What Blood Leaves Behind (The Poison Rose) (6 page)

The voice.
There she is.
Someone else nearby.

I stand frozen like a deer, listening. There’s no other sound, no indication of movement. It’s not until I’ve taken the time to set the jar of peanut butter carefully back on the barren steel shelving that I bother to look down to where I expect to see my rifle. That’s when I realize I’ve left it behind somewhere. I’ve gotten careless.

I don’t feel panicked or scared. The situation feels oddly dreamlike, like I have little control over anything that is going to happen no matter what I try to do. I hurry to the end of the aisle opposite to where I heard the voice, toward the back of the store, trying to avoid crunching anything, making any noise, although I’m sure someone’s watching me.

At the back, leaning against an empty bread rack, I find the rifle just where I left it. I grab it and retrace my steps, easing my way to the front of the store, less concerned about making noise now. I kick the lid of a jar unintentionally and hear it clang off the base of the steel shelves.

At the end of the aisle, I peek out around the corner. I feel like a soldier and the store looks like a war zone. Jagged spears of glass dangle like icicles from the edges of the open windows that face the parking lot. Cash registers have been overturned, their drawers thrown about. Shopping carts are jammed into all the checkout lanes, snarled together like the remains of a demolition derby.

Outside the clouds have lifted and patches of sunlight reflect off the hoods of cars scattered crazily across the parking lot. I edge my way out of the store, hunched, scuttling like a crab from one concealed spot to another, from an overturned cart to a car lying on its side.

I keep expecting to see another shape dart past out of the corner of my eye but he or she could be anywhere, still lurking in the dark interior of the store I’ve left behind. I keep turning in every direction, feeling exposed.
Do they want to hurt me? Or just talk to me?
Maybe there was no one. Maybe, while foolishly entranced by that cracked jar of peanut butter, I began to hallucinate. I do feel weak, lightheaded.

At the edge of the parking lot, I start running. I cross the frontage road and beyond it thread my way under a torn patch of chain link fencing. I jump down a small embankment and heave myself up the other side, onto the shoulder of the highway. I have to stop for a moment. My head spins. It’s hard to see past a mass of black dots swarming in front of my eyes. My heart is thudding against the wall of my chest so hard it feels like it could burst through.

I resist the temptation to take a look back at the store. The farther away I get, the easier it is to convince myself that the whisper I thought I heard, the shape I thought I saw, were illusions. I try to steady my breathing, regain control over my trembling body. Then I walk on. I walk quickly but I don’t run.

I scramble over the concrete barriers at the median of the highway, make it past the embankment on the other side. As I hurry down the frontage road toward the parking lot of the motel where the children are, I start to feel giddy again. The thought of inhaling clumps of peanut butter smeared on my sticky fingers blots out the thought of anyone following me.

It becomes impossible for me to think of anything but food.

The small backpack I brought with me is empty. I’m returning empty-handed. I can already feel the disappointment of the others. I can hear Emily in my head. After our fleeting moment of tenderness, she’s begun to crab at me again. I sense the bitterness, the fear ratcheting up inside her. She can’t help herself.
You can’t do anything right, anymore. We should have stayed where Larkin was. We’re all going to starve to death and you don’t care!

Crossing the motel’s parking lot, I wonder if the kids can see me, if they’re watching out for me from the front window of our second story room. It’s hard to imagine what they’ve been doing while I’ve been gone. I can only picture them huddled together, too miserable to do much of anything but wait. I just hope they’re all still together, that none of them have left the room without me.

I reach a staircase near the burned out shell of the manager’s office. Wafting from the glassless windows of the office is the reek of damp charcoal, of ancient smoke. I clump up the cement steps in the thick-soled boots Larkin found for me in Oxbow Ferry, trying to make noise, to let the kids know I’ve returned.

The second story landing looks just the same as when I left it. The doors to most of the rooms stand open or hang off their hinges. There is a litter of cushions and clothes and smashed appliances scattered across the pebbled cement of the landing.

Just as I take a step toward our room, I hear it. A voice I don’t recognize. I can’t make out what it’s saying. Without thinking about what I’m doing, I crouch down and start creeping along. I’m gripping the rifle hard, the index finger of my right hand tapping the trigger guard.

Then I hear CJ’s voice. “You know where there’s more food?”

“Oh, there’s lots of food in the city. You just have to come with us.”

Stace says, “We’re already in the city.”

“No, this is nothing,” the voice says. It’s a male voice, someone young. “Downtown, that’s where we keep everything good. There’s a lot of people there just like us and we have it all organized.”

“He’s right,” the voice of a girl says, another stranger. “There’s no reason to be afraid. There’s not that many of us left, so why would we want to hurt you?” Then the girl steps out of the room when I’m only a few yards away.

“Hi, there,” she says. “We’ve been watching you. We don’t mean you any harm.” She’s about my age and looks so healthy and clean, it’s frightening. I stop in my tracks and draw back the bolt of the rifle, then shove it back so it clicks into position, to let her know it’s loaded. The girl laughs, unconcerned. “You won’t need that. Nobody needs guns anymore, not to threaten each other with.” She waits for me to approach.

As I edge closer, I get a better look at her. She reminds me of a healthier version of Emily, about as tall as Emily but with a much fuller figure. Her hair is dyed a shade of platinum blond and has been carefully cut by someone who knew what they were doing. She’s doll-like, unreal. She has clean clothes on, black jeans and a sweater. Her cheeks are lightly freckled, her wide green eyes rimmed with kohl and looking very dramatic.

“I’m Jendra,” she says.

“Get back in the room.” I jerk the rifle up, the stock against my shoulder.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” She doesn’t look scared. She has an expression on her face that enrages me, like she pities me and has no reason to believe that I’m for real. But she obediently puts her hands up and backs into the room, her mouth wearing just the hint of a smile.

When I reach the doorway, I see the other intruder. It’s a boy about the same age as me and the girl. He’s also well-dressed in clean clothes, with his sandy-colored hair cut neat. Together they look like twin dolls, life-like androids.

As amazed as I am by the presence of these strangers, it’s the children who surprise me the most.

All four of them—Emily, Stace, CJ and Terry—are reclining on the edge of one of the big beds. They look dazed and dreamy, as if someone has put them in a trance. In the middle of the bed are a few empty cartons, discarded wrapping papers and there’s the smell of food. It reminds me of the remnants of a sandwich, an odor of meat and bread.

I take one cautious step after another into the room, motioning for the two intruders, the two living dolls, to keep backing up all the way to the far window. They exchange glances and the girl shakes her head sadly. “We’re unarmed,” the boy says.

The girl, Jendra, nods toward him. “This is William. And you are…?”

Emily jumps up from the bed and steps between us, between where I’m standing and William and Jendra, as if she’s going to protect them from me. “Her name’s Gillian,” she says, like I’m someone she barely knows. “For God’s sake, Gillian, stop it. They brought us food. They’re here to help us.”

“How do you know that?”

She sneers, as if I’m too foolish to take seriously. “Haven’t we been waiting for this? Aren’t they what we’ve been looking for?”

I wonder if she’s right. There’s something about them that I don’t trust. They must have been watching us, watching me, and they approached the children when they knew I was out of the way. I need time to think, to decide what to do.

Emily says, “They’ve gone through the same things we did except they got to the city earlier.” Her tone of voice is becoming theatrical, absurdly self-confident, like she’s trying to imitate Jendra, her new friend. “Why would they want to hurt us? Where would that get them?”

“Exactly,” William says. He has a narrow face with a large crescent-shaped scar above his right eye. “Think about it, Gillian. Why
would
we want to hurt you? Do you think there are so many people around that we can afford to lose any? Everybody has to help rebuild.”

These are words I’ve longed to hear but there’s something false about the way he speaks them. He’s too glib, too comfortable with himself, too clean. Knows just what to say, like his words were prepared in advance.
We’re not going to hurt you,
over and over.

Where did these two come from and how did they get here? How did they know
we
were here? They look like they’ve popped in from some alternate reality where the plague never happened.

“Why don’t you relax and have some food,” Jendra says. “There’s plenty of good stuff left.”

I don’t want to take my eyes off them but I have to glance at the bed. I feel myself weakening. The smell of the food fills the air like a smothering perfume. It makes me dizzy.

“There’s nothing left,” I say, my voice cracking.

“We’ve saved a little,” William says. He takes from his pocket a small paper bag. He unravels the top with great care, like the bag holds the most precious object in the world. “Look. Real bread. Can you smell it?”

“Where did you get bread?”

“We have the stuff to make it,” he says. He peels back a lumpy, half-burnt slice of toast. It’s hard for me to believe that it’s possible but the smell of the food intensifies. “Look. There’s sausage. There’s cheese. And it’s all still good.”

“How…?”

“The authorities stored lots of food away before everything ended. Ended for them. You can’t imagine all the stuff we’ve found.”

He nods at the rifle. “You really don’t need that anymore, you know.”

His referring to my rifle makes me realize I’ve let the barrel drop. I feel too weak to hold it steady anymore.

I shake my head to clear it and take a few steps back. I think about how Emily and I found Larkin sitting on the front steps of the school in Potterville and how we started to trust him almost immediately. I can’t imagine trusting these two.

Emily crosses her arms and stamps her foot like an irritated parent. “Put the rifle down, Gilly, and eat the sandwich. Why are you being such a fool?”

William takes a step toward Emily and puts an arm around her shoulder. Although he’s not much older than she is, there’s something about the way he looks at her that gives me the creeps. Like he’s an older man appraising her. Like he’s getting ready to lure her into something bad. I can see Emily stiffen at his touch but she doesn’t pull away.

I raise the rifle, lock it against my shoulder. “Let her go. Step away from her.”

William shrugs and lifts his arm from Emily’s shoulder dramatically, in the same flamboyant way he revealed the sandwich in his pocket. “I’m not holding her,” he says.

Emily glares at me. “What’s wrong with you, Gillian?”

“I want you two to go,” I say. “We need some time to figure out what we’re going to do next.”

Emily stamps her foot again. “What is there to figure out? They’re here to help us.”

“That’s what
they
say.”

I cock my head at the door and press my back against the wall opposite the beds to let them by. They exchange another look, then shrug and share a little smile like I’m a mental defective they have to dredge up an enormous amount of patience to deal with.

William holds the sandwich to his nose and takes a deep whiff of its fragrance. He grins at me and takes a tiny bite. “Delicious,” he says, chewing and smacking his lips. “Too bad,” he says to Jendra, nodding at me. They stroll past, unconcerned that I could kill them if I wanted to.

At the doorway, they pause and address the children. “Anyone who wants to come with us, can,” Jendra says. “If you want to think it over and meet up with us later, you’ll have to keep on the highway, go past where the old airport was and find the city’s center. But that’s a long way.”

“A very long way,” William says.

Stace, CJ and Terry have stood up from the bed and watch the intruders warily. I can see the wheels spinning in their heads. A part of me wants to shout, “Just leave if you want to. If all we’ve been through means nothing to you, then just leave.” But Emily’s the only one who follows them to the door.

“I’m going with them,” she says.

“I don’t want you to,” I say. The words are so simple, so inadequate. “I need you, Emily.
We
need you.”

She kicks at the edge of the sofa. “All right. I’ll stay with you a little longer.” She looks at Jendra and William. “I’m sorry. We’ll catch up with you. I can’t leave Gillian yet.” She says this like she’s the mother and I’m her wayward daughter.

I wave Jendra and William out onto the landing. They stroll away slowly, whispering, glancing back at me as if I’m a crazy street person who’s been pulling out her hair and shouting obscenities.

Sunlight glinting on the red buckle of a fire alarm catches my eye. It’s mounted on the outer wall of the motel, not far from their heads. They’ve almost reached the staircase when I take a shot at it. The bullet pings off the metal and disappears. I eject the spent cartridge, push in another, ready to fire again.

Jendra and William flinch as if struck. I see them look back at me with real fear in their eyes and then they begin to run.

It’s dark, completely
dark the first time I hear the Black Riders. The sound comes to me at first like I’m dreaming it, from far away.