by Tara Brown
The man, the monster, doesn't move. Not so much as a flicker.
I walk barefoot right past him, noting the smell of him, the ripe scent of death, and head for the cooler at the back. I grab water, room temperature water and open it, dumping it on myself, scrubbing and cleaning every inch of me. I wash the bite mark, curious at how the skin has hardened and knotted but it doesn't hurt. It’s completely healed.
I open a second water and pour it over myself, cleaning even my feet and hair.
When I’m done I walk back to the man, water dripping off my naked body and making sounds in the stillness.
But he doesn't budge.
He doesn't even breathe differently.
He stands there, swaying in a breeze I cannot feel, and sleeps.
I snap my fingers in front of his eyes. They open and close again.
I poke him, he grunts and sways wider.
I shove him but he doesn't react. He stabilizes himself and closes his bloodshot eyes again, swaying like there is something moving him and I can’t see it.
“What are you doing?” Grace whispers from a corner.
The man and I turn to her simultaneously.
He switches on and lurches forward at the same moment I grab his head and neck, tilting him back and dropping him to the floor. I press my thumbs into his eyes as he claws at me, scraping down my forearms. My fingers slide past the eyeball, bursting blood from the decaying sockets as I get a firm hold and push harder.
Grace gasps as the man dies. My fingers tremble where I pushed in, noting the sensation of his blood on my hands. I pull back, lifting his head as I slide my fingers from his sockets and let him fall to the floor, wiping my hands on his clothes.
“Why are you naked?” Grace whispers harshly.
“I had to know.” I turn, facing her, unashamed of what I am or what I’ve done. “It’s not the blood. It’s me. I washed myself off and everything and he still didn't move, not till you came. He woke the moment you spoke. It’s like I’m invisible.”
“That’s weird.” Her eyes focus on my face in a way that suggests they’re straining not to move lower. That makes me grin, naked and all. Her trying not to look means she wants to look. It means she thinks of me as a guy, not a sicko, not a criminal, not a killer. A guy. It’s not the first time it’s happened. It’s the first time I’ve wanted it to happen.
“It is weird. Lucky, but weird.” I chuckle a little, trying to be a guy, a normal guy. “I’ll wash up. Can you grab me a change of clothes from the trunk?” I walk past her, not hiding any of it. Any of who I am. I think she can handle me, even the me we both know isn’t always rational.
“Yeah,” she whispers, she sounds scared. I don't like that. It feels wrong now.
She brings the clothes as I stock up on food and drinks for the trunk. She stands to the side, her eyes forced to the dirty walls and dark corners. She shifts on her feet as if having an awkward conversation with her body.
“You okay?”
“What?” She jerks. “Yeah, fine. I’m fine.” She nods too eagerly.
“There’s candy bars. We should grab them.” I cock my head in the direction as I pull on clothes.
“Okay.” She scurries, rushing to the bars and to busy her hands.
We’re becoming awkward, it’s instant. I’m not awkward, but she’s dragging me down with her.
She carries them, staring at me more now that I’m dressed. She drops a bar and I grab it, balancing my armload of stuff.
“Thanks.” She smiles. She’s busy watching me, missing the two things staggering our way.
I drop the food and hold my crowbar up. “Get in the car.” I don’t shout it, but I use the tone she doesn’t argue with.
They ignore me, rushing toward her. She makes fantastic bait, allowing me to swing and break one of the zombie’s necks with the first hit. She squeals as I hit the second one, knocking him back. He growls and seethes, reaching for her, ignoring me.
I strike again and again, the splatter hitting my arms and hands as I smash him over and over. His head caves in, becoming more of a smashed pumpkin and less of a human being.
He dies, the other zombie growls and tries to move but he can’t, and I wipe the crowbar in the dirt. I clean up again and pick everything up and put it in the trunk, with the three sets of wide eyes watching me.
When I get in the car and drive away, Celia says what we’re all thinking, or at least what I assume we’re all thinking, “Why don't they see you?”
“I don't know. I got bit and the blood that moves on its own didn’t affect me.”
“But why?” Her eyes narrow in the rearview mirror.
“Maybe Grace was right, maybe I’m already broken so the blood didn't want me.” I try to say it jokingly, but I can’t. I don't believe I’m more broken than the crazy assholes at the hospital, nevertheless here we are. All the other patients were turned. I saw them. Old Mike was turned. Am I really crazier than Old Mike?
My gaze turns to Grace, noting she’s uncomfortable. There’s obvious tension in her legs and hands. I want to enjoy her tension, the way I used to, to savor the way her fingers grip each other, clinging and massaging. I used to like that. I’m finding less joy in it these days. I notice myself trying not to find any joy.
My lips part at least ten times as I contemplate saying something, smoothing over this discomfort or easing the tension at least. I could joke about being naked in front of her, like it’s no big deal but clearly it is. She’s acting weird now.
I don't know what to say to make this better.
It’s strange I even care to.
Maybe I should just kill her. End whatever these feelings are. I’m stronger without her.
Or I could be mean to her, make fun of her. But pretending not to like her would be a lie, a fake ass lie, and for whatever reason, I don't want to start lying to her. Once I start it gets so easy. Too easy. It becomes who I am with that person.
My brain is the kind where the lies become a sport and the manipulation pushes until there’s a definitive line in the sand, me and them.
And I don't want her to be that person to me.
But I don't know why.
As if Grace knows what I’m thinking, her eyes flicker to mine, glistening in the dark. A tense smile lifts her lips. “You getting tired of driving yet?”
“No.” I realize she doesn't know me very well. “I don't—”
“Liam doesn't need sleep like other people do. He doesn't get tired like you or I,” Celia cuts me off. She says it in a way that points out the line in the sand isn’t just mine. She too has drawn one, and I’m on the other side of it. Normal on one side and Liam on the other. Somehow even the pasty ape is on her side, but I am not.
“Really?” Grace scowls. “How much sleep do you need?”
“A couple of hours. Sometimes I pass out and sleep for a crazy long time, like ten hours. But that’s sporadic. Like I’m catching up on sleep, though that’s such a moronic idea. As if sleep was a bank account and every day you were supposed to deposit eight dollars and if you didn't, you still owed it.”
“That’s weird. I wish I could’ve had that problem when I was in college. Needing to sleep changed my major.” She laughs.
“Liam doesn't see it as a problem.” Celia laughs too. “More time to plot.” She winks at me like this is a joke, but we both know it’s not. We know she’s right.
“I do love to plot,” I answer back, minus the fake laugh.
“Do you read a lot?” Grace asks.
“I do,” I reply. “I read a ton. Gotta pass the time somehow.”
“And the library at the hospital was impressive.” She yawns, finally relaxing into her seat again.
“It was. I was allowed to have books brought in as well. I had a subscription for new releases.” I don't tell her they were mostly scholastic books and not fiction.
“Who’s your favorite author?”
“Of all time? Impossible to name. I suppose my favorite so far
this year was E. Lockhart who wrote a book called We Were Liars. It was good. I read it a couple of times. It just came out this spring.”
“I had that on my to-be-read list but never got a chance to read it.”
“You should.” I say it like the world isn’t ending and she can borrow my copy and everything is fine. I almost laugh at the conversation.
But she yawns again and curls up more. “Last week I read a book called Everything I Never Told You. It was pretty good.” She cracks something of a grin as though she’s forgotten the awkward nudity and weirdness we were encased in only moments ago. “If we come across a bookstore we could rob it and find the book.”
“I’ll get you the one I read too.” I laugh. We laugh.
“Maybe you could find some books on surviving the apocalypse.” Celia chuckles.
It’s the weirdest hour we’ve had in three days.
But I like it.
I might not mind Celia. My desire to kill her is nearly gone. Nearly.
They get comfortable and I drive, studying the map and figuring out routes.
Lester sleeps the entire ride to Denver, all nine hours of it. Celia sleeps and wakes constantly as if she’s fighting the sleep, maybe not wanting me to be in control while they’re all sleeping.
Grace naps but wakes with a startle, checking on me and our location.
I’ve never wanted someone to trust me before, never. But I want her to trust me. I don't want to disappoint her.
For half a second I wonder if this is what attraction feels like. The real kind, not the sexual kind. The moment I met her I found her attractive in the sexual way. Her eyes were wide and filled with fear and she tried so hard to act like I didn't scare her, pretending the monsters outside scared her more than the monster inside with her did.
But now it’s different. It’s not sexual. In fact, I haven’t had a sexual thought since—shit. Since the bite.
I haven’t had urges or taken my regular meds or lost control.
I flip my hands over, checking my palms for the grip-mark scars I make all the time when I ball my hands up. They’re healed over and pale like they’re old scars. I haven’t torn them open, something I do frequently.
I try to feel the normal emotions, the ones I normally wish I didn’t have. It’s not the sarcasm, bitterness, or lack of empathy that I mind. Or the dark and seedy thoughts, the ones I should avoid. It’s not the plots I contemplate that always end with Celia or Meredith winding up dead or flipping out.
No, the emotions I don’t like are the out of control ones.
Rage.
Erratic thought processes.
Stupid mistakes.
Irrational behavior.
None of them arise the way they used to.
My mood isn’t lingering on the edge, ready to burst from me at the slightest annoyance.
But along with those being gone, so are the others. I can’t recall the last seedy thought I had. I don't remember when I plotted against Celia since solitary. And I want Grace to like me, not just like me though, see me as a guy.
Something’s up.
Something I don’t understand.
Not yet, anyway.
Chapter 6
“There are things I miss,” I answer Grace’s question. “Things I had no idea I cared about: Maps. Google Maps, in particular. Clear highways. Drive-thru restaurants. Debit cards. Order.” That’s an odd one for me. I always believed I wanted chaos. Now that I have it, I hate it. It smells and no one’s helpful and the food sucks.
“How much time have you spent in the real world?” she asks it carefully.
“A lot,” I answer equally carefully. Does she think because I’ve been in and out of mental institutes I haven’t lived in the real world?
“You break out a lot, don't you?” She takes a bite of licorice and stares at me, not being so careful or careful at all.
“Yeah.” I nod. “Wouldn't you?”
“Yeah,” she agrees. “I couldn't do the whole behind bars thing. Stresses me out just working there sometimes.” She lowers her voice like she doesn't want Celia to hear, “Some of the patients don't get fair treatment. I can’t watch that shit.”
“Oh, I know.” She doesn't have to bring this up with me. I’m not a victim of the unfair treatment; I’ve studied consequences enough to know my actions have caused my moments of hardship. But I have seen it.
Celia stirs in the backseat, moving as if she might wake up.
“I understand.” Grace’s gaze meets mine, staring intently and then flicking to the backseat, perhaps trying to tell me something. “I get your feelings about things.”
“Like how I miss bathrooms?” I wink as Celia groans and adjusts.
“Yes, God what I would do for a hotel room with everything functioning. And I miss cold stuff. I just want some ice cream, a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked. And maybe a scoop of Cherry Garcia. With hot fudge sauce.” Grace groans, acting better than I knew she had in her. “A bowl of ice cream and hot fudge, a chick flick, and my sofa. I miss that.”
“Yeah, fridges and freezers and power. I miss that too. All the water is warm now. It’s gross,” I agree, pretending we didn't just have the conversation we did.
“And the air. It’s so smoky, did you notice? Since we got to Colorado, it’s been smoky.” She wrinkles her nose. “It’s been hazy for hours.”
“Oh yeah, they had a wildfire. I saw it on the news the day before”—Celia chimes in, yawning and stretching—“well, before everything else.” She sounds exhausted.
“Of course they did. Colorado always has fires.” Grace sighs, seeming inconvenienced by nature.
“Some of the smoke might be coming from LA. One guy at the last gas station told me they tried bombing an area of a few cities. He didn't know which ones except LA. He was there. He said it was full of them, the zombies.”
“They bombed LA?” Grace’s eyes widen and she loses the pretend happy tone.
“Yeah. He said it was crazy. They had some alert on, saying it’s going to be bombed and all normal people needed to leave. I don't know how big the bomb was or how far the fires would’ve burned, but he said he left and got a ride out. He’s headed for Canada. He says with it being fall, they’ll have snow soon. The zombies can’t live in the snow.”
“Canada?” Celia scoffs. “They have no military at all. We’re better off to stay with the plan.” Her eyes dart to mine in the mirror. I can’t tell if she’s trying to ensure I’m on board with the West Coast or she’s trying to make me be on board, but she’s using her firm voice. I almost roll my eyes at her, though I don't. Somehow, I’m able to stop myself before I act.
It’s weird.
She’s annoying me but I’m not reacting.
“I agree. The islands on the coast sound nicer than Canada. I hate snow.”
“Me too,” Celia agrees with Grace.
“I’ve never seen snow in real life, except a couple of freak flurries that didn't amount to anything,” I say. I don't say that every time my family went somewhere that had snow, I was kept home.
“You’re not missing anything,” Celia mutters and stares out the window. She has killed the friendly conversation Grace and I were having, and the serious one.
Grace offers me a look before she gets comfy again and closes her eyes.
Something feels off. Not just in me, but in everything.
I try not to think about it as I drive. If I focus on it too much I’ll get distracted and the roads are bad, clogged with cars and trucks and people. I have to weave and stay on high alert.
Besides the smoke, the drive from Denver to Idaho is better than most of the driving we’ve done, but from Idaho west it’s been misery. Smoky and annoying.
I drive slowly, paying attention.
“We must be getting close,” Grace grumbles and shifts in her seat, again.
“There better be a damned good ending to this road trip. My back is killing me.” Celia groans and moves around to get more comforta
ble as well. “Liam, you need someone else to drive yet? It’s been over thirty hours since you napped last.” Celia leans forward.
“No,” I mutter, tempted to say yes, but determined to finish the drive. I’m at the point where I want it over. I’ve napped a couple of times for a few hours but have been able to drive this entire way with very little sleep.
It’s been days of this, driving with them complaining and shifting around and Lester snoring.
I should be raging and going crazy, but I’m not.
I’m annoyed that we’re still driving but it’s not the same as it was.
Same as my feelings for Celia. I recognize that I hate her in a core sort of way. And if given the chance, I might still murder her. Maybe. But I would do it intelligently because the rage is gone. Extinguished. In fact, my reasoning for wanting her dead feels lame. It’s kinda disappointing.
Although my eyes glance at the gas light flickering on, I can’t get annoyed. Maybe I’m dying, changing really slowly. “We need to start thinking about a new vehicle.”
Everyone groans, even Lester.
“It’s our tenth vehicle. Seriously? It won’t make these last couple of hours?” Grace leans over, getting a better view of the dash. “Shit.”
“Eleventh vehicle. I’ll take the next exit.” I pull off a few minutes later, taking an exit into some small town called Ellensburg. I drive slowly, trying not to rev the engine. I don’t want to attract anything. It just involves the dead mouth breathing on me as they try to get to Grace.
We’ve decided she’s the most sought-after human on the face of the earth.
There aren’t tons of cars and trucks on the road, it’s clearly a small town. It feels like a ghost town. In the dark corners, there are little clusters of the ghosts who used to live here. The sun is setting on the fourth day since hell broke loose at Roland House Hospital. Four days of running, driving, fighting, scavenging, and searching. Four days of the unknown. Four days of Celia. I should be angrier.
The shitty little town is just like the others we’ve visited. It doesn’t answer questions or pause curiosities.