The Deepest Red

by Miriam Bell

  Turning serious, I decide it’s time to tell him just how well I did my first time out. I stop chewing on the dry beef and attempt not to stumble on my words.

  “I ran into some company today while getting supplies.”

  Tom’s eyes enlarge as he stares at me. Before he can voice his concerns, I cut him off.

  “Don’t worry, I got past them and they didn’t follow me here. I lost the strangers in the woods when we came across something I don’t know how to describe.”

  I put my beef jerky away, no longer hungry at the memory of the mutilated man.

  “What did you run across in the woods?” Tom asks in a weary voice.

  “Like I said the whole thing is hard to describe. All I know is the thing was a man but he could hardly walk. Something was wrong with his skin and he kept moaning as he shuffled toward me.”

  Tom’s face was blank when he asked me. “Was there only one? What happen to him? Did he touch you? Hurt you?”

  I look at him confused.

  “This guy didn’t seem like the kind of guy I wanted touching me.” I say, as a picture of Connor pops into my thoughts.

  I toss the image aside quickly.

  “Besides the other two people I ran into killed him. I got away while they were distracted.”

  I fidget where I sit, tracing the outline of a bandage and replaying the scene in my head. I wince a little at the memory of the man’s screams.

  Tom seems to relax at my statement and begins to lower himself back into the trench. He makes a face at the pain. Noticing our lack of shelter, I decide I need to make camp but feel too exhausted in the darkness. Tom speaks up from his ditch as if reading my mind.

  “Don’t worry about setting up camp. With strangers in the area and whatever you found in the woods, it would be better to not bring attention to ourselves.”

  I fix my gaze toward the hole in the ground annoyed with my fatigue and with the whole situation.

  “What? A bright orange tent, you think would catch their eye? No, surely not.” I say, sarcastically.

  I hear soft laughter coming from the trench and get the surprise of seeing Old Tom’s wrinkled hand appear out of no where with only the middle finger extended. The old guy is flipping me off!

  “Well, no fire for you.” I smirk, peering over into the cozy trough. “You got room in that hole for me,” I crinkle my nose, “or did you bleed all over the dirt?”

  Tom moves over making just enough room for me to squeeze in next to him.

  “You kick my leg in the night and I won’t be the only one bleeding,” he replies.

  I laugh at his empty threat and gently lower my exhausted body into the ground. The space is small but warm with our body heat combined. I’m careful not to damage our bandages with my movements as I settle in for what will be a sleepless night.

  Chapter Four

  When morning comes my eyelids are heavy as if I haven’t slept a wink. I stretch my back feeling the bones pop along my spine. My body is sore and weary and my mind keeps fluttering back to the mutilated man from the night before. Were there others like him out there? If he came close would he have hurt me or did I witness a murder between a helpless man and two twisted people?

  I think of Clover who had seemed so defenseless but wasn’t. I shiver at the thought of my eyes finding her crouched on the ground with blood dripping from her knife. Witnessing the challenge in her glare, I understood her looks were deceiving as were mine. I will always keep that knowledge tucked away for if I ever get the idea to help a seemingly innocent girl again.

  I begin to stretch out, hearing the chirps of the birds in the trees. The smell of plowed dirt surrounds me. Tiny bugs crawl quickly around the exposed roots of the trench walls.

  “Gross,” I shudder and realize at some point during the early morning I had, in fact, fallen asleep. The space beside me is empty and void of Tom’s snores. Peeking out from my little dirt haven, I see him limping his way down to the creek. He’s slow and a little wobbly but the embankment isn’t as steep in the shaded area he’s in. With any luck, he should be able to limp his way to the water without too much difficulty.

  Tom, having fashioned a cane from a large branch that must have fallen onto the ground, studies the rocks before him, deciding how best to step. The sturdiness of the wood should make traveling a lot easier on our hike back to the prison today.

  “That was a stupid idea old man, getting out of this trench alone to stumble down the hill,” I call out. “You know, I could’ve helped you.”

  Tom waves a dismissive hand in my direction. I cringe as the gesture makes him stumble. He fortunately keeps himself from falling onto the hard rocks with the help of his fabricated walking stick. I let out a breath. His already thinning hair is tangled up on the side of his head. He appears worn and a little funny with all the bandages lacing up his arms and legs.

  “You probably have bruises everywhere. Just wait a second,” I call out again but he ignores me.

  One of his hands clutches at the side of his torso before he realizes the indication and places it back on the staff. I figured his ribs were bruised from his accident but I was hesitant to say anything last night. He knows without me telling him and understands the hard journey we face today. Besides what could I really do about it anyway?

  “I don’t need your help and you were sleeping,” Tom yells back. “You know, I like you more when you’re asleep. Less noisy,” Tom chuckles, jabbing at something with his cane.

  He slips slightly.

  “Funny,” I retort while giving him the finger. His eyesight is too poor to distinguish my extended finger from this distance away but the gesture makes me feel better. Though he is about as blind as a bat, he won’t ever admit it or let others keep him out of the red zone. Tom looks down and shakes his head, mumbling something to himself that I can’t quite make out. Something about if you don’t have bruises you aren’t useful.

  I take this as a sign to start getting my supply bag in order. I start to rumble through its contents and perform a quick inventory count in my head. I inspect Old Tom’s back pack. I don’t think I will be able to carry everything and he won’t be able to carry anything. I sort through his assortment of supplies and collect all the items I think might be helpful. I will try my best to mark our location on my map so others from the prison can pick up the rest later. It’s the best I can do.

  I’m just standing up, placing the newly filled supply bag on my shoulders, when a chill races up my arms. The birds are no longer singing. My eyes search the branches seeking those two red birds from earlier. Tom’s scream bounces off every tree and lodges itself in my brain. My sight rushes to the creek where Tom had been standing only to view a new horror. A type of horror to add to my growing collection, the kind where the victim you watch is someone you know- a familiar face, someone you care about. Panic consumes me.

  I don’t realize I’m running until I’m halfway to them. I pull my knife out from its sheath and drive the sharp point through the eye of a mutilated woman. There’s a crunch followed by a smell of rotting flesh. We land together onto the hard rocks, Tom still clutched in her arms. I push away, hurrying to stand and bring back the blade. I gasp at her eyeball still attached to my weapon’s sharp end. Brownish red gooey liquid oozes from her eye socket as I pull the eyeball off my blade and sling the slimy mess into the creek water.

  I spin to face the woman again who's struggling to right herself. Her bony hand clutches at her empty eye socket before extending out toward me. Her body has a sheen of wax-like death, bruised and torn away. On her leg a section of rot has been peeled back exposing black muscle and brittle bones. Pieces of the forest cling to the opened flesh.

  I stand watching her attempt to navigate through the large rocks. She falls several times, her weakened mind losing balance. My attention drifts to Tom’s corpse as I wait- feeling the adrenaline rush through my veins. Before I could get to him, she had ripped into his body. A huge hole is impressed into his neck.
Bright red blood spurts from the gaping wound. His face displays a manner of surprise and pain all mixed up into one.

  Blood partially coats his once white beard, covering the wispy hair like a thick coat of red syrup. The syrup pours down the wrinkles of his skin as I suck in a breath. I realize I won’t be saving him. My friend and partner is gone. Dead. I swallow down my shock and fear as Tom’s lifeless body lays half way into the water. Vacant eyes continue looking toward the clear blue sky, his blood gushing into the ever flowing current. The bright red creates satin like ribbons swirling and riding the flow of the water. I tear my gaze away as the mutilated woman lunges forward.

  Before I can think, I slice at her sickly body. A cloud of auburn saturates the front of her shirt as she reaches for me. She’s a tall woman but so thin that with one clean slice I could remove her head. I avoid her reaching hands and quickly position myself behind her. My movements are too fast for her to process, my training taking over- fueling my body. She spins to face me but it's too late, I’ve swept my blade through her neck- my weapon meeting no resistance. Her body stands teetering back and forth, before gravity forces her head to slide off her neck and shoulders. The lump of hair falls to the dirt with a thump and rolls sideways. It wobbles to a stop, her one eye staring back at me. I notice Tom’s blood on her blue tinted lips and turn away. The birds begin to chirp once again as disbelief and grief enters my fragile mind. My hands begin to shake.

  I take the tip of my blade and nudge the still standing mutilated woman’s remaining body. Her thin bony features land on her own head. I sway slightly on my feet looking down at her in shock, I recognize the gown she’s wearing. The thin material is the same as the repulsive man’s from yesterday.

  A tag protrudes from the back of the neckline. With a shaking hand, I reach down to read the faded print. Most of the words are unidentifiable except for the letters forming “Property of Phoebe Sumter Medical Center.” I don’t understand what or where Phoebe Sumter is but the words medical center are familiar. At one point this person had been treated for an illness of some sort before she changed into a walking cadaver. I clean my knife on her ragged gown, sheath the weapon and step away.

  A bird chirps nearby as I struggle to perceive the world around me. I turn toward Tom’s marred body. He’s bloody and mangled, laying in the cool water. The emptiness hovers over my pierced heart.

  “Tom?”

  My child like voice cracks on his name. I stumble as I walk to where his blood fades into the flowing stream. There is no reason to run, he’s dead and I understand that I’m alone now. Completely alone.

  “Tom?” I repeat.

  The noise of the creek drowns out my desperation. I’ve failed him in the worst possible way. Slowly, I pull his body from the water hearing his splinted leg scrap across the stones. Sitting on the banks, I place his heavy head in my lap and begin to stroke his thinning hair and survey the gore of his neck. The pieces of torn skin are angry and savage looking. I close his eyes with shaking fingers as a light breeze caresses my face.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a small melancholy voice says from behind me.

  I’m not surprised she’s here. I’m not surprised I didn’t hear her sneaking up behind me either. I just sit numbly on the creek’s bank, tracing the wrinkles of Tom’s aged hand.

  “Why not?” I ask.

  She doesn’t bother to hide her footsteps as she walks to my side. She doesn’t go for her knife, doesn’t give me a death blow like I performed. She just stands there, looking at the violent scene.

  “He was a good man,” I whispered, placing his hand on his chest.

  Clover takes a breath.

  “That’s not always the case,” she says observing my reaction.

  I don’t give one. She tilts her head, studying Tom’s body. I have a strange sensation to cover him somehow, to keep him away from her observant eyes.

  ”Sometimes the sickness can be passed to the already dead,” she remarks. “I haven’t seen it happen but I’ve heard stories. We never stick around to test them out.”

  I turn my head and examine her for the first time since our meeting last night. The sun shines brightly, illuminating her fair skin. She is wearing the same pink dress as before with her long blond hair pulled back away from her face. On each side of her twisted bun, a wooden stick pokes out holding the fine locks in place. She’s pretty with her thin features and dirty face. Seeing her in the daylight, I realize she’s older than what I previously thought. Maybe 15 years old? She gives off the notion of an old soul; even more distinct when looking into her remarkable green eyes.

  I turn my gaze back toward Tom.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, holding back tears.

  I touch his crimson-stained cheeks hestantiantly with my blood soaked fingers. The weight on my heart feels heavier than a moment before. Once I’ve placed his head down onto the creek’s bank, I stand up. The numbness in my legs frightens me. I can’t walk without tripping. I catch myself as Clover backs away, giving me room. I can tell she is readying herself for if I decide to strike. I won’t though. All my fight has been drained out of me.

  “He needs to be buried,” I say with my back turned towards her.

  I don’t like the fact she is witnessing me weak. She has no obligation to help but if she wanted to kill me I would be dead already.

  “I know burial is a luxury in the red zone…” I say, my words trailing off into silence.

  The first day of my training Mrs. Emerson had warned me about the dangers of the red zone. She never said anything about death but the idea was implied. Everyone knew it was a sore subject with my father and I, because of my mother, so no one liked to broach the subject with me. Today, though, Tom would get the luxury of a burial - with or without Clover’s help.

  “Okay,” she agrees drawing a little closer, “but you will need to cut the head off before incase the body is infected.”

  My heart clenches.

  “He isn’t only a dead body. He was my friend and teacher,” I say in response to Clover’s chilling tone.

  “Doesn’t matter. Those things won’t keep him from killing you if his body turns,” she replies.

  Poor Tom, he didn’t deserve to be buried out in the red zone far away from the people he loved. What else can I do? The weight of what happened settles in over my mind but I block the thoughts out quickly.

  “I don’t want to be the one to cut his head off,” I say.

  “Well, I don’t want to do it either,” she counters, placing her hands on her hips.

  “Come on. We’ll decide that later,” I pause, “and after I bury him then we’ll discuss why you’re following me.”

  Clover nods her head in cautious agreement as my balance returns. I begin to gather up big rocks noticing the stain of Tom’s blood left behind in the shape of my handprint. The liquid hugs the side of the rough surfaces making each rock sinister. I drop the stones to the ground peering at my red stained hands. Racing to the water, I submerge them scrubbing away the blood. I can’t get my hands clean enough as I hurry through the process. Minutes pass as the cold water numbs my skin.

  “They’re clean, Millie.”

  I continue to scrub, ignoring Clover, not wanting to think about how much blood might be on my clothes. I strip off my shirt leaving only a thin bra and drown the material in the stream. A pinkness clouds around my fingers before rushing along the current. I ring out the shirt checking to make sure it’s clean. When I’m finished, I find my supply bag and point to the trench set up in the embankment.

  “We’ll bury him here,” I state, putting on fresh clothing.

  We begin to carry rocks to the large hole creating a pile of more than enough. I leave the blood stamped rocks behind.

  My exhausted body tenses at the shuffling of leaves. The sound grows louder as I reach for my knife. Clover stands nervously with her weapon in hand. A gaunt figure of a man hobbles out from the neighboring woods. He bolts toward us in an instant snapping
his leg on a jagged limb protruding from the woodline. He falls face first to the ground, his fingers digging through the dirt, reaching for us. With a hungry yell he crawls until he is able to stand and begins his slowly creep up the hill to where we are. Clover and I stand frozen watching his every move. His moans are loud and causes the tiny hairs of my neck to stand. My hand tightens on my knife’s hilt.

  Leaves rustle in the distance drawing the mutilated man’s attention. A knife flies through the air and strikes the creature in his decaying forehead with a loud pop. My eyes grow wide as Connor steps gracefully out of the woods. He reaches down and gives a tug on the knife protruding from the skull of our would-be assailant. On the second tug the knife slips free from the bone. With Connor’s second knife in hand, he carves it across the man’s neck in a smooth and steady motion separating the head from the body. Covered in the sickly blood, Connor leans down and cleans both his knives on the disfigured man’s shirt.

  “Well, I found him,” he says bluntly, turning to glance at Clover. “I told you there were two sets of tracks,” he shrugs at her narrowed expression.

  “What? I told you!” Clover exclaims.

  Connor’s sharp eyes survey the surrounding trees while ignoring his cousin.

  “Don’t lie. I told you.” She continues, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

  A hidden smile plays on his lips.

  “You said it. I said it. Does it matter?” Connor asks. His manner is calm and relax as he speaks. “The only question now is,” he takes a breath, “was he following the noise of the infected woman or were they both following all the racket you were making.”

  He points the edge of his now clean blade at me. I’m too exhausted for this. My heart betrays me and races the moment his eyes meet mine. Ignoring him, I focus instead on burying my partner. I busy my mind by filling the open end of the trench with the largest stones that Clover and I collected. I try my best to block out Connor’s presence by quickening my pace, the rocks making a scraping sound as they stack together. With a concerned look, Clover bends down and helps me in my task.