Writing on the Wall (4 page)

I have nightmares about crawlers.

When this one’s head is in sight and the horde is almost out the second doorway and into the street, I step quickly to the side, leaving Ryan exposed on his left. I don’t like doing it, to him or myself, but this guy on the floor has got to go. I lift the ASP and line up the shot like a golfer. When I swing the steel ball at the end toward his temple, I know it’ll do its job. People I can’t count on, but steel is a faithful friend. The resounding
crack!
that echoes through the entryway and reverberates all the way up my arms tells me this Risen is no more.

I quickly fall in line beside Ryan again to help him push the remainders outside. Once we’re clear of the doorway we spread out slightly to give each other room but we keep our backs to the wall. You learn that real quick, alone or with an army. Keep your back defended.

The dead heavily favor Ryan, probably drawn in by his injured hand and the blood readily available at the surface of his skin. Five of them move to surround him while only two stick with me.

“Hell.” I mutter, not liking his odds.

It shouldn’t bother me, but it does. I shouldn’t care if he makes it or not, but I do.

For the second time today I play the reluctant hero.

I step away from the wall and take a huge swing at the zombie closest to me. He goes down quickly, the side of his face soundly bashed in and turned quickly to gray mush. I ignore the other one who’s on me and I hurry to Ryan. My back is exposed and I feel naked in the cold night air, rain falling over me, matting my hair to my face. I take a quick, hard swing at the kneecap on one of Ryan’s zombies. It drops to the ground, unable to hold its weight on the badly broken leg. They don’t feel pain, but a broken leg is still a problem for them. It’s like chopping off a hand. Whether they feel it or not, that limb is now useless.

I do the same to another zombie, a young boy, only this time I take out his leg at the shin. The bone pops out through his skin, spraying his black tar blood over the sidewalk. He topples over. I want to say it bothers me brutalizing a child, but it doesn’t. Live in this world long enough and the dead are just that – dead. It doesn’t walk like a child or talk like a child so it’s pretty easy to accept that it’s no longer a child. Moral qualms put to rest. If you’re uncomfortable with that, go join the Colonies.

“Joss, your six!” Ryan calls out as he stabs the sharp end of the iron straight into a Risen’s eye. It slides in smoothly and the zombie crumples, slipping slowly off the steel.

“I know.” I growl.

I’m aware of it, have been the whole time. It’s about three paces behind me and closing. I spin quickly, bringing up the ASP and making contact on its face. I make sure to close my eyes and mouth when I hit it because sometimes you get exploders. Like a rotten pumpkin that blows up when you toss it against the pavement or kick it in. Dead and dusty as it may look, sometimes it retains some of its juices. This one sure does. I feel the spray hit me in the face and I immediately use the inside of my coat to wipe it clear. I’m not worried about infection, not really. Mostly it’s just gross.

When I turn around, Ryan has taken out the crawlers I created and is working on the last of the standing. He rears back, then slams the sharp end of the tire iron into the Risen’s mouth. It crunches when it hits bone in the back of the skull and Ryan immediately jerks down hard on his end, letting out an angry shout. It pries the zombies jaw off the hinges and I’m pretty sure it snaps the spinal cord. Either way, the dead get deader.

“You okay?” Ryan asks, breathing heavy.

His hair is soaked by the rain like mine and he runs his hand through it, spiking it up off his forehead. His eyes are big and excited from the adrenaline of the kill. I imagine that despite my bad attitude I probably look about the same. You never learn to like it, this life, but eventually you do learn to enjoy the highs. Being outnumbered by Risen and coming out unscathed, that’s a high. A big one.

“Yeah, I’m great.” I say, almost meaning it.

He glances around at our handiwork. “Let’s pull them into the building, stow them in an empty room.”

“Why bother?”

“Because that way no one will see them, not unless they’re already in the building. The rain will wash away most of this.” He gestures to the pooling black mess pouring out of the zombies onto the pavement.

“I’m leaving anyway.”

“But this could buy you some time. You don’t have to leave so soon.”

“I have to leave when you leave.”

He shakes his head and runs his hand over his hair again, clearly frustrated. “Let’s just do this, let’s take care of this problem and we can sort any others out later.”

“Fine, okay.” I agree, stowing my ASP and pushing my wet mass of hair out of my face. “Let’s pull them inside and get out of this rain. As much as I want a shower, I’m getting cold.”

Chapter Four

“You’re not in a gang but you’re trading with someone.” Ryan comments, munching on a carrot.

We’re working through a bag of vegetables I’ve pulled out that I got from Crazy Crenshaw in exchange for meat. He’s not a hunter, not even close. He’s a gardener. Of all kinds of things. All kinds of plants, if you get my meaning. He’s always trying to trade me certain herbs for the meat I bring him, but I stick to veggies. Ryan was surprised at how large the vegetables are. Apparently Lost Boys are poor gardeners as well and I wonder if it’s not a skill possessed solely by the older generation.

“Why do you say that?” I ask, averting his eyes.

I don’t want to talk about Crenshaw. He trades with Lost Boys but I don’t know which ones exactly. I’m not about to go talking about him to someone he might want to avoid.

He waves his carrot at me, getting my attention. “No way you grew this somewhere in here. Not unless you have a garden on the roof?”

I shake my head. “There’s nothing on this roof.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“So what are you getting at?”

He shrugs and takes a bite of the carrot. “Nothing. Just making an observation.”

“It feels more like an invasion.”

“Or a conversation.” he says with a grin.

I roll my eyes and take a sip of water from my canister, washing down the dry, cold broccoli I’ve been working on. And it is work. Unfulfilling yet nourishing work.

“Does your gang trade in the markets?” I ask, changing the subject and offering him the canister.

He takes a sip from it as well, his mouth on the cool metal almost exactly where mine was, and I blush yet again. I’m setting a record or making up for lost time. It’s embarrassing either way. I don’t like things I can’t control.

“You’ve been to the markets?” he asks, sounding surprised.

I shake my head firmly, chuckling slightly at the idea of me showing up there. “No, never. But I’ve seen them happening. They’re hard to miss.”

“Seeing all of us rounded up like that, it must be your worst nightmare.”

“Crawlers.”

“What about crawlers?”

“Crawlers are my worst nightmare.”

He nods his head, thinking about that. “That’s a legitimate fear.”

“What’s yours?”

“What’s my worst fear?”

“Yeah. You know mine. Now you owe me yours.”

He laughs and leans back on his palms, looking relaxed. “No way.”

“It’s part of the deal. Spill it.”

“I made no such deal. You really haven’t been to the markets. You would know that you don’t give up anything without knowing exactly what you’re going to get in return.” He grins at me crookedly. “And you’re gettin’ nothin’.”

I shake my head in disgust. “I hate people.”

“I hear ya.”

I study him for a moment, unsure if I want to tread on sacred ground. In the end, curiosity wins out over etiquette.

“Do you like the people in your gang?” I ask quietly.

He stares at me for a long time and I worry I shouldn’t have asked. It’s a delicate thing to talk about. I don’t want to know the name of his gang or their location, basically any identifying information whatsoever. He owes it to his crew to keep them and their location a secret and it’s important to me that he never think of me as a liability. As a mouth that needs silencing. I’m just about to tell him to forget it when he shrugs.

“I guess. Not all of them all of the time, but for the most part, yeah. I wouldn’t stick with them if I didn’t like them.” He sits forward again and studies the pattern on the now empty veggie bag. It has a pink Hello Kitty on it. Don’t judge, I have my reasons for keeping it. “I think I stayed with them for as long as I did because of my brother. He likes… liked this group of guys. I got offers to join larger gangs. To live bigger and better, but I always stayed because of Kev.”

I don’t want to talk about his brother. I know that sounds calloused and that’s because I am; I’m calloused. I have a hard exterior and none of the soft, nougaty center to balance it out. I’ve worked hard to sink the callouses down deep, layer after layer until I’m more Jawbreaker than anything else.

“Was it The Hive?”

He looks at me silently with guarded eyes.

“I only ask because you said ‘live bigger and better’ and from what I’ve seen, no one but the Colonies lives bigger and better than The Hive.” I explain. “I’m not… I know you’re not one of them because of your neck. I don’t want to know what gang you’re in.”

He lifts his hand to touch the clean skin of his neck. If he were a member of The Hive, the largest gang in the area shamelessly living completely unhidden in the aquarium down at the wharf, he would have a hornet tattooed there. The Hive is huge by normal standards, easily 70 people strong. Probably more. Everyone knows where they are but no one would dare attack them. Not even the Colonies, it seems. There are two in the CenturyLink and Safeco stadiums just a couple miles from the aquarium but as far as I know, they’ve never clashed with The Hive. I find that both amazing and suspicious.

“You’re not even a little curious?”

I look at him hard. “Don’t tell me.”

“I wasn’t going to.” he says, chuckling. “I was only asking if you were curious.”

“I’m not.”

“Okay.”

A silence falls between us and I struggle for something to talk about. Hunting? No. Animal pelts? No. Jerky crafting? Ugh, no. Chit chat is not my strong suit.

“How’d you end up alone like this?” he eventually asks.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

He nods in understanding. “Alright. How about this? What’s your worst memory of the early days?”

I scowl at him. “You mean aside from everybody dying?”

He waves the question away. “Everybody’s messed up from that. What else have you got? What’s on your apocalypse highlight reel?”

“This is a really dark question.”

“You strike me as a really dark girl.”

I hesitate. Am I flattered by that? No, that makes no sense. Still, though....

“You tell me yours first.”

“Nope, not a chance.” he says with a shake of his head. “But we’ll make a deal. Marketplace 101. If you tell me your most messed up moment from the beginning, I’ll tell you mine.”

I think about my answer but I try not to go too deep. I don’t want to dig too far and pull out something dark. A lot of this stuff from the early days is buried and gone as far as I’m concerned and I’m not about to go grave robbing to entertain him.

“I wore boy’s clothes for the first year.”

“That’s it?” he asks me, sounding annoyed. “That’s your worst?”

“No, not by a long shot, but you asked what was on my highlight reel and that is. I had to wear boy’s clothes for the first year because the people who took me in were afraid to travel with a young girl. They hacked my hair off and made me wear baseball hats and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle shirts.”

“You should have been wearing those anyway. They were awesome.”

“I’m not arguing that. Now what’s yours?”

He chuckles. “You think you get my worst in trade for that?”

“No, but I get something off your list. Something scarring.” I point my finger at his face. “Your rules, remember?”

“Alright, alright.” he laughs, surrendering. He thinks for a bit before saying, “We made the mistake of going to the zoo a couple months after it happened. My parents wanted to look for food, bottled water, a place to hide. They figured with it being fenced in that maybe the virus hadn’t had much room to spread there, if at all.”

“Had it?”

“Nah, it was pretty empty. There were a few employees and tourist types that were taken down by it. They were wandering around looking confused and hungry by then. The other inhabitants, though, that’s why we had to leave. That’s what was messed up. Kev and I couldn’t handle that nightmare.”

“What nigh— Oh no, those poor animals!”

“Yeah. Every last one of them starved in their cage. Some had eaten others and it wasn’t always the animal you’d think that was left last.” He shivers quickly and shakes it off. “Can you imagine what the prisons were like?”

“Maybe they let the prisoners out.”

“I doubt it.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” I mutter.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because it seems like most of the people out there belong in prison.”

He nods in agreement. “You’re right. But that’s just the way things are, I think. Kill or be killed kind of thing. You get so used to fighting and killing the zombies, maybe it doesn’t seem so crazy to kill other people anymore. At least to survive.”

“Is that how you feel?”

He shrugs, looking away. “No. Maybe. I’m not gonna go out looking for people to kill, but if someone busted in here and threatened me or yo—yeah, if I feel threatened enough I’ll kill another person.”

I pause, unsure if I should ask the next question. I don’t know if he’ll answer and I don’t know if I want him to. But messed up as I am, I’m not coward.

“Have you?”

He meets my eyes now, challenging me with them. “Have I what?”

“Have you killed another person?”

“Yeah. I have.” he replies bluntly, his eyes unflinching.

“I haven’t.”

“I know.”

I scowl at him. “How do you know?”

“Because you’re looking at me like I’m dangerous. Like I’m questionable. If you’d done it too, if you knew what it was like to be backed that hard against a wall, you wouldn’t be judging me now.”

“I’m not judging you.”

“Yes you are. And it’s okay. I’m not proud of it, not like the psychopaths out there that do it for fun. But I’m not sorry either.”

There’s a long silence that I have no idea how to fill. I look anywhere but at him, unsure where we go from here. After this, what is there to talk about?

“Don’t be scared of me.” he says quietly.

My eyes shoot to his, surprised. He’s looking at me with steel in his gaze but there’s something else there too. Something almost sad.

“I’m not.”

He nods once. “Good.”

“Does it bother you that you’ve—“

“Can we go outside?” he asks, standing up suddenly. “The rain has stopped. Maybe we could hit the roof? I’m feeling closed in here.”

I look around the massive room we’re sitting in with its twelve foot ceilings and nearly total lack of walls and I wonder what the hell he’s talking about. But I don’t ask. When we head for the door I pause for a moment, debating, then hold up a finger to him.

“Wait.”

I dig around in my backpack, searching. What I need is so small it fits in my two coat pockets, making it easy to hide it from him.

“Okay. Let’s go.” I say, hurrying up through the hatch.

When we get to the roof I immediately check the rain bucket and I’m relieved to find it far fuller than it was before. Water is my worry, far bigger than my concern for food.

“You’re good?” Ryan asks, watching me smile at my bucket.

“For a bit, yeah. I still need to go get more tomorrow.”

“I won’t drink anymore.”

“Don’t be stupid. Of course you can drink some.”

“I don’t want to make you go out to the watering holes if you don’t have to. They’re dangerous lately.”

I haven’t told him I have other water sources. That I don’t go to the holes. Ever. They’re communal type areas where water pools (old fountains, swimming pools, etc.)
where people go to gather rain water. They’re dangerous no matter what, but for someone like me living alone and fending for herself, they’re a nightmare. A death sentence.

“Have you seen a lot of Risen there?”

“No. We don’t go there very often. We do what you do – capture the rain – but on a much larger scale. But we’ve heard things from other gangs. Stuff about what’s been going on at the holes.”

“What’s happening?”

“Roundups. A lot of them.”

The Colonies. They perform roundups of the survivors in the wild, a lot like a dogcatcher picking up strays. It’s not voluntary. Not anymore. If they find you, especially if you’re young, they’ll take you by force back to one of the compounds and keep you there. It used to be they rumbled around town in their trucks and called out over loudspeakers for people looking for sanctuary to join them. They offered a warm, dry bed, larger meals than a lot of us could remember ever eating and safety from the infected. All you had to do was follow them like the Pied Piper out to their compound where you’d work to pay your way.

Now, though, it isn’t so merry. Now they scour the city in run down vehicles that run silently, electric most likely, and snatch people off the streets. They write messages on old billboards and on the sides of buildings trying to drum up new recruits.

Be part of a community again! Serve a purpose!

We have doctors! Nurses! Teachers! Farmers! All we need is YOU!