Five O'Clock Shadow: A Standalone Dark Romance (Snow and Ash)

by Heather Knight

  Charlie hasn’t been around in two days, there are no shoes to be had, and my stomach has forgotten what food is. What am I going to do? The logical thing in a civilized world would be to ask for help, but there’s no one left who’s civilized.

  To comfort myself I close my eyes and hug my chest, but it’s hours before I can sleep. When I do, I dream about a hard-bodied man taking me up against him. He kisses me, not just my lips but everywhere. It’s difficult to imagine things I know nothing about, to tell the truth. They taught us the mechanics of what happens between a man and a woman in school, and Mom went over it too, but I’ve never even been kissed. Kind of difficult to go on a date when you’re not sure if you’re the dinner. Whatever my soldier is doing to me in my dream, it feels good, and when I wake up, I’m wet between my legs and I ache. How perverted is that?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Jackson

  “Look. A coffee shop. Think I can get a mocha latte?” Private Kellison steps over a pile of bricks and picks up an old cup cover, then flicks it into the empty window.

  I grunt. I stuck Holub and Jacobs on a different team two weeks ago, and so far the new guys don’t irritate me. “While you’re in there, grab me a sandwich. Ham and swiss on rye.”

  Kellison adjusts his helmet and takes in the surroundings. “This place is depressing as hell.”

  I nod. “Looks like it took a good bit of the shelling.”

  Today we hunt in Wilmore. It’s far from any of the places I’ve seen my dancer. I planned it this way. I’m not getting anything near what I wanted to accomplish career-wise, and it’s because she’s constantly on my mind. I plan every patrol by where I think I might see her. This isn’t how you get a promotion. I’ve been told better opportunities are opening now that they’re reclaiming Charlotte and Atlanta, and if I prove myself here, I could be considered for one of those. Stagnating like this is for losers. I should have been working on my PhD by now, damn it, and I’ve got to focus on myself, on my plans.

  Querly picks up a femur. “Breast or thigh?”

  Pig. “Show some respect. See these?” I indicate slash marks. “Those were made by knives. Someone carved this guy up, and not too long ago either. Shut up and pay attention.”

  Corporal Querly tosses the bone and scowls.

  Is that a girl’s bone or a guy’s? I never got past my freshman year in college, and I don’t know enough about human anatomy to identify gender. Not from a thigh bone anyway. Thinking about my dancer getting killed by these freaks makes my head feel like it’ll explode.

  She isn’t my first obsession, but this time it’s far worse. I’ve always known there was something wrong with me. I obsessed about simpler things when I was a kid, but the second I hit puberty, it was sex and girls. Not any girl; I’d fixate on one and track her every movement, learn everything there was to know about her, and I’d fantasize about all the terrible things I’d do to her once I got her. Of course, sometimes this proved disastrous, like the time my ex-girlfriend got a restraining order. I was still in high school then so it didn’t remain on my permanent record, but the girl in college...Well.

  In the past I tried psychoanalyzing myself. I used to think maybe I was so obsessive because of some event in my past, but there came a point where I realized it all boiled down to brain chemistry. It’s kind of interesting, to tell the truth. Being so fucked up myself, human behavior and mental health fascinate me. I guess that’s why I wanted to study cognitive neuroscience: to understand the monster in me. Perhaps even to perfect it; falling into an obsession gives me the highest of highs, and when you add sex into the equation, I can’t even describe the feeling. I wouldn’t change a thing about myself.

  This is my first chance in six years to get at an unprotected girl, and Christ, I’ve got a woody the size of a baseball bat.

  I keep a map of every sighting of my dancer; I’ve tracked the times, the duration, what she’s doing. I’ve filled an entire wall of drawings of her dancing, climbing over rubble, that perfect moment when her tits are outlined through her clothes. I’ve drawn her eyes, her hands; I’ve even got one where she’s kneeling in front of me, looking up at me with those gorgeous eyes as she sucks my cock. God. A glance at any one of those pictures and I have to jerk off.

  It’s ridiculous. I’m not going to fuck a cannibal. Following her around is just plain stupid.

  I peer past an old vending machine, and at first I see nothing. Then a figure pops out from one corner and darts across the street. Another follows.

  I raise my fist. Kellison and Querly halt, and I point.

  Kellison nods.

  I raise my rifle, but I can’t get a clear shot.

  I turn to Kellison, and out of the corner of my eye I catch movement. For half a second my instincts take over and I regrip my rifle. Then I see the high ponytail, the slender, graceful body, and I realize it’s her. Shit. She’s not being careful enough, even though she seems to look everywhere. Her eyes are always moving. It’s what they train you to do in war—always be on the lookout, look for your exits, look for places where you can be targeted. She’s no amateur. But we’re standing here, practically in her line of vision.

  Damn it.

  I point to the north, where the two other figures ran. “You two, follow him,” I say, keeping my voice low. “I’ll climb up into one of the buildings and see if I can get a shot from there.”

  Querly nods, Kellison adjusts his helmet, and the two are off.

  She’s headed right for me. Adrenaline shoots through my veins, making me feel high. I crouch down. I listen for the men, but I also listen for her. Where is she headed? As I peer around the machine again, I see her disappear into a half-crumbled building. Pieces of the wall have fallen, and I catch glimpses as she climbs the side stairs. She stops at the fifth floor, tugs on the door, and it opens. She holds it, controlling the speed of the closure, and when it finally shuts, silence settles like dust.

  What’s up there? Is she just scavenging, or is that where she lives? It’s a shitty choice, if you ask me. After maybe five more minutes the door reopens, and when she emerges into the street, her eyes are haunted. She peers around again, then sets out toward the southwest.

  Usually her body language screams a mixture of determination and grace. This time, with her hunched shoulders and downcast eyes, she seems defeated. What’s wrong? Is something—or someone—missing?

  My spine urges my feet to move, to follow her. My dick agrees, but my men will wonder where I’ve gone. It will not look good at all to abandon my post, especially when we have scraps in sight.

  Once she’s safely gone and I’m sure she hasn’t gone in the direction of the soldiers or the scraps, I rise and head for the building. Maybe if I can figure out what’s so fascinating up there, it’ll help me understand her better. Not that it’ll do me any good, but it’s safer than showing my hand to the guys. To them, me being up there will only seem like I’m doing exactly what I said I’d do.

  The fifth floor has five offices—or doors, anyway—on each side of the hall. There isn’t much to see in any of them, really. Broken chairs, computer monitors, files. Paintings too. What is art in the apocalypse? The fifth office on the right, the one that’s in the rear corner of the building—part of the wall is down and the ceiling too. Frozen remains of a middle-aged woman peek out among the rubble. Whoever it is has been dead a long time; the skin is waxy and sunken. Someone has taken rags and paper and twisted them somehow into a flower. It rests beside the woman’s head, as do four sets of folded paper.

  My hands shake as I stoop and grab the top one. My stomach clenches as I find small, neatly printed words on college-ruled paper. It even has the ragged tabs on the left, showing it’s been torn from a notebook. Her notebook.

  There are no more clocks, so I don’t know time. There aren’t any calendars, so I don’t know dates. There aren’t any seasons, so I don’t even know how much time has passed. I only know how much I miss you. I used to dream about you and Matthew every n
ight, but you haven’t come to me in a long time. I wonder sometimes if you’ve forgotten me, or if it’s so much better where you are that returning even for a dream is painful. I will never forget either of you, or Dad either. I’ll never stop loving you, or missing you, ever.

  I came to tell you that as soon as I find something to wear on my feet, I’m leaving Charlotte. Soldiers have come. I don’t know who they are, but they’re shooting everyone they see. Not just the cannibals, but us survivors too. They don’t seem to care that we’re untainted. Why they’re here is as big a mystery as when I came back from Greensboro and found that all the bodies were gone from the towers. There were hundreds of thousands of bodies, Momma. There aren’t enough cannibals in the world to eat that many people, not that they would. Something evil happened here, and now it’s come back. I’m going to try to take Charlie with me, and I’m going to leave a map for that Japanese lady so she can find my plants. It’s what you would do. Dad used to tell me no one could be trusted and I had to take care of myself, and you always told me to give back. This way, I’m doing both.

  Greensboro is full of the tainted, so I’ll try Ashville and see if this time they’ll let me in. It’s a real city with a real army, and none of them are taints. Last time I was only thirteen and pretty much useless, so maybe now that I’m almost grown they’ll give me a chance. If not, maybe I’ll finally go to sleep, and then when I dream, you’ll come for me. There really isn’t much left here, Momma. Only Charlie, and I worry all the time that someone will take him from me.

  Love you forever,

  ALW

  What does ALW stand for? God, it’s killing me. Amy? Alexandra? Amanda? I’ve got to know.

  And she’s leaving. Shit. No wonder she so careless today. She’s probably upset, knowing this will be the last time she’ll see her mother. There’s a rope hitched to my guts pulling me along behind her. Somehow I know if the pull becomes too strong, it’ll leave a hole inside me that I know I’ll never be able to fill. I should let her go, but I won’t. She’s mine. I hate myself for it, but it’s the truth.

  Stuffing the letters into my pocket, I fist my rifle and charge downstairs to find the others.

  And who the fuck is Charlie?

  CHAPTER SIX

  Amelia

  I’m luckier than most. I found a survival book several years ago, and among other things I learned that trick about making batteries and hooking them up to LEDs. I don’t have much of a garden, but with stealing from the soldiers lately, I’m probably eating better than most.

  I get up this morning and find I have three ripe squash. Three! I could eat all three in one sitting.

  But then I think of Mom, and I feel bad not giving back. I’m no martyr, but three squash for one person is a little selfish. They’re not all that big, of course, growing under my puny LED light, but I set the largest and the smallest aside and take up the middle-sized one. I’m going to leave one for that Japanese lady I’ve seen down by the fusion restaurant in Dilworth.

  I don’t know her name. I don’t know anyone’s name. When survivors sight each other, we either cautiously acknowledge the other from a distance and move on, or we bolt in the opposite direction. You can’t trust anyone. But this one lady, she always looks so lost, like she’s alone on a deserted island full of alien beings. Before the divorce, Dad had to go to Japan for a research project, so I lived there in fourth and fifth grade. Some people can’t tell the difference in those who come from different parts of Asia, but when you’ve lived with people for a couple years, you know who they are.

  I wrap the squash in a clean cloth. I hesitate, and then I add a piece of cheese. I almost snatch it back, but in the end I shove the bundle into my pack and set out. It’s snowing, which means my tracks will be covered, but it also means my feet will get wet. My plastic bags have all split, and I don’t have any more.

  The restaurant is only a mile or so away. The actual distance is just a guess. I call it a mile because in my mind, it’s far enough that it takes a bit to get there, but not so far it makes me tired. I set out and do my usual duck-and-scuttle maneuvers. Mindful how many soldiers there are round these days, I watch extra carefully.

  I set the bundle in the restaurant doorway. Tucked underneath is a note telling her I’m leaving Charlotte soon and to watch out for snipers. It’s in Japanese. I’m thinking not many people will be able to read it—maybe not even her. I need to connect with someone, though. Anyone. Ever since my soldier showed up, it’s hit me how alone I am. Isolation is a necessary part of our lives, I know, but sometimes I feel like I’m going to spend the next twenty years in the basement of my church, never seeing or talking to anyone, and when I think that way, I squeeze Charlie a little too roughly.

  The food delivered, I turn back. The snow’s really coming down, and soon my threadbare jeans are soaked up to the knees. I’m just approaching a turn when I freeze. Snipers, two of them, approach from the left. I dart into a garage and flatten myself against the wall.

  Of course, then I think of my soldier. What’s his name? All I know about him is that he has dark hair, his beard grows fast, he’s kind of tall, and he’s got broad shoulders. That, and there’s a streak of humanity in him. The hair rises on the back of my neck, and I sweep the area for signs of movement. I halfway expect to find him watching me.

  The men turn up my road, and I go still. This is not a good hiding place; they’ll pass me any second. Is there enough shadow for me to blend in?

  I don’t let go of my breath until I’m dizzy enough to faint and I can no longer hear the crunch of their footsteps. For good measure, I count to three hundred before I dare leave the garage. All sensation of having connected with the Japanese lady is gone. Anyone could find that food. For all I know, my Japanese lady could already be dead.

  Two blocks onward I pick up on another set of footsteps, and I duck down behind an abandoned pickup truck. The crunch of boots against snow grows louder, and I peer past the hood of the vehicle and spot a young person, twelvish, heading straight for me. He’s alone, and my shoulders relax. The boy looks harmless enough, but I’m not taking any chances. He stoops down, scoops up a handful of snow, and makes a snowball. He fires it through an empty window frame, then raises his hands in the classic score move.

  It’s something Matthew would have done.

  How far away are the soldiers? A half mile? A mile? Will they double back or will they keep going? I need to mind my own business. The kid probably has someone nearby taking good care of him.

  I suck in my lips and give them a good bite. He’s heading right for the snipers.

  I jerk around, but the soldiers are still out of sight. I swing back, and the boy is almost on me.

  Crap! I can’t let strangers know where I am. I can’t even let them know I exist, but he’s just a kid. No one gave me a break when I was his age and life was a constant near-death experience.

  Squeezing my toes, I fish around in the snow until I find something small enough for me to throw but large enough to be noticed. I finally find a shattered piece of concrete.

  Inhale. Exhale. Before I can change my mind, I get to my feet and toss the block right in front of the boy.

  He flashes me a round-eyed look, his body poised for flight.

  I bite my lips again. I point toward where I last saw the soldiers. I make like I’m firing a rifle, and I point back down the road again. Then I point at him and sweep my hands in a “get away” motion.

  I’ve done my duty. Before he can do so much as blink, I’m off at a full-on run. I think I’ve made my point clear, and I don’t need his gratitude or his friendship. I definitely don’t need his daddy’s knife in my throat.

  I hurry down a side street for several blocks, then make a few more false turns until I’m sure he’s not following me. I don’t see him anywhere, yet I can’t get rid of that “I’m being watched” feeling.

  An icicle falls off a gutter, sending a shock of pure terror through my scalp. I’m tired. So tired. Ever
y day is an unending cycle of watching for threats, rooting around for food, and running away. My skin is raw, and my nerves are like frayed twine. A clump of old bushes serves to hide me as I catch my breath.

  Back in my hidey-hole, I sit by the sorry-looking LED lights and dig out one of my tablets. My hands shake, even though it’s plenty warm enough in here. I outline what happened and how utterly alone I feel. I write about how paranoid I’m getting. It helps me, writing it all out like that. Then I draw a line indicating the end to the entry, and I start a story. I do that sometimes. It gives me a different world to live in, even if it’s only for a little while. This time it’s about a mousy Japanese girl named Masako who lives in a small house with tatami floors. Masako doesn’t talk much, and her older sister picks on her. She dreams of being a famous painter. Her sister, Tami, tells her she’s stupid. Art feeds the soul but leaves the belly empty. So Masako gives up art lessons and takes up martial arts. She gets really strong and kicks Tami’s ass, which gets back the Emperor, who sends her off to be trained as one of his guards. She’s the most graceful warrior they’ve ever seen. Many years later, she’s commander of the Emperor’s guard, and Tami ends up working at a fish market.

  Like most nights when I’m not reliving my mother’s death, I dream of my soldier. In this one I’m on my knees, and he makes me take the barrel of his gun into my mouth. I wake up before he can pull the trigger.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Jackson

  I followed her yesterday until she got to the church. She slipped inside, and I waited a full hour for her to come back out but she didn’t.

  Today I’m free. We get one day off a week. Usually I kick back with some guys and drink, but today I stand outside her church and wait for her. It’s cold and the wind blows, and ice forms on my eyebrows, but my patience pays off when I spot her climbing out of that slender opening. I wait until she’s good and gone before I move in. The opening is small, almost too small, but I manage to squeeze myself through. After switching on my helmet light, I move about the building, my handgun loaded and ready. The whole place is nothing but a wreck. When something hisses, I swing around to find a black-and-white cat disappearing into a debris pile. I follow it and discover another opening and—score!—this one leads to stairs.