About a third of the way through the volume, Conrad left a page blank. When he began again, the format had shifted. It was no longer the daily thoughts of a man on the run. This time, it was a summation of his journeys, of all that had happened. Marco imagined it had been penned in this very chair. One long look back at what had transpired.
The man writing it was obviously quite changed. Marco could sense it almost immediately. There was something different about his tone. The urgency, the fear, the constant worry for his loved ones had disappeared. Instead, he was reflective. Still. Almost somber. From this point on, there was no mention of his wife or child. Whatever had become of them, Conrad couldn’t bring himself to put it down on the page. A lump caught in Marco’s throat.
Something horrible had happened.
Alone, it appeared that the author began to welcome death. He mentioned run-ins with scavengers, little skirmishes here or there, often ending in bloodshed. Conrad jotted them down as if they were nothing special. The man was a broken, reckless, bloodthirsty thing, seeking out enemies rather than avoiding them.
I was unlucky. All this time I’d spent running away from the reaper. Now that I wanted him, he was off on holiday.
Conrad wrote that he settled, finally, at Ashe Memorial. His reputation became such that scavengers mostly avoided him, save for those who were cocky enough to seek him out as a challenge. He served them death, one by one. Until he finally met his match.
He came at daybreak. Unlike so many of the others, he didn’t bother trying to sneak up on me. I heard his engine from miles out. The Kid was skinny, barely even a man, but as pompous as they come. He waited outside my door for me to come out, like he was expecting an old western gunfight. A quick draw. Probably only a few men alive are crazy enough to agree to such a thing. Luckily for him, I was one of them.
He said he’d sought me out for just that reason. I was one of the greatest death-dealers alive, so he had to test me out. Had to see how he stacked up. His mantra was: here in the q-zone, you aren’t anybody in this world until you kill someone famous.
So we had our little shootout.
He said he had a coin, and when it hit the ground, we would fire. It was such a strange thing, seeing someone so loyal to a code. Something about him told me he wouldn’t cheat me. He’d wait until the coin hit before drawing his gun, even despite that dumb smirk he had on his face. It was ego, I think. He was so confident that he would win, that he wouldn’t dare try to pull a fast one on me. It was against the point. So, he flipped it and we drew, and he shot me through the hand before I could raise my pistol. The bullet cut right between the knuckles of my middle and ring fingers. It still hasn’t healed right. I remember I fell to one knee, bleeding, awaiting judgement, but instead he just smiled and put his gun back in the holster. Fucking kid, he never even bothered to take off his sunglasses.
Marco stopped reading.
“Holy shit,” he said aloud.
“Ha!” Shelby called out. “The plot thickens.”
The Kid and I shared a drink that night. He told me he had a sort of fascination with the legends of the quarantine zone: Stocker Wade, the Mad Bomber and the ubiquitous Zeke most of all. He’d sought each of us out, one by one, trying to find out if we were real. It was almost flattering to be on that list, in a sick sort of way. They’d taken to calling me the Ghost of Ashe or the Reaver. Morbid names, but I guess I deserved them. I see now that if a community gets small enough, everyone has decent odds to become a celebrity. I’d never meant it to happen, and part of me loathed the idea of being a part of a society that deified its greatest killers.
Still, I enjoyed his company and I like to think that he enjoyed mine. He began to visit often and became comfortable with me. That hard, invisible shell you see wrapped around most scavengers, I could see him shed as he walked through my door, as easily as if it were a jacket. The Kid had an inquisitive mind and was fearless in conversation. He’d ask you anything, never afraid you’d take insult. He pushed me hard to speak about what had come before, about my family. I pushed back, throwing him out more than once. One night, after enough prodding to make my blood boil, I finally found the words. I told him everything. I found some form of catharsis that night. It’s something I won’t soon forget.
Our worldviews were so different that we couldn’t help but learn from one another. That saying about old dogs, I’d always believed it until I met him. We exchanged stories from the road. I didn’t travel much in those days, so I relied on him for intel. Once or twice he even warned me when some upstart scavenger was about to descend upon my home. One of those times, I suspected the Kid intercepted the guy before he got here. Stole one of my kills. Bastard. He gave up on those urban legends eventually. He never did find any sign of Zeke, which was a major blow for him. Instead, we turned our attention to the virus. We began to ask the big questions, the ones everyone is always too busy surviving to actually ask. Where did the virus start? Why here of all places? And what’s next? What symptoms were yet to come?
We travelled to every end of the quarantine zone, mostly on solo trips, separate from one another. I went to the edge of the highway, as far I could go without attracting the attention of those Army men. I wrapped the fringes of ruined Garland and saw nothing. The Kid had his contacts who he would ask for information. Me, I mostly eavesdropped, but I met a scavenger or two on the road during my travels. I learned nothing. All they ever had were their damned stories. The same urban legends the Kid had been chasing, but pumped full of embellishments. But, along with the tales of gunslingers and madmen was a something new: a story about a girl who the virus couldn’t touch. They talked about her with such reverence, as if even the non-believers didn’t want to put a jinx on her existence. It seemed to me like the least believable of all the stories because this one was full of hope. Here was a hero in a broken world, come to save us all. Sure.
Then one night, alone, the Pulse hit me like a shockwave, booming louder than I’d ever heard it before. I was incapacitated; completely trapped within its thrall. And then, just as quickly as it began, it was over. I told the Kid, but he laughed it off. Said I was losing my grip. It happened a few more times, once in his presence. After that, he was less skeptical.
We began to hear more rumors about the girl. By now they were calling her the Maiden. There were two main camps at that point. The first believed her to be the key to the cure and they figured the blood in her veins was our way to salvation. The second camp considered her immunity to be because she was a host. She’d been one of, if not the one, who started the whole thing. And she could continue to spread the virus. These people considered her highly dangerous. She was either the problem or the solution, depending on who you asked. But, everyone coveted her. If she was real, then half the damned q-zone was after her. With that much smoke, I began to suspect there had to be fire. But, still, the virus was my priority. I needed to know where it started and what the hell was happening to me. Once, we kidnapped a quarantine soldier and questioned him up and down. He didn’t know jack either. The Kid dealt with him when it was over. I’d never been much for killing Army men.
We searched for months and came up empty. There was no scientific experiment gone wrong. No Subject Zero. The Kid played it off like he didn’t care, but the lack of answers began to wear on me. There had to be a scientist somewhere, maybe outside the quarantine zone, who could compare this illness to something. Anything we’d seen before. If it were a normal sickness maybe it would’ve been easier to swallow. But, it isn’t. Beyond even the way we look, the Pulse tells me it isn’t. Whatever it was, it was swelling inside of me. It still is.
The Kid began to visit less, but he didn’t break contact altogether. Every time we met, he asked me about my symptoms: his tone more curious than empathetic. He was keeping tabs on the virus, seeing what was ahead of him. I suppose I might’ve done the same, were the roles reversed. We argued more often in those days. We’d used each other for information or stories. Everything we
told one another, we’d heard before. And our joint venture, this search for answers, had been an utter failure. It had all the signs of a friendship that’d run its course. The Kid began to close himself off to me. It was a subtle difference, but I’d spent enough time with him to notice it. The warmth was gone. He asked often about the girl, as well, but of course I had nothing to offer him there. One time he brought one of his cohorts with him to my house without asking, breaking that unspoken promise we had to keep the entire situation a secret. It was reckless, bringing someone else into my home. The guy he brought was nice enough. Talked too much, but seemed fine. In the moment, though, I wasn’t having it. It was a lack of respect, damn near a slap in the face. We didn’t see much of each other after that.
That should’ve been the end for me. Already, the idea was growing in my mind, like a cancer, gnawing at me. I began to savor the thought of it. The plan was, I’d wake up and have a full breakfast, put on some of my favorite records, read through the paper one last time and then go find a car. Something vintage, hopefully, and not in too bad a shape. Then, I planned to take to the highway, and head straight for that massive totem of death: the supergun. I was ready to go. I really was. Unlucky for me, I found her first.
Her name was Justine, she told me. I found her wandering the streets, alone, and right away I knew what I’d found. She had blue eyes, eyes like I hadn’t seen in almost two years. She didn’t seem to know quite what she was, not like I did. She’d just been living her life, oblivious to the legend that was sprouting up all around her. I didn’t have the heart to tell her, either. That’s a lot of weight for one person, to learn that you’re the Chosen One, here to save us all, or destroy us.
Marco looked up from the book. He recalled the mural on the wall, the girl with piercing blue eyes and long black hair. He flipped to the back of the book, finding those numbers again, written haphazardly above her name.
“These numbers…” he said.
“She has a pretty name, doesn’t she?” Shelby asked. “Justine.”
“Yeah,” Marco said, preoccupied. “I like it too.” He took a deep breath. Something was bothering him, something in Conrad’s earlier words.
There were two main camps at that point. The first believed her to be the key to the cure and they figured the blood in her veins was our way to salvation. The second camp considered her immunity to be because she was a host.
She was either the problem or the solution.
“So the people chasing her, they want to save her?” Shelby asked.
“Or kill her.”
“Hmmph.” She began to make her bear dance again, a two-step in rhythm with her words. “Saviors…or killers. Saviors…or killers.” She tilted her head one side, and asked innocently: “Marco, which one do you think your friends are?”
Before he could answer, he heard it. A vehicle, screaming towards the house. It halted out front, tires squealing to a stop. Marco and Shelby both turned towards the door. He shot up to his feet, tucking the book into the back pocket of his jeans. He glanced at the gun across the room. Fight or flight. All around him, insects had begun to emerge from the holes in the walls, skittering towards him. A shaky hand hovered at his side.
Grab it. Grab it and use it.
Tsk tsk tsk tsk tsk tsk tsk tsk.
He turned and ran.
Through the kitchen he went, past that blood-stained table, to the back door. He put his shoulder into it as he turned the knob and spilled out into the backyard. He lost his balance, falling, but hopped right back up and darted toward the treeline. The footsteps were bounding towards him, coming from behind. A hand clawed at his back, barely missing, and Marco continued to run. He’d run forever if he had to. But, then the hand was on him again, grasping his shoulder this time, pulling him back, contorting his upper body. It was stronger than he was, far stronger. His legs got caught beneath him, and then he was falling, and the other body with him. Both rolled onto the ground and then Marco was on his back, trying to kick and punch, but his arms and legs were squeezed close to him. Both he and his pursuer were breathing hard, both struggling in a tangle of limbs.
One arm pushed down on Marco’s chest and he watched as the other rose. A menacing arm: muscular, brutal. It came down with all its force and caught him just below the eye. He watched it rise again, but it was unclear if it fell, unclear if another hit was necessary.
His vision blurred and began to fade. He was slipping away. As his surroundings grew dimmer, the Pulse seemed to grow louder. The two acted in perfect tandem, and it was as if with each passing moment the world around him shifted to a deeper gray, shade by shade, and each time it shifted, the Pulse seemed to get the volume turned up one notch. Until finally the sound was all there was, more a feeling than a noise. An earthquake reverberating through his entire being. It wasn’t like Knox or Conrad said. It didn’t hurt. He settled in, warm and comfortable, floating in blank space.
After all these long weeks, Marco was about to finally able to get some rest.
10
-DAMAGE-
-Justine-
HER HEART WAS POUNDING, palms and forehead and neck moist with sweat. Her woozy captive sat below her, his back against the side of the bed, blood still trickling down his forehead. His auburn hair was shimmering wet, the clumps of red drying up by his hairline. Head wounds, they bleed so damned much.
“If you cry out,” she said, “I’ll kill you.”
David let out a gurgling murmur of a reply, barely audible. His eyes were closed, but they fluttered every now and again. It’d been a bitch to help him up the stairs. She’d slung one of his arms over hers and dragged the half-conscious asshole up to her room. Now, she placed her hands on her hips, glaring down at him.
What a mess.
She took a seat on the floor of that cellar, surrounded on all sides by the bounty of all these months. It looked like the secret chamber of some king, where he stashed away all his scepters and ruby necklaces and chests just spilling with gold. They’d remained there for over an hour, hardly speaking. The wounds were still so fresh. To her bones, she’d known all this time that her father had been dead. She realized that now. She’d tried her best not to contemplate how he’d met his end, but it wasn’t so easy sometimes. Her mind had always been wont to wander. She figured he’d crawled out of the hole and ran into the wrong crowd. He’d been ill-equipped. Unarmed and untrained.
She glanced up at Zeke, words choking in her throat.
“He wasn’t ready for this world, was he?”
Another man would’ve asked ‘who?’ Another man would’ve beat around the bush or played dumb. But, not Zeke. For all his faults, he’d always been straight with her. He’d only ever lied by omission.
“No.”
“If you didn’t…” the tears were forming again. Damned things, she couldn’t be rid of them. “If you…”
“Someone else,” he answered. “Yes.” He lowered herself down to her, offering his open arms. Leaning in. She tried to push back at first, to escape his firm grasp, but then she rolled her misty eyes and succumbed. She buried her face in his chest and cried, accepting the unending black. The oblivion that a pair of closed eyes offered.
It was unclear how long she stayed in that moment, enveloped in the warm, wet darkness. When she finally pushed away, the last of the tears was still sliding down her raw, red cheeks.
“Hold out your hand,” he said.
Sniffling, she did so, opening a palm. He held his own over hers, and then slowly dropped the glittering item. It was a necklace, the band thin and made of a shimmering gold. In place of a locket or a jewel was instead what looked like a chunk of dented metal, hardly larger than a tooth. The chain was composed of a priceless metal, the pendant a worthless one.
“You made this?” she asked.
Zeke nodded.
“It’s a bullet,” she said, rolling the flattened slug over in her hand. A warm feeling swelled in her stomach. “It’s the bullet that almost killed me.�
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“No bullet can kill us,” Zeke said, placing a gentle kiss upon her lips. “We’re going to live forever. Like Bowie.”
She snapped her fingers in front of his face.
“David. I need you to focus.”
In her hand, she held a utility lighter, pilfered from the fireplace. David appeared dazed. Hardly there.
“David, after you drug me…what happens when I pass out?” She asked very matter-of-factly.
He simply looked up at her, slack-jawed, as if in a drunken stupor.
“This is going to hurt,” she said.
Justine lit the lighter, letting the flame hover beside one of his hands. He was bound to the bed, sheets wrapping him at the elbows.She moved the lighter closer to his fingers. Closer. His eyes suddenly shot open.
“Oh,” she said. “There you are.”
He began to breathe rapidly, eyes darting around the room.
“David,” she said, raising the flame so that it danced right between his eyes, “What happens after I pass out?”
“I...” he swallowed, throat obviously bone dry. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You must be mistaken about something, I-”
She grabbed his hand, quickly, and jammed the lit end of the lighter onto his palm. She heard his hand sizzle. Before he had a chance to scream, she cupped a hand over his mouth.
“Mmmmmmmmuuuuhuuuuhhhhhh!” came his muffled gasp.
Tears squirted from his eyes. When she pulled back the lighter, a little round ring was charred into his palm. A brand.
“Ah-ah-ah-uh,” he panted, eyes darting this way and that, “Benjamin…it was Benjamin! He takes you! He and the others, the big men!”
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