by Wood, Kolin
That was several hours ago. They had barely spoken a word to one another since setting off.
“We made it,” John said, reaching into his bag for the last of their water and tossing the bottle over to land next to her on the grass. It was an obvious statement, but right then, he couldn’t think of anything other than the obvious to say.
For a few moments, Becca said nothing. Finally, she rolled over onto her side with a groan and propped her head on one arm. The look that she gave him was both measured and sarcastic. “You think?”
John looked away. He was not in the mood for her banter. His feelings for her mixed with the horrors of the previous evening had left him light on humour.
Sensing his unwillingness to play, Becca shuffled until she was sitting up right next to him against the wall. She took a long pull on the bottle and passed it back to him. “Only just. Another night in those woods and it might have been a different story.”
John took the bottle. The water was warm and tasted of plastic. “Why do you think they didn’t attack us?” he asked with a grimace as he screwed the top back on.
“Who? The rats?”
“Either.”
Becca shrugged. “Maybe they stayed to finish off the farm. Plenty of good eating there…” She suddenly realised what she was saying and put a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, John. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” he interrupted. The feeling of her hand on him was like electricity to his skin.
More silence followed.
Even though it hurt to think about it, her reasoning was, in fact, sound. There must have been fifty people at the farm when they had first arrived. Fifty full grown men for the rats and crazies to feed on. And one dog.
Becca gave his arm a squeeze and removed her hand, leaving the area suddenly cold. John looked over, noting the muscular curve of her thigh.
“Think they’ll come on down this far to the city?” he said, forcing his eyes away. High above him, a hawk hung almost still in the air, its large wings not moving, gliding the thermal gusts with an unspoken, natural grace.
“No reason they won’t. They stripped our town to the bone, killed everyone.”
This time it was John’s turn to feel awkward. He may have lost a companion in Murphy, but all evidence pointed to the good chance that she may have lost her entire family. He considered his next words carefully. “You guys managed to hold them off. No reason to think that your brother still hasn’t managed to do that. The city might be our best hope of defending ourselves from an attack. If we warn people in time, maybe we can get prepared to defend ourselves.”
“Like we did at the farm, you mean?”
John turned to look at Becca, now facing him. Her eyes were serious and lined with a sliver of tears. Her uncle had not believed them, had barely entertained the idea, and the lack of trust had cost the entire settlement their lives. But he understood what she was saying: If her own family had not believed her, then what was to say that an entire city full of people that they had never met before would have anything but distrust at their news?
“We have to try,” he said.
Becca looked away but did not reply.
Slowly onward through the suburb they moved, John following behind Becca with the pack strapped to his back. He felt tired. The supplies that they had managed to gather together at the farm had kept their bellies full, but the weeks of walking with little to no proper sleep was beginning to take its toll on him. Every step he took felt flat and heavy and his arms simply hung at his sides, swaying with the natural bounce of his walk. His eyes remained forward, focused on her back, staring the battle-scarred stare of the weary. Thin, white bones poked through Becca’s shoulders, in complete contrast to the bright red shock of frizzy hair which she had worn down all morning.
With every step, the buildings closed in on one another, and the gardens and parks became smaller and smaller around them. The amount of cars on the roads began to increase too; doors open mid-evacuation, mangled wreckages caught in the midst of some horrible, forgotten accident. They had seen nobody since the farm, but John could not shake the feeling that they were being watched. Each time, the hairs rose inexplicably on his neck as shadows moved at the corners of his eyes. Tricks of the light, he thought… hoped.
Another few streets passed. By then, the buildings had changed too. Offices and houses cleared the way for shops and apartments bearing smashed signs with names in lurid colours that he did not recognise and could not read. The air had changed also. A sweet scent carried on the breeze, a faint undercurrent of something other than the sharp tang of the vegetation and rot of the buildings.
John stopped; his nose to the air. Becca nodded.
“I got it too,” she said. “Food. We can’t be far now.”
They continued, treading with the same, heavy-footed step as before. John found himself thinking about Ryan, and the likelihood of whether or not he would find him here at the Refuge. They had absolutely no idea what to expect inside. Memories from his childhood flashed before him: the chaos of the city, the death, the fighting, the burning… He hoped that, should some model of civilisation still be present here, it would have found itself a more peaceful equilibrium to exist within than what he remembered. Otherwise… well, it stood to reason that they could be walking into a nightmare.
“John, look.”
A few steps ahead, Becca stopped and raised a pointed finger. John followed it, smiling as his eyes drew in on the object of her curiosity. A sign, crudely constructed from wood and daubed in bright splashes of paint had been erected against the side of a bus in the middle of the road.
“What does it say?” he asked, embarrassed.
“It says Welcome one and…”
That was when the dark shadow stepped from a doorway and they heard a deep voice behind them say, “Hello, sweethearts.”
Chapter 10
Tanner winced as he tried to clench his hand into a fist, watching with disappointment as the tips of his fingers fluttered for a fraction of a second and then stopped. With each flex of the muscles, the searing pain down his left arm felt like an injection of acid to his veins. The limb felt detached, as though it only had a few nerves left inside of it from the elbow down. That might even be the case, he thought as he pulled the arm back across his body and rested it on his stomach. The bullet could have pulverised any number of important and necessary parts. And if not the bullet itself, then the lack of surgical implements or even basic sanitation afforded to him in Dr Ajid’s surgery would not have helped his situation any either.
Upon awakening, Tanner had removed the cloth window coverings, allowing bright sunlight to filter into the room. Awkwardly, he held the stock of the Remington rifle between his knees and locked the bolt back into place. This was his routine, his ritual; he checked over the weapons every morning. Even though it made the job far more troublesome with one arm, he couldn’t break the habit of the best part of his lifetime. He lay the hunting rifle down on the floor next to the shotgun and the high-powered pistol, which he’d cleaned first to rid it of the blood and brain matter still attached to it when he woke. It had been a good job that they had decided to take it, given how things had turned out.
A groan sounded from the bed behind him. Tanner twisted his body around to look at Juliana, who laid sprawled unconscious on one of the dirty mattresses; her top half exposed revealing a smooth back and the side profile of her breast.
“Morning,” he said.
Juliana raised her head and propped herself up onto her elbows, her face fully covered by a tangled mess of dark hair.
Tanner took a breath. The sight of her, naked and exposed, immediately aroused him. They had made love last night, sometime after Charlie had left. Under the intoxicating influence of the home brew, and with the added benefits of a bed and no Doyle around to clutter the space, there had been nothing to stem the tide of their passion. The lovemaking had been hard and frantic, and had left them both lying dehydrated and
exhausted in puddles of their own alcoholic sweat.
“Tanner?” Her voice sounded croaky with the morning after.
“Right here,” he said, tossing her the half-bottle of water from the floor by his knee.
Juliana nodded without opening her eyes, unscrewed the top, took a hearty swig and then collapsed back onto the mattress with a groan, sending a puff of a dust cloud into the air. “Ow. My head hurts.”
Tanner chuckled. It didn’t matter where the brew came from—here or some shit-hole tent in the south—the after effects were always the same. His own head was in a state of total combustion too. It had not been helped by the nasty swelling that had taken hold under one eye.
“Didn’t help us that we never bothered to eat last night,” he said. “That evil stuff on an empty stomach doesn’t leave you good for… much.”
As he said the words, Juliana looked up, obviously noticed the twinkle in his eye, and immediately dropped and buried her head in the musty mattress once more. Tanner smiled, watching the steady rise and fall of her back in the bask of the morning sunlight.
“Not like you to be so bashful…”
Juliana grunted but still did not look up.
For a while, neither said anything so Tanner turned back to the weapons at his feet. When eventually she spoke again, Juliana’s voice was muffled by fabric. “I want to find Doyle today.”
“Uh huh.”
“It’s been days. No sign.”
“I know.” Tanner picked up the shotgun and laid it across his lap. He’d assumed that this would happen, although part of him had hoped that she would have perhaps given up on the lad by now. It was no secret to any of them that Doyle’s presence on the journey north had been awkward at times, especially on the quiet evenings when the three of them had bedded down to camp. On more than one occasion, Tanner had caught Doyle staring intensely at Juliana, but it had given him little cause for concern. It had been clear from the beginning that the lad had a crush, and understandable too—Juliana was a fine looking woman. But the further that they travelled and the longer they spent together, the more frequent the staring had become until it had bordered on creepy. It hadn’t helped that he had been acting so weird for the last week or so either: barely talking, face drawn, eyes pitted. When, on their first day in the Refuge, Doyle had decided to leave them and venture off alone into the city, it was no secret to anybody that Tanner had breathed a sigh of relief.
“I just want to know that he’s okay. That’s all.” she added.
Tanner nodded and cracked open the breach of the gun. It was futile to fight her when her mind was made up, and he was unwilling to create any more tension between them over it. He slammed the rifle closed. Besides, from what he had seen recently, the lad was past saving, and Juliana would work that out for herself soon enough.
Using the stock against the floor as an aid, he rolled on his rump and pulled himself up into a standing position then turned back to look down at Juliana.
“So, let’s go find him then,” he said.
***
The morning market square was quiet compared to the raucous clamour of the previous, drunken evening, but still held life. Stalls occupied the ample space, some covered, others not, their owners already busy hawking their wares with loud cheery voices. As Juliana appraised some of the goods on offer, she noticed that the vendors each sold a vast array of different products and produce, and guessed that a system without cash must rely on the ability to trade extensively. With the sun burning hot on her shoulders and the open space presenting a vast stretch of blue sky, she almost allowed herself to be tricked into believing that the world had found its equilibrium once again… almost.
Ahead of them, the empty shell of Paul’s Bar lay derelict and Juliana pulled on Tanner’s arm to slow their approach. The blue umbrellas from before had been removed and the simple shelves cleared of any remaining stock, leaving only a gathering of barrels and tables around to clutter the space. With the square now more like a Sunday market than a busy nightclub, and with the added assistance of bright sun, it was possible to scan the crowd with relative ease, so Juliana let go of Tanner, turning to see if their presence back at the scene of the crime had aroused any curiosity. But nobody paid them any mind whatsoever. The innocuous crowd bumbled around them, enjoying the atmosphere and the fine weather, completely oblivious to anything but their own tasks and chores.
In front of the bar, a huge pink blemish stained the cobbles; somebody had obviously tried to clean the blood stain. Juliana stared down at it and frowned. Tanner shrugged and said nothing.
“Where do you think we should start?” she said, glancing over to where a child was busy running in gleeful circles around the empty, graffiti-covered fountain.
With one arm again strapped across his chest in a grimy bandage sling, Tanner turned to take in the square. “We start with breakfast then we’ll go ask about your friend.”
Juliana weighed up the suggestion. “Ask who?”
“Well, what about that guy? The one Charlie told us about, the religious nutcase—might be as good a place as any to start.”
Juliana laughed. “What guy? The soothsayer? Please tell me that you’re joking?”
Tanner did not return the smile. He fixed her with a stare loaded with meaning. “The guy that cleans up the streets of all the crazed lunatics. That guy. I don’t know if you noticed, but your friend was not carrying a full wallet when we last saw him.”
Juliana opened her mouth to protest.
“Hey. If you have any better ideas, I’m all ears,” Tanner interrupted.
Juliana stood opened mouth for a few moments, and then closed it again.
“Right then, breakfast!” Tanner said, as the smell of freshly cooking meat wafted over the heads of the people around them. He turned for the street containing the food stall that Juliana had found the night before.
“Ah, ah, ah…” she said, pulling him back gently by his good shoulder. “Let’s try somewhere else. I didn’t much like the look of what I saw on the menu over that way.”
Chapter 11
“Hello, sweethearts.”
John spun in the direction of the voice, the old shotgun raised in his sweaty hands. The sight of the person stood before him sent a twist of dread through his guts. “Frank?”
Frank smiled. As usual, he had stripped off to the waist and his thick, dark torso rippled with muscle in the sun. In one hand, pointed at the back of Becca’s head, he held a crossbow, loaded with an arrow.
“The one and only,” he said.
John recognised the bow immediately. The quiver of bolts hanging at the man’s belt substantiated his claim. With the gun barrel aimed directly into Frank’s torso, he said, “What do you want?”
Frank looked surprised to see the gun in John’s hands, but still he took a steady step forward until he was stood only a few metres from Becca, who had subconsciously raised her hands. Her eyes were open wide with fear and searched John’s own for help.
“I think you probably know already, Johnny boy.” Another step. “Drop and step away from the gun. That’s not for little boys to play with. Do as I say and I’ll let you go. You have my word.”
John felt his jaw tense and his finger tighten on the trigger. He was not a little boy. He’d just rescued Becca from the farm, and brought them to the city alive. Blood thumped in his head. If he didn’t do something, and quickly, it would be too late. A fresh pouring of sweat dripped from his hairline and caused his hands to feel slippery. But he would not be made a fool of again.
Careful not to show his nerves, he took a step forward himself and thrust the barrel of the gun in Frank’s direction. His voice quavered a bit as he said, “Take one more step and you’ll find out just how wrong you are, Frank.”
Frank’s eyes dropped to the gun and then back up again, the smallest hint of a smile now showing at the corner of one side of his mouth, but he remained still.
“Well, it looks like we’ve got ourselves a goo
d, old-fashioned standoff then, don’t it?” he said, mimicking a Texan accent. An underlying playfulness shone in his features.
John’s mind whirred. He knew that Frank was toying with him, and his apparent confidence in front of a gun certainly made him wary; evidently, he didn’t think that John was man enough to make a stand against him. But he was about to be proved wrong. With steely defiance John had already decided that he would not be bullied, not by anybody again, not this time.
With as much conviction as he could manage, he said, “I’ll shoot you, Frank. I swear to god. Take one more step toward her and I will shoot you dead.”
This time, the smile dropped from Frank’s lips and hatred masked his features, all playfulness gone. His eyes flicked between John, Becca’s semi-naked torso, the gun, and then back again as he considered his options. “You’re making a big mistake, Johnny boy. You don’t wanna make an enemy out of me.”
But John would not be swayed. With fear threatening his legs, he took two long confident strides in Frank’s direction and raised the shotgun up to sit tight into his shoulder.
The show of confidence worked. Caught by surprise, Frank found himself subconsciously taking a retreating step backward, his hands, including the one holding the crossbow, held out before his body.
The tension had become so thick that it was almost tenable. Becca, seeing Frank retreat a step, suddenly spun and moved in behind John. For reassurance, she set one of her hands on his waist and John felt the spark of electricity there.
Frank scowled at her, as his eyes roamed over her body again.
“Drop it,” John said, as his bravery swelled in his chest.
Somewhat surprisingly, this time Frank did as instructed. The thin-framed bow clattered into the dust at his feet.
“Best you kill me, boy. Coz when I get hold of ya, you’re gonna wish that you did,” he said.