Endgame (Book 2): Alekhine's Gun

by W. A. R.

  Why are you here?

  It wasn’t bitter, his question. It was more…fearful. He was still questioning her motives. She couldn’t blame him; hell…she was unsure of her own motives. She lifted the spoon to his mouth, depositing the meat into his waiting mouth. He lowered the notebook and brought his hand to his mouth, inserting his finger into his mouth and moving the food towards his teeth so he could chew. He chewed slowly, not savoring the food, but rather ensuring the food was small enough to be swallowed and only then did he insert his finger yet again into his mouth and push the food to the back of his throat, allowing his body to swallow it. It was difficult to watch, and Amber slid her own tongue along the roof of her mouth, relishing in the feel of it, the usefulness of it. Once he had swallowed the food, he questioned Amber with his eyes. No, she had not answered him. She sighed, lifting another spoonful to him, one that he gratefully took.

  “I just…” Could she answer honestly? “I just want to talk.” She admitted and he made the same movements, moving the food with his fingers, and all the while he watched her with a type of morbid curiosity. She sneered at him, feeling suddenly vulnerable. “I hate you.” He nodded at this before swallowing and bringing his hand to the pen and paper. The only sounds heard for a long moment were their breathing and the scratch of the ballpoint pen against the paper. He looked up at her, understanding, lifting the notebook. His comprehension and understanding only seemed to emphasize her regret.

  What do you want to know?

  What did she want to know? It was a good question, one that she asked herself repeatedly for the past five days. Or even, did she want to know anything? She scoffed at her own thoughts, her eyes riveted on the bowl in her hand. Of course there were things that she wanted to know, but how could she ask them and did she really want to hear their answers were the other questions stopping her from doing so. Still, as she stirred the broth and little meat around in the bowl with the spoon, she had to talk about something. She was pulled in there to him and something, she was unsure what with all of her emotional confusion, was urging her to be there.

  She cleared her throat finally, sparing him a glance before offering him another bite of food. “Your wounds seem to be healing well.” She said before wincing in distaste at her own words. She had been the one to place every single wound upon him; she had taken away his ability to move even barely, to talk, to eat or drink properly. Though unsure, she looked up at him, expecting an unfavorable anger emanating from him, but instead she was met with thoughtful and appreciative eyes. She swallowed thickly, her mouth becoming painfully dry. After adjusting the food in his mouth he began writing, and for the first time since she entered the barn he took his eyes away from her.

  They are healing fine. Thank you.

  Thank you. It was simple, his words, and yet they damn near smacked her in the face. She continued to stare at the notebook, the words on the page slowly blurring together as she looked on. Thank you. She turned away from him, her heart pounding within her chest, tears pricking the backs of her eyes, and her hands trembling slightly, causing the spoon to rattle against the bowl. Thank you. After all she had done? Why did he look as he wrote this with understanding and forgiveness in his eyes? Was he trying to hurt her? Thank you. The sincerity in his eyes and kindness of his written word sounded in her ears as if he had spoken them and she shuddered, unable to move. He lowered the notebook and brought his hand to his mouth once again, adjusting the food to the back of his throat, his finger brushing against the stump of flesh that remained of his tongue, before swallowing. She turned to him, curious, unashamed of the emotions, the confusion, that was clearly written across her facial expressions then. She had nothing more to prove to him.

  “I have beaten you…tormented you. You can no longer eat or drink without difficulty. You cannot move.” She swallowed the disgust that had risen with every recollection of what she had done. His eyes remained impassive, amused, but only that. “I have refused you food and water for days and…and you are being kind to me?” Her words came out a bit more bitter than expected and yet he never flinched. He only watched her with interest, his eyes seeming to tell her that he had figured out something about her that she had yet to figure out herself. He tilted his head to the side for a moment before turning from her and scribbling on the notebook once again. She hesitantly offered him more food, which he again took gratefully. He continued writing, and the longer he wrote, the more anxious she became. He shifted the food in his mouth and went back to scribbling against the paper.

  Yes, you have done all of these things, but here you are feeding me and allowing patience with me after all that I have done to you. Who is really being kind here?

  She started at his words, clearly surprised and she glanced up at him with wide, uncertain eyes. Her own reflection mirrored back at her within his eyes, and the feeling was odd; it was slightly pleasing and yet frightening. She was being kind, she saw that now; as was he. She saw bits and pieces of the woman she was before as well as remnants of what Damien used to be, could have been. She quickly shoved down any questions that she may have had, and looked again to the bowl in her hand. Their mutual regret had humbled them to this level.

  Both shared unadulterated regret, and they both shared the unpleasant uncertainty that was their lives. They were a pair, two halves of the same twisted whole and she saw that then. They were the same. He had taken her people, and she had taken his; he tortured her mind while she tortured his body. They had both acted out of rage and both had done what they had once thought was right and now, here they sat, unsure of what was right or wrong anymore. And both knew that they could possibly die within a moment’s notice, and that soon enough they were going to be put in the position where one of them, if not both, would. He was her mirror’s reflection and she hated him. She hated herself.

  She cleared her throat, scooping up some more broth and meat. “Your writing has gotten significantly better since…” she paused. “Since the interrogation. Granted, I have only been in here once since. You sound very proper.” He took the proffered food and grinned slightly, though it only barely met her eyes. She was trying, as was he and they were slowly working towards something. She wasn’t sure what it was, but it was there. He adjusted the food.

  I never claimed to be uneducated. He paused.And, if you’ll forgive me for addressing this, but during the questioning I was also in immense pain. Amber wince. Another pause.The pain is better now, though. I went to a private school growing up. This is how I learned to write and speak.

  It was a simple piece of personal information, but it was a start. She scooped up some more food as he adjusted the food he already had in his mouth to swallow it. “You never spoke much either, but whenever you did you sounded, well…” More scribbling and scratching.

  I was told to barely speak at all. No one could have known anything about me.

  She winced. “Your father?” He nodded in agreement before placing the tip of the pen back against the paper.

  Once educated or not, it didn’t matter. You and your people were trying to survive and my people were trying to manipulate you into becoming something horrible.A pause and he was adjusting the food in his mouth.Priorities were different. You didn’t care about my past and I didn’t care about yours. Survival was number one.

  Amber furrowed her brow at him, forgetting everything that had occurred and the people that were bound to realize that she was no longer in the house and was instead in the barn with Damien. She remembered Katie’s background, Derek’s, and even some idea of Buddy’s…but not his. For some reason the thought bothered her. “Didn’t we ask you about it? We asked everyone.”

  He shrugged and adjusted the food in his mouth. Not me.

  His words rang true in her ears and she shifted in her seat, seemingly uncomfortable. “Has anyone ever asked about you?” she asked and she could tell instantly by the pain that flashed in his eyes what the answer was going to be. He shifted the food in his mouth and swallowed, the
sound audible throughout the quiet of the barn.

  Not since the outbreak began. But it doesn’t matter. I would have lied to you all if you would have asked.

  Amber nodded then furrowing her brow in doubt. “Why are you being so cooperative?” He shrugged at this briefly before writing. It was gnawing away at her and driving her crazy. He was talking about his people, his father as if they hadn’t mattered in the least.

  I have nothing left to lose. A pause and a sigh.I never had much to lose to begin with.

  Amber stared at his words for a long moment before moving and offering him another bite of food. She wanted to ask what he had meant by his words but she didn’t. It wasn’t the time, and something told her that the time would come later. So, instead, she opted for another question. “If I were to ask you now about your story, would you lie?” His eyes held fast to her, and for just a brief moment, there was a light in their depths.

  He shifted the food to the right side of his mouth.You want to kill me. You hate me. Why would you want to know? His eyes darkened, looking almost sad.Any information that I had I have already given you.

  “I believe you.” And she did. Still, something in the pit of her stomach nudged at her to hear this story, to address this about him. His eyes leveled with hers and she squared her shoulders, reminding him that she meant business. “And do not mistake this conversation for forgiveness. I could never forgive you.” He winced at the white-hot heat of her words. She cleared her throat. “Still, I would like to hear this story. So please, enlighten me.” Besides, she thought, he was the son of the bastard that was taking her family. He was the puppet and his father the puppet master; any information that she could get on the man was good information and she could use it in one form or another.

  Damien, however, was not stupid or ignorant. Have you found a way to get inside? To get your people back? He adjusted the food and swallowed it, turning his eyes to hers. He wasn’t being malicious, or deviant. She squinted at him in the dim lighting. It almost seemed as if he were genuinely curious. She sighed, offering him more food. What could it hurt?

  “I think so…” she trailed off, unwilling to tell him the events that had occurred. The guilt ate away at her once again and Damien studied her, witnessing the regret that flashed across her eyes. “I hope so.” She said softly, and Damien shifted lightly in his seat, wincing a little as he did so. He shifted the food in his mouth and continued to stare at her.

  George said that you all met with some of my people. Did you?

  “Yes.” The words were bitter and tasted like paint flowing from her lips.

  Did you kill them?

  Amber winced. She couldn’t answer that…wouldn’t. “Why are you asking me these things?”

  His eyes remained on her and she once again saw the apologetic look in his eyes that had once made her angry.Because whatever happened that day has certainly changed you. He swallowed his food and Amber suddenly felt sick. He wasn’t wrong. She had become every part of the monster that he was and she was alright with it. She understood him then, at least a little, and he had caught on to this. A sigh escaped his lips and she looked at the notebook as he began writing. Will my story help you take down my father and get your people back?

  She knew then that it was something that he didn’t like to share, and something that he hadn’t shared too often, but judging by the look in his eyes, he was willing to share it with her; he was willing to tell her because it would help her. She nodded slowly. “Yes…I think it would. I think that whatever you told me could help me in one form or another.”

  Silence followed for one long, drawn out moment as they stared at one another. There was their initial understanding, what little compassion the two had left, and still the underlying hostility that radiated lowly between the pair. She didn’t expect him to help, to supply her with anything. How could she after all that they had both done to one another? Finally, as Amber’s stomach twisted into tangled knots, he moved.

  I’ll tell you everything I know, and it won’t be pleasant. I hope you use this to your advantage.He paused as Amber offered him another spoonful of food. He took it and shifted it in his mouth and quickly, before Amber had time to think, the pen began scrawling across the paper, expressing his story. Amber sat their silently in wait, offering him food and water whenever needed, watching as the horror unfolded before her, written by the enemy’s hand on a yellowed piece of paper.

  I am never sure where to begin whenever it comes to these types of things. Still, I will try. The details of what occurred before the outbreak aren’t important…well, I take that back, there are a few that are important, just to give you an idea of what kind of man you will be dealing with…what kind of man I dealt with my entire life.

  I never knew anything of my grandparents on his side, nor much of those on my mother’s side, though my mother did try to involve them once in a while. That never ended well with him. I also never knew much about my own father personally aside from what I gathered by his hand or by witnessing it myself. His real name was Rory Phillip Howard. Once the outbreak occurred however, he was quick to change that. He had always hated that name and now…no one remembers him by that name. The name both infuriated and intrigued him and I will never know why. Growing up, I was made to attend private school. Throughout this time, it was made clear that if I were anything but the image of perfection I would pay a price. That price usually came in the form of bruises and scars and before you even think about it, don’t take it into consideration. Again, I am only giving you insight into the man. Let’s just say that he was heavy handed. My mother, however, was far from it, though she felt the brunt of his hand just as often, if not more so, than I did. She was the only bright light there was in my life. They never got along well, despite staying married for over twenty-five years. He was one of those…crooked…politicians. He made deals with the unsavory to gain favor and boy, did it work. He wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty at all. He was a man that lacked anything resembling a conscience. He was deceitful, manipulative, and he still is.

  He has so many followers, and you may ask how he got so many in the wake of disaster but consider this: Hitler, though evil incarnate, had over four million followers. He was the same type of sociopath that my father is. Rory, or Adrian, whichever you prefer, is charming; he holds this pleasant façade that people flock to, that they believe. They see him as charismatic and he always works them up, whether in crowds, or even individually. He can delve into you head, almost as if he is reading you like a book and whatever words he needs to lure you in with to listen to him, he has ready.

  He never favored the average person. Instead, he always preferred either the weak followers or the strong leaders…usually the strong leaders. I guess he figured that they would level with him, carry on beliefs and conversations with him that he found profound. He liked those with expert talents, intelligence, or even looks. Even now, he favors them…which explains why he wanted all of you. My mother, Amelia, was one of these people: strong minded, willful and determined. This ended up costing her, though, whenever she finally gathered the nerve to take me and leave him. I was an adult and had left with her willingly. I wanted to help her; I remembered the scars and the beatings, the emotional berating and belittling. She needed to escape. Still, he found her and came and got me. At twenty-six, he still made me feel like a child with no choice. She begged him not to force me to go, begged me to stay with her, and her going from strong willed to begging on her knees was like a switch in his head. Choosing her son over him made him lose it. His eyes had darkened and he put a bullet in her head before I could do anything about it.

  He left her somewhere in the woods and he threatened to kill me if I said a word to anyone. He ended up having his unsavory people cover it up for him. Her body was never found and this is the first time I have told someone.

  This was about six months before the outbreak. He kept me under his thumb, ensuring I wouldn’t betray him, and in the process groomed me
to become who or what he thought I should be. It became a twisted game and I became lost in it. I would try to please him, and he would inform me how wrong I was, how stupid I was, and I would try harder to get his favor. Once the outbreak started, he and I went about and began searching for a place to rebuild. We didn’t try to save anyone at first; of course not. He needed a place to establish his dominance. He was power hungry, thirsty for greed and he lived off the thrill of death. This type of world suited him, I saw, and I wondered how I never knew how twisted he was before. Still…. I wanted to prove myself to him, just as I had always done. If I am honest, I was terrified of him, though he hadn’t laid his hands on me in years…the memories were still there, were still fresh.

  Of course, after the outbreak, the towns were overrun with the dead; zombies, biters, whatever you want to call them. We found an abandoned community with sturdy stone walls. And so, that was where we set up camp. Slowly but surely, we began finding others, gathering them. We reinforced the walls with whatever steel we could find…which wasn’t hard considering the town of Tiger Point. Once this was done, we scavenged for solar panels. We had electricians, doctors, nurses, plumbers…you name the occupation, odds are, we had at least one of them. This was set up. We had running refrigeration, gardens growing lush food, we had hunters leaving every few days to get more meat. We were even able to procure some cattle and some horses over time. It was amazing really, how very quickly it all came together, but as I said, he was convincing and determined. And so, there it was…our home. We had everything from medieval entertainment to hot water.