The Dead Saga: Odium 0.5 (Nina's Story)

by Riley, Claire C.

  I pretend I am somewhere else.

  I pretend this isn’t happening.

  I pretend this is all normal.

  And I pretend that things will be okay.

  The mother eventually sits back down, her greedy children barely looking up from their food. She watches them intently, a small, sad smile on her face. I don’t understand why she is smiling. Why her lips tug at the edges yet her eyes are filled with unshed tears. What does she have to smile about? She’s still hungry. She has nothing. All she gets is to see her children survive another day.

  I finish my food and wipe my fingers around the inside of the bowl to get every last drop out. I don’t put my bowl down. Instead I continue to stare into it in the hopes that more food might appear, because I am still hungry.

  I hold my bowl tightly until the guards come back, moving slowly around the room and retrieving all the empty bowls.

  I thrust my arm in the air with my bowl in hand as he gets close, and he tugs it from my grip. I look up briefly, seeing his frown, his stare of contempt, and then I look away again. He stays standing in front of me for several more seconds, assessing my worth before finally moving on to the mother and her children next to me.

  “Bowls,” he barks out.

  “Please, just a small bowl.”

  “Just gimme the bowls.”

  “Please.” The quake in her voice has me looking over. I shouldn’t, really. I know that I shouldn’t, but sometimes it’s hard. I’ve worked hard at blocking out these people and any feelings—those pesky things we call emotions. I’ve blocked them out because I’ll crumble if I don’t. Crumble and die. And I can’t die. I promised Ben that I would live no matter what it took.

  Emotions, feelings, they don’t help; they only make things worse. And when you’re at your lowest and there feels like there isn’t anything left below you to fall into, if you sink any lower it can only mean one thing: death.

  So I’ve switched it all off. I don’t care. I don’t feel. I’ve traveled back in time to a more animalistic nature. It’s just me in this world now. And that’s the way it needs to be if I’m to survive. And I promised Ben, and I promised Tesrin, I promised them both that I would survive, no matter the cost.

  And my cost is humanity.

  So to look across at this woman, who is clearly frightened and desperate, is breaking one of my only rules. To look is to show concern. To be concerned is to feel.

  Her children are cowering behind her, sobbing as one of the guards is dragging the mother to her feet. She frantically looks around her, needing help. Wanting help. But no one helps. Her children scream as she is ripped from their weak grip and she cries out their names—names that I block out immediately.

  “You want something to eat? You’re hungry?” he yells in her face, his face dark with menace. The other guard is still grinning. I want to take a knife to that grin and slice it wider. I’ll show him what a real fucking smile looks like. The mother is nodding that yes, she wants some food, and he begins to drag her away.

  The kids are crying and she turns back to them, desperation flooding her features. “Stay there! Stay together, no matter what! I’ll be back.”

  And then they are gone, passing through the doorway and out into the cold world outside our useless door. The children cling onto each other, their arms wrapped around their frail bodies, and they sob.

  And I feel nothing.

  And maybe I am already dead.

  Chapter Twenty-Two.

  “Run, Nina. You’ve gotta run.”

  “Don’t leave me, please,” I beg, my hand reaching for him.

  “Stay alive, Nina, stay alive no matter what.”

  Ben’s voice is like a beacon in my head, his voice reaching me through the dark pits of despair. Everything about this is wrong. His voice, here in this dark world, it doesn’t belong. The hope and strength it still holds shouldn’t sound so clear and powerful, so determined to make this all go away.

  It’s all wrong.

  It’s all lies.

  The way my heart takes flight at the sound of his voice, it’s breaking me. Pulling me apart piece by fragile piece.

  None of this is real.

  Wake up.

  Wake up, Nina!

  I jerk awake at the sound of feet scraping against concrete. Looking up through hooded eyes, I see the shadow of something or someone crossing the room. Guards. They move between sleeping bodies, their stealth not purposeful but still important. They wake people with a nudge of their dirty boots and a gruff reply to the grumbles they receive.

  Men stand up, confused at what’s going on but more than willing to comply for the safety of their families. They walk out of the room, with the quiet sobbing of their wives left behind.

  My ass is numb and my muscles stiff from not moving in so long. And yet I don’t care. Let my body dry out, let my mind go numb. I don’t care. I am wasting away to nothing. What happens then? Will I die and become reborn as one of the risen—as a deader that will feed on the flesh of my neighbors—the mother and her children that sleep beside me night after night?

  I bite down on the inside of my cheek until I taste the metallic tang of blood, and I like the taste of my blood. It reminds me that I’m still alive, still clinging uselessly to life.

  I don’t want to think about things like that—turning into a deader. I can’t. I shudder and pull my blanket tighter around me, the scrape of my bones on my withered muscles hurting as I move. Everything hurts.

  I can’t think without something hurting.

  My head.

  My heart.

  My body.

  My soul.

  How has it come to this? How has life turned into this nightmare?

  “What did you say?”

  I blink sluggishly and turn to the sound of the voice.

  The mother is back. She’s sitting up, her children curled into her side, sleeping soundly. I am jealous of their sleep, their dreams that aren’t filled with nightmares, of what it holds. Of uncertain futures and improbable suffering.

  I blink again, realizing that I haven’t replied to her. I must have spoken out loud previously, though. I open my mouth to speak, my eyes focusing on the bruises on her face, the swell to her left cheek and the split in her lip, and then I look away.

  “I didn’t say anything,” I reply, my throat dry and scratchy, the feel of words coming out of my mouth foreign.

  “Where are they taking them?” Her voice is sweet and sing-songy. It makes me confused.

  I don’t answer her, though I know she’s talking about the guards that just came in and took some of the civilian men out. I don’t know where they are taking them. I don’t know, and I don’t care. I’m sinking, each day I’m sinking deeper into a pit of despair. And I don’t care about that either. I just want it to be over. But I’m a coward, I let the people I love die, so I have to suffer through this.

  “Do you think they will come back?” She sounds fearful for them—for them and for their wives—and I know that she knows something I don’t know. Not really.

  At the end of the world I thought the only thing to fear was the zombies—the deaders that crawled up from death and were reborn. That seems frightening enough. Surely that should be the worst we have to contend with. But it’s not.

  The thing we have to fear is man itself.

  Man is the devil’s bastard child that is destroying this world one person at a time.

  The zombies are just a side act, the backdrop to our nightmare.

  “There were more people at the gates yesterday. A man and his two sons. They were starving, scared, exhausted. Lee didn’t let them in, he sent them away.” Her voice fades on her last word and I look across at her. “He said there was no more room.”

  “There isn’t,” I reply.

  “But at least they would have been away from the zombies.”

  Our eyes meet across the darkness, the only light coming from what is spilling from the doorway and the holes in the ceilin
g. She sees me—really sees me—and I see her. She flinches under my hard stare but doesn’t look away, and that tells me everything about this woman that I need to know. It tells me that she’s strong and frightened but won’t be intimidated. It tells me that she’s already sold her soul but she’s still living, she’s still making it worthwhile, because she has to. She’s a fighter, and I like that about her.

  I look away.

  That man and his sons are better out there than they are in here—they’re safer. At least out there they have a fighting chance.

  “Do you think they’ll feed us today?” she asks, her voice sounding fearful.

  “We were already fed,” I reply.

  “That was two days ago,” she says back, and I feel my brows pucker in frustration, because the days are becoming a blur.

  “They better feed us, I’m starving!” A croaky male voice comes from further into the room.

  I want to laugh, because that man, he knows nothing. He’s old, too old to do the work of men, too slow to do the work of teenagers, and too ugly to be of service to the guards. But he’s clever, of that I have no doubt. I’ve seen them take him away to discuss things with him. He comes back well fed and with clean clothes.

  Yet he knows nothing of what it takes to survive in this world. I hate him.

  I don’t know what they are doing out there anymore. Lee tells us nothing. And we’re all too weak and too tired to fight him anymore. The last I heard, the walls were high enough and strong enough to protect us no matter what came at us.

  Full dictatorship is underway, with Lee leading the way. He chooses when or if we eat, if we get heat, and if we are allowed outside in the fresh air. He rules over us like we are nothing.

  “They asked me what your name was,” the woman says, ignoring the old man from across the room. “They asked how old I thought you were.” Her voice is quieter now that she knows people are listening to us talk.

  The air freezes in my lungs. I don’t want them asking about me. That puts me in danger—greater danger than I am currently in. The deaders ain’t got nothing on the guards in this place. Because yes, Lee dictates everyday civilian life, but the guards can and will be bought for what you can give.

  “What did you say?” I ask, the words sticking in my arid throat.

  “I said I didn’t know how old you were but that you scared me because you were unpredictable.”

  I turn to look at her again. “Why?” I frown so hard it makes my forehead hurt.

  “Because then they’ll leave you alone. I was trying to help you.”

  “Why?” I whisper, emotions clawing their way up my throat.

  “Because that’s what we have to do—to help each other.” She says it likes it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and perhaps it is. For her. For a mother doing all she can to protect her children. For a mother trying to stay alive so that her children are not alone in this cruel, hard world. But for me they are stupid words.

  “Don’t help me. I don’t need any help,” I bite out.

  I don’t want any help. If she helps then I owe her a debt, and I don’t want to owe anyone anything. Not ever again.

  “But—” she begins.

  “I don’t want your help!” I say louder, choking on the words. “We are not friends. Stay away from me.”

  I turn away, not wanting to look at her anymore. I don’t want to see her bruises and her sad eyes. I don’t want to feel pity or sympathy for her or her children; they are not my problem.

  Or perhaps I turn away because I am hiding myself from her, ashamed of my bitter sadness and the way I have just given up.

  If I could crawl away from myself I would. I hate what I am becoming, but I am unable to stop myself. This world has taken everything from me now.

  Even myself.

  *

  “You hungry?” The guard I have decided to call Tash because of his godawful moustache nudges the mother’s boot with his own and stares down at her. I vaguely recognize him, but I don’t remember where from.

  She was sleeping, but with his abrupt prompt she wakes up, her arms tightening around her precious children.

  “I said are you hungry?” he asks again, a slight slur to his voice.

  She glances at me and then up to him and nods, and bites her bottom lip before looking down at her children. I have noticed that the children are always fed, but the mothers are not. It’s not just this mother, but all of them without husbands or partners. As if the guards know that they have them fully at their mercy because all mothers will sacrifice themselves for their children. It’s an almost universal thing to do.

  “Get up then and come with me,” he drawls out and waits for her to stand, his hand resting on the pistol at his hip. His gaze roams around the room and I take the opportunity to pull the blanket tighter around myself. To shroud myself in the musty material so I can disappear.

  The mother pries her children’s sleeping bodies away from hers and lays her blanket over the top of them. Her eyes dart to mine once as she begins to follow the guard out of the room—a plead for me to watch over them.

  I look away with the acid burn of guilt bubbling away in my stomach.

  These people are not my problem and I cannot get involved.

  *

  The silence is everlasting. The howl of the wind outside and the occasional mutter from someone remind me that I am still awake and have not yet drifted back off to sleep again.

  I glance over as the children sleep on—a boy and a girl that look almost identical in age. They are blissfully unaware of their mother’s sacrifice for them, and I feel sick to my stomach yet grateful that this woman is doing this for them. They are innocent, beautiful in their naivety. I hear it in their softly spoken voices when they talk to one another. The playful lilt in their tones as they tease one another.

  I swallow down the rough lump in my throat, watching the children sleeping, their dirty hair hanging over their faces almost like an extra layer of warmth and protection. They are our future and their mother is doing everything she can to make sure that they have one, no matter how hard it may be. What can the future hold for them? The jury is out on that one. She doesn’t know and neither do I, but when the verdict arrives I’m almost certain that it won’t be good.

  My hands are trembling, which is odd in itself as I know it’s from emotion and not just cold that they shake. I am sad and yet hopeful for these children, no matter how hard I try to fight it.

  There is a point that we all reach in life where enough is enough. And as the dark shadow of the old man from last night gets to his feet and makes his way across the room toward the sleeping children, left in my unwanted care, I reach that point. That point of no return. Of destruction or beginning.

  He stands over them, watching them, his shadow playing across their sweet, unaware faces. I squeeze my eyes closed tightly, my heart thumping wildly in my chest, willing him to get away from them.

  When I open my eyes up he has one hand hovering over one of the children—the boy, I think it is, though they are a tangle of innocent limbs and brown hair so it is hard to be certain. But I snap. I feel myself come untethered, undone by this man taking this opportune moment to ruin and corrupt the only innocence left in my world.

  “Don’t touch them.” My voice is low and full of menace.

  He jerks his hand away in surprise and looks over at me, though I can’t make out his expression in the dim lighting, I can tell by his tone and his words exactly how he feels about my interference.

  “Fuck off!” he growls.

  I flex my hands repeatedly to get the blood moving again, to make the muscles come back alive. Wiggling my toes to make the life flood back into them. He reaches down again, and I swiftly push myself up to standing, feeling dizzy and sick because of lack of food and the anger surging through me.

  “I said, don’t touch them.” I lick my dry lips, letting my filthy blanket fall from my shoulders.

  “Keep out of this.”

&
nbsp; “No.”

  “Interfering bitch,” he grumbles, taking a step back from the children. “This doesn’t concern you.”

  My blood is running again, the anger fueling me onward, and I feel alive—rejuvenated at my fury at this old man that would take advantage of this situation. Of all of these people controlling us, keeping us here against our will. Giving us no choice but to comply or die. My rage burns bright and he sneers down at the children. A little boy and a little girl. Brown dirty locks on both of their heads.

  Innocent. They are innocent.

  “Go back to sleep, stupid bitch,” he sneers.

  “I’m going to kill you,” I say, my voice not sounding like my own. And perhaps it isn’t, but that’s okay, as long as the voice stays strong.

  “Fuck you,” he replies, but then rethinks his aggression. “I can get you food.” His eyes dart to the boy, and I know what he is saying. We don’t need words to describe the bargain he is trying to strike up with me.

  I bark out an abrupt laugh that startles one of the children awake. The little girl clings onto her brother and immediately calls for their mother.

  “I don’t want your food,” I reply, my stomach gurgling in response as if to remind me that it does in fact need some food.

  The man backs away, realizing that I am not about to let him harm the children. He returns to his place on the other side of the room, muttering the whole way. As he passes what I thought were sleeping bodies, I see the blinking eyes of the other people in the room, all of them watching us. They had seen what he was going to do and they were turning a blind eye to it. Ignoring the pain of this family—these children.

  I feel sick, my stomach churning with the bitter taste of shame.

  I am not innocent. I have watched as women have been taken from this room, sacrificing their virtues for a belly full of hot food and a dusty blanket. I have seen men taken from their families, never to return, taken god knows where…