Palimpsest (Book 1): Feral

by P. J. Post

  Emily hands him over and Feral opens up the sewing kit. I sit on the arm of the couch next to her and watch her focus on the needle, holding it up to the limited light and trying to thread it. The concentration is etched on her face and in her eyes. She’s grimacing.

  I remember my daydream and wonder if she has dimples.

  And then I can see it in her eyes, she grins like a little kid, like Emily, as the thread pushes through. After that, she’s moving fast, stitching tight little loops through the ragged fur. Teddy was just as fucked up as the rest of us, but not anymore. Feral is putting him back together while Emily patiently holds his new eyes.

  “So that’s his name, Teddy?” Emily asks again between mouthfuls.

  Teddy’s name should be Lazarus.

  “I like Teddy, it’s a good name,” Feral says.

  Emily looks at me. “How come you don’t have a name?”

  Feral glances up at me, but says nothing.

  “I think you do. Are you being an asshat?” Emily asks.

  Feral grins and ruffles Emily’s hair. “After everything we’ve been through, you’re really not going to tell us your name?” Feral asks.

  “Nope,” I say. “And I still don’t want to know yours. Besides, when are you going to take that scarf off?”

  “You know, like…never mind.” She shakes her head and focuses on Teddy’s left eye, suddenly irritable.

  Shit.

  She glares at me as she bites through the thread and ties off the stitching.

  Emily’s expression is just as sour.

  It took me close to twenty minutes to fuck everything up this time.

  I may still be an asshat, but I’m getting better.

  §§§§§

  That was yesterday and we’re still hungry.

  I pull my letter jacket closer. I wish I had gloves, though. The .45 is cold in my hand.

  I study the blackened brick wall of the alley we’re cutting through. I can just make out the graffiti underneath, a different rebellion lost in the shuffle, as meaningless now as any other.

  I run my fingers along the bricks, letting my fingers slip between the joints. The wall is cold. I wonder if the taggers survived, but I know the answer — they’re just like everybody else, some made it — most won’t.

  The dust and soot stains my fingers.

  The afternoon has turned cloudy, threatening rain that never seems to come. I debate trying to break through one of the steel doors set into the walls. The last thing we need is to get soaked out here and risk getting sick, assuming it rains this time, but eating is a more insistent need right now. I can’t say I’m hopeful about finding anything, though, our luck has sucked lately.

  Besides, I don’t have a clue how to open any of these doors. It turns out picking locks is a lot tougher than they made it look on television and I’m fresh out of explosives. These goddamned doors and whatever they’re guarding might as well not exist.

  Fuck, what I wouldn’t give for a burger.

  A burger with cheese dripping down the sides. The kind I need both hands to hold, hot grease running out between my fingers...

  And fries. The crinkle cut ones.

  Fucking crispy, crinkle cut fries, Christ, yes.

  With a real chocolate shake; not those shitty poser shakes made with melted, crap chocolate ice cream, no, the ones made with vanilla ice cream or maybe even frozen custard, and that syrup that comes in the big industrial drums, not that grocery store shit…from one of those old roadside burger joints that hasn‘t cleaned the grill since before I was born.

  I remember Mom when she was younger. It was the Fourth of July weekend and we were up at the Tasty Cone; she was hip deep in sticky-fingered, little league baseball kids, trying to keep everyone together while our chocolate dip cones melted all over our uniforms.

  I remember her laughing, like she was enjoying every second and wouldn’t want to be anywhere else even if she could. I hope so, anyway. The sun’s bright, it’s hot, she’s wearing those big black shades and her hair’s back in that ponytail she always wore.

  I like this memory.

  It’s safe.

  But every day it gets a little tougher to remember what she looked like, the sound of her voice, her perfume — it’s the same thing for my brother and little sister. All I remember is the window.

  The alley opens up to a cold autumn breeze that smells oddly like Old Spice…

  “That’s far enough,” a gravely voice says to my left.

  At the same time, I feel the barrel of a gun press into my neck, pushing my head down.

  I hesitate.

  Fuck!

  I may have just killed us all. I had my head up my ass, playing what the fuck if, not paying fucking attention, daydreaming… I don’t care how hungry I am, how lonely I am or how much I miss everyone. It’s no excuse.

  Instead of bleeding out on the ground, he got the jump on me.

  We’re fucked.

  I don’t fight against him, but keep my head down and check out the ground around my feet instead. The concrete has weeds filling the cracks, but otherwise, the area is free of shit to trip over. I can see his worn but newer work boots too — he’s close, real close. He’s on my left and my .45 is in my right hand.

  The trigger feels like it has a mind of its own; it’s pushing back against my index finger, daring me, fucking with me. For him to be this close, it must be the barrel of a pistol I’m feeling on my skin. I bet I can do it. I can tell by his voice, I’m younger — a lot younger. I’m faster. All I have to do is drop.

  I know I can do it.

  He’s too close.

  He’s rocking the barrel against my neck like he’s trying to back up, but…what…is he afraid of letting up? Taking his foot off my proverbial neck? Am I sensing his hesitation?

  I can get under his aim and shoot this fuck in the knee or something and then, before he knows it, I’ll…

  “Out,” another voice says.

  I hear Feral gasp behind me and all of my confidence melts away like one those goddamned poser shakes.

  The old dude isn’t alone. Even if I take him out, Feral might not be so lucky.

  And then what would become of Emily?

  Keep cool, like Frosty the goddamned Snowman cool.

  They didn’t kill us straight away, so the game’s not over, we still have a shot here — a long shot, but it’s all I’ve got to work with.

  I slowly raise my hands. My .45 is pulled from my fingers by someone that smells faintly of flowers.

  “Let’s go,” the voice says.

  I step out of the shadows and into the back parking lot of an old, abandoned, video rental store. We’re quickly surrounded by three jump-suited assholes, two with military looking assault rifles leveled at us — AR-15s, and pistol boy. They’re dressed in white with mirrored ventilator faceplates poking out of their hoods. They look like the CDC field workers that were in the news before the world broke. One’s tall, one medium and the last one is about the same height as Feral.

  It’s the three goddamned bears.

  I remember the Cart People, but these aren’t the same suits, or the same masks. They don’t carry themselves the same way either. These aren’t whatever those things are.

  They’re cleaner.

  Emily and Feral are pushed up beside me, but unhurt.

  They look to me, no doubt for guidance, but I got nothing. I slowly shake my head, hoping they stay cool.

  Just like Frosty, kids, just like Frosty.

  The short one steps forward and checks our pockets and backpacks for weapons. He gets both of Feral’s .38s, but leaves the shells and what’s left of our food. It sucks to feel the weight of the sniper rifle slide off my shoulder.

  He shoves the weapons into his own knapsack, slides it over one shoulder and the sniper rifle over the other.

  He’s the one that smells like flowers.

  I watch him as he steps back, checks the knapsack, repositions the strap, shifts his feet and the
n I realize the short one here is a chick. She’s in disguise just like Feral, or at least not advertising.

  “This way,” the man says again, pointing with his pistol toward a hole in the stockade fence that lines the back of the narrow parking lot.

  I glance at Feral, but she’s ice behind her scarf — I have no idea what she’s thinking, as usual.

  The old guy has moved to her left, Flower-girl is nearest me. That leaves the other guy in the middle, standing in front of Emily. They must be new at this because they are completely out of position and way too bunched up.

  There’s something else wrong here. I don’t think they’re going to shoot us or even hurt us — whatever that thing is inside me, the darkness, the rage, the pain, the hopelessness, that thing that makes me a killer — they don’t have it.

  Flower-girl steps over and reaches for Emily, but Emily jerks back and slashes out clumsily with a short knife. I didn’t even know she was hiding that one.

  That’s not even close to frosty, but I can’t help but grin anyway. She’s still slow, but she’s learning.

  “Little bitch!” the girl shouts as she leaps back, barely avoiding the blade.

  “Emily,” I call out, this shit might be amusing but I need to get her attention and calm her down before this spins out of control and someone ends up dead.

  She pauses, glancing up at me just long enough for the younger guy to jump in front of Flower-girl and grab Emily by the wrist, wrenching the knife out of her hand.

  Emily squeals in pain.

  This time, I don’t hesitate.

  I bring my foot down across the side of his knee with everything I have.

  I hear something snap and he screams.

  He drops the knife.

  I push him back into the girl and scoop up the knife at the same time.

  They’re both between me and Gramps. He doesn’t have a shot.

  Emily skips behind me, clearing my fighting space. The guy’s still screaming or screaming again when he collapses with a whimper onto his good knee. I grab him by his mask and jerk it off as I lay the blade against his throat.

  “Enough!” I shout at everyone, and then I whisper so that only he can hear me, “I’m going to kill you for touching her.”

  He looks up at me. I bet he’s not any more than sixteen either, which is no excuse for hurting Emily. His green eyes are wide. He’s terrified. He’s got a ginger scruff of beard going, but his freckles make him look younger. “I’m sorry,” is all he manages.

  It’s not enough.

  “Please don’t,” the girl says and pulls her own mask off.

  She’s terrified too. Her green eyes are just as wide and pleading. She has freckles too — and ginger hair. They’re twins.

  She drops her rifle and holds her hands out. “Please!”

  “Pick that back up,” the old guy says.

  I glance over to see him pointing his pistol at Feral.

  He jerks his own mask off, maybe to be threatening. He looks like a copier salesman, but he’s quicker than he looks. As Feral glances back to me, he throws an arm around her neck, bending her head over and presses his pistol into her stomach. “I’ll kill her,” he shouts.

  Feral’s ice. She doesn’t fight. She just freezes.

  God, she’s something.

  I should be scared shitless for her, for us, but I’m not. I’m still not buying this dude’s bravado.

  Now I can see it in his eyes, I was right. He’s no killer. None of them are.

  They’re way in over their heads.

  And I’m guessing Feral can sense it too. I hope so, because if not, she’s going to hate me for gambling with her life — one more thing she’ll never forgive me for, even if she does understand it.

  We must have looked like easy marks; either that or we caught them by surprise, which is probably the more likely scenario.

  “Let go of my son, do it!” he cries frantically, waving his gun around.

  So we interrupted a little quality family time. No matter what happens in this parking lot today, they’re all going to die out here. I can’t believe they’ve made it this long.

  I glance over at Dad and jerk his kid’s head back further. The kid chokes out a pleading whine as I expose his throat and press the short blade against his pimpled skin, just enough to draw blood. He lets go of his rifle. It clatters loudly on the pavement as a single drop of blood dribbles down his neck.

  They need to know what I’m capable of. “Mister, I’m sorry this shit went down like this, I am, but I’m not like you — I’ll kill your kid just for fucking kicks.”

  “Let him go, I swear…” Dad starts.

  “Swear fucking what?” I stare into his eyes without blinking. “You sure you want to test me?” I ask.

  Feral stares at me, her eyes clear and unflinching — waiting.

  Is she judging me?

  Is she learning what I’m capable of?

  I don’t want to kill anyone, least of all a scared family. But I won’t let anyone hurt Emily, or Feral…and then I see panic begin to set in; I can see it in good old Dad’s eyes. His pistol hand is getting pretty shaky. I don’t think he’d shoot anyone on purpose, but now I’m worried he’s going to accidentally shoot Feral.

  I won’t gamble against that.

  “Let’s everyone just relax,” I coax. “This doesn’t have to end like a Tarantino movie, okay?”

  Emily steps past me and picks up the girl’s AR-15.

  “Don’t…” Dad starts again and shifts his aim to Emily.

  It’s all the time Feral needs and she slips out of his grip, dancing several steps away.

  He looks confused — like a little kid crossing the street for the first time, glancing back and forth from Emily to Feral and back to Emily again.

  “No one is going to die here,” I say and pull the knife away and take my knee out of kid brother’s chest as I stand up.

  Dad lowers his pistol slightly.

  Feral moves back over to me as Sis rushes to her brother, kneeling down over him.

  Emily hands me the rifle, ignoring the old man. I wrap the strap around my forearm, but leave it pointed at the pavement.

  The brother is whimpering over his knee, rocking back and forth in pain, his AR-15 forgotten.

  I almost feel bad about it — almost.

  I hand Emily’s knife back to her and she slides it into the side of her Dora the Explorer backpack, concealing it once more.

  Feral picks up Flower-girl’s knapsack and takes one of her .38s back and my .45. She steps in front of the father and stares up at him. She’s a full foot shorter and giving up at least a hundred pounds.

  What is she thinking?

  He lowers his gun to his side and stares at the ground like a scolded toddler.

  Without warning, she punches him, slamming the bolt of my .45 into his face.

  He collapses to a knee, dropping his own pistol as he tries to steady himself.

  “You bitch,” his daughter cries out, but Feral ignores her.

  “That’s for Emily,” Feral shouts at him and then fucking clocks him again, tumbling him over to the pavement as blood begins to run down his forehead and nose. “Don’t. Ever. Fucking. Touch. Me. Again,” she shrieks, and then kicks him in the stomach.

  His kids don’t know how close they came to biting it today — over fuck-all, behind an empty video store no less.

  Feral steps back, panting and takes a shooter’s stance, aiming her .38 at Dad and my .45 toward the daughter. Then she turns those unbelievable blue eyes on me, staring again — waiting for my cue.

  Christ, she’s hot.

  But I just nod at her.

  Even if I don’t want to face it, I have a pretty good idea where her rage comes from.

  I don’t think his kids have seen this shit up close and personal before, not like this. I’d feel worse for them, except they are going to walk away from this one. I hope they’re learning something here because they probably won’t be so lucky ne
xt time.

  “Why did you screw with us?” I ask irritably.

  Flower-girl flashes her eyes at me; hatred dripping from unspoken curses, shit she’s too afraid to say out loud, but Feral steps between us and stares her down.

  “We wanted to help you,” Dad says, his voice shaky as he raises himself back up from the pavement. His nose is bleeding steadily.

  “Funny way of showing it,” Feral says.

  “We couldn’t trust you,” the daughter says.

  “Not yet, anyway,” brother finishes for her through pants.

  “How is he, honey?” Dad asks.

  “Are you okay?” she asks him instead.

  He shrugs and nods his head to her brother.

  “Can you walk?” Sis asks him.

  “Fuck, really? Someone go grab that shopping cart over there,” I say.

  The sister turns her head to look. “What’s your problem? You really hurt Brad.”

  “Hurt him? Brad’s lucky he’s still breathing. How did you survive all this time?” I ask, shaking my head as Feral finally offers me my .45.

  I take it and stuff it in my coat pocket, relaxing my hold on the rifle.

  Emily races across the parking lot to retrieve the shopping cart. For a split second all I see is a young kid running across a playground, maybe chasing a ball loosed from a game of four-square, her hair flying out behind under the pale blue autumn sky — like everything is totally cool and none of this is real.

  …the blood sprays across her cheeks as she watches the mercenary’s head explode…

  “We were foraging, double-checking, looking for food — close by. We didn’t expect to run into anyone. You surprised us, that’s all,” Dad says as he slowly gets to his feet. He looks beaten. He wasn’t made for this new world.

  “Close to what?” Feral asks

  “What’s the big secret?” I ask.

  Emily screams.

  I jerk around, raising the rifle to see her running back to us, the cart forgotten.

  I hear a new voice, a much stronger voice. “Easy, buddy, the big secret is they ain’t flyin’ solo — they got friends. Everybody’s needin’ friends these days.”

  It’s a guy a few years older than us, maybe twenty with an old-fashioned, chrome cowboy revolver in each fist.