* * *
Marcy drifted away from her captor and collapsed in the folding chair she’d been in before. Her eyes were focused on the woman being led across the wet grass and up the steps to the center platform. She didn’t need to read the girl’s thoughts to know who she was—Charlize, a pretty radiologist who’d assisted Leon in retraining her leg muscles after Marcy awoke from her long slumber. Nice girl. Smart. And soon to be ruined.
She squeezed her eyes shut, until a rough hand squeezed her knee. It was Jackson, sitting in the chair beside her, frowning.
“What the fuck’s your problem?” he asked.
With his attention all on her, the hatred inside bubbled to the surface. It made the invading notions slightly more bearable.
“Fuck you,” she said.
“Fuck me? Fuck me? Who you think you are? I own you.” His fingers curled into fists and he ground his teeth. “I should send you down with the rest of them, let the boys have you.”
Marcy grinned despite her pain. “You should, but you won’t.”
“Wanna bet, bitch?”
“How much?”
“Well…huh? Oh, why you…”
The muscles in Cody’s neck tensed, but the rest of his body didn’t move. Marcy knew he wanted to belt her one right then and there, to run her through with his fists before performing other, more lewd acts. His mind was an open book to her now, louder and more present than the rest. She let her grin stretch wider, egging him on, torturing him. He punched his own thigh and scowled. He felt he was in command, loving the moment, an idol to be respected. He wouldn’t allow himself to be seen losing control. At least not yet.
He leaned forward. His lips grazed her ear and he poked his tongue in. Revulsion made Marcy shiver.
“You won’t be so brave when we’re alone,” he whispered. Marcy received a vision of a young girl with dark skin and straight black hair, her body battered and broken, used up and tossed aside as if she were less than human. Cody grinned. Marcy felt close to passing out.
Invasive fingers caressed her barely-covered breast and crept their way up her thigh. The rain picked up in intensity, filling the gaps in her thoughts with its constant rat-tat-tat. Marcy turned her attention to the festivities at hand, watching the soldiers in attendance pull parkas, blankets, magazines—anything they could get their hands on—over their heads in a futile effort to keep dry. And still Ronnie Maggette’s voice rattled on while girl after girl was forced down the walk of shame, to stand on the pedestal like pitiable caricatures of Greek goddesses. They shielded their eyes from the spotlights’ harsh beams, hair plastered to their foreheads, some openly sobbing, others staring blankly, others standing defiant and strong, as the bids were collected. Marcy experienced both their pain and the exuberance of the purchasers, a contradiction that made it feel like her insides were slowly being devoured, like flesh in the maw of the undead.
The undead, and their lack of pretense, were preferable to this.
To fight back the onset of nausea she started humming. She scanned her memory for a tune to latch onto, and one came almost instantly. She put her lips together, ignoring the hand slithering up her thigh that was much too similar to Percy’s slimy feelers. The tune wasn’t pleasant, and she heard a deep, grumbling voice in the back of her mind, but at least it allowed her, for the first time since her encounter with Leon, to push all invading thoughts from her brain.
She closed her eyes, and reminiscence washed over her. Singing filled her ears, the voice of a man-child filled with wrath and angst. She was brought back to a time long ago, gazing upon a face she at one time wished she’d forgotten, the same face that had allowed her to regain her memory when Infection spread through her veins, making her forget who she was.
I know he has sought you out in his dreams, Trudy had said, and I know that you have done the same.
The presence was so close, so real. She experienced fear and guilt, rage and distress. She saw through a young man’s eyes, all gritting teeth and clenched fists, as he gazed through the sea of flesh, searching, violence seeping from his every pore. And though he’d grown, though he was much more a man now than the child she’d known, his inner turmoil was the same.
“Josh?”
Marcy’s eyes shot open and she glanced around in panic. Cody yelped in surprise as she leapt from her chair. His hands grasped at her, snagging on the back of the negligee and tearing it. She felt part of the material shred, exposing more of herself, but didn’t care. Again Trudy’s words filled her mind. You need to find each other. A locked door in her brain’s storehouse swung open, exposing to her subconscious the events that had led him to the here and now. Dreams, visions, picnics in the grass, a stroll across an empty park, conversations, and instructions. It was like being walloped in the head with a hammer.
She stopped at the edge of the stage, head whipping around, searching for a sign of him. The view from inside Josh’s head faded, leaving her naked to her own thoughts and processes. She tried to get it back, but it seemed that door had been sealed shut. Yet she’d seen all she needed to, enough to know this man-child she used to call boyfriend was about to do something very, very stupid. She bellowed at the top of her lungs, her voice overwhelmed by the raucous cheers and falling rain.
“JOSH! JOSH, WHERE ARE YOU?”
She received no answer.
* * *
One summer day when Josh was eleven years old, he’d been strolling down the sidewalk when he spotted a small, feathered form writhing on the concrete. It was a young woodpecker, a creature no bigger than his hand, which had plummeted from its nest. Red fluid dripped from its beak, dappling the concrete while its body thrashed back and forth. A sense of accountability overwhelmed his young mind. He’d found the poor, broken thing, so he couldn’t just leave it there. He ran inside and fetched his mom, who scooped the fallen bird up with a plastic beach shovel and made a nest for it from an empty cardboard box.
Gail and Don, his doting parents, set up a nursery in the garage. For the next two days Josh spent nearly every minute in that hot, cavernous space, hand-feeding the dying creature breadcrumbs and the occasional worm, using a turkey baster to drip water down its screeching throat. He nicknamed it Tweetie, and promised the bird that it would feel better soon.
On the morning of the third day, Tweetie stopped moving. Little Josh had jabbed it with his finger, watched its stiff body creak back and forth, and then started crying. He bawled until his mother arrived, scooping him up in her arms and rocking away his sadness.
They buried the bird in the woods beyond their backyard, beneath the tree house his father had built. At the head of the crude grave was placed a large rock, upon which Josh wrote, in his uneven handwriting, Tweetie, my special friend. From that moment on through his adulthood, he believed in one simple truism: Life is sacred, and he would never purposefully bring pain to anyone or anything.
And then years later, in the aftermath of the world’s end, Joshua Benoit discovered just how fallible human axioms can be.
These were the thoughts in his head as he worked his way through a teeming, uproarious crowd, wearing a dead man’s clothes and carrying himself with that same dead man’s overconfident strut. Not a person noticed him, even those he brushed up against as he elbowed his way through to his destination. He was one of them now, a ghost in a land of ghosts, haunting their party with lethal intensity.
The man whose suit he wore had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Josh had been hiding out in an abandoned pub in an unoccupied area of the city, mulling over Pitts’s words of warning to flee, when he showed up. The man was around his age, with a head of dark, shoulder-length hair that looked like it hadn’t been washed in months. His uniform was filthy, and the SNF sash draped over his shoulder was caked with dried blood. Other than that, he could’ve been any number of people Josh, Colin, and Bobby would converse with late on a Tuesday night, beer in hand, heads swimming with intoxication. The guy wandered in, stumbling, and made h
is way to the mostly-empty rows of liquor behind the bar. Josh slipped out of sight, by the entrance to the small kitchen, trying to keep his breathing silent. He held a thick length of pipe in his hand, his fingers clutching it so tight his knuckles turned white.
The guy started singing Sweet Home Alabama while he rummaged through the meager offerings the bar had to offer. Bottles clanked and liquid swished. He then grabbed a jug of cheap brandy, uncorked it, and chugged.
Josh thought of Kye, of Jessica and Mary and Emily and Yvette, of the children left behind at the hotel. All sorts of horrible situations entered his mind. Edginess made him shiver, and he cleared his thoughts. He had to protect them, to save them, even if the task seemed impossible. A mantra popped into his head, one Bobby, who always liked to play devil’s advocate, had said many times in the past. Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do, to hell with your beliefs, ‘cause they don’t mean shit when your ass is on the line.
They were words Josh finally took to heart.
He charged, pipe held above his head with two hands, emerging from the darkness of the kitchen with reckless abandon, knocking over a stool and whacking his thigh against the jukebox in the process. The stranger startled and wheeled around, the jug still pressed against his lips. His eyes widened when Josh crashed through the heap of cardboard boxes stacked in front of the bar. The stranger’s free hand lowered, much too slowly, until his fingers rested atop the grip of the pistol hanging from his hip.
He didn’t have a chance to use it.
Josh swung the pipe in a downward arc as hard as he could. The barrel connected with the stranger’s forehead, splitting it down the middle. The guy’s eyes rolled up in his head and a surprised yelp escaped his mouth. He then fell backward, Josh pressing against him, knocking over the small heap of liquor bottles in the process. The bottles smashed against the floor at the same time his body did.
His heart thumping out of control, Josh brought the pipe down again and again on the stranger’s face, crushing his nose, making jelly of his features. Blood fizzed on the guy’s lips until those, too, were demolished by Josh’s homicidal frenzy.
When it was over Josh stood there, panting, staring down at the bloody mess he left behind. Guilt climbed up in his throat, but he forced it back down. There would be no shame, not today, not when it was kill or be killed. A rush of euphoria filled him as he stripped the clothes off the corpse and put them on himself, as he strapped the gun belt around his waist. He felt strong, sinister, dangerous, ready to take on the world…old axioms be damned.
That led to a day of waiting, which eventually led to the here and now, on the outskirts of what Pitts had called the Meat Market, wandering through the rain amid an unruly mob, searching for his clan. He didn’t have a clue what he’d do when he found them, but at least the weapon bouncing against his hip gave him a little confidence. Sure, that confidence was false and he knew it, but it was better than nothing.
The spotlights circled the makeshift theater until falling upon yet another naked lady being led across the grass, heading for the raised platform in the center. She was rail-thin and old, with white hair plastered to her shoulders, and he recognized her immediately. Emily. He jostled his way to the front of the crowd, trying not to get shoved into the bleachers beside him, and stared at her. Her eyes were downcast, her hands clasped before her. The three men escorting her jabbed her with prods, thumped her on the rear with clubs. They laughed as her lips trembled. The wrinkles around her eyes were more prevalent in the harsh light of the spotlights, combining with the rain to make her look motherly, like she’d given birth to the Earth itself. Josh felt his heart drop in his chest. He turned away, even as that nasal voice came over the PA system once again, starting the bidding.
Josh peered in the direction from where Emily had come, and he spotted a large collapsible hut nestled between two of the bleachers. The canvas flap of a door swished aside, revealing, if only for a second, the multitude of exposed legs within. The curtain then dropped again, cutting off his view. Anger causing his body temperature to rise and his hands to shake, he forced his way back through the throng and ducked beneath the bleachers, where a few scattered drunks had passed out.
He emerged on the other side, the hut so close he could see the folds billow each time someone inside moved. It was really a large tent—at least thirty feet long—and was guarded by six very serious looking soldiers. They stood rock-still, automatic rifles clenched in their hands, staring straight ahead. Josh eased himself out from under the bleachers and walked calmly, trying to appear nonchalant and get his heartbeat under control at the same time.
“Yo, what’re you doing here?”
Josh lifted his eyes to see one of the guards staring at him. “Just taking a walk,” he replied.
The soldier chuckled, water dripping from his helmet, obstructing his face. “Sure. Right. Don’t walk here.”
“Why not?”
“No peeking at the merchandise.”
“Says who?”
“Says fucking Jackson, asshole. Now get lost.”
The soldier stepped forward, a menacing scowl on his face, and Josh threw up his hands. “Okay, okay,” he said, backing away. “I get it. No peeking.”
When Josh was far enough from the tent, the soldier seemed to relax and returned to his station. Josh lingered there for a few minutes, with a slightly obstructed view of the tent, long enough to hear Emily’s auction wind down. Another woman was then brought out, her dark hair in knots, her soulful brown eyes full of hatred. Josh grimaced as Jessica screeched at her handlers and smacked one of them. Her flailing arm was answered by a fist in the face, and his friend, the young woman who might have one day loved Colin, disappeared from sight. Josh imagined her writhing in the mud while her captors groped at her with ill-meaning hands. He felt like vomiting. Turning away, he followed the bleachers to the back, where he stood, silent, hands on his hips. Tears dripped down his cheeks, invisible in the rain. Grief began to wash away his rage.
I don’t know what to do, he thought. It’s hopeless.
Jessica and another five girls were auctioned off while he stood there, not moving. Others walked past but paid him no mind. Then a pair of headlights appeared in the distance, sweeping across the outskirts of the party. The automobile—a Hummer by the looks of it—turned a corner and parked outside a small building not even a football field away from where he stood, a place that looked like it had once been the park’s information center. The doors opened and five people stepped out.
When Josh saw their faces, his jaw dropped.
One was a shorter man, wearing gray fatigues, with hair going white. One was a man in the late stages of male-pattern baldness, whose jowls drooped in folds of loose flesh, as if he was slowly being eaten away from the inside out. Behind him stood a petite, auburn-haired woman, dressed elegantly but staring through vacant eyes, and a small, frightened child with bouncing curls atop her head.
But the one who demanded his attention, the one that made his eyes widen and rage to again grind his joints, was the last to emerge. She was helped out of the vehicle by the white-haired man, legs wobbly, red tresses sticking to her cheeks. Her eyes were closed, lips drawn out in a frown, cringing as if to simply take a step caused her the greatest pain in the world. The sight of her shrunken stomach quashed whatever relief Josh may have felt in seeing his love alive. He held his breath, waiting for those around her to dip back into the vehicle and bring out a tiny, swaddled package, but there was none. They simply closed the doors, turned around, and headed up the walkway. The white-haired man draped his arm around Kyra, who edged away from him. But the guy pulled her in close anyway, his hand slipping down, down, down, until it rested on the small of her back. She didn’t try to remove it
Josh wanted to scream. He wanted to rip the pistol from its holster and charge, just as he’d charged the unfortunate soul whose clothes he now wore. But common sense—and survival—won out.
Seeking out the shadows provided
by a nearby row of trees, Josh ignored the festivities behind him and moved quickly beneath the dark sky while rain pelted his face, soaking him to the bone. His feet sloshed in puddles and his fingers flexed. Again no one noticed him, almost as if his safety had been preordained.
Kyra, I’m coming, he thought, and willed his legs to move faster.
* * *
Cody was holding the crazy chick’s shoulders, trying to get her away from the front of the stage, when the walkie on his hip crackled. He ignored it at first, but then it hissed to life again. The general’s voice came over the line, sounding irritated and urgent. Cody let go of the bitch and lifted the device to his lips.
“What is it, sir?” he asked.
“Sergeant, I require your presence at the Ranger’s Lodge. Now.”
Cody’s eyes drifted up, looking between a pair of bleachers. Sure enough, the Humvee sat in front of the edifice that had once served as a place for park-goers to purchase a snack, buy cheap gifts for loved ones, complain to the groundskeeper, or go to the bathroom. He sighed and pressed the button on the radio.
“But sir, shouldn’t I be here to see over the festivities?”
“Let someone else handle it, Sergeant. There is something more important going on here.”
He almost replied with a stream of excuses, trying to beg out of whatever the general wanted him to do, but thought better of it. The guy’s tone sounded on edge, almost crazed. It was bad enough that he had to leave his little soirée right when things were starting to get interesting. The last thing he needed was a bullet in the brain to top it all off.
He wrapped his fingers around Marcy’s wrist and yanked her backward. She almost fell, spinning around just in time to brace herself. The mask went askew on her face and her breast popped out of the tattered negligee again, but this time Cody didn’t try to fix it. This was his opportunity to kill two birds—help the general and get the batty hot chick out of everyone’s sight at the same time. And besides, it wasn’t the worst thing in the world to glimpse that boob as it bounced up and down. It allowed him to think of how much fun he’d have with her after all this was done, which lessened the pain he felt at having to leave his own party.
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