by Ann Christy
Seriously, we’ve still got lots of it, but it doesn’t seem to work that well. If the containers says it’s 75 SPF, then it’s probably not even a third of that. If I survive all this, I’m going to have to worry about skin cancer. That’s not the consolation prize I was looking for.
We make good time despite the summer heat and arrive at the sign before the sun peaks in the sky. There’s nothing at the sign or around it, which is a letdown. It’s not hot enough to force us to wait out the day and we have some scouting to do. We have no way of knowing the exact location of the fire, but we have a general idea. Downtown is where we’ll need to go.
“Top of the bank building? That still okay with everyone?” Gregory says, as if it’s a question. It’s not. That’s the tallest building on the edge of downtown and it offers us the best vantage point to see from and make camp.
Charlie re-packs his bike, adjusting his gear for a better ride, but he stops long enough to mumble, “I hope they didn’t think the same thing.”
“What’s that?” Gregory asks.
We’ve already had this argument once. Charlie thinks that whoever is downtown, because they keep moving, may also have a watch up high. It’s what we do, so why should they be any different? He’s of the opinion that we should watch from further out, not go directly to the bank. No one else agrees with him, including me. Skulking about is more likely to get us seen than just going directly to the bank building and deciding our next move from there. And we’re supposed to be away from home just one night, so we’re far less likely to get any real information if we delay.
“Never mind,” Charlie says, his voice more normal. He’s a reasonable guy. He’s been outvoted and will take it with good grace.
Gregory seems to be stifling a grin, but it’s gone quickly and he’s right back to business. “Right, then. Let’s move. Keep to the plan.”
For the next hour, we work our way toward the bank building, skirting the few tall buildings outside of the downtown area as we go, always keeping alert for changes. It’s not like I—or anyone else—has the layout of all the disarray memorized, but significant changes will leave obvious signs. Boards removed from windows might show the brighter, less weathered side of the wood. Cars or debris moved on the streets will show gaps in the rust, melted paper, and other garbage that collects around them. Newly broken glass is shinier and catches the light.
By those and a hundred other signs, it’s not hard to see when someone has made changes. And we do see some of those signs. At that same big grocery store I passed with Emily on the day she found me, we see carts lined up on their sides at the opening in the broken glass, arranged like a barrier that will make noise should a deader wander in. The broken glass of car windows that had remained intact litters the area, confirmation of the new breakage given by the unmolded upholstery and plastic without cracks. Someone has searched them, opening up glove boxes and strewing the useless manuals and insurance papers on the pavement.
Yes, it’s clear that someone, probably a good many someones, has been systematically making their way down this street. More than likely, they’re making their way along all the streets, looking for whatever might remain.
The tension in our little group rises at each sighting. I can feel it coming off the others in waves, see it in the way their eyes search everything, and in their hesitation at each corner. I feel it in myself too. This is one of those times when I wish I had as many eyes as a spider, my own paltry two not nearly enough to watch everything.
We scope out the bank building for a few minutes before going in. Memories of my night there with Gloria make my wrist ache with remembered pain. The deaders we dispatched are still scattered about, but surprisingly, a good many are already rotted to bones or being dispersed. It must be dogs or birds or some other scavenger. I haven’t seen a dog, but I can’t imagine a bird being able to carry an arm ten feet from a body, and that’s exactly what’s happened to the deader at my feet. I push its remaining arm away from me with the toe of my boot and peer around the corner. Nothing.
Gregory jogs back from the other corner, shaking his head. “Nothing,” he says when he gets close. His face crinkles in disgust at the deader by my feet and adds, “God, that stinks.”
I nod, looking once more around the corner. There’s nothing and I’m not sure why, but I have the feeling the bank is empty. It just feels empty. I don’t think it’s anything supernatural or any other such nonsense. It’s just that with so few people left in the world, I notice when they take up space near me. It’s no different than walking into a darkened room and knowing before the lights come on that there’s someone else there. The only difference is that the feeling extends a little further, like our mental cat whiskers have grown longer.
“Let’s go,” Charlie says, seating his crossbow into the crook of his arm. It looks natural there, like a part of his body that’s made of different stuff.
Inside the bank, I see evidence at once that someone has been here since we were last inside. The desks we pulled up to the big open stairwell have been moved, leaving an opening on the stairs that I don’t like. That means we’ll have to clear it just in case an in-betweener or a deader has come inside. In-betweeners do seek shelter at odd times, so it’s possible one has come in, particularly given the storms of the past two days.
Charlie notices it too and nudges Gregory with his elbow, bringing up his crossbow to the ready at the same time. “Someone has been here,” he whispers. I nod when Gregory looks to me and bring my own crossbow up to aiming position, my finger resting on the trigger guard.
We clear the bottom floor, finding three deaders trapped in an office. All three of them are pressed against the window on the far wall, probably drawn to the noise of the wind through the little trees outside, or the birds that flit through the branches. We don’t bother to take them down. Gregory just shuts the door on them again.
“They weren’t in there when we were here last,” I whisper.
Gregory nods and moves forward into point position, his footsteps cautious and quiet. At the stairs, he looks at me and points up and left. Then at Charlie he mimes up and to the right. We know what to do. This is a comfortable routine for us and it makes some of the tension bleed away.
I’m still fearful, there’s no question of that. I’m worried the people will be like the gang that got Gloria. Or like the ones before them, back when it was just Emily and me. That group had burned down a wide swath of buildings, either on purpose or by foolish accident, and put the fear into us. But by the time Emily felt like she could go scouting, they were long gone.
So far, the only nice strangers I’ve met since that first summer—when people were still thick on the ground and Sam found me—has been Emily and the rest of our group. So yeah, fear is a part of the bargain, but the familiarity of our clearing routine helps me to control it and put my fear into perspective.
On the second floor, there is more evidence of intrusion. Out of habit, we close all doors to cleared rooms when we vacate a place. It keeps the room cleared, of course, but it also provides a barrier to further weathering or decay. It’s not just being polite either. It’s a practical consideration. Who knows when we’ll need something obscure. You can never tell.
All the doors are hanging wide open save one. We clear each of the open offices, closing the doors quietly behind us as we go. The closed door leads to that same fancy office Gloria and I stayed in while we waited for the others to come. It’s the one with the big windows that offer such a great view down the street.
I still don’t feel like anyone is here. It feels empty to me, but that’s just a feeling, not knowledge. Gregory nods each of us toward either side of the door and we press ourselves there, waiting. He turns the handle and pushes it open in one move, taking two quick steps back and to the side, crossbow at the ready.
Nothing happens.
At his nod, I peek around the corner on my side and Charlie does on his. Nothing. Gregory goes in, his crossbow and hi
s eyes making a quick sweep of the room that is as professional looking as anything I’ve ever seen. We really are good at this, I think to myself just a little smugly.
He falters as he faces back toward us, his mouth dropping open a little and his eyes taking in a wall that I can’t see. Gregory lowers his bow and waves us in, pointing toward the wall.
Whoever did this took their time and must have realized that someone stayed here recently, hoping whoever it was would come back. We left enough evidence of our stay. The basin of water still rests on a side table, the top now scummy and the level much lower as the water evaporates. The blood-smeared upholstery where Gloria slept fitfully during that long night, and the nest of cushions where I kept my watch by the windows are undisturbed.
“Shit,” Charlie says. Gregory doesn’t correct him.
We stand there looking at the wall, the bright summer light streaming in behind us. I read the words once, then twice.
Ten of us looking for Veronica or Charlie or any of their group. From the hospital. Escaped. Looking for a home. Willing to work. Have news. Find us. Leave message at post office on Charles Street.
After reading it the third time, I look at Charlie and he back at me, a wondering little smile on his face. Since we came back from the hospital, it’s weighed on both of us that we did nothing for the prisoners. I guess our escape must have inspired them.
“Well, I guess we need to go to the post office,” Gregory says.
“Anybody got money for stamps?” I ask.
We all laugh at that. It feels good to laugh.
Today - Awakening Death
Tiny’s voice is small and scratchy, but the word is clear. His eyes dart back and forth between Charlie and I, clearly trying to place us. Finally, his gaze fixes on me and I can see it the moment he recognizes me.
So, he has his memory. Is that good or bad? Maybe good for us—and Emily—and bad for him.
“Help,” he says again, this time in a stronger voice.
At the noise, the three untreated in-betweeners start up their keening again. It’s loud, even with the muffling that the gags provide. Tiny tries to turn his head, but can’t. Instead, his eyes pull so hard to the side that I figure it has to hurt. I’m not sure how much he can see from his perspective, probably just three pairs of dirty feet strapped down to desktops, the feet flexing continuously.
Charlie and I say nothing, but I move a half-step closer to him, my hand finding his. Our fingers twine and he gives my hand a reassuring squeeze. This is a big moment for me and he’s letting me know he’s here to support me, no matter what.
Tiny’s eyes keep roaming, trying to see down his own body, to the other treated—yet still silent and still—figure strapped down beside him, back to those flexing feet and finally, back to us once more. I wait, watching everything he does. I don’t want to cue him to anything. It’s important to see what he does of his own volition. Will he be naturally more human-like or will he remain violent? Impulsive?
I remember back to the way Tiny looked as he came down the steps of the opera house on the day we trapped them, me with my stupid pigtails and a cart of canned food. He’d been almost timid, his wave tentative and his manner mild as he stood there at the top of the steps. Of course, he’d probably been trying to trap me too.
Maybe he sees some of the hardness I feel in my eyes, because he says for a third time, “Help.”
Charlie clears his throat, drawing Tiny’s gaze, and asks, “What’s your name?”
“Name?” he asks back, as if that word means nothing to him.
Charlie and I share a look and a shrug. He’s using a logical word when he asks for help, but if Tiny can’t understand what’s said back to him, then we’ve still got a ways to go before we can claim success.
“Can you understand me?” Charlie asks.
Tiny tries to nod, but his head is strapped down too tight for that. Still, we get the idea.
Charlie makes to speak again, but I squeeze his hand quickly to stop him. I’d like to see what Tiny does next on his own.
After a moment of staring at each other that seems to last a thousand years, Tiny croaks, “Water.”
Another logical and completely understandable word. That’s a good sign, but it’s a bad sign that he isn’t answering our questions. Either he’s being stubborn or he isn’t getting the idea.
I decide to up the stakes and say, “When you tell us your name you can have water. Unless you want us to keep calling you Tiny, that is.”
Charlie squeezes my hand again, so I know I’ve done the right thing. I also know because Tiny’s eyes narrow and he gives me a look I couldn’t mistake for friendly even if I were blind.
“Carson,” he says. His voice is still croaky, but his enunciation is as clear as mine. That was an answer. A real answer from someone who was incapable of speech two days ago. I can’t stop myself from looking over my shoulder toward Emily’s cage, hope surging in my chest. Again, Charlie squeezes my hand and this time, I can feel the excitement in him too.
I let go of Charlie’s hand long enough to grab the pail of water just inside the cage door. For these in-betweeners, I just sort of ladled the water over their mouths and let them choke or drink as they could. I can’t very well do that now. I need this guy alive. For a little while anyway.
Holding the dripping ladle up over the bucket, I give Tiny—Carson—a hard look and say in a flat voice, “He’s going to unstrap your head so you can drink. If you try anything, you won’t drink. I’ll let you die of thirst. Do you understand?”
Carson is trying to read my face, I can tell. That evaluating and appraising look he’s giving me also lets me know he’s one I’ll have to watch. He’s a sneak. Nevertheless, what he sees must make him believe my words, because he answers with a simple, “Okay.”
Charlie loosens the belt holding Carson’s head to the desktop just enough to slip it off his forehead, but he doesn’t undo it entirely. That way, he can easily restrain Carson after we’re done or if he makes a wrong move.
I hold the ladle to his lips, careful to keep my fingers well away from his mouth. He peers at me while he drinks, perhaps suspicious that I’ll do something to him. When his eyes leave me and focus on the ladle, I try to keep a casual tone and ask, “Do you remember what happened to you?”
Charlie shoots me a warning with his eyes, then motions to the belt. I know what he means. He wants me to wait till the man is secure. I’m hoping for spontaneous information though, and it seems to me that I’m more likely to get it if Carson feels he’s being cared for.
With a final slurp, Carson finishes his water and eases his head back onto the desktop, as if holding it up was hard work. He licks at his lips and sighs. “Thank you. That felt good,” he says. When I give him a little nod, he answers my question. “I’m not sure, but I think I remember you. And a cart. I remember a cart. With food in it?”
I nod again, confirming his memory. His gaze unfocuses for a moment as he digs for the memory. I see it the moment something comes to him because his face sharpens, his eyes widening a little.
“Anything else?” I prompt him, pretending not to notice the change.
His gaze roams my face and then he looks at Charlie, searching his face as well, before lifting his head again to look down at his sheet-covered body. His head returns to the desk with a thunk and he asks, “Did you shoot me? I remember an arrow, I think.”
“No, I didn’t. You were injured with an arrow, though. What else?”
“Cans. I remember cans. Cans of beets and garbanzo beans. I remember the blue labels, the yellow and white writing. That’s it,” he says. His fingers reach up, as if straining to feel his stomach where the arrow once lodged, then, “How long was I out?”
Now there’s a loaded question if I’ve ever heard one. I don’t need the little shake of Charlie’s head to tell me not to answer truthfully. I delay answering and distract him by saying, “Put your head back so he can strap you down. Don’t worry. We’re not d
oing it to hurt you.”
That’s true. Sort of.
Charlie gets the strap back across Carson’s forehead and tightens it down, causing the man to grimace in discomfort. I haven’t forgotten what he is and what he did before he was made an in-betweener, but letting him in on my knowledge wouldn’t serve our purposes at the moment, so I pat his arm through the sheet and smile. When Charlie steps back from the table where Carson can’t see his face, he gives a little shiver of disgust, either at touching Carson or at what I’m doing. I can’t tell which, but I agree with his sentiments.
“How long?” he asks again, his eyes uncertain and a little fearful.
“A while, long enough that you’re healed now,” I say, again telling the truth, but not all of the truth.
The in-betweeners on the other side of the cage are getting more agitated due to our continued noise. Carson’s eyes dart that way once more, the fear and uncertainty growing in him. He can’t see their faces, but he must have his suspicions about who those wiggling, bare feet belong to.
He licks his lips again and asks, “Who are they?”
Charlie answers before I can. “Your friends,” he says, his tone flat and giving nothing away.
Fear flashes to the fore in Carson’s eyes once more. “Why are you keeping them? They’re screamers, right?”
Screamers? That must be what he calls in-betweeners. It makes sense. They do have that horrible keening wail. I nod at him, waiting to see how much of this he’ll put together on his own. He can’t really see the sleeping—or comatose or whatever—guy positioned on the desktop next to him. As far as he’s concerned, it’s just him and three of his buddies and something silent covered by a sheet.
“Why are you keeping them?” he asks again, his voice rising a little.
“For testing,” I say, and Charlie gives me another warning look.
“Testing? Testing what?” Carson asks. The generalized fear of before is sharpening into something specific. I can see it almost like a switch is being flipped in his head. His fingers strain upward in his bonds again, the skin going white around the straps where he’s straining against it.