by M. F. Wahl
Jamal crosses his arms, hugging himself. “You’re done for, man. You know that. God has nothing to do with this. Terrorists engineered this bacteria—”
Arnold spins around to face Jamal. He usually tries to keep his emotions in check, to always be level headed, but now he hollers at the other man.
“Shut up. You have no clue what you’re talking about!” Spittle flies from his lips. “There were no terrorists, this—”
“Shouting won’t solve anything,” Dennis inserts himself between the two men and pushes them apart. “All it’ll do is bring more of The Risen straight to us.”
Arnold turns to face Marge. They’ve worked together for almost two years, but she looks away. “Javier, you know how this has to go.”
Jamal hugs himself a little tighter. “Oh God.”
Desperation claws at Arnold’s bowels. “Cut off my arm!”
“What?” cries Thick Marge. They stare at each other.
“Won’t work,” Danny’s cuts in.
Dennis places a foot on Danny’s shoulder and shoves, tipping him back into the mud. “Who the fuck asked ya? Shit-bag.”
“Hurry up. Let’s do it. Cut off my arm.” Arnold frantically rolls up his shirtsleeve. A fine network of red, ultra-thin spider veins already stem from the deep ring of teeth marks. He rips his rope belt off. Loops it around his arm and tightens it with his teeth.
“Okay. Let’s do this,” agrees Thick Marge.
Jamal and Dennis share a surprised glance. Thick Marge grabs her machete and checks the sharpness of the blade. It will do. She points at Dennis. “Watch the prisoner.” Dennis obeys. Danny lies in the muck, too battered to rise.
“Jamal, sit on Javier’s chest. Javier… lie down.”
Arnold drops to the ground, feeling like his chest will explode any second. Jamal sits on top of him.
Thick Marge breathes evenly. She painstakingly lines up her blade with his arm. Down slowly. Up slowly. In a straight line, practicing the blow. She raises it high into the air, ready.
“Wait!” Arnold looks up at Jamal. “You better have a cigarette ready for me when this is over, you always seem to have them, don’t hold out on me now.”
Jamal pulls a gold and green pack of Jack Hatter’s from his breast pocket and shakes it. The three remaining cigarettes in it rattle around. Arnold smiles. “You’ll have to let me in on your secret after this.” Arnold hasn’t smoked in six years, but this is as good of an excuse as any to start again. He reaches out and grabs a stick, bites down on it. His muffled words push around the wood. “Okay. Do it.” He turns his scared, sweating face away.
Thick Marge adjusts her grip on the large knife and takes one more deep breath. With all her might she brings the blade down. Skin splits and bone crunches as it slices through Arnold’s throat, going halfway through his neck. Jamal fires up from his friend’s chest, shocked. “Holy shit!”
Arnold blinks once. Thick Marge brings the blade down again, this time finishing the job. The knife sinks into the wet ground as blood pours from an empty neck. The severed head rolls a few inches away.
Dirt and blood clot Thick Marge’s blade. Complete silence follows her every move as she wipes it clean on the fabric of her pants. Even Danny is shocked. She turns to face her two remaining teammates, prepared for their accusing eyes, but there’s no time for judgment.
Another creature crashes through the brush, gunning for Jamal. Dennis lunges for it, wielding his knife, just as Jamal dodges, unwittingly putting himself in the path of the blade. He stares down at the knife as it penetrates his chest. His eyes are so wide they look as though they could fall from their sockets. Dennis stutters stupidly, his hand falling away from the handle.
Thick Marge’s plunges her machete through the ghoul’s eye and out the back of its skull. The creature falls to the ground. Jamal falls too, his hands fluttering toward the protruding knife. He tries to speak but can’t.
There is surprisingly little blood.
***
Alex waited patiently for hours. He fought off sleep, fought off the ache and burning in his thin muscles, fought through alternating waves of anxiety and boredom. The rain stopped some time ago, but his clothes are still damp and now he strains his ears, listening for Danny’s voice. For the all-clear, but there is nothing.
He extends his sap covered finger and lightly touches it to an ant. Godlike, he lifts his finger from the bark of the tree, ripping the ant away from everything it knows. Alex turns his finger over and examines the tiny insect. Coffee colored and shiny, six legs kicking vigorously, two pinchers opening wide, ready to clamp. He pops his finger in his mouth, covering the bug with saliva, and sucks it into his stomach. Food is food, and this comes with a nice pine flavor.
Finally, he has no choice. Alex works himself down the small pine that has been his safe-haven, knapsack and all and stands at the bottom of the tree. Beams of sun filter down. They are bright and hazy with pollen floating lazily through them. Birds chirp. They are loud. Almost too loud, and Danny isn’t here.
Alex’s heart skips a beat as he realizes he’s alone.
Alone.
Alone.
Alone.
He turns, takes a step forward, then moves back to his original spot. Left looks the same as right. He can hear the valves of his own heart opening and closing and tears burn hotly behind his eyes, hysteria hiding just behind the veil.
Alex jerks his head and spins in place. It all looks the same. A stick snaps under his foot and he jumps, almost leaving his skin behind.
Relieved the noise was nothing other then himself, he stares at the ground where he was just standing, noticing faint indentations in the mud. He drops to his knees and narrows his vision. The tracks are his footsteps from earlier, not quite washed out from the rain. His face brightens. He knows which way to go now, he’s not alone, Danny will be waiting for him and things will be okay.
***
Alex trots along his newfound path for a while, every now and then stopping to inspect for signs that he’s still going the right way. His world is alive with the sounds of birds and insects but he’s locked on the feeble trail.
Leaves shuffle and branches break sending cold fear to crush his heart. He scans the area. The filmy trees that loom overhead, their wave branches far out of reach. The forest floor is grey and shadow smothers the ground, where only moss survives. There’s no place to hide.
Far in the distance, a figure with a pronounced limp drags aimlessly closer. Alex dodges behind a tree, flattening himself against it, his breath catching in his chest. The only thing separating him from the creature is the trunk.
He digs his fingers into the bark behind him, his head jerking nervously. The creature nears slowly, dragging its bad leg. It was a woman at one time, once pretty, now grotesque. Its long hair is matted with dried blood and forest junk and its scalp is peeled back in two places, revealing white skull beneath. Tarnished gold jingles on one arm and a diamond wedding ring still sparkles from a finger that is half bone. One mud-caked, black designer pump with a red sole remains attached to a foot, it makes the creature’s limp worse.
It turns its rotted face in Alex’s direction. He presses himself flatter against the tree and doesn’t breathe. The thing’s eyes bulge. Black pus oozes from ripped corneas and drizzles down cheekbones, where it pools above an exposed jawbone. She looks like she’s weeping. The creature-woman passes by, just inches away.
It’s nearly ten minutes before Alex feels safe to move again. The ghoul is gone, but there could be others, there are always others. Alex reminds himself that Danny will be waiting for him.
***
It isn’t long before Alex reaches the clearing where he last saw Danny. Trotting triumphantly in, he’s sure he’ll see the tall blond man waiting for his return, grumpy and annoyed, but his hopes are dashed.
Alone.
The muddy ground is torn up.
Alone.
Thick blood mixes with pools of rain.
Alone.
The cawing, cheeping, chittering, buzzing, roaring, screeching, of the birds overhead drive thin shards of glass through Alex’s brain. He cups his hands over his ears, trying to block them out. His head jerks. The world is too bright, too loud. Sunlight scalds his eyes, glinting off glass. There is something, partially hidden in the leaves.
Danny’s watch.
Alex stoops over and scoops it up. He stares at it lying limply in his hand, its face cracked, no longer ticking and panic begins to wells in his breast.
Alone.
His head jerks again. He clamps his hand around the broken timepiece and he wanders in the clearing, walking in circles, disconnected, staring, as if Danny will materialize before his eyes if he looks hard enough. He tugs anxiously at his hair with sap covered fingers.
Alone.
Alex trips over something.
Laying in the mud, forgotten and lonely, is that shining talisman of life, Casey’s bat. Old and splintered, stained with dirt and blood, it nearly glows against the grey of the world.
Alex lifts the bat from the ground, enraptured, shock slowly receding from his face. He imagines he can feel Casey standing nearby, lending her strength, and Danny nodding his approval, beckoning him to follow the new path beaten through the forest.
Alex wraps his fingers powerfully around the neck of the bat and lets it rest against his shoulder, feeling its weight. He looks small holding it, malnourished, sodden with dirt and mud, but his jaw is set hard, determined, and is mind focuses sharply with a new directive.
FIND DANNY.
***
Lot still stands among the plants in her poor man’s atrium, the late afternoon sun speckling her face. Next to her, Opie drones on about some trade route they’ve been trying to establish. He’s like dog with a bone. Can’t he just close his mouth for a few minutes?
Lot’s arm aches frightfully, but the pain is only secondary to the utter frustration building inside of her. The team she sent out after Danny should have been back by now and the thought of that traitor getting away is intolerable. He must pay for his crimes.
Darkness clouds out Opie’s words. What if Danny does get away? He’ll have gotten the best of her. She imagines his smug face laughing at her. Oh, how she would love to rip out his tongue and then feed it to him, piece by bloody piece. She wonders if she could get away with such an obviously cruel punishment.
No, probably not. The peons in this community need to think everything is their idea, they are weak. Lot has to maintain decorum, especially in matters like this, or risk losing her hold. Still, the idea of jamming a pair of rusty pliers into Danny’s screaming mouth and tearing his tongue out from the root is pleasurable. Very pleasurable.
“Lot,” Opie’s annoying voice demands attention. “Look.”
He hands her a pair of binoculars. Lot follows Opie’s outstretched finger. Several stories below, the survivors of the search party are dragging themselves from the forest’s edge.
Supported by Dennis, Jamal slowly stumbles, a knife protruding from his chest, blood leaking ominously from his mouth. More importantly, Thick Marge trudges grimly ahead and in front of her, prodded forward at knifepoint, staggers Danny.
Lot smiles, gripping the binoculars tightly. “Grand.” Excitement courses through her veins. She watches Danny stagger forward, his swollen, colorless face bobbing in and out of view. His dark, bruised, eyes and blood-covered hair are stains in the sun-bleached field. Her hand trembles, jubilation taking hold.
Lot swings the binoculars over the rest of the group, searching for the boy. Her heart beats heavily, anger mixing with triumph as she realizes he’s not there. Danny will indeed suffer for this. She lowers the binoculars and turns to Opie.
“Leave me.”
Opie licks his lizard lips and scurries out, the door banging shut behind him. She is alone and lifts the binoculars to her eyes again. Guards from inside the hotel are running to join the search party, defending them from the creatures that again wander the field.
Her eyes fall on Danny once more. He looks like death, miserable and downcast, and it’s delicious. Lot breathes heavily, the blood in her veins burning. Overwhelming need dizzies her mind. She drops the binoculars to the floor and falls against a wall. Her good hand touches her cheeks then paws at her breasts lightly before falling to trace her wanton thighs. She hikes her skirt up in the front and touches her blazing skin, panting as her fondling fingers find their mark.
Her mind turns to Danny in his wretched condition, her plans for him pushing her further into ecstasy. She thinks of him screaming, begging, and it fills the very fiber of her being. She moans softly and closes her eyes, giving herself to the uncontrolled waves of bliss that wash over her.
17
There’s little point in considering the risks. Being alone in the woods is dangerous even without the threat of man-eating creatures. The only thing that matters right now is the need to repair order. With Casey gone and Danny missing, chaos will reign.
It’s this single-minded need for things to be as they were that drives Alex forward. Without a place to safely moor his ship, he’ll soon find himself adrift, lost at sea, unable to reach the world around him. Danny is supposed to be that pier to which Alex can tether his boat, just like Casey before him.
But none of this penetrates Alex’s upper-mind as he weaves and dodges through the forest. All he knows is he feels a connection with Danny, much as he did with Casey. It’s a connection he can’t allow to be severed, even if it means his life. Not after he lost Casey—not after what Lot did to her.
Alex quickly follows the path left by the search party, easily seeing their footprints on the muddy forest floor. He slows his pace as he approaches an area where he can see bodies through the trees. Their smell is quick to assault his nose and he the hear insects gathered for a late afternoon meal as he cautiously steps closer.
Wading through the carnage, Alex sees bodies everywhere, fresh and rotten alike, left unmolested in their death struggle. Blood coats the ground and chunks of flesh and innards, seething with flies, litter the earth.
He’s un-phased. If the bodies aren’t moving, they’re no threat. He steps over a corpse, his bright blue eyes scanning.
Danny?
His heart pounds.
Danny?
He searches. Nearby a squirrel gnaws on an acorn. Gnaw. Gnaw. Gnaw. It grinds into Alex’s brain as he scrutinizes faces on bodies. Only an unraveling string holds back the dark curtain of aloneness that threatens to smother him.
Danny isn’t here. With that in mind Alex’s anxiety is temporarily mollified.
A high-pitched squealing startles him from his thoughts. He twists around, Casey’s bat at the ready, but there is nothing. No cadaverous ghoul pitching itself at him, no danger.
The only thing out of the ordinary is the squirrel. It writhes in place on the ground, screaming, as if possessed by a fit of religious fervor, speaking in tongues.
Alex moves closer to the grey mass of convulsing fur, fascinated. It tumbles slightly out of the weeds revealing a creature’s head, its teeth set into the squirrel’s side. A tiny, clawed foot rips valiantly at the head’s swollen eyes and the rodent clamps its teeth time and again on the soft tissue of the creature’s unflinching face. The squirrel wails, but the head is unforgiving.
Bits of acorn speck the small animal’s lips as a death shudder overtakes it. Finally, it goes limp and Alex steps a little closer. The head whips its eyes toward him, releasing the mangled body of the squirrel and snaps its jaws at the boy.
Alex sneaks a little closer, recognizing the face. Its teeth click like a windup chatterbox. Yes, this man was there when Casey was killed. “Executed,” Danny’s word reverberates in his mind. The head had been standing right there. Had watched the whole thing. Had done nothing.
Alex toes the head with his shoe and it rolls away, teeth still snapping. He kneels down in the mud, placing the bat next to him, but within easy reach, and pulls off his knaps
ack. He sets it before him and with a heavy air of ritual, he unzips the bag, peering inside.
Alex’s lightly caress each object inside his knapsack with his fingers. The bag of marbles had been a birthday present. Not the last one before the dead rose from their graves, but just an old favorite. The glossy balls with streaks of colored glass inside them are easy to get lost in. He can stare at them for hours, imagining each marble as a tiny world; the entire sack a pocket-sized universe.
His parents had always encouraged him to remove the marbles from the bag. To take them outside; to play with them. They’d hoped that a toy like this would help Alex to socialize with the other kids in the neighborhood, but they never did understand. Besides, the neighbor kids were into videogames.
Alex slides his fingers over a matchbook with one match. His mother’s. She had smoked, but quit when she was pregnant, they said. Still, she went back soon after each of her sons were born. She tried to hide it from the kids, but Alex knew because she always smelled liked cigarettes. Her clothes, her hair, her skin—perfume and cigarettes. Alex grew accustomed to that smell and had looked forward to its predictableness.
Late one night, while claiming his prize from the trash, Alex heard his parents talking about him, concerned. They didn’t know what to do, or who to talk to. The doctors were no help (they never were). She’d been crying.
When his mother came out of his parent’s bedroom, she spotted him, but didn’t know he’d been listening. She smiled at him and he wondered why she would smile if she were “overwhelmed” and “scared”? She rubbed his head and poured him a glass of water to take back to bed.
Now, every time he holds the matchbook it comforts him. Reminds him that his mother smiled for him, even when she had no reason to.
The pages of Robinson Crusoe bend under his palm. His older brother’s. Lyle would read it to him, for hours sometimes. It was what they did together, every night, like clockwork, until Alex allowed him stop. They had finished the book seven times.