Running and fighting with Mom and Jonathan, Mom and I strategizing gas runs, food runs, stockpiling weapons, a united front against a Ben who came home less and less, and reeked of smoke and alcohol every time, called something out of me. Something I thought had been lost forever.
I wasn’t believing in bells and angels and golden streets again, but I sent up prayers without thinking about it, almost as an insurance, just in case there was someone up there who I wanted on my side.
Please don’t let there be Jackals at this place.
Please don’t let them see us.
Please keep Jonathan safe. Keep Mom from breaking down.
Please let me live.
My faith was fragile, but it was there, slowly, coming back to me and filling me with a lightness that belied the increasing desperation of our situation, the food that was slowly running out, the gangs of Jackals that Ben had made friends with, led by a boy with a greasy ponytail and eyes that looked like pits of tar.
And then Jonathan had gotten bitten, and I’d watched blood pour out of his blackening eyes and felt his blood splatter on my face, all over my body, and I’d had to pull the trigger as my Mom finally fell apart, and I was running to Ben, and on the way I could feel that lightness falling into dust, more ruined than before, with no hope of rebuilding.
And when Ben smacked me across the face, leaving me bleeding on the ground with Turk’s gaze practically freezing me there, I was so afraid, I knew that praying was a waste of energy, and nothing was coming to help me, and if there was any God it was me, because I was all that was left to rely on and to save.
I knew, with the taste of blood and dirt in my mouth, that eventually I would fall and crumble, too, and end in the dirt like my family, and we would rot away for eternity, never ascending to a golden dream of gates and wings and “Well done, Good and Faithful.”
That night, as I was washing in the river, rinsing her blood off my hands and mine off my face, lying in Ben’s tent and listening to the screams of the first girl outside, screaming for help, covering my ears and closing my eyes and eventually falling asleep, because I was too afraid and selfish and desperate to live to help—I knew I was beyond salvation, anyway.
So now I’m striding toward the church, stomping across the asphalt, the tendons standing out in my arms, because I am so angry that I can’t see anything but red, and the sound of their singing grates across my skin, and fuck if I’m going to die without giving my murderers a piece of my mind, tell them exactly what I think of their great God who sits in the stars and doesn’t raise an eyebrow while His world burns.
If I’m going to Hell, I’m taking as many of them as I can with me, because He doesn’t deserve me, he doesn’t deserve any of us, who have done so much and been through so much without him, he doesn’t deserve loyalty or love. He is the dictator whose followers keep a shrine of Him in their house while they pretend not to smell the bodies in the streets, and I’ve had enough.
I get to the wide front doors and fling them open, but no one is in the foyer. No one is even standing guard; they’re all just singing pathetically like dying baby birds, begging for the predators to come and put them out of their misery. I’m about to burst into the room when there’s a crash, and a girl tumbles in through the side entrance.
***
She looks around wildly for a second, then relaxes, her eyes roving quickly over the paintings, the wooden tables, passing once over me without a reaction. She strides purposefully to a tack next to the door, where a collection of old iron crosses hangs, and she places one around her neck, lifting her frizzy curls out of the way with a hand. She looks for a second at her reflection from the window leading into the room, rubbing a thumb on the smudge of red on her jaw, adjusting her purple tank top so that maximum cleavage is covered, pulling on a leg of her black skinny jeans, leaning down to rub at a scuff mark on her black boots.
I’m so bewildered by her entrance, the nervousness that faded to cavalier confidence, that I’ve forgotten my mission of righteous vengeance, frozen in place, trying desperately not to draw attention to myself. This girl has the impression of being someone you don’t mess with.
“Hey, you! Bitch!” She must be talking to me, since she’s turned toward me, but I don’t respond. I don’t know whether to laugh or punch her in the face.
“Did you seriously just ignore me?”
“I— “I beckon over my shoulder, hoping to lose her in the congregation.
She holds up a hand, and suddenly her voice is smooth, educated. “You live in a post-zombie apocalyptic world, and you’re still concerning yourself with the term ‘bitch’ to the point that you consider ‘bitch’ an insult that doesn’t apply to you?”
“Well, I— “
She makes a cutting movement with her hand. “Shut up, Bitch, I’m talking. Now, the sexism inherent in the term, and feminism’s drive to embrace that term notwithstanding, the fact that you think that every derogatory moniker in the book does not apply to you, given the amount of truly bitchy things you must have had to do in order to even be alive at this point, means that you’re either more insane than the rest of us or you’ve been holed up in a bunker this whole time. So which is it, Bitch?”
My hands start to shake again, and I take a step toward her menacingly, but she just laughs, teeth gleaming in a flash of reflected sunlight like a vampire.
“You don’t wanna attack me. I’m trying to help you. You are a bad, zombie-killing Bitch. Embrace it. Accept it. Go light some shit on fire or something.”
And I’m even angrier, at this girl who’s looking at me like I’m a puppy showing its teeth. I pull out my knife as I walk closer, hoping to scare her into some respect, but she just raises an eyebrow and pulls a tiny switchblade out of her bra, which she unfolds until it’s almost the length of a machete, wicked and sharp.
“You really don’t wanna do that.” She says, no longer smiling now, even though a hint of amusement lingers in the quirk of her brow. “You are not going to enjoy what comes next if you do.”
I don’t know what might have happened, if I could have fought her, because it is at that exact moment that someone from the party of idiots inside sees us.
It’s an older woman, maybe in her seventies, hair sticking out in all directions. She’s wearing a Sunday dress and a big, floppy Southern hat, like this is any typical worship service, like she isn’t ringing a dinner bell by being here and singing, no doubt drawing in every zombie within ten miles.
She smiles at us. “That’s no way to act in a house of the Lord.”
Immediately, as though a switch has been turned on, the girl bows her curly head, flipping her blade closed and putting her hands behind her back. She gives a shy smile, “I’m so sorry, ma’am. My friend here just got a little freaked. We’ll be right there.”
The woman looks at me with a sympathetic, suffocating smile, one that takes me back to air conditioned pews and red wine and the pats on the shoulder of dozens of people as I tried my hardest not to let the tears fall down my face, feeling like each touch was crushing me deeper into the Earth, like I was on the verge of being buried with him, suffocated by the layers of dirt and the closed door of the coffin.
I have to bite my lip not to scream at her, to maintain that level of politeness and tenuous submission that endeared me to the people I hated for years and years. She’s turning away now, going back into the church. As soon as her back is turned, the girl tugs on my hand. “Come on, we’re going to be late to the party.”
“Party?”
“Yeah, Bitch. The zombie-killing celebration.” She drags me to the side, where a flight of stairs leads.
I immediately hesitate. If I’ve learned anything in the last few months, it’s that the absolute worst place you can go is upstairs, especially when the loud shrieking of the masses is on the verge of drawing them all down on us.
“I don’t think this is a good idea.” I start.
“Why?” she tips her head to the side. “
I promise this isn’t where I kill you. I’m not one of those psycho types, no matter what my boyfriend says.” She grins.
I can’t help but smile with her. She’s one of those people whose humor is infectious, who makes you feel like you’re part of a secret joke when you talk to her.
She grins wider at my tentative smile, “See how much better that is? You know, my ma always said that if you frown too much, your face will get stuck that way. And wouldn’t that be a tragedy.”
“But how are we going to leave before they get here?”
“Who?”
“The zombies!”
The girl smiles with all her teeth; her canines are sharper than normal, pointed like a wolf’s. “Who said anything about running away?”
I am beginning to think that this girl might be insane.
I start to back away, but she just rolls her eyes and tugs on me harder. “Trust me,” she says, and her amber eyes hold a hardness that is oddly reassuring, a confidence in herself that makes her insanity endearing instead of alarming.
I follow her to the roof.
I Want to Die with You
The roof of the church has a pointed steeple with a cross at the top, and it slants down into a platform, like the battlements of a castle.
A couple dozen people lean over the edges, all dressed like the girl, in jeans and boots, some with bandanas tied around their heads to keep the sweat out of their faces.
They all look around mine and the girl’s age, except for a few who can’t be older than twelve or thirteen, and a couple who looks about thirty. Everyone else looks to be in their late teens to early twenties. Kids, stretching and chatting and laughing, polishing knives and sharpening bows and arrows. One or two even stand next to a barrel of what looks like grenades.
And every single one of them cheers as soon as the girl rounds the corner. They let out this loud, welcoming yell, and I can see her soaking it up, reveling in it, and she’s two inches taller, more muscular than she seemed before. She waves, a celebrity to paparazzi, but I can see her scanning the crowd, as though she’s looking for one specific person.
My guess is confirmed when someone detaches from a group near the back and rushes toward her. I can’t see more than a blur of black and white-blonde hair. In moments, he gets to her, kissing her so fiercely that she’s yanked off her feet. As soon as their lips meet, the cheers get even louder, like they’re the climax of a play, the scene everyone’s been waiting for.
When they finally break apart, the girl turns to me, hands still linked with the boy. She beckons me forward, into the ring that surrounds her and the boy, the admirers of their show.
I get stage fright. I want nothing more than to sprint back down the stairs, but my legs are already moving, and suddenly I’m standing next to her, facing them all.
“Who’s that?”
“Where’d she come from?”
“She with the Jackals?”
“She come from down there?”
“Malia, not this again.”
“Enough,” the girl shouts, and even though she can’t be loud enough to be heard over the din, the entire rooftop shushes as soon as she starts talking. The boy next to her stares at her, holding her hand, like he can’t believe he’s the one who gets to be next to her.
“This, my friends, is—wait, what’s your name?” she stage-whispers.
“Rose” I try to say it as quickly as possible, uncomfortable with so many eyes on me.
“WHAT?” someone yells, and giggles break the silence.
It takes a moment for everyone to calm down, and while they’re chattering, she says, “I’m Malia, by the way. Not that it matters.” Next to her, the boy’s head is cocked to the side, green eyes wide, one hand absently flipping a butterfly knife open and closed.
She leans in closer, so he doesn’t hear, “You don’t have to be her.” She flicks her eyes below, and I know what she means, like she saw into my head and saw the memories of the name called through the forest, pleaded with in the dark of night, the name that always came at the end of a demand, not a request, the name of the girl who never fought, the girl who ran.
Malia is the kind of name people shout from rooftops. The kind of name that turns heads, that comes at the end of a fist and the whoosh of curled hair and strength that commands an army. And I want so badly not to be Rose, not to be the girl who runs, that the name comes rushing out of me before I can stop it.
“ROGUE!” I scream.
“ROGUE” Malia and the boy laugh, crushing me in a hug.
In moments, I’m surrounded by a mass of sweaty bodies, hugging and shouting. I’m terrified; I feel like I’m suffocating, they all smell like sweat and dirt and blood, and there are so many of them.
“WHAT’S GOING ON?!??”
At first, I feel suffocated, but as Malia’s arms tighten around me, something in my chest, something that had been wound up tightly and twisted inextricably, loosens.
It is as though a weight has been sitting inside me, a weight that had settled after I pulled the trigger on my mom, a weight that had become so common in all the months since then that I didn’t even notice it anymore. And only now, with these dirty, badass looking people, was that weight lifting, and I feel the way I did when I ran for fun instead of away, when it was just me and the early morning stars and I felt exhilarated and safe all at once. If I close my eyes and concentrate on the lightness in my chest and the arms around me, I can almost pretend I’m back there.
“Okay, y’all, let her breathe.” A voice next to my ear shouts, and they back away.
I turn to see Malia’s boyfriend, grinning at me in an almost shy way, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Sorry about that. They get a little carried away sometimes.”
I swallow, trying not to let the emotion that had come bursting through with the hug show on my face. “It’s cool,” I say casually.
“I’m Mason.” He dips his head with that same slightly apologetic smile. I can tell why Malia likes him.
“What exactly is this?” I gesture to the group around me, who have moved back to their original tasks, checking their weapons, pulling grenades from their belts, looking over the edge of the church. A couple of the younger ones dance in a circle, melodramatic interpretative moves to the singing that’s still going on below.
Mason shrugged. “It’s kind of hard to explain.”
That’s a terrible answer, and I’m about to tell him so when Malia steps up grabs my hand again.
“Come on, Rogue,” she catches her tongue between her teeth. “We need to get you a front row seat.”
But what are we doing here?”
“I’ll explain in a second. Hang on.”
She lets go of me and turns completely toward Mason, who is already pulling her in for another kiss, murmuring under his breath. I step back to give them a little privacy, but I can still hear a few snatches of conversation, something about “points” and “tongue” and “no, that’s not what we agreed on” followed by more kissing, and I’m trying not to let my discomfort show on my face, but as I’m attempting to avert my gaze, a boy in a dirt-stained, red Avengers shirt strolls by, polishing the barrel of a gun with a dirty rag.
He must sense my discomfort, because he looks at me and frowns, then turns to where my gaze is still fixed. He sighs.
“Nauseating, aren’t they?” he says. He elongates his words, lazily drawing me in, like he has all the time in the world to talk.
His hands, by contrast, move quickly, polishing the gun, stuffing the rag in the back pocket of his jeans, inspecting the safety before holstering it on the vest he’s wearing over his shirt, then turning his entire body toward me with his arms crossed.
“It’s not that bad,” I’m still trying to look away, away from him, because his eyes are doing something that’s throwing me off balance, and I’m getting short of breath.
He snorts. “Oh please. You don’t have to be nice. Really, they can take it. Watch.” He pulls a bo
uncy ball out of his jeans pocket and launches it at them, who are now making out as though there isn’t an entire crowd of people present.
The ball hits Mason in the face, and he breaks away from Malia with a sickening sucking noise. “Hey Perce, what the fuck?”
“LEAVE ROOM FOR JESUS. WE ARE IN A CHURCH. AND YOU’RE SCARING THE VIRGIN.”
Mason just rolls his eyes and turns back to Malia, but instead of picking up where they left off, he puts his head close to hers and starts talking rapidly. She has a half smile on her face as she says something back, and somehow I feel I’m intruding on their moment more than I was when I was watching them make out a second ago.
Perce turns back to me with a triumphant grin. “See? Problem solved.”
“Hey, how do you know I’m a virgin?” I say, hoping to the blush I feel coming on is less noticeable beneath the layers of grime covering my face.
“You mean, besides the obvious blushing?
Perce looks me up and down, slowly. I hadn’t really noticed before, but he’s incredibly good looking. He’s lean, like a musician, with dark eyes and hair, and he has a devil-may-care recklessness about him.
He bites his lip and looks down at me through long lashes, and I’m in trouble. He leans close, like he’s telling me a secret. “I kind of have a sixth sense for virgins,” he whispers, “But if you want me to fix that, let me know.”
My mouth drops open. I don’t know whether I should kiss him or punch him in the face, and while I’m standing there, frozen, he drifts away, and Malia takes his place, looking windblown, her hair sticking up even more where Mason has run his hands through it.
“I see you’ve met Perseus.” She says, careful to enunciate his name perfectly, in a slightly mocking tone that tells me he doesn’t let just anyone call him that.
“Uh. Yeah” I stammer.
“He’s a little…”
“Forward?”
Malia laughs. “I was gonna say ‘slutty,’ but sure. Don’t worry; he’s like that with everyone.”
Call Me Zombie: Volume I: Rose Page 3