by Jason Durman
Kill.
Flesh rips under my claws. I don't bite. Don't bite. Don't bite. I feel it kicking and struggling and I keep tearing and clawing and punching and…
It stops. The body is limp under me, and I start to see and feel again.
The Savage is a white and black and red thing under me, and my hands are red and sticky. So are my sides, and I feel the pain start to burn where it clawed me.
I taste blood. I didn't bite. But the smell is around me, and I can almost feel it in my mouth.
I take a deep breath. It's over.
*Click.*
I don't move, but I can smell the gunpowder.
And Russ.
"All this time?" He says. His voice is heavy. Mean. Like a growl.
I don't say anything.
"All this time?" he says, a little louder. "You were one of those… things? Those monsters? Those crazies that jumped around and fucking ate people? The shitheads that broke my little brother so hard he couldn't even fucking breathe?"
I still don't say anything. My throat is tight and there's blood in my mouth and I want to vomit.
"You thought you could hide, huh? With us? Wait for the right moment to strike? Or did you get attached?"
His arm is shaking. I can hear it rattle the gun, very, very little. I keep looking down.
There's blood on my hands, and my sides still burn.
"Maybe you felt sorry?" His voice is louder now. He's almost yelling. "Maybe you thought you could make up for it, by joining the little human group? Maybe you thought you could throw away what you've done?"
He pushes the gun closer.
"How many people have you killed?" he whispers. I don't answer. My hands are shaking, and they're full of blood.
Russ presses the run against my head. "Answer me! How many people have you fucking killed?"
"I don't know!" My throat is tight, and my voice sounds strange, like someone is choking me. "I don't know. I never wanted to hurt you." My eyes burn, and I try to swallow the lump in my throat. "Please.
I just wanted to get to Savannah."
The gun is pressed hard against my head.
"Please." I say again. "I'll leave you. I'll leave Eve and Trevor alone."
I can see them now. They're probably in the safe room, watching the door. Eve is worried, but she won't show it because she never does and she's probably thinking about if Russ hurt his arm again, and Trevor is probably talking about how Russ is right around the corner, yeah, of course he will, he's a tough old fart, not like old Trevor, who's got an achy back and smells like gas and alcohol…
Waiting.
I'm waiting. I don't know for what. Just waiting.
"Don't shoot. Just… let me go."
Russ sniffs. I can hear every sound of the gun against my head- and I can hear the trigger creak…
I'm sorry.
BAM.
The gun whacks my on the head, and black dots are dancing in front of me.
I look up. Russ is still pointing the gun at me. His eyes are cold.
"Get the fuck out of my sight," he says. "I wouldn't waste a bullet on scum like you."
Breathe.
"If you don't get your ass out of here in the next 30 seconds, I might change my mind."
I scrabble on the floor before I get up. He keeps the gun on me, and I walk, slowly, to the window.
My hands are up.
His eyes are still cold, and they narrow.
"Savannah is 100 miles southwest from here. Week's walk," he says. "Now fuck off. We don't need monsters like you."
I turn away. I don't want to look at him any more. Even then, when I reach the balcony I glance back.
The gun is still on me, and I feel my eyes burn.
Then I turn to look at the sky, and not where I'm supposed to land, and I jump.
Chapter 24
My body felt weighty against the cot. Gravity was always more demanding when I was waking up from the drugs. The fact that I, no doubt, had a lot less blood volume at the end of the whole ordeal probably didn't help things, adding a lightheadedness to my heaviness.
I was about to open my eyes, heavy as my lids were, when I heard muttering in the background.
" She's getting more resistant," one says. It's female. I keep my eyes shut, and I will myself not to move. It's not hard.
" To the drugs, or to us?" I hear a man's voice reply. " She's been quiet for a month, ever since she tried to tear off Dansen's di-"
" I don't know," the other voice cuts in. " She talks to herself. And I swear to God, whenever anyone walks by she watches them like some sort of fucking animal in a zoo. Even after they found that audio problem and fixed it, it's like she's listening."
Despite the drugs, my heart was beating a little faster than usual. My right arm was itching like all hell, but I ignored it.
" Whatever," the man replied. " She practically is an animal at this point. She doesn't touch the TV, or read anything. She just stares. And argues with the wall."
" Yeah, well, if she gets tSavagey, up the dosage, alright?"
" You know I have to go through clearance for that," the woman replies. I heard the door swish open, and the two started walking out. " Dr. Mossman can be such an outright bitch, you know that one time she..."
I waited for another ten minutes or so, letting myself slowly wake up (or, at least, pretending I was) before sitting upright on the edge of the cot.
The TV, I suppose, was a nice touch. It was mounted into the wall, with no chance of me prying it out (I tried) and stocked with all manner of historically inaccurate war movies, as well as a couple of sappy romantic comedies and daytime TV from before the 'flu. Or after. Hell if I know.
I could only watch about ten minutes of The Perspective and Make a Sale before I wanted to barf. The Snipers of Mesa Valley lasted a bit longer, but when one of the privates started arguing with the general about taking a battleship through the Gulf of Persia to carpet-bomb the coast, I had to turn it off in inaccuracy-induced disgust.
(I will admit Insect Film wasn't bad. Who would have thought that a praying mantis voiced by Tom Jones would be funny?)
I wish they'd given me something to write with. A novelist I'm not, but I ached to, of all things, log my days. Maybe it was a habit from the Cabin, but there were moments where I dreamed of writing down Day 58, Stared at wall and did 50 pushups.
The books were OK. There weren't any survival manuals or handy books about escaping from impenetrable fortresses, sadly. I refused to touch the romance novels or the Wanda magazines.
There was one book about a flat world on the back of a hippo riding on a giant salamander, which was funnier than than I expected, but didn't sate my need to brush up on snow survival tips, or learn how to saw your own arm off when trapped under a boulder.
I didn't care, though. All the survival manuals in the world wouldn't have prepared me for this.
And not one survival manual would have been as helpful as the little tidbit my two new friends had just given me when they thought I was asleep. This, in fact, was the first time I had woken up early enough to hear whoever was dropping me off in the room. The drugs were wearing off; and, with each dosage they gave me, I'd build up even more resistance.
Yeah. I grinned. I may not have managed to kill that first guy, or the guys after that, but next time around, I wouldn't miss the jugular.
I think I might have figured out what the hell to do.
Chapter 25
"Just what the hell are you doing?"
I woke up. Whatever I'm lying on, it's soft. The ceiling above me is brown and wooden, and I smell it
- smoky and dusty and oily, all at once.
I look down. The thing I'm resting on is covered in a flower pattern.
The couch.
The Cabin.
Home.
I sit up with a jerk. Marcy is standing by the doorway, shotgun over her shoulder.
"I'm going to check the traps," she says. "Are you gonna sleep in al
l day, or what? I can't wait forever."
I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. Before I can yell she's out the door, and I jump up, run after her, grab the door before it shuts all the way….
But when I open it, I don't see the woods. I see bricks, far ahead of me, and an alley, far below me.
A broken balcony. Dust. Rock is crumbling, and if I take another step, I'll fall, and I can't see the bottom.
I turn around. I'll go back inside, where it's safe and warm, where I know I am…
A gun. Pointed at me, between my eyes. I can't see who's holding it; just their eyes, made of fire.
I step back, not thinking. I hear the gun fire, but it sounds far away and echoey, and I'm falling back, falling down….
BAM. I feel something hit my back, but I'm standing up. It's dark, and it's crowded. There are people around me, but I can't see them. Lights are flash. Blue, red, purple, green… something is thumping in the background. Wub wub wub wub wub wub wub… like some big heart. Everything around me is touching me, bumping into me, and I was to run. Them a huge voice coming from everywhere booms.
"Let's hear it for The Place!" it says. I don't know where it's coming from.
Someone screams behind me. I turn around, ready to fight, to punch, but something clamps onto my shoulder. It burns, and I yell out. Everything is going to black…
You'll be back, right, Den?" I hear a voice say. It's not Trevor, or Eve, or even Marcy. It's someone else, someone I know, but I don't….
" You promise?"
I wake up. The noise and the lights and the smells and the voice are all gone. Instead, it smells like cleaner. And i can hear the door- Bang. Bang. Bang. My body tightens.
I sniff. Sickness oozes from under the door, like rot. Whoever is knocking isn't alive.
Not in the way I'm looking for, anyways.
I rub my eyes, getting all the gunk out of them. They itch.
I haven't had a dream like that in a while, not since I was with Russ and Eve and Trav. I think it's only been a week since the Thug and the Savage, but it feels a lot longer.
I keep hoping I'll see them. I watch from the tops of buildings, listening, hearing, smelling. But they're probably far away now. I'm faster than they can go- I take more shortcuts over buildings, and I stop only when I'm tired. Dark doesn't slow me, because it's warm enough for me to go at night, and I can see better than they did.
Food is a little easier. I find things in houses and in cupboards. It's still not enough, and I don't slow down to look longer.
I don't have to hear Trevor going grrrrr-hck or hide my hands. I can keep my hood up and not worry about pissing off Russ. I can jump and run instead of walking, slowly, slowly.
But I don't feel any happier.
Actually, I feel the opposite. I miss the noises and the smell of Betsy and Eve making that gross brown stuff in the morning, or the sound of Russ and Trevor arguing over the map.
I don't know why.
The banging keeps going. I can hear the door crack under whatever is hitting it.
I get up from the pile of rags I've been sleeping on. I hate the smell of cleaning closets, but they're small and warm and quiet, and they mask my smell from others.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Well, most others.
I grab the shovel. I only realized I still had it after I ran. I don't think Russ would want it back.
I open the door.
WHACK.
The infected goes down hard, and it doesn't get up again. It's dressed in army clothes, that blocky green-grey-brown pattern. I don't know how long it's been around, but it smells fresh.
The hairs on my neck raise. It's warm, but I shiver. This is bad.
I don't see or smell any more as I go to the roof. The buildings around me are all crumbly. Some of them have little plants growing around them, or big holes in them, like something fell on them. I don't know what did, though.
There's something far off, sparkling in the distance. It's flat, and when the wind from it blows towards me I can smell it- salt, with a little touch of fire.
The sea. Marcy told me about it, and how dangerous it is. But Savannah is near the sea - that's what it said on the maps, and if all the road signs I'm following are right, then I'm getting close.
I jump off the roof, rolling when I land. It's lonely, but it feels good to jump and run over buildings instead of walking all the time. I missed feeling the wind on me.
The buildings go on awhile before I have to get to the road. It's filled with cars, and the smell of rot hits me as I land on the pavement.
My stomach turns, and I pull my sweater over my nose. It still smells like cleaner, which is better than corpses and gas.
I do a not-run not-walk thing that I don't have a name for, over and past the cars. I don't see or hear anything. I think most of the infected around here are dead.
I try not to think about anything- about the others, or that dream, or Marcy. I just think about running. Step, step, step, avoid that hole, step…
When the sun is starting to get lower, the smell of the salt gets closer. So does the smell of smoke, and the fire.
Weird. Does the ocean smell like that all the time? I wonder.
I turn the corner. The smell of smoke and fire is even stronger now, and it's burning my nose and my eyes. Then I see it: The big green sign on the side.
Welcome to Savannah.
Except, someone's crossed out 'Savannah' on the sign and wrote 'Hell' under it. I don't know what Hell is, but I've heard Marcy tell Gatling to go to it, and Russ uses it a lot, so it's probably a bad place.
I look past the sign.
Savannah looks like a bad place.
It's flat. There's nothing. No buildings, or cars, or anything. It's black and crumbled, and there are a few things sticking up, old crumbled walls here and there, but nothing anyone could hide in.
My stomach turns. The wind makes a high-pitched noise over the buildings. I can't smell anything but fire and dust everywhere, and my mind feels like it's burning.
No.
My eyes can't focus, and I just start walking, slowly, towards the ruins.
There's rock and broken burned wood and ashes everywhere. I don't even smell or see any infected; no bodies, no bones, nothing. The ground crunches under my feet, and I almost step on sharp metal bars a few times. I'm not really paying attention.
There are some walls still standing, like big boxes coming out of the ground, but there's nothing in them but more burned wood and metal and broken rock.
Nothing, I think. Nothing left standing.
I look. Even when a rock pokes a hole in my shoe and makes my foot bleed, even when it starts getting dark, even when my eyes are watery from the smell of burning all the time, I keep looking.
The sun is about to go down when I find another sign. It's covered in dust and it's buried by the rock, but I can see part of the words:
" Whit
Gun'
There's barbed wire (I feel my back shake) under the rock, too, and I can see part of a wall standing up behind the sign.
Dig up the sign, my head tells me. Maybe it's the wrong place. But another part of my head tells me that it's the right place, and it's too late.
"Well," I say. "Fuck."
Chapter 26
I keep looking for a while. It's really dark now, and I can see the stars over me. We didn't travel at night when I was with the others, and I didn't look up when I was traveling alone. I do now.
Marcy said that in cities, there used to be too many lights to see the stars at night because they would be blocked out. There's no city now, so there are the stars. They're far away, but they're so thick and close together I feel like I can move them with my fingers.
Or rip them, I think. If you were closer you could rip a hole in the sky.
They're different than they were by the Cabin, and by the military camp. But they also feel the same.
Then I feel the tiredness in my legs, and the
sting where I hurt my foot, and my eyes with a heartbeat in them. Rest. I need rest.
There aren't any closets around. Not even buildings with roofs to sleep under. I find one with some floor in it. There's a big hole in it, and I can see the stars through it when I lie down, like someone ripped through it.
The rocks aren't a very good bed, but they don't smell like cleaner. And I'm too tired to care.
I try not to think about tomorrow, and where to go, and what will happen. I don't know, except that my foot will probably hurt a lot.
Maybe tomorrow will be better, Is what I do think. And then I sleep.
It smells of, not dust after rain but something else: Snowmelt. It's earthy and almost sweet in the back of his throat, as cleansing steam rises from the disappearing drifts around him. The icy water flattens the grass around him and soaks his freezing sneakers, but he doesn't care.
The water flows downhill, filling the lake at the bottom. The water is black, reflecting what lies below: Ash, or perhaps dark sand. Its surface is punctured by buildings, broken and crumbled. Overhead are stars, spackled across the scene's ceiling like the work of a careless painter. Their reflection drips onto the lake's surface, and the effect is one of endless space.
A woman also stands in the water, ripping a hole in the celestial blanket with her silhouette. The snowmelt is up to her knees and rising, but she does not move. Her back is to him, but he can recognize her by her hair, and the tattered jacket she wears.
He tries to speak, but his voice dies in his throat. He tries to move, but his legs are bound by an unseen weight. He can do nothing but reach, and she is too far. There is only silence, and water, and ash and sand and stars.
"A sheep eats anything in its reach," she says. Her voice is wrong- far away and faded, and it is not a voice he knows, and not one that belongs to her. It is lighter, rolling, almost, and it is strange and achingly familiar. His voice bids him in a certain reply.
"Even flowers that have thorns?" He queries. His voice is strange, too; high-pitched and boyish, but it is his, he knows this.
"Even flowers that have thorns," she replies. She still does not move. His legs find movement, and he begins to dash towards the lake, even as the hillside rolls longer before him.