The Girl Who's Made of Leaves: Post Apocalyptic Science Fiction

by H. R. Romero

  “I have her.”

  There’s nowhere to go. The avenues of escape have been closed. Rampaging, Wicked Briars, joined by smaller Hobbles are so close the smell of acidic puke dripping from chomping jaws is overpowering.

  Moments from death, they position themselves and wait for the pain of a terrible death. Rose buries her face into Dr. Valentine’s side. She too knows what’s coming.

  Shaw picks up the pole to fight but realizing it is hopeless and drops it with a flat-keyed clang to the rock-strewn ground.

  A truck screeches to a stop directly in front of them, cutting off the advancing enemy. It’s an old military ambulance with the name, Flying Fish, painted crudely on the side, in white paint. Gun slots perforate the exterior, and out of those ports, soldiers are shooting at the vile stampede, coming like a rushing wall of ugly.

  The back doors of the ambulance fly open and Major Connors tells Shaw and Valentine in no uncertain terms to get inside the ambulance fast, but to leave them, meaning Rose and Nettle. He is aiming his pistol at Nettle’s ringlet-covered head, daring her to take advantage of the situation.

  “Don’t say that. We have to take them. They’ll die here,” says Dr. Valentine.

  “These subjects are the only chance we have of winning the battle with the Turned,” says Shaw.

  Rose pulls on Dr. Valentine’s arm. “We have to save the others,” Rose is pointing back to the part of the hospital that’s still standing. She knows the other children are in still inside.

  Dr. Valentine looks back to the shattered building, and then down to Rose. The look in her eyes should be enough to tell Rose that they can’t help the others. “Hopefully, we can come back for them… later,” she says. Her words ringing false.

  “They’re just kids,” says Rose again, refusing to give in. Trying frantically to pull away from Dr. Valentine’s grip. “They’re just kids.” Tears flow down her face.

  The weapons firing from the Flying Fish’s portholes is increasing. A soldier from inside warns that the Wicked Briars are nearly on top of them. Connors allows Shaw and Valentine inside along with the monsters, wearing child-costumes, but only because there is no time left to banter it back and forth.

  “Get us out of here, Hollander!” Connors says to Hollander who is in the driver’s seat. “GO! GO! Floor it.”

  The Flying Fish bursts through a barricade at break-neck speed. The guard posted there is dead. The remainder of his mangled body is dispersed indiscriminately throughout the immediate area. Two trucks follow the Flying Fish, as it makes its escape through the North entrance, and speeds away from the fallen base. Many soldiers have left behind. They’ll either escape or be digested within the guts devils.

  They travel several miles, over rough road, before they’re no longer being chased by the invaders. Everyone has been so quiet since fleeing the base that it’s startling when the driver speaks out.

  “Where are we heading?” says Hollander.

  Connors hasn’t taken his eyes of the children, still holding his pistol to Nettle’s head. “Wrap her hands up in this stuff. The thin handkerchief and the dirty, frayed rag isn’t going to be enough. He hands Shaw some bandages and tape he gets from a med-bag on the floor.

  Dr. Valentine watches him intently as he ponders his next move carefully because his next decision could be the one that gets them all killed. She’s surprised to hear his decision. “Fort Worth.”

  “Why Fort Worth, Major?” she asks.

  “Because they contacted us right before we were attacked. They’ve got someone there that may be able to help with your research. I wasn’t going to tell you. We weren’t going to go. Too far. But now, it seems as good a place as any, since the base has been lost.”

  Dr. Valentine sits on a cot and leans against the panel. She watches the world pass by in a blur it’s become desolate a desolate battlefield, painted by the brush of a demented mad-mad, the colors taken from a palette of greys, and blacks, and reds. The mad painter has skillfully captured the spirit of what’s left of the world and has put it all down on a canvass of futility.

  Shaw places a final layer of gauze over Nettle’s hands and tapes it all down snug.

  Valentine’s not sure what disgusts her more; the destruction and loss she witnessed back at Camp Able, or the shit-eating grin on Shaw’s face.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Okay Sweetie, monsters are real, and they look like people…”

  -Mobeen Hakeem

  The laborious journey across Texas, from Brownsville to San Antonio, can be described as nothing short of agony. The roads have despised their company and given them great pains, and hateful jabs in the ribs, at every opportunity.

  Highway 77 isn’t too bad to travel on, but it isn’t good either. Abandoned automobiles litter the long silent stretch of road, some burned out, some still with corpses inside, decomposing in the sun.

  Three, rag-tag, vehicles managed to escape the ruin of Camp Able, but one; a big one that carried a lot of green men, broke down just outside of San Antonio, in a place called Southton.

  Rose heard the driver of the truck say what the problem was, and the problem was that it’s “flat busted.” They couldn’t fix it, and so they had to leave it sitting on Highway 37, to rust along the side of the road. So, all of it means, a lot of the green men are now on foot. This makes the convoy move much slower than Major Connors’s cares for, but as he says, “It is what it is.” The Major intends to acquire a new truck as soon as possible, but “first thing’s first,” says the major, “We need a safe place to call home for the night.”

  Rose has hardly moved at all, from her place beside Dr. Valentine. She stares out the window, next to her. Rose doesn’t think she’s ever seen so many dead people in one place, as there are here in San Antonio, but her amnesia hasn’t really gotten any better, so she really doesn’t know if she’s ever seen this many dead people, or not. Putrid bodies litter roadways and sidewalks, like fallen leaves, and dried corn husks. They’ve been laying there a long time.

  Rose’s legs ache from being cooped up in the Flying Fish, for so long. She wonders if she’s forgotten how to walk or talk, because she hasn’t been able to move around, and she’s had to remain so quiet for so long. Everyone is keeping as far away from Nettle as possible. The girl stays huddled in a tight ball and packed into a gloomy corner of the old military ambulance. She wraps her arms around her and rocks back and forth, jerkily, like a broken rocking horse.

  Nettle’s hands are still wrapped tightly in wads of field dressing, and at least an entire roll of tape covers each one. Everyone still moves carefully gingerly about the girl, frightened and respectful of her unique touch, which is strange because Nettle’s hands are wrapped up in so much bandage that she couldn’t touch anyone even if she wanted. She wonders if she’d be immune to Nettle’s touch in the same way she’d been unaffected by Ivy’s scream.

  Finally… the ambulance stops moving, and to Rose’s great relief the doors float open. Scorching, but welcome, air, tainted will the smell of old death fills the interior of the ambulance, and lingers about, awhile.

  Rose hops onto a cobblestone courtyard. Several of the green men move quickly to secure the area, including the inside of an old brown building, a centerpiece in the area. She’s unsure of the structure’s intended purpose, but no matter, she likes the look of it anyway. An old sign nearby says, “ALAMO.”

  For the first time in days, there’re no shots fired. No commotion and no excitement, but the green men remove nine human bodies from the Alamo. She overhears Connors saying that those nine people may have taken their own lives, and except for those two, he points at her and Nettle, there are no other signs of Turned.

  Except for the green men speaking amongst themselves, in hushed and worried voices, the first night in the Alamo is quiet, but the men believe there’s something stirring in the darkness of the old courtyard. Something slithering between the fabric which parts the shadow from the light, and at times in the early
morning, ghostly-sheer, shadows jostle along the crevices of the buildings dotting the area.

  The next morning comes, and everyone is exhausted because no one slept very well at all. The large front door is thrown open and the cool and golden crisp morning detracts from the feeling of imminent danger, following them like buzzards waiting for the death throes of a small animal.

  Connors calls for the men to gather around at the yaw of the entryway. He’s studying a large paper map and directing men to go out to different areas of the city. It’s a supply run. They need water, food, ammo, weapons, and anything else worth salvaging.

  Despite ever-growing unease, Connors decides to stay in San Antonio for another night so the green men can get some “quality sack-time.”

  Some take their turn on watch, while the others sleep. There is less chatter and more snoring than on the previous night. Even Rose can find a nice corner on the North side of the mission in which to curl up. But, before long, she’s startled awake by someone speaking in broken sentences, and she can taste the bitterness of fear building in the air.

  Sergeant Hollander who’s awake says something into the ear of one of the green man they call Private Little, not because it’s his name, but because he is very young and perhaps too small for his age. Private Little moves across the room and taps the, sleeping, major’s shoulder. Connors wakes on the first light tap.

  After a few traded words, Connors points to the front of the Alamo, where the big double doors hang, closed and barricaded from the inside. He’s giving orders and drawing an imaginary circle in the air with his finger. He is scanning the darkness of the building.

  The men are being wakened, one at a time. Others, already awake, place their hands over the mouths of the ones just waking, so they don’t make any noise. The major signals for them to keep down and remain quiet.

  Dr. Valentine positions herself so that she’s closer to Rose and Nettle.

  “What is it?” says Rose. She wants to touch Dr. Valentine, to gain comfort from the connection with the woman, but she knows the no contact rule has been reinstated and very much in effect, so as difficult as it is, she doesn’t touch her. She can smell the woman’s sweat, and it smells sweet in the cool darkness of the mission, but the smell of fear is drowning it out.

  “I’m not sure. I’ll find out, you and Nettle wait right here. Don’t move, okay?” Valentine dusts the grittiness of decades of dirt from her pants. The particles fall to the floor in a small shower.

  “What do you mean you think “It’s” inside? What is “It,” Private?” says Connors. He orders the men to their feet.

  They prepare themselves, making as little noise as they can manage. Impenetrable shadows cling to the walls and drape the corners of the building like cobwebs.

  A small fire in the stone ring does nothing to light up the veil of the deep black cover. Rose watches, her eyes peeled for motion, she sees nothing, at first. Then there’s a flutter of movement. The motion is followed by a shuffle of sound. “Major,” she says. “It’s something… some… things are watching us from over there.” She points into the chasm of shadows.

  “Weapons up, and fire only on my command,” Connors says, struggling to maintain a level of calm. He squints his eyes almost shut so he can see into the deep recesses of gloom. How many things? What are they doing? Can you tell how many there are?”

  “They’re waiting, just there, and watching us,” says Rose pulling her knees to her chest, hugging them tightly to her body. She buries her face in her knees to hide her eyes, fearing the inevitable.”

  “Why can’t we see them, Rose?” says Dr. Valentine.

  “Because they make you think you can’t, that’s why. They’re already inside your heads like Hawthorne got inside the green men’s heads before.”

  “Private Little, build up the fire,” says Connors.

  The private dutifully moves toward the smoldering stone ring as he’s been ordered. He bends down retrieving a broken chair back, in one shaking hand, while holding his pistol in the other. He slinks cautiously towards the ring which is some twenty feet from the relative safety of the group. He freezes, moving his head from side to side, slowly, snake-like. He drops the chair back, and it clatters dully to the floor. His hand searches wildly for his pistol. He panics. Hands flailing. He breath come faster, the depth is shallow, and turn into high-pitched gasps of terror.

  Hands the color of burnt charcoal reach outward and grasp Private Little by his gaunt face. He’s pulled away from the light. He screams for help. The green men shout for him. Men closest to him run to the place where he was last seen. The major stops them in their tracks, calling them back to their places.

  Private Little’s blood-gurgling screams fill the cavity of the sanctuary. Crying gasps for help echo from the rafters, and the thick walls of the Alamo, for a long time before fading away into nothingness. The soldiers plead with Connors to let them go in a rescue the private. Hollander stumbles forward, but Connors tackles him. He won’t have any of it.

  “Until I have a better idea as to what we’re dealing with here, no one moves, no one talks, and no one fires, in case Little isn’t already dead,” says the major. But no one acts like there’s much hope of Little still in there, looking back at them.

  The only sound in the Alamo is of heavy breathing. No one’s moving. Major Connors stands in place thinking for a few moments before surprising everyone. He dashes across the room closing the distance between the safety of the group and the shadowland where all the dark things dwell.

  Hollander scrambles futilely to grab the major, to hold him back from what could only be certain death, but Connors is too far away to stop, and already he’s reaching for the chair back, laying where Private Little dropped it on the cobblestones. He flings the chair, it lands, covering a feeble tongue of flame. The fire dies out entirely. Thin and cooling spirals of light-gray smoke rise in little coils toward the unseen ceiling above. There’s no time to stir the coals and get the fire going. He turns, without stopping, and runs as fast as his legs will carry him, back to where the group is waiting.

  Something’s moving again. This time it’s running alongside Connors. The major hasn’t noticed it’s stalking him, so Rose calls out to warn him. Hearing her, he veers away from the danger and safely returns to the group. The green men are a ball of raw nerve endings, but their driving needs to avenge Private Little overrides their terror.

  They wait, hoping against all hope, hemmed in at all sides by predators of other-worldly origin, hell-bent and determined to destroy them one and all, they wait. Rose wills the chair back to catch fire, but the flames were smothered. Only a small palmful of throbbing, marbled coals remain scattered in the center of a light blanket of ash.

  It’s not probable, but the shadows themselves seem to close slowly in, all around the group, from all sides, leaving just the narrowest margin of sickly orange light around them. A faltering halo from small flickering lanterns placed around the perimeter of the group is the last light any of them will likely see.

  The structure grows humid. Clammy skin drips with moisture, and the temperature plummets several degrees. Water vapor spouts from open mouths and flaring nostrils. Rose remains huddled in the corner with her head buried behind her knees.

  Dr. Valentine has returned to be at her side, an old six-shooter held tight in her trembling hand. “What are they, Rose, do you know what it is we’re dealing with here?”

  Rose doesn’t have a chance to reply, before Major Connors, overhearing Valentine, answers.

  “Doldrums.” They match the description of the reports from Laughlin Air Force Base, months earlier. “I’d heard about’em. Thought they were a myth. Truthfully, I’m not surprised to be running into another kind of the Turned. God only knows how many different types there are.”

  “Lots and lots,” says Rose, looking up to Dr. Valentine. “lots and lots.”

  Rumbles and scraping sounds, like claws dragging across the walls, come forth from somewhe
re in the shadows, mere heartbeats before the moment of the attack. And then it begins.

  Clawing hands from all sides, grab at the green men, tearing at them, pulling them from sight, man, after man, after man.

  “Open fire!” Connors says.

  Weapons fire is unleashed at will, in all directions. The flashes are blinding, the noise deafening. The mission is filled with visions of chaos, the sounds of battle, and the smell of fear, and of blood, and other unspeakable things. Human entrails are slung out from the dominion of the Doldrums.

  Rose, her hands clamped over her ears, can still hear Dr. Valentine’s blood-curdling screams. A shiny black hand has taken possession of her, by her leg. She’s firing into the darkness, sending bullets zipping into it, not caring enough to take aim.

  Rose takes Dr. Valentine by the arm and pulls with all the strength she has in her tiny body, utterly breaking the no contact rule, but under the circumstance, she thinks it’ll be alright to do so. She pulls at Dr. Valentine, the Doldrum has an unrelenting hold on its prize.

  Rose pulls harder, Dr. Valentine falls to the ground kicking her free leg against the dark hand and pushing backward with her free leg. Rose drags her backward, across the floor, and the thing slowly surfaces. The face of a Doldrum breaks into the light of the lanterns.

  Tar-black, plucked-goose skin covers the face of the Doldrum. Its large matte-yellow eyes are wide with the anticipation of drawing its prey back into the shadow. Long pointed ears and small sharp teeth, like those of a shark, make up the face of horror, gnashing at Dr. Valentine, but only catching mouthfuls of air with each chomp.

  Without warning, the chair back bursts into flames. The fire-light floods the room in a whoosh of gold, red, and orange flames. The Doldrum frees the doctor from its death-grip and crawls away, seething in anger at losing its meal.

  The margin of light grows from the pale orange to bright yellow and touches the thick walls of the Alamo. The fight to hold the majestic old structure has begun, for the second time in its majestic history. A dozen Doldrums clamor and try to hug the walls, seeking out any remnant of shadow they can.