Nothing bad happened to the dogs. I don’t want you to think this is going in that direction. I forfeited them at a camp one night. They’d protected one of the children from a rotter by slowing the thing down, giving us time to get the kid freed from danger. (They did a typical dog act: barking, getting in the way, biting and tugging on the rotter’s fraying pants. The rotter ignored the dogs completely, but their efforts hindered it significantly.) As a result, the child’s family adored them.
It was another one of those nights when I crept away. I looked back before heading down the trail. The family didn’t have a tent; they were sleeping under the stars. My former dogs were snuggled around their kid. My—Renee’s—tent was in its bag next to them, a present they’d discover in the morning. Tied to the bag was a note. “Mochi-Mokey and Kaibo appear to have adopted you now. Enjoy the shelter.” I left the majority of Renee’s supplies, and my machete, too. It felt like the right thing to do.
I trudged on. I’d cut out of the thick woods for a short stretch of easy road. Another group of people approached. I bit the inside of my cheek, not looking forward to interaction. Again? Really? Luckily, they passed me by with just a few curt nods. They already had too many mouths to feed.
All the people I met? I could only picture them turning into rotters. That’s what’s become of most of them now. They were ill-equipped to deal with life in this new world. I looked at them, saw what they would become, and felt nothing for them.
I nevertheless joined up briefly with different groups. Always, though, people would start asking questions. They wanted to know what I’d been through, what I’d seen, what I’d done, who I’d lost. I demurred. They really wanted to share their stories, and if I asked them, they’d tell, forgetting the questions they’d put to me. I didn’t particularly want to hear what they had to say, but it was better than facing interrogations. Worst of all, people wanted to complain.
“Oh, your life is so tough,” I’d say. They never noticed my sarcasm.
I’d slip away from the groups under cover of night, continuing my journey in isolation. It was easier to be alone. I couldn’t belong, couldn’t make myself join in. Nosy eyes blinked all around me when I stayed with a group. I wasn’t shy generally, but I was sensitive to gossip, especially about my scars.
My younger years put a lot of wear on my body. I felt so old. I could feel most of my scars, still. Small parts of them were numb, the nerves deadened. It was an odd sensation sometimes to be touched, because I couldn’t feel all of it. This was frightening. But most of the time, I could feel most of those scars. Some of the time, when circumstances were right—wrong, really—they sang to me like they were performing an opera. I don’t like opera.
I felt so ugly. I wanted to cut it all off. My stepfather’s long carving of wild roses. The tangled map of scars on my palms. My back’s sea of welts which had arisen and stretched out, and would never go away. They’d been discolored at first, but the discoloration had mostly faded over time.
I wanted to cut around their outlines, then peel all the skin off and toss it into a fire. I couldn’t stop thinking of ways to make it not be a part of me. I wanted to shed all the things I hated about myself. My scars. My messed-up little heart. My flawed eyes, above all. Even more than the scars, I hated them. My stupid, ugly eyes.
One night, I tried to make myself cut them out. I brought a knife to them, first to one eye, and then to the other when that failed. I couldn’t. I kept pulling my head back, away.
I happened across a military outpost. The people were polite. The food was mediocre, as expected. The soldiers set me up with an actual bed and a scratchy, clean blanket. A real pillow, too.
In trade, I helped tend to the wounded. In the short time I was there, I was exposed to an array of horrors to treat. The amputations stuck with me most. Terror-stricken patients who’d already slipped into shock were drugged and then had limbs severed. They woke up screaming. Their screams filled my head. Their screams became the background noise of my dreams.
In spite of my troubling shifts in the medical tent, I thought this might be a good place to settle into, but my stay lasted only a couple of days. The place was set upon by a large wave of rotters. In the midst of the chaos which indicated the loss of the base, I left.
“Those who spoke of doom impending, suffering, and such had found the place in people’s heart that beauty had once touched.” Clem Snide, “The Sound of German Hip-Hop”
When After arrived, religious groups became ever more fanatical… and fantastical. People wanted to share their unique, bent versions of Gospel. I was lucky most of the folks I encountered were only a little crazy about religion.
A man and a woman approached me in the forest, each bearing a Bible. I braced myself for a sermon. Fortunately, it turned out to be an easy one. The woman petted her Bible while the man spoke.
“We’ve come to share the Good News of the One True Path to Salvation!” he told me proudly.
Involuntarily, I started silently plowing through the Begats, sections of the Bible whose inclusion is a mystery to me. My stepfather had inexplicably considered himself a man of God. At night, he used to line us up in rows and we’d listen to him read from the Bible. I fell asleep once, in a section of Begats. He’d caned me for it, then and there. And then he sent me off to memorize the part he’d been reading. Pages of long, foreign names. No one fell asleep during Bible Time after that. They feared the punishment for not successfully completing the memorization more than they feared the minor punishment of caning.
The section of Begats was like getting a song stuck in my head. I couldn’t get it to stop for days sometimes. I could push it aside a little, but it kept coming back. And unto Enoch was born Irad: and Irad begat Mehujael: and Mehujael begat Methusael: and Methusael begat Lamech…
I don’t believe in organized religion. I think it separates people, especially when folks believe their particular religion is the only right one. It seems as though separate religions are all different paths to the same place. If everyone took the “One True Path,” we’d have one hell of a traffic jam.
The thought tickled at my mind, poking my funny bone while the man talked on. The corners of my mouth turned up in what came off as a smile of encouragement from one thirsty for The Word, but was really a not-completely-successful attempt to rein in a laugh. I waited patiently, allowing the man to share for a few minutes. I thanked both folks for their time and effort. A noble attempt, I thought.
When they offered me a Bible, I declined. My backpack only had room for important things. Like my toothbrush. Like my underwear. Like my fingernail clippers. Like my hammer. Hammers, especially, are more useful than you might imagine.
We went our separate ways. They looked pleased with themselves, yet vaguely disappointed, as they toddled off.
When I left the farmer’s house, I left my name behind, as though I was shedding an old shell. I didn’t want to be the person I’d been. The name “Ally” was just a reminder. The world had changed, and I was changing, too.
I tried different names when meeting people for a while.
“What’s your name?” Saul had asked when he’d invited me into his group.
“Reta,” I’d replied. I used the same name with Renee.
“Hello, Greta,” Saul had said. I didn’t correct him.
At another camp, I was Dianna. Then I was Violet. Then Elodie, Molly, Elena, Isabeau. Nothing felt right.
I finally stopped giving any name at all, when prodded for one. People were frustrated at this, but I didn’t care. I got used to being referred to as “Girl,” “Lady,” “Miss,” and so forth.
No one tried to name me after I gave up naming myself.
No one until Him.
One afternoon, I heard a scream in the forest. Someone was in trouble. Although I felt no particular need to save a damsel in distress (and, as it turned out, her kids), it didn’t seem like an inconvenience. I prepared for battle as I ran toward the shrieking.
&
nbsp; At least thirty rotters were gathered below a hunter’s blind. On the platform, at the lowest branch of the tree, was a woman. Her two kids huddled against her, tears and snot on their faces.
I put two fingers in my mouth and whistled. The undead turned my way. I put them down, one at a time, two at a time. Cake.
When I was done, I helped the woman and her children return to solid ground.
“You guys all right?” I asked gently while cleaning gore off myself and my weapons.
They looked utterly traumatized. “We didn’t think there was any danger, the woods were so quiet,” the woman said tremulously. “Thank you!”
“Glad I could help.” I turned to leave.
“Wait! We have a camp. Come on back and meet my husband,” she said, trying to offer a smile with the invitation. “I’m Sandy, Sandra. This is Amy, and this is James.”
“Hi,” I said, falling into step beside them. “Tell me about this camp of yours?” Camps with women and children were generally safe to visit.
Sandy-Sandra chatted excitedly about the camp, and before I knew it, we were there.
“Jeff!” she called out.
“Right here!” Jeff came trotting over.
I noticed he looked at me curiously, as if he’d seen me somewhere and couldn’t place it. He shook my hand, and his wife hesitated, realizing she didn’t know my name.
“Who is this?” Jeff asked.
“She saved us in the forest!” Sandy-Sandra told him.
“What is your name?” Jeff tried again, looking weary.
“I’m… I don’t have a name,” I responded.
“No strangers in camp,” he told his wife. “You know the rule.”
Uh-oh. Not worth the trouble.
“Well, good day, then,” I said to Sandy-Sandra and Amy and James and Jeff. I turned to leave.
“Jeffrey Milton! Shame on you! She saved our lives!” Sandy broke in. “She’s not a stranger now. Not really.”
“Fine,” Jeff conceded. “You can stay.”
I didn’t stop walking. I didn’t need to be there.
“Hey, wait!” He ran after me. “I’m sorry. Thanks for helping my family. Stay with us. Please. Please!”
Why Jeff suddenly decided he would accept me there was a mystery, and mystery usually led to danger, but I didn’t sense any malice. These were just people who were trying to get by.
“I’ll stick around awhile,” I agreed. Why not? It shouldn’t make a difference one way or t’other, I thought.
I was so wrong.
The next few days passed quickly. I stayed mostly to myself, not wanting to draw attention. Sometimes people would try to talk to me, but I shut the conversations down quickly and retreated. I didn’t plan on hanging around long. Still, Sandy-Sandra had been right to be enthusiastic about her home. This camp was by far the nicest I’d seen. There was a common area near a beautiful lake. Above the lake was a cliff. Thick woodlands and sprawling fields surrounded it for miles. An area next to the lake had been designated for food preparation, and another section was for tents, which were a bit too close to each other to offer privacy, but weren’t terribly crowded together. Down a trail stood a row of outhouses. Up another trail a mile or so, there was a picnic area. An appealing setup.
Someone was fighting. There was shouting down by the lake. People ran off toward it, but I stayed put. I had no desire to see a fight. Officer Bissett’s Rule #5: Get along with others, within reasonable bounds. For all I knew, this fight was justified. I had seen my share of fights, though, and didn’t understand why anyone would want to watch them. I could hear it just fine: the sounds of gravel scraping, punches, grunts, and swearing. I could hear the people who were watching, too. Some were yelling for it to stop, others were cheering the fighters on.
A few minutes later, after the fight had ended, Jeff walked by with a guy named Eric and some other guy—I never caught his name—in tow. They both looked rough, but Eric had clearly been the victor. Winner or not, he was furious.
“He stole my shit!” Eric fumed.
Not long after, the guy whose name I didn’t catch was banished from camp, having stolen more than Eric’s shit. It came out that he’d been stealing from a lot of people. Jeff decided we all needed a talking-to.
In the afternoon, the camp was called to a meeting. “We must be vigilant. We must be careful to know what it is we’re dealing with at all times.” Jeff looked pointedly at me, then away. He droned on.
Was that what he thought? That I…? Shock washed over me, and doubts flooded in. Should I even be here? Not if that’s how he felt. He was right, too. I was an Unknown.
Part of me said I was overreacting, being too sensitive, reading too much into nothing. Still, I was mentally preparing to move on again. This was a pretty nice camp, but that wasn’t reason enough to stay. Why’d I been here so long, anyway? Ha! “So long.” Six days. Not so very long, but it was more than twice as long as I’d lasted anywhere else.
My thoughts tumbled over each other. Disjointed ideas and mismatched phrases piled themselves into a confused mess. It felt like there were hundreds of little guys with typewriters in my head, all clacking away on different stories. They polluted my mind. I felt suffocated. I walked away from the group, sat on a rock, and tried to control my breathing.
My mind felt like a briar tangle. Each thought clicked through almost audibly. At least they were coming through as proper sentences now. Why was I here? What made me choose this group? Collectively, the people were no different from most other groups. Nothing was remarkable about them.
Except someone here was like me. I realized this as the daylight waned. Some part of my mind had noticed something that hadn’t registered to my consciousness until now. I couldn’t place where or when—just that I’d seen what I’d seen, and suddenly it was clear and important. There was a thick rope of scar over someone’s shoulder, running along the top of his back and up his neck. Someone knew what it was like to live through real pain, real abuses. Maybe he could understand. Maybe I wouldn’t feel so alone, if he did. Hope crept in, a ray of sun spilling down from a cloudy sky.
The camp, and Jeff, seemed smaller upon my return. Insubstantial, nonthreatening. It was difficult to remember why I’d been so upset when I left. The sun set behind the trees.
he next morning, Jeff led a team on a supply run out to the big city, about seventy miles to the east. I’d volunteered when Jeff had asked for people who were willing to go along.
Ten of us set out, crowded into a Dodge cargo van. We’d find another vehicle or two along the way. This was Jeff’s baselessly optimistic attitude.
I looked around at what were becoming familiar faces. Jeff was driving, with Andrew riding shotgun. Patrick, Rob, Jill, Brian, Eric… Eric. He had that shiny scar crawling out from his tank top like a vine. It was him.
As of that point I stopped considering the others. They were a faceless mob on the sidelines of the world. I watched Eric prepare his weapons. He was a big guy, covered in scars. He had fresh stitches on his right cheek and he still looked angry, but he kept it contained. I giggled to myself at the way people had given Eric extra space in the van. They were clearly afraid of the guy. In spite of the apparent fierceness of his fury, I didn’t feel any potential danger from him. I looked at his scars, and I was plunged into the recesses of my mind, to a time long before After. I peeked down a dark hallway that had too many doors, all closed. Then…
Eric looked up and held my gaze. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t seem upset that I was watching him. The anger on his face was quickly blocked—like he’d walled it off—and it was replaced by something else. We looked at each other for a long moment.
He winked.
A crooked smile tugged at a corner of my mouth, but I was out of nerve. I averted my eyes downward and examined my hands: I was wearing oatmeal-colored fleece half-finger gloves. I stared at my fingers, which were laced together on my backpack. When I looked up, he was still studying me. I felt unsettle
d by his scrutiny as I realized how curious he was and what that meant: he’d have a lot of questions which would be hard to answer. Scar or not, the notion that he could understand me suddenly vanished like a popping soap bubble.
I didn’t look up again for the rest of the ride.
“We’re all equally afraid and uncertain.” Stephen Fry
At the city we broke into two teams according to Jeff’s random whim. “You all go through those buildings. We’ll search the ones over here. When we’re done, we’ll get back together,” Jeff said. He added some pointers on how to search efficiently, and I could tell he was making it all up on the spot. He tried to give off an air of authority, but he was every bit as lost as the rest of us. There was a slight twitch at the corner of his right eye. Would we be amenable? Did we agree to these terms? Yeah. Mostly.
“Now, each group has an air horn. If you get into trouble, use it. When you’re ready to go, use it,” said Jeff.
That isn’t a good idea. I kept the thought to myself, but I gave my head a single shake and saw Eric do the same.
Patrick and Andrew each held up air horns.
“Good luck!” Jeff concluded.
Eric had been assigned to Jeff’s group. He switched sides as we all broke apart. Six and four. I wouldn’t want to listen to Jeff all day either. Choosing to ignore Eric’s insubordination was the first wise leadership choice I’d seen Jeff make.
Off we traipsed into hot, dim, dusty buildings of rebar and concrete. The first three buildings on our side had been burned. Smoke and water damage ruined anything they’d contained, and we didn’t waste our time searching them. We turned to the fourth building. It towered above the others. I paused outside and quickly counted the stories. Forty-four? Why would an architect design it that way? Why not forty or forty-five? Then again, why not forty-four? Just below the 37th floor was a thin ledge, and beneath that, a row of gargoyles kept watch over the city. The building didn’t have a large footprint, and my team agreed to tackle it with the intention of completely searching it before we left.
Survial Kit Series (Book 1): Survival Kit's Apocalypse Page 4