Population: Katie

by Connor, Penelope

  I let out an awkward little laugh. "We haven't done anything like that yet. I can't even throw a decent punch."

  "Oh." Kyle walks away from the tools that he’s pulled out and rubs his chin thoughtfully. Maybe he's never attended a remedial class, and has no idea what we do in there. Kyle turns abruptly to me, and holds out his hands. "Let’s start with the basics then. Throw me your best punch."

  "Okay," I say, eyeing his extended hand thoughtfully. I assume that he wants me to punch into his hand, something that I've never really tried to do before. I took a martial arts class once when I was young, but all of the punching was mimed into the air. Even when we had sparring practice, there was a strict no contact rule. Thinking back on it now, I can't remember ever having punched anyone in my life. I slapped a guy once, but I can’t see how that could help me now.

  Kyle stands patiently with his hands out, waiting for me to pick my target and take a shot. When I finally do, Kyle catches my fist in one hand and grabs my wrist with the other, locking my arm in place.

  "Good try," he says, looking at my captured limb. "Your wrist is really straight, which is usually the newbie mistake, but there's no power behind it."

  "I don't want to hurt you," I say, and it's true. Behind my inexperience and terror of failing miserably is this awful feminine need to protect the much younger Kyle, and punching him goes against that instinct.

  "Please!" Kyle says, releasing my hand and rolling his eyes. "When I was a kid, I had a cousin who’d sit on my chest and slap me in the face until I cried. Do your worst."

  I wind up and throw a punch with all of my might. This time, Kyle steps out of the way and I stumble forward, thrown off balance by the force of a punch that has nothing to connect to. “Hey!”

  “That’s better,” Kyle says casually, ignoring my indignant cry. “Much better effort, but you overextended.”

  “Show me how it’s done,” I say, mirroring Kyle’s stance and holding out my hands.

  “Alright.” Kyle adjusts my stance, twisting my hips to give me better balance, and then bends my elbows, I assume so they will absorb the hit like shocks on a bicycle. “Nice arm band. Your bandages were looking rough.”

  “Glory made it for me.”

  He nods, then stands in front of me, and snaps a fast punch into my right hand. While my arm does, in fact, bounce back slightly, I still grab it and shake out my wrist, letting out a long hiss at the sudden pain.

  Kyle smiles at me.

  I shake out my wrist once more for good measure, and then stand back. There’s no way I’m going to let him do that again. The palm of my hand is still throbbing, and I can just imagine how it would feel to be on the receiving end of a hit that was actually meant to do damage.

  Kyle spends the next half hour adjusting my technique, making me practice with both fists, and offering up words of encouragement until I’m tired and my knuckles are actually starting to hurt from running them into his palms so many times.

  We sit down on the floor facing each other, and Kyle takes my hands in his, rubbing my wrists with his thumbs as we talk. “I know it’s a lot of information,” he says, “but the fastest way to learn is just to practice over and over until you don’t have to think about it anymore. The moment will arrive and your body will react.”

  “Neat,” I say. “So the next time Derek’s being a tool, I can punch him in the face and blame it on your thorough training?”

  Kyle laughs and releases my hands. “Yeah, dude, I’m not sure the ‘little brother’ card would cover that one!”

  I take his hands in mine and massage his wrists the way he did mine. “So what’s next?”

  “You’re up for more?” Kyle asks, a glint of a smile starting in his eyes.

  “I have the whole afternoon,” I tell him.

  Kyle smiles and pulls me back to my feet. “Then let’s work on kicking.”

  We spend the next hour working on my kicking technique, which is considerably better than the punching. Once I think I’m getting the hang of it, Kyle starts weaving around me and moving his hands to give me a moving target to work with. This new element proves to be a bit of a learning curve, but we keep on practicing, even after I accidentally kick Kyle in the shin when I’m supposed to be punching. Once I’m too tired to continue, Kyle packs up the unused props from Derek’s duffle bag and leads me back to the common room for dinner.

  Over the next two weeks, Kyle works tirelessly to help me move up to the standard of the advanced class. People in my remedial class start to take notice, even Derek. Or at least, I assume he does. He never goes so far as to actually tell me I’m doing well, but he hasn’t scowled at me in a couple of days.

  We continue learning to shoot by taking turns with an Airsoft gun that one of the retrieval teams finds in a shop, saving actual bullets for missions. Our targets are cans, bottles, and paper targets sitting on counters and hanging from the ceiling in one of the offices.

  During our extra training, I show Kyle my tumbling skills, left over from years of gymnastics. I try to show him a routine, but all I can remember are bits and pieces of choreography, splintered together from years of junior competitions. Kyle insists that these are valuable skills to develop, and we devote half of our sessions to working on them.

  Today, near the end of our session, Kyle asks to review everything that I’ve learned. He empties one of Derek’s duffle bags and scatters the contents on the ground, creating a minefield of debris to avoid. Then, he stands in the middle of the room, holding onto a plastic prop gun.

  “Take it from me,” he instructs.

  I grin, the challenge accepted, and start toward him, using a fusion of movement that is part combat training and part gymnastics, avoiding the debris and fighting him for the gun.

  He doesn’t hold back, striking and blocking with insane speed, which only prompts me to work harder. I kick at his arm, he grabs my leg and flips me over. Just as quickly as I hit the ground, I’m up again, and so it goes for several minutes until I finally manage to free the plastic weapon, whipping it across the room.

  We’re both out of breath, and Kyle is grinning like an idiot. It takes me a minute to realize that we’re not alone.

  I turn around and spot Glory and Derek in the doorway. Glory wears her usual kind smile. Derek has his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the doorframe, and for the first time since I met him, a broad smile sweeps across his face.

  Chapter 12 – In the Field

  On our way back to the common room, Kyle admits that he invited Glory and Derek to come and see our progress.

  “I figured as much.”

  Kyle beams. “I think they were impressed. Derek’s partially allergic to smiling.”

  “I noticed that,” I reply, and we laugh all the way to the door of the common room.

  “Well, I’ve got work,” Kyle says, heading off toward the kitchen. “Later, dude.”

  I smile and wave him off, then head into the common room, over to where Tim and Kimberly are sitting across from one another on two of the small couches, a chessboard between them.

  “Katie!” Kimberly says, scooting over and making space for me on the couch. “You can be on my team.”

  “Chess doesn’t have teams,” Tim informs her as he sets up the board.

  “Too bad,” Kimberly replies, grinning. “But if you feel like you’re at a disadvantage, choose your own teammate.”

  “I will,” Tim says, looking around the room to see if anyone else is unoccupied.

  “How about him?” I ask, pointing to the new guy sitting alone at the dining table. The man arrived a few days ago, weak and sick, although some food and rest have clearly done him a lot of good. Today’s the first time I’ve seen him out of bed.

  An awkward silence falls between us as Tim and Kimberly look between me and each other.

  People have been a bit off with the new guy. There was even talk of turning him away altogether, but after a long discussion between Glory, Derek, the Ims, and Erin,
he was invited to stay. At first, I thought that everyone was afraid he was infected, or that he’d make others sick, but during lunch yesterday, Kyle let slip the real reason people are nervous.

  The group has a cap of twenty-five people. It’s a rule designed to keep the unit small enough to provide sufficient food to keep everyone fit enough to fight and stay healthy. When I inquired about the enforcement of the rule, Kyle told me that a cell had split off once before after a family of four had pushed the number of people up to twenty-seven. Thirteen volunteers had branched off and formed the separate resistance group that we so often trade with.

  At that time, however, the group had not been together very long, and the emotional losses had been minimal, since friends had either remained or departed together. But now, it isn’t so simple. Months of cooperation have forged strong bonds that will be harder to break.

  It’s a topic that, according to Kyle, will be all anyone will talk about in the coming weeks.

  In anticipation of a split, preparations are being made, and teams have already been chosen. Glory will stay here and continue to lead this unit, while Tim and Kimberly will lead the new group. Derek will continue his training classes opposite Erin’s trainee, who will take over her classes here. Erin will begin teaching her classes for the new group, opposite Derek’s trainee... Kyle.

  No wonder Derek’s always so hard on his little brother, knowing that any day someone else might join the group, necessitating the boy’s departure. Not that anyone was forcing him into it. I can just imagine Kyle enthusiastically volunteering to head up a new team, shadowing his brother and learning everything that he can in the meanwhile. He’s an excellent trainer - I’m proof of that - but it still seems very sad.

  With this new information in mind, it’s no wonder people have been reluctant to accept the new man since his arrival. But before him, I was the new arrival, and I want him to feel as welcome as I did.

  Tim nods, stands up, and walks across the room to the dining table. The new guy accepts Tim’s offer to join us, and they return together, sharing the couch opposite Kimberly and myself.

  We all remind him of our names, and he introduces himself as Cameron.

  As Tim finishes setting up the board, I admit that I don’t actually know how to play.

  Instead of teaching me the rules, Kimberly suggests making them up. We take turns creating rules until we figure we have enough to make the game interesting.

  In addition to the eleven new rules, we replace the four missing pawns with buttons, which we designate as wild tokens, and assign additional rules to. By the time we start actually playing the game, it’s hard to remember what the rules are, and spend most of our time laughing and calling “Foul!” whenever we think someone’s cheating. Which happens frequently.

  Between turns, we all enjoy small talk, sharing little tidbits about ourselves and our ‘former lives.’ Cameron talks a lot about the hunting and trapping that he used to do with his father.

  When the game’s over, Tim and Kimberly excuse themselves, while I challenge Cameron to another round.

  We’re half way through our rematch game when I notice that Cameron’s glasses have no lenses.

  “Why the fake glasses?” I ask, jumping my button across the board to take down one of Cameron’s little tower pieces.

  “They’re not fake,” he says casually. “One of the lenses broke, and I kept getting dizzy looking through just the one, so I popped the other one out. It’s in my bag.”

  “Why keep them though?” I ask, cursing under my breath as Cameron’s knight takes out my last button.

  “Well,” he says, “I can hardly see without them. It’s really... I don’t know, it kind of makes me feel... vulnerable? They broke three days before Erin and her group found me. I did pretty well when I could, but without my sight, I just, kinda, hid. I’d be useless on the run, even more so in a fight. Then I got sick...” Cameron trails off with a loud sigh.

  “Is that why they invited you to stay?” I ask. “Because you’d be a goner out there?”

  “I guess,” he says, eyes on the chessboard.

  Now that I’m paying attention, I can see that he is squinting, the creases in the corners of his eyes and between his eyebrows more prominent every time he tries to focus on the board between us. I can’t imagine what it might feel like, not being able to see properly with the world the way it is. Our senses become vital, lifesaving tools out there in the city, and to be without one, especially one as vital as sight, would be terrifying.

  It strikes me how ridiculous the situation is. Here we have a new member of our little group, who’s been invited to stay, presumably, because it seemed too cruel to shut him out, but who should have been invited to stay because he has valuable skills. A former hunter who could help provide food. And the only thing halting his transition from sightless burden to invaluable teammate is a pair of broken glasses.

  “Katie?”

  I snap out of my reverie, and realize that not only am I ignoring the game, but I’m also getting angry, and it’s showing on my face. I force a smile, which becomes authentic when Cameron points down at the board, reminding me that it’s my turn.

  “What were you thinking about just now?” he asks, squinting and watching the board carefully.

  “Your glasses,” I say, adding, “We should get you some new ones.”

  “Gee, why didn’t I think of that?” Cameron says, a wry smile across his face. “Let’s just stroll on down to the local optometrist and order up some new lenses.”

  “No,” I say, “I know you can’t order them... I was just thinking that... well, a lot of people wear glasses. And there are a lot of people out there.” I gesture towards a window, and the outdoors.

  Cameron lowers his voice, as though we’re discussing something highly illegal, and most likely dangerous. Which, in essence, we are. “Are you actually suggesting that we steal glasses from the walkers?”

  “It’s not like they need them,” I say. However, now that he’s said it aloud, I’m a bit less sure about the idea. Not because I think it’s dangerous, but rather because it does somehow seem kind of mean. “I wonder if they’d bump into things more often if they couldn’t see as well.”

  “Your mind processes information in a really weird way,” Cameron says, and then remembers that we’re whispering. “I’m not complaining though... but how would we get them?”

  “Haven’t you heard?” I say with a laugh, “I have magic zombie powers.”

  “I... I have no idea what that means.”

  “Me neither, but I’ll explain on the way.”

  We pack up the chess board and all of its pieces into the box and leave it on top of the book stand for the next person to use, then stand up and walk out of the common room, as casually as possible. This works well because no one is paying any attention to us.

  Once we’re in the hallway, I lead Cameron down to the main floor where the front door is.

  While we’re disabling the security features on the door, I give Cameron a quick overview of my situation, telling him about the inoculation, and the Passives disinterest in me. He remains politely confident in my sanity, but once I pull the door open and peer outside, he holds tight onto the metal bar that had been across the door, as though ready to wield it against any intruder that I might let in.

  I step out into the street, closing the door behind me, and inhale deeply, enjoying the crisp afternoon air. The weather’s already starting to look up, even compared to when I was at the MegaMart. A mostly mild winter with an early spring could be about the best offering that nature has made this past year, and I’m not about to ignore it. I take in a few more deep breaths as I survey the scene in front of me.

  The Passives are out and about in force today, which is great because already I can spot no less than three wearing glasses. The first bespectacled Passive I approach wears ones that are badly mangled, the frames barely hanging onto his ears. I skip him and keep looking.

  Wande
ring up and down the block, I collect all of the glasses that I can, receiving little protest from their owners. Some of the Passives look at me curiously as I pull the frames from their noses, while others keep on moving as though they hadn’t even noticed it happen.

  I’m about to head back, not wanting to worry my new friend when I spot a short round woman with glasses so thick that her dull, gray eyes look oddly magnified through them. I don’t need those, I decide, since Cameron’s prescription is not that strong, but it does make me wonder...

  I pull the glasses from her face, then take a step back and wait. The woman stops on the spot, and remains very still for a moment. She turns to where I stand, reaches her arms out in front of her, and grasps at the air between us. I take another step back, and she moves forward, still grasping at the air, a solid two feet in front of me, but not moving any closer. It’s as though she thinks I should be there, where she’s grabbing, so she doesn’t try to come closer until I move away. I step to the side of her, then push the glasses back onto her face and move away again.

  Her arms drop back to her sides and she turns away from me, continuing slowly in the direction that she had been moving before I bothered her.

  That was weird. I don’t know what it all means, but this discovery seems important, so I make a mental note to add that little tidbit to my journal later.

  I jog back to the office building, the spoils of my journey tucked into my shirt, which I have turned up to form a sort of kangaroo pouch in front of me. I push the door open with the back of my shoulder, and turn into the room. “Okay, if none of these work, I can go out again and get some more, but I figured -”

  I stop abruptly as I look up to find not only Cameron standing in the entrance, but also Derek and two of the guards. “Hey guys, I was just... uh...” There really is no point in backtracking my statement when they clearly saw me enter from outside.

  I look over their faces to find that instead of being angry, most of them are amused. Even Derek, whose arms are crossed, doesn’t seem nearly as upset with me as I’d have guessed. He gestures for me to continue.