His shotgun is aimed at my chest, his finger on the trigger. Red stains spot his furs like some terrible rash or disease. I can even pick out chunks of flesh and bone within them.
“It’s all your fault,” he says. “This never would’ve happened if it weren’t for you and that bitch.” He spits out the last word, his voice drifting into a harsh hiss.
I shrug. What am I supposed to say?
“Where is she?” He leans, trying to look over my shoulder, into the hall, down the stairs.
“Who?”
“Don’t play stupid with me. Where the fuck is she?”
“Meredith?”
“The bitch with the glowing eyes.”
All I see is her running into the pack of Jo-Bran. “She’s dead.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s true,” I say, thinking that there is no other way for her to have escaped such an ordeal. “I saw it myself.”
Then a grin spreads over his face, the tips of his teeth showing between the cracked lips. “Then there is no one here to save you.” His finger goes for the trigger, and I move, my instincts taking over, kicking in to save my broken life for one more minute.
The shot explodes. I’m diving through the door’s frame, but part of the shot still clips me in the arm. The pain soaks into me, like water into sand, but there is no time to dwell on it. I can hear Goatee already stepping across the room, coming for me. I hop the trellis remnants and stumble down the stairs. Another shot sprays splinters across my head and blasts a huge hole in the nearby wall. I run.
My instincts tell me to head for the door, but my logic reminds me that this is a terrible idea. Instead of outside, I duck into the living room, another shot missing me by mere inches.
“There’s nowhere to go,” Goatee says. “It’s either outside or inside.” His boots clomp as they drop on each step. “Either way, you’ve got monsters to deal with.”
I peer through the hole he’s just blasted through, and we lock eyes, his clean blue eye, staring into my own.
“You’re fucked,” he says, training the shotgun my way. Another blast, but I’m already halfway to the kitchen.
“Aren’t we all,” I say.
“Because of you,” he starts.
I hear the shells slide into the barrel, the click of the gun.
“So what’s the point of killing me?” I frantically search the kitchen, looking for anything I could use as a weapon, thinking about how stupid and ironic it is that I’m running from my own gun. But the only thing of any weight or purchase are the cans of food in the pantry. I sneak inside. Grab a can in both hands and wait.
“Because I’ll have that satisfaction of doing the job myself. You know the feeling.” His steps soften once he’s down the stairs, but the crackling debris still gives away his position. “I saw you kill that soon-to-be Banjankri. Stabbing him with a shard of blood.” A few more crunching steps. “You’re just as heartless as the rest of us. You do what it takes to survive.” Another crunch. “And you thought you were different.”
His last comment comes so full and loud, I know that he’s entered the kitchen. I sneak a quick look, my face to the floor, and I see his boots stopped just inside, coming in from the living room. I stand, praying my knees don’t pop or my bulk disturbs any of my surroundings.
I take in a breath. Hold it. And throw one of the cans across the room.
His gun blasts and I leap from the pantry, knowing that this will save me or kill me. He sees me; my arm is in motion. The gun turns; I release the other can. It flies; he aims. I head straight at him; the can smashes into his opaque eye. I hear the crack; the gun fires. The wall shreds, and I’m on him, tackling him to the floor. We land in a heap, Goatee, me, and the can, thudding to the floor with enough force to knock the wind out of our lungs.
The shotgun has fallen to the floor, out of reach. So I go for the can, scoop it back up and go to work. Goatee is still dazed from the first hit when I bring the half-frozen can of pears onto his face. A circle cuts into his forehead, and I hear the snapping of bone. The squish. The gurgled scream as I continue to smash and smash and smash. I don’t stop until the can disappears into his skull, hidden from view.
And he was right. I do feel the satisfaction.
Chapter Fifteen
I pick up the gun and carry it back upstairs, into the master bedroom. From the broken window, I see sky. Some of the stars have already blinked out, taken off for the day to let the sun rule as it should. The color has changed; it’s still black, only the eastern edge has lightened, a thin strip of blue like the first dusting of snow. Dawn is coming. Safety. A chance.
I walk into the already open closet, the door removed from the hinges and nowhere to be found. Probably used for firewood. I crawl to the back, dragging my hand across the wall, trying to rid it of Goatee’s blood and skull and gray matter.
My arm finally starts to hurt as I curl into a ball, crumpling up on the floor. A discarded piece of trash. The pain burns, shooting through my arm, setting the rest of me on fire. It’s a good feeling, lets me know I’m still alive. But still here in this godless place. Laughter bubbles up from my belly and erupts from me. I don’t want it to. I don’t even know what started it, but I can’t stop. So I cradle the shotgun, my shotgun, and laugh myself to sleep.
* * *
When I wake, sunlight has filtered into the room, a small square just outside the closet door. I try to move, but my body is stiff and frozen. I have to break it free with small movements, each one emphasized by a sharp pin in whatever joint is being disturbed. My arm is extra sore, my surrounding furs stained red with my own blood.
I’m surprised that I didn’t take care of it before I went to sleep. The past night of events floods my mind. Instead of wondering why I didn’t take care of my wounds, I can hardly believe I can even open my eyes, survey the world, and simply breathe.
Downstairs, I head into the kitchen, stepping over Blue Eye’s body and thinking I should do something about it, cover it at least. There is a small knife in his belt, and in one of his fur’s pockets, I find a box of matches, with a few rattling around inside. I drag the large leftovers of the table and cover most of his body, a death shroud of wood.
I find the can I threw to distract Goatee by the back door. One side is dented, but I don’t see any rust on its edges. I use the knife to poke through the top and drink the unfrozen liquid. It tastes like corn. I pry open the top and stand in the ravaged room, crunching through slightly frozen kernels. I wish it was some fruit, knowing that the sugar would help boost my energy. I’ve got a long way to go.
After I take a glance around the area, I squeak the door open. There is nothing to see outside, no bloodprints or bodies to litter the back street. Neither is there a live thing to speak of, just red snow and bloody ice. As fast as I can, I pack a ball of snow and carry it inside.
Standing in front of the stove, I make a small fire in the sink using some of the pantry shelves I’ve broken down and Goatee’s matches. It’s not a big fire, just enough to sterilize Goatee’s knife and melt some of the snow in the empty can from breakfast. Once it’s melted, I slosh it around in the bottom, trying to clean the last few kernels and juice from it. I toss the water over my shoulder then stuff the majority of the rest of the snow inside, some of it melting on contact with the still-warm can. It doesn’t take long to melt the rest, and soon I have a bubbling cup of water.
I set it down on the counter and try and strip off my coats and furs, dropping them into a heap on the floor. They look and smell like dead animals. It’s been too long since I last removed them and I’m glad there aren’t any mirrors around. If I knew what I looked like, I couldn’t imagine myself as someone else; I’d have to be who I was, see who I am, and accept the fact that I’d be unrecognizable.
The air is colder than I remember, my skin breaking into gooseflesh. I try to hurry. Blood is crusted on my upper bicep, the bleeding stopped on its own. This fact makes me feel better about the situatio
n, figuring that it can’t be that bad if it stopped on its own. I dump the still-bubbling water over the wound. The surrounding flesh turns a beet red, and the crusted blood washes away in thin torrent. The shot starts to bleed again, but no more than a trickle.
With the leftover snow, I hold it to the wound, letting the cold both sooth and seal what’s left. I examine my work the best I can, but my arm doesn’t bend quite enough for me to see the damage in full. I figure I’ll live—as long as I can find some food and get out of here without the Jo-Bran finding me.
I put the furs back on, one layer at a time. It surprises me how quickly the smell fades and becomes a part of me once again. I grab the two remaining cans of food from the pantry shelves and stuff them into my pouch, grab the gun, open the back door, and head outside before I have time to second guess myself and just hole up in the home.
My family’s voices call to me as I traipse down the back steps, telling me to stay and that everything will be alright if I join them. Looking back at the house, I remind myself that it isn’t mine; it never was or will be. Someone else’s ghosts haunt the place. My ghosts haunt me—and always will. I’ll carry them with me until I find a way to silence them, satisfy them of their longing, my longing. But for the moment, I use their memory to press on, out and away from this place, their voices, death.
I keep to the shadows, trying blend in amongst the blinding white snow as I possibly can. Every now and again I hear the sounds of gunfire, a few screams, the occasional growl, but they always sound distant, too far for me to bother with or worry about. From building to building I travel, hiding behind the larger walls and piles of rubble, and soon there are no more buildings left for me to use: I’m at the city’s edge.
There is only one place for me to go. The Spire. I know it isn’t the best of places, but I need food, shelter, and it’s the only place I might find both. Maybe hunker down for a few days until I can come up with some sort of plan, some way to move on, find a new pack, survive.
The only problem is getting there. I might’ve been able to make it by nightfall if I’d left with the sunrise, but it’s pushing the middle of the day, the sun almost directly overhead. As it stands, I’ll have to travel a few hours after nightfall, which shouldn’t be a problem—as long as no one or no thing sees me on my journey, which is next to impossible. Even in the daylight, the Jo-Bran should be able to spot me, a black spot amongst the snow. My only hope is that they will go after the fleeing Banjankri and leave a lone set of bootprints alone.
Giving one more sweep of the land, I don’t notice any of the monsters lurking about. I turn to run, even take my first few steps when I hear the grunt, a quick huff of breath that demands my every ounce of attention. My head jerks. A Jo-Bran stands to my right. I’m just out of his reach.
I swing the shotgun around, but I’m too late to fire. He’s already swinging at me. I dive to the side, firing once in his direction. It explodes across his stubby leg, causing it to fall with a roar and spray of blood. I try to roll out the way, but I don’t quite make it in time, his claws raking across my back. A scream bursts from me as I train the shotgun on the Jo-Bran’s face.
Click.
Boom.
Brains.
I lie back, pushing my wounds into the snow, the cold numbing them. They already burn, ten times as fierce as my arm. Part of me wants to just stay here, give up, and wait for something else to come over and finish me off. But I can’t, my ghosts won’t let me.
Even though it hurts like hell, I sit back up. Stand. Then run.
I can feel the blood trickling down my back, the frigid air entering through the tears and cooling the rest of my skin. I hope the blood will freeze, close the wounds, but I doubt it will. It won’t be long—if I’m not already—that my blood will leave a perfect trail for anyone and anything to follow. My only hope is the Spire. Maybe someone’s left a first aid kit inside. I doubt the Banjankri looted much from it, but who knows?
I run.
The sun is already too far along for comfort. There is no way I’m going to make it to the Spire before nightfall and even less of a chance that I’ll survive much after the sun goes down. I’m bleeding too much, too weak from lack of food—there’s no way I can stop to eat. And the Jo-Bran could make it to the Spire in just a few hours. I figure I’ve got about six hours total before they’ll catch up with me.
I run.
The Spire looks like it’s sprouting from the ground like a sprig of corn, growing higher and higher as I approach. I finally collapse, still too far to gain the extra boost of “being so close.” I take in deep, sharp breathes, the clouds puffing out from my mouth, obscuring my view of the clear sky.
It’s nothing but blue above me, open wide and inviting me to just let go of the earth. Let gravity switch and carry me out and away, into the void above. I wonder if that’s where Genevieve and Krista are, looking down and watching over me from somewhere so high that you can’t see them. They look through the stars and past planets just to see me, my personal guardians, my personal demons. I can’t let them see me like this, so broken and weak that I can’t move. Before I stand and press on, I push my back deeper into the snow, allowing the cold to numb my wounds once more. I take a handful of snow and pop it into my mouth.
I run.
The sun drifts behind the ice range. And the sky threatens to fade. On the eastern horizon, it has already given way to the creeping darkness. A loud ragged bellow drifts on the open air from behind me. I take a look back, though I know I won’t see anything. And I don’t. Just the buildings and snow that from this distance look like they’ve fallen asleep, collapsed one upon the other to wait out the frozen night.
I run.
The Spire looms ahead, no more than an hour or two away, but the sun has left me. It sank too long ago, the event bolstered by a mighty roar from thousands of screaming Jo-Bran.
Tonight is a night for revenge.
I run.
I know that they are after me. I can hear their grunts and growls, their pounding feet and paws as they push themselves across the covered ground, snow gorillas.
I run.
The Spire is so close. My back has gone numb, the pain fading into a dull ache that ebbs throughout every corner of my body. Even my toes hurt. I can hardly breathe, and I think that the weight of the gun and cans of food will drag me into the earth. I drop the cans, figuring that there is no use for them if I don’t survive. I even start peeling away the furs, dropping them into the snow.
I run.
Their sounds come in clearly now. The individual breaths, the snorts, the thudding steps. They’ve come for me, the first stop on their death errands.
I run.
They are so close now that I think I can feel their breath on the back of my neck, though I know this is wrong. They wouldn’t take the time to breathe on me unless I was already dead. It sounds like the whole city is after me, their pounding feet sounding like an endless drumbeat performed by a thousand players.
I run.
The snow has melted then froze near the Spire’s entrance. Its door frame is charred black, the opening just a gaping hole. I pray that I can make it inside, slide across the ice patch and make it into the inner chamber before they come. I take a quick glance over my shoulder and wish I hadn’t. Everywhere there are glowing eyes, pair upon pair upon pair—and they’re all looking at me.
I run.
My heart feels like it’s about to burst, it’s beating so hard. My strength has left me, and I’m not sure if I can even open the inner door as I approach it. A Jo-Bran slams into the wall, skidding across the ice, and more of them behind him are slipping, but most of them make it inside, their mouths open, claws extended.
I pull at the door, twisting the handle, but it won’t budge.
They are standing now but a few feet away. I try the door again. No good.
I fire the shotgun into their midst. Pump, shoot. Pump, shoot. Pump—dry click. Not a one of them has fallen, two have hug
e crimson blemishes, but they continue to come. I throw the gun. One of the wounded Jo-Bran catches it, snaps it like a brittle bone, me.
“Open, you fuck,” I scream, tugging at the handle, trying to get inside. I’ve gone through too much to die a few short inches from safety. “Open!”
It does.
It slides apart, a hand shoots out, snatches me by the collar and drags me inside before I know what happened. The door slams shut, locks, and the Jo-Bran pound against the heavy metal. Then I see the glow.
Meredith squats, hunkered down to my level, blinking at me with those glowing eyes. The light flickering into a message, an SOS.
“Thank you,” I say.
She doesn’t reply.
And I’m not surprised—at least not until she moves.
She slides up beside me and pushes me forward, allowing her a better look at my wounds. She lifts up the back of my remaining clothes and I hear her suck in a breath.
“That bad, huh?” I say, laughing slightly. I’m so fucked that it’s funny.
I hear nothing, just feel her hand brushing across my back, tickling like feathers.
The pounding continues. Occasionally, Meredith’s eyes look up, over my shoulder or around the room, making things glow. It’s this same as it was just a few days ago, the gasoline smell thick in the air. It feels like such a long time ago. Every day feels like a lifetime, and I’m tired of the constant rebirth.
“Things would be so much easier if we just let them in,” I say, talking to myself.
“It would.” Her voice is faint, almost lost amongst the thudding walls.
“Then what are we doing?” my voice drops down to her level, not much more than a whisper.
“Living.”
“This isn’t living,” I laugh. “This is surviving. Where’s the joy? The smiles and the real, true laughter. Not this maniacal bullshit.”
She fingers a particularly tender spot, and I wince.
She doesn’t apologize.
“I smashed in a guy’s head with a can of pears.”
Dawn of the Yeti Page 6