by M. F. Wahl
He fondles the cold glass of the aftershave bottle. His father’s. His mother gave it to his father on Alex’s behalf as a Father’s Day gift. Even though he knew Alex hadn’t actually picked it, his father wore it proudly.
The family had been without running water or electricity for almost a week when the newscaster on the crank radio announced emergency centers where the community could go. They urged people to be aware and to only travel during the day.
The next morning they packed and left the house. Alex had grabbed the bottle of aftershave because he was sure that his father would need to shave at their destination.
The bottle reminds him to always try a little harder. It was something his father asked of him regularly. “Try a little harder to pay attention, Alex. Try a little harder to think of other people, Alex. Try a little harder.”
Finally, Alex clenches his had around the old, threadbare t-shirt lying rumpled at the bottom of his knapsack. He’d been wearing this shirt when Casey found him. She could have left him where he was, two other people did, but they weren’t like her.
She had always wondered out loud how he had survived, set adrift with no connection to reality. She never imagined it was her that brought him back to shore. She fed him, bathed him, clothed him. She protected him and sacrificed for him. His own mother would have been proud to know Casey was there with her boy.
Alex pulls the t-shirt from his knapsack and then hesitates. He looks at the Arnold-head, its lips drawn back, its teeth exposing an infectious sneer. He needs the t-shirt, but he needs Danny more. Without Danny, Casey will disappear.
Try a little harder.
Alex wads the t-shirt into a ball and grabs a stick from the dirt. He positions the head with his feet, holding it like a snake filled soccer ball. The head’s jaws open and close, snapping viciously. Open. Close. Open. Close. Open—
Alex drops the wadded shirt into Arnold’s mouth and uses the stick to jam it back as far as it will go. He crams in until the head’s jaws are locked open with fabric.
Proud of himself, Alex lifts the head by its hair. It hangs limply, eyes rolling comically and jaw muscles trying ineffectually to work out the t-shirt. Bite marks and deep scratches from the squirrel scathe the head’s darkly tanned cheeks. Alex smiles widely into its face.
***
Screams drift down the dark corridor leading to the makeshift infirmary-morgue. Inside, Jamal tries to sit up, Julie shoves him back down. “Stop moving!” She pulls a lantern closer. Dennis’ knife is buried up to its hilt in Jamal’s chest.
Her steady hand slices away shirt with scissors. There is very little blood. Hannah, the undertaker, stands next to the nurse, hovering over her only son, beside herself with fear.
“Mom! I don’t want to die!” Jamal thrashes on the table. “Please, Mom!” His words gurgle in this throat and bubbles of blood burst over his lips.
“Stop talking,” Julie snaps. Blood is filling Jamal’s lungs and the more he moves, the more he talks, the more quickly he will drown. Hannah holds her son’s hand and cries.
Julie scrutinizes her medical supplies. A pile of bandages, a few shiny instruments, nothing that will save this kid from dying. He needs a hospital, he needs a surgeon. He tries to sit up again.
“Stop moving. You’re making it worse, Jamal!”
“Oh my God! I don’t want to die. Please! Don’t let me die!”
“Stop yelling!” Julie shouts.
Hannah’s face is misshapen with grief as she looks at Julie. “Do something! Please! You have to help him!”
***
Darius, a young guard with a unibrow nervously pops open the padlock that secures a walk-in cooler. He’s seen Lot, spoken to her a few times even, but he’s never been alone with her. Although she’s much smaller than him, he feels like she takes up the entire room. His hand shakes nervously as he lays the key in her outstretched palm.
“Leave me now,” she says.
His eyes search Lot’s face. How can he leave her alone with such a dangerous criminal? Lot places her hand lightly on his arm and he tries not to tremble.
“It’s okay, Darius. I’ll be fine.”
The calmness and confidence in her voice is enough to ease his worries. Who is he to second-guess her? He nods in a way he hopes suggests strength, and then leaves his leader standing alone in the chrome-plated hotel kitchen.
The light from Lot’s candle glints off of every surface not covered in dust and the hinges on the cooler door squeal as she pulls it open. She holds her candle up high, illuminating the small space within. Slumped against the back wall, arms still tightly bound behind his back, is Danny. His shirt, saturated with blood, clings to him.
He squints against the flickering light and blinks slowly, face drawn thin with pain. Dark black circles ring his eyes, standing out against anemic skin. Lot has seen this death mask before. She is simultaneously delighted and worried by how terrible he looks. She can’t allow him to die before he can be punished.
“I’m sorry for the accommodations, but we’re not really set up for inmates, as you know.”
Danny stares into the void, as if he can’t hear. Lot steps nearer, favoring her slinged arm, and crouches down beside to him. She places her candle nearby. He rolls his dulled eyes toward her and she can taste the defeat dripping off him. “I’ve been told you were shot, Danny. What happened to you?”
A thick storm of fury crosses his face and excitement jolts through Lot. It’s the spark she’s looking for. She wants him to go down fighting.
“You happened to me,” he spits.
“Oh God,” Lot flicks her wrist. “You’re so dramatic, you always have been. I gave you my best years, I took care of you when no one else wanted you.”
“I had someone. You killed him.”
“This conversation is tiresome. Do you want to know the truth? Do you Daniel? Your father took his own life.”
“Liar!” Danny hisses.
Lot’s heart flutters in her chest with titillation.
“It’s true. He was weak, scared of suffering.”
“No! He would never leave me!”
“He did. Do you want to know how he did it?”
“NO!”
Lot’s face flushes. Seeing Danny squirm helplessly is such a thrill. It’s so easy to grind salt into ancient, festering wounds, instant gratification. Shooting fish in a barrel, she thinks, is underrated.
“If he were alive today how do you think he’d feel about what you’ve done? Murdered a child in a jealous rage. You just couldn’t help yourself, could you? You had to destroy such a sweet, innocent life to get back at me.”
Lot slides in a little closer to Danny. He glares at her, shaking with a bitter rage so consuming that it nears madness.
“You just couldn’t handle my affections turned to someone else, could you?” Lot reaches out a hand and lightly strokes his hair away from his forehead. It’s filthy with forest muck and blood. As her fingers glide across his skin and he overpowers the need to shudder, refusing to show weakness.
“You obsessed about me day and night, Danny. You seduced me, bent me to your will, and ultimately murdered a little boy because of your sickness, because of your disease.”
“I was only seven,” Danny’s voice cracks. It’s barely a whisper. The anger is still there, but there is something evil lurking in the crevices: guilt.
Lot touches his cheek and he closes his eyes, stomach turning, head spinning. Lot’s smooth, measured voice overrides his thoughts. “I only ever did what you wanted, my boy. I never did anything you didn’t like.”
“I was only seven.”
“Yes, to begin with. And as you grew older you wanted even more.”
“No,” Danny screws his eyes shut, trying to block her out.
“I only tried to make you happy, to give you what you asked for.”
“You’re twisting it.”
“Am I?” Lot brings her face close to his. He shrinks back into the corner, tears escaping
his closed eyes. She strokes her hand gently across his chest and he turns his face away, but has nowhere to hide. He is tiny and powerless, a frightened child once again, victim to Lot’s whims.
Her hand drops to his inner thigh and his skin crawls under her caress, yet still he wants her. It makes him want to rip her touch from his body and burn the flesh. He presses his back against the wall, trapped and unable to escape.
Lot pushes in closer. She could dine on the heady mixture of anger, fear, and self-loathing coming from Danny. Blood swirls through her body and the giddy feeling of total control, total power, wraps her spine in warmth.
She tenderly puts her lips to his ear. “You’ve been a bad boy, Danny. I’m very upset that you took my new toy away from me.”
Danny can’t fight the black hole of emotion that swallows him, swallows his thoughts, devours his body, engulfs his entire soul. He slams the back of his head into the wall of the cooler, sending bright flashes of light careening through his vision. “SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH! I CAN’T LISTEN TO YOU ANYMORE!”
Lot forces herself to stand. She wants to stay and play some more, but it’s too dangerous a game. This is just an amuse-bouche, she’ll have to wait for the main course.
Darius bolts into the kitchen, as expected after Danny’s outburst, and he’s brought friends. They are at her side in seconds. Danny continues to holler.
“Are you alright?” Darius looks ill with fright.
“Yes. Thank you.”
A guard slams the cooler door shut, cutting off Danny’s voice. He throws the padlock on. “Are you sure you’re alright?” The concerned faces of guards surround her. “Did he touch you? Did he hurt you?”
“I’m fine, really, I promise. He’s manic. Psychotic. I shouldn’t have come down here, it’s too much of a strain on me.” Lot leans against Darius for support. “Please help me back to my room.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“And please have Julie see to the prisoner, he needs medical attention.”
All the guards nod.
Darius supports Lot through the kitchen. Just as they are about to leave she looks back over her shoulder at the remaining guards. “Tonight he’ll be standing judgment for his crimes. Please see to it that he’s well gagged when the proceedings begin so that no one else has to endure his hysterical abuse.”
“With pleasure.”
“Thank you. And please, try to be gentle.”
When she’s gone the guards share a look. They’ll be gentle all right, as gentle as kittens.
18
A twig whips across Alex’s cheek, leaving a thin red mark. He forces his legs to pump as fast as they can, his beat up shoes snagging traction wherever possible, his knapsack bouncing on his back with each step. Alex keeps Casey’s bat clenched hard in one small fist.
Two once identical creatures lope behind him, their matching tennis outfits dirty and torn. The twins, now starved hounds determined to catch a fox, are still together in undeath, by miracle or mayhem. One is missing half an arm, the other his once precious nose.
Alex careens through the forest. He hurdles over a large rock, landing hard in a bramble bush and wincing as its thorns drag across his skin, opening long ragged wounds. Blood leaps to the surface, spiraling to the ground from the shallow gashes. The thorns grip his clothes, impeding his escape.
Behind him the twins’ strength is unwavering. They never slow to catch their breath, to nurse a wound, or to consider another plan of action. They pursue. No thought, no consciousness. They have only the drive to kill. To eat. To destroy.
Alarm bells sing in Alex’s head, clanging so loud it’s hard to think. The bush’s pointed fingers hold fast to his knapsack and his muscles twitch with fear-induced adrenaline. His head jerks, his lungs burn, and he rips his bag away, tumbling to the ground as the thorns mercifully release.
The twins crash through the brush with ferocity. They don’t feel the thick thorn laden branches bite into their rotten flesh. They don’t notice the soggy chunks of skin they leave behind. They growl and snap at Alex as he scrambles back, jumps to his feet and runs, just ahead of the monsters.
***
Opie sits in a chair centered in the middle of a well-stocked and immaculate hotel room. It’s large, with framed art hanging on the walls and curtains hiding the protective scrap metal over the windows. A mahogany desk boasts a large stack of classic books and even a handful of working ballpoint pens. Several lanterns gutter softly, hanging from an appropriated hat rack.
Lying on the ground before him are Odette’s boy and girl. They press brand-new crayons onto coloring book pages, smiling and chattering, even the teen.
Opie worked hard to procure the books and crayons, and it makes him happy to see them enjoyed. It’s a new feeling; he doesn’t think he’s ever before felt happiness because of someone else’s happiness.
Odette floats into the room with a steaming teapot and cups on a tray. To Opie it almost feels as though nothing else exists outside of this room, but it’s more than a feeling, it’s a wish. He wishes he could stay with Odette and the kids, just like this, forever, and forget about the raging plague outside. Forget about the nonsense with Danny and Lot.
Odette pours coffee from the tea spout, filling two cups, and then sits in the chair next to him. The concerned look on her face bursts Opie’s blissful bubble.
“I can’t believe they brought that animal back here. After what he did to that poor boy? It’s crazy, don’t you think?” she asks.
Opie lifts his steaming cup off the table. It’s lined with real gold, the pot an antique. It doesn’t matter to him that the teacup holds coffee, which he prefers over tea. It’s good to have the nicer things in life, regardless of what shape the world is in now.
“Odette,” Opie pats her knee reassuringly, “Danny must face justice for his crimes, stand as an example. It’s the only true way to protect the people, and your children—our children.” Toe the line, he thinks.
Odette smiles. This is the first time he’s ever referred to the children as “his”. He smiles back, his weaselly face no longer used to the muscle operation required to curve his mouth upward instead of down.
She has no clue, he thinks, wants no clue really, no one does. Everyone wants to live their lives as though things can somehow go back to the way they used to be. As though there’s still a line drawn in the sand between good and evil.
The fact of the matter is that the line was blurred even when the police were a phone call away and you could buy your food in the local supermarket. Now that hazy line is completely obliterated, but people delude themselves into believing it’s still there. They have to, or they’ll see their world has completely fallen apart.
Without Lot, without himself, and without the few others who are able to face reality, this entire community would be in shambles. These people, Odette and the kids, they need him, and those like him, to get ahead in this new world.
Opie sits back, content to allow Odette to bathe in ignorance and naivety. It’s a luxury she doesn’t even know he’s giving her. In more ways than one he considers himself a hero, and the self-reassurance tamps down the demons for yet another day.
Odette sips from her cup. “I hope they make him pay for what he’s done. Lot can’t protect him any longer.”
Opie reaches over, taking her hand comfortingly. “Don’t’ worry. I’m sure Danny will get everything he deserves.”
***
It’s so unfair. After everything they’ve been through. The world came tumbling down around them, but they managed to survive with pure grit and determination. They were survivors. They. Survived. What does it all mean if he’s gone now?
Deep sobs wrack Hannah’s body. She’s covered in blood. The floor is covered in blood. Jamal, her dead son, is covered in blood. It’s everywhere, so much of it. Spilled from his chest, pooling on the table beneath him, its metallic odor filling the air. She wishes she could siphon it up and pour it back into his
body.
She and Julie did everything they possibly could. Jamal had cried and begged for life with his very last ounce of strength. He knew he was going to die, but he didn’t want to go, wasn’t ready, and she wasn’t ready to let him go. Now his pleading voice, begging her not to let him die, is carved into her soul.
Hannah grips her son’s lifeless body, shaking him. “No, no, no, no, NO! NO! NO!”
Behind her, Julie stands somberly.
Everyone alive today knows his or her fair share of tragedy and death, but it never gets easier. As the unofficial mortician, Hannah has seen even more than most. Julie rests a gentle hand on the grieving mother’s shoulder.
“Hannah, we need to be sure he stays with God.”
Hannah lifts her head, tears streaming from her eyes and glares at Julie. “Don’t you think I know that?”
Julie nods, sympathetically. She can’t imagine the pain of losing one of her own three children. Somehow, by some miracle, she’s been able to spare her teenaged sons, but it’s been a long road, seeking shelter in the company of the men that would have her, just to be sure her boys were always protected.
Opie was nothing short of a savior when they first met, a bright light in an otherwise murky existence. He never laid a hand on her, never asked for what most men took. For bringing her and her boys under Lot’s sheltering wing he only requested compliance, medical advice, and a closed mouth. For such a pittance, her boys were able to be boys once more, never again to see their mother submitting on her back for gun-toting men.
She owes Opie everything.
Julie watches Hannah as she crosses the room and opens a drawer. Inside is a hammer and a railroad spike. Hannah lifts them, her bloodstained hands shaking. Her heart aches more than tears can ever show.
Hannah’s heavy feet carry her back to Jamal’s side. He’s so still now, so quiet, and yet it’s hard for her to believe he’s really gone.
“Julie, can you leave us please, I’d like to be alone with my son.”