The Undying Apathy Of Imogen Shroud

by White, Ben

  "ZACK!"

  No response. Imogen took a heavy breath as she changed direction, heading for her brother—great idea, she was thinking, send him ahead, over the cars must be safer than between them, he can outrun the zombies, I can't, he'll be safer on his own, yeah, that was the best idea I ever did have.

  "UGH!" The first walker's head cracked open with the force of Imogen's swing, and it scrabbled at the air as it fell forward. Imogen didn't step over it, instead turned and headed back, around the car, to attack the zombie on the other side—it didn't go down with the first strike, but as it turned to purr at her Imogen's bat slammed into its cheek and it fell hard against a car—one final strike drove its head into the glass where it stuck.

  Hm, Imogen thought, as once more she turned back to take another path—some of the zombies approaching from the main road were through to the second gap now, lurching faster through the clear space.

  "Zack!" Imogen called again, closer now to her brother—he was pushing himself back, away from the zombies, and as Imogen watched he slipped and fell back, out of her sight. She pushed her hand hard against the cars she was passing as she hopped forwards, her muscles aching and protesting—

  "Zack!"

  No reply, but she could see the zombies moving around the SUV he'd fallen from, heading towards its back, she was three cars away and even hopping like this she wouldn't be able to reach it before they got to him.

  "ZACK!"

  Again no answer, and one of the zombies was lurching forward to fall against the concrete, out of sight, but Imogen knew what it was doing, it was crawling towards her brother where he lay frozen, terrified beyond movement, curled into a ball just waiting for this nightmare to end—

  Pulling herself forward around the edge of a white van, Imogen could see through the cars, see through to where her brother—

  Wasn't.

  He wasn't there, there was nothing there, just the zombies, the walkers and the crawler—

  "IMOGEN!"

  He was by the door, by the open door, waiting like she'd told him too—Imogen gritted her teeth and turned, not making a sound as broken fingers clutched at her left ankle, another crawler hiding under a car.

  Imogen was not in the mood for this.

  Her eyes cold, she drove her bat down, crushing its arm against the ground. Its grip didn't relax, but with a hard sweep of the bat Imogen managed to get it to release her ankle. She would have loved to stomp down hard on the horrible thing's hand—its arm was all she could see of it—but with her bad foot this was too risky. She contented herself with another crushing blow of her bat, grinding its wrist hard against the concrete.

  Loud purring from behind, audible even over the car alarms, made Imogen realise the cost of her indulgence. She wasn't surrounded, the gap ahead leading to the wall was clear, but zombies came at her from every other direction, the closest almost within grasping distance. Chastising herself for losing focus Imogen pulled herself forward into a hopping limp, hobbling out towards the wall and reaching out, steadying herself once more—

  "Here—"

  Zack was there, beneath her, helping her along, she said nothing as they made their way towards the door, it was close but getting there seemed to take hours, the purring coming from behind and from ahead and from everywhere louder even than the piercing shrieks of the alarms, but then finally, finally it was there, and Imogen pushed Zack weakly in ahead of herself and limped after, turning to shove the door closed, relief washing through her as she heard a solid, beautiful 'click'—and even better, there was a lock, there was a sliding bar lock, mechanical and simple and perfect, and Imogen slid it firmly into place. The small but strong 'clack' as it settled into its groove was the single most wonderful sound Imogen had ever heard. Seconds later there came the first scratching against the outside of the door, and somehow even this was welcome; the zombies were out and they were in and that was all that mattered.

  Quiet came. The car alarms and the purring of the zombies scratching against the door were dulled and distant, the only noises from inside the room Imogen's wheezing and Zack's panting and a constant, gentle fizz.

  For the first time in an hour, Imogen allowed herself to relax. She shuffled forward, Zack still close at her side, to look at this new room. It was plain, the plain of a room that was strictly functional, a room that had no need for decoration. This was a room in which things were done. It was wide but shallow, just a few metres from the garage side to the far wall, but at least ten times that wide. Eight wide, solid workbenches had been set up, all of them covered in fans and heating units and air conditioners in various states of disrepair, as well as other, less identifiable mechanical and electrical items. Lighting came from long, flat chemical lights in the ceiling, the cheap kind that glowed rather than shone, tinting everything a moody yellow. There was a thin, sweet smell hanging in the air, mixing with something more familiar, the thick fug of oil.

  Imogen shoved Zack away and limped to the nearest workbench. She briefly considered the logistics involved in getting herself up to sit on it, then simply slumped down to the floor, her back against the bench, her bat thudding against the bare concrete beside her. Her eyes closed and her hands dropped, and like this she remained for exactly three seconds.

  That was when she felt the stickiness against her right hand. Her eyes came open and she stared down, feeling at her side, raising her hand to see the glistening red blood covering it, and then down past it at her jacket, and her top, and there were drops of it splattering her boots—

  "I'm dead," she whispered, unbelieving. I got scratched or bitten and now I'm dead, nothing I've done means anything because—

  Then she frowned, and she checked her other side—there were a few smears of blood on her jacket, and there were long scratches down it—

  Zack put his hands behind his back as Imogen looked up at him.

  "Zack. Show me your hands."

  He shook his head.

  "Zack."

  "I—"

  "SHOW ME YOUR GODDAMNED HANDS!"

  Reluctantly Zack did so, displaying the backs of his hands, still covered by the white leather gloves—but Imogen could see the blood dripping to the floor, could now see the trail behind him, and the glistening smears on his black pajamas—

  Zack cried out as Imogen's hand grasped around his wrist, pulling him towards her, where she still sat, and her eyes narrowed as she saw the thin line through the gloves, along his palm—

  "It doesn't even hurt—"

  "This isn't a scratch," Imogen murmured, looking closer at the cut—it was too straight and clean to have been caused by a zombie's claws. She looked up at her brother. "It's not a scratch, is it, Zack. Tell me it's not a scratch."

  "I ... I just wanted to help—"

  "How did you do this?" Imogen's voice was flat and dangerous. "What did you do, Zack?"

  Zack's eyes went down to the bag he still wore, and Imogen reached out to pull it towards her—she saw it immediately, atop the bars and bottled water, a wide shard of metal, painted white with a blue stripe through it. She pulled it out roughly, her mouth tight. It was heavy for its thinness, and holding it up to the glow of the chemical lights she saw that it was shaped vaguely like a love heart. Its edges were torn, the paint flaked away to expose gleaming white metal. One edge was smeared with red, another with the dark brown rot of zombie blood.

  "I ... I just picked it up, I thought ... I saw it, I saw it was, in the corridor up there, and then when that one grabbed you and you couldn't ... and it worked, it worked really well, it made it let you go, it cut real good! But ... it cut my hand, too."

  For a moment longer Imogen stared at the scrap of painted metal, then she let out an angry breath and threw it to the ground, grabbing Zack to pull herself up off the floor.

  "Ow, hey—"

  "Over here," she muttered, dragging him to the other wall—there was a narrow bench there, which she pulled him up onto, and on the wall not too far away there was the squat
blue shape of a medical kit, which Imogen wrenched open so roughly that its contents cascaded out over the bench. She caught one small red and blue plastic bottle as it fell, then swept another, larger bottle up from the bench along with a wad of bandages.

  "Glove off."

  Zack tried to obey his sister, hurriedly working to undo the thick straps—Imogen clucked her tongue and put down the bottle, ripping at the straps and tugging the glove from her brother's hand. It was covered in blood, the cut was shallow but long and it had been bleeding since before they'd come into the garage—

  "You didn't say anything," Imogen said, as she poured antiseptic over his hand, using some of the bandages to clean the blood—Zack hissed and yelped and whimpered but tolerated his sister's actions. She leant down to meet his gaze. "You didn't say anything, before—"

  "It didn't hurt! It didn't until you—ow!"

  Imogen was using more of the bandages to pat her brother's hand dry. "Stop complaining. Are you dizzy? Do you feel sick?"

  Zack hesitated, then shook his head. Imogen clucked her tongue again, then shook the spray bandage bottle. "Hand up. No, palm facing me, idiot."

  "OWWWW!"

  If Imogen hadn't been holding Zack's wrist in a crushing grip, he would've jerked his hand away. She emptied a quarter of the bottle onto his hand, then met his gaze again.

  "Sit here. Do NOT move. Do NOT touch your hand. Don't do ANYTHING until it's dry. Understand?"

  Zack nodded mutely, sullen and sulking. Imogen reached into the bag at his side.

  "Eat this," she said, thunking an energy bar down beside him. "Drink this," she said, slamming a water bottle beside the bar. "And DON'T MOVE."

  "How can I—"

  Zack shut up as Imogen shot him a final icy glare, then picked up the bar with his non-injured hand.

  "I—"

  Without looking Imogen snatched the bar from his hand, tore it open with her teeth, then slapped it back against his palm. The water bottle's seal she broke by whacking it against the edge of the bench.

  "If you move that hand an inch I'm throwing you to the zombies."

  With horribly perfect timing there was a thudding at the door that made Zack jump, and a low, barely audible purring. He stared at his sister, then at the door, then down at his trembling, injured hand, then at the energy bar in his other hand, then back at Imogen.

  "I can't eat through—"

  Imogen's fingernails left white scratches against Zack's neck as she wrenched at the strap, and he gasped as she yanked the helmet off his head.

  "Anything else?" she snapped. He shook his head hurriedly, then his face suddenly became pinched—with a deep, shuddering breath he controlled himself, but he was trembling and sniffing as he took the first bite of his energy bar.

  Imogen turned away from her whimpering brother, her gaze falling on her baseball bat, lying on the floor where she'd dropped it, and on the shard of metal Zack had cut himself on, lying on the floor where she'd thrown it.

  "What the hell is that thing, anyway? Why'd you pick that up?"

  Zack took a shaky breath before replying: "I t-told you, I already s-said—"

  "Don't flex your fingers. Just keep your hand still."

  Zack was sniffling now, his voice shaking as he spoke. "I'm trying. I'm sorry. I just forgot. It's almost dry—"

  "Don't poke it!"

  With another shuddering breath Zack nodded, his eyes wet. The scratching and thudding at the door continued, and Imogen stared at it, almost enjoying the way it shook inwards.

  "D-d-d-do you think Mum and Grandpa—"

  "Shut up, Zack."

  "But I can't stop thinking about—"

  "Just shut up, Zack."

  "What if—"

  "Zack, shut UP."

  His sniffling was worse now, his breathing choked and ragged, the energy bar lying on the bench beside him, just one bite taken from it, now forgotten.

  "I-Imogen?"

  Imogen was looking away from her brother, her mouth tight, her hands clenched.

  "Imogen, do, do, do you think, do you think maybe Dad—"

  Zack shrank back as Imogen glared straight at him, her eyes deeply cold. His lower lip shook and tears were already flowing down his cheeks, he was trying with everything he had to keep control but it was clear it was a losing battle, and once it starts, Imogen thought, irritated, it's not going to stop—

  Imogen looked away from her brother and tugged her battered pack of smokes from her pocket, her gaze falling on the heart-shaped bit of metal. She pulled a cigarette out with her mouth, got her lighter to catch on the eighth try, and inhaled a long, thoughtful lungful of smoke. Beside her Zack continued to sniffle, a half-sob coming every few breaths. Imogen held the smoke inside as long as she could, her eyes still fixed on the white and blue shard, then she let it out in a long, thin plume.

  The smoke cleared. Her gaze remained.

  "Imogen?" Zack's voice wasn't quite as shaky now. "What—"

  Imogen cut her brother off by moving away from the bench, limping towards the bit of metal. She carefully bent down and even more carefully picked up the jagged shard, holding it between thumb and forefinger. She looked over at her bat, still lying where she'd let it fall.

  Zack's hands still trembled and his breathing was no less ragged than before, but he blinked away tears to stare at his sister, watching her limp to her baseball bat and bend to pick it up, in his eyes a brightness that had moments before been lost. He watched as Imogen limped to the nearest bench, winced as she swept her bat along it to send the broken air conditioners and heating units crashing to the floor, then frowned as she dropped both bat and shard onto the now-clear surface.

  "What are you doing?"

  Imogen didn't reply. There was a vice at the workbench's edge; she was unwinding it. Once wide enough she picked up her bat and shoved it in, blunt end up, then retightened the vice.

  There was silence for half a minute after that, aside from the crashing thuds from outside and the purring of the zombies, Zack watching with wide, dry eyes as Imogen limped around the workshop. Finally she returned to her bat, a thin hacksaw in her hand. Several minutes of grunting, cursing labour later, Imogen had managed to make a straight cut into the end of her bat, two inches deep. She regarded this for a moment before coughing, the smouldering stub of her cigarette falling from her mouth, and she continued to cough as she ground it into the concrete floor, steadying herself against the bench, and she coughed again as she took another from the pack. Two final, hard coughs later Imogen placed the new cigarette against her lips, leaving it unlit as once more she walked away from her bench—she wasn't searching this time, though. Her target was firmly in sight.

  Zack's breathing was shallow now, his expression one of fascinated awe, not even aware that the spray bandage had dried as he watched his sister lug a bulky piece of equipment across the room.

  Imogen dropped the bulky thing on her workbench, the metal shard jumping at the impact. A long black cord extended from one end, parts of it covered with grubby white tape, and she bent down to plug this into a floor socket. While she was down there she picked up a stout pair of pliers, one of the things she'd swept off the bench, and after straightening she used these to pick up the metal shard and force it into the cut she'd already made. The fit was tight but with some effort she got it in, the flat edge of the shard level with the bottom of the slit.

  Imogen let out a breath around her cigarette, then tossed the pliers aside.

  Adjusting the bat within the vice was simple; she loosened it, levered the bat around on its side, the shard sticking from its end flat with the workbench, then screwed in the vice, even tighter than before.

  Another breath, through her nose this time, in and out, then Imogen lifted the bulky bit of equipment, flicked a switch at its side, and placed the end of it flat against the wood of her bat, above where the shard lay in its slot.

  Imogen tensed, then pulled the bolt thrower's trigger. There was a loud 'THUNK' followed b
y a sharp 'ping!', and Imogen looked past the bat at the floor below, to where a wire-thin bolt was now half-buried in the concrete. She raised her eyebrows then checked the bolt thrower, finding a kind of frame that could be positioned in front of the barrel. Getting this to fit around the bat was fiddly and awkward, but the next time Imogen pulled the bolt thrower's trigger the 'THUNK' was followed by nothing but smug self-satisfaction. Three THUNKs and a little more smugness later, there was another heavy thud as the bolt thrower was dropped to the workbench, then the click-click-click of a lighter and the barely-there sound of a cigarette tip catching.

  Long inhalation; long exhalation.

  The vice's catch was spun. The weapon was taken up. A cursory inspection was performed, several experimental swings were swung.

  The way it swished through the air was gratifying.

  Swinging it with the shard held flat caused a little drag—not a lot, but enough to be noticeable.

  "You are the most awesome person in the world. How did you even THINK of MAKING that?"

  Imogen glanced back at her brother, who was gazing at her with open adoration, then down at her bat.

  "You HAVE to give that a name, something amazing."

  Imogen was still looking down at her weapon.

  "Hope," she said, quietly.

  "Ugh, NO! That sounds SO wussy, no way, how about Dead Meat Killer? Or SlicerDicer—no, SlicerThumper! Or .. or, um, or Home Run Slugger, or Whack-A-Zombie, or BatSlice! BatSlice, how about that? Or just ... or just Zombie Killer—you CAN'T just call it 'Hope', that's SO girly—"

  "Fine then."

  There was the softest of thuds as Imogen let the bat fall against her shoulder. Its weight was comforting.

  "HopeKiller."

  "Hmmmm ... well, I guess that's better than just Hope but I still think Dead Meat Killer is way cooler—"

  "You can put that bandage on now."

  Zack looked at his hand. "Oh. But—"

  "Come on." Imogen put HopeKiller down on the bench, then picked up the roll of bandages.

  "That's too much!"