by M. D. Massey
“What are you doing?!” Ezekiel yells. “Come on! We have to leave them!”
I concentrate, focusing. Please let this work.
The zombies slow their approach, one stands face to face with me. The others come to a complete stop. Behind me, Alma scrambles to lift Travis to his feet. Together they limp quickly, not stopping until they collapse within the inner wall, surrounded by the others. Ezekiel is the only one left, still holding the gate.
The one in front of me is close, too close. Its teeth clack together, a flap of skin hangs over one eye, edged in black rot. The flesh at the base of its neck gives a slight spongy resistance as my knife plunges through. I press my teeth over my lower lip, hoping to distract myself from the nausea.
I run. Ezekiel pulls me through the gate before slamming it shut. We both scramble towards the inner gate. Once safe, all seven of us watch in silence as the rest of the clutch wanders on, veering just past the spikes, shuffling aimlessly through the forest, undisturbed.
“You two head back to the farm,” Ezekiel says jutting his chin towards Alma and Travis. “The rest of you head on up to the peak. We'll catch up with you.”
They leave, Alma supporting her boyfriend's weight as they slowly make their way back down the dirt path.
“What was that?” Ezekiel asks. Already the sound of birds chirping returns to the surrounding atmosphere. I stand up from where I fell and dust the grass and dirt off my clothing.
“What was what?” I ask.
He stands up and faces me, the knife still dangling loosely between his fingers.
“I asked you a question.”
“So you did,” I reply. I turn my back to him, facing out toward the fire pit where the slain zombies lay in a pile waiting for cremation. “What's going to happen to them.”
“We'll handle them later,” he says.
“I can't always make it happen,” I say keeping my back to him. “But they avoid me most of the time. I still have to be careful because I don't know what would happen if I get bit.”
“What does it feel like? What you did just there.”
His question evokes the uncomfortable feeling of connection, the same skin-crawling evocation one gets when touching an insect, only about ten times worse. I close my eyes. “You don't want to know.”
He does not speak. I hear him moving around behind me and for a moment I think he is going to kill me, leaving me piled with the others and hidden by the consuming flames. The forest is teeming with sounds. Crickets, birds, rodents scouring the underbrush. Finally, he walks back through the gate, heading towards the fire pit. He gathers wood from the nearby pile, burying the creatures. Without a word, I walk over and help him.
In the small clearing, we spend the rest of the afternoon building the fire until it soars, flames lapping upwards through the opening in the treetops. The bodies crackle and wilt like paper in the heat of the flames. Ezekiel avoids looking at me, but he motions now and then to an area which needs another log. At last, we walk back to the homestead.
“Ezekiel,” I say as we crest the hill.
“Yeah.”
“Do you think you could keep this between us? What happened back there, I mean.” The question is asked, though already I know better.
He nods after a moment. “Everyone saw it, though,” he says. “I can't say so for them.”
“It's all right. I think they have enough to worry about, with the excitement of the smoker bringing in new people and Travis' ankle. Maybe they didn't notice.”
“Right,” Ezekiel says. “Maybe.”
* * *
Back in my room, I sense immediately something is off. The others are not back yet and Ezekiel vanished into the kitchen as soon as we entered. Already, a meal is underway in case the plume of smoke beckons anyone. I stand with my back to the door for a good long while, watching, letting my gaze roam over the details of the room. Nothing has changed, and yet...
My senses hone in, seeking and examining the details around me. Taking in the bookcase, the lay of the blankets, the way the chair is angled just so between the window and the shelf. The scent of the air, strange and lingering, shifting as if someone had just walked by.
The backpack.
Sitting where I left it at the foot of the bed, the dark fabric crumbled over itself, like a wrinkled old man sleeping under a tree. The satchel is clasped on the second hole. Thousands of miles I have traveled over the landscape of this country, the backpack has stayed with me all the while, keeping at least a day's worth of water and things collected over time. I know this backpack as well as I know any part of myself. And as sure as I breathe, I have always latched it on the third hole.
Landing on my knees in front of it, I scramble to open it, checking the pockets with a nervous caution. Everything is there. The red bandanna from a fallen friend, the stretch of fabric from the blue truck, the photograph of thirty smiling children standing in three rows next to an equally smiling adult woman. With growing panic, I check each pocket once more. The water bottle, the sanitary napkins, the extra knife blade, all there.
The picture from the laboratory is missing.
The photograph of the woman in the white coat. It is gone.
The rush of fury and sick rising in my stomach clouds my judgment. I take a breath, trying to focus my mind. After my heart returns as close to normal as I can get it, I return to the hallway with the goal to find Eden. From Travis' room I hear the lazy voices of him and Alma, catching a glimpse of his foot propped up on a tower of pillows.
Further down, Eden's bedroom door stands slightly open. I must tell her someone has taken something from my room. The open road is dangerous in many ways, but at least out there, I know the danger. Being here, surrounded by subterfuge, this is a different kind of danger. I creep down the hall and wait at the edge of her door, steeling my nerves. What stops me from knocking is the sound of her voice, trailing out from inside the room.
“I am certain of it,” she says. “It is her. There is no doubt.”
Peering around the corner, doing my best to stay out of sight, I glimpse her, shoulders slumped forward with her back towards me. I hold my breath and crane my neck around the doorway. She holds an object in front of her, a box with a coiled wire extending to a device held to her ear. What she holds in her other hand makes my blood run cold.
The photograph.
Eden speaks, unaware of my presence.
“I don't know yet how much control she has,” she says. “But I am certain of her identity. There is a photograph placing her there.... Yes, yes! Right here in my hand.... Yes, of course...... Do you think it wise?”
The screen door slams shut as the others return, all jabbering about the couple they spotted coming down the road, following the plume. The afternoon's incident seemed all but forgotten.
“I think they have a baby with them!”
“It was just a bundle. Not a baby.”
“I swear I saw it move!”
“You two quit squabbling. We'll see when they arrive at the gate. Someone tell Abraham!”
I stay back, ducking into the bathroom as they run by. They ignore me casually returning to my room. Immediately, A few of the books from the shelf go into the backpack as well. I'll have to stay down, and stay quiet. I will leave after nightfall.
* * *
The dinner before me is a combination of roasted meat, succulent, falling apart under the pressure of the fork. Gravy and homemade egg noodles. I had watched Eden pound out the dough over the counter with her bare hands, batch after batch with unmatched skill. After the trek to the peak, everyone delves into the food with added gusto. I would miss this food. Knowing this is my last meal in this place, I eat as many helpings as I am allowed, lingering over the third plate.
The couple arrives at the gate, and they do in fact have with them a baby, a toddler limp and fevered in his mother's arms. Eden quickly whips up a batch of thick cream from one of the goats, with a dash of gruel for thickening. The child responds r
ight away to the bottle of homemade formula.
The others crowd around, smiling and cooing. It occurs to me that all of them, except for Alma, have lived in relative safety for most of their lives. Maybe this eagerness towards laughter is something that comes from a life of safety, life before the Fall. I stand at the door silently watching. The man and woman sit across from Eden with their hands clasped together, their faces aglow with gratitude.
“Come over and see,” Alma beckons me.
“I don't think so,” I reply placing my hand on my stomach. “I think I'm going to lie down. Not feeling terribly well.”
“Okay then. See you tomorrow.” Her gaze lingers, but I duck out and return to my room.
Finally, nightfall arrives. Going through the motions of bedtime, I kick off my shoes and lie down, climbing under the blanket. My eyes remain open and I lay still, listening to the sounds of nightfall. Waiting. Carefully waiting.
When all grows dark and quiet, I slip out of bed, placing one foot down at a time, moving with utmost stealth. I pick up my shoes, stashing them into my backpack, and slip barefooted down the hallway towards the living room. All is quiet and I think everyone is asleep. Apparently, I am mistaken.
Eden moves around the kitchen, and I stand at the edge of the door, as still as a statue. I could be out in seconds, but I am trapped. If I go across she would see me as clear as day. If I can get out undetected, I will have time to get to the warehouse and find my crossbow.
“You might as well come in,” Eden calls. “I know you're snooping around out there.”
I swallow hard before stepping around the corner and into the light of the kitchen. Eden takes a teapot from the stove and pours into the two mugs sitting on the table. She motions for me to sit and I do so, perched forward to avoid my backpack.
“I take it you heard what I said, today, eh?” she begins, scooting the mug towards me.
Her words and calm demeanor strike a feeling of discomfort more than I have felt in a long time. All I can do is nod.
“I suppose it would be only fair to let you have a say in what happens next.” She reaches into the folds of her skirts and pulls out the photograph placing it on the table between us. “That's you, right?”
I nod again.
“My boy told me a little bit about what happened out there today. I know he said he was beholden to you not to, but there is a bigger picture here, Ash. He said he felt right sorry to do it, but he had to tell me what he saw.”
She picks up the photograph. The image of the little girl from so long ago makes me feel more frightened than I had in a long while.
“Do you know what this means?” Eden says.
“No,” I reply, my voice small and trembling.
“This building is where it began,” she continues. “For a little while, we still had television, and the news said there was a laboratory. Government probably, not that it matters now. But this building, the lobby there, the curve of the table in the back there, that's where it all began.”
“Where what all began?” I lean forward to get a better look at the picture.
“They did experiments there. Strange, unspeakable experiments.”
“What kind of experiments?”
“Hard to say.” She eyes me evenly. “I thought maybe you might know since it's a might evident you spent some time there.”
A flush of embarrassment and anger washes over me. I don't like what she is saying and I especially don't like the way she is holding the photograph as if her fingerprints left behind are a testament to her judgment.
“But then something went wrong. No one knows exactly what. Do you know, Ash?” Eden keeps her eyes on mine as if attempting to see behind them and into my mind. I do not turn away.
The photograph trembles between her fingers, extended out as she peers over the edge at me. I take a deep breath, adjusting my backpack, and bracing myself for what will come next. Without any forecast, I pluck the photograph from her hand, lunge from the chair, and bolt for the door. With surprising quickness, she leaps after me, fingers clamping down on my arm.
“Hey!” she calls just as I twist out of her hold, darting down the porch stairs.
My bare feet against the ground do not hinder my speed in any way. Tucking the photo into my shirt, I dash across the expanse of meadow, heading straight for the forest’s edge. I head for the spot close to the spring, where the ground dips just enough underneath the fence. I might suffer a few scrapes, but it is the only way out.
“Abraham!” Eden shrieks, her voice edged in something close to panic. “Abraham! She's getting away!”
I continue forward, the needles of the forest floor sticking to my bare feet. I run, not knowing what would happen if they caught me. By the time I make it to the fence, someone is crashing through the branches a good way behind me.
After finding the gate and making it through the inner layer, I crouch down, peering back. I don't see them, but in the darkness of the forest it is no guarantee of safety. Shoving my backpack through the hole, I plaster myself to the muddy ground and elbow-crawl underneath, ignoring the metal barbs grasping at my clothing. I push my way through, keeping my face above the mud and water.
Once through I stumble to my feet, grab my backpack and run, seeking to put some distance between myself and them. The edge of the forest is not that far ahead and beyond that is the road. Losing such a safe haven brings me a pang of regret. I make it as far as the road before I stop running. My lungs burn and my feet are bleeding. Once I lose my pursuers, I will need to tend to them.
Their voices fade behind me and I move quickly down the road, confident they will not catch up with me. The only other sound is the pounding of my own heartbeat, echoing through my head. Maybe this is why I do not hear the silent black car sliding up the road, until it appears out of the night next to me. Before I can react, the door opens. Arms grab me around the waist, yanking me inside without coming to a complete stop.
I cry out, but a cloth clamps down on my face, drenched in some kind of strong chemical burning my throat. My body twists and struggles, but already weakness is taking over my limbs, preventing me from catching a glimpse of my captors. My arms are pinned to my side, legs and feet flailing against the darkened windows.
Everything goes black.
9
Incessant beeping cuts through the darkness pulling me back to consciousness. Underneath a thin paper gown, I realize my body is naked, and my skin smells lightly of soap. I try to move, struggling to open my eyes.
Blinking against the whiteness of the light in the small room, I raise my arm to cover my eyes, only to find a tubing device dripping a clear liquid into my body. The sheets are cool against my bare legs. My hair is clean. The feel of it is completely different than I am used to, smooth and sliding between my fingers. I sit up, trying to orient myself to my surroundings. All I see at first is walls, so beige they are nearly white. My head is swarming with bees.
“Where am I?” I say out loud, hoping the sound of my own voice will help to ground me, still unconvinced that this is not a dream. My voice sounds dry and raspy and I don't expect anyone to respond.
“Hello, Ashley.” A woman's voice crackles from a loudspeaker, a wooden box nailed to the wall above the door opposite me.
“Hello? Who’s there?” I say feeling my skin crawl.
“You are in a safe place, Ashley,” the woman says. Her voice is soothing, as if she is smiling at the other end of... where ever she is. “We have to keep you quarantined for a few more days and then you will be able to come out. You will no longer be in any danger.”
“What kind of danger would I be in?” I ask as I swing my legs over the side.
“Don't worry about that right now,” she continues. “I am so sorry it has to be this way, Ashley. It must be so disorienting for you.”
I sit up and examine the port in my arm. The tubing enters at the crook of my elbow and the surrounding skin feels cold to the touch. A thick, clear tape covers the co
ntraption, but I can still bend my arm as needed.
“Right.” I stand and roll the I.V. across the room, trailing my fingers along the drab, beige walls. The door is locked, solid against my ministrations against the silver handle. I find no discernible windows anywhere in the room. “Where are you?”
“We are in the same building, just in another location.”
“We?” I ask. “Who is ‘we?’ Who else is with you?”
“Our location has determined a three-day quarantine. In the meantime, food will be sent to you through the dumbwaiter there behind you.”
I turn, dragging the I.V. stand along with me. Her instructions lead me to a portal in the wall. It appears to be a standard dumbwaiter with a metal sliding door painted the same drab beige as the walls. I peer once more at the clear liquid dripping into my body.
“Saline. Nothing more,” she says. “It is a means to rehydrate you and bring you back to full health. You have been through quite an adventure these last few years.”
“Where are my things?”
“We had no choice but to burn the clothing, but don't worry. We kept your personal items. They will be returned to you upon your completion of the quarantine.”
I couldn't help but think about the photograph. “What do I call you?” I say. “What's your name?”
She pauses for a long while until I think she is gone. When she speaks again I sense a hesitation in her voice. “For now, you may call me Maggie.”
“I am beginning to feel ridiculous talking to thin air like this.”
“Ashley, I can't tell you how thrilled we are to have found you. Everything will be understood in due time, but you need to rest. You have a lot ahead of you.”
“What do I have ahead of me?” I ask as I run my hands along the surface of the dumbwaiter. Finding no weak points, I slam my hands against the surface, creating a loud dissonant sound echoing through the room. The stinging in my fingers and palms wakes me up. It feels good. I do it again, hoping to feel the painted metal move in one direction or another. But there is not so much as a shudder.