by M. D. Massey
He lifts a weathered hand, taking a long drag from a brown, rolled-up cigarette, blowing the smoke in my face. Who the hell is this appalling guy?
I wave smoke from the air as he smiles with discolored teeth. All of a sudden, I don’t feel so bad about my hygiene. “Well, I see you wakin’ up. We have a talk, you and me.” Again the accent confuses me, most likely from a northern location.
“Pretty boy came into duh city, told me you was sick, so I lent dem drugs to you. Pain killas, too. Got’s stitches now, you gotta be careful wit dat. I know da pretty boy from months past. Met him lookin’ all like juice head gorilla. He’s off seeing a favor, but you gots a few more days, needs dem drugs for two weeks.” I blink, trying not to laugh at his commentary and brief description of Rudy.
I don’t know what to think about him. Even though his appearance throws me off, I shouldn’t underestimate him. Having such an accent and never hearing anything like it before, I’m taken with it. There’s an arrogant confidence about him. “Uh, thanks. For everything,” I say through my staring. He nods, scrutinizing me. I can’t tell if he’s amused by my reaction to him.
The door bursts open. A guy pops his bald head in. He’s younger than the man sitting with me and much paler. “Yo, Guido! Lemme tell you, them broads is brawlin’ out here. Scratching each other’s faces like tigers.” Guido? Seriously?
I peer at him. He sits calmly, looking at buzz cut. “Lemme see to this, chickie. Drink some water with those pills. You need to swallow dem down.”
“Wait,” I stop him. “How long have I been here?”
“Hmmm, ‘bout two days,” Guido says. His cigarette roll hangs in his mouth as he stands to leave the room.
I can’t remember being here that long. I remember dreaming about a turquoise ocean with blue skies and someone laughing. A bottle of water sits beside me on the floor. I drink the contents, groaning as it wets my dry throat and coats my stomach.
Taking stock of the small room, I’m on a full mattress on the floor, catty-corner from the door. The only other furniture in the room consists of two old wooden dining chairs, once a part of a whole set. Now, they’re dried and cracked from lack of polish.
Dirty blinds shield a small window over the bed. Looking between the dusty slats, other buildings scatter down a sunlit road. The room has a distinct “office” feel to it. The walls were once white, but are now a pale yellow over brick. The berber carpet’s worn, showing the high traffic area, seemingly the primary source for the smell of sex and vomit.
The sheets are clean and stiff cotton, and I’m impressed the sheets aren’t dirty. My eyes settle on my pack at the end of the bed. My crossbow and arrows perch next to it. Apparently, Guido doesn’t feel threatened by me.
I rummage through my pack and find several cans of food with my can opener. Rudy must have thrown them in. I pull my jacket on to block the chill, and then I realize my locks have been tied. A dark green bandana holds them together, the one Rudy was wearing when I first saw him. Realizing he tied them, I wonder if he has another bandana. I can’t imagine him without it.
I eat my canned food and swallow the pills Guido left. Feeling as though a train ran over me, I touch for the cut on my temple. A bandage covers it, but I can tell the heat is gone. I exhale, relieved. The whole ordeal could’ve been much worse. I can’t help but feel someone is watching over me.
My body relaxes in on itself with fuzzy lightness. I should’ve thought about only taking one pill before downing both. They’re powerful little bastards.
Lying down and staring at the ceiling, I think it’s puzzling to see electricity. Several fluorescent lighting fixtures adorn the ceiling, but only one has a bulb. There must be a generator.
Scratching my face and stomach because they’re itchy is the last thing I remember. Then, nothing.
A soft strumming brings me into consciousness. I smile because if it isn’t one of the best ways to fall asleep, it’s the best way to wake up. When I open my eyes, Rudy’s reclining on the small chair, previously occupied by Guido, playing his guitar. Having slept well, I’m feeling better. With a foggy head, I smile in appreciation.
He grins. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“No, I like to hear you play.” I rub my eyes with my palms.
“You look much better. The bruises on your face look better, too.” He looks better himself. He wears a navy blue bandana with a black sweatshirt, unknowingly answering my question about a backup bandana. I reach to untie the one from my hair and play it through my fingers. “I wanted to let you know we’ll be staying here for a while. Give you some time to heal up.” His gaze travels to the bandana in my hand. His pleasure is obvious when he grins at me.
I waggle it in front of him, “Thanks.”
He smiles wider, blasting me with his charm and dimples. This Rudy’s so much better than the worried, pissed-off Rudy. I don’t want to be the focus of it again.
“What’s a juice head gorilla?” I ask, changing the subject.
Rich laughter escapes him. “Guido likes to tease, as if I use steroids. I don’t and never have. Believe it or not, I’m toned from working outdoors and keeping in shape. Being in construction before, it wasn’t hard. I still like to spend most of my time outside,” he says, shrugging. My mind flashes to him doing pull-ups on the bars in the vault. Toned? If that’s not an understatement, I don’t know what is.
“Hmm... You do sort of resemble a gorilla.”
“You think so?” he asks, calling me on my teasing.
“No. Gorilla has not once come to mind.” He opens his mouth, but I say, “Guido mentioned you doing a favor?”
He pauses long enough to run a hand over his bandana and remove it, letting his hair fall. “There is a mixed culture here. The people use money, and most of them live a weird lifestyle I don’t care too much about. They have things people need, and that’s what draws survivors into the community. The survivors here are used for whatever skills they possess for having a secure place. They don’t live by ordinary rules. They… it’s best if I show you but not now. As for the favor, I had to bring in a certain type of famished without killing them.”
A long silence follows as I take in the information. First thing’s first.
“Why would they want the famished? Are they looking for a cure?”
He snorts. “No, Kan. It’s amazing how you think as if you’ve been sheltered for the past four years.” I feel the blood drain from my face, but he doesn’t notice. “You’re like a breath of fresh air, but a cure is pure fantasy. The famished are used for more fun in their weird lifestyles.”
I can’t think of anything to say, and by the look on his face, he has no idea how close he is to figuring me out. As for the famished, it’s shocking. I thought everyone would flood the government camps or hide out, like me. “What kind of fun?” I try not to sound curious, but damned if I’m not.
“You’ll see, I’m sure. I need to see friends about getting help into the base and talk to Guido about it.”
I nod my agreement and think of something else. “What do you mean by a certain type of famished?”
I can tell he doesn’t want to answer by the way he flinches, but he does. “As newly turned as possible. They last longer.”
I study him because he’s clearly uncomfortable with the turn in conversation. “Clean shaven for famished hunting,” I determine. “I’m jealous. I’m disgusting. This shirt’s stiff from sweat and funk.” I wiggle to show my discomfort.
He laughs, visibly relieved with the change of subject. “Showers. We’ll see about getting you one later. There’s a low water supply from an irrigation and filter system with a strict schedule for bathing. Unless you do something important for the community to earn showers,” he informs. “Most of the water runs the electricity.”
Interesting. “How?”
“Guido was some kind of engineer and built a hydropower source nearby. I suspect it was already there, he got it running. He loves to lead and uses w
hat he knows to keep it that way.”
“Confirms my theory. If the right people survive, anything is possible.” He nods as if this occurred to him. “Wouldn’t have known that about Guido by looking at him,” I joke, and we both laugh. His smooth laughter makes my heart swell with developing fondness and trust. I’ve forgotten how good friendship feels. “We don’t have to stay here. I’m well enough to travel,” I suggest on a more serious note.
“We can’t.” He thinks about his next words. “My debt isn’t paid. I have to do a couple of rounds in their betting ring.” The words come quick, and he looks unsure.
“What betting ring?” I ask, even though I can guess.
Anticipating my questions, he says, “Fighting. No, I don’t want to fight. Yes, I’ve fought before out of necessity, like I will now. It was why I wanted to find what we needed on our own, but we ran out of time.”
This explains his scarred knuckles. I glance at his hands, feeling my lips harden. Damn barbarians, we have to fight enough for our lives. Why make it a sport? I try to think of a way I can contribute to help repay the debt. Nothing comes to mind.
I don’t argue with him. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Gorilla. I guess I’m glad zombies are easy to kill,” I try to make light.
His lips turn in a half-smile. “I don’t have to fight zombies. That would be too easy. I’m fighting other men. People bet on who they think will win. It earns Guido money by holding the markers. He makes good money off me. I’ve even thrown fights for him even though he doesn’t need it. I think he’s being greedy and wants to let people know he is still in charge.”
Rudy stands, leaning the guitar against the wall. “I have to go, but I’ll be back in a little while. Have you eaten?”
I nod. “You’re fighting now?” I wonder if he’s telling me everything or if there’s more to the story. I’m more than interested in seeing it. He ties the bandana on his head.
“Yes, and I know what you’re thinking. Please stay. I don’t want to worry about you.” I shoot him an indignant glare. A smirk touches his lips. “You should rest, anyway.” I’m not looking forward to going to bed. I’ve been here for days.
“Why did you fight before?” I ask.
He scratches his chin, leaning against the wall like a chiseled statue, even with his hooded sweatshirt. “I needed things that have made my life easier: guns, the electric stove, but mostly gas.” This makes sense since he escaped the base. I remember the arsenal in his armored truck. Where the hell would Guido get gasoline?
“Your compound bow?”
“Had it before the outbreak. Side hobby. Came in handy.”
“Really? Me, too.” I don’t clarify the fact the crossbow was to prepare for the end of the world. His eyes widen as if I surprise him.
“Yeah, you sure packed a lot of stuff,” he said, curiosity etched in his voice. I look to the ground and swallow, not knowing what he’s getting at.
“If you are referring to the junk from the SUV, that stuff had been in there for a long time, and I was in a hurry.”
He pierces me with his steady gaze. “I was talking about your laptop, darlin’.” Oh. We stare at each other for a moment. “Anyway, that junk might be tradable for something you need,” he points out after he realizes I won’t explain my laptop.
“You have a lot of stuff, too. You must’ve fought in the ring an awful lot for it,” I counter, diverting the subject. He had to have fought a lot. Otherwise, how did he get the cache of weapons?
“Kansas, medical attention is worth a lot,” he says. Like me, he changes the subject. It hits me he’s fighting for me. “I’ll be back.” He turns to the door. “Don’t show or tell anyone about your laptop,” he orders before shutting the door behind him.
I’m so curious, I’m getting antsy. These people use the living dead for whatever they use them for. I guess that’s why they stayed here instead of going farther south, plentiful game.
Rudy made it clear he wants me to stay here. He doesn’t know me well. I’ve never been good at listening to authority. Not that he holds any power over me, but I should take his guidance. He is paying for my medical attention, if you can call it that, but I’m curious. I’ve never seen anyone fight in this type of situation. If they want him to do it again, he must be good. Even if he isn’t fighting, the thought of people and how they’re surviving together is more than enough to grab my interest. The more I think about it, the more I know I won’t miss it for the world.
I slip a plain blue shirt over my injured head and brush my teeth with my toothpaste and the jug of water. My boots never left my feet, so I stand, tying my locks back with the bandana again. Feeling around my wound for the bandage, I find it loose on one side. The gash is scabbed over with itchy stitches. It’s still sore but no longer infected. Good. Taking the bandage off, I wipe a little rubbing alcohol on it. I’m ready to go, not sure what I’ll find.
16
I peek into the empty corridor. Doors line the hall, and each end seems to veer into other hallways. Fluorescent bulbs in every other lighting fixture shine bright, although one at the end blinks. I’m not sure which way to go.
Looking at the high traffic areas on the old office building floor, I know the hall is frequented in each direction. It smells of cigarettes and piss and contains stains I don’t care to contemplate. The walls, textured with aged wallpaper, are yellowed and peeling. Taking a wild guess, I go right, but don’t get far.
“Where do you think you goin’, cupcake?” I turn to the rail-thin woman who greets me. Standing taller than me, at least 5’9”, she’s easily the most fashionable person I’ve seen in four years. I close my mouth from the shock at finding people still dress up. Her bleached blonde hair’s in a curly up-do. A split in her lip, covered with glossy lipstick, shows through her pursed lips. A short, tight skirt emphasizes her hip sticking in one direction in a pose with tall black boots, ending above her knees. Judging by the heels, her actual height is 5’6” or 5’7”. Her billowy blouse shows most of her cleavage. Even pale and bruised, she looks good. Looking to be in her late thirties or early forties, she’s appraising me as I am her.
“Going to the fight,” I manage to say. She laughs, high and shrill.
“So, you tha one Rudy’s all in an uproar ‘bout, huh?” How’d she know Rudy? Her accent’s one of mixed culture. A southern lilt, yet she’s lived around Guido and his lackeys long enough to pick up their dialect, too. Rudy mentioned he had friends, but her apparel gives me an uneasy impression. I hate judging people, but she looks like a hooker.
“I guess, but I’m trying to find where he’s fighting. Could you point me in the right direction?” I smile, hoping she yields to my charm.
She smiles. “Sure, I can show you. That boy a maniac, he is. Whut’s you name, suga’ dumplin’?”
“Kan,” I say warily, trying not to jump to any assumptions about how she’d know Rudy. It’s difficult.
She squeals and I flinch. “Oooh, like Candy? I love that name, but that otha slut took it. Fits you betta, anyhow.” She smiles, clapping her hands. “Let’s go, we don’t wanna miss tha fun.” She puts her arm through mine, and I smell her overpowering perfume. I don’t want to think how she will spend her evening.
We go right and take a left at the end of the corridor. It leads us to a metal door. Outside, in the dimness of early evening, she looks both ways, alert. We’re surrounded by office buildings and warehouses, standing in the middle of a paved road. A tall chain-link fence with barbed wire attached to the top and outside stands to our left. Blood stains and scorch spots dot the road and fence – evidence of famished. People mill about inside the gruesome fence. There’s nothing but open road and more buildings to the right.
She eyes my crossbow I grip in my hand. “Don’t get into tha fight with you little Indian gear, that would be bad, Candy. It’s good ta have anyhow, case them dead ‘ems come scrimpin’,” she says, approvingly.
“It’s just Kan, short for Kansas.”
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She cocks her brow, patting her hair. “All right then, I’ll stick wit suga’. Cause these days, ain’t no place like home, fo sure.” I laugh at her reference because I haven’t heard that in a long time. I like her. She’s sassy. I think of the other Candy.
“Is Candy who you got in a fight with?” I ask, hoping she knows what I imply.
As we cross the street, loud music and the chorus of a huge crowd permeates the air around the building we’re headed to, as anticipation does the same for me. “Yeah, but that bitch – don’t worry ‘bout her. She already don’t like you, no way. She got this thang for Rudy doll. You can take her.”
Great. “What’s your name, by the way?”
Glancing at me, she laughs and opens a door to a tall, well-maintained warehouse, and music blasts out. The metal paneling isn’t rusted, but has a white crackled texture, as if it will rust any day. “They call me Glinda.” We both laugh at the coincidence. My anxiousness grows as the door slams behind us.
“This is da Clap Trap, we call it. Cause it’s crazy, you know?” Glinda says as I feast my eyes on everything, looking everywhere at once. It’s dark, except for the blinking Christmas lights mixed with various party lights. Strings of flamingos, pumpkins, hearts, and Chinese lanterns hang around as if they string together anything that lights up. Strobes and colorful spotlights are strategically placed throughout as well.
Beams going into the rafters support the hollow warehouse. It’s as big as a football field, with graffiti spray-painted walls featuring X-rated cartoons in neon colors that glow in the blacklights. This weird setting has an underground club feel to it. An office area occupies the right side with a hallway leading to the back – I guess there’s another entrance, bathrooms, and stairs. Windows at the top of the office space look over the Clap Trap.