Odium Origins (Book 1): A Dead Saga Novella

by Riley, Claire C.

  The security guard goes out the door, locking it behind him as he leaves, and Damien and I stand and stare at it, listening to more and more screams breaking out, banging and shouting, and finally a gun going off. There’s a thump on the door, and growling, and it sounds like there’s a pack of rabid dogs on the other side of it. When blood seeps from underneath it, Damien grabs a chair and wedges it up against the door handle to be sure it can’t be opened. Then we both back up, looking around us for a way out, but knowing that we’re trapped in a dead-end room.

  “Shit,” I whisper.

  “Shit indeed,” Damien replies.

  Three.

  The noises have been going on for what seems like hours. The pool of blood continues to seep from under the door, growing larger, and the thumping and screaming are endless. I climb under the table and cover my ears with my hands, needing the sounds to stop. This is worse than being in a crack house on a comedown, and I’ve been in one of those—it’s called home, and it ain’t pretty. I know how this shit plays out. I close my eyes, squeezing them shut, welcoming the dark. I hum to myself to block out the rest, a tune my pops used to sing to me by Johnny Cash—Hurt. Most people preferred the Nine Inch Nails version, but not me. Johnny Cash is one of my heroes; that man sings to my soul . . . kinda like my pops used to, I think sadly.

  *

  “Crunch. Wake up, bitch.”

  I feel something hard in my ribs and open my eyes, seeing Damien’s big black face looming down on me, and one of his big meaty fingers poking me in the side. I jump, confused and frightened, and bump my head against the underside of the table.

  “Fuck!”

  “Shhhh.” Damien’s hand reaches over and covers my mouth. “It’s finally gone quiet.”

  I nod an okay and he removes his hand, and I crawl out from under the table. He looks frightened, like maybe he’s even been crying. “What happened?” My eyes fall to the floor, specifically to the blood patch seeping underneath the door.

  “No fucking clue, but all the screaming an’ shouting stopped a little while ago.” If a black guy can look pale, that’s how he looks. I’ve seen him looking slightly green coming down from some pills, and I’ve seen him tripping his socks off and looking all red and flustered, but I never thought I would see him looking white. Well, okay, it’s more of a gray color if I’m being totally honest. Dude ain’t ever gonna be looking like Casper the Friendly Ghost, but he’s still pale as shit.

  I creep over to the door, pressing my ear against it. Silence slinks through the wood—solid, hollow, echoing silence.

  “Crunch?”

  I jump, squealing, and then I jump back when something thumps on the other side of the door. A shadow falls underneath it and we both step back as one.

  “Shit, bitch, what’s going on?”

  I shake my head but don’t say anything. My stomach has hit the floor. I’ve had this feeling before—the feeling that something has been forever changed. The last time I had it, I came home from school and found my mom passed out on the sofa, a needle hanging out of her arm, and the local dealer fucking her. As a young girl with a scholarship and a future at med school in the cards, I was clueless as to what was happening, but I knew that things wouldn’t ever be the same again. And I was right. Just like I know I’m right now.

  We sit there waiting, hoping our security guard will come back any minute and take us away to prison. But as the hours tick by, it becomes less and less likely that it’s going to happen.

  “We’ve gotta get out of here.” I stand and look around us, staring up at the ceiling. “Dude, gimme a boost.”

  Damien comes up behind me and lifts me to his shoulders, and I manage to push out one of the ceiling panels and peer up inside. I can’t get a good look around—even Damien’s not tall enough to get me high enough for that, but it seems doable. Water and electricity pipes cover the floor, with panels of wood covering some of them like a pathway, and it all seems sturdy enough to hold our weight.

  “Okay, put me down,” I whisper.

  Damien lowers me back down and looks me in the eyes, his face hopeful. His hands rub together nervously, sweat trickling from his brow. “Well?”

  “Yeah, I think we can get out through there.” I pause and watch as another shadow passes under the door. A funky smell is beginning to fester from the other side, and I grimace as I get a strong whiff of it, glancing at Damien to see him making a similar face. Yeah, it’s time we got out of here, I think. I have no idea what’s going on, or what to expect if we get out of this room, but we can’t just stay here forever, and I need to go check on my family. Specifically Pops.

  We stack some chairs on top of the table and I climb up, pushing the ceiling panel out of the way, and pull myself up and inside. I’m quite fit thanks to running drug errands for my pops, and my upper body strength is better still from training with his weapons collection. Long before Pops became a crackhead in the name of love, he was a clever man—a university teacher no less—specializing in historical weapons. He was a real history buff and we actually had enough money around the house for him to build himself quite a collection. Like really expensive shit. Granted some of it was stolen, but I’m more than sure he bought some of it with his paycheck. The only time he ever spent money on himself was for those damn weapons, and so far—even through the blur of his addictions—he still has every one of those damn things. He still tells me I have to know how to use every one of them—especially the kukri knives. They’re his favorites for some reason; yet another mystery. I don’t know why it’s so important to him. Perhaps the crack is boiling his brain cells.

  Damien stuffs the stolen gear back in his pockets—even going so far as to shove the dildo down the back of his pants again—before he climbs on top of the chairs and pulls himself up with ease, his height giving him an advantage, but his weight hindering him some. I raise an eyebrow at him and he shrugs.

  “Still need some cash, right?”

  “That’s the least of our problems right now.”

  We crawl along the narrow space, trying to avoid pipes that have hot water running through them. I lead the way, stopping after a couple of right turns. I move the ceiling panel out of the way and look down, feeling frozen to my very core.

  Blood, guts, bones, and flesh are splayed around the small electronics store, covering game consoles and comic books. The owner is leaning over the countertop, looking mighty pissed off at his destroyed store—or at least he would be if he wasn’t being eaten. I stare at the scene before me, watching as three men dig their hands into holes in the guy’s body, pulling out chunks of flesh and organs and then shoving them into their greedy, waiting mouths with a growl. I retch, the feeling coming from the bottom of my stomach and not stopping until the vomit leaves my mouth, spraying out in chunks and landing with an unceremonious splat on the carpet below. The people look up from the man’s body, and it’s then that I see their faces: torn up, with chunks missing—whole fucking portions of their faces gone. I retch again, but with an empty stomach, nothing more than liquid comes up. Their eyes look up, and with angry growls they come toward me. I slide the panel back in place and continue crawling, quicker than before.

  “Move, move, move,” I whisper.

  “Don’t need to tell me twice, bitch.”

  We shuffle forward, leaving the hungry growls behind us.

  “What the fuck was that all about?” Damien whispers to me with what sounds like a sob.

  What was it? That was zombies is what it was, but that’s impossible right? I mean, that’s the stuff of comic books and movies, not real life.

  “I have no idea,” I reply, lying through my teeth.

  We reach another ceiling panel and I slip my fingers underneath and pull it up, peeking down below. It’s a Laundromat, but this place isn’t going to be getting anything clean anytime soon. Those dead things are shuffling around, looking just as fucking nasty as in the other store. Maybe even worse—or maybe these ones are just a little closer and
I can see even more of them. Oh yay. I roll my eyes, sick of this shit already. It’s just one fucking drama after another in my life, and what now? A fucking apocalypse? The place stinks, the smell almost palpable in my mouth.

  “Move, bitch,” Damien whispers and pushes my skinny ass.

  I slide the panel back in place, gagging at the smell once more, and move forward. I turn back around at the sound of him sobbing again. “Shut the fuck up, dude.”

  His big brown eyes look at me, tears spilling down his smooth cheeks. “I’m sorry, it’s just—”

  “I know, it’s okay.” I turn back around and keep on crawling.

  I have no idea where these tunnels lead or if they’re going to get us the hell out of here, but I don’t know what else to do. A creak behind me makes me turn again, and I glance back in time to see Damien look like a rabbit in fucking headlights right before he falls through the ceiling and into the Laundromat below.

  “Crunch!” he screams.

  A loud thump below signals his landing, and I shuffle around in the tight spot to go back for him. I look down to him below. He looks frightened, the whites of his eyes shining bright as he struggles to get to his feet, but one of his legs is bent at an awkward angle and he isn’t going to be walking anytime soon.

  “Crunch!” He looks around him in a panic. “Crunch, help me!” he sobs.

  The torn-up people are moving toward him, letting out throaty growls and groans, and all I can do is watch. He pulls out the big black dildo from his pocket, and as a zombie (or whatever they are) gets too close, he begins to beat it over the head with it, using such force that the large implement breaks the zombie’s skin and sends blood arcing from its face. He pounds it over and over again with the dildo, until the black is smothered in red. The zombie even seems to be slowing down as Damien screams and begs for me to help him, but what can I do?

  More of the things are coming, and as the first one gets to him and bites down on one of his thick forearms, he screams like a bitch and I cry. I don’t remember the last time I cried, but I know I’ll never forget this. As they surround him and he gargles blood, his hand finally letting go of the dildo, I make the sign of the cross and put the ceiling panel back in place. I can’t do anything for him now, but maybe if I can get out of here I can get help—the police, the army, fuck I don’t know; someone must be able to help, though.

  I crawl until my knees feel red and raw, and I finally see light, like real daylight. I reach the end of the crawlspace and kick out the vent. It falls to the ground, clattering on the pavement and echoing down the alley, but no one’s around. I slide out and drop to the ground, realizing that this is pretty much where we were standing earlier today. I need to check on my parents—not that they would ever care about me, but I’m not them, and I do give a shit.

  *

  I slam into the front door, fumbling with my key, my breath burning in my throat, and chance a quick glance behind me. The zombies are coming. Four or five of them have been following me for a while, alerting more and more to my presence, sniffing me out like I’m a fucking T-bone steak. My key slips into the lock and I open it up and slam it back closed behind me.

  “Pops?” I run through the house calling his name, but only find blood. Even Mom isn’t here, or the usual junkies that normally hang around.

  I check the stash in his room and see that it’s gone, realizing with horror that they left me. I knew they would, I guess my heart just didn’t believe it. How could he leave me? Pops has always loved her more than me; even though she singlehandedly destroyed our family and my future, it was always her. I sob, choking up on the thought of being alone. How many times have I prayed to get away from them, and here it is: they’re gone. I don’t have to feel the guilt anymore for leaving, because they left me. Because he, my pops, left me.

  I take a shuddering breath and release it slowly, ignoring the thumping from the front door, knowing it’s the zombies.

  Plan, plan, I need a plan. I look around, seeing his prized fucking weapons. He’s taken some of them, but my favorites are still here. Maybe he didn’t completely abandon me. Maybe, somewhere deep down, he still had some thought for me before he left with her. I shake my head, angry at myself for thinking that way. I have to get a grip. They left me because I mean nothing to them; I’ve never meant anything to anyone, and now I’m alone.

  I grab a backpack—the one he makes me use to do his drug runs—and fill it up with clothes and weapons: hoodies, socks, and my kukri knives. That’s all I need right now. I’ve learned to survive on little to no food since we never have any food in the house, and I know how to scavenge—I’m not wasting space in my pack for that. I do, however, run through to the front room and grab my first aid kit, which is still splayed all over the floor. I scoop it all up and put it in my backpack, grabbing a couple of lighters that are lying around as I do. Never know when these will come in handy. Anger and resentment burn in me. They left me—he left me. I grab the dirty dishes from the kitchen side and smash them to the floor with a guttural scream, tears pouring down my face. I make a promise to myself that I will never come second to anyone ever again. It’s just me now, fuck everybody else.

  I look out the back window and see our next-door neighbors in their yard. Fuckers were always complaining about the noise coming from our house—people coming around all night and day to score. They used to say that we brought down the neighborhood, and they weren’t wrong; but they never tried to help me, even when they could see I was just a little girl being dragged down into hell by parents who didn’t care enough to put food in the cupboards for their daughter. I scream again, self-pitying rage burning through me. Yet more people who didn’t help me, who didn’t choose me. To see them now in several pieces splattered across their back lawn—a hand by the rose bushes, a leg by their little pond—I don’t feel any grief for them. In fact I feel positively happy that I won’t have to kill them for their ride. I open the back door, sliding open the top bolt as quietly as possible, and slip out, hopping across their little fence and trying their back door.

  It’s open and I go inside, not worrying about getting arrested for breaking and entering, since the cops are going to be more worried about the dead bodies walking around than a little car crime. I check the kitchen drawers for the keys and come up short, but finally find them hanging by the garage door. I go into the garage and climb inside their old Buick. It’s cream-colored and old as shit, but looks pristine. Seems like they loved this thing, and I can’t wait to drive it flat out, hearing the engine race and knowing that if Mr. Taylor could see me driving the shit out of it, the old guy would bust a nut.

  I hit the remote for the garage door—I’m not even sure if it works, but I’m thankful when it does. I know ours hasn’t worked in God knows how long. It creeps up slowly, making little to no noise, just like it should if you take good care of it. I pull out of the garage, seeing the zombies everywhere. Now that they’ve heard the engine, they’re attracted to the noise and are coming for me, leaving my front doorstep and heading through our overgrown yard, past my old tire swing.

  A memory breaks free, and I see myself as a child once more, playing on that tire swing and asking Pops to push me higher, but when I turned around he’d gone back inside—back inside to her. He left me outside to fend for myself. But I was too little to fend for myself against the big and bad of the world, I was too little to stop the boys who pulled up in the car and took me behind the garbage cans at the side of my house and touched me in places that they shouldn’t. I was too young, and too little, and he was nowhere to be seen again.

  I sob loudly, feeling broken and exhausted, feeling something snap inside me. My pops is no hero; he’s as big of a monster as everyone else in this world. This life has just been constant pain and rejection. I think of Johnny Cash and the lyrics to the song Hurt: ‘I focus on the pain, the only thing that’s real.’ I have to hold onto this pain. I can’t forget it, because I can’t forgive him for this, never again. I hate
him, and I hate every fucker in this world who has ever left me behind. I rev the engine, say goodbye to my little street, my home, and this life, and floor it out of here.

  Four.

  It’s weeks later before I have an actual conversation with another person. I try to avoid other people as much as possible; it seems safer that way, for them and for me. I feel forever changed, not just by the world going to shit, but by something much deeper. After some of the stuff I witness on my travels, I wonder who is actually worse: humans or zombies. Sure, the zombies are eating people alive, but the humans—shit, we’ve turned on each other more and more as our numbers have dwindled.

  I sleep in the car, ready to go at a moment’s notice; and go I’ve had to fucking do at times. Being woken up by the half-eaten face of a young child head-butting your window makes you appreciate the little things in life.

  I’ve lost even more weight, but that’s okay: I’m used to being hungry. However it’s the loneliness that’s driving me nuts. I miss interacting with others. I miss Damien. I even miss my pops from time to time, despite my anger toward him; but I cling to my childhood memories like they’re the very breath that I breathe, and remind myself what a shitty parent he was so I can keep my hatred for him burning bright. I’m never desperate enough to miss my mom though.

  I daydream a lot, wondering what’s happening in the world. I scroll through every radio dial every night, checking all the channels and hearing nothing but fuzz coming through the waves—no music, no talking, nothing. Fucking end of days is here, and it’s lonely.

  The Buick is doing good, but I’m constantly on the move, and filling up for gas is scary fucking business, so I try to stick to the small, out-of-town garages—ones away from large towns and even larger populations. I pull the car into a little garage on a small dusty road. No other cars are around, and I pull in and check the nozzle. Gas pumps out of it right away, and I’m thankful that someone was a lazy fucker and left the pumps on. I stick the nozzle in the Buick and listen as it guzzles up everything I give it.