The Blood Pawn

by Nicole Tillman

  Screams.

  It's all I can hear.

  People - young, old, man, woman, local, tourist – they're all screaming. I don't know why, but I think I have a fairly good idea. The first hint is the smell of death and decay hanging thickly in the air.

  “I think it's safe to say Belgium has been infected,” Sully says at my side.

  Dragging my eyes from one burning building to the next, I nod. “I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say you're right.”

  Cain makes his way to the front of the group with Celeste by his side. I grit my teeth to keep from snarling as she passes.

  “There are three armored rigs in that hangar.” Cain points to said hangar and all our eyes follow. “Alpha Team will be first to leave, then Decker and his guards, followed by Beta Team bringing up the rear. Any questions?”

  “No,” we all answer in unison.

  Cain has this whole 'leader' thing down pat. Or, maybe it's the 'king' thing. Maybe the power has gone to his head and turned him into a man worthy of being called a soldier. Either way, it's pretty hot.

  We all take off at a run, sweeping our eyes over every wall, every curb, every abandoned vehicle, waiting for a threat to appear.

  At the trio of armored Jeeps, the entire Beta Team stops and looks around, waiting for someone to claim the driver's seat.

  “Don't look at me,” I say, holding my hands in the air. “Unless you all want whiplash.”

  “I got it.” Wes steps up.

  He slides behind the wheel and I claim shotgun because, hey, I'm the Blood Pawn. I'm allowing myself this one perk. No one is going to fight the dead for the front seat.

  Wes revs the engine and makes sure everyone's inside before easing out of the hangar behind Decker's Jeep. The city streets are deserted, but when we reach the highway, which Sully points out as the E19, it's so congested it makes traffic in the states look like a joke. But none of these vehicles are moving. They're all abandoned, some with doors ajar or windshields broken. Food wrappers and bits of refuse litter the streets between them, but that's the least worrisome part of the scene.

  Blood, ripped clothing, and discarded corpses lay forgotten about in the road. Our Jeep lurches and jolts as we make our way, running over dead bodies without a second thought. I hold onto the handle above the door, thankful I no longer have a gag reflex.

  Miles and miles we go on like this and everyone is silent as we take in how broken the city has become. Eventually, we travel far enough there are no longer buildings and houses for the dead to hide among. We see them out in fields and sparsely populated residential areas. When we spot one, three more come into view, and I realize I've never seen a lone zombie outside the base.

  They operate under a pack mentality.

  Creepy.

  I look around at my group and roll my eyes so hard I have to blink to dislodge one.

  Apparently, my eagerness to work well with my team isn't just out of the goodness of my heart. Nope. After careful consideration, I'm certain it's a side effect of my affliction.

  When the three vehicles finally come to a stop, we're in an underground garage. Up ahead, Celeste and Cain jump out and our Queen snaps her fingers in the air, waving for Beta Team to join her.

  “I think we're being beckoned,” Wes states plainly. “Like dogs.”

  “Armed dogs,” I point out. “If that makes you feel any better.”

  He snorts. “It doesn't.”

  We all pile out of the Jeep and stretch our legs. Eight people to a rig isn't exactly comfortable traveling conditions.

  “Sweep the perimeter,” Celeste orders. “I want to be absolutely certain it's clear before Decker steps foot on the ground.”

  Yes, ma'am...

  It isn't an overly spacious or crowded garage, so it doesn't take the eight of us more than ten minutes to cover every nook and cranny.

  It's clear.

  “We're good.” Brian gives them both a thumbs up as we approach.

  President Decker steps out of the Jeep, straightens his suit, and rubs a hand over his tired eyes. I feel bad for the man. I wouldn't wish that position of power on anyone in times like these, but he's handling himself well. So far.

  Since it's not safe to travel via elevator, we make our way up seven flights of stairs under the president's directions. When we finally make it to the right level, Cain opens the stairwell door and peers out into the hall. We wait for the signal, and a few seconds later he waves us through.

  Every single person around me has a weapon in their hand. A gun. Me? I have my machete sheathed at my hip and my ax slung over my shoulder like the world's mellowest lumberjack. I would feel out of place if I weren't so happy to be outside, and in Brussels no less.

  The hallway is eerily quiet, and we try our best to keep our steps light as we follow the President's lead. When he comes to an abrupt stop in front of a door, Cain holds his fist high in the air, signaling us to halt.

  “This is it,” Decker says.

  The walls on either side of the door are frosted glass. Translucent enough we can see tables and shelves on the other side, but just opaque enough we can't tell if the room is empty.

  Celeste turns around and catches my eye. She waves me forward with a smile.

  Beta Team follows me as I make my way to her.

  “Go in and scope it out,” she whispers. “Make sure it's safe.”

  I raise a hand in a halfhearted salute before carefully opening the door and sliding inside. The others follow me in.

  It's so quiet I can hear their heartbeats all milling together. I want to turn around and tell them to keep it down, but catch myself before I can say a word. It's not like they can control their heart rate to suit my needs.

  One thing that can't be seen from the outside is the state of the room. Now that I'm inside, I wonder if it's safe to venture further.

  Tables lay toppled in the floor, paintings hang sideways on the walls, and filth is spread all along the once-white floors. A television plays in the background. It's either muted or its speakers have been broken beyond repair.

  “Through there,” Martina whispers, pointing her gun in the direction of a hallway.

  I take the lead and slip into the first doorway I find. All the tables in here are just fine, but a pool of dark red liquid coats the majority of the floor.

  Behind me, I feel Brian bump into my back. He goes rigid the second he takes in the scene.

  “That can't be good.”

  I turn and roll my eyes. “You think?”

  “What is that?”

  Brian points, and I follow his gaze to a dark lump beneath one of the tables.

  “I don't know. You wanna get down on all fours and check it out?”

  He shakes his head so I look to the rest of the crew. “Any takers?”

  Silence.

  “Of course not.” I push my machete and ax into Brian's one free hand. “Here, hold these.”

  Whatever I'm about to find isn't going to be pleasant, so I force my lungs to be still in my chest, which isn't a feat anymore, and hunker down until I'm at the edge of the pond of blood. Reaching forward, I grab hold of the object, grimace at its sticky surface, and pull.

  A body rolls out into the open and screams ring out behind me.

  Manly screams.

  I look over my shoulder to where Brian and Sully are standing.

  “Really?”

  They both blush and move out of the doorway as fast as their tails will carry them, but Martina and Tara quickly take their places.

  “What is that?” Tara shrieks.

  I stand and wipe the cold, coagulated blood off on my pants. “That, my friend, would be a body. A dead body, if that's not made clear by the gaping hole that used to be her stomach.”

  “What happened to her?”

  I'm not entirely certain I heard her right, so I turn around. She's ghost white and her hands are starting to shake. I don't have the patience for naivety, so I come straight out with it.

  �
��She was eaten, Tara. Someone came in here and decided she'd make a nice brunch, so they ate out her stomach and left.”

  “That- that's...” She struggles for words.

  I shrug. “That's about the same as you eating a McDouble and then leaving the wrapper on the table for the busboy to pick up.”

  Martina lets out a strangled, humorless laugh. “I don't think that's quite the same thing, Maya.”

  “Well, sorry. Apparently dead bodies make me grumpy.”

  Upon examining the half-eaten body, I realize the woman is still wearing her lab coat. On her breast pocket is a name tag. It's splattered with blood and, if I'm not mistaken, a small gristly piece of heart. I reach out and rip it off.

  “Let's go.” I wave for everyone to go back the way we came. “There's nothing else here.”

  Outside the room, I hand the blood-covered name tag to Decker without a word. His jaw tenses and I glance down to find his hand curling into a fist. The other hand wraps around the name tag before he presses it to the middle of his forehead.

  When he closes his eyes and curses, I know what just happened. I feel the shift. Hopelessness settles in deep and cold, and I know our job here is done.

  “What now, sir?”

  Decker's eyes scan the floor, searching for something he'll never find. When he finally straightens his back and looks around at all the young souls who are willing to defend him at all cost, he lets out a breath and motions to the door from which we came.

  “On to Paris.”

  The train ride to Paris is fantastic.

  I've never been on a train before, so this is actually somewhat of a treat. Well, it is once I make myself forget that the woman who claimed to have a cure was just mauled and eaten by the very things she was fighting to fix.

  Since we have time to kill, I hop from one car to the next, chatting with some of the other pawns and just genuinely enjoying the lull of the train as it moves down the tracks. But when I pass the president in his car, he stops me with the raise of his hand.

  Crap.

  The guards are at ease, as are Celeste and Cain, but Decker seems even more on edge than he was before we left Brussels.

  “Have a seat, Winters.” He pats the empty spot beside him, and I know that no matter how badly I want to, I can't object.

  I sit down and wait for him to come out with whatever is plaguing him.

  “What did it feel like?”

  His question comes on so sudden and from so far out of left field that I can't even begin to imagine what he's trying to ask.

  “Sir?”

  He clears his throat and runs both hands along the creases of his pants. “When you died. What did it feel like?”

  This guy really gets straight to the point.

  Across the way, I can feel Cain and Celeste staring me down. One in curiosity, the other in malice.

  I take a moment to consider, really consider, what he's asking me. I know that as soon as I answer, I can't take anything back. He's staring at me as if I have all the answers, but the reality is that there really wasn't anything special about the process.

  “It felt like panic, sir,” I answer honestly. “Fear. So much fear. A little pain, but not much. Mostly I just wanted to know what was happening to me. I wanted answers.”

  He watches me without saying a word. He only nods.

  I'm saved from his calculating stare when he breaks away to look out the window, but there's something unsettling and unresolved between us, so I'm forced to break the silence. There's one thing I want to know, and now's a good a time as any to ask.

  “How are we going to fix this, sir?”

  All around me, guards turn their heads. For a moment, I'm worried I've overstepped, but they don't seem offended, merely curious as well.

  Decker doesn't seem put off by my question either. In fact, the man just looks tired. Exhausted. Completely drained.

  “Do you want to know the truth, Maya?” He looks around at the guards, at Celeste and Cain. “Do all of you want to know how we're going to fix this?”

  I nod and turn to find everyone else nodding as well.

  We want to know.

  We need hope.

  We need something – anything – to cling to. At least I do.

  Decker lifts a bottle of water to his mouth, takes a drink, and recaps it, all while staring at the window. When he wipes his mouth, I see a single tear wedged at the corner of his eye.

  “The truth is I have no idea,” he says. “I have no grand scheme, no great plan. Every time I turn around, the numbers are rising. More people are dying, cities are burning, crops are withering. The country is dying right under my feet.”

  The tear comes dislodged and falls over his lashes, landing on his cheek. He sits back, his hands steepled together in front of his face. Our conversation ends when he whispers one last sentence, and I don't care if I'm excused or not, I can't stay here and watch such a strong man crumble.

  I can't and I won't.

  His last desperate sentence rings in my ears long after our train begins to slow to a stop.

  “Our country is dying, Winters.”

  At the train station, there are no fires burning or screams in the distance. Only a single Hummer waiting behind the depot. I'm not sure how we're all going to get to our destination, but once we're out in the open, Decker assembles everyone. He speaks in hushed tones as a general watches over his shoulder. The man's face is bandaged and bruised for reasons unknown.

  “Consider this your downtime,” Decker says. “General Dubois will be escorting me to Chevalier Laboratory, but you're all free to do as you wish. Just be sure to be back on the train and ready to roll out before sunset. Keep your wits about you. This isn't a vacation.”

  A bunch of teenagers loose in Paris in the midst of the zombie apocalypse? Sure! What could possibly go wrong?

  We all watch, like a bunch of puppies pouting as their owner leaves for the day, as Decker and his guards, along with the bandaged General, all disappear from sight. I'm already considering what we could do without potentially getting killed when a hand grips mine and tugs.

  I look up to find Cain smiling, which has been a rare thing to see these past few days.

  “Come on.”

  He doesn't have to tell me twice.

  Before any of my teammates can question it, we run.

  In the strange, deserted city, we walk down a winding cobblestone street. I can't read any of the signs, and they're few and far between, but one stands out to me because the text is so beautifully done I have to stop and take in the beauty of the hand-carved sign.

  Rue de l'Abreuvoir

  “Is it weird of me to think that Picasso himself might have walked down this street, just as we're doing?”

  I'm surprised by the awe in Cain's voice, but his wonder and respect for the city softens my heart.

  “No. That's not weird at all.”

  I begin walking again, wondering about all the different types of ivy growing in and out of the rooftops. It looks like it belongs here. Like maybe it's been here for generations and no one's dared to remove it. But why would they? It's far too beautiful to exterminate.

  “How are you handling all this?”

  My head whips up and I stare at Cain's profile. He's still looking straight ahead, taking in the sights, as if he hasn't just asked me the most impossible question to answer.

  I chuckle softly to myself as I consider how honest I can be with him. But then I realize this is Cain, and I can trust him with anything.

  “Handling it?” I say softly. “I'm not handling anything. I'm hanging on by a thread.”

  He squeezes my hand. “Talk to me.”

  The way he says those words tells me he's not just asking me to elaborate. He wants me to open up. Completely.

  That's something no one has asked of me since I was changed. No one has offered their ear or their confidence. But Cain is.

  I take a deep, unnecessary breath.

  “What do you do w
hen you don't have a future, but people still expect you to put one foot in front of the other?”

  He considers his answer for only a second. “You keep walking, I guess.”

  We come to a stop in the middle of the abandoned street.

  “I don't want to walk anymore, Cain. I'm tired. I'm so freaking tired.” I let the honesty pour out of me. “I'm tired of feeling so cold that all I want to do is lay down on the floor and stay there until I'm covered in dust and my limbs fuse to the ground. And I'm tired of feeling all this heat inside of me, this... fire that my heart is putting out. Even when I know my heart is dead and will never beat again, this heat just licks away at me and I want to claw my way out of my own damn skin because it's so tight and it's suffocating me and I can't bear it!”

  He lets go of my hand and I rake my fingers through my hair. I opened this door and now I can't hide all of the baggage that's come tumbling down.

  “I don't even know what to do with it,” I continue. “I don't know if I should ignore it or embrace it or-”

  “Maya.”

  Cain cuts me off and stands in front of me. Gently, he shakes my shoulders until I look up into his blue eyes. Some of my tension eases away, and I'm not sure if that has to do with the verbal flood I just unleashed or if Cain's firm touch is somehow bringing me back to Earth.

  “Do you know what you need to do when you feel that way? When you're too hot or too cold?”

  My shoulders sag under his touch. “What?”

  “Find me.”

  I jolt a little but hide it well.

  He wants me to find him? To seek him out in times of selfish inner turmoil?

  “Why?”

  He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, letting his hand linger on the side of my face.

  “Find me and let me help you.”

  The fight in me comes out among all the emotion.

  “I don't want you to help me,” I say, even as I cling to his arms. “I want to be able to help myself. I want to fix myself.”

  “I know that, and I respect the hell out of you for it, but sometimes things happen and they're beyond fixing.”

  Don't I know it.

  “Sometimes you just need someone to be there for you even if it doesn't fix you.”