The Deepest Red

by Miriam Bell

  “Don’t listen to him,” she says as her hands grip one of the smaller stones. “He is in a mood today.”

  “I didn’t plan too,” I reply.

  As the time to lay Tom into the grave draws near, I can’t help the single tear that runs down my cheek. I hate myself for the weakness in that solitary drop of moisture and yet I hate myself even more for not being able to allow all of my tears to fall. I turn away when Connor places his headless body inside the trench. When I’m finally able to look, Tom’s head is hidden, wrapped in the hospital gown his killer had worn. I’m thankful to not have been the one to separate Tom’s head from his body. Kneeling down I begin to pile stones on top of his lifeless body. The wrinkle skin of his blood stained hand draws my attention. I’m mesmerized by the blueish tint surfacing through the crimson.

  The heavy stone I’m holding is lifted away from my clasp.

  “Why don’t you patrol the wood line?” Connor’s voice is soft and comforting.

  I shift my gaze, surprised by the kindness within it.

  “No.”

  My voice mirrors his as I pick up another rock.

  “He would’ve done this for me,” I reply and sit the rock within the trench.

  Once we have filled up the once meaningless ground with as many as possible, I begin to slide dirt within the cracks. I repeat the process, dreading the moment when I leave this creek’s bank without Tom’s wit and guidance.

  I don’t say any last farewells while my head is bowed. I can’t form the words and I know Tom wouldn’t need them anyway. If our positions had been reversed and I was laying underneath the heavy weight of these stones I would like to have thought he would have placed a hand on the pile and said something along the lines of, “Millie was useful and a good scout,” but Tom didn’t desire my approval or anyone else's.

  Therefore I remain silent battling with the emotions swirling in my head. Among them a tiny voice whispers I just lost another link to my mother- another piece. My thoughts turn to Dad and a sudden need to hug him consumes me but he isn’t here. He’s tucked away safely behind the prison’s fences, within the concrete walls. I stand trembling for a moment looking at the now finished grave and attempt desperately not to think of why now Tom can lay in the trench without his feet sticking out.

  I gather up what little belongings I have, place the supply bag again on my shoulders and begin to walk away. I should acknowledge the two people still gathered around Tom’s grave- their heads bowed as if they knew Tom closely. I should speak with Clover and discover why they seeked me out. I should even thank Connor but I can’t make myself follow through. Burying Tom took more out of me than I thought possible. I need time, time for my head to clear. If Connor and Clover had wanted to kill me they would have done it by now, so I continue walking, stepping over the fallen tree trunks blocking my way. I don’t talk to the two shadows that follow behind me. They don’t try to stop me or speak. They simply disappear for a moment only to come right back with bags of their own. We walk in silence together with only the bird’s singing to accent my haunting thoughts. Hours pass.

  Flashes of Tom with blood flowing freely continue to plague me. I stumble a few times but right myself before I land face first onto the hard earth. I must warn everyone back at the prison. Anger starts to spark as an unwanted thought enters into my sluggish brain. Were the leaders informed of these creatures? Why would you send your own people into danger like this? Someone must have known. I’m traveling in the direction of home until I become a ware of Connor keeping pace beside me.

  “Stop walking,” he demands sternly, cutting his eyes toward me.

  His eyes are dark, all kindness drained from their steel color. His anger only annoys me when I should be scared of him. Who does he think he is?

  “No,” I growl as I continue my hike, deciding to alter my direction away from our small community.

  I can’t lead these strangers straight to the prison. As much as I want to go home, I realize I can’t. My anger builds.

  Connor releases an exasperated breath and without looking at me says, “Stop walking, please.”

  A quiet giggle sounds from behind. Clover instantly attempts to hide the laughter but it’s too late, Connor’s ears perk at the noise and a scowl forms on his face. I have a feeling he doesn’t say the word “please” to often and I most likely may never hear it again. I stop walking and glare at him. The response is a mistake because as soon as my eyes catch his, my heart begins to beat faster. I’m not startled at the reaction but at the sentiment that flickers to life along with the pounding in my chest.

  A whole new kind of anxiety fills the emptiness inside and I’m uncertain as to how to respond. A nervousness of him I’m not capable of managing seeps into my distressed reasoning. What is wrong with me? The idea of this type of sensation at all, as well as, having any feelings hours after Tom’s death, sickens me.

  Connor stiffens as if he knows what I’m thinking and wants no part of my crazy. He’s just as dirty as before with a light sheen of sweat at his brow but those things only add to his attractiveness. He still wears the same clothes from last night, only now they’re drenched in areas with blood. Tom’s blood? The man from last night’s blood? Connor touches a finger to the dampness, his skin coming back with a faint redness- his eyebrows dipping in concentration. Did he not realize he was covered in drying blood?

  I quickly divert my gaze wondering again what’s wrong with me. I shouldn’t conjure up these thoughts. I want to embrace the emptiness of before. I want to slam shut the door to my brain, not to open again until I’m behind the safety of the prison’s walls. I’m sure he’s aware of how he makes me nervous and of how unstable I truly am.

  Connor drops his supply bag and tugs the shirt off- wiping any remaining blood and sweat off his chest. His muscles flex and tighten as I blush a brilliant shade of red.

  “What the hell Connor?” Clover ask baffled.

  “There’s blood.” Connor replies, a confused expression appearing on his features.

  Clover rolls her eyes when he makes a head gesture toward me. She yanks open his supply bag, offering him another shirt.

  “I think I’m safe in saying Millie and I prefer the blood.”

  My blush deepens at my humiliation when Connor notices the color of my cheeks. He flushed slightly but recovers quickly with a smug smile.

  “Um. Yeah.” He mutters, filling the awkward silence.

  I’m not a prude. I want to say as much but I keep my mouth closed. I’ve seen a man's bare chest before. Plenty of the guys I train with discard their shirts when Mrs. Emerson demands we jog in the hot sun. There was never an awkward time where I thought twice of their half exposed bodies. However, I can’t explain but Connor is different. Seeing the smooth lines of his shoulders and flat stomach, makes my hands tremble with the need to touch him. In that moment, I feel naive and foolish. I hate it.

  Connor quickly covers his naked chest with the clothing offered by Clover. I scowl at my disappointment and relief. His messed up hair quivers in the breeze, drawing my scrutiny. The disarranged pieces only give him an appearance of youthful innocence which I thought impossible with his menacing stance from earlier. He’s even more beautiful. The anger that lies right underneath the surface stirs in me, allowing lust to intertwine.

  I turn, about to walk away when Clover touches my shoulder.

  “We need to talk,” she says.

  The seriousness of her voice makes me miss the giddiness she displayed the night before as I told her my name. Had I stole that giddiness from her? I realize now how extreme emotions can become out in this deserted place. The red zone wasn’t turning out to be everything I’d hoped it would be. I had imagined abandoned towns full of mystery and foreign ideas. I envisioned unfenced fields rolling as far as the horizon and discovering wild animals I’d never dreamed I would see. I was told my mother had loved the red zone. How could you love a place that only offered death and memories of a destroyed world? Why wou
ld you knowingly offer yourself up to it, away from your family and newly born daughter? Had I done the same as her? All my questions paled in comparison to the last one that crossed my mind. What would Dad do if I too, didn’t return?

  Beyond Clover, Connor places the supply bag on his shoulder. A shy, tender smile brushes his lips as he glances toward the ground, lost in his own thoughts. He shuffles the bag’s handle to rest securely around his shoulders. When he catches my eyes on him, he frowns as if I’ve uncovered him in the act of doing something sinful. He must realize how he affects me. Clover snaps her fingers, drawing my attention.

  “Millie?”

  She snaps again.

  “Who was the guy we buried?” She asks and waits for my response.

  “Thank you for helping me, but does it matter who he was? He’s dead now.”

  My voice comes out in an unfamiliar irritated sneer. If I can’t learn to control myself, and soon, I’m going to break. The heaviness settling inside of me, enlarges, bringing with it an unnerving anxiousness. It’s like everything I am or will be is resting on top of a rubber band and I’m standing beside the stretched rubber, daring it to snap.

  Annoyance fills the features of Clover’s delicate face. Speckles of pink splatter her cheeks and cover the tips of her ears. Her eyes seem to glow in the morning light. A frustrated sounds emits from her mouth.

  “I’ve had enough!” She yells, enunciating the words.

  Waves of frustration flow off of her skin. I watch waiting for my own irritability to flare but it lies dormant.

  “If we wanted to kill you, you would be dead,” Clover wails, then grinds her teeth. “Connor would’ve put a knife in your head as you were running from the gas station! But no, we spent all night trying to track you down, which is not easy in the dark, might I remind you.”

  She points her thin finger at me.

  “We ended up killing another one of those damn infected and found two more sets of infected tracks going in your direction. I would’ve prefered to sleep but instead end up tracking their disgusting bodies through the trees, hoping they don’t find you before we do.” She breathes in deeply. “At dawn, we calculated we would be able to catch up to you by late morning only to notice those damn pine cones leading the way the whole time. The whole damn time!” She bellows.

  I take a step away as she continues.

  “Today, I buried a man I didn’t even know when I couldn’t even give the same courtesy to my little sister. So when I ask who he is, I expect to be answered. We’re not the enemy Millie, we’re not going to hurt you and we’re not going to raid your village.”

  Her arms fly into the air accenting her irritation.

  “We won’t take your women and children!” She exclaims.

  Clover stands in front me, her hands balled up into fist by her side. She takes large breaths to calm herself. All I can do is stare at her dumbly as she struggles with her own anger and exhaustion. I understand her exasperation so I wait patiently. Connor places his hand on her shoulder.

  “Cuz, why don’t you go ahead and find us a place to make camp,” he says in a deep soothing voice, “Millie and I are going to talk here for a bit. That cool?” Connor ask, tightening his grip on her shoulder.

  Her wild green eyes calm slightly. She turns toward him, embarrassed.

  “Yeah, sure,” she mumbles as if vanquished. Clover gives me one more look as if to say “I’m sorry,” but there isn’t a need too. I watch her walk away tense as the woods swallow up her retreating body.

  Connor let's out a deep sigh as if deflated.

  “If you think I’m the dangerous one, think again.”

  At his words, I stare at my feet like a child. Tears gather at the corners of my eyes fighting to be set free. I strive to lock them in, refusing to let him see me cry. I wouldn’t normally call myself an emotional girl but today everything was a mute point. I watch in my peripheral vision as Connor nears. My heart flips in my chest and I give up the desire to understand why this stranger provokes such a response in me. I try my best to ignore the rushing warmth as his hand brushes my arm.

  “It’s okay,” he soothes, his fingers lingering.

  At those words, cold anger awakens. It isn’t okay. It will never be okay again. My whole world is changing. Another person I cared about, gone. The image of the red zone I’d fantasized about, gone. My longing to share a love with my mother of this unfamiliar place, gone. Connor speaks again but the words are lost on me. Does he think of me as a child, someone to coddle and reprimand? I’m not weak, or at least I don’t want to be. Can he recognize the heaviness weighing me down and the thoughts plaguing me? I don’t know why the anger releases in me but it does. I give myself over to the madness I’ve been wanting to avoid, finding the transfer over to rage more comforting. The familiar sentiment blazes through me leaving numbness and the ability to continue blindly through this new hell.

  I slap Connor’s firm hand away. The expression he gives isn’t one of surprise but one of understanding and remorse. The fact he doesn’t hide it only exasperates me more. My arms come up to push him hard on the shoulders- distancing us and the responses he invokes. This anger I’ve embraced gives me a sharp focus on the world around me- clearing the foggy lens of grief Tom’s death laid upon everything. I want to be consumed by a dark void that sucks my thoughts and emotions away so I don’t dwell on the pain. The more I attempt not to think of them the more memories surface. The images of every painful experience I’ve ever been through overlapping each other, building a mound of despair.

  The memories flicker, growing up without my mother and never getting clear answers as to what happened to her. I gave up on the whole idea of knowing. The thoughts come faster, all the physical pain of training so Mrs. Emerson would allow me to follow in my mother’s footsteps, the arguments with Dad about becoming a scout, getting close to Tom and then losing him. I will never discover what information he had about my mom’s disappearance. All these things painfully tug at me. I’m a coward. A sinister voice whispers inside me. I should’ve asked my questions even if Tom probably wouldn’t have answered them. I don’t want to learn the answers but I’m compelled to seek them out any way. My heart pounds in my chest harder, harder as another wave of anger rolls over me deadening the ever present agony like a thousand sharp nails digging into my tender flesh.

  I throw my fishermen hat to the ground and let my red hair fall down my back. The idea of no more disguises gives me a bold confidence I was missing earlier. My blue eyes lock on to Connor’s grey as if to hold him prisoner. I embrace the numbness in me and let the cold chill settle into my bones. My muscles ache to move, to be doing something, anything. For the last few days I’ve hiked hours, attempted to sleep on the cold ground, and witness the death of a friend, my body should be begging for rest but instead I’m more alive than ever. I need action. I need a distraction or something to draw this toxic energy away from me. Do I really want to feel nothing? The voice in my head breaths “yesssssssss” at me like a snake hissing at it’s prey.

  “Millie, calm down. Try to take a breath.”

  I continue to stare at him watching his eyes for the slightest glimpse of pity. He attempts again to touch me and again I slap his hand away.

  “Did I say you could touch me?” I ask curtly.

  “Ok,” he says just as abrupt and steps away annoyed. “Is this what you want?” Connor replies, cracking his neck.

  He opens his arms as if to offer an embrace but his countenance turns hard. His voice is relaxed but I recognize the spark in his eyes. The sight of him reminds me of the calmness before a thunderstorm. Alarms sound off in my brain, warning me I should run.

  “Is that how you mourn, with anger?” I glower at his smugness. “I can take it. I can take anything you want to give,” he states, drawing nearer. “You want a distraction? Okay Red, give it your best shot.”

  Never breaking eye contact, Connor roughly kicks a large rock near his foot, clearing the ground of anything h
e may trip on. He stands with his arms up ready to attack or defend.

  “You can run if you want. You seem pretty good at that,” he taunts. A smirk plays on his lips. “or not,” he continues in a low threatening voice.

  He motions for me to come forward with his left hand.

  Without thinking, I lunge for him with a right handed punch. He deflects the onslaught and shifts to the side.

  “Whoa girl, try to study your opponent a little before you throw yourself into the fight,” he scolds.

  “Who are you my teacher?” I sneer, burying the memory of Tom lecturing me on the importance of clean socks.

  I lash out again but again Connor diverts my advance.

  “Not with your form, Red. Who trained you?” He asks with a steady breath.

  Pain from his block shoots up my arm and settles in the muscle.

  ”Don’t call me Red!” I roar, ignoring his question.

  I decide to aim a toe kick to the inside of his thigh, but he lifts his leg blocking me with his knee.

  “Good, but I can see your intent coming a mile away.”

  Annoyance pulses through my body and releases itself with a combination of punches. I strike out at his stomach, his chest, waist, and even his face, but all of my advances are blocked with a smooth combat grace. He’s unbelievably frustrating which I express in a loud growl. It’s as if he senses where I’m going to strike before I do. My breath comes heavier with each intake.

  “Combinations are decent but you are drawing back with every punch,” Connor informs, switching into an instructor instead of an opponent. He blocks my advancement again, holding up one finger as if to say “Wait.” He surveys me with a stern appearance. I breathe heavily.

  “Come straight out and use your hip for power,” he demonstrates a punch as I watch bemused.

  Connor drops his pretenses and reaches out for my fist. Grabbing it, he extends my arm out showing me just how to throw the punch. I blink at him in shock. What the hell is he doing? I kick out my leg and sweep his legs out from underneath him. He flies back onto the dirt covered ground breaking his fall with his forearms. Connor lays motionless for a moment staring at the tops of the trees. A squirrel rustles somewhere among the leaves and I realize some of the pressure on my chest has lifted slightly.