Children of Ruin

by James Alfred McCann

  She walked up to me and took my hand. That thing passed through me when her fingers touched mine. That spark that tingled in my fingers and grew until it consumed my entire body. Without words, she pulled me toward the water. I pulled back, but not because I didn’t want to go with her.

  “I still have my clothes on. My machetes and armor.”

  She cocked her head slightly, and I noticed Connor mimic her. Oliver reached out to my chest and unhooked my straps. The machetes fell to the ground with a clang. She then unclasped my shoulder straps, removing my body armor. I started to feel uneasy, vulnerable to attack, but I couldn’t bring myself to stop her. When she was this close, even as she was pulling off my T-shirt, a shiver passed through me as though her touch returned a part of me that had been missing.

  Oliver turned my back to her by gently pushing my shoulders. Her fingers traced the scars that went from between my shoulder blades all the way to the small of my back. It didn’t tickle as it would have had she been my sister. She turned me back to face her.

  “You can decide if you want to get in the water with your pants or shorts.”

  I kicked off my pants and followed her into the river. As my feet submerged, a brown pool formed around them. Not from the riverbed, but from me. I stopped waist deep and just watched as the dirt washed away. Goose bumps riddled my flesh, and my muscles tensed from the cold water. It was weird.

  “It’s easier if you just jump right in,” Oliver said, as she waded in chest deep.

  I took her advice and dove in up to my shoulders. My chest tightened and my breathing got raspy. The water washed away the rest of the grime from my skin. A small amount got in my mouth. I splashed in the water to get closer to shore, but a pull carried me toward the center of the river. It wasn’t strong, but it was stronger than I was.

  “I’ve got you.” And Oliver was there, her arms under mine, and she was kicking at the water and drifting me back toward shore. Again, her touch on my skin was like a spark that zapped away the fear and worry that the water had given me.

  Oliver and I spent the rest of the day in the water, her teaching me a new skill while the three others destroyed the last grasp my stepfather had on me. For the first time, I felt surrounded by family. I understood what it meant to have a family. And no one would ever take that from me. Or so I wanted to believe.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kady’s screech caught my attention as I watched the surrounding forest from the roost. Oliver had thrown her over her shoulder, and because we had no mats, Kady landed hard on the grass. I thought about what it must have been like for Oliver when she was attacked by the men posing as telephone repair guys—back when we all figured the world still made sense. I was betting she could have fought her way out, if she’d had it in her mentally. Oliver kept pushing Kady so she collapsed to the ground on her back every time she tried to get back up.

  “Hey! That hurts!” Kady protested loudly.

  I couldn’t hear Oliver, but I knew she was telling Kady that she needed to be ready. To take any chance to win. Oliver and I thought a lot alike, and that’s how I would have trained Kady. My attention snapped back into focus when I heard footfalls on the stairs.

  “I need a welding tool,” Skinny said, without wasting time on any other kind of small talk. I was starting to respect him now that he asked for what he wanted rather than passive-aggressively hinting at what he would perhaps like me to get him.

  “Why?”

  “Because we can get this wind generator going with the bike gears you brought back, but I need to cut parts so they fit. And I need to anchor a car alternator to something.”

  I considered that for a moment as Kady grunted loudly and hoofed at the air. “Lots of cars to scavenge in town.”

  Skinny nodded and wrung his hands. He looked up at the pole he and Big Guy had hoisted up. He tapped it so that it rang. I stared down at the pile of rubble that had once been the shed. I could still see traces of cuffs and chains, and beating rods glinting in the sunlight. Connor sat beside me, his focus on Oliver as she trained Kady in self-defense. Oliver commanded her: “Strike harder!”; “Go for the crotch!”; “Poke the eyes!” It wasn’t the same as when I had snuck onto the roost to watch my stepfather train his sons. Or when I had crept from my house long before twilight to practice in secret.

  “You and Big Guy want to use some of the shed to make this turbine, don’t you?”

  Skinny didn’t answer straight away, and I knew I was in for more than just a light convo about crafting some new invention. I considered telling him to either speak his mind or get on with his day. But pushing him wasn’t going to make him stronger. If he was going to survive, he needed to get over his cowardice.

  “Could you not call him that?” His voice was raspy, and he paused to take a long puff of his asthma meds. The puffer didn’t make the pshhhh sound that it normally made. “And don’t call me Skinny no more, either. I have a name, and so does Tom. It really pisses us off when you call down to us like that.”

  I nodded. His outburst meant we had a better chance of surviving, that his desire to live outweighed his fear of getting killed. And after everything that had happened, I couldn’t doubt his sincerity in wanting to mend fences. “Sorry. I’ll call you Blake from now on.”

  “Y’know, I get that this world isn’t what it once was. I finally get it. Really. More now than I did before. But I’m not who I used to be, either.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Just as my words left my lips, I spotted an extended flatbed truck pulling into our driveway. A tarp covered the flatbed, hiding what could be anything—even people. I could barely make out two people in the cab, and neither appeared armed. Blake turned to where I was looking and went all wide eyed again. Short window of bravado. He still didn’t have it in him to deal with these intruders if they turned out to be violent.

  Tom ran between the house and truck and Oliver followed him. Kady rushed into the house. I aimed the rifle at the flatbed’s bumper—all I wanted was for it not to come closer. I pulled the trigger. A bang! Then sparks flew from the truck. I’d hit it dead on. The driver slammed on the brakes. Kady emerged onto the roost. After that, nothing happened. It must have been seconds, but it felt like minutes. Finally, the two strangers reached out the windows, their palms open.

  “We’ve come to trade!” the driver yelled.

  Oliver looked up at me, and I nodded to her. “Check how legit these guys are,” I called down. Behind me, Blake used his empty puffer, fear dripping from his every rasp. Kady, wide eyed, grabbed the rifle from me. I was hopeful these guys were for real, no doubt we all were, but if they weren’t, we’d have to react severely.

  Oliver stood near enough to talk with them, but didn’t speak loud enough for me to hear. A man and woman exited the vehicle and stood between Oliver and Tom, who was gripping the sledgehammer he had been using to drive posts into the ground. I wanted to know if the tarp covered supplies to trade or people hiding to fight? Just as the question formed in my head, Oliver pointed at the tarp.

  “You need to get down there,” Kady said, her shaking hands pointing the rifle at the truck.

  “Can you?” I asked her.

  She scrunched up her face and shrugged. Blake shook his head no.

  “Can you shoot these people if they try to take what isn’t theirs? They’ll kill us. They’ll kill you.”

  “I’ll try,” Kady said.

  Did she understand that her training with Oliver was about preparing to deal with invaders? Kady stared at me while I watched Oliver get nearer the truck. I turned away for a second when Blake slowly reached for another rifle. As he wrapped his fingers around it, he moved to Kady’s side. A big part of me didn’t believe they’d do it—but I had to trust them. I couldn’t be in two places at once, and I needed to be down below more than I needed to be a sniper up there. Blake rested the barrel on the railing, pointing the sight at the strangers. Kady did the same with her rifle. Both crouched on one knee and put their eyes to the
scopes.

  I told them, “Choose one person. The most visible, and concentrate on that one. If you’re indecisive about who to shoot, you will give them time to get cover. Hopefully, it won’t come to that.”

  I didn’t give Blake or Kady time to think about their answer. Without a choice, I turned and left the roost. If I’d been alone, maybe I would have just killed these strangers. Maybe I would have traded with them. Rushing through the house to get outside, I knew only that the scared boy who ran helpless from his stepbrothers no longer existed inside me. My colony made me better, I admitted to myself. As I left the house, I heard the tail end of what Oliver was saying. “. . . need a generator. That’s what would be useful.”

  The driver nodded his head. “No worries. We got just what you need.”

  What happened next was a blur. A man appeared from beneath the tarp, aiming a rifle. It flashed fire by the time I noticed the glint of steel. A scream. Two more shots. One splattered blood in the roost. The other sent Oliver flying to the ground. I froze as two of my colony got shot. The driver and passenger both reached into their jackets. The guy in the flatbed moved his rifle, but it got caught in the tarp. Tom rushed in first. Adrenaline or instinct—or fear—drove him to react where I had suddenly frozen.

  My eyes slowly moved to Oliver’s dead body. That’s when my adrenaline took over. As if in slow motion, the driver and passenger pulled out pistols. Tom smashed his entire body into the passenger, slamming her against the truck so hard the guy in the back collapsed with the crash. I ran, pulling my machetes free. A race against knife and pistol. Just as the driver brought his gun up, I lopped his hands clean off. He screamed and went down.

  Tom crouched over the woman he’d tackled, pulling his bloodstained hammer off her smashed head. Tom gritted his teeth, sputtering saliva freely from his mouth as he screamed. The shooter, the one who had killed two of my people, now cowered in the back of the truck.

  The driver stayed flat on his ass, staring at the stumps where his hands had once been. Blood spattered him in the face, and he moaned softly. I slapped Tom with the dull side of my machete to get his attention. I then gestured to the tarp, reminding him we were not finished.

  You are defined by moments, my stepfather’s voice reminded me. I had to agree. In every book I’d read, every comic I’d pored over, characters were weak until that one defining moment where the reality of the situation could no longer escape them. For Tom, the apocalypse had just become real. It changed from a twenty-four-seven parent-free party to the dangerous Darwinian competition of my upbringing.

  Tom moved faster than I’d ever seen him move. With a loud grunt, he grabbed the tarp and tore it from the truck bed. When it ripped, it echoed. I moved in when I saw the lone gunman swinging his rifle at my last fighter. Tom didn’t even take a pause as he reached out, grabbed the muzzle, and yanked so hard the guy stumbled forward and fell from the truck. The rifle blasted and dirt exploded between Tom and me. The shooter landed on the ground. A loud crack followed as he hit his shoulder. Tom hoisted him against the truck, pressing his forearm against the man’s neck.

  I didn’t see generators, or food, or clothes for trade. The flatbed was empty—all we had traded were lives—some of theirs for some of ours. I looked back over my shoulder at Oliver lying still on the ground. Some of Tom’s madness seeped into me. I pressed the tip of my machete against the man’s face.

  “Are there more of you?”

  “Yes,” he spat while gasping for breath. I did nothing to stop Big Guy from choking him.

  “Where?” I pressed my blade harder so that blood dripped from his cheek.

  “The One-Eyed Man is king!” the man said, and suddenly my chest felt as though it had caved in. I stumbled back, tripping over my own feet and falling butt first to the ground. Somewhere in my consciousness I heard the last gargles of the man as Tom choked him to death.

  “Stepfather, this does not make us even,” I said, as close to a whisper as my anger would allow.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Tom shouted, still not letting the shooter go.

  “He’s still alive!” Kady, now kneeling over Oliver, shouted from behind us. Blood covered Kady’s hands as she pressed down on Oliver’s shoulder.

  The blood splatter over Kady’s face told me Skinny was dead.

  Tom ran inside the house, and I ran to Oliver. Her chest rose with her fast, raspy breaths, but at least she was breathing. I kneeled beside her, edging Kady out of the way. I felt around and discovered a hole in the front of her shoulder and another out the back. The bullet had gone clean through, and blood ran from the wound.

  “Get the first aid kit,” I told Kady. “NOW!”

  Kady and Tom both ran for the house. I tore Oliver’s shirt off her shoulder. She had her back brace wrapped around her chest so she’d look like a boy. When I tried to remove it, she weakly grabbed my hands and shook her head for me to stop.

  “No one will know, I promise,” I whispered to her.

  She held my hands, and her grip weakened. She nodded, and tears started from her eyes. My tears fell too, landing on her cheek and running with hers down her muddied face. I couldn’t lose her. I just couldn’t lose her. Kady rushed back to me without Tom. I could hear him up in the roost, crying and shouting and banging the rails. I took the first aid kit from Kady.

  “Go back to Tom. He needs you more than I do.”

  Kady kissed Oliver’s forehead and ran back to the house.

  I had nothing to disinfect Oliver’s wound, but I had to sew the holes shut—front and back. Hopefully two holes meant no pieces of the bullet were left behind. I fished in the kit for silk thread and a needle. Ignoring the blood that poured out, and that there was no way to sanitize the needle, I pushed under her armpit to slow the bleeding and sewed her wounds. Then I finished with a bandage I made from Celox gauze and the remainder of our tape. This was not good. We needed penicillin in case she got an infection.

  “Did anyone die?” Oliver asked, between sobs.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. I may as well have just told her yes, because she knew me well enough to know that was what I meant. I gently squeezed Oliver’s hand, and she weakly squeezed mine back. She attempted a smile, but as her eyes opened more tears ran out.

  SIX FEET LONG, TWO feet wide, and eight feet deep. That’s how much I dug. Oliver and Kady were crying openly. Tears dripped unchecked down their cheeks, as they leaned heavily against one another. After I had climbed out from the hole, Big Guy threw Skinny inside it. Skinny was smart—he’d built our water filtration system and had figured out how to make a wind turbine. Who knows what else he would have been capable of achieving? Together, Big Guy and I started burying him. Big Guy breathed hard, but not one tear fell from his eyes.

  “Maybe someone should say something?” Oliver said softly. “Tom? You knew him best.”

  Big Guy shook his head no, his face contorting. He made a sputtering sound as tears rolled from his eyes and spit from his lips.

  “Okay, I’ll do it,” Oliver said. “Blake was a thinker. He was always trying to fix things, and build things, and to make our lives easier. When I first met him on the credit union roof, he attempted to seem tough. He wasn’t. He was a gentle kid not ready for the deaders—or for war.”

  “War?” Kady coughed out.

  Oliver’s eyes turned dark. She stopped crying. Though she stared intently at the grave, I could see that in her mind she was far off somewhere else. Oliver had changed.

  “Yeah, war. We need to start preparing for the inevitable: people like this will attack again. We can’t ever feel safe—not ever—or we’re as good as dead.”

  I would have rejoiced at hearing Oliver’s words when we first started scavenging together, but now they made me sad. The apocalypse was not a party. No time for games or joy. This was now the apocalypse I had been hoping for all along. And I regretted that it had come.

  “Oliver, I—”

  Oliver suddenly fell to he
r knees and retched. By her coughs and glossy eyes, I knew infection was setting into her wound faster than normal. And she knew it, too. Whatever the apocalypse had done to make the dead rise, now made the living get sick faster.

  “We need antibiotics, fast,” I said.

  “Sure. No, prob. I’ll just head down to the local pharmacy—”

  I shot Big Guy a glare that cut his words short. “I’m stating a FACT, not an OPINION.”

  “Oh my god, I’m going to die before you two figure this out,” Oliver mumbled as she opened her eyes again. She wrapped her arms around my neck and I lifted her.

  “Could you two get along long enough to help me?” she asked.

  I nodded. Big Guy nodded. For her, I’d do my best to try.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Over the next couple of days, our quiet homestead was far from peaceful. As I stood on the roof, I tried not to think of Oliver lying in bed unable to keep down whatever we fed her. A part of me wished we hadn’t killed those men. A part of me wished I still had the shed. All of me wished I could take those men into that shed to get information from them the way my stepfather had gotten information from me.

  “Hey,” Big Guy said as he came up the stairs, quiet-like, “I think I know where we can get penicillin.”

  “Penicillin or revenge?” I asked him. I knew he was thinking the same as what I’d been thinking ever since Oliver got sick.

  “Do they need to be exclusive of each other? You can’t tell me you don’t want a little revenge, too.” Tom paused, possibly to let me have a word if I wanted. “We tell Oliver and Kady we’re going to get rid of the rubble, and we ditch the truck. Who needs that reminder here? Then we go find this One-Eyed King and figure out how we can end him.”

  His words were powerful, but I questioned just how mentally ready he was for what he’d have to do. My stepfather was no amateur survivalist—he had trained in war and death. He knew how to psychologically break us, and to make us act or react without properly thinking things through. He expected us to retaliate.