by Marlin Grail
“Everyone has their suffering, Ashton. The true difference with everyone's suffering is how you react to it. Harold wants unity with all our behaviors, and I want her to be safe.”
It was at this time when I began packing up too for the run we were about to enact, and I finally told Gary my frank truth. “You know, if it wasn't for all those years hanging out in your basement, then I know I wouldn't be alive at all today.”
He looked at me with sincere apology, which I know was about the 'thing' he wanted to bring up, but I quickly rose my hand in his line of sight to cease the heart-to-heart talk, and I opened the RV's door to enter the foreign neighborhood Harold stopped us at.
“Let's do this and move on. And… don't worry, Gary, you didn't mess things up totally with Lissie. She'll move on too.” I told him, along with a gentle punch to his shoulder.
Gary, a good person with embracing leadership and hardship, but still the boy I remember who struggled with talking to girls. Good thing he's still the same—capable of staying afloat in this world. I used to fall behind in the modern one, and, now, I exceed in this one, and I'm still the same. I'll include both the good and the flawed things about me on that remark.
My dozens of thoughts from the past, and now, drift away all instantaneously, and now I turn to my side to drift off to sleep.
Chapter VI
(Gary)
On and off, I'm tossing and turning. I'm okay on the floor, but it's something else that's capturing my consciousness. To my right side is my radio walkie-talkie. I've kept it on, just in case Harold possibly comes back.
Right now, the static of excess noise coming from another area is what I'm hearing. Usually, when a voice is being delivered to the receiving radios connected to each other, a slight white noise can be heard—as long as the transmitting button is held down.
I hear everyone's hollowed breathing, which I assume means everyone's asleep. The noises from the undead outside have subsided exponentially, so even with my groggy hearing, I know the noise I believe coming from my radio is in fact from within these walls. I fully awake to grab it and listen in.
For well over several minutes I hear nothing except the dead silence with no voice, and only the white noise. It's like a vocal take with only the ambiance of the room being played back. I want to press my button and ask for Harold.
But, if it is him, which I can conclude has to be his radio, he wouldn't be that irresponsible with his only source of communication with us.
I want to get up and see if the other radios were picking up the same transmission, but I don't want to get up and disturb everyone's well-earned sleep.
I'll keep this to myself, for now.
I put the radio back where it was, and I lie myself back down. I continue to hear the noise for another minute, before it suddenly goes silent.
Who has Harold's radio? He couldn't be that far away from us. I know he told me not to contact him, unless he contacted me first. What I know is that was not him with the radio just then. Is he even still alive?
To help calm me, I turn to my right side, looking in the right corner on the back wall of the shelter, where I placed my sword at. Though I can't see it from the darkness, I concentrate on where its placement would be, thinking about how we found peace tonight, and that we can have this peace tomorrow night, and the night after—if we let it be ours.
To relax me further, I recite a philosophy of mine I've recited numerous times to help make sense of things. “Peace in this world has to come from letting the chaos of others be their own.” Before I close my eyes and go back to sleep, I say to myself, “Harold knows this, because he took to it when he left us.”
Where my physical self is at on the floor evaporates and reappears into this dream scape of a fond memory I have. It's nighttime, with big stage lighting aimed down at myself and my band. Wearing a black tank top, dark leather pants, and Dr. Martens, with glitter doused on my arms, it's apparent I provide sensation of excitement to the many men and women.
The yelling of rows and rows of people enthralls my purpose in the moment, which is to offer my drummer the cue to start up the last song. We don't make a mistake with it. The beats are all in sync, the guitar and bass don't lose rhythm, and my voice doesn't miss the notes. There is no other cliché to say other than it is magical throughout.
By the end, we offer our greatest gratification to our fans by tossing out personal items we worked with that performance. We then walk off to reach the backstage area. As usual, we go to the greenroom. There I go to remove makeup and relax, whereas the rest of my band goes to get prepared for their 'real party'. I recognize all of their faces, and though I can't piece together everything they are saying, I still witness their laughs and hounding behavior when around the fans, especially around the groupie girls. I don't partake in the debauchery that happens—which, in reality, happened after almost every performance.
Denying them, I go and walk through the VIP area, in order to go back to our tour bus. I see the different fans, most of them laid back and mellow. One in particular sticks out to me though. She walks up with anticipation to meet me. I wish to be friendly and courteous, but not to take advantage. I give her an autograph, talk about how she's doing, and I thank her for being a dedicated fan.
Throughout the whole time, I look at her with direct attention, but I can't deny what she denies of herself. She's extremely underweight, so much so that the ribs of her exposed stomach are detailed, even at a distance. She looks ill, but she doesn't know it coming from the overuse of the drugs she's taken—likely non-prescribed pills or an injected supplement. When she smiles with her mouth open, I see her teeth, seeming unhygienic, and secretively starving for food—for meat.
Before I continue moving, I give her a both proud and sympathetic hug. As I close my eyes during the exchange, a loud sound pierces everything. It's the sound of being extracted out from this painted world, and sucking me back into complete darkness.
My eye lids are shut, and I hear the act of one of the shelter's doors being opened. I'm right back on the floor, far from that stage, my band, my fans, but I'm still performing—just for a different crowd.
My performances I gave my fans would dwarf in comparison to the forced performance I give to the dead.
I jolt up to see who it is opening the front. Will looks back at me. “I walked right over you. I'm going out to relieve myself.” He says in a groggy and muttered voice.
I rouse to get up and go outside as well. I put on my shoes—the same I had on in that dream of mine.
I still admire them, but it's now more for their sturdiness than coolness.
My clothes are normally tight-fit, but, after a straight couple of days wearing them, they have loosened around my body. Everyone seems to still want to sleep, with a few tired groans coming from Lissie and Ashton, along with Janice inhaling deep breaths and releasing them as soon as she re-situates her body on her bed.
I go over to acquire my guns and stick them in my pants' back pockets. For the time being, I'll leave my sword in the corner I placed it in. I cross the space of the floor, slightly tripping on the bag I placed next to my blanket.
These eyes wish to dose off for a longer period of time, but the place has to be guarded by someone.
Lastly, I clip my radio to my pants' side pocket, and then I track back to the border of the open left door. I can see some undead Will already has stabbed by the trees several feet away from me. One good thing in killing the undead, besides them not eating anymore living, is that any haze early in their incubation period will die with them.
All of these undead that wander this area, this state, this country, and even this world, don't turn from being bitten, but from being morphed by a haze. Above all, if these hazes floating around just evaporated, then none of the undead would even continue to spread, but that is not something our group could take on alone.
All we know is just how to survive from them.
Studying the sight, I look for the positiv
e in their bodies being around, speaking my thoughts out loud. “With the undead we already have, and more that might come around here, we could keep their bodies lying where they are, for maybe their accumulated rotting smells will prevent more from coming to this place.”
I found this idea out some months ago, when Ashton and I were taken hostage by a group of 6 bandits. We were in Utah when they caught us, and they took us to their hideout, which was an old bikers' bar.
Throughout their entire perimeter, they laid bodies all over. I believe it was with experimentation to hide their scent of them all from bypassing undead—with help from the strong, almost monochromatic, stench and sight of guts smeared all around the bricks, windows, and wooden walkway entrance.
They wanted to take people they could and make them slaves, forcing them to work and give what was useful. We got put in the middle of the bar and met their leader. He tried to make us submit, but he never counted on us breaking out from the grasp of his 2 henchmen, who held us where we stood.
Ashton head-butted the one holding him, pulled out his hidden knives and finished them off. I kicked the leader in his stomach, making him trip behind his chair he was initially sitting in, and Ashton took care of the other one behind me. The other 3 of the 6 total were in a different room at the time. I confronted their leader, who was ignorantly trying to handle my sword. I disarmed him and took it back. At that point, I placed the blade in front of his throat.
When the others finally rushed in, I could tell they needed their leader in their lives to have purpose and direction, so I compromised his life for Ashton's and mine.
They cared about their bodily-shaky leader more than the 2 Ashton just defended us against.
They dropped their weapons and held their hands high. I reached for the leader's gun, tucked between his jeans and underwear, and handed it over to Ashton, so he would keep them from trying anything impulsive. I made sure to pick up 2 pistols off of the bar—luckily ones I had fired before, and we got out not tremendously injured. They ultimately shot at us, but we were far off from their priority, since they didn't try to catch up us as we ran.
Reminiscing about this time begins to erase from me when I see Will stomping his way forward. “Nothing's happened, so far. You must be proud of yourself.” He sarcastically says, unforthcoming on his true meaning.
I deflect what he might expect me to say back. “You may not believe it, Will, but I thank you for being patient, and offering some level of trust. I may not be Harold, but I'm going to provide as best as I can with what I know.”
“What you know for yourself seems to have you complacent, but what you think you know may make you the next mold lik—” he says, before I cut in.
“Like Harold?”
“That fear is something we can have in common.”
I recognize Will wants to prove himself right with being identified as the correct leader, but he is reluctant to do the 1 thing I see him bite his tongue with. If he wants to fight me on it, then he would—if the thought of Harold being alive wasn't a possibility to him. Harold was adamant on 1 thing, and that was to not fight with those you fight alongside with. Will respects him too much to go against that.
“Listen, I have something to mention to everyone I heard last night. Come inside.” I say, before he rudely passes me.
Chapter VII
Will leans by one of the dressers, crossing his arms, watching me in expectancy, while I shut and lock the doors to keep dangers outside. I look around the bunks, seeing everyone waking up one by one, with my flashlight illuminating the darkness.
“What time is it?” Ashton asks out loud.
I chuckle.
“You have the watch.” Will comments, not as tickled.
“I know. I just… ah forget it. It's 10:17 am.”
We really slept for a while. It just proves we had been overworked and stressed beyond normal. Then again, nothing's truly normal anymore.
Janice rises from her bunk next. “Good morning everyone. How are we doing?” she happily says.
“We're good.” Everyone practically replies, in our own ways.
I see Lissie then snap her head up, looking around before she says, “If it's daytime, then let the doors at least be creaked open. It's too damn dark.”
Janice laughs, and I get the doors opened enough just for light to beam in.
“Now that we're all awake, let's listen to what Gary wants to tell us.” Will says, turning his fullest attention to me.
“Yes. I woke up last night to hear my radio go on, but no voice came through. It did this for several minutes, but was just silent.”
Will then springs up to full and strict posture. “Hold on. Are you telling us you heard… Harold?”
“I don't know. It was his radio, without a doubt, coming through, but he wouldn't just hold the button down and say absolutely nothing.”
“Why didn't you ask for him? Maybe he was wounded and needed help!” he says, more upset in his tone.
“I couldn't have taken that chance—not when it was dark, and when everyone was sleeping. Harold said after several hours of no contact to move on without him.” I calmly try to explain.
“So you took the chance to ignore when he did, and considered him taken or dead. You're something, Gary.”
“What would you have wanted me to do, Will? Everyone here already has their opinion on him. In my mind, I ran the possibility someone dangerous was likely trying to talk to us, bargain his life for what we could give in return, and kill him anyways, along us too.” I argue, having a tone that indicates to him I've grown tired of his continuous cynicism towards me.
Ashton looks over at me, nodding his look of approval to my past choice with the radio.
I then hear Janice exclaim, “Will, wait!”
He walks up to me with aggression. I get into a stance of self-defense, preparing myself for what he wants to attempt to inflict on me. Surprisingly, my radio's volume increases with the sound of a voice—a voice different from Harold's. “Will? I'm looking for a Will? Hello? Helllooo?” this voice asks repeatedly, making the skirmish the 2 of us prepared for suspend itself.
Will runs over to his radio that was put on the dresser he was leaning against, and inputs his response, “Who is speaking? There's no Will here.”
I look to witness Ashton, Janice, and Lissie's reactions. We don't seem comfortable, and we find it intensely awkward hearing a voice reaching out to one of us. I still listen in with my radio, but not determined to interrupt the conversation that is arising between Will and this mystery man. “I'm glad I could get hold of you. We have much to discuss.” He tells Will, deliberately mysterious. “You see, your leader, Harold, has kept a lot of knowledge from you all, and it's time he complete his end of the deal.”
“And, what deal would that be?” Will asks, non-intimidated.
“You see, Harold took you guys on a dangerous route, and it's why you got ambushed. Those roads are full of shady characters.” He explains, purposefully sounding ironic.
“So, is your group responsible for it? Harold couldn't keep his ground against you all, huh?” Will asks.
“Oh no, no, no, man. I'm not responsible. Wait… Harold told you he was going to your RV, didn't he? Do you guys even know where you were all headed? Hmm… maybe he wanted it to be a surprise.”
“Harold told us we were on route to another area to obtain supplies, but that was nothing out of the ordinary for us.” Will responds, with his tone becoming more uneasy.
“Good… we need that. Anyway, just to get this past, Harold's dead… he went quickly.” He details, surprisingly sounding solemn.
I look around to see how this news affects us, but it doesn't necessarily impact for the worse—possibly because we have gotten it in our heads that Harold died the last time we saw him.
The man continues to speak onward. “I take it, from your lack of audible sobbing, that you didn't respect him, or you no longer respect him. I mean, he did give your name away, Will, sayin
g you were the next in line to speak with after him. You all must be worried about what will happen next, but it's good you have made it as far as you have, and it will get better from here on out. I promise.”
“Well, we are making it out here, limited, exposed, but alive.” Will says back, tactfully lying to make this man underestimate our circumstances.
“Sure. I believe you. I mean, you guys found that solid, protective, shelter all on your own, so it seems skill of finding locations is in your qualifications.” He brings up, sarcastically pretending it won't catch Will, or any of us, off-guard.
Janice looks over to Ashton, who quietly expresses she remain calm. Lissie seems both baffled and angry—though not directed at this man over the radio, but at Harold. I walk over to put my hand on her shoulder, letting her know I understand the feelings. She doesn't resist it, but she doesn't indicate she cares for my warmth being there. I didn't think of this before, but her not revealing what is boiling within has clouded my train of thought since yesterday, and the day before, and the day before—for a while actually.
Lissie, please let me help you.
“Ha,” Will blurts out in false friendliness, “so, that's why no one was around! This is your place!”
The man cuts back in with a less relaxed voice, “Okay, how about you shut up and let me finish what I'm trying to tell you. Yes, that place belongs to me, but I don't live there. I have many places, but I don't live in any of them. Others do live in them, because they receive the right to by working for me. You all were fortunate enough to find it on your own, which tells me it's worth my time and resources to get you on board as well. If you refuse at all, then I will send those 'others' to go out and eradicate your group, like that, as though you never existed, but if you accept, then things will get better, like I said”
Will takes a few seconds to rub his forehead with his hand. “So, you want us to work for you. Like any job I've had before, I always felt it was basic to know what exactly the job will have me do, so there will be less chance of me objectifying to it.”