Safety (One Eighteen: Migration Book 1)

by Christopher Wiig

  A lot of blood.

  From the top of the stairs I could see the trail loop into the kitchen. He was going back to his spider hole. To his nest. But the Goblin wasn't alive anymore.

  I couldn't tell you how I knew he was a Dead Thing now, but I knew. I could sense his presence. Thomas could too, and he bristled and hissed. Something was giving him away, and we weren't fooled.

  I knelt down next to Thomas and shushed him. The J-Frame was in my pocket, empty and useless until I could get my pack. (From now on, I keep shells in my coat. Just in case.)

  I held my knife tightly, and paused transfixed for a moment when I realized it already had blood on it. At first I thought it may have been from the Goblin, but it was old and I'd shot the Goblin.

  Valentine's blood.

  I hadn't cleaned it. I was about to wipe the knife clean on my coat when I heard the moan from the basement.

  The Goblin; or a Dead Thing that used to be the Goblin.

  Thomas hissed.

  "Be quiet!" I whispered to Thomas, "Be a good boy and I'll take you home with me. I could use a good boy like you around the shop."

  I tried to comfort the angry cat, petting him gently and scratching his ears. It might just go away if we were quiet.

  But when the Goblin moaned again, and the cat mewed angrily. It burst out of the kitchen, the Goblin-corpse. It was walking upright now, and covered in blood.

  There was an ugly hole in the center of it's chest where I'd shot it. Curiously, it moved more like a man in death than it had in life. He as a Dead Thing was more human that the Goblin had been. Almost a man.

  But it wasn't a man; it was a corpse and it was coming for me.

  I snatched up Thomas and ran for the bedroom as the Dead Thing thundered up the stairs. It heard us, but it hadn't looked up, so it hadn't seen us.

  I hoped.

  I vaulted the bed, and in a moment of pure horror realized that I'd dropped the knife to pick up the cat. We hid in the canyon between the bed and the wall, Thomas and I.

  Unarmed.

  I clutched Thomas tightly to my chest, covering him with my coat. I was barely breathing as the corpse came into the room. It followed to the last sound, then stopped. It couldn't see or hear us anymore, and I closed my eyes tightly and hoped it would move on. I prayed Thomas would stay quiet.

  He didn't.

  When the Dead Thing came closer, Thomas' fur started to bristle and a long, growling hiss bubbled up from his soft little throat.

  "Be quiet," I silently begged. "Be a good kitty. Damn it Thomas, don't make me do it."

  I stroked the cat with my fingers gently, willing him to be quiet. The Goblin moved closer and the cat started to vibrate with rage. The hiss was coming and when it did the thing would find us.

  I was unarmed. My arm was useless, my legs still sluggish from the night. If it found us, I knew I couldn't fight it. Not from a corner, not in this condition. The cat started to hiss and the thing turned quickly, listening... hunting.

  "No, Thomas. Don't make me do it. Please don't make me do it," I thought as my hands slipped around his soft, furry neck. The Goblin-corpse moaned softly, hunting.

  "Be a good boy, Tommy. I'll take you home, get you good food. Christ, I'll get it from Sarah if I have to. Just be a good boy and be quiet."

  I felt his pulse in his neck. His breathing. He'd come so God damned far and I didn't want to do it.

  He was a survivor, just like me.

  But he hissed, and I tightened my grip around his neck, cutting off Thomas' air. I felt the corpse climb onto the bed, stalking closer as poor Thomas thrashed and jerked in my arms. I watched the Dead Thing in silhouette on the wall, it's shadow growing larger as I squeezed the poor cat's neck..

  I wanted to just break Thomas' neck, but I was afraid the sound might give us away. I didn't want him to suffer, but- but I had no choice. I heard the creak of the bed-springs as the corpse of the Goblin moved closer, looking for us.

  Thomas passed with a soft groan. He stopped struggling in my hands. The Dead Thing stopped, and for the next few seconds I watched it's shadow as I stroked poor dead Thomas' soft fur. It was crouched on the bed, it's head moving to the left and right like a radar.

  Listening.

  Then somewhere off in the distance, a dog barked, and the thing shrieked. It vaulted from the bed.

  Then there was a crash as it burst through the window, hitting the ground somewhere below with a wet crunch. I stood, giving into my curiosity enough to look out the window. I watched the Goblin sadly, broken further, staggering off towards the sound of the dog.

  I said a silent prayer for Thomas' sacrifice, and then I rose to my feet and stepped on the cats' skull until I felt it collapse, shivering at the coldness of it. I owed him at least that. I don't want to be wandering around after I die.

  I crept to back to the window and watched the Goblin, dead and broken, shambling off into the distance. A two story fall just to get a meal. I was alive, but shaken. I'm still shaken.

  If that dog had barked ten minutes earlier, Thomas would still be alive. It's not fair. I know it's stupid to get so worked up over one dead cat, but he came so damn far and it was only meeting me that ruined things for him.

  How many Dead Things had he outrun. How many near misses? How many times did he find food when food was all but gone. He was surviving until he met me. Now he's dead.

  I feel like a God damned curse.

  I'm in no shape, physically or emotionally, to return to Greenly tonight. Maybe they'll notice, maybe not. I'll deal with the consequences.

  I buried Thomas, and the foot of the girl together. The nest is destroyed. The part of the Goblin that was alive and conscious of it's suffering is gone. The meat, somewhere else.

  Maybe it's best that I killed Thomas, and the Goblin... well, the human part of him. Maybe they're happier somewhere with Sadie.

  I hope they're all at peace together now, somewhere far, far away from all this.

  Jonas Waight

  Orphan among the orphans

  Chapter 9:

  Welcome Back Sucker

  “Living it up at the Hotel California.”

  What a nice surprise.

  Bring your alibis.”

  The Eagles, Hotel California

  [Personal Notes:]

  Haven't had much luck finding information from survivors, and ninety percent of that has to do with shoddy record keeping.

  I'd been under the impression that we were working on some sort of central file system to organize information on citizens, but this is sadly not the case. There are about a dozen soldiers who take turns manning the causeway checkpoint and none of them are exactly file clerks.

  There's no system in place, so it's informational anarchy. One man takes name, original city of residence, occupation and social security number on loose leaf notebook paper. Another just takes names. Some don't even do that, they just give everyone a handshake and send them over to the housing office.

  The "records" are all thrown into a large plastic storage tote. Just one tote, for all records, all months, all residents, to be filed "whenever." Thousands of names in unreadable handwriting, undated.

  If that weren't enough, apparently it's been dumped on the floor multiple times to find things, so I can't even be sure the newest records are at the top. Worse than a needle in a haystack. A grain of sand on the beach. And that's just the tip of the iceberg.

  There's no system of identification anymore, so everyone is simply who they say they are. It's like college all over again, with thousands of freshman experimenting with new identities. Names like "Dante", "Phoenix", and "Ash" pepper the records, along with quite a few names that are simply verbs.

  I can understand the need to find new identity in a society that's undergone a fundamental shift in priorities, but as a researcher it's tiresome and frustrating. I'm looking for Jonas and for all I know he could be anyone.

  For now, I'm considering the causeway records to be a complete dea
d end. Tomorrow I'll look into housing, but I expect to find much of the same.

  Days like this make me realize how dependent on computers I'd become before the change. I'd grown so used to sitting in a comfortable chair digging through databases and searching the internet for threads to follow. Being hunched over a pile of random paper is new for me.

  Research has become a full contact sport.

  February 22nd, 2009

  I've been heading west all day, ever since leaving Greenly. I've got no real way to know for sure, but I think I'm about five miles away from my destination. I'm holed up in a gas station for the night.

  You could not ask for a day to go more wrong than today has. And let's all remember it's ME saying that.

  I left Em's place last night, late, so I could sneak back into Greenly before the town was awake. It was warm, maybe just above freezing. The snow was softening, so I made the trip back in about half the time. The thaw's definitely starting, and it's starting early.

  As I was sneaking up to the east tower, I noticed something peculiar, half buried in the snow. I was worried about getting caught, but it was early and dark. Besides, if I'd been spotted they'd have likely already shot me, so I felt safe having a peek.

  It took a fair amount of digging to clear the snow from what turned out to be a large orange cooler (the kind you drag to cookouts filled with expensive ice and cheap beer.) Two days ago it would have been invisible, buried in the snow next to the frame of the tower, but the half-thaw had exposed the top.

  I was expecting to find the Deputies stash, maybe liquor and some porn magazines. But I didn't. What I found surprised me.

  Half of the cooler's contents were plastic soda bottles filled with gasoline. Two-liters filled with fuel.

  The other half was a treasure trove of luxuries (or what counts as a luxury now.) Shampoo, bath salts, magazines... chocolate.

  Lots of chocolate.

  It had to be for Sarah, with the exception of the gasoline, none of it was what you'd consider essential supplies. Nothing that a survivor would need, everything that a selfish little girl could want. Except for the medicine.

  Lots of medicine.

  Antibiotics, over-the-counter pain relievers, allergy meds... fucking diet pills. I snatched the bottle of antibiotics, swallowing three and pocketing the rest. My arm ached, but I could almost still move my fingers. Maybe it was soon enough. A fighting chance in a bottle.

  I read prescription names quickly, frantically searching for pain killers. I... I may have taken a few of Ems pills on the return trip. All they did was make me drowsy.

  Antacids, Mydol, chewable vitamins with cartoon characters on them... I almost wanted to scream. All of this medicine and not a single fucking painkiller save for the Mydol. I kept digging, growing more and more frustrated.

  Nothing that could dull the pain that was creeping it's way back into my body. But... it was more than just the pain now. The pain was manageable.

  I needed to quiet was the itch.

  The pain killers weren't a necessity. I just wanted them. The little witch was making me an addict, knowing she was the only dealer in town. It's not a stupid plan. And it's not failing.

  It's sad to admit that I was happier when I found the two bottles of prescription cough syrup than I'd been when I'd found out the world was alive.

  Codeine.

  I took two doses from the bottle, then decided that Sarah could live with a cough for a few days. I snatched both of them.

  Fuck her, I needed them more than she did.

  I left the rest of the cache intact for now, but I reserved the right to raid it in the future on principle. It was when I was pocketing the second bottle of syrup that I noticed something startling.

  The bottles Sarah had given me had their labels removed, and I'd been so hurt or stoned I never gave that much thought. They'd had labels, but I hadn't given much thought to what those labels might have said.

  But here, under the patient's name in big block letters, right at the end of the address, were four unexpected words.

  "Paradise Falls, South Dakota."

  Someone was bringing Sarah her treats... and they were getting them from Paradise Falls. Food, fuel, supplies, medicine. Fucking chocolate. All coming from a town that was supposed to be a death trap.

  Who was bringing it to her?

  Not the Deputies, they'd have no reason not to bring their loot right in the front gate. And no one else in town was allowed to leave. I'd have noticed.

  Paradise Falls would be at least a two day round trip on foot, maybe three. Twenty miles in the snow through the shambling dead just to give a spoiled little witch her presents?

  No one in their right mind would do that. But there were plenty of people out of their right mind in the world now, just like Sarah. More to figure out when I got off the painkillers and could wrap my mind around things.

  If I get off them.

  Sneaking into town was easier than sneaking out. We'd piled snow against the wall all winter and the thaw turned the top wet and soft. I didn't even need to bother with rope. The outside towers were well over the razor wire, so I just sort of cannon balled into the snow and then dug my way out with my good arm.

  It was almost... fun. Childish fun, but fun none the less. I'd misbehaved and gotten away with it.

  I'd won.

  (Ha.)

  I was soaking wet when I knocked on Em's door, but I was happy. I'd done my dry run through the real world and I had no doubt we could get to Galveston. If one professor could do it on foot, then a group could easily make it with some preparation and a few cars. Hypothesis proved.

  Emmett answered the door half-asleep and a fourth drunk, dressed in a ratty old bathrobe.

  "Jonas? Wha? Where have you been?" He asked, but I tossed him the meds and just said "You're welcome."

  I needed downtime more than I needed company.

  I wasn't going to get it. Robert Valentine and John Hawkins were sitting on plastic lawn furniture outside my store when I got home, smoking cigarettes.

  Waiting for me.

  They saw me at the same time I saw them; avoiding them wasn't an option. So I played it cool. Hawkins was a decent kid as far as Deputies go. He wasn't one of the kids who beat me, anyway (I don't think.) I wasn't worried about being gunned down in the street.

  They both went for their rifles when they saw me, Valentine aiming the rifle at my head, Hawkins just shouldering his. I raised my hands and calmly strolled up to them.

  "Yes, I admit it, I left town," I said. "Just tell me what it's going to cost me so I can get some sleep."

  "Jonas Waight, you're under arrest. You are accused of the murder of Anthony Valentine while illegally leaving town," Robert Valentine said.

  I was speechless.

  Just for a second, in the haze of the cough syrup and Lyrica and all the rest of it, I lost connection with reality. My mind fractured under the strain and drifted.

  "You are accused of hoarding," Robert said.

  Had I murdered Anthony while leaving town?

  "You are accused of keeping and maintaining illegal electronics."

  No... no during the fight.

  "You have the right to refuse to remain silent."

  I cut him. Did I cut him that deep?

  "You have the right to an arbitration by the sheriff in a public setting."

  The blood. I never cleaned the knife.

  "You have the right to choose an Advocate to speak on your behalf."

  No, I stabbed him during the fight... were they- they were setting me up.

  "Do you understand your rights?" Robert Valentine asked.

  The little bastards were setting me up.

  "Jonas Waight, do you understand your rights?"

  They were saying I killed him when I left town. Jesus when you put it all together like that... the story might wash. People might believe it.

  "Jonas, do you understand your rights?" Robert shouted.

  “Yes.”

>   My mind slowly caught up with the situation, and when it did I was already cuffed, and being led through town towards the sheriffs office.

  The town was waking up, and people were watching. Some outside, some in their homes, but they were watching. It was beyond humiliating. I expected Horace to be crowing when I arrived.

  He finally had me.

  But I was surprised to see him looking skeptical and almost... upset at my predicament. He frisked me and took my gun and knife, but nothing else. I winced a little as he took the knife out of the sheath, still stained with blood.

  Valentine's blood.

  Valentine's body was laying face up on the floor, half-covered with a bed-sheet. He didn't look peaceful. Someone had shot him in the temple to keep him from turning. A frame-up is no good if your evidence walks over to the judge and takes a bite out of him, I suppose.

  "I didn't do it.” I said, angry. “I didn't even go out of the gate front gate, or any gate for that matter. I went over the wall. And I wasn't alone," I told him and Robert Valentine grimaced. He clearly hadn't counted on a witness.

  "Sergeant Franks was there. I did cut Anthony, but it was during a fight, and it was about five on one,” I said. “Some of your boys tuned me up pretty badly. I know the Deputies won't admit to it, but Franks can at least verify that if Valentine got cut, it wasn't last night. I know he'll do that."

  Horace sat in a chair facing me and appraised me, fat and baffled. I didn't know what to think. He was confused, even... nice.

  I'd been sure that if he wasn't involved in the frame up, he'd more than happily go along with it just to solve his “Jonas problem.” But he looked like he wasn't buying it. Any of it. Even Robert Valentine looked uncomfortable, unable to meet the big man's eyes. Hawkins just looked confused.

  "Well if that's the case, it seems like we can resolve this without any trouble," Horace said, pushing to his feet. "Hawkins, you can go for now. Valentine, go find Franks. If he can corroborate your story, we'll go from there.”