The Risen: Remnants

by Crow, Marie F

  Our teasing chatter covered the sounds of their return. So when Alicia, seeing the perfect chance to be an annoying big sister, reached over the glass to grab my shoulders, Genny and I both screamed. Kent jumped so hard backwards at our distress that the perfectly balanced paper tubs came crashing down on him. He kicked at them as if he was under attack, sending them flying even higher in the air before crashing down on him again. The sight must have been hilarious by the laughter that followed. The three of us on this side of the case weren’t laughing at all.

  “You suck.” Is the only response I can think of with my heart choking me. I obviously missed my mark because Alicia just laughs even harder.

  “How many buckets of popcorn did you want, Son?” Terrence leans nonchalantly on the case, staring down at his panting teen. His face is all mirth but Kent is not amused.

  “Well did you at least find anything?” Genny stands, ready to confront them before anyone can tease her.

  “Yes, we did.” Peyton is carrying a large cardboard box. His smile is just as proportionate.

  “It looks like this place has never been disturbed. We found no trace of looting damage. Nothing has been broken into. There is food, even if it is candy, still just sitting here. The best? These...” Peyton’s smile grows even larger as he opens the box.

  He pulls out large, rolled fabric, tossing them on the floor. They are held together with strings tied to keep them rolled. The material is reflective even with this meager light. Personally, I still think the candy is the best, but these are a nice comfort, too.

  “Sleeping bags?” Genny tilts her head as if it is a game of charades and the first clue has been tossed in front of her.

  “Yup, sleeping bags, Kiddo. This place must have once held some kind of over night thing or maybe movies on the lawn. Whatever it was, they left these up in the storage area.” Alicia says as she rubs Genny’s head and earns herself a glare. Someone is still in trouble.

  Ginjer and I exchange glances, once again I feel the shame creep over me. I have been thinking of how rough we have had it living as we live, but seeing them this excited over sleeping bags only proves how wrong I have been. We have been taking for granted the simple things that could mean a completely new level of comfort to some.

  “We planning to stay here tonight?” Ginjer steals the timing for any comment I may have been building, preventing me from telling them the truth about us.

  “We might as well,” Terrence shrugs. “Don’t really want to be looking for a new place to set up in the dark.”

  “…and others may still show up.” Peyton stares out into the parking lot with hope. His eyes float over the cars, trying to see if he spots anything familiar. His posture is one of defeat thinking of all of the people he wasn’t able to save. Seeing their leader saddened, it sweeps over the room like a silent prayer.

  “They wouldn’t let me bring down the Johnny Depp poster.” Ginjer mutters, rolling out her bag completely impervious to the mood of the room. “What?” She asks, staring back at the shocked faces towards her. “It’s not like its going to any good use just sitting up there!”

  The adults stare at her, half hiding our smirks, wondering if she even is aware of the corner she has backed herself into with that comment. No one is brave enough really to ask with the social lines still blurring with our two groups. When Genny opens her mouth, I step on her foot warning her not to open that conversation.

  With no safe avenue left for conversation to travel along, we begin prepping for sleep. Peyton agrees to take the first shift to watch for anyone else who might arrive. They assure me the door in the back that I left open has been shut and for extra measure, they have wedged a metal bat the theater used as a promotional prop in the handles of that theater’s hallway entrance.

  “We are all safe and secure.” Peyton smiles at me and I feel myself returning it before I can counter the emotion. Worse, not before Genny can see it.

  “Totally saw that.” She is munching on another box of candy and for a brief moment, I have an urge to tell her no more candy before bedtime. Some habits are hard to break.

  “He is a good looking guy.” I say to her because there is no point in arguing with her or trying to deny my smile. Instead, I stare at the man whose back is to us as he leans against the glass doors searching for some signs of hope about the ones we left behind.

  “How long has it been since you dated?” Her calm question spins my head to her. “Mom, I’m sixteen. I totally know what sex is.” She is making a game of tossing the bears into the air and catching them with her mouth. Glad to see I am the only one uncomfortable here.

  “Genny, you’re sixteen. I totally want to deny that you know what sex is.” She makes a “tsking” noise at my comment between bites.

  “You know, that is how most teen pregnancies happen. Parents just don’t feel comfortable talking to us about sex. Then we have to go online, gather our own information –” I hold my hand up to stop her rant, blocking the line of thought before my sanity becomes as torn and mangled as the candy bears she is eating.

  “At what point did you decide to make this conversation the most uncomfortable that you could?” I ask and she smiles at me and I have to return it. This is the Genny that I have been missing.

  “When I saw you smile.” She sits up, looking at me. All the impish grins are set aside. “I’m not saying you have to marry the guy, or even love him. You don’t know what tomorrow might bring and if we are all going to die anyway, you might as well get a little something while you can.”

  The sincere mixture of her words and emotions disturbs me a little. I never thought that I would be receiving “go get ‘em” advice from my teen daughter.

  “Hey Genny,” I look at her, my face a blank slate of unwritten words. “Why don’t you pull your stuff a little closer to me? Suddenly, I don’t feel as giving as I was with your alone time with Kent.”

  “Mom,” She laughs, as we begin a game of assault with the gummy bears she was eating, tossing them back and forth. “You don’t have to worry about me. I have seen enough movies to know the virgin outlives everyone and the stupid teen girl who is talked into sex is always the first to die.”

  “Who is the first to die?” Ginjer comes to our area hearing our laughter. She and I are still keeping apart from the other group. Watching my sister and Terrence talk over the night’s plans for our safety, I am stabbed with guilt and jealously simultaneously.

  “Sluts,” Genny offers shrugging causally. I don’t want to have to explain the previous conversation, but her response only leaves me less wiggle room to get out of having to.

  “How did you know the word was “hello”?” Ginjer enjoys talking about herself. I throw her the conversation and hope to silently sneak away before I can become the main topic.

  “Told you, my husband was a pilot. You know that.” She shuts down, staring out into the lobby that we have made into a giant bedroom.

  “He taught you Morse code?” Genny asks innocently, unaware of Ginjer’s unusual silence.

  “No, his slut did.” Her smile is like candy-coated arsenic. It seems sweet at first, but the words behind it scald with poison. “He was having an affair with a stewardess. They would send texts in Morse code thinking they were clever just in case I ever saw the phone before he could delete the text. He told me they were running practice tests so they could both pass any random skill testing, with a smile and a pat on my head.” Her smile becomes less sweet, but still filled with venom. “So I began jotting down the dashes and such and translating them through search engines. It didn’t take long to figure out what was going on once their magical code was broken. So I waited for him to take a trip and sent him a text in my own code.”

  Genny is so eager to hear the rest, she almost jumps up when Ginjer stops the story before she begins again.

  “I sent him two numbers; the longitude and latitud
e of where I left his precious sports car. When he came home a day later than normal, mad that all he found was the empty parking lot to a very expensive jewelry store, I simply smiled at him. “Isn’t texting in codes fun?” I asked him. “Turns out my lawyer knows Morse code very well and figured up exactly what it would cost you in alimony should a judge ever learn Morse code, too.” After that little bomb he was much more discreet if he ever cheated again and I had a very pretty diamond ring to wear every time I thought he was.”

  “Why didn’t you just divorce him?” It is a question I have wanted to ask since I began working for her, being well aware of their internal issues and now finally I have.

  “When you divorce, your issues become public. That’s just messy for everyone.” Her voice is almost judgmental with me being a divorcee myself and I shrug, ignoring the tone she has directed at me. I gave up a long time ago trying to please a woman whose idea of “budgeting” was only buying five new outfits a day instead of her normal twelve.

  I refuse to become insulted by her and begin to settle into “bed”, proving to her that the conversation is over. After a few minutes of silence, Ginjer goes back to her bag that she has placed closer to us than the others with nothing more being said between us.

  “You know she doesn’t really mean the things she says, Mom?” Genny’s whisper caresses my mind that has slowly begun to shut down from the day.

  “I know.” I pat her leg, letting her know that I am not really upset.

  “Do you think Dad and Kim are out there, somewhere? We found Aunt Alicia.” Her voice is fragile, fearing the truth.

  I lie, trying to give a glimmer of hope to her dreams so I tell her, “I don’t know. I guess they could be.”

  When she closes her eyes, I hope she is seeing him as he was and not as I last saw him. I hope he is smiling at her, sharing jokes that only they knew with their private father/daughter relationship. I hope she is dreaming of what it would be like to find him, whole and safe, hugging him for that first time after so many months apart. I hope she cherishes that dream, and I will lie about it forever to avoid tarnishing her memory of him.

  For me, I know the truth. I can still see him hunched over his new wife, tearing her apart with no remorse or recognition for her. I can still remember Kim’s vacant, staring eyes pointed at me with her arm extended in her death as she tried to crawl away from the man that was supposed to protect and honor her. Thanks to Charlie, I will forever hear the sound that a heart makes when it is being sucked on like a rare fruit; ripe and overflowing its juices down your arm. He also taught me how to kill that day and for that, I am thankful.

  Chapter 14

  A feather flirts with my face. The gentle tip travels along my cheek before trailing to my neck only to repeat the pattern. It sways back and forth over me, gently waking me. A hand tugs on my arm, trying to roll me over. The playful feather is a sharp contrast to the forceful hand whose fingers are starting to bruise my flesh. The feeling switches from seduction to something different, startling my mind to a faster pace of consciousness. When Genny screams, the last fog of sleep slips away and the smell hits me, bringing me wide-awake.

  My eyes open to stare into the terror-filled set across from me. Genny is staring at something behind me, mute and frozen with what she is seeing. Her body shakes so hard that the material of the sleeping bag crackles like static with the vibrations.

  My eyes roll to my side and meet the faded, glazed eyes of a little girl. Her once light brown hair is now matted, making the shade darker at the tangled ends. Her face is blank as if she was startled by the scream. Her eyes are searching my face for the next outburst without any emotion of her own. Those tiny fingers are firmly applying more pressure to my arm. It feels as though she is trying to peel the flesh from my bones. My skin screams under the pain and I’m afraid to call out for help, fearing what it may trigger her to do.

  We are at an impasse. She seems to be waiting for me to react and I am waiting for the flesh to be shredded from my arm. My mind is shutting down as I stare at this little girl. It is pouring itself into a tight, locked box knowing what is about to happen, not only to me, but also to what I may have to do to her.

  The face that once smiled and was the pride of her parents is dried and crusted from things my mind doesn’t want to acknowledge. There is a perfect, clean pattern from where her tongue had licked it away when it was still fresh as if it were the remains of a messy dessert that once coated her face. I can remember Genny doing that at this girl’s age and I groan in my mind with the comparison.

  Her school uniform with its blue and green plaid has dark markings on her chest. It extends wide, almost from shoulder to shoulder and the paper nametag she wears for what was supposed to have been a fun field trip reads the name “Becky” in the unsteady script of small children.

  I imagine the stain to be where her victim’s blood pooled while she was eating, soaking her with her sin. The white collar of her undershirt is spotted with more stains, destroying the innocence she once held with the brutal honesty of what she is now. This little girl that one sat in a room filling papers with crayon creations is a murderer. Her tiny fingers no longer spread the colors of pastel paints, but the blood of her victims.

  She smiles at me when we both feel the warmth of my blood begin to glide down my arm. It drips to the cloth of my shirt like a steady tapping finger waiting for my next move. It is waiting for me to save myself. It is hoping that I will save myself.

  “Mom?” Genny’s voice snaps the child’s head in her direction.

  The child, Becky, tilts her head to one side with an unnatural slow grace. Her matted hair no longer the cascading waves of what it was, sticks to the side of her raised face, falling forward to frame just her eyes. The eyes that no longer see with the child-like wonder of the world, but with the hunger of an animal that can’t be abated.

  All around us, the group is beginning to stir. Becky’s eyes roam the room from her tilted position, seeing the others for the first time, but she doesn’t show any emotion if her mistake startles her. She is still, just her eyes moving from one bag to the next plotting and planning in the way these things do. When her eyes fall to me, I know she has put the pattern of our deaths together in her mind, and mine is first.

  She stares mutely at me with a face still plump from that chubbiness of youth. She can’t be more than four and it fills me with pity for what has happened to her and for what I know I am going to have to do to save myself and my daughter from her. Her fingers no longer press into my flesh. Her emotions are withdrawn, shielded behind the lack of empathy she now carries for those around her. She is still the perfect hunter and she proved this by luring me into her trap.

  She knew quickly that she was outnumbered. Even with her strength from the lack of feelings in her body, she would not be able to overtake us all. Attacking me quickly would cause noise, further alerting those she fears with her kill and survival motives. She doesn’t fear death the way we do. She only fears not being able to achieve her kill and then survive for the next. When you can’t feel pain, you don’t fear death. She just craves the deaths of others.

  The killer in her knew I was not a threat to her. I am not the type of prey that fights without being motivated. I’m a runner and I have proved it to her by sitting here this whole time waiting on her next move. She further lowered my defense by lowering her attack. Almost presenting a sense of unease or weariness to me with diabolical designs, but now that she has me where she wanted, she shows her true form.

  There was not a sliver of hesitation with her attack. I have relaxed my body, making it pliable to force and she uses that to her advantage. With a calculated pattern, she yanks my arm down, forcing my body flat while allowing her to straddle me with one smooth act. It is so sudden that I am confused by the rapid shift of her mood and lose against her strength. She smiles in her small victory, thinking the battle is already won.
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  She made one mistake when she picked me to attack first, though. Something she couldn’t possibly understand being void of her soul and lost to her memories of humanity. I am a mother. I will fight if I have to.

  Her entire upper body leans in for the attack. Her arms shoot forward, aiming her hands for my shoulders with hopes of further pinning me down. Those same sharp baby fingers with torn nails that pressed into my arms now pierce my neck like talons, locking us together. She flexes them like a needle seeking a vein, looking for a way critically to wound me. She knows she must find a way to kill me before others can come to my rescue. Since she lacks the strength to break my neck, she is trying to bleed me out.

  Her face is close to mine, trying to intimidate me so I will fear her, preventing me from fully fighting back. Her hair hangs around us like a dingy, velvet curtain blocking the sight of us from the others. Hunched over like this, she is keeping a low profile, better hiding her from untrained, sleep-filled eyes. She has planned my murder in her mind but in my mind, I’m still planning my life.

  I let go of my fears and thoughts, letting myself sink to the same level of animalistic behavior as her. My fingers sink into her hair on the back of her head, the knots providing me with the perfect grip. I can feel small things crawling up my hand from her scalp. It almost steals my nerve with the roll of my stomach, but her fingers dig deeper and the pain snaps my mind back to focus. Anchoring my fingers, I tug her backwards and scream with the lightening hot pain of her talon-like fingers raking my flesh. My vision blurs from it, ebbing my strength to pull her off me.

  Still latched to her hair, she fights against me to turn her head. It sends more of the things crawling along my arm with their escape from her efforts to free herself. I can feel their tiny bodies inching up me with what could be confused with a tickling sensation if I wasn’t aware of what they are. Maggots from her rotting flesh are being scattered around me, and on me, invading my mind with further proof of the nightmare “Becky” has become.