WIPE (A Post-Apocalyptic Story)

by Turkot, Joseph

  “You’re right. We swim in,” Gala says.

  “He can’t run,” Maze tells her, her worried eyes flipping back from Gala to me and then back again.

  “Running isn’t what’ll save us,” Gala says, as if she knows that no matter how fast we run, there are just too many of them. That we’ll run and run and run right into them anyway. And then, decided at last, she says it’s the fog. That’s all we have left. We gamble on the fog staying thick, all the way up on the coast. Just as thick as it is out here.

  For the first time, I realize how dark the sky is in front of us. And that the faint glimmer of the hanging sun is all but gone behind us, what’s left of it brightening the gray mist where Garren is standing somewhere, alone on a bit of rock, his barrel of metal held in his strange death grip. And I know she’s right. There’s no other option. The coast is the only choice. Because the dark ocean night is coming, and we’re drifting out into it. And then, when I realize just how close night really is, it seems more horrible than the sharks. To cling and freeze to death in the dark. And the only thing that I can do is think of earth beneath me. That if I die, I’ll do it with hard ground beneath me.

  Maze quietly watches me. It’s a look I’ve never seen in her before. At first I think that it’s because I kissed her, but now I know it’s something else. She’s judging me, whether I can do it. And she’s decided I can’t. The feeling of jumping off a cliff rises into me. The sadness of her eyes. The nausea of death just before it happens. And with the smoldering helplessness she sends at me, just by her gaze locking to mine, showing me how scared she is, something she’s never supposed to show, I smile and kick off, right into the water. It’s only when I’ve gone ten strokes toward the shore that I raise my head high enough to drink in the air and holler for them to come on. Come on, I say. I say it again, as softly as I can, so the red men won’t hear me. And then, without even knowing if they’re swimming after me, I drive my head back under the water, right into a swell, and kick with all the fury and beauty that she’s never given me.

  Chapter 16

  I hear the splashes behind me after I’m sure I’m heading in the right direction. Waves start to ride with me, pushing me in faster, toward the rocks. I start to wonder when I’ll smack into them, how the next jagged underwater knife will feel, and how it will rip the loose muscle of my leg out for good, shark food, and a ruined sacrifice for the Nefandus. But there’s nothing, only the breathing and the pulsing of my arms and legs and the splashing behind me. And then, just when I feel the first brush of rock, not so quick that it cuts, and I get my feet on a bit of it to hold myself up, I hear the blast. It echoes through the fog twice, bouncing somehow all the way up the coast and off the high cliff and back at us. Shotgun.

  “There’s ground here,” I warn Gala and Maze as they reach me. And fishing with my foot, I find no rocks but smooth and solid stones. And then, just like that, I swim a bit farther and stand up, my head and shoulders rising out of the sea like some kind of monster. Before they get to me and I can ask if they heard it too, that somewhere out there Garren is alive, maybe fighting for his life, something comes over me. The feeling that I am a monster of the fog. Coming for the Nefandus. And a sure premonition, completely insane, fills me: I will come through the fog. Kill them all. Each and every one of them.

  “Don’t shout to him,” Maze says, and I know she’s aware too—that Garren is alive somewhere, and that Gala’s crazy instincts might rip her away from us, the three of us who have a shot to make it, because she’ll ruin everything by calling for him. Bringing them to us.

  Gala doesn’t say a word though. Her head whips around. In silence she tries to discover where he could be. And then I follow her, scanning the fog ahead, seeing the first peaks of rocks on solid ground, and the pebbled beach lanes that run between them, rising up, higher and in spurts, until the fog blanks everything out again. I wait for a form to appear, for a hundred forms, dark before they come into their clear red, but there’s nothing. Just the still beach and the rocks and the slow retreat and return of the waves belting the gravel.

  We walk up into the fog, constantly scanning the blank gray for signs of movement. In the distance, the sounds of footfalls fade in and out. Every few steps, Gala stops. I watch her pause to look back, into the ocean, toward wherever the shotgun might have come from. I want to ask her what she thinks happened to him—why he froze like that. But I can’t risk making any noise. None of us can. And there’s not even a whisper as we climb and weave through the rocks, scurrying quietly through mist until we reach the first sign of trees. It’s when we’ve gone in, right past the first trunks of pine, that Maze pulls me back to her, points off to our right, and ducks down. Gala mimics me, and then we’re all huddled together, squatting in plain view except for the cover of fog and a few trees. There, in the distance, standing still, as if at a post, is a Red Horn. A flashback haunts me—the vision of the one I first saw in the scrap yard. Alone, waiting. I remember how we’d killed it. Almost killed it. And how this one is alone, and we can do it again. But then, I remember—we’ve lost our knives. Lost everything.

  Anxiousness starts to well up on Gala’s face, like she knows we have to form a plan without talking. Every part of me wants to ask, wants to discuss what to do. But I won’t break the silence, and no one else does. Finally, it’s Maze. She motions for us to follow her deeper into the woods, away from the Red Horn. Walking in a sort of squat, my knees and my leg protesting horribly, we maneuver through the thickening grove of pines. I glance down, the stabbing pain a reminder, and I see the blood soaked shirt wrapping my leg. It’s as if the numbness of the freezing ocean is wearing off, and with the return of heat and life is the return of nerve fire to every fiber of my leg. Each stab reminds me of the gash under the shirt, and I can barely resist the urge to rip away the cloth, see just how badly I’m really cut up. When I see Maze twist half around, a look of panic seizing her, and then watch her double her speed, I glance back to see what’s happened: The Red Horn has started walking, slowly, unknowingly, but just in our direction. Like we’ve accidentally picked the same route he planned to travel. And then, in just another moment, Maze points, and there they are—clear red forms in the fog. Too many to believe. But none of them see us. Everyone freezes. I crouch, all throbbing forgotten, pressing hard into Gala’s chest and Maze’s back. We wait, pinched between the Red Horn—its giant red body slowly lumbering through the cloud-soaked pines toward us, footsteps loud and crunching—and the great pack of devils.

  Finally, Maze breaks silence. It’s barely audible, but she knows what I’m too afraid to act upon: It’s only a moment before he’ll walk into us.

  “Lie flat, here,” she says, pointing to a low shelf of rock that cuts between two fallen trunks, one high and gnarled, its rotting core sagging down to the forest floor, and the other straight, balanced across the rock.

  Gala nods, and they go. For some reason, I can’t move to follow them. Like I have to keep my promise to myself—to kill them all. But then, once it’s almost too late, I panic and move after them. My leg doesn’t cooperate enough and I trip over the first log. The noise is loud, and when I fall, I crash into two spreading branches, thin and dry enough that they pop loudly and crack in half as I roll on my side next to where Maze and Gala lie. And then, without any motion at all, I paralyze every muscle in my body. Face up and back flat against the earth, Maze and Gala somewhere near me. I hear their anxious breaths. There’s nothing to do but wait. But then, it becomes clear. The footsteps stop. Heavy and steady, they suddenly vanish, and there’s some talking. It’s the strange Nefandus speak, hushed, worried sounding. And then, unmistakable, the beast beats his feet again. Each step is louder enough than the last that I know—he knows just where to look to find us.

  I twist my head around enough to see Maze’s face. She’s sideways, looking behind, surveying the path, and I know she’s deciding if we should make a run for it. Down to the ocean again, back into the waves. A soft chant hits
the trees, rising and falling, and then more words I don’t understand.

  “Run,” Maze whispers. She gets up almost too slowly, and just when I roll around to follow, angry that she forgot I can’t run and we have to stay and fight it together, I know it’s no use. The face, so different from the last Red Horn, even with the same hulking body, stares down at me. The eyes, perfect white against the black, are the only thing besides the fog that I can see. I hear running, and then, when the footsteps sound too far away, they start to come back, get louder again. As if Maze is coming back for me. And Gala. The bang happens just as the giant hands reach down and his body leans forward, a slow grab for stunned prey—instantly the Red Horn freezes, checking the direction of the blast. Another shotgun round. Too close. And I know he survived somehow. Made it to land.

  Maze grabs my arm and pulls me up, and then, with one last look at the stunned Red Horn, I hear the frantic calls and shouts of the Nefandus pack, somewhere out there in the fog. Crazy screams and yelping. The shotgun fires off again, and this time, I’m sure that it’s somewhere nearby, somewhere right along the coast where we are. Before there’s any time to make a clear decision, Maze is pulling me, right through the trees, down toward where the surf is cashing on rocks, like we’re going to dive right back into the ocean. But then we get out on a flat stretch of beach, all small rocks and pebbles, there’s nothing but gray in every direction. Gala stops next to us, and I can’t help but fall against her. She grabs me and holds me up, and then we wait and watch the mist. When the gun bangs off again, we all see the flash—a hit of white within the gray, a pinpoint of where Garren must be inside the shroud. Dark shapes string suddenly into view, a pack of bodies moving, and then the streaking silhouette of darkness recedes back into the fog, somewhere higher up along the tree line. Gala just pushes me off of her, into Maze. Maze grabs me so that I don’t fall over, and we watch her leave us. A mad sprint right back into the gray until she vanishes.

  Maze and I don’t say a word. Behind us the water kicks, reminding us there’s nowhere else to turn. And when I twist to confirm that the vast ocean is still there, like it could have been replaced with some new route of escape, I see that there’s no sign left at all of the sun. Just the dark first lines of waves that collapse and roll away.

  It takes another five minutes, listening and waiting, searching for more signs of movement, another gunshot, anything at all, before Maze says something.

  “We can’t wait for her.”

  I don’t say anything because I know she’s right, but I have no idea where there is left to go. How we’ll ever find our way again. And then, keeping close to her, so that I can lean when I have to on her shoulder, we start to walk, right down at first to the bigger rocks that guard the sea, and then, we travel slowly along the edge of the waves. Time stops and it feels like we’re making no progress at all. Everything stays the same except the shapes of the rocks we pass. Up along the higher coast, where my eyes stay planted, watching for some sign of darkness within the darkness, there’s nothing. The same fading gray and occasional tree trunk. Not even the faint sound of marching anymore. And as we move along, leaving them behind, I want to ask Maze. If she’ll leave me. If when the shadows appear from the forest, come down, one or a hundred of them, straight for us, if she’ll go. Because there’s no way she’ll be able to escape with me. And after I go through the scenario in my head, expecting it to happen at any moment, forgetting the pain in my leg, I tell myself I’m sure of it. That she’ll run, just like she did back at the Red Horn. That she didn’t forget back there that I couldn’t follow. That in the end, she’s on this quest for herself. Something deep inside her that I’ll never be a part of. And with the gnawing uncertainty, I decide I’ll make it easier, act like I’m making the decision for her—make her feel less guilty for letting me die.

  “When they come, don’t try to help me. Don’t look back at all. Just run, okay?”

  “Shut the fuck up Wills.”

  Her breathing strains for a moment, as if she’s sighing, but then I realize it’s something else. Almost like she’s tired. I lean into her, balancing my weight as we step over a long slab of wet rock. My foot slides and then finds firm sand again, and I ease off her.

  “I’m serious. You can’t make it with me.”

  She doesn’t say anything. No more volatile reaction. No more anger. Just silence and the occasional heavy series of breaths. And I know she’s accepting what I’m saying. But she came back for you, I tell myself. She just forgot. In her panic she forgot that you couldn’t run back there. She came back. Lifted you up. Saved you. And it’s as I’m thinking it, that she doesn’t want to abandon me really, that she would die with me instead of leave me, that she finally says it. Like she’s reading my mind.

  “We fight. That’s it. I’m not leaving you. If they come, we fight them together,” she says.

  The absurdity of it hangs in the mist. That we have nothing left. Nothing to fight with but our haggard bodies. Our hands and nothing more. A death sentence.

  “Why? Why would you let yourself die?” I say, something like rage filling me up now. Like I truly want to die, if it means she’ll have a chance. Like my entire life will have been a waste if it takes hers with it.

  “Shut up. Walk,” she says.

  And then, her decision to close the conversation overpowering everything else, some kind of sign that I mean something to her, I let it drop. Every part of me digs for the next step, studying closely how much pressure I can put on my leg, at what angle it hurts and at what angle it doesn’t hurt as much. I learn the pain.

  We move on, the same beach and rocks and ocean and hint of trees. When I’ve got the slant figured out, the tilt of my heel, the inward press of my sole, I step faster. And then, I try letting go of her. Moving a step at first, and then, seeing I can manage the same walking speed as her, I take another step away. And then, side by side, we fall into rhythm. Ancient machines weaving through the rocks of the endless cloud shore. Constantly listening and watching. Waiting for another flash, the sound of marching, chanting. A dark shape of a body watching us from the cliffs that we can’t see. But nothing comes and time drags on.

  When it happens, twenty minutes later, I have to stop. The cliff, towering high above on our left, and the tree line. A wide sparkling canopy of stars lighting them. Like all the fog disintegrated ahead of us. I take it in and Maze stops too. When I turn, everything behind us is gone. Black gray nothing. But ahead, the clear night shows us how alone we are. And even through the darkness, I can see there’s no one. No one watching us from up the shore.

  “They’re gone,” she says.

  I wonder if she means Gala, chasing into the void after the flash of light. Or Garren, muted but alive behind us, killing whatever he can before the mob wraps him up. Or the red throng itself. But it doesn’t matter, because they’re all gone. And I think of the red walkers carrying the bodies, all the way to some alter again, made of stone but not much different than the one Father Gold used to bless and display the babies of Acadia on—not a sacrifice there to some devil, like they’ll do for Gala and Garren, but a sacrifice to the ways of the Fatherhood. The removal of original evil. And somehow, the two things seem the same in my mind. Everything in the world pulls me down, and I can’t help but sit. When Maze tells me to get back up, I ignore her, too tired to battle anymore. I lie down, my back against the rough stones, and look at the glowing stars overhead. Then, without trying again to get me to my feet, I hear her just lie down too, right next to me. Suddenly the breeze coming in off the ocean feels perfect, and everything is right, and I have to close my eyes. The thought that I can’t move another step is so clear that I decide I have to forfeit everything. It’s all I can do now just to listen. For as long as I can, hoping that somehow over the noise of the surf I’ll hear someone if we’re approached. And even that, the intent listening for footsteps and voices, fades away. For a minute, I think of reaching over to her, so close to me, and touching her. It woul
d be just the same as I did with Gala. But something about the tiredness stops me, and I drift away. Before I know if I’ve fallen asleep, exposed to death completely, she talks. Quiet and calm and breathing normally again.

  “I feel so tired,” she says.

  I manage to tell her I can’t move. That I just need ten minutes.

  “Ten minutes,” she says.

  A dream takes me back onto the boat. I see Gala at the wheel. My arm rubbing her back. She looks at me and I kiss her. She kisses me back, a look of relief on her face as I open my eyes and see hers—like she can’t understand why I waited so long. And then I look to the other boat, Garren and Maze. Talking. Sharing everything about their past. The tunnel. The tattoo. I tell her, when she tries to kiss me again, “You’re not who I want.” And all she says is “I know.” But she kisses me again anyway. Her arms wrap around my back, and the boat and the ocean are gone. Even the sun is gone. Like we’re together, back in Resistance camp. Her fingers trace along my chest and my stomach, finding their way along my thigh. “Is this okay?” she asks me. I want to tell her no, that it feels good, but that she’s not the one I want. But I just nod, and she goes further, touching me. I can’t help but kiss her neck. And then, my hands find her shoulders, to her breasts, and they’re so warm. And then her stomach. I ask her if she believes this is real. And when she tells me yes, I want to remind her. Remind her that she’s lying. Because she doesn’t believe anything. The words come out slowly, “You don’t believe at all.” And instead of answering me, admitting her hypocrisy, she pushes me down. Something soft, and her weight on top of me. I see her, her naked body, the curve of her hips up to her breasts and I lean up and into her and kiss her everywhere. She tells me I took her shirt. That I stole it from her. Something rises in me—like I’ve suddenly remembered something. “I needed it,” I tell her. “For my leg.” She smiles, like she knows I’m right, that I did need it. I need you, she says. Inside me. I want to fight it, tell her I can’t, because I can’t betray Maze. But she looks through me. There’s nothing to betray, she tells me. There’s nothing at all to betray. You’re right, I say. And then I ask her, “Will you show me how?” She slides back and forth on me, her hands pinning my own. Everything, she says. Do you like this? I tell her yes, and then she stops. It’s better if this is off. All of it. And then, her head hangs, hair falling all over my face, and I feel her hands working at my pants. They slide away, and our naked bodies press, sliding easily to the rhythm from before. Slow and smooth like the boat over the waves. Gliding until her weight falls heavily, her head pressing into my neck, biting me, and then she turns to the side. Her ear and her neck there just for me. It feels like it will be too much but I open my mouth and taste her. My hands work along her leg, to her ass, and then I pull her in. The rush of it throws away everything else. And Maze doesn’t exist. Come here, she says, grabbing me hard, lifting me up, and twisting everything, so that I fall over on top of her. Show me, now, she says. Looking down at her, I seem to know exactly what to do. I press my head in, just the same way she did, and then trace my tongue down from her ear, along her neck, biting her. I want to tell her how she tastes, how unbelievable everything feels, but I can’t. I can’t say anything. Wills, she says. Fuck me, Wills. And then, like it’s insane, as wonderful as it feels, I tell her I can’t. I love Maze. But she just ignores me and grabs my butt and pulls me into her again and I fall apart, melting. And when it starts again, the movement, my head soaking, buried into her breasts, my hands running along her waist, I can’t control it anymore. I can’t protest. Just the feeling.