Razor Girl

by Marianne Mancusi

  “Yup. Can see that.” The man stepped forward, evidently unconcerned. Chase could now see his wild black hair and scruffy beard. He was dressed in a pair of jean cutoffs and wearing a T-shirt that claimed pirates were way cooler than ninjas. The shirt also listed reasons why.

  “I said, don’t move!” Chase was beginning to wonder if coming to Paradise had been a bad idea.

  “Oh, fine. Have it your way,” the man said, shrugging his shoulders. “Y’all might as well put down the knife, though. Ain’t aiming to hurt you none.” He held out his hands, showing they were empty.

  Chase lowered his knife, though he kept it in his hand. “Sorry,” he said. “Just don’t run into many people these days.”

  “Not many left to run into, I reckon,” Mr. Footprint replied. “I was pretty surprised when I saw you outside. Figured I’d follow you in, see what you were up to.” He scratched a pus-filled boil on his right cheek, making Chase think of the Others. But this guy wasn’t a zombie. He was just…dirty.

  “Nothing much,” Chase replied, not wanting to admit his true purpose. He could barely admit it to himself, never mind this guy. “Just checking things out.” The jewelry box felt heavy under his arm, and he gripped it tighter. Not that there was any reason in the world this guy would take it.

  “Name’s Luke,” the stranger said, holding out a hand. His fingernails were caked with dirt and Chase wondered when he’d last taken a bath. Back home, Tank had made them all bathe at least once a week, and on this trip they’d washed up every time the interstate passed a river. The kids didn’t like it, but Chase thought maybe they would if they saw the state of this guy. “Don’t think I’ve seen you ’round here.”

  “Just traveling through,” Chase replied. His instinct said it’d be better not to mention Molly and the kids, just in case. “Was looking for food.” He shrugged his shoulder. “No luck, though.”

  Luke laughed, a little unkindly. “Think you’re going to find food in the local pharmacy, do you?”

  Chase felt his face heat. “Um, no, no,” he said, not knowing why he’d bothered to lie. Who cared what this country bumpkin thought of him? “I was just looking for some…Band-Aids.”

  “Ah, Band-Aids. Of course.” Luke snorted. “I shoulda known.” He paused, shuffled his feet, then looked askance at Chase. “So, since you ain’t had any luck finding food, you want to come back to my place for some grub? My girlfriend can cook you up something real nice.”

  “No, that’s okay,” Chase replied, feeling nervous. Not that Luke seemed like a bad guy, necessarily, but you couldn’t be too careful. Besides, he shouldn’t be hanging out, filling his stomach while Molly and the kids were waiting for him to return. And if this guy cleaned his house as rarely as he cleaned himself…“I’ve got to get going.”

  “Suit yerself,” Luke said with another shrug. It was almost as if he had a nervous twitch. “I was just thinking I might have some of those…yeah, let’s call ’em Band-Aids…back at the house.” He gave Chase a knowing grin and glanced at the empty shelf of painkillers behind him. “If yer still lookin’ for them, you know.”

  Chase actually opened his mouth to say no, but right at that moment the hunger clawed. The itch crawled up his back like a thousand spiders. What actually came out of his mouth sounded a lot more like, “Okay.”

  And he hated himself all over again.

  Luke looked pleased. “Excellent,” he said, slapping Chase on the back. He led the way out of the store. “Been ages since I had some company besides the girlfriend. And she’s a right pain in the ass, always twittering away like some goddamn bird.”

  Chase nodded, not knowing how to respond to that. At least Luke’s reasoning made sense; he was just lonely. Wanted the company. Nothing weird about that, was there? Chase’s stomach flipped again, and the itch found the back of his knees. Maybe it was sweat? He then realized he didn’t care if there was anything weird about what Luke wanted; he needed a fix, badly. And this seemed the easiest way to score one.

  “So, where you heading?” Luke asked as Chase followed him across the street. “You got a destination, pilgrim?”

  Chase shrugged. “South,” he said. “Where it’s warm.” That sounded like as good an explanation as any. After all, he might be willing to risk his own life for drugs, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to sell out Molly.

  Not that he was risking his life for drugs. Luke seemed a decent enough fellow. Probably just lonely. And dirty. But everyone was lonely and dirty these days. And it was nice to converse with another adult, even if he was a little weird. Chase imagined he probably seemed a little weird himself.

  Luke led the way through a narrow, brick-lined alley into what was likely once a gorgeous courtyard. Now it was crumbling and decrepit, the intricate sculpture of an algae-stained stone fountain the only remnant of its former glory. Luke pushed open a door at the far end of the courtyard, and they stepped over the threshold into a dark pit of a home.

  “When we first came out after the plague, we thought we’d live in the fanciest house in town,” Luke explained, striking a match and holding it to a gas lantern that had been hung by the door. “But while them things are pretty, they sure aren’t easy to defend, if you know what I mean.”

  “From the Others?”

  “The Others?” Luke chuckled. “We call ’em Knights of the Living Dead here. You know, like that old zombie sim everyone used to play.”

  Chase did know. Though the real-life Others—Knights—were certainly more terrifying than those virtual zombies in the old sim.

  As his host turned up the lantern, Chase took a good look around the house. He’d been right about its condition: It wasn’t exactly going to make the next issue of Better Homes and Gardens, if the magazine was still in existence. Green mold clung to the dark wallpaper. Dirty dishes were piled in an even dirtier sink. The sole piece of furniture, a faded, flowered couch, sagged in the center of the room.

  “Have yerself a seat, boy,” Luke suggested, motioning. Then he turned to the hallway on the left side of the room. “Helga!” he cried. “Get yer ass out of bed, you lazy bitch, and bring us some booze. We got company!”

  A small blonde girl poked her head out. Her hair was dreadlocked and her face hollow, with jutting cheekbones and blackened eyes. Her sticklike arms were covered in bruises. Chase shuddered, suddenly getting a very bad feeling. He’d seen other old horror movies besides the George Romero ones.

  “Helga came from the mail,” Luke told him. “Mail-order bride, they used to call ’em. Though she learned English real good, so you can’t even tell. The rich fat fuck she married died in the plague. So I take care of her now.” He grabbed the girl roughly by the arm, gave her a slobbery kiss then pushed her in the direction of the kitchen, pinching her ass in the process. She slunk over to the cabinets and rummaged around there.

  “Gotta put these damn women in their place,” Luke boasted. “I’m sure you know what I mean. You got yourself a woman, boy?”

  Chase shook his head. “No. Never have,” he said, doubly glad he hadn’t mentioned Molly.

  “You one of them queers then?”

  “Er, nope.” Chase shrugged. “Just aren’t that many women to be had these days.”

  What a stupid idea, coming here, he berated himself as Helga set down three squat, cloudy glasses and a bottle of The Macallan. She poured the whisky and handed Chase a glass. He took it and watched her pour another for Luke. But her hands were shaking, and her fast pour splashed Luke’s already stained jeans. The dirty man’s eyes grew huge, and Helga cringed, as if anticipating his next move.

  BAM! Sure enough, Luke’s open palm connected with her face. She cried out and staggered backwards. “Stupid, clumsy bitch!” the man yelled, and Chase got a weird feeling he was actually trying to show off. “These are my best jeans!”

  “I’m sorry,” Helga babbled, tears streaming down her cheeks. She pressed a hand to her nose, which was dribbling blood. “I didn’t mean to—”

 
“Hey, man, be cool,” Chase said, feeling he should say or do something. “It was an accident.”

  “You are one of those fancy boys, aren’t you?” Luke growled. “She’s fine. Don’t get your pan ties in a twist.” He grabbed his glass and held it up. “To Band-Aids,” he said.

  One sip, Chase decided; he’d drink the toast then make his excuses and get out. It was too crazy here. Too creepy. Even the promise of drugs wasn’t worth staying. But he also didn’t want to piss off his host.

  Oh, Chase, why did you think this was a good idea?

  The whiskey burned his throat and he coughed. He hadn’t drunk much alcohol in his life, and nothing like this.

  Luke laughed. “All right,” he said. “Let’s get you those Band-Aids.” He got up from his seat and walked over to some shelves at the other end of the room. He pulled down a book and opened it. Chase realized it was hollowed out. “I don’t know why I hide it. Not like some narc is gonna bust me.” Luke chuckled. “Old habits die hard maybe.”

  The man pulled out a syringe and a packet of powder. He walked back to the couch and sat down. It creaked under his weight.

  Chase glanced toward the door. This was a bit hardcore for him. Luke was pushing up his sleeve and wrapping a yellow cord around his biceps, grabbing a spoon off the table and pouring powder onto it. The process was mesmerizing. Chase didn’t want to be part of this scene anymore…but as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t get up and walk away. His eyelids felt unbearably heavy, and the lantern light was casting strange shadows on the walls. Demons dancing.

  “I have to…go,” he said, trying to rise. His body felt as if it weighed a ton. What the hell was going on? From the corner of his eye he could see Luke chuckling. “What…did…you…?” His tongue felt huge and swollen, barely fitting in his mouth.

  The man shrugged, at least having the decency to look abashed. “Sorry, man,” he said. “It’s sort of a deal we have. They keep out of my domain and I find them fresh meat.”

  Chase collapsed, swimming in blackness. The jewelry box fell from his grip and smashed on the floor. His last thought was how disappointed he was that he wouldn’t ever be able to give it to Molly.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Okay, you can remove the blindfold now!”

  Molly pulled the rag from her eyes and looked around. She appeared to be in some kind of windowless apartment, a cozy living room with Pottery Barn furniture, a narrow kitchen with stainless steel, non-smart appliances behind a breakfast bar. Leading off the main room was what appeared to be a bathroom, two bedrooms, a pantry overflowing with food and some kind of small fitness center with weights and a treadmill. She turned to her father, confused.

  “What is this?”

  Ian Anderson beamed, walking to the center of the room and twirling, his arms outstretched. “This,” he said, “is our Noah’s Ark.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Huh?”

  “I bought it off the old lady who used to own it. Her father originally built it in the 1950s when they believed a nuclear war with Russia could happen at any moment. It’s called a fallout shelter. We’ll use it as a safe house when things get really bad.” He walked over and adjusted a dial. “Of course, I made modifications to the original design. Updated everything with the latest technology. Even installed titanium so that no one can get in here. Not even government agents. We’ll be safe.”

  “Do you really think it’s necessary?” she asked, horrified. The place made her feel claustrophobic; the last thing she wanted was to spend any extended time there. “I mean, the news reports are saying they’re getting the flu under control.”

  “Haven’t I taught you anything?” her father asked. “You know the government controls the media. Those reporters are just talking heads and propaganda. Of course they’re saying they’re getting it under control.”

  “Right.” She sighed. She knew her father was making sense—at least about the media. She hadn’t seen anything in her town lately that made her feel any safer. She still wasn’t sold on the shelter, however. “So, um, Dad…let’s say things go down as you think. What happens?”

  “In the next few days, I want you to bring down some clothes and what ever else you think you’ll need,” he said, not answering her question. “Then, when it’s time, we can get down here in a hurry. Unlock the shelter door with a scan of your retina out front. I’ve set the timer for six years.”

  She stared at him. “Six years?” she repeated. “What do you mean, six years?” She felt panic bubbling into her throat. He couldn’t be serious, could he?

  “That’s what my friends and I have determined to be the minimum amount of time for any airborne germs to dissipate in case the virus jumps. But don’t worry, there’s plenty of food and water to last you and your mother. I’ve been stockpiling for some time.”

  Food was the last thing she was worried about at the moment. “What about you?” she asked. “Won’t you be with us?”

  “Of course. That’s the plan. But if for some reason that doesn’t happen, there’s a rendezvous point, a place you two can meet me after the doors open.”

  “Where?”

  Her father grinned. “Disney World.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “When’s Chase coming back?” Darla asked for the thousandth time. “I’m hungry.”

  “Soon,” Molly replied, also for the thousandth time. “And we’re all hungry.”

  She scratched her wrist absentmindedly as worry pricked at her brain. Soon. It’d been past soon four hours ago, and it was starting to get late in the day. Had something happened to him? What if he’d met up with a band of Others? Or, heck, anything—who knew what was out here, hovering in the shadows?

  She should never have let him go alone. But someone had to watch the children and he’d acted so sure of himself. It seemed okay at the time. Now she wasn’t sure.

  She shook her head, trying to free her mind from the dark thoughts that kept invading. It was probably nothing. He probably just hadn’t found what they needed yet and was too damn proud to come back empty-handed.

  “When’s soon?” Darla whined.

  “I don’t know!” Molly retorted angrily before she could stop herself. Darla stared, wide-eyed, then burst into tears, running across the makeshift campsite and into the arms of Starr. Even refusing to look at her, Molly felt the teenager’s reproachful glare.

  Molly felt bad for snapping. After all, it wasn’t Darla’s fault. She was just stressed and scared. But there was no need to take it out on the children.

  She rose to her feet and walked over to the kids. “I’m sorry,” she said, feeling awkward. “I guess I’m a little worried about him, too. He should be back by now.”

  “D’you think the Others got him?” Starr asked. She looked like she’d swallowed something sharp and it was cutting through her guts.

  “No!” Molly said, perhaps a bit too vehemently. “He probably just lost track of time or something. I’m sure he’ll be back any minute.”

  “I think we should go look for him,” Torn suggested. She hadn’t realized he was nearby. But then, he and Starr had become nearly inseparable. It reminded Molly of how she and Chase had been, back in the day. They’d been so dumb and innocent once.

  “It’s been too long. He must be in trouble,” Torn added.

  Molly glanced around and realized all the kids had gathered, concerned looks on their faces. “Okay,” she said. “There’s no use denying it. You’re right, and we need to check it out. Torn and Starr, you watch the kids. I’ll go out and look for him.”

  “Shouldn’t we all go?” Starr asked.

  “Yeah, if there’s Others I want to be able to fight!” Torn growled. He was fifteen. So young. Weird, to think that when the Super Flu hit, Molly and Chase had been his age. They’d felt grown up then, too.

  “No,” Molly replied. “I need you and Starr to look after the little ones and the horses,” she said. “I’ll be back as soon as I’m able.” The children huddle
d together, looking like lost puppies. She threw them her bravest smile. “Don’t worry,” she added. “I’m sure he just found a toy store and is stocking up for you all or something.”

  But that’s not what she really thought at all.

  Chase groaned as he swam back to consciousness. How long had he been out? Opening one eye then the other, he tried to ascertain his surroundings. It appeared he was in some sort of jail. Lying on a stained mattress with a threadbare blanket.

  Everything came back to him: looking for drugs in the pharmacy. Meeting up with Luke. The drugged drink. Him crashing to the floor.

  This was not good.

  “You’re awake.”

  He whirled around, realizing for the first time that there were two cots in the cell. On the second sat a skinny blond guy in a white tank top and jeans. He had ugly welts all over his arms.

  “Yeah,” Chase replied. Was this guy another prisoner who’d had a run-in with Luke, too? “Where am I?”

  “Welcome to the Thunderdome.”

  Chase cocked his head. His fellow prisoner laughed.

  “The Thunder…?”

  “Well, that’s what they like to call it. I hear it’s an allusion to some old film. Mad Mack or something.”

  Chase scratched his head, trying to make sense of what the other man was saying. “I was drugged. By a guy…”

  “One of their scouts, I’m sure. They hire guys around the city to bring in new recruits. Offer them protection and extra goods in exchange for the service. When people come through town the scouts offer to help them out, get them something they need. That’s how they trap ’em.”

  Chase thought of his encounter with Luke and his own particular, rather embarrassing need, and his face burned. He was such an idiot. A prisoner to the itch, and now it’d made him a prisoner for real. He leapt off the bed and headed over to the door, wrapping his hands around the metal bars. They felt solid. Unmovable.