Black Bird of the Gallows

by Meg Kassel

  Deno stops and waits for us to catch up. There’s impatience in the line of his body, but he says nothing. We’re on an incline with about a half mile of loose rock and debris to cross before we reach the area where the center of town is—hopefully, will still be. We’re in the dark, shivering in the rain. In the worst shoes imaginable.

  Lacey scowls at her four-inch wedge-heeled sandals and mutters something about poor fashion choices. I’m in no better shape with lace-up platform boots.

  “I know. I didn’t expect to go hiking tonight, either.” I hug myself and rub my numb hands over my arms. “Left a perfectly good jacket in the break room.”

  She looks at me, wide-eyed. Mascara runs tragic black rivers down her cheeks. “What are we going to do?”

  “We’re going to go slowly and not bust an ankle.” I glance back in the direction of my house, then to the dangerous path before us. “We’ll get there.”

  Lacey and I pick our way over the debris field. The loose rocks are slick and unstable. Serenity still growls in the night. At one point, another chunk of rock face breaks free. We hear the crack and freeze as a few boulders tumble down the mountain. Nothing nearly as big as the first slide, but it sends another plume of dust and dirt into the air.

  My dad calls. I nearly double over with the comfort of hearing his voice. My phone is wet from being in my jeans pocket, but I cup my hand over it and try to talk. The noises that come from my mouth are garbled fragments and aren’t comprehensible to my own ears, but he’s just happy to hear my voice. He’s so choked up, I can barely understand him, too.

  “I’m sorry, Angie,” he says, panic cracking his voice. “I should have taken you with me on my trip. I should have— They won’t let me come back. All the roads are closed. I don’t know how to get to you. I can’t find you.” The hysteria coloring his voice is about more than just this particular event. His pitch and frantic tone are the same as they were five years ago, when distrustful, twelve-year-old me was first returned to him. I couldn’t get to you, I couldn’t find you… This is bringing back years of searching for a missing child for him, and I can’t stand it. I want to be strong for him, explain to him exactly where I am, that I’m close to home—and make a joke that will defuse his terror—See, Dad? An ice cream a day keeps the landslides away, but I collapse in tears on a pile of rocks and tell him that I love him and that I’m safe and that I wish he were here. And then the rain works its way into my phone, because it cuts off abruptly with a dead screen. I tuck the thing in my bra—I don’t care—dig my fingers into my scalp, and let out a wrenching cry that’s stolen by the pattering rain, the sirens, and that infernal growling mountain that has just torn apart my town.

  Lacey and Deno remain silent and waiting while I am on the phone. I imagine they are thinking of their own families. Lacey’s parents didn’t answer when she called. Deno didn’t even try. I get up. We keep moving in the dark—Deno’s phone flashlight stopped working a while ago.

  We know we are closer to the center of town, because the debris is thicker and smoke pours from between the rocks. It wouldn’t be so terrible if it smelled like a campfire, but it’s not just wood burning. Chemicals. Plastic. Something else, utterly nauseating. Smoke chokes our lungs and rain splutters over our mouths, noses. I pull the front of my soaking shirt over my nose and pull in air, but breathing is hard.

  There are sounds. Noises that make bile climb up the back of my throat and whimpers escape my lips. People moaning, crying. Calling for help with far-off voices. Dogs howl just like Roger did when the Ortleys were killed.

  “Look!” Lacey points to open pavement ahead. We get clear of the debris and look around to get our bearings. “We’re getting close.”

  We are? This section of town is comprised of blocks of near-identical houses laid out in a grid. The destruction has upheaved the landscape. A number of homes are on fire, filling the air with smoke and ash. Our location is indistinguishable to me without street signs, and I can’t see any of those. Not in the rain in the middle of the night.

  Up ahead, people huddle together on the corner of an intersection. Some buildings are perfectly intact, while others are flattened, buried, or just collapsed during the tremors. People are frantic, calling names, crying. Some lie on the ground, injured or dazed. Some lie on the ground, not moving at all.

  The three of us start to move apart, scattered, overwhelmed. I don’t want to be alone—not with Rafette out there, possibly watching me. I don’t want them to be alone, either, depending on what they find at their homes. “Hey guys,” I call out. Deno and Lacey come over, and I put an arm around each of them. I draw them into a huddle, momentarily blocking out the upended world surrounding us. “Do either of you know where we are?”

  Lacey hesitates, but Deno nods, pointing behind him. “The corner of Winkel and Dunn Streets. I sold candy for The Boy Scouts all around here— What?” he says when Lacey raises her brows. “I was like nine years old.”

  “Okay.” I look at each of their faces. “How close are we to your homes?”

  Neither of them answer right away, even though both of them can. They don’t have to tell me they’re afraid. I am, too. “We have to do this,” I say. “We have to find your families.”

  “I know.” Lacey looks at the ground, eyes glazed. “I know.”

  Deno pushes her hair back from her face. “We’re only two blocks away,” he says. “Come on. We can cut through some backyards.”

  We break our circle but keep our hands linked. Deno leads the way, as he demonstrates remarkable skill at maneuvering through other people’s yards, over and around fences, avoiding the properties with panic-stricken dogs. Avoiding the homes that are on fire. It takes us no time to arrive in front of the Taggert home. Deno has led us to Lacey’s first.

  Her house is still standing, but obviously empty. A group of residents congregates at the corner, talking, trying to comfort one another and figure out how long it will take for help to arrive. All are dirty and injured and appear absolutely terrified.

  My pace falters at the sight of several men holding weapons. When they see us, they turn, brandishing their baseball bats and other blunt instruments. I try to hold on to Lacey’s hand, but she rips away from us and bolts straight for them, her neighbors, who maybe think we’re a threat.

  “Where’re my parents?” she cries. “Suzanne and Bill?”

  “Lacey!” Deno sprints to catch up with her. The people recognize her—thankfully—and part to reveal six people sitting or lying on the ground. They all appear alive, but not necessarily for long. My stomach clutches at the amount of blood on everyone. A strangled sound wrenches from Lacey. Injuries forgotten, she collapses next to a woman. It’s her mom. Her leg is bent at a strange angle. Blood smears over her cheek, but her face lights in surprised relief.

  “Mom,” Lacey cries. “You’re okay. Oh God, you’re okay. Where’s Dad?”

  “Lacey! I was so worried!” Mrs. Taggert grabs Lacey’s hand and squeezes it. “Your dad went with a few others for help.” The group closes around them, sheltering the injured from, well, whatever they’re afraid of.

  “Are you kids nuts, running around like this?” one of the men shouts at Deno and me. He’s holding a crowbar in white-knuckled hands. “It’s not safe out here.”

  “Why?” I back up instinctively. “What’s going on?”

  “We’ve been attacked twice tonight since Mt. Serenity went down.” His gaze narrows and sweeps the streets, which are still. “They’re setting fires to homes, looting, attacking anyone they can get to. Whole neighborhood would be ablaze if not for all the soaking we’ve been getting these past weeks.”

  “Who would do that?” Deno asks.

  “People,” another man replies. “Sick, demented people. No one I recognize, but…” He shrugs. “Look, I don’t know. We ran a few off. We…did a number on one guy who just wouldn’t leave us alone. He’s locked in Murphy’s bathroom.” He nods toward a yellow house. “Don’t know what shape he’s i
n.”

  “Why aren’t you inside?”

  “Can’t see who’s coming. They’re setting fires. Can’t signal for rescue.” His body goes tense as his gaze sharpens on something across the street. “Get behind us, kids. I think we have company.”

  I spin around, heart pounding. Unsure of what to do. The whipping blades of helicopters sound in the distance. Rescue is on its way. I can just sit tight and wait to be airlifted out of here.

  My senses prick at a sweet, familiar scent on the air: honey.

  No. Not here. Not now.

  A disorganized smattering of people darts down the street. They’re whooping, of all things. A rock wings past my shoulder, strikes one of the men standing guard. He curses, grabs my arm, and propels me into the group. My gaze sweeps the chaos, the terrified people. It snags on a man standing on a darkened porch, watching. He’s not someone anyone would notice. Not someone who would stand out. He’s an island of calm in a sea of fear. My heart pounds hard and heavy, even as my stomach sinks. I hope I’m mistaken.

  A beard slides over the man’s face, then disappears.

  I can feel it, the moment our gazes meet. It’s like a rocket locking onto me. My breath chokes off.

  Beekeeper.

  He nods, so slowly. Acknowledgment.

  Run. It’s my first thought. My only thought.

  I break free of the group and into a flat run, away from the people throwing rocks, away from the group protecting themselves. I only make it a block when a woman crashes into me. I land on the shattered panes of a window. The impact jars every inch of my aching body. Glass scrapes against pavement, digs into my palms. The woman scrabbles over me, clawing at my hair like it’s smothering her. An incomprehensible stream babbles from her mouth. I catch a glimpse of bare teeth, feral, rolled-back eyes.

  A red welt on the side of her neck with white, vein-like striations twists up her jaw.

  Fresh panic squeezes my chest. How many people are running around right now with Beekeeper stings? How many infected people are roaming the ruins of Cadence?

  The woman uses my back as a stair tread and darts off. I lurch to my feet, hurting everywhere. This is like playing Modern Warfare…on the wrong side of the screen.

  My gaze flicks back to the porch. It’s empty. The Beekeeper could be anywhere.

  Run, damn it!

  My thoughts devolve to the primal. Fear is the only thing.

  There’s a commotion behind me, and the sound of a stampede, and something hits me over the back of the head. Hard.

  I hit the ground again. My head spins. My vision darkens at the edges, slowly swallowing my sight. Dismay is a lead blanket.

  I could have gotten away. I was warned. But no…

  People are yelling: Put it down… I don’t want to hurt you… You don’t want to hurt anyone.

  Hysterical laughter peals through the sounds. Devils are among us… I do, very much, want to hurt you.

  I shudder, carefully pull myself up to hands and knees. My head pulses with a dizzying headache. I close my eyes as tears slide out, mixing with this hateful, never-ending rain. I must have hurt my ankle, because it feels like it’s dangling from a tendon. My hands are numb, but throbbing. Whatever’s wrong with them will hurt later.

  The pavement swings like a pendulum under my face before fading out completely. I can’t think of a single reason to haul myself upright. I’m so tired of upright.

  Several pairs of feet pound toward me. I recognize Deno’s green Converses, but not the black army-type boots next to him. There’s a brief, heated debate above me that sounds like Charlie Brown’s teacher, mla-mah-mah-mla, then powerful arms slide under my legs and around my back. They gather me against an alarmingly hot chest. “Go on,” says a garbled voice to Deno. “I’ve got her.”

  No! I can’t go with Rafette. I twist and buck, but he’s strong, and I’m so freaking done.

  “Please, don’t.” But my words are little more than air.

  “Shut up,” he growls in my ear. “This will be easier if you don’t fight me.”

  29- mountain view gardens

  Soft. Warm. Dry. Oh yes—dry.

  Hmm…nice.

  I awake in a bed that is not mine.

  It is a bed, though. Not the sidewalk, or someone’s lawn, or under a fresh pile of rubble. That’s a comforting thing. I drag my mind back in time to the last thing I remember.

  Rafette.

  Oh hell.

  I crack open one eye. Pale light seeps through a dirty window, illuminating what appears to be a small studio apartment. It’s a real classy place. Strips of duct tape hold a broken windowpane together, and a thin yellow sheet is tacked up halfway over it. My gaze moves to the recliner next to the bed, which looks as if it was acquired from a curb. Only the massive, wall-mounted TV looks like it was purchased in the last decade.

  And then there’s Reece.

  Wait. Reece?

  I lift my head off the pillow, then think better of it and ease back down. This could be a trick. A magic Beekeeper trick. Or Reece might not be Reece anymore.

  He’s hunched over on a kitchen chair with his back to me. Shirtless. I swear, the boy forgoes shirts just to gain the advantage. My eyes follow the muscled curve of spine from his bowed head to the waistband of baggy jeans that hang too low on his hips to be his. He sighs and shifts the hand propping up his head, holding his cell phone in the other.

  I spy my sodden clothes, draped over kitchen chairs. My clothes. I close a hand over a nearby body part—my hip—and flip both eyes open. I’m in a big T-shirt. Someone else’s T-shirt.

  Clutching the covers, I sit bolt upright, then sway forward with a groan. Pain shoots through my eyes, down through my teeth.

  He gets up, startled, then immediately backs into the shadowed kitchenette. His head stays down. His hair is a curtain of dark tendrils over a face he’s clearly trying to hide.

  “Hey, easy there.” His voice is a quiet rumble. “You were hit in the head.”

  Right. Forgot about that. “How long was I out?”

  “About six hours.”

  My eyes are gritty and sore. I rub them with a groan. Six hours. My dad must be stroking out. “Where’s my phone?”

  “Gone,” he says. “You must have dropped it.”

  “Can I borrow yours? To let my dad know I’m still alive?”

  He flicks it on the table. “Happy to, if it was working.”

  Fantastic. I run my fingers over my head and find a small bump. “You changed my clothes.” My voice is accusatory. I don’t even know why. Tears burn my eyes, because I don’t have words for how glad I am to see him alive.

  He leans back, arms crossed. “You were unable to change yourself.”

  Why is he staying so far away? What is wrong with his face?

  Teeth flash in his shadowed features. “Don’t tell me that’s your big concern right now,” he says.

  “It’s not. I mean… Forget it.” I don’t know what I mean. Him seeing me naked is, by far, the easiest thing to worry about.

  “I didn’t do anything to you while you were unconscious.” He turns away, bracing his hands on the counter. “Do you think that little of me?”

  “Of course not. Sorry, this is all really…alarming.”

  “You were freezing and in shock. I had to get you warm and dry.” His voice is rough. “I’m not sorry.”

  There’s an open window in the living room area, letting in a sharp breeze. I don’t see how that is part of getting me warm, but that is a question so far down the list, it’s not worth the air. I pull the covers tighter around me. “So where are we?”

  I’m not sure I want to know. Everything about this place screams of unhappiness, from the duct-taped window to the stink of unwashed everything.

  “They’re trying to evacuate Cadence, with varied success,” he says. “The owner of this apartment has left, along with most of the residents of the Mountain View Gardens. You remember this place.”

  I do, unfortunate
ly. I can’t suppress a shudder at the memory of the last time I was here.

  “You should have stayed away from me,” I say.

  His shoulders hunch. “I couldn’t.”

  “The helicopters were there,” I say. “I would have been rescued.”

  “You would have been butchered.”

  “But—”

  “The helicopters would not have gotten to you in time. When we left, your friends’ neighbors were battling the Beekeeper’s infected army. And if you’d gotten past them somehow, there’s Rafette to contend with. He wouldn’t have let you out of Cadence so easily.”

  “So you rescued me.”

  “Didn’t feel like a rescue.” Muscles flex up and down his arms as he twists his palms together. “You put up a fight. You acted like…” He grimaces. “Like you were afraid of me.”

  “I thought you were him.”

  He turns back to face me but stays carefully in the shadow. “How could you mistake me for him?”

  “Your voice,” I shrug. “It sounded…not quite human.”

  He nods. “These are the times when the curse has the most control over me. I’m at my least human.”

  My breath suspends as a pause sucks the oxygen from the room. It grows heavier as the seconds tick by. His words feel like a warning and an apology. And a plea.

  “I was—am—afraid for you,” I say.

  “You shouldn’t be.” His voice is harsh. It scrapes through me like sandpaper. “I can handle Rafette.”

  But I’m not sure he can.

  I start to curl my legs under me. The movement startles a pained gasp out of me. I forgot about my injured ankle. I reach for it and find it wrapped in a snug bandage. My hands are clean and bandaged, too. My heart gives a little squeeze. He did more than undress me. He tended my wounds. Damn you, Reece. I can’t push him away. He’s making it impossible. Nearly.

  I tilt up my chin. “Rafette wants you, not me. You.”

  “I said, I can handle Rafette.” Reese’s mouth compresses. “Please, don’t act like I’m—” He cuts off, rubs his eyes.

  “Reece, I saw what happened to Hank. Just because he and my mom were close…”