Weapons of War: Explicit Edition (Rising Book 2)

by Tracey Ward

  And I think that moment has finally come when I feel the tip of a knife dive deep into my back.

  Thank you for reading WEAPONS OF WAR!

  The third and final book in the RISING series is coming 2018.

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  Keep reading for an excerpt from Until the End,

  the first book in my Quarantined series from the same world as Rising.

  It’s FREE!

  Chapter One

  The city is in ruins. Smoke billows up into the sky in lazy tendrils, reaching into the clear blue and marring its perfection. Fire alarms blare through the silence as flames lick and devour anything that will burn. They turn once tall, proud structures into smoldering rubble. The sirens can wail all they like, no one is coming. The streets are filled with cars parked at haphazard angles and debris broken away from the burning buildings. No rescue vehicle could cleanly make it through, not that there’s anyone left to drive them. The system has entirely broken down, all checks and balances lost in the mad chaos of the impossible made real. This is the world now. This is life. And as of two months ago, life is death.

  “Are you watching Walking Dead?”

  I close my eyes briefly when the voice comes from over my shoulder.

  “No,” I say, not bothering to turn around. “I’m not watching Walking Dead.”

  I’m sitting on the couch in the common room of my apartment complex watching TV. So far people have been too busy with getting to and from class to be bothered even glancing at the screen. I’ve been lucky. Until just now.

  “Is this the History Channel?” the guys asks as he leans over the back of the couch and squints at the screen.

  “Yeah. It’s a DVD of the special they did. Life After People.”

  I keep my eyes on the screen, hoping he’ll get the hint.

  He doesn’t.

  “Ah,” he says, coming around the couch and sitting down on the opposite end. “That’s why it looks apocalyptic.”

  “Yep,” I say with a sharp nod.

  “So how’d we die?”

  “What?” I ask with a sigh, finally looking over at him.

  He has shaggy brown hair, too long for my taste, and a pleasant face. He looks about my age, putting him at twenty or so. When he looks over and grins, I tuck my own black hair behind my ear and look away.

  “How’d we die? If it’s called Life After People we’re obviously gone. So, how did it happen?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know. They never really say. They mention it could have been war or disease but they don’t get specific. It’s not the point.”

  “What is the point?”

  I reach up with the remote and pause the DVD, resigned to what’s happening. It freezes on an image of an abandoned freeway, cracked and broken with age and neglect.

  “The point is to see what the world would look like after we’re gone. How long it would take for all of our accomplishments to break down and disappear. All of the structures we’ve created, the art in all of the museums. When would dams break and nuclear reactors explode without us monitoring them?”

  “Huh,” he replies, then falls silent. I hit play again and he watches with me for a while. I almost start to forget he’s there when he says, “So that’s why you’re watching it? Just curious?”

  “Yep. Morbid curiosity. Nothing can last forever, least of all man.”

  “Wow. That is dark.”

  “And Walking Dead isn’t?”

  “Walking Dead is about the soul’s desire to survive.” He turns his body toward me, facing me and becoming animated. “It’s about banding together and saving what ounce of humanity we can while Death claws at the door and demands to come in.”

  “And eat our brains?” I ask wryly.

  He smiles. “Well yeah.”

  “No. Walking Dead is about killing zombies. It’s about being allowed a gun in your hand, and feeling badass. It is not a deep, meaningful commentary on the human soul.”

  “Have you watched it?”

  I hesitate and I see him smile; he knows he has me.

  “No,” I admit. “I’ve never watched it.”

  “Then you can’t sit here and hate on it! You and me, we’re watching it. I will educate you and after watching the show you can try and tell me it’s not meaningful.”

  “I don’t know if I have time,” I say, and it sounds like a weak excuse even to me.

  It’s not that I don’t want to hang out with a guy whose hair maybe isn’t so bad after all, but I’m always hesitant to meet new people. I have a hard time relating to others. This is what I’m told on a weekly basis. I’m also told I need to step outside my comfort zone and let people get to know me.

  “It’s not a matter of having time, it’s a matter of making time. You need to make time for this show. It’s a game changer. You’ll never look at your zombie survival plan the same again.”

  “Yeah, I don’t have one.”

  “How is that possible?” he asks incredulously, and I smile at his wide eyed shock. “Everyone should have one.”

  “Yeah, but I live in reality and I’m not a huge nerd, so I don’t.”

  “You’ll be sorry.”

  I look at the clock behind his head and gasp. I’m running late. I leap up from the couch and grab my purse, smiling at him again as I move to leave.

  “I have to go, sorry.” I point to the TV as I start to back away. “Watch the show, it’s good.”

  “It’s depressing.”

  “So is any apocalypse.”

  “Tonight? Seven?” he calls after me.

  “Seven!”

  I’m still smiling a block later when I board the MAX.

  Chapter Two

  When I was sixteen my mother put a gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger. There weren’t any warning attempts, no botched jobs where I walked in on a bloody mess in the bathtub, called an ambulance and held her hand ‘til they arrived. It wasn’t nearly so clean, either. She wasn’t worried about making a mess at that point. I wanted to burn the house down after that but my uncle thought selling it might be wiser. Wise or no, nothing is as cleansing as fire.

  My father was long gone at this point, having quit on us the same year I was born. I guess not everyone is cut out for fatherhood. Would have been nice if he’d sorted that out before hand, saved my mother and I a lot of trouble. She tried her best, I know she did, but having a kid isn’t easy and raising one alone is even harder. Tack on postpartum depression and a previously crippling bout of good old fashioned depression, and it’s a miracle we both made it a month let alone sixteen years. She made it until I was on my own two feet, ‘til I knew how the world worked and understood what it meant to be a woman. A good woman. Despite the mental illness that tried to consume her every single day, she was a good person. Great even, and I’ll count myself lucky if I end up half as impressive as she was. I don’t blame her for punching her own ticket. I get it more than anyone. I saw her struggle my entire life and if she found peace then God bless her. I miss her, though. Especially now.

  I’m sitting in the waiting room of the most depressing therapist’s office imaginable. It’s amazing how inspirational posters and “soothing” music can make you want to punch yourself in the face. I sit tapping my foot and worrying a loose thread at the end of my hoodie sleeve. I don’t want to be here but apparently seeing your mother die is traumatizing and my uncle has insisted on these visits ever since it happened four years ago. I’m an adult now and I’m responsible for myself, but my uncle took me in and took care of me after it happened so I feel like I owe it to him to keep coming here as long as he needs me to. My therapist hates that I’m doing it for someone else and not myself, but that’s the way it is and if she wants that to change maybe she should do her job, work her voodoo and change my mind.

  “Alissa, are you ready?” Dr. Clement asks as she pokes her head out of her office door.

 
As I nod and rise, she holds the door open wide for me and I take my usual seat on the far side of the couch, closest to the window. The sunlight pouring into the room is a relief from the neon lighting in the waiting area and I want to get as close to it as I can and drink it in. Dr. Clement shuts the door silently and takes her seat across from me, crossing her legs and pulling out her pen and pad to record my innermost secrets and thoughts.

  “How are you feeling today, Alissa?” she asks pleasantly, tucking her short brown hair behind her ear and grinning at me.

  “I’m great. How are you?”

  “Happy to see you back.”

  I cock my eyebrow at her. “Did you think I wouldn’t be?”

  In return, she cocks her head at me. “Did you consider not coming back?”

  I look her square in her pale blue eyes and ponder my answer carefully. I did consider not coming back. Last session we had a blowout regarding my mother’s death. We’re coming up on the anniversary, she had told me, as though it were a birthday or a marriage to be celebrated and observed year after year ad nauseam. I had explained very pointedly that I did not care to discuss it, but she just kept pushing. She was doing her job but it still pissed me off. No means no, lady. I do not want to rehash the most horrific night of my life every single year.

  “Yes,” I answer simply.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re here. Now, did you think about it? What we talked about?”

  “No.”

  Her lips purse tightly for a moment and then she nods and makes a note on her pad.

  “Alright, that’s your choice. But I have to tell you, Alissa, I think it would go a long way toward you healing if you would try and get some closure.”

  “She ate a bullet where I ate my cereal.” I say evenly. “I’m aware she’s gone. Case closed.”

  Dr. Clement frowns, something I’ve noticed she tries not to do. She doesn’t like showing disapproval of my statements, but anytime I talk about my mother I garner at least one frown. I know that my attitude about her death is very cavalier. Disturbingly so. That’s why I’m here, because no one seems to think I’m actually processing it or truly dealing with what happened so they keep bringing it up and making me go over it and over it. It’s been the same cycle for four years but they never let up. If I didn’t have issues with her death before, I sure do now. She’s gone, I know it better than anyone else, and I’m fine with that. She was hurting being here and she was only doing it for me. I’m not glad she’s gone, but I’m glad she’s out of her misery. I’ve been saying this for four years and apparently it’s the wrong answer. Now I just say whatever pops into my head to make them squirm.

  “Like I said,” she replies calmly. “It’s your choice. If you choose to not visit her grave then—“

  “She’s not even there!” I exclaim, hating myself for losing my cool. I immediately rein it in and shake my head in disgust at this entire process. How many times were we going to have this conversation? “She was cremated and who knows where my uncle spread her ashes. It’s just a headstone. Just another rock in the ground, no different than any other. Things only have the significance we give them and I award none to that slab.”

  “Have you ever asked your uncle where he spread her remains?” Dr. Clement asks, completely unruffled by my small outburst. I imagine part of her is probably pleased.

  “Why would I?”

  Dr. Clement lets the question hang in the air, milking the silence for some kind of additional response from me but it comes up dry. I don’t feel the need to fill silences, much to her dismay. I actually prefer them. If we could come in here and stare at each other quietly for an hour instead of doing this dance we’re engaged in now, I’d be a happy girl.

  “Are you taking your meds?” she finally asks, lifting the pad she’s been writing on and consulting what I assume is a chart on me.

  “Yes,” I say, and let my head hang back until it rests on the back of the couch. This is exhausting.

  “And how do they make you feel? Any complaints?”

  “Nope. They make me feel like a rock star. No complaints.”

  “No trouble sleeping?”

  “No.”

  “No anxiety or panic attacks?”

  “No.”

  “Irritability?”

  “Yes, right now, as you ask me if I’m experiencing symptoms that I just told you I am not having,” I say, raising my head and glaring at her.

  Don’t misunderstand me, I don’t dislike Dr. Clement, not really. What I dislike is the repetition. I hate repeating myself and I hate having the same conversation fifty billion times with the same outcome every single time. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results. I find it ironic that the very thing supposedly keeping insanity at bay is the same thing that Albert Einstein defined to be insanity.

  Dr. Clement patiently puts down her pen and leans forward to look at me.

  “You know why I need to ask these questions. People under twenty-five are more likely to experience an adverse reaction to anti-depressants.”

  “So in four years will you stop asking me?”

  “Do you see yourself still talking to me in four years?”

  I groan and look out the window into the sunshine.

  “Question with a question,” I mutter.

  “It’s my job,” she replies brightly, and when I glance at her she’s smiling.

  “The drugs are helping,” I tell her quietly, and she nods her approval.

  “Good,” she says, making a note on the chart then letting her notepad fall back into place. “We’ll stay the course then. No reason to mess with success.”

  “I’d make it without them,” I say quietly, eyeing her. She doesn’t react other than to look up at me expectantly, waiting for me to continue. I don’t know why, but this time I do. “I’m not her. I’m not as bad off as she was. I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t do what she did if I wasn’t on them.”

  I find it interesting that I can be flippant about what my mother did to herself, but the moment I associate the action with myself, I’m tongue tied. I’m positive Dr. Clement notices this as well. I don’t know what that says about me and I’m not going to ask.

  “I don’t think it’s a risk we want to take, do you?”

  “No.” I say, and I sound dejected even to myself.

  It matters to me that people don’t think I’m a suicide risk. People knowing I’m dealing with a mental illness is plenty, but having everyone around you think you’re one sad song on the radio away from offing yourself, that’s pure torture.

  “You won’t try to self-medicate, will you?” she asks, eyeing me carefully.

  I shake my head no and I mean it. That’s a risk with mental illness patients. A big one. We go on our meds and the world starts to even out and eventually we feel pretty good and start to think we don’t need those pills anymore. Hurray, we’re cured! All the while, we’re forgetting it’s the pills that made us feel well. Going off your meds is like removing your parachute and making the jump anyway. You can’t fly, you never could, and you just left behind the one thing that got you home safely.

  We talk about other things; how school and work are going for me, how my uncle is, any friends I’ve been making, friends I’ve stayed in touch with. She frowns again when we talk about friends because, honestly, I don’t really have any. It’s amazing how many you lose when the world finds out that your mom was unbalanced and chances are you are too. We were teenagers getting our licenses, going to the prom and crushing on guys; none of them wanted to deal with what my world became. They just wanted to be young, and guess what, so did I. I never went to a single dance after that. I finished school relatively alone and when I turned eighteen and asked to move out, Uncle Syd and Dr. Clement had a closed doors discussion without me about it, like I was a prisoner asking for a pardon. They decided that if I kept up on my meds and made it to every appointment then they supported my choice.

  I live in a
pretty nice building in the heart of Portland, Oregon, just across the street from Portland State University where I’m going to school. It’s expensive and I live in a space with two other people, each of us with our own small bedroom but sharing an even smaller kitchen and bathroom. But it’s right there on campus, there’s a MAX light rail stop just outside and I’m surrounded by other students engrossed in their own studies and lives, more than willing to leave me alone when I make it clear I want solitude. Except when I’m in the main TV room trying to watch the History Channel.

  “What’s the smile about?” Dr. Clement asks suddenly, and I realize I had zoned out.

  “Nothing,” I say quickly, wiping it off my face.

  “Alissa.”

  “It’s nothing. It’s… I might have a date tonight?” I say or ask, I’m not really sure. I’m also not sure what tonight with Zombie Boy is.

  “That’s wonderful! Good for you. Tell me all about him,” she insists, sitting back and settling into her chair.

  “There’s not much to tell, I don’t even know his name. I met him in the commons room just before I came here and he asked me if I wanted to get together tonight and watch TV with him.”

  Now that I’m saying it out loud to someone, I know it’s not a date.

  “In his room?” Dr. Clement asks, her eyes narrowing.

  “No. I don’t think so.”