat and adventure that clings to her. Her skin seems to have freckled slightly over the last days or so. I could get lost just counting each one; it’s hypnotic and relaxing.
“We don’t know which side of the border this sits on. The camp is safer.”
“Don’t you think the savages would have utilized this place if it were on their turf?”
“Zane’s right,” Eve chimes in.
“But we don’t know what this place was used for. There are chemicals in those jars that tell me this was a chemical lab. The last thing I want to be around is finding out we’ve been sleeping in some toxic shite,” Byron suggests, and I can see his point.
“I think we can find some use in some of these things. Maybe find a bag where we can load them up and take them with us. I want to continue looking around to try and decipher what this place was used for.”
Eve nods her head and gets off my lap, much to my disappointment.
Byron quickly shuffles himself out of the room, eager to check out the rest of this facility.
“Are you okay doing this?” I ask Eve, eager to see what else there is in this place.
"Yeah,I'm fine. Maybe we can find their sleeping quarters and scrounge up some decent linens, even if they are thirty years old," she replies with a determined smile.
I smile back at her, but inside, guilt gnaws at me. Eve shouldn't have to root through garbage to find a semblance of human comfort. I would give her the world if I could. Instead of voicing my thoughts, I hurriedly scramble out, head down, avoiding eye contact.
This is Eve Winters we're talking about—digging through trash. Before Byron filled me in on her background, maybe I didn't fully understand who she was. But now that I do, all I want is the best for her.
She’s my woman, for fuck’s sake. Even if she hadn’t come from America’s royalty, I still would have wanted only the best for her and done everything in my power to make sure she got it.
But instead of letting my anger get the best of me, I storm off down the hallway, not entirely sure what I’m searching for. Right now, I’m just overwhelmed by frustration, unsure of my next move, and feeling lost in this situation.
Be helpful, for fuck’s sake!
I need to use my fucking brain, not my ego!
Looking around the hallway, I will myself to focus on the current mission.
I shut off my inner voice. It does me no good.
The hallway here is lined with faded posters with simple pictures dedicated to the topic of fire safety in Russian. Opening a door that leads me to another hallway and an office room that instantly takes me thirty or forty years back in time. A red-colored Lenin poster hangs on the wall, and I imagine that the sparsely designed furnishings are typical of the Soviet-era style.
On one of the tables, there’s a severely dusty pewter drinking cup. I pick it up and examine it, realizing it had been awarded for winning a chess tournament. It probably used to belong to one of the people who worked here. I put it down exactly where I found it as if the person might return looking for it.
Reaching up to the top of a cabinet, I pull down two dusty brown filing boxes. Inside are large folders with dozens of survey sheet samples and copies made by hand, with masses of notes in colored pencils and markers. I wonder if any of these are maps of our island.
My eyes move towards the long table, where it seems someone has filled a few boxes with stuff, preparing to move out, except theyare still here. Left as it were thirty-odd years ago. On a table, there are abandoned certificates and, more surprisingly, individual medical records.
I pick a bunch up.
They look like vaccination cards.
Why would they need these and then leave them behind?
These are personal things.
The last room in here seems to be some sort of records room with a huge cabinet stuffed with old documents that is about to fall down. In a corner, I see what I assume is a Soviet radio gramophone.
What I would give for a bit of music in my life right now.
