by M. D. Massey
“But, you’re sane,” he finally says.
“What?”
“If you were by yourself for that long, wouldn’t your situation have a major effect on a person’s mental capabilities?”
I shrug, not knowing. He makes a good point.
“Explains why you look at everything as if it were brand new. Hermit.” He tries to make light, elbowing me before running his tongue on the inside of his bottom lip in thought. “They wanted you to leave because of low count of zombies?”
It takes a minute to process he means Harley, Nadine, Bridget, and Kale. I make a mental note to lay off all substances from now on.
I tell him my story. Not all of it – not Malachi – just about my mom and dad. Not in great detail, but Mac prompts me to talk about those days. It makes me respect him more. It also makes me want to tell him more.
I talk about my neighbor Jim and about our secluded neighborhood, my routines, and how I had lived – it all comes tumbling out of my mouth. How Harley, Nadine, Bridget, and Kale were ultimately a bad mistake, but one I don’t regret. Expressing my lack of knowledge of the zombies adapting so well makes me flinch. I tell him everything that happened with Kale, and how he made me realize I didn’t want to hide anymore. I tell him Kale told me about the zombies hoarding food, and how I wanted to find answers, and about Rudy saving my life more than once. It feels good.
After it all comes out, I sit there and let out a big breath.
By this time the joint has run out, and I’m super stoned. I look at him and giggle.
“Kan, I don’t know what to say –”
I interrupt. “You don’t have to say anything, I know how fucked up it is, but it feels good to get it out.” I shrug, and I’m glad I am stoned because I know I’d be feeling grief and guilt right now otherwise.
“You’re incredible. You’ve never told anyone this?” I smile at the compliment and shake my head.
“I told Rudy about my parents. At the time, I was still coming to terms with not being by myself and trying to trust him. I didn’t share anything else. Not that it’s come up, but he’s never asked. When I first got here, seeing all these people, I was shocked by what was going on and how they acted and interacted with zombies,” I tell him. He stares at me in a different way. “I didn’t want you to think differently of me.”
He shakes his head. “No way. A person would have to be strong-willed to do what you did, even at your age. How old were you?”
“I was twenty when the outbreak happened. I owe it all to my dad. I was the only one who listened to him. At first I was humoring him. Then I came to the conclusion the stuff he tried to teach me might come in handy. I was hiding away from it all.”
“Nah, it was smart. Some nasty stuff went down for a while.” He swallows, remembering something I can’t see. Snapping out of it, he turns his flirty grin my way. “You sure you’ve been by yourself?”
“Why would I lie about that?” I punch him in the shoulder.
He flinches. “I feel stiff.” I raise my eyebrows at him. He thinks about it for a minute. “I mean my shoulders, because I’ve been lying around.”
“Which one is it? Turn on your belly, and I’ll try to work it out.”
He smiles. “Both.” Turning onto his stomach, I straddle his lower back, careful of his wound. I massage his neck and work out to his shoulders.
“I haven’t done this in a while, so tell me if it hurts.” He shakes his head and moans at the same time. Good shoulder and back muscles, from using his own body in resistance training, tense as my hands move over them. I laugh as he continues his grunts of pleasure. The curls on his head look soft. My fingers flow through his hair as I massage his scalp and weave through the curls, separating and fluffing them, straightening them to the ends, and when I let go, they spring in place.
“You’re going to make my hair look like an afro!” His protest is muffled by his face in the pillow.
I laugh and continue massaging his shoulders, abandoning his soft curls. “What about you, Mac? What’s your story?” My voice is a whisper, but it carries through the room.
Stiffening for a moment, he relaxes and says, “Nothing like your story, but same as everyone else. I woke up one day with someone trying to eat me for breakfast.” Being vague, it’s either the truth, or he’s not ready to talk about it. I laugh like he wants me to.
At this moment, Rudy decides it’d be a good time to make an appearance. He looks good, even beat up. The bow peeks over the top of his head. I can tell he’s sobered, and when my eyes meet his, guilt swells in my chest. I’ve got nothing to feel guilty about as he studies our situation. Unable to read his facial expression, I climb off Mac.
“Where did you go, Rudy? Famished were attacking, and I looked around and you were gone,” I say, addressing Rudy’s solemn look.
“I went to the roof with a couple of guys to help keep the famished at bay.”
Rudy’s looking at Mac now, so I glance at him, too. Back on his side, his hair has ten times the body it had before, and it looks like an afro. Rudy doesn’t say anything about seeing us like that, but Mac has no such reservations.
“Sweet timing, bro.” He’s smiling, but his tone screams sarcasm.
Rudy snorts a humorless laugh at him. “You have your own room, you know?” He crosses the floor to get a jar of moonshine from his duffle.
Mac shrugs. “How bad were they?”
“Not bad, yet.” Rudy swallows some of the moonshine. “You didn’t miss much. You were having a better time than I was.”
Okay, time to go.
“Hey, guys.” Rudy looks in pain as much as Mac does. “For tonight, I’ll sleep in Mac’s room so we don’t have to move him. I’ll come check on both of you in the morning…”
I glance at Mac. “You owe me a massage.”
He cocks his brow in a way that says he’d be more than happy to oblige. My stomach lightens in a nervous jumble. I look at Rudy. “You okay? Do you need anything?”
He smiles tightly. “I think I’m going to get drunk with Mac and pass out.”
Picking up my pack, I walk out on the two guys who I’ll be indebted to for life.
23
Mac’s room looks lonely. The working girls come to mind, and I let go of the thought. I don’t want to know – not my business. I place all my essentials next to the untucked bed.
The bedside table and chair, the only furniture in the room, sit next to the bed. An electric heater sits next to the table, and on the table lay components of a radio he may have been trying to fix. Along one wall about twenty or so quivers hold arrows.
I think Mac only uses archery as a hobby. I’ve not seen him shoot an arrow yet, and he always carries a gun.
Mac also stores a couple of long bows that look handmade. He has craftsmanship, and an obvious love for the art of archery weaponry shows through.
This little community has its ways of horrifying me. It’s also helped me in so many ways. I don’t criticize them for how they live here, making a life, and I can’t help but think of my next move after the base. It’s not something to plan, because who knows what will happen? All of my common sense tells me it’s stupid to push my luck, not to plan too far ahead.
The next morning, I wake ready to take on the day. First, I want to check on the guys. Eggs to cook would be a nice surprise, but my lack of money stops me. This situation needs to turn around fast.
Mac and Rudy still sleep when I peek in the door. Rudy lies on top of a sleeping bag on the floor. I don’t want to wake them, so I go to the marketplace. It’s hustle and bustle this morning, as if everyone tries to keep busy and not think about the attacks last night. I don’t blame them. Mac’s spot’s empty, and I think about asking him if he wants me to sit here a few hours a day for him.
I go to Linnie’s booth to see about helping her in the greenhouse. Turns out whatever she wants me to do will be ready to be done tomorrow. I guess she wants me to harvest something, but she doesn’t say.
He spots me. “Hey little lady, what’s happening?”
I shake my head, watching him shade in a tribal flame shooting up his arm.
“That’s good,” I say, pointing to his arm. “What is the story you’re trying to tell?”
He blinks at me with world-weary eyes, a blue-gray color. “It’s my journey of the past four years. I saved this arm for something special. Why not the living dead apocalypse?”
Looking at his arm, grass and dirt start around his wrist, with zombies crawling out of graves beneath tombstones, like George Romero zombies. The pictures seep and fade into where the zombies chew and mash on bloody meat and bones. A blond woman grips a two-barrel handgun, smoking from use. Skulls and bones sport licking flames of fire. In between the pictures and fire, a single tire tread indicates a motorcycle on a lone journey. The blonde must have been important to him. The pictures blend in a tale.
“Awesome,” I say, while reading the patches on his biker vest. One says, “Ass, Gas, or Grass! Nobody rides for free.” The one I like says, “Flip yourself off. I’m busy.” A series of patches that look out of place catch my eye, “St. Castel’s Home for Boys Run, Detroit, MI.” He’s got one for every year leading up to the outbreak. This might be a clue into his old life.
“You’re ready to get started?” he asks, breaking me from my study. He means gun knowledge and target practicing.
“Yeah, but I’m wondering if I could leave a sign-up sheet for the hot-wiring thing here, at your booth?”
“I’ve had people asking me about it. You’re more than welcome,” he says, bobbing his head. The beads on his goatee click together. He finishes his work by dabbing blood, rubbing ointment on his arm, and getting out gauze. “I’ve also been thinking. I’ll tell you gun knowledge, but as for target practicing, maybe we can help with the famished. That way, we won’t waste too many bullets. Just try not to miss a whole lot.” He chuckles, smiling at me – the first time I’ve seen a real smile from Reece. I smile watching him bandage his fresh tattoo.
“Hey, no problem. That’s a good idea. I’ll be doing something constructive.” He unloads his arsenal from a duffel bag. Apparently, we’re starting right away.
“First thing’s first, have you ever shot a gun?” he asks. I swallow the lump in my throat and shake my head. He eyes me and sighs, probably knowing I’m lying. “All right, gun knowledge 101.” I let out the breath.
We stand for a couple of hours, trying to figure out which gun fits me well. Being mainly about the grip and how I slide and fire, it comes down to a Smith & Wesson M&P pistol, Browning Pro 9, or a Bersa Thunder 9. I handle them all, as they’re all easy to grip and slide. In the old life, I would’ve picked the Browning because it has a rail to attach a laser sight.
In the end, I go with the Bersa Thunder 9 Ultra Compact 9 mm. Reece says Bersa Thunder’s one of the most underrated guns in the gun world. The Ultra Compact one I pick is lightweight, reliable, and carries thirteen rounds, plus one in the chamber. Also, he has two of the guns.
I might want a revolver as a backup, he tells me. Reece isn’t a big fan of Smith &Wesson, but for my lady wrists, I choose the S&M Centennial 642 Revolver, being light, compact, and stainless steel. What I like – it’s hammerless, nothing to snag on. Downside, it only carries five rounds. Reece says its size deceives because it packs a sharp kick when firing. It’s powerful and gets the job done.
I practice removing magazines and click them in place. Reece shows me how to maintain them. It’s easier than I first thought. I can’t wait to fire one. Seeing my excitement, he laughs at me.
“What other skills do you have besides hot-wiring cars?” His thick eyebrows rise. I fidget as I consider the question. He wants to know for payment reasons. “Mm hmm, I know something’s up with you. What do you know?”
Since I’m thinking about it to begin with, I decide he would be the perfect person to trust. “Fine, but you tell no one. My dad, before the outbreak, was a little batty. He made certain we could take care of and defend ourselves by whatever means necessary. We researched things that put us on some kind of FBI watch list. He bought books for reference.”
His face is skeptical. “Anarchist’s Cookbook?”
I snort. “Since the internet, any you’d find would be outdated.”
He nods. “I thought about it, but never had the need for explosives, yet. It might be good to know.”
“I also haven’t used the skills myself. There are huge risks of it backfiring on you.” I think about Harley and his merry band of cowards. “I wish I still had those books. I left them behind, but I have the basic knowledge.”
“You think we can get some at a bookstore somewhere?”
“Maybe. We might not find the same ones I had, but there are hundreds of other resources, too.”
He holds out his hand. “Done.” I shake it by way of agreement. “We’ll patrol tonight with Guido’s men. You need to learn how to shoot those guns. We’ll meet here tomorrow, and I’ll go over the others.” He waves around at his arsenal. “It could come in handy if you ever get stuck in a situation where that’s all you have to use.”
“Makes sense. I’ll see you tonight.” I tuck the revolver in my boot and the pistols in my pants. Safety on. I need a holster, but it’s not a priority at the moment. I throw the extra magazines in my pack. I feel like a gun locker. Reece nods, and I’m dismissed.
My whole outlook on guns seems silly now, but the true test will be when I shoot one.
I check on Rudy and Mac. Being afternoon, they should be awake by now. Having goals and some sort of schedule feels good. I do well with a routine. Standing in front of the door, I take a Bersa out of my pants and slip the magazine out so I won’t shoot by accident. I hold it in a traditional police officer stance and kick the door open.
“Freeze!” I yell in a deep voice. Rudy and Mac jump about two feet in the air, even though they’re sitting down. I laugh, walking into the room. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”
Mac chuckles a little nervously. Rudy says, “Ha. Hilarious.”
“What?” I ask as I wag the gun around. “It’s not loaded.” I click the mag into place, and shove the gun in my jeans, inspecting them. Rudy showered and shaved. His eye is swollen and bruised. Mac looks tired.
“I didn’t think you could get any sexier – then you come storming in with a semiautomatic pistol,” Mac says, as if it surprises him.
“I’m learning the good stuff tomorrow.” I beam. “How is your ass feeling?”
“I just changed the bandages, and it hurts.” He chases the comment with moonshine. No wonder he looks tired, but never being shot in my glutes, I wouldn’t know how much it hurt.
Rudy waxes his bowstring without a shirt, and it’s quite distracting. His hair hangs forward in a wavy fashion. Refusing to meet my eye, he’s quiet. Well, more than usual, and I get the feeling I was a topic of conversation. Glancing at both of them, I ask, “What’s going on?” Mac glares at Rudy. I cross my arms.
Rudy clears his throat. “Mac wants to help with the famished later. He’s getting restless.” His eyes follow his bowstring as his neck colors a little. “He needs to wait at least a week.”
Mac’s glare deepens, referring to something unsaid. “Fine, you don’t have to say anything. I don’t need you to.” His face softens as he looks at me. “I think I can get to my room now.”
Rudy returns Mac glare, and his neck flames so red that his ears turn. “You’re the one to talk.”
“What the hell is going on?” The testosterone’s so thick I might choke from it.
Mac shrugs. Rudy doesn’t look at me.
“Fucking fine!” I utter. “Mac, I can help you to your room, but I want to eat first.” Walking over to my box, I dig around, losing my appetite. Rudy gets up and hands me an orange. When I g
lance at him, he smiles apologetically at me. “Thanks.” I want to talk to him alone, but it will have to wait.
It’s slow going to Mac’s room. When we arrive, I check his bandage to make sure he’s not bleeding. “Mac? Are you okay?” He sees his messed up bed I hadn’t bothered to make back up. I almost snort a laugh at the annoyance in his eyes. It fades when he realizes he’ll be using it.
His brow furrows and he tilts his head to the side. “You mean other than the hole in my arse?” I nod. “I’m fine. Just glad to be back in my room.” He puts his face into the pillow. “Mmm… smells like you.”
I laugh. “Well, I’m glad I showered yesterday.” He shrugs as if that doesn’t matter, but I know better. I put his moonshine and water next to his bed. He’s not gulping it – a good sign. I wipe a rag across his forehead, and he grabs my wrist. Stunned by the sudden gesture, my eyes go wide as I peer into his. They’re searching, and turn with a mischievous glint.
He leans forward, testing. Needing to see where this might go, I don’t pull away. When the rag falls from my hand, I wrap my fingers in his glorious curls and pull him to me. I close my eyes, letting the sensation of our lips meeting for the first time take over, soft and caressing, and my nerves ignite some electrical vibes from my lips to my lower region as our kiss deepens.
Smelling like his own heady, cedar–scent, he reminds me of campouts in the woods with yummy, gooey marshmallows. I taste oranges and moonshine. The man knows how to use his full lips to his advantage, but then again, I do, too.