by M. F. Wahl
“Yes… but—”
“Listen to me. Nothing is going to stop your disease. Not begging, not prayer, not good will. Soon you’ll no longer be with us. Meanwhile, your little boy not only has to watch his father waste away in front of his eyes, but also has the added burden of caring for him. It’s no wonder Danny can’t adjust to life here, you are preventing him from having a childhood.”
Oliver’s face crumpled in dismay, it was so easy. Lot had seen a perfect opportunity several months back, when he’d first made contact with her and now she was sure he’d hand her the keys to the city, no questions asked. Tears began to leak from his eyes.
“Opie, get him a Kleenex, would you?” Opie appeared from the side with the tissues, almost too quickly. It was as if he’d been waiting with his hand on the box the entire time. Lot knew he was always quick to please and stayed loyal because she made sure the commune looked after his every need. For some people it was effortless to look the other way when the furnishings of an easy lifestyle blinded them.
“Oliver, I think it’s time you allowed me to take Danny under my wing. I’ll look after him the way you would if you could. It pains me to see the boy so distressed, and his lack of acclimation is a warning sign of things to come.”
Oliver blew his nose, soaking the tissue with snot while his head bounced up and down. He opened his mouth, trying to form another word, but Lot cut him off. The time for fishing was done and she was ready to reel in her trophy.
“I know you’ve been resistant, but we will provide for you. You’ll receive care from your fellow brothers and sisters. You needn’t suck the childhood from your boy any longer.”
Oliver’s head shook involuntarily, raw emotions playing across his face. Finally, and with great effort, he spit out the word Lot had been waiting to hear.
“Okay.”
Lot sat back in her chair. She’d been prepared to pull out the big guns, but this had gone so smoothly she couldn’t have planned it better. She smiled reassuringly at Oliver. He smiled weakly back.
“It’s important that Danny understand this is your decision. For his well-being, he needs to know that you want this.”
Oliver nodded agreement.
“Good. Now, compose yourself and we’ll let the boy in.”
The sniveling cripple wiped his eyes and blew his nose again. The deal was done.
Danny struggled with the decision at first, but quickly came around to the idea. As much as he loved his father he was an over-burdened child, faced with the prospect of relief. It was obvious he felt guilty, and Lot knew he would struggle with that guilt for many years to follow, but with heavy-handed reassurances, he gave up control of his father’s care—not that he had a choice.
“Come over here, little boy.” Lot motioned for Danny to come close. He shyly stepped around the desk to face her. Although she was petite, she was still large compared to the child, who was small for his age. His round blue eyes dared to have just a glimmer of hope in them and she smiled at him, warm and comforting. “Why don’t you pull up the chair over there and I’ll show you what I’m doing. I can teach you how I run this place.”
“Okay.”
Opie quietly wheeled Oliver away, the wheelchair bound man didn’t say goodbye.
Lot tenderly ruffled Danny’s hair as he leaned closer to the computer screen. He had smiled openly and easily at the matronly woman he sat next to. He knew computers well and had been keen to know if Lot had some sort of shoot-em-up game. She promised him that if he stuck with her lessons she would get him anything he wanted.
From that small, meek boy grew the moody man that Danny is today. Those around him fear him, but Lot knows the truth: that he’s a groveling servant, starving for scraps.
There’s a knock on the door.
“Come!”
Thirteen-year-old Tyson pushes his pimpled face through the door.
“Can I help you?”
Tyson steps timidly into the office. Danny had been a late bloomer, but this kid is a vat of pubescent hormones, the candlelight accentuating his awkwardness. The boy’s voice cracks as he speaks and brief swell of nausea rides over Lot’s spine. “Hannah sent me in to tell you that the traitor has been confirmed deceased.”
“Fine. Thank you.”
The boy smiles, a hint of the man he’ll become peeking out from under sour skin. Lot can’t look at him anymore without vomiting and she averts her gaze, seeking refuge in the large painting on the wall. “Please tell Hannah I no longer wish you as her messenger. Tell her to assign you different duties and to send Isaiah from now on.”
Tyson’s throat catches. God, she hopes he doesn’t start bawling.
“But—but, he’s only seven!”
Lot steels herself, then he looks back at the man-child. “Yes, that’s true. Don’t worry, Hannah will find some way for you to contribute your many assets in a position with more responsibility.”
Tyson’s eyes light up. “Really? I can’t wait to tell the others! This is amazing. Thank you!”
“Go now, and tell Hannah to send Isaiah. I don’t want to see you here again.”
Tyson sprints out the door and Lot jumps as it bangs closed behind him. Free of the adolescent, she breathes a sigh of relief.
***
The moon hangs in the sky, nearly obliterated by thick, low hanging clouds that crowd it. Danny scowls up at the group’s only source of light. Casey and Alex follow behind the brigade, carefully picking their way along the road. Side-brush and weeds once tended by the city of whatever the hell hick town this used be, have grown back with a vengeance. Thick roots push up slabs of broken concrete and vines choke out everything.
“Maybe we should stop for the night,” Casey pulls an invisible spider web from her face, annoyed.
“Yeah, I think she’s right, Danny,” agrees Jamal.
“No.”
Danny’s men roll their eyes in the inky darkness.
“Why?” Casey asks.
“We’re over a day behind already,” Danny replies.
Casey hears Jamal and Dennis giggle—something about Danny being Lot’s errand boy. She knows he can hear them too and wonders why he says nothing. Maybe it doesn’t bother him.
“Oof!” Casey almost trips, walking straight into Alex’s back where he’s stopped dead in his tracks. Danny whips around, not a moment’s hesitation. His voice is quiet but searing. “What are you doing back there?”
“Alex stopped,” Casey gently touches Alex’s shoulders. “What’s wrong, honey?”
Danny’s men keep walking.
“This is ridiculous, they’re slowing us down, Danny.”
“What’s wrong with the kid anyway?” Jamal whispers to Dennis.
The two chuckle and continue their secret conversation. Casey can’t hear what Heckle and Jeckle are getting on about, but even by the dimmed light of the moon she can see Danny’s demeanor changes drastically. He can hear what they’re saying and it looks like he’s had enough.
The moon casts dark patches over Danny’s eyes and his jaw moves slightly as he grinds his teeth. She’s seen body language like this before, often actually in high-stakes situations on the job, and she bets he’s about to explode. Casey thinks she might not want to be around for that.
Dennis laughs. “Think the rumors about her are true?”
Danny turns to face him, his hand tightening around the handle of his machete. “Shut up.”
“Nah, I think that’s crazy talk.”
“I said shut up, you two.”
“Cocksucker,” one of them whispers to the other, afraid to say it directly to Danny.
Guttural snarls pierce the quiet night. The attention of the group snaps toward the sound where nearby, a pride of shadowy figures hunch over something, grunting and growling, unaware of the fresh meat platter standing in the middle of the road.
Danny, his anger forgotten, reaches out and pats Alex on the head. The small sign of approval blooms warmth in Casey’s chest. Pride.
<
br /> She motions to Danny that they need to go around, who knows how many of those things there are. Danny nods his head in agreement and signals his now silent men.
As they pass, the clouds open briefly revealing dark forms that surround a carcass. Creatures push and pull, batting at each other for scraps, locked in a disgusting dance. Casey shivers.
Two forms break loose from the huddle, both have an end of the same intestine. The string of gut stretches and slides between their greasy, decaying hands as they fight. Screeching like vultures they tear into each other’s corrupted flesh, attempting to secure the hard-to-grip prize.
The scene reminds Casey of the nature shows Anton used to like—African predators gorging on some unfortunate zebra. She always had a hard time watching, but this is worse, much, much worse. It’s as if the King of Hell directs this scene personally, just for her. Casey looks at the faces around her and sees that fear paints them all.
Only the stupid and the dead are unafraid in this world.
5
Opie isn’t a particularly good man, but he had once been a God fearing man, long before the plague of The Risen, when he was young, very young. A better man doesn’t need God to guide his hand a righteous way, and he supposes that a man such as himself doesn’t need a lack of belief to ease a burdened conscious. Despite this, it was like scratching an itch to finally acknowledge God didn’t exist. No heaven, no hell, just this, only this.
Opie thinks of all the mindless sheep that follow their shepherd. Where one goes, they all go. Wasting their lives, living for other people and unaware the shepherd only leads them so that she may use them as she sees fit. Maybe it had been like that since the dawn of time, or maybe it only seems that way because shepherds mercilessly beat down anyone who isn’t a sheep.
The key grinds in the padlock and he wiggles it, but it jams anyway. Lot has the only other key, but it has the same problem. The tumbler is cheaply made, and frankly Opie is surprised the thing has lasted this long. With a little more elbow grease the lock gives. He pockets the key and then swings open the door.
With a sleeve raised to his nose against the stench of piss and body odor, he coughs. It isn’t the children’s fault, not really, chained in this stuffy, walk-in cooler that hasn’t worked since the electrical grid went down. Still, he can’t help but feel revulsion, as though they enjoy living like this.
He sets a jug of water and a loaf of bread on the floor then slides them toward the huddled group. There are eight boys and girls in total, ranging from three to thirteen-years-old, plus Aaron’s wife, all scared out of their gourds. The oldest child is a pretty girl whose teeth are still in great shape. She’s a special order, soon to be delivered upon—not Opie’s cup of tea (he prefers women, not girls) but she sweetens the honey pot, so to speak. Lot even went so far as to have the girl examined, ensuring the men who sold them the merchandise hadn’t fouled it.
Opie tastes bile. He feels a little sorry for Aaron’s gagged and blindfolded wife, as she sits next to the virgin. The children are too scared to help and she is too scared to do anything but cry. Oh well, he thinks, it’s not his problem. Aaron shouldn’t have poked his nose where it didn’t belong.
He licks his lips, swallowing acid.
Opie’s fairly confident that even if the larger population finally discovered the atrocities taking place beneath their very noses, most would look the other way. It’s hard to convince anyone today of a strict moral code, and like most people in Opie’s position, he assumes everyone is just like him: ultimately out for themselves.
He closes the door on the sniveling and crying. The rancid smell lingers in the air as he wipes sweaty palms on his pants. Tomorrow night, under cover of darkness, the children and woman will be traded. They’ll be gone, and he’ll never need to see them again.
The gargantuan hotel kitchen echoes as he lock clicks back into place. Regardless of what he tells himself, Opie always has trouble sleeping before merchandise is traded off. The emptiness in the kitchen accentuates the feelings that keep him awake nights. He tries to soothe himself, tells himself that wherever the kids end up, it’s better than being outside and alone, and pushes down the whispered thought that outside at least, they have a chance to live free.
***
Lot relaxes by candlelight in her bedroom, the armchair she sits in engulfing her slight form. The room is cozily decorated with bookshelves lining the walls, holding an array of children’s books, games, and tempting toys. It’s a collection hard to come by.
On a side table beside her steams a hot cup of tea—pure comfort. She picks up a novel, feeling it’s heaviness and runs her hand down the front. Its jacket is glossy and the artwork gaudy, with the author’s name, no one she’s ever heard of, scrawled prominently across the front. She cracks the cover, her nose filling with the scent of printer ink and paper. On the title page someone has scrawled a note.
Lot runs her finger along the lettering, written with a ballpoint pen—a rare commodity. Slight dents in the paper kiss her fingers as she takes a sip of tea and flips to the first page.
There’s a knock at the door. Never a moment’s peace, she thinks.
“Come.”
The knob turns and Isaiah steps inside. The boy is tall for his age, and painfully skinny, though Lot’s sure he’ll fill out eventually. The child keeps his gaze glued to his feet, intimidated. No doubt Tyson, or one of the others, filled his head with all sorts of nonsense. Children are still cruel, even after civilization’s collapse.
Lot hears mumbles from the boy.
“Isaiah, is it?”
The frightened child nods.
“Come over here.”
He shuffles over to her. This behavior is going to have to change, she can’t have him tongue-tied with pertinent information, some messenger he would be then.
Lot taps her foot impatiently. “What is it you have to say? Speak up this time please.”
“Danny is home,” he whispers. “He brought people with him.”
Lot puts down her tea, a few drops spill onto the side table. Danny isn’t known for picking up strays along the way, he knows she keeps a tight control over the population. She smiles at Isaiah and thanks him. He looks nervously from his feet to a catcher’s mitt and ball on her bookshelf.
“Why don’t you borrow that for a while?”
“Really?”
It’s almost comical how some children will drop all pretense of apprehension when faced with rewards, just like their adult counterparts. “Yes, take it and go play.”
Isaiah can’t contain his eagerness. He snags the glove and ball then dashes out, leaving the door ajar.
***
The candle Opie carries flickers. His mind wanders aimlessly as he walks along a darkened hallway. Without prompting it always brings him back to his darkest days. He thinks now of “The Center” and the day he stared down at a melted electronic control panel. Inside the panel were the master switches for everything: alarms, front and back gates, sprinkler systems, all of it. From there, every facet of the vast compound’s computerized grid could be controlled.
They were in big trouble. All the gates were open and their defense systems were completely down. Those that had survived until that point were unprotected, with the exception of the weapons they could carry. The tapping of gunshots from an automatic caught his ear, walking corpses were pouring into the compound through the open gates, and now it looked like he wouldn’t be able to close them.
Opie scrunched his face. The key for the control panel hung loosely from his fingers. Hard plastic from the buttons and switches had melted away and newly corroded metal swam in a pool of liquid. Acid, thought Opie and the only other person with a key was Lot. He rubbed his hands together a moment while chewing on his lip.
Now what?
He left the control box and crossed the room to peer out the window. About fifty yards away was another building. Between him and it, a gauntlet of living dead. Opie sighed—every dog must prove his
loyalty once in awhile.
On top of the building stood a seventeen-year-old Danny and three other shooters. Their gazes were trained at the door, waiting for Opie’s signal. He gave it through the window and a hail of bullets began. One after another the creatures dropped to the ground. Opie took a deep breath to harden his nerves, but they remained jelly. He swung his gun around to the front, counted to three, and then dashed for the next building.
Above him the shooters on the roof did their best to keep him covered. He leapt over bodies and weaved around corpses that lunged for him. It was only seconds until he reached safety, but it seemed to take much, much longer.
Opie slammed the door behind him. The guns outside ceased firing. He closed his eyes for a moment, panting, his mind swimming. Why? He couldn’t wrap his head around it. It would be months until he understood.
He stepped away from the heavy door and marched down the hallway, his face a little paler than usual. An unfamiliar burn caused him to pause as his stomach threatened to turn on him. They never had the same relationship again.
Opie swung into a room on the right. Sitting around a small table was a handful of survivors. No one else from the group of fifty plus made it. Lot gently consoled those around her. “We will get through this. We’ve been chosen to carry on.”
A few around her nodded and one woman cried helplessly. A man shot her a dirty look. “Stop crying, Beulah!”
“How can you say that to me!” sobbed Beulah. “They’re all dead!”
“They died because they were unclean. They were diseased. They—”
Lot placed a hand on the man’s shoulder and he spun around to look at her.
“That’s not untrue,” she said. “But we may still grieve for the fallen.”
The man’s face screwed up, pink and embarrassed. Lot left him and embraced the distraught woman.
Opie caught Lot’s eye while she smiled reassuringly at Beulah. After a few moments she joined him.
“What did you find, Brother? Were you able to close the gates and stop this onslaught?” The others gathered around. Opie could taste bile and swallowed hard. “No, I’m sorry. The controls seem to be—malfunctioning.”