Gary's Trilogy (Book 3): Still Myself, Still Surviving (The Retaliation)

by Marlin Grail

  That’s how I’ll forgive myself.

  “Nice and easy,” I again strain midway as we bend down. She lands gently into the grave. Little pockets of dirt surrounding her grave have fallen down with her, dirtying up the pale ghostly skin of her complexion.

  She’s really dead.

  The last one is here. His arm with his claw hand extends far away from his body.

  “Hey,” the shoveler hesitates. “C-can I have that?”

  Remember Trey in this moment. To keep the memory of him alive, his group, let this man take the enemy’s weapon. Use what Claw gives us in death, to further ensure we never forget him.

  “It’s all yours.”

  The shoveler, who’s remained gloomy and appropriate in that regards, crouches down. When he unstraps the gloved weapon, a sense of excitement radiates off him.

  “It’s an old weapon a samurai would use. It was mostly females that worked with them. Did you know that there were female samurais? Most people don’t know that.” He runs a finger across a spike. “But this one’s beastly-looking enough that anyone, man or woman, could surely get power—”

  “Please,” I cut in, finally unable to hear more. “Just please take the weapon aside and help me carry him.”

  This man, definitely a fanatic and expert when it comes to the topic of ancient weapons, catches on quick that I’m bothered more about where he was going, rather than what he was saying.

  “Oh, right. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” I stare at Claw’s missing claw, aware the hand is human again. “There’s just a lot that went on with this person here.”

  And, with that, he and I squat and time our lift off with Claw’s body. We’re unified in struggling towards the empty hole in the ground.

  I can’t believe this is his grave.

  Ashton, Janice, Lissie, and Maurice with them, all watch the lowering happen. Each remain solemn, pensive even, after the body’s no longer visible. The shoveler goes to commence shoveling.

  Your opportunity’s here.

  “I got this.”

  He seems a bit surprised, raising an eyebrow in answer. “What a rockstar way to be.”

  I jerk. I don’t know if he knew who I once was or if it was just a coincidental turn of phrase.

  Maybe. Or maybe that’s just me. Truth of the matter is, I’m not going to stop being me, and that’s what a rockstar was all about. They had their own charm that way…

  Clouse would’ve been one, but one who lost their way.

  And as a consequence, he paid with his life.

  Chapter LXXVI

  “Let me see that,” Hannibal dictates. Curious, he takes the small bottle out from my hands. He holds it up to the sun. “You said this came from Clouse?”

  “Affirmative,” I assure. “His last words to me—piecing it together—was he wanted me to take this and ‘free’ Gada.”

  His eyes grow enlarged from being perplexed himself. He guides me to walk with him.

  I’m certain he’s redirecting this matter to someone else.

  “A couple of personnel came with us.” He wiggles the bottle in front of me. “Maybe they’ll be able to identify what this is.”

  “Whatever it is, I believe Clouse meant it more than figuratively.” I’m breathing heavily, already feeling fatigued from our speedy walk.

  Hannibal quickly glances back at me, and brakes to a standstill. I can tell he’s troubled with whatever he has to say to me. The loosening of his already hung-low tie is the dead giveaway. “I want to thank you.”

  I struggle from slight discomfort myself. “There’s no need to be thanked for what had to be done.”

  “But you pulled through on so much. I know that Cheyenne had tragedy.”

  I can’t say anything. Not yet.

  Don’t bring those who died up. Please.

  “It was entirely with Casey’s help.” Hannibal angles his head downwards, taking a moment of silence. It ends with a high note of justice, but, also, a moody one in regards to how it was executed. “It’s why I put a bullet through each of his limbs, watched him writhe in pain, and then put one in his head.”

  “You should’ve just done the head. Falling to their level, even if they’re gone, means they ultimately win.”

  “I guess you’re right,” he replies, a tinge of shame decreasing his voice into a mutter. “Still felt good.”

  I open my mouth to caution him before closing it.

  This is where we must part. I won’t control your fate, because I’m not like our enemies were when it came to forcing fates to go a certain way. Everyone must have the freedom to decide for themselves.

  I exhale, and place a hand on his shoulder. “My group and I will be leaving soon, so if I don’t see you again…” My hand transitions into an open hand for a proper shake. “Take care here. You and your group.”

  He and his officers are survivors now.

  “Wait,” he hurries with his hand up and away with a point behind him. “Won’t you want to know what this bottle contains? What he hoped you do with it?”

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t the least bit curious myself. My gaze darts repetitively at the bottle.

  He’s fully aware of it.

  “Before you leave, come ask where I’m at and I’ll tell you.”

  Maybe it’s best to leave it alone.

  “Okay, but, again, if I don’t see you anymore…” My hand remains ready to grip his.

  And at last he begins shaking it. “It was…adventurous…these last several hours. Uh…”

  “Gary,” I say with a smile, not remembering if I ever really mentioned my name. And even if I did, well, a lot’s happened since then. I can’t blame the man for forgetting. “My name’s Gary.”

  “Gary, it was nice knowing you. You’re a real hero.”

  I grow humbled by that remark, but cough to eradicate the giddiness I might betray. I don’t need the praise, but before the cough I couldn’t help but involuntarily smile at the words.

  I’m a survivor. Like you, Hannibal. Let’s not confuse that anymore with saying there’s more to it than just doing what’s best for the ones we survive for.

  Our focus on one another dissolves. We simultaneously turn around from our conversation.

  He’s going one way, and I’m going the other. I know the bottle will have to stay a mystery. I just want to leave with my family, and find our new life.

  If we are to ever cross paths again, let’s hope you don’t get corrupted to a hardened soul of an aggressor, Hannibal. Don’t let Casey have done that to you.

  I can’t help but think of Ernie, Jefald, and Holcomb. I’d like to think they made it out safely. The odds against them weren’t good, but hope is all we have left in this damaged world.

  I can’t ever forget that again. No matter how badly things are bound to get again.

  By now, several of the officers are stripped of that instant impression of being in uniform, unlike the way their clothing depicts they still are. Numerous swerve past me, as I do to them. Strangely, all have the eyes of infants.

  At least to me.

  Each pair scans the environment, the people, with wonder. It’s all a new realm of life to them. It’s not just the fact they’ll be living in a landfill, surrounded by trash continuously creating a foul odor, but learning that regular people have been living under conditions like these for a year.

  Some I’m sure have had a much worse situation that they’ve made do with.

  It will work out for you all. As long as you adapt to it. You will either make a choice, or it will decide for you. Your decisions are this: to go along with the apocalypse as a survivor, an aggressor, or possibly a new C.F.O.G.

  It’s either those, or let the world eat you alive—maybe even literally.

  This can be a promise land for them.

  But the land’s not entirely out of the grimy waters just yet.

  Chapter LXXVII

  “Gary,” Maurice calls out to me with an upbeat tone. “A
re you going to be able to take these fine officers and folk to where you last encountered Tanner?”

  I wait until I close the gap between me and all of them. We’re now back at the burial grounds. Ashton, Janice, and Lissie are off to the side. They were all having a muted conversation, and abruptly end it when I’m in their line of sight.

  Lissie, I’m sure you’ve told Janice and Ashton about Will. The sooner we leave, the better the chance we’ll catch up to him.

  All of my group’s eyes are on me. It’s a simple lie I have to tell them—that I’m all right. I’ll tell it so it’ll be faster for us to regroup with Will.

  It will hurt to get up that hill, the one where Feral rests. Even afterwards, when returning down it, I’ll likely have to drag his body along, and add another obligated burial.

  It’s just who I am.

  When it’s positive for everyone else, I diminish in care for myself. When I do things purely for me, I diminish the claims why someone like him should be left up there to rot, or to simply kick him off the hill to be eaten by wandering undead.

  “I’m ready to escort them.”

  Our pack is wide, and secured with weaponry. The flock is necessary for me to stay in the center and pinpoint exact aspects of the walk without having to focus anywhere but retracing back to that first milestone.

  The hill.

  Undead are barely considered to need the full attention of our pack. A gun pops once, maybe twice in a row. Besides that, the only other sounds are when people bump into one another by accident. They are considerably apologetic to one another. Even the officers are encouraging to their new friends that this will be a breeze.

  Good. You’re family now. You want that communication there from the start.

  “Need some help,” I throw this out to anybody in our ant army. That’s also what we are. We’re ants in that we don’t need to know one another to aid one another.

  “Let’s take it slow,” the landfill civilian that heard my distress says, as he and I step higher in our inclined staircase that happens to be this hill.

  The throbbing throughout my wounded thigh pounds like a relentless fist against a wall. There’s an involuntary trembling in my hands as they squeeze tightly to compress the pain levels roaring back.

  A grunt or two manages to escape out of me. It comes the moment when I reach the top of this hill. The thigh’s pressure I was growing used to is alleviated now that there’s no further inclining steps, making my body realize just how much it adapted to it.

  “Where next?” this landfill civilian asks for everyone.

  I delay to answer because Feral’s body is all that I’m momentarily concentrating on.

  I have to bury you.

  “Who has the shovel?”

  Through our crop field of people someone is nudging through to get to the front. This woman hands me the shovel. “How long’s it gonna take for you to do that?”

  I cock my head. I understand what she’s really asking. Tanner’s camp. “Just down this hill, straight for a few minutes. You should find a jeep.”

  I begin digging into the ground, stabbing the head as deep as it’ll go. I’m scraping up dirt that’s thin with measly roots which shouldn’t be responsible for making this dig that tough.

  It’s the challenge I take. If it means you are deemed officially dead, and I get to live to struggle with this ground, then I’ll exercise the right to feel this strain in my body.

  I can’t imagine I’ll get tired of reminding myself of that fact.

  “All right!” an officer revs energetically before sending a hand signal for them all to head down the hill.

  I listen to the crunching of the ground with the shovel and feet working in unison, until I finish the hole. I then realize what sounded like six people’s feet continuously stomping the ground was actually just mine. I exerted all of my energy to create a grave for Feral.

  Nobody will be here for him, besides me.

  And that’s okay.

  “Feral,” I mumble. The awkward feelings show up as I begin playing with the tip of the shovel, twirling the whole tool and watching it twist the grass it’s stabbing. “I have no idea who you were, but I know what you did. I’m not going to say to myself it was bad and you deserve this. What I will say is you boosted me back to be determined to never stop fighting. I won’t forget you for that.”

  The shovel drops. I no longer tease this moment. It’s time to put those feelings to bed. And wake up from the chilling darkness I hibernated in for a while.

  The homicide. The hopelessness. Then, the suicidal quench.

  Rest in peace. Both you, Feral, and you too, grief cycle.

  My palms get darkened by the dirt I slide over his body. I refuse to look at the wound on my left. My fear is to see any more changes from the dried red blood that is suturing my skin on its own.

  Fortunately, this is all I can make out. Because of the dirt, it’s hard to make out my fluid’s particular color.

  It’s not time yet, I suppose. It won’t ever be time to accept it though, will it?

  Suddenly, I think about the phantom. I hadn’t heard it since the last communication. Was it ever real? Could it have been a hallucination that the five of us shared? Perhaps hearing it was yet another sign of madness.

  No, but Hannibal and his scientists knew it was real. Didn’t they?

  I don’t know anymore. I don’t care. There were some mysteries not meant to be solved. At least, not by me. Not today.

  I know I had hallucinations play with my mind. But that play time’s over and done with. The two episodic hallucinations, Alex and Lissie appearing undead to me were, thankfully, untrue. And if Lissie’s alive and well, then I must believe Alex is too. He’s somewhere alive, and not an undead.

  Maybe I won’t know for sure, but I know this much.

  I’m going to do my damnedest hardest to never find myself inside another haze in my life.

  I rest on my knees for a moment. Before me is an invisible crossroads. Both are like having an itch that needs to be scratched. Question is which one’s the best for my family overall?

  Do I let us be okay that my immunity might cause problems in the future, or do I change my mind and stay here a little longer? Work with Hannibal and his personnel to potentially cleanse me of it?

  Free me, per se?

  While watching dark particles in the sky flow with the blue, I make a mental rule to follow from here on out.

  A binding contract that will be signed by me the instant I stand up.

  I won’t look at my palm anymore, unless I either accept there’s dried green helping to suture my wound. If I can’t accept that, then I swear to spend the rest of the necessary time working with Hannibal, the way he originally planned we would, to figure out what will stop this green from coursing through my veins.

  It’s a timer I put on myself. I must not bounce back and forth between the choices.

  Like I told myself in regards to the landfill’s new people. Either I make the choice, or this world makes it for me. If we go today, I must ask Maurice if we can take an emergency vehicle of hers. If we stay a little longer, I must eventually ask her as a favor anyways.

  Three fingers on my left count down as the seconds remaining that I give myself. Then two. Then one.

  The choice is made.

  I stand.

  We’ll get to you, Will. We’ll meet as residents.

  Safe ones.

  Epilogue

  (Will)

  Improvements needed to be made, and they have been done by me. I’m shrugging the ticks—the weight—that was on my back, sucking me dry. They didn’t get there just from last night’s battle, but from the consistent turmoil that kept growing from shrugging it off day after day.

  It was for the best that I left. Part of me hasn’t truthfully believed what Gary and Lissie were showing with their feelings and words last night. If they really care about me…then we’ll see each other again.

  In many ways, I’m the
runaway child of theirs they’re no doubt enraged at this very minute. The inner part of me that doesn’t typically get known, even to myself, has really risen to the surface today.

  Deep down, I like to get a rile out of people by doing something altering. It lets me know I’m wanted by those that happen to be impacted by the change as well.

  I couldn’t believe this nice and cushioned driver seat of a working car was just out here. Boy oh boy, a screwdriver was left too? It only needed a little pound to its handle’s tip, just the way some old crooks from back when showed me how. Any vehicle before the mid 90’s shouldn’t have trouble getting its ignition cylinder jacked up and busted.

  I recalled my face when I listened to this engine rev up. It was orgasmic.

  Finally, something went right without hassle!

  And the fuel looked to be quite high when the meter came alive. An hour later, it doesn’t look like my ass will have to stop leaving an impression on this comfy seat in order to refill it.

  Am I getting some kind of kick out of this? A little sense of rebelling by leaving behind what’s kept my emotions plateaued for so long? I feel happy. For the longest while I could only feel the perfectionist in me tell me not to yell, cry, or cause trouble. And, if I did, to leave ashamed.

  How’s it different this time around?

  I can do it in the comfort of a working car. Just me and my ass getting a kick out of empowerment. Feeling this empowered to change my current situation lets me have a smile on my face. The wind blows through my hair and smacks my open mouth.

  That’s how it’s different.

  Because there’s nobody left on my radar, good or bad. No more eyes I feel constantly monitoring me on how I do and perform. Like this reckless driving I got going on.

  But going on these back roads can be tough, especially when I have to get past scattered driving cones, aka, undead.

  The most challenging aspect to keeping a firm and steady 62-to-65mph is when these dotted-lane roads, and the trees around both sides of these narrow routes, are eerie reminders. They’re similar to the kinds of setups C.’s infrastructure area had.