Dead of Eve (Trilogy of Eve)

by Godwin, Pam

  “If I don’t mind, why should you?” I said.

  The brute’s face reddened, but confidence blazed in his eyes. He handed his weapons off to his buddies.

  I jumped on the distraction, stepped back and brought up my left hand. The inside block knocked the bossy one’s arm off my neck. I hit his knee joint with a side kick. He stumbled back. I freed a blade and pierced his lung. He collapsed.

  The stout brute’s fist hit my chest and gripped my vest. Shouts filled the air. A bullet whizzed by my ear. Then another. I sucked in a breath and trapped his hand and thumb with my left hand. I locked his arm, twisted it and knocked him off balance. With another blade, I struck his forearm. Something stung my thigh. A grazed bullet? I shot a shin kick to the bastard’s groin. He clutched his nuts, dropped to his knees, his mouth a huge O of surprise. I stomped his calf. His fibula cracked, piercing through a mangled hole in his knee.

  The bossy one was on me again. I shifted his body, using it as cover and forcing a wheeze from his damaged lung.

  Gunfire riddled the floor and shredded the furniture. His body jiggled under the spray. The entrance was closer. I dropped him and darted for it.

  Lead ricocheted everywhere. I ran faster. The sun reflected off the metal door as I swung it open. I squinted against the glare.

  Boots and bullets followed me outside. A vibration hit my stomach. I skidded to a stop. Six aphids blocked the walkway.

  I spun to the side and let the bastard behind me absorb the first strike. Two mutants covered him, sucking him. His head fell back. His mouth opened, gargled.

  The remaining aphids slashed their beaks and stabbed the chests of the final two. The assholes hadn’t even unlocked their stances or lifted their weapons. Maybe Joel was right. Maybe the bugs did move fast despite my inability to see it.

  The feeding paroxysm allowed me to pass unnoticed a few moments. They were sucking with vigor, torsos heaving, bulbous heads bobbing with each pull and swallow. I crept backwards toward the door, toward the carbine.

  A pair of alabaster eyes met mine. Its mouth retreated, making a sucking sound when it pulled free from flesh. I grabbed the door handle and pulled hard. The damn thing wouldn’t latch, the lock disintegrated by gunfire.

  I backed up and grabbed the carbine. The door rattled. The buzzing grew in intensity. Then the door crashed open.

  Only one aphid entered. It maneuvered through the room, its tiny pupils never leaving me. It hovered within reach, studied me. Curiosity kept me from squeezing the trigger.

  The man on the floor moaned. The aphid cocked its head. Blood dripped from its jowls. Why wasn’t it going for the easy fodder? Was it sated? Or did it want a challenge?

  It spread its pincers and thrust its chest forward. An alien pitch rattled through me. My spine tingled. Was it trying to unsettle me? Its jaw snapped between vibrational effects. Then it lunged toward my neck.

  Pop.

  A 5.56 round ruptured its eye. A kaleidoscope of matter poured from the cavity. The aphid dropped at my feet.

  With the carbine still level, I walked back outside. Five trigger pulls. Five kills. Either I was getting better at it or the aphids were easier to kill during dinner time. Of course, knowing where the kill shot was helped.

  Three human bodies contorted and sloshed in a dark bath. I knelt over one, blood soaking my jeans. His eyes glazed over, irises blanching, face twisted in pain. I wasn’t sorry about that.

  His jaw hinged open. A gurgling scream erupted. Inhuman bits writhed in his throat. Christ, the beginning stages of mutation happened quickly.

  I unsheathed a knife. Pressed the tip under his ear. Dipped the edge and sliced his throat. Then, sitting in the cesspool feeling strangely alive as blood and death clung to me, I watched his life slip away.

  Early news reports said it took a couple hours to fully mutate after a bite. He bled out in less than a minute. Not surprising considering the donation he’d given the aphid. I stood. Then I sliced two more throats.

  A rustling whisper came from the armory. I followed it. The stout brute crawled on his belly, a useless leg dragging behind him.

  I crouched in front of him. “So easily submitted by a subordinate woman. What were you planning had you found my skills wanting?”

  He hissed, “Ssstupid slut. You nasty whores brought this evil upon us.” Blood and saliva congealed on his chin. “I would have delivered you to Satan after ssspreading your filthy le…ahgg…argggggh—”

  I sliced out his tongue.

  After great pain, a formal feeling comes.

  The Nerves sit ceremonious, like tombs.

  Emily Dickinson

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: SPOTTED WING

  I woke with my neck crooked at an uncomfortable angle. The military Humvee I upgraded to at Fort Leonard Wood made it easy to maneuver cluttered roadways and steep embankments. But the spartan interior was miserable to sleep in.

  For three days, I just drove. No destination in mind. But always heading east. I didn’t know why and that scared me more than the hungry creatures that sniffed around my truck while I slept. Was the numbness a way of protecting myself against an emotional avalanche? If I forced myself to care, would the pain of recent events be too excruciating to bear?

  Eventually, farmland turned to parking lots and the interstates became crowded with wreckage. The twisted remains of panicked evacuations forced me off road more often than not.

  A jet had pulverized a portion of the highway. A helicopter stuck out of a skyscraper. Bridges gave way to gaping holes filled with freight trains reduced to chewed-up metal and soot. And the bodies. They slouched over steering wheels, splattered in boutique windows and hung from water towers. Dismembered flesh painted the concrete and blistered in the sun, evidence that death in the city came by human hands. Aphids didn’t leave human bodies behind.

  I rested in a pasture along I-64 just outside Shelbyville, Kentucky, tucked behind a dilapidated barn. The glaucous blue moors rolled velvety ripples in all directions.

  Under the Humvee’s .50 cal mounted turret, I stroked a hand along the black and tan coat that warmed my feet. My lips twitched at the memory of finding Darwin hiding under a parked car in the armory lot. I carried no regrets from Leonard Wood. The venture had been profitable.

  Darwin dozed amongst the hand grenades, shoulder fire rockets, flash bangs, flares, smoke grenades, ammo, a portable siphon and diesel fuel. I had also acquired another bullet proof vest and sundry supplies at the commissary including boots, socks, maps, water, smokes, commercial food and medicine. I even found a battery hand drill with carbide drill bits for lock picking.

  A rumble skipped over the hill. There hadn’t been a lot of traffic on that stretch of highway, but it wasn’t dead either. My body went taut with anticipation.

  Moments later, a van roared by. The brake lights illuminated. It swerved off the road about hundred yards ahead. I grabbed binoculars and slipped into the driver’s seat with the AA-12 in my lap.

  Three burly men climbed out, shirtless and grimy. Ages ranged thirties to forties, my guess. They walked around a T-boned Escalade in the left lane, packing the standard artillery. Pistols in shoulder and hip holsters. Rifles strapped to their backs. Bulges around their ankles and thighs meant concealed weapons.

  A low growl erupted next to me.

  “Platz.” My voice was firm. Darwin lay on the floorboard but his hackles didn’t relax.

  They rummaged through a few more SUVs, unable to start or move any of them. Finally, they drove away in the van they came in. I rolled back my shoulders, tried to release the knots there. Then I patted my thigh. Darwin’s head dropped in my lap.

  Since Leonard Wood, I had managed to dodge man and aphid. Same could be said about ladybugs, ghost children and other phantasms. Did I miss the visits from my A’s? Most days, the vacant cavity of my existence was too much to bear. Still, amidst the void, something tugged. Kept me moving.

  A U.S. map of the east coast sprawled on the drivetrain. We woul
d reach Appalachia soon. I was okay with that. Maybe the mountain air would give me strength. And help me rebuild.

  I arrived at the northwestern edge of Monongahela National Forest in West Virginia the next night. Colorful deciduous trees dappled the steep mountain range and warmed my soul.

  Darwin hung his head out of the window. The perfume of fertile soil and fallen pine needles swirled around us. The sound of cheery birds and whirring winged insects made me feel less alone. Though I feared alone was the only way a woman could survive in this new world.

  I made camp along an overgrown hiking trail and plopped next to my modest campfire. The crickets chirruped in the dense sedge. Rodents stirred up leafy debris. A sward of mountain oat-grass whistled under the erratic flight of a nighthawk. Could I make a future there, in that place full of life? Would the isolation grant the peace I sought? I ran my fingers over Darwin’s back, his body stretched in repose. He seemed to think so.

  We spent our first three days content and lazy. I didn’t want to stray from the truck until I trusted the absence of threats. So we picked through the nearby bramble and investigated narrow paths and creeks.

  The fourth night, I greased the pistol next to the campfire, sheltered by a wall of saplings and rocks. Something stirred near the Humvee. Darwin sprawled next to me, undeterred. I went back to the pistol.

  Footsteps scraped, soft but sure. Darwin didn’t move. I strapped on the carbine and approached the truck.

  The forest chatter died and through the silence, I felt her presence. She fluttered within me, surged through my veins.

  “Annie?”

  A melodious twitter echoed back. I followed it into the thicket. Thorns and stems reached, tearing my legs. Ferns slapped my face. But my clambering was nothing to the sound of my heartbeat.

  Annie perched on a slope crowded with sugar maples and American beech. Leaf litter clung to the hem of her dress. She clapped when she saw me. Then she ran, the gold in her hair like metallic ribbons in the moonlight.

  I followed her. We sloshed in bogs and waded through streams. I hauled myself over a dead tree, my lungs burning. On and on we went.

  My back ached under the weight of the carbine and the speed at which we moved. I was always too far behind. Never able to catch up. Then I smacked into wet rock wall carpeted with lichen and clubmosses and fell on my back.

  She stood on the bluff above me. I gulped heavy breaths and contemplated defeat. My ghost didn’t need to climb. She could simply float. My chest ached. Not from exhaustion, but desperation. She curled rosy lips and twirled her skirts. I longed to be with her. To hold her.

  I dug in a toe and began the climb, using the roots as rungs. When I reached the crest, she spread out her arms, imitated an airplane, and zoomed down the other side. I wrestled for breaths, my shoulders drooping.

  She sang with soprano as she ran.

  Ladybird ladybird fly away home

  Your house is on fire and your children are gone

  I caught up with her in a clearing. She stood in front of a fire surrounded by a shallow stone hearth. Fire? Was that part of the delusion?

  Her eyes glittered as I drew near. She continued her ballad.

  All except one and that’s Little Ann

  For she has crept under the warming pan

  I extended my arms to embrace her small frame. Her delicate chin lifted. The freckles on her nose sparkled in the firelight. Then she melted into a shroud of mist between my fingers.

  “No. Please. No.” Hugging her was like hugging a draft or a gleam of moonlight. My hands had never felt so empty. I squeezed them into fists while my hope of ever holding her again caught fire and burned its way to my heart.

  Her silhouette solidified on the stone hearth. The flame danced inches behind her. Then the blaze intensified and transformed into something like a clawed hand. It crackled above her. I reached for her again. The hand smashed down and dragged her into its fiery pith. I dove after her.

  My face and arms stung as I lay in the dirt. The heat from the fire fueled the pain, evidence that my chase with Annie wasn’t a dream.

  A deep voice drifted down. “Half-wit.”

  I flinched and opened my eyes. The voice’s owner stooped over me. Long black hair hung in sheets around his dark face. On the other side of the fire, an elder man with silver braids perched on a log. Darwin rested at his feet.

  The elder said, “Leave her be, Badger.”

  Badger straightened but stayed at my side. “She’s covered in burns. What if she tries to throw herself into the fire again?”

  The elder stood and approached. I trembled with trepidation and chill from the burns. I couldn’t feel the weight of the carbine. It was nowhere in sight.

  He crouched in front of me. Dark senescent skin announced his Native American heritage. Black and red feathers twisted through leather accessories in his hair and clothing. “Do you chase ghosts or do they chase you?”

  My shoulders bunched at the intimation. “Depends on the ghost.”

  A toothless smile crossed his wizened face. “I suppose what is true in our world is also true in the spirit world. The children are our guides. They preserve the truth.”

  I must have been hallucinating. How else would he know anything about children who haunt me? I moved my head a few inches. The carbine leaned against a black cherry tree several yards away.

  His voice soothed. “You don’t need gunpowder here, woman. We are a peaceful people.”

  I kept my eyes on the gun.

  “I have herbal medicines for your burns. Can you stand?”

  I lifted my upper body. My sagacious pup stood in anticipation. His instincts hadn’t misguided me yet. If he trusted them then I should.

  Badger helped me to my feet. My skin burned under his touch but I didn’t react. I asked the elder, “What do you want?”

  “A nation is as strong as the hearts of its women. Its warriors may be brave and many, but when the blood of its women spills upon the earth, the battle is lost.”

  Darwin remained still as if waiting for me to follow his trust. I wasn’t going to let the old man deflect my question. “What do you want?”

  He sighed. “The great Chief Seattle spoke of the end of living and the beginning of survival. This is not want. This is hope. Come.”

  I lunged for the carbine. Tension unfurled inside me when I gripped it. Behind me, the two men waited, unmoved. Maybe I was paranoid, but I wasn’t inclined to drop my guard. I stood, shoulders back, and nodded.

  They guided me through the woods and ended the hike at a stream, bordered by a few lean-to’s fashioned from dead branches and spruce needles. I followed the elder to his lean-to in the heart of the camp with Darwin at my side. He pointed to a sanguine wool blanket as he rummaged through his baskets of dried herbs and ointments.

  I settled on the blanket, the carbine on my knees.”What’s your name?”

  He found what he was looking for and squatted before me. His eyes flicked to the gun and back to me. “My people call me Owota la Akicita.”

  I blinked. “Oh…wha—”

  “Call me Akicita.”

  “Ah-kee-chee-tah. I’m Evie. So what does it mean, your name?”

  He opened a small jar and plunged two fingers in it. “Honest peacekeeper.” He held up the fingers caked in salve. “This will burn.”

  I nodded and sensed someone behind me.

  “Lean against Badger.” He slavered my face with the minty smelling anodyne. I jerked back at the stinging sensation. Badger pressed against my back. I closed my eyes and let the man rub my face and arms.

  Palliative humming rumbled from his chest as he worked. My burns began to numb. Drowsiness settled on me like a heavy blanket. Then I could no longer fight the weight of my eyelids.

  “Good Morning, Half-wit.”

  I rubbed my eyes against the twilight.

  “No. No. Don’t rub.” Concern coated the soft voice.

  I dropped my hands and smiled. “Hence, Half-wit?�
��

  He laughed and knelt at my side. “Yes, very. And you must be feeling better.” His inquisitive brown eyes pierced mine. “So who are you?”

  “Um—”

  “Oh wait. It’s Evie, right? Akicita told me.”

  A boyish smile stretched under sharp cheekbones. His thick hair draped his shoulders and back. My fingertips tingled to touch his dark skin which looked like it had been sanded to a smooth perfection.

  “You talk in your sleep, you know?” he said. “Where are you from? What’s your dog’s name? We haven’t seen any dogs since the reservation. Where are you headed? Are there any…”

  Jesus. Fuck. My mouth hung open in several failed attempts to interrupt. I couldn’t get a word in.

  “…the mountains. Why the hell did you throw yourself into the fire? For the love of the Great Mystery, what were you thinking? I—”

  “Badger, give it a rest.”

  I turned to mark the new voice. His features and mannerisms weren’t unlike Badger. They could have been twins. Only the stranger seemed older.

  “Hey. I’m Naalnish. Don’t mind my brother. We told him to watch over you, not talk you to death.”

  No shit. “He’s fine.”

  He whacked Badger on the back of his head. “Get out of here. Let her eat in peace.” He slid a bowl before me and Badger grumbled his way out.

  “Naalnish you said?”

  He smiled. “A Navajo name.”

  “You’re Navajo?”

  He shook his head. “We’re Lakota. From North Dakota. Our father was Navajo.”

  He guessed my next question. “We left the Dakotas after the outbreak. The bugs like our semi-arid climate and chased us out.”

  “Only three of you?”

  “Four actually. Lone Eagle left this morning to retrieve your things. There were dozens of us at first. The journey has been long.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  His smile was warm. “Eat.” He nodded to the bowl. “It’s pemmican. The fat and protein will help you heal.” With that, he left.

  Besides a variety of berries and chewy meat, most of the concoction was unrecognizable. But it filled my belly and boosted my energy. I slurped up the last bite, strapped on the knives, I ventured out in search of Darwin.