by Cross, Amy
"Hello?" I say as I finally spot Mallory at the far end of the dark and gloomy room. She's still tied to the chair, and I can see that there's no-one else around.
The weeping stops.
"I heard you crying," I say, making sure to stay far enough away, just in case she tries something.
"Who are you?" she asks, with her back to me.
"That doesn't matter," I say. "Do you want something? Are you hungry? Thirsty?"
"You have to help me," she says, her voice trembling and weak. "Untie me, before he comes back. He's going to kill me!"
"He just needs to make sure you're on our side," I say, taking a deep breath. My heart is pounding, and I'm convinced that she's going to suddenly burst free from the ropes and make a run at me.
"He's going to kill me," she replies.
"No," I say. "He's just checking that you're -"
"Look at me!" she says, turning so that I can see one side of her face. It's immediately clear that she's got several cuts and bruises around her eyes and cheek. I'm certain that she did have any marks on her when she first came here yesterday.
"How did that happen?" I ask, starting to get a horrible feeling of apprehension in the pit of my stomach. Glancing over at the little wooden table by the wall, I see an array of tools laid out: a hammer, some pliers, some wire, some needles, all of them covered in blood.
"I can't take the pain," she whimpers. "He knows I'm not a threat. He just wants to hurt me".
Stepping a little closer, I keep the gun raised, just in case this is a trap. Still, as I move slowly around the chair, I can see that Mallory's in a terrible state. Her clothes are torn, ripped open in place to expose her naked body. Her face is bruised and battered, and her hands and arms are covered in blood. When I look at her eyes, I see that she's struggling to remain conscious.
"Please," she whispers, with tears streaming down her face, "if you won't let me go, then just shoot me. Do something. Before he comes back. I can't take it anymore. Save me or kill me, it's up to you. Just don't let him come near me again. I can't take this anymore. Kill me".
THOMAS
Oklahoma
"What are you waiting for?" Joe asks, as we stand on the lawn. "You gonna do it, or what?"
We're ready to torch the house, but I can't quite bring myself to strike the match. Not yet. The thought of our family home going up in smoke is bad enough; the thought of our mother's body sitting at the kitchen table, her dried blood on the notebook, a pen in her hand, her eyes staring straight ahead, is just too much to comprehend. I can't keep myself from imagining the flames as they roar through the kitchen, consuming her body, burning her skin to a crisp and eventually leaving nothing but bones. It's such a horrible thought, but I can't stop going over and over and over the same images in my mind, and each time I think of her suddenly looking over at me and screaming as the skin melts from her face.
"You want me to do it?" Joe asks, sounding bored. Since he woke up a few hours ago, hungover and in a foul mood, he's been stomping around like an asshole. He took the news of our mother's death in his stride, saying it wasn't much of a surprise, and he didn't even seem that surprised when I told him about the cop. I guess he doesn't really believe me; he thinks I'm a stupid kid who makes things up and gets hysterical. Even when I showed him the burnt skeleton on the lawn, he just shrugged and acted like it was nothing important. Sometimes, I feel like Joe exists in his own little world where the actions of other people don't matter at all.
"I'm gonna do it," I say after a moment. "I just think maybe we should say something first. Like, something as a mark of respect".
"You're gonna torch the place, and you're talking about respect?"
"There's two bodies in there," I remind him.
He shrugs. "You wanna say something, then say something. Otherwise, let's get going. We've wasted today already; I don't wanna waste tomorrow as well. We've gotta hit the ground running".
"If you hadn't been wasted -"
"Get on with it," he says firmly, scratching his scalp as if he's bored and restless.
Sighing, I stare at the house. "Dear Lord," I say, struggling to think of the right thing to say. I should have listened better, all those times I heard religious people saying important stuff. "Dear Lord, please watch over our mother's soul and... let her into Heaven. She lived a good life, she didn't ever do anything wrong to anyone and she deserves to be up in Heaven now. So does our father, so please let them be together. And Lydia too". I pause for a moment. "Joe, what was Lydia's second name?"
He shrugs.
"Please take Lydia into Heaven too," I continue, "and forgive them all any sins they might have made. Please show your mercy and do the right thing by them all. And please bless our journey, because we're not sure what's going to happen when we get to Scottsville. We pray that you see to it that things get put back to how they were. We pray that not too many people have died. We also ask you to take into Heaven the police officer who -"
"Okay, that's enough," Joe says, grabbing the matchbox from me and striking one of the matches, before holding it out above the trail of gasoline that leads to the house. "It's a shame," he says after a moment, "but I guess it's come to this. Don't thank God. If he's real, this is all his fault anyway". With that, he drops the match. Almost immediately, a line of fire bursts toward the house, up the steps, and in through the front door. For a few seconds, it seems like that's about all that's going to happen, but finally I spot some flames around the back as well.
It's weird, but I assumed we'd just turn and walk away when the fire started. Instead, without saying anything to each other, we just kind of stand there and watch as the fire spreads through the house. After a while, I see an orange glow coming from the kitchen, which means the flames have reached our mother. I try to stop thinking about her body, burning up in the inferno, but I guess it's natural to think about that kind of thing at a time like this. Closing my eyes, I dip my head and say a private little prayer, reminding God that he really ought to let my parents into Heaven, and asking him to show some mercy to those of us who are left down here. I can't help feeling that if Joe and I are going to get through this and work out what's going on in the world, we need to have a little help from a higher power.
"You ready?" Joe says, turning and walking away. "You can drive," he calls back to me after a moment.
Opening my eyes, I feel the heat of the blaze on my face and I realize that although I could stand here all evening and all night watching the fire, it's better if we get moving. Reluctantly, I turn and follow Joe over to the truck. Just as I'm about to get into the driver's seat, I hear a huge crashing sound; looking over at the house, I watch as the entire roof gives way, smashing down and bursting through one of the main walls. Seconds later, another wall gives way and collapses into the flames. Finally, the shape of the house isn't really visible within the fire; it's just a huge blaze, with pieces of wood sticking out from a couple of spots, but you'd never know it was ever a house unless you'd seen it before.
"It's gone," I say quietly, holding back the tears that are welling up behind my eyes. "Rest in peace, Mom".
"I'm gonna sleep while you drive," Joe says, getting into the truck. "My head's fucking killing me".
Once I've got into the driver's seat and started the engine, I switch the headlights on so I can see my way in the late evening gloom, and finally I ease the vehicle down the driveway and onto the main road. Glancing in the mirror, I take one final look at the house, and just for a moment I think I see a figure walking through the flames. It's just my imagination, though, so I accelerate and start us off on the long, dark journey to Scottsville. Within a few minutes, Joe has already started snoring next to me, but I don't really mind. I'm just focused on the road ahead, which is picked out by the headlights, After a while, with no other traffic around, I start to settle into the rhythm of the journey. I reach up and test the radio, but of course there's no-one broadcasting and the dial goes from one end of the spectrum to the oth
er without picking up a signal. Taking a deep breath, I decide to relax as much as I can during the journey itself. After all, we've got no idea what to expect when we reach Scottsville in the morning.
Day Six
ELIZABETH
Manhattan
The city looks so strange at night, with no lights and no movement. Skyscrapers rise up like huge monoliths, their dark faces seeming almost like the bare bones of a city that that has had all the meat stripped away. Meanwhile, in a mocking kind of way, the stars above have never seemed brighter. The silence of the city makes everything seem even more bare and desolate, and works as a constant reminder of the noise that has been lost. Standing alone at the broken window in our apartment, I close my eyes and feel the breeze as it brushes past me. It's as if I've been transported to some completely different place, to some other land based on fractured images that come from half-remembered dreams. I can't help wondering whether that old world, my old life, was real.
Hearing a noise in the distance, I open my eyes. Given that there are only four people living in this entire high-rise, any noise is worthy of note. Bob's supposed to be downstairs, keeping guard in case any interlopers turn up at the front door, while my brother Henry is asleep and snoring in his bedroom. The only person left, apart from me, is Mrs. DeWitt, but she hasn't been out of her apartment for a few days. Bob claims to have spoken to her yesterday, and reports that she has some supplies stored away, but I figure she has to come out eventually. Still, it's hard to understand why anyone would be wandering around the building in the early hours of the morning. Try as I might, I can't help being a little worried.
Then again, there's a fifth person. Or at least, there's supposed to be a fifth person. Down in one of the rooms at the back of the building, tied to a chair and awaiting her next round of 'interrogation', Mallory is supposed to be fully restrained. That's the idea, anyway. That's the theory. The truth is a little more complicated. Mallory isn't tied to chair. Not now. I let her go a couple of hours ago, but I didn't tell anyone. I'm just waiting for Bob or Henry to realize what's happened, at which point I guess they're raise hell and start trying to track her down. Maybe that's what the noise is, then; maybe it's Bob, racing along the corridors as he tries to find his former prisoner. If that's the case, there's only one thing left for me to do: I have to hope and pray that he won't find out that I was the one who loosened Mallory's ropes and helped her get away.
As I head over to the front door, I remind myself that there's no way anyone or anything could have got past Bob. If he'd fired his rifle down in the lobby, I'm sure I would have heard it, even all the way up here. The odds of the building having been invaded are pretty low, so the most likely thing is that Bob has discovered Mallory's absence. Standing by the door, I hear footsteps in the stairwell. Someone's coming up toward this level. I close my eyes again, realizing that I must have been right the first time: Bob has clearly been through to the back room, and he's clearly discovered that Mallory's missing, in which case -
Suddenly there's a loud banging sound on the other side of the door. Taking a deep breath, I force myself to wait a moment, figuring I need to make it seems as if I was asleep. After a few seconds, I open the door and stare at Bob, who has a fierce look in his eyes.
"She's gone!" he says firmly. He clearly assumes that I'll know what he means.
"Who?" I ask.
He stares at me. Out of breath from running up the stairs, he seems kind of wild, almost as if the mask of control has finally slipped.
"The girl?" I ask, surprised at how easy I'm finding it to lie to him. "Mallory?"
"She's gone," he says again, pushing past me and entering the apartment just as a sleepy Henry comes through from his room. "The ropes are untied and the back door's open!"
"What do you mean?" Henry asks as he reaches us. "You said -"
Without warning, Bob lashes out and pushes Henry back against the wall. It's a shocking moment of unrestrained anger, and he stares at Henry with an expression of pure rage. "I told you to make sure all the doors were locked," he says. "I told you to make sure there was no way in or out of the building".
"I did," Henry stammers, looking totally confused.
"Then how the fuck did she get out?" Bob asks.
"How did she get out of the ropes?" I say, hoping to distract attention away from the unlocked door in the back of the building. The truth is, Henry did lock all the doors, but I managed to briefly lift the key from the desk and open a door in the delivery room while no-one was looking. The last thing I need is for Bob to get angry at Henry for something that was my fault; at the same time, there's no way I can own up to what I did.
Walking over to the other side of the room, Bob seems to be full of the kind of pent-up, tightly wound energy of an angry beast. He paces back and forth, clearly finding it hard to stay calm.
"I swear I locked all the doors," Henry says weakly, close to tears.
"Shut up!" Bob screams, marching over to him and leaning into his face. "Shut the fuck up! I don't want excuses! All the excuses in the world won't bring her back, and now she's gone off to tell her friends all about us! Do you realize the level of danger we're in thanks to your incompetence?!"
"I was -" Henry starts to say.
"Shut up!" Bob screams again, before turning and using the butt of his rifle to smash the window of a display cabinet in the corner of the room. Glass drops own to the floor, followed by a brief moment of calm as Bob walks over to the window and looks out at the dark city. "Think about it," he says after a few seconds. "That bitch is out there somewhere, heading back to her comrades. As soon as she tells them about us, about our supplies, they'll come for us. They might be better armed than us, there might be more of them". He turns to us. "Your incompetence and stupidity might have doomed us all, boy. How does that feel? The blood of your own sister on your hands".
"I'm not dead," I say, starting to get worried about how far Bob's anger might drive him.
"Not yet," Bob says, walking back over to us. "But the risk level has increased dramatically". He pauses for a moment, staring at Henry. "It's my fault," he says eventually. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have got so angry. It was unprofessional of me. This is my fault as much as anyone's. I never should have given you so much responsibility, Henry. I assumed I could trust you to do the job properly, but clearly that was an error of judgment. It's my fault that you were given a job you couldn't complete".
"I checked the doors," Henry says, with tears streaming down his face. "I checked every door and every window, I swear. They were locked".
"Clearly they weren't," Bob replies, "and the fact that you still won't acknowledge your mistake is another sign that you're too immature to be trusted".
"They -" Henry starts to say.
"Then where is she?" Bob shouts. "Go down there, and show me where that bitch has got to, because she's most certainly not anywhere in this building. What are you suggesting? Did she gnaw through her ropes and then climb out through the mailbox? Did she escape into the air ducts? She's vanished into thin air, and the only possible explanation is that I trusted a foolish little child to secure the building and he let me down!" He states at Henry for a moment, and I can't shake the fear that he might hit him. "Get out of my sight," he sneers eventually. "I can't even stand to look at you. As far as I'm concerned, you're just a waste of space, so get out of here". With that, he turns and walks over to the broken window.
"Henry -" I start to say.
"Fuck off," Henry replies, turning and hurrying back to his room.
Once Henry's gone, I stare at Bob and try to work out what I should say. I know I can't tell him that I'm the one who helped Mallory to get away, but at the same time I feel as if I need to deflect some of his anger away from my brother. Walking slowly across the room, I try to desperately to think of some way that I might be able to calm him down, but ultimately I come up with nothing.
"I'm sorry," Bob says after a moment. "I shouldn't have reacted like that. Your brot
her's a good kid". He turns to me. "But that's all he is. A kid. He's nothing more than a child, and it was wrong of me to give him so much responsibility. I suppose I just wanted to believe that I could trust him". He sighs. "I'm gonna need your help, Elizabeth. I can't deal with this whole situation alone. Now that the girl is gone, it's more important than ever that we get our act together and work out what we're gonna do. I can't hold everything up together, so I need to know I can count on you".
"I just want to do what's right," I reply.
"As do we all," he says firmly. "As do we all. That's why I'm going to propose that we discuss the possibility of being more proactive. We need to secure the entire street, at least for now. We need to have some kind of early-warning system in place. I'm not sure what that should be right now, but we have to assess the situation and come up with some kind of plan". He pauses for a moment. "I know you might not necessarily agree with this, but I think it's worth considering the possibility that we should move to a more secure location. Within the city, ideally, but possibly further afield".
"We can't leave New York," I say.
"Because of your parents?"
"Because we're safe here," I tell him.
"We'll talk about this later," he replies, "but Mallory's escape raises the stakes dramatically, and we need to do more than just sit around and wait to be attacked. We need to accept the current reality and work out how best to face the threats that emerge. Otherwise, we risk sleep-walking straight into a lethal situation. There are people out there who'd kill us for our supplies. You understand that, right? They'd walk in here and cut out throats without any hesitation. That's what people get like when they're desperate, when they need food to feed their families. They group together so they can work better, and suddenly the mob mentality takes over and..." His voice trails off for a moment, as if he's lost in thought. "There are only three of us," he continues eventually, "and don't take this the wrong way, but two of you are children. Unless you can both grow up real fast, we have a serious problem".