by Godwin, Pam
“Joel, look at me.”
He put his arm across my chest and backed us up without lowering his pistol. Ten paces back, he stopped and met my eyes.
“I’m not fucking helpless. Stop being so overprotective. You gave me all that training. You gave me these knives.” I shook my arm at him. “Let me fucking use them.”
He blinked at me. “I know you’re trained, but you’re fucking dangerous.” A sigh. “Yet here you are, proving yourself again…” His eyes darted around. I waited while he worked it out.
Eventually, his muscled arm yanked me against his chest, squeezing. His lips moved against my brow. “You’re right. But I worry, okay? I’m an overprotective asshole and I fucking worry myself sick about you. I won’t take unnecessary risks with you. Everything I do has your safety in mind. Everything.” The last was a harsh whisper. He leaned back to peer at my face. “Next time, stick with the carbine. Like the pistol, those knives are last resort.”
I let it go as we looked back at the carnage. The glow of the last aphid faded. I pointed at it. “Can you see the glow?”
He squinted. “No.”
“Huh. I don’t get it. They were lit up like a goddamn howitzer. And they can’t see in the dark. I’m sure they couldn’t see us.”
He completed a three-sixty with the Maglite, probing the edge of the immediate yard. “Little pupils. Makes sense.”
“Yeah. And the buzzing? Did you hear them?”
He scratched his beard with his flashlight hand. “Yep. Right before I shot the dickless bastard.”
“The others buzzed too. Each one had its own tone or pitch. Like they were communicating. “
A horrible thought came to me as I stared at the bodies piled in a sticky black bath. “You don’t think…my fa—”
“No. Remember Eugene said he found your dad’s Rhino miles from here? And even if your dad turned into…you know he never went anywhere unarmed. He would have ended his life before he mutated.”
“Yeah.”
“Even if one of these things was someone you knew, after the mutation it’s not anymore. It would kill you as sure as you stand there. Don’t ever hesitate, okay?”
I didn’t want to have this conversation.
“Evie?” He waited for me to look at him. “You shoot to kill. Just like you did tonight. Even if it’s me. Especially if it’s me. Come on. We’ll do another patrol around the property and pray for no surprises inside.”
The distant purr of a motor interrupted the desolation. The hum came from the direction of Eugene’s house, my father’s only neighbor within an audible distance.
“The jeep,” he said. “Now.”
I didn’t question him. Concealment was hiding behind things that didn’t have a ballistic value, like weeds or car doors. True cover concealed and protected. The engine block.
He swapped out his side arm for his M4 and held it in high ready. “We can’t assume it’s Eugene. So be ready.”
I reloaded and mirrored his stance. Who else could it be?
The final forming of a person’s character lies in their own hands.
Anne Frank
CHAPTER SEVEN: DIGIT RATIO
The motor rumbled from behind the grove. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other and flexed my fingers, loosening my grip on the carbine. Wind blustered through the canopy. An owl screeched.
Through the scope, two pairs of headlights emerged from the hill and hovered over the gravel road, slowing and bobbing at me. I filled my scope with the first driver. From the corner of my eye, Joel lowered his barrel and stepped around the bumper. The ATV skidded to a stop and a man leapt from it, grabbing Joel by the vest, swinging him around, laughing. Eugene. Then he saw me, set Joel down and whispered my name.
I clicked the safety on and lunged into his arms. He held me tight. A welcome home. Then he released me. “Aw, thank the Lord you’re safe. Y’all remember my boy, Steve?”
“Of course.” I extended my hand to the man on the second ATV.
Steve’s eyes were hidden behind a veil of black shaggy hair. He squeezed my hand. “Hey Evie. It’s been a while.” Then he smiled. “Damn, it’s good to see a friendly face.”
“Yeah.” I glanced at Joel. “We’ve been lonely too.”
Joel reached around me and shook Steve’s hand.
“Now what in tarnation was all that racket up here?” Eugene laughed, low and hearty. “Sounded like a pack of basset hounds on the Fourth of July.” He rocked back on his heels and rubbed the bowling ball belly that hung between his suspenders. He looked just the way I remembered. Greasy dark hair encircled a bald spot. A wiry beard framed full ruddy cheeks.
“Well Eugene,” Joel said. “Evie cleaned house. Come on, I’ll show you.” He glanced back at me with razor eyes. So, his mollycoddling wasn’t going to disappear overnight. I set my jaw, jut out my hip and strummed my fingers on the carbine. He went on his way.
Steve stayed.
“Have there been a lot of attacks here?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Guess so, but we’ve been pretty isolated.” He leaned against the jeep and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I was in St. Louis when the outbreak hit. Saw a lot of shit I’d like to forget.”
I looked him in the eye. “I’m sorry.”
“We’re all survivors.” He sniffed. “I know you had little ones.”
I flinched and tried to cover it with a cough. Then I grabbed the cigarettes from the glove box and offered one to Steve.
We savored the nicotine in silence until Steve broke it. “How’d you kill those bastards in the dark anyway?”
“This”—I patted the carbine—“and the glowing skin helps.”
He arched his brows.
I took a final drag to settle my guts. The cherry flared and dulled. I thought about the aphids’ brief glow before they died. “Have you ever seen one in the dark?”
Steve looked away and muttered, “Yeah, my girlfriend.”
Wilted shoulders, tucked chin, and bruised eyes. I should’ve let it go, but asked, “She didn’t glow?”
“No. Nothing like that. When she got sick…” His eyes dropped. He kicked at the loose grit that dusted the driveway. “I would’ve noticed something like that.”
Eugene thundered around the corner, “Gah damn, Evie girl. You’re tougher than woodpecker lips. Just like your ol’ man.”
Just like my father. I shuddered at the thought of finding his body in the light of day. I forced a smile for Eugene.
Spread out, we called “all-clear” from each room. Then we unloaded the supplies from the jeep. That done, Eugene and Steve loitered by the front door. A kind of reluctant good-bye. I gave Joel a short nod.
“Would you fellows like to stay?”
Their lips floated up in relief.
I cleaned weapons while they secured the house. I dissembled the carbine and wiped down the bolt assembly. Joel’s voice was like a jingle in my head. Take care of your gun and it will take care of you. I asked him once why he took my training to such extremes. Martial arts. Tactical drills. Knife throwing. Target Shooting. He responded, “I only need to be right once to justify the preparation.”
Hammering from the other room lowered my blood pressure as I pushed a bore brush into the carbine’s barrel headspace. I imagined the kind of booby traps and homemade security devices they’d install. In addition to gun dealing, Joel was a security consultant for the federal government. While it lent a certain practicality to our situation, it made him paranoid.
An hour later, the four of us settled in the family room with a few bottles of my dad’s homegrown wine. My dad claimed to have made the best in the county. That night, I agreed.
Eugene shared what he knew of Hermitage and the surrounding area. The town collapsed then quieted within two weeks of the outbreak. Joel and I told them everything we knew and everything we speculated. Our friends couldn’t validate or deny any of it. We were the first survivors they’d seen in weeks.
“What
about Evie?” Eugene asked.
When Joel narrowed his eyes, Eugene said, “Why ain’t she turned into one of them things?”
“Her immunity,” Joel said, “we suspect, has something to do with testosterone.”
Excess testosterone would explain my sex drive.
“Oh, right.” Steve jumped up with unexpected excitement. “I have an idea. Let’s try something.” He knelt before me, and held up his hand with fingers together and pointing to the ceiling. “Do this.”
Curious, I mimicked him. He traced the tips from index finger to ring finger. “No way. Do you see this?”
“Um…no?”
He sat back on his ankles. “Ever heard of digit ratio?”
I shook my head and Eugene said, “Ol’ Steve here is just a well o’ useless information, aren’t ya, boy?”
“This one might come in handy, Pop.” Then Steve said to me, “I heard this theory at school. There’s a correlation between testosterone in your mother’s womb and the length of your ring finger compared to your index finger.” He turned to Joel and Eugene. “Are your ring fingers longer or shorter than your index fingers?”
They examined their hands and said in chorus, “Longer.”
Steve returned to me, eyes tapered under his black mop. “Your ring finger is longer too, Evie. Thing is, girls’ fingers are supposed to be the same length. The study claimed only men have longer ring fingers. Higher testosterone.”
I flipped my hand to and fro in front of me, stretching the fingers in an attempt to modify their length. “What are you suggesting, Steve? That I’m not a woman?”
He choked on a laugh. His cheeks reddened against a pale complexion. “Uh no. Um…I think it could just mean you have high testosterone for a girl. Could explain why you survived.”
I met Joel’s eyes.
Then I dropped my hand and stood. “Okee dokee. I think I’ve had all the fun I can stand tonight.” I turned to Steve, whose face slacked with a culpable look. “Hey man, thanks for the insight on the finger theory. It’s the closest thing I’ve had to an explanation.”
Curled around a pillow in my father’s overstuffed bed, I thought about other known side effects of high testosterone. Years prior, I had laser hair removal on my entire body. I had the money. Why not? I didn’t have excessive hair then, but too late to prove it. What about other symptoms like increased energy, aggression, muscle mass, extreme emotions? Anger. Anxiety. Yeah, all those rang true.
Muffled laughter bounced down the hall from the living room. It wasn’t long before my eyelids drooped.
I swayed in the center of the Hurlin Ranch corral. The rot of the stallions surrounded me. My stomach cramped and I plugged my nose. The taste of decay was like rancid milk on my tongue. A breeze drifted from a pathway down the hill. And the hum of Annie’s voice.
I lifted my chin and climbed two bodies. Offal slipped between my fingers. The leathery hide tore away from the bones underneath. I rolled off the last horse. Saliva thickened. I left the contents of my stomach in the dirt. Annie’s song…
The lake before me, I lunged down the path. Prickly locust trees canopied the trail. I froze at a small foot bridge that stretched over a shallow ravine. Near the bridge, a man’s pale body lay on the rocky bed. Loose brush covered his head. Annie’s voice grew louder.
I scooted into the ravine. Bent over the body. Pulled away the foliage. A scream stuck in my throat. Large yellow-green eyes stared at me from my father’s taut face.
A red ropelike shape wormed away from his body. I yanked at the remaining underbrush that clung to him.
I fell back, hand over my mouth. My father’s bowels crawled from a gaping hole in his stomach. I followed the intestines up the ravine to the shade under the bridge. A tiny foot poked out from the shadow and wiggled in pink mary-janes with a red jeweled buckle.
The air felt thin. I gulped for more. Annie sat in a puddle of innards. Bracelets of dark viscera wrapped her wrists. She drew circles in the blood. Six lines spread out from every circle.
R-E-D, Red. R-E-D, Red.
That spells Red. That spells Red.
Ouchies are Red. Ladybugs are too.
R-E-D. R-E-D.
She sang to the tune of Frere Jacques and blinked glassy alabaster eyes.
I shook my head. Scrambled to my feet. Slipped on blood-slick pebbles. Landed on my back. My back teeth ground together. I tried to sit up, but failed. Tried to wake up, but failed as well.
The entrails slithered and twined over my neck. They constricted. I clawed at my throat, my shrieks shallow.
The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit;
a broken and contrite heart,
O God, you will not despise.
The Holy Bible, Psalm 51:17
CHAPTER EIGHT: CONTRITION
I jerked against the hands restraining my feet and wrists. Joel lay across my body and pinned me to the mattress. His cheek rested against mine. “Evie. Evie. Wake up. Shh. It’s okay. It’s okay.”
Steve hovered above my head holding down my arms. His spooked eyes met mine and he averted them. Eugene struggled to catch his breath at my feet. Joel’s face floated inches from mine, his eyes dark.
What had I done in my sleep to put those looks on their faces? My throat scratched. “You can let go of me now.”
Joel sat up and caught my wrists in his hands. He held them in front of me. Fresh blood dirtied the nail beds. When he released me, I touched my throat. Traced deep scratches in the skin. My shirt stuck to my chest, warm and wet with bile. The slaughterhouse stench burrowed in my taste buds.
My father’s eyes, open and waiting, fractured something inside me. Pain seared behind my forehead. Common-sense splintered away. I looked at Eugene. “Do you know how to get to the ravine at ol’ Paul Hurlin’s place?”
“I know it. Empties into the lake at marker L2. Good walleye catchin’ there.”
“Will you take me? I won’t find it on my own.”
We left for the ranch in my father’s boat before dawn. By the time the sun crested the skyline, we found my father.
Rigor mortis came and went weeks earlier. Sun-broiled skin hung on his body, stretched by the inflation of abdominal gases.
We rolled his body onto a gas soaked wood pile. Despite the decomposition, I knew it was him. His St. Francis medal still hung from his neck.
I stood over him, my muscles straining under the weight of my artillery and vest. My eyes burned and I willed the tears to come. But they wouldn’t. Just emptiness bubbling from my chest, forming a lump in my throat.
He told me once if forced to choose between his family and his god, God wins. My mother left before my sixth birthday. I never blamed him for putting her second to his god. After all, she left me too.
Eugene’s big hand squeezed my shoulder. “You gonna say somethin’, Evie girl?”
“I’m not a priest. He’d consider it blasphemous.”
He blew out a breath. “Your dad was a stubborn son o’bitch. But he loved you.”
I gave him a small smile, a bitter taste on my tongue. I wanted to feel grief. But hate consumed me. Hate for the religion that stole him from me.
In Catholic school, I questioned everything. My insubordination was dealt with by way of large doses of quality time with Father Mike Kempker and his flock of narrow minded nuns. Countless prayer candles were lit on my behalf. But the disconnect between my father and I didn’t ignite until high school. At eighteen, I received an ultimatum: participate in his Vatican regimen or face banishment. I chose the latter.
After my A’s were born, we began visiting my father at the lake. He never turned us away.
I couldn’t unearth his religious holdfast, but I glimpsed the contrition behind his weary eyes. It was enough. During those visits, we spent most of our time with Eugene. My time with him brought me the closest I would ever get to the paternal relationship I longed for.
Eugene’s hug brought me back to my father’s disfigured face. Petrified in peace. His wool
ly beard, made thicker by all the blood, hid his Aryan features. Everyone always said I looked like him. I knew it was our eyes.
I spun the thumb-wheel on my father’s zippo. “Vater, ich hoffe euer Gott ist alles was sie wollen.” I flicked the lighter into the pyre. “Good-bye, dad.”
Eugene steered my father’s Sea Ray deck boat away from Hurlin’s ravine. The plume of smoke shrunk behind the tree line. We breached the open water and Joel joined me in the back seat. He kissed my brow. “What did you say to your father back there? In German?”
I rested my head on his shoulder. “I told him I hoped his god was everything he wanted. Or at least I hope that’s what I said.” I let out a small chuckle. “My German’s a little rusty. If he heard me, I hope he appreciated the attempt in his parents’ tongue.”
Joel raised his eyebrows.
“I know. I still don’t believe in afterlife. But after following this visionary nightmare thing today, I have to wonder if there isn’t something.”
He wrapped his arms around me. “Of course there’s something. Look around us. The forest, the wind, the lake, the stars…you and me. That something is the very energy that connects us.” He rested his lips on my temple. “Everything happens for a reason, you know.”
On the way back, the stillness around us hovered like a miasma. Besides the plant life on the shore and wake behind our boat, life was scarce. There were no other water crafts on the lake to rough the water, no squawking in the trees by ruffled birds, no squirrels scurrying dry leaves. The silence lay like a dead thing between us. We exchanged uneasy looks.
Eugene docked in the boat house.
Joel hopped out. “Stay here while I clear the property.”
When I caught up with him on the shore, we bandied glares. Then he glanced at the boat, where Eugene and Steve waited. “At least someone listens.”
We set off up the path toward the house, scrutinizing everything within the periphery. The small vineyard, the lawn around the house, the circle drive, the woods fringing all sides. No tracks in the dirt. No suspicious noises. The property was free of threats.