Here

by Zolendz, Christine

  I walk out of the room dressed in a thick thermal top and black leggings. He’s leaning against an antique-looking grandfather clock, flicking his fingers at the price tag on his clothes. He doesn’t even look in my direction as he speaks to me. “What are these for?” he asks, tapping a finger against one.

  “Has to do with class. Only really superior humans are allowed to wear them.” Petty to say, but it feels satisfying.

  He grunts and turns his attention to the front of the store. “Where is my faceplate?”

  “Where is my sister?” I snap, pulling my backpack up over my shoulders. My father’s vest is still damp; I’m going to need something heavier to shield myself from the weather.

  “Probably turned to dust by now,” he says without emotion.

  My heart stills in my chest and I can’t catch my breath. The rim of my eyelids burn with the tears I’m fighting. My nose flares out and my lips pinch together hard. “Is that why you all came here? To turn us all to dust?”

  “No, it isn’t,” he says quietly.

  “Then why did you?” I yell, shoving him in the chest.

  “It’s inconsequential now,” he says. The muscles in his jaw tic and clench with each word.

  “Where did they take her?” I shriek, stepping even closer, getting myself ready to ball up my fists and hit him as hard as I can.

  “You are all such emotional creatures,” he says, barely above a whisper; like a thought that was too important to contain in his own mind. His eyes dart all over my face, taking me in, until he slowly shakes his head and steps back.

  “Tell me where they took her…where are they taking everyone who hasn’t died? Tell me what’s going on,” I say through tightly clenched teeth. “Take me there and I’ll give you back your mask.”

  “I could just take it back right now,” he says, stepping closer to me.

  I fold my arms over my chest and settle my fingers around the hilt of the knife that’s tucked into my waistband. “So why don’t you?”

  His lips quirk up in one corner. “You and your little blade are entertaining to watch. I’m leaning toward keeping you as a pet.”

  I’ve never wanted to stab someone before—never wanted to watch someone bleed—but right now, with him standing over me, mocking me, it takes everything I have inside me not to throttle him. “Just tell me where she is.”

  I barrel into him, fed up with his games. I’ll make him take me. I’ll make him…

  With a simple flick of his wrist my body slams against a wall and black spots dance across my vision.

  I blink my eyes to find him hovering over my bag, my belongings scattered amongst the dirt and grime of the floor. My belly grumbles in protest seeing my entire meager supply of granola bars flattened under his boots. I climb to my feet slowly. I’m about to scream, lash out about how selfish and horrible he is, about how much I hate him for everything that his people have done, but something stops me. My movements still and I glance down at what he is prying out of my bag. Taking a slow, deep breath, he holds the mask in his hands reverently, then slowly brings it up to his face.

  I wait for the hum—for that deep electric buzz that grates and rattles your bones. Yet nothing happens.

  His breaths speed up. Heavier and heavier, faster and faster they come, until he’s just about hyperventilating behind the face armor.

  I flinch back when it drops to the floor. The hollow sound it makes is somehow sad and heartbreaking. I take another step back, not wanting to feel any sympathy for whatever was happening in front of me. My boots scrape over glass and the crunch is loud, killing the silence. His head snaps up and blue eyes meet mine. His mouth falls open but no words come out.

  My first thought is to run. If he picks up that mask again, I’m dead and so is my sister. She isn’t dust yet, I refuse to believe that. I scramble back, slamming my calves into the corner of a coffee table and tumbling right over it. I look around wildly. I need something, anything to throw or hide behind.

  “I’ll take you,” he says. His voice is hoarse and low.

  “What?” my voice squeaks.

  “I’ll take you to get your sister.”

  I don’t know what just happened, but I don’t care. All I care about is getting Claire.

  9

  Kate

  There’s a small convenience store on the corner. The windows are blown out and it reeks strangely of fish, but as we walk past, I spy a toppled shelf of processed muffins and coffee cakes. There’s no way I can leave the boxes behind. I haven’t seen fresh food in weeks, and even though stale chocolate chip muffins wouldn’t be my first choice, I’m starving.

  I’m tearing into the box with my teeth before he can even climb through the window. I toss him a bag and rip open two and shove a handful into my mouth. My eyes water from too much but I manage to swallow it down. The jerk just stares at me, watching me cough and gag into my hands.

  “You don’t eat?” I snap when I find my voice again.

  He holds the bag up. “What is this?”

  “Stale muffins. They taste like ass.”

  His eyebrows furrow. “Ass?”

  My eyes bulge, I can feel them almost pop just out of my sockets. “Forget it. Just eat.”

  He watches me carefully and lifts a muffin to his lips like he’s not sure what to do. Maybe he’s just waiting to see if I’m trying to get him to eat poison. Whatever it is that he decides makes him take the tiniest nibble and spit it out immediately, “This planet should be eradicated.”

  “Funny. I thought that had already happened,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  “Not quite yet,” he retorts, throwing the rest of the bag of muffins on the floor and climbing back out the window. My eyes linger on the bag. I’m still hungry but it truly tasted like it was dipped in gasoline before being packaged, so I follow him back outside with an empty belly.

  “Do you have a name? I’m Kate,” I ask, meeting him on the sidewalk. He’s scanning the block, eyes squinting through the misty streets. The sky is heavy with clouds, blocking out the bright sun we had woken up to this morning. He ignores my question and walks back the way we had traveled last night.

  “Hey, that’s the way we came last night!” I call out to him, jogging to catch up.

  He grunts and keeps on walking.

  I have to walk three steps for every one of his long strides. I sucked at Phys. Ed., so I’m panting embarrassingly loud and can’t form complete sentences, or words, or even sounds. Maybe a few whimpers escape. If I was the human that represented the rest of the species to this guy, no wonder he’s not afraid of us. I pretty much suck.

  In the daytime, the world looks forgotten. Some old ruin from long ago. My chest aches to see my city like this. Once-tall buildings that blocked out the sun eroded to dust and crumbled before my eyes. The island looks leveled; nothing left stands tall. A fog of thick dust cloaks the streets. It doesn’t billow or move with the wind; it stands dense and static, stinging your eyes, your throat, your lungs.

  “This is shit,” I say, waving my hand out in front of us, pausing to catch my breath. “Tomorrow, whoever is left here will wake up with cancer.” I pull my pack from off my back and open it. Rummaging through, I quickly find an old button-down shirt and tie it around my neck. I pull it tight up over my mouth and breathe in through the material. What I really need is a gas mask or a HAZMAT suit. And I don’t know where I could get anything like that.

  I’d give just about anything to be able to Google something again. I dig my cell phone out of my vest pocket and stare down at the useless thing. God, I miss the Internet. We weren’t even able to make emergency calls when this all started—every call was a busy signal—it’s one of the worst feelings in the world having something that you didn’t realize you depended on like calling 911 not working when you needed it the most.

  I need to pull myself together. I have to find Claire.

  Up ahead, I can see the idiot’s darkened form through the fog. He isn’t moving, but I can t
ell he’s looking up at something.

  A few more steps and I see what he’s staring at, it’s them—the metalheads from the night before. Three men made of iron or steel, dangling from atop a flagpole. Their masks lay on the ground below their feet and what looks like liquid alloy drips from their fingertips. They sway from a thick rope wrapped only once around their throats, each body weighing the other one down.

  A small whimper escapes my lips. Oh God.

  All three of their heads are wrapped with aluminum foil so only their noses peek out, and bent forks stick out sickeningly from the hinges in their armor. I recoil back in horror and avert my eyes, refusing to look any longer. I wonder who my father thought he was when he did this. I can’t even imagine which of his personalities would be so brutal. Maybe my father is back, the soldier. The one my mother would say went to war yet never came home.

  I don’t know why but the thought makes me sick. So sick I double over and wrap my hands across my stomach. My dad needs my help just as much as Claire does. But who the hell is going to help me in all this?

  The alien-idiot crouches over the masks and spins one around on the pavement. It scrapes and grates against the concrete.

  “Give me your knife,” he says, looking over his shoulder at me.

  “Not a chance,” I say, backing up and folding my arms over my chest. He’s got to be kidding me.

  He stands and spins on his heels, facing me. “I need to cut them down.”

  My eyebrows hit my hairline, and I can feel the grit and dirt that’s caked on my face as it happens. “Look, I’m sorry about your friends, but—”

  “—Friends?” He cocks his head and frowns in disgust. “You did see them trying to extinguish me, right? Is that what you call friends here?”

  “Then why take them down?” I ask, stalling, trying to think things through. There’s no way I’m giving up my knife.

  “Because you’re not going to be any help to your sister looking like that,” he says pointing to me. “We need to take their armor.”

  “But how do I know you’re not going to—”

  “You don’t know,” he snaps, balling his fists. “You know nothing.”

  “Then how am I supposed to trust you with the only weapon I have to protect myself?”

  “Because, girl, if I wanted you dead, dead you would be.”

  “Whatever, asshole. I’ll take them down. You’re not getting my knife,” I say in what I’m hoping is a tough voice. I shake my head and grab onto the opposite rope and use it to lower the flag, which lowers the bodies. Instantly my muscles tighten and tire, and a line of cold sweat drips down the back of my shirt.

  I grit my teeth, continuing until the bodies clank softly on the curb of the flagstone and slump against each other. I quickly look at him and step away. “Okay, idiot.” I’m breathing a little too heavily, my heart beating a little too fast. “You can undress them; I’m not touching them.”

  His eyes narrow suspiciously toward me. “I’m doing this for you.”

  “Yeah, go ahead, jerk. Keep telling yourself that. You’re undressing other men for me. Go ahead. I’ll be over there. Jackass.”

  10

  Kate

  Bright red blood drips from his hands when he emerges from the fog. I have no idea how long it’s taken, but I’ve been sitting in front of the remains of what was once a coffee shop. I already walked through the ruins and found a small treasure—an unopened bag of coffee beans. Now I’m sitting here sucking on one bean at a time, savoring the feel of the surge of caffeine through my veins. I’m also rocking back and forth uncontrollably, anxious as hell.

  “What are you ingesting now?” he asks when he reaches me.

  “Coffee beans. Dark Roast,” I say, holding out the bag for him to see.

  Jackass digs his hand in my beans and shoves them in his mouth. I blast out a good hardy laugh before he chews once and spits the entire mouthful onto the sidewalk. His mouth twists into a pinched-up frown as he glares at me. “What is wrong with this place?”

  I shrug and laugh more. “Maybe you should leave?” I slowly chomp down on a coffee bean; sharp bitterness fills my mouth. “Coffee is a staple in our diet. I personally can’t function without it.”

  He spits again and wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. “Make sure to eat the whole bag then. Your functioning skills are lacking.”

  I roll my eyes and continue chewing. It really is a disgusting taste, but my head has been killing me from lack of my regular morning coffee and hell, I don’t want him to know I hate it just as much as he did.

  Hanging from his shoulder is an oversized beach bag. It’s neon blue and across the front, it says, Welcome to New York, now go the fuck home. Sticking out from the top are two metal boots. He sees me eyeing them but says nothing. I wonder what the things look like now without all their armor on; do they look human like him?

  He adjusts the strap of the bag over his shoulder and strides past. “Try and keep up,” he mumbles.

  “Asshole,” I mumble back, flipping him the finger.

  His stride comes to a complete halt. “What was that gesture?”

  “Hmm, what?” I say, stepping past him feigning confusion.

  His eyes narrow.

  “Oh, yeah, right this,” I say, flipping him my middle finger again, but this time double fisting it. “I was saluting you. That’s how we do it here,” I say, smiling and pulling my extra shirt wrapped around my neck over my mouth again.

  He mumbles something else behind me but I can’t hear him.

  Around us, the air has a thickening quality to it, too thick to carry sound, like the dense hush of a heavy snowfall. Plus, it reeks of rot and decay.

  “The air here is too full,” he says as he catches up with my pace. Again, I wonder if he can read my thoughts or if he’s just trying to make small talk with me about obvious stuff.

  “Wasn’t like this until you idiots dropped in,” I grumble under the material covering my mouth. Then call him a dumbass planet-stealing asshat in my head to see if mind reading is one of his abilities.

  He shakes his head and gives me a small sideways glance. “Your air quality was poor when we got here.”

  I stop walking and jam my hands on my hips. “Why did you come here, then?”

  He shakes his head and keeps walking silently for a while. I follow, just as silently.

  “The man that was with you?” he asks.

  My eyes dart in his direction. We’re climbing over a field of debris—broken concrete and metal beams. “My father.”

  “He’s different.” It isn’t a question.

  “More like confused,” I say.

  “He ran away when—”

  “Look,” I say darkly, stopping on top of a large mound of unsteady bricks. I hold my arms out for balance. “He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know who he is, and he’s just really confused.” I sweep one hand out in front of us. “This isn’t helping, either. None of us know what’s going on.” The rocks wobble frantically under the soles of my boots.

  He blinks up at me and I lose my footing, slipping down the pile of rocks.

  The beach bag of metal parts drops to the ground and his arms are instantly around me, catching me before I tumble over the jagged surface. My eyes shoot up, locking on his, as my feet dangle in the air. One hand is around my waist as another pulls me up from the back of my knees, cradling me like a baby. His eyes don’t look away from mine.

  I hate that he helped me, again. He’s like a nice asshole. Ironic.

  The hand around my waist somehow landed under the hem of my vest, on the tiny sliver of skin between my waistband and my shirt. His fingers are warm, pressing into my side. There’s no reason for him to hold me so tight, or to hold me at all, yet it feels nice; for once, having someone looking out for me. The confusing thoughts make me sick.

  “And your sister?” he asks, not acknowledging he probably just saved me from breaking my neck. I feel his fingers slowly spread out across my s
kin. He definitely doesn’t need to be doing that. Is he trying to carry my weight more efficiently, or is he actually trying to feel my skin? Unwanted flutters coil in my belly.

  Suddenly, I feel overwhelmingly overheated and my mind races with disconcerting images. Flashes of heat—of fogged-up windows in the back of Jason Mooring’s car a few months ago before the world went bad—when I snuck out of the apartment to meet him. I wonder where Jason is now.

  I blink away the thoughts and stare at the thing holding me.

  His eyebrows squish together and a frown pulls at his lips. Maybe he can’t figure me out. Or maybe he really could read my thoughts and he’s mortified about the fact that one of his hands touching my skin is making me think of the last time I was touched by a guy. I clear my throat and look away.

  He carries me steadily until he finds solid ground and slowly lowers me until my toes touch down. He steps away and looks at his hand, the one that touched my skin, stretches his fingers, then quickly wipes them on his pants.

  What the hell? Does he think I have the cooties or something?

  I stare down at his hand, humiliated.

  He stares down at his hand, disgusted.

  He clears his throat and swallows loudly. “And your sister?” he repeats the question, more slowly this time.

  I pause for a moment then mistakenly look up to meet his gaze. His blue eyes leave me with a mess of unsettling thoughts. Why is he asking? Will he use the information against me somehow?

  “She’s confused also?” he asks.

  I’m not sure how to answer him but I do so without thinking, I guess because I’m just used to explaining. “Claire has Down Syndrome.”

  “A disease?”

  “No,” I snap, wanting to punch him. “It’s not a disease. It’s just,” I hesitate, watching his features question me. I laugh darkly. “It’s a disorder. She was born with something extra inside her.”