by Jason Durman
"Then the thorns," he gasps, as he trips down the slope. "What use are they?"
He is nearly there. The lake is halfway up her arms now, growing closer to her shoulders. Now she turns and he cannot see her face, for she is a black hole against the lights behind her, and her movement sends the universe in the water rippling.
"The thorns ," he asks again. " What use are they?"
The lake roars, and he can't see her. Light is everywhere, and it blinds him. Water surrounds him, and he drowns. And then, an answer:
"Spite."
Then the lake crashes around him, and he knew no more.
I wake up.
It's light. Light is coming through the hole in the ceiling and hitting my eyes. I hear birds chirping. The air is still cold from last night, and a little fresher.
There's a man in front of me. He has a gun. It's pointed at my face.
Oh. My brain is still tired, and I'm still trying to understand what it means.
This again.
"Giddup."
His voice is gruff. It sounds a little familiar, like the drawl that Marcy has, but it's… more. I can't see his face- he's wearing goggles and a bunch of cloth covering up everything, but I can smell him: Dust. MRE's.
Gunpowder.
"Whitaker?" I say. He snorts.
"Ain't heard that name in a long time, boy. Now get the fuck up."
I get up. The gun follows me.
"Now tell me, boy," he says. "What's a lurker like you doin' snooping around a ruined city, hmm?
Figured you could raid ol' Whitaker's stash, hmm? Pick the place clean after the old coot kicked it?"
"I…" I started, but he cut me off.
"Don't waste yer breath, boy. I've seen it all. I've lived through the walkers. I've lived through the rioters. I've lived through the looters. I've lived through every single goddamn bomb they dropped on the place. Fuck, I've even lived through the Red Scare. I've got a body count as high as my mama's old house. A little runt like you, hell, I ain't got time for."
I swallowed. "I have something you want."
The wind whistled in the buildings. Rain was coming; I could smell it in the air, and my eye scars ached.
"And what," Whitaker said, "Would that be?"
"My pocket," I said. My mouth felt like it was full of sand. "Check it."
He looked down at my hoodie pocket, then up to my face. "Hands where I can see them," he said.
"You try any tricks, and you'll find your head about five pounds lighter."
I nod. I put my hands up. I wish I'd put my gloves on when I was asleep. Don't look up, don't look up, don't look up...
Whitaker reaches over. His hand reaches into my pocket, and I feel it close around the small bottle.
He pulls it out.
He looks at it. He looks at me. He looks at it again. He rubs over the little label, even though the Nuka Finest is starting to peel.
He looks up.
"Alright," he says. "I can chat."
We walk. Whitaker still doesn't take the mask off - or put the gun away - but it's not pointed at me anymore. I don't know where we're going, but he seems to.
"I ain't got much, to be honest," he says. "Grenade launcher ran out awhile ago. I've got bullets.
S'mostly odds and ends, though. Ain't much left to shoot out here, anyway."
He looks over the ruins. The clouds are getting darker over us, and I can smell the rain even stronger now. Here, it's salty, and the air feels even wetter.
"I've got MRE's, too," he says. "They're a coupla months after expiration, but they taste about the same fresh."
"I'm looking for your niece," I said. "Marcy. She's in trouble."
Before I can blink, the gun is up again. This time, under the gunpowder and dust, I can smell it: Anger.
"Don't you try that shit on me, kid," he growls. "'Cos I ain't falling for it. Fuck the cola. The deal's off."
My hands are up again. I've got to learn to keep my mouth shut.
"Really," I say. "She needs help. I… I came looking for you. You're the only one I could turn to.
Please… she's my friend…"
"Really?" he says. "What's her full name?"
"Marzia. Marzia Adelaide Walker."
He snorts. "What's the first gun she ever fired?"
I clench my fists. Think think think…
"A .22," I say. "A… bolt. A-Bolt. Browning. Manual. She jammed it the first time, but you helped her fix it…"
"And her father?" he says, interrupting. "How's ol' Justin doing?"
I take a breath. "His name isn't Justin," I say. "It's Mason. And… he's dead."
"What?"
"I'm…" I pause. The hand holding the gun is shaking - I can hear it rattle- and he slowly lowers it.
"No," he whispers. "Mason…" he look up to me.
"Don't tell me the walkers… They never could have. He's too strong for that, but…"
"No," I said. "It was a while ago. Something with a blood clot in his head, Marcy said."
Whitaker shakes his head, His hands are clenched, and his whole body is trembling.
"Goddamnit," he says. "God fuckin' damnit." He holds a hand to his face. "I ain't talked to that son of a bitch in 13 goddamn years, and…"
He looks down at the gun. "I'm a fucking idiot."
I don't say anything. Whitaker doesn't say anything for awhile.
I hear a distant rumble of thunder far off. The storm will be here soon.
"Marcy," Whitaker finally says, looking up. "You said she's in trouble?"
I nod. He grunts.
"Couldn't be from zombies, if she's the same kid that she was." I shake my head.
"No, it's the mil-"
Suddenly Whitaker grabs my arm. He looks back and forth, like he's trying to spot something.
"How 'bout we take this inside?" he says, barely whispering. "Hills have eye, y'know."
I look around. "No, they don'-" I don't finish what I'm saying, because he's dragging me.
"Where are you going?" I ask. Maybe he has a house, or somewhere hidden in one of the buildings…
"Gun shop," he says. I snort.
"But it's broken down," I say. "Isn't it?"
He stops. I can see the sign still sticking out of the gravel.
"What kind of shitty-ass survivalist would I be, he says, reaching around the sign, "If I didn't have a goddamn backup bunker?"
He pulls something, and I hear metal creak. The rock in front of us shifts, and a metal square opens up in the ground. It's dark, but I can see a ladder going down.
He starts climbing down. "Ya coming?"
I smell the air. It smells like dust, and sweat, and gunpowder and…
MRE09 Menu 03. It is a little old. But I'm also hungry. My mouth waters.
"Ok," I say.
I get inside just as the rain starts.
It's dark down there. The walls are made of hard rock, and they're lined with shelves. Some of them have ammo. Others have cans. I see one with old cartons and a lot of empty bottles.
There's also a cot, and a desk with a bunch of wires and stuff, and a picture frame of some people I don't know.
And there's a couch. It's very dirty, but I can see the flowers on it.
"Home sweet home," Whitaker says, taking off his mask. His face is covered in grey hair and I can see his eyes all squinty under his bushy eyebrows. "MRE?"
I take it, and I don't even think before I bite into the packaging. I spit out the eww foil part before I devour the rest of it. I don't even know what it is; I'm just eating it as fast as I can.
I'm trying to get the last of the crumbs when I realize Whitaker is watching me. I put the packet down.
My face burns.
"Sorry," I mutter. Whitaker shrugs and goes back to putting away his guns. "Nothin' to be ashamed of," he said. "Apocalypse brings out the beast in all of us."
I don't say anything. I don't ask for another MRE, even though I want one, but he gives me one anyway. I eat this one
more slowly this time, and I try not to rip it with my teeth.
"So," he says, sitting down. He gives me a long, hard stare, and it feels like he's looking over every bit of me - not just my outsides, but trying to see into my head, too.
"Just how the hell did you get into all this bullshit?"