by Schow, Ryan
That sinking feeling in her spiraled nearly out of control. Claustrophobia spun up a torrent of anxiety in her for the first time in her life.
“May,” she called out, making sure her voice was lower than the fluctuating din of the ATV’s engine. She didn’t get an answer so she tried calling her again, and again.
And again.
They came to a stop, the man getting off the ATV and heading back their way. He was whistling a tune she didn’t recognize.
The very fact that he was in a pleasant enough mood to whistle turned her stomach.
The dead girl on top of her was pulled off her, the sharp elbows grating over Skylar’s face. A moment later, big hands reached for her, yanked her off the pack like she was luggage, then threw her onto another pile of bodies. She flopped on her side. He pushed her shoulder over so she was laying relatively flat.
For a second, she couldn’t breathe. He’d knocked the wind out of her. Relying on her training, she knew what to do.
When you get the wind knocked out of you, you don’t try to breathe.
Not for ten seconds minimum.
That’s how long it took for your body to release the grip it seemed to have on your throat and lungs. When she struggled for air, she found the tension she felt in her chest was gone and she could breathe, although it was a bit tight at first.
As for the pain of being tossed around, she likened it to that of a hard day of Krav. If she framed it as such, she wouldn’t feel like a victim, or weak from the abuse. Krav she could deal with. This madness…not so much. So she kept on telling herself that tale, even though it was one big, fat lie.
The stink of the bodies was revolting. Now that she could breathe, that’s what she was smelling. The corpses. She assumed most were freshly dead, but there was one or two who’d clearly been marinating. She didn’t want to swallow hard, but she didn’t want to start puking either. If the Chicom soldier found her alive would he kill her? What if she opened her eyes and asked for help?
Her question was answered a few minutes later.
She heard a boy in the stack moaning.
“Please,” he said, his voice gravely and raw. The man never stopped whistling. The next sounds she heard tied her stomach in knots. It was the sounds of a watermelon being pulped by a hammer. Except this was the kid’s head.
She knew that sound.
She knew it and that’s what made tears boil in her eyes and leak down her face. All her attempts to stop the wayward tears failed. Right then, she started to pray. She had to stop this otherwise—if he saw the tracks of her tears cutting lines through the dust on her skin—the Chicom undertaker would know she was alive.
Would he even think twice before bashing her head in? Probably not. The boy’s dead body flew on the pile moments later.
She smelled fresh blood.
After unloading the remains of the trailer onto the pile, she heard him getting something off his ATV. She opened her eyes, grateful that in all the tossing around, it had knocked the dust off her lids. She felt filthy, though. Rolled in dirt. That’s when she saw what he was getting. He was retrieving a large jug of lighter fluid.
Looking around for the first time, she realized she was on a burn pile and he was about to set everyone here on fire. Frantic, she searched for May. A few feet away, just above her, she saw her fellow Resistance member.
Still whistling, the lone Chicom soldier turned and started squirting the bodies with fluid. Except he wasn’t dousing the entire pile, just the base. She was about five bodies up. It wouldn’t take long for the flames to engulf her.
Unless it was a slow burn.
Her mind went wild with the most horrific scenarios possible. The most unlikely scenario, however, was that the burn would be monumentally slow and he would immediately leave so she could just crawl off the pack, pulling May to safety with her.
The minute he lit the pile on the other side, she quickly rolled off into the street, scrambling behind his trailer and his ATV.
There’s nowhere to hide!
That’s when she saw the handheld sledge hammer. One of the those three pound jobbers the size of a multipurpose hammer but with the big metal head.
It was sitting on the seat of the ATV with blood and hair smashed on the face of it. She was about to reach for it when the flames took off, moving up the pile fairly quickly. The second she looked over, he was coming. She stood and charged him, hitting him with a ferocious kick to the groin that caught him off guard.
He doubled over, not because she got the neck and giblets, but because she hit the pelvic bone and it broke.
That’s how hard Yoav trained them to kick.
To destroy bone.
Curled up and scared, he reached for his sidearm, but he was having a hard time standing up. He got the weapon free, but she took it from him and fired a round into his knee.
Eyes back on the fire, her heart surged.
She scrambled up the burning pile of bodies, twice stamping out the flames that took to her right leg. In no time flat, she was standing over May, slapping her face and yelling for her to wake up.
May’s eyes finally opened, but she was groggy, a huge knot on her head where something hit her, or where she hit something.
She was having a hard time coming around.
The first thing Skylar worried about was brain damage. The second thing she worried about was having to kill her if she did. No one should have to survive the apocalypse without their faculties. To be left alive under those conditions would be downright cruel. The third thing she worried about was getting May through the flames.
Deal with it when it’s done, she thought.
Grabbing her by the collar, she dragged her down through the bodies, then moved as quickly as she could through the flames.
Skylar’s pants caught on fire, but she couldn’t leave May there to burn. So she yanked her friend through those same flames, using the rest of her might to pull the girl to safety. May came through, but her hair and back started to burn, as did her legs.
Skylar dropped down and rolled, trying to put herself out first. The flames were driving for her thighs. Patting them furiously, she managed to stop the fiery surge. May was suddenly alert, realizing for the first time that she was on fire.
May rolled over, started slapping the fire in her hair. She then started to pull at it, tossing aside bundles of burning hair and grabbing for more. Panicked, she started rolling around in the dirt to smother the flames. Skylar bolted over, covering her like a blanket while slapping out the fire with already tender hands.
By some miracle, it worked.
Both women were clear of the fire, both of them the smoking remains of a near death experience.
May was shaking, a little panicked, steady hyperventilating pants leaving her mouth. She pushed Skylar off her, still convinced she was on fire.
She wasn’t.
Skylar looked at the Chicom on the ground, howling about his knee. She stood and went to him, picking up the gun she’d dropped as she ran to May. When she got it, she went lefty instead of righty. At the ATV, she grabbed the mallet off the seat, then walked over to him, her legs still smoking, the skin on her thighs and palms as hot as a sunburn.
He looked up at her, visibly terrified. She must have looked like hell on two feet.
Covered head to toe in dirt and dust, blacked out in ash and smoking, she was a shaved head, pounded flesh for a face, and eyes that had only one thing in mind: his gruesome, pain filled, non-whistling death.
“DEVIL!” he shouted, raising a hand as if his flesh between them would stop her.
She lifted the gun, put a bullet in his hand.
He drew it back, crying, sobbing, mumbling something in Chinese she couldn’t understand. Looking down at the knee she shot, seeing how bloody it was, knowing how painful it would be, she clobbered it with the sledge, causing him to whoop and howl.
She shot the other leg and watched him, his hysteria, his sheer agony doing nothing for her.
She adjusted the pistol and shot the other knee, causing the noise levels to drop.
Shock set in.
His eyes suddenly got that faraway look, like he was somewhere else, his soul unable to take the pain, something else coming forth in its place. An alternate personality, perhaps, or just plain nothing.
Standing there smoking, feeling like the embodiment of wrath, she was at a crossroads. To her right was a pile of burning bodies. Before her was the collector. He was just doing what he was told, the same thing maybe she’d do if the situation was reversed.
But he was whistling.
Whistling.
Like he enjoyed it, his work, this sick task.
And then she thought of the boy whose head he pounded in while whistling. She looked back down and he was back in his body, begging her for mercy, his hands shaking over his shot knees, afraid to touch them, worried they’d never be the same.
The first hit didn’t break the skull. The sound resonated in her heart, though. This was the same sound the boy’s head first made. The second hit was clean. Half the sledge hammer’s head broke through the Chicom’s skull.
You’re there, she thought.
I’m here.
They say the moment a person crosses over into the land of killing and death, a cord snaps, the one connecting you to your humanity, your compassion, your decency. Religion would have you believe this is the cord connecting you to God. Once that cord is cut, it is forever severed. For if you can kill in cold blood, if you can do so without mercy or feeling, then you are no longer human, but something else entirely. Something no longer divine, no longer salvageable.
As she stood there, looking at this pitiful man, she realized she’d cut that cord a long time ago. Yanking the hammer out of his head, she thrust the gun into his face and pulled the trigger. His head jolted back and he laid there, red draining out of the exit hole.
“Good God,” May said from behind her. She turned and looked at the still smoking girl. “You do look like the devil.”
“Before you get all judgy,” she said, “you should step in front of a mirror.”
“If that means there’s a shower nearby, I’ll happily oblige.”
“We need to go.”
“Were we in that pile?” she asked over the crackling of the flames.
“Yes,” she said.
“And you pulled me out of there?”
“Barely.”
“Devil or not,” she said, weary, her eyes a little loose in her sockets, “thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I think I’m cut,” she said. “But there’s so much dirt and ash, I can’t tell. I feel burned, too.”
“We need to unhitch this trailer from the ATV and get the hell out of here,” Skylar said, moving to release it.
The second she looked at the hitch pin and the trailer, she wondered if she could muster the strength to lift the coupler off the trailer ball.
Whether or not she could, she was damn well going to try.
Skylar unhooked and dropped the safety chains, pulled the hitch pin and tossed it aside, then she took a breath, squatted down and lifted the trailer coupler off the trailer ball, fighting it just a little before standing straight up again. She then baby walked sideways, shifting the trailer on the flat of its tires, and then she dropped it, getting out of the way in time.
“Let’s get this dog and pony show on the road,” she said, climbing on the ATV. She looked at May, who was still dazed, and gave her the eyes. “Let’s go already.”
“Coming,” she said, walking like a zombie through the debris and climbing on the ATV. “How are your shoulders?”
“They hurt so bad I can’t feel them, if that makes sense.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It means I’m high on adrenaline,” Skylar explained. “When I come down off this particular high, I’m praying to God I’m in a bed with about a few thousand milligrams of Ibuprofen in me.”
“There’s so much dirt on you I can’t tell if you’re even bleeding.”
She handed the mini sledge to May, resting the fiberglass handle on her trap muscle and said, “Can you handle this or do you want the gun?”
“Gun is lighter.”
“Yes, but can you shoot if I need you to?”
“No,” May said without hesitation.
“Take the sledge then,” she said, giving it a bit of a shake. The girl took it, freeing up her hand. She kick started the ATV then said, “Hang on.”
May’s arms circled her waist and that’s when Skylar took off. The wind against her face and arms felt good. The dust blowing off her skin and clothes felt better. When she looked down and saw both of May’s hands around her she said, “May?”
“What?”
“Where’s the sledge hammer I gave you?”
“It was too heavy,” she said.
Taking a deep breath, getting hold of herself, she shook her head, then tried to relax. There was no reason to go after the hammer, not when she had a gun. Still, the heft of it felt great. Like she could really Hulk Smash! some idiots if need be.
“That was Thor’s hammer to me,” she said over her shoulder. May said nothing, so she said, “Where is the safe house from here?”
Just as she asked the question, however, a helicopter buzzed overhead, racing past them, guns blazing. It cleared the rooftops, causing Skylar to swerve hard and head the other direction.
“Where is it, May?!”
“Up ahead. Not far from here. Just keep going where you’re going.”
Seven more blocks up, they found the house. Skylar pulled around back, killed the engine, then got off and said, “You sure?”
She nodded her head, her body floppy. Skylar could barely stand herself. The adrenaline was wearing off fast, her body aches a separate agonizing pain, and a headache like nothing she’d ever felt before.
May started to slide off the ATV. She caught her friend, hoisted her over her shoulders and muscled her to the doorway.
“Put me down,” May said. “Pants pocket.”
Skylar lowered her halfway down, but couldn’t slow the fall. She dropped her on the porch, her head smacking the door, her body crumpled up against it.
“Sorry, May,” she said to the now unconscious woman
Fishing around in May’s front pocket, she found the key, pulled it out, stood up straight and almost went back down because she’d moved too fast for the damage in her body.
She slid the key into the lock, turned the knob, sighed with relief. Seconds later, after she’d dragged May inside and shut the door, she realized they were alone.
But the guys left before them!
Her heart sank.
She looked around the place, searching for food, finding only a few cans of random food, but no can opener. She wondered if she could shoot a hole in the can to get it open. There was also a jar of salsa (but no chips), several big bags of beans and rice, but no water to cook them in.
She found a pair of scissors and looked at May, stretched out on the floor, still out cold.
Heading over to the woman, she knelt down and cut her shirt away, revealing a sweat stained bra and some pretty bad scarring. There were also scattered nicks and scratches, burned skin and major bruising on her right side.
“You poor thing,” she said as she cut her pants off.
Her underwear looked clean, but her legs had burns all over them. She turned away, the hurt of seeing her skin adding to the pain she carried from her own injuries.
“We need some medical supplies for you, girl,” she said. “And some food for us.”
When May opened her eyes, she said, “Are we there yet?”
“We are,” Skylar said.
“Good.”
But it wasn’t good. As far as safe houses went, this one sucked ass through a straw. She went upstairs to check on the medical supplies situation and found several stolen First Aid kits. There was not enough burn ointment to cover her legs, though, a
nd there were only a few sealed packages of Ibuprofen.
She dry-swallowed four, then looked in the mirror.
“Shit almighty,” she said.
What she saw scared the bejesus out of her. Instinctively, she turned on the faucet. Only a drizzle of water leaked out, but that ran dry after a second.
She opened up the toilet, saw a turd and a peach pit.
“What the hell?”
She tried to flush, but it was clogged. Lifting up the tank lid, she found there was still some water in there.
Thank God!
She splashed the water into her face, washing the marred skin as best as she could. When she reached the bottom of the tank, she cupped her hand and scooped out what was left, washing behind her ears and rinsing out her eyes and mouth.
There was some old mouthwash under the sink. It was expired months ago, but smelled fine. She tipped the bottle back, burning the cuts inside her lips. She didn’t care. That minty fresh feeling was an orgasm in her mouth. Even better, she no longer had dirt-stained teeth!
“You look sexy as hell,” she told her reflection.
She didn’t.
Not by a long shot.
Running her hand over the growth of new hair on her previously shaved head, she let her eyes travel to each and every imperfection. She wasn’t looking for the things God forgot or got wrong in making her; she was looking at how much damage had been done to her.
It was significant.
Peeling back the shoulders of her shirt, she found the gauze was firmly tacked to the wounds. She tried pulling them back, but they were sticking to the skin, and it was hard to pull them away clean.
Several of the stitches had popped loose on each arm, the flesh parted and bleeding again.
“Great,” she mumbled.
Shaking her head, she knew if she didn’t get them taken care of, they would infect and she’d have to amputate her arms from her body. Or maybe just die.
The two were synonymous, and she was clearly delirious.
Braving another look in the mirror, she saw her eyes, and even though there was blood in one of them, the other was clear, save for a few overly red blood vessels. She focused there, lost herself in the look of her own eye, tried to feel the soul that might have slipped away from her.