by Miriam Bell
His open hand strikes the wall behind us. The stiffen muscles support him as his breath rattles out. Connor’s eyes are heavy and unfocused. I realize he’s shaking, his weight now fully leaning on his braced hand. He shakes his head, Connor’s internal struggle reappearing in his gaze. Breathing heavily he whispers
“I’m sorry, Millie. I shouldn’t.”
He breaks away leaving me wanton.
“I don’t-” I tremble as I try to clear the fog from my head. Connor steps toward the front door. “I don’t understand,” I say baffled.
He spins.
“Forgive me. I can’t,” he pleads.
Confusion rakes me as I struggle to make sense of his actions. Connor turns to leave.
“Asshole!” I yell, not daring to follow.
I stand alone staring at the door where he vanished. What the hell?
Outrage begins to fill the void left behind by his lack of closeness. My body calls out for him. It screams to understand. I clench my fist. For a moment, I was happy. In Connor’s arms I felt safe and fulfilled; nothing else mattered but the moment. I‘m beside myself with pure fury realizing I’ve tasted something I didn’t even know I wanted. Something that having been ripped away, stings bitterly. My fists tighten as I attempt to control my breathing. Confusion laces my annoyance. I want to yell, to scream, to rip all the pictures off the walls. I’m over reacting. I reach toward a side table lamp and grab the slender shape. With a frustrated growl, I throw the useless object across the room. It hits the wall breaking the tiny bulb inside. My breath slows as I shake out the tightness of my fingers. I’m really over reacting.
A light tap at the door draws my attention. Clover steps into the door frame. She takes one look at me and steps right back out.
“I’m going to stand right here while you look around,” she says, turning her back toward me. “Just don’t….” she pauses in her sentence rethinking what she wants to say. “Take your time,” she finishes, remaining right outside the door.
I appreciate the privacy and the fact that she hadn't mentioned the lamp now laying in pieces on the floor.
“Thank you,” I say peering over at the mess I made.
I have things to accomplish, a home to go back to. For an instant my body refuses to move. Get a grip. The urge to race after Connor becomes strong. So many of my questions ramble together, all demanding to be answered, but I’m afraid all I will end up doing is punching him in the face. I recall all the infected he fought right outside these doors. Challenging him wouldn’t be a smart idea. Kissing him hadn’t been a smart idea either.
I walk over to the house’s log mantle and pick up one of the family photos. The glass jiggles in my hand. The frame is coated with a layer of thick dust. I endeavor to regain my composure and focus on the family again. Breathe, I tell myself calmly. Focus. The shaking in my hand slowly subsides. Where do I know the father from? I ignore any other thoughts of Connor and his frustrating behavior.
I decide to do what I came here for and search the abandoned belongings. Something inside of my subconsciousness wanted me to find this place for some unknown reason so I would be stupid to waste this opportunity. I ascend up the house’s creaking stairs. The wood is rotten in a few spots but still sturdy enough to support my weight. I’ve never seen a house with wooden stairs before or for that matter, a home for only one family. The whole layout is fascinating to me. In the prison, we fashioned the cell blocks into living quarters for families and individuals. It isn’t much but it’s your own space to do what you like with. The boarded up bars give you some sense of privacy which helps.
At the top of the stairs, I find a small loft area. I lean over the railings peering down at the living room below.
“Damn Connor,” I whisper aloud.
I scold myself for allowing him one more thought and focus my attention on the open doors of the narrow hallway.
“Here goes nothing,” I mumble to myself.
The first room I peek into has faded green paint on the walls. The vast space must have belonged to the small boy. Toys litter the musty carpet as pictures of fast cars decorate the boy’s bedroom walls. A shelf area proudly displays baseball trophies and blue ribbons. I could never imagine this much room for only myself. I sigh, knowing this family’s fate probably didn’t end well. Remorse mixes with my heartache as I slowly back out of the boy’s shrine.
The next room I come across belonged to the parents. The large king size bed lays perfectly made- the lady’s jewelry box opened with her necklaces displayed. I see socks lying on the floor opposite of hers. I frown at the site. My Dad always left his socks in the same location, right beside his bed. The memory brings a slither of regret as I explore the room further, checking the closet and pulling out clothes that might fit. Thankfully, the mother and I appear to be about the same size.
I raffle through each piece of clothing deciding what may be useful and end up settling on a pair of blue jeans and thin soft jacket. Multiple pockets line the front and inside of the tailored leather. The new clothing will be perfect with colder weather coming so soon. I also pack two extra shirts inside my supply bag, just in case.
In the large walk in closet my eyes land on an oversized mocha colored beret, I snatch it up discarding my dirty fisherman hat. Twisting my hair up and around, I hide the strands within the confinement of the soft fabric. As I’m securing the new hat upon my head an awkward box catches my attention. Allowing my curiosity to get the best of me, I reach for it. My fingers run along the smooth wooden finish. The cold metal lock unlatches with a pop.
Lying on a beautiful brown lining inside are two uniquely fashioned weapons. The first is a simple lined hammer but where it should be flat to drive in the nails, a small point juts out. My eyes widen as I pluck the item out of its resting place, testing the weight. The handle is made of red marble that fits the groove of my hand. Returning it back to the brown lining, I take a second to examine the other weapon. It looks like a tomahawk but the blade is the shape of a butterfly’s wing. Along the opposite side of the wing it narrows into a sharp point. Picking the weapon up by its matching handle, I perceive it is just as lightweight as its companion. The weight feels at home in my hands.
A strange feeling seeps into my mind as I turn its blade over to glimpse an engraving. Etched into the metal is the likeness of a centipede. Cold chills run through my nerves at the familiar creature. I drop the tomahawk instantly allowing the well crafted weapon to crash into the wooden container. My eyes close as Tom’s smile surfaces in my thoughts. The image is short lived, replaced by the imprint of his lifeless eyes staring at the calm sky. I shudder as I shut away the weapons, twisting the box knowingly to view words carved into the bottom. There in a thin font the words “The Red Centipede” stare back at me.
I’m up and on my feet moving before I register where I’m going. The door to the little boy’s room bounces off the wall when I throw it open. In three large steps, I grab the first trophy I come across. The plaque below the statue of the golden baseball reads “First Place Championship Tom Watson.” The words leave my lips in a breath. My mind freezes on the name Tom Watson, Old Tom. My breath catches in my throat as I process every crazy detail. I’m in Tom’s childhood home. The memories he shared with me just the other day become more real to me. I replay his story again and all my senses heighten. That’s why the father in the picture looked so familiar. He looks like a younger version of Tom without the beard and Tom’s spark in his eyes. Where did his dad go? The house seems almost perfect, nothing out of place, so why would he not go to the school to find his child? It couldn’t have been that hard.
I don’t realize my face is wet until I observe a small drop of moisture fall on the face of the trophy. Shocked, my fingertips extend to trace the line of dampness on my cheek. With a crack, my heart breaks. The tears begin to flow freely from my eyes- flowing down my cheeks and dripping off my jaw line. I was wondering when I would finally break. I tried so long to ignore the child inside me
who only wanted to sit down in darkness and sob. I was distracting myself with whatever I could find but no longer. I hear nothing but my ragged breath and the quiet surrounding the large room. Recalling everything at once sends me over the edge.
I sit down, rocking back and forth with Tom’s childhood trophy clutched in my grasp. I allow myself to feel this gut wrenching pain- the overwhelming ache that grabs hold of you and shakes you hard till your brain says no more. The chaotic emotion drains my body and leaves me weak and helpless. I continue to sit long after the tears stop and my cheeks are dry. Staring blindly at nothing, I internally attempt to cope with my new reality. If Clover or Connor comes to check on me, I don’t hear them. Maybe they heard my silent cry and decided it best to leave me be or leave me here alone for good. I wouldn’t blame them. I’m disturbed, I reason with myself.
So many questions flow unrelentlessly through my mind that I will never know answers to. I don’t really want to be find the answers but in a way not knowing them makes Tom’s death even more depressing and painful. I stand slowly on my shaking legs, reaching out to a large photo of a young Tom in full baseball uniform. I didn’t even think Tom could ever be this young. He had lived through so much. I ripe off the back of the frame and retrieve the old photo, fold it and place it in my jacket pocket. Not able to hold myself up any longer, I land in a heap on the dusty twin size bed.
What am I doing? I look around the boy’s room with new eyes. First time out in the red zone and I’m forgetting all of what Tom’s taught me, forgetting my training, being careless and letting emotions make me weak. I’m spending too much time thinking about Connor, when I should be focusing on getting back home safe. He’s just a guy, a much older guy that I clung to because I was frightened and alone- not anymore. Connor’s lack of options caused him to entertain the idea of me but he made it clear he didn’t want me. I let my new indifference soak in and build a thick wall up around my heart.
I’m done being the girl he found frightened in the woods. I wipe my hand slowly across my cheeks, letting my fingertips catch my tears. These are the last ones. It’s time to be the woman that found Connor and Clover and brought them to safety. Besides, isn’t that who I trained to be? My whole life I’ve strived to become the image I believed to be my mother’s. When the youth of our community were playing, I was learning to fight. I was lonely even with my father near by. He encouraged me to spend time with Lonnie, sparing and learning to use a blade. I’m sure he thought I had a crush on the twin, never guessing my intentions of becoming a scout like my mother.
I might have considered Lonnie, with his easy grin, a contender for a boyfriend if he had been interested, but he always treated me like a kid, teasing me but allowing me to tag a long. He always held back when we fought even though I begged him not too. I was much younger than him and he was afraid I would get hurt. He had been and still is my friend. I wish he was here with me now. I breathe in deep and slowly release the air from my lungs. I hope both him and Jay are safe. I continue to stare at the wall for a few more minutes while pictures of Tessa, Lonnie and Dad appear in my thoughts. My head begins to ache from the stress or my annoyance with myself and behavior. No more. I scold myself. Standing, I walk back to Tom’s parent’s room. The sunlight shines through the window highlighting the dust floating in the air. I gather my new found weapons and attach them to a utility belt I had found hidden within the closet. I like the new weight on my hips. It’s comforting and gives a sense of a fresh start.
Chunking my old clothes and fisherman's hat on the large bed, I stroll out of the bedroom feeling pretty damn good. I am strong, confident and more like the woman I trained to be. I practice drawing my newly acquired weapons. I’ve always been good with a blade, practicing over and over with Lonnie and sometimes Tessa. When I first started they would only let me use thick sticks they found outside the prison’s walls but as I got older I earned the right to practice with one of the few wooden swords we had. I will earn the respect of my fellow scouts. I will find my way back home.
I smile with the tomahawk in one hand, faithful knife in the other, the hammer resting perfectly placed on my hip and Tom’s pocket knife clipped to my new utility belt. I am determined, resourceful and willing to do what I have too to survive. I grip the banister, my foot about to land on the top step when I hear mumbles on the house’s first floor.
“She has been up there a long time,” Clover says.
“Yeah?” Connor replies.
A long pause.
“You’re an idiot,” she groans frustrated.
“Gee, thanks,” his voice seethes.
I listen to her as she laughs sarcastically.
“Oh, you’re welcome.”
I can imagine her rolling her eyes at the courteous words.
“Look,” his words sound firm and unforgiving, “I made a mistake, we all do it, and I won’t let it happen again. We have a job to do Clover.”
His footsteps pace around the living room.
“Yeah, I know. Get to the prison in one piece. Stay safe. I got it but we always have a job to do. Get away from crazy bird people, find food, delude drifters, kill every infected we can find, stay alive.” Her voice softens as she says, “Quit putting everything on your shoulders. You need to learn to trust and to share some of this responsibility you have concreted to yourself. Don’t worry so much.”
I notice the concern in her voice, the love she has for her cousin.
“I told dad I would get you somewhere safe. I won’t rest till you are and well, Millie…” he stops as if thinking for a moment, not wanting to say the wrong thing. “We will go to Millie’s home and stay for awhile. We’ll warn them about the infected and the others, finish your training and get the hell out of there.”
At his words my heart hardens. See Millie, he isn’t even going to stick around. You don’t need him anyway. I hold my breathe, embarrassed that I have been acting like a boy crazy child. No more.
“You’re still an idiot,” Clover’s voice says flatly.
“It’s too late, cuz,” Connor whispers.
Oh well. I begin to descend down the staircase. The aged wood’s noisy squeaks broadcasts my arrival. I notice Connor standing in the same spot where he had kissed me earlier as Clover stands across the room with arms folded.
“I’m ready to go,” I say to no one.
Connor’s eyes enlarge when he catches sight of me but I turn my head to disregard him. If he wants to follow me he can, if not, I’m good. I secure my supply bag across my shoulders, my weapons ready. Yeah, I’m good, I think snidely.
“Sure, I’m ready,” Clover replies as I reach the last step.
“Wait!” Connor’s voice cracks, as my hand encloses around the door knob.
Too late. The door swings open to three infected persons staring hungrily at me.
Chapter Twelve
A rush of details flood my brain as it registers the three infected standing before me. The closest is a young man. I know because his lack of decay and him being completely nude. I don’t even want to think of the reasons why his clothes are gone and to why half of his body is severely damaged. The angry skin is red as if blistered from a fire. A dark grey substance dribbles from the mangled pieces. He walks stiffly toward me; his hands reaching desperately. To be the first man I’ve ever seen naked, I’m not impressed.
The other two infected are women. The shorter one wears a torn hooded cape. The mud stained bottom drags the ground catching itself on every briar, stick, and damn thing it can, enabling the deformed woman from walking without falling. The other woman heaves her heavy leg behind her. I notice a machete stabbed in the meaty part of the decomposed muscle. Her skin sags from her bones with oozing sores covering her entire body. I would puke if I had the opportunity but with annoyance and anger stewing in my veins, I welcome the chance for violence.
My body embraces the training that Tom and Mrs. Emerson worked so hard to teach me, all the while, Lonnie’s voice loud in my head says “Th
is is for real.” The words forming his mantra he would used to announce he wasn’t going to take it easy on me this time around. The weight of the weapons in my hand only adds to my eerie calmness. I hear Connor gasp from behind as he realizes the threats outside the front door. He doesn’t bother to hide his foot falls knowing full well he’ll be too late.
I step to the side as the blade’s edge of my tomahawk slices my undressed opponent’s arm from his body. It glides through the festering muscle like butter. The sound produces a tingling wave of adrenaline. My surroundings slow and crackle with a ringing in my ears. Before the arm hits the ground, I step into the infected and slice my knife through his neck. His head dangles by a slither of rotting skin. The remaining body, tethering as I drop my knife and turn holding my tomahawk like a baseball bat. The image of the young Tom in my jacket pocket comes to mind and I take a swing at the woman. Her cape is stuck on something protruding from the ground causing her to fall to meet my blade. The weapon collides with her neck. The force of the impact projecting her head into the blood splatter grass. I wonder if hitting a baseball with a bat is anyway comparable.
I don’t stop my assault with the head now rolling away. I kick out at the remaining infected placing a good solid hit of my boot to her chest. The pressure of her body folding back snaps her dragged leg. She screams when she hits the ground but I silence her quickly with a hack to her bare neck. Her body lays motionless below me.
I straighten with my back toward the house attempting not to visibly shake. The adrenaline still nestles me in its arms and I’m grateful it keeps the exhaustion away. When I turn around I’m rewarded with a stunned look on Connor’s face. The two headless bodies fall simultaneously hitting the ground with multiple thumps.